by Fay Weldon
This morning Robert found his normal fund of cheerful good sense depleted. He would have gone to inspect the new racecourse at Newbury but this new five o’clock meeting put paid to that. He needed Isobel. He did not like waking up alone. He liked to spring from the bed restored not just by sleep but by Isobel beside him as a perpetual reminder of what a lucky man he was. Had he not found her, this jewel amongst women, plucked her out of a vie de bohème, and been right? True, he had expected money to come with her from her natural father, the coal magnate Silas. It had not and he had not cared.
His Lordship looked into his mirror, and saw that he was growing old. And where was Isobel to assure him he was not? Down at Dilberne Court again, of course, and still thoroughly put out by the prospect of the royal shooting weekend, which once she would have taken in her stride, Mrs Keppel and all. A dreadful respectability seemed to be taking over the nation. It had been expected that with the Old Queen’s death there would be a return to brighter, less censorious days. But no. Mrs Keppel, who once would have quite openly spent a private weekend with the King, must now dissimulate and bring her husband with her. It was too bad. And Isobel was down at the Court again, with her hovering Detective Inspector and her hordes of greenery-yallery young men, absurdly anxious that Alice Keppel should admire her taste.
‘Greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery, Foot in the grave, young man…’ They had been to the first night of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience: it must have been twenty-odd years ago; he remembered the children as being small. That was before his political career had taken off, when there had been time to spare, when the gay green and yellow shades of the Grosvenor Gallery aesthetes were viewed askance: all those lovers of Wilde and Beardsley and their like. Now it seemed they all found sanctuary with Isobel. And Robert’s younger brother Alfred was coming over from India for Christmas. Alfred was a man of tradition, a Brigadier in the Indian Army, a stickler for the proprieties even when a child. What would he make of it? His family had been against Isobel from the beginning – ‘Fine stock, but all the same, the wrong side of the blanket, all that.’ He could not bear Alfred to have been proved right. Though of the four brothers, only two were left.
Now Robert’s valet Digby, young but morose, was putting out a suit in an apparently normal dark grey wool worsted. The cut, though, looked strange to the Earl; the legs bulged wide at the knees, and again at the cuffs. The jacket was more like that of a lounge suit cut away at the hips than conventional morning wear.
‘They’re called sponge-bag trousers, my Lord,’ said Digby. ‘They’re all the thing.’
‘Hardly for Ministers of the Crown,’ said Robert. ‘Take it away.’
‘It is the modern style, sir,’ Digby said. ‘Her Ladyship had it especially tailored for you. She says it will be more in keeping with a new government. Young and forward looking.’
‘Does she indeed,’ said Robert. ‘A new government? Then she knows more than I do. She can hardly be referring to Campbell-Bannerman. He’s as old as the hills and never to be wrested from his drainpipes. Find me something less noticeable, Digby. It’s not as if I were off to a golf course.’
‘A pity, sir. Perhaps you could do with more relaxation. You work long hours.’
Robert looked at Digby sharply. The new race of servants made their presence felt. Valets were usually old and deferential. They shuffled around, foreseeing one’s actions, attending to this and that. This young one, he remembered, had been passed on when old Ashenwold died. He had remarked to Isobel that his new valet looked rather young and Isobel had said he was quick, alert and careful and came well recommended. He had started out in Barnardo’s orphanage – like Grace, who had been the best lady’s maid she had ever had – become a telegraph boy, and then gone into service with Lord Ashenwold. Robert said no doubt that was interesting, but hardly relevant: servants needed to know one’s own life by heart, he supposed, but why would one want to know theirs?
‘My dear,’ Isobel had said, ‘there is such a thing as the servant problem. The bright and ambitious ones learn to type and get jobs in the offices; we are left with the slow and surly. Times change and it affects us all.’ And she had quoted what young Churchill had said recently in the House, that ‘there was a danger of some tremendous explosion of popular feeling, the result of passions long suppressed and pent up, and which when it came, not infrequently created evils almost as many as it cured.’
