by May Woodward
‘Miss Clemence Somerlee, has anyone told you that you have the loveliest eyes? You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,’ he’d told her during their first dance.
Good gracious – was she really? Whenever she’d looked in her glass, though, she’d still seen no curves where other girls of sixteen had them. Minute breasts and a slender figure. Eyes the colour of an April sky unsure that spring had dawned. And would her moonshine hair ever turn golden blonde?
‘Lovely as a dew-kissed rose.’ The captain had grinned. ‘You will be a beauty, Miss Somerlee. Men will die for you.’
Suddenly, the chandelier they were dancing under had seemed to be radiating fantasy colours from its crystal droplets. She’d blushed as she’d seen herself through this man’s eyes. Later, she would tell the birds in their dawn chorus that she’d met the love of her life.
And, she smiled to herself now, hugging herself with the thrill of it – her eldest brother had not been at all pleased with her wayward choice. Richard had had someone else entirely in mind:
‘You know Lord Fanshawe’s one of my oldest friends?’ Richard had urged. ‘He’d be a meet match for you, Clem. The Woodmancote estate’s not worth as much as it could be, I suppose. But Fanny’s uncle’s the Duke of Ardenne. I want to be in the Lords one day. It could help me, Clemmie…’
Dickon might as well have broken wind. His idea of romantic wooing had well and truly put her off Brandon Fanshawe, Dickon’s friend who she’d known all her life. What do you think the women of your family are, Dickon Somerlee – chips to play to make your fortune with? Oh, yes, no doubt he did, knowing him. At that thought, she’d made a very rude noise with her tongue.
So, James Swynton she’d chosen instead, and fiddlesticks to Richard and the House of Lords. She loved James. She must love James.
When the opera finished, the audience streamed out into the vestibule. Outer garments were collected. Dozens of top hats being decompressed made a pap-pap-pap sound.
The Duke of Ardenne’s party came sweeping through. Richard raised his hat to Lady Amathia Consett. Clemence spotted a flickering smile pass between them. The names of the Baronet of Eardingstowe and Ardenne’s daughter were being coupled in drawing-room gossip.
Clemence linked arms with Richard as the young lady’s velvet and sable cloak swished by.
‘You danced three times with Lady Amathia at the Duke of Westminster’s ball. It has been noticed, you see.’
‘I cannot conceive what you see in the Consetts, Nephew!’ said Lysithea. ‘We’re a much older family.’
‘Well, I’d never seen such radiant loveliness!’ Richard said. ‘Lady Amathia’s diamonds must have been worth a thousand pounds. Certainly captured my heart! And being the granddaughter of the richest slave-trading alderman ever to become a duke, she’d be as charming if she were as plain as a mouse! And I’ll woo the lady with all my antique charm, Aunt,’ he finished, smiling.
Clemence grimaced. She and the Consett girl had been presented at court on the same occasion. Amathia had not endeared herself. Clemence had overheard the flaxen beauty saying to another girl: ‘So tedious having to come to the court dressmaker to have one’s gown made up. How convenient if one’s family was in the trade.’ Had her glance fallen upon Clemence whose family owned an…ahem… cotton mill in… ahem… Manchester? Clemence had a sneaking feeling it had.
More to the point, though, could this woman be trusted with the heart of a beloved brother? Or was Clemence just being the petulant baby sister who resented an intruder stealing Dickon’s affections?
Outside, a storm was blowing. The Consetts had to huddle at the foot of the colonnade steps while their carriage drew up and the coachman alighted to put down the step.
A beggar-woman, who had been crouching beneath the corbels of one of the columns, ventured near. She stretched a hand towards the wonderful lady. Amathia slapped her fan across the woman’s face and stepped towards the coach.
God in Heaven… how cruel. Clemence hurried down the steps, and out from underneath the awning into the rain.
The creature was cowering behind her pillar. Clemence took a hand from her chinchilla muff and reached for the female’s shivering hands. She was no more than thirty, Clemence thought, and drenched from waiting outside the theatre all evening.
‘Do you have any trade?’ she quickly asked.
‘I was a seamstress, miss. Lost my position, though, and cannot get another.’
