by M J Lee
He stood up. ‘Time to eat. I do hope we don’t have salt cod again.’ He looked at me. ‘Please don't tell Father about my desire to soldier, not until I have spoken to him myself.’
I promised I wouldn’t.
We went up to Captain Ratchet’s cabin. It was indeed salt cod again. It was the captain’s favourite food.
My brother and I never spoke about his ambitions again.
I often wonder whether he ever summoned up enough courage to ask Father. I feel he didn’t, because as soon as we arrived in Liverpool, he became obsessed with trade and growing the business and the family wealth almost to the detriment of everything else. Perhaps in his own way he became a soldier for the family, donning his merchant’s uniform of worsted every morning and going off to wage war in the Liverpool Exchange.
Only later, when we moved to Cheshire and Father had died, did he become involved with the militia.
Adam Smith wrote of the invisible hand that guides the markets. I wonder if the same invisible hand guided my brother. It’s one more thing I will never know.
Anyway, I am losing my thread. I often find my mind wanders these days. But I must keep its meanderings in check if I am to finish this account before my brother returns.
As I was saying, we arrived in Liverpool. I remember stepping off the ship into a bleak and grim city, with the wind running down the Mersey and whipping at my thin skirt. If this was the height of summer, how would I handle the depths of winter? I buried myself even deeper into my woollen coat and wished that I were back in Barbados, bathing in the warmth and sunshine and smiles of the island.
As I stepped into the carriage Father had ordered to meet us on the dock, I looked back over my shoulder at the grey, forbidding skies and the dark, leering faces of the men working on the docks.
What was to become of me in this dark and desolate land?
Chapter fifTEEN
July 09, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
1819 – Liverpool
Those first days in Liverpool were not the happiest of my life. We stayed in Father’s house on Hope Street. The red-brick building was quite new, built in the modern style that was prevalent in Bath, only Father had used red brick as Bath stone was an unwanted extravagance in his eyes.
The portico led on to an entrance furnished elegantly to exhibit the restraint of his wealth. Of course, Father wanted to display more ostentation but the decorator he employed insisted that if Father was to entertain in the modern style then he must avoid displays of opulence, as all that had gone out of fashion.
For once in his life, Father acquiesced.
My rooms were on the second floor; a simple bedroom with attached dressing and morning room. My new maid, Rosie, had introduced herself as soon as I arrived.
‘I’m to be your ladies’ maid, milady. Rosie’s the name, from Dublin originally, if you are wantin’ to be knowin’.’
‘Where’s Dublin?’ I asked.
‘It be in Ireland, milady, across the sea.’
‘Oh,’ I answered, never having been addressed as ‘milady’ before.
‘You’ll be wantin’ to change after the long voyage.’
I looked down at the hem of my dress. It was covered in dark, dank mud even though I had only walked from the ship to the carriage and the carriage to the front door of our home. My shoes were in an even worse state, the silk covered in dirty black grime.
Rosie noticed where I was looking. ‘We’ll need to get you some overshoes, milady. Can’t be buyin’ new shoes every day of the week, can we? Even though your father could probably afford it,’ she said as an aside.
After changing my clothes, Rosie showed me to the dining room. The walls were lined with a deep red wallpaper and dominating all was a picture of my father, rosy cheeked and dressed in his finest waistcoat, his hand resting on a large globe in front of him. The artist had produced a fine, if complimentary, likeness, capturing the intelligence in my father’s blue eyes. His not inconsiderable stomach had been reduced, though, a concession of the artist, no doubt, to make sure he was paid his fee.
Father was already sitting at the head of the table when I walked in, my brother sitting next to him and two strangers on either side of them.
‘Gentlemen, I would like to introduce my daughter, Emily.’
I curtsied as I had been taught to do by Mother. The greeting was returned by a slight bow of the head from the two gentlemen.
My father continued. ‘Emily, this is Mr Dinsdale, my solicitor and legal advisor.’
I curtsied once more. ‘It is a pleasure, Mr Dinsdale.’
He bowed, more deeply this time. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Miss Roylance.’
The other gentleman was eyeing me strangely, almost leering. Father introduced him next. ‘And this is Superintendent of Trade for the city, a most important man, Sir Archibald Sutton.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Sir Archibald.’
The man’s florid face looked down on me. He turned to my father. ’You were quite correct, Jeremiah, she is going to be a beautiful young woman. I particularly admire the quality of her hair.’
It was as if I wasn’t there.
‘She takes after me, Sir Archibald. My hair was always being complimented when I was younger. Alas, these days the only compliments I receive are for my lack of hair. Such is life. Another glass, sir, I see yours is empty.’
A servant quickly ran round with the decanter of port.
‘Emily, why don’t you sit next to Sir Archibald? Henry, you move opposite and I will stay where I am.’
We all took our places around the table. The servants rushed in, and course after course followed one after the other. Fresh salmon, roast mutton, fricasseed rabbit, roast duck with peas, currant pie and syllabubs, and a dessert of strawberries, cherries and currants.