Robert had laughed and been obliged to point out to her that Mr Churchill was talking about the dangers of delaying the coming election, rather than domestic matters, and since servants did not get the vote her concern was misplaced. She had seemed to grow quite cross and walked out of the room: really he did not know what the matter was with her, these days. She was more like Rosina than had been apparent in her younger years; she’d developed some disregard for the normal procedure of things; a discontent with the way things happened to be. She might as well be a radical. She had banned Rosina from the house without consulting him, and so Rosina had vanished into the blue. It rankled.
Now he turned to the young man to whom Isobel attributed a soul and a life of his own, and attempted to involve him in easy conversation.
‘I do indeed work hard,’ he said, ‘and, as Mr Churchill pointed out, it gets worse and worse, as this fag end of a parliament lingers on. Seven years is too long, Ministers get tired and muddled. There is a growth, an accumulation of bitterness and personal feud. Five years is more than long enough.’
‘Oh indeed, sir,’ said Digby, ‘as the wonderful Oscar Wilde said, “cultivated leisure is the aim of man”. Perhaps you could take up golf, like Mr Balfour. He believes it clears his head for decision.’
His Lordship could see that one was not wise to engage too closely with a Wilde-quoting valet, no matter what one’s wife advised, and regretted he had spoken. One did not want to have to think while dressing. His Lordship contented himself with saying that no amount of fresh air and wind had managed to reconcile Mr Balfour with Lord Curzon, and the four short hours between meetings scarcely gave him time for a round, and thought that would be the end of that. But no.
‘As it happens,’ said Digby, ‘my last gentleman used to attend The Cardinal’s Hat, a very pleasant and civilized retreat in Westminster, especially established to meet the needs of politicians.’
‘Ashenwold? I don’t believe it. Eighty-five if he was a day. I went to his funeral,’ said his Lordship, so startled he spoke without reservation.
‘Nevertheless, sir,’ said Digby calmly. ‘My Lord enjoyed the company of young boys, of course. Would you prefer the striped socks with garters, or the to-the-knee straight grey?’
‘Straight grey,’ said his Lordship.
‘Of course the establishment also has many discreet and even fashionable young ladies on its staff. Some are very lovely indeed. The place was very popular with the Robin boys. Robin as in the Ashenwold family name, sir.’
‘I know that,’ said his Lordship shortly. It was outrageous. Digby had to be got rid of, and at once. Where was Isobel, to see to it? He was not yet in his suit and had yet to decide on his hat. He could not say, ‘That will be all, Digby.’
‘Just bring the normal pinstripe, Digby,’ he said. ‘I will spend the afternoon in the Lords’ Library.’
The dressing continued to its end without conversation, and Digby did not presume further. And that was the end of the episode, except Digby left an embossed card on the dressing table: an address, ‘The Cardinal’s Hat’, and underneath, ‘Gentleman’s leisure, Gentleman’s pleasure. Utmost confidence, utmost discretion.’
There could be little doubt about what the establishment was offering. Robert could see it might be wiser just to overlook the conversation altogether. It had been his own fault in starting it in the first place. Churchill was right, in this as in so many things; when you remove the blocks of oppression you must allow for a sudden uprising of anarchic fervour. He memorized the address – he knew where it was, above a very resp
ectable gentleman’s outfitters – before tearing the card to shreds and dropping it into the waste-paper basket. He left a five-pound note in its place. It seemed prudent. If one did not deserve respect, at least one had the money to pay for it. The meeting with Balfour would be tense. He needed to relax. What Isobel did not know her heart could not grieve over.
