This dread seriously impaired Fanny’s peace of mind, until it became apparent that Lady Claypole’s anxiety for the well-being of her married daughter was not of so urgent a nature as to prompt her either to go to Bath herself at the beginning of the London season, or to send thither a second daughter of rather more than marriageable age. Lady Claypole, with a third daughter straining at the schoolroom leash, would let no consideration interfere with her determination to achieve a respectable alliance for Agnes. She seemed to have abandoned all thought of a brilliant one, but hinted, in a crossed and double-crossed letter, that she cherished hopes of bringing a very worthy man of tolerable substance up to scratch. Fanny sighed over the letter, but was thankful to be spared Agnes’s companionship. An elder and jealous sister, who made up in learning what she lacked in beauty, and might be trusted to keep a censorious eye on her junior, could not add to her comfort. She infinitely preferred the society of her daughter-in-law, however little dependence Mama might place on dear Serena’s discretion. Mama could not approve of Serena. She said that she conducted herself as though the protection of a wedding-ring were hers, and had, at once, too great and too little a notion of her own consequence. Mama had seen her hobnobbing with quite unworthy persons, as though she thought her rank absolved her from the necessity (indispensable to every unmarried female) of behaving with reserve. Mama sincerely trusted she might not draw Fanny into some scrape, and ended her letter with an earnest adjuration to her daughter not to forget what her own situation now was, or what respect was due to the relict of an Earl.
Fanny replied dutifully to this missive, but even as her pen assured Lady Claypole that she misjudged dearest Serena, a feeling of guilt made it tremble into a blot. Something told her that Mama would deeply disapprove of Serena’s latest friendship. Indeed, it could not be denied that Serena was hobnobbing with a very ungenteel person.
The acquaintance had been struck up in the Pump Room, and in the oddest way. Upon several occasions, both she and Fanny had been diverted by the startling appearance presented by an elderly female of little height but astonishing girth, who, while she adhered, perhaps wisely, to the fashions of her youth, was not wise enough to resist the lure of bright colours. She had a jolly, masterful countenance, with three chins beneath it, and a profusion of improbable black ringlets above it, imperfectly confined by caps of various designs, worn under hats of amazing opulence. Serena drew giggling protests from Fanny by asserting that she had counted five ostrich plumes, one bunch of grapes, two of cherries, three large roses, and two rosettes on one of these creations. An inquiry elicited from Mr King the information that the lady was the widow of a rich merchant of Bristol—or he might have been a shipowner: Mr King could not take it upon himself to say. No doubt a very good sort of a woman in her way, but (her la’ship would agree) sadly out of place in such a select place as Bath. She was a resident, he was sorry to say, but he had never been more than distantly civil to her. Fabulously wealthy, he believed: for his part he deeply deplored the degeneracy of the times, and was happy to think he could remember the days when mere vulgar wealth would not have made it possible for a Mrs Floore to rub shoulders with my Lady Spenborough.
It might have been this speech, which she listened to with a contemptuous shrug, that inclined Serena to look with an indulgent eye upon Mrs Floore. The widow was a regular visitor to the Pump Room, and often, when not engaged in hailing her acquaintance, and laughing and chatting with them in cheerful but unrefined accents, would sit staring at Serena, in an approving but slightly embarrassing way. Serena, conscious of the fixed regard, at last returned it, her brows a little lifted, and was surprised to see the old lady nodding and smiling at her encouragingly. Considerably amused, she moved gracefully towards her. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I think you wish to speak to me?”
“That’s a fact, for so I did!” said Mrs Floore. “Though whether your ladyship would condescend to speak to me was more than I could tell! Not but what I’ve been watching you close, and for all you’re so tall and high-stepping, my lady, you’ve a friendly way with you, and you don’t look to me to be so haughty you hold your nose up at ordinary folk!”
“Indeed, I hope not!” said Serena, laughing.
Mrs Floore poked a finger into the ribs of a mild-looking man seated in a chair beside her, and said: “I don’t know where your wits have gone a-begging, Tom Ramford! Get up and offer your place to Lady Serena, man!”
In great confusion, Mr Ramford hastily obeyed this sharp command. His apologies and protestations were cut short, Mrs Floore saying kindly, but with decision: “There, that’ll do! You take yourself off now!”
“Poor man!” said Serena, as she seated herself. “You are very severe, ma’am! Pray, how do you come to know my name?”
“Lord, my dear, everyone knows who you are! I’ll wager you don’t know who I am, though!”
“You would lose, ma’am. You are Mrs Floore, a resident, I believe, of Bath,” Serena retorted.
The old lady chuckled richly, all her chins quivering. “Ay, so I am, and I’ll be bound you know it because you asked someone who the deuce that old fright could be, dressed in a gown with panniers!”
“I did ask who you might be, but I did not so describe you!” instantly responded Serena.
“Lord, I wouldn’t blame you! I’d look a worse fright if I was to stuff myself into one of these newfangled gowns you all wear nowadays, with a waist under my armpits and a skirt as straight as a candle! All very well for you, my lady, with the lovely slim figure you have, but I’ll tell you what I’d look like, and that’s a sack of meal, with a string tied round it! Ay, that makes you laugh, and I see that it’s quite true about your eyelids, though I thought it a piece of girl’s nonsense when I was told about it: they do smile!”
“Good God, who can have told you anything so ridiculous, ma’am?” demanded Serena, colouring faintly.
“Ah, that’s just it!” said Mrs Floore. “I daresay you’ve been wondering what made me wishful to become acquainted with you. Well, I’ve got a granddaughter that thinks the world of your ladyship, and by all accounts you’ve been mighty kind to her.”
“A granddaughter?” Serena repeated, stiffening suddenly in her chair. “You cannot mean that you are—But, no! Surely Lady Lale—the person who springs to my mind—was a Miss Sebden?”
“So she was,” agreed Mrs Floore affably. “Sebden was my first, and Sukey’s papa. I’ve had two good husbands, and buried ’em both, which is more than Sukey can boast of, for all the airs she gives herself!”
“Good gracious!” Serena exclaimed, wishing with all her heart that Rotherham could have been present, to share (as he certainly would) her own enjoyment. “Well, then, I am very happy to know you, Mrs Floore, for I have a sincere regard for little Emily Laleham. She has often taken pity on our dullness this winter, you know. We—Lady Spenborough and I—missed her sadly when she went to London.”