by May Woodward
Clemence was in her bedchamber most hours. Amathia didn’t believe she’d seen the woman since yesterday. Clemence, indeed, hardly went outside at all except to pray on her bony knees in St Laurey’s. Not even that, now, for over a week.
Now, what could be wrong with that headcase – more wrong than usual, that was?
Richard took up The Times, which had been left on his favourite armchair in the lounge of the Carlton Club as he liked it.
Let’s see what’s on the business page.
Smoky Mountain Shares Soaring
The Smoky Mountain gold mine continues to grow from strength to strength, our reporter Mr Hughes writes.
The mine, in the Transvaal province of South Africa, was opened in 1855 after the discovery of the gold seam. Since then, vast quantities of the precious mineral have been extracted.
The Smoky Mountain Company, which controls all share stock in the mine, has seen its own profits double in the last quarter. Sir Roger Cormorant, Director of Smoky Mountain, said:
‘The output from the mine has been quite overwhelming. It has exceeded even my expectations. Smoky Mountain has made a terrific boost to the economy of the Transvaal, created employment for hundreds, as well as attracting investors from as far as Iceland and South America. Today I’m meeting three Swiss financiers with a view to funding further underground exploration.’
Yesterday, Her Majesty the Queen was seen sporting a necklace of Smoky Mountain gold at a royal drawing-room at Windsor Castle…
Richard read, engrossed, until a party colleague came and joined him. Richard put the newspaper aside.
Later, as he was returning home to Somerset on the Great Western Railway, he went back to the story about the gold mine. What a good read. Took his mind off having to apologise to his wife for the ding-dong they’d had.
‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved on Monday, Amathia. It was dreadful of me. Your father’s ill. However much I don’t get on with the fellow, he is your flesh and blood. Please accept my apology.’
‘Perhaps a good night’s sleep would do you good, sir?’
Amathia turned away from him in the fourposter bed, on her side, concealing her face. Would he take the hint and clear off?
But no – Richard perched on the edge of the mattress. Still, if he was depressed about money, he shouldn’t be in the mood for anything else. She didn’t mind him sleeping beside her, as long as that was all he did. At least he didn’t snore. And with his extra padding he was plenty snug. And Eardingstowe by night was rather creepy. She kept dreaming Jenny Greenteeth was sneaking in through the casement.
Why had he married her, she wondered? Wanted to be a duke’s son-in-law, didn’t he, and his clodhopping, bumpkin self supping cider in the gracious halls of the House of Lords one day.
And now it sounded as if his row with her father had brought on a seizure.
‘I noticed no sign of ill-health,’ Richard had reported in surprise when the telegram from her brother had arrived that evening. ‘Fellow was shouting like a street-vendor when I saw him last. Huge purple face… pumping veins. Thought he looked in very rude health! Although I know his doctor’s been warning him for years to cut down on the brandy and sweet puddings.’
Suddenly, she thought she loved her dear papa very much. If he died, she would blame Dickon. She and her noble sire had never been close, true; she could call to mind no affection from him, ever. But she wanted to see him if he was dying. He must, after all, be leaving some kind of will.
‘I’ve ordered the carriage for mid-morning,’ she told her husband. ‘I must visit my poor father if he is so ill.’
‘I don’t know why you didn’t go straight away. I’d have let you have the carriage.’
‘It would have come to grief in the dark on the roads whose upkeep you, as Justice of the Peace, have sadly neglected.’
‘Very drole, my dear!’
He grunted his way into bed and turned his shoulders away. The pair lay in silence, backs to each other, for a long while.
Moonlight slunk through gaps in the drapes and fell shimmering on the faded satin of the Provençal quilt. You could see the criss-crossing bars of the lattice reflected in it. Whiteness shone too on the blackened oak of the bedframe. The fourposter in Eardingstowe’s master bedroom was two hundred years old. The posts were carved into a pattern of coiling yew needles and quatrefoils. Richard, Lizzy, Clemmie and the others had all been born in it. Conceived too one must suppose.
‘Richard,’ Amathia said. ‘What is the matter with your sister? Is she ill?’
