(Queen’s Square) Between Awkward Silences

They sat down for dinner at five o’clock, attended by wait-staff in white stockings and fancy coats. The dining room was of a good size, impeccably clean, but, like the rest of the house, rather dated. The Turkish carpet was a little worn in places, though undoubtedly it was very fine once, and Georgiana found the chairs a little uncomfortable. The table was exquisitely long, however, and could easily seat a large party. She doubted, however, that enough servants were employed to cater to such a large gathering. Mrs Boyle was highly impressed by the silverware, remarking that it was polished to an outstanding standard. She frequently held her spoon to the light, remarking that she had never seen such meticulous care devoted to the cutlery. The china, it was added, was also remarkably fine.

Once she had done complimenting every aspect of the setting, furnishings and architecture, Mrs Boyle turned her attentions to her charge. Prior to dinner, the chaperone had been insistent (rather irritatingly so) that Georgiana should thank Henry herself for accommodating her, and also make mention of Sir Edmund’s generosity in providing these ‘excellent’ lodgings. So Georgiana waited until a self-conscious silence rose during the mostly quiet meal to offer her insincere thanks.

“It’s very good of you to be here, Henry. We would be without a single acquaintance in all of Bath without you.”

Henry held his cutlery still for a moment, his eyes fixed on his plate. Georgiana found this unusual; he looked almost unsettled by her simple expression of gratitude. She wondered if it had really sounded so false.

When he failed to make any reply, she took it upon herself to continue.

“It’s so generous of dear Sir Edmund to go to such lengths for my comfort. Our lodgings are very...handsome.”

At this, Henry set his fork aside, raising his eyes towards his cousin. “My father didn’t pay for it, Georgie.”

She did not fail to notice that his mouth formed her pet name a little awkwardly. She glanced at Mrs Boyle carefully, noting that her chaperone chewed slowly, and she too had her eyes fixed suspiciously on the plate before her. Why was everyone acting so exasperatingly strange?

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Henry. Indeed it would have been more appropriate if Lord Torrington had offered...”

She fell silent as Henry shook his head.

“I paid for it.”

Mrs Boyle choked on her veal (which was very fine, in her estimate, very much to her taste). She spluttered and took an unladylike mouthful of her wine, coughing loudly. It only served to highlight the tension which had descended upon the awkwardness already present in the dining room.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly.

Georgiana realised she could come up with nothing by way of reply, so she did not struggle against the strained silence which dropped between Henry and herself. Mrs Boyle, ever observant of the general mood of the conversation, judged that the current silence was inappropriate, and considerately took the initiative to disperse it.

“You have an excellent cook, Mr Tarlton. I’ve not tasted such an excellent mint sauce for some time. When I accompanied Miss Compton to London last year, there was not such a singularly good sauce to be found in the whole town. Very commendable, Mr Tarlton. Very commendable.”

***

Mrs Boyle’s mind was steadily making careful inferences throughout dinner, and when she retired to her charge’s chamber to consult with her after her first, and arguably eventful, day at Bath, she had already resolved something of a plan regarding the pleasant young lieutenant who clearly had a great attachment to his cousin. He must have spent a considerable portion of his prize money from the war to finance Georgiana’s debut! she realised as she helped Lady Huntingdon undress to her stays, at her particular request. It was not a task which every chaperone would accept, but Mrs Boyle considered herself a humble woman, and besides, the presence of a maidservant would have quite ruined the details which she intended to extract from Georgiana.

“Well how remarkable,” was the first thing the chaperone said, as the girl seated herself in front of the vanity, dressed in a négligée trimmed with blond lace – exquisitely becoming, in the older woman’s partial opinion. She paused, considering the order of her words carefully, weighing which would have the best effect. “One can only wonder what he meant by such generosity.”

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Mrs Boyle.”

“Mr Henry, unlike the elder Mr Tarlton, is still unmarried.” The chaperone paused emphatically. “I think, my dear, he means to make a proposal to you.”

Georgiana barely disguised her shock. Her reflection was dumbfounded, incensed, her mouth agape as she turned to face Mrs Boyle.

“But Henry and I grew up together...we address one another by our first names! How awkward it would be to speak to my husband so!” She paused, considering the effect. ’Henry, dearest, would you come to bed?’ ‘Not now, Georgie my love, I must write to Mother before she thinks I’ve forgotten her completely now that I’m a married man.’

The image was hysterical; she erupted in undignified sniggers.

“Besides,” she added, forcing herself to think more seriously, “What will he bring into the marriage? No title, that’s for certain, for he won’t even be a baronet. Could you imagine it in the papers: ‘4th Lieutenant Tarlton, three-and-twenty years of age, married the Lady Georgiana Lyon, Baroness Huntingdon, dowered with £120,000, on the 6th of October, 18—.”

