‘…Such an intimate pose, what a pleasant change from the grand manner. I suppose that was your idea, Duke – you wanted a boudoir portrait of your new wife.’ The woman’s voice was probing.
‘You make it sound as if I had a whole cupboard of wives stashed away in the west wing.’ The Duke’s voice was doggedly light.
‘And how did you find Mr Louvain to deal with? You hear such stories. But I suppose if you had any doubts you would not have allowed the Duchess to sit for him.’
Bertha stood very still waiting for his reply
‘Like most artists he seems more interested in money than anything else.’
Bertha heard the woman laugh. The Duke was hiding his feelings about the portrait in public at least but she doubted whether he had relinquished his anger. Jim had told her that when the Duke was furious he liked to tear a sheet of paper into as many pieces as he could. It was hard to shave his master in the morning, he had told her, because the Duke’s jaw muscles were so tight from grinding his teeth all night. No, Bertha did not think that her mistress’s husband was a forgiving man.
And then she heard his voice again.
‘You did this.’ This time his voice was low and private.
‘All I did was open the door. She chose to walk through.’ A different woman’s voice, almost whispering, one Bertha knew but could not place.
‘But why?’
‘You know why.’ There was a silence. Bertha wanted to look through the curtains but she knew that if the Duke was looking that way, he would see her at once.
She heard a sigh and the sound of rustling silk.
‘I…can’t…bear…this.’ The Duke spoke as if the words were being carved out of him.
‘There is no choice.’ The woman’s voice was flat.
Bertha could hear murmuring but was unable to make out the words. And then the music started again and she could hear nothing. After a minute she dared to look through the curtain, but the Duke and his companion were gone.
Cora’s head was aching now from the strain of smiling as if she had not a care in the world. She had faced down all the curious stares with her sparkling American smile. She found that brightness acted like an acid on the web of evasion and unspoken thoughts that characterised so much English conversation. If she stood there smiling and looking people in the eye, they were forced to meet her gaze. She began to feel better. Mrs Wyndham had been right, she could set the tone.
She could see Ivo talking to the Prime Minister. She would join him. Ivo was being unreasonable; Louvain was right, she had nothing to hide.
As she walked across the room, she heard Odo’s high-pitched voice shrieking, ‘A picture of abandonment, my dear, you should have seen his face.’ She tried to pass by without noticing, but Odo had seen her and was elaborating. ‘So naive, but then I suppose we must make allowances for Americans.’
Cora moved on, her eyes on Ivo, trying not to be distracted. There was nothing she could do about Odo.
At last she reached her husband. He was talking to Lord Rosebery and a younger man she recognised from the party at Conyers, the Prince’s equerry, Colonel Ferrers.
Cora put her hand on Ivo’s arm. She saw with dismay the expression on his face as he turned to her.
‘Cora, may I present the Prime Minister? Rosebery, my wife.’ They shook hands.
‘And Colonel Ferrers I believe you already know.’
The equerry made her a little bow.
The Prime Minister spoke. ‘I was just telling the Duke how delighted I am that he has agreed to accompany Prince Eddy. We need more peers with your husband’s sense of public duty.’
Cora smiled blankly. She had no idea what he was talking about but clearly she could not admit that. She glanced at Ivo but could only see his profile.
‘It is quite true, Lord Rosebery, Ivo has a strong sense of what is right in his position. But surely he is not alone in that?’
‘I wish your husband’s selflessness was more common, Duchess. Public service should be the companion of privilege, but so often these days it is not.’ The Prime Minister’s tone was sombre. He did not, Cora thought, look like a man who enjoyed his role in life. Ivo had told her that the only thing he really liked talking about was his horses.
‘I have heard so much about your stable, Lord Rosebery. Have you ever been to America? My father won the triple crown over there last year with his horse Adelaide.’
Ivo broke in. ‘I think perhaps the Prime Minister may be too busy to follow foreign horseflesh, Cora.’
But Rosebery was smiling. ‘Oh no, Wareham, I am never too busy for racing. Too busy for parliament perhaps but never for horses. Tell me about your father’s stable, Duchess. Are the blood lines Arabian?’
Cora began an intricate conversation about the breeding of thoroughbreds which involved a good deal of listening on her part. But at the edge of her vision she could see Ivo fidgeting. Finally Rosebery released her and turned to her husband.
