Friday, 9th June
Oh, my poor heart! I thought by now I should begin to feel better, but I cannot. I think of him in the house with Maria, how quickly everything changed. I told him, before I left, that he should marry her. In my heart I hoped he would deny it, perhaps laugh at my foolish suggestion, but all he said was, ‘She would not have me.’ I think, perhaps, she will. Especially now. All he needs do is ask.
Monday, 12th June
The sun is shining once more, after a week of cloud and rain. It feels as if a heavy curtain has been lifted from the town. Underneath it all, everything is in its place. Everything is exactly as it was.
It reminds me of playing that old game, called Memory, with my father – he would fetch a tea tray and a selection of objects, and place my mother’s silk shawl over it. Then he would tell me to close my eyes tightly, and he would remove something from under the scarf, and hide it; and my task would be to remember what had been there, and decide which of the items was missing. I even remember the objects he used: my sister’s thimble, a candle stub, a pencil, a spoon, a walnut, a skein of Berlin-wool; once he chose a small wooden animal that my brother had whittled. I got to be very good at it, finding different ways to remember what was there. I remember once he tried to fool me by adding an object – a daisy – instead of taking something away. I saw it at once, of course. And I remember afterwards thinking how very strange it was that he should have had a daisy in his pocket, not knowing that I would call upon him that very afternoon to play our game.
I always meant to ask him about it, and I never did, and now of course I never shall. I think of him every day. I wonder what he would have thought of Richard, should he have had the opportunity to meet him. Really Richard was not my father’s sort of man at all; and yet I like to imagine they might have been friends.
Saturday, 17th June
It seems something has been added to the tray, after all!
Clara invited me to tea, and introduced me to the new teacher at the National School. Although she has been there for some time now, the whole time I was in London, so she is not really new at all. Perhaps it is I who am new, and not her.
Her name is Frances Williams, and she seems a very capable sort: tall and quite stern-looking, with her hair very neat under her bonnet, and yet friendly enough. She was interested to hear of my experiences in Hackney. I told her about my girls, about how well they had been progressing, and how my own confidence had grown along with theirs; then of course she asked me why I left. I had been smiling up to that point, but that question, of all the questions she could have posed, quite undid me. I felt the emotion of it rise up to strangle me, and I swallowed some tea and breathed and waited until it passed. I have no doubt at all that she noticed, but she said nothing of it, and when I felt quite better she asked me if I liked to watch the cricket, and whether I should join her on the White Hart Field on Sunday afternoon, before the weather turns. I thought her very kind, and I accepted. Perhaps we will be friends.
Saturday, 24th June
A happy occasion today: my brother’s child, Elizabeth, a fine, bonny girl, was baptised at the parish church. Their fourth child, and first daughter. My first niece. His wife, also Elizabeth, looked well and hearty, although the baby screamed for the duration of the service. It seems to be the custom to name your children after yourself, these days, and I cannot comprehend it. It feels like a vanity, to me. If I am ever blessed with a child, I shall choose a name that nobody else has. Something that will sound intriguing, that will make people want to meet him, or her. And there is nothing intriguing about Harriet!
Afterwards, the Reverend Mr Newell asked me how long I had been back in the town. ‘But a little while,’ I reassured him. He asked why he had not seen me until now, rather oddly I felt, as I had never been a regular attender, preferring to worship at the chapel, as he well knew. I could not find the words to reply, so I smiled and turned away from him. The infant was still squalling, affronted at the wetting of its head and the ancient family Christening gown into which it had been stuffed. And, no doubt, being saddled with the same name as its mother.
And then, at home, a letter from Richard. As if he could see my distress from Fieldgate Street and had taken pity on me, at last. I took the letter out with me, and walked through the fields. Perhaps an hour passed before I could bring myself to read it; and, after all that, it said nothing of any consequence. If he knows, he would surely have said something, so I can only assume that Maria has not told him yet. Or perhaps something has happened. But then surely she would write to me, and she has not.
It is strange to read Richard’s handwriting once more. He wrote me so many letters, and notes, in the time that I lived in his house. You would think it a foolish thing, since we saw each other every day, but he was – he is – a man who expresses himself best by the written word. In London I treasured every note he wrote me, keeping them wrapped in a parcel in my trunk. On my last night in London I burned them all in the fireplace, and I regret my hasty actions bitterly. How I would love to read those letters now! But to do so would only prolong the sadness, and really I must not spend the rest of my life sobbing over what might have become of us. I need to put it behind me and try to find happiness here in Bromley.
I have not burned this letter, of course. I shall keep it here, tucked inside my journal, where it will be safe.
