Keeping the Castle

3



LORD BORING AND HIS mother, the Honorable Mrs. John Westing, had but lately moved into the district. We had of course been acquainted with old Lord Boring, the present Lord Boring’s uncle, who, having suffered from ill health nearly all his life, he had excused himself from much visiting amongst the neighbors, so we had never been intimate. Our relationship was almost entirely limited to our asking, “How do you do, my lord?” and being told, “I am sorry to say that I do poorly, very poorly indeed.” After many years of this—my entire lifetime, in fact—he apparently did even more poorly than usual, and died.

The new young lord (known until his elevation to the peerage as Mr. Sidney Westing) had remained in Town upon succeeding to the title, sending his widowed mother ahead to put the property to rights and to make herself known to the district, with the assurance that he would follow her as soon as he completed his course of study at Oxford. We had called upon her and she had returned those calls, tho’ she’d seemed in no particular hurry to do so. Our position in the neighborhood and our ancient, if not noble, family name demanded both respect and courtesy, but apparently the smallness of my mother’s income meant that Mrs. Westing’s civility rose to a certain level and no further.

She had, however, repeated to us the promise she had made to every young lady in the neighborhood of a ball to be held at Gudgeon Park “when once I have gathered my wits together and learned my way about the place.” Four months had evidently been sufficient time to refurnish the house and to understand the ins and outs of so small a community as Lesser Hoo, and so the promised ball was about to become a reality.

Balls were not a common experience for us; Gudgeon Park was by far the largest estate in the place and the former Lord Boring’s health had not permitted (or perhaps had exempted him from) these sorts of entertainments. Beyond Crooked Castle, Yellering Hall, and Gudgeon Park, there were no large houses, or even inns of sufficient respectability and elegance, in which to host a dance of any size. Our neighbors the Throstletwists considered themselves too elderly to make the effort, while the Eliots, whose finances might stretch to a simple jig or gavotte after supper, could not conceivably manage a cotillion. And of course our limited income did not allow us either to give balls ourselves or to travel to Bath or London, or even York, where such festivities were commonplace.

From Lesser Hoo to Hasty, and from Little Snoring to Hoo-Upon-Hill, nearly everyone under the age of ninety was looking forward to the event. The farmers and trades people were pleased by the steady stream of orders for geese and pigs, candles, slippers and hair ribbons in the weeks before the party, and the entire district was stimulated and interested by the new faces glimpsed on the streets, in the shops, and riding over the moors. The older members of the gentry anticipated a good gossip, a game of cards, and a fine meal in a house most had not visited in a decade or more. But it was the young ladies and gentlemen who were most affected; we were half mad with excitement and anticipation. We longed to be dancing.

At last the night of the ball was upon us. My stepsisters arrayed themselves in costly new gowns sent up from London, their modest store of jewelry, and towering feather headdresses for which whole colonies of egrets must have given up their lives. Their complexions came out of a bottle labeled “Bloom of Ninon de L’Enclos.” This popular cosmetic is almost entirely composed of white lead, or so our apothecary tells me, and I cannot help but think it may prove unwholesome. Passing by Penelope’s room I saw them each taking it in turn to apply great handfuls to the other’s face and neck, occasionally coming over dizzy as they breathed in the fumes, and then lying down on the bed to recover. I expressed my concern, suggesting that moderation might be the best course, and was roundly snubbed and ejected from the room.

My mother and I were by necessity attired much more simply, in old dresses mended and new-trimmed. The repairs had required great ingenuity on my part. Added ornamentation, so useful in covering flaws, was forbidden by the simplicity of the styles now fashionable. My mama could employ her shawl to hide a bad burn on the back of her best muslin, and then sit on it for most of the evening, but I, who would dance before the view of the company, was at my wits’ end as to how to mend several tears in the hem of my best dress.

The rips were caused by Charity’s rather too rapidly following me up a flight of stairs. This came about as a result of her claiming that, as she was my elder, I must allow her to go first. I protested that the rules of precedence were not meant to be so strictly observed in casual encounters between family members, especially while ascending the pokey back staircase next to the butler’s pantry when I had my small brother in my arms. I therefore went on ahead of her. The ensuing scuffle had resulted in the rents I now needed to disguise.

This episode, incidentally, had left its mark on my spirit; ever afterward I found myself unable to mount a staircase without thinking of Mr. Coleridge’s immortal words:



Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.



I know I ought to be more charitable towards my stepsisters, but it is quite beyond my power.

In the end I gathered the hem every few inches to create a scalloped effect. Since the dress was no more than a slender white wisp of gauze with cap sleeves and a low neckline, this modification seemed to me charming rather than ornate, and the mended tears quite vanished in the pleats thus formed. Any family jewels had long since been sold, and so with some fresh flowers from the garden and a satin ribbon to tie back my curls, my toilet was complete.

When once little Alexander had been put to bed—he wept at our going and we had to promise to bring home a handful of sweetmeats from the ball before he consented to stay with Annie, Mama’s maid—it was time to leave.

