Burnt Norton
Page 24
And he came to her closing words:
Dear loved ones,
Do not weep for me. Open this book and I am with you. Look upwards in the sky and you will see me liberated from my chains. Look upwards, for like the kite, I will be free.
Edward gazed at the window uncertainly. He had seen her in this house. What did that mean? Had she found her freedom?
Then the writing changed again into a hand laden with suffering.
Death is everywhere: my brother, Ophelia, and now my sister, too. Is there any justice?
And Dorothy revealed her jealousy and anguish:
I have to keep her out of our lives, for Miss Johnson would destroy us.
I did not give my brother the only letter from his son, for I am a coward,
I have seen her sketches. They are visions of hell, but like Ruth I couldn’t burn them.
Forgive me, Elizabeth.
There were letters tucked inside – letters from Eton, from Elizabeth, from Sir William on the eve of his death. These fragile testimonies of love and life remained. Edward read them all. One stood apart from the rest: the letter from Charles Coram, a foundling boy on the eve of battle. Edward read it slowly. Dorothy had manipulated the life of a young boy. By revealing her sins, had she hoped for absolution? He sank to the bed, his legs giving way beneath him. He felt sure that she was there in the shadows, begging forgiveness.
I have done my worst. Let those who find this, judge me as I should be judged. May God forgive me, for I am a sinner and I have betrayed them all.
He shut the book, then opened it once more, drawn to a single line: I have seen her sketches. He looked to the void beneath the floorboards, pulled towards an unseen yet certain goal. He knelt down, and with his torch, swept the empty space. The beam shone on a narrow opening. Just as he suspected, something was wedged there. Getting a screwdriver, he levered the board until it broke with a crack, releasing the contents. The pad was large and brittle; he lifted it out with care. For a moment he stood motionless. Dorothy had hidden it; perhaps it was best left alone. Then, holding his breath, he opened the cover.
Elizabeth Keyt. The name was scrawled across the page, black charcoal scored onto white paper, as if the very act of writing was a declaration of misery. He lifted another page and gasped. The gentle face he’d seen in the window masked a tormented soul. Sketch after sketch of desperation devoured the pages. Elizabeth had not accepted her plight; privately, she railed.
Taking the sketchbook, he went downstairs. Checking to see if he was alone, he walked quickly towards the old kitchen garden. Pushing open the door he could smell the remains of yesterday’s bonfire. Hens pecked behind the high brick wall, and in the distance a car clattered over the cattle grid. He stood beside the dying embers, hesitant, holding the pad in front of him like a sacrifice. Before he could change his mind, he hurled the pad into the middle of the bonfire. There it rested amongst the rotting vegetation until, with new kindling, the flames took hold. Edward felt a heavy burden drop from his chest as the paper blackened, flared up and finally reduced to a pile of ashes. Walking back to the rose garden, he felt certain it was over. ‘It’s finished, Elizabeth,’ he whispered to the sun-filled silence. ‘I’ve finally set you free.’ In the window above him, only light moved across the irregular glass.
At Conroy’s suggestion, they visited Coram Fields. Only a playground remained, a green oasis amongst the traffic. Leaning against the solitary yew tree, Edward closed his eyes. Children filed through the gardens before him, wearing brown uniforms with red trim. When he opened his eyes, the cars hooted once more, and the children had vanished. In the Hospital Museum, amongst the inventories, the billet books, the petitions by mothers, the accounts, the rules and more rules, he saw the keepsakes, the tokens of love and of desperation, of hope and of hopelessness. They found an entry in the register, Charles Coram no. 171, admission date 10th November, 1741.
Edward woke as the train pulled into Moreton-in-Marsh station. He had reached his destination. He picked up the worn copy of the Four Quartets from the seat beside him, a present from Conroy on his twenty-first birthday, put it carefully in the breast pocket of his jacket and rummaged in the other pocket for the car keys. After stepping down onto the quiet country platform, he went to find the car. He passed through Chipping Campden, his eyes seeking the corbels and elaborate capitals that dressed the simple village houses. Some of the stonework was charred, some was a little broken, for it had been plundered from the ruins of two much grander houses: Campden House, the seat of the Gainsborough family, burnt by its Royalist owner Lord Noel in the civil war; and Over Norton House, burnt by Sir William Keyt. Two men, both involved in the destruction of their houses, and in the death of their dreams. As he drove on past the almshouses, the gatehouse, and through the Norton entrance pillars, he reflected that in some way the dreams of these two men did live on, though not as they may have imagined. These relics were testimony to their lives.
