The Cordless Diaries

Supper

We had, as Felicity said, talked the following day. Late summer seemed to linger languidly and the warm afternoon meant we could sit again in her garden and avoid the prying ears of her maid, Alice, whose mother was much improved. Aside from bringing us refreshments Alice busied herself about her duties indoors and by turns we sat beneath the shade of an old maple or walked around the garden. Felicity held my hand but the intimacy made me feel furtive, the thing that I dreaded most. I told her so. She held my hand yet more firmly.

‘We are not able, it is true, to flaunt our love. We both know it would be our ruin and the scandal would destroy Grenville who does not deserve that. Strictly between ourselves, Emm, I suspect that Grenville is subject to leaning in a slightly different if similar way to ourselves. This, perhaps, explains his constant attention upon his client in London. He has taken rooms there rather than stay at his club.’ She said this with no rancour. ‘I have been dwelling upon our “how” and I have a suggestion to make. Grenville has long understood that I long to travel, to see the antiquities. Oh, no, not the Grand Tour but perhaps a less than grand tour. I understand a Mr Cook of London arranges such things and it might, might it not, be an opportunity for two young women to pursue mutual and appropriate cultural interests?’ I pondered this notion. ‘I wrote to Grenville yesterday and asked his permission. He would not withhold it and he can afford to indulge his wife so. Let us visit London together, we might take Mr Brunel’s train from Bath and enquire of Mr Cook concerning costs and so on. Your parents might not approve, might not be prepared to assist you?’

She was looking at me, trying to judge my reaction. Casting caution to the wind I threw my arms about her and hugged her. My body, free beneath the thin shirt I wore felt deliciously close to hers but my excitement at this juncture emanated not from lust but the delightful and, it seemed to me, entirely realistic prospect that Felicity’s plan might be achievable.

‘I have a little money of my own, Flick. I should not need my parents’ assistance. Mother would, of course sniff and call such a venture ‘”ridiculous” or “ill-conceived” but Father would support me, I know he would.’ We continued to walk and discuss the plan. My optimism lifted my hopes and I began to believe it might be possible. I promised to raise the matter with them very evening.

Caroline and I rode back in the gathering gloom. I told her of our plot and she approved, I could tell from her demeanour. The church clock chimed the hour of eight as we entered the yard and I knew I should be late for supper were I to change and so I hastened through the process of liberating Caroline and then strode into the breakfast room where I knew I should find my parents.

I kissed Father and Mother then sat at the table. ‘Do you not intend to change for supper, Emma?’ Why were her first words to me ever reproachful.

‘I don’t imagine she wanted to keep us waiting, my dear. Is that not so, Emm?’ He seemed rather less ‘relaxed’ than usual and I felt the need to grasp the moment.
‘Can you not afford your daughter her full name, Josiah?’ Father sighed and smiled at me across the table.

‘Where have you been, Emm.’

‘With Mrs Daker, Father.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Josiah. She is that little wife of the solicitor, Daker. They dined here.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said he without any recollection either of the Dinner or Mrs Daker. ‘A good day, I trust?’

‘We find great pleasure in each other’s company, thank you Father. Indeed we have been discussing a visit to Europe, perhaps further afield together. Mr Daker is occupied in London a great deal and Mrs Daker shares my interest in the antiquities. We considered we might visit Rome, perhaps. Mrs Daker tells me a Mr Cook of London arranges such things safely for travellers such as we.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mother.

‘Rome eh? I went there you know. Splendid place. Lots of bloody foreign sorts of course, but one expects that. When are you going?’

‘She is NOT going, it is beyond reason!’ said mother somewhat hysterically.

‘Not at all, damned good idea in my estimation. I could sell the Turner if you like? Never liked the bloody thing anyway.’ Perhaps he was not as alert as I had imagined for the Turner had been sold some years before but I took heart from his support. I decided to use my diplomatic skills to ease the situation before Mother had a touch of the vapours which I could see was a distinct possibility.

‘It is early to take any such dramatic steps, Father, but it is most kind of you to be so considerate. We thought perhaps we should visit Mr Cook in London and seek his guidance and establish whether, indeed, the venture is something which we could undertake with safety and within our limited means.’

‘I always hated that Turner. Gloomy bloody thing. Why couldn’t he paint something you could recognise. My father bought it you know; a triumph of port over good sense.’

Mother sniffed and sulked but it was clear that I had won the day. She believed, I could tell, that our investigations would demonstrate the impossibility of the venture and she was not so stupid as to believe I would be thwarted. She had always called me headstrong and impractical, ‘Just like your father,’ but knew better than to forbid, especially if my dear father supported me. She was a dutiful if reproachful wife, born in an era when women knew their place. She considered herself to be the regulating force in the household but not the decision maker.

‘Always liked that other one though,’ said Father, who appeared to have gone off into a private place. ‘The one with the horse. Stibbs? Something like that. He could paint a horse like no one else you know, Emm. God knows where that is now. One of the bloody servants has probably stolen it.’ Mother sighed and I smiled benignly upon the dear man.

Alone in my room that night I imagined the scene: the ferry across the English Channel, how romantic that would be; the trains and carriages across France; the Alps. And then I imagined the evenings, alone in a room with Felicity. ‘Hungerford,’ I whispered, ‘Hunger for it.’ The word play made me smile. So did my hand which, at the height of my ecstasy became Felicity’s hand and then her tongue and I turned my face into my pillow that my mutterings and moanings might not be heard elsewhere in the house.