A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  Into this crowded programme it was very unlikely the Prince or his secretaries had inserted a visit by an unknown little weaver from Edinburgh. A girl, at that ‒ it was most unseemly.

  ‘Did you come here unescorted, Miss Corvill?’ Bobby asked, his tone reproving.

  ‘Oh, no, captain, my brother was with me.’ Colour edged up into the pale cheeks. ‘He was taken a little unwell so I left him at Crathie and walked up alone. I didn’t want to be late, you see, for my appointment with Prince Albert.’

  In the little laugh caused by that remark he forgot for the moment the embarrassment she had hidden about her brother. ‘My dear young lady, you have no appointment with the Prince.’

  ‘Oh, but I have!’

  He shook his head. He really ought to call one of the staff and have her thrown out. Yet it seemed a pity to part with her. She had made a break in the hideous monotony of the grey day. Besides, she was exceptionally pretty, more like a French girl than a Scot, though some of the Scots with their fair complexions and tawny hair were stunning to look at even if hard to understand.

  ‘Let me offer you a cup of tea before you leave,’ he suggested.

  For a moment he thought she was going to say, ‘I won’t leave.’ But as the words were forming to be spoken she changed them. With a little bow she said, ‘A cup of tea would be very welcome. And while I drink it you could no doubt speak to the Prince’s secretary to check that I’m expected.’

  The cheek of it! Yet, after all, what harm would it do?

  ‘You’re a very determined young lady,’ he remarked, as he escorted her into the equerries’ office.

  ‘Yes, it’s one of my great faults,’ she agreed, in a demure tone that had hidden laughter in it. ‘The minister is always telling me I have a stubborn spirit.’

  When she had accepted the only other chair in the makeshift office, she set her precious parcel on the floor by her side. He rang the bell. The manservant from the equerries’ mess raised his eyebrows when he came in. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘We’ll have tea, Simpkins. And ‒’ with a glance at his guest ‘‒ something to eat?’ When she nodded he said, ‘Some cake, or a biscuit.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Simpkins withdrew, blowing out his cheeks. He was a one, the captain. Where had he managed to find that nice little bit of skirt in the middle of this bivouac?

  The nice little bit of skirt was looking about her with interest. The room was plain and tidy but there was a fine film of dust over almost everything. The carpet bore the signs of mud from outdoors.

  ‘There isn’t much staff at the castle?’ she deduced.

  ‘Only enough in general to look after the builders, who’ve been housed in bothies and cottages in the grounds. His Royal Highness has brought his own body servants with him, of course, and his secretaries. The rest of us have to shift for ourselves mostly.’ He glanced about. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a more comfortable chair.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, captain.’ She was looking at a leather-bound book which lay open on the desk. ‘Is that His Highness’s appointment book?’

  ‘No, that’s the day book of the equerries’ office ‒ but I assure you if you had been expected there would be a note of it here.’ He held the book out to her, open, at a page with the date written at the top.

  ‘Tuesday 12th September 1854,’ she read. Below were brief notes of where HRH might be expected to go inside the castle and about the estate and who was to accompany him. The Equerry-in-Chief was at present with the Prince. A note in brackets caught her eye: ‘Lunch 1.30 to 2, piper plays.’ The Prince Consort’s love of music was well known.

  Simpkins arrived with a silver tray holding a service for two. Behind him came a page with a cake rack. She saw, to her astonishment, not one kind of cake but two. Cake for tea except at a celebration was unknown to her. Two kinds of cake was unheard of.

  The tray brought by Simpkins proved to have clever telescopic legs. He set it before her so that she could pour the tea. She began to do so, saying to Bobby Prentiss, ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Neither, thank you.’ He took his cup, gulped the tea down, selected a large slice of cake from the plate the page offered, and swallowed it in two mouthfuls. He was both hungry and thirsty. He’d been up since five-thirty, as was necessary to keep up with the Prince’s rigorous schedule. Breakfast had been the detestable Scottish porridge, lunch for him had been at eleven-thirty so that he could go on duty at noon.