‘No, not ill… I don’t think.’ The baronet fell silent again.
Amathia did a bit more probing.
‘Clemence has not left the house for three weeks, sir. The servants are gossiping… and shut up when I come upon them. Clearly, they see me as an outsider not to be trusted with family secrets! But you must learn to trust me, Richard. I’m your wife.’
Richard heaved himself into an upright position, bracing his back against the propped-up pillow. He twiddled his fingers and opened and shut his lips several times before speaking.
‘Clemence has been like this once or twice before. Last time was when our father died. If she goes outside she… well… she cannot breathe… almost suffocates… passes out.’ He fiddled with the tasselled edging of the quilt. ‘I’ve consulted a few doctors about this matter – discreetly, of course. But the only explanation they can give is hysteria… or madness,’ he concluded on a bit of a choke. ‘And then, of course,’ Richard continued, ‘I think back to her breakdown when Aubrey went missing.’
Amathia reached across the space of goose-down mattress which lay between them. She took hold of his hand.
‘So, it is upheaval and tragedy which affect her, then?’ she said in soft, worried tones. ‘But why now? The war has been over for more than two years.’
‘I cannot imagine, Amathia! I have not quarrelled with her or said anything to upset her… nothing I can think of, anyway.’
‘And nor I, Richard.’
‘I get so concerned, Amathia, when anyone mentions madness.’ His hand, still clasped in hers, felt a little damp. ‘You know we have an aunt in Dwellan House? And I believe there was a great-uncle too…’
‘Maybe Clemence is only hysterical, Richard. A notorious female affliction! Some might say it is her continued unmarried state which has brought this on!’ He didn’t seem to notice her flippancy, being deep in thought.
Richard sighed.
‘Ah, well, my dear…’ A smile crept across his face as it slowly swivelled around to her.
Amathia knew that look. She couldn’t dignify it by calling it lust. Lust was what he might feel for some dairy woman or Haymarket doxy. No, what crossed Richard’s features when he was in the mood for taking his conjugal rights was a kind of contempt, as if he blamed Amathia for the discomfort in his undergarments. What went through her mind meanwhile when he was doing his stuff was the soon-to-be-dead-and-damned surging up the Great Redan’s slippy, sloping V, and – oh, you happy Roosians – blasting the invader to smithereens. When he’d done, she would picture the citadel and smoking harbour of Sebastopol in ruins.
‘I don’t enjoy this any more than you, Amathia.…’
‘We already have a child, sir. Healthy, as far as I’m aware.’
‘But – in case it has escaped your notice, dear – the wrong sex!’
THIRTEEN
Richard settled into his Carlton chair another evening in March. He picked up his copy of The Times and turned to the business page.
Lord Makes a Mint From Smoky Mountain
Lord Hubert Spuffington spoke publicly yesterday of the success of his share venture in the Smoky Mountain Mine Company. Lord Spuffington was one of the earliest investors in the South African mine.
Richard bristled at the name Lord Spuffington. A long-time foe of
his, and rival for cabinet post should Derby ever get into Downing Street.
‘I’ve never been a fellow for the stock market, really,’ said His Lordship. ‘I’m a racing man. But my cousin lives out in the Cape and knew all about Smoky Mountain from the start. He persuaded me I should take a look at the mine. I’m jolly glad I did. I’ve just received my first returns and I’ve made a fourfold profit! I’m quite overwhelmed.’
Smoky Mountain Company Director, Sir Roger Cormorant, said:
‘I’m delighted for Lord Hubert, and of course for Smoky Mountain.’
As new gold seams continue to be found in the mine in Transvaal, South Africa, the price of shares in the company has risen to five pounds and is expected to rise still further. The mine was first discovered by Boer farmer Piet…’
Richard slapped the newspaper down and took a long drink.
At Westminster the next day, he spotted Lord Spuffington alighting from his carriage. The two men curtly nodded to each other and exchanged insincere greetings. Spuffington was showing no sign of his new prosperity. Same frock coat and black silk waistcoat he’d been sporting for two seasons. But then he always was a parsimonious bounder.
