by May Woodward
As the sun set on Edmund’s first day in the world, the baronet took a walk on the northern bank of the mere where the tree cover was densest. Squirrels hoarding their contraband were heard scurrying up the nearest boles as the human tread crunched through the undergrowth.
Richard paused on the shore where tiny wavelets lapped up to his feet. He breathed in the pondweed smell of the water. So refreshing to be away from the city. Ah, the tang of whortleberry, heather and bracken – all damp after a brief shower in the afternoon. Soon he should do the decent and go and see his wife and infant.
Richard frowned, and calculated: fifteen years he’d been enduring arctic couplings with that woman and doing his damnedest to render them life-engendering. His endeavours had been rewarded until now with four little girls and a stillborn boy.
Now, at last, a living son. Very alive in fact: from the south stairs Richard had been able to hear the little monster howling.
Meanwhile, he could now tell Amathia what he had long rehearsed in his dreams – amuse yourself with whichever of the footmen takes your fancy from now on, and I’ll trouble you no more.
But one shouldn’t be complaisant, however; children sometimes died young; the memory of little Margaret and John saddened him still. And age had advanced early on the onetime beauty Amathia. Her fecundity might well be done sooner rather than later. Perhaps he ought to do his marital duty for a few years yet.
His eyes swept the estate as far as he could see. Just over the brow of the further bank stood the prehistoric monuments. By Heaven, the enormity of the legacy! The ha-ha followed the course of the medieval inner bailey, which in turn followed the boundary of the Iron Age enclosure.
Well, it seems you have a new guardian when I’m gone. The birth of young Ned meant that the bloodline which stretched back to that proto-Somerlee who’d planted the yew was unbroken for one generation more.
After dinner, he paid his calls. Exchanged politeness with Amathia, lying weak in her birthing chamber. Proceeded into the nursery to see the new Somerlee.
Well, the wriggling youngling was noisy, fat and fleshy, thank the Lord. Jerky hands already trying to grab things.
Two of Richard’s girls were present too, and they were thrilled.
‘We’ll be having a christening feast for all the tenants won’t we, Pater?’
‘Whatever you like, Feodora dear.’ Richard continued to gaze at the new-born. The hours-old creature seemed to catch his eye and return his stare. Amathia’s grey-green eyes, not Richard’s blue ones.
The nursemaid lifted Edmund out of the crib. She offered him to the master to hold. Richard flinched.
‘Don’t you want to nurse him, Pater? I’ve held him. He’s beautiful.’
‘Ah, but you have steadier hands than an old crock like me, Beatrice.’ But to satisfy them… with a dopey smile, he stroked the baby’s wispy, fair hair.
A sizzle from the hearth. The warm day had become a cool evening, and the nursery faced away from the afternoon sun. The spout of the kettle on the mantelpiece was dripping a little. A drop into the fire sent a funnel of flame hissing into the flue, there to etherealise.
Two days later saw the new father puffing his unfit way into Westminster Hall. Richard’s solicitor was waiting on the steps beneath the great, arched stained-glass window in the St Stephen’s end of the building, visibly fretting.
‘I’ve taken the night-train to get here as quickly as I could, Mr Boscawen. I assume this is important enough to merit it?’
‘Yes, sir. His honour returned to court an hour ago, sir.’
‘Oh! And…?’
THIRTY-TWO
Mr Boscawen loosened his cravat.
‘He’s found in Aubrey’s favour.’
Richard leaned against the arch to steady himself. He covered his eyes so that multicoloured supernovae spotted the blackness.
Still wheezing from his one-hundred-yard dash from the cab, he peeped through a gap in his fingers. Beyond Mr Boscawen’s shoulder, he saw newsmen scrambling for the exit to file their stories. They were not shy of elbowing each other. In the rush, a passing clerk got mishandled. His upset pile of legal papers went fluttering and hammock-rocking on the disturbed airwaves. Boscawen, meanwhile, was babbling something about an appeal…
‘No!’ Richard rubbed a moist brow. He hung his head for a moment, and then straightened. ‘No, Mr Boscawen. I’m sick to Heaven of this ghastly business. I’d rather just graciously acknowledge defeat.’
‘Oh… fair enough, Sir Richard. By the way. Congratulations, sir, on your new arrival.’
