That was absurd. I pointed out the poor man would be on horseback all day.
“I know the ride sounds unpleasantly strenuous,” said Squibby, “but I assure you that my grooms are paid a fortune, and they don’t mind the odd errand.”
I did believe it, because anyone can tell that his servants like him. Sally tells me that Squibby’s valet is pleased with his position, whereas Antoine’s is miserable. The man speaks only French and refuses to eat meat, so he is likely starving to death. I suggestedthat he might not know English, but Sally says that he’s been in this country ever since the near-guillotining years ago and should have learned how to say “egg” by now.
“Did you meet lots of Frenchwomen in Europe?” I asked Squibby, realizing a moment too late how improper that question was.
“I lived on the Continent for two years,” he pointed out, rather evasively.
“I know that. We wrote to each other, remember?” I wrote to him every week, even though it is frightfully inappropriate to write to an unmarried man who isn’t a family member. Colonel Brandon never said a word against it and stamped all my letters, so I felt that the head of the household had (so to speak) given me permission.
“I never wrote to you about ladies,” Squibby said, his eyes glinting at me.
He’d grown a lot in the last two years; I couldn’t help noticing that his shoulders were much wider. Plus, there was something indefinable about his face that suggested he gained all kinds of experience he hadn’t had before.
“I have no wish to learn about them,” I said, striving for dignity.
Then I retiredwith alacrity. That’s a great phrase that I must use somehow. It perfectly conveys the speed that sends a person running from the room, their ears burning with embarrassment.
August 16, 1814, sent by Baron Hugh Skelmers Vaughan to Miss Margaret Dashwood:
Dear Snaps, Bobby Peel’s father wants to start a police force in London, so he asked us to visit a Florentine prison called the Bargello. It turns out that paying a finewill commute a death sentence. I thought you’d want me to do it, so Bobby and I pooled our money and bought out a fellow for the crime of blasphemy. The three of us are in a pub, having drunk the better part of a cask of wine. Bobby is writing his father about police corruption but says Peel senior will ignore him. I hope this is legible. I miss you.
September 2 Morning
The men went out shooting again, so I breakfasted with Feodora and two other eligible damsels before making my excuses and dashing up to my room to write while my impressions are fresh.
Feodora is even more in love with Squibby than she was yesterday afternoon. Apparently, she danced three times with him—against the rules, but her mother had retired with a headache—so now she considers them to be virtually betrothed.
“His eyes are punishingly blue,” she rhapsodized, clutching her hands together.
I found the revelation of her future spouse disagreeable, and the reference to “punishinglyblue eyes” absurd. It seems I have fallen into the habit of considering Squibby my own, which is foolish, given that I rejected his hand. I almost pointed out that their children would be oversized with floppy curls, but dismissed it as sour grapes. Instead, I asked Feodora whether she liked to travel (no), or ride to the hounds (no), or read classic literature in English or the original language (no). Those are Squibby’s favorite occupations.
“Why do you call him such a frightful nickname?” she asked. “According to Debrett’s, Baron Vaughan’s given name is Hugh.”
“HughSkelmersVaughan,” I said. “I couldn’t pronounce Skelmers when I was three years old.”
She looked blank, which isn’t unusual for her—I’m definitely getting sour in my old age. Why should marriage be based on conjunctive interests, after all? Colonel Brandon and Marianne have nothing in common. The other day I was a reluctant witness to a long conversation about drainage—to think that Marianne used to pride herself on being romantic! That subject was followed by a thoughtful exploration of the state of Cook’s nerves, as reflected in overdone beef. I suppose this sort of exchange is a trade-off one has to make to marry a man with a large estate.
I will say this: The Colonel listens patiently to Marianne cooing about their children. I remember rolling my eyes at Squibby a couple of years ago, when she was raving about their first baby’s intelligence.
He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “When I have children, I shall leave them alone to grow, the way you do a lemon tree.”
“A lemon tree?” I asked.
“You can’t expect fruit for a few years. I met an old farmer who said that only in Sicily do lemons bear fruit immediately.”
Once we had sorted out where Sicily was—and agreed that we’d both like to see untended lemon groves—I knew precisely what he was talking about, because Marianne’s maternal accolades are necessarily limited and repetitive. Even now, her first still can’t read or say more than a few sentences.
“My sister drags her children to London and back for the Season, when the House of Lords is in session,” Squibby elaborated. “It’s absurd. She should leave them in the country breathing fresh air and growing at their own pace, rather than insisting that they be constantly under the parental eye.”
I completely agree. I’ve noticed that people with children fall into two camps: either they treat the children as an extension ofthemselves (“Freddy is such an intelligent little chap”) or as some sort of benign growth that took over the nursery (“Margery is growing like a weed, though I admit I haven’t caught sight of her in months; I really must ask Nanny to bring her down before tea”).
My sisters are resolutely in the first camp, and I am certain I shall be the second. I find children frightfully boring and shall leave mine in the country until—at the very least—they can read and speak in full sentences.
At any rate, Squibby and I aren’t friends merely because of the massacred earthworm (yes, it was alive—but honestly, did it suffer more than if I’d stepped on it?). We shared any number of adventures as children. For example, once when he was home from Eton, we found a dead weasel and cut it open to see what it was made of (blobby bits that are hard to separate with a twig).
All this ancient history has made me feel maudlin, so I think I’ll go down and interview a suitor. Sally reported that one of the knights didn’t join the shoot. Apparently, his valet failed to polish his boots, which curtailed his participation.