His mother opened the door. ‘You have some letters in the hall,’ she said, hugging him. He collected them and, taking a jumper from the peg, retreated to the wild garden. Sitting on the bench beside the dry, empty pools, he looked at the large brown envelope:
Edward Coram James
Burnt Norton
Chipping Campden
He opened it, drawing out a letter and a piece of copy paper. He put the envelope on the bench beside him and read the first.
Dear Edward,
I live locally and I’ve heard you are searching for information on the Keyt family. I am enclosing the copy of an entry from a diary that has been passed down through my family for generations. My grandmother gave it to me before she died. Apparently it was found amongst the possessions of Dorothy Paxton-Hooper and now eight generations after my ancestor’s death, I believe it may be of particular interest to you. I am reluctant to send the diary itself, so will call by in the next few days. I believe for the obvious reasons you will wish to see it.
Regards,
Helen Keyt
Edward shivered and his heart lurched uncomfortably. What would this hold?
In the distance a motorbike roared through the country lanes. He waited until it had passed, then unfolded the second page.
Many years have passed, but still our story continues.
Now in my sixth decade I have made my last pilgrimage to Norton. My dear husband has passed away after a long illness, and my children gone. How strange to return in the twilight of my life, and though my memory is dulled with age, remorse endures. The caretaker’s son lives there now. From him I learnt that Sir Dudley Ryder is dead. His son, the first Baron Harrowby, rarely visits Norton. The house remains empty.
Ruth met me by arrangement; she is old now and fat. She lives comfortably on the stipend from my mother – how well she served our family. She told me that ten months after his presumed death, Charles Coram found his way to England, and in July of that same year he was reunited with his mother. I don’t know where his life has taken him, and the question is not mine to ask, but Molly is happy with her adored son and has at last shown me mercy. I thank God her heart is bigger than my own. I never gave him the ring, the one that was worn by his grandfather. Instead, I returned it to the Roman. I climbed the hill and buried it with my bare hands. I hope that the curse on my blighted family will now be buried too.
May you, the future generations, attest to this.
Dorothy Paxton-Hooper, 1779
Edward stared at the entry for a long moment, and then, holding it tightly, he ran from the pools. Panting, he reached the house and went inside. He leant against the wall, breathing deeply, trying to gather his emotions. He could no longer see the children, and he would no longer see the girl in the window. Despite his relief, he felt bitterly disappointed. Amongst the secrets and the ghosts, the past had finally taken its place.
The bell rang, interrupting his thoughts. Mentally exhausted, he moved his limbs sluggishly towards the door. Putting his hand on the latch, he
looked up. The girl in the window stood before him, her grey-green eyes staring incisively through the plate of glass. Slowly he opened the door.
‘You must be Edward,’ she said. ‘I am Helen Keyt. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Tell me, have you received my letter?’
‘Elizabeth,’ he answered faintly. ‘I have.’
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
T. S. Eliot
Author’s Note
I am privileged to live at Burnt Norton, the Gloucestershire estate which inspired T. S. Eliot to write the first of his Four Quartets. I hope my story may bring Burnt Norton to life once more.
It is a story based on real events, although I have embellished the facts and where necessary added or changed things in the interests of narrative colour and coherence. It tells of the Keyt family (pronounced ‘Kite’) who lived at Norton from 1716 when they bought the estate from the Saye and Seale family to increase their already large local holdings. Sir William Keyt was christened at Blockley on 6 July 1689. He married Ann Tracy on 23 November 1710 at Toddington. Sir William died in the fire that engulfed his new mansion on 9 September 1741.
In 1753, twelve years after the fire, my husband’s ancestor Sir Dudley Ryder, Lord Chief Justice and father of the first Baron Harrowby, bought the estate from Sir Thomas Keyt, and it has since remained in his family’s ownership for over two hundred and fifty years. Over the years, Norton House, though itself untouched by the fire, became known as Burnt Norton.
