Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  ‘In sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, ’til death us do part…’ They were solemn words. In order to say them aloud, one would have to be sincere. All I could think of was Geoffrey, saying those words to Lucinda. Making promises before God. Had he meant them? ‘I intend to be a faithful husband,’ he had said. ‘I can’t let Lucy down.’ What did that mean?

  They were back at Ambleford now. They had arrived back a week ago, so village gossip said. After seven months touring Europe. Seven months of days spent together. Seven months of nights…

  Father gave a rasping cough, his thin shoulders heaving as he stuffed a handkerchief to his mouth. I felt the pain that racked him. Grey hairs grew thick now in the curls about his ears, and his cheek looked sunken in coloured light from a stained-glass window.

  A party of us saw the bridal pair off at the station, bound for London and then for Brighton town. Grace stood on the steps of the carriage, laughing, lifting her bridal bouquet to throw it. Her eyes met mine as she tossed the flowers. She meant them for me. But one of the ribbons caught on her finger and as I lifted my hands to receive it the bouquet veered away. Squeals of delight erupted as Chloe Wyatt caught it, her eyes bright as she laughed over the flowers at her sisters. ‘I’m next! I shall be next!’

  I saw the little moue of regret that Grace made at me, then she blew me a kiss as recompense and was off on her adventure into married life. Smoke from the funnel made my eyes water as the train edged away with couplings clanking and steam sighing, the whistle giving a final salute.

  A handkerchief appeared before me, proffered by Basil Pooley. ‘Here you are, Miss Rose. It’s clean.’

  I used the handkerchief to dab my eyes and blot my nose. ‘It’s the smoke.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He crooked his arm for my hand. ‘Well, they’re away. Let’s go back to the party, shall we?’

  * * *

  Rebuilding work began that spring on Sandringham Hall. The Prince of Wales had finally decided that the old house was too full of draughts, too cold and damp, to be habitable. He blamed it in part for the terrible illness which had left his wife lame and slightly deaf; so he gave orders that the house was to be modernised, given all comforts and conveniences. Architects set to work to draw up their plans and submit them for royal approval, and meanwhile the old hall was shut up and left to dream alone.

  To Mama’s distress, Grace’s marriage and the hospitality enjoyed at the wedding did little to soften our neighbours’ attitude towards us. People continued to cut me, glare unspeaking, or draw aside as if I had leprosy. Because of this, because she missed Grace’s company, and probably for other reasons too, Mama grew querulous again. She was always complaining of something or other, wanting me to spend more time with her, wanting me to take her to see Narnie, or wishing she could see her dear, dear Grace. She started taking her medicine frequently, on the grounds that she couldn’t sleep without it. Because of her restlessness, Father moved out of their room.

  This time neither of them tried to hide their physical separation; Father transferred his things into the room which had belonged to Victor. Not a trace of my brother remained there, which was as Father had wished, but I wondered if the room held memories. However, the only time he alluded to it was to remark that, ‘The shades are friendly here.’

  * * *

  Grace had hardly returned from her honeymoon when Mama decided that she must go and visit the newlyweds and see how they were settling down. She wrote at once to suggest it, and back came a letter saying that the Turnbulls would be delighted to have her stay. Whether their delight was shared in equal measure I don’t venture to guess, but no doubt Grace was eager to show off her new home and Turnbull was new enough at husbanding to indulge her.

  The invitation included me, but I declined on the grounds of spring-cleaning duties, and haying in prospect. It was true, but it was only one of my reasons: with Father’s health deteriorating I didn’t want to leave him alone, and besides I was in no mood to have my younger sister flaunt her status as a married lady in my face. I already knew from her letters that Mrs William Turnbull rejoiced in her affluent new life.

  In the end, much to their mutual satisfaction, Mama took Narnie with her to Thetford, with Ellen Earley in attendance.

  * * *

  That same month, May 1868, Hal Wyatt’s wife gave birth to a son in California, making Mr and Mrs Wyatt grandparents for the first time. They planned a ball to celebrate, a Midsummer Ball with all their friends and neighbours to share their joy. And, since they had so many marriageable daughters, they planned to invite an ample supply of eligible young men.