‘I must say, Wareham, now that I have met your charming Duchess, I appreciate your sense of duty all the more.’ Rosebery smiled at Cora, who managed to smile back.
The crowd was at last beginning to thin out. At midnight two footmen had brought out flowered baskets full of party favours, gold cigarette cases with the Maltravers crest engraved on the front for the men, and mother-of-pearl opera glasses for the women, with the crest in gold filigree on each barrel. This had immediately shifted the party’s centre of gravity – like iron filings unable to resist a magnetic field, the guests had clustered around the source of the attraction. Some people, of course, had muttered that this munificence was a vulgar American practice but the baskets had emptied nonetheless. Cora was relieved that she had insisted on importing this Newport custom even though Ivo had laughed when she suggested it; the glittering trinkets had distracted her guests from the affair of the portrait. She was hoarse now from saying goodbye. ‘Oh, I am so glad you came – no, thank you for coming – I just wanted everyone to have something to remember my first party.’ She guessed that the Beauchamps had spread the news of her pregnancy, as many of the women had urged her to get some rest as they pressed her hand in saying goodbye.
Duchess Fanny had been crisp. ‘You must go to Lulworth, Cora, at once. You are lucky that everyone is leaving town so the talk will blow over very quickly. You can’t afford to have a reputation, at least not until after your son is born.’
‘But I have done nothing to deserve one!’ Cora was indignant.
The Duchess smiled from a great height. ‘Most people who have reputations don’t deserve them. I, on the other hand, don’t have the reputation I deserve. Just follow my advice, Cora, and there will be no lasting damage. And don’t look so martyred, my dear. It’s not me who minds these things but my son. He has always worried about the way things look.’
Cora retreated. ‘Oh dear, I can see some kind of problem over there with the favours. I had better go and intervene. Goodnight, Duchess.’
‘Remember my advice, Cora.’
At last everyone had gone and Cora was able to go to her room. She had not seen Ivo for the last hour, but she was too weary to look for him. So many things had happened that night that she simply could not fit them all in her thoughts. She dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Ivo was not there. She sent Bertha away – she didn’t want her presence to annoy Ivo even more. As she started to undress she felt a fluttering in her stomach as if there was a butterfly trapped in her belly. She put her hand there, but she could feel nothing through the layers of petticoats. Impatiently she tugged at her skirts, pulling at the ties which fastened them, but Bertha’s knots would not be undone. In a frenzy she found some nail scissors and began to cut at her bonds. By twisting and wriggling she even managed to cut the laces of her corset. At last everything was off. It was still there, that strange light feeling deep inside her. She lay down on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. She put her hands on her stomach just above her groin and waited. Would the flicke
r come again? Suddenly nothing else, not the picture, not Ivo, mattered. She lay there watching the glow from the dying fire until miraculously she felt it again. She had not quite believed in the baby until now, the soreness in her breasts and the fatigue had simply been unwelcome. But this, this quickening was something else – new life, new hope. This was the bond between her and Ivo. Surely he would be kinder to her now that the line was assured.
The door opened.
‘Ivo?’
Ivo said nothing.
Cora tried to stay bright. ‘Oh Ivo, the most amazing thing. I felt the baby move, such a queer feeling like a fish darting about. It’s doing it now. Put your hand here, perhaps you can feel it too.’
But her husband did not move towards her. He stood in the half-open doorway, his face silhouetted against the light from the corridor.
‘Cora, Lord Rosebery has asked me to accompany Prince Eddy on his Indian tour. The Queen and the Prince of Wales are anxious that he takes some part in public life, but Prince Eddy is not, in Rosebery’s view, “capable”. There have been incidents that…He wants me to make sure that the Prince does not cause the government any embarrassment. It is a position of trust and I have agreed to go. I think that after tonight’s debacle, it is the best thing.’ He paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his hand. ‘I must go to Lulworth first thing tomorrow to make arrangements with Father Oliver and then straight to Southampton. I suggest that you go to Lulworth as soon you can. I would feel happier if you were there. I am sure that Sybil or Mrs Wyndham would come with you, if you feel you need the company. As you have your own resources, I have not made any financial arrangements for you, but all the wages and estate upkeep will be taken care of.’
