After they had driven off, Allardyce the butler told his staff, ‘The Colonel said you’re all to have the day off so that you can go and see the Queen. When the family return they’ll go straight to bed.’
Madge the kitchen-maid nudged Hannah and whispered, ‘Then we’ll be able to go to the dance at Rosewell, won’t we? Ask him, Hannah.’
‘Can we go to the dancing, Mr Allardyce?’ asked Hannah shyly.
The butler was in a good mood. ‘If all your work’s done, you can go,’ he acceded. ‘It’s not every day the Queen comes, is it?’
The girls rushed back into the house giggling at the prospect of an unexpected holiday. Not only could they put on their bonnets and watch the Queen pass by, but they could go dancing as well. For weeks everybody in Rosewell had been talking about the big dance to be held that night. All the unmarried lads and lassies wanted to be there. Only Francine showed no excitement as she walked behind the other maids and Madge turned to say to her, ‘Will you be coming with us, Francine?’
Jessie, Madge’s friend, jeered, ‘She’s no’ the dancing kind.’ Jessie always made a butt of the French girl, imitating her accent, teasing her about her devotion to her mistress and criticising her reserve.
‘I’ll stay to put my lady to bed,’ said Francine stiffly.
‘But we won’t be going down to Rosewell till half-past nine. She’ll be in bed by then,’ said kind Hannah.
‘You never ken, she might even have company. Maybe that husband of hers’ll get in beside her for once,’ said Jessie wickedly.
They all laughed and Madge joked, ‘That’ll be a special occasion – as rare as the Queen’s visit.’
Francine went red but made no reply and Hannah said diplomatically, ‘You’ll enjoy the dance, Francine. Come with us – there’s grand music.’
But Madge interrupted, ‘Dancing’s not for the likes of her. She’d rather stay here and comb her mistress’ hair. She’s not normal.’
Stung, Francine whipped round and shouted, ‘I am normal! I’m perfectly normal. What do you know about it?’ Her large eyes were fixed furiously on Madge’s face and Hannah stepped in to make the peace.
‘Oh Madge, that’s not fair. Francine’s just shy.’
‘There’s a difference between being shy and hating men. That yin hates men. You’ve just got to watch her speaking to them to see how she feels. She backs off as if they’re going to bite her. I tell you, she’s not normal.’ Madge’s temper was up too by this time.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ sobbed Francine.
She was furiously angry and Jessie challenged her: ‘If you’re so normal then, come to the dance.’
Hannah reassured the shaking French girl. ‘There’s nothing to be feared of. I’ll stay with you and make sure nobody makes fun of your accent. Come to the dance, Francine. You can walk down with me when Mistress Bethya’s gone to bed.’
‘She’ll not come, she’ll not come,’ chanted Madge and Jessie, dancing about like impish children. Francine let loose a flood of angry French words.
‘What’s she saying?’ sniggered Madge, but nobody could tell her and she went on: ‘I know – she’s saying she won’t come to the dance because she’d rather hide here where nobody can see her funny face and queer ways.’
‘I will come. I’ll come and I’ll dance just to show you I’m normal.’ Tears glittered in Francine’s prominent eyes as she spoke, and Hannah’s pity was evoked.
‘Oh, don’t take on, don’t listen to them. You stay at home if you want. I’m sorry now that I asked you to come.’
But Francine’s face was set. ‘I will go to the dance with you, Hannah, if I may. I’ll meet you in the kitchen at half past nine. Please wait for me.’
Jessie couldn’t resist having the last word. ‘You’ll have the bonny Bethya settled in bed by then, will you? You’ll have her curls all combed out and perfume on her pillow? I bet you wish you could get in beside her but it’s men she likes…’ It was her last tease, for Francine hit her full in the face with an open palm. The blow left a red mark on Jessie’s fair skin and she jumped forward with her fists clenched but the other maids and Hannah held her back.
‘You asked for it, Jessie. That was a terrible thing to say,’ Hannah told her struggling friend.
