Lady of Lincoln

by Ann Barker

  The lodgings that Mr Fanshawe had procured for his wife were within easy reach of the sea. The ladies walked to the shore nearly every day, but if the weather was inclement, they could still see the vast expanse of water with its changing moods from their upstairs sitting-room window.

  Freed from anxiety about her health, and under the care of a local doctor who dealt sensitively with all her fears, Nathalie’s spirits improved. She had brought with her some material to make tiny garments for the new baby and Emily gladly put her dull sewing for the poor on one side and instead made a tiny dress with exquisite stitches.

  ‘This is such a change,’ she murmured one day, as she was busy working on a piece of smocking. ‘I get so fed up with sewing in brown or grey.’

  ‘Forgive my saying so, dear Emily, but do you not get fed up with wearing it as well?’ Nathalie asked curiously.

  Emily stared at her for a moment, then said, ‘I did not mean sewing for myself, I meant sewing for the poor.’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ murmured Nathalie, blushing. ‘I thought that as you wear … that is … you must not think that you do not always look very … very….’ Her voice tailed off. Eventually, she added, ‘Of course you are at liberty to wear whatever colours you choose, ma’am, but has anyone ever asked the poor if they would like to wear any other colours?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone has ever thought to do so,’ Emily answered. Then on impulse, she said quickly, ‘Nathalie, do I really look as if I have been dressed out of the poor box?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Nathalie exclaimed hastily, her tone unmistakably sincere. But later, Emily wondered whether somehow she had got herself into a position where she had as little choice about what she wore as the poor did. She resolved to consult Nathalie about the suitability of the bonnet in the milliner’s window.

  When they got tired of sewing one day, Emily offered to read to her young friend, and somewhat guiltily, Mrs Fanshawe handed her a book entitled The Fateful Bells. ‘It is so thrilling, and I would so like to discover whether Veronica, the heroine, manages to escape from the haunted monastery with the little blind girl.’

  ‘Oh my,’ breathed Emily.

  ‘Of course, it is just horrid stuff,’ Nathalie said hastily, ‘and if you should have a … a book of sermons or homilies, I should be just as happy with that.’

  ‘Well, I should not,’ said Emily frankly. ‘I can hear Papa read me one of those any day of the week. Where did you leave off? Will you tell me briefly what has gone before?’

  This Nathalie did very willingly, and after that, the ladies whiled away many an hour enjoying the improbable exploits of the characters to be found within the pages of the books that Nathalie had brought with her.

  ‘What does Mr Fanshawe say about your reading novels?’ Emily asked curiously one day.

  Nathalie looked at her cautiously. ‘Promise you will never tell?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Emily replied.

  ‘Well he does not care for The Fateful Bells very much because he thinks that the clergyman in it is very silly and improbable, but he liked the one that we read together before that – I’ve forgotten what it was called, now.’

  ‘He reads novels with you?’ said Emily in a surprised tone.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Nathalie answered. ‘He says that if we were only to read what was proper in some people’s eyes, we wouldn’t read half of what is in the Bible, and that it is how people conduct themselves in real life that matters.’

  ‘How very sensible,’ murmured Emily, much struck. ‘I think he ought to become a bishop.’

  ‘He certainly should,’ Nathalie agreed. ‘He is the best of men, and when I think what he … how he …’ She coloured, then went on hastily, ‘Do you think that it is sunny enough for our stroll, now?’

  Emily looked curiously at her companion, but did not make any remark. If the young clergyman had indeed behaved in some gallant way, she was sure that Nathalie would tell her about it eventually when she was ready.

  ‘I wonder how it is that some people come to write novels,’ Emily said thoughtfully, as she and Natalie sat in their little sitting-room one afternoon. It was about a week after Emily’s arrival in Mablethorpe. They had just finished The Fateful Bells and both had cried a little over the ending in which the little blind girl, who had also turned out to be consumptive, had died with blessings on her lips for her rescuer’s union with the handsome viscount.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nathalie replied. ‘I’m very sure that I couldn’t.’