  His guest looked at him over the rim of her raised tea cup.

  ‘Well, captain, while I drink mine, perhaps you’d be so good as to check with the Prince’s secretary about my appointment.’ He’d decided to fall in with the idea. And when he got back with his disappointing news, he’d spend a pleasant half hour or so consoling her. Officially he wasn’t off duty until eight in the evening but if he could invent some excuse he might get the chance to walk her down to Crathie where the brother was awaiting her.

  He said to the page, ‘See that Miss Corvill has everything she wants,’ took another piece of cake as he went out, and ate it as he threaded his way through the temporary covered passage to the main building. Here he came in at what would eventually be a side door. The Prince’s secretary was in the old castle ‒ he took a turret staircase and was crossing an upper landing when footsteps on the uncarpeted main stairway resounded and the Prince himself came into view.

  ‘Ah, Captain Prentiss. Were you looking for me?’

  ‘Er … no … that is …’

  ‘What do you think of this wood sample, captain? It’s for the staircase panelling.’

  ‘It’s … er … very fine, sir.’

  ‘Rather dark, do you think? Yet oak … oak seems right for a northern castle.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We have been looking at the main bedrooms, Prentiss.’ He turned to the man at his elbow. ‘This is Mr McRae, from the paint firm. He suggests dove grey for the window frames and doors but I feel …’

  ‘Your dove grey is a useful shade, Your Highness,’ urged the paint-maker. ‘Goes with anything ‒ no matter what you choose for the wallpaper and the curtains, your dove grey will fit in.’

  ‘But you see, McRae, I think of having tartan.’

  ‘Tartan? Wallpaper?’

  The Prince’s pale features lit up. ‘Is there tartan wallpaper?’ he asked with eagerness. ‘I had not heard of that.’

  ‘Well … no, Your Highness. That’s why I was a bit surprised. You’d mean tartan for the … the curtains, then?’

  ‘Yes, and the carpet.’

  ‘The carpet,’ said Mr McRae faintly.

  ‘Yes, most appropriate, you will agree. A Highland home should have Highland decoration.’

  ‘Aye, no doubt, sir,’ said McRae, who was himself a Highlander and had not a scrap of tartan in his house.

  Another member of the Prince Consort’s party moved forward. ‘It should certainly be easy enough to find tartan fabrics, Your Highness. There are many cloth-makers who could ‒’

  ‘Cloth-makers,’ Captain Prentiss echoed, somewhat too loud in his surprise.

  ‘What was that, captain?’

  ‘Er … Sir …’ Should he? Well, why not. ‘Sir, a young lady called Miss Corvill has come to the castle with a sample of cloth to show you.’

  ‘Indeed? I do not recall an arrangement?’

  ‘No, sir, perhaps not. She is under a misapprehension, I think. Nevertheless, she’s a weaver or at least represents a weaving firm ‒ she says it’s the best in Edinburgh ‒ and she has a sample of cloth with her. I think she said it was plaid.’

  ‘Corvill?’ said the man who had first spoken about cloth. He was, Bobby guessed, the upholsterer. ‘Yes, now, wait a minute … William Corvill … But they don’t make furnishing fabric, they make fine cloth.’

  ‘Something for the children’s dresses, I expect,’ put in the Equerry-in-Chief. ‘Local people love to offer their products to the royal family, sir.’

  ‘That is very kind
of her. Prentiss, where is the young woman?’

  ‘In the equerries’ office, sir.’

  The Equerry-in-Chief raised his eyebrows. Bobby avoided his eye by looking fixedly at the Prince Consort.

  ‘That is most convenient. I have some free time, have I not, Harrington?’

  ‘Not until this evening, sir,’ the Equerry-in-Chief said repressively. ‘Some of the local people are coming in to play and dance for you.’

  ‘Very well, Prentiss. I will see her then.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Good, good. Now, as to the paint, McRae. I seriously doubt …’ The royal voice faded as the royal progress continued towards the rooms intended for the royal children.