I had eaten my full after the rabbit, but the men continued wolfing down food as if the country no longer produced it, all washed down with copious glasses of port and claret. Only my brother did not join in. Like me, he stopped eating fairly early in the proceedings. Coming from an island where we ate rice and fish and the occasional chicken, accompanied by fresh fruit, such food was far too rich for my tastes.
After the currant pie had been served, Sir Archibald turned to me and said, ‘You are not eating, Miss Roylance?’
‘No, sir. I have eaten my limit already.’
‘You young ladies have such dainty appetites, I wonder that you manage to live through the day.’
I felt something touching my shoe under the table. I looked across at my brother sitting opposite, thinking it was him, but he was talking to Father and the solicitor. The pressure on my foot increased and I moved it away.
‘A man’s appetites are always more insatiable, don’t you agree?’ Sir Archibald said.
I was about to answer that I was unacquainted with the depths of a man’s appetites when the pressure on my foot increased once more. I moved my own foot away again, answering, ‘I’m not sure’ as his eyes gazed down on mine.
He put his knife and fork down. ‘Oh, come now, Miss Roylance, I’m sure you have a stronger position than that.’ His right hand vanished beneath the table and seconds later I felt it squeeze my thigh as one would squeeze the haunch of a pig. ‘We all have appetites, don’t we?’
He licked his lips and I brought the tines of my fork down on the back of his hand. He let out a small squeal of pain and the hand was instantly retracted.
‘Is something wrong, Sir Archibald?’ asked my father on hearing the noise.
‘No, sir, it is nothing. Do not trouble yourself. A little yelp of pleasure at the wit of your daughter’s conversation.’
Father frowned at me. ‘She will start at Miss Fanshawe’s Academy for Young Ladies shortly. Perhaps there she will learn to curb her wit and learn the refinement required of a young woman.’
‘I do hope not, sir. I always like women to have a certain fight in them. If they are too submissive, it makes for
a dull marriage.’
‘You are too modern, Sir Archibald. A glass to you, sir.’ Father raised his wine. ‘To trade – may she make our city prosperous and free.’
‘To trade,’ the three other men, including my brother, echoed.
I stood up. ‘I’m feeling tired, Father. May I retire?’
Father smiled. ‘It seems the pleasure of your company has tired my daughter, Sir Archibald.’
‘I’m sure it has, Jeremiah, but I have no doubt we will be seeing each other again.’
All the men rose from their chairs and I left the room. As the door was closing, I heard Sir Archibald intone in his high voice, ‘What a charming daughter. Thirteen, isn’t she? Time for you to find her a husband, Jeremiah.’
I only had one thought in my head as I marched upstairs to my bedroom:
Lord save me.
Chapter sixteen
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
The drive up to Wickham Hall was long and winding, bordered on either side with a long avenue of lime trees. The Hall revealed itself as Jayne turned the last corner. Somehow, the afternoon light caught the limestone pillars of the Palladian building, giving it an ethereal, almost fairy-tale-like appearance. It was as if this were some prince’s home from a Hans Christian Andersen story.
She slowed down for a minute, turning off Bowie in mid-howl, and just drank in the beauty of the place. What a wonderful home to have grown up in. Rachel must have had an extremely privileged upbringing.
A man with a broken shotgun in the crook of his arm and a scowl on his face stepped in front of her car. ‘You can’t park here, visitors is round the back in the car park.’
‘I’m here to see David Marlowe.’
He scowled again. ‘Like I said, visitors is round the back.’
‘It’s okay, Goddard, Mrs Sinclair is visiting me. Park over here if you please.’ A patrician voice, used to giving orders and being obeyed. He wore a white straw panama, a light green jacket and khaki trousers, like a model out of the pages of some country gentlemen’s catalogue.
As she drove forward, he pointed to a place in front of the house.
‘You must be Jayne Sinclair?’ he said as she stepped out of the car. He took off his hat and held out his hand. ‘I’m David, welcome to Wickham Hall. Sorry about Goddard. Our gamekeeper is very protective of the family, particularly against visitors.’
She took his hand, enjoying the firm handshake. ‘You have a beautiful home.’
He stepped back and looked up at the house. ‘It is rather wonderful, isn’t it? An absolute bugger to maintain, though. You should see my bills for the roof.’
Jayne looked around her. ‘I don’t see many visitors.’
‘The house is closed on Sunday, just the gardens are open to visitors today. Although I love my customers and their entrance fees actually pay for all this, we do need some downtime to maintain the property and the gardens. I like to call this “Downtime Abbey”.’ He leant towards her and in a stage whisper said, ‘And I do enjoy the peace and quiet when they’re not here.’
He took her elbow and gently guided her to the front entrance. ‘Shall we go in? Mrs Davies has thoughtfully provided us with some tea and scones. You must be famished after your drive from the big city.’
‘It didn’t take me long, less than an hour.’
‘It always amazes me that Wickham Hall exists less than sixty minutes from Liverpool and Manchester, two of the biggest cities in England. I like to think of this place as a little oasis of grace, civility and good manners.’
