The Last to Know

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Lady Mary?” I had recognized her voice, but, oh, how altered she sounded—wild with grief. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I saw her, and I saw where we were.

  And I saw what she held in her arms.

  The space was nearly circular. All at once it came to me. In my wanderings, I had found my way to the base, the very base, of one of the towers for which Carsholt was so noted, perhaps even that in which I slept. Towers which had once formed part of the defenses of this place and were of a very early date in its history.

  But, more than this, it seemed I had discovered a crypt, the crypt of the Carsholt family itself, perhaps, for ranged around the floor and on massive wall shelves were stone sarcophagi and lead-covered coffins of all sizes.

  And there stood Lady Mary, abundant hair loose and wild about her shoulders, and clasped in her arms was a tiny casket—an infant’s coffin. Cousin, the horror of that moment has robbed sleep from my eyes for many and many a night. “You asked me about my son. This is my son!” she said and collapsed to her knees, cradling the white box to her breast. I hurried toward her and, not caring for the dirt of the floor, knelt down.

  “And I am his father.” Holding the sobbing woman with her dreadful burden, I looked up to find Kit Carsholt framed in the doorway behind me. It was he who had spoken. “The last of the Carsholts. There will never be another.” His voice broke; his anguish as great as hers.

  Lady Mary stumbled to her feet. I could not stop her; she had the strength of the crazed. “We must baptize him, Kit, it’s not too late. He must go to heaven with all the other little babies. It is not his fault, it was never his fault. He must . . .” Her voice died away as Kit moved to her side. Lovingly he kissed the fair, wide brow of the woman at his side; gently he held her. Together they gazed down upon the box that contained the remains of their child.

  I was transfixed by the horror of the scene; a son and his mother and their child? Their baby must be long dead. What priest would baptize a coffined corpse, the product of incest?

  Soothingly, Kit spoke to the distraught woman in his arms. “Yes. He shall be christened, my darling; we owe him that. We will find someone who understands, a kindly priest. But he is already an angel, our little boy, with all the others. How could it be otherwise?”

  Kit Carsholt looked at me. He was a lost and broken man. The restless, raffish idler from the train had vanished; here stood one who had suffered greatly but returned, it seemed, to face what must be faced.

  And I, ashamed, understood in that moment that my callow judgment of Mr. Kit was the gravest error of my life. The glittering surface of the man had seemed the substance, but I was wrong, so very wrong. Until this day what had I known of the human heart, its strength and power? What had I understood of the burdens it carried in silence?

  Slowly the grieving parents moved off into the shadows of that place, murmuring endearments to their dead child. A nightmare had crossed into our living world.

  And I? I backed away, Cousin, a hand to my mouth to stifle the pity and the terror. A great wave of desperate sadness engulfed me. I was crazed as they were with grief. Distantly, muffled by stone and the weight of centuries, I heard a gun discharge. And I knew.

  Graveney had hurried to his master when he heard the shot, for he understood where Sir Henry would be. There, in the oldest part of the house, amongst the swords and shields of his ancestors, under the eyes of their portraits, amongst their armor and the spoils of forgotten wars, Sir Henry Carsholt had put an elephant gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  Having fled the crypt, I found my way to the great hall, to the chaos of shocked and sobbing servants, amongst whom was Jane. Softly she whispered to me what I had already guessed of Sir Henry’s fate.

  Cousin, he could not bear the shame. His wife, his beloved second wife, had had an affair with his son. And once Sir Henry was told the dreadful facts—Lady Mary herself had confessed them—Kit was disowned and banished.

  But her punishment was to remain at her husband’s side, for he would not release her from the marriage, though he could have. And the misery continued for Lady Mary. She had never given Sir Henry a child, but she had conceived one with her lover, his son.

  It might have seemed a blessing, at first, that the baby died on the day of its birth; the little boy was never mentioned again between the husband and the wife—neither was Kit. And through the succeeding year, Lady Mary continued the toast of the county, as she had always been, holding her head high amongst the swirl of gossip, refusing all comment until, at last, starved of fuel, the malice died away. Henry Carsholt thought that the routine of duty and family honor was stronger than love. He was wrong.

