by Liz Trenow
‘We went first with the Devonshires, didn’t we?’ Eva added.
Jane explained: ‘They’re our grand neighbours at Chiswick House. Where our guests are staying this weekend.’
‘And it was the Duchess of Devonshire who introduced me to this disreputable actor fellow.’ Eva glanced fondly at her husband.
‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’ he proclaimed in a theatrical tone. ‘But we have never looked back, have we, dearest? It’s been my good fortune to spend the past twenty years with the very best of women and wives.’ He placed his hand over hers so tenderly that I was inclined to revise my opinion of the man.
The first course arrived: white veal soup served with elegant slices of toasted bread. Small murmurs of appreciation could be heard around the table as the first spoonfuls were taken.
‘And now, Miss Amesbury,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘You must tell us about this silk of yours.’
‘It is a very special fabric . . .’ I struggled to find a coherent response. ‘A Chinoiserie design with much silvering, I mean silver threads.’
‘Dearest Henrietta was a great one for Chinoiserie and has a fine collection of porcelain,’ Eva said. ‘What a shame you cannot ask her in person.’
The feast now brought to the table was spectacular: roast pork and a chicken pie, a mound of vegetables, two bowls of apple sauce and several gravy boats. Mr Garrick tackled the task of carving the meat with typical gusto, our glasses were filled with claret and the table fell silent as we tucked into the most delicious meal I’d eaten since my previous visit. As the plates emptied, conversation resumed. I hoped it might return to Henrietta Howard, but there were more important topics to be aired.
‘Do tell, Mr Garrick, are you still playing Shakespeare?’ Ann asked.
‘Ah, indeed. Still just a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more,’ he declared, prompting a short round of applause from the other guests and the cry of ‘encore’ from Jane.
‘Enough, husband.’ Eva placed a hand on his arm. ‘You will give us indigestion quoting the Bard at the dinner table. Why don’t you tell these good people of your latest venture?’
‘We are all ears,’ Jane said.
He placed his knife and fork beside his plate, and finished his final mouthful. ‘I have been in discussion with the good folks of the village of Stratford-upon-Avon about how we might celebrate the anniversary of the great man’s birth, you know, to protect his fame for future generations. I travelled there recently to meet a group of doughty ladies who have persisted in ensuring that the plays are performed in his home town, and they have convinced me that there should be a proper theatre with professional actors for this very purpose. We thought we should start with a pageant, of scenes from the plays, music and general revelry, to wake everyone up to the wonders of the town’s great heritage. We’re planning for September this year.’
‘A pageant? How delightful,’ Miss Bere whispered from the far end of the table.
‘You shall all attend.’ He gave an expansive flourish. ‘I have it in mind to stage it again later in the season at Drury Lane, and all in this room shall have tickets if they so wish.’
Murmurs of appreciation followed. The more I observed of Mr Garrick, the more impressed I became. Nothing and no one could halt such a great force of nature; a man like this could rule the world. What vast ambition he had, what extraordinary confidence. If just an ounce of that could be mine, I would travel at once to Westford Abbots and demand that Louisa explain how she came by the silk.
‘What I am hoping is that my dearest Eva will perform for the pageant. Indeed, Mr Arne has composed the music for it,’ Mr Garrick said.
‘They have settled their differences, thank goodness,’ Eva said, although nothing further was explained.
‘A dance? Is it too soon to have a preview, Eva?’ Jane asked, followed by murmurs of support from around the table.
A blush bloomed on those perfect cheeks. ‘Oh no. I have not danced in public for many a year.’
‘You are among friends.’
‘The dance is by no means prepared. Perhaps I could please you with a song, instead?’ Of course everyone agreed and after the apple pudding we retired upstairs to the drawing room, gathering around the harpsichord in the corner. Eva opened the lid and played a few notes. ‘It is called “The Soft Flowing Avon”,’ she said. ‘About the river on which the birthplace of William Shakespeare is set.’