Sunday, 25th June
In an effort to avoid the vicar, and to annoy my mother and my sister, I did manage to go to chapel this morning. I went with Clara Churcher, who leads the Sunday School. The building is quite new, being constructed there only a few years ago. It is much smaller than the parish church inside and out, which makes for a congenial atmosphere. I am pleased to report that the congregation has grown in number since my last visit. I found the service refreshing and very jolly. There are many things different: no catechism, no book of Common Prayer; members of the congregation take turns to read from the Gospel, and there are many hymns, prayers, again, led by members of the congregation of both sexes. The minister there, Mr Verrall, is just as I remember him: an excellent preacher, inspiring and inspired. The atmosphere was a happy one – not for them the sombre filing out of the faithful. In fact they seemed all quite disinclined to depart for their homes!
Thomas Churcher was there, Clara’s brother. I see that now he plays the organ in the services, and is quite grownup. Before I left for London he had been in the habit of accompanying me across the fields after chapel meetings. He immediately offered to do the same today, and it felt quite natural to accept, as I knew from before that we would do so in peaceful silence and my thoughts would not be intruded upon.
At the door, we paused and Clara took great delight in reintroducing me to the reverend. He smiled and told me that of course he remembered me from my previous visits. I shook his hand, rather in awe of him, for he is a handsome man, with fine dark hair and whiskers, and bright blue eyes. He was very interested to hear that I had recently returned from Hackney; he himself had resided in Peckham until five years ago, when he was called to the ministry in Bromley. He told me that there is to be a tea party at his house in a fortnight, and has asked me to attend. There now, I have two invitations already!
Saturday, 1st July
This afternoon I took tea with Miss Williams, the new teacher at the National School. She has a room upstairs at the Beezleys’, directly above the bakehouse, although I think she wishes she had found somewhere more amenable. She did not complain of it but I understand that the walls are thin enough to hear Lottie Beezley cough, and Mr Beezley has already asked her whether she says her prayers regularly, as he has not heard her. She told him that she prays quietly, as the Lord can hear her perfectly well, but from her expression I judged that she prays when she feels the need, and otherwise not at all, and does not take kindly to others paying such close attention to her activities.
Before she took the room at the Beezleys’, she resided at Mason’s Hill with the Misses Mercier, a
nd she asked if I was acquainted with them. I told her that they were stalwarts of the parish church, and I fancy that is almost all I needed to say. I explained to Miss Williams that my own preference was to worship at the Congregational chapel, and how very engaging the services were, and that Clara Churcher – her good friend – also attended; I told her I hoped I might persuade her to join us there one Sunday.
She told me she would consider it. I rather think she will not; I judge from our conversation that she is not an ardent churchgoer, and yet I find I like her a little more for it, instead of a little less.
Friday, 7th July
My sister seems to have taken exception to my attendance at the chapel. All week there has been a difficult atmosphere at home, with her hardly being able to speak to me in a civil fashion. After supper I told her I was going to attend the women’s prayer meeting and she boiled over in rage! She called me a heathen, said that I should think of our mother and everything she has been through, exclaimed how all that she has left is her reputation and how she would not stand by to see me ruin even that … and she said far worse things besides. Things that led me to believe she has intruded on my privacy in the worst possible way. I am ashamed to say I raged back at her, called her a sneak and a hypocrite, and then I left. My mother is growing deaf but even she must have heard us, for as I put on my bonnet and my shawl she looked at me in a way that suggested her sympathies lay with Mary Ann, and not with me.
I need to find somewhere secure, where I can keep this journal without its being discovered; and perhaps I need to be more discreet about certain matters in London, just in case she should decide to intrude again. Perhaps I shall just carry it with me at all times, and sleep with it under my pillow. In fact I care little for Mary Ann’s opinions of me, but I promised faithfully to keep certain matters secret, and to reveal them, even accidentally, to my hot-headed sister would be just awful.
I walked across the fields and into town, and made my way directly to the chapel. Clara was not there – I still do not know why – but Susannah Garn was, and Jane Humphrey, and they both saw I was upset and made to comfort me. When the prayers commenced, the two of them prayed for my family to have wisdom, and to be forgiven for their harshness, and for me to be blessed with the Grace of the Holy Spirit and to know I was loved. I was touched by their sensitivity and kindness towards me, and the emotion of it all spilled out. I think it was many things: the argument at home, the letter from Richard, and the constant, nagging ache in my heart of missing someone I loved dearly – all of that came out and I cried and sobbed. Susannah Garn put her arm about my shoulders and Jane prayed, and some of the other women prayed too, quietly, allowing me to be overcome and not judging me for it.
Afterwards, I walked back to the Market Place with Susannah and I asked her how the chapel could be so very different from the parish church and still be in the service of the Lord. She told me I should visit the reverend, and ask for his opinion, for he was very vocal on the ways the High Church kept God separated from His people.
She left me at the pump to go to her home, and I, disinclined to return to the house, paid a call on Miss Williams, who fortunately was at home and seemed pleased to see me. I told her that I had had a disagreement with my sister, and she told me I was welcome to sleep with her, but I knew my mother would worry if I did not come home, even if my sister did not.
Still, Miss Williams – Frances – made me tea and I felt all the better for it. I stayed late talking about the school, and there is some honesty about conversations had late into the evening, even if they are conducted in a whisper, lest the Beezleys should overhear.
