Читать книгу The Letters of Her Mother to Elizabeth - W. R. H. Trowbridge - Страница 6

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Monk's Folly, 29th July

Darling Elizabeth:

Lady Beatrice's Tea

I felt so well yesterday that I drove over in the afternoon to Lady Beatrice's to tea. I felt I must show myself as Paquin made me to someone. It was so warm that tea was served on the terrace; the view of the Quantocks steaming in the distance over the tops of the oaks in the park was charming. There were a great many people present, and when I arrived, Lady Beatrice exclaimed at the courage I showed in coming when the sun was so hot and the road so dusty. She presided at the tea-table in white piqué and a sailor hat which rested on the bridge of her nose. She is as fat as Lady Theodosia Doran and plays tennis; the rouge on her neck had stained her collar, quite a four-inch collar too, and there were finger marks of rouge on her bodice. She introduces everybody, which, while it is not the thing, certainly makes one more comfortable than the fashion at present in vogue. I always like to know the names of the people I am talking to. Everybody talked about the weather and the dust, and it was deadly dull till Lady Beatrice said she wanted to play tennis. She went off to play singles with Mr. Frame, the Low Church curate, and looked so funny, bounding about the lawn like a big rubber ball, that I nearly screamed. Most of the people strolled up and down the terrace, or leaned over the balustrade above the lake. I sat under my parasol in a Madeira chair, and was talked to by such a curious woman, a Mrs. Beverley Fruit. A Live AuthoressIt was interesting to meet a real live authoress after having read her works. I remember when Mrs. Fruit's first novel came out ten years ago it created a great sensation, but I must confess the sensation was confined to middle-class people and the Universities. Of course, everybody in Society bought it. It was all about Radicals and a silly Low Church curate who threw up his living because he didn't believe in God, and went to London and lived in the slums. Mr. Gladstone wrote a review of it, and they dramatised it in America. Mrs. Fruit has since written several other books, and each one is more bitter against Society than the last, so you may fancy how nervous I felt at being left with such a woman. But, darling, she isn't at all like her books. I was quite charmed with her; she was dressed so well, and looked quite like a lady; she lives in Berkeley Square and has a place in Essex. In the last election she canvassed the county for the Conservatives, and the Duchess of Rougemont is very, very fond of her. Lady Beatrice tells me that Mrs. Beverley Fruit's son, who is private secretary to a Cabinet Minister, is actually going to marry one of the Duchess's daughters, Lady Mabel, the one with the projecting teeth and the squint. And I am sure I think it is very brave of Mr. Fruit Junior, for Lady Mabel is both ugly and stupid. However, the connection is a good one for the Fruits, who have made their fortune out of books, which I think is decidedly less vulgar than pale ale or furniture. Mrs. Fruit is staying with Lady Beatrice.

Lady Ann Fairfax

Lady Ann Fairfax, the Daily Sensation's War correspondent, is also stopping at Braxome Towers. She told me that she had been through three sieges, and never felt happier than when "sniping," whatever that may be. She lived three months in a bomb-proof shelter on quarter rations, was once taken prisoner, and when exchanged was sent through the lines barefoot and with only a blanket round her. She is bringing out a book to be called "What I have been through," and I shall certainly buy it. She is rather pretty and dresses beautifully, and is very amusing; you could listen to her for hours; her stories are like shilling shockers, with a bit of Henty thrown in to give them style. She was quite breezy, and I was sorry when Lady Beatrice shouted triumphantly, "Six love, Mr. Frame!" and came up puffing like a porpoise, her hair soppy on the temples and gutters on her cheeks.

Lady Beatrice was in an awfully good humour, for Mr. Frame beat the Somerset champion last week, but, poor man! he would not dare to even dream of beating Lady Beatrice. She only suffers him to eat her cucumber sandwiches and drink her Mazawattee for the pleasure of beating him.

The drive home in the twilight was very pleasant. I brought Captain Bennett of the Coldstreams and the Earl of Mortimer as far as the Club in Taunton. They are playing for Gloucester, but, as I dislike cricket as much as you do, I shan't go to see the match. I know my frock was admired at Braxome to-day; poor Mr. Frame, who sat and ate ices near me after his thrashing, would never meet my glance directly, and I overheard Lady Beatrice tell Mrs. Beverley Fruit that I spent altogether too much on dress, while Lady Beatrice always looks as if she considered the expenditure of a five-pound note on her person an extravagance. Dear, dear Paquin!

The Missing Handkerchief

I am awfully provoked with myself, the lace handkerchief I wore to-day is missing. I am sure it was in my hand when we left Braxome, for I remember sniffing "parfum d'Arabie" in the carriage. It is really quite provoking.—Your dearest Mamma.

The Handkerchief Found

P.S.—I have just received a note from Captain Bennett saying he found my handkerchief sticking to his coat when he got into the Club, and asking if he may restore it to me in person to-morrow.