  Secretly, Lady Mary had sought her lover as he wandered from country to country in the long, erratic months of his exile. An exile in which he strove to obliterate his past and his name, strove to find oblivion in places so far from Europe some were recognized on no existing map.

  Lady Mary’s messenger had reached him finally in Irkutsk as that summer waned. Her letter contained an account of the birth and death of their son, but she had also sent him a packet in which there was a ring engraved with the Carsholt crest. It was a token of her enduring love and a reminder of who he was and always would be: the eldest son of an ancient and noble house. This was the ring I had seen on the train, the very same that had been amongst my sheets that morning.

  Lady Mary had not expected Kit Carsholt would return to England—she had been too proud to ask for that—but she reckoned without the true strength of his feeling for her. A weeks-long journey followed the arrival of her letter as he found his way by sled and horseback and boat until, finally, fate decreed that he and I should meet, strangers on a train, acting out the roles which society and custom had assigned to us.

  Perhaps my presence as a guest eased the moment of Kit’s homecoming for all beneath the roof of Carsholt Hall—since the façade of normalcy must be maintained for outsiders to the family. Yet I was merely an incidental player in this tragedy, a walker-on. They, the Carsholts, carried the burden of the drama . . .

  And, Cousin, I never knew, and I was never told, how the ring came to be in my bed on that fateful morning. But I believe Kit put it there, intending I should give it to Lady Mary, as, indeed, I did.

  Now there is little enough left to tell, but for the final thing. Bear with me, I pray, as I write what remains.

  Carsholt Hall was sold not long after Sir Henry’s death, and, to this day, I do not know what became of Lady Mary and Kit Carsholt. They disappeared immediately following the tragedy, and their flight was more than a nine-day wonder in the county and in London. Speculation and lurid tales stalked their memory like shadows for a time, though none of them was the truth as I knew it.

  For many years I liked to think, and hope, that they were permitted to make a life together, somewhere far away from the prying eyes, the vicious tongues of the county. Italy, perhaps, where this is little English society once away from Rome or Venice, and where the manner of life is, I believe, more relaxed.

  And I liked to hope, too, that they had other children to replace the little boy who died, though, of course, she was so much older than he.

  As for me, I returned home from Carsholt Hall to Portman Square on the train with Jane that very evening. We had to travel in third class—the train was full and I could not persuade the conductor otherwise. Naturally, my mother and father were much alarmed to find us home at dawn of the next day, setting down from a hackney.

  She, my mother that is, demanded and received the truth—every shred of it. And though incredulous, horrified, and scandalized, my parents decided that what had happened should never be spoken of again. They vowed me to silence on the events at Carsholt Hall in honor of Sir Henry’s memory and, from my point of view at least, of Lady Mary’s as well.

  This trust I kept sacred until this very moment of writing to you. I refused to speak of what I knew, even to my sisters, something which caused considerable heat betwee
n us for a time. Naturally, my mother said that I must endure the gossip, the curiosity, and the questions which swirled around me in the course of the next Season with restraint (yes, Cousin, you were one of my interrogators, as you may recall).

  But what, I hear you ask, has now changed that I may finally share what I know with you, my lifelong friend? The answer lies in the contents of a package I received only lately in the post. Perhaps you have guessed what I am about to tell you.

  It was only a little box, but inside it there was a ring: a diamond ring engraved with the crest of the Carsholts. And with it, a simple note addressed to me from a certain lawyer who has offices in the Inner Temple.

  I had been left a legacy—the ring—from his client, a certain Mr. K. Carsholt, who had lately passed away. The lawyer had been instructed to tell me that “the stranger on the train” apologized to me for any alarm or offense he might have unwittingly caused on the day we met, and that he wished me to have the ring as token of his regard for me and for my family. And his thanks for my discretion over the years.

  There was nothing else.

  And now this sad history is done. You may well imagine the relief it has been for me to share, at last, the secrets I have known for so very many years.