For the purposes of this book I have used the original names where possible but in the interests of my story I have used only four of the original eight children. I have omitted Jane who was born in 1713 and was christened at the church of Holy Trinity, Stratford-upon-Avon; Agnes, who was christened in 1715, Anne christened in 1717 but who died in infancy; and lastly Robert who was christened at Holy Trinity, Stratford, on 18 December, 1724. Robert succeeded to the title of the fourth Baronet upon the death of his brother Thomas, but he remained childless. The baronetcy became extinct upon his death. I do hope that descendants of the Keyt family will forgive my omissions and indeed my impudence in altering some of the dates and facts for the benefit of my story. Elizabeth was in reality born in 1721 and she died in 1741; she is buried at St Eadburgha’s church in Ebrington. Dorothy was christened in Ebrington in 1727; there is no record of her death. John Keyt died in early childhood. Thomas was in reality born in 1712 and died on 24 July 1755. Gilbert Paxton-Hooper is a fictional character.
If we are to believe local legend, both Sir William Keyt and his son Thomas were infatuated with Molly Johnson, and her famous words ‘What is a Kite without wings?’ were genuine. Sir William’s affair resulted in the end of his marriage to Ann Tracy, and led to his eventual downfall. The unusual circumstances surrounding the attempted murder of his butler Thomas Whitstone are also recorded.
It is quite possible that Molly Johnson did have an illegitimate child but her association with the Foundling Hospital is imaginary. Facts relating to Captain Coram and the hospital are genuine.
George Heron served Sir William faithfully until the end. A poem written upon his gravestone in Weston-sub-Edge was removed in the nineteenth century; only a small portion of the stone now survives.
To my knowledge Handel never visited Norton.
I have gleaned facts from the Sandon archives, from the eighteenth-century diaries of Sir Dudley Ryder, the Gloucestershire County Council archives, and from the research of Roger Keight, Margaret Causer, Dr Christine Hodgetts, Jo Xuereb-Brennan, Guy and Lucile Wareing and Margaret Fisher.
My research has been considerably aided by the diaries of Samuel Pepys, Dr Johnson’s London by Liza Picard, and the Foundling Museum in Brunswick Square. I am indebted to my husband Conroy Harrowby for his patience and fortitude, and to Marge Cloutts, James and Viathou Parker, Kate Sloane, Medina Marks, Nicola Finlay and Ellis Rogers for their invaluable advice, and to Pink Harrison for her beautiful artwork. The biggest debt of all goes to five people without whom this book would not be possible: Lorenzo Soprani Volpini for making me write it; Sheila Crowley, my wonderful agent, who believes in my book; Lara McDonnell, my initial outstanding editor; and Charlotte and Nick Evans, who have encouraged and helped me along the way, and without whom none of this would have happened. Last, but by very means not least, my publisher Anthony Cheetham and his wonderful editor-in-chief Laura Palmer, both of whom have made this happen.
My thanks go to them all.
Caroline Sandon
(Sandon is a courtesy title given to the eldest son of the earl. My husband, Dudley Ryder, is now the eighth Earl of Harrowby.)
About this Book
A DYNASTY DESTROYED BY LOVE.
A ONCE-GRAND HOUSE, REDUCED TO RUINS.
1731: When his youngest son is killed in a tragic accident, Sir William Keyt, master of Norton House, buries himself in his fortune. He builds a second vast mansion in his grounds, squandering money he does not have on luxury his family does not want.
For Keyt has long been blind to the desires of others. His eldest son has fallen in love with their young maidservant, Molly Johnson, a ray of light in a household dimmed by tragedy. Keyt wants Molly for himself and, driven mad with lust and jealousy, he will do anything to have her. Even if it means breaking the heart of his son, losing the sympathy of his favourite daughter, and bringing about the destruction of his family.
THIS IS THE TRAGIC STORY OF BURNT NORTON.
Reviews
‘A powerful story, beautifully told, of love and betrayal, greed and tragedy, which is all the more intriguing because it is rooted in truth.’ —Julian Fellowes
About the Author
Caroline Sandon lives with her family at Burnt Norton in Gloucestershire, the home and gardens that inspired T. S. Eliot to write the first of his Four Quartets. Her husband’s family has owned and lived in this house for the last two hundred and sixty years. When Caroline isn’t writing, she works for her own interior design company. This is her first novel.
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First published in the UK in 2013 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Caroline Sandon, 2013
The moral right of Caroline Sandon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
Extract from ‘Burnt Norton’ by T. S. Eliot quoted by kind permission of the Eliot estate.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (eBook) 9781781852880
ISBN (HB) 9781781850671
ISBN (XTPB) 9781781850688
Head of Zeus Ltd
Clerkenwell House
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Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About this Book
Reviews
About the Author
About Head of Zeus