Strolling through St Stephen’s Hall towards the Central Lobby, Richard asked a colleague:
‘What do you think of this gold mine in South Africa, Mr Anstruther?’
‘Which gold mine would that be, old boy?’
‘Smoky Mountain. It was in The Times.’
Mr Anstruther pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘Must have missed it. Good investment is it, what?’
Richard felt a surge of jealousy.
‘Oh, not really, Mr Anstruther. Nothing worth investing in. Just a story about a nasty accident in the mine, that’s all.’
He barely listened to the debate in the Chamber that day. He returned home to Somerlee House in Aldgate, deep in thought.
A few evenings later, as Richard was entering Covent Garden Theatre, a fellow was arguing with the box office clerk.
‘I say, this is dashed inconvenient, you know. Why, my man came by only this morning to reserve my ticket. My name’s Sir Roger Cormorant. Please check again.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I really do not have a reservation in that name.’
‘How deuced perplexing! The only performance of Nozze di Figaro this season and I miss it because of this theatre’s bumbling incompetence!’
As the harassed clerk struggled for his livelihood, Richard stepped across.
‘I say,’ he ventured, removing his hat, ‘I could not help but overhear your predicament, sir. In fact, I have a spare ticket. My wife is unable to attend due to an indisposition.’ She was nothing of the sort. She was far away in Eardingstowe and the other ticket had been meant for his courtesan, who had not yet arrived and would be sent packing when she did. ‘Perhaps you would be my guest, sir?’
‘Well!’ said the man. His rugged face lit up with astonished delight. ‘How generous of you, sir! I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of prior acquaintance.’
‘Richard Somerlee, Baronet of Eardingstowe.’ He inclined his head.
‘Why, I know of you, sir. One of the few members of Derby’s party who speaks sense in my opinion.’
‘Oh, really, sir?’ said Richard, who didn’t often get such compliments.
‘Why, yes! I was most impressed with how you spoke against the Education Bill. You were quite right, sir! How can a poor man feed his family if he has to send his little ones to school instead of putting them to work in the mills and factories? Outrageous piece of legislation in my opinion!
‘Pleased to meet you, indeed! And I, sir, am Roger Cormorant.’ Cormorant held out a hand. The two men clasped and shook. ‘I have a little mining company you’ve probably never heard of. Named Smoky Mountain…’
Inside his gloves, Richard’s palms were sticky with excitement.
‘I believe I read something in The Times recently,’ he said. ‘But come, sir, let us divest ourselves of coat and canes; and since you clearly love opera as much as I do, pray accompany me afterwards to Bertolini’s for supper where we may discuss the performance …’
The two men left the restaurant in the early hours of the morning, both a little worse for drink.
‘I am rather interested in buying shares in your mine, Sir Roger.’ Richard signalled to the doorman to summon them a cabriolet.
‘Delighted to do business with you, sir,’ said Cormorant.
Not long into their conversation, Richard had learned that his new acquaintance was a Winchester old boy like himself. Tough, Richard thought, beneath his elegant manners and greying moustache; as if he had struggled through hardships to get where he was. A pale cicatrix dignified one cheek – relict of some honourable duel in Cormorant’s past, perhaps? Richard admired that.
‘I shall make a small investment to begin with. See what sort of return I get. If I see a handsome enough profit, I shall increase my outlay.’
‘Clearly you are a man of sound financial sense, sir.’ Cormorant beamed.
Ought Richard to consult his man of business first, though? Oh, fiddlesticks. Even if this gold mine was to collapse in a flash flood tomorrow, he would only have lost a thousand pounds or so. He’d lost more than that in a single night at Crockford’s. And if Smoky Mountain truly was the cornucopia The Times would have him believe… well, it might just make him rich…
Amathia piled apple scones and lemon curd onto her breakfast plate. She was dressed all in black – her father had passed away a month earlier.
She paused before taking her seat at the dining-table, looking from the window.