Francine stalked away as if nothing had happened and called back over her shoulder, ‘I’ll meet you here at half past nine, Hannah. I shall go to the dance.’
* * *
The cheering began even before the dark-green and gold-painted engine hauling two green and gold carriages stopped at Maddiston station. The welcoming party, seated on a sort of dais on the platform overlooking a broad red carpet, all sat forward in eager anticipation, all that is except for Gus Anstruther, who reached into his pocket, withdrew a silver flask and applied it to his lips. The door of the first carriage swung open and a magnificently uniformed equerry jumped down to the ground. He held the door back and revealed a tubby little figure in pink with a fussy bonnet decorated with roses. She looked like a cook on her afternoon off. The cheering grew hysterical and drowned out the oom-pah-pahing of Maddiston Brass Band which was attempting to play God Save The Queen.
The little person stepped down on to the platform, accepted a pair of golden scissors from Sir Geoffrey Miller and rushed forward with them in his hand, and smartly snipped in half a long red ribbon that had been stretched across the middle of the platform. ‘I declare this station open,’ she intoned in a high, fluting voice. The cheering began again and the Duke of Allandale, with a long-suffering air, walked elegantly along the stretch of carpet to show the Queen and her husband Albert, who had appeared at her back like a threatening stormcloud, to his carriage which was waiting to convey them round the local beauty spots. Sir Geoffrey was left, staring at the trailing ends of ribbon, with a disconsolate look on his face. The Queen took the golden scissors with her, smartly slipping them into her reticule, a shirred pink satin affair, before she paused on the steps to admire the baronial-style station. ‘Very nice,’ she said, and climbed into the Duke’s carriage. Then they drove off to even more deafening adulation.
The sun was shining as they headed for the baronial mansion built by a famous novelist on the banks of the Tweed. Albert was particularly interested in the novelist’s collection of antiquities, especially the things he had picked up from the battlefield of Waterloo, and the Duke had to cool his heels while these were minutely examined and commented upon. It was after midday when their cavalcade headed for Greyloch Palace, going through Camptounfoot on the way.
‘What a picturesque old place,’ said Queen Victoria, leaning forward in her seat. Seated at her side, her attentive husband pulled her shawl back over her shoulders. Once again she was in what was euphemistically called ‘an interesting condition’, and he always took great care of her when she was pregnant.
‘People say it’s the oldest village in Scotland,’ the Duke told her. ‘It’s always been a village where masons live. They’ve left their legacy behind, too. Look at all the sundials on the walls, ma’am.’
‘Ah, tempus fugit,’ sighed Albert, who had an excess of Germanic gloom but his wife was more cheerful.
‘I think it’s very pretty,’ she said, waving to some women who were standing at the side of the road.
One of them shouted out, ‘God bless you, ma’am,’ and fell down in a faint, overcome by patriotic emotion. It was Effie, and the woman beside her was Tibbie, mortified by her sister-in-law’s loss of control.
‘Pull yourself together woman, pull yourself together,’ she was urging in a whisper as she chafed Effie’s hands.
Seeing the woman fall to the ground, the Queen ordered her carriage to stop and leaned down from her seat to enquire after the casualty. ‘Is she all right?’ she asked.
Tibbie looked up and bobbed her head. ‘She’s fine, ma’am. There’s nothing to worry about,’ was her reply.
Then, when the Queen’s retinue had rolled on its way, Effie opened her eyes, stare
d up at the sky and heaved a sigh of sheer delight as she whispered, ‘I’m in heaven. I’ve died and gone to heaven. The Queen asked if I was all right!’
‘You’re a daft besom,’ snapped her exasperated relative. ‘Get up. You fair black affronted me.’
The Duke ordered his coachman to drive along the road from which the works of the emergent bridge could be seen. ‘You’d better see this,’ he advised the monarch, ‘because they’re sure to ask if you noticed it when you go back to Maddiston.’ With a disapproving expression he pointed out the earthworks that were beginning to scar the horizon but Albert was very interested.
‘That’s a considerable project,’ he said in his heavily accented English. ‘Could we perhaps drive a little closer and take a better look at it?’