She now began to sing in the sweetest, most mellifluous voice I have ever heard:
‘Thou soft flowing Avon, by the silver stream;
Of things more than mortal thy Shakespeare would dream.
The fairies by moonlight dance round the green bed.
For hallow’d the turf which pillow’d his head.’
There were just two verses, but I was transported by the haunting tune and the eloquence of the poetry. When, all too soon, it was ended, I joined the calls of ‘encore, encore’, like a seasoned concertgoer.
The rest of the evening passed in a heady blur of wine and lively conversation. Eva recited a poem called ‘Where the Bee Sucks’ from another Shakespeare play, and Mr Garrick himself gave us a rendering of what he called a soliloquy – which I came to understand to be a sort of out-loud thinking – from a play called As You Like It, in which the character bemoans the passing of his years and ends comparing old age to a second childhood, ‘sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything’.
It was a sad image that stayed in my mind for many a month.
19
Velvet: a woven tufted fabric in which the cut threads are evenly distributed, with a short dense pile, giving it a distinctive soft feel.
I woke early the following morning to the song of birds claiming their territories, each one seeming to top its neighbour in variety and volume. Of course I had heard the same in Gloucestershire and in Essex, but somehow these Chiswick birds sounded so much bolder. Perhaps – I smiled at the fanciful thought – in Westford Abbots they had been instructed not to disturb Ambrose.
It was Sunday, and after morning service at the nearby church of St Nicholas we went to the graveyard to ‘visit William’, as Jane called it.
She led me onto a small promontory close to the river, and approached a tall memorial topped with an urn like those on the gateposts of their house. ‘It’s a bit too grand for my Will, I always think, but his friends insisted it should be impressive to match his stature and the affection in which he was held. And look, Mr Garrick composed this for him . . .’ She pointed at the inscription.
Farewell great Painter of Mankind, it began, continuing in such overblown pomposity for several lines. I could just imagine the actor proclaiming them from the stage. Suddenly, from behind us came the booming voice of the man himself. ‘Saying hello to the good old boy, are we? We saw you in church but you disappeared.’
‘Good morning to you both,’ Jane said.
‘Now, Miss Amesbury, we were talking of Henrietta Howard last evening, were we not? How do you like to accompany us to Marble Hill House this afternoon? The duchess has offered use of her coach.’
‘Oh, you simply must come,’ Eva said. ‘So you can see her Chinoiserie wall painting, and the porcelain. Her nephew lives there now, and will probably show us around.’
‘So-called nephew,’ Mr Garrick muttered.
‘Hush, dearest,’ she chided. ‘Come now, we must not keep the duchess waiting. Is it convenient if we collect you at half past two?’
When David and Eva Garrick arrived in the Devonshires’ coach I had to pinch myself. Stamping their hooves in impatience were four splendid white horses, their blue-dyed feather plumes matching the coachmen’s uniforms. Never before had I even seen the inside of such a splendid machine, let alone travelled in one. The interior was the size of a small room, opulently upholstered in buttoned cornflower-blue velvet with gilt trim, with feather cushions fluffy as clouds.
I was excited at first – who wouldn’t be
, experiencing such luxury? – but soon began to feel like an imposter, especially when we saw men doffing their caps and their womenfolk curtsying as we passed. Had they known my own humble origins they would soon have ceased their deference.
David Garrick explained the afternoon’s arrangements: ‘John Howard, Henrietta’s nephew, regrets that he will not be at home this afternoon. But her young niece will show us the state rooms.’
‘This morning in the graveyard you referred to him as her “so-called” nephew, David,’ Jane asked. ‘May I perhaps indelicately ask, are you hinting at what I suspect you are suggesting?’
Eva exchanged a glance with her husband. ‘It is but a rumour.’
‘A bit more than that, I’d have thought,’ he countered.
‘You must not keep us in suspense like this, dearest David. You are among friends, after all. Our lips are sealed.’
