Mary limped over to the sideboard to fetch more milk, observing that the new maid had not seen that her father would want it; always Mary tried to keep the dining table calm; always she smiled. Mary Wollstonecraft had indeed defined the difficulties, but had not counselled for patriarchal dining tables.
Exasperatedly now her father said, ‘You should not leave the table, the maid should do that, hurry up, hurry up,’ and Mary patiently came to his side with the milk (motioning gently to the scurrying girl) then walked with her ungainly gait back to her place at the table, smiling calmly at everyone.
Her father looked away. Deformed. Deformed. Deformed. He never got over it, never. He had tried to insist that Mary be put away into some sort of asylum when they realised that the ugly, misshapen foot would never be normal: it was the only time in his married life that his wife Elizabeth had not deferred to his wishes. Elizabeth, the laughing Elizabeth, who never raised her voice, who ran his household smoothly, who brought money to the marriage (which he in turn had used to clever enough effect to obtain first profit, then a knighthood, then a seat in parliament), had turned into some sort of screaming madwoman that he did not recognise, she had threatened to kill herself and he had believed her. So the deformed Mary stayed at home and Elizabeth had become herself again: not once ever again was the matter referred to and sometimes Charles Cooper wondered if he had only dreamed of the wild hair flying, the hands flailing at his body.
More births had transpired after the trauma of Mary’s birth: he acquired two sons (and two more, stillborn) but in his heart he longed for one beautiful daughter. When Harriet was born and the midwife had come hurrying out calling for more basins and towels, he had gone into the room blank-faced, being told it was a girl, half-expecting another cripple. Two perfect, tiny feet filled him with an overwhelming, overpowering tenderness. Clumsily he tried to hold them in his hand, they were so small he feared they might break. He held the beautiful, perfect baby girl gently, fearfully, he had never before held a baby in his arms. He was stroking the perfect feet with one finger, when they came to tell him that his wife was dead.
His son, Richard, was trying to get his attention.
‘The railway, sir. Will the underground railway go ahead?’
His father pushed back his chair. ‘I have my doubts. I can see how they make it sound attractive, when the city is so crowded, but think of the problems! Think of the districts to be brought together, and then think of what is already under the city, think of railway lines hitting drains and sewers and gas pipes, is that what we want? They propose tunnelling under central London – do we actually require a railway under this very house? Think of the noise! And most of all think of the cost. I am a good speculator, as you know to your advantage, but I think money could be lost in this foolishness. I am supposed to report to the Prime Minister this afternoon. As if there weren’t enough to do, running the country.’ And then he stared at both of his sons. ‘You work for one of the Water Companies, thanks to me. Ask them what they’d think of trains running over their pipelines. Harriet—’ and she lifted her head slightly at the sound of her name, waiting yet not looking (like a colt he suddenly thought) ‘—you are to go to stay with your Uncle William until this epidemic is over, you will be safer there than in London, London is not safe.’ (And he saw again the body of his old friend Mrs Ballantyre being thrown up into the nightcart and then he saw Harriet in her white nightgown and the two pictures rearranged themselves over and over in his mind.) He repeated the words more loudly than he needed to, ‘London is not safe. I have already sent word of your arrival.’
Her quiet voice: ‘With Mary?’
‘Not with Mary,’ he said, ‘she is required here, obviously. The large carriage is ready, you will go this morning, one of the maids will accompany you on the journey.’ He did not mean his voice to sound harsh. ‘There is a wedding coming up in that family, is there not? That will amuse you.’ She must know how hard this was for him, how much he would miss her. He could not even bear to say goodbye. He stood abruptly. ‘You will write to me every day.’ Then he formally kissed her cheek, the way he always did, and left the dining room. The two young men rose also.
‘Goodbye, Harriet,’ they said. Richard and Walter, who had once found all their world in their sisters, took their cue from their father these days: they largely ignored Mary (although she had brought them up and they were fond of her), were bemused by the new and beautiful Harriet. These days they were men of the world (because their father had arranged positions in it for both of them) and they had business to attend to.
