Curricle & Chaise

  Curricle & Chaise first published 2012. Copyright © Lizzie Church 2012 - all rights reserved.

  Cover design and illustration by John Amy www.ebookdesigner.co.uk, based on the painting 'Couple at the Window' by Georg Friedrich Kersting (1785-1847)

  Chapter 1When Mrs Thomas Barrington was so inconsiderate as to depart this world without so much as a ‘by your leave’, leaving two daughters to burden their aunts and precious little else to cover their maintenance, their futures looked very uncertain indeed. Of course, it was entirely natural that two young ladies of 19 and 7 would feel bereft at the loss of their mama, but to Miss Lydia and Miss Susan Barrington their change in circumstances demanded a total and somewhat painful adjustment to their whole way of life. With their father less than two years dead and no male relative available to render them assistance it quickly became apparent that they must learn to shift for themselves. Even this might have proved tolerable. After all, Lydia was an independent sort of a girl, more than capable of holding her own against importunate tradesmen, and more than happy to bring her younger sister up on her own. It would not do, however. The state in which Lydia discovered the family affairs made independent existence quite out of the question. In spite of all her best efforts, within a few months of her mama’s death, and scarcely out of full mourning, it became apparent to her that there was nothing to be done but to acknowledge the inevitable and appeal to her relations for help.

  The girls’ circumstances occasioned some debate amongst the relatives in question – two aunts, both sisters of Mrs Barrington. Elizabeth, the younger, was happily married to a dedicated but impoverished clergyman in Surrey. The other, Mary, was a somewhat hard-faced female on the wrong side of forty. She had made an excellent marriage in her more endearing youth and now lived in style and the constant vapours in the Abdale mansion in Middlesex. Elizabeth, indeed, despite a delicate financial situation, tiny house and a rather fearful regard for her spirited elder niece would have been more than pleased to offer both girls a home. But Mary would have none of it, talked persuasively of duty (and thought secretly of the benefit that Lydia could bring to the rather constrained society of Abdale House, and more particularly to the care of her most expensive cups and plates) and had nimbly requisitioned the elder of the two almost before Lydia had requested her assistance. This left Elizabeth with young Susan – a somewhat ponderous, slow child of very few words and with a rather perplexing air of never being quite aware of what was going on, for whom, her sister feared, life would always be something of a struggle.

  It was several months before the aspirations of either aunt could be met, however. Lydia was determined to salvage what property she could, more for her sister’s sake than her own, and she fought desperately to retain some semblance of independence to the end. But what hope of success could a young lady of gentle birth and no influential friends expect in the face of determined creditors? There was no way in which the tradesmen could wait for their bills to be paid. They had only waited until now out of respect firstly for dear Lydia’s poor, unfortunate papa, and latterly for Miss Lydia’s highly esteemed mama, and there was now nothing to restrain them from taking over the premises immediately. The skirmish lost (though the bills paid) Lydia gave way in as gracious a manner as she could muster, packed her sister’s trunk and her own, and summoned the assistance of her uncle – which materialised in due course in the form of a chaise and four.