‘Well . . .’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘The king was a dreary old soul, but you wouldn’t expect a decade of intimate relations to result in no issue, would you? It is rumoured that both John and his sister Dorothy, who were brought up as the children of Henrietta’s brother and sister-in-law, were in fact her own, and the king their father. It was said that from time to time she took leave from the palace and returned sleeker in appearance than when she left.’
‘How wonderfully scandalous,’ Jane said. ‘Does she have any children acknowledged as her own?’
‘Just a son from her first marriage, I believe, who died young, so these two would have been her natural heirs in any case. But it is a rather unusual arrangement, is it not? The king made sure Henrietta had enough money to live in style after she left court, so as soon as she married her second husband, old George Berkeley, bless his soul, young Dorothy and John came to stay, and spent most of their childhood there, as has Henrietta’s great-niece, named after her, who will be greeting us this afternoon.’
I listened with both fascination and a growing sense of unease: children adopted by a sibling – a situation mirroring my own. But the difference was that a king’s mistress would have sufficient wealth and influence to keep them close while shielding herself from scandal.
‘Indeed, one might assume that if there were two illegitimate children, there could very well be others. I suppose we’ll never know,’ Eva added.
The carriage slowed and passed through a grand gateway. A little further along the gravelled driveway the house came into view and I found myself gaping with astonishment. This enormous, startlingly white building of perfectly classical proportions with a high portico and tall pillars was more like a palace than a house.
Had I been an artist I would have taken out my paints and easel at once but, as I am not, memory must serve as my canvas. Standing high on a small hill, the house overlooked swathes of lawn that reached uninterrupted to the banks of the wide, glistening Thames. It was difficult to believe that this perfectly tranquil river could be the same waterway we visited a few months ago in the city, its waters dirty and chaotic with vast ships and skiffs manoeuvring in and out of dock, its shores a cacophony of cargo, cranes and men.
Here, the only activity was a barge being drawn slowly along the further bank by two heavy horses on the towpath, a couple of smaller boats drifting with sails only half-filled by the gentle breeze and two rowed skiffs making greater speed. A fisherman sat with his line in the water apparently without expectation, his head lolling sleepily beneath a wide-brimmed hat. In the meadows on the far side a group of horse riders trotted by, their joyful laughter amplified across the water.
We were welcomed by a butler into a cavernous hallway floored in black and white marble chequerboard and with more pillars than I’ve seen in any church, before being led through to a formal reception room where Mr Garrick drew our attention to the large gilt-framed painting hung above the fireplace: ‘Here she is, the lady herself, as a young woman.’
The sitter was a sweet young thing, open-faced, innocent and even vulnerable, dressed informally in a gown of unadorned pink satin with only a hint of lace around the neckline, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders. The image could not have been further from the painted, coiffed sophisticate I’d envisioned; the wealthy, worldly character who bedded a king and enjoyed the company of artistic and literary types, the sort of lady who might commission a silvered Chinese design for one of her gowns.
It was hard to imagine the young woman in the portrait creating such a house for herself. The reception room in which we waited was designed to impress, the décor in glittering cream and gold with much fancy plasterwork. All around were elegant tables and cabinets of highly polished mahogany and intricate inlay, but there was nowhere comfortable to sit. It did not feel like a home in any sense of the word that I understood, more a place for entertaining and showing off.
After what felt like an interminable time the butler returned, bowing deeply. ‘Miss Henrietta has asked if you will wait for her in the dining room. Please come with me.’
This space was much more intimate, with none of the ostentation of the reception room. But what immediately caught my eye – and Jane’s too, for I heard her gasp beside me – was the wallpaper, hand-painted with the most elegant Chinese design of plants, trees and birds, covering all four walls from the dado rail to the ceiling.
‘Goodness,’ I mouthed.
‘No pagodas,’ she whispered back.
‘But those flowers, I could swear they are the same . . .’ Just as I leaned forward to examine the pattern more closely, a young girl entered the room.
‘Mr Garrick,’ she piped. ‘My favourite actor! And Mrs Garrick. What an honour. I am so sorry my uncle is not here to welcome you and . . .’