  I, yes, I freely confess that the events at Carsholt Hall changed the course of my life, for, even so young, I was vouchsafed a glimpse of transcendent passion. Afterward, the callow affections of girlhood and even those of maturity were never enough for me.

  In the end, I did not meet a man whom I could have loved as much as Lady Mary loved Kit Carsholt, as much as he loved her. And I decided that my life must be all or nothing, Cousin. All—or nothing.

  And now I must close, as the shadows of evening beckon, and my bed awaits. I am tired but very glad that, finally, you know the truth.

  And I shall remain, forever,

  Your very good friend and affectionate cousin,

  Elinor Fairfax

  P.S. May we shortly meet once more, in this world or the next. Even if I have changed, you will recognize me, for I shall be wearing Kit Carsholt’s ring.

  The Dressmaker

  A passionate tale of a woman ahead of her time

  Raised in rural Norfolk, Ellen Gowan had a childhood poor but blessed with affection. Resilience, spirit, and one great talent will eventually carry her far from such humble beginnings. In time, she will become the witty, celebrated, and very beautiful Madame Ellen, dressmaker to the nobility of England, the Great Six Hundred. A meeting of the romance of Jane Austen, the social commentary of Charles Dickens, and the very contemporary voice of Posie Graeme-Evans, The Dressmaker plunges the reader deep into Victorian England in all its rich and spectacular detail.

  Read on for a look at Posie Graeme-Evans’s

  The Dressmaker

  Currently available from Atria Books

  Excerpt from The Dressmaker copyright © 2010 by Millennium Pictures Pty. Limited and Posie Graeme-Evans

  CHAPTER 1

  THERE is a proverb that the salt air of the Fen country breeds folk who are constitutionally hardy. Those that it does not kill. on the first of August 1843, Lammas Day, Ellen Gowan’s thirteenth birthday had at last arrived. And today, though she did not know it, the saying would play out in her own life.

  As light lifted in the village of Wintermast within distant sight of the Norfolk Broads, pink dawn faded to a haze of gold and pearl. The reapers had been busy all the preceding week in the fields, and the sap of fresh-cut meadow grasses sweetened the air.

  Ellen woke as the walls of her white bedroom flushed to rose. She pulled back the window lace and sighed with a happiness so profound, her chest ached. Finally, it was here—it had begun! For, as well as her birthday, this was the final day of term for her father’s pupils—the day scholars that the Reverend Edwin Gowan, Curate of Wintermast, taught in the front room of their rectory. In the coming autumn, five of the seven boys would leave for their grown-up schools. And Connie, Ellen’s mother, with the willing assistance of her daughter (and their servant Polly’s bossier interference) had prepared a feast to celebrate both these great events. Downstairs, beneath a covering of muslin, all the treats were laid out in the pantry ready to be displayed to their guests. Every dish, every bowl and platter they possessed was mounded high with delicacies.

  Ellen had a new dress, too, though she was not supposed to know. Her mama had made it for her. She had seen it as she climbed the stairs to her room one evening. A glimmering shape, it had lain partly finished across her mother’s bed. That glimpse was enough to show that the dress was too small to be Connie’s.

  It now hung in her parents’ armoire among their own few clothes, for there was nowhere else to hide a surprise of such magnitude in their small cottage. Perhaps, when Ellen put it on, her mother’s dressing mirror would help her see if the hue suited her. She was particular about such things. She knew that each person looked good in some colors and not at all in others.

  Thirteen. It seemed a great age. Ellen sighed with the responsibility. And then she giggled. Serious thoughts at the beginning of this glorious day? No!

  A soft tap came at her bedroom door. Edwin and Constance Gowan were considerate parents.

  “Ellen?” This was her mother’s gentle voice “Are you awake? We have something for you.”

  Ellen lifted the latch to greet her smiling mother and father. “Certainly, Mama!”

  “Happy birthday, dearest child. Salutations!” As he entered the room, Edwin Gowan leaned down from his substantial height, careful not to knock his brow against the roof beam of the low room.

  “How splendid you look, Papa!”