Cora sat up and turned on the light, her sleepiness forgotten.
‘You’re going to India? Now? I don’t understand.’ She looked up at him. He was still standing in the doorway, his dark face set.
‘Really?’ He looked at her intently, as if searching for something in her face. ‘You sit in secret for a man like Louvain and you don’t understand? You may not mind being talked about, Cora, but I do. I don’t want people looking at me and wondering about my wife.’ His face softened a little. ‘I have done my best to contain the scandal by pretending, although it pained me, to like the picture. I don’t know if anyone believed me but at least they won’t have the satisfaction of knowing that we have quarrelled. By the time I return, it will be forgotten.’
Cora walked towards him and took his hands. He did not resist, but simply let her hold them, inert and unfeeling.
She began to plead, ‘I didn’t know about Louvain’s “reputation”. I met him at the Beauchamps, after all. Charlotte almost insisted that I should sit for him. Don’t be like this, Ivo, please.’ Ivo remained motionless. Cora put her hand to her throat and whispered, ‘Look at these pearls you gave me – don’t you remember that afternoon?’
‘Of course I remember. I thought then that we had a chance of happiness.’ His voice was full of sadness.
‘But we do.’ She put his hand on her stomach.
‘Cora, please,’ but he did not take his hand away. She put her other hand to his cheek.
He moved away from her and she thought she had lost him, but then with a jerky movement he put his arms round her and held her to him. They stood in silence for a long moment.
Finally she summoned the courage to speak. She could feel his heart beating. ‘Do you really have to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because of me?’
‘Because of many things. I have agreed to go now.’
‘And when are you coming back?’
‘In the spring.’
‘Before…?’
‘Yes, before.’ Ivo pulled away from her.
‘And are you still angry?’
He looked at her, his face dark. ‘I don’t know any more what I feel. Sometimes I feel nothing at all.’ He turned his face away.
‘But I need you to stay. I can’t manage all this,’ she gestured at her stomach, at the room, at this strange English world that surrounded her.
Ivo’s face flickered with amusement. ‘Oh, I think you underestimate yourself, Cora,’ and then he kissed her on the cheek and closed the door behind him.
She sat after he left her for a long time, feeling the touch of his lips on her cheek; and then just as she thought she would never move again, she felt the slow beating of the life in her womb and she lay down, cradling her belly with her hands, and within seconds she was asleep.
Part Three
The English married ladies…are the brightest and most venomous politicians in English society.
Titled Americans, 1890
Chapter 21
At Sea
BERTHA FELT A TRICKLE OF SWEAT RUN FROM her neck down her back. It had been unseasonably warm for April all week, and the maid wished she had worn something lighter. There was no shade here on the beach apart from her parasol but that could not shelter her from the glare from the sea. She hoped that Cora would get out soon. Bertha did not want her complexion to be darkened by the sun. It was tiring squinting into the glare, following the dark head bobbing through the waves. It was pointless really, her vigil: if her mistress were to get into difficulties, what could she do? Bertha had never learnt to swim. Keeping a watch on Cora was her way of expressing her disapproval. A woman in her ninth month had no business to be swimming in the icy sea. It was undignified, not to mention dangerous, but Cora had ignored all her sighs and tuttings.
Bertha wished that Mrs Cash was here already. The Cashes were due any day now; Mrs Cash had seen no reason to cut short the New York season to be with Cora while she was cooped up at Lulworth, but she had no intention of missing the birth of her grandson, the future Duke (Mrs Cash had not even entertained the possibility that the child might be a girl). But Bertha thought that Mrs Cash should have been here months before. Miss Cora needed some of her own folks at this time. They had been at Lulworth for five months now, time enough to feel homesick. Miss Cora would never admit it but Bertha had seen the piles of letters to the States which went into the wooden post box in the shape of a castle that stood in the great hall. Every day at eleven, two and five, the butler opened the box with a special brass key and gave the letters to the postman. Some days Bertha would see letters to America leaving by every post. There was also the daily letter to India. Occasionally Bertha would send one of her own, but she had told Jim not to reply – a letter from India would cause too much talk in the servants’ hall. She knew that every letter was thoroughly scrutinised by the butler and Mrs Softley and she was pretty sure that a letter addressed to her from India would be steamed open before she received it. One of the parlourmaids had been dismissed after Christmas because she had received a love letter from a groom at Sutton Veney. Strictly speaking, it was for the Duchess to dismiss the maid, but Mrs Softley had not found it necessary to consult the mistress. Bertha was not sure now that even the Duchess would be able to protect her if her relationship with Jim was discovered.
