Coronation Summer Read online

  Coronation Summer

  Angela Thirkell

  © Angela Thirkell 1912

  Angela Thirkell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1953 by Hamish Hamilton Ltd.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One — At Tapton Hall

  Chapter Two — I Visit the Metropolis

  Chapter Three — Oxonian And Cantabs

  Chapter Four — We Visit the Temples of Art

  Chapter Five — A Day at Epsom

  Chapter Six — Literary Lions and Eton Montem

  Chapter Seven — Leander versus Cambridge

  Chapter Eight — Westminster Hall and The Opera

  Chapter Nine — Coronation Day

  Chapter Ten — My Happiest Moment

  Chapter One — At Tapton Hall

  Tapton Hall, Kent.

  1840

  A few mornings ago a large parcel of books and papers came from town for my husband. As Mr. Darnley likes to open his own parcels, I waited till he was engaged with his bailiff and then rang the bell. When the footman answered it, I requested him to take the packet into the library, where I knew Mr. Darnley would not be likely to make his appearance till nearly dinner-time. As soon as I was alone I eagerly opened the parcel, taking care, however, to do so in such a way that I could do it up again without Mr. Darnley being any the wiser. This is indeed not hypocrisy on my part, but I find that the wheels of life often run far more smoothly if well greased, and Mr. Darnley, though the best of husbands, does not always control his temper over trifles. In this respect he is not unlike my dear Papa, whose ebullitions of temper were so trying to my dear Mamma, and indeed to his whole family, that it is a matter for self-gratulation that Mr. Darnley’s house at Tapton is well out of Papa’s reach. Papa has often most solemnly asseverated, indeed with a use of language which dear Mamma used to consider quite unjustifiable, that he will never set foot in one of those new-fangled railway coaches. But as there is little fear of the railway mania spreading into his dear Norfolk, nor indeed into our rural Kent — or so I thought till lately — it is unlikely that the temptation will assail him, and considering his years and his gout, together with his at present far from affluent condition, it is hardly probable that he will make the journey by coach. So we may consider ourselves fairly safe from a visit which, welcome though it would be, could hardly fail to be otherwise than productive of the greatest annoyance and inconvenience both to myself and Mr. Darnley. Papa has not yet seen his first grandchild, my and Mr. Darnley’s dear little Victoria, for my excellent nurse, Mrs. Baker, does not wish to undertake so fatiguing a journey at her age. Willingly would I go myself and put up with Papa’s ways for a month or so in the cause of filial duty, for he is low in his spirits since Mamma died, but that an event is expected within the next six months which, while adding to the number of the inmates of Tapton Hall, will also put travelling out of the question for me for some time to come. But I have said enough.

  Hardly had I released the books from their wrapping when a knock at the door startled me. Controlling my emotions, for the sake of one who shall be nameless, I cried out, ‘Come in,’ at the same time placing myself before the table on which the half-opened parcel lay, so that the newcomer should not immediately perceive what I had been doing. But on the footman’s announcing Miss Dacre, all my fears fled. It was indeed Emily Dacre, my dearest friend, and one who will shortly I hope be a sister to me, as will appear later in this narration. Her father is the rector of this village, and as his demise may be confidently though regretfully expected at an early date, the third stroke being almost invariably fatal, and the living is in Mr. Darnley’s gift, that most indulgent of husbands has promised it to my dear elder brother Ned, who will then lead Emily as a bride to the home which she has so long adorned as a daughter. This, though convenient, will lack the charm of novelty, but as Emily is quite devoted to Ned, she will doubtless find novelty in seeing his handsome head with its black curls upon the conjugal pillow, though I confess that to me the thought of sharing with my husband the room formerly occupied by my parents would have in it something embarrassing, though I do not observe that Mr. Darnley, not being of my sensitive disposition, has felt any similar qualms in the case of our own establishment. But then his parents have been dead for many years, his mother in fact having lost her life in giving life to him, and his father and he having been on very bad terms until old Mr. Darnley luckily died some ten years ago, leaving my Henry the heir to his considerable fortune. The palliasses at the rectory will, of course, be entirely re-made, and Ned is determined to change the position of the bed from its present place near the door to the opposite end of the room, so that he may be able to see the stables, so Emily, whose feelings are not so painfully sensitive as mine, will probably not sustain the shock to her finer feelings which I should experience in a similar case.

  Emily, looking blooming in her morning dress and chip bonnet, entered the room.

  ‘What are you doing, my dear creature?’ was her first question.

  ‘Undoing this packet of books and papers from town,’ I replied.

  ‘I thought,’ cried Emily, ‘that Mr. Darnley did not wish his parcels to be opened by any hand but his own. But let me see, dearest Fanny, what the bookseller has sent.’

  Throwing her bonnet and shawl onto a chair, Emily officiously assisted me to look through the contents of the package.

