Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  * * *

  Narnie had made a bad mistake. Her hatred of my father, spilling over as it had, caused a rift between her and Mama; filled with remorse, she made no more complaints about her enforced retirement. A cottage was swiftly found for her, a pretty little place beside the church in Feltham village; she left Orchards House within two weeks, a sad and subdued woman desperate to win back her place in Mama’s affections.

  Without any real discussion of the matter, I stepped into Narnie’s shoes, and there was no more even the hint of my leaving to take a teaching post. Orchards House needed a housekeeper and Mama needed a companion; I was elected to the post.

  Small signs in the main bedroom told me that Father no longer slept in the dressing-room. Nor did he overstay at the Tuesday market, but spent noticeably more time in or near the house, and he was kinder to Mama. He even, much to the delight of the rector, started to attend church with us on occasion: he was trying.

  And I… I hated him. Loathed him. For when I, in innocence and ignorance, had loved unwisely…

  The scene came back sharp in every detail: Father’s study in the old house, with the pigsty outside. Grey snakes of tobacco twining in the air. The pigs’ odour, strong but familiar, and a fading glow of reddish light from the western sky. Gloom gathered in corners, thickening into dusk. Father had not lit the lamp.

  When I thought the beat of my heart might suffocate me, he leaned to stub out his cigarette. Only when it was ground to powder in the ash-tray did he turn to look at me through the shadows, his face unreadable in that light. ‘I’ve only two questions to ask of you, miss,’ he said. ‘Just answer Yes or No. First: is it true what Victor tells me – have you been meeting young Wyatt in the woods?’

  I moistened my lips, feeling that my whole body was one vast pulse. ‘No, Father.’

  ‘No?’ His voice was low, like a rumble of thunder along the horizon. ‘I warn you, miss, if you don’t tell me the truth—’

  ‘Not Hal Wyatt,’ I said.

  That gave him pause. ‘The boy Finch saw you.’

  ‘The boy Finch saw me arguing with Hal, that’s all. When Victor found me, I was alone.’

  ‘But you were expecting someone.’

  ‘Not expecting, exactly.’

  His frown carved deep furrows in his brow. ‘Don’t trade words with me, miss. This is your father you’re speaking to, not one of your fancy Academy friends. You’ve been meeting with a man. Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘What man?’

  I thought on that, considering all the possibilities. What good would it do me to confess the truth? It would make no difference. It might make things worse.

  ‘What man?!’ Father repeated, his voice louder now.

  ‘His name isn’t important. It’s all over. It’s finished.’

  ‘You’ll tell me, miss, or by God—’

  ‘Or by God you’ll do what, Father? Beat me? Do, if it will please you. It won’t make me change my mind. And don’t swear by God when you don’t believe in him. That’s profanity.’

  Father went rigid. I heard him draw a rasping breath, his hand a tight fist at his side. He let the breath out slowly, said, ‘I knew it was a mistake to have you educated, girl. Is that what they taught you – defiance and insolence, to your own father? Very well.’ Without haste he reached to unfasten his belt, while I watched, mesmerised.

  The belt slid from its loops. ‘Will you tell me his name?’

  I shook my head, scraped a cobweb of fear from my throat. ‘No. Never.’

  He took the belt buckle in his palm, wrapping the leather once about his hand and flexing it as if testing its strength. ‘One last chance, Rose. The name.’

  ‘His name doesn’t matter! I shall never see him again.’

  ‘You’ve been seeing him until now! Good God! That a daughter of mine should—’

  He stepped forward, lifting the belt. I turned away, my arms over my face. A cry escaped me as the belt bit across my shoulders. I leaned on the door and sank my teeth into my sleeve, feeling a stripe of pain start to burn.

  ‘The name!’

  Tears hot behind my eyelids, I shook my head.

  Again the belt spat, writing another line of fire on my back. ‘Tell me his name!’

  Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have spoken. It had become a battle of wills. If he beat me unconscious I wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know.

  A third time the belt lashed, dragging a low moan out of me.

  I waited, tightened into a knot of anguish as I tensed myself for another blow. In the silence I heard Father breathing harshly.