  ‘Well somebody must do so,’ Emily declared incontrovertibly, ‘and they must have a great deal of imagination. After all, no one could possibly experience all the mishaps which the characters suffered in The Fateful Bells.’

  ‘I should hope they would not,’ Nathalie agreed fervently. ‘To be chained to a rock as the tide was coming in on one page, and then to be immured in a dungeon just one chapter later must surely be beyond anyone’s experience.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Emily answered. ‘Nobody could have such things happen to them; which is why I should think almost anyone could write a novel, given a reasonable standard of literacy and the will to do it.’

  ‘Anyone?’ Nathalie echoed.

  ‘Why yes; in fact, even I could do so. After all, I do have some experience that may be relevant.’

  ‘Really?’ exclaimed Nathalie, her eyes opening very wide.

  ‘I don’t mean that I have ever been kidnapped, or seen a ghost, or been threatened with murder, like some of the characters in The Fateful Bells,’ Emily answered her hastily. ‘But I have attended death-beds and visited people in prison.’

  ‘And you live close to the cathedral,’ Nathalie put in with enthusiasm. ‘That could appear in some splendid scenes; especially at night.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it could,’ Emily agreed slowly.

  Nathalie gave a gasp. ‘I know!’ she cried. ‘You could have a corrupt clergyman!’

  ‘Goodness!’ Emily breathed. ‘It had never occurred to me that I could have such a thing. Of course,’ she went on after a short pause, ‘I have no experience of romance.’

  ‘None at all?’ queried Nathalie in pitying tones. ‘But surely, Dr Boyle…?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Emily responded hastily. ‘There has been nothing of that nature between us. But I have my observations of how other people behave.’

  ‘And I could help you with the more … sentimental passages,’ Nathalie suggested.

  ‘Yes of course; if I ever did such a thing,’ Emily agreed. ‘But I never shall.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’ Nathalie demanded, her imagination now fairly caught by the idea. ‘It would be such fun! I know, you could put all the people that you know into the book under different identities!’

  ‘But how would I face anyone when it came into print?’ Emily asked her.

  ‘You could publish under an assumed name,’ Nathalie suggested. ‘Or just call yourself “a gentleman” or “a lady”.’

  ‘But where would be the fun in that?’ Emily asked her. ‘If I had a book published I would want to boast about it to everyone.’ After Mrs Fanshawe had gone upstairs to rest, Emily went for her usual walk along the beach. On this occasion, she had something new to occupy her mind, however, for she began idly to turn over in her mind the various characters that she would put in any novel that she might write.

  Her heroine would definitely not be young and beautiful, she decided. Why should such people have all the fun? Instead, she would be an older lady, possibly a companion to someone young and beautiful, who would, for a change, be a minor character in her story. This older lady would be sensible, respectable, and pleasant looking if not precisely pretty. She would give her heroine a sensible name, too; something like Susan, or Margaret, not one of the fanciful names that novelists seemed prone to use.

  She would be a thirty-year-old spinster, the daughter of a clergyman, in comfortable circumstances, and living a life that was comfortable and happy in a way, but rather dull. She smiled wryly as
she thought again about this description. It could be herself.

  The story would begin on a dark and stormy night. Her heroine would be returning home from laying someone out, and would be obliged to walk past the Minster, which loured threateningly through the mist.

  She frowned. No, that wasn’t right at all. To others, the cathedral might appear to lour, but for her it was an old friend whose demeanour was welcoming, never threatening. But that would not fit with the dark and stormy night. It would just have to lour and that was all. Then, as her heroine hurried through the gloom, she would suddenly encounter a tall, dark man, powerful and muscular, with strong features and swathed in a long cloak, who would exclaim at her clumsiness, and seize her in a vice-like grip.