Through a Glass, Darkly
30th September 1905, Dilberne Court
Arthur too looked in their mirror that morning and gave what he saw rather half-hearted attention. He was preoccupied with the possibility of developing a battery-powered car in parallel with the petrol-driven Jehu Thunderer. He would advertise the range as: Jehu Electric – For the Clean City, the better to remind customers of the great advantage of the motor vehicle over horse drawn – horse dung mixed with rain turned to a filthy mud all Winter and to dust in Summer, to be spread unhealthily all the year round by the hordes of sparrows that now plagued the city streets. All responsible citizens, in Arthur’s view, should abandon the horse and choose the engine – he had said as much in various interviews in the press.
Electric cars were no fun to drive or tinker with, but they were clean and quiet and useful for short journeys in town. Arthur envisaged the creation of a whole network of ‘garages’ in every city in the land, with forecourts extensive enough for the flocks of electric cars which would be parked in their cubby-holes overnight while serviced and charged ready for the next day. This business would be as valuable to their owners as providing petrol and oil. Why not? Perhaps he would write to Bertha Benz in Mannheim to see what she thought of the idea – she was a lively and influential woman in the auto trade, though he had heard she was over fifty. It would be wonderful to share his enthusiasms with someone. He could see in the mirror that Minnie was still asleep. Even if she was awake she would not be interested in the future of the electric car; she would be bored. He had thought when he married that all a man needed was love but he had been wrong. A man needed conversation too. He went downstairs to have a cup of coffee, then walked briskly down the drive to his workshops. There was an autumnal chill in the air. And so much to be done there was no need not to be cheerful.
Minnie heard the door close. She had woken earlier and pretended to be asleep while her husband dressed – or not exactly dressed – rather pulled on garments he grabbed at random to cover his nakedness, too impatient to wait for his valet. It seemed simplest to feign sleep. The fact of the matter was that she did not know what to say to him any more. She had disappointed him in some great way. She tried to be like an engine which ran smoothly but she wasn’t. Her gears kept slipping. She made suspicious untoward noises, which maddened him because there was so little he could do about them: yet he listened out for them. The mysteries of human fine-tuning were beyond him; there was no proper system of calibration. In other words, he was a man and she was a woman. She missed Rosina: she could have discussed with her the notion of woman as a failed engine. But Rosina had gone to live in a better place, amongst her own kind.
She got out of bed instead of waiting for the maid to bring her a cup of tea, and found her silk wrap herself. She poked up the fire and sat by it for a little and found herself singing aloud, but softly:
Oh what care I for my goosefeather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely-oh,
Oh what care I for my new wedded lord,
I’m off with the raggle-taggle gypsies-oh!
Her mother had sung her that song. Who were the raggle-taggle gypsies-oh? The Robins in Fleet Street? Hardly. It was wicked to even think it.
It was late last night when my Lord came home,
Inquiring for his lady-O,
The servants said on every hand,
She’s gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies-oh!
Oh what cares she for her house and her land?
What cares she for her money-oh?
What cares she for her new wedded Lord?
She’s gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies-oh!
Oh, wicked indeed! The trouble was, these days she had to take her children with her. When she’d left Stanton she’d had none.
Minnie went to the mirror and studied her face to see if she could find signs of wickedness and corruption there, but she could not. It was still the innocent, cheerful face her husband had once loved with the corners of the mouth turning upwards as though it was more accustomed to smiling than to grief; still youthful, with its future before it: little white even teeth, bright eyes, bouncy hair. How gradually faces changed, she thought. Her own seemed the same as always, yet had turned from child to girl to grown-up woman.
‘Oh m’Lady, you’re up,’ said Lily, startling Minnie as she set the silver tray on the dressing table. It was a surprise to see Lily, who usually attended to Isobel in the mornings, her Ladyship being once again in residence. ‘Her Ladyship wants to sleep in late today and says she can do without me so I thought I’d come and see how you were getting along, and thank you once again for the stockings. What shall I put out for you today? There’s quite a chill in the air. No more muslin sleeves, I fear, until next Spring. I was thinking of the blue and white spotted moiré for this morning. It’s simple and easy and suits you so well.’ Left to her own devices, she, Minnie, would choose the easiest and most serviceable costume around but it was pleasant to be relieved even of that responsibility. Lily always seemed to get it right.
