Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  ‘What’s this?’ Basil enquired, and was shown the invitations, which made him look thoughtful and pull at his gingerish side-whiskers. ‘I’d expected to be away that week.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said. ‘Then we shall have to refuse.’

  ‘Oh, but we must go to the ball!’ Mama cried. ‘We’ve waited so long. Grace will be so excited…’ She paused, puzzling over the tricks her memory played her. ‘Grace was so excited. Oh, do you suppose…? Could we somehow arrange for her to have an invitation, too? If we were to contact your uncle Henry…’

  ‘In her delicate condition,’ I said, ‘Grace won’t want to be travelling, not even to a Birthday Ball.’

  ‘Oh… no, of course not. I’d quite forgotten.’ She passed a hand over her brow as if to straighten her thoughts, then looked from one to the other of us hopefully, like a child eager for treats. ‘But we shall go, shall we not?’

  ‘Not if Basil has to be away. We can’t go without an escort.’

  ‘Perhaps I could rearrange my meeting,’ he offered.

  ‘Oh, please do! Please do!’ Mama begged.

  Later, in the privacy of our room, Basil asked me why I didn’t want to go to the ball. He himself was not especially keen on ‘do’s’ of that kind, but he was surprised to find that I felt the same. Surely I didn’t want to disappoint Mama when she was so looking forward to it?

  My reasons were many and confused. I could not easily bring myself to socialise with people who had reviled me. Besides, I was so habituated to wearing working boots and heavy serge that an evening dress and dancing slippers would feel very strange. No longer the young girl eager for a party, I was a married woman, a working woman.

  ‘That’s excuses,’ Basil said, watching me narrowly. ‘What are you afraid of? You’ve been up to the big house before. You went to a dinner party there once.’

  ‘Yes, that’s so, but…’

  ‘You never talk about it, though. Most women’d be dining out on that tale for years to come.’

  ‘It was a very long time ago,’ I said, beginning to unpin my hair as I sat before the dresser mirror.

  Basil came to stand behind me, watching me through the mirror. ‘Did something bad happen?’

  ‘Bad?’ I watched my own reflection, unable to meet his eyes. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I heard what happened – it was a rowdy night. Someone got thrown in the lake. Who brought you home?’

  An awkward pin had got tangled in my hair. Its extrication enabled me to lift my arms, hiding my face and the flush that was too revealing. ‘Why… you know who took me – my uncle Henry.’

  ‘Your uncle Henry was too busy to drive you home. He was occupied with Kitty Hambledown.’

  A nervous pulse beat visibly in my throat. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Kitty Hambledown did.’

  ‘I had no idea you were on such intimate terms with the miller’s daughter,’ I retorted.

  ‘Blast it, Rose!’ He leaned over me, catching my wrists and forcing my arms down in front of me, so that his arms circled me and his face was next to mine, blue eyes glaring at me through the mirror. ‘I want to know! What happened that night?’

  Hoping he couldn’t see the vein in my throat which, to my eyes, was throbbing like a telegraph key, proclaiming my guilt, I said, ‘The prince sent for me. I… I’d rather not recount what happened. Suffice to say I repulsed him. That made him angry. And I was afraid. I fled, and… and one of the other gentlemen rescued me and brought me home. I don’t speak of it because I don’t care to remember it. I have no wish to go back. We shan’t be missed.’

  ‘We shall! They say he has a memory like an elephant. Do you want to offend him again? What was it like, that night? I’ve a right to know. What did he do? What did he say?’

  The idea of the prince making advances to me both annoyed and excited him. Disturbed by the prurient light in his eyes, I leapt up and moved away. If he probed into detail of that night he might start to wonder exactly which gentleman had gallantly rescued me. Thank God no one had seen me leave with Geoffrey!

  ‘I do have another reason for not wanting to go,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed? What can that be?’ He started languidly towards me, with a purpose I recognised.

  ‘The same reason as Grace.’

  That stopped him. He stared at me in disbelief, then in a growing wonder that was awful to see. ‘You’re going to have a child? You’re having my child?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But… That’s wonderful!’ Laughing, he came and clasped me in his arms, kissing me, then touching my waist with gentle, wondering fingers. ‘When?’