  ‘You’ll be able to take your pick,’ Felicity laughed as we sat one day in the rose garden, under parasols, with a jug of lemonade on a table nearby and the fountain playing its cool undersong. ‘I shall make sure your card is filled for the entire evening. You’re twenty-four years old, Rose. You can’t let these chances slip by.’

  I almost pointed out that she was four years older than I, but we had been over that same conversation many times. She always averred that, with Victor gone, she would never love again. For me it was different. She wanted to see me married and happy – in her mind, the two were synonymous.

  ‘I haven’t danced for years,’ I said.

  ‘You danced at Grace’s wedding – with young Mr Pooley. I saw you.’

  ‘Once. I danced once.’

  ‘At least it shows you haven’t forgotten how. But you can’t come alone. It looks so bad. You must have a proper escort.’

  ‘Some brave bold knight susceptible to bribery, perhaps?’

  My voice and my expression made Felicity tut. ‘Now, Rose! You know very well that any number of young men would be only too happy to… There’s James Freshing, for a start. He was most complimentary after you met last year. And there’s Gordon… what’s his name? – the tall thin one with the spectacles, who likes to talk politics with you.’

  ‘Making conversation over tea in your drawing-room is one thing,’ I said, ‘escorting me to a ball is another – the not-quite-respectable Miss Hamilton, pariah of this parish.’

  ‘Don’t speak of yourself in that way! It’s not true, Rose. They’re all wrong about you. It’s so unchristian of them. That’s why we want to show them that you’re still a good friend to us. We don’t care who we offend by it. We intend to stand by you.’

  Dear Felicity. Dear Wyatts all. How I loved them.

  ‘Papa has especially invited the Devlins,’ she told me.

  She might as well have tossed her lemonade at me, complete with ice; I felt suddenly cold, my ears singing, my head buzzing. I watched a ladybird alight on the edge of my glass and crawl there, each wing showing five red spots, while in some other part of my mind I heard Felicity saying something about mending the feud between my father and Sir Arthur before it got out of hand, and that a social encounter might help to heal the breach.

  ‘Are they coming?’ I asked. ‘All four of them?’

  ‘Well, of course. It’s a pity your father won’t be there.’

  ‘No,’ I said, my thoughts fragmented. ‘I mean – yes. But Father’s not one for parties.’

  She sighed. ‘I know. Oh, this isn’t helping to find you an escort, Rose! It looks as if it will have to be Mr Pooley. I know he’s not exactly a gentleman, but he has made real efforts to improve himself. As Papa always says, you have to respect a man with character enough to pull himself up by his own boot-straps. Yes, I’ll make sure Mr Pooley has an invitation. After all, you don’t have to be with him all evening.’

  Basil Pooley called at Orchards House a few days later, on a pretext which I forget; his real reason was to tell me that he had had an invitation to the Wyatts’ Midsummer Ball, and to ask me if I were going with anyone, or if he might be allowed the honour…

  ‘I should be delighted,’ I replied, and he bent to kiss my hand and smile at me, blue eyes gleaming, pleasure shining out of him.

  ‘It’ll be the proudest day
of my life,’ he said.

  * * *

  On Midsummer’s Day I was out with our workers as soon as the dew had cleared, tossing hay all morning as the sun rose clear and hot. When the horn blew to announce a pause for elevenses, I walked back to the farm and ate a bite of dinner with Father. I intended to rest a while during the afternoon before getting ready for the party, but Mrs Benstead was so busy picking and preserving the glut of strawberries we had that year that I found myself helping her, and so the afternoon fled. It was always so in spring and summer, so much work that one hardly had time to draw breath.

  However, that evening I indulged myself in a long cooling bath and sat by an open window to brush out my hair and let it dry in the lilac-scented breeze. Hoping to lace my waist down to twenty-one inches, I took only a cup of tea while Swift dressed my hair and helped me put on my party self. I was thinking of Geoffrey, dressing for him, grooming myself for him – and despising myself for it.