Richard grimaced his thanks. With slow and heavy tread, he made his way along the arcade which ran around the law courts. The notary went too.
‘You believed in him, didn’t you?’ Richard said as they drew near the outdoor egress where the pressmen had headed.
‘I just do your bidding, sir, you know that.’
Outside in Palace Yard, Aubrey was already beleaguered.
‘Please…’ he was saying to the reporters. ‘Don’t crowd me!’
‘But you must be delighted at the verdict, Cornet Somerlee?’
‘How do you feel about your brother now, Cornet Somerlee?’
‘Do you think Sir Richard treated you cruelly?’
‘Do you intend to rejoin your regiment or live at Eardingstowe?’
‘What was it actually like to be in the heart of that famous battle? Did you see the death of Captain Nolan? Lord Cardigan deserting the field?’
‘Please,’ Aubrey murmured, ‘I’m tired… and I can hardly take it in.’
The baronet stepped forward. A hush dropped upon the pack. All eyes turned to him. Traffic down on the river and in Whitehall seemed to have halted. Even the crows and pigeons who haunted the site seemed to have fallen silent.
Richard laid a hand upon Aubrey’s shoulder.
‘You heard my brother. He has been through a terrible ordeal and desires privacy, as do I. Please do us that courtesy.’ He steered the bemused man towards Whitehall where there were cabriolets waiting, baying bloodhounds still in pursuit notwithstanding his plea.
‘We can talk here. Lost in the crowd,’ Richard said. ‘The Gardens are one of the attractions of the season.’
Richard and Aubrey alighted from the ferry at Cremorne Pier. Ahead of them, the pleasure garden’s famed illumination display was in progress. A phantasmagoria of light was sweeping the grounds and treetops.
The two men joined the swarm of bustles, feathered chapeaux, billycock hats, bobbing balloons and little sailor suits, hurdy-gurdy men and organ-grinders funnelling through the gates. Viennese music came floating over the flowerbeds. You could smell fried periwinkles, onions and dog-mess everywhere.
From a stall, Richard purchased Yarmouth bloaters on forks, and glasses of hot sassafras.
‘I imagine your palate is not refined, Aubrey,’ he said, handing the other man his food. ‘I don’t suppose the Serbs fed you like a Christmas goose?’
‘Not as mean as the army,’ Aubrey replied.
The two men joined the crowd heading along the avenue towards the heart of the park.
‘They’re selling something pretty adventurous at that stall over there if you’re in the mood,’ Richard said, pointing with his cane. ‘It’s called a “cock tail.” Something brought over from America, I believe. Got whiskey in it. Have you falling over before you reach the Crystal Platform.’
‘I don’t think so, thanks all the same,’ Aubrey replied. ‘We Somerlees have never been ones for moving on with the times, you must agree. Shan’t try to change the habit of a millennium,’ he added, and took a bite from the bloater.
‘As you wish…’
The pair stood among the oohing spectators who were watching the zooming light beams. For one shining moment they all inhabited a fantasy-world of gold trees, indigo humanoids and
grassy-green heavens. As he ate, Richard eyed the man who stood beside him. We Somerlees, indeed! Who was this sprite, this hobgoblin, who had brought such turmoil into his life?
‘Recollect Cremorne, do you?’ Richard said. ‘The Gardens were here, as I recall, in the summer before the war.’
‘Yes…’ Aubrey drawled, frowning as if struggling to remember. ‘I believe so…’ Was his mosaic memory still troubling him, Richard wondered? Or was it all part of his impostor’s act? ‘I came to Cremorne with some chaps from the mess. I believe Charlie Radlett was among them…’
‘This might be new to you, though.’ Richard waved towards the far side of the field. ‘The world has moved on since 1854.’
A balloon was preparing to take off. As the two men watched, it began to rise, carrying a basketful of earthlings-no-longer, squealing as they left the ground for which their Maker had intended them.
‘Quite thrilling, that,’ Richard said. ‘Went up myself when I was last at the Gardens. You can see most of London laid out like a model-town. Tiny trees. The river looking like a little ribbon with toy boats on it. But I suppose you’ve already had all the excitement one can expect in a lifetime?’
Aubrey was still gazing at the flying-machine. His eyes and hair kept changing colour from the lights.
‘How are you feeling, old man?’ Richard said. ‘You looked pale – back there, facing the press. The Cossacks were nothing in comparison, I’m sure.’
