Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

‘ I t is quite true, Elinor, that this great city is an almost unbearable conglomeration of noise and sickly stench, for the streets, as you know, are so dirty with horse droppings and worse—I feel as if in some ways I have never left the country! But I do not mind it as much as Fanny, who complains of it every time we go in the carriage. The longer I am here the less I seem to notice these things, for there is so much besides that to see! There are ever so many people, all in various forms of dress from the most humble to the very fine, and everywhere are gentlemen and ladies in such bright colours as I have never seen in Barton!

And the roads! The mad rush of carriages, people and horses passing among each other at all hours, with barely a whit of distance to separate them, nor opportunity to pass between, amazes me! To cross the road is a danger to one's life! But I own I cross the road now with little care for such things as I had when I first arrived. Fanny and John seem quite at home with all the crowds, and I own I am enjoying the sensation of being caught up in the great machinery of the city, for each time I am spat out of a carriage or ejected from a tea shop or library or milliners, I am then picked up by the current of people and swept along somewhere even more exciting!

It will astonish you greatly, I'm sure, but the people here never sleep Elinor! They dance until five or six in the morning, then go to bed for three or four hours, then up they get to begin all over again! At least half of the ladies I have seen have dark circles under their eyes and must conceal it as best they can with Pearl's powder or such like! I suppose you must laugh at me, on account of being so amused by such odd things, but have mercy on me, for you must remember it is my first visit, and I am well disposed to be made speechless by almost anything that is different to Barton!

The entertainments are endless and riveting—theatres, music of all kinds, the spectacles on every corner and in every gardens—all mesmerize me until I think I am in some strange but very agreeable dream! We have been to see Mrs Siddons in ‘Constance', and we are soon to go to the Lyceum to see ‘Hypocrite', and to dance at Almack's—indeed there is everything to see and hear that must be imagined agreeable! Only think, there are wild animals at the Exeter Exchange and I shall see them, very soon, John promises me! Only we must go late, for the feeding time is nine o' clock at night!

I suppose you will think me quite na?ve to be so entranced with such silly things, but although I miss you and Edward, and dear Delaford, and Mama, I am so happy that Mama allowed me to come away with Fanny and John.

Last week we attended a small dinner party—and not such as we are used to at Barton, Elinor, with perhaps ten to twenty guests in total, but what we call an intimate dinner party, in London, signifies an affair with upwards of thirty guests! At Mr Ambrose's where we were last night, I counted two-and-thirty head, and such a number of servants to attend us, as would overfill Lady Middleton's very spacious dining room!

It was a very pleasant evening, however, the table was very well set and the dishes all so delicious—two full courses, I add, and two different ices numbered amongst the desserts! Mr Ambrose, who is a great acquaintance of John and Fanny, has a great deal of money and spares no expense when he gives dinners, I am told. He was very kind to me and made sure I tried all of the best dishes and had the warmest place after dinner by the fire. He has singled me out, I think because I am so new to London, and made me most welcome, as the sister of one of his friends. He is very charming and elegantly dressed and possessing of the finest manners and enlightening conversation, Elinor, but then I find all the gentlemen here are very conscious of being considered both charming and elegant, and spare no pains to convey their rank and importance in the hopes of being admired by a rich lady! As I have no fortune, I must conclude that Mr Ambrose is merely being kind to Fanny's sister, but I own it is pleasant nonetheless to be treated with such solicitude for my comfort!

I have received a call from Marianne and Mrs Palmer at Harley-street, and I have been to her three times in Hanover-square, and was received very kindly by Mr and Mrs Palmer. Mrs Palmer talks of inviting me to go with them to the Pantheon, which I should enjoy very much.

As for our sister, for I know you will be wishing for news, I cannot say that Marianne is exactly improved in spirits, from when she was at Delaford, but I think the change of scene is doing her some good, and the amusements here surely must take her mind from her troubles! I do not fear for her health, exactly, but I own that I hope dear Philip does not intend to stay away from us all too long. Did you know—I'm sure that you do—that he has gone to France on some strange errand to do with Delaford? I cannot make sense of it, and Marianne neither, but she had a letter and I read it, and it is all quite true. Perhaps once he is back this entire sad situation will finally be resolved.

