“Of course. Think you I would have wedded a plain Master? I caused my father to knight him first.—Which is it?”
“That am I,” said Clare.
“Oh, you? Well, you be not o’er like him. But you look all like unto common country folk that had never been in good company.”
Though Clare might be a common country girl, yet she was shocked by Gertrude’s rudeness. She had been brought up by Rachel to believe that the quality of her dress was of less consequence than that of her manners. Clare thought that if Gertrude were a fair sample of “good company,” she did not wish to mix in it.
“I have been alway bred up in the Court,” Gertrude went on, removing her hood. “I never was away thence afore. Of course I do conceive that I am descended to a lower point than heretofore—you have no coach, I dare wager? yet I looked not to find my new kin donned in sorry camlet and mean dowlas. Have you any waiting-maid?—or is that piece of civility (civilisation) not yet crept up into this far corner of the world?”
Clare summoned Jennet, and took her own seat in the further window. The vulgar, purse-proud tone of Gertrude’s remarks disgusted her exceedingly. She did not enter into all of them. Simple Clare could not see what keeping a carriage had to do with gentlemanliness.
Jennet came in, and dropped a “lout” to the bride, whom she was disposed to regard with great reverence as a real lady. At that time, “lady” was restricted to women of title, the general designation being “gentlewoman.”
“Here, woman!” was Gertrude’s peremptory order. “Untwist my hair, and dress it o’er again.”
Jennet quickly untwisted the hair, which was elaborately curled and frizzed; and when it was reduced to smoothness, asked,—“What mun (must) I do wi’ ’t?”
“Eh?” said Gertrude.