Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Max Beerbohm: his works delicately poised between lampoon and caricature, were gems. They finished the tour with a selection by William Nicholson. Mallory felt he unreservedly shared with them his delight in painting, making her wish she had at least some small talent.

  Almost back in Belgravia, Lady Glencora gave instructions for Mallory to be ready at seven o’clock. After an early dinner, they were going to the Court Theatre in Sloane Square. She addressed Francine. “I know it’s small and rather unfashionable for the times, but the Playgoers’ Society does some very interesting readings of dramas we can’t get in the West End.”

  “I think this an excellent idea, Ma’am.” Francine’s hat with its bright cherries, bounced merrily. “I heard Lady Ramona remarking they would be giving a rendition of George Bernard Shaw’s: You Never Can Tell. I haven’t read that one”

  “Last time we were in London we saw a production from the Vedrenne-Barker season. You know they select the most engrossing plays and that was how we were introduced to GBS. It was his Man and Superman if I remember rightly, so we’re making the most of this opportunity tonight.”

  “I like reading men like G. K. Chesterton and H. G. Wells, men of conscience. Their followers give us an explosion of fine talent.”

  “Oh Francine, you do my poor heart good.” Lady Glencora patted her hand. “I too, feel we’re in a new century that wants to open out, expand its horizons. If only we can overcome this oppressive tunnel vision.”

  Hearing their discussion, Mallory speculated that what they wanted to expand towards could still be a possibility. More so than in her world where the popular view had solidified through too many wars. The Twenty-first Century had had too much serious terrorist activity. Religious intolerance and world-wide propaganda now had a strangle-hold. For these people, there is still so much to hope for. As yet there is no global warming or threat of over population. No fear of terrorist bombs or nuclear detonations. She was slowing to a stop as Lady Glencora invited Francine to join her, and Lady Ramona for the play-reading.

  “Thank you very much Ma’am. I would like that exceedingly.” Francine thought her mistress the most wonderful woman and she, the luckiest of secretaries.

  At seven o’clock Mallory collected the three Ladies and chauffeured them to the Court House. They looked incredibly opulent in their evening finery, which this time placed the feathers bobbing about in their hair. This was not a full theatre production, but still they had to present themselves. Can they never go out and relax … just hang out? What a different audience from her last visit to the theatre. Not all from the wealthy class by any means. They looked more serious, more intent, many clutching a copy of the text. She wished she could go in, but settled for an uncomfortable sleep on the back seat.

  On the drive home she knew she had missed a special night. Even Lady Ramona had been able to forget her woes and enjoy the readings.

  “Mason, we are due to return to Guilfoyle Park on Sunday.” The others had gone inside and Lady Patchford was delivering her last instructions.

  “Yes my Lady.”

  “The young Ladies will have their final fitting at the dressmaker’s in the morning then our business in London is concluded.”

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  “Be ready at nine-thirty.”

  “Yes my Lady.”

  * * *

  What a positively miserable, drizzly day. Black clouds hung everywhere and even faces seemed to take their cue from the weather. Everyone was already wrapped in multiple layers as protection from the chill of approaching winter. Mallory hugged herself against this biting wind, pitching and yanking in erratic swirls at anything in its path, while she waited for her passengers. A few early autumn leaves danced about her cap. Later, she was to collect the correspondence that Miss Hewitt was finishing up, to deliver to the Central Sorting Office for posting. Once her duties had been attended to, she could devote her time to making sure the ‘Silver Ghost’ was in readiness with enough air in the tires, water in the radiator and every spark plug shining bright. It was important there be no mishaps and now on the return journey, she knew what to expect.

  “Good morning Lady Ramona. Good morning Lady Nigella.”

  “Good morning Mason,” Lady Ramona responded. Lady Nigella gave only the briefest nod. She had wanted to be allowed to take the train with Miss Hewitt. What a lark! Her mother did not give her permission however; consequently the young Miss was sulky and mutinous, looking quite out of sorts in fact. Poor seamstress, I bet the fittings won’t go very well today.