Marianne and I are engaged to ourselves tomorrow morning, which will be the greatest pleasure to me just to have my sister to myself, for we are going to Lackingtons' in Finsbury-square so that Marianne can look over the sheet music and buy some new pieces for when she goes home. I shall accompany her, not for the music, but she will be so long pouring over the music scores that I shall have at least an hour to read something even if I cannot afford to buy!

One thing which will give you the greatest amusement, is that we have just this morning had a visit from Mr and Mrs Robert Ferrars. They had just arrived in town from Dawlish. Mrs Lucy Ferrars has just inflicted her third child upon the world, and she brought the poor creature with her to the visit (yes, I call it poor creature, for who would endure such a mother and father as Mr and Mrs F!) leaving the nurse standing by in the carriage—a very sad thing for Fanny as I shall relate!

I supposed the visit to be the first since it was born, and little Edgar was to be shown to its uncle and aunt! At any rate, the child, at first swaddled tightly and quiet, was placed in Fanny's arm's even before she could decline the honour, and it at once seemed to come alive and begin to wail as if it were about to be sacrificed! My poor sister was obliged to sit more than ten minutes with the child wailing and its parents seeming to care not a whit if it was comfortable or fed or had made itself wet!

But I perceived it was a robust child, as healthy as dear Imogen and Teddy, and I had no anxiety for its ability to pay back its mother for neglect, for it was possessed of the most effective pair of lungs a child could have—it never faltered once! And after ten minutes spent in such a manner, in which we were obliged to speak very loudly in order to understand each other, there suddenly came upon the room such an odour as could hardly be borne, and poor Fanny turned green, ready to hand the child back to Mrs Ferrars—but neither of them even noticed!

Poor Fanny—I could see that it was all she could do not to make some excessively unchristian remark! Conversation was next to impossible and for the entire time it was being held by Fanny it wailed so dreadfully, and its mama so complacent as to the child's comfort, so that I almost wanted to take it up in my arms myself and comfort it for having such a cold-hearted mother. I condoled myself, Elinor, with the thought that it will likely grow up very ill-tempered and live long enough to be a great disappointment to its mother and father !

At any rate, after another five minutes, Mr Robert Ferrars then finally called for the nurse to come and take young Edgar, and you will quite credit it, I think, when I tell you that the moment it was taken from the arms of its aunt, it went quiet, and was quite content! Poor Fanny! But, oh, those ten minutes, Elinor, I confess I found the most amusing I have had all week! Even with the dreadful stench pervading Fanny's drawing room!'

Margaret had now been a full fortnight in town, and as she had described in her letter to Elinor, she had been much enlivened by the constant change of activity and scene which a visit to London with Fanny afforded. Fanny was very social, and her husband content to follow wherever his wife led. Margaret was enjoying the city more than she had even hoped, and although she missed the quietness of the country, she was still very much entranced with all that she saw and heard.

Dinner at St James-street had been not at all as much a chore as she had imagined, for while being "obliged to converse with rank" she found that since her conversation was confined mostly to interesting discourse with Mr Ambrose, who had seated her near himself, she had found herself becoming comfortable quickly. She had managed to ask him all sorts of questions about his youth, and was fascinated to hear of his travel abroad, and his business interests in the Indies, especially his coffee plantations in the Indies.

‘It seems such a complicated process—to grow the beans, to wash them, to roast them, and to send them off to England and such like places. I have tasted coffee, for my brother likes to drink it at breakfast, and I thought it wonderful!'

She remembered now the first afternoon she had spent with the Edwins, and the delicious cup that she had drunk, and the history she had learned about slavery. But she didn't suppose that to be an appropriate topic to mention at table and so she added instead, ‘I should so much like to see from where the beans come, and how they are grown first hand.'

‘You have tasted coffee?' remarked Ambrose disapprovingly. ‘I consider coffee as not suitable for a lady's delicate constitution, myself. As for going to the West Indies—it is a long way, and no journey for a lady.'