‘Our friends Mrs Jane Hogarth and Miss Charlotte Amesbury,’ Mr Garrick said.
She may have been only fourteen or so, but she comported herself with the practised manners of a society lady and was the very image of her great-aunt; or was it her grandmother? The fresh face and high forehead, the dark, wide-set eyes and brown hair tied back with a green ribbon matching the silk damask of her simple gown were so reminiscent of the lady in the portrait that I could barely take my eyes off her.
‘I am Henrietta Hotham and you are all most welcome. Will you take tea?’ she said, pleasantly. ‘Do take a seat. My governess Miss Brown will join us shortly.’
As we took our places and the conversation flowed around me I had a further opportunity to study the wall painting. The gnarled trees and tall plants with wide leaves and pink petals were indeed very similar to that depicted in the silk but, as Jane had observed, there were no pagodas.
When Miss Brown arrived and began to pour the tea I noticed that the pot, cups and saucers were of the finest Chinese porcelain, decorated with a twisted tree and a dragon. These stylised subjects were so commonly used in oriental design, I told myself, that much as I wished it they proved nothing.
After tea Henrietta offered to show us around the house and led us through the green room, the gold room and the library, all hung with numerous portraits, several of them featuring her ladyship. Each time I hoped to see her wearing the pagoda silk, but each time was disappointed. As our visit drew to an end the evidence that I craved, proof that the silk had been woven for the king’s mistress, seemed yet more elusive. Although her love of Chinoiserie was in evidence everywhere, there were no silvery pagodas to be seen.
When Jane enquired if she might ‘freshen up’ in readiness for our homeward journey, I asked to join her. The butler seemed to demur for a moment. ‘I am afraid that the facilities are under restoration at the moment, madam.’
Young Henrietta interrupted, ‘Can she not use my aunt’s facilities, Marshall? They are good friends, are they not?’
‘Of course, Miss,’ he said. ‘My apologies.’ He directed us up a sweeping stairway to what was referred to as ‘her ladyship’s dressing room’. This turned out to be a dedicated room for bathing such as I had never seen before, covered floor to ceiling with pink and cream tiles. A lar
ge marble bath stood in the centre, a table with a beautiful decorated porcelain washing bowl and matching jugs to the side. In front of a gilt-framed looking glass was a dressing table with brushes and bottles of make-up still in their places, as though the mistress had just left the room.
‘Ah, here it is,’ Jane announced, opening a small door camouflaged as a painted panel. We peered inside at the throne set upon a dais, with a wooden seat under which rested a highly ornamented chamber pot. ‘This is where the honourable lady once sat,’ she said, laughing. ‘And I shall do the very same.’
All my life people have warned me that curiosity ‘kills the cat’, but I firmly believe it helps to expand one’s knowledge. So while waiting for Jane, I took the opportunity to explore further. Each wall of this room held a door. One led to the currently occupied ‘throne room’, another into her ladyship’s chamber with an enormous bed at its centre curtained in glorious blue and gold damask. A third was locked.
But the fourth opened into just what I was hoping for. It must have remained untouched since her ladyship’s death and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see that this was no ordinary wardrobe. It was the size of a small room filled, from floor to ceiling, with garments of every description: shoes, capes, hats, gloves and muffs, petticoats and stays. An overwhelming smell of camphor and sweet perfume overlaid the sour odour of old perspiration.
‘Where are you, Charlotte?’ came Jane’s voice. ‘It’s your turn on the throne.’
‘I’m in here,’ I called. ‘Come and see.’
Her shadow darkened the room as she stood on the threshold. ‘Whatever are you doing, my dear? They are waiting for us downstairs. Should you even be in here?’
‘Probably not, but just see what I have found.’ I indicated a rail covered in white sheeting, and raised a corner to reveal a treasure trove of dresses – at least a hundred, I guessed, although there was no time to count. ‘We’ve got to find out if there’s a gown made from the pagoda silk, Jane. It may be my last chance to discover whether it really was commissioned for her.’
