by Steven Neil
Sir
Miss Harryet has fully lived up to her reputation as “difficult”. While we pride ourselves on our ability to deal with girls of all types of character, this young lady is of a different order altogether. She has been in detention more times than any of the other girls in her year put together. On the academic front, she has managed to fail all of her exams, in two cases omitting to write a single word on the answer sheet. I think if we continue with her, we will have to go back to basics. She seems rather unclear about the essential difference between right and wrong.
While there are some positives, they have unfortunately been coupled, in every case, by an equal and opposite negative facet.
Even her sternest critics on the staff agree that she is possessed of an extraordinary energy. One might say she is boisterous, but I think the adjective does not quite convey her behaviour accurately enough. Nevertheless, if it could be bottled and channelled into her studies, it would give us some hope for the future. She is intelligent – there is no question about that – but whether we will ever be able to persuade her to match her ability with discipline and application is a moot point.
She has a great gift for mimicry. Although this can, on occasion, be tolerably amusing, it also has a rather cruel side to it and such is the effect on some of her fellow pupils, not to mention members of staff, that we have had to place a ban on this activity, although this is proving quite difficult to police. Miss Harryet’s uncanny impersonation of Mr Rogers was attributed by her to a “very bad touch of tonsillitis”.
She can, when the mood takes her, be quite engaging, but it must be admitted that this mood comes upon her infrequently. She seems to have made few friends, although she is on good terms with Miss Melliora Findon and Miss Lavinia Lampard. Unfortunately, their own record of bad behaviour, though not in the same league as Miss Harryet, means we have had to separate them. The fire in their dormitory may well have been an accident, but it is not a risk we can take.
She has a tremendous talent as a horse rider; however, we have also had to curtail this activity. While she is the only one to have mastered some of the more complex equitation techniques taught by Monsieur Macaire, her habit of jumping out of the ménage and galloping off round the grounds at the end of her lessons has had disastrous consequences. Once she rides our horses, none of the other girls can hold them, even in a gag bit. Poor Miss Strabally was run away with so badly that she was found in a ditch six miles away in Newbridge. The horse was found swimming off Yarmouth towards the mainland and had to be recovered by the lifeboat – put out from Cowes, as the Yarmouth boat was already in service.
You have asked me to consider whether we can, in the interests of retaining our staff and our other pupils, continue to persevere with Miss Harryet. While all the evidence points against it, I am inclined to see if we can make some progress over the summer break and look again at the situation at the beginning of next term. I am suggesting, therefore, that we do not send her home for the summer, but keep her here under my supervision and put together a programme aimed specifically at her.
I am sure the Harryets will readily accept this idea and, provided her benefactor, the Duke, is prepared to meet the additional costs, I think it is worth trying. We have never failed with a pupil yet in our short history and I don’t want to give up on our record and reputation.
Dalziel
While this document is under consideration on the principal’s desk, Eliza takes matters into her own hands. She decides that Carisbrooke School is not for her.
There is a full moon and the pale shapes of two barn owls can be seen hunting up and down the hedgerows when Eliza emerges from the shadows of the stables behind the school buildings. It is just before the church bells chime six o’clock. She knows that the dairy cart will come by promptly. It always does. The carter picks up at the dairy farms at Brook, Limerstone and Bowcombe and comes past Carisbrooke each morning. He drops off the school delivery, then carries on to meet the boat to Portsmouth at Ryde. There has been no rain for weeks and the ground is baked hard. Eliza can see dust swirling in the distance to the south, long before the cart rumbles into the courtyard. When Jenkins arrives, he finds Eliza sitting beside the mounting block. She has raided the school dressing-up box and is reprising her “mystery boy” appearance.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she says. ‘I walked up from Newport. Mr Trinder says I’m to come on with you.’
‘Where would that be to then?’
‘I’m to be cooper’s boy at Trinder’s place at Fishbourne.’
‘No one’s told me nothing about it. Bessie’s got enough to pull.’
