“Marianne, I dare not think that he should ask me to marry him but I think we both know what my answer would be if he ever should.”
They were interrupted by Henry's arrival. He greeted them both with great cordiality and immediately applied to Marianne for permission to take Margaret out in his curricle.
“I hope you will grant this small wish, my dear Aunt Brandon,” he beseeched her, “We have a little time before the dinner hour and I promised Margaret I would take her to Gunter's on our very first afternoon. There may not be another chance. My mother has gone to see her dressmaker and my father set off for his club as soon as he arrived, so you see, I would be left all alone and feeling very miserable if not for this opportunity to sample London's supreme ices and your sister's finest company.”
Marianne recognised the look in Margaret's eyes, which begged her agreement to the scheme. Nodding her approval, she was amused to see them hasten out of the room with hardly a nod or a backward glance. As Margaret wrested her pelisse and bonnet from the arms of the waiting servant, giving no time to fastenings or ribbons, the front door opened as if conspiring to let them out as quickly as possible.
“Good day, Uncle Brandon,” shouted Henry, taking Margaret's arm with a movement toward the iron railings and white steps as the Colonel passed through into the hallway. “Please forgive me for not stopping, but Miss Margaret and I have an appointment to keep.”
With barely a nod of his head or a curtsey from his friend, the pair escaped as Colonel Brandon started to open his mouth to acknowledge them. With a bemused expression he watched them mount Henry's vehicle and drive away at a trot.
Henry's route was not the most direct but all the more colourful for riding down New Bond Street so that Margaret should be able to see the very best of the shops from her wonderful vantage point. After the relative quiet of life in Devon and Dorset, she could not believe how noisy London was to her ears; not only the sound of rumbling carriages and carts, but the clatter of pattens on pavements and the distinctive cries of street sellers rang everywhere about. Henry pointed out the landmarks and shops, not failing to direct Margaret's attention to any sight, which he thought might amuse or entertain. They were in high spirits as they trotted into Bruton Street.
“I’ll take you to Piccadilly and Hyde Park next time,” Henry announced, reining in his horse as they rapidly approached their destination. “Here we are arrived at Berkeley Square for your pleasure and there under the sign of the pineapple is Mr Gunter's celebrated tea shop. Now, which is your favourite ice?”
“I have no idea,” Margaret admitted, “I really have little experience of exotic flavours such as I have heard Marianne describe.”
Helping her down from his equipage and taking her across the road to see the window of the shop with every variety of ice imaginable, Margaret was stunned into silence by the display. Glasses of fruit ice decorated with crystallised rose and violet petals, sugar baskets filled with painted paste flowers and artificial gardens with parterres of mousseline and gravel walks of sugar sand occupied every tier in the window. Pastilles de chocolat, curled wafers, and candied jonquils overflowed from bonbonnieres onto snowy cloths. But the centrepiece, a sugar turban on a tasselled cushion complete with flowers, crescents, and a tall, waving feather, made Margaret catch her breath with pleasure.
“My particular favourite ice is muscadine, with the flavour of elderflower, but rissolis and burnt filbert are excellent, too. As you see, there are endless varieties,” said Henry.
“Oh, a muscadine ice sounds perfect,” Margaret answered, scarcely able to tear her eyes away from such a mouthwatering exhibition.
Before long a waiter directed them to a corner table. Margaret felt they were hardly noticed, such was the hubbub of chatter and laughter, the clink of china and spoons upon glass. After the chill of the outdoors, the interior steamed with warmth. Margaret unbuttoned her pelisse and removed her gloves. Their order was taken, the waiter slightly bemused that he could not tempt them to some warming turtle soup. He then quickly returned with glasses of ice topped with crystallised fruits.
“Thank you, Henry, this is such a treat,” Margaret said, taking a spoonful of fragrant ice and licking her lips.
“Hopefully, it is the first of many. I could not miss seeing your first impressions of London, nor would I have overlooked observing the way you have attacked that confection for the world,” he smirked before he paused, staring at her mouth. “To be an ice would be very nice on Miss Dashwood's lips.”
