Millie shook her head disgustedly.
“Oh no! I can’t bear it. What is to be done? I will have to tell your father. We will have to tell Lady Pinfold. To think that we trusted you. This could be the end of everything,” she cried hysterically. “Who… is… it?”
Millie lowered her head and pursed her pretty lips.
“Joshua.”
“What?! The gardener? The slave boy? How could you! I should never have let you play together. I should have known you were up to no good with that boy. Disappearing down to those woods. Oh it’s all my fault! Oh God help me. What to do! What to do?!”
Permutations of shame and desolation flashed across her mind. Millie observed her mother’s hysteria.
“But I love him, he wants to marry me. He loves me. We didn’t know. The baby will be loved. We shouldn’t be punished for being in love,” Millie exclaimed whilst looking at her feet.
Her mother gathered herself.
“You have no idea about love and marriage. You are a stupid, stupid girl, barely fifteen. You say you don’t even know what you were doing but I brought you up to be good and moral and not flaunt yourself. We will first have to tell your father. Then he and I will have to throw ourselves on the good grace of Lady Pinfold and trust in the Lord that we shall not be ruined.”
*
James Pilgrim was incandescent but agreed that an audience with Lady Pinfold was their only option. Privately he went to see her. His apology and self-abasement was not enough.
“I shall have to discuss it with Sir Alfred and then I shall see you all together once we have decided what is to be done,” she said with firmness, although Lady Pinfold, as with many puritanical types, was privately excited by the discussion of sexual misdemeanours.
A meeting was duly arranged in the Piano Room. The three Pilgrims, Underman and Joshua stood in a meekly servile line as Lady Patience sat surrounded by her hooped skirts at a small table upon which her maid had thoughtfully set a tray of tea to bolster her spirits for this unpleasant duty.
Amy Pilgrim stood ringing her hands, continuously apologising. James Pilgrim stood looking abject. Underman frowned but stood to attention, solid as always.
Lady Patience halted any discussion with a slightly raised hand.
“I need not tell you that this is a scandal of major proportions. Sir Alfred is much disquieted and shocked. We cannot let even a whiff of this matter taint our social relations. A slave boy and the daughter of our architect. An illegitimate child.
“Mr and Mrs Pilgrim, you have failed in your duty to ensure a proper moral upbringing to this girl. She, in turn, has behaved like a low slut from the slums. Underman, we expected better from you. Sir Alfred has given you succour over the years and expected you to repay him by keeping to his moral code. You have failed to do this.
“You, boy, have behaved reprehensibly although I expect there is some explanation for that, given where you originated.
“So here is my decision, endorsed by Sir Alfred, and I will brook no opposition. Underman, you and your son will be returned to the family plantations. In view of your long and faithful service – and you can thank Sir Alfred for his leniency in this – you will be given a secure living over there. The boy will be put to work there also. Ready yourselves to leave first thing tomorrow.
“Millicent, you have been a very, very stupid girl. You will be bringing a half-caste bastard into the world and you barely of age. We have arranged, again through Sir Alfred’s good offices, that you will immediately go to live near Brighton where the child will be born in the care of Mrs Violet Taylor, who was nanny and nurse to our son Robert. She is a good and discreet woman. Once the child is born we will arrange for it to be cared for elsewhere.
“Mr and Mrs Pilgrim, you will be allowed to continue to live here as long as no breath of this matter is abroad. You will be expected to have found another position and lodgings by Christmas. We will give you a reference as we do not wish to be seen to be uncharitable.
“I need hardly say that Sir Alfred and I have been scandalised by this aberration from the straight and narrow and it will take us some time until we have recovered from it. Now you are all dismissed and I expect Sir Alfred’s and my decisions to be carried out forthwith.”
The line filed out. Mrs Pilgrim was being attended to by her husband, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Joshua looked stunned, but turned on his heel and left. Underman remained, looking ahead through the deep windows.
“You have been asked to leave,” said Lady Pinfold, curtly.
“Yes ma’am and I will do as bid.”
“Well, what is it then?” she enquired rather shortly.
“Ma’am, before I leave, I wanted to pass on through you my thanks to Sir Alfred for his kindness and help over many years. Please, if it is not thought discourteous, may I send him my warm regards and sincere wish that God attends him through the rest of his life.”
Saying that, he bowed and left.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Well, what is it you want?” He was seated at a workbench and was short and round with a choleric face. He did not look up as he continued with a fine chiselling motion on a flat piece of wood held in a lathe in front of him.
“My name is Maundy Cubitt. I play in the London Euphonic Orchestra. I would very much like you to make me a violin.” Now tall and spare, he was no longer a callow youth, however, he still had the semi-permanent half-smile. The violin maker looked up at his customer and thawed a little as he continued.
“I’ve heard that John Johnson of Cheapside can make very special instruments.”
The seated man continued his work, squinting through half-rimmed glasses.
“That is my work but you will see, over there,” he motioned with his chisel to a far corner of his workshop where hung perhaps a couple of dozen completed instruments, “there are a number of finished violins. You may play them if you wish, and for three guineas you may have your pick of them.”