  ‘Tartan carpets?’ said McRae in a shocked voice to himself as he followed in the Prince’s train. ‘Tartan curtains?’

  A problem now presented itself. HRH had expressed a wish to see Miss Corvill after dinner at the evening entertainment to be provided by the ghillies and their families. In the meantime Miss Corvill had to be bestowed somewhere. The housekeeper-elect of Balmoral was affronted at being asked to look after a mere weaver’s daughter, and the footmen were trying to ogle her.

  In the end she was put in a corner of the poky little library of the old building, with a fire for her comfort but no one for company. When Bobby glanced in on her at about four o’clock, he found to his astonishment that she was reading.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Corvill. Is there anything you want?’

  ‘No thank you, captain, not at present, though before I’m taken to see the Prince I should like to wash my face and get the mud off my shoes.’ She stretched out her feet from under her skirts, ruefully surveying the brown-stained shoes.

  She had taken off the mantelet, to reveal herself in a dark blue gown that fitted close to the waist and then swept out in the necessary layers of skirt and petticoat. A small collar of white lace was the only decoration. Yet the whole thing was elegant enough to have been the morning dress of a fine lady.

  He came closer to find out what she was reading. There was nothing very light-hearted in the Prince’s library, not even copies of the novels of Sir Walter Scott so greatly admired by the Queen. Seeing his curiosity, she held up the book. It was a fine volume of Vestiarium Scoticum by the brothers Sobieski-Stuart, the study of Scottish clan tartans published earlier in the century and cause of much argument about authenticity.

  He was too surprised to say anything. He’d been startled to know she could read at all, and astounded to find her studying a learned book even if only to look at the illustrations.

  ‘It’s my business,’ she said with a little shrug when she saw his expression.

  ‘Yes …’ In his opinion, pretty girls had better things to do than study old books. ‘Would you like to be shown round the castle?’

  ‘Oh, yes, if it’s permitted.’

  ‘This way, then.’

  He offered his arm. Before taking it she carefully closed and set aside the book on the library table alongside her precious parcel of cloth.

  He led her out of the little library, across the stone-flagged hall. He showed her the rooms occupied by the ladies of the Queen’s Household when she was in residence, the dining-room now being prepared for the evening meal of the Prince and his staff, and up the main staircase to the suite used by the royal children and their governess.

  Everything not in immediate use was swathed in dustsheets. The place was melancholy and felt chill. She was disappointed ‒ where was the splendour of princes?

  ‘It’ll be better in the new building,’ Bobby said. ‘The Prince is very keen to make it handsome.’

  ‘So we heard.’

  ‘We? Who’s we?’

  ‘Ach, Prince Albert’s plans for Balmoral are the talk of Scotland. Everybody wants to be part of it. All the furniture makers and the stonemasons and carpenters …’

  Oh, she meant tradespeople. But there was something endearing in her earnestness.

  ‘It’s a long time,’ she went on, glancing up at him as he opened yet another door for her, ‘since a monarch showed any interest in this country. The Queen’s very much liked for it.’

  ‘The Queen would never spend any time in Scotland if her husband didn’t enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh, yes, him too ‒ he’s a grand man!’ She smiled, her face flushed with excitement at the thought of meeting him. ‘Is he as handsome as his pictures?’

  That was a matter of opinion. Bobby thought him pale and insipid. Yet women seemed to swoon over him. Look at the Queen ‒ absolutely besotted by him. Very odd. You’d think she’d prefer a more red-blooded man, being herself so bright and brisk.

  ‘You’ll soon see for yourself,’ he remarked. He took out his watch. ‘The Prince dines early ‒ dinner will be about six-thirty, I expect, because the fiddlers and dancers are coming at seven-thirty. The idea was that they should dance outdoors but it’s so confounded wet out there, they’ll probably be in the hall. So I’ll take you there at the first interval ‒ that’ll be about eight.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. What should I say?’

  ‘Just answer when he speaks. You call him “sir” or “Your Highness”. It’ll be all right.’ He was sure of that ‒ Albert would work his usual magic on the girl. It was only those ladies who met him often who began to find him boring and stiff.

