Death at Dawn

by Caro Peacock

  ‘Miss Lock, I am concerned …’ she said, and paused.

  ‘Concerned, ma’am?’

  ‘… that you are teaching Henrietta the wrong kind of French.’

  I tried not to show my relief.

  ‘I hope not, ma’am. Her accent has improved quite remarkably in a few days.’

  It was my one pedagogic achievement. The child had a good ear and I had coached her to utter some sentences of politeness in a way that would not have caused pain in Paris.

  ‘Please do not contradict me. I couldn’t understand a word she was gabbling. I shall examine her again next week and expect her to be speaking French like an English gentlewoman.’

  The children slept in the afternoon and so did I, so deeply unconscious on my attic bed that I woke thinking I was back at my aunt’s house, until the clash of saucepans from the kitchens below reminded me. I cried for a while, then dressed and tidied my hair and went down. Betty was laying out Henrietta’s white muslin frock with the blue sash.

  ‘We’re surely not taking them down tonight,’ I said. ‘Not after what happened.’

  ‘If they’re sent for, they’ll have to go.’

  At first, James flatly refused to change into his best clothes. He wanted to see his mother but his fear of his father was greater.

  ‘Your papa is a very important man,’ Betty told him. ‘He’s angry sometimes because he works hard, that’s all.’

  But her eyes, meeting mine over his bowed head, told a different story. Henrietta was impatient with her brother.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Papa didn’t mean to hurt me.’

  I looked at the blue bruise on her jaw and thought there was a kind of courage in her. James let himself be dressed at last, but began crying when the bell rang for us and clung tightly to my hand as we went down the staircase to the grand hall. There were servants at work, dusting and polishing. This was a surprise because normally cleaning was done early in the morning, before the family were up and about. The reason seemed to be a re-arrangement of the pictures. There were dozens of them round the hall, some of be-wigged Mandeville ancestors and their white-bosomed ladies, others of great moments from British history. Julius Caesar confronting the Druids had been one of the most prominent, next to the door to the larger of the two drawing rooms. Now it had been taken down and propped against the wall and a portrait was being put up in its place. Sir Herbert himself was supervising, with Mrs Beedle, the butler, Mrs Quivering and two footmen in attendance. Since all this was barring the way to the drawing room, we could only stand there with the children and wait. When they’d fixed it in place at last, and Sir Herbert had nodded his grudging approval, the painting seemed a poor substitute for noble Caesar. The portrait was a comparatively modern one of a pleasant though somewhat pop-eyed young woman, dressed simply in white silk with a blue sash, arms bare and hair piled in curls on top of her head, surrounded with a wreath of roses, all in the easy Empire style of our parents’ time. To my surprise, I recognised her from other portraits I’d seen, and when James tugged at my hand and whispered, ‘Who is she?’ I was able to whisper back.

  ‘That’s poor Princess Charlotte.’

  My father had not encouraged concern about the doings of royalty, but even a republican’s daughter may be interested in princesses, especially young ones who ended sadly. So although I was no more than a baby when Princess Charlotte died, I knew a little about her. She was a grand-daughter of mad King George III, the only legitimate child of his son George IV and his unruly and hated Queen, Caroline. Her lack of brothers and sisters was accounted for by the fact that her father, on first being introduced to his arranged bride, had turned pale and called for a glass of brandy. They spent just one night together in the royal matrimonial bed and Princess Charlotte was the result.

  Charlotte showed signs of being one of the best of the Hanoverian bunch, which to be sure is not saying a great deal. She was, by most accounts, more amiable than her father and more sensible than her mother. They married her before she was twenty to one of those German princelings who are in such constant supply, and she became pregnant with a child who would have succeeded her and become king of England – only she died in childbirth and her baby boy died too. Which was why we were about to celebrate the coronation of a different grand-daughter of mad King George, Charlotte’s cousin, little Vicky. In the circumstances, going to such trouble to commemorate Charlotte seemed another of Sir Herbert’s eccentricities.

