poetry and perfection 3

 

Chapter 3

 

Kitty was a little embarrassed to have to be woken gently by her mother.  She stumbled out of the Bottringham house, and was hardly aware of the short journey home. She fell into bed and was asleep again as soon as her head touched the pillow.  She dreamed all night of dancing with Hugo Bottringham.

 

Kitty was happy to go back to her lessons with Miss Emmet the next day.

“Miss Emmet,” said Kitty, “What is metaphysical poetry? I don’t think I have come across it.”

“My goodness, Kitty!” said Miss Emmet. “You don’t want to know about that!”

“Whyever not, Miss Emmet? You know I like poetry and find it interesting,” said Kitty. “And I had never heard of metaphysical poetry. What does ‘metaphysical’ even mean? Meta is Greek for ‘beyond,’ which I remember Stephen telling me, and physical means to do with material matters.”

“Dear me, I am not sure Stephen should be teaching you anything about Greek or the Greeks; they were not very nice people,” said Miss Emmet, primming her mouth.

“If they weren’t very nice, why do we use a lot of their words, and have Greek tops to columns?” asked Kitty.

“Such things are for men, not ladies,” said Miss Emmet.

“Nonsense, Miss Emmet; did I not dress as ‘Diana the Huntress,’ with a bow and a crescent moon headdress for the costume party we had before we came to London? And there are books of attitudes based on the Greek goddesses and heroines, like ‘Helen, waiting in quiet contemplation for Menelaus,’ which you said I would do well to study instead of running downstairs like a hoyden. Or ‘Penelope, sat in perfect patience at her work,’ and ‘Andromeda bound to the rock in submission and resignation.’ You can’t have it both ways.”

“Oh, how you do take me up on things!” cried poor Miss Emmet.

“Well, it’s only because you contradict yourself,” said Kitty. “Now, what is metaphysical poetry?” she brought out her original question with determination; speaking with Miss Emmet was likely to drag one down convoluted and yet woolly lines of conversation and lead away from the original point.

“Not at all what a nice young lady should know about,” she said, severely. “Wherever did you hear of such nasty stuff?”

“Oh, one of the men at Elvira’s ball was talking about it,” said Kitty, evasively.

“Steer clear of young men who use such analogy of exploration to discuss… goodness me, not suitable at all!” said Miss Emmet, firmly.

Kitty decided not to press the matter, nor, for some reason,  did she mention that it was Beau Buttringham who was the man she knew was interested.

She sighed.

“But how am I going to know things if I don’t ask?” she said, plaintively.

“Curiousity killed the cat,” said Miss Emmet. “Metaphysical poetry! Why, you might as well tie your garter in public!”

“I’ve sometimes wondered about that, too,” said Kitty. “If your garter comes loose in public, what is one supposed to do? Walk along trying not to trip over your stocking as it drags behind you? Surely you would risk falling, and displaying more?”

“Goodness, girl, the questions you ask!  Your maid will kneel down and fasten it for you, of course,” said Miss Emmet.

“But if I’m going to the library, I have a footman to follow me, not a maid. Surely I would not have a footman tie it?”

“My dear Kitty! What an idea! You would have to knock on someone’s door, or go into a shop, and ask for some place to be private to sort it out.”

“Has your garter ever come untied in public?” asked Kitty.

“Certainly not! I am not slapdash about tying mine,” said Miss Emmet. “Now, let us do some arithmetic and you can forget those nasty Elizabethan and Stuart poets.”

 

 

Kitty knew when a question was not going to be answered, though she had gleaned something from her governess. The poems were by Elizabethan and Stuart poets, and Miss Emmet found them shocking. This did not help, much, however, as Miss Emmet was easily shocked, and got upset about things when asked about them even though they seemed innocuous. The sermon on Onon spilling his seed for example, when she asked why he didn’t just brush it into a dustpan and put in a sieve to get rid of the dust from the ground so he could then go and plant it properly. Miss Emmet had almost had apoplexy about that,

She sought out her brother.

“Stephen, what can you tell me about metaphysical poetry?” she asked.

To her amazement, he blushed.

“Kitty! I can’t tell a girl about metaphysical poetry!” he expostulated.

“Oh, I shall just have to read some, and quote them,” said Kitty.

“That’s blackmail!”

