Death of a Dowager

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  The trip to London proved exhausting. Ned could not understand why he needed to stay confined to such a small space for the duration of three days. Passengers came and went, many with muddy boots and one whose head lice were determined to abandon their happy home and come throw their lot in with us. I smashed a dozen or more as they crawled up my arm.

  The coach itself must have been missing its springs, a lack that exaggerated every bump and hole along the North Road. Our driver seemed to aim the conveyance toward any protrusion or rock in our path. He must have thought it sport to see how bone rattling a ride his passengers could endure.

  The swaying of our carriage preyed upon poor Amelia’s stomach, causing the girl to retch miserably until she finally fell into a swoon. Lucy tried to soothe the girl, while Edward, Adèle, and I struggled to keep Ned off the floor of the coach. His toys were of little interest, but the straw under our feet fascinated him. I shuddered each time he offered me a handful of dry stalks encrusted with muck, mud, and offal.

  By the end of our journey, my jaw muscles ached from clenching, and my arms hurt from wrestling with Ned. Needless to say, my lower portions were sore and bruised from the constant jostling of our seats. How I envied those with more padding on their bones!

  At last we arrived in London, bedraggled, cross, and bug-infested. Williams, Lucy’s coachman, met us at the carriage inn and quickly transported us to #24 Grosvenor Square, where Lucy’s brother, Bruce Douglas, graciously overlooked our disheveled and dirty state and welcomed us to his sister’s house.

  Lance Corporal Bruce Douglas reminded me of the Greek god Helios. With his sun-burnished skin, strands of gold in his hair, and the glint of steadiness in his eyes, he was a specimen any artist would adore painting. All that kept him from being pretty was a fight-battered nose and a feathery mustache. A keen gambler, a bon vivant who loved to carouse, he worked as an inquiry agent, tracking down thieves and solving problems beyond the purview of the constabulary. Like his older sister, Mr. Douglas offered constant surprises, because they were both more complex, more loyal, more erudite in obscure knowledge than one might first suppose upon meeting them.

  Fortunately, Higgins, the butler, and Polly, Lucy’s lady’s maid, represent the best of their professions. They adore their mistress and did not recoil from our miserable state. Instead, both took one look, assessed our woebegone condition, and began preparations for our benefit. I longed to submit to their tender care, but first I accompanied Lucy to her drawing room where she locked the King’s letter in her strongbox. In short order, all of us were bathed, deloused, and sent to bed for some much-needed rest.

  While we adults were catching up on our sleep, Ned and Adèle discovered that Bruce Douglas was a doting “uncle” who knew exactly how to entertain bored children, and that Higgins was a pushover for the Young Master and French poppet, or so I heard the next morning at the dining room table. Over a buffet breakfast, Lucy, her brother, my husband, and I discussed what we might see and do in the city. As I sat in comfort and nibbled at toast while drinking Lucy’s favorite blend of black tea with bergamot, it occurred to me that perhaps a pampered life in London was exactly what my family needed.

  Chapter 6

  Despite the familiar irregular features and hazel eyes, the woman in the mirror scarce resembled me. My reflection wore a blue silk bandeau in her hair, which supported a gathering of white ostrich plumes and blond court lappets. A white satin slip with an embroidered border of blue flowers peeked out from under a blue petticoat festooned with miniature blue rosettes and clusters of seed pearls. Over the dress, she wore a robe train of gros de Naples in a darker shade of blue, ornamented with miniature blue rosettes. In addition, that strange mannequin staring back at me wore white satin gloves that stretched from the fingertips past the elbows. And around her neck was a strand of diamonds that caught the candlelight and broke it into rainbows with a million splendid colors.

  Jane Eyre, governess, would never dress in such a flamboyant manner.

  Mrs. Edward Rochester, wife of the country squire, might.

  Surely one might fight for a middle ground!

  I lifted my blue and silver wrap to decorously cover my décolletage and shoulders.