The new maid, Lucy, having nervously cleared the dining room under the instruction of a footman, passed the door of the dark, wood-panelled drawing room; saw the two sisters arm in arm, leaning together, looking out of a window and over Bryanston Square. Their bodies rocked together almost imperceptibly, as if they were comforting each other.
TWO
‘Now, my dear Harriet, you must tell us all about London. Not about the cholera, of course. Have you seen Her Majesty? Have you been to the Ballet? Did you know that Alice’s wedding gown has come from London, for I insisted upon that. Tell us everything.’
Harriet’s Aunt Lucretia sat on her brightly covered sofa surrounded by her daughters, Augusta, Alice the bride-to-be, and Asobel. Her husband and their two sons were still in the dining room with the port bottle. Augusta served tea in dainty floral cups that seemed to Harriet to match the floral sofa and the floral wallpaper, and Asobel, who was eight, stared at her London cousin with interest.
‘We went to the Drury Lane Theatre when we were there last,’ her aunt continued. ‘Have you been there? The orchestra was magnificent; I felt the conductor improved Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony immeasurably – shortened it, made it more to my taste somehow. And tell me have you heard – oh the delight of her – the Swedish Nightingale?’
‘I was in Norfolk,’ Harriet answered gravely.
‘Ah yes of course, I had heard. For your education. Our two girls went to a Young Ladies’ Academy for three months to have their education and I must say it was worth every penny. They have returned infinitely more ladylike. Their father said to me he hardly knows them with their genteel ways. Tell me, my dear, what did you learn?’
Harriet considered her answer for a moment. ‘There were many lists and catechisms we had to learn by heart,’ she said. ‘About whalebone, and umbrellas, and what Queen Elizabeth the First thought about silk stockings.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Augusta. ‘We learnt those things by heart too.’
‘All very useful I am sure,’ said Aunt Lucretia, ‘but of course I meant the social side, the feminine skills.’
‘We studied “Etiquette for the Ladies: Eighty Maxims in Dress, Manners and Accomplishment”,’ said Augusta.
‘How to Carve, When to Wear Gloves, When to Pay Calls,’ said Harriet dutifully.
‘Exactly!’ said Aunt Lucretia. ‘Alice, show Harriet your album!’
Alice obediently showed Harriet the marbled album. Inside the other girls at the school had written suitable sentiments or verses, or made small drawings. A round childish hand had laboriously written:
To my dearest Friend Alice
Shall I compare THEE to a summer’s day?
next to a pressed violet. And a teacher, a Miss Spence, had written some sort of quotation:
Whatever may be the talents and energies of a woman they must be shaded by sweetness, veiled by modesty, or else much of what the eye looks for and the heart expects in woman, will be wanting.
The doors burst open and the gentlemen joined the ladies.
‘Now, my dear Harriet,’ said Uncle William, ‘you must be tired after your long journey but shall we have a song before you retire?’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Asobel, clapping her hands and running to her father. ‘A song with the piano. May I play, Papa? I have been practising!’
‘Asobel!’ said Aunt Lucretia.
‘Asobel!’ said Augusta.
‘How long is it since you were last here?’ enquired Cousin John, bending over his cousin and taking her floral teacup. He knew very well it was three years, he had not by any means forgotten his cousin, but she had become extraordinarily beautiful. It quite threw him.
‘It is three years, I believe,’ said Harriet. ‘Mary and I were with you in the summer then.’
‘And Cousin Mary taught me to read and she has got a funny leg and cannot walk properly.’
‘Asobel, it is time you went up to the nursery,’ said Aunt Lucretia, ringing a bell beside her.
‘Asobel, bring me my tea,’ said her father, but his oldest daughter Augusta took the tea to him, put it on one of the tables beside his armchair, moved the bowl of wax fruit to one side.