Eliza conjures up tears. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but if I don’t get this job, my poor, dear parents and my six little sisters won’t eat.’
Jenkins pushes his hat back on his head and rubs his chin. Eliza senses he is weakening.
‘We buried Lottie in the churchyard only last week. It was the starvation that finished her off,’ she adds.
He jerks his head towards the cart and she needs no further sign. Soon, they are jolting their way along the track eastwards, Jenkins clicking his teeth to move Bessie on a pace and Eliza gazing backwards to the school for a few moments, then closing her eyes and settling down to dream of freedom.
Meanwhile, a breathless Francie Strabally rushes around the school in search of Mr Dalziel. Eventually, she tracks him down in the senior staff breakfast room.
‘What is the matter, child?’ he asks.
‘Please, sir, Eliza Harryet’s gone with the milk churns.’
‘Gone where?’
‘Please, sir, I don’t know, but I saw her.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Not more than twenty minutes, sir.’
‘Very good. Thank you for letting me know. Leave it with me.’
Eliza makes it all the way to Fishbourne, where the carter drops her off at Trinder’s. As soon as he is out of sight, on his way to Ryde, she makes for the harbour. As she rounds the corner onto the quayside, Mr Dalziel, whose part-thoroughbred pony has managed the direct trip rather more quickly than Bessie’s indirect route, waits in his phaeton.
‘Very cleverly done,’ he says. ‘Now, I think you had better come back with me, don’t you?’
The next morning, Eliza meets the principal in his office. The room is spartan, to say the least. Ridley sits at a large, padded leather chair, his ample black gown concealing any physical shape. His hands are spread wide apart, with his fingers resting on the edge of the broad desktop, empty save a single document, a blotter, an inkwell and a pen. He is a balding man with an elaborate moustache curled at the ends. A facial tick at the corner of his mouth gives the moustache the impression of a small furry animal quivering under his nose. Eliza wants to giggle, but even she recognises that sometimes it is better to stay quiet.
‘Miss Harryet, this will not be tolerated,’ he says. ‘You have been given an opportunity to make something of yourself. Please don’t waste it. We are giving you one last chance.’
Four
No Finer Sight
Towcester, London and Bedford, England
1838
When Tom Olliver sees Elizabeth Ann Harryet again, the transformation takes him aback. Apart from her riding skills and her rudeness, she left Tom with the impression of a waif-like, whey-faced urchin the last time they met. Tom is back hunting with the Grafton after the summer break and hounds meet at Wakefield Lodge. He is talking to George Carter, the huntsman, as staff from the house cautiously make their way between the riders, proffering glasses of sherry from silver trays. A mist hangs in the rides and down the long drive from the gatehouse, turning in off the Paulerspury lane. A thin sun tries to get through and the whole scene has a strange, ghostly quality about it.
Tom notices three shapes moving towards the field, down the mist-shrouded dr
ive. They start off as little more than dots in the distance, but gradually the dots turn into tall, black smudges. Soon, he can make out horses and riders and as they come closer he sees that the shapes are ladies, riding side-saddle on three very handsome bay hunters. As they draw near, the throng of chit and chatter stops abruptly, and heads turn to view the new arrivals. It is a most arresting image. There can be no finer sight than three elegant ladies, sporting silk top hats and black veils and sitting ramrod-straight on mahogany-polished, thoroughbred horses. One lady, in particular, seems vaguely familiar to Tom. They ride straight up to the Duke of Grafton, seated in his carriage, dip their heads and draw their hunting crops by their sides in a most pleasing greeting.
‘Good morning, Master,’ they say, in unison.
‘A pleasure to be with you today,’ says one.
‘The pleasure is mine entirely,’ says the Duke.
