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Copyright jeanne_d_artois August 2008
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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The main attraction of the former laundry room, which is my workroom as a potter, is Martha, the resident ghost. As a child I would sit on the scrubbed table and ask Martha to tell me a story. She always did. When I became an adult, she told me about incidents in the lives of people at the Hall. Each time I became a participant in the story and experienced the events exactly as that person had. This is the fourth of those adult tales.
Blind Man's Buff
I pushed the headscarf back off my forehead. I had just finished loading the kiln with my latest experiments in figurines. I shook the dust off and hitched up my large apron as I sat down to relax with a cup of coffee. I thought of Martha. I could do with another of her stories.
Martha rarely disappoints me. She didn't take long to start another of her tales.
"In the 1850s," Martha said in my head, "almost every woman in the household, even the servants, wore crinolines. The household had to adapt. Fragile items were moved to high shelves and mantelpieces out of reach of swaying skirts. Wherever possible doorways were widened although you moderns don't appreciate just how compressible crinolines were. Women could squeeze through narrow doorways if they didn't mind showing a glimpse of ankle -- and most were willing to flash an ankle if there was a handsome man nearby.
Some, influenced by the parsons railing about the immodesty of flying hems, were more prudish. This story is about one of them. Julia was a poorish cousin originally staying at the Hall to share the instruction given by the young ladies' governess and tutors. It didn't cost the family anything to have four young ladies receiving education instead of three -- except feeding Julia. The cost of food for an extra mouth, even one considered part of the family, was insignificant compared with the family fortune at that time..."
I sighed. Our family had been rich but now we relied on the income from visitors and grants from various heritage bodies. If only...
Martha continued with a sharpish note in her voice in my head. Martha didn't appreciate me losing concentration on her stories.
"Julia, now long out of the schoolroom, would have a small dowry. It certainly wouldn't attract any fortune hunters. Any potential husband would have to be able to support himself, Julia and any possible offspring. The daughters of the house were much better dowered. For them, fortune hunters were a real threat.
Julia met many eligible men when the family had parties or when everyone went to London for the Season. Her problem was that most were too eligible. They wouldn't consider a poor relation and Julia's excessive modesty didn't help. She wore long pantaloons under her dresses and kept her hems sweeping the ground at all times. No glimpses of Julia's ankles were allowed even though Julia knew that her slim ankles were much better than her rich cousins were. She only danced decorously and would refuse invitations for the more active dances when her crinoline might bounce around like a hot-air balloon in a strong wind..."
As usual with Martha's stories I was beginning to feel that I was the person Martha was talking about. I'm sitting in the red drawing room embroidering yet another cushion cover for the Parish Church. I could feel the constriction of Julia's corset, the flare of her not-too-wide crinoline, the cotton drawers sheathing my legs and a reluctance to let myself relax in company. I could also feel irritation with myself for my unreasonable modesty. What did it matter if I showed a shapely ankle? Whatever I did I couldn't outshine my cousins. Their ankles might be thicker but their dowries made them much more attractive to any suitor. They are as pretty as I am. They do dress better. Their maids make sure that they are well presented for every occasion. I do have a maid, Rachel, to help but only when she can spare time from her other duties. Rachel does her best with the limited time she has. She and I can't compete with the expertise of full-time personal maids.
The oldest of my three cousins, Helen, is engaged to be married. Rupert, her fiancé, is in the Army but will sell-up when they are married and take over the family estate from his uncle. The marriage is planned for next Spring.
Agnes is nearly the same age as me. She has two, or is it three, potential suitors all of whom have sought her father's consent. Her father wants to wait until Helen is married before agreeing to a suitor. That's really an excuse. Agnes hasn't decided which one she wants. Her father will consent only when she has made her choice. In the meantime she is enjoying playing with the affections of several men at once. Don't think that she is fickle or cruel. She is enjoying the game while it lasts. She is kind to all of them and diplomatic about allocating each some time with her. If she was in love with any of them it might be different. She isn't. She doesn't expect to be. Any of them would be suitable unless she finds someone who inspires passion.
Penelope is a couple of years younger than I am and still horse-mad. She prefers men who hunt and is more often to be found in the stables than the formal rooms of the Hall. She is just into her twenties but I don't think she considers men as anything but escorts for riding. She'll change, I'm sure, once she meets someone she likes better than a horse.
Me? I want to get married and stop being the poor relation. I wouldn't mind a simple lifestyle if it were to be our own. I have met several men whom I'd consider suitable. They looked right past me to my cousins even though their prospects were not glittering enough to be eligible.