‘We’ll have to go over on to the other bank of the river again,’ said the reluctant Duke, but Albert’s wish was law and they retraced their route through an empty-looking Camptounfoot and back by the road-bridge to the area where the navvies were working. At the sight of the line of carriages, the men raised their loud huzzahs in honour of Victoria, throwing their hats and caps in the air as they did so. The Duke looked at the cheering gang in disgust and then turned his head away but as he did so, he once more caught a glimpse of the man he’d seen through his spyglass. The fellow was cheering more loudly than the others and, by God, he was the spitting image of his old schooifriend Godders! The only difference was that this navvy chap was leaner and harder-looking, more burned by the sun. ‘If I ever see Godders again, I’ll pull his leg about having a double who works on a navvy site,’ resolved the Duke.
It was after five o’clock when the royal progress was finished and Albert and Victoria were driven back to Maddiston to reboard their train for Edinburgh. Once more the official party were in their places on the dais, less immaculate than they had been in the beginning in some cases. Once more the band played stirring music and the gathered populace cheered as with a thump and a shriek, a shudder and a shake, the royal train started up and pulled the gleaming carriages out of the station. The great day was over and Maddiston station was officially open for business. Christopher Wylie, who had been given a place at the back of the dais, climbed wearily down to ground-level and found himself beside Sir Geoffrey Miller, who deigned to smile at him and say, ‘Well, that’s that, Wylie. All we’ve got to do now is get the line down to the bridge and over the river. Then the project is completed, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Wylie. ‘It’s not going to take too long.’
‘Good chap, good chap, then the money’ll start rolling in,’ said Miller, clapping him on the shoulder.
By the time Colonel Anstruther and his party arrived back at Bella Vista, only Gus was cheerful because, as usual, he was drunk. The others were tired and short-tempered, anxious only to seek the solitude of their rooms where corsets could be unlaced, shoes taken off and pent-up frustration unleashed. When Bethya reached the sanctuary of her chamber it was a relief to see Francine, as cool and remote as ever, rearranging the bottles on the dressing table. The strain of keeping a sweet expression on her face all day had exacted a heavy toll on Bethya and she was ready to lash out. ‘For God’s sake stop tinkling those bottles like that… Fetch me some hot water and wash my face. I’m exhausted, utterly exhausted, and my head is throbbing fit to burst,’ she gasped as she threw herself on to the bed. Silently Francine did as she was bid, washing her mistress’ face and hands and then sponging her brow with a piece of flannel soaked in aromatic liquid.
‘Ugh, that’s stone cold. What is it? It’ll make my headache worse,’ complained Bethya, who was lying with closed eyes accepting these ministrations but Francine said, ‘No, it will help. It’s rose vinaigre. We use it in France for headaches. Lie still and the pain will go away.’ As she spoke she laid a cool hand on top of Bethya’s head and in time the response was a remorseful sigh.
‘You’re right, it does. You’re a magician, Francine. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ve had such a horrible day, sitting for hours in the same carriage as Gus and his mother. It’s “Dear Gus” this and “Dear Gus” that all day long. She was the only person in the whole gathering who couldn’t see he was rolling drunk.’
‘She’s his mother… Did Sir Geoffrey like your dress?’ asked Francine.
‘Oh yes, I think so. He kept looking at me, anyway – and so did several others including the Duke of Allandale. What a smart-looking man, Francine – so very elegant and well-bred! I wish I could get to know him. The others are far too easy. I feel like a big-game hunter going after rabbits when I turn my charms on Sir Geoffrey and his friends.’
Francine said, ‘I saw the Duke with the Queen and her husband when they drove past our gates. You’re right, he is a good-looking man but haughty.’
‘At least he’s a real man,’ Bethya mused. ‘Oh, how I wish I had a lover, Francine. You’ve no idea how I wish for one. I saw the maids all getting ready to go out to meet their beaux tonight and I wished I was going with them, I really did.’
Francine said softly, ‘I’m going to the dance, madam. If I find a nice man, I’ll bring him back for you.’