  ‘Early summer. Probably May.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie…’ As he looked at me, his eyes misted. ‘Rosie, that makes me so proud… But May…’ He did quick calculations in his head. ‘You’ll only be four months on by the time of the ball. Of course we must go. I’ll buy you such a gown as you never saw. Yes! We’ll go to London to buy it. And Mother H, too. You must have everything just right.’

  His unfeigned joy was a relief. If he was pleased then I could be pleased. No one would take this baby from me. It would be something of my own – something to love and care for. I began to look forward to the spring.

  * * *

  The evening of the ball was an evening of bright moonlight, with frost sparkling along the edges of Commodore Wood. Our invitations saw us safely past the police guard at the gate and then we were heading down the drive among other conveyances all queuing for their turn by the red and white porch.

  And then the house… Light and noise and gaiety. Brilliant light, night turned to day by gas lighting which flooded the scene. And the noise – the orchestra playing in the gallery while in the Great Saloon below politicians and princes chatted amiably with Norfolk neighbours. A flurry of silks and tulles, a glitter of gold and jewels… Three hundred guests came to help celebrate the twenty-sixth birthday of the Princess of Wales.

  We stood in line to be announced and to be greeted by our hosts. Here was the princess, stunning in pink despite being five months pregnant, despite her limp – the ‘Alexandra limp’ they called it, and some idiot women copied it to be like her, perhaps thinking to flatter her. She had become a leader of fashion. Around her slender throat she often wore a jewelled ribbon, and many of the ladies present had taken up that charming idea, including myself – my ribbon was dark green velvet, matching the trimmings of my gown. Pinned to the ribbon I wore the locket brooch that carried Geoffrey’s likeness.

  My hand sought the locket and, as if my thought had summoned him, in that same moment I saw him.

  Our eyes met across the room with a force that robbed me of breath. I hadn’t expected him, had thought he was still in Italy, but he had been watching me, waiting for me to notice him. I felt as though I had been punched, somewhere in my middle, and I was conscious of the child nestling there. My hand went instinctively to protect it – or perhaps to conceal it. Nausea stirred in me. Perspiration pricked out from every pore. A slow smile curved Geoffrey’s lips as the crowd closed between us. But from then on I covertly watched for him.

  Lucy was never far from his side, delicate in a froth of blue silk. She still habitually shielded her mouth, but she no longer hung back, seeking shadows; instead she clung close to Geoffrey, clutching his arm, seeming to be drawing comfort and strength from his nearness. There seemed to be a new serenity about her. Their stay in Italy must have wrought some change. I was glad for them. Yes, of course I was.

  Princess Alexandra greeted us gaily and graciously, and introduced us to the handsome young equerry who accompanied her – Oliver Montagu, an officer in the Royal Horse Guards, son of the Earl of Sandwich. One of the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom, he was her devoted friend, her perfect knight and champion. His feelings showed clear in the way he looked at her. I pitied him as he stood beside her while she made sure all her guests were equally welcomed.

  And then we were being greeted by the prince himsel
f, his smiling glance assessing my figure as he bent to kiss my hand.

  ‘Mrs Pooley. Delighted to see you. And Mrs Hamilton – a pleasure, ma’am. Well, Pooley, you should think yourself a lucky man. Not every pretty girl comes complete with a farm, what?’ He laughed heartily at that. ‘Knew she’d be snapped up. Told her – you ought to be married, my girl. Keep you out of mischief, eh? Good to see you all. Good to see you.’ And we moved on.

  We mingled, making conversation, finding old friends, dancing… I was honoured to be engaged by, among others, the Earl of Leicester, Lord Coke, by the Duke of Cambridge, and by one of the younger brothers of the Prince of Wales, Prince Alfred, who was the same age as I. Nervous, I regaled him with the story of my first fox-cubs, named Bertie, Affie and Vicky after himself and his older brother and sister; he was kind enough to be amused.

  I danced with my uncle Henry, now promoted to major and one of the prince’s most trusted equerries, and then my husband led me through the paces of a polka which, for other dancers, became so energetic that one gentleman crashed to the floor and brought his partner down with him, to general astonishment. The Prince of Wales proved equally lively and had his pretty partner sliding about the polished floor.

  When, later, he approached and asked for the pleasure of a dance with me, Basil requested that I be treated with care, ‘Because of her condition, sir.’