  The tour of inspection ended in the conservatory added to the old building by the previous owner, Sir Robert Gordon. Here were more signs of neglect: the plants were alive but there was dust on their leaves, the glass needed cleaning in the rooflights.

  He picked a sprig of white hoya, presenting it to her with a little bow. ‘Wear it for luck, Miss Corvill.’

  She drew back. Her first thought was that he ought not to pick the royal flowers. But when she saw the winning smile with which he offered it, she felt a little thrill of enjoyment. The delicate fragrance from the blossom drifted up to her. She took it, held it to her nostrils. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘No lovelier than you.’

  ‘Oh!’ She heard warning bells ringing in her mind. But he was bending his head to be on a level with her, and next moment he was gently setting aside the blossom so as to kiss her on the lips.

  It was a brief kiss, unemphatic, almost courtly. He drew back to look at her. She knew she should frown, should reprove him. But instead she moistened her lips as if savouring the kiss. There was innocence in the action, but also curiosity. No one had ever kissed her on the mouth before except for snatched attempts under the mistletoe.

  When he put his arms about her and drew her close she made no attempt to stop him. She found him very attractive ‒ alluring, almost, with his smooth skin and scented hair pomade. Something seemed to urge her towards him, some hitherto unknown need, some longing for physical contact.

  When he let her go, he was flushed with triumph. ‘Well,’ he said.

  She felt herself blushing. ‘I shouldn’t have let you do that.’

  ‘Why not? You liked it, didn’t you.’

  ‘Yes, but ‒’

  ‘You’re not engaged, or anything?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No harm in it, then.’ He patted her cheek. ‘What’s your name ‒ your first name?’

  ‘Genevieve, but I’m called Jenny.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name. I’m just plain old ordinary Bobby.’

  ‘Bobby … It suits you.’

  He couldn’t think why. But to her it meant something light-hearted and bright, like himself, a name for a man with no cares, a boyish man.

  With a sigh he took her back towards the door. ‘Come along, if you’re going to make yourself prettier for HRH, you’d better be taken somewhere with a mirror and such.’

  The housekeeper led her to one of the housemaids’ rooms in the attic, lent her a comb and a face flannel, and sent a supply of hot water. First she cleaned her sturdy leather shoes, then she washed her face and tidied her hair. She pinched her cheeks to bring the colour into th
em. She pinned the sprig of hoya to the space between the points of her lace collar. Then, greatly daring, she unpinned it and threaded the stem into her hair at her temple.

  It looked beautiful. But was it suitable?

  She stared at herself in the mirror. Come, come, my lass, she said to herself, you’ve been in enough mischief for one day.

  And with the common sense for which she was noted in her family, she took the flowers out of her hair and pinned them back on her dress.

  A tray with bread and butter and cold meat was brought to her but she couldn’t eat. She had a long wait on a hard chair in the hall with the parcel on her lap. Then, as the light began to fail, people began to gather there, men in kilts and the light shoes of the dancer, women in their best frocks and white stockings. In a passage near the kitchens, a fiddler could be heard tuning up.

  The Prince came into the hall. He was in Highland dress; a kilt of the Stewart tartan, a sealskin sporran, hose of the colours of the kilt, and a short dark green jacket with a plain white shirt. He was fully as handsome as his portraits promised.

  Behind him came the gentlemen of his household. Bobby, she noted, was in mess jacket and dark trousers with a braided sideseam. He wasn’t as handsome as the Prince, but he had his own charm.

  Some of the tenants were presented. The Prince spoke kindly, stooping to be at eye level with the children. The entertainment opened with a Gaelic song, then the fiddler struck up a reel. The dancers stepped forward, threaded their pattern with lightness and gaiety. But Jenny could enjoy none of it. She was tense with expectancy.

  It seemed hours later that Bobby came. He led her through the crowd to the Prince’s side.

  ‘Your Royal Highness, you were kind enough to say you would see Miss Corvill.’

  ‘Indeed. You have come from Edinburgh, I hear?’