Burnt Norton

by Caroline Sandon

  During the night she awoke. The sheets were wrapped and knotted around her thighs; her body was clammy with sweat. She climbed out of bed, threw open the window and stared up at the sky. Inhaling the crisp autumn air, she watched the clouds sail across the moon, and she remembered a story Miss Byrne had told her on a similar night many years before.

  ‘It’s a galleon,’ Miss Byrne had said, her arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t you see, it’s collecting treasure from the moon?’ She could picture herself as she was then, a young girl gazing in wonder at the night sky. If Miss Byrne were here now, she would be giving Dorothy sound advice. ‘If you love him truly, ’tis the most natural thing in the world,’ she would say. But did she love him? Did she feel passion for the man she would marry? By virtue of having to ask, she knew her answer.

  A pier glass stood in the corner; she stood before it, a shadowy figure, watching her reflection. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, and her blue eyes looked black in the gloom. She lifted her nightdress above her ankles, assessing her white skin, her delicate bones. She wondered what it would be like. Her experience was limited to animals mating in the field and stolen moments in her novels. Hesitating for a moment she raised her arms, pulled the nightdress over her head and stared at herself: the triangle of hair between her legs, the dark nipples on rounded breasts, the slim waist. Letting the breeze cool her skin, she lay back on the bed. A sigh escaped her lips, and her fingers became Lorenzo’s. As they touched her skin every sense in her body awakened. His hands stroked her breasts until the nipples were standing erect and waves of sensation pulsed down her body. One hand strayed across her stomach and down. The other came up to her mouth and traced the outline of her lips. At the same time she felt his fingers between her legs, touching her with lingering strokes that tantalized and teased, until her body arched towards them. Now it was Lorenzo’s mouth pushing her lips apart, Lorenzo’s body rising above her. There was no turning back as her legs parted and she started to move faster and faster against his fingers, no hesitation on this strange voyage of discovery. It was all-consuming, taking her until she exploded into the light. When she had finished, she lay breathless in her bed, confused and alone.

  At noon the following day, Dorothy’s hair was dressed and her stays tightened, but it was hard to return to reality and her mind still wandered. As the tiny buttons were secured along her back she faltered, and as the gloves slipped over her scented wrists and along her arms, her hands quivered. She had slipped away from the present, from the inevitable, towards a man who smelt of meadow hay and saddle soap, and whose smile would haunt her for ever.

  Entering the church of the Holy Trinity in Stratford-upon-Avon, kneeling within feet of Shakespeare’s tomb, she said her vows to the man at her side, and hoped that she would be worthy of his love.

  Afterwards she bade farewell to her small family.

  ‘Goodbye, Dotty,’ her mother said softly, holding her at arm’s length, staring into her face. ‘I hope you will love him truly.’

  Thomas hugged her tightly and shook his friend’s hand. ‘Goodbye, Dotty. Look after my darling sister, Gilbert. I’ll write to you both. I’ll miss you.’

  As the carriage drew away, she remembered Elizabeth’s words: ‘Follow your heart, but follow it honestly.’

  Not for the first time, she doubted her integrity.

  They stayed in lodgings on the way to Surrey. As she looked at her new husband, she hoped he would inspire passion within her. Standing in front of the fire, in her new negligee of lawn and lace, she waited for him.

  ‘Stop, my love,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘It is not necessary to undress. Do up your buttons, for I would not embarrass you.’ She redid the buttons, rebraided her hair, and when he snuffed the candle, which she had pleaded for, he laughed.

  ‘That is for whores,’ he said. ‘Not for my virgin bride.’

  Gilbert fumbled with his britches, then released himself into her with no joy. When it was over, her body was sore and unsatisfied, and she turned her face to the pillow to weep.

