Broken Threads

by Tessa Barclay

  When Mr and Mrs Edward Corvill were brought forward, the Prince of Wales brightened. Here at last was a pretty young woman who knew how to dress. As she made her curtsy, he leaned forward.

  ‘Corvill?’ he said. He had been briefed by his equerry. ‘The makers of the fine tartans?’

  ‘My sister Mrs Armstrong is in charge of the work, Your Highness,’ Ned replied, in all honesty. He turned to Jenny, who was next in line with Ronald.

  The Prince beamed. Another pretty woman! My word, there was something to be said for these Border lasses.

  ‘The Queen has spoken of you,’ Princess Alexandra said, having looked at the notes handed to her by her lady-in-waiting before the audience. ‘I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Mrs Armstrong.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness. I hope to have the honour of sending you a piece of plaid as a memento of your visit to Galashiels.’

  ‘I shall be pleased to receive it.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ put in Prince Edward. ‘And if ever you come to London for the season it would be a pleasure to see you.’

  Lucy was in seventh heaven. To be spoken to by the Prince and Princess! To be more or less invited to come to London! Nothing could be more splendid.

  Except, of course, actually to go to London and be included in the royal circle of acquaintances.

  At first Jenny resisted the notion. But as the year went on more problems arose in the household. The baby went into short frocks, which gave Lucy an opportunity to buy silks and lawns and broderie anglaise for her. Wilmot was driven to distraction by orders to change the child’s clothes the moment a speck of dirt appeared. Little Heather became somewhat nervy and a little wilful at being treated like some kind of animated doll.

  Lucy quite clearly had nothing else to do. Galashiels had sunk back into its workaday self after the glories of the royal visit so everything seemed even more dull and unfashionable. Ned was in London for meetings with the Free-the-Slaves Committee, there was no one to squire Lucy even to a day or two in Peebles or Edinburgh.

  ‘I don’t like to speak ill of anyone,’ Millicent Corvill said to her daughter, ‘but I do think Lucy is becoming very difficult. If one so much as says a word to her, she snaps your head off, Jenny.’

  ‘She’s bored.’

  Millicent shook her head. ‘I don’t understand it. There’s so much to be done in the world, there’s no time to be bored.’

  But not from Lucy’s point of view, thought Jenny.

  She spent three or four days thinking it over. And then she decided that after all it might not be a bad thing to take a house in London in time for the winter season. After all, Ned spent a great deal of time there, living in hotels ‒ it would be no bad thing to have a proper residence. And then, William Corvill and Son were a firm of considerable consequence; it would look well if the Corvills had a London home for entertaining the overseas businessmen who didn’t care to make the trip to Galashiels.

  It would reunite Lucy with her husband. It would take her away from the nursery at Gatesmuir. It would give her something to do, for what could be more entertaining than staying in a good hotel while she looked for a suitable house?

  So next time Ned returned to London on Abolitionist business, Lucy went with him. She wrote enthusiastically of the shops, the concerts, the exhibitions ‒ but not at all, Jenny noted with amusement, of any meetings with Ned’s colleagues.

  Early in October she came back to Galashiels to say that she had looked at a house in Belgravia which seemed to her ideal. If Jenny would come to inspect it and give her approval, the lawyers could draw up the lease.

  The difference in Lucy was extraordinary. She was aglow with vivacity and happiness. She gossiped of the new friends she had made. Every morning letters came, as evidence of those friendships.

  Jenny couldn’t help noticing how her sister-in-law would snatch up one particular letter out of the collection on the salver. But it was almost a week before the significance sank in. The special letters were always in the same handwriting ‒ a strong, dashing hand. A man’s hand. And that daydreaming look when she sat with it in her hand afterwards …

  She’s in love, thought Jenny, with a sudden sinking of the heart. What have I done? I sent her to London to make life easier here at home, and now … now …

  She didn’t want to believe it. She was reading too much into what she saw, she was misjudging her sister-in-law. Just because Lucy was elated over one particular letter, that didn’t necessarily mean anything special.