  “No, no, no!” Lucy scolded as she readjusted the drape around my upper arms so that more of my skin was uncovered. “This shawl should softly embrace you, not bundle you up as if you were a parcel. Besides you want the Rochester diamonds to show. Their sparkle matches that of your eyes.”

  Lucy peeped over my shoulder and into the cheval mirror at our reflections. Our twin ostrich feather headdresses mingled in a flurry of downy white fluff. Behind us, I saw the sumptuous gold and white decor of Lucy’s guest room. Rags, Lucy’s beloved little white dog, stood watching us from the bed, his tail wagging like a king’s standard flaps in the breeze.

  “But I feel too exposed. This can’t be proper.”

  “It’s not only proper but required. The King sets the rules for court dress, and court dress is de rigueur at the theater. At least George IV has decreed that we won’t be wearing hoops under our skirts. But the décolletage, bare arms, and ostrich plumes are still expected.” Lucy admired her handiwork, since it had been her instructions that the mantua-maker followed when creating my lavish gown. “You look a picture, and I can’t wait to introduce you. Shall I call you my sister?”

  “I would be honored.”

  Any observer who compared Lucy’s blond curls to my smooth wings of dark hair would quickly dispute the notion that we shared a similar provenance. However, if outward appearances were cast aside, one might soon discover that Lucy and I harbored the sort of affection for each other that would rival that of any two siblings.

  “Polly? I daresay we won’t be back until very, very late. I’ll be sorry to wake you, but of course we’ll need your help.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Polly quivered with happy expectation rather than inconvenience.

  Lucy treated her abigail with much more familiarity than most treated their lady’s maids, but rather than making the young woman impertinent, Polly seemed to revel in helping her mistress dress for august social events.

  I cast a longing glance at my old brown muslin dress—a gown so plain that in it I could pass for a woman of modest means, the woman I once was. Polly noticed and placed the dress over her arm.

  “I’ll clean this for you and mend the tear, Mrs. Rochester.”

  A tear. Even that felt symbolic to me of my conflicted state of mind.

  “I promise you,” said Lucy, turning me so our eyes met, “this evening will be a revelation. A distraction. A reminder of what the larger world has to offer both of you. Even now.”

  “Lucy, I appreciate all you have done,” I said taking her hand, “but I would feel much more comfortable in simpler attire. We are going to the opera house to watch the performance onstage. Why should anyone care what I am wearing?”

  “You have so much to learn.” Lucy shook her head. “A vast portion of tonight’s entertainment will be in watching the audience. Everyone who is anyone in London will be attending tonight to see Corri-Paltoni’s triumphant return to the London stage. They will use the evening to catch up on the latest gossip. The actors and singers will need to strain to be heard over the chatter and commotion!”

  I touched my shawl and watched the silver threads glisten most alluringly. Lucy had given it to me as a wedding gift, and thus I treasured it. “Are we to be the object of such attention because your box is so prominent?”

  “That is but one reason. For another, the entire routine of social calls is excruciatingly boring, so the appearance of any new personage infuses much-needed excitement to the mix. You wouldn’t want to cheat the others of the spectacle, would you? As a newcomer to the social scene, tomorrow you will be the subject du jour!”

  “I have no desire to be the subject du jour. I am attending the opera because my husb
and is eager to revive his memories of hearing Corri-Paltoni on the Continent, not because I wish to make a spectacle of myself!”

  “Aye, there’s the rub. You cannot do one without the other.”

  Polly draped our trains over our forearms so we would not trip over them, and I caught the scent of lily-of-the-valley perfume as Lucy moved me toward the doorway.

  I admit I dragged my feet a little, scuffing my lovely silk slippers. “Won’t the other patrons have more important subjects to discuss? Such as the quality of Corri-Paltoni’s voice?”

  “Bah! What does society know of musical talent? Not much, I assure you. But to see a new face in a fifth-level box, that is a subject they can explore with great amusement. Think of this as a grand lark, and you are perfectly prepared for your part.”

  I hardly thought so.

  In fact, I felt a bit ill.