  The years passed. Dorothy’s children were born and christened, and though she didn’t achieve the fulfilment she longed for, she discovered the joys of motherhood. As she held a sleeping baby, she reflected on her mother’s pain – on the loss of her children, her husband, the unnatural order of her life. Each year she returned to Hidcote, and each year she was saddened by her mother’s suffering. On these occasions she saw her brother, unmarried, his energy and beauty fading. When she returned to her own family once more, to the children who demanded her time, she tried not to think of Thomas or of the hand she had played in his destiny. She tried not to think of Lorenzo.

  In the spring of 1749, she received a letter from Thomas.

  Dearest Dotty,

  I hope life is treating you well, and that you and Gilbert are happy.

  Firstly I must tell you that we have found a purchaser for Norton. As you know, my agent has been looking for some time, and at last Sir Dudley Ryder has made up his mind. He will complete the purchase over the next few years. I know this news will make you sad, but if I am honest, I’ll be glad to be relieved of the financial burden. Mother is of the same opinion; it is time to move on, to put the past behind us.

  We are both in good heart, having stayed with Cousin Jack in London for the last two weeks. We went to the opera, the theatre, and even a few social gatherings, but then something unexpected happened.

  Six days ago, we attended a benefit concert at the Foundling Hospital. George Frideric Handel conducted the first performance of his Foundling Hospital Anthem. It was a wonderful affair: the Prince of Wales and many public figures were raising money to fund the new chapel. Before the concert started, we were invited to view the paintings on display. The hospital is unique, for on the one hand it rescues poor foundlings, but on the other it promotes British art. I wish you could have seen the paintings; perhaps I can persuade you to leave the country for a few days.

  The evening was a glorious occasion, but that’s not all of it. We were shown to our seats by the choristers, fine young lads in black robes and white cassocks. Our guide was a boy of about seven or eight years old.

  Dotty, though the child was well fed and clean, and cheerful enough, my heart was moved by the longing in his eyes. He made me want to put something back into a society where children are ill-treated and abandoned by their mothers, where infants are left on the streets to die.

  I asked the boy his name, and he told me that he was Charles Coram, and that he loved to sing. He asked me to hear him perform, and when the choir sang, I was moved once more. I now feel I have a purpose.

  I have no children of my own, no obligations; I want to do something for that young man and others like him. Before we sell it, I have decided to have one last party and hold my own concert at Norton, and I will ask Handel to perform his work, Messiah. I believe we could alert people to the plight of these poor children, and raise money at the same time. We can call it the farewell concert. Will you assist me, Dorothy?

  Your loving brother,

  Thomas,

  In anticipation of your reply.

  Tightness closed around Dorothy’s chest. For years she had tried to justify her behaviour to herself. If she had been a better person, she would have owned up to her actions, would have lifted the veil from her brother’s eyes. Instead the lies continued.

  Of course I’ll help you, she wrote. It will be a pleasure.

  49

  Molly survived these years of hardship and toil. She kept going, for there was a child in London without a mother’s love. One day she would claim him and make up for all the lost years.

  She did get her shop, a small property outside London. As she had envisioned since she was a child, a blue sign with gold lettering hung above the door, but as the roads improved, her customers drifted to the city. Before long someone else’s sign hung above the door, and Molly returned to Gloucestershire, with Dorothy’s money all but spent.

  For
two years she worked as a seamstress in a small hilltop village. ‘Stow-on-the-Wold, where the winds blow cold,’ they said, and it was true, and the cold seeped into her bones at night. Every morning she read the trade cards in the village shop, until her opportunity came.

  Premises for sale, Chipping Campden.

  It was perfectly located on the High Street near the centre. She lacked the money, but Will, who had found marriage and success, gave her a loan. Molly worked hard, and her reputation for excellence spread. Soon she would go to London. She dreamt of collecting her son.

  Next year, perhaps, she would be rich enough.

  She was turning the hem on a client’s gown when Ruth surprised her with a visit.

  ‘Well well, Molly Johnson,’ Ruth said, looking her up and down. ‘Still pretty, still slim – how do you do it after all these years? Look at me. I’ve gone to the dogs: too much food and no fine men. That’s my problem, no reason to take care of myself.’

  Molly hugged her and laughed, then hugged her again.