Clemence read a lot into that. An unwanted child had quickened in her belly. Her employer had discarded her. She would never work again, and would likely perish in the workhouse, unmissed.
‘Listen. I want you to go to Somerlee House in Aldgate,’ Clemence told the woman. ‘Tell Mrs Weeks Miss Clemmie sent you, and wants you taken on to work in the sewing-room.’ She reached into her reticule. ‘Here’s money for the omnibus fare. And take my handkerchief as proof I sent you.’
She watched until the woman and her astonished face retreated behind the pillars.
Clemence met up with Richard and Lysithea beneath the awning.
‘What is all that noise?’
From somewhere in the night, down towards the river, came the sound of trumpet music and cheering voices. Had the opera been so dire, Clemence wondered aloud, that the military had been summoned? Meanwhile, an elderly gentleman close by, his moustache quivering, was asking his lady companion: ‘What’s to do, d’you suppose, m’dear?’
‘What in goodness’ name is this all about, then?’ said Lysithea, turning their attention to a peculiar spectacle unfolding on the other side of the street.
A laughing group of three men pushed to the ground what looked like a great, dark-coated bear. The beast rolled on its side into the gutter. Its tormentors then pelted it with unpleasant things. From the cowardly human way the mincing creature put up paws to feebly protect itself, it was evident there was a person play-acting inside the skin.
Meanwhile, though, Clemence’s fiancé, Captain James Swynton was making his way through the crowd.
‘I say! Somerlee! Ladies! My dear!’ he added when he was at Clemence’s side.
‘Hello, my dear Captain,’ Clemence said as he lifted her gloved fingers to his lips.
‘Heard the news, have you?’ he asked all three.
‘We’ve been at the theatre all evening,’ said Richard. ‘Rather mediocre performance of Lucia di Lammermoor frankly. I take it you and the rest of the Haymarket have had more entertainment?’
‘Been dining at the Travellers! That’s where I heard.’ One outside leg of the captain’s yellow-striped scarlet trousers could be seen beneath his cloak. ‘But it’s a dashed damp night! Pray come to my cab while you wait for your carriage.’
‘Thank you, Captain. So kind,’ Richard said, and took his aunt’s arm.
The long line of private vehicles was still edging in single file up to the theatre entrance. It would be half an hour before the Somerlee brougham arrived. Clemence and Lysithea put up their hoods, and all four hurried through the wet to where James Swynton had a cabriolet waiting.
‘There’s been a frightfully unsporting to-do down in the Black Sea,’ the captain began as the ladies climbed into the interior and shook rain from cloaks and muffs. ‘Turkish navy all blown to pieces by that vodka-soused Czar. Oh yes, indeedy! At a port named Sinope. Seems the Turks were trying to send supplies to their troops fighting the Russians in Asia Minor. The cussed Russkies fired on them in harbour and wiped the lot out! Colossal fire swept the waterfront… burned bodies blown all over the place…’
‘Thank you, Captain Swynton,’ said Lysithea.
‘Well, what was so unsporting,’ he continued, ‘the Russkies used shells, not cannons. Poor little Turks didn’t stand a chance.’
‘And where was our navy?’ Richard said in disgust. ‘It’s been out in Constantinople expressly to defend the Ottomans!’
‘Still was,’ said Swynton. ‘Sunning itself and growing plump at the Sultan’s table while the Russians did this ghastly deed. I’ve heard the blighters even put the British flag on their masts to fox those easily-deluded Musselmen. Stap me! I hope I’m there when we teach the rotters a lesson.’
At that point, the little company with the bear swaggered past the cab window… the Russian Bear, of course. All of them, bear included, were singing ‘Cheer, boys, Cheer! For country, Mother country! Cheer, boys, Cheer!’
‘So, it is war, then?’ Lysithea said.
‘I imagine so, Aunt Lizzy,’ said Richard. ‘If Czar Nicholas gobbles up Turkey, we lose the Black Sea and the trade route to India. And methinks Nicholas will soon be looking westwards towards us!’
