by Tessa Arlen
“It’s a wonderful dance, the fox-trot. Look, I’ve been watching them, it’s quite easy really.” John pulled Mary to her feet and demonstrated the dance with her, singing the lyrics as he trundled her around the room:
Oh ma honey, oh ma honey,
Better hurry and let’s meander.
He executed a perfect feather step and then a reverse. Mrs. Jackson, looking up from her mending, thought it a charming exhibition. John was agile and light on his feet, and Mary had no trouble following his lead. She smiled to herself and threaded a darning needle with gray yarn. The servants’ hall felt almost normal again.
“They have two records, this one and the ‘Alabama Slide.’ It’s called ragtime and it’s wonderful to dance to.” John swung Mary to a seat by the table, and turned to laugh at his fascinated audience. “Those two young ladies are having the time of their lives. They’re both in love with Lord Haversham and Mr. Oscar, though they’re certainly wasting their time on Mr. Oscar Barclay.” John allowed his right wrist to flop down as he did a neat little spin in his patent- leather slippers. Mary burst out laughing and was promptly told off by Mrs. Thwaite.
“I want none of that in front of my girls, John, d’you hear me? It was dreadful what you just implied … Mr. Barclay is a lovely young gentleman; he’s almost as nice a young man as our Lord Haversham is.” Having scolded the footman, Mrs. Thwaite now encouraged him with loud laughter.
Mrs. Jackson looked up from the stocking she was darning to pay more attention.
“He certainly is a lovely young gentleman,” said John, who had become a little more urbane and worldly under the influence of visiting valets who saw a good deal more of life than he did. “He’s a right old chip off the block is Mrs. Oscar.”
John, left arm pointing upward, twirled his silver tray on his finger and stuck his right hip out sharply, head coyly on one side, causing the girls to shriek. Mrs. Jackson looked up and saw Mrs. Thwaite give John a shove, roaring with laugher and swatting at him with a tea towel.
He went sideways, his feet rapidly two-stepping for balance as he flipped his tray up and neatly caught it, which caused even more of an uproar and a couple of cheers.
“Chip off the old block? Oh no, dear, I won’t have it said!” Mrs. Thwaite put large red hands on her bony hips and gave another guffaw. “We’ve certainly got the cream of society staying with us this time—the corridor-creeping society, that is. And without mentioning any names, which I never do no matter how you twist me arm, I think there have been a few changes since they were last all here.” More merriment among the kitchen maids, and Iris shook her head. “Yes, Iris, just you try helping out with the early-morning tea trays and see if I’m not mistaken. Why her ladyship doesn’t arrange for a six o’clock bell so they can all get back to their rooms in time for tea, I can’t imagine. Save the blushes of some of our nicer girls, it would.” There was another gale of laughter from the kitchen element. They were getting loud, and this brought Mrs. Jackson fully in at the double to restore order, thinking as she did so that Mable Thwaite obviously believed she was back in some pub off the Mile End Road, where everyone threw back their heads and brayed with mindless laughter the cruder the evening became. Well, not in her servants’ hall.
“What on earth is going on here? John, up those stairs and back to your work. Obviously, we need to have a little talk at the end of this evening. Now do I have to count to three?”
Order was immediately restored, but the image of John twirling his tray had a ring of truth, which was what had made his playacting so very unacceptable to her. Yes, of course Mr. Barclay probably was … well, she couldn’t bring herself even to think the word, respectability wouldn’t allow it. But it was no reason for half the female servants to erupt in strident laughter. She stalked out of the servants’ hall feeling doubly burdened by what was happening in their belowstairs world.
She had been aware that from the moment Sergeant Hawkins had walked downstairs to begin his investigation into the murder of Teddy Mallory, their lives would undergo a change that would bring no benefit. There would be questions asked and answers given that would chip away at the clear line that separated upstairs from downstairs. Loyalties would be tested and attitudes reversed, resulting in a shift in perspective and understanding. Once this line was crossed there would be no turning back, inevitably altering the long-instituted patterns of behavior between servant and master. She sadly came to the realization that John would never have behaved so disrespectfully a week ago. It was understood that footmen liked to play the fool, especially for the maids, but what had happened this evening was different. John had lost respect both for himself and for those he worked for. More troubling was that Mable Thwaite had had no problem in outwardly encouraging him.