  ‘Is she the new queen?’ James whispered to me.

  ‘No. I’m afraid she died.’

  Sir Herbert stood staring at the picture. None of us could move before he did. James fidgeted and gripped my hand even more tightly. He probably needed to piss.

  ‘What did she die of?’

  An awkward question. I could hardly explain death in childbirth to the boy, especially in such public circumstances. I began, in a whisper, that she had caught a fever, but a higher voice came from my other side.

  ‘She was poisoned.’

  Henrietta, in that terribly carrying tone of hers, determined to be the centre of attention. There was a moment of shocked silence, then her father’s head swung round, slow and heavy like a bull’s, from the picture to where we were standing. After his violence the night before, I was terrified of what he might say or do to the child. I was scared for myself too, certain that I should be blamed for Henrietta’s lapse both in manners and historical knowledge. The child’s lurid imagination and over-dramatic nature would be no excuse. I forced myself to look Sir Herbert in the eye, determined on dignity at least, and the expression under his black brow so disconcerted me that I fear my mouth gaped open. The man was smiling – a phenomenon I’d never before witnessed. He took a few heavy steps towards us, then, amazingly, bent down until his eyes were level with Henrietta’s, gently tweaked one of her ringlets and put a finger to his lips.

  ‘Shhh,’ he said to her.

  I think everybody there was as amazed as I was, not believing him capable of such a kindly and humorous rebuke. Henrietta was wriggling and simpering, having achieved exactly what she wanted. He touched her hair again, straightened up and said a few more words, equally surprising.

  ‘It is a pity you are not ten years older.’

  They were said in an undertone, and I think I was the only one apart from Henrietta who caught them. Then he turned and walked into the drawing room and we followed him with the children. James had his half-hour with his mother, then we managed to get him back upstairs before he wet his breeches.

  That evening, Betty went to her room soon after the children were in bed. I stayed on my own in the schoolroom with the window open and a lamp on the table, preparing notes on the geography of India for next day’s lesson. I was dozing over the tributaries of the Ganges when the door opened quietly and somebody came into the room.

  ‘Is one of the children awake?’ I said, thinking it must be Betty.

  ‘I hope not,’ Celia said, coming over to the table.

  She was in evening dress, peach-coloured muslin with darker stripes woven in silk, bodice trimmed with cream lace. Her face was pale in the candlelight, eyes scared.

  ‘You were seen, Elizabeth.’

  She took hold of the back of a chair and pivoted from side to side on the ball of one satin-shod foot, in a kind of nervous dance step.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘One of the laundry maids has a sweetheart who works at the livery stables.’

  ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘Am I supposed to know every servant’s sweetheart? I only heard about it from Fanny when she was doing my hair for dinner.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘The stable boy was sent up here on some message. He told his laundry maid a tale of a woman appearing out of nowhere and catching a horse that was bolting.’

  ‘She wasn’t … I mean, how did he know it was me?’

  ‘He didn’t. Only he described you and what you were wearing and the laundry maid
said it sounded a bit like the new governess.’

  ‘They don’t know for certain, then?’

  ‘Not yet, no. I was shaking. Fanny must have felt it. Then I had to sit through dinner wondering if Sir Herbert had heard about it yet.’

  ‘Did he give any sign?’

  ‘No, but then he may just be waiting for his time to pounce.’

  I put down my pencil and found my hand was shaking too.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Celia said. ‘I must have the reply to my letter.’

  ‘Oh, there’s certain to be a reply, is there?’

  I was nettled at her refusal to consider any problem but her own.

  ‘I’m sure Philip will reply by return of post. I told him to write care of the stables. It should be there by Friday or Saturday at the latest.’

  ‘Is a love letter so important that I must risk dismissal for it?’

  She sat down heavily on Henrietta’s blue chair.