  What was best to do? Cancel all thoughts of a house in London? But that was hardly fair on such scant evidence, and besides, how would she account for such a sudden change of heart? It seemed best to go ahead. She would go to London with Lucy to look at the house and perhaps get a better idea of how things stood.

  She said nothing of this to anyone. If she was wrong, least said was soonest mended. And she prayed she was wrong, because otherwise trouble loomed ahead. Lucy could be so self-centred, so blinkered, when something caught her fancy. It was with some foreboding that she left Galashiels with her sister-in-law on the south-bound train one bright cold morning in late autumn.

  Chapter Four

  The house which Lucy had chosen was in Eaton Square, on the west side, facing St Peter’s Church. Lucy was more eager to show it off than the clerk from the lawyer’s office.

  ‘You see, very spacious, and one of course uses the big room on the first floor as the drawing room so that one can have a view of the gardens from the windows. And plenty of bedrooms, although I fear the night nursery may have to be in the attic ‒’

  Jenny caught up with her sister-in-law so as not to have to call after her in the hearing of their escort. ‘I shan’t be bringing Heather to London, Lucy.’

  ‘What?’ Lucy swung round, crinoline swaying under the impetus of her startled movement. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would be too much of an upset for her, I think. Besides, I shan’t be in London so very much myself.’

  ‘You won’t?’ Lucy looked put out at first, then perplexed. ‘Then I don’t see …’

  ‘Oh, I shall come ‒ perhaps once a month or so. And Ronald may be here at other times. He’s said more than once that he’d like to attend various lectures at the Royal Institute and so forth. But in the main, I think you and Ned will be the residents at Eaton Square.’

  Lucy brightened. It was easy to see her picturing herself acting hostess to all kinds of charming people, having little at-homes, soirées, congeries.

  ‘Ned’s income is quite considerable these days, the profits from the mill being so high,’ Jenny went on. ‘And, of course, he has spent very little in the last year or so ‒’

  ‘Apart from the absurdly large donations he’s made to the Abolitionist Society!’

  ‘Well, I suppose so. He never mentioned the actual sums to me. What I’m saying, Lucy, is that you ought to be able to run the place and entertain up to a reasonable standard ‒ although you won’t be expected to do as much as a society hostess, thank heaven.’

  Lucy went into the dining room. This was a room she admired particularly. It had been fitted up after the style recommended by Ruskin: ‘Where you can rest, there decorate.’ The walls were covered in flock paper of a rich dark red, a mantelpiece of carved brown marble held porcelain figures and two matching lamps with crystal pendant shades, festoons of maroon velvet draped the windows, and an oval walnut table stood on a Turkey carpet.

  She could picture it with her guests around it, with the silver and cut glass glimmering, the hothouse flowers scenting the air, footmen in well-cut livery gliding about with serving dishes of French food. And one particular guest would be there. She smiled to herself as she thought of him.

  Jenny had no difficulty in picking him out when they at last met. Lucy and Ned had taken her to a performance of Mr Dion Boucicault’s, recently returned from the United States. There was a fashionable attendance at the Adelphi Theatre-Royal to welcome him back, and at the first interval,
after the attendant had brought refreshments, visiting from box to box was the thing to do.

  Harvil Massiter appeared, very elegant in his evening clothes. He was a little this side of thirty, with dark eyes under medium-brown brows and a somewhat romantic mop of brown hair.

  ‘Dear lady,’ he said, bowing over Lucy’s hand. ‘How delightful to see you again.’ He straightened, and gave a friendly nod towards Ned. ‘Corvill, old man ‒ this isn’t your usual kind of thing ‒ no little blackamoors here to take pity on.’

  This was an allusion to a previous theatrical event, at which Ned had caused an upset by complaining loudly over the exploitation of four little black acrobats. Ned blushed a little, and to cover his embarrassment turned the subject.

  ‘We’re here to give my sister a taste of the comic genius of Mr Boucicault,’ he murmured. ‘Jenny, allow me to present Mr Massiter, who came to one of our charity events when His Royal Highness was good enough to give us his patronage.’