‘Why did you rescue me from the reporters?’ Aubrey turned puzzled eyes on him.
‘You looked as if you were about to pass out.’
‘But you don’t believe I’m your brother.’
Richard and Aubrey stared at each other. Sapphire-blue eyes holding midnight-blue ones. Neither flinched. Richard was the first to look away.
‘I don’t know what to believe anymore. You’re a stranger, whoever you are. But I don’t wish to go on fighting you. You’ve a home at Eardingstowe if you want it.’
‘Eardingstowe!’ Aubrey murmured. ‘Somehow, I knew, even when I didn’t know who I was, that I didn’t belong in that cold castle. I knew I had a true home somewhere.’
‘As I say, you’re welcome.’
Defeat wasn’t easy to accept. But the world could not call him an unfeeling landowner if he put his arm around this lost waif and took him home.
On the far side of the trees, the orchestra could be heard playing ‘Lorelei.’ Richard strolled on in the direction of the music. On every side you brushed shoulders with the well-to-do and merchant classes out for an evening’s jaunt. A kid with a whip-and-top made the damn thing spin right through an upended bowl of plum duff so that the mess spread right across the walkway just in time for Richard to tread in.
‘I suppose you won’t know much family news?’ he said. ‘My wife’s name is Amathia, daughter of the late Duke of Ardenne. We have five children – Caroline, Clara, Feodora, Beatrice and baby Edmund.’
‘Yes, I remember Mathy Consett. She came out with Clemmie. I recall you danced with her quite a few times, and we all thought you made a handsome couple. I look forward to meeting your lady, Dickon, and my nieces and nephew.’
‘And, indeed, they are all so looking forward to meeting you!’ Richard said. Hardly surprising; even in Eardingstowe’s turbulent history there could not have been many dead men to dinner. ‘Ivo’s a vicar now, bless the dull fellow, and has a dull wife. Carswell’s in the army. A cornet like you, in the Buffs. Bella I believe you’re already well acquainted with. I’m afraid we lost little Margaret and John in the cholera outbreak of ‘59.’
Aubrey touched his brow and shut his eyes for a moment.
‘Please be patient, Dickon. I have difficulty remembering things even now.’
‘I’ll be as patient as you wish, Aubrey! Eardingstowe’s thriving,’ Richard went on. ‘We can afford more these days. We’ve a Brueghel hanging in the saloon. Entertain more too. Amathia’s made our soirées the most sought-after of the season. There was talk of a royal stay. But since Prince Albert snuffed it, the old girl don’t get out so much. Pity.’
‘You did not mention Clemmie,’ said Aubrey.
Richard turned away for a moment. On the small lawn in-between the flowerbeds, a travelling band of German musicians in Bavarian costume was playing flute and oboe. They said ‘Ta, chuck’ to those who tossed them coins.
‘I’m afraid Clemmie and I are not really speaking.’ Richard felt warm under the collar. The other man’s look was boring into him. ‘She’s a duchess, you know. Married Amathia’s brother. Not that we see much of either of them,’ he said, pretending to smile.
‘How is your parliamentary career these days, Dickon?’ Aubrey said. ‘I hear Disraeli thinks highly of you.’
‘Well, that’s as maybe!’ Richard gave a wry laugh. ‘Not that it matters much in the wilderness! Gladstone and the Liberals are in power, of course.’
‘Well, let’s hope the Tories supplant them soon. The Tory Party,’ Aubrey added, musingly. ‘You know – it’s odd. In Ireland the word ‘Tory’ means a rebel. Yet here – the political party most closely associated with the landowning class. Don’t you find that strange?’
‘I suppose so. But I’ve not heard it before.’ Richard eyed him. ‘How do you know this, Aubrey? You’ve never been to Ireland. None of us has.’
‘Oh, one third of the army is Irishers.’ Aubrey laughed. ‘Tommy, Sandy and Mick, you know. Must have heard it in the mess sometime.’
‘Talking of Ireland… we have some land there,’ Richard said. ‘Not worth all that much. But there’s a house I believe… some paying tenants. Little place named Kilara or somesuch… Damned nuisance it is in truth! Spend most of my time evicting the bothersome tenants when they default on their rent! But land is land. Perhaps you’d like it, old chap? Don’t suppose you’d want to live there…’ Richard shuddered. ‘But it’ll take you away from me… I mean, give you independence.’