  * * *

  Life at Guilfoyle Park began to take on a certain pattern for Mallory. She was much in demand on a daily basis, with little time to help out in the stables. It seemed the whole establishment was in a constant state of upheaval due to the elaborate preparations for the Lady Ramona’s birthday dinner and ball. It was two weeks away with not enough time to get all the things done that were needed.

  “Constance!” Lady Glencora was dressed for business. No frills today, just a serviceable blouse and skirt and her comfortable, glacé kid house shoes.

  “Yes Ma’am?”

  “Please have Nigella come to me in my chamber. I will be there in half an hour.

  “Yes Ma’am.” Mrs. Aldred left her Ladyship looking out the tall windows of her boudoir. She had found her easily distracted of late, making her tasks immoderately more difficult. Not very helpful at all when success or failure lies at my door, she grumbled under her breath. Still, it was not her place to remind her mistress to ‘pay attention’. She gave a shudder at the very thought and hurried on her way. Who knew where the Lady Nigella was to be found these days. It was either under your feet, or nowhere to be seen and she had only thirty minutes.

  Glencora had been giving much thought to what to do about Nigella. Worry over her daughter had been robbing her of sleep, but she really could not afford to collapse now. She must resolve this problem. Finally, after prolonged agonising a strategy had presented itself and now she could act. She retrieved a stiff, cloth paper envelope containing one single sheet of velum from her bureau and collected a set of keys from the bottom drawer. Thus armed, she proceeded to her chamber to await her daughter. Nigella was not long in arriving. She had planned to paint in the rose garden in some cloistered spot, away from all the hustle and bustle, but Mrs. Aldred had found her first. She greeted her mother with an effusive hug; so nice to have all her attention.

  “Please sit Jellie. I have important matters to discuss with you.”

  “Yes Mama.” Have I done something again? She looks so stern. She remembered the last time she had had to sit through an ‘important’ discussion. She placed herself delicately on the spindly chair next to her mother’s and composed her features.

  “As you know, Mona turns twenty next week and at that time your father plans to announce her betrothal to Lord Knowlesworthy.” Nigella said nothing, only continued to regard her mother with large, solemn eyes. “This means Mona’s future is assured. She will be taken care of and we are confident it will be in a manner as befits our daughter.”

  This time Nigella bobbed her head and whispered a soft: “Yes, Mama.”

  Glencora reached out and took her other daughter’s hand in both of her own. “I know I’ve upset you lately, with my words …” She looked deeply into the depths of this child’s trusting eyes: “… I have only wanted to help you Jellie. You’re growing fast and you needed to develop a more mature outlook on life.” She stopped. It was so hard when none of this was her daughter’s fault and she was so painfully aware that it was al l her own. Filled with guilt, still she must remain resolute. Dropping the hand she was holding, she stood and moved away. Nigella followed with her eyes, growing more uneasy with each pace that her mother took; to the window, to the canopied bed back to the window. Then she stood, it seemed like forever, to gaze out over Guilfoyle Park, that outward sign of their status and wealth, eventually she turned.

  “I have to be honest with you Jellie … y
our future … your station in life … your position … it might not be so … assured as Ramona’s.” She stopped again. She did not think she had ever done anything so exacting as this in her life and was far from confident. Was she up to the task? Courage Mon Coeur! If Jellie would only say something! Nigella continued her silent study, her brain the while whirling in spirals, but she would not show impetuosity. Her mother would reveal all in her own, measured time. If she tried hard, she could be like Ramona.

  Glencora resumed her pacing. Maybe she would skip that part. Move on. “What I propose Jellie, is to bequeath to you outright, what it is in my power to give. I have written it all down.” She picked up the envelope and handed it over. Nigella reached out slowly and grasped it gently still wondering what was to come. Why would her other speak of a bequest? The envelope was not sealed. “Open it … read!”