  Though I was never a beauty, being too tall and angular, and freckled from the sun, I could look striking when I made the effort. That night I felt at my best as I went lightly down the stairs to where Basil and my father waited in the hallway. My dress floated about me, a dress that Mama had ordered when she ordered Grace’s trousseau, pale green tarlatan, the skirt boasting thirty-two flounces, the ribbon edging embroidered with leaves and violets – why do we women remember such silly things? – all under a long cloak of pine-green velvet. Gloves of fine green net hid most of the scratches and fruit-stains on my hands.

  I saw, with satisfaction, the admiration that widened Basil’s eyes, though Father remained inscrutable, gaze narrowed in his thin, weathered face. I can see them now, the contrast between the two of them: one wearing immaculate evening dress, full of youth and life and hope; the other in linen shirt and old trousers, looking thin and drawn, a poor sketch of himself.

  Basil looked as if he might burst with delight as he surveyed me. ‘Why, Miss Rose, you’re… you look…’

  ‘He means you’ll do,’ Father said huskily, breath catching in his throat. He turned away, coughing into a handkerchief.

  Worried, I laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t go. If you’re not well…’

  ‘I’m perfectly well!’ he rasped. ‘It’s just my cough. It catches me now and then, that’s all. Take her away, Basil.’

  ‘I’ll take good care of her, sir,’ Basil said.

  ‘Yes.’ Father had himself under control as he looked at us with hooded eyes. ‘Yes, boy, I know you will. Well, go. Go!’

  Basil had hired a victoria, and a coachman to drive it. Such thoughtfulness impressed me as, with princely courtesy, he handed me into the open carriage and settled himself beside me.

  Though it was past nine o’clock the evening remained light, and with the hood of the carriage thrown back we could see the sky shading from gold to red, promising another fine day tomorrow. The warm air smelled of hay. Swifts zoomed after flies above the meadow where the milk cows grazed, and the hayers were still at work, loading up the carts, tossing the cut hay, scything yet more for tomorrow.

  We found the Grange alive with bustle, carriages arriving, people being greeted. Interconnecting rooms rang with laughter as skirts swayed, whiskers bristled, graceful shoulders slanted and fans fluttered their message of coy flirtation. All the windows were thrown open so that warm air billowed through the house and music flowed across the lawns and gardens. As the dusk grew, lanterns twinkled from all the trees.

  Mr Wyatt met us and drew us into the throng, introducing us to his guests with a flourish – almost daring them to be impolite. Most of them managed at least a semblance of courtesy, especially the gentlemen; it was the older matrons who remained disapproving.

  Among them, the most formidable was Lady Devlin. She stood with her husband and a small group of others in a corner of the drawing-room where a chandelier sent glittering light across rose brocade walls and gilded furnishings. My champion led me straight across to them with an air of cheery unconcern. To my relief, neither Geoffrey nor his wife was with them.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Wyatt began, ‘you do know Miss Hamilton, I believe? And Mr Basil Pooley?’

  Sir Arthur harrumphed and muttered something to the effect that he was, yes, ah, acquainted with… and the other guests nodded, murmuring appropriately. One of the women, I noticed, slanted a sidelong look at Basil, assessing him from head to toe with evident appreciation before holding out her hand, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ at which Mr Wyatt introduced them formally and they fell into conversation. Only Lady Ophelia remained silent, regarding me with flared nostrils and eyes like frosted slate.

  ‘Lady Devlin,’ I greeted, sketching the briefest of curtseys.

  She drew an audible breath and turned her shoulder to me, continuing a conversation which our arrival had interrupted.

  ‘We shall move on.’ Mr Wyatt drew my hand through his arm, patting it comfortingly. ‘Don’t mind Lady Ophelia. She’s out of sorts. Her son and daughter-in-law don’t seem to have turned up. Young Mrs Devlin is prone to headaches.’

  ‘Is she?’ Did he mean she was pregnant?

  He pulled a wry face. ‘That’s the excuse she uses. She’s not much of a social animal, is she?’