The Duke has not only forgiven Eliza for her earlier misdemeanours; she is positively feted by him and Tom discovers, as the morning progresses, that Eliza and her two friends are staying with the Duke as his guests and are mounted on hunters from his own stable. Clearly, Eliza’s social ascendance is progressing well and Tom is anxious to find out what else has happened to her since their first brief meeting. It is not until they stop at Easton Neston, after a skip across the paddocks at Plum Park, that he has a chance to speak to her. He moves in beside her and repeats the elaborate cap doffing and bowing greeting with which he first introduced himself two years earlier.
‘Tom Olliver. At your service,’ he says, grinning.
‘Yes, of course, Tom. How lovely to see you again.’
Pleasantries are exchanged with Eliza’s associates: Melliora Findon and Lavinia Lampard. When the field moves off, Tom and Eliza fall to riding upsides for the rest of the morning, conversing like old friends. She explains that her earlier adventure has not gone unpunished by her father and that she has endured almost two years at a mercilessly strict boarding school, with extra History, Latin and French lessons from a private tutor at evenings and weekends, as well as a disciplined fitness regime and no opportunity to ride. It has been torture.
It has not, however, been without effect. The new Eliza is all grace and poise. In place of the bumptious arrogance of her earlier incarnation, here is a demure young lady with impeccable manners and the most disarming and captivating smile. Piercing brown eyes shine through her veil. Tom is quite overwhelmed by her and begins to imagine their life together. It is a habit that sometimes afflicts a young man who is besotted by a becoming young woman, and he finds himself in exactly that position.
‘What will you do with all this education?’ he asks.
‘I shall be an actress. My mind is set on it.’
That day, the Duke arranges a stop for second horses at half past two and instructs Carter to make his way back to Wakefield for tea at six o’clock. Foxes are in good supply and he wants to put on a show for his attractive young guests. The fourth Duke, George Henry Fitzroy, is well in his seventies now and in the final years of his mastership. His son, Henry Fitzroy, is being groomed to take over the reins when the time comes. Father and son could not be more different: the old Duke witty, outgoing and charming; his heir shy, laconic and diffident. These differences are never more evident than in their dress sense: the Duke stylishly attired, typically in a top hat, red frock coat and neatly strapped trousers; his son happier in a Norfolk jacket, breeches and top boots.
A new rider appears at second horses: Jem Mason, Tom’s friend and colleague, who is schooling some horses locally that morning. He borrows a mount to hack on to intercept the field at change of horses and to enjoy the afternoon’s sport.
The sun has burned through by this time and the morning riders wait for those with fresh horses to join in. Hounds are scampering about on imaginary trails, nose to the ground. Other hounds are rolling on their backs, feet in the air, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun.
The two jockeys draw alongside each other. Jem looks as immaculate as ever. He is always fitted out in the finest that Jermyn Street can supply and, from the highly polished tan-topped boots to the silver-handled hunting crop, he looks quite the gentleman. He has the blackest head of hair, with thick curls, just visible beneath his hunting cap and he affects long, bushy sideburns, as is the fashion these days.
‘Are you going to introduce us?’ says Jem to Tom, looking towards Eliza.
Tom is sure he sees a tangible spark fly between them. His visions of romance are snuffed out rather harshly, with Jem and Eliza inseparable for the rest of the afternoon. Everyone trails in their wake, as they both display the easy elegance that only the most naturally talented riders possess – as if horse and rider are one flowing entity. Wherever Carter goes, however severe the fences, Jem and Eliza can be seen close behind, topping the hedges like birds.
At the hunting tea laid on by the Duke, talk is of little else than the beautiful Elizabeth Ann Harryet and the dashing Jem Mason. As the assembled riders take their places at the tables, Tom looks around the room. There are two notable absentees. Tom shrugs. Even so, he can’t quite reconcile why he wakes that night with an image of Eliza in his mind and struggles to get back to sleep.