  Ellen’s handsome, if gaunt, father had dressed for today’s celebrations with particular care. over his usual suit of black canonicals—well brushed and sponged by Connie—he wore his doctoral gown from Cambridge. The silk had faded from its original scarlet, and yet the wide sleeves and cloaklike fall of the garment lent the Reverend Doctor Gowan a startling glamour.

  Ellen lifted her face to be kissed. Edwin hesitated. His daughter was a child still, yet she was changing. Morning light declared the truth. Something swept his heart. Wistfulness? Regret?

  “He does look splendid. I do agree.” With eyes only for her daughter, Connie had not seen Edwin’s expression change. “But you, also, must look all you should on your birthday, Ellen.” Stepping forward, Connie Gowan displayed their gift. Across her arms lay a mass of flower-sprigged silk, jade green and pink on an ivory ground. This was not a dress. It was a gown. The first that their daughter had ever been given. For Ellen, all the promise of that one quick glance so many nights ago was here fulfilled.

  “Oh, Mama.” The child was awed. She did not know that the gift had been created from the last dress remaining in her mother’s trousseau. That gown had been packed away in lavender years ago for just such a time, and Connie’s nimble fingers and many evenings working by lamplight had wrought the transformation.

  “And, a lady must have dancing slippers.” From behind his back Edwin proffered the shoes with a flourish. Fashioned from scraps of the same silk, he had cut and stitched the soles himself.

  Ellen could not know that these would be her father’s last loving gift.

  A kiss for each of her parents and Ellen ran to the window to inspect her presents. She was oblivious of her nightgown and bare feet. “Oh, this is so delightful. How lucky I am. Lucky, lucky, lucky!”

  Edwin grinned at his daughter’s exuberance, and Connie’s breath caught as she looked at him. The yearning, the intensity of the passion she had felt at their first meeting remained in her still. Feeling her glance, he turned and smiled warmly. “Well, wife, we may safely say Ellen delights in your work.”

  “And yours, dearest husband.”

  Edwin slipped an arm around Connie’s waist. They stood close watching their daughter with pleasure as she twirled and posed, until Connie, with a start, said, “Edwin, please ask Polly to bring up a can of water. We must dress
.”

  “Alas, a gentleman has no place in a lady’s dressing chamber. I shall do your bidding, Madame, with dispatch.” Edwin bowed and backed away as if in the presence of a queen. Considering the lowness of the door frame and a floor distinguished by its uneven surface and little else other than a rag rug, Edwin managed a graceful departure.

  “Come, Ellen, we must dress your hair. By its current state, you might have slept in a hedge. The tangles!”

  But Connie Gowan was only pretending severity. Especially when her pretty daughter burrowed into her arms declaring, “I do love you, Mama. And Papa, too. This is the best day of my life!”

  The washing took a little time and dressing the hair rather more. And all because Ellen could not sit still. The girl’s glance continually strayed to the dress laid out across her parents’ bed, and where her eyes went, her body twisted to follow.

  “There. It is done.” Connie stepped back to survey her work. Ellen’s hair (Storm dark, she thought, magnificent!) was naturally abundant. And wild. But Connie had restrained the curls with pins and pomade, weaving them into a shining plaited corona. Ellen bore the unfamiliar weight well, since the carriage of her shoulders was naturally, gracefully proud. True, Ellen was rather young to put up her hair, but today’s party was as grand as the Gowans could manage. Where would be the harm in permitting the child to feel just a little grown up on such a special day?

  “Can I put the gown on now, Mama? oh please. Please!”

  “Very well. But the silk is delicate. It will tear if roughly handled.”

  Ellen colored. “I am careful with all my clothes. You have taught me to be!”

  Connie hugged her outraged daughter. She raised one of Ellen’s hands to her cheek. “Do not be insulted, dear one. The silk is precious to me.” She did not say why, as she turned her daughter toward the window. “Now stand in the light. Let me see if I have judged your form well enough.” Perhaps the fabric whispered of the past as Connie picked up the gown for she was smiling. “Raise your arms, child.” Ellen did as instructed though it was hard not to fidget.