  Chapter 7

  Solemn male voices echoed off the marble floors in the entry hall of the Braytons’ residence, where my husband and Mr. Douglas conferred in hushed tones. Lucy’s brother looked wonderful in his impeccable eveningwear, but he was nothing compared to my husband. A rogue lock of hair fell over Edward’s brow, and white hairs had recently joined the dark ones in his sideburns. I thought these signs of maturity a most appealing addition to his natural charms.

  The men were discussing the trial of Caroline of Brunswick, King George IV’s wife. Caroline insisted on being named Queen Consort, as was her right, but the King wanted her barred from his coronation, two months hence. To prove his wife unfit, he had collected salacious evidence of her adultery. The proceedings moved along slowly, even as George IV planned a coronation more elaborate than any ever held. But the previous autumn, Caroline had been found not guilty—and the crowds in the street went wild with joy. Whatever flaws Caroline had, they paled in comparison to the King’s profligate behavior, his out-of-control spending, and his blatant disregard for the common man.

  The men’s low voices were overshadowed by giggles coming from Adèle and our son, Ned, nestled in the arms of his nursemaid Amelia.

  Lucy’s rapping of her fan on the walnut banister alerted all to our arrival. With her other hand, she stayed my progress, so that she and I stood paused at the top of the stairs, allowing the small assemblage below best opportunity to inspect our grandeur while Rags preceded us down the stairs, barking all the way.

  “Très belle! C’est magnifique!” Adèle Varens, Edward’s ward and my former pupil, clapped with excitement and turned a pirouette of pure joy. “Chère Madame, tu es fantastique!”

  She rattled off a steady stream of French sentences that left her quite breathless, including the hurried comment that “the house wren has turned into a peacock!”

  I did not correct her by pointing out that the peacock is the male of that species, and the female peahen is dull by comparison, but I did tuck the comment away for her future edification. Once one has served as a teacher, the urge to correct mistakes is a pressing desire, not because the teacher believes in her natural superiority, but because inaccuracy is the breeding ground of ignorance.

  As Adèle hopped from one foot to the other, Ned caught the festive spirit and erupted with hoots of baby laughter.

  Edward addressed his ward in her native language and suggested that she show the sort of restraint that the English admire in a young woman of breeding. But this chastisement was accomplished with warm affection in his voice, and although she bit her lip, Adèle’s face did not sacrifice its effervescent expression of happiness.

  “What visions of loveliness!” Mr. Douglas announced as Lucy and I made our way down the stairs. “Mrs. Rochester, the blue of your gown reminds me of spring bluebells in the forest, but the white of your ostrich feathers is more like freshly fallen snow.”

  Mr. Douglas has a kind heart. His description was solely for Edward’s benefit. My husband squinted at Lucy and me, struggling to see us for himself. My heart plummeted at this additional evidence of continued deterioration in his vision. Lucy’s method of decorating, which tended to excess, meant there were no clear pathways in her house, which further complicated Edward’s attempts at self-sufficiency. Only hours earlier, he had tripped over an ornate needlepointed footstool and taken such a fall that I feared for his safety.

  As I’d helped him to his feet, he’d admitted he could see less and less each day. “I had hoped to hide it from you, darling Jane.”

  I’d guided him toward a wingback chair, capturing the offending footstool and pulling it near him.

  “Sit here, sir,” I had said, before taking my place on the low stool. I sat with my head against his knees so that he could stroke my hair. Silently, I wondered to myself what would become of my husband when he could no longer navigate his way through the world without assistance.

  “Mr. Rochester,” I had then said quietly, “I thought we had agreed: There are to be no secrets between us.”

  “Ah, as if I could keep it a secret! You suspected as much, darling girl. There was no reason to alarm you further by confirming it.” He’d sounded jaunty. As a postscript, he’d added, “At this rate I shall be blind as a tree stump in a month or two.”

  “No, no, my darling,” I’d assured him, winding my arms around his calves. Privacy was a luxury in Lucy’s busy home. “I am confident that Mr. Lerner can help you. As for your care after the fact, I think your idea of hiring him to work for us and among our tenants is a good one. Whatever obstacles your vision poses, your insight is still good. Once you meet this Mr. Lerner, if you think highly of the man, I say we should engage him. We need another doctor in the county, and as squire it’s your duty to take care of your tenants.”

