The Penmaker's Wife

by Steve Robinson

  Angelica went straight to the drinks table and poured herself a glass of brandy; she needed something stronger than Madeira wine. ‘I’ve asked Doctor Grosvenor to leave,’ she said, taking her drink to the settee beside Missus Redmond, who immediately began to stand up. ‘Stay where you are, Missus Redmond,’ Angelica told her.

  ‘You asked the doctor to leave?’ Alexander repeated. ‘Why?’

  William sat forward, his eyes suddenly full of hope. ‘Is Stanley feeling better?’

  Angelica sipped her brandy and slowly began to shake her head. ‘I’m afraid poor Stanley is the worst I’ve seen him, no thanks to Doctor Grosvenor and his damned leeches. In a moment, I’d like both of you boys to go and sit with him. Missus Redmond, I shall need the carriage prepared.’

  ‘Of course, madam,’ Missus Redmond said, making to get up again.

  Angelica put a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘In a moment. First, I must tell you all what I plan to do.’

  ‘What can you do that Doctor Grosvenor can’t?’ Alexander asked.

  ‘I can summon a real doctor to Priory House – one of the best in the country,’ Angelica said. ‘The only difficulty I have is that he lives in London.’

  ‘London?’ Alexander said, his tone still challenging her. ‘Why waste time bringing a doctor all the way from London when there are many far closer?’

  ‘Doctors such as Grosvenor?’ Angelica said. ‘Isn’t he supposed to be the best in the area? If so, what then for the rest?’

  ‘That was his reputation,’ Alexander said.

  ‘Was,’ Angelica repeated, emphasising the word. She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid his practices are now woefully antiquated. Perhaps dangerously so. London is at the pinnacle of modern medical science, and as I’ve said, I aim to have Stanley seen by the best. Did Doctor Grosvenor ever once tell us what was wrong with Stanley? Has Stanley ever shown any signs of improvement under his care?’

  Everyone shook their heads.

  ‘No,’ Angelica said, ‘and I must do something about it. It may take longer to employ the services of a doctor from London, but what use are a hundred quick opinions and procedures if they’re all wrong?’

  She stood up, and everyone stood with her. ‘You each have your duties,’ she said. ‘Go about them, and as soon as the carriage is ready I shall go into the city to send a telegram to London, asking the doctor I’ve spoken of to come at once.’

  Later that evening, following a sombre dinner that no one at Priory House was really in the mood for, Angelica was on her way upstairs to look in on Stanley again when she heard a sound that was akin to a door being slammed. It came from inside the drawing room. She entered to find Alexander by himself, sitting on the stool at the piano, collapsed over the fallboard. She supposed the sound she had heard was that of the fallboard being slammed shut. Alexander sat up as soon as he heard Angelica approach. He was in his shirtsleeves, buttons undone at the neck, his hair tousled and his eyes drawn with worry and alcohol – if the bottle of port and empty wine glass sitting on top of the piano were anything to judge by.

  ‘Angelica,’ he said, slurring slightly. ‘I thought you’d be upstairs in my father’s room with William.’

  ‘I was just on my way,’ Angelica said, studying the port bottle, trying to gauge how much Alexander had consumed after the already generous amount of wine he’d taken at dinner. ‘I also expected you would be there at your father’s side with William.’

  Alexander drew a deep breath and let it go again, shaking his bowed head as he did so. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t bear to see him looking like that. He’s so ashen. It’s as if he’s already . . .’

  Alexander trailed off and turned away. He picked up the port bottle and filled his glass again. Angelica knew what he was going to say. She had thought it herself as soon as she’d walked in on Doctor Grosvenor and his leeches. Until she saw Stanley move his head in a fitful spasm for the first time, she had thought him already dead. But there was hope. One of the older maids, Sarah, who had been with the family since before Alexander was born, had been with Stanley ever since the doctor left. She had sat there with a bowl of cool water, gently dabbing his brow, and she was still there now.