Margaret, feeling somewhat chastised, quickly added, ‘I did not think it unknown for ladies to drink coffee—I suppose I don't know the London fashions,' she added humbly, ‘and what is accepted at Norland may not be here. Do you drink coffee yourself, Sir? Fanny prefers tea, of course, but I always enjoy the aroma when John has it at breakfast.'

‘Coffee is more than a pleasant beverage, Miss Dashwood,' replied Ambrose. ‘It is the power behind this great country.'

‘What do you mean?' she asked, admiring his knowledge and hoping for firsthand account, seeing as he owned coffee plantations himself.

‘I mean that labour is increased by means of drinking it for it gives the working man the power to endure many more hours of labour than he normally would without it. It also cures hunger, so that the poor families might not need food as they would otherwise. In the plantations, it is popular. I give it regularly to my workers—it increases labour output.'

Margaret privately thought that giving them food might be a better way to quench hunger than coffee! ‘And do you—employ slaves, Mr Ambrose?' she asked curiously. ‘I have heard that there is much opposition to slavery—what is your opinion?'

Mr Ambrose turned slowly to survey her, and said quietly, ‘I do not consider slavery a topic for dinner conversation, Miss Dashwood. No plantation can produce a profit without them, and they are, therefore, a crucial part of the success of England. You yourself benefit from slavery, and therefore you can hardly criticize what you inadvertently benefit by.'

Much afraid that she had given offence, she refrained from asking any more questions on the topic, feeling that she had yet to learn much with regard to town etiquette. She was glad Fanny and John could not have overheard her, or she would have been lectured sternly by Fanny when they had returned home. Despite her mistake, however, the dinner thus went off smoothly enough, and Margaret left St James-street that evening a good way to being even more charmed by the enigmatic Mr Ambrose than ever.

When she met Marianne at the Palmers the following day, in order to take the carriage to Finsbury-square, Marianne appeared wan but resigned, and not uncheerful. ‘I am in better spirits than I would have been without a letter from him,' she confided, once they had entered the carriage which was to convey them to the square, ‘for I must take comfort that Brandon is still speaking to me.'

‘It is still so odd, his going away abroad,' sighed Margaret, looking for some consolation to give her sister, ‘but I have been thinking on it all, Marianne, and I wonder that because his going away is so sudden and so strange, then perhaps his want of spirits is in some way connected. When he comes home, it is very likely he will have resolved whatever it is that is worrying him, and you will be your happy selves again.'

‘Perhaps,' replied Marianne, not much convinced, ‘but as unaccountable as the circumstances are, I doubt that my husband's pleasure-jaunt to France will amend my difficulties.' Her tone was bitter.

Margaret took her hand. ‘Oh, Marianne, don't think of that, for now, at least.' Her tone was beseeching. ‘Let us go on to Lackingtons! I know you will not be able to think on anything but your beloved music once we are there!'

The Temple of Muses, for such is how the great place was referred to by all, was a sight most grand to Margaret. Marianne had been taken there by her husband on two occasions in previous years, but the need for new music, perhaps her only consolation since the departure of her husband, had overtaken her ability to remain listless and sad, and even she was cheered by the sight of the great building. For Margaret however, the place was a new sight and she was eager to absorb the grandness of the building and to browse the volumes for purchase there.

Inside, they were invited to put off their pelisses and hand them to the attendant who hung them away. Now Margaret stared around herself. The centre of an unusually large ware-room was filled with many large shelves, upon which a great number of volumes of all sorts of topics were distributed, and boasted of being the largest collection of volumes in all London. Many elegantly dressed ladies and gentleman browsed the catalogues and scoured the shelves, and scanning the crowds, she recognised one of the ladies whom was present at Mr Ambrose's dinner, although she could not recall the name. The lady, a creature of no great beauty but of a rather pinched, stern address, and a blue gown, met her eyes, made a slight bow of her head in recognition, then turned away to her friend to look through the books.

Margaret, who was not sure of the customs in town when meeting someone they barely knew, only nodded herself, and turned away. She would give no offence, she was sure, when they had not even spoken, so large had the dinner party been! She turned to Marianne, who was now looking around her in curiosity. ‘Why do we not ask one of the clerks where the sheet music can be found?'

