by Deryn Lake
‘You know I will — but not yet. I want to see more of life, J.J. It is such fun here at Strawberry. Think of all the parties we have had.’
And it was true. Since their marriage they had spent scarcely any time at their own property in Essex, George having seen to it that the lives of the three of them at Strawberry Hill had been a frivolous and endless round. The fact that all the Waldegrave estates were mortgaged to the hilt and that daily calls from creditors were a common occurrence bothered them not at all.
Now J.J. turned restlessly away from her.
‘It is different for you, Frances. You are strong. I have had so many attacks recently that I feel the need to leave a child as my heritage.’
‘How can you speak so? J.J. darling, the doctor has told you that epilepsy is not a fatal illness.’
‘Bugger the doctor, I know how I feel! I want a child, Frances.’
‘Well you can’t have one yet.’
‘Oh no?’
He got out of bed and stood stark naked before her, that same dangerous moonlight transforming him to a leering faun. Suddenly nervous, Frances clutched her dressing gown tightly around her. Sick though he might be J.J. still was stronger than she and Frances knew that none of the Waldegrave men was ever pleased by a woman’s refusal.
‘J.J., please don’t look at me like that! I am tired.’
Once, many years before, in that very same room with its blue watered silk walls, the Earl Waldegrave had looked at the Countess in just such a manner. Now history repeated itself as his bastard son took a purposeful step towards his pretty bride.
She had a moment of rapid decision — to struggle or to play. As always with her, already so clever with the opposite sex that men constantly paid court to her regardless of her marriage, she chose correctly. She gave a thrilling little laugh and, neatly sidestepping, rushed past J.J. and out of the door, glancing back with a flutter of soot-dark lashes as she did so.
Then down the fantastic Gallery she sped, her bare feet scarcely touching the ground. J.J. rushed behind her, totally nude, chortling with laughter as it dawned on him that this was love play. She was ahead of him down the stairs — pausing only for a second to give him another deep look — before she had rushed out through the small cloister and into the garden. And there she spun round and round in the moonlight, her thin gown whirling out to reveal her long legs and naked hips.
At his window George felt faint. He was madly in love with his sister-in-law, coveted his brother’s wife, and the sight of her twirling exotically was so exciting that he knew he must turn away. But somehow he could not. He watched, trembling and sick, as J.J. came out and lunged for her. He saw her look up at the windows, and stood back behind his curtain. Then he saw her tumble to the ground, curving her body upward as her husband — huge with desire — thrust into her almost violently.
George thought he would lose his reason as he saw the way she received J.J.’s shaft with a total lack of inhibition, pushing back and laughing with pleasure. He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted Frances then and to watch her reach her peak — calling out in frenzy — was more than he could stand. He turned away and fell on his bed in despair, blocking his ears against his brother’s great groan of triumph.
But within three weeks that groan had turned to the death rattle. Frances and J.J. had returned to their London address — Number 38, Jermyn Street — only for him to grow mysteriously ill.
Returning from hat shopping in Bond Street, Frances had found her husband lying on the floor, apparently having an epileptic fit. But this time the fit had not gone away and — after J.J. had vomited violently — the pretty Jewess had sent for the doctor. He had made an examination, looked grave, muttered something about ‘wild youth’ and put the patient to bed.
The next day J.J. had seemed worse, hardly able to move a muscle of his face or body. The doctor had visited and gone and would visit again, but was not there, typically, when the end came. J.J. had lapsed into unconsciousness and Frances had suddenly heard his breathing rasp. Terrified, she had shot out of the house and banged frantically on a neighbour’s door. Nobody in for three whole houses — but at number 30, in response to her cries and shouts, a man had popped his head out of an upstairs window.
‘Help me! Help me!’ she had screamed. ‘My husband is dying.’
He had sprinted up the street with her and they had rushed up the stairs and into the bedroom just in time to see J.J. die. On his death certificate had been written ‘Water in the head’. Frances was a widow at merely nineteen years of age.
Whether that scene of passion in the grounds of Strawberry Hill had been the triggering cause nobody could say, but Frances — heavy with guilt — could not catch George’s eye. Nor could he look at her. He wondered the very same thing. And, added to the burden of what he had observed as an unwitting peeping Tom, was his lunatic love for her. His ghastly conflict of emotions was unbearable. For he was glad that she no longer had a husband, yet he grieved desperately for the brother who had been like his twin.
The two of them followed J.J.’s coffin dressed in starkest black. They did not speak to each other and yet something in the way in which her son touched her daughter-in-law’s elbow gave the weeping Anne — supported on one side by Mr Hicks and on the other by Lady Annette — a sense of unease.
‘Oh Algernon,’ she said later that night, when she had stopped crying and had been given brandy and put to bed. ‘I have this terrible feeling that George truly cares for Frances. I mean cares.’
Algy looked knowing. ‘Yes, my dear, I think you are right.’
‘But how dreadful! She is his brother’s widow!’
‘So nothing can come of it.’
The Countess stared at him a little blankly and Algy went on, ‘Any kind of liaison between them is quite against the law. It is a prohibited relationship in the eyes of both the church and the state.’