Our carriage was a battered old chaise, and rather small to convey four passengers. We were obliged to sit nearly on top of one another, a fact that my stepsisters felt to be so injurious to their dignity that they insisted on stopping to alight a good way from the front entrance of Gudgeon Park, so that they would not be observed scrambling out of such a crowded and humble vehicle. I was doubtful about the weather, fearing we should find ourselves wetted through before reaching shelter, and said as much. However, my mother was anxious to please her stepdaughters and overrode my protests. She climbed out and I followed. Prudence and Charity, finding themselves much more comfortably circumstanced now we were got down, decided to remain in the carriage and be conveyed right up to the door rather than walking the rest of the way.

“You do not mind, Stepmama? I am sure you do not, for you are all goodness,” said Charity.

“Oh, pray go ahead and do not regard us,” said my saintly mother, while I fumed by her side. “It is no more than a step or two to the house, and it would be a shame to crush your lovely gowns any further.”

“Mama!” I cried as the chaise rolled away. “Those ill-bred, ungrateful—”

“Hush,” she said. “It does not signify at all, my dear. We are but a few yards from the door—”

“But those rain clouds!”

“And I flatter myself that we have timed our arrival to a nicety. The storm will hold off until—”

C-r-rack! Boom!

The heavens opened and rain poured down upon us. Mama clasped my hand and we ran for the great stone staircase fronting the house. We could not wait for the footman to escort us with his sheltering umbrella, but burst unceremoniously through the doorway. We found ourselves under the critical gaze of Mrs. Westing and her butler, who were greeting guests in the front hall.

“How excessively wet you are,” remarked Mrs. Westing, regarding us through a lorgnette. “Withins, fetch something for the ladies to dry themselves with.”

“How kind,” said my mother. “As you can see, and hear—” the thunder boomed out again, “the tempest is upon us.”

Withins did not bestir himself, but snapped his fingers at a maid, who went to fetch us some dry cloths.

“How good it was of you to invite us!” continued my mother, attempting to salvage the situation. “And how wonderful to see a ball at Gudgeon Park again!”

When at length we were dismissed from Mrs. Westing’s presence by the arrival of the maid, we paused a moment to tidy ourselves, blotting the moisture adhering to our gowns and our persons and rearranging our hair. The great gilded mirrors in the hall assured us that, while still somewhat damp, we looked perfectly respectable. Indeed, as we made our formal entrance into the ballroom our eyes were bright and our color high. I smiled on my pretty mama, thinking that she might be my sister, so young did she look.

How glorious it all was! I had not been in the house for years, but my recollection was of a great deal of dust, old-fashioned furniture, and gloomy dark landscapes lining the walls. Now all was light gleaming on polished wood, rich fabrics, fine silver, and exquisite French wallpapers, which, given the embargo, must have been smuggled in. Spiky and inedible-looking pineapples, the first I had ever seen, formed the centerpiece of the main table in the dining room. I smelled flowers and heard the sound of laughter and low music.

Prudence and Charity had not waited for us, but had made their entrance unencumbered by their poor relations. As we moved to join them I could not help but cry, “Oh, delightful!” A handsome older woman seated nearby smiled and nodded at me and said, “It is, little sirène” (meaning mermaid, you know, and referring to my damp state).

Annoyed at this attention being paid to me by a distinguished-looking stranger, Prudence ordered in an undertone, “Hush. Do not speak until you are spoken to.”

“Remember you are the youngest, Althea,” said Charity, “and must not thrust yourself forward.”

“Oh, certainly,” I said composedly, my temper restored by the sight of the glittering scene before us. “What a handsome man,” I added.

“Be silent!” said Charity. “Where?”

“Will you hold your tongue, Althea? Everyone will hear,” whispered Prudence. “Oh, I see who you mean. He has a fine countenance, has he not?”

“He is coming this way.”

Indeed, a number of young men were coming this way from all corners of the room. I knew I was thought a beauty by Lesser Hoo standards, but I had not been certain that gentlemen accustomed to the great ladies of London and Bath would agree. Evidently, they did.

I once saw a demonstration of what happens when a large and powerful magnet is introduced into the presence of a great many iron filings. This situation rather reminded me of that: heads turned, bodies realigned, gentlemen stood up, excused themselves and began to drift slowly but inexorably in our direction. Some in the crowd, of course, were old acquaintances, but they also drifted towards our corner, except for Mr. Godalming, who pointedly turned his back on me. Alas, poor Mr. Godalming. Perhaps I had been rather rude to him, tho’ inadvertently. However, I soon lost sight of him in the throngs converging upon us.

Prudence and Charity closed ranks. They stood in front of me, blocking me from the view of the assembly and smiled on the young men queuing up for an introduction to our family. As Prudence pressed me back against the wall she made contact with my dress. “Ugh!” she protested. “You are quite horridly damp!” Still she pushed me ever further back until I feared a trampling. Taking one of my damp ringlets in my hand, I shook it vigorously so that a few droplets of cold rain water flew out and landed on the nape of her neck. She gasped and moved forward, and I breathed again.

