irregularity of her temper. As a child, the nurses believed she had suffered terribly from colic, but as this did not subside when she matured, Lord and Lady Stavourley began to grow concerned. A physician was called to examine her. He came into the nursery, studied her plates of food and the contents of her chamber pot, and looked into her eyes.
“He says it is an imbalance of the humours,” repeated Sally Pickering, the most junior of the nurses, who had a great fondness for Lady Catherine.
“Imbalance of the humours?” snorted Miss Jones, who tended the boys. “Does he not know she’s as spoilt as an old pail of milk? That child should be thrashed, not petted like the Countess’s dogs.”
For all the trouble they cause, there is no one in a household who sees a situation more clearly than its servants. Those at Melmouthknew precisely what, or rather who, had made the Earl’s daughter as she was. But Lady Stavourley would have none of it.
It must be said that my cousin’s difficult disposition and her mother’s favouritism made my existence at Melmouth notably awkward. Our household was very much a divided one. My uncle’s life revolved almost exclusively around politics and his dedication to the causes of the Whig party. My aunt’s life was devoted to social engagements and to petting her daughter. I was excluded from both worlds equally. In truth, I felt very much like a shoe without a mate. I rattled about Melmouth, no one knowing precisely what was to be done with me. When not under the guidance of a tutor, I was left to run free with the unruly, tousle-haired Lord Dennington and gentle, pretty-faced Master Edwin. We swung sticks and barrelled through the fields like Mohawks, until my governess began to correct my unbridled behaviour and the boys were dispatched to Eton.
I learned when very young how to make my own entertainment. I pulled books from the shelves of my uncle’s library, that long, light-filled gallery of brown volumes, and sat at the round table at its centre, languorously turning pages, admiring engravings of the Forum ruins or the temples at Paestum. When slightly older, I began to render my own scenes under the direction of a drawing master, Mr. Dance, whom my uncle had brought from London. This I enjoyed more than any other activity. Indeed, as my tutor observed, I seemed to take naturally to chalk and later to watercolour. I had what he called “an exceptional talent,” not usually seen in girls my age. There was much crowing about this; Mr. Dance praising me effusively before my uncle, displaying to him some sketches I had taken of Melmouth House and a few pastel drawings of the landscape. “Her trees, my lord, I think you will agree have the light touch of Mr. Gainsborough.” My uncle examined the pictures while I, a knot of nerves and modesty, stared at my feet.
“Henrietta, my dear, you show great promise,” he congratulatedme. His words were proud ones. I was not often the recipient of either approval or even attention, and to have deserved this acclaim felt to me like a remarkable achievement. If anything, that odd occasion of praise, that unusual incident when my uncle came upon me drawing in the library and took an interest in my work, encouraged me to take an interest in him.
I cannot recall a time when I did not occupy myself by tiptoeing through the halls and chambers of Melmouth, chasing a mouse down a corridor, or frightening myself by staring into the blank eyes of marble statues. Like any child with a curious nature, I listened at doorways to the conversation of adults and then scurried away at the approach of footsteps. My uncle’s masculine world had always appeared to me quite strange and alien. The deep boom of gentlemen’s voices that echoed from the drawing rooms and study, which burst forth from the dining room in great huzzahs—“To His Highness, the Prince of Wales!,” “To the Buff and Blue!”—had once alarmed me. I found the volume and
“He says it is an imbalance of the humours,” repeated Sally Pickering, the most junior of the nurses, who had a great fondness for Lady Catherine.
“Imbalance of the humours?” snorted Miss Jones, who tended the boys. “Does he not know she’s as spoilt as an old pail of milk? That child should be thrashed, not petted like the Countess’s dogs.”
For all the trouble they cause, there is no one in a household who sees a situation more clearly than its servants. Those at Melmouthknew precisely what, or rather who, had made the Earl’s daughter as she was. But Lady Stavourley would have none of it.
It must be said that my cousin’s difficult disposition and her mother’s favouritism made my existence at Melmouth notably awkward. Our household was very much a divided one. My uncle’s life revolved almost exclusively around politics and his dedication to the causes of the Whig party. My aunt’s life was devoted to social engagements and to petting her daughter. I was excluded from both worlds equally. In truth, I felt very much like a shoe without a mate. I rattled about Melmouth, no one knowing precisely what was to be done with me. When not under the guidance of a tutor, I was left to run free with the unruly, tousle-haired Lord Dennington and gentle, pretty-faced Master Edwin. We swung sticks and barrelled through the fields like Mohawks, until my governess began to correct my unbridled behaviour and the boys were dispatched to Eton.
I learned when very young how to make my own entertainment. I pulled books from the shelves of my uncle’s library, that long, light-filled gallery of brown volumes, and sat at the round table at its centre, languorously turning pages, admiring engravings of the Forum ruins or the temples at Paestum. When slightly older, I began to render my own scenes under the direction of a drawing master, Mr. Dance, whom my uncle had brought from London. This I enjoyed more than any other activity. Indeed, as my tutor observed, I seemed to take naturally to chalk and later to watercolour. I had what he called “an exceptional talent,” not usually seen in girls my age. There was much crowing about this; Mr. Dance praising me effusively before my uncle, displaying to him some sketches I had taken of Melmouth House and a few pastel drawings of the landscape. “Her trees, my lord, I think you will agree have the light touch of Mr. Gainsborough.” My uncle examined the pictures while I, a knot of nerves and modesty, stared at my feet.
“Henrietta, my dear, you show great promise,” he congratulatedme. His words were proud ones. I was not often the recipient of either approval or even attention, and to have deserved this acclaim felt to me like a remarkable achievement. If anything, that odd occasion of praise, that unusual incident when my uncle came upon me drawing in the library and took an interest in my work, encouraged me to take an interest in him.
I cannot recall a time when I did not occupy myself by tiptoeing through the halls and chambers of Melmouth, chasing a mouse down a corridor, or frightening myself by staring into the blank eyes of marble statues. Like any child with a curious nature, I listened at doorways to the conversation of adults and then scurried away at the approach of footsteps. My uncle’s masculine world had always appeared to me quite strange and alien. The deep boom of gentlemen’s voices that echoed from the drawing rooms and study, which burst forth from the dining room in great huzzahs—“To His Highness, the Prince of Wales!,” “To the Buff and Blue!”—had once alarmed me. I found the volume and
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