  ‘It’s more than that. I wish … oh, I must trust you. I’ve asked him something. I need his answer.’ She looked down at the map of India, picked up my pencil and turned it over and over in her fingers. ‘I’ve asked him to elope with me.’

  ‘Doesn’t the suggestion usually come from the gentleman?’

  ‘I’m certain Philip would suggest it if he knew. But he can’t know until he reads my letter. You see, somebody’s coming soon and I want Philip to take me away and marry me before he arrives.’

  ‘This other person, is he the one your stepfather wants you to marry?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When is he arriving?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s expected any day.’

  ‘But your stepfather surely can’t have you married against your wishes, the moment this person sets foot in the house.’

  ‘It would be so much safer in every way if I weren’t here.’

  I supposed she was referring to Sir Herbert’s violent temper. I felt sorry for her, but wished she hadn’t planted her burden on my doorstep.

  ‘Your stepfather said something surprising to Henrietta this evening,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He wished she were ten years older.’

  ‘I wish to heaven she were.’ It burst out of her, vehement and unguarded. ‘When did he say it?’

  I told her about Princess Charlotte’s portrait and the rest. All the time she stared at me, as if every word mattered. I hoped at the end of it that she’d tell me why it concerned her so much, but she just heaved a sigh nearly as deep as Rancie’s.

  ‘So what are we to do about your letter?’ I said.

  Whatever happened, I must keep open a way of communicating with Blackstone.

  ‘I was hoping you’d think of something,’ she said.

  ‘You know the ways of the household better than I do.’

  She stared down at her silk-stockinged ankles, looking so lost that I pitied her in spite of my annoyance.

  ‘If I can think of something, will you do it, Elizabeth?’

  ‘If you can, yes.’

  She got up slowly, and took a few steps to the door, as if reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the schoolroom. At the door she turned round.

  ‘Don’t fail me. You’re my only hope.’

  ‘I’m my only hope as well,’ I said, but she was gone by then.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next few days were almost calm, probably because Sir Herbert was away in London. I gathered that from Betty, who picked up most of the gossip from the other servants. I say ‘almost calm’ because even I was aware that the staff were having to work harder than ever. Whenever we left the snug little world of the nursery corridor, maids were flying in all directions, cleaning rooms, carrying armfuls of linen, washing the paint-work round doors and windows. Betty’s friend Sally reported that the kitchens were worse than Bedlam. Whenever I saw Mrs Quivering she had a worried frown on her face and two or three lists in her hand. Even the gardens, usually a peaceful refuge, seemed to have caught the panic, with a dozen men trimming lawn edges and clipping box hedges so precisely that we could have used them for illustrations in geometry. Relays of boys trotted from vegetable gardens to the back door of the kitchens with baskets of carrots, white turnips, new potatoes, radishes, spring onions, salsify, artichokes, great swags of feathery fennel, sage, thyme. The appetite of the house seemed endless, but Betty said this was all just practising. They were making sure they had the new recipes right. As a result, the servants hall was eating better than it had for years, which was one blessing at any rate, if everybody hadn’t been too harassed to enjoy it.

  ‘But what are they celebrating?’ I asked Betty.

  She shrugged. Sir Herbert was a law unto himself. When we took the children down on Friday evening, he was still away. Stephen was there, talking to his sister by the window. They both looked serious. Celia glanced over her shoulder and soon afterwards came across to me.

  ‘Miss Lock, my trees simply will not come right. Do look.’

  She said it loudly enough for anybody in the room to hear and had brought her sketchbook with her. Stephen stayed where he was, but gave me a glance and a nod of approval. We bent over the sketch on one of the pie-crust tables, heads together. Her hair smelled of lily-of-the-valley and I was aware that mine was sticky and dusty.

  ‘Will you be in the schoolroom later?’ she said, under her breath.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Around midnight. Will Betty have gone to bed by then?’

  ‘Yes, usually.’