Anne looked at him bleakly.
‘I do hope George will be careful,’ she said. ‘Frances is so very ... I don’t know what the right word is.’
‘Powerful,’ said Algy slowly. ‘That little girl is one of the most powerful people alive.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the Countess.
*
But what of Sutton Place, that had stood so forlorn for so long? Several tenants had lived there after the departure of Mrs Trevelyan and the last of these had disappeared one cold summer midnight with ten wagonloads of fine old oak furniture and paintings. The discovery had so upset Mr Webbe Weston that he had been seized with apoplexy and had been bedridden and speechless ever since.
Caroline came from London to look after her father, since Mrs Webbe Weston could do little else but weep. Yet this meant Caroline’s separation from Francis who, having just qualified, was plunged into the full duties of a trainee surgeon and was quite unable to leave the hospital.
On September 29, Mr Webbe Weston took a turn for the worse, having had another kind of violent seizure. And by the strange law of coincidence, as he made a choking sound and clutched at his throat, George, the seventh Earl Waldegrave, and Mrs Frances Waldegrave clinked champagne glasses and laughed.
They were on their way to their wedding, having eloped to Scotland where the terms of the 1835 Marriage Act did not apply. The city of Edinburgh was warmed by a late autumn sun and the bride and groom had not a care in the world. The fact that George was to stand trial for assault, having beaten a policeman into a horribly injured state in a party with his rowdy friends, did not bother them at all. They had both achieved their crowning ambitions — George to possess Frances and she to enter the aristocracy. And as for poor J.J., why he had been laid in his grave almost half a year!
But at Pomona House the atmosphere was far from carefree as Mr Webbe Weston’s condition worsened, his wife wept ineffectual tears and his daughter grew larger and larger with child. If it had not been for the intervention of Cloverella and her dear little boy the situation would have been unbearable. But, as it was,
the nutbrown girl fetched and carried without a grumble and the little soul ran about helping, talking to Mr Webbe Weston in the funny language that only small children and the very old can understand.
But by October — still unable to leave her parents and yet almost at full term — Caroline took it upon herself to write to Mary, Matilda and John Joseph to come to their dying father’s bedside. As George and Frances entered Strawberry Hill triumphantly as husband and wife, Caroline put the last strokes to the letters which spelled out the truth to her sisters and brother — there was no hope left.
But Mr Webbe Weston was to know one final happiness before he died. For Francis Hicks — on a flying visit to his father-in-law — found himself delivering his own baby son. Caroline, who had been ignoring acute backache all day so anxious was she about everyone else, had no idea at all that she was actually in labour until she let out a groan — even as she sipped a cup of tea — and said, ‘Francis, I know this cannot be possible but I feel ...’
She could not complete the sentence, so overwhelming were her sensations. There was no time to fetch the midwife and doctor from Guildford; there was hardly time for Francis to shout at Cloverella to wash herself and come at once — for he had strong views on antisepticism, not altogether in tune with some of his fellow practitioners. There was just time to lift Caroline up and lay her on her bed and to soap himself up to the elbows before Francis guided the little body into the world.
As his gurgling son cried, so did he. Hardened medical student he might have been but the miracle was too great for him. Sweet, lively Francis had tears streaming down his face as he kissed Caroline’s cheek and then set about making sure no infection could attack his wife or child.
Mrs Webbe Weston, who had been out for tea and missed the whole thing, burst into copious weeping again — fortunately Francis had by now controlled his emotion — and had to be revived with brandy. But it was on her husband that the effect was most profound. On seeing his new grandchild — the first to be born in England — he made a feeble attempt to sit up in bed. And when Francis had helped him and propped him on pillows, he spoke for the first time in four months.
‘Fine ... boy. Wonderful ... news. Over ... joyed. Good ... bye.’
And later that night he died.
Mary and Matilda arrived from Paris the next morning — too late. But at least they took over the arrangements for the funeral. There was still no word from John Joseph so in the end Mr Webbe Weston was laid to rest without the final respects of his only son.
He came a week later, travel-stained and tired, and quite devastated that he had not been in time to see his father again. His regiment had been on manoeuvres outside Vienna and Caroline’s letter had taken two weeks to catch up with him.
‘Will you stay in the Army?’ Mary had asked, when he had had time to settle down.
‘Of course. What else is there?’
‘You are the master of Sutton Place now.’
‘I shall put the house in the hands of agents. The less I have to do with it the better.’
‘You still hate it as much?’
‘More if anything. It eats at me like a canker.’
‘Why?’
‘Guilt.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
John Joseph had turned away. ‘It is very complex. I am guilty because the house is run down and robbed and pillaged through our neglect. And yet at the same time I could not bear to live there again. I have made a new life for myself away from it — as have you. And that is how I wish to remain.’
‘John Joseph,’ Mary had said in that old bossy way of hers, ‘you must tell me the truth. Are you happy?’
‘No. But I am not unhappy. I am nothing; in limbo.’
‘But why, for Heaven’s sake?’
‘Because I died within — at the risk of sounding dramatic — on the day she married.’
