“Serena!” expostulated Fanny. “Don’t heed her, Major Kirkby! It is very formal and dull at Osmansthorpe, but not as bad as that!”
“If it is half as bad as that, I would infinitely prefer to make the acquaintance of Cousin Speen!” he retorted. “Must we really set out on a series of visits to all your relations, Serena?”
“By no means!” she answered promptly. “Order me to set them all at a distance, and you will be astonished to see with what a good grace I shall obey you! I should not care a button if I never saw most of them again.”
He laughed, but at the back of his mind lurked the fear that these people, deplorable or dull, formed an integral part of the only life she understood, or, perhaps, could be happy in. When he called in Laura Place one day, expecting to find her fretting at the rain, which had been falling steadily since dawn, and discovered her instead to be revelling in a scandalous novel, the conviction grew on him that the placid existence he had planned for them both would never satisfy her.
She gave him her hand, and one of her enchanting smiles, but said: “Don’t expect to hear a word from my lips, love! I have here the most diverting book that ever was written! Have you seen it? The chief characters in it are for the most part easily recognizable, and it is no great task to guess at the identities of the rest. I have not laughed so much for weeks!”
He picked up one of the small, gilt-edged volumes. “What is it? Glenarvon—and by an anonymous writer. Is it so excellent?”
“Good God, no! It is the most absurd farrago of nonsense! But I prophesy it will run through a dozen editions, because none of us will be able to resist searching either for ourselves or our acquaintance in it. Could you have believed it?—Lady Caroline Lamb is the author? The Lambs are all in it, and Lady Holland—very well hit off, I imagine, from all I have ever heard of her, but Papa disliked that set, so that I was never at Holland House—and Lady Oxford, and Lady Jersey, and poor Mr Rogers, whom she calls a yellow hyena! I must say, I think it unjust, don’t you? Glenarvon, of course, is Byron, and the whole thing is designed as a sort of vengeance on him for having cried off from his affaire with her.”
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “She must be mad to have done such a thing!”
“I think she is, poor soul! Never more so than when she tumbled head over ears in love with Byron! For my part, I was so unfashionable as to take him in instant aversion. How she could have borne with his insufferable conceit, and the airs he put on to be interesting, I know not—though I daresay if one could bear that dreadful Lamb laugh nothing would daunt one! Not but what I am extremely sorry for William Lamb, laugh as he may! If it is true that he stands by her, I do most sincerely honour him. I fancy she meant to portray him in a kindly way, but some of the things she writes of him may well make him writhe. She is so very obliging as to favour the world with what one can only take to be a description of her own honeymoon—so warm as to make poor Fanny blush to the ears! It can’t be pleasant for William Lamb, but it won’t harm him. For she portrays herself, in the character of Calantha, as an innocent child quite dazzled by the world, quite ignorant, wholly trusting in the virtue of every soul she met! Pretty well for a girl brought up in Devonshire House!”
“It sounds to be unedifying, to say the least of it,” the Major said. “Do you like such stuff?”
“It is the horridest book imaginable!” Fanny broke in. “And although I never did more than exchange bows with Lord Byron, I am persuaded he never murdered a poor little baby in his life! As for Clara St Everarde, who followed Glenarvon about, dressed as a page, if she is a real person too, and did anything so grossly improper, I think it a very good thing she rode over a cliff into the sea—though I am excessively sorry for the horse!”
“Observe!” said Serena, much entertained. “It is the horridest book imaginable—but she has read all three volumes!”
“Only because you would keep asking me if I did not think Lady Augusta must be meant for Lady Cahir (and I’m sure I don’t know!) and laughing so much that I was bound to continue, only to see what amused you so!”
The Major, who had been glancing through the volume he held, laid it down distastefully. “I think you have wasted your money, Serena.”
“Oh, I did not! Rotherham sent it to me in a parcel by the mail! I never thought to be so much obliged to him! He says nothing else is being talked of in town, which I can well believe.”
“Rotherham sent it to you?” he ejaculated, as much astonished as displeased.
“Yes, why not? Oh, are you vexed because he has written me a letter?” Serena rallied him. “You need not be! Not the most jealous lover, which I hope you are not, could take exception to this single sheet! He is the worst of letter-writers, for this is all he can find to say to me: My dear Serena, In case it has not come in your way I send you Lady C. Lamb’s latest attempt to set Society by the ears. She succeeds à merveille. Nothing else is talked of. The Lambs hoped to be rid of her at last, but W. Lamb stands firm. By the by, if Glenarvon’s final letter in this singular effusion is a copy of the original, you will agree I am eclipsed in incivility. I have some thoughts of visiting Claycross, and may possibly come to Bath next week, Yours, etc. Rotherham. You will agree that there is nothing to rouse your ire in that,” Serena said, tossing the letter on to the table. “Except,” she added thoughtfully, “that I had as lief he did not come to Bath. He would be bound to discover our secret, my love, and if he should be in one of his disagreeable fits there’s no saying how awkward he might not choose to make it for us. I’ll fob him off.”
“I could wish that you would not!” he replied. “For my part, I would choose to admit him into our confidence, if only that I might have the right to inform him that I am not very much obliged to him for sending you a novel which you describe as “rather warm”!”
“Good God, if that is the humour you are in, I will most certainly fob him off!” she cried. “How can you be so absurd, Hector? Do you believe me to be an innocent Calantha? Rotherham knows better!”
“What?” he demanded sharply.
“No, no, pray—!” Fanny interposed, in an imploring tone. “Major Kirkby, you quite mistake—Serena, consider what you say, dearest! Indeed, your vivacity carries you too far!”
“Very likely! But it will be well if Hector learns not to place the worst construction upon what I say!” Serena retorted, her colour considerably heightened.
He said quickly: “I beg your pardon! I did not mean—Good God, how could I possibly—? If you were not an innocent Calantha, as you put it—now, don’t eat me!—I am persuaded you would feel as strongly as I do the impropriety of anyone’s sending you such a book to read! Throw it away, and let us forget it! You cannot like to see your friends libelled, surely!”
“Now, this goes beyond the bounds of what may be tolerated!” declared Serena, between vexation and amusement. “My friends? The Melbourne House set! Do you take me for a Whig? Oh, I was never so insulted! I don’t know what you deserve I should do to you!”
A playful rejoinder would have restored harmony, but the Major’s strong sense of propriety had been too much offended for him to make it.” He took her up in all seriousness, endeavouring to make her enter into his sentiments. She grew impatient, thinking him prudish, and only the entrance of Lybster, bringing in the letters which had been fetched from the receiving office, averted a lively quarrel. Serena broke off short, saying coolly: “Ah! Now, if my aunt has written to me, Fanny, we may learn whether Lord Poulett marries Lady Smith Burgess, or whether it was nothing but an on-dit! Good gracious! Between us, we have seven letters, no less!” She handed several of them to Fanny, and glanced at the superscriptions on her own. A gleam of mischief shot into her eyes; she cast a provocative glance at the Major. “I can guess the subject of most of my correspondence! It will be as well if I don’t break the wafers until you are gone, I daresay! You will not object, however, to my seeing what my aunt has to say. A great deal, apparently: I’m glad she was able to get a frank, for I should have been ruined else!”