  ‘When I last spoke to Sarah, she told me she thought your father’s fever had begun to lift,’ Angelica said, resting a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. ‘She always looked after you while you were growing up, didn’t she? Now she’s looking after your father.’

  Alexander put his glass of port down again untouched. ‘Is it terrible of me to not wish to see my father like this?’

  Angelica offered him a kindly smile. ‘No, it’s not terrible,’ she said. ‘You must deal with such matters as you see fit. We’re not always as strong as we’d like to be, are we?’

  ‘I’m ashamed of myself. Why can’t I be as strong as William? Apart from dinner, he’s been at my father’s bedside since you left to send that telegram. When do you suppose we’ll hear from this London doctor of yours anyway?’

  ‘It’s my hope that he has already read my telegram and is making preparations to call on your father tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll send a reply before he leaves to let us know he’s coming. For now we have to wait. We can’t know anything more until morning.’

  ‘What if he can’t come?’

  ‘Then we’ll call on as many local doctors as are available and have them all attend on Stanley until they reach a decision as to what’s wrong with him.’

  Angelica picked up the bottle of port and the full glass. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you try to get some sleep?’

  ‘William isn’t getting any sleep.’

  ‘He will. I’m going up to Stanley’s room now to insist he rests, too. You’ll both need your strength in the morning. I expect poor Sarah must also be quite exhausted by now.’

  ‘Are you going to stay with Father?’

  Angelica nodded. ‘All night if I have to.’

  ‘Won’t you need your strength, too?’

  ‘I’ll try to sleep for a few hours once I’m sure your father is settled. My bedroom is next to his, after all. I’ll leave the door between our rooms open so that I’ll wake if he cries out. Sleep is no doubt the best medicine for your father until the doctor arrives.’

  When Angelica arrived in Stanley’s room it was almost eleven o’clock. She sent William to his bed, and Sarah to hers, and she continued to cool Stanley’s brow as he turned this way and that, fitful and uncommunicative. The colour had already begun to return to his cheeks, and Sarah was right; Stanley’s fever did appear to be lifting. Perhaps by morning he would be well enough to sit up in bed again and take some food. She waited with him until it was close to two o’clock in the morning, when the house was silent as snowfall, and Stanley was still at last. Then she, too, went to her bed.

  At four o’clock that morning, Angelica awoke with a start from the heavy, dreamless sleep she had fallen into. Someone was shouting.

  Stanley . . .

  Had he awoken, feverish and delirious again? No, the voice was not Stanley’s. It was too light – too young. Angelica listened for the sound again, but it did not come. As she sat up in her bed, meaning to investigate further, she saw the silhouette of someone standing in the open doorway between the two bedrooms.

  ‘William?’ she said, squinting into the moonlight that flooded into the room after him. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ William said, sounding half dazed. ‘I had a terrible dream, and then I couldn’t sleep. I had to be sure it wasn’t real.’

  ‘You had to be sure what wasn’t real?’ Angelica said, getting out of bed.

  William put his hands to his face. ‘I had to make sure my dream wasn’t real, but it was, Mother. He’s dead. Stanley’s dead.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Three mournful weeks passed slowly at Priory House. Stanley’s funeral service at St Bartholomew’s church came and went, along with the many people who called at the house each day to pay their respec
ts. Effie had been particularly supportive, although she and Angelica had shared no intimate companionship in that time. The pen factory had closed on the day Stanley died, and its doors did not open again until the man who had made Hampton and Moore such a success was laid to rest. In settling Stanley’s affairs, all that remained was for the executor of his last will and testament to notify the beneficiaries.

  Angelica was on her way to the pen factory on Legge Lane now to do just that. It was mid-morning on a Tuesday, the October clouds rendering the streets grey and dull as the carriage clicked along the cobblestones towards the Jewellery Quarter. She was wearing black, and just as Queen Victoria continued to wear black after the death of Prince Albert, so would she continue to do so for Stanley. She had even had the carriage repainted, the horses replaced, all in black so that everyone would know her grief.