‘What?’ Mary had exclaimed incredulously. ‘You are still thinking of Marguerite Trevelyan? That trollop! You must be out of your mind.’
‘I agree with you.’
‘Why on earth don’t you find yourself a wife and forget all about her?’
‘I don’t know.’
Mary’s cheeks had gone pink with annoyance.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have never heard anything so idiotic in all my life. I think you are an utter sop! I used to respect you, John Joseph, but this is too much. Do you remember how we drank to the future on board ship? The words we said? And you have gone back on the whole thing. You might have made a new life physically — but in your mind you are still chained to her. Perhaps that is the way the curse of Sutton Place has struck you. By turning you into a total clown.’
And with that she had stamped her little foot, just as she had always done, and flounced from the room. And her fury with her brother had not stopped there. On the journey to London — to which the entire family were called for the reading of Mr Webbe Weston’s will — she would not utter a word to him, nor in the solicitor’s office. In fact it was not until they were all sitting down to a high tea, so famished were they with the stress of the past few weeks, that the ice thawed a fraction and she passed him a slice of ham.
But nonetheless the atmosphere was not easy and Caroline was quite relieved to hear the front door bell ring, signalling a visitor. Rivers entered the room deferentially.
‘The Lady Horatia Waldegrave has called to see you, Madam,’ he said.
‘Oh good. Show her into the drawing room, would you, Rivers.’
But too late! In a flurry of bonnet ribbons and fur cape, her cheeks bright from the cold, Horatia stood in the doorway.
‘Caroline, forgive me,’ she said. ‘I have just heard the news about your baby and I felt I had to ...’ She stopped short, her eyes widening and her mouth opening slightly as her attention was caught by John Joseph’s rising from the table. ‘Oh my goodness, it’s the soldier of fortune,’ she exclaimed.
They stood staring at one another in silence for what seemed like for ever but was, in reality, only a minute. He thinking her quite the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on, terribly young and innocent and vulnerable, and regrettably of the upper class, so nobody he could seduce.
And something of his thoughts — however well trained he was in the social graces — must have shown because he saw Lady Horatia’s pink cheeks deepen to rose. For she, unlike him, had fallen in love with John Joseph at first sight. She had been half way there anyway. But she had enough presence of mind, now, to bob him a little curtsey, look away, and finish her sentence to her hostess.
‘I felt I must call and bring the baby a gift. But I had not realized the family was here so I will return another time.’
She turned to go but Caroline’s voice cut across.
‘No, Horatia, you must stay. We are only sitting down to tea. Please do join us.’ Her eyes twinkled a little. ‘There is a chair there by John Joseph. A place shall be set for you.’
Horry looked up and once again caught his eye. Despite her youth and inexperience she knew perfectly well that he was appraising her and her unconventional nature rose to the challenge at once.
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘but I would prefer to sit next to you, Caro; then we may catch up with the news in an undertone. For I believe it is not polite to discuss babies at the tea table.’
She had scored. John Joseph looked minutely perturbed as all the ladies — except Mrs Webbe Weston who sniffed slightly — laughed. Horatia felt the thrill of her first verbal foray with a man and went on, ‘Are you on a long leave, Captain Webbe Weston? If so I do hope you will recount your adventures in Foreign Parts to my Mama and stepfather. He is very interested in that kind of thing.’
‘Saucy minx,’ he thought but said out loud, ‘Yes, Lady Horatia, I am here for a month to settle my affairs. I will most certainly call.’
‘Thank you,’ she said gravely — and turned away to Caroline.
She did not look at John Joseph again — at least not whils
t he was looking at her — and he found that this rather intriguing behaviour attracted more of his attention than he cared to admit.
Aware of his glance but fortunately with no idea of what was going through his mind, Horatia was concentrating on other things, saying quietly to Caroline, ‘Tell me what you truly think. You can be perfectly honest.’
‘About George and Frances?’
‘Yes.’
Caroline paused a moment and Horatia put in, ‘You will not offend me. You should hear what Mama has been saying.’
‘In that case I will admit to you freely that I am shocked.’
‘It is atrocious behaviour, is it not?’
‘Atrocious. It is not so much that they evaded the law by marrying in Scotland — I find the law foolish on that point anyway, for after all they are not related by blood. No, what I find so terrible is that J.J. had only been dead five months.’
‘Hardly cold in his grave, as they say.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Caroline, do you think there was any kind of attachment before J.J.’s death?’
‘Does your mother think so?’
‘She thinks that George was always madly in love with Frances but I heard her tell Algy that she did not believe the affair to have been adulterous.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it was. But he certainly stepped into his dead brother’s shoes very promptly.’
‘And into his bed I’ll warrant. Frances must be very ruthless.’
‘Perhaps we are being a little unkind,’ Caroline answered thoughtfully. ‘Maybe she was grief-stricken and sought consolation with the man who so closely resembled her dead husband.’
‘I suppose there’s some truth in everything we say. I only know, however, that I find it fractionally boring to have her as a permanent sister-in-law.’
Caroline laughed.
‘Horatia, you are outrageous.’ She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. ‘What do you think of the portrait now that you have seen the reality?’
Horry smiled, looking directly at her hostess.