“Henry Lawrence!” Margaret cried, pretending to be outraged but secretly thrilled and blushing with delight at his words. “Someone will hear you and I would imagine in a place like this there are spies all around. We will never be let out alone again.”
“I do not care,” he retorted. “There is certainly no one here that I know and in any case why should I care what others think of me? I always speak the truth. And the truth is, Miss Margaret, that I hope we will find somewhere to go on our own every day. Why should we not?”
“Some might consider it improper.” Margaret paused as she considered how she might broach the subject uppermost in her mind. “Your Mama, for one.” Margaret put her spoon down in the saucer for a moment and returned Henry's steady gaze. “I will speak the truth. I do not think your Mama likes me, Mr Lawrence.”
Margaret did not fail to notice that Henry was suddenly absorbed in his glass of ice, scraping the last of the sorbet from its depths with determination. Looking up, he spoke carefully.
“My mother is a difficult woman, but what you imagine to be a dislike of yourself is to make too personal a judgement. The truth is that my mother has no time for anyone, except perhaps for my father and Uncle Brandon, and to the former her behaviour may be described as equivocal. That is her way and I am sure she does not disregard you any more than she does anyone else.”
Margaret felt dissatisfied with his answer. Why did he defend his mother like that? Although with reflection she thought she recognised that what he said was perfectly correct. Hadn’t Marianne complained about Hannah Lawrence from the moment they had met? Theirs was an uneasy relationship, complicated by the fact that the latter did not wish to share her brother with Marianne, Margaret felt sure. Lady Lawrence scarcely acknowledged her sister. What hope was there of the lady embracing Margaret with open arms?
“That is not to say that I think her behaviour acceptable,” Henry added. “I hope in time that she will come to regard you as I do. I wish you to become very much more acquainted with my family. Indeed, it is my greatest hope…”
“Halloo! Halloo!” A voice called out, interrupting Henry and alerting the couple to a figure they both recognised very well. Mrs Jennings was almost doubled up in her efforts to attract their attention from the door several feet away and even when they acknowledged the lady, her waving arm would not be still.
They both immediately laughed out loud. “Now we’ve done it!” cried Henry. “We shall never hear the end of it. Mrs Jennings will make jokes and hints until she has raised the curiosity of everyone.”
“Oh, goodness!” Margaret cried, unable to stop laughing, “However shall we bear it?”
“Well, we’ve managed thus far and I’m sure we shall again. I do not think she will give us away completely, her cruelty will be for our benefit alone,” smiled Henry, shaking his head at the thought.
Mrs Jennings was at their table in a moment. “I have just come to decide on a few treats to take home. My friend Mrs Clarke is with me so I cannot stop to talk to you, more's the pity. Well, I expect you’ve got quite enough to say to one another without an old lady like me butting in,” she chuckled. “I’m sure we shall meet soon. Send my best compliments to your families. Goodbye!”
With a last wave she was gone and Margaret was able to breathe again, though so embarrassed by what she felt must seem rather underhand behaviour. To be sat eating ices with a young man in a London shop. Goodness, whatever would Elinor say? But she did not dwell on these remonstrations for long. Henry was so charming and so easy to be with that she soon forgot her feelings of unease.
“Did you enjoy your ice, Miss Dashwood?” Henry enquired.
“Mr Lawrence, I shall never forget my first taste of muscadine ice in Berkeley Square,” Margaret declared with enthusiasm. “I hope it shall not be the last.”
“I promise we will come again, and it is true that this establishment is unrivalled. Could you imagine what it might be to sample the delights of such desserts in the land of their origin? I dream, I confess, of visiting Italy again and tasting a granita made by the master confectioners. I can picture myself in a Florentine square in the sunshine, or perhaps in St Mark's in Venice.”
“I should like to travel the world too, though I fear it is an ambition I will never fully realise,” Margaret said with a sigh.
