When It Rained at Hembry Castle Chapter 8

Paying Calls

D

aphne forgot her father’s warnings and wandered to the village alone, taking some time for herself before that day’s calls were expected. Of course she and her mother had paid calls at home in Connecticut and, when the occasion required it, New York City, but here Daphne was afraid she’d get it all wrong. She stopped near the old stone church, watching the gray sky brighten to pale blue as the sun rose higher and the songbirds nestled in the trees. She walked around to the graveyard and saw the headstones with dates going back generations, wondering how much life had changed, or if it had changed at all, in the centuries since her father’s family first inhabited this land. It was her family too, she reminded herself, even if it didn’t always feel that way.

She pushed open the cemetery gate, listening to the crunch as the old iron scraped against itself. She found her way to the mausoleum where her grandfather had been laid to rest, sat beneath a downy birch tree, and wept. She felt more lonely than she had since arriving in England. She knew her grandmother meant well, as Ellis had said. Perhaps there was a correct way to do things in New York Society as well, but Daphne had never been part of that scene. Her parents, and she, had been invited into the inner circle often enough since it was known among the fashionable set that Frederick was the younger son of a peer and the leading ladies of New York were always looking to add another English aristocrat to the guest lists for their candlelight suppers. But Daphne’s mother never showed any interest in Society, calling anyone in those circles too high-handed and small-minded for their own good. Add to that the fact that her father nearly choked on his tea whenever such an invitation was extended, and you can see why the Connecticut Meriwethers preferred their own comfortable cottage hearth to any upright, uncomfortable salon in fashionable Manhattan.

Daphne dropped her head into her hands, still feeling the ache brought on by her grandmother’s lecture that morning. After breakfast Daphne had been beckoned to her boudoir by Rowland, her grandmother’s maid. Daphne was directed to sit at the mahogany table while the gray-looking, stern-faced Rowland brushed her hair and pulled it into an elegant chignon at the base of her neck, leaving a few curled tendrils floating by her ears. With her hair perfectly coiffed, Rowland helped Daphne into a lovely lilac silk taffeta tea gown with embroidered crepe, bows at the sleeves, and pearl accents. Lady Staton arrived in time to squint at the dress.

“This is the dress you wanted to see Miss Daphne in, my lady?” Rowland asked.

“Yes, that is the one, Rowland. Thank you for asking after Miss Daphne has it on.”

“I only thought…”

“Thinking. What a wonderful idea. You were thinking. And what were you thinking?” Her ladyship held up her ear trumpet as though to be certain to catch every word of the imaginative thoughts that popped unwarranted into her maid’s mind.

“I was thinking the dress has pearls, my lady, just the small ones down the front, but they’re still pearls.”

“Our callers won’t arrive until after luncheon so the pearls will do very nicely.” Lady Staton turned to Daphne. “We couldn’t have you wearing pearls before luncheon, but after luncheon will be fine, especially since they’re small accents.”

“No more black?” Daphne asked.

“It’s only been two months since your grandfather died, but I’m certain you can get away with half-mourning by now. You lived in America and didn’t know your grandfather at all.”

“Grandpa came to visit us many times, Grandma.”

“No one else knows that. I don’t want our callers seeing you in dull black when they meet you for the first time. I want them to know you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

Lady Staton sat straight-backed on the settee in front of the window watching the proceedings with narrow eyes, inspecting every movement Rowland made, clucking her tongue when she thought Rowland made a mistake, which was often. Rowland handed Daphne a pair of pearl earrings which perfectly matched the accents on her dress. Rowland looked at Lady Staton, who nodded in approval.

“There are a few things you must know, Daphne. When our visitors arrive, you must never notice anything peculiar about the person or comment on anything such as a deformity or defect of any kind.”

“I wouldn’t normally do that, Grandma.”

Lady Staton replaced her trumpet by her ear, her arm must have grown tired, and Daphne repeated herself.

“I should hope not. You are a Meriwether even if you were raised in Cumberbuns in America. Remember that the point of any conversation is to entertain, though since we are still in mourning you’ll find that most of our visitors will confine their topics to the decorations in the drawing room and the weather. Do not discuss politics for any reason, and do not ever gossip. Only the lower classes gossip.”

“I see.”

“Our callers may tiptoe around the topic of your grandfather. If they see they are able to mention him without causing pain to us, or embarrassment to themselves, then they may speak of enjoyable moments they shared with him.”

“I’m happy to speak about Grandpa with anyone who knew him. I’d like to hear what others have to say about him.”