The identity of the handsome young man reached our corner before he did; he had to arrange an introduction from Sir Quentin before speaking to us, while Gossip stands on no ceremony but leaps o’er all boundaries and will not be checked by rules of proper behavior. He was in fact our host, Lord Boring.

The knowledge that he owned this imposing house and extensive property could only enhance his fine face and figure, which were further flattered by his faultless evening dress: his neck cloth was of dazzling white lawn starched to a fare-thee-well and tied with mathematical precision, and an exquisitely well-cut long-tailed coat revealed a muscular yet slender build. Indeed, so overpowered were my stepsisters by the combination of masculine beauty and great wealth that they clutched at one another for support and fanned themselves energetically as they were introduced. Or perhaps it was the after-effects of the Bloom of Ninon de L’Enclos.

“Mrs. Winthrop, Miss Winthrop, Miss Charity Winthrop.” The Baron bowed his acknowledgments to each lady. Sir Quentin, having performed his duty in pronouncing our names (save mine, for I was invisible in my corner) had walked off in obedience to a command from his wife.

“And this is . . . ?” The Baron bowed again, craning his neck to peer at me around the veritable thicket of egret feathers which decorated my stepsisters’ hair.

I could not see Prudence’s and Charity’s faces, as their backs were towards me, but I could judge the thoughts flitting through their heads by the long silence that ensued. My mother was not attending to our conversation—her notice had been claimed by the lady who had called me a mermaid and who was now making her acquaintance. My stepsisters were therefore debating the possibility of disowning me, perhaps, in view of the simplicity of my attire, identifying me as a passing maidservant. However, common sense won out at last and Prudence said, “My apologies, M’lord. This is our young relative, Miss Crawley.” She leaned towards him and confided in a whisper, “Poor Althea! It is dreadful of us, but we do tend to forget about her.”

Then she went on in a loud, carefully enunciated voice, as if I was half-witted, or the age of my brother Alexander, “Althea, dear, this is Lord Boring. Our host this evening, you know. Say hello politely.”

I did as she bade me and dropped a curtsey. “My lord,” I said.

Lord Boring lifted what I could not help but feel was a satirical eyebrow at my stepsisters. “Enchanté,” he said to me, bowing. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Crawley. I believe your father was Mr. Thaddeus Crawley of Crawley Castle. I am sorry never to have met him, but my uncle spoke highly of his kindness and courtesy as a neighbor.” He turned to Prudence, while keeping an eye on me, and said, “Ladies may find a younger female relative forgettable, but no gentleman would agree that a young lady such as Miss Crawley ought to be overlooked for so much as a moment.”

Prudence replied, still in a whisper, “Oh! She’s pretty enough, but . . .” She tapped her lips twice with her fan, nodded in an exaggerated fashion, and gave him a look of deep significance. Uncertain of whether I was being represented as simpleminded, demented, or merely dowerless, I contented myself with a smile and the observation that, while Gudgeon Park had always been a noble estate, his mother’s efforts in the past few months had transformed it into a veritable enchanted palace.

My stepsisters burst into derisive laughter. “Really, Althea!” said Charity. “An ‘enchanted palace’! What a phrase!” And she in turn leaned forward and whispered, “Such a naïf! A mind like a child’s. The poor thing!”

“In fact,” said Lord Boring, “I quite agree with Miss Crawley. Those are almost the exact words I used myself to my mother not more than an hour ago.”

My eyes traveled over the brightly lighted scene. I was accustomed to spending my evenings in a state of near total darkness only slightly relieved by the light of one cheap tallow dip. But here the night had almost been entirely banished by rank upon rank of beeswax candles; I could see everything as tho’ we stood under a noonday sun. “Yes,” I said, remembering the former state of the house, with dust and dead leaves and little clots of dog hair from the former Lord Boring’s Irish setters drifting down the hallways and settling on the stairs and behind doors, “it is so much cleaner than it used to be, for one thing.”

Shrieks from both my stepsisters alerted me to the fact that they regarded my words as ill-advised.

“Thoughtless, heedless Althea! We are so sorry, Lord Boring. Our deepest apologies, but you see how she is!” they cried in a confusion of voices. And, “Of course, the former Lord Boring was never very well, was he? Quite naturally he—And a single man, without a wife to see to the servants!”

Belatedly I realized that they were in the right. Would I never learn to tame my tongue and keep imprudent thoughts within my heart? I sighed. There went yet another young man, within moments of meeting him, and this one was far and away more desirable than Mr. Godalming, with his receding chin and his forward mama.

Lord Boring laughed. “Quite right, Miss Crawley. It is much cleaner than it used to be. Well do I remember it on the occasions I came to Gudgeon Park to see my uncle. My dressing room always smelled odd, for instance,” he said reminiscently, “and I could never quite identify the odor. I shall pass your words of commendation on to my mother and her staff.”

My stepsisters shrieked again and begged him to do no such thing.

“I shall make a point of it,” he said, and put an end to their horrified protestations by engaging all three of us, in order of age and precedence, to dance, after which he bowed and moved off to fulfill his duties to his other guests.