The Hanging of Mary Ann. Angela Badger
“I didn’t expect half the Colony to be present. I’d just thought we’d give the poor chap a decent meal and have a few laughs, even.” For Hannah’s establishment tended to be too correct and reserved for his taste.
“That may be the way you entertain at Bywong, Grand-père, but here we do things in a proper style, a style as would befit a count, I might say.”
Indeed, the style which Hannah favoured differed in every aspect imaginable from the usual hospitality at Bywong.
When the great day came the leaves of the dining table were pulled out to their fullest extent and from the épergne in the centre of the damask-covered expanse to the rosewood chairs flanking its entire length, the table was the epitome of excellence.
The glow from four silver candlesticks highlighted the silver, the crystal and the brilliant white table napkins. Hannah had hired a butler for the occasion and even two waiters from a nearby, more opulent home.
Mary Ann shifted uncomfortably as she tried to adjust her neckline. Too low for her taste, too revealing. On first hearing of the count’s coming visit Hannah had demanded to see Mary Ann’s ‘best dress’. Her dismay was immediate and intense. “My heavens girl, what are you thinking of? A positive hayseed you’ll look, for goodness sake. I’ll have you with Madame Duval first thing tomorrow.”
Now, Mary Ann squirmed every time she needed to bend forward, uncomfortably aware of her breasts and her almost naked shoulders.
Fortunately no one seemed to even notice her, all eyes were on Frank de Rossi. A real count! Sitting down to dine with a real, live count brought quite a flush to the cheeks of the ladies and a respectful hum to the gentlemen’s conversation.
Frank de Rossi had been delighted to accept the old man’s invitation but he had no idea that such a banquet was about to be spread before him and equally sure old Richard and Mary Ann hadn’t guessed either.
Certainly he had always been regularly invited out and wined and dined by many a hopeful mamma. Sometimes even a papa might suggest a dinner or a picnic or even, daringly, a ball. Of latter years the invitations had dropped away. Overseeing his father’s properties took up so much time, journeying to and from Corsica to watch over family interests and a general contentment with his solitary life had deflected the world’s interest in his matrimonial future.
He had walked in to Mrs McReady’s inn that evening a few weeks ago with not a care in the world, but when he left he knew that a part of him was lost for ever. What could he say? What could he do? Usually young women were only too pleased to make his aquaintance, far more pleased than he was to make theirs. What was he going to do about a girl who mostly turned her gaze away and whom he sensed regarded him as one of her father’s generation.
“Couldn’t you be a little more attentive to our guest, Mary Ann,” hissed Hannah as the ladies later made their way to the drawing room, “After all, it was on account of Grand-père, and you, of course, that the gentleman is here. There’s Amelia Frobisher making sheep’s eyes at him from the far end of the table and all you can do is scowl and look as if you don’t want to be here.”
“Oh, Hannah. He’s just a neighbour, and what can I say to someone as old as him anyhow, he’d be bored stiff…even more bored stiff than me!”
When the gentlemen joined them Mary Ann retreated to the alcove at the far end of the room and stared out into the night. She had often dreamt of such an occasion as she sat by the light of a candle in the kitchen back home. What would it be like to exchange her cotton dress for a silk gown and spend the evening with fine company listening to sparkling conversation and eating exotic food? Now that she had obtained her heart’s desire the reality proved quite different and only highlighted the beauty she had left behind.
Pushing open the window she gulped in a deep breath of the cool night air. Oh, for some fresh air! Instead she filled her lungs with the very lifeblood of the city. Smoke, a faintly metallic whiff from rattling carriage wheels on the cobbles outside, a telltale hint of something stale, a suggestion of decay…all these pervaded the atmosphere. Whilst far away in Bywong the night air would be sweetened with the scent of the gum trees and the perfume from roses as they cascaded along the window sills.
‘You don’t wish to sing for us?” Frank de Rossi had followed her across the room. “That other young lady is eager to oblige…in fact, I don’t think she can be stopped.” A ghost of a smile touched his face as he glanced across at Amelia Frobisher who sat at the piano, her mother turning the pages.
“I can’t sing.”
“So glad to hear that. She can’t either, but it doesn’t stop her.”
Mary Ann did not reply, but he did not go away.
“Have you enjoyed your visit here, Miss Mary Ann?”
She looked at him. What did it matter… might as well tell the truth. “It’s not what I expected,” she blurted out, then lowered her voice. “All they do is chatter… on and on. No one talks about anything important at all.”
“And what do you consider important?”
“Well,” she paused, then went on, “all the things we talk about at Bywong, the weather, and if there are going to be any more frosts, and oh, you know, all those important things.”
“Everyone has their own world, you know. That’s your world and it’s mine to some extent, but their world is quite different, and just as important to them as ours is to us.”
“I think I’ll be quite satisfied with my world from now on.”
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