  ‘I’ve thought of a way, only … You see, they look like cabbages and I promise you I’ve tried so hard.’

  This for the benefit of Mrs Beedle, who was coming over to look. The three of us pored over Celia’s mediocre landscape until it was time for the family to go into dinner. Betty was tired and went to bed early. I waited in the schoolroom with Gallic Wars and a single candle, listening to the stable clock striking the hours. Celia arrived soon after midnight, dragging a blanket-wrapped bundle.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘Some things to make you invisible.’

  ‘Are you setting up as an enchantress?’

  ‘Not of that kind. Open it.’

  When I undid the blanket a tangle of clothes flopped out: plain brown jacket, tweed cap, coarse cotton shirt, red neckcloth, corduroy breeches, gaiters and a pair of that hybrid form of footwear known as high-lows, too high for a shoe and too low for a boot. They were all clean but had obviously been worn before.

  ‘Men’s clothes?’

  ‘Boy’s. It’s the next best thing to being invisible. Boys go everywhere and nobody gives them a second glance.’

  ‘I can’t wear these. It’s not decent.’

  ‘Why not? Women in Shakespeare are always dressing up as boys – Viola and what-was-her-name in the forest – and they all of them end up marrying dukes and things.’

  ‘Then why don’t you do it?’

  For a moment, in my confusion, I’d forgotten I had my own risks to run.

  ‘Of course I can’t. Imagine if I were caught.’

  ‘And what if I were caught?’

  ‘You won’t be. In any case, you’ll make a much better boy than I should. I’d never fit into the unmentionables.’

  I picked up the breeches carefully.

  ‘They’re clean,’ she said. ‘I saw to that.’

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘My grandmother collects old clothes from the household for the vicar to give to the poor. She was pleased when I offered to help her. Do the high-lows fit?’

  I slipped my feet into them. They did, more or less. Somehow the touch of the leather against my stockings made the idea more thinkable, as if the clothes brought a different identity.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’ll try it.’

  She put her arms round me and kissed me on the forehead.

  ‘Oh, you brave darling. You’re saving my life, you know that?’

  I turned away and picked
up the neckcloth, not wanting to encourage her dramatics.

  ‘You’ll go tomorrow morning, early?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’ll be a reply for me, I know. Leave a flower on the bench again when you get back, and I’ll find an occasion for you to give the letter to me. I must go now. Fanny will notice if I have bags under my eyes in the morning.’

  Luckily there was nobody to notice my eyes when I got up at four in the morning because I hadn’t slept at all. The boy’s clothes were piled on the chair beside my bed and I puzzled my way into them by the first grey light of the day, not daring to light a candle in case the light or smell of it penetrated to the maids’ rooms downstairs. It took time because my fingers were shaking, but I managed at last to work out the buttons and to pin my hair up under the cap so tightly that it dragged at my scalp. I slid my arms into the sleeves of the brown jacket and put my latest report to Blackstone into a pocket. The lack of a mirror to show me what I looked like was one mercy at least.

  I went barefoot down the stairs carrying the high-lows and sat down on the edge of the pump trough in the back courtyard to put them on. Though the household would soon be stirring, I hoped the servants would be too bleary-eyed and weighed down with their own tiredness to worry about anything else. And yet, when I took my first steps across the courtyard, the feeling was so exposed and indecent that I felt as if the eyes of a whole outraged world were staring at me. I missed the gentle movement of skirt hems against my ankles, the soft folds of petticoats. The roughness of breeches against my thighs seemed an assault on my softest and most secret parts. The high-lows were a little too large and, since Celia had not thought to steal socks as well, my feet slid around in them like butter in a churn. I tried to work out a way of walking that suited them, kicking one foot ahead and planting it firmly before moving the other. By this method I got myself through the archway and to the point where the drive divided, one part heading towards the bridge over the ha-ha and the front of the house, the other down the back road.