  “How do you feel about the fact that he is a Jew?”

  “Our Lord Christ worshiped in temple. The Jews are God’s Chosen People. I am not sure what the farmers will say, but if he comes with Mr. Carter’s approval, I think they’ll give him a fair shot, don’t you?”

  “I hope so. I certainly hope so,” Edward had said. His large hand caressed my face. “It has never been my wont to pray for myself, as that always seemed so arrogant coming from one who had received more than his fair share of life’s bounty. However, in odd moments, my mouth forms the words, ‘Please, God,’ and I am stunned by the ferocity of my desire to regain at least a portion of my sight. Yet who am I to ask for more than what I already have? What sort of ingrate am I?”

  “No ingrate, sir. Only a human being.”

  A little later, I’d told Lucy about Edward’s diminishing vision. “Perhaps it is prudent to alert your staff to the matter. I do not wish—nor do I expect—for you to change your household to accommodate him. However, they can keep a sharp watch on trivial matters that could anticipate a crisis.”

  “Like a cigar ash rolling onto a tapestry chair?”

  “Oh dear! Has that happened?”

  “Yes, but it was quickly extinguished. You do not need to worry—my servants have already come to me individually to say they are being watchful.”

  My heart ached with relief and thankfulness. “How can I let them know their efforts are appreciated?”

  “You’ve already shared with them your greatest treasures, Ned and Adèle. The sound of children’s voices in this house is as welcome as the sound of eventide bells in the local church. Believe me, if the servants are half as thrilled with Evans when he arrives, this place will hum with happiness.”

  Now as I watched how tenderly Lucy’s brother shepherded my husband toward the front door, I reflected again on how fortunate we were to have such stalwart friends!

  After saying good-bye to Adèle and giving Ned a kiss, I took my husband’s arm. Higgins grabbed Rags or he would have gladly accompanied us out the door. Mr. Douglas nudged Edward toward the carriage by shadowing his other side. To the casual observer, nothing would appear amiss.

  Keeping up his end of this ruse, my husband i
nitiated gay banter with Lucy about the merits of a castrato’s voice versus that of a soprano’s. I noted how sincerely cheerful he sounded. Yes, my husband was painfully aware of his infirmities, but I hoped that diversions such as this would go a long way toward making him happier.

  As Lucy, Edward, and I took our seats in the carriage, Mr. Douglas leaned out the quarter light to remind Williams that our destination was the Italian Opera Theatre in Haymarket.

  “Haymarket?” Edward mused.

  “You’d scarcely recognize the place,” said Mr. Douglas. “Totally redesigned. One of the architects is a fellow named Nash. A great favorite with our new King.”

  “And like our sovereign, another man who revels in excess,” sighed Lucy. “This monstrous building can seat two thousand and five hundred souls.”

  I could not imagine so many people in one place at one time!

  Williams urged the twin bays forward. Peering through the curtains and enjoying the passing scenery, I caught myself before pointing out a trifling landmark to my husband. There was no need to make Edward more aware of his plight. Seeking to ease the awkwardness of the moment, I said, “By the way, Mr. Rochester, you are looking very dashing with your top hat and morning coat. You are turned out quite nicely, too, Mr. Douglas.”

  “I am sure we will both be as drab as dirt next to His Majesty. What a dandy he is!” Mr. Douglas laughed.

  “What? Are you suggesting our sovereign will be in attendance?” My heart crowded my throat. This was a turn of events I had not foreseen.

  “It is possible,” said Lucy. “Perhaps even likely. But he is often surrounded by a large crowd of those currying his favor, especially because invitations to the coronation are so highly coveted. Those on the periphery of his circle seek to improve their chances at attending. We’ll probably get our best look at him as he processes into his box.”

  “The letter?” That was all I needed to say; everyone in the carriage knew of its existence.