Yet, it was one of Mr. Harris’s coaches that transported us overland, across the rugged landscape of the Black Mountains to the fecund Wye Valley pastures. We passed through a thick wood, eventually reaching the parkland of Thomas Harris’s Tregunter estate just as the sun began its slow descent behind a mountain resembling nothing so much as a sugar loaf. I should have been content forever to gaze upon the lofty peaks covered with thin clouds, and rising in sublime altitude above the valley. A more romantic space of scenery never met the human eye.
The view from the terrace, under construction in front of the grand house, was unparalleled for its grandeur. I imagined what it might be when the trees were in full bloom, or in the pride of early autumn when the foliage would be resplendently russet, vermilion, and gold. The air, now and again pierced with the cozy aroma of burning wood, smelled sweet and fresh and the quietude did much to settle my nerves. During our journey I had endeavored to keep up my spirits, but my mind was preoccupied with the thought that I should not be accepted by Mr. Harris and my marriage permitted to indefinitely remain a dirty little secret.
A salubrious breeze caught a bird on the wing; in her struggle to freely follow her own course of flight, I saw my own plight. Mr. Robinson stood behind me, his hand resting upon my shoulder as I stood beneath the portico admiring the mountain. “It’s quite the thing, isn’t it?” he remarked. I nodded in agreement, and he stretched forth his arm like Moses leading the Israelites across the desert. “Just about all of it—from here to there—belongs to my uncle.”
I had given great thought to my ensemble so that my first meeting with Mr. Robinson’s family should show me not to appear to be a fortune hunter—if that was what they feared—but rather to present the image of a stylish young lady who already possessed an income. I arrived in a claret-colored riding habit with a white beaver hat trimmed with feathers, which showed off my auburn hair and blue-green eyes to perfection.
But before I met the master, I was greeted, if such is the word, by Mr. Robinson’s younger sister Elizabeth and their sour-faced housekeeper, Mary Edwards. The latter had such a run of the place that I surmised her familiarity with its rooms extended well beyond the kitchens and the parlors. Had her brother presented the most abject being to her, Miss Robinson could not have taken my hand with a more frigid demeanor.
“Come, miss,” commanded this low and clumsy woman, barely glancing in my direction. Obediently I followed the gaudy-colored chintz gown, the pretentious twenty-year-old head attired in its thrice-bordered cap with its profusion of ribbons. We entered the drawing room, where the master was seated, pipe in hand, with a dozing mastiff by his side.
“Why, deuce take all, she’s dammed lovely, Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, nearly tripping over the immobile bulk of his hound as he rose to greet me, and kissing me on both cheeks with excessive cordiality. Sizing me up in an instant, he declared, “By gad, I should have liked you for my wife, had you not married Tom!” As Mr. Harris’s age was somewhere between sixty and seventy, I masked my shudder with a smile and cordially thanked him for so liberal an encomium.
I had made a conquest of the most unlikely of souls. Determined to remain in his excellent graces for the sake of my husband’s inheritance—and realizing that this deportment was in fact required of me—I donned the mask of cheerful satisfaction and played the role of the fascinated and fascinating young miss for all it was worth.
But the scowling housekeeper, “Mrs. Molly” they called her, and Tom’s sister, Miss Betsy—with her squat figure, snub nose, and a complexion too ruddy to be the product of country air alone—made it clear at every turn that a poor lawyer’s wife had no business having airs about her.
“Might I avail myself of your father’s harpsichord?” I asked Miss Betsy.
She laughed, exposing her little yellow teeth. “What use have we for a harpsichord?” Betsy scoffed. “The devil finds work for idle hands.”
“And you consider music one of his chief methods of employment, then?” I replied. Miss Betsy sniffed imperiously. “Ah. Then will you kindly direct me to Mr. Harris’s library so I may borrow a few books to read during my visit?”
This query was met with a guffaw from my rosy-cheeked hostess. “Would you prefer the Bible or the Al-manack? We’re good Methodists here. A library! Who needs a library?”
Clearly there was not to be any amity between us. Miss Betsy had deemed me an enemy on sight and treated me as such until the day I departed.
Though the companionship of Mr. Robinson’s coarse “uncle” was scarcely tolerable as well, it was the sunshine after a rain compared to the society of the other principals of his household. As the days passed I was condemned either to drink ale with him and make the best of it or else ride out to the Methodistical seminary on his estate.
Yet the acquaintance had its perquisites from time to time. Mr. Harris was in the process of making improvements to his house and many embellishments for the establishment were submitted to