Eardingstowe’s informal dining-room stood on the upper floor. This was the closest point in the house to the chapel. In a high wind, the yew tree’s boughs would rap the glass. The old needled monster was making a creaking noise even now when nothing but a gentle spring zephyr was wafting through its limbs. When the yew fell, so went the aphorism, so would the Somerlees? Wouldn’t Amathia love to take out an axe… ooh, choppy, choppy, chop in her dreams!
‘Good gracious, Dickon. What has your sister been doing?’
Eating his breakfast and reading the newspaper, Richard glanced up.
‘Clemence,’ she went on, ‘was in here, the sitting-room and the Little Drawing-Room not long ago collecting all the blooms from the vases. Now they appear to be floating on the lake.’
‘Good Lord,’ mused Richard. ‘I haven’t done that since my boyhood.’
‘Ah, then it is some pagan ritual practiced here since the world was young? Now, why does that not surprise me?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Richard. ‘On the first of April we make offerings to Jenny Greenteeth. Give her blossoms to say sorry for whatever wrong we did her in days of yore. In truth, though,’ he added, smiling, ‘I believe she’s hated the Somerlees for so long, I doubt a few fresh flowers will move her watery heart.’ He munched his Sally Lunn loaf, cheese and pickle. ‘I see you don’t believe in Jenny,’ he said with raised brow. ‘Out there in the Long Gallery – the portrait you are so taken with? Rupert Somerlee?’
Amathia glanced door-wards. Yes, she knew the one he meant. Rather a nice picture. The youth with flaxen ringlets, Prussian-blue satin doublet and Van Dyke collar was one of Eardingstowe’s few charms, she thought.
‘Now! Rupert was walking the bank one day, when he saw a lovely maiden sitting on the islet in the middle of the lake, singing and beckoning to him. Rupert swam out towards her. He was not seen again.’
Oh, stuff and nonsense. These tales were meant to frighten children. With Clemence they had clearly succeeded. And if Jenny was real, well… Amathia felt she had an ally of sorts in this fugacious damsel who haunted the mere – mutual distaste for the family who lived in Eardingstowe.
Amathia kept glancing up at her husband as she nibbled her breakf
ast. The Somerlees had been here for as long as the Quantocks and expected to remain until the winds wore away those same hills. The Somerlees never had to tighten their belts. Or fear the executioner’s axe of the bankruptcy court. Or lie awake at Kingsmede aware that your father was going to the dickens, fretting over whether all this would be gone by new year, and yourself and your siblings in the workhouse. Richard and his family might be uncouth bumpkins, but they had so much… so much!
‘I am so looking forward to visiting Manchester,’ Amathia remarked. ‘I do hope to see this charming mill of yours.’ Hit him where it hurts – with the sordid origin of his present comfort. Richard shot her a wintry look.
‘But we really must discuss Clemence’s future, Dickon,’ she pressed on.
‘Is there anything to discuss? There’s no reason why she cannot remain at Eardingstowe. A spinster aunt has her uses,’ he said, stroking the head of a Welsh terrier which had come padding to his side. ‘She’s always been good with our youngest siblings, Margaret and John – adores them, you know.’
‘Indulges them, you mean.’
‘Still – she’s cheaper than a hired nanny and governess.’
‘But she isn’t stable, Dickon, this you cannot deny,’ his wife insisted. ‘She should be married. She has an income, still only twenty-one, fair enough in an elfish kind of way… I daresay there must be some middle-class merchant type person looking to advance socially, who would welcome the connection with the Somerlees and Consetts, and who is not too fastidious in his tastes.’
Richard grunted, and took up his newspaper once more.
‘This I shall leave in your capable hands, my dear. It is what females excel in.’
A footman entered with a pot of fresh hot chocolate. As it was being set on the silver stand, Amathia rose from the table and stepped back to the window.
A mallard with a retinue of yellow youngsters was passing on the mere, leaving a wake of shining V’s radiating out across the surface. The further bank looked like one cream and golden blur, spread with daffodils in full bloom. Richard’s youngest sister and brother, Margaret and John, could be seen tripping, giggling, along the shore, scattering further flowery tributes.