  Mr Massiter bowed over Jenny’s gloved fingers. She had a feeling he held them too long, but perhaps that was just imagination.

  ‘Mr Massiter is on friendly terms with the Prince,’ Lucy said proudly. ‘They have interests in common.’

  ‘Indeed? Matters of state?’ inquired Jenny, and would have been very surprised had the answer been in the affirmative.

  ‘Good lord, no ‒ horses! Teddy loves to see his horses run. Are you interested in horse racing, Mrs Armstrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘What a pity. I should have enjoyed showing you the glories of Newmarket.’

  Other visitors arrived at that moment, which was perhaps just as well since Lucy was looking faintly annoyed at the attention Jenny was receiving. Conversation became general, Jenny preferring to listen rather than talk. She was startled to hear a reference to ‘Mrs Massiter’.

  She sat up. ‘Is she here?’ she asked Ned, under cover of some banter among the others.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Massiter.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she’s yonder, in the box under the chandelier.’

  Jenny put her opera glasses to her eyes, glanced idly about, and without being noticed studied Harvil Massiter’s wife. Mrs Massiter was as elegant as her husband, but the effect was marred by lack of subtlety in the use of rouge and rice powder. Clearly Mrs Massiter wanted to be as young as her spouse, but it wasn’t easy to disguise the ten-year difference in their ages.

  The interval ended, the visitors left the box, and Jenny settled back to enjoy the second act of the comedy. But her mind wasn’t entirely on it.

  Lucy’s admirer was not the kind of man to be under-rated. Perhaps after all it would be better to change the plan and decide against the house in Eaton Square. What reason she could give, she hardly knew. She would have to make up her mind soon, because the lawyer wanted to know whether or not to draw up a lease.

  Next morning the problem was solved for her. As they sat at a leisurely breakfast in their suite at the Hyde Park Hotel, a note was delivered to Lucy. Jenny saw her sister-in-law colour up with vexation, quickly veiled.

  ‘Anything important, my love?’ asked Ned from behind his copy of The Times.

  ‘From Mrs Massiter. She sends apologies for not being able to call and make your acquaintance this morning, Jenny, but they are off to the country for the shooting.’

  Of course, the winter shooting ‒ the ducks and the geese and the partridges. Silently Jenny blessed them. And she blessed Mrs Massiter too, who clearly had her wits about her. Perhaps the forty-year-old wife of a handsome, light-hearted thirty-year-old husband had to be on the alert at all times.

  It was reassuring. Lucy might be romantically inclined towards Harvil, but so long as Maud Massiter remained on guard nothing serious was likely to come of it.

  Much encouraged by this little sidelight, Jenny sent a message to Prym, Lightfoot and Sivier to say that she would like to have the lease of Number Forty-one Eaton Square made ready as soon as convenient.

  Although the place was taken ready-furnished, there were nevertheless changes and improvements to be made. Lucy found solace in busying herself with these. Jenny left her to it, having first reminded her that all items put in store from the house must be returned when the inventory was checked at the end of their tenure and that, although money was in fact no object, it would be as well to stay within certain guidelines of expense.

  ‘You needn’t worry about any of that, Jenny, it’s not fashionable to be ostentatious. The Princess of Wales was quite poor before her marriage, you know ‒ she’s set a fashion for rather simple entertaining. And as for not having our own carriage … Well, certainly there’s no lack of hackneys but perhaps by and by we might think about it.’

  Jenny went home to the Borders quite determined not to think about private carriages for London or any other such extraneous matter. She had weaving designs to set down on paper for the spring pattern book, there were difficulties about exporting to the United States in view of the Civil War, and in Europe the German princes had been meeting to reform their confederation, which might mean new taxes on imports. In view of these problems manufacturers had been setting up consultation groups, some of which she would have to attend.

  When talking to Ronald and her mother about her London visit, she said nothing to single out Harvil Massiter from the rest of the new London friends she’d met. If Lucy wanted to flirt with him, that was no one’s business but her own. Jenny’s worries about it had been much relieved on noting that Harvil’s wife could look after herself.