‘My dear Harriet,’ said her uncle, ‘have you been warned about the mad rooster?’
‘I beg your pardon, Uncle William, I do not believe I have.’
‘It is a magnificent specimen or we would have removed it long ago. But it appears to be deranged; it crows in the dead of night. Do not be alarmed.’
Harriet smiled shyly at her uncle. ‘There are more alarming sounds, I think, in London. I will not be alarmed by a deranged rooster.’
‘Well, well, my dear. London is a difficult place at the moment. We are glad to have you here with us.’ There was a moment of silence. Harriet felt them all regarding her, knew she should say something; her uncle, seeing she seemed unable to speak, filled the space.
‘Have you observed our new painting?’ He indicated the very large gilt-framed painting of Augusta, Alice and Asobel that hung next to the painting of Queen Victoria. Harriet had indeed observed it. The painter had caught the girls’ expressions; Augusta slightly supercilious, Alice vivacious, Asobel mischievous, but had made them all look nevertheless like cherubs: very pretty and rather plump.
‘It is very – agreeable,’ said Harriet shyly.
‘Indeed it is,’ said William with great affection. ‘My own girls.’ And he gave a large sigh. ‘Soon our happy family is to be dispersed but—’
‘Oh Papa,’ cried Alice, and she ran to his side and knelt beside his chair, ‘I am not going far, you will gain a son, not lose a daughter,’ and she looked as if she would cry.
‘There, there, my dear, I know, I know,’ and he kissed her, and the blood rushed, unbidden, to Harriet’s face. She saw how easy they were with each other and yet she felt her heart beating wildly.
‘You will agree, Harriet, that the artist has painted my girls very well.’
‘Indeed, Uncle William, they are – angelic.’
‘Now where is our music for Harriet?’ said her uncle, still holding Alice’s hand.
‘Come then, Augy,’ said Cousin Edward. ‘Harriet will have to endure us,’ and he grinned at Harriet. Edward was their favourite cousin: he was rotund and earnest and kind, a younger version of his father. Edward had ridden to meet Harriet’s carriage in the small town near the farm. She had recognised his stocky figure riding towards them in the distance, and as he got nearer his round, amiable face was wreathed in smiles of welcome.
‘Do not call me Augy!’ said Augusta to her brother but she got up dutifully and went to the piano and she and her younger brother began to sing one of the popular songs of the day:
I dreamt that I dwelt in Marble Halls
With vassals and serfs by my side
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride
and Alice sat prettily, still holding her father’s hand, and Aunt Lucretia whispered loudly over the singing to tell Harriet all about Alice’s intended, and the wedding dress.
* * *
Dear Father,
I am now arrived at Rusholme. Uncle William and Aunt Lucretia and the family are all well. They have made me very welcome and send their greetings to you.
Your obedient daughter
Harriet Cooper
Harriet sat at a small table by the window, reminded of her childhood, before the gas was connected at Bryanston Square, by the flickering shadows the candle threw on to the walls of the room as she dipped the pen into the ink bottle. There was no prospect of gas at Rusholme but Uncle William, who forbade so little, forbade paraffin lamps in the house, having seen a neighbour’s house burn to the ground. In vain Aunt Lucretia spoke of ‘progress’, and ‘civilisation’, not to mention the dangers of candles also – but her daughters too preferred candles, hating the smell of paraffin in other houses. And so, all over Rusholme, soft candlelight flickered. The Right Honourable Sir Charles Cooper, MP, disliked immensely coming back to the country and the places of his childhood, but both Harriet and Mary, who had paid many visits here when they were younger, thought of Rusholme with a kind of exasperated pleasure: it was old-fashioned, it was inconvenient, there was an outside privy and lots of barking dogs. But Rusholme had a kind of unkempt charm that they loved. There were wild climbing roses at the front of the house and blackcurrant bushes grew in unchecked profusion everywhere and an ancient walnut tree stood outside the window. In order that Mary could get about more easily Uncle William had taught them to ride like their cousins: upright, sidesaddle, elegant. Some years ago a gravel drive had been put in for the carriages and the horses, and Grecian statues had been placed on the lawns. But the drive had become somewhat overgrown, and the statues last seen were covered in moss and arms had fallen off, around which wandering hens sometimes pecked and cackled.