  ‘Heavens! what a horrid set!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing by our dear Boz! Sordello; what is that? Oh, poetry. Poetry is dead since dear Lord Byron died. Ten Thousand a Year? That must be of interest. That terrible Weekly Despatch! Ned will not hear of it. You remember how angry it made him when we were in London for the Coronation and you and I used to read it on the sly. Ned is delighted that that wicked Alderman Harmer is not to be Lord Mayor. Ned says that a man who owns such a subversive paper, who is so rude about our young Queen, is little more than an infidel. Ned will only read The Times, or the Morning Post. Now if only there were something by Bulwer, like his charming Leila — a doat of a book. Ned did not like it though. Ned says that he will not have any book by Bulwer in the Rectory, that they appeal to the passions. What else? The Voyage of the Beagle? The Athenaeum? My dear Fanny, how I pity you. Why does not Mr. Darnley get The Old Curiosity Shop by our dear Boz? Do you remember, Fanny, how we used to make Ned get us that wicked Bell’s Life when we were in London, that we might see the pictures from Oliver Twist and Pickwick in the Gallery of Comicalities? Ned says that though Mr. Dickens is hardly a gentleman, he has done as much good as twenty of these rubbishing new Factory Inspectors or Police Commissions.’

  But I had had enough. Dear as Emily is to me, and dearer yet as she will be, there is something inexpressibly annoying in the way she rattles on about Ned, who is after all only to be the rector, and has not the knowledge of the world, nor the advanced opinions that Mr. Darnley possesses. Mr. Darnley is a man of the world, while Ned only lately came down from Cambridge. To change the subject I said with some coldness:

  ‘Here is a book, Emily, which promises amusement mingled with instruction, whatever Ned’s feelings may be about Mr. Dickens.’

  I held up a volume entitled The Ingoldsby Legends, by Thomas Ingoldsby.

  ‘Old, my dear, old!’ cried Emily in her provoking way. ‘I am sure I heard about them from Ned at least a year ago. They appeared in Bentley’s Miscellany. Silly rubbish I am certain. Ned says’

  ‘Oh, spare me Ned,’ I cried, now thoroughly out of temper, ‘and let me tell you, dearest Emily, that Mr. Darnley does not subscribe to that magazine. Were it worth reading
, doubtless he would do so.’

  ‘Well, Fanny,’ said Emily, ‘if Mr. Darnley does not approve of Bentley’s Miscellany, doubtless he would not wish you to read the books that are extracted from it. So let me have The Ingoldsby Legends, and do you read The Voyage of the Beagle. Ned hopes to have a pack himself.’

  While thoroughly vexed with Emily, I could not but admit privately that I had put myself in the wrong by my hasty words about Bentley’s, so composing myself upon the couch with The Voyage of the Beagle, I began to read. Science, my dear Papa has often said, though here he and Mr. Darnley are not in agreement, is no pursuit for a gentleman, and under the influence of Mr. Darwin’s — whoever he may be — account of what appears to have been a long and monotonous voyage, I sank into a state of semi-unconsciousness, from which I was roused by Emily.

  ‘Listen, Fanny,’ she cried, in a voice from which all traces of ill humour had now vanished, ‘this is most peculiar. You know the Ingoldsbys at Tappington Everard.’

  ‘Of course I know the Ingoldsbys,’ said I. ‘You know well, Emily, that you yourself introduced the whole family to me when we were in town for the Coronation; old Mr. Ingoldsby, Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, his son, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Seaforth, his daughter and son-in-law, and that I am godmother to Mrs. Seaforth’s third child. It seems to me to be very foolish to ask a question to which you already know the answer. What is in your mind?’

  ‘I cannot understand it at all,’ was Emily’s reply.

  ‘Understand what, my love?’ I asked with some acerbity, hating all mysteries.

  ‘Why, that Tom Ingoldsby, Mrs. Seaforth’s brother, should have written such a curious book. I have known the family ever since we came here, but this is not at all like them. All kinds of ghost stories, beginning with a highly diverting story about Charles Seaforth walking in his sleep without his breeches’

  ‘Emily!’ I ejaculated.

  ‘Can it really be Tom Ingoldsby, do you think? Or is it all a hoax?’

  ‘How can I tell, Emily,’ said I, with all the dignity of a wife and mother, both present and prospective, ‘if you so selfishly keep to yourself the book, which after all is Mr. Darnley’s property, and you know how he feels about any one reading his books before he has seen them himself. It is exactly the same with the post-bag. You had better hand the volume to me, Emily, so that I may judge for myself.’

  Here a regrettable incident occurred, the book somehow being wrenched between Emily and myself, with the unhappy result that a page was torn. Consternation stared us in the face. What would Mr. Darnley say was the question that rose unbidden to both our lips. Emily, who is of a bolder and less delicate nature than myself, was the first to speak.

  ‘Fanny!’ she cried, ‘Mr. Darnley must never see this book. Let us do up the parcel,’ said she, suiting the action to the word, ‘and you must hide The Ingoldsby Legends among your private possessions.’