“That’s all fine and well, Daphne, but as you’re acquainting yourself with our callers, never pry into their affairs. And even if they behave stupidly, which they often do, especially when calling after a bereavement and they don’t know what to say, never show your impatience. Smile, Daphne. That is our greatest weapon—our smiles. Not those ridiculously wide grins that show every tooth in your mouth the way you Americans do it, but a sedate parting of the lips. As aristocrats we’re known for our impeccable manners. We put people at their ease while they are in our presence.”

“And then we talk about how badly they behaved when they’re gone?”

“Precisely. Now, when our callers arrive Ellis will show them into the drawing room where they will wait until we are ready to show ourselves. We are fortunate to be receiving our guests in the country where it’s less ceremonial than London. Here we don’t have as many rules.” Lady Staton nodded as Rowland added the finishing touch, a simple pearl bracelet around Daphne’s wrist. “Come here, child. Let me look at you.”

Lady Staton’s lips pulled apart into what Daphne decided was that smile her grandmother had just described.

“The half-mourning lilac suits you. Yes, you’re perfectly acceptable as the niece of the Earl of Staton. Remember, when we receive our callers this afternoon, you must be certain to do everything exactly as I’ve taught you. There can be no room for mistakes today.”

“I thought there weren’t as many rules in the country, Grandma.”

“There are certainly fewer rules, my dear, but there are still rules.”

Afterwards Daphne made her escape from the house. She passed through the rose garden, but that day the blooms held no magic for her. She continued through the parkland, past the castle ruins, down the steep hill until she reached the church where she sat near her grandfather’s grave. She touched the mausoleum, a neo-classical stone structure with Egyptian pylon towers on either side, the monument smooth against her hands. She bowed her head as she spoke.

“Your home is beautiful, Grandpa, but it’s lonely without you, and with Papa gone I feel like I don’t have a friend in the world.” Daphne stepped back from the iron-trimmed door as though expecting her grandfather to push it open from the inside. She waited, but when only the shushing melody of the breeze answered her she sighed. She brushed some fallen leaves from her dress. “Grandma will scold me if I get my dress dirty. I probably shouldn’t be here now.” She opened the gate and looked back toward the mausoleum. “Say hi to Mama, Grandpa. I love you both so much.”

Daphne walked from the graveyard, pausing at the sight of the castle on the hill. She knew she should return—it would be luncheon soon and their callers would begin to arrive. She walked up the green hill, past the tradesmen’s cottages, past the workshops, past the stables, through the gardens to the main door where Mr. Ellis let her in.

For the rest of that day, and for days afterwards, Daphne was held captive in the drawing room while she witnessed an endless parade of only the finest ladies with only their finest daughters. Daphne met three marchionesses, four countesses, two viscountesses, and one baroness (it couldn’t be helped). Even a duchess arrived to pay her respects. After the first three calls the visitors all blended together into one polite smile and one long conversation about how Daphne was finding England (The weather must seem dreadfully wet to you, Miss Meriwether). One noble mamma (a marchioness) mentioned that her daughter Adeliza, a waif of a girl who appeared to be no more than 15, thought the new Earl looked positively dashing the last time she had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Adeliza squealed “Mamma!” with such force Daphne was afraid the poor thing might fold in on herself, she was so slight. Another marchioness (Daphne lost track of their names the moment after they were introduced) asked after Frederick, inquiring, in an all-too-innocent tone, “He’s a widower now, isn’t he?” When the Countess replied in the affirmative, the mamma, and her three daughters, could hardly contain their delight.

Daphne was amused by the interest in her father as a potential match for the unmarried daughters. She knew her father would simply laugh at the thought of being a potential suitor for girls younger than she was. Whenever the conversation turned to the eligibility of Richard or her father (sadly, Jerrold Meriwether was married), Lady Staton held her back a little straighter, flashed her eyes a little smaller, spoke her words a little slower, enunciating every syllable, and then she steered the conversation back to the weather.

The callers that stood out in Daphne’s mind were the young Americans. A viscountess brought along two American sisters—the Miss Cadwalladers (Morena was 18, and Twilla 21). The Viscountess Meddleham had met the young women in London at one of the premiere balls of the Season, and she had enjoyed the girls’ buoyant personalities and ready laughter so much she couldn’t bear to part with them. She brought them home to Kent and kept them there ever since. The Viscountess spoke to the sisters as if there were no end to the amusements they could provide, as if the young women were toy poodles, leashed for her entertainment. While the Viscountess Meddleham and the Countess of Staton discussed polite topics over the top of their steaming teacups, Morena and Twilla pulled Daphne to the settee near the window. The sisters giggled over this handsome baronet’s son or that duke’s heir who was already engaged, sadly, but what a prize he would have been! Daphne nodded at appropriate intervals, and Miss Morena declared that Daphne was the world’s greatest companion, she really was.

