An Accomplished Woman by Jude Morgan Page A

box his livery-coat stood still and he had to tug it round after him.
Outside the box a frisky wind had sprung up, setting the lamps in the trees
dancing, fooling with epaulettes and ribbons, and flourishing on an invisible
tray the smells of boiled fowl, bruised turf and night-time.
    Lydia, seated beside
Hugh Hanley, employed the moment to take the measure of him, knowing he was
doing the same of her.
    At home in Lincolnshire
she knew him as the nephew of her father’s friend and neighbour — and yes, very
well, her former suitor — Mr Lewis Durrant of Culverton. After one of his
infrequent visits to his uncle, the gossip of the country would invariably run
on two themes — which young girl was pining for love of him, and how violent
the quarrels had been at Culverton House. What she had seen of him hitherto had
fixed him in Lydia’s mind as a pert fellow with a degree of self-regard
exceptional even for youth; but now she found herself at least prepared to
revise the opinion. He had turned, as George had said, into the complete dandy
— but it suited him: the languor, the artfully dishevelled hair, the garrotting
cravat. It was as if in affectation he had found his natural self. The
heavy-lidded eyes seemed designed for quizzing a suspect hat from the bay
window of Brooks’s: the rather too red and full lips made for dropping choice on-dits, probably not kind ones. And it was a relief to find a man of his age simply
at ease with her. Usually they became chucklesome.
    ‘And how much longer do
you stay in town, Miss Templeton? Shall you be here for the King’s birthday?’
    ‘His Majesty must
celebrate without me: I leave for Heystead tomorrow.’
    Ah, then you will be
able to report to my uncle at once, and tell him you have seen me, and assure
him that I am absolutely as delinquent as he could hope.’
    ‘Oh, I will certainly,
for there is nothing more important to me than talking about you; though
you might consider the possibility that not all the world feels the same.’
    ‘I shall not rest until
it does.’ He smiled, brushing an imaginary speck from his pantalooned leg.
‘There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being
talked about.’
    And why do you think Mr
Durrant should hope to find you delinquent?’
    ‘Oh, my dear Miss
Templeton, being disappointed in me is his life’s work. It’s what keeps him
going. If I were to start behaving sensibly, my uncle would be lost: Othello’s
occupation’s gone, and whatnot. After all, what else is there for him in his
autumnal years?’
    ‘Mr Durrant has never
struck me as a man lacking occupation. He is constantly at work improving
Culverton.’
    ‘Exactly! Culverton! I
dare say he has every last tree and shrub counted and measured by now — every
slate and gate repaired — every needy widow supplied with enough firewood to
warm her for a lifetime. This is a man sadly in need of diversion; and if I can
in my small way supply it, by vexing, astonishing and infuriating him, then I
am at least doing a little good in the world.’
    ‘Oh Culverton, yes,’
cried George, who rowed in and out of conversations with a cheerful disregard
for their drift, ‘the handsomest place — the finest park. Next time we are at
Heystead, my love, I shall have Durrant invite us over there — or we may have
to invite ourselves, Durrant being the unsociable sort.’
    ‘If it is anything like
my dear Heystead,’ Susannah said, ‘I know I shall love it.’
    ‘Indeed, you had better
see it, ma’am, before I ruin it with my extravagance.’ As supper arrived, and
George and Susannah busied themselves with it, Hanley turned in his lithe,
coiled way to Lydia. ‘Well — is that not what my uncle believes?’
    ‘You credit me with an
oracular comprehension of Mr Durrant’s thoughts. I know he is greatly proud of
Culverton, and concerned for its future: but so much is common knowledge.’
    ‘Ah, as to that, who
knows? I may turn out to be the