  ‘Now go to bed,’ he rasped. ‘Go to bed and be thankful I was able to control myself. I’d like to beat you until you bleed. It’s what you deserve. You’ll never see him again. Do you understand me? If he sends word—’

  ‘He won’t,’ I wept, swinging round to face him. ‘I told you, it’s over. It’s over and done with!’

  A breath of satisfaction escaped him. ‘Good. And you’d better pray it stays done with. If you’re with child, Rose, I swear I’ll disown you.’

  My hands clenched into fists as I stared at him through my tears, hating him. ‘You’re so certain I’ve done wrong, aren’t you? You’ve always expected the worst of me, Father. Always.’

  ‘You mean… you didn’t give in to him?’

  The hope in his voice made me hate him the more. I wanted to hurt him as much as I could, so I said, ‘Of course I did. I was in need of love. I never had any from you!’

  His face contorted and he lashed out again. This time I saw the blow coming and dodged to avoid it. The folded belt sliced at my cheek and my ear, sending me sidelong across a chair, and while I lay there half dazed my father stood over me, saying, ‘You wanton bitch! You call it love? Filthy, disgusting, wicked… God, that your mother should have died giving birth to such as you! I warn you, I’m raising nobody’s bastard in my house. If you’re with child it’ll be the streets for you. The streets! Do you understand that, miss?’

  Oh, I hated him – hated him for the burning, raging pain that invaded my back from shoulder to waist, for the crimson fire in my ear and the side of my head; I hated him for his coldness, for the love he had denied me all my life.

  Father stared at me in the twilight. What he read in my face I don’t know, but whatever it was it made him step back. ‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘Go to bed. We shall not mention this again.’

  No, we didn’t mention it, not out loud, but neither of us forgot. And now I knew what a hypocrite he was. When I had most needed his understanding he had taken his belt to me, cast me out into exile and disowned me for three long years. Yet he himself – my perfect father – had a mistress. He had committed adultery. How could he? How could he?!

  * * *

  In the way she had of ignoring the unpleasant, Mama rarely mentioned Narnie. She made valiant efforts to be less weepy, more positive, but she developed a horror of being left alone even for a few minutes; I had to be with her most of her waking hours.

  Mealtimes, when the three of us were obliged to be together, became models of good manners, stilted conversation and acute awareness. We stepped carefully around one another, as if we walked barefoot in a field of fresh cow dung. Father and I were polite to each other, but our glances seldom met, and when they did they slid away again without real contact. Often he snapped at me for no reason, as if he blamed me for his pain.

  My feelings for him were in turmoil. He was no longer the man I had believed him to be.

  * * *

  In answer to an advertisement which Father had printed in various magazines, replies from prospective lady’s maids began to arrive. Father suggested that Mama and I might spend a few days in Lynn and interview the applicants there. The change would do Mama good; she might take the opportunity to look at patterns and material for evening gowns, with the Sandringham winter balls in mind. Father was all largesse. Guilt made him generous.

  If Mama had
doubts about his motives for sending us off, she hid them well, but then she was always good at playing ostrich. I had the impression that Father was tired, that during the rigours of harvest, when days could last from dawn to starshine, he would be pleased to come and go as work demanded, not bothering with formal meals and other politenesses necessary when his womenfolk were at home. Little I cared. So long as he didn’t go running to his doxy.

  I no longer doubted that the woman existed. Her name had leapt out at me from the columns of the Lynn Advertiser: ‘Seamstress requires work. Anything undertaken. Dress-making, make-overs, repairs. Latest patterns. Unexceptionable references. Mrs Stead, St James Street, Lynn Regis.’ I pictured her as loud, coarse, painted, the archetypal ‘loose woman’ of novel and melodrama. The thought of Father’s turning to such a woman, however great his need, disgusted me.

  * * *

  King’s Lynn, and the company of Aunt Beatrice, Uncle Jonathan and other friends, made Mama bloom. She began to eat well. She was even putting on weight. She ventured out in the carriage to take the air by the river or in the park; she enjoyed shopping with the generous allowance Father had given her. She and Aunt Beatrice spent hours gossiping, discussing the merits of various candidates for the post of lady’s maid at Orchards, or speculating about the plans of Geoffrey Devlin and his Lucinda – a subject which kept many ladies enthralled.