  How could I have forgotten Lucinda Devlin’s disfigurement? ‘No, of course… Poor girl.’ But mingled with my sympathy was disappointment. Deep in some secret part of me, hardly admitted even to myself, I longed to see Geoffrey again.

  My dance card, though not filled, held a respectable number of names, and when sitting out there was Felicity to talk to, and Basil ever nearby.

  I escaped for a while and went to see Cassie, who lay in her room with Aunt Agnes for companion. She wanted to know about the party, but where once her questions had been eager, probing for a full picture, now she asked them in order to please me, not because she wanted to share the experience. She had ceased trying to be part of the world outside her room.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ she said after only a few minutes. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Did you say you had come with Basil Pooley?’ my aunt enquired. ‘Is that wise? What do we know about him?’

  ‘He’s the nephew of a dear friend; he was my brother’s best friend; Father and Mama both like him.’

  ‘Yes, but what do you know of him? What is he?’

  ‘Kind, honest, generous, thoughtful, amusing… He’s a businessman, if that’s what you mean, with various properties bringing in rents. And doing very well from it. What else do I need to know?’

  ‘Do you intend to marry him?’

  ‘I could do worse. In fact, my reputation being what it is, I couldn’t really hope to do much better, could I?’

  Agnes settled back in her chair, smoothing the open pages of her book. ‘In your present mood, you deserve no better. Go back to your estimable Mr Pooley, then. Good night, Rose.’

  There was no more to say.

  Intending to refresh my toilette, I made for the dressing-room which had been set aside for that use with a maid in attendance to supply whatever might be needed – a pin, a stitch, a glass of water. The maid was busy folding towels, and by a cheval glass a young woman in a frothy gown of lemon lace nervously stroked the flounces that disguised the flatness of her bosom. She caught sight of me through the mirror, and instantly her hand darted up to conceal her mouth. My stomach twisted on itself and my heart leapt as I recognised the pale, fearful face. Lucinda de Crecy, now Mrs Devlin.

  Geoffrey must have arrived, too.

  The room felt hot: the window had been closed, presumably to exclude the moths that danced beyond the glass, though one or two darted about the lamps on suicide forays. Sweat damped my palms and beaded my forehead as I said, ‘Good evening. It’s… it’s Mrs Devlin, is it not? I’m Rose Hamilton. You may remember—’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.’ Even through the mirror I glimpsed her distress, her fear – and the fact that after ten months of ma
rriage there was no sign of any thickening at her waistline. She was as thin as a boy. She cast a final glance to check her appearance, and, without looking at me, swept past me, nervously stroking her nose – the need to conceal that scar on her lip was habitual.

  I took my time, washing my face and hands, damping down shiny patches with powder, aware of my heart pulsating audibly. Why was Lucinda Devlin so unhappy? Was something wrong between her and Geoffrey?

  As I went down the stairs, back to the gleam of candles and lamps, to the music and night air dancing with moths, every dark-haired man I glimpsed made my heart lurch. Geoffrey was here somewhere. I saw him everywhere, in a turn of head, a breadth of shoulder, an elegant curve of calf…

  ‘So there you are!’ The voice made me whirl, dizzy for a moment, staring into a face that didn’t fit, until my senses cleared and I saw that it was Basil, his smile fading. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I was thinking of something else,’ I said.

  ‘Obviously.’ But he didn’t pursue it. ‘I was looking for you. This is our dance – the supper dance.’

  ‘Oh – yes, of course.’ I found a smile for him as I allowed him to lead me into the dining-room, which had been cleared for dancing, chairs pushed to the walls, the carpet lifted and the floor polished. The small orchestra, arranged in one corner, bowed busily at a polka while energetic couples whirled about the room.

  It was then I saw Geoffrey, standing in the far doorway, engaged in conversation. There was no time to think. Basil twirled me into the dance. The room revolved behind his fair head, portraits, windows and doors on a whirligig of splintered light. I had to think about the steps, trying to keep my footing on the slippery floor, trying to keep up with Basil. Geoffrey was watching but I didn’t dare look at him. I kept on dancing, jigging round and round.