‘That’s a little old-fashioned, Mr Marlowe.’
‘Please, call me David. Is it? Perhaps, but I don’t mind if it is. I sometimes think we have forgotten some of those English values we hold so dear in our rush to acquire stuff, and more stuff, and even more stuff.’
Jayne bit her tongue. It was easy to espouse such a view when you already had lots of ‘stuff’, a bit more difficult if you had nothing.
They crossed the threshold into a spacious double-height vestibule, tiled in black and white with a simple round Georgian table in the centre bedecked with flowers. Behind the table, a curving red-carpeted staircase wound its way up to the second floor past paintings of austere men and one or two women.
David saw where Jayne was looking. ‘The ancestors spend their time looking down on us. It’s both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that we can see who they were and what they looked like, and a curse in that they know exactly what I’m doing with my life.’
‘It’s like your whole family was sitting there, watching and judging you?’
‘Exactly. Take Henry.’ He pointed to a painting of an austere Victorian gentleman with lush mutton-chop whiskers. ‘He was an entrepreneur and investor, a visionary in his own way, built most of the railways in the north west and encouraged the industrialisation of both Liverpool and Manchester. He achieved so much with his life.’
Jayne stared up at the hard-eyed man with sallow skin. An image from her O levels and Charles Dickens suddenly appeared in her head: Mr Gradgrind. ‘Now, what I want is Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life.’ A shiver went down her spine. She hated school, wanted to leave as soon as she was able, even though the teachers and her mother urged her to stay and go on to university. Only her stepdad, Robert, had supported her. ‘You do what you feel is right, love. You can always go back later if you want.’ She had joined the police the very next day.
Her memories were interrupted by David Marlowe.
‘I think Mrs Davies has laid our tea out in the library. It’s this way.’
Once again, he touched her elbow, gently guiding her off to the left. ‘Did you and Rachel grow up here?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘When we weren’t away at school. It was always a wonderful place to come back to during the hols. So many places to discover and enjoy in the summer. Do you ride?’
‘Motorbikes, yes. Horses, no.’
‘What a pity. We have a meet here on Sunday, of the local hunt.’
‘I thought fox hunting was banned.’
‘It is, unfortunately, but we still meet to ride out with the hounds. Another example of the nanny state legislating to take over our lives.’
Again, Jayne bit her tongue as he opened the door to the library. Her jaw dropped as she entered a perfect room: at least sixty feet long with mahogany bookcases stretching from door to ceiling along three sides. In each bookcase, rows of neat volumes were bound in leather and titled in gold. Against each wall, a ladder was attached to the ceiling so that an avid reader could reach the books on the top shelf. On the left, a utilitarian table and a chair and a desktop computer were the only indications that this room belonged to modern times.
In the centre of the room, two comfortable armchairs were arrayed around a small table laden with cakes, teapots and cups.
David raced across the room with all the grace of a child in a sweet shop. ‘Mrs Davies has done us proud. You must try the strawberry jam. She makes it from the fruit we grow in the walled garden. The cream comes from one of the tenant farmers’ herd of Jerseys. Best cream in the world, I think.’
Jayne was still standing at the entrance, staring at row upon row of books. ‘It’s a beautiful room.’
David glanced around himself. ‘I suppose it is. Grandfather was a bit of a collector. At the back you’ll find the rarer books – we even have a first folio of Shakespeare, but that’s kept at the bank. Personally, I think it should be in the library, but the insurance is so prohibitive.’
Jayne noticed one of the bookshelves in the middle was barred and locked. Through the bars she could see one title highlighted in gold: Newton’s Principia. ‘Have you actually read any of these?’ she asked.
David laughed. ‘I tried. One summer – I think I was thirteen or so and had just come down from Eton – I decided, in the arrogant way of all thirteen-year-olds, to read every book starting from A and ending
at Z. I think I got to Aesop before I gave up and went fishing instead. Do please sit.’ He gestured to one of the armchairs.
Jayne walked over and sat down, feeling herself being swallowed up by the comfort of the green silk cushions.
He sat down next to her, taking off his hat and placing it on the table.’Darjeeling or Earl Grey?’
‘Darjeeling, I think.’
‘Good choice, my favourite too.’
He poured the light straw-coloured liquid into the china cups. ‘This is a single estate Darjeeling White. It goes wonderfully with the strawberry jam and also with bacon butties. None of the latter today, though, more’s the pity.’
She caught him looking at her over the top of his spectacles and smiling. She tasted the tea; it was light and refreshing with just a hint of astringency, and as she swallowed the taste changed, revealing a herby, almost grassy character. It had all the complexity of wine. ‘It’s delicious,’ she said, instantly feeling that this was one of the most banal things she had ever said.
‘Help yourself to the scones. I can’t resist them.’ He had already slathered half a scone with cream and was now placing a spoonful of jam on top. ‘I always prefer the Devon way myself.’
‘Devon?’
‘Of eating scones. Cream first, jam later. Cornwall has it in reverse, of course. A shocking waste of good jam, I think.’
She helped herself to a scone