  William Turnbull called one Saturday morning and was invited to lunch. He had been to Ambleford to make final arrangements for his Great Steam Engine Demonstration: he talked of little else. For hours.

  Desperate for a change of subject, Aunt Beatrice said, ‘And is there to be a wedding?’

  Turnbull blinked, giving me a startled glance. ‘Wedding, ma’am?’

  ‘Why, yes! Or is it to be a long engagement?’

  Again Turnbull looked at me, wondering if some decision had been made without reference to him.

  I said, ‘I believe my aunt is referring to Mr Geoffrey Devlin and Miss de Crecy.’

  ‘Ah.’ With a long forefinger, Turnbull stroked the hairs of his beard away from his full lips. ‘Ah, yes. No, I’ve heard no mention of a date having been set.’

  ‘Is there any hint of Miss de Crecy’s visiting Ambleford again?’ Beatrice asked.

  Turnbull blinked. ‘Why, ma’am… she’s been at Ambleford all summer.’

  Mama gasped. ‘Has she? Then why is she never seen?’

  ‘I understand she goes out only on rare occasions.’ His glance flicked uncomfortably from one to the other. ‘She’s a shy young lady. Timid. I’ve only briefly glimpsed her once, from a distance, when I was up at the house discussing the transport of our engines for—’

  ‘Well, that is intriguing!’ said Beatrice and, turning to Mama, drew her into further speculation about Miss de Crecy.

  After a while, not being much entertained by the mystery of Geoffrey Devlin’s fiancée, Turnbull asked me if I would like to take a stroll to the Walks with him. I was glad to escape.

  It was a cool September Saturday, a day of chasing cloud and sunlight, cobbles wet, gutters full of puddles, streets noisy with people, carts and carriages. The wind toyed with my bonnet and fluttered my cape as I walked beside the burly figure of my admirer, my hand lightly tucked under his arm. Striding out in unison, we rounded the corner past the chequered façade of the ancient Guildhall, coming out in the Saturday marketplace. In the shelter of dark yews edging a churchyard, with the church tower rising in a grey wall of knapped flint, the stalls of the small market were thronged with eager shoppers, women with laden baskets, boys bowling hoops.

  All at once I realised we were in St James Street, where Father’s paramour had her lodging. Turnbull was talking again about the coming demonstration, but I stopped listening. I was glancing in shop windows, noting numbers on doors of terraced houses.

  Just ahead of us, a neatly-dressed woman emerged from a house, a big wicker basket over her arm. The pavement was so narrow that we had either to pause or step into a puddle of water, the drain being blocked and the gutter flooded after overnight rain. Even as Turnbull and I came to a halt, a carriage came by, its wheels sending up a spray of filthy water. My escort shouted angrily at the coachman as I flinched my spattered skirts aside. The woman swung her heavy basket out of danger, but lost her balance. She would have fallen had not Turnbull lunged to save her. The cover slid off her basket, revealing its contents to be bedlinen, trimmed with fine lace and embroidery. I found myself rescuing the linen from slipping into the dirt, helping the woman settle her wares again while she thanked us breathlessly.

  She appeared to be in her early thirties. Shorter than I, with a slender figure and a ready smile, she was plainly dressed, but neat and clean. There was nothing gaudy or tasteless about her. Though not beautiful, not even pretty, she had a sweet face and kind eyes.

  ‘Some coachmen have no care for pedestrians, I fear,’ my escort said, raising his hat in salute. ‘Are you hurt, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ve grazed my elbow a little,’ she admitted with a rueful smile, rubbing the soreness. ‘What Mrs Heron would have said if her linen had gone in the dirt, I do not know. Thank you again, sir.’

  ‘The pleasure was mine.’

  Smiling, inclining her head, she moved on. And then I saw it – the printed sign in the window of the house she had left: ‘J. Stead, Seamstress.’ So this was the ‘scarlet woman’ of my imagination. The warmth of her smile stayed in my memory long after she had gone.