  To whom it may concern:

  This day September 18th. in the year of our Lord 1909 I do bequeath to my daughter, Nigella Violet Glencora Patchford, all my jewels, both inherited and bestowed. Here follows a complete list:-

  1. Emeralds: Choker, drop earrings, tiara

  2. Rubies: Pendant necklace, drop earrings.

  Bracelet.

  3. Amethysts: Choker, earrings, bracelet.

  4. Diamonds: Tiara, necklace, drop earrings.

  Dress clips, buckle.

  5. Pearls: Three strands, pendant necklace,

  Drop earrings.

  6. Rings: 13 rings in a combination of the above

  stones in diamond settings, plus one

  Black opal.

  7. Gold: Rings, chains and bracelets.

  This inheritance shall become the sole property of my daughter, the afore mentioned Honourable Lady Nigella Patchford, upon attaining the age of nineteen, if she has not yet been given in marriage before November 10th, 1911.

  Hereunder, I do set my seal and signature:

  Lady Glencora Regina Elizabeth Patchford

  Witness: Francine Jane Hewitt

  Sept. 20th. 1909.

  Nigella dropped the document to her lap. “Mama, what is this?” her voice faded as she could not believe her eyes.

  “This, my darling is my way of helping you, should anything untoward befall you. If everything goes well and you marry, you will have a husband to take care of you and you will receive your natural inheritance, just like Ramona.”

  “But Mama, what is it you think can ‘befall’ me, as you put it?” This was becoming as cryptic as Ambrose last week. What is happening to this family? Oh Mama, you are making me so unhappy.

  “Nigella, can you not accept my help?” Glencora drew her eyebrows together in a threatening frown. “Do you have to question everything?” She could feel herself coming apart. She needed to take her pills; lie down. Nigella sensed her mother’s fragility. Now was not the time to press her in her distress, perhaps later.

  “Sorry Mama,” she apologised as she held back the hurting lump in her throat.

  “Let me show you.” She led the way to stand in front of a portrait of herself. It had been painted when she was a girl. Not a large picture, the frame of gilded wood. She swung it away soundlessly from the wall, like opening a door on oiled hinges. Nigella gasped, a small safe was revealed. Selecting a key from the ring she carried, Glencora inserted it into the lock and removed two velvet cases. She took them to her dressing table, where they sat together on the tapestry stool. Each box was opened in turn, its contents examined. The jewellery was magnificent and Nigella could only marvel at the beauty of the pieces. One by one each of the remaining boxes, and there were many, was collected and opened for her to inspect, then returned to the safe. The bequest was also locked with the other contents and afterwards Glencora went to sit on the side of the bed, Nigella just a short space away.

  “Only you, I and Mrs. Aldred know where my jewels are kept. Not even your father knows their whereabouts. This is our secret Nigella.” She turned and faced her daughter. “If ever the time comes …” She took the small key and with hands that trembled, threaded it onto a fine gold chain: “… Come close to me child.” Glencora leaned forward and carefully placed the chain over the bent head to drape it around her daughter’s neck. “You will take this key and lead the lawyer, or whoever is in charge, to this picture to claim your inheritance and your independence. Do you understand me?” Nigella was speechless. She could only shake her head in disbelief.

  Mother and daughter regarded each other in the cheval glass opposite; one so bewildered, the other so concerned. Suddenly, Nigella experienced a rush of fear which jolted her senses. She leaned forward to throw her arms about her mother’s neck, the tears pricking her eyes: “Oh Mama you’re not going to … die, are you?”

  Glencora’s guilt grew tenfold when she realised she was causing her even more distress. She could not leave her like this. The suffering she saw in those eyes, luminous with innocence tore at her heart. She hugged her to her, trying to squeeze out this intense wretchedness.

