Joan Smith: Delsie

With her new practicality, she had a new position lined up before leaving. Back home at Questnow, St. Mary’s Parish School was looking for a teacher. They advertised for a male, but Delsie answered it and, with a little help from the vicar, got the job. Her modest salary of a hundred pounds a year may have been instrumental. A male would have got half as much again.

So it was back to Questnow, the sleepy little village by the sea that she and her mother had ended up in after returning from Ireland so long ago, and where they had lived till the remove to Bath for schooling. It was originally the name that had attracted them.

“We are on a quest now, Delsie, a quest for peace and happiness. I hope we may find it here. I love the sea. You, who were born at sea, must like it too.” They had found relative peace, but little true happiness.

How happy could a young girl be, constantly reminded of her gentility, constantly urged not to associate with the other children on the street, daughters of fishermen and chandlers and even smugglers? No, it had not been happy, looking through a window at youngsters having a good time playing with a ball or a rope, while one must herself be content with an infinitesimally small back yard, or a parlor. As she grew older, she came to realize happiness for her mother and herself lay further up the coast, on a promontory that was called simply deVigne’s hill. There was the Olympian world of gentility, even nobility, for the owner of the hill and all that lay within its ken was Baron deVigne, sixth baron and holder of the domain. When he rode into Questnow in his crested carriage, or astride his high-bred mount, or in one of his fancy sporting curricles, every eye turned. The common folk, most of whom were beholden to him in one way or another-either as a tenant, or with a son or daughter in his employ, or the recipient of outright charity-bobbed their heads in respect as he passed. Delsie Sommers never curtsied. Neither she nor her mother owed anything to him.

“Our blood is as good as his,” Mama said, but in a defensive way. The blood may have been, but there equality ended. The house, the carriages, the clothing, even the face and form of the deVigne line-all were unexceptionable. The baron himself was tall, well-formed, dark and handsome, with only a slightly arrogant cast to his countenance to mar perfection.

The sundry ladies who accompanied him to the village in his carriage were also objects of keen interest. Whether dowager, daughter, friend, or relative, they all seemed to possess elegance, and if not actually beautiful, there was an aura of glamor surrounding them that was stronger than mere beauty. Their lovely bonnets, their exquisite gowns, their tinkling silver laughter, breathed of money, of a life of ease and refinement. They came to Questnow, sometimes in groups, sometimes singly, sometimes with children, often with dogs, but always bringing with them that whiff of glamor and excitement, and invariably leaving in their wake a fierce sense of resentment in the heart of Delsie Sommers.

These people became known by sight to Delsie and her mother as deVigne’s aunt, Lady Jane, who had a husband called Sir Harold, the pair of them living in the Dower House on the hill. There was deVigne’s sister, Louise, who was married to a Mr. Grayshott, a fabulously rich commoner. This pair were not seen much except in the summer, when they inhabited a structure, also on the hill, called simply Grayshott’s cottage. The old Dowager Lady deVigne passed away early on. Each new beauty that accompanied deVigne to town was examined with curiosity, always with the thought that she might eventually be the new Lady deVigne, a post as yet unfilled.

Delsie used to imagine what it would be like to live up there, on the hill, in one of the fabulous mansions that dotted the slope. There would be parties, frequent company, horses, trips to London, fine rooms, and parks and gardens. The Hall, Baron deVigne’s own establishment, was said to have more than forty chambers abovestairs. It was surely criminal for one man to have so much space to himself, when she and her mother must be cramped into three small rooms.

“Strothingham’s Abbey has fifty bedrooms,” Mama said. Much good they did the Sommerses!

The years dragged by slowly in Questnow. Delsie grew from a child to a young lady and finally went away to Bath, with never a sign of recognition from the deVignes. They were too poor, and their rich blood too unknown, to be on calling terms with the local nobility, yet not poor enough to excite charity. They inhabited a sort of anonymous no-man’s-land, meeting only occasionally in the village streets or being in the same building at church on Sunday. The deVignes did not attend the local assemblies, and the Sommers ladies held themselves above going to deVigne’s annual public day to rub shoulders with tenant farmers and fishermen. There was no common meeting place, and so through the years they never met.

Though they were not formally acquainted, one of the gentlemen on the hill became aware of the quiet young lady who did not curtsy to deVigne, who looked past them all with a nonchalant gaze which successfully concealed her rampant interest in them and all their doings. He became first aware, then interested, and finally infatuated to an almost insane degree.

Delsie did not hear, while at Bath, that Mrs. Grayshott had died in childbirth. When she returned to Questnow after graduation, Mr. Grayshott was already a widower of one year, and Miss Sommers had blossomed into a handsome, accomplished young lady with a pair of clear, imperious gray eyes, a strong chin, a lofty bearing, and a crown of chestnut curls. He made any excuse into the village to see her, spent whole mornings lounging outside the local inn, just to catch a glimpse of her as she went to the post office or to the shops. Finally, the week after Mama’s death, he came to call.

In her gratification at seeing Mr. Grayshott, brother-in-law to deVigne, at her door, Miss Frisk lost her head and had Delsie called down to her own parlor to meet him. Mr. Grayshott had a young daughter-he was clearly come to offer Miss Sommers the job of tending her. What a blessing for the girl! Her mama just dead, and money certainly in very short supply. Delsie spoke of looking for a position. Though she never learned the truth of that meeting, she could not have been more surprised than Miss Sommers herself at what transpired.

Upon first entering the parlor, Delsie had recognized Mr. Grayshott. His general contours, his outfit, were familiar, as one knows by sight a familiar landmark, yet on closer examination she found the face to be not as she expected. Older, for one thing, more lined, the eyes fatigued and the mouth having a despondent downward curl to the lips. Ah, but Miss Frisk had mentioned his losing his wife-that would account for it.

Before long, she also discerned something unmentioned by Miss Frisk. Mr. Grayshott had been drinking. The aroma, and a certain unsteadiness in both speech and legs, told this as clearly as if he held a bottle in his hands. “Forgive my coming here, unknown to you,” he said, bowing formally. “I am Grayshott. I live up on the hill.” He waved a hand vaguely towards the north.

“How do you do, Mr. Grayshott. I take it you are aware who I am, as you have asked to see me.” Her conclusion as to his asking to see her coincided exactly with Miss Frisk’s. She had been elated at first. What an excellent thing to have a good job land in her lap, one as well that would take her up the hill. When she realized he had been drinking, she wondered if it were a regular thing with him, in which case she was loath to go to work for him.

“Does not all the world know Miss Sommers?” he asked, his voice becoming wild.

“I shouldn’t think so,” she replied, in confusion.