“You must visit us at Elwyn House in Kent,” said Miss Morena. “Viscountess Meddleham doesn’t like to brag (such a funny thing about the English, don’t you think?), but her son Reginald is so debonair, so elegant. It’s worth a visit to Kent to meet him!”

Miss Cadwallader shook her head and said, perhaps too loudly, “I’m sure Miss Meriwether doesn’t need to be introduced to any more young men, Morena. In fact, I’m certain Miss Meriwether has been introduced to more than enough young men already.”

Miss Morena shook her finger in her sister’s face. “Don’t be silly. Everyone needs more friends. Isn’t that right, Miss Meriwether?” Before Daphne could respond, Miss Morena said, “Besides, don’t forget only one of us can marry the Viscountess’ son. Miss Meriwether’s uncle is the Earl of Staton,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “and he still needs a wife.”

Miss Cadwallader studied Daphne from the top of her gold curls to the bottom of her satin boots. Miss Cadwallader took her time examining Daphne’s dress, the lilac silk taffeta tea gown that Rowland had helped her into earlier. “Pearls. How charming.” Miss Cadwallader may have grimaced—Daphne wasn’t sure—and when she spoke she had that sugary inflection Lady Staton used whenever she was putting someone down in her most genteel manner. “Why haven’t we met before, Miss Meriwether? I don’t recall seeing you at any of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s soirées or with Mrs. Astor at the opera. Perhaps you’ve been to Newport?”

“Nowhere so grand, I’m afraid. I’m from Connecticut.”

“Greenwich? Our parents have a home there.”

“New London. We haven’t met in fashionable New York because my family never went out in Society.”

Miss Morena’s hand covered her mouth to stop her squeal of surprise. “Never went out in Society? But why not? Especially with your pa the son of an English aristocrat, you would have been eaten up by all the important people—the Beekmans, the Rhinelanders, the Stuyvesants, the de Peysters, the Schermerhorns. They would have had an all-out war to see who could catch you first.”

“That’s exactly what my father was afraid of,” Daphne said. “He saw New York Society trying to imitate everything he disliked about English Society and he didn’t see the point of it.”

Miss Morena shuddered. “Didn’t see the point of it! My goodness gracious, Miss Meriwether. Our ma was always on about how to get to the right people, how to get into the right balls, how to meet the right young men. They didn’t like us much in New York—we were new money and all—so our mother brought us here.” She nodded toward Viscountess Meddleham. “We were lucky to meet her. She brought us to live with her at her big estate. And she introduced us to her handsome son.”

“What a dreadfully boring life she must have led before we arrived,” said Miss Cadwallader. “Everything is so dull in the country, everything so ordered, and everyone does the same things at the same times every day. We help to liven things up for her.”

“But isn’t that the sort of life you’ll have if you marry an aristocrat?” Daphne asked. “If you marry the Viscountess’ son you’ll spend the rest of your life living like that.”

“Once you’re married you can do what you want,” said Miss Morena. “And if you’re firm enough you can train your husband to your liking.”

Daphne looked at the ceiling in response.

Fortunately, the calls were not a complete waste. One caller was a young widow who was less than 30 if she was a day. Her name was Mrs. Gibson, and she was simply lovely, Daphne thought, with her dark hair pulled into a long braid that was wrapped into a bun while her mourning dress fell away from her in ripples of silk. Mrs. Gibson’s sister has been married to Lord Landerson, a baronet. Her sister had recently died, and Mr. Gibson passed soon after. Despite her double dose of sorrow, Mrs. Gibson was a gentle soul who spoke in soothing tones about her great respect for the 8th Earl of Staton and how he had done so much to help her husband begin his life in business. Because the young widow had nothing but the highest praise for her late husband, and conducted herself in only the most genteel manner, the Countess liked Mrs. Gibson immensely. Daphne liked Mrs. Gibson as well. After Mrs. Gibson left, Lady Staton pronounced, loudly enough for the servants to hear, “She’d make a wonderful wife for Richard. After all, she’s already produced one son. She has a daughter too, but that couldn’t be helped, I’m sure.”

“That’s not why she came to call today. She wanted to pay her respects to Grandpa.”

“But that’s precisely it, my dear. The fact that she didn’t arrive fangs bared and claws out eager to catch a husband means she knows how to conduct herself.”

“I was under the impression that husband-searching here was a fangs bared, claws out affair,” Daphne said. Lady Staton waved her ear trumped at her granddaughter but said nothing.