  “No Jellie, hush now. Everything’s all right.” Emotion welled up. “Oh my darling, please don’t take on so. I’m so sorry for all of this.” Yes, the shame she had borne in silence these years past. Her crushed face was a mask of regret. “No, I’m not sick.”

  “Tell me Mama. What is it?” However, relief was flooding through her. Nothing could be as bad as that and it was not that.

  Now Glencora knew she would have to explain, otherwise the child could send herself crazy with speculation. The prospect touched her with fear and she was terrified to put these shameful truths into words. Was Nigella old enough to bear such a burden; the repercussions from what she was about to reveal could have such far reaching consequences. But she was at a point of no return. The torment in her pale face was naked for an instant, then she made a shaky attempt at a smile.

  “I will tell you Jellie, but first I must ask you to forgive me. I never intended any harm would come to you. I have only ever wanted a happy and fulfilling life for you.”

  “Mama of course, you don’t have to ask.” The response was effusive, so joyful was she that her fear had been groundless. “Despite what you may think, I’m a very capable girl. Sometimes I sound foolish, but inside I’m really quite sensible.” The clear green, unsuspecting eyes gazed steadfastly back into the hazel ones, flecked with gold just like her own. She wanted to reassure her dearest, darlingest Mama that she need not worry for her. She would never do anything to cause her unhappiness. She pulled herself together ready to deal with whatever might come her way. She would show her that she was indeed a Patchford through and through, made of sterling stuff; bright, attentive and capable.

  “Jellie, this is very difficult for me, so first I will ask you a question.”

  Oh Mama, anything … anything at all. “Yes Mama?”

  “Have you noticed any differences between you and Ramona and Ambrose?”

  “I think Ambrose and I are alike in temperament, but Ramona is different.”

  This was not what she had expected to hear, but it was true enough. “I meant more along the lines of … appearance,” she held her breath.

  “Well … they’re both taller than I am. But I’ve not finished growing yet,” the girl announced confidently.

  “Jellie you will never be tall … and fair, like them.” Her close study of her daughter continued unabated. The bewildered air returned to Nigella’s expression. “Jellie … they take after their father.” Dear God in Heaven, she had said it at last. It took not a moment for Nigella to understand, but the shock of realisation lasted a long time and kept her mute, too astounded to speak. She could only sit on that bedside and stare at the agonized features before her, at the tears shimmering in those beloved, deep-set eyes.

  * * *

  Between chauffeuring and errands, all Mallory’s spare time was spent in looking after the vehicles. Her hopes of socializing, getting to know people better could not be realised. Wilkins had been right. There was definitely no time to hook up with Fiona
Beevis and she could only get to speak to Dottie briefly at breakfast. However, she did notice that, with increasing frequency on her return from trips, the Lady Nigella would be close at hand. She would watch as she cleaned the cars or tinkered with the engines. Sometimes she would be talkative, at others sitting quietly on an upturned crate. Mallory got used to this moodiness. She’s of that age, she rationalized: with the extra activity going on in the house she could even feel in the way. No, it was not easy being a child in a grown-up world, especially when you do not feel like a child. This went well for Mallory. Her mistress still insisted upon vigilant surveillance, followed by regular reports.

  Other days Nigella would ask her to saddle up Burrow and she would join her on Talbot. Even then it could be a wild ride or, in contrast, a sedate trot accompanied by desultory conversation. These exchanges were generally on unremarkable matters. Despite such neutrality, a feeling was coming across that some-how the girl was becoming emotionally involved. There was nothing said, but she could sense a new intensity to her manner. She had to choose her words with care, if she were not to cause a withdrawal into her shell. Her companion’s disposition had become sensitive and brittle; was less carefree and perhaps in some ways, more dependent. She was realising that this young girl was balancing on the edge. She thought back to that first ride together. There had been tension then, but this had intensified. Surely it would not be her lot to live a tortured existence, surrounded as she was, by all this opulence and deference?