  A sudden crash of a breaking wave brought Emily back to the present with a start. Good heavens, where upon earth had he come from, she wondered? The hero of The Fateful Bells had been fair-haired and slender. The leading male character in The Haunted Forest which they were to read next, and at which she had already glanced, looked to be much the same, and, if truth were told, promised to be rather dull. It was the villain who was always dark and muscular, who seized hold of the heroine and swore at her.

  If the heroine was unlike other heroines, of course, the hero could be unlike other heroes too. Whoever this character might be, hero or villain, he would certainly give sparkle to the whole narrative. And there the similarity to her own life ended, she sighed, as she turned back towards their lodgings. There was nothing in her life that sparkled. The nearest thing in her life to a hero was Dr Boyle, and whoever would want to read about a hero named Boyle who looked like a weasel?

  *

  Whilst they were in Mablethorpe, both ladies were diligent as regards their correspondence, and Emily wrote to her father every week. Nathalie wrote to her husband rather more frequently and seemed to receive a missive from him almost every day. In addition, he wrote to Emily, enquiring as to his wife’s health, and Emily made sure that she sent him cheerful replies. She could only hope that with all this letter writing to occupy him, he was spending as much time on his sermons as he should.

  He often asked about the skill of the local doctor, and Emily was able to say truthfully that she had formed a very good opinion of Dr Saddler. Certainly Nathalie had every confidence in him. ‘I like him so much better than Dr Boyle, who I always think looks like a weasel,’ she remarked one day when they were enjoying a cup of tea after the doctor had gone.

  ‘Oh do you think so?’ Emily said, trying to sound surprised, but guiltily aware that she had always thought the same.

  Nathalie looked mortified. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ she whispered. ‘I had forgotten that you had an understanding, and I do assure you, Miss Whittaker, that I meant a particularly handsome weasel.’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’ Emily asked quizzically. ‘No, my dear, I do not have an understanding with him. Although I have wondered….’

  ‘Oh no, surely not,’ Nathalie exclaimed.

  ‘Well, it is not as if I am falling over offers of marriage,’ Emily said candidly. ‘And at least I would have a home and a role and perhaps children….’

  ‘Yes, but he isn’t exactly exciting, is he?’ said Nathalie frankly.

  ‘Excitement isn’t everything,’ Emily pointed out.

  ‘No. No, you are right, and I am the last person who should need to be told that,’ Nathalie agreed in a subdued tone.

  ‘Did … was your life in London very exciting, before you met Mr Fanshawe?’ Emily asked tentatively.

  ‘I—’ Nathalie halted abruptly, her hand to her mouth. ‘Forgive me,’ she blurted out, before hurrying from the room.

  Emily sat, her tea cup in her hand, not knowing what to do. Clearly Nathalie was distressed, but would she welcome the presence of the woman whose conversation had been the means of distressing her? And how could her words have possibly been construed as any kind of criticism?

  While she was still pondering, Nathalie came back into the room, her handkerchief in her hand. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said softly.

  ‘No, it is I who should beg yours,’ Emily insisted, getting up in order to help Nathalie to her chair. ‘I was intolerably intrusive.’

  ‘No, you were not,’ Nathalie answered. ‘The fact of the matter is … well, I cannot tell you the whole story for it is not all mine to tell. But suffice it to say that life in London was rather more exciting than I could bear, and when matters became too overwhelming for me, it was Ernest who rescued me from the consequences of my folly. His chivalry, his goodness are greater than I deserve, and I shall never cease to love him for all that he has done for me.’ She looked at Emily with an expression that was half pleading, half defiant.

  ‘Well, for my part, I am very glad to hear that you love your husband so sincerely,’ Emily replied. ‘Is there any news yet of when the dean will release him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Nathalie replied, putting away her handkerchief. ‘But I have hopes that I may hear good news any day now.’

  The next day brought more than good news: it brought Mr Fanshawe himself. The ladies were sitting at their small dining-table enjoying a light luncheon, when the door opened, and the young clergyman came in, his handsome face beaming with delight. Nathalie sprang up from the table and cast herself into his arms, quite regardless of Emily’s presence, and Mr Fanshawe pressed a firm kiss upon his wife’s pretty lips.