But she was behind-hand in her suggestion, for the sought-after pianoforte music was to one of the side-rooms and it was toward these that Marianne was already issuing. Arriving there behind her sister, Margaret found that the little room was full of baskets containing pieces of sheet music, all alphabetically arranged, and she marvelled how the number of books and music could all be so well regulated.

Marianne had already commenced her efforts by sorting through a basket and setting aside a piece she wished to buy. ‘Look, Meg! This is a piece I have most particularly wanted to play for Br—for you all—' She faltered, but continued momentarily, ‘It is by Beethoven—Sonata No. 14. ‘ Quasi una fantasia ,' she added with a sigh. ‘There is so much to look at. Do go and look about, Meg dear, if it will not be disagreeable to you to go alone, for I think I should like to look at all these baskets for some time.'

‘Of course, I shall go outside to the books.' Leaving her sister to continue her shopping, Margaret walked slowly through the ware-room, examining the shelves as she went, pulling forward this volume and that, and wishing she had enough spare money to buy something. Reckoning, however, that she could not afford such a treat, however generous the Colonel had been with his gift, she walked then to a great window overlooking the busy street. Behind one of the large iron pillars which supported the roof, she stood almost hidden from view as she took in the scene. The city scenes never failed to interest her, and the sight of horses, carriages and ladies and gentlemen walking about on the street caught her attention for some minutes.

About to turn away and look for some travel books, the clear tone of two voices caused her to pause, for although she didn't recall the voice, her own name was mentioned. Peering through the books to the other side of the shelf, she caught the flash of a blue morning dress, and the hint of another gown in white, beside it, but the identity of the speakers was hidden by dint of books being placed right where a head would have been clear. She couldn't help herself, and held her breath the better to hear.

‘…not as if they cannot know his reputation. Always seen together, dined at St James-street last week, and was seen with her at the opera the night before. I suppose Dashwood knows wh at he is doing, allowing him to pay his attentions to her. No father in the case, apparently—Dashwood is the older brother, but my dear, ineffectual at best, in my opinion!'

‘Ineffectual indeed! But knowing them both as I do, I will vouch for it that Mr Dashwood will have little say in the matter. Even should he wish to!'

‘You suggest it is Mrs Dashwood's doing?'

‘The gentleman is her intimate acquaintance after all—they are always huddled together discussing Lord knows what! I daresay it is she who has made the introduction. You know how she rules her husband. Pity—she seems a sweet girl, and na?ve as they come! Oh well, ‘twill all come out in the end.'

‘Yes, my dear Louisa, but the question is, a good end or a bad end? Mark my words, it will be the young lady to suffer, not he. He knows what he is about—I heard the grandfather has insisted he marry within the year in order to secure his future inheritance—and perhaps he means to give up his philandering ways—but of course, men such as he cannot help themselves. She's a pretty little thing—quite a beauty!'

‘Well! All I can say is, I would never had let my Jane come to town without her uncle or her father to keep an eye—Mr Dashwood will be very sorry if…'

Here the two voices faded a little as they moved away, and Margaret, straining to hear more without appearing to be deliberately listening in, felt as if she had been slapped. What was the meaning of the conversation—surely they did not refer to Mr Ambrose? But it seemed unlikely that they meant anyone else, and she turned her flaming cheeks to the book-shelf to hide them. A philanderer? In what way? Surely John would never allow Ambrose to be in their company so much if he was what the ladies implied. She thought very much that they must have been mistaken, perhaps had been hearing ill-meant rumours. Even if it were true, it was not as if she was going to marry Mr Ambrose! She was never alone with him and Fanny would not pride herself in the association of a man such as the one it seemed the two women had described.

Feeling a little anxious, she went in search of Marianne. What she had overheard was simply gossip of the nature she had always been warned against, and deciding John would never allow an acquaintance with such a man as they described, she determined to put the overheard words from her mind.

Her sister had selected several pieces, and once she had paid for them, the two sisters left the building. Once inside the carriage again, Margaret was tempted to tell her sister about Mr Ambrose and what she had overheard, but just as she thought to raise the topic of Mr Ambrose, Marianne sighed heavily, burdened by her own troubles, so she kept her anxieties to herself, for fear of making her sister anxious on her behalf.