Page 19 of Affectations of Candour

“Thank you. And, speaking of crying, it was not permissible to publicly do so last evening. Thank you again and again for coming to my rescue while I made such a spectacle of myself.”

“Everyone understood. We all know you are in mourning.”

“Sometimes I try to feel my parents’ spirits here with me, but I cannot. They are gone, and they left me behind, like the last rose of summer. It is not fair! They were supposed to stay long enough to see me eventually wed and to hold their grandchildren.” Legs and composure crumpling, Miss Hughes sank upon the weathered planks, unmindful of the sand and bird droppings there. Elizabeth sat beside her and held her hand.

Resting her head against Elizabeth’s shoulder, the girl dabbed at tears that trickled through thick, dark eyelashes and down her cheeks. “Thank you for always being so willing to listen.” She wiped at the wet spot on her friend’s gown. “And for allowing me to cry on your shoulder.”

“I am here for you whenever you need me, and you may tell me whatever is on your mind.”

Miss Hughes picked at a splinter of wood. “In a way, I think being here at Cliff House is better for me and, by all means, more salutary than being at Greenlea where my parents should still be laughing and singing and dancing together. They were happy people, and we were supposed to have more time together. But they were gone so quickly. Papa first, then Mama just one day later. Poor Jasper was unable to get home from school in time to say his goodbyes.”

“Will you share with me something your aunt and uncle might have told you about their sister? Something cheerful. Did you learn anything about your mother that came as a pleasant surprise?”

“They told me she always was a happy girl who preferred being out of the house, running and playing. Apparently, Mama could turn head over heels in the air, both forwards and sideways, and land upon her feet. When her family sold their house on London’s outskirts and relocated to Bath, she was unhappy. Later, when she met Papa there, her brother and sister teased her about being ‘head over heels’ in love with him.” Reaching into the pocket of her gown, Miss Hughes brought out something wrapped in a remnant of velvet. Unfolding the cloth, she gazed fondly at the miniature before passing it to Elizabeth.

“Oh, this is a lovely rendering of a younger you.”

“That is not me. She is Miss Alice Baker, the girl who grew up and became Mrs Hughes, my mother. The resemblance is remarkable, is it not?” When Elizabeth handed it back, Miss Hughes pressed a forefinger against her lips and touched it to the miniature. “People have always told me I look like her.”

“There is also a little something in your aunt’s face that I see in yours. The Bakers are, and were, a handsome lot.”

The girl grimaced. “I could tell last evening that Mr Wright did not think so. I hardly even notice my aunt and uncle’s scars any longer, but that man certainly did. I cannot abide him. Like a snake, he makes my flesh crawl.”

“Last evening, in an attempt to prove him inferior to you, I fear you may have further piqued Mr Wright’s interest. He probably thinks you are a noble.”

Miss Hughes groaned and covered her face with her palms while Elizabeth rubbed her back.

“Tell me, my friend, have you had a chance to speak to the man’s eldest daughter? For some reason, I seem to have excited Miss Wright’s annoyance or resentment. I cannot imagine how or why.”

“Can you not?” Folding her hands together in her lap, Miss Hughes looked slyly sideways.

Although pleased to see the return of the girl’s dimple, Elizabeth was wary of the smirk upon her lips. “No, I honestly cannot.”

“Two words. The first begins with an ‘M’, the second with ‘D’.”

“My disposition? No? Mere dyspepsia?”

Miss Hughes threw her head back and laughed. “How would I know if Miss Wright suffers from indigestion? You really are a dull elf sometimes, so I shall give you a hint. The ‘M’ is for Mister.”

“Mister ‘D’. Whose name starts with— Oh no. No, no, no.” Gaining her feet, Elizabeth brushed sand from the backside of her gown. “This conversation is over. Come along, my dear Miss Hughes Baker. You promised me a game of backgammon, and I am determined to best you.”

At least Miss Hughes is in better humour now.

“You let me win.” Pouting, Miss Hughes crossed her arms.

“I am not as charitable as you seem to believe. You decidedly won, fair and square.”

“Girls!” cried Miss Baker as she walked through the sitting room doorway with a well-worn book tucked beneath an arm. “Put away that backgammon and your petty squabble. I have something to show you.” Once the games table was cleared, she set the book upon it. By Elizabeth’s conjecture, it contained fifty or more sheets of laid paper inside a marbled, card-paper binding. “Do you remember my telling you about our having many friends in Bath? Well, this is my album amicorum from those years.”

“That sounds like Latin.” Miss Hughes’s demeanour changed from a miff to curiosity as she uncrossed her arms and leant forwards. “What does it mean?”

Miss Baker shrugged. “I simply called it my friendship book, but the album amicorum originated in Germany during the mid-sixteenth century, particularly amongst students moving from one university to another. Such books served as lasting memories of the owner’s friends. Even looking at mine now brings back pleasant recollections.” She turned pages, her chubby, jewelled fingers stopping at an illustration in graphite. “This drawing of The Crescent was done by a frightfully forthright neighbour whose name, coincidentally, was Frank Wagner. Here is what he wrote to accompany his sketch:

Within its grand and uniform façade,

Lies disparity ’twixt master and maid.

Him above; her below.