Bertha wondered whether her mistress realised how little control she had over the household at Lulworth, how the servants that treated her with such deference in public laughed at her in the servants’ hall. Miss Cora had not taken command of Lulworth in the way that Mrs Cash had run Sans Souci. Miss Cora had been full of schemes for ‘improving’ the house: some things like the bathrooms had been achieved, but her attempts to change the way the house was run – she had been astonished to discover that there was one man who was employed simply to wind all the clocks in the house – had mostly come to nothing. She gave orders but could not enforce them. One of her first orders had been to remove the photographs of the Double Duchess, usually in the company of the Prince of Wales, that were in every guest bedroom. Last time Bertha had looked, the photographs were still there, the silver frames gleaming from constant polishing. Miss Cora had not yet noticed; Bertha wondered what she might do when she did. Probably nothing, Cora’s spiri
t seemed to be waning as the baby grew bigger and there was still no sign of the Duke’s return. He should have been back in early February but he had written at the beginning of the month to say that he would be delayed. Bertha had seen her mistress’s face crumple after reading that letter and impulsively she had taken her hand. She could see that Cora needed someone to hold on to. These months of seclusion and waiting had made Bertha acutely aware of her mistress’s isolation. A few nights ago Cora had asked her to sleep in her bed. She said that it was in case the baby came but Bertha knew that her mistress just wanted a body beside her. Sometimes she felt the same way herself. When she had heard Cora calling Ivo’s name in her sleep, Bertha had found herself, rather to her surprise, feeling sorry for her.
Since they had come to Lulworth, Cora had seen almost no one. Father Oliver had been there for a month working on the History. Mrs Wyndham had come to stay for a week, as had Sybil Lytchett, but otherwise Cora had been alone at Lulworth, in as much as you could ever be alone in a house with eighty-one servants. Bertha had been surprised that there had not been more callers from the neighbourhood but when she remarked on this to Mrs Softley, the housekeeper had been astonished at her ignorance. ‘No one is going to be calling on the Duchess when she is expecting, not when the Duke’s away. It wouldn’t be right.’ So Cora ate alone most nights, her diamonds sparkling unseen as she picked her way through the six courses that constituted a ‘light dinner’.
The sea was much colder than the warm weather would suggest but Cora hardly noticed, she was lit from within by an internal furnace. Her daily swim was the only time she felt relieved of her burden. To float on her back weightless and cool was all she craved. She found the walk down to the beach harder with each passing day but it was worth it to take off all her clothes and step inch by inch into the water, shivering with pleasure and pain as it lapped her ankles, then her calves, her thighs until it reached her swollen belly. When the water was shoulder height she would take a deep breath and plunge her head underwater, blowing out so that a stream of bubbles pierced the surface of the water. Then she would float on her back, kicking her legs sporadically and watching the odd fugitive cloud as it floated over the cove. Sometimes she would turn on her front and on a clear day she would look at the small brown fish that darted beneath the seaweed. She noticed that when she swam, the creature inside her would stop kicking. It was the only time that she could be sure that it would be quiet. Now as she swam across the cove she could imagine that she was the girl she had been two summers before in Newport; although there she had been weighed down with an elaborate bathing costume whereas here she was naked. She had tried swimming with a costume here, but the combination of her pregnant belly and the sodden serge skirts of her bathing dress made her wish that she could swim unencumbered. She had confided this desire to Sybil Lytchett, who had been visiting. Sybil had laughed and said, ‘But Cora, nothing could be easier. Tell the servants that the swimming cove is out of bounds and you can swim in whatever you want!’ Cora had found it awkward to explain to Bugler that she wanted to be private during her daily swim, she had felt as if she was asking permission instead of giving orders. But in the event, the butler had been quite accommodating and had taken to running up a red flag on the flagpole when Cora set off to the cove, which told everyone on the estate that the beach was out of bounds.
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