  * * *

  The new lady’s maid chosen by Mama was named Ellen Earley, which gave rise to many a joke among the men, whose country wit delighted in puns and word play. The backus boy was frequently heard singing a song whose refrain included the line, ‘Oh, Lord, but she was early,’ and after Mrs Benstead clipped his ear for him he took to whistling the tune instead. Earley herself remained stoically indifferent to the clowning and merely said, ‘Yes, madam,’ when Mama suggested we should call her ‘Ellen’.

  She was a taciturn person, rather plain in looks but with a taste for fancy dressing, and she was skilled at making and trimming bonnets, as we discovered. At the importuning of Swift and Howlett, Ellen was inveigled to create fashionable bonnets for them; they were beside themselves with joy, until their appearance in church caused a scandal among some who thought such headwear unfitting for housemaids.

  The lady’s maid did her work efficiently, without fuss, but she kept herself to herself; she never became part of the family as Narnie had been.

  Ellen had been with us only a few days when Grace’s return set the household alight. Three months on the continent had burnished my sister into a fashionable young lady and she was so delighted with the change in Mama, and with Ellen’s skills, that she barely reacted to the news that Narnie had left.

  ‘I shall go and visit her tomorrow,’ she declared. ‘I can’t wait to tell her all the news of my travels. Oh, Rose, dear, your nails! And your hair! I must take you in hand. If we’re to attend the Birthday Balls at the big house this year…’

  The Birthday Balls were all she thought about. We must have gowns in the latest fashion. Our crinolines were so passé, the latest cages americains were capable of being drawn up, in the manner of a window blind, to prevent one’s skirts from trailing in the street, and they were straight in front, with more fullness at the back supporting a sort of train. Orders went out to London outfitters and dressmakers – Father was in a mood to be indulgent, probably thinking that a little expense on fripperies would win him a quiet life.

  Grace chattered endlessly about the things she had seen and done in France, the parties she had attended, the important people she had met, and the hearts she had broken. Listening to her enthuse, I felt more than a pang of envy. While she had been off enjoying herself, I had been witness to painful dramas whose shadows remained.

  ‘If I had the chance to travel,’ I said sourly, ‘I’d study the landscape, and the architecture, and the history. I wouldn’t fritter away the time preening myself,
and flirting!’

  ‘But, my dear,’ said Grace with a laugh, ‘if it had been you, there wouldn’t have been anything else to do but study the landscape, the art, the history… Would there?’

  I deserved the jibe. My envy of Grace was something I despised myself for. Nevertheless, I was as thrilled as she when the material samples and the patterns arrived, and then the dresses themselves. Final adjustments of fit were made by our local dressmaker, Mrs Todd, with the aid of Ellen Earley.

  * * *

  After the merriment of harvest home, we found ourselves with surplus provisions – pies and preserves and lardy cakes – that we planned to distribute in the village.

  ‘Shall we take some to Narnie?’ I suggested as Swift and Howlett stowed the victuals in the dogcart. The old woman had been on my conscience ever since she left.

  ‘Why, yes!’ Grace agreed. ‘I want to tell her about my adventures in France. Perhaps Mama would like to come.’

  Mama was reluctant, probably fearing Narnie’s reproach, but we overcame her objections.

  Willow Cottage was tucked away behind Feltham church, half hidden from the lane by trailing willows that flanked its gate. Hollyhocks grew in a garden thick with scented roses, forget-me-nots, and lavender. An old broken wall, a mixture of flint and chalk and brick, overgrown with ivy, separated the cottage from the churchyard, where dark yews grew tall.

  As I helped Mama down from the dogcart, I saw the lace curtains at the cottage window twitch, but Narnie didn’t come to the door: she made us knock and wait, so long that I began to think she would refuse to see us. Then a small tabby cat emerged from the undergrowth to leap lightly up the steps and miaow expectantly at the door.

  ‘What a dear little creature!’ Grace exclaimed, scooping it up into her arms just as the door opened to reveal a sour-faced Narnie. ‘Narnie, is she yours? Isn’t she – Ow!’ With a little scream, Grace dropped the cat, which hung by its claws in her skirts until she shook it off, saying, ‘Beastly creature, it scratched me. I’m bleeding!’