  ‘Ruth, dear Ruth, I am sorry I didn’t contact you, but I have had to keep my head down around here.’

  ‘Well, you were a hard one to track down. “Miss Jones”, for heaven’s sake! Whatever next? It was your lovely brother Will who told me where you were, and indeed who you bloody were. Lord, if you do it again I’ll give up on you.’

  For the next hour they caught up on old times.

  ‘I work for Lady Keyt at Hidcote. I’m her housekeeper now; I suppose that’s why I’m still with her after all these years. I haven’t been to the old house since it was closed; it still scares me to death when I think about the fire. They say a gent from the city wants to buy it – the Attorney General, whatever that is. Word has it, his sights are set on a peerage and he needs a country seat.’

  They slipped back easily into their old friendship. Ruth was on the point of leaving when Molly asked her to accompany her on a trip to Norton. ‘I have not yet seen the ruin, Ruth, and I would like to pay my last respects.’

  ‘Tomorrow is my day off. I’ll be here at three.’

  The following day, as their cart bumped along the rutted track, Molly remembered her arrival at Norton.

  I can’t imagine why Papa employed you; you’re hardly old enough to be a lady’s maid.

  She remembered Elizabeth: Dorothy, be polite to poor Miss Johnson. We must make her welcome in our home.

  As they entered the ruins, voices and memories reverberated around her.

  Molly, what do think? Do you like bronze silk for the curtains, or red damask?

  We have to do the menus. I wish it to be the most memorable evening ever.

  My radiant girl, would you dance with me?

  ‘Ruth,’ Molly cried at last, ‘everything that I have touched has broken. I gave my son away, sold him for money. He’s growing up without his mother, without even knowing his real name, and I pay for it every day.’ They sat on the wall, the tangle of ivy softening the crumbling masonry, and Ruth heard her story. She heard about Mrs Quick, and about Molly’s agreement with Dorothy; she heard about the Hogarth sisters, who sent occasional reports of her son, and of her dreams of reclaiming him.

  ‘Lawd,’ she said at last, ‘it’s not that bad. We all make mistakes and you’ve made yours. You can make it up to your lad; you gave him away with the best intentions. Now you can get him back.’

  50

  On 1 May 1750, Handel’s sacred oratorio Messiah was performed at the Foundling Hospital. It was a great success, raising a large sum of money, and after donating an organ to the new chapel, Handel was elected a governor of the hospital. Thomas attended the presentation and had the opportunity to approach the famous composer with his request.

  Darling Dotty,

  In haste,

  Handel has agreed. He will come to Norton next summer with his choristers. I am elated beyond words. Please, will you ask Gilbert if he can spare his wife for a few weeks? He’s probably busy on the estate, but I hope that he will join us eventually too. I will of course expect my nieces and nephew.

  Always

  Your devoted brother,

  Thomas

  Shortly after receiving this, Dorothy wrote a letter to the Foundling Hospital.

  Dear Sir,

  The Foundling Hospital choristers are performing the Messiah at Norton, my brother’s house in Gloucestershire, next summer. I have an interest in a particular child, the son of a Miss Molly Johnson. I would be most grateful for the following information. Will this boy be amongst the choristers, and what is his name? Any information will be treated in confidence.

  Please could you send your reply to my solicitor in London? I enclose the details.

  Two weeks later, Dorothy received the answers to her questions. The child would be performing, and his name was Charles Coram.

  When Dorothy left Surrey with her children, Gilbert wished them well and waved goodbye as the carriage swept them away. She smiled, for he was a good man. He knew nothing of the anxiety she felt, heading back to Norton for her brother’s concert. How could he? He knew nothing of her.

  Dorothy persuaded her mother to spare Annie from Hidcote to supervise the cleaning and to look after the house when the choristers arrived. Under her direction, Norton awoke from its long sleep. The house was scrubbed, the rooms were aired, and the furniture was polished until it shone. Dorothy hired local men to cut back the neglected gardens, and the ruined mansion rang once more with the sounds of life.