Mrs. Jackson stopped and listened. She could hear the cook explaining exactly what cinq à sept meant—she pronounced it “sink or set”—for the edification of her kitchen maids. She was just about to turn around and go back into the servants’ hall to reprimand her when she caught sight of someone moving at the bottom of the long corridor that ended at the scullery door. She leaned forward, peering into the gloom, and then walked down the corridor. It was Elsie in the shadows by the door, with a shawl up over her head.
“Elsie!” Mrs. Jackson’s voice was sharp. “Where on earth do you think you’re going at this time of night? Servants’ curfew is at nine.” She walked the length of the corridor rapidly. “Where were you off to, my girl?” Her voice was low so that no one would hear, but her tone was severe.
Elsie’s face, insolent for only a second, became conciliatory. She caught her lip between her teeth; it didn’t do to cross Mrs. Jackson.
“Just out to get some air, Mrs. Jackson.” Elsie’s tone was mollifying and she spread her hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence.
“No, you were outside a moment ago, young lady, I saw you. I hope you are not off to meet someone.” Violet’s disappearance had made Mrs. Jackson more suspicious of all the younger maids. “I’ve got my eye on you, my girl.” Her voice was low and cold. “You’d better be off to bed now and I’ll talk to you again in the morning.”
Mrs. Jackson was surprised to find herself so angry. She was quite sure that Elsie had been on her way to a meeting with someone by the guilty way the girl had responded. It suddenly struck her that Elsie often volunteered to run to the kitchen garden if something had been forgotten. Mrs. Jackson had assumed it was because she needed a break from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the servants’ hall. Whom could she possibly be meeting at this time of night? Then she believed she knew who, and she felt the pain of jealousy so acutely that her stomach actually ached.
Chapter Twenty-two
The following morning Mrs. Jackson brought up Clementine’s breakfast tray and with it a copy of The Times. As she struggled to wakefulness, Clementine was surprised to see that her housekeeper was still in the room.
“Good morning, Jackson. What sort of day is it?” she asked as Mrs. Jackson opened the curtains.
“A nice one, m’lady. I brought you The Times newspaper.”
“Oh really?” Clementine caught Mrs. Jackson’s encouraging tone and picked up the paper. “Oh … I see. Oh good gracious me, it’s Lucinda!”
“Yes, m’lady, it most certainly is.”
Lucinda Lambert-Lambert’s whereabouts were proclaimed in heavy bold print on the front page, accompanied by a blurry photograph of her being manhandled out of, or into, a Black Mariah by three solidly built members of London’s constabulary. Clementine read out loud:
PEER’S GRAND-DAUGHTER CHAINS HERSELF TO THE RAILINGS OF 10 DOWNING STREET.
Miss Lucinda Lambert-Lambert, grand-daughter of Eamon Geoffrey Parceval Squareforth, 5th Earl of Lanarkshire and daughter of Northampton millionaire boot and shoe industrialist, Mr. Gilbert Lambert-Lambert of Clevellan Square, W1, was arrested yesterday afternoon at five o’clock, after chaining herself to the railings of 10 Downing Street. Miss Lambert-Lambert was wrapped fro
m hat to toe in the suffragette flag and wearing a banner demanding “Votes for Women.”
The Prime Minister, Lord Herbert Asquith, 1st Earl of Oxford and Asquith, is presently staying at Checkers, and was not inconvenienced by the young lady’s attempts to draw attention to herself as a member of Mrs. Pankhurst’s suffragette movement.
Miss Lambert-Lambert had manacled herself to the railings in front of the Prime Minister’s official residence, where she remained until police cut through the iron links of her chains and placed her under arrest. She resisted all attempts to go quietly to the police vehicle and had to be dragged by three policemen into the carriage. A constable, assisting in her arrest, sustained a serious contusion to the side of his face and a broken nose from the chains that were still attached to Miss Lambert-Lambert’s right wrist. During this time Miss Lambert-Lambert was loud in her exhortations for equality for women, and their right to vote.