  The prince’s interest quickened, blue eyes bright above his beard. ‘Ah, so that’s the way of it, eh? Trust me, Pooley.’

  Somewhere in the middle of the dance, he murmured, ‘Glad to see you took my advice. Glad we’re friends again. I’ll be round to see you. Talk about the farm, eh? After you’ve had the child, maybe.’

  Was that a proposition? Though my heart felt unsteady, I said demurely, ‘You’ll always be welcome at Orchards, sir.’

  The elderly General Hall escorted Mama as we went in to the supper room, where we found ourselves near Geoffrey and his wife and, as neighbours will, we fell into conversation. Geoffrey said that his parents had been forced to decline the invitation to the ball; Sir Arthur was suffering badly with gout, which was why Geoffrey had come home from Italy to take over the management of the estate.

  ‘Otherwise, we might have stayed longer. My wife adores Italy. Isn’t that so, Lucinda?’

  A wistful look misted her eyes as she glanced up at him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s a beautiful country,’ Basil said. ‘I was in Naples once. Do you know it?’

  Lucinda turned great eyes on him. ‘Oh, yes!’

  She was almost animated as they discussed the city of Naples, leaving Mama and me astounded; neither of us had had any notion that Basil had been abroad. Mama demanded to know when, and why hadn’t he said, to which he replied that he hadn’t got round to telling us his whole life story but perhaps if we lived long enough he might.

  And while this went on Geoffrey and I shared social smiles that covered the private messages we exchanged with our eyes. Undercurrents of longing flowed strong between us. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would, not for us.

  Dancing began again. We all wandered back to the saloon where Coots’ band was launching into a Viennese melody.

  ‘Do you waltz, Mrs Devlin?’ Basil asked of Lucinda, who cast a horrified look at Geoffrey and said, ‘Oh, no. No. I’m afraid…’

  ‘Of course you do,’ her husband encouraged.

  Her hand was hovering near her mouth, but with both of the men determined to cajole her she gave in and allowed herself to be led away, glancing over her shoulder appealingly at Geoffrey.

  Behind me, General Hall harrumphed: ‘Looks as if she’s being taken to the scaffold! Come, ma’am, shall we find a seat and watch the fun?’ He was past dancing, but Mama happily went with him to a couch backed by potted palms and the wooden statue of a Red Indian chief.

  After that it was unremarkable that Geoffrey should ask me to share the waltz with him.

  Though I stared over his shoulder, not daring to meet his eyes, we communicated by touch and by the easy way we moved together, as if we had been doing it all our lives. How right it felt to be in his arms, to feel his love enfold me…

  ‘You’re the loveliest woman in the room,’ he said softly.

  Though pleasure flushed through me, I laughed, ‘That I am not.’

  ‘To me you are.’ His voice dropped to a vibrant undertone, ‘I’ve missed you. Have you been well?’

  ‘Quite well. And you?’

  ‘Easier in body than in mind and heart.’ His arm at my waist drew me closer as he spoke, his muscles tightening as he felt me stiffen and try to keep away. ‘We’re doing nothing wrong,’ he muttered close to my ear. ‘Is it a sin to enjoy a few moments together, in full public view? The princess doesn’t think so.’

  Her Royal Highness was passing nearby, dancing lightly, despite her stiff leg, in the arms of Oliver Montagu, and on her face as she smiled at her partner was such a look of adoration that I turned my eyes away, feeling that I was intruding.

  ‘If she can steal a little oasis of happiness in the desert of her marriage,’ Geoffrey said, ‘why can’t we?’

  I did look at him then. ‘She wouldn’t do anything wrong! I won’t believe that of her.’

  ‘Nor I. Nor I! But she finds comfort with Montagu, and how can we blame her? God knows the provocation is there. Her husband makes no secret of his own wanderings.’

  As we whirled in the dance, I caught sight of Basil, gamely trying to entertain a blushing Lucinda. He was never a graceful dancer. He must have stepped on her gown, or her toe – something made them falter and stop and I saw him apologising, reddening to the roots of his hair. A wave of sickening guilt caught at me.

  ‘But my husband isn’t unfaithful,’ I said. ‘He tries his best to please me. If he can’t be everything I wanted, then… then the fault is mine, not his. My dreams were always too high and wild. I should be grateful for his protection. He’s a good man, by his lights.’