The idea of paying calls was further redeemed when Daphne’s only friend in England, Miss Christina Chattaway, arrived. Her father knew Miss Chattaway’s father through the newspaper business, and the Chattaways had been kind enough to host Daphne and her father for dinner shortly after they arrived in England. Daphne would always be grateful for the warmth with which Miss Chattaway greeted her. Daphne and Miss Chattaway had become friends on first sight, and they exchanged frequent letters since. That afternoon only Miss Chattaway and her mother arrived at Hembry, the younger Chattaway girls left with their father in London. Mrs. and Miss Chattaway had come to the country at Daphne’s invitation since Miss Chattaway wanted to pay her respects to the old Earl. Miss Chattaway had met the old Earl once, only briefly, but he had been kind to her and she wanted the Countess to know.

Mr. Ellis showed Mrs. and Miss Chattaway into the drawing room with more deference than normally reserved for guests, and Miss Chattaway smiled shyly in the butler’s direction. The callers curtsied at the Countess, who acknowledged them in her grand manner and lowered herself onto the settee as regally as the Queen ever lowered herself upon the throne. Mrs. Chattaway didn’t seem to notice that her ample figure left little room on the sofa for her daughter, who was all manners as she squeezed into the small space allotted. Miss Chattaway said what she wanted to say to the Countess, who accepted the tribute with great courtesy. Miss Chattaway was such a sweet-natured, amiable young woman that even the stern Lady Staton was won over. Miss Chattaway was pretty too, with her hair nearly the same spun gold color as Daphne’s. With her apple-like cheeks and bright blue eyes, Christina Chattaway looked to be exactly what she was—a young woman who was all friendliness and charm.

“I can’t get over how pretty you look today, Daphne. That lilac suits you.”

“I loved my grandfather dearly, but I’m happy to be out of black.”

Mrs. Chattaway began speaking too loudly, as though she wanted everyone in the castle to hear. “Oh, yes, your ladyship. My cousin’s first wife was related to a baronet through marriage, and we take that connection to the aristocracy quite seriously.”

Christina shook her head. “Mamma, we don’t want to bother Lady Staton with such trivialities.”

“Trivialities! Why, I watched the Countess of Bergeron drink her tea once, and don’t forget the time when I bumped into Lady Blarkins and she said ‘Pardon me’ as though we had been the greatest of friends all the livelong day. Now I forget precisely when I saw Lord Constance. Are you acquainted with Lord Constance, Lady Staton?”

Lady Staton nodded once. “I am.”

“Mamma.” Christina’s complexion matched the dusky rose of her silk taffeta dress.

But Mrs. Chattaway did as her name suggests, and she chatted away about every time she had been within a ten-mile radius of anyone remotely connected to the aristocracy. Daphne admired her grandmother, who was nodding at the blathering woman with great patience. Daphne nearly laughed aloud when she realized her grandmother’s ear trumpet was laying unused on the settee. So that’s how she manages these trying conversations, Daphne thought. While the older ladies continued their one-sided conversation, Daphne leaned close to Christina.

“How is your engagement coming along? Have you set a date?”

Christina blushed dusky rose again. “Not yet. He wants to be financially settled first.”

“And so he should be. But why haven’t you told me his name? You’re so mysterious about him, Christina.”

“It’s just…”

“Yes? You can tell me. I see it’s causing you some worry.”

Christina Chattaway whispered. “I’m worried about his feelings for me. I haven’t seen him since the beginning of summer.”

“I’m sure he’s just busy. Does he write?”

“Oh yes. The most wonderful letters.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry.”

Christina caught Colin’s attention, and the footman refilled her teacup. She helped herself to a strawberry petit four and finished it in one bite. “They’re delicious,” Christina said.

“Yes, Mrs. Graham does wonders with desserts. Now tell me what your fiancé does again?”

“He’s a journalist. He used to work for my father, but he’s moved on since.”

“A journalist! How funny. Both of our fathers are journalists, your fiancé is a journalist, and I’ve met the most engaging young man who’s also a journalist—he works for my father at the Observer. It’s such a coincidence that his grandparents work here at Hembry Castle.”

Christina paused as she sipped her tea. Her cup empty, she set it on the side table. “And how well acquainted are you with this engaging young journalist?”

“Not well at all. But my father speaks so highly of him, and I’ve read some of his writing and I think he really is as talented as my father says.” Daphne smiled. “He’s certainly handsome to look at.”

“And would you like to know this handsome-to-look-at journalist better?” Christina teased.

Daphne laughed so loudly she garnered a rude glance from her grandmother. “Of course not. Papa and I will be returning to America soon, so it hardly pays to form an attachment here. Except for you, my dear Christina. I know we’ll be lifelong friends. Once Father and I have returned home I hope we can convince you to come visit us. Maybe that’s where you could go on your honeymoon—Connecticut!”

“I would like that very much,” Christina said, though she looked subdued, if not downright sad, for the remainder of her visit.