Bethya laughed. ‘What a strange idea! How naughty. If you find a nice young man, Francine, you keep him and enjoy him and tell me about it later. I console myself with the idea that Gus can’t last for ever. His liver must be almost worn out by now. With any luck I’ll be a widow soon, a rich widow, I hope, and I can go man-hunting on my own behalf. Then I might not have to settle for Sir Geoffrey – I might set my sights higher. But are you really going dancing, Francine? That’s not like you.’
‘The other maids asked me to go with them.’
‘What will you wear?’ Bethya had never seen her maid in anything other than a plain black dress with a white crocheted collar.
‘I don’t know,’ said Francine, frowning. ‘I thought I’d go in this dress with a shawl.’
‘Oh my dear, that won’t do at all. You must dress up if you’re to catch a beau. Take your pick of my gowns, borrow any one you like. Show those girls downstairs how pretty you can look.’
That was the telling remark. With the words ringing in her head, Francine busied herself preparing her mistress for the night. It was after nine o’clock when Bethya had eaten her supper off a tray carried up from the kitchen and slipped into her bed. When her mistress was asleep and breathing deeply, Francine began her own toilette.
The three girls sitting at the big deal table in the kitchen had their eyes fixed on the large clock on the end wall. ‘When is she going to make an appearance? It’s half-past nine already. I’ll bet she doesn’t come,’ said Madge.
‘Give her another five minutes. If she doesn’t come then, we’ll go,’ said Hannah, but before the time was up the kitchen door opened and a vision in cerise satin stood framed in it. Francine’s dress was cut low on the shoulders, showing a generous spread of naked chest and emphasising her tiny waist. It fitted well because Bethya and her maid were almost the same size. Francine’s hair was dressed in two long ringlets falling flirtatiously down each side of her strange face and she was carrying a large ostrich-feather fan which she opened coquettishly and held up before her face. The girls round the table were all astonished.
‘Oh bless my soul! I’m no going out wi’ a freak like that! What’ll folk think? She’s like one of them street women in London,’ gasped Madge. She stood up and backed away as Francine advanced on her with the fan held out like a dagger.
‘You invited me, you challenged me. I’m going to the dance with you,’ she said.
Madge and Jessie looked at each other and clucked in terror. ‘But it’s no’ that kind of a dance. It’s no’ a ball,’ they protested. ‘It’s only a dance. Folk don’t dress up like fashion plates for it.’
Hannah was giggling in the background and in a spluttering voice she said, ‘You look very grand, Francine. That’s one of Mrs Bethya’s gowns, isn’t it?’ Then to Madge and Jessie she added, ‘You
asked for it. This is your own fault. Come on, let’s go or we’ll be too late.’
The maids pulled black woollen shawls over their sprigged cotton gowns but Francine produced a long, multi-coloured Paisley shawl which she draped over her shoulders. Like a peacock with farmyard hens, she set out to walk to Rosewell with her reluctant escort. Madge was running alongside Hannah and whispering, ‘You can look after her if you’re so keen for her to come. I’m not going to stay with her. The minute we get into the hall, I’m off.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Hannah. ‘She’s playing a game with you and I think she’s the winner.’
* * *
It was already growing dark when they reached the middle of Rosewell and the square was crowded with young people, most of whom knew Hannah, Madge or Jessie and greeted them with waves and calls. When they saw Francine, their jaws dropped and some of the girls started giggling behind their hands. ‘Who’s the Duchess?’ a bold lad enquired of Hannah as she passed, but she shot him a baleful glance and swept on her way. As the four of them approached the hall door, Hannah noticed out of the tail of her eye that a party of men on the far side of the square were watching everything that was going on. They were noticeable because of their clothes – bright coloured waistcoats and neckerchiefs. Some of them wore skullcaps with tassels and embroidery around the edge. ‘There’s some navvies,’ whispered Madge, who had seen them too and was impressed by their muscular nonchalance. She drew herself up and pranced along with her head held high, for she was a pretty girl and well aware that she drew men’s eyes.
A Bridge in Time Page 15