***
At around the same time, Prince Louis Napoleon arrives in London. He stays at Fenton’s Hotel in St James’s Street, but also takes up residence in rented rooms in Leamington Spa. He ferries between the two, seeking influence where he can. He has four associates with him: Jean Mocquard, Jean-Gilbert Fialin, Colonel Vaudrey and Dr Conneau, his physician, along with three servants and several horses. He is intent on making friends in England, preferably in high places. Since he already has one failed coup to his name, he is reluctant to risk another – at least until he can be sure of success. He sees himself as the natural heir to his uncle: Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor Napoleon. He has an unshakeable belief that France awaits his triumphant return. It is just a matter of timing, political support and finance.
Jean Mocquard is his private secretary and he goes everywhere with him. He has sharp features, a long aquiline nose, thin lips, bushy eyebrows and a high forehead under wispy, unkempt hair, giving him the look of a distracted professor. He is as fluent in English as in French. He has as many friends in London as in Paris. In short, he is a good man to know.
Jean-Gilbert Fialin, who prefers to be called Comte de Persigny even though no one has given him the title, is a former cavalry officer and, alongside Vaudrey, Louis Napoleon’s advisor on political strategy and military matters. If Mocquard is the brains, Fialin is the enforcer. He has a full moustache and thinning hair, combed over to the left. Beside Mocquard, he is a slight figure, with darting eyes. He is not such a good man to know.
Between them, they arrange meetings with men they deem to be the politicians of the future. Louis meets Benjamin Disraeli, new MP and bright young man of the Conservative Party. He meets Viscount Fitzharris, another prominent young Conservative and son of Lord Malmesbury. He meets Edward Bulwer-Lytton, author and MP for Lincoln. The social calendar is arranged by Lady Blessington and Count D’Orsay, who seem to have the requisite access to the upper echelons of the aristocracy and to the more pleasurable diversions of London society. Lady Margaret Blessington married into her title and is regarded as not quite “the right sort” in some circles, but what she lacks in breeding she makes up for in energy and her list of contacts cannot be bettered. Count D’Orsay is quite the man about town and knows everyone.
Louis expresses satisfaction with the friends he is making and his excursions to London are made more permanent by taking the lease on a house in Carlton Gardens. He is convinced that Number One Carlton Gardens will advance his case in England and, ultimately, France. The Grecian Doric columns, balustraded parapets and stuccoed façade provide the grandeur appropriate to his ambitions. On a more pragmatic level, the proximity to The Mall, St James, Haymarket and the parks
of St James, Green Park and Kensington Gardens gives him access to his primary interests, namely: ostentatious promenading, conspicuous wining and dining, carousing with the leading actresses of the day and riding out with the rich and famous.
***
The present British Government cannot make its mind up about France. This may, in part, be due to the fact that Lord Palmerston, the foreign secretary, is rather disinclined to express an opinion about the French in case they prove him wrong within the day and, also, that Lord Melbourne, prime minister but in the twilight of his career, is reluctant to make a decision about anything. King Louis Philippe believes himself to be on good terms with them both and is confident that Britain will not want a French monarchy challenged, with Britain’s own young Queen’s position so fragile. Things can change quickly in politics, though, as he well knows.
***
Louis Napoleon is not the only arrival in London. In October, Elizabeth Ann Harryet leaves her parents’ home in Norfolk. She packs a bag and a few possessions, and stays with her friend Lavinia Lampard in Kensington. Squire Harryet tells his daughter he will disinherit her if she doesn’t return home immediately. ‘You won’t get a penny,’ he says. Given his circumstances and the rate at which he is spending money, this seems to Eliza a rather hollow threat. She pays her way by working as an usher in the theatres around Shaftesbury Avenue. An acting career is her only aim. She secures her first part in James Sheridan Knowles’s play, The Love Chase, at the Haymarket Theatre. She plays Constance, daughter to Sir William Fondlove. She manages to pester the stage manager to let her understudy the part of Lydia, lady’s maid to Widow Green, but when the actress who is to play Constance is taken ill and her understudy cannot be located, Eliza steps forward. She knows the part well.