Elmsley House was an impressive two-storey residence, built of brick covered with stucco, and surrounded by grassy lawns and huge oak trees. The Legislative Assembly had purchased it in 1815 as a residence for our lieutenant-governors, and it was a decided improvement over the former governors’ residence at the garrison. Now it was the home of Sir Peregrine Maitland and his wife, Lady Sarah Maitland, whom Mama fawned over daily. Having a woman friend who was the daughter of the Duke of Richmond was, for Mama, the pinnacle of social success.
Naturally, she was over the moon to have me chosen to open this garden party. I could not get rid of her in the hours preceding our arrival at the event. She supervised every detail of my dress. “Of course, we are about five years behind English fashions, Lady Sarah tells me,” Mama said, “but kind woman that she is, she has resigned herself to our world. Now put on your white gown and let me see how it looks.”
The best feature of the fashions in York at this time—five years out of date or not—was that corsets were completely absent, and the natural figure was on full display. A thin petticoat was the only thing worn under dresses, and on this hot day, I was happy about that and about the low, strapped sandals I pulled from the stash of shoes in the wardrobe. Mama put her gold chain around my neck, stared at my figure for a full minute and declared that all was good. But alas, she then produced a straw hat which she put on my head with a silk scarf tied over the top and secured under my chin. The only positive thing about this “Gypsy hat” as she called it was that it was at least better than the muslin cap she had threatened the previous evening. I made no argument when she confined my head within it, knowing that when I arrived at the party, I would tear the thing off, and Mama would be unable to chastise me in front of a hundred assembled guests.
Lucy packed the whipped cream in a bed of ice chips and the strawberries and scones in another bundle, and Mama and Eliza and I set off in our coach for Elmsley House. When we arrived, the guests were already assembling on the front lawn and the servants were setting out the food on long tables decorated with bouquets of roses. Our contribution soon joined the platters of salads and casseroles and puddings. No one could apparently start eating until I gave my little speech, but everyone was already imbibing cups of rum punch from crystal bowls that had been placed on a separate table. While Mama went about, gossiping with the gentry, I stowed the “Gypsy hat” under one of the tables where it was hidden from view by the hanging cloth.
I then placed myself in front of the food tables, Lady Sarah rang a tiny copper bell, and everyone came to attention. In the front of the crowd, I could see Mr. John Beverley Robinson, stylishly attired in a bright green frock coat and tight-fitting pale yellow breeches. His wife Emma stood demurely beside him, her small stature enhanced by a gauze turban with an ostrich plume.
I had tailored my comments to about fifty words, thanking our hosts for their hospitality and encouraging everyone to enjoy the day. There was then a rush for the food. I stood aside, not really wanting to be part of the crush and anxious only for the afternoon to be over. It was a surprise, therefore, when Mr. Robinson stood before me, a plate of food in his hand.
“I have picked some delicacies for you, dear Miss Powell,” he said, thrusting the plate into my hands. “I remembered how you enjoy cheese wafers and eggplant caviar.” Then he laughed. “Note that I have not served you oysters. You must surely recall that unfortunate evening at Governor Gore’s ball when you made your brave statement about the dubious freshness of those sea creatures. How I admired your frankness.”
Was this a genuine act of kindness or was my long-ago lover trying to flirt with me? From the corner of my eye, I noticed Emma Robinson standing by herself with no food. “I thank you, sir,” I said, “but I shall just pass this plate on to your good wife. I am not eating anything at present.” I turned aside and gave the plate to Emma. She seemed a thoroughly amiable woman, and I was determined that nothing must ever interrupt the friendly intercourse between our families. “Mr. Robinson wishes you to have this food,” I said to her, “and I believe he is now going to get into the file and fill his own plate.”
Her husband seemed at first startled by my dismissal of his gift, but he took his cue and inserted himself into the crowd around the tables. I was relieved when Eliza joined Emma and me. She had piled her plate with several salads and, with her mouth still full, immediately began a conversation about the Robinsons’ boy who was now about three years old. Soon they drifted off together to find a table at which to sit.
Mama came up to me. “Where is your hat?”
“I have stashed it somewhere and will retrieve it when we leave. You will note that Lady Sarah is not wearing a hat. She removed her straw bonnet a few minutes ago, and I merely copied her style by removing mine.” That was not exactly the truth, but it worked.
There was nothing Mama could say except to utter a deep sigh.
“Look,” I said, pointing to the edge of the lawn where a carriage had just pulled up. “Papa has arrived from his office. You must go and see that he gets some food and drink.”
“You are skilful at getting rid of people you don’t want to talk to.” I turned to find Mr. Robinson standing behind me. “And I shall get out of your way very soon. But I need to say first how pretty you look today, and what a gracious little speech you made. I hope we can talk again soon. In fact, in a very few weeks, I shall have a proposition to make to you.”
I had no chance to respond. He moved away in the direction of Eliza and his wife. What in tarnation—as Mama would say—was he talking about?