Her opinion of Mrs Campling is very similar to mine, and yet she has learned to better Mr Campling when his wife is not present, just by standing up to him and not capitulating. She says she learned this from Mrs Campling herself, from observing how she behaved with her husband, and by copying her tone and stance. She says Mr Campling is as much in fear of his wife as everyone else is, and he disguises this by being angry and violent when crossed, but he is a bully and all bullies are by nature afraid. Thus far Mr Campling has shouted at her and threatened her with dismissal, but has never yet taken it further. She says she rather enjoys it when he is angry, for he reminds her of a stove that has overheated and is about to blow.
She told me all this, whispering and giggling quietly, and I felt so very encouraged by it; not so much by her bravery, although I admired her very much for that, but because I truly felt that in her I had found a friend.
Saturday, 8th July
Another letter from Richard. The letter I had been expecting but dreading. He tells me he and Maria are to be married, quietly, on Tuesday next. A simple ceremony with just a few witnesses present. He thanks me for introducing him to my friend, and says that it has changed his life completely. He says he is so sorry that I felt I needed to leave the household, as it had been filled with such happiness with me in it, and that it is very much quieter without me.
What did he expect? That I could continue to live with them both, once they had fallen in love? Once everything changed? That I should perhaps be a sort of – whatever the correct word is – a concubine for him? He has always surrounded himself with young women, he himself said as much – that he drew life and energy and enthusiasm from having pretty girls to admire; perhaps he meant us to be some sort of harem, such as the Arabs have! I knew I would never be the only girl he admired, but at least in my time with him he did not favour anyone over me. He was generous and loving and kind to all, and discreet. The jealous Harriet thinks now that he probably had several girls to entertain him while I lived in his house, but if he did I never saw evidence of them. When I was with him, at first he focused all of his attention, his love, his favour, on me. It’s quite a dazzling thing, to be so admired. Small wonder I fell in love with him.
And Maria – perhaps, now some time has passed, I feel the loss of her even more than I feel the loss of him. We were such very dear friends, from the very start. She had been so very kind to me when I started at the school and was homesick; it had been the most natural thing to suggest to Richard that she should move from Philpott Street to lodge with us, instead. And, after everything that happened, I had thought that by leaving London I might be able, at least, to assure her continued friendship, even if I had lost Richard. But that was naïve.
I remember that night so clearly: Richard at his club, and Maria sobbing, sobbing; and how I held her for hours and told her everything would be all right, that she was safe, that nothing bad would happen, that Richard loved her so much more than he loved me.
And the next morning I told her I would leave; and she wept again with what must have been relief, and she apologised and thanked me. She did not tell me not to be foolish; she did not beg me to stay. She said she should miss me and wondered however was she to manage without her best friend, and said that I should come to visit whenever I wanted, at least once a month or more. Only hours later, when I was packing my books into the bottom of the trunk, did she come to me and stand in the doorway and ask about the school, and what she should say to the girls. I replied that I would hand in my notice the next day, and that I should need to stay until the end of the week at least, and I would tell the girls myself.
She said nothing and left the room. I believe she had thought I was planning to leave there and then, maybe without even saying goodbye to Richard. But I was not going to just run away, as though I had committed some sort of crime.
After that there was an uneasy atmosphere in the house. I told Richard I was leaving; I did not tell him why. That is, I told him I was needed at home. Whether he believed it or not, he said but little. He was sullen and withdrawn, and kept to his study.
Maria stayed away from me. Perhaps she was afraid I might change my mind. It had been a hasty decision, and I had the whole of that week to regret it; but lying awake in my small attic bed I thought and thought and could see no other solution. Richard loved Maria. He did not look at me i
n the same way; he did not love me as fiercely as he loved her. How could I stay, and watch that love deepen? It would surely destroy me.
I think now that perhaps Maria was not quite the friend I thought she was. I introduced her to Richard because she was still so much the way I had been, on first arriving in London: dazed by it all, by the noise and the busyness and the people. Richard had such a calming, positive way about him, and he knew so many good people. He could help her, I thought, as he had helped me. How naïve I was! And, perhaps, how foolish of me not to fight for him. I never told Maria that I was sweet on Richard, because I thought she might judge me unkindly. And then she told me she loved him, and of course I didn’t judge her for that at all.
And she has not written to me, not once. Perhaps she does not know what to say to me.
So Richard and Maria are to be married, and they have not even invited me to attend their wedding. I see Richard’s hand in that decision. He does not want to risk changing his mind.
Saturday, 8th July
I had not the heart for it, but I had less inclination to stay at home, so this afternoon I went to Mr Verrall’s tea party. He lives with his family in a fine white stucco house a half-mile or so out along Widmore Lane, quite a way from the town. The house is beautiful and very grand for a reverend of such a small chapel. I was quite taken aback when I saw it, and wondered if I should call at the back door instead of the front. But then a maid admitted me and I was shown into a drawing room.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 32