My darling Mary,
I am here, in the room we always have, the one that looks over the roses and the walnut tree and the fields in the distance. I cannot say how I feel being here except that you cannot imagine how much I miss you already. I find being parted from you so difficult, and yet, of course, I am glad to be here also. I tell myself every hour that you will at least be here for Alice’s wedding, surely.
Our cousins John and Edward and Augusta and Alice and Asobel seem much the same except that Asobel is eight years old now, and is very ‘energetic’ (that is the word I have heard the family use several times this evening). Uncle William and Cousin Edward are kind, just as they always were, and Aunt Lucretia has become rather grand.
These are only first impressions after not being here for three years.
Father must allow you to come to the wedding at least.
Please write to me and tell me that it will be so, and please look after yourself, my dearest sister. There is no point in me being safe from the cholera and you not.
God bless you, my dearest Mary, and keep you safe. I am writing this by candlelight and the shadows flicker on the walls as they did when I was little.
From your loving
Harriet
PS Give Quintus many loving pats from me. I hope he is getting plenty to eat without me there to spoil him.
* * *
‘She is very – solemn – is she not? Do you think it is all part of her training to be a lady?’
‘Now, my dear.’ William Cooper always pulled off his own boots and was exerting a great deal of energy in this task. ‘It is a long journey from London. The poor girl is probably exhausted.’
Lucretia Cooper, already lying flat in bed, adjusted her night-bonnet to be more comfortable, trying not to move her face muscles. Her face was covered in Rowlands Kalydor, whose claims she knew by heart: it imparts a radiant bloom to the cheek; its capability of soothing irritations and removing cutaneous defects, discolorations and all unsightly appearance render it indispensable to every toilet, and she had it on good authority that Queen Victoria lay in bed with her face smothered in Rowlands Kalydor also. ‘I hope she does not think just because she has been made a lady in Norfolk by your sister that she is above her country relations. We are the gentry here. I hope she understands that.’
‘My dear Lucretia.’ The boots off, William padded about, looking for his nightshirt without his spectacles. ‘She may be a little serious but she has turned into a – a rather be
autiful young lady, no question about that. I expect Charles has plans for her. A good marriage. Ah—’ alighting upon his nightshirt.
‘William, please do not mention the word marriage. Every time I think of what has to be done before the wedding I am quite overcome. Alfred’s family will be expecting so much and I have told you over and over again that we need more help in a matter of such vital importance as our joining with one of the most important families in the county. Yet your brother Sir Charles seems not to be coming, your sister Lydia says Norfolk is too far – how shall we look, family-less? And we should have double the amount of servants, as I have often made clear to you – how you expect me to manage with only five, one of whom is busy with the horses most of the time and one of whom (I mean the new girl) is an obvious imbecile, I cannot imagine. And how do I know if the few servants we do possess understand everything that is required? I have sent an invitation, by coach, to Lady Kingdom. We must make plans for Augusta, William, and Lady Kingdom is the mother of the two most eligible young men in England. But what if she accepts and we are found wanting!’ Again she adjusted her head. ‘Harriet has become extremely attractive, I agree. Uncommonly, actually. But as I said: solemn. I do not approve of young girls being too solemn – I do not think it is good for them. I do not remember her as solemn and I do hope it is not a matter of feeling she has some advantage over us just because she comes from London. Do you suppose they teach that odd solemnity at some of the Ladies’ Academies? Our own girls are not odd in that way, I am glad to say. Well. If we are led to believe that she thinks she somehow surpasses us in any way we shall soon make sure she understands that we have friends at Court!’ But William was already asleep.
The Trespass: A Novel Page 3