“Of course it is; the best way to find out. I wager I say ‘oh, is that all,’ when you explain it.”

“Well, you won’t.  It’s about allegory.  If… if a poem talks about kissing your lips, it… it refers to the other lips.”

“What other lips?” asked Kitty.

“Lud, Kitty! Haven’t you ever looked in a hand mirror to find out what private parts you have?” asked Stephen, going a violent scarlet. “I said it wasn’t suitable for a girl!  And there are things that refer to the… the physical pleasures in terms of exploration and so on, and it’s not suitable! Go and read Donne, but for pity’s sake don’t go quoting, Papa will lock you in a tower until you’re forty!”

“Oh!” said Kitty. “You could have just said it was smutty, but concealed.”

“Well, it is, and don’t get caught reading it if you can’t resist checking it out,” said Stephen.

 

Kitty did not really have time to get bored enough to struggle with seventeenth century poetry, never accessible to a thoroughly modern girl even when not couched in allegory, as she was getting more and more invitations to small gathering where she might be expected to meet with Elvira.

“I don’t know about all this,” sighed her mother. “I don’t want to limit your pleasure, but Papa and I thought you would enjoy a season better in another year, when you are older, and might feel ready to seek a beau. But you have shown no inclination towards seeking out members of the opposite sex.”

“Oh, I’m not ready to think of marriage, yet,” said Kitty. “And it would be profligate to put you and Papa to the cost of a Season under false pretences, as it were. I just like Elvira, and she likes having me around for support, and to giggle about her swains with her.”

“Very well; on the understanding that you will not be outfitted specifically for a season, and to go to such entertainments just to be with your friend, I will not turn down any invitations.”

Kitty was quite happy with this arrangement, though she had no idea that many people who knew the Buttringhams assumed that the red-haired girl was some kind of poor relation, a companion to Elvira, and with the falsity of manners of Society, promptly ignored her.

Kitty did not care. She enjoyed watching society from the sidelines, writing little verses about some of those who amused her, and illustrating them with caricatures in her commonplace book. She had a page on which she had made a realistic portrait of Elvira, in case anyone wanted to look at what she was doing. She kept one finger in that page, to flick it over if any curious person came to peer. She also made some sketches of wildflowers when she found herself at a fête champêtre which led to a page of imagining the other guests as wildflowers.

Hugo Bottringham took the book from her before she could turn the page to something innocuous. Kitty gave a little cry of irritation.

“Now, that, sir, was monstrously rude!” she said.

“Monstrously,” said Hugo. “Oh, very nice. I am a thistle, unbending and with barbs, the Brutus cut becoming the flowers of it; and your brother, knapweed, a plant that apes the thistle but is quite harmless.”

“Oh, you understand,” said Kitty. “I am glad.”

“Oh, totally… Miss Evrington as bindweed; yes, very suitable, she clings inexorably. What, are you seriously depicting yourself as a nettle?”

“Who’s producing the biting satires?” said Kitty.

“Well, I suppose so… but I think you are a sweet marigold, with bright petals.”

“If I were a garden flower, I fear I would be a chrysanthemum; bright but rather untidy,” said Kitty.

He laughed. He had not missed that she had depicted his sister as a wild rose.

“I’m glad Elvira has a truly nice girl as a friend,” he said, seriously. “So many of the girls in society are selfish pieces, like Emma Evrington.  I did notice Caroline Spenlove as cleavers as well. I always check when I leave a gathering where she is for burrs on my coat.”

Kitty chuckled.

“And I am sure you are careful what you say, lest it be interpreted as a proposal,” she said.

At this point, the very girl they were speaking about came over.

“Oh, Mr. Bottringham, won’t you join us in a treasure hunt?” she said, coyly. “Of course, it’s sweet of you to try to make your family dependent feel less unwelcome, but she’s going to have to learn her place at some point.”

“Not cleavers, but nightshade,” said Hugo, with a glance at Kitty.

“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Spenlove.

“I don’t think I can grant it,” said Hugo. She frowned, perplexed.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I think it fairly unforgiveable for a young lady to so insult my sister’s friend,” said Hugo. “And to imply that she is unwelcome.

Kitty’s heart warmed. How kind he was to speak a rebuke to that nasty, sly girl.

Miss Spenlove looked even more confused.

