The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Of course my mother could say no less than that we should esteem the visit an honor, and the next morning they came. I had thought my uncle's dress wonderful fine, but it was nothing to that of Mr. Pepys, though I must say the latter was both richer in itself and better fancied. His wife was a pretty, black woman, who spoke French very nicely, and indeed it was in some sort her native tongue. Mr. Pepys bought some of my mother's lesser jewels himself, especially a diamond in a clasp which his wife fancied, and promised to find a purchaser for the rest—a promise which he fulfilled to our great advantage.

His conversation was an odd mixture of worldly shrewdness and an almost childlike simplicity, but I observed with approval that he did not load his discourse with oaths as my uncle, and even his wife, had done. On the whole, I liked our new friends very well, and when he proposed to carry me out and show me something of the parks and the city, I looked to my mother rather anxiously for her approval. She made no objection; so Mr. Pepys came by and by with his coach (which I fancy he had not possessed a great while, he seemed so proud of it), and took us into the park, and there showed us many great lords and ladies, pointing out to us, with a kind of awful reverence, my Lady Castlemaine, and some other person of the same stamp. I saw my mother flush as with indignation as she said, half to herself:

"And it is in such a world as this that they would have me leave my child to be brought up!"

"You must not think, madame, that all the ladies about the court are like these," said Mr. Pepys. "There are many who bring up their families in all virtue and godly living, like my good Lady Sandwich and others I could name. But I am quite of your mind as to Mrs. Genevieve, and if I were so happy as to be blessed with a daughter, she should, if possible, grow up in the country. His Majesty is a most noble prince—Heaven bless him, with all my heart!—but his example in some things hath done our young people little good."

It seemed that the merchant to whom we hoped to dispose of our jewels was out of town, but as he was to return in a few days, Andrew advised us to wait for him. Meantime, at their earnest entreaty, we spent a few days with my uncle and aunt.

My mother indeed passed much of her time in her own apartment, which, as her widowhood was so recent, no one could decently object to; but I went out several times with my aunt to the park, and even to Whitehall, where I saw the king and queen, and many great people besides. It seemed that the king had heard something of our story; at all events, he noticed me, and asking who I was, I was informally presented to him. There was less formality about the court at that time than ever has been before or since. He spoke kindly to me—for he was always kind when it cost him nothing—asked after my mother, and made me a compliment on my good looks. I noticed after this, that my aunt was rather in a hurry to get me away, and she never took me thither again.

But the mischief was done. All my old daydreams of wealth and ambition waked to life again, and I began to indulge them more and more. My conscience did not let me fall into my old courses without warning me, it is true; but I began to disregard its teachings, and to repine at the strict manner in which I had been brought up. I had grown very handsome since my illness, and I was quite aware of the fact—as what girl is not? And when I was away from my mother's side and in my aunt's drawing-room, I received many flourishing compliments, such as were then in fashion, from the gallants who visited her.

I soon began to compare my good Andrew with these fine gentlemen, not at all to his advantage, and I wished, if it were my fate to marry him, that he had a more genteel figure, and knew better how to set himself off. My aunt and uncle did not scruple to say before me that it was a shame I should so sacrificed—sent down to the country to be brought up by a set of Puritans, and married to another, without any chance to raise myself by a good match, as I might easily do.

"'Tis a poor thing for Andrew, too," I heard my uncle say one day; "he ought to marry some rich merchant's daughter, and renew his estate."

"Why do you not tell him so?" asked my aunt. "There is Mrs. Mary Bakewell, who would jump at the chance of making herself a lady with her thousands. Truly, she is plain enough, and something the elder, but she is a good creature after all. Why not propose it to him?"