Blindingham Hall August 1863

When I was married to Josiah, I experienced an evening with him so dreadful that I can not bear to record it, even after all these years. I will spare you, and myself, the remembrance of it – save to say that I wished I could have been anywhere else than where I was. I willed myself to bear it because I had no choice but to stay, but in my head I escaped and fled to the safety of my own thoughts. I prayed never to experience the like again, and would not wish it on the most loathsome of enemies. Even now I shudder that I survived.

I was reminded of that evening last Wednesday, watching LOVE IN A VILLAGE, seated next to the odious Mr Sloakham.

The play itself was incomprehensible. It took place in a fictional setting, indicated by pieces of wood painted to look like bushes and a church steeple made from a linen box, balanced on top of a table. A woman was in search of a husband, but suitable men were not in evidence. A man wanted a wife but was not capable of even the most simple courteous conversation. Yet another man was trying to arrange a meeting between them. He was thwarted by circumstance on more than one occasion, and at one point the woman sang. I cared little for either of them, and even less for the singing. Some other people came in and out – dressed in sacking, some of them, others in fancy hats – to perform various tasks and declaim wisely on the subject of love, marriage and the vagaries of social interaction. In truth, I am no wiser now on that point than I was at 7pm last Wednesday, but at least since then I have not had to sit through someone else trying to explain it to me.

All the way through the performance, Mr Sloakham’s teeth raced around his head with such force that I fancied an army was approaching over gravel. The singing and the rattling became too much for me so that by the time the uncouth man finally made love to the desperate woman I was holding my hands over my ears and thinking only of Dauncey, waiting for me at the Hall.

The play ended with a dismal wedding, but I was glad to see it all the same – I would be able to leave within moments. But as the clapping of my fellow villagers waned, one of the troupe stood forward and addressed us:

‘Thank you so much for coming to our play. We are especially pleased this evening to have Mrs Edith Feltwhistle, our esteemed playwright among us. She will be happy to take questions from you, alongside members of the company. Please remain seated, we shall return – out of costume – presently’

My fellow audience members chattered happily and moved forward in their seats. ‘I must enquire how they know what to say and when to say it’, said one. ‘Indeed,’ said her friend, ‘And I wish to know what they do during the day’

I caught Villiers’ eye as he shuffled into the Hall, his blanket nowhere to be seen. He clearly wanted to know the answers to those questions – and probably some of his own – and stood open-mouthed looking at the door from which the actors were going to return.

I motioned to him. ‘Ask Moss to bring the carriage round, now’

As the actors returned to the church room stage, to a warm welcome from the crowd and a fanfare of applause from Mr Sloakham, I gave Moss the sign to get us home.

Not for the first time, I was grateful for Moss’ eagerness and skill as a driver.