“But isn’t she some poor relation of yours, who is going to need to become a governess?” she said.

“Whatever gave you that stupid idea?” said Hugo. “Miss Worthington is a friend of my sister whose parents do not intend to bring her out for another year. I will, however, pass the word to them that you will not be looking for any invitations from friends of mine, as you are so disparaging of their daughter. My goodness! Perhaps your own parents should have held you back a year as well, since you are so gauche.”

This penetrated Miss Spenlove’s brain, and emblazoned her cheeks with unbecoming red.

“But it was an easy mistake to make,” she said.

“Perhaps you should have asked,” said Hugo. “Excuse me; I see one of my friends, Mr. Worthington, Miss Worthington’s brother. I will pass on to him too your lack of interest in his family. Good day.”

Stephen was popular at social gatherings, there might be those who disparaged such red hair, but he was a graceful and able dancer, was considered a safe driver to drive out a girl to a picnic or other out-of-door entertainment, or into the countryside for a treat. He also had a fund of good stories. Without being necessarily considered an eligible parti to marry, he was much sought after by matchmaking-mothers as a a safe young man with whom to entrust her precious offspring.

Miss Spenlove slumped. She was likely to get a severe scolding from her mother for alienating other members of ton.

What was worse, Beau Bottringham had been sharp with her over a little nobody. Why, he might not dance with her tomorrow!

Miss Spenlove was about to discover that Beau Bottringham’s influence was sufficient that, with a dropped word, invitations to her fell away to no more than one a week, and none of them influential people. Suddenly, she was the little nobody.

This did not make her feel any more charitable towards Kitty. This, Kitty did not know, and just glowed to have someone stand up for her.

Kitty did notice that Miss Spenlove was at fewer functions, but did not think to question this; indeed, she put the girl’s absence down to suffering with her flux, which would also explain why she had been unpleasant to Kitty at the fête champêtre. She was thus unprepared for meeting Miss Spenlove at a musicale, and to have that young lady pinch her hard.

“What was that for?” demanded Kitty.

“You know very well!” hissed Miss Spenlove.

“No, I do not!” said Kitty. “And I demand that you tell me why you gave me such a mean pinch or I’ll plant you a facer!”

This sporting term caused a number of male heads to turn, including Stephen’s.

“Kit! You can’t say that!” said Stephen.

“Why not? You do,” said Kitty.

Stephen groaned.

“Ladies are not supposed to use sporting cant,” he said.

“Is it sporting cant? And how am I supposed to know? And how am I supposed to know what not to say when you say it?” demanded Kitty, indignantly.

This, fortunately, made all the gentlemen laugh.

“Yes, it’s my fault, I admit it,” said Stephen. “But you can’t go around punching other girls either.”

“Why not? She attacked me first,” said Kitty, rolling up her puff sleeve to show a nasty bruise already developing.

“That’s mean,” said Stephen, “But you still can’t go around darkening people’s daylights. Er… that’s cant too, and you mustn’t repeat it.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do if someone pinches me for no reason?” demanded Kitty.

“You ask your mother to sort it out,” said her mother, who had escaped the other chaperones to see why her daughter was at the centre of an imbroglio. “Miss… Spenlove, wasn’t it? Why did you pinch Kitty?”

“Ask her; she knows,” said Miss Spenlove, sulkily.

“But I don’t!” said Kitty.

“Of course you do!” cried Miss Spenlove. “You made Beau Bottringham blackball me because I told the truth about you being his poor relation and taken places on sufferance! What have you got on him, you harpy?”

“Miss Spenlove, my daughter is no relation at all of Mr. Bottringham, let alone a poor one,” said Mrs. Worthington, icily. “I decided that she might go to selected occasions with her friend, Miss Bottringham, on the understanding that it was like a younger sister, who attended without fully taking part. But it seems, perhaps, that it is not my daughter who is too young for a season, but you,  if you decide to make up lies about her for no reason. Kitty is not blameless today, in threatening retaliation, but I do wonder what made you tell lies.”

“No reason at all,” said Hugo, coming over. “Unless you count me sitting down beside Miss Worthington and giving her attention, rather than Miss Spendthrift.”

“Spenlove!” said Miss Spenlove.

“Whichever,” said Hugo, with a studied yawn.

Miss Spenlove fled, sobbing.

That had been her social death knell.