  ‘You care for him?’

  I thought about that, wanting to be honest, watching the room pass behind his shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t want to hurt him. I owe him a great deal. I think you should know… I’m carrying his child.’ I looked up as I spoke, so I saw the shadow that crossed his eyes at the news.

  He regarded me steadily, sadly, while our feet continued to move in sweeping rhythm. ‘He’s a f-fortunate man,’ he said. And he drew me in closer, his cheek a breath away from my brow, his hand enfolding mine, our bodies swaying in unison as the music carried us round. ‘I wish you both joy.’

  I glimpsed the conductor’s baton up on the curtained gallery, marking off time, marking off the last moments of my last dance with Geoffrey. Though we hadn’t said it out loud, I had a feeling we had just said goodbye.

  He and Lucinda left soon afterwards. I didn’t see them go but the crowded room was suddenly empty. My head was heavy with tears. My heart ached.

  ‘Damn it, where’s Devlin gone?’ The prince strode up, in a temper caused by the defection of Geoffrey and his wife. ‘Sneaked off, eh?’

  ‘I think his wife was feeling unwell, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s too bad. It’s really too bad of them! I won’t have people leaving early, spoiling the fun. You can tell him, when next you see him, that I’m most displeased. I don’t care what the excuse is. Pregnant, is she?’

  All around us people looked askance at the free use of such an indelicate word in company.

  ‘I really don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well, if she’s not, she ought to be. Only way to keep a woman in her place, eh, Pooley? Keep her busy. Keep her out of mischief. No, damme, I’m annoyed. Really annoyed.’

  One of his beautiful partners slid up, her white hand insinuating itself under his arm as she pouted up at him. ‘But I haven’t deserted you, Bertie. Is little Mrs Devlin prettier than I?’

  His brow drew down momentarily, then he gave a shout of laughter. ‘No, by George! Not by a long chalk. Let them go. What do we car
e? Come on – another jig. Another jig!’

  Everyone joined in the merriment – even the princess, standing close beside Oliver Montagu.

  * * *

  Hypocrite that I was, I kept Geoffrey’s likeness in my locket, though now I put the locket away, wrapped in a square of black velvet in a corner of my jewel case. I took it out now and then, when the longing got too unbearable. Perhaps one day my daughter or granddaughter would wear it, and find the picture and wonder. As for jewellery, I had other pieces in plenty, some from Great-grandmama and Aunt Agnes, some beautiful items which had belonged to my mother, and some bought for me by my husband. Though most of these last were too gaudy for my taste, I wore them to please him. Those months when I was breeding were the happiest Basil and I ever shared.

  Fecundity was in the air. My sister Grace produced her daughter, Mary Anne, in January, and then in April Princess Alexandra, who was in residence at Sandringham, went unexpectedly into labour. Despite the fact that all her children had been born prematurely, nothing was ready for her confinement. Essentials were hurriedly sent for, local shops plundered; the villages were alive with gossip.

  Poor princess. Her little Alexander lived only a matter of hours. She was obliged to watch from her bedroom window as the tiny coffin was borne across the park, followed by her husband and her two small sons. Mama and I, with Narnie, attended the service.

  We laid a posy of spring flowers among the grander wreaths on the sad little grave beside the path. My heart went out to the princess. I wept for her sorrow and prayed with all my soul that my own child should be safe.

  Basil, who had been away for several days, was angry to discover that I had been to the funeral. He forbade me to go out again before our child was born. And I, touched by his concern for me, obeyed him, though the incarceration was a trial of my patience – I was never good at sitting idle.

  Our son, George Victor, was born at noon on Thursday 11 May, 1871. He emerged yelling thinly, a wrinkled, red little gnome of a child with a funny tuft of yellow hair and his father’s big hands and feet. In response to the child’s wailing, I heard my husband shout aloud for sheer joy. His boots pounded on the stairs and, despite the doctor’s protests, he erupted into the room, shouting, ‘A boy? Is it a boy? Let me see!’ Shown his son, he burst into tears and came to kneel by the bloody bed sobbing hoarsely, muttering incoherently, ‘Blast! Blast!’ He lifted his face – drowned blue eyes, flushed skin, yellow hair – so like the baby it made me laugh and cry all at once.