The only person who treats me as a desirable woman is James, the estate manager's son. James understudies his father and eventually will run the estate. James asks me for dances that he knows I might consider, leaving others to get refusals for the livelier ones. I hold his hand. His hand sometimes rests briefly on my waist. I would love to guiltily snuggle into his embrace... And then my perverse modesty starts in and I shrink away.
If only...
Then the door bursts open and Agnes rushes in.
"Drop that, Julia!" Agnes squeaks. "We've got more important things to do than boring cushion covers. Papa has agreed to hold a masked ball next month. We've got to practise waltzing before then because he and Mama say the waltz is now permissible."
"Waltzing!" I splutter. "But that means being in a man's arms!"
"Exactly! Just what we want. So would you if you'd let yourself go."
I started to protest but Agnes hauled me out of the chair and flung her arms around me and swung me around. My skirts went flying outwards.
"Imagine a man doing this. You'd like it Julia, wouldn't you? I know I would."
I wriggled free and straightened my dress.
"Agnes! I'm sure the waltz can't be as hoydenish as that. If it is acceptable it must be more decorous, surely?"
"That's it. I don't know. I've never seen a waltz. Have you?"
"No. I've read about it, of course, but never seen it."
"Papa has engaged a dancing master for a couple of weeks. He'll be here tomorrow. Won't that be great, Julia?"
"Perhaps. But we can't all dance with him. If we're going to practice..."
"Oh!" Agnes paused for a second.
"But we have got men. There are the footmen..."
"I'm sure your father wouldn't permit you to dance with the footmen." I said flatly.
"You're probably right. I suppose he wouldn't. But there's your James."
"He's NOT MY James!" I retorted hotly.
"He could be... If you wanted him to be..."
Agnes was right. James could be MY James if I'd let him.
Eventually Agnes persuaded me to ask James to be a partner for the dancing lessons. She sent messages to our neighbours to find partners for herself and her sisters and to her friends to join in.
On Friday the dancing master arrived. To our great disappointment he was elderly, at least forty if he was a day, short and inclined to be stout. Perhaps those attributes had recommended him to Agnes' Papa. Our under-employed governess would play the waltzes on the piano.
That weekend the dancing master and governess practised the music. All four of us tried to learn the music so that we could play the tunes too. By Sunday our renditions were becoming less mechanical but the governess was making the waltzes seem delightful.
During Monday morning the guests arrived for a light luncheon before the lessons would start at two o'clock. The maids were in a great flurry dressing and undressing the sisters. I put on a simple dress over my widest crinoline that was still less than two-thirds of the diameter of the sisters' smallest.
I had thought that Penelope would be the slowest pupil. I was wrong. I was the worst of the class. I wouldn't let James lead me. I kept pushing him around where I wanted to go. I was so bad that we had to sit out some of the dances. When Agnes whispered in the dancing master's ear while looking at me I feared the worst. Would I be expelled from the class as unteachable?
Agnes whispered to me.
"Julia, your only problem is that you won't let James lead you. If you could, you could dance as well as any of us."
She raised her voice so James could hear too. "I've had an idea and the dancing master agrees. Could you and James come out into the corridor? Oh, bring your shawl."
Puzzled, I picked up my shawl and followed Agnes. James held the door open for us and then shut it as we stood in the corridor.
"James," said Agnes quietly, "Julia needs to learn how to be led by the gentleman she's dancing with. She has to trust you. There is a way you two can practise that..."
We looked at her, waiting. She giggled.
"It's called Blind Man's Buff. If you can't see, Julia, you'll have to let James lead you around. It would be embarrassing for you both in front of the others so if you go upstairs to the attic rooms James can lead you around until you get the idea of direction."
Of course we argued with her at first but actually it was a simple solution to the problem. James and I went upstairs past the floor with the family bedrooms to the rarely used attic floor. As with the whole house everything was spotlessly clean but just unused.
I let James tie my shawl over my eyes, knotting it loosely behind my neck. I brought the long ends forward, crossed them over my breasts and tied them behind my waist. I crooked my arm. James took it and began to walk me around. Even then I was a poor pupil. I kept my free arm extended, feeling for the wall.
After about ten minutes James lifted my shawl to my forehead.
"This won't do, Julia. You still don't trust me to guide you. I won't let you walk into anything but you are groping around all the time. You must stop and let me lead you. He pulled the shawl back over my eyes.
I didn't stop waving my free arm around. James jerked me to a stop.
"Julia! Stop it!"
"I can't!" I protested.
