However it was midsummer, and the gardens and grounds—recently put in order—were at their best, the sun was shining, and she was not yet eighteen. By degrees, the new mistress found her way through her dominions. She had an interview with Mrs. Bates, the housekeeper, gave a few orders respecting the arrangement of her own boudoir, unpacked the wedding presents, the little odds and ends they had collected abroad, and arranged flowers and plants with such notable success, that her lord and master grudgingly exclaimed:
“Well, anyway, there is one thing you can do, Letty—you can make a room look all right. I wish you could do the same for yourself. Can’t you get that woman to fix you up like other people? And for God’s sake don’t let me ever see that blue garment again!”
The blue dress was one of the trousseau selected by Mrs. Fenchurch,—who liked bright colours, heavy materials, and lots of trimming.
“Would you rather that I wore white, Hugo?” she asked with a pale propitiatory smile.
“Oh, well—wear what you like,” he rejoined impatiently, “only don’t look a hideous dowdy—and don’t bother me.”
And they had only been married six weeks.
“My mother is coming down, and she,” producing a letter, “suggests a family house-party. These Scropes are all for family and connections—such rot! Here’s what she says—um—um—um: ‘Give Letty a good start.’ Ha! ha! ‘My cousin Louisa Calthorpe and Calthorpe’—he’s an old stick-in-the-mud, and lives the other end of the County—‘Lord and Lady Belford if at home; I’m sure they’d go for a couple of nights; the Bishop, and your cousin Agatha Mostyn.’ The Bishop is as starched as they make ’em, and rampant on divorce and gambling, for all his cordial manner. ‘Cyril Vernon and Lady Hilda.’ He’s our M.F.H.—not a bad sort—but the hunt horses are a scandal; he buys all sorts of old crocks only fit for the kennel. ‘Harding Grant, the County Member, and his wife.’ He’s a dull dog, always talking of the ‘House.’ That’s the lot—they are mostly connections. How many—ten, eh? My mother and her companion, Miss Hope, twelve. The house has forty-five bedrooms, and we may as well fill some more. I suppose I must ask the Fenchurchs, eh? From Friday till Monday, so that they can’t stay on. By George, I bar your aunt! I’ll never forget her on the wedding day. You’d think she was going to be married herself. The Calthorpe’s son, a naval man, is at home, and I believe the Bishop has a daughter. We’d better stick them in, and as for neighbours, the Rectory can come.”
“And your sister?” suggested Letty.
“Oh Lord, no! This sort of party would not be her form. Con would give them fits, and they would bore her stiff! This is the duty lot, that’s to give you a start, eh! Most of them have family prayers, and go to bed at ten o’clock. Later, I’ll have my own pals down, and they will keep the place lively. My mother’s set are infernally dull.”
This was not an auspicious preparation, for a nervous bride, and her first house-party.