A frontal attack may answer

During the night I do indeed hear some kind of scratching or such upon my door, that wakes me for a moment or so, but the chest across the door prevents any entry. I go sleep again.

Next morn I take a most agreeable little ride about the country lanes and bridleways upon Merrylegs, that is a pretty little chestnut pony and extreme amiable. But I miss my dear Jezzie-girl, that I daresay still enjoys her field in Northamptonshire and her old companions. Sure I had rather be there with dear Belinda and Captain P- and listening to Josh discourse of badgers.

I am like to suppose that upon my return I will have no company for breakfast, but Lady Z- is still sat there nibbling upon a muffin and sipping tea.

I have a fine appetite and discover that there are bacon and eggs remaining in a chafing dish. I help myself and go sit beside Lady Z-, after first enquiring whether the aroma will cause her queasiness. She shakes her head: 'tis become a deal less troublesome, she says.

I ask does she know where the other ladies are. She smiles and says she confides that they all go attend upon Lady Catherine’s airing around the gardens, adding that sure she should like a little girl. She loves her boys most immense, but indeed, a daughter… she fancies that one reason she was discontent was that this seem’d a very unlikely prospect.

She goes on to say that that b---h sent word that she has the headache: that unfortunate creature that is her maid came take her up some tea. She confides 'tis merely the sulks.

Perchance, says I, while thinking that mayhap 'tis not a headache but marks of her husband’s violence that keeps her in her room. But, my dear Lady Z-, are we alone, I have somewhat to communicate to you concerning Reynaldo -

O, she cries, he is well? is he still faithfull?

I smile and say entirely so, and recount to her my stratagem against his distress that she will not fly with him.

She laughs somewhat immoderate and says, indeed she has the greatest fondness for him, but she has come to apprehend that a deal of his revolutionary fervour is all talk: 'tis is a most exceeding answerable notion to present her as one that would not hinder him by presenting hostages to fortune.

She adds, sure, Lady B-, you should write novels. While they were in Cornwall – o, 'twas really most exceeding pleasant, I come to appreciate how good a father Sir H- is – in the evenings they would read to one another, and one of the works they read was an exceeding fine thing set in Naples and the surrounding countryside, entitl’d The Sorceress, with a deal about revolutionaries in those parts.

O, says I, do I remember I shall make a little note in my memorandum book to ask for it at the circulating library.

You would not think it, she continues, but Mr MacD- has a most thoro’ knowledge of novels, recommend’d it to Sir H-. That serious fellow, would you credit it?

As I have a mouthful of bacon and eggs I say nothing.

When I have made an exceeding hearty breakfast I go change out of my riding-habit into something suitable for the forenoon.

I go take my smelling-bottle, and some of the fine cooling lotion that Docket prepares, and go knock at Mrs D- K-'s chamber door. Her maid Connolly opens it. I say I am greatly sorry to hear that her mistress has the headache, is there anything that I might do? I find a smelling-bottle sometimes clears the humours, or this is a fine cooling lotion with a pleasing scent of lavender, that will sometimes answer. May I come in?

She steps outside the door and says, sure, Lady B-, that is very kind, but Mrs K- goes sleep, which is sure the best thing to relieve the trouble.

A voice inside says, what is this racket? Must you stand there chattering?

Connolly calls back that 'tis Lady B-, seeing if there is anything she may do to relieve you?

Mrs K- calls back that she may go to H—l.

I hand over the cooling lotion to Connolly and say I shall be on my way.

Sure I have done what I may, and I am disinclin’d to go where Mrs D- K wishes I might.

I go out to the gardens, where I find the others assemb’d together gazing upon little Lady Catherine that lyes upon a blanket upon the grass, and exchanging gossip.

They turn and say, why, here is Lady B-, sure she will have some interesting on-dits.

I sigh and say I have been out of Town – not that there is much goes on there at present – and Mrs N-, that will always know the latest scandal, is at present at Margate, I have not seen her this age.

I wait to see if any goes ask me about this rumour of an escapt lunatick, but as none does, I confide that all discretion has been maintain’d.