While London constabulary worked to cut Miss Lambert-Lambert free, she called out to members of the public who had gathered to watch. “Our fight has been going on far too long. Women will not be trampled … we are prepared to die for our cause.” It was thought Miss Lambert-Lambert was referring to the death of Miss Emily Wilding Davison yesterday afternoon as a result of injuries sustained when she threw herself in front of the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby. Miss Lambert-Lambert shouted, “Rebellion against tyrants is obedience to God,” as she was forcibly put into the police van.
Miss Lambert-Lambert will be held in Holloway Prison, and will be arraigned to answer charges of Disrupting the Peace, Causing a Public Disturbance, Obstructing the Police in the course of their duty, and the most serious of all, Assault on a Police Constable.
The Home Secretary, Mr. Reginald McKenna, was quoted earlier this week as calling for “greater measures to be taken against these lawless young women, who invade the privacy of senior government officials in their houses, and on our streets, causing danger to the public with their outrageous antics.”
“Well, that’s quite dreadful. What a terrible shock.” Clementine finished the account of Lucinda Lambert-Lambert’s debut into the attention-ridden world of the WSPU and read on. “It says here that everyone is sick to death of the suffragettes and the damage they do. Oh, and it says that poor Wilding Davison woman died of her injuries and her funeral is tomorrow.
“A good deal has happened in a very short time, Jackson. I simply can’t believe that Lucinda has turned out so very badly. Her parents must be devastated.”
“Lady Harriet and Mr. Lambert-Lambert are downstairs with Chief Inspector Ewan, m’lady. He has given them permission to go to London,” said Mrs. Jackson as she rang for Pettigrew.
“What am I thinking?” Clementine started to scramble out of bed. “I have to get up, get dressed, and go down to Lady Harriet. I expect they want to get up to London as fast as they can so they can set about helping Lucinda out of this scrape.”
As Mrs. Jackson left, Lord Montfort arrived and heard her last remark.
“This is hardly a scrape, Clemmy, for heaven’s sake!” he said. “I hope they don’t make an example of Lucinda. The government is absolutely sick to death of these women causing trouble and destroying property. It is against the law to chain oneself to the railings of the prime minister’s residence, and to thump a policeman on the nose.” Clementine sensed that her husband had firmly allied himself with the ranks of outraged fathers and husbands, and sighed.
“Then Lord Squareforth will have to step in and intervene,” she said. “It’s the least he can do for Harriet.”
“Well, let’s hope he sees it that way too,” her husband replied as Pettigrew bustled into the room, carrying Clementine’s frock over her arm. “I’ll leave you to get dressed and look for you downstairs. Harriet and Gilbert are leaving soon. They are just waiting to say goodbye to you.”
Clementine arrived in time to find Lady Harriet Lambert-Lambert and her husband standing together in the hall as their motorcar pulled up into the drive. Gilbert looked quite ill and Clementine’s first reaction was that he should not travel. Then she recognized the futility of this thought; when one’s child was in trouble there was no staying away. Harriet looked drawn but determined nonetheless, and was clearly in full charge of herself, in an iron-woman kind of way that made Clementine feel nothing but concern for her friends. She took Harriet’s arm and turned her gently toward her.
“Harriet, tell me what can I do to help?” she asked.
Harriet replied immediately, “Think who you know who can influence them to drop the charges against Lucinda. Otherwise she will serve a prison sentence.” It was evident that Harriet had no qualms about calling in all favors.
“Of course, I’ll talk to Ralph. What about your father?” Clementine wondered if Lord Squareforth knew that his granddaughter was ruining the family’s reputation.
“He is our only hope at the moment and he is quite beside himself.” Harriet looked even more determined, and Clementine thought she had certainly inherited her father’s powerful will. “I am hoping he will come round…”
“Harriet, what do you know about this terrible business?”
“I know that Lucinda chained herself to those damned railings. When she left on Sunday morning she probably drove to the Pankhursts’ house straightaway and joined those bloody women. They must have been over the moon to see her. Can you imagine what a coup it was for them, a girl of her background joining their blasted cause? She must have been with them all this time … and then she did this terrible thing. We simply must get her out of there as soon as we can before the wretched girl decides to hunger strike.
“They usually throw the book at suffragettes who make a public disturbance these days. I am not sure at all what sort of sentence she could serve. Oh damn and blast, where is that motorcar?” Lady Harriet turned to her husband and Clementine felt alarm for Gilbert. He was looking old and vulnerable. Clementine was saddened by the overnight change in Gilbert; gone was the powerful captain of industry who had laughingly turned down Lloyd George’s offer of a peerage for a mere fifty thousand pounds as being the last gambit of the desperate to belong to a class he had already married into.
“Ralph said something about Henry Fowler, he’s a close friend of the prime minister, and he was in the same house at Eton as Ralph’s father; he could talk to him, or perhaps the home secretary, Mr. McKenna?” Clementine said.
“McKenna hates the Pankhursts and the WSPU. I am hoping my father will persuade him on our behalf. Now I must go, Clementine. Pray for us. If Lucinda is to remain in prison I am not sure that Gilbert will be able to live with that.”
Clementine and Lord Montfort stood side by side in the drive to watch their friends leave. As the motor disappeared around the corner they turned and walked into the house.
“It’s the end of an age, the end of civilization as we know it.” Clementine felt immeasurably depressed at the ugliness of it all. “It is simply not possible that a young girl of Lucinda’s background could be put in prison for something as ridiculous as chaining herself to the railings of Number Ten.”
“And I wonder if it is simply not possible for a young girl of Lucinda’s background to have behaved with such impropriety as to chain herself to the railings of Number Ten,” said her husband as he walked her toward the small dining room so that she could join him for his breakfast.
Hollyoak opened the door for them, but said just before they walked in, “Chief Inspector Ewan would like a word with you after you have breakfasted, my lord.”
“Oh good God, what does he want?”
“I understood it concerns Haversham Hall. I think the chief inspector’s intention is to drive over there to talk to the dowager countess and—”
“Mrs. Mallory? Well good luck to him.” Lord Montfort laughed. “He must be either very brave or a complete nincompoop.”
“I would say the latter, your lordship.” Hollyoak bowed and left them to their breakfast.
* * *
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br /> As Clementine went upstairs to change for a stroll in the park with Gertrude and Constance, Mrs. Jackson arrived with more news for her. Oscar Barclay was having a wretched morning, so Agnes had reported when she had gone up to see to his room during breakfast and found him still in bed, looking rather ill.
“I was wondering if you had the time to see Mr. Oscar, m’lady,” Mrs. Jackson asked with a look that said it would be worth a visit.
“Most certainly, Jackson, he’s in the bachelors’ quarters, right? Good. I’m on my way. Would you join me up there? And bring reinforcements in the shape of comforting food and sustenance.”
* * *
As Clementine tapped on and opened the door to Oscar’s bedroom, she could barely see him across the darkened room, where he lay in his bed.
“Oscar dear, how are you? Mrs. Jackson says you are not feeling well.” Clementine stood at the foot of his bed, peering at him through the gloom.
“So terribly sorry you have troubled yourself, Lady Montfort. I just have this horrid headache, and I am so very cold, I can’t seem to get warm.” There was no fire in his room, which faced north, and she saw that Oscar had wrapped himself up in what looked like a flannel dressing gown over his pajamas and had wound a scarf around his neck. He lay there shivering, his face pale.
Clementine crossed the room and opened one of the chintz curtains that were drawn across the windows. Oscar turned his head on the pillow and she saw such misery.
“Oh my dear boy, you do look all in!”
“I don’t feel too good actually.” He tried to laugh it off but failed. “I had rather a desperate interview with Chief Inspector Ewan, it went on for nearly an hour. I decided to come back to bed.”