The tall man gave a short deferential smile and a nod of the head.
“And I am sure they will be very fine. But my wish is to commission you for a very special individual violin.”
John Johnson looked up, appraising his potential customer for the first time.
“I don’t normally do commissions. Describe to me what it is you are looking for.”
Maundy Cubitt looked into the distance and then closed his eyes. His smile deepened.
“Some years ago I heard an Italian fellow, Veracini by name, perform. He came to give a recital at the chapel where I was schooled. He played a fine fiddle the like of which I never heard nor saw before. All those listening were captivated by the beauty of the tone. It seemed that his violin spoke as he played. It spoke of sadness, joy. It told a story that bewitched those listening. It reached into your heart and then touched your soul. It breathed. It was alive. All of my life since then I have had a dual quest.
“First that I could develop whatever talent the good Lord had given me. And I have studied, practised, played all of my days since then, and perhaps I have reached as far as I may.
“Second, that I could own an instrument such as that played by Veracini. Alas, I am just a jobbing musician so such a violin form the Cremona school will always be beyond my means. But I have heard that you may know some of the techniques used by the Italians. Thus I hoped that you could help me find what it is I am looking for.”
John Johnson now seemed animated by the emotions of Maundy.
“Tell me, how would you describe the tone?”
Maundy thought for a while.
“If I were to tell you that it was like the song of a throstle, singing in the pure, still May morning air after the rain had cleared, would you know what I mean?”
“Yes, yes!” averred Johnson. “I have heard this man also. It is something I have striven for, although my time is t
aken up with these workaday instruments. I have been to this village of Cremona. They are careful with their secrets but look, look! Here is a copy of a manual that Amati left.”
He produced a book from a cabinet, set it on his desk and turned the dry pages. He pointed out technical diagrams, lists of materials, utensils and formulae, all the while looking appraisingly at Cubitt.
“I do believe that with the right wood, dimensions, varnish, strings, craftsmanship that I could get near but…” he hesitated, “you do know that this commission will take months and will be many times my normal fee?”
He looked heavenwards whilst performing a mental calculation.
“Given the uniqueness of the enterprise, the time I will need to devote to it, the materials… twenty-five guineas?” he enquired of Cubitt, hesitatingly. Cubitt responded, smiling a confirmatory smile.
“I am prepared to wait as I believe you are the man to do it. Although I have an important assignment in early May.”
Johnson nodded his assent.
“As for the fee, here,” he handed him a small drawstring bag, “is ten pounds by way of down payment.”
The two men shook hands firmly.
“I will take the skill that God gave me and blend in the learnings from the Italians.
“And, sir, you shall have your throstle!”
*
“Well I do say that Constance makes a very fine mutton stew,” smiled Verity Cubitt to her husband. Maundy nodded his assent. With his permanently upturned mouth and kind eyes she knew he would have agreed even had the dumplings been hard or Constance had not sieved for bones.
She still loved and admired her husband. She often recalled seeing him for the first time. He had been playing in a quartet at a house party for her father. Having made his money designing and making fine furniture for the aristocracy, her father fancied himself now a minor patron of the arts. A musical evening was a very acceptable way of paying social debts and of discreetly advertising his business to a potential clientele of well-to-do bankers and mercantilists – many with large old houses with grand rooms to fill.
Maundy had noticed her, of course. She was a strikingly handsome woman with many suitors and he had paid attention to her.
Her father, perhaps with one eye on his assets that would pass on to his only child, had disapproved at first.
“You don’t want to be taking up with a fiddler. He’s there to amuse, not to marry. Can’t think he’ll make much of a living through striking a box of air with a horsehair bow.”
But she took up with him nevertheless, and her instincts were right; he was a kind, patient and faithful husband. A godly man, he gently disapproved of those in thrall to drinking or gambling. But he had a loving disposition and sense of humour and was kind to their maids and practised his music assiduously. So the marriage had been a meeting of two good hearts. Their only regret was that they had not been blessed with children.
“Well my dear, if the Good Lord did not intend us to have a child then He must have His reasons and we will make the best of it,” Maundy had said.
And make the best of it they had. A fine house in Bloomsbury had been secured with the help of Verity’s father who had finally taken to Maundy with a gruff “Well, he may only be a fiddler but he seems to be a very decent fellow nevertheless.”
Verity ran the household and Maundy gave violin and harpsichord lessons to the children of the local gentry. He also composed a little, although his manner was modest and self-deprecating when admiration was expressed. He had also been regularly solicited to play in private orchestras, which had become quite the fashion in Hanoverian London.
The tone was set by King George II who, despite his chronic rages and self-indulgent tantrums, was keen to be seen as an admirer of music, himself a competent cellist. He had also appointed Mr Handel his Master of Music. Many other affluent London aristocrats therefore sponsored, almost competitively, private orchestras to demonstrate their refinement. Maundy Cubitt was known as a fine musician, a reliable man never likely to turn up in drink and – with his tall patrician air and inextinguishable smile – a good, steady and talented first violin.