  And so it was that, on a bleak November day in the year 1810, Miss Lydia Barrington found herself huddled in her Uncle Abdale’s second best carriage, jolting along the turnpike towards her new home. She had taken a detour on the way from Bradbury so that she could deliver Susan into Elizabeth’s welcoming arms in Surrey and after a short stay of a couple of days (which she had spent primarily in assisting her sister to unpack, settle in and become used to the extremely constrained surroundings of her cupboard-sized bedroom in the vicarage attic) she had set off once more, firstly in the Stage to London (a city which she would like to have had the chance to explore more thoroughly) and latterly in the chaise. It was a long journey and she was feeling miserable. Not that Lydia was one normally to succumb to the dismals. She had a cheerful disposition as well as a somewhat fiery temper, but her changed situation, and the weather, and the effects of a cold that simply would not go away, concerns about Susan, and what she, Lydia, could possibly do with her life - and more than anything, the prospect of living with aunt Abdale, were sufficient to put the dampers on what she would normally have found an interesting journey. She was actually feeling a little sorry for herself – quite a new sensation for her, and one that she was finding had little to recommend it. For two years now she had been used to the freedom and responsibility of running her mama’s house virtually single-handed since her father’s death at the battle of Vimeiro (an event which, on looking back, Lydia was convinced had led to the demise of both of her parents and not just the one). The change from being used to issuing instructions and having her own way, of dealing with servants and tradesmen from day to day, to being dependent on the good offices of an aunt whom she detested (and whose motives in offering her a home seemed singularly suspect) and cousins whom she had not seen for nigh on six years, was not one to which she was looking forward with much relish. So she felt miserable and hard done by, clutching her grey silk handkerchief and shivering perceptibly in the draughty carriage. It wasn’t until the coachman turned to speak to her that she realised how far they had come.

  ‘If you care to look to the right, Miss, you will just see Abdale House over there, beyond the trees.’

  Sure enough, silhouetted against the grey November sky, Lydia could just make out the familiar square form of Abdale House, planted solidly in its magnificent park. And then the carriage swung round into the driveway, between two sturdy iron gates and up the avenue of limes, and within a very few minutes they had pulled up on the gravel frontage under the imposing portico and she was being handed down at last.

  Her welcome to Abdale was not exactly effusive. Indeed, it was scarcely a welcome at all, the housekeeper being the only soul to materialise at the sound of the bell, and she appearing more than usually severe in the gloominess of the hall.

  ‘It is good to see you again, Mrs Arthur,’ said Lydia, trying to ignore the rather upturned nose of the upright figure before her. ‘I hope I find you well?’

  Mrs Arthur emitted a sniff designed to convey her own superiority over all dependent relatives, however polite and well bred they may be. ‘Master and family is all gone out,’ she returned. ‘I can show you to your room, if you like’.

  If Lydia was surprised she did not show it. Instead she followed her guide up the broad staircase, trusting that the coachman would see to the removal of her trunk. Mrs Arthur led her past the guest rooms and up a second flight of stairs, approaching the door of what Lydia well remembered to be the former governess’s room. Mrs Arthur flung open the door with another condescending sniff and turned back along the corridor before Lydia could even step inside. The room was cold and gloomy; the grate contained no fire. Only the fact that the bed was made up indicated that she was, indeed, expected there at all.

  Lydia looked around the room pensively as the housekeeper stalked away. She felt acutely aware of her uncomfortable position here at Abdale. She had no doubt that her situation had been made well known to the servants, and that this reception provided just a taste of things to come.

  It was some time before she had a chance to find out, however, as it was after eleven the next morning before Mrs Abdale appeared in the breakfast room, rather plump in her mauve muslin robe. She stopped in the doorway and eyed her niece narrowly for a moment before advancing into the room as stiffly as her somewhat rotund form would allow. In
the six years since she had last seen her niece Lydia had metamorphosed from a somewhat thin, pasty fourteen year old into an elegant and stunningly beautiful young lady, with a trim but shapely figure. Her shining dark chestnut locks refused to subject themselves to the confines of a half-mourning cap – an item of apparel which would have rendered any less attractive a wearer positively plain, but which only succeeded in making Lydia appear even more beautiful than normal.

  Mrs Abdale, in contrast, was anything but shapely and trim. Unaccountably, the image of her late mama’s pet pug dog (an animal with whom Lydia had enjoyed a somewhat adversarial relationship until its felicitous if untimely demise at the wheel of a carriage and four) fleetingly entered Lydia’s brain as she looked at her. She endeavoured to set this aside as she bobbed a demure curtsey to her aunt.