  Her eyes were closed beneath her veil, her thoughts drifting back over the days since Stanley had died. She recalled Alexander’s tearful regret at not having had the courage to spend more time with his father in his last hours – how inconsolable he had been. She recalled how his attitude towards William had changed, growing cold where it had previously been as warm a relationship as any two brothers might have hoped to enjoy. The reason, although never voiced, was clear to Angelica. Alexander was jealous. William had been at his stepfather’s side during his dying days, while Alexander, born of Stanley’s own flesh and blood, had not.

  As the carriage turned on to Legge Lane, so did Angelica’s thoughts turn to the morning of Stanley’s funeral. They had travelled to St Bartholomew’s in this very carriage, she and the two boys together. How kindly William’s words fell on her ears when she spoke of her own regret.

  ‘I should not have waited,’ she had said, dabbing the tears from the corners of her eyes. ‘It was folly to waste so much time sending that telegram to London. I feel so responsible.’

  William had reached across the carriage and held her hands in his. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Mother,’ he said to comfort her. ‘The best doctor in the world could not have saved Stanley in so short a time. If anyone is to be held responsible, then it is Doctor Grosvenor and his damned leeches.’

  Angelica felt the carriage jolt as it came to a stop, shaking her from her thoughts. She had arrived outside the factory gate, and her thoughts swiftly caught up to the business at hand.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ she called up to the driver as she stepped down from the carriage, giving the man no time to step down himself to assist her.

  ‘Very good, madam,’ the driver said, touching the brim of his black silk hat.

  Angelica made eye contact with no one as she paced across the factory floor on her way up to the main office, not even Mr Hardy, whom she passed with a short ‘Good morning’ before making her way up the ironwork stairs.

  Alexander and William were both waiting for her inside the office, each with his sleeves rolled up, as though they had been helping to catch up on the delays caused by Hampton and Moore’s recent closure.

  ‘Sleeves,’ she said with a flick of her hand, indicating that they should both roll them down at once. ‘You must set an example. Do you find Mr Hardy with his sleeves rolled up, his collar unfastened?’

  ‘Sorry, Mother,’ William said, blushing.

  Alexander merely sighed as he grudgingly did as he was told.

  ‘Now then,’ Angelica said, removing her hat and veil. ‘You both know what I’ve come to talk to you about, so I’ll be as brief as possible. I’ve just left the offices of our solicitors, Watkins, Watkins and Brown. They have this morning received a grant of probate for Stanley’s will, meaning that the document has been legally registered as his true last testament and that his estate can now be administered. As executor, I wish to afford no delay in carrying out his wishes, so I’ve come straight here.’

  ‘Would you care to sit down?’ William said, offering her one of the chairs.

  ‘Thank you, but no. As I’ve said, I don’t expect to keep you long from your work.’

  Alexander had a bemused expression on his face. ‘I thought Watkins, Watkins and Brown were the executors of my father’s will. At least, that’s what my father told me.’

  ‘And how long ago was that?’

  ‘It was not long after William and I returned from school.’

  Angelica gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘My dear Alexander, that was four years ago. Your father and I since decided that it was a waste of money to appoint solicitors as executors when we were both perfectly capable of administering the estate ourselves. They were to handle matters only in the event of both your father and I dying simultaneously.’

  ‘I see,’ Alexander said, although his bemused expression remained. ‘Please, go on.’

  ‘In his will, your father, God rest his soul, has bequeathed to you each the sum of two hundred pounds, payable to you by twenty shillings a month. He leaves to you specifically, Alexander, his collection of pens, which he knew you were very fond of, and to you, William, his pocket watch, so that you may never be one second late for your financial meetings with the fastidious Mr Moore.’

  William chuckled to himself.