  ‘Nathalie, my dearest, how lovely and blooming you are,’ he declared, his voice vibrating with sincerity. ‘The sea air has done you good, I see.’ He turned to Emily. ‘Miss Whittaker, your servant.’

  Emily returned his greeting with a curtsy. ‘Welcome, Mr Fanshawe,’ she replied. ‘Yes, the air has done us both a lot of good, which is why I shall go now and enjoy a little more of it.’ So saying, she went out and left the young couple to their privacy.

  As she walked down to the sea she was conscious of a stab of envy. No gentleman had ever taken her in his arms in that way. No gentleman had ever kissed her upon her lips. Doubtless Dr Boyle would be glad to oblige, but the very idea filled her with disgust. She would have to face the fact that romance had by now passed her by. No doubt she would have to be content either with imagining how the muscular gentleman in the novel that she would never write would perform such a salute, or with being glad at the happiness experienced by such as Mr and Mrs Fanshawe. If she was especially lucky, perhaps they would invite her to be a godmother. This thought should have comforted her; sadly, it only succeeded in making her feel rather desolate.

  They made a companionable party for dinner that night, but Emily was very conscious of being not exactly an intruder, but a third person where a couple would have been quite sufficient.

  The following morning, when Emily left in the carriage in which Mr Fanshawe had arrived, she went away with very mixed feelings. On the one hand, she had thoroughly enjoyed her visit to the sea, and the chance to share confidences with a female friend, an opportunity which had rarely come in her way; but on the other, she knew that Nathalie now only wanted her husband and she did not want to get in the way. Furthermore, she knew if she was honest with herself, that their friendship would never be one of true mutuality. For Nathalie, she would always be someone to depend upon.

  Going back to Lincoln did have its bright side, after all. She had her various duties and interests which she had missed. There was the little group of children that she met every week for reading practice, and the ladies with whom she sang sacred songs, not to mention the time that she spent each day reading to her grandfather and her prison visiting … my goodness, she thought to herself, is that really what my life amounts to? Suppose someone like the hero whom she had pictured so recently were to appear on the scene? In which of these settings would he ever feel at home?

  The carriage brought her back to Lincoln during the middle of the afternoon, setting her down outside her house in Priorygate.

  ‘It’s good to have you home, miss,’ said Mary, as she opened t
he door.

  ‘Thank you, Mary. It’s good to be here,’ Emily replied, not entirely sure that she was speaking the truth. ‘Has anything exciting happened whilst I have been away?’

  ‘New family’s just moving into Canon Mitchell’s old house,’ the maid answered. ‘I saw Pickford’s men carrying things in only today.’

  Emily went straight up to her room to take off her outdoor things, but later, she asked her father who the new arrivals might be.

  ‘It is Canon Trimmer and his wife,’ her father told her. ‘He has come here from Salisbury. His wife is the sister of a baronet, I understand. Emily, my dear, I am very pleased that you are home. The house has been strangely silent without you. I am sure that your grandfather will have missed you too.’

  Emily thanked her father and went upstairs to supervise her unpacking. In truth, she was a little taken aback at the warmth of his welcome. Somehow, she had not supposed that he would miss her very much.

  That evening, she went to sit with her grandfather, a duty which she had performed every day, until she had left for Mablethorpe. The elderly clergyman had had some kind of seizure some weeks before and since then had lain in bed neither speaking nor moving. Only the fact that it was possible from time to time to coax him to swallow some thin gruel gave his family any hope that he might eventually recover; but it was a very small hope indeed.

  Dr Whittaker was a distinguished scholar, with a number of books published under his name. He had not always lived with his son and granddaughter. Before his wife’s death five years ago, he had occupied a post at York Minster. After that sad occasion, however, all the heart had seemed to go out of him, and he had come to live in Lincoln, preaching occasionally and performing light duties in the cathedral.