  ‘You do not seem to understand, Emily,’ I retorted, ‘that a wife should have no secrets from her husband.’

  But as Emily only replied, ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ I resigned myself to a perusal of the book, the cause of the commotion. Suddenly I in my turn became convulsed with emotion.

  ‘Emily!’ I cried. ‘You are right.’

  ‘I always am,’ replied that provoking Emily.

  ‘Not always, my dearest creature,’ said I, ‘but in this case you are. It is indeed a curious book. Listen to this.’

  I then read aloud, and Mr. Darnley has been pleased to say that I read with admirable taste, the following paragraph from the Ingoldsby Legends’,

  ‘It was in the summer of 1838 that a party from Tappington reached the metropolis with a view of witnessing the coronation of their youthful Queen, whom God long preserve! — This purpose they were fortunate enough to accomplish by the purchase of a peer’s ticket, from a stationer in the Strand, who was enabled to dispose of some, greatly to the indignation of the hereditary Earl Marshal. How Mr. Barney managed to insinuate himself into the Abbey remains a mystery: his characteristic modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he unquestionably was. The result of his observations was thus communicated to his associates in the Servants’ Hall upon his return, to the infinite delectation of Mademoiselle Pauline over a Cruiskeen of his own concocting.’

  ‘And then,’ I concluded, ‘there follows a poem.’

  Emily, as she tied the last knot in the parcel, turned to me a countenance whose expression showed the highest degree of interest and bewilderment.

  ‘But, dearest Fanny,’ she cried, ‘what can this mean? This paragraph evidently refers to the visit of the Ingoldsby family to town for the Coronation — you know we met them there. But they have no servant called Barney. Charles Seaforth did indeed have an Irishman in his service called Thady or some such name, but the fellow could not have written poetry. I confess, Fanny, that I am completely bambaized.’

  Without commenting on this word, doubtless a piece of Ned’s Cambridge slang, ‘I will, my dear,’ said I, ‘read aloud to you the poem which follows. We can then form some decision as to the nature of the work.’

  Accordingly I proceeded to read the effusion, though sorely tried by Emily’s tiresome habit of interrupting.

  ‘It is entitled,’ I began, ‘“Mr. Barney Maguire’s Account of the Coronation”. It reads thus:’

  Och! the Coronation! what celebration

  For emulation can with it compare?

  When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,

  And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!

  ’Twas there you’d see the New Polishemen

  Making a skrimmage at half after four,

  And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O’Gradys

  All standing round before the Abbey door.

  Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning

  Themselves adorning, all by the candle light,

  With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,

  And gould, and jewels, and rich di’monds bright.

  And then approaches five hundred coaches,

  With Giniral Dullbeak. — Och! ’twas mighty fine

  To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,

  With his swoord drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.

  ‘We did indeed have to get up shockingly early,’ said Emily, but I read on.

  Then the Guns’ alarums, and the King of Arums,

  All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,

  ‘Pray, what does the creature mean by Clarence shoes?’ asked Emily.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said I with some coldness, ‘you have never heard of Clarenceux King of Arms. Would you prefer me to stop?’

  ‘No, go on. It was doubtless the way you read it that made me mistake.’

  Without taking any notice of this I continued:

  Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,

  The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;

  ’Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy

  All jew’ls from jasey to his di’mond boots,

  With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,

  The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.

  And Wellington walking with his swoord drawn, talking

  To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;

  And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,

  (They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name,)

  Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading

  The Queen, the darling, to her Royal chair,

  And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,

  The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair.

  ‘Well,’ I ejaculated, ‘what extraordinary blunders the fellow does make. Pell-Mello for Palmella. Why, everyone in town who was anybody knew Palmella.’

  ‘If you are tired, Fanny,’ said Emily, ‘I will willingly continue the reading for you.’

  This was not to be borne. In a loudish voice and not heeding any of Emily’s attempts to interrupt, I went on wit
h the reading.

  Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,

  In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,

  And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,

  And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.

  Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,

  All in the Gallery you might persave,

  But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a fishing,

  Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.

  There was Baron Alten himself exalting,

  And Prince Von Swartzenberg, and many more,

  Och! I’d be bother’d, and entirely smother’d

  To tell the half of ’em was to the fore;

  With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,

  And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;

  But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly,

  ‘I’d be proud to see the likes among the Turks!’

  Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her

  In her purple garaments, and her goulden Crown;

  Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,

  With eight young Ladies houlding up her gown.

  Sure ’twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar

  The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,

  And Sir George Smart! Oh! he play’d a Consarto,

  With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

  Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up,

  For to resave her bounty and great wealth,

  Saying ‘Plase your Glory, great Queen Vict-ory.

  Ye’ll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!’

  Then his Riverence, reflating, discoorsed the mating,

  ‘Boys! Here’s your Queen! deny it if you can!

  And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur,

  Sneezes at that, I’d like to see the man!’

  Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow’rs appealing,

  ‘Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!’

  And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her,