Clemence felt a feverish current shivering its way through her veins. Her eyes tracked a firework making an arc above the London chimneystacks. Everyone knew the Home Secretary, Palmerston, had been stewing for battle for months. The newspapers had been clanging on Mars’s shield. War had been in the air all summer just as was the scent of honeysuckle and lavender, and at the balls she had attended it had seemed she was dancing to its music. You felt as if you were floating in the clouds. How wonderful to be English, to be alive, how great the time Clemence lived in.
‘Well, nothing can have been decided yet,’ Lysithea went on. ‘The Prime Minister will still favour a diplomatic solution. He was saying as much when I dined with him last week.’
‘Bother Aberdeen! Teach the dogs a lesson!’ said Richard. ‘Else they’ll be heading for England next.’
‘Dash it, won’t be sorry if there is a war, you know!’ said James. ‘We all have to listen to our paters boasting on about what they all did at Waterloo and so-on… And everyone loves teaching a crowned bully like Nicholas a lesson!’
‘But so many might not return home!’ Lysithea said. ‘What worth an England saved but without the flower of her youth?’
‘Ah, but for every drop of English blood spilled, Aunt Lizzy,’ said her nephew, ‘be sure a blossom flowers in her soil!’
‘And spring always follows winter. So, peace follows war, you know!’ Captain Swynton chortled. He reached across the space between the seats and took the hand of Clemence who was sitting opposite. ‘Our regiment has been ordered to stand by. Don’t it make you proud to be a part of history? One of my lot fought at Crécy, you know. Will you come with us, Miss Somerlee?’
A second firework lit up all four people in the carriage. Over near the river, voices could be heard singing ‘Cheer, boys, cheer.’ Another pyrotechnic… in its light, cobbles and the dung and straw-strewn rainwater gushing along the centre gutter glistened sulphur-orange and blood-red.
‘Plenty of officers’ wives are coming, you know,’ Swynton went on, eyes brightening. ‘And you’ll have your brother Aubrey there as well as me to look after you. In fact, we could be married out in the east! Or wherever it is we’re heading. Our Colonel’s not thought to tell us that much yet! Dash it, Aubs could give you away! Picture it, Miss Somerlee… united, you and I, in a little chapel on the shore of the sunlit Black Sea…’
Really, it was appealing, wasn’t it? She had never left England’s shore, and whatever dangers, horrors or heartache might be skulking in the field of war, there would be a sea-breeze in her hair, new lands to see.
‘As a matter of fact, my aunt and I discussed it,’ said Clemence. ‘We would love to accompany you, Captain Swynton.’
‘Yes… I’ve given in… against my better judgment!’ Lysithea said.
James let out a blissful sigh. As he leaned close, Clemence breathed in his vinous odour. She couldn’t help noticing how florid and tubby he looked.
Richard tutted. He lowered his gun. Yet another overweight and unfit victim-to-be had mockingly avoided his aim and flown to safety in the upper boughs.
Rain was pattering the undergrowth. From his host the Earl of Mowbray’s kitchen yard wafted the smell of meat being smoked. The sound of fanning wings disturbed the nearby bushes and branches. A constant crack-crack resounded in the woods all around him; he thought the rest of the shooting party must be enjoying better fortune than was he.
Richard had had poor sport all afternoon – had dispatched just the one slow grandfather woodcock. In truth, he was out in the field more for the breeze in his hair. He’d taken a larger dose of laudanum than he’d intended, and it had left him with a thick head. It was not an addiction, of course. No – laudanum just calmed the nerves when you had a cloud on the mind.
He emerged from the tree cover into a clearing. Some of the female house-party guests were gathered there, although most would be in the warmth of the Earl’s drawing-room. These doughty ones sat chattering beneath an awning and umbrellas, high tea laid out in the tent on trestle tables. He grimaced at sight of the doughy, creamy viands. He hoped Mrs Dean would be up to her usual low standard when he returned to Eardingstowe, so he could discreetly skip dinner for a few nights and shed the pounds he would have gained.
A young woman waved to him from the tent opening. She stepped towards him with care across the wet grass.
‘Frampton, I’ll not be continuing with the shoot,’ Richard told his loader. ‘I believe Lady Amathia desires private talk.’ He surrendered his gun, and then returned the approaching lady’s smile.