  In late July, Handel arrived with his musicians and thirteen foundlings. The coaches entered under the archway, and as the foundlings piled out, George Heron and his staff formed a welcoming party. Thomas escorted the blind Mr Handel as Dorothy watched uneasily from the steps.

  Children of various shapes and sizes filed towards her. She wondered if she would recognize her nephew.

  One young boy lingered behind the rest. When he looked up he saw a woman standing at the front door. Though her hair was dark, she had the same blue eyes and the same bearing as Sir Thomas. He met her glance and approached her. ‘Hello. You must be Sir Thomas’s sister?’ he asked.

  Something struck a chord: the delicate face, the curly hair. ‘I am,’ Dorothy replied. She took a deep breath before asking the question to which she already knew the answer: ‘And what is your name, young man?’

  ‘Charles Coram,’ he said proudly.

  As the concert approached Dorothy struggled with her conscience. The time had come to tell her brother, but she could not.

  On the night before the performance, everyone gathered informally in the drawing room. They had finished supper and the choristers, tired but happy, were sprawled on the floor playing cards and chequers. The adults sat on chairs grouped around the large room, sampling the last of Sir William’s port. Everyone stopped talking when Thomas stood up and cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr Handel, friends,’ he said, his voice filling with emotion. ‘Thank you for coming. This is a very special occasion; it marks the end of an era, and I can think of no better way to say goodbye to my family home. The last few days can be counted amongst my happiest. Norton needs life, and nothing brings more life than these delightful children. It has been a joy to have you all here. You have rejuvenated this old house with your singing, and for that I thank you. I also wish to welcome Sir Dudley Ryder to his future home. You have been most generous, sir, in your contribution to our festival, and I hope that you will be as happy here as we have been.’

  All eyes turned towards Sir Dudley, who rose and bowed, to warm applause.

  51

  July 1751

  Molly and Ruth wore cloaks to disguise themselves as they took the wooded path through to Norton. ‘I feel like a child,’ Ruth laughed. Molly looked anxiously at her. ‘Thank you for agreeing to come with me. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to sneak in on my own.’

  They slipped through the gate, and running through the yew trees they reached the temple. Molly stopped at the entrance. Elizabeth’s statue r
emained, but the stone had aged and was covered with lichen. ‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ she whispered.

  She touched the stone columns, remembering her night with Thomas. In the shade of these trees, unseen by the one hundred and fifty guests who stood on the lawn drinking champagne, they could see the theatre. Chairs were arranged in a semicircle, and a stage had been constructed behind the round pool. The lime trees planted by Sir William had grown to form a proscenium arch.

  ‘Though I admit to financial folly, I believe future generations will thank me for this theatre,’ he had said, and at last Molly saw wisdom in his words.

  The orchestra arrived. They filed into their places, followed by the audience and family members. Dorothy led Mr Handel, and Thomas led a small band of choristers onto the stage.

  Seeing him, Molly shrank back against the pillar. Thomas had changed; his jawline was the same, and his hair still curled over his collar, but he looked significantly older and worn. She glanced at the choristers, sweet boys with black cassocks and white ruffs, but her eyes returned to the man she still loved. Watching him now, she realized the intervening years had done nothing to lessen her feelings.

  When he went to the podium and lifted his hand, the crowd fell silent.

  ‘Mr Handel, I thank you,’ Thomas said, ‘for coming to give us this performance. I am honoured to be your host, for it has a purpose beyond the music – it is also to honour the children who will sing to you tonight. May I ask you to raise your glasses to Mr George Frideric Handel, to the orchestra and to the choir of the Foundling Hospital? I also raise my glass to Captain Thomas Coram, whose benevolence and perseverance helped each and every one of these young people. Though he is recently dead, his legacy lives on.’

  Molly would have fallen, but Ruth caught her. ‘It’s the foundlings!’ she gasped. ‘My son must be amongst them. You didn’t tell me they would be here.’

  Ruth held onto her friend’s arm. ‘I didn’t know, but we ought to go, Molly. No good can come of this.’