*
Maundy spooned some syllabub from a leaded glass bowl.
“By the way, Mrs Cubitt,” they often addressed each other semi-formally as a means of endearment, “I have two pieces of news.”
“Oooh I do like news, Mr Cubitt!” said Verity enthusiastically.
“Well the first thing is I have been to see a Mr Johnson in Cheapside. He is a violin maker of some renown and has his workshops at the Harp and Crown there. A very nice man, an apprentice of Daniel Wright the master luthier.”
“Yes, yes,” said Verity, smilingly impatient. “Proceed to your news, quickly, quickly!”
“I have been very happy with my old violin, good and faithful servant. But you will remember I told you of the Italian all those years ago and the unsurpassed beauty and tone of his violin from Cremona. Well, I had heard that John Johnson had been to Italy in recent times and was believed to have learnt and brought back some of the techniques and materials. And so,” he continued triumphantly, “I have commissioned him to make me a violin which in tone and clarity will rank with the finest of them. It will be some months to completion but ready – I am hopeful of saying – for my second piece of news—”
“Don’t tease me so, Mr Cubitt,” said a vexed Verity.
“Well you know that I have had the signal honour of playing for Mr Handel at various assignments. It seems that now he wants me…”
he paused theatrically to the mock-annoyance of Verity,
“… to be first violin in a rendition of his new work The Messiah. It is to be played in the Foundling Hospital established by Captain Coram with all monies to go to their good works. This will be the first time this work is played in England. Mr Handel is patron of the hospital. And I, my dear, intend to have my Italianate violin for the performance in May.”
“What is this hospital? What does it do?”
Maundy told how Captain Thomas Coram had set up the hospital some ten years previously so that foundlings and orphans would not be left to perish on the streets. The children were fed, cared for, educated and helped to get a position in trade for the boys, or service for the girls. There was no shortage of potential residents. Children of the poor, often born out of wedlock, would be abandoned in the hope that they would be discovered and taken in. Too often they were not.
Coram had been appalled by this and had single-handedly wheedled and cajoled the funds out of the great and the good in order to build his mission. Even then the hospital could only take a small proportion and children were only taken in if they were less than two months old.
“Yes, there is never enough room,” said Cubitt. “You would never believe it but there is a bag of wooden beads that the poor mothers must chance. A white ball and the child is accepted. A black ball and they are at the mercy of London and all the elements. A sorry state for supposedly the capital of the civilised world.
“And, do you know, that these mothers will never see their children again? The mothers sometimes bring a token in the hope that some day they may reclaim their babies: an acorn, a button, an ale label, some trinket or other. But it is a strict rule that they are, from that day forward, foundlings from nowhere.”
“Those poor babies,” sighed Verity. “Well at least you will be making your contribution, Mr Cubitt. Is it not a strange irony that we ourselves cannot have children but that so many are lost and abandoned? Surely sometimes I question my faith.”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” said Cubitt. “This must be an example of His kindliness and care for His flock.”
“Well it seems to me that Mr Coram, Mr Handel and Mr Cubitt are perhaps more active in shepherding the flock than the Lord in this instance, although I may be struck down for saying so.”
“Perhaps, but maybe God is the inspiration in Mr Coram, and perhaps that inspiration will progressively change our shilly-shallying and our blind eyes. Do you know what Coram said? He said ‘These are children that are not here by their choice. But they are in the world. They are God’s children and they are our children. Waifs and strays they may be but by God we must help them’.
“And do you know what is my particular gratification? All of the children are taught to play an instrument. So their bellies are filled with food. Their heads are filled with knowledge, and their souls are nurtured through music. After we have performed Handel’s work, we shall be given a dinner, served by the children and we will be entertained by their music. How is that, Mrs Cubitt?”
“Very fine, Mr Cubitt. And I trust that I shall be invited as I would very much like to see the concert and then see the children.”
“Of course you shall. And now my dear, it is remiss of me but I have not asked you about your constitution and what the physic makes of it all.”
Verity suffered from recurrent bouts of fever and her health, although robust as a young woman, had deteriorated so that the demands of life sapped her resources. She tried not to trouble Maundy with a continual recitation of symptoms and complaints. She had put a stoical face to the world and contrived to be cheerful and welcoming when Maundy came home and asked about her ailments.
“I am much improved, I believe. Doctor Chevalier bade me to take Dr James’s Powders and a regime of cold baths, blistering and purging. So I will proceed with those. Should I need it he can arrange a bleed. But, when I think of those poor children of whom we spoke my little troubles are but trifles. I must be grateful for my situation. And,” deflecting attention from herself, “my heart is uplifted when I hear about the good that is done for them.”
Maundy agreed.
“And that is why, Mrs Cubitt, when I play my opening notes, I want the sound of my violin to touch the hearts of those who listen. And for them to say that such beautiful music as Mr Handel writes must be rewarded with gifts to the cause he espouses.”
The Violin Page 3