  ‘My dear Lydia,’ effused Mrs Abdale, sailing into the room and allowing her niece the liberty of a peck on the cheek before proceeding to pile a plate with ham and cheese from the sideboard. ‘In what melancholy circumstances we find ourselves, indeed. And to think that the last time we met my poor dear sister Barrington seemed in as good health and lively as ever. Such a shock as it was. Why, it quite laid me up for a full se’ennight or more.’

  ‘We are all very sorry about it, I’m sure, ma’am.’

  ‘And to leave you alone in the world, entirely destitute, so Abdale assures me. How dreadful. You are to be quite a burden on us, I fear.’

  Lydia inclined her head and said nothing, concentrating on the pattern of the carpet instead.

  ‘Yet I was quite astonished to hear of her sad passing away. Your mama was always a sorry, impractical sort of a child but she was never of so sickly a disposition as I – why, had I died in her stead I should scarcely have been more surprised.’

  She stared at her niece through piercing blue eyes.

  ‘Not but what I expected the situation, of course. Why, as soon as your papa died – such a hapless thing to do, to be sure – I turned to Abdale and told him that I should not know what you would do. I knew you should be destitute eventually.’

  ‘Indeed, ma’am, you must be right. I am persuaded, however, that papa would have remained with us to this day had he been able …’

  ‘And then your mama – what could be done for her? – such a shatterbrain as she was – would be having her own way all the time. She could have done so much better for herself had she but waited awhile before marriage (as I advised) but no – even when her mama and her own dear sister (who were only concerned for her welfare after all) would recommend caution the while – not but that my sister Bridger has done much better, but at least she has a husband with her for all that her income’s small – well, see where it got her at last – an early death and two daughters thrust upon the world without a penny to their names.’

  Lydia was quite well able to imagine why her mama had been keen to fly the family nest at as early an age as possible, with a sister like aunt Abdale and a dimly-remembered but much feared grandmamma to contend with. She felt convinced that she would have done exactly the same in her position. She tried to ignore her aunt’s unkindness and bit her tongue sharply to prevent herself from rising to the bait. Fortunately Mr Abdale chose this moment to come downstairs and she was able to direct her attention towards him instead.

  ‘Why Lydia,’ he said, mildly. ‘How much you are grown from what I remember – quite the young lady, indeed. I hope you enjoyed your journey yesterday – not but what the old carriage is very comfortable,’ he added hastily, glancing sideways towards his wife a little nervously, ‘but my dear wife required the best chaise, you see, to go on her visits and we did not know when it should be free.’

  ‘I can only thank you for sending a chaise at all, uncle. The journey was perfectly satisfactory, I can assure you. If it hadn’t been quite so cold, and the springs only a little less penetrative, I should even have found it pleasant. As it was, I must confess I was more than pleased to see Abdale House to mark my journey’s end.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said her uncle, gruffly, ‘and a mightily fine view you will have had, too, I expect. Abdale is much improved since you were here last. We had the grounds landscaped a couple of years ago – much grander than Grantham Hall across the way – the shrubbery is quite new, you know, and Mrs Abdale insisted on having a ruin built just to the west of the house – you may see it if you choose to, out of the drawing room window – it looks mighty fine, I can tell you … but no, (humph), you won’t be bothered with that just now. I daresay you have other things to occupy you, as all young ladies have. But make yourself at home, my dear, and be sure to let me know if there’s anything that you need.’

  Mrs Abdale looked up sharply from behind her buttered eggs and glared at her husband, who happened just at that moment to be looking the other way. Mr Abdale gave another slight ‘humph’ and busied himself with some cold ham. Lydia followed his progress with her eyes. His powdery cheeks and somewhat flabby chin reminded her of an over-fed baker.

  ‘Your uncle is too generous, Lydia,’ put in his amiable lady, grimly. ‘Although you are to have the privilege of a roof with us here at Abdale I hope you are not thinking of making any other demands upon our generosity. As you know, you are no longer mistress in your parents’ home but a dependent relative. You have been thrust upon us without a penny for your keep, a matter of great inconvenience and no little expense for us … no, allow me to continue, if you please,’ (with a majestic flourish as Lydia was about to interrupt). ‘Your mama, rest her soul, was not the most prudent of housekeepers and your father’s salary, even in wartime, scarcely sufficient to provide for you. In short, you and your sister have been reduced to beggars. You will expect, therefore, to earn your keep while you remain at Abdale House, and though by necessity you will enjoy the company and companionship of my family you will not think of being treated in any way as our equals.’