  Lucy wrote regularly. At first it was to boast, in her usual uncertain spelling, about the improvements she was making.

  ‘I have set aside a study for Ned, so that he can have his Political Friends to see him without interfeering with the household arangments and if I have guests to tea or a cosery, he dosn’t feel he has to come and be polyte because in fact I notice in London that Husbands and Wives have their own Seprate Interests a great deel more than in Galashiels whitch I find much more Agreeable and allows me to have the morning room decorrated with lace vallences to make it much more Femanine for morning visiters who of course are mostly ladies as you will apresiate.’

  As Christmas drew near again, she announced that she was planning alterations to provide a small conservatory ‘which is all the raige since HRH is so fond of hothouse flowers’. She therefore would return home to Galashiels while the workmen would be ‘clumping about and hamering’. Moreover, she would be able to bring with her all the wonderful presents she had bought for little Heather. ‘I miss Heather grately. I’m sure she mises me too.’

  Jenny couldn’t honestly reply that her little daughter missed her aunt. The baby was now eighteen months old, a bubbling, happy child, ready to hold out her arms to anyone who would pick her up and talk to her, ready for nursery rhymes and singing games of ‘This is the Way the Lady Rides’ or ‘Rickelty-tick’. But it did no harm to say she was sure Heather would be glad to see Lucy again.

  Events fell out quite conveniently. Jenny had to go to London to give evidence to a parliamentary committee about exports to America. Lucy would take her to one or two evening parties:

  ‘It will be an opurtunity for you to get to know the Princess, who is gracousness itself. We can then travvel home together whitch I find much more Agreeable than travling Alone because one needs someone to talk to.’

  Jenny had Baird pack some evening finery as well as the dark day clothes thought suitable (if anything could really be suitable) for a woman of business. Ronald saw her off at the station. ‘Explain to those parliamentary eedjits that trade has to go on, Jenny. A nervous crisis between British and American admirals is no help.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. And for your part, make Ritchie find that fault in the scribbling machines ‒’

  ‘Yes, yes, and bring back those statistics from the Board of Trade for Muir ‒’

  ‘I’ve made a note of it. Don’t forget the special delivery from the wool stapler i
n Hamburg ‒’

  ‘And in the intervals of fitting it all in,’ Ronald said, laughing as the train began to move, ‘have a good time!’

  She intended to. She was going primarily for business reasons but there was no law against enjoying the opportunities for dressing up, for meeting new people.

  At the end of her first day of appointments there was a quiet dinner party for ten at Eaton Square followed by cards. To Jenny’s surprise, they played for real money, though the stakes weren’t high. Ned did rather well, but immediately put his winnings in a box labelled ‘Free the Slaves’.

  Lucy looked vexed. ‘It makes people feel uncomfortable,’ she explained to Jenny in a whisper.

  Next day being Saturday, the parliamentarians weren’t available. Jenny amused herself with some shopping, and collected tickets from Cramers in Regent Street for a concert that evening at Exeter Hall off the Strand.

  ‘But we can’t go to a concert!’ Lucy cried, when Jenny produced the tickets. ‘We’re going to a party for the Bulwer-Lyttons in honour of his latest novel.’

  ‘I know, Lucy, I remembered. But you said we shouldn’t turn up at the party until about ten o’clock.’

  ‘Quite so, it’s provincial to arrive too early ‒’

  ‘So we can go to the concert and then on to Audley Street ‒’

  ‘Good heavens, how naive you are, sister-in-law! Of course we can’t “go on” to an important party from a concert hall. In the first place, our gowns would be all crushed from sitting in the stalls, and in any case, it would be most unsuitable to go to Exeter Hall in the kind of gown you’ll be wearing for the party.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jenny said, at a loss. ‘I thought it was a quiet affair. No dancing or anything of that kind?’

  ‘Quiet, yes … but one must always be perfectly turned out if the Prince is coming.’

  Now Jenny understood it all. ‘You never mentioned the Royals.’