I ask Viola if she hears how Martha does. O, she says, quite exceeding well – that noble creature Phoebe de C- continues to feed Deborah, and not only that, which Mr S- confides has been of material assistance to Martha recovering her wont’d health, turns her hand to various matters of household management - for Martha has had little experience of an establishment of that size. She has took up her sketch-book and water-colour box at last, and she and Mr de C- go about sketching.

But, she says, looking at little Cathy, sure 'tis most exceeding distressing about the de C-s.

Indeed, says Mrs O- B-, 'tis very hard to lose a child – and their firstborn, as well.

I see Eliza looking a little mournfull and wish I could go comfort her. There was some matter of a miscarriage or two and a stillborn babe 'twixt Josh and Quintus, that she does not like to talk of.

But indeed, says Eliza with a determin’d expression, 'tis very ill manners to talk of such tragedies before those that are in expectation of increase.

Viola picks up Cathy and kisses her. Sure I think she has had air enough, I think I will go take her in and feed her, and then go ride in the trap with the pique-nique to where the gentlemen of the party are shooting. Do any of you purpose to come?

Susannah and Lady Z- are both of the opinion that in their condition 'twould be imprudent to go be jolt’d in a trap and mayhap fright’d by shots. I say that I will stay and keep them company.

Perchance, says Susannah with a sly glance, you might read to us from Mr W- Y-'s fine new book of poetry?

I pull a face and say, I daresay there is a dog or so about the place that has not gone with the guns, and mayhap a crow in the trees, and one might persuade one to bark at t’other, 'twould be entire as melodious.

All laugh. Eliza says that she confides that dreadfull as his poems are, they would sound a deal better read by Lady B- than recit’d by himself.

Miss Constance, that goes with the pique-nique, tells us that there is a light collation laid do we require refreshment.

Susannah and Lady Z- both go lye down for a little refreshing nap, and I am left alone. I am like to suppose that this house contains no library. I dare not be at inditing a tale or so, much as I should like to.

Since I daresay I might as well know quite how bad it is, I take Mr W- Y-'s book of poems and go sit in a pleasing leafy arbour in the garden.

Reading the poem of the Contessa’s tale with more attention than I have previously given it, I am most exceeding prepossesst by Miss S-'s talent, which sure shows up the very poor stuff that follows, including one that I hazard concerns myself.

I am still sitting there, about my own thoughts, when the trap returns. I think that I must get up and make civil, but indeed 'tis pleasing to be idle.

So I am still sitting there when comes walking through the garden in considerable agitation Mr W- Y- himself.

What, says I, Mr Y-, not with the guns?

He plumps himself down beside me with a great sigh and says that wretch’d fellow K- made accusations against his shooting, claim’d that a wild shot nearly took him off and that as he was the closest, said it must have been him. Sure they were in fears he would fall into an apoplectick seizure from the violence of his temper. So he return’d to the house.

Then he looks down and sees his book beside me on the seat and his indignation mollifies into a smile. O, he says, you have been reading my poems?

Sure, says I, but how comes it about that Miss S-'s very striking poem is includ’d? (For I think a frontal attack may answer.)

He goes red, then pale.

Miss S-, I go on, 'twas very pretty of her, for sure I am no authority in such matters, show’d me some of her verses (I need not say that none were this particular poem).

Alas, he says after gulping several times, 'twas a sad errour. Somehow the pages got mingl’d among the poems he sent to the printer, and the foolish fellow suppos’d the poem was meant to be print’d along with the rest.

O, how shocking! says I. I daresay you will be about remedying the matter – I look at him with a most exceeding guileless expression – perchance some kind of publick announcement in the press? Tho’ I am like to suppose she would not desire her name mention’d.

I flutter at him with my eyelashes.

He says that indeed he has been wondering what he should do, and will quite immediate be composing somewhat to serve the purpose.

Sure, says I, I entire confid’d that you would be about setting matters right.

He departs.

Comes dearest Eliza past him into the garden and over to where I am sitting. She asks what is amiss with Mr W- Y-? Has he been struck with a sudden poetick fit? O, says I, he is in a pet over Mr D- K-'s accusations of shooting wild.