  Lydia could feel the hairs on her neck rising. She quickly repressed them.

  ‘I am happy to earn my keep, ma’am. Indeed, I should have expected nothing more,’ and (with a gulp, as the words would stick in her throat). ‘Please assure yourself of my gratitude for offering me a roof.’

  ‘I will expect you to report to me as soon as I am downstairs each morning,’ went on her aunt. ‘I will issue you with a list of your duties for the day. I am sure that, when you are lacking in any other meaningful occupation, you will make yourself available to assist Mrs Arthur. After all, you will need to earn a living in the world at some stage so it will do you good to learn the basics while you can.’

  Lydia glared at her aunt, her chin tilted defiantly.

  ‘So I am to be treated as a servant, am I? Perhaps you could have made that clear to me before I accepted your offer. I had expected, as a lady and the daughter of your own sister, to have been treated with a little more dignity and respect.’

  Mrs Abdale visibly stiffened.

  ‘Your mama was wayward and so are you,’ she observed, waving a heavy silver knife in the direction of her niece. ‘It surprises me, Lydia, just how like her you are become. In looks you resemble her greatly – those curls are just hers and she was always possessed of that same stubborn look to her eye. Don’t you forget your station, my girl. You no longer have the run of your father’s house (which I always felt to be highly misjudged on your poor mama’s part – but then, she was never of such superior understanding as myself) – and you have no low tradesmen to deal with here. Just you remember how desperate your position would be without your uncle Abdale to protect you – there is no room for proud, wayward airs and graces here.’

  ‘Wayward airs and graces?’ returned her niece, angrily. ‘Wayward airs and graces? How can you possibly say that I am wayward? I have scarcely been in this house twelve hours and already …’

  ‘You seem to forget…’

  ‘I forget nothing, aunt. I would, rather, remind you that – until this very day – I have required nothing of your family in spite of all my troubles. I thou
ght that you had offered me a home as befits your sister’s daughter but I no sooner enter your door than it appears that I am to be treated little better than a servant. Worse, for at least the servants receive some income for their efforts whilst I (I am surely correct to surmise) will receive nothing for mine.’

  ‘You should realise, Lydia, that your high and mighty ways, which may have served you well when dealing with tradesmen in Bradbury, have no place here at Abdale where your position is so inferior as to make them totally inappropriate. Indeed, I should hope that you might actually appreciate the kindness I have shown you in offering you a home here (with the luxury of which you could scarcely be familiar) by remembering your place from now on. You are here purely because your uncle could not see you thrown onto the streets. In return I should hope for a little respect in future and an acknowledgement of the very great favour we have done you in welcoming you under our roof. All I ask in return is that you undertake some little duties, which will be of no consequence to you at all, in an endeavour to make your residence a little less burdensome to us. I shall tolerate no more insolence from you, Lydia. You would do well to remember that from now on.’

  It was no more than Lydia should have expected. It was beyond aunt Abdale’s power to be truly charitable. Deep in her heart she had suspected something of the sort all along. The thought flashed through her mind that she should re-label her trunk and go post haste to her aunt Bridger in Netley, but this was almost instantly dismissed. Aunt Bridger, although she made light of the fact, was a lady of very small accommodation and even smaller means; she had already done Lydia the kindness of taking her sister to live with her. She could not really be expected to take Lydia too, however attractive the prospect. Lydia looked at the cold, proud woman before her with dislike. Her aunt was triumphant and preparing for another round with evident anticipation. Lydia smiled wryly to herself. If a battle was what she wanted then at least she could deny her that.