  Alexander looked less amused. ‘And what of the house?’ he said. ‘What of my father’s share in the business? He told me it would be mine to continue in the event of his death.’

  ‘Which, I imagine,’ Angelica said, ‘he also told you some time ago. But things change. Your father had a new will drawn up no more than two years ago. The house, he has left to me, so that I may never again find myself without a roof above my head. When I die, it will pass to you and William. The business is rather more complicated.’

  ‘How so?’ Alexander asked, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘You must understand that your father’s life had changed quite dramatically in recent years. He had remarried and gained another son in William. His previous will, the will perhaps to which you refer, was outdated. The problem we faced when deciding what was best for the business in the event of your father’s untimely death was that you and William were still, at the time of writing the will, so very young. It was decided, therefore, that your father’s share of the business would pass to me if you had not yet reached the age of twenty-one.’

  ‘So the business is now legally yours?’ Alexander said.

  ‘Yes, but you will both continue to run it alongside Mr Moore, as you have so competently done since Stanley became ill, and one day, when you are both past twenty-one and deemed worthy of the responsibility, you shall inherit an equal share.’

  ‘Deemed worthy?’ Alexander said. ‘By you, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, of course, by me. Who else knows you better? But you have no cause for concern, surely? You and William are becoming fine gentlemen. You have both more than adequately demonstrated your ability to run the business together. As soon as you reach the age of majority, this pen factory will belong in part to both of you.’

  Before any more could be said on the matter, Angelica took up her hat again and set it in place on her head. ‘Now, I must go and speak to Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘Stanley has bequeathed to him the very generous sum of fifty pounds.’

  With that, Angelica pulled her veil down over her face and left the office, wondering how Mr Hardy was going to take the news that he was to be dismissed. With both Alexander and William now in management positions at the factory, and Mr Hardy having taught them so well in the three years since they had begun their apprenticeships, there was no further need for him as far as Angelica was concerned. She saw him now as little more than a drain on the purse strings at a time of uncertainty and change at Hampton and Moore, and she had no doubt that her partner would see things the same way.

  She supposed the fifty pounds Stanley had left to Mr Hardy would help him on his way, but what news to give him first? It was difficult to know which Mr Hardy would prefer, not that it mattered to her. As she headed down the steps to the lower shop floor, she decided to tell him about the money first, imagining that the g
ood news would help to sweeten the bad.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Before dinner on the day Angelica sacked Mr Hardy, she was leaving William’s room when she saw one of the maids in her black-and-white livery approaching along the corridor.

  ‘Sarah!’ Angelica called to her. ‘I need you to do something for me.’ She turned back into William’s room. ‘I’ll see you at dinner, William.’

  She closed the bedroom door as Sarah arrived.

  ‘Yes, madam?’ Sarah said, her coarse tones never pleasing to Angelica’s ears.

  Angelica had one of Stanley’s pens in one hand, and a small bundle of off-white fabric in the other, which she held out to Sarah. ‘This pillowcase needs to be laundered,’ she said, handing it to her. She glanced back at William’s door and Sarah’s eyes followed hers. ‘It has a bloodstain on it.’

  ‘So it does,’ Sarah said, holding the pillowcase up to better study it. ‘I don’t know if it’ll come out, mind. It’s dried right into the cloth.’

  ‘Well, ask the laundry maid to do her best, will you? One can ask no more.’

  Angelica made to leave.

  ‘It’s one of the late Mr Hampton’s pillowcases,’ Sarah said, drawing attention to the embroidered monogram.

  ‘Yes, what of it?’

  Sarah glanced at the bloodstain again, and then looked back at William’s door. If there was something on her mind, she didn’t speak it. ‘Nothing, madam,’ she said with a curtsey before she continued about her business.

  Angelica continued about hers, taking the opposite direction, towards Alexander’s room. The pen she was carrying was from Stanley’s collection. According to his will, it now belonged to Alexander, whose room was several doors along, at the top of the main staircase. She stopped outside and knocked.