‘Kilara, eh?’ Aubrey’s outlook turned inward. ‘I’ll give it some thought, Dickon.’
The two men had reached the Crystal Platform in their walk and stood gazing up in wondering delight. The three-tiered structure, like a thirty-foot high wedding-cake, was swimming in radiance as evening fell. The music you could hear all over the pleasure gardens issued from the middle floor where an orchestra played, while at ground level dancers swirled through the light of gas jets and cut-glass lustres. Cables twined around with flowers and hung with Chinese lanterns splayed from the uppermost tier to ground level like outsized maypole ribbons.
‘Why won’t you accept me, Dickon?’ Aubrey asked softly. ‘Bella has. So has Ivo, and Carrie, Clemmie and Aunt Lizzy.’
‘Frankly, old chap, whether you are Aubrey or not is not the issue! It’s just damned uncomfortable – a stranger coming back from the dead…’
‘I understand. There’s the question of the money too, I guess,’ Aubrey added, observing Richard. ‘I don’t blame you for believing I was dead and claiming Uncle George’s legacy… anyone would have.’
Richard waved a dismissive hand.
‘As I told you, I’m quite wealthy now so it makes small difference. We’ll meet with Horace Boscawen, my man-at-law, anytime you like to discuss particulars.’
Aubrey sipped his sassafras. He peered at his companion over the glass.
‘Might there be any chance of making up with Clemence?’ Richard’s face darkened as Aubrey pressed on. ‘I don’t profess to understand your quarrel, Dickon. I know only that I have two siblings I love who aren’t talking, and that makes me sad.’
Had the old Aubrey been such a busybody? Aubrey or not… Richard was growing to hate this man.
‘It wasn’t a quarrel in the ordinary sense. Quarrels, as you say, can be mended. Clemmie very nearly went the way of our poor aunt Cassie. Had some kind of breakdown at the time you went missing. She was playing at being a
nurse in that ghastly hospital with that harpy Nightingale. What with the worry over you as well… drive anyone moon-mad. Never went as bad as Cassandra, thank God… recovered well enough… but my wife wouldn’t have her at Eardingstowe lest there be a relapse.’
‘Dear, dear! Have to admit instability runs in the family. Didn’t that brother of Grandpater’s try to throw himself into the Cheddar Gorge?’
‘Yes…’ A mischievous thought pricked Richard. Let’s see just how determined an impostor this fellow really is. ‘I say, you really ought to visit Aunt Cassie now you’re home.’ Ah yes indeed – he perceived the oh-so-very-brief recoil in the other man’s eyes. You’d have to want Aubrey’s money very badly to go play the part of dutiful nephew in a nuthouse. ‘Nothing to fear, old chap. A hussar who charged the Russian guns can face a dotty old dear. And I say – if Cassie accepts you as Aubrey then that truly will settle it. Isn’t it the blind who see best and the mad who reason? Oedipus, you know…’
‘She might not know me, Dickon.’
‘True. So maybe someone should explain to her that the devilish handsome cove who comes a-calling is her nephew! God knows we’re inbred enough already. Likely where the insanity came from.’
‘Well, you are quite right though, Dickon. I really should call on Aunt Cassie. Clemence said she was visiting sometime next week. I’ll go along.’
The duo wandered on, towards the North Gate away from the music.
‘Whistler’s painted this view, you know,’ Richard said, gazing back along the avenue towards the Crystal Platform. But Aubrey’s attention was on the balloon as it began its descent.
‘The light display… it reminds me of something…’ Aubrey said with a faraway look. ‘Something’s coming back. The shellfire over Balaclava? No, not just that. Something nicer… warm…’ He frowned, and then opened his eyes wide. ‘Dickon!’ He gripped Richard’s arm. ‘The magic-lantern show in the Great Drawing-Room! The light beams on the wall and the moving pictures in them! You were there, I think. I guess I must have been about thirteen, fourteen, maybe? It must have been Midsummer Eve. I remember there was a fire on the hill, and birch leaves and lilies around the door… Clemmie was there, and Bella… and another girl… I think her name was Janet… She sang “Lovely is the Summer Moon” while those strange images were marching across the wall.’