Mrs Boyle pursed her lips. Her hopes of a love-match between her charge and the pleasing young Mr Tarlton had been dashed scarcely before she’d even begun to make all the necessary plots – how to arrange chance encounters and secret meetings for the would be lovers. And it would have been so easy, with all of them sharing the same house. How romantic it would have been! Raised together as brother and sister, united in matrimony...well, she supposed the young lady knew her own heart’s best interests.

“Well no, I suppose you’re right, my dear.” Mrs Boyle watched as Georgiana picked up the brush, running it thoughtfully through the dark gold waves over her shoulder. It troubled the older woman to think that her charge was really so unromantic, but she smoothed the furrow in her brow as she caught her reflection in the mirror, anxious lest the expression should mark its place between her eyebrows permanently. Having herself married for love, she could not comprehend those who were utterly immune to its effects, as the young Lady Huntingdon appeared to be. For someone so singularly pretty, she was appallingly practical.

Georgiana slumped forward, resting her head on her arms. “Oh now what will I do.”

Oddly, Mrs Boyle noted that her speech lacked the inflection of a question. Uncertain of how to reply, she remained silent, considering that this may very well have been the first time she’d ever been at a loss for words.

“Henry will make his intentions known soon, no doubt. It will be unbearable to stay here when I refuse him. Oh I must do something.”

“We cannot very well find new lodgings, my dear. So either you must tolerate any awkwardness, or accept his offer.”

Lady Huntingdon paused, raising her head an inch higher so that her light eyes met their clear reflection in the mirror. “You’re wrong, Mrs Boyle. We can. Do you have any writing paper with you? I need to send a letter.”

Vices: Queen's Square

They arrived at Bath quite punctually, despite the unexpected rain and terrible roads, by about four o’clock. The rain had ceased to hinder their journey by the time they had driven past Glastonbury, and Georgiana’s first sight of Bath was a dry one, which was most remarkable, given the rains in the rest of Somerset. Erratic weather was nothing at all out of the ordinary for people of the West Country, and Lady Georgiana, having grown up on the edge of the Dartmoor heath, was not much disturbed by it.

Sir Edmund’s second son, Henry, had been waiting at no. 10 Queen’s Square for the arrival of his cousin. Since they had last seen one another several years ago, Henry had been promoted, and now was properly styled 4th Lt. Henry Tarlton of His Majesty’s Ship the Ionia, and was duly proud of his station, being only five years older than the Lady Huntingdon, who presently arrived at Bath.

Mrs Boyle was the first to remove herself, rather stiffly, from the carriage, and a footman helped Georgiana down. Sir Edmund, much against what one would expect of a man who, for fifteen years, had been obliged to accommodate, educate and tolerate his wife’s imperious little niece, had spared no expense for her first season at Bath.

“Lady Huntingdon,” spoke Henry in his amused monotone. “I do believe you have at last grown into your title.”

“Hush, Henry.” Georgiana felt a little flustered as she adjusted her bonnet. Admittedly, she felt a great deal less buoyant now that she had arrived at her destination than she had expected to. Lady Huntingdon decided, now that she had experienced it, that lengthy travel was really a most unpleasant thing and to be avoided if at all possible.

The young baroness sighed lightly, and cast an eye towards the civilised little park at the midst of the Square, the obelisk rising in its midst, the uniform, stately terraces encircling this patch of artificial greenery. She thought, following this quick assessment, that, really, Bath was a little bland, with its buildings hewn of the same, pale gold stone, its roads neat and grey, and even a little bleak, as the afternoon sun lit the dark slate roofline of Queen’s Square.

She finished fiddling with the ribbons at her chin, and smiled at her cousin distantly. Next to her, Mrs Boyle was heard to cough pointedly as the carriage drew away.

As they followed Mr Tarlton towards Sir Edmund’s impressive residence... (going inside and gratuitous building description)

Looping her arm around her chaperone’s elbow, Georgiana remembered to make the proper introductions. “You do remember Mrs Boyle, Henry?”

“Ah yes. How do you do, Mrs Boyle? I hope Mr Boyle is well?”

The younger lady cast her eyes down, even as her chaperone seemed quite unperturbed by the enquiry.

“He’s quite dead, Mr Tarlton, quite dead.” Mrs Boyle offered a resilient smile as she observed the young lieutenant fumbling for words. “Oh it’s been some time, sir, as you can see I no longer wear black for my husband.”

“M-most sorry, Mrs Boyle. I...um...I suppose you are both very tired and should like to be seen to your rooms immediately.”

“I would be most agreeable to the idea, Mr Tarlton, most agreeable. Come my dear,” she said, patting her charge’s forearm lightly.