She was as fair as winter aconite. But it was in flattering candlelight that he’d danced with her. In November daylight, he saw how plump she was. How he dreamed of the peerage, high office… if he married her, her father the Duke of Ardenne’s influence should get him that.
‘Sir Richard. I trust you are enjoying the meet?’
‘To be sure, Lady Amathia. Mowbray’s renowned for his plentiful game. Unfortunately, my mind has been on other matters today.’
‘Of course. You must be yearning for war to be declared. Two whole weeks, now, since that dreadful affair in Sinope, and still the Government dithers. It’s quite disgraceful.’
‘Yes. But I have pleasanter concerns also.’ He made a small, smiling bow. ‘A warning, Lady Amathia – you should not venture out into the field; you are looking so lovely this day, you are in danger of being taken for an exotic bird of paradise and shot down.’
Amathia gave a light laugh.
‘Come, sir,’ she said. ‘Let’s walk apart together until tea is served.’
He offered her an arm. She slipped through it lace-gloved fingers. Her flowery scent wafted on the air between them.
‘May I, Lady Amathia?’ Richard pointed out in the path ahead of them a rainwater pool filled with mushy leaves. He bounded across, turned, and held out a hand to her. She laid her fingers in his palm and made the hop to the dry ground. The two stood close, almost touching, and smiled at each other.
‘You have prettier manners than your good friend my cousin, Sir Richard,’ Amathia said. ‘I gather you and my kinsman Lord Brandon Fanshawe were at Brasenose together?’
‘And rarely apart since, my lady. He is my goodliest friend.’
‘Poor, lonely young man, I always thought. Cousin Brandon barely knew his papa. Mama even less. Sorry little orphan almost before he was breeched. And doesn’t have a wonderful brood of siblings like you or I, either. Is family important to you, Sir Richard?’
‘Means the world to me, Lady Amathia. I have three grown brothers – Ivo, Aubrey and Carswell – and two sisters, Bella and Clemmie. Once Clemence leaves to get married, only my youngest brother and sister, John and Margaret, will remain at home – they’re children still. They’re dears! I was left with responsibility for them when our parents passed on.’
‘And your home – Eardingstowe? How long has it been in your family?’
‘Around two millennia I believe.’
Amathia blinked slowly; corn-coloured lashes covering surprised grey eyes.
‘That’s a long, long time for a property to b
e in one family.’
‘Indeed, it is.’ Richard broke into a laughing smile. ‘There is an old family legend that we are the last surviving branch of the royal house of Dumnonia.’
‘Gosh!’ said Amathia.
‘All the world likes to think he is descended from King Arthur. But the Somerlees really are, I think.’
Amathia turned and walked a little further along the path. Over a shoulder from behind her umbrella, she cast a dimpled smile.
‘Your brother the cavalryman will be expecting to embark for the war I imagine, Sir Richard? So proud you must be! My own dear brother, being Papa’s heir, is not permitted to join the fray. One cannot risk the line dying out.’
‘Most sensible,’ said Richard. Actually, the Consett line was more like a stump. It began with Consett’s sire who had been a borough alderman. Richard recalled Lysithea laughing once, nose in the air: ‘When we were fighting alongside Drake, that family would have been paddling our oars.’
‘Don’t suppose I could leave either seat, either,’ said Richard. ‘Eardingstowe or the House. My seat is comfortable on the purple cushions for which God designed it.’
‘Personally,’ Amathia confided, halting and facing him, ‘I believe Papa’s preference to keep Philoctetes out of the army might have as much to do with the likelihood that Philo would pass out at sight of a Russian bayonet. My brother’s a dear boy, Sir Richard, but not the stuff of alabaster memorials!’
A chuckle rumbled up through Richard’s insides; she was almost laughing too, looking deep into his eyes.
‘My own pater and I were never close, Lady Amathia,’ he confided. ‘Didn’t trust me with the inheritance! “Why do you think I sent you into Parliament?” the pater used to say. “Don’t mind you sending the country to the dickens – but keep your meddling paws off Eardingstowe!” Since when was I a troublesome Prince Hal to him? I’m not one for gambling the fortune and debauching the housemaids. Yet once when we quarrelled, he said: “Perhaps I should throw you into the mere for Jenny Greenteeth?”’