‘I daresay,’ said Minnie. ‘But if there’s no one to notice it hardly matters.’ She must be careful. Bitterness slipped out so easily.
‘Oh m’Lady,’ said Lily, ‘you can’t say that – there’s three of her Ladyship’s young designers coming in today to inspect progress – and the Inspector is back again. Mind you—’ Lily stopped herself from finishing the sentence.
‘Mind you,’ Minnie could not resist finishing for her, ‘the young men seem to have eyes only for one another.’ Lily chortled.
‘That will be all, Lily,’ said Minnie. It was tempting to become over-familiar with Lily but it was not wise. ‘I shan’t go down to breakfast. Ask Nanny to bring the children up to my room. We will breakfast together.’
‘Oh m’Lady,’ said Lily, ‘Nanny won’t like that at all. They need their routine.’
‘They need their mother,’ said Minnie shortly. ‘Tell Nanny to bring them up here and leave them.’ Enough was enough.
Minnie went back to bed while she waited for the children. She reflected on the extraordinary weight of marriage, how it lay upon the senses like a dead thing, squashing the life out of you, immovable, there for ever. Once you were married your life changed completely. Your life became his life. His friends’ wives became your friends. His family became yours. Only death could part you. It was a monstrous decision to take, and taken when young. A wedding dress, a wedding ring dangled in front of you to lure you into what amounted to slavery. Women could get divorced, of course, but in this country only if their husbands were extremely cruel and violent as well as unfaithful and Arthur was not just faithful, but a good, kind, considerate man. His only cruelty was not to love her as she wanted to be loved. She should not be thinking like this.
The trouble was, she was. If she were unfaithful Arthur could divorce her and find someone more to his liking, someone more like a well-greased engine. It would have to be done through the English Crown Court and with a great deal of publicity, and there was no way she would keep the children. Husband and children, in the eyes of English law, went together. At home in Illinois if you divorced you could keep the children. Chicago might be windy and ripe with the smell of the stockyards but it was good to its children. Julia Lathrop, the great reformer, was a friend of her mother’s and believed that the child’s inalienable right was to the mother’s, not the father’s, care. Motherhood, Julia argued, was the most important calling in the world.
Forget nannies, forget her future as a Countess and mistress of Dilberne, forget the threat of Eton for her sons – those icy corridors, the harsh treatment which made men of boys
– the kind of men who ran the world but who thought women were engines designed for procreation – just get the children back to Chicago. Forget Dilberne Court and its renovation, forget the chance to meet the King; just run away. She had run away from Stanton Turlock. That had worked.
There was only one real problem. She loved Arthur and did not want to leave him. He deserved to be left, but that was another matter. If he walked into the room and got into bed with her she would throw her arms around him and be the happiest woman in the world. Really, marriage was a terrible burden.
Edgar came running into the room and held out his feet for his mother to take his heavy shoes off. She did so. Connor tottered in on the nursemaid’s arm. He was on his feet at last. There would be something to tell Arthur.
‘Nanny says don’t over-excite Master Connor. Nanny says his tummy’s upset.’
‘Thank you, Molly,’ said Minnie. ‘Or Maureen, as the case might be.’
‘Molly,’ said the girl, who looked rather spotty, heavy and plain, though perfectly amiable. Isobel had hired her without consulting Minnie. All the Dilberne nannies for centuries had been called Margaret and the nursemaids Molly or Maureen.
‘The name goes with the job,’ Isobel had explained to Minnie, when Minnie had said she’d prefer to call the nursery staff by their real names.
‘But why?’ asked Isobel.
‘For fear of reprisals,’ Minnie had replied, half joking. Isobel had just looked baffled. Four years on, and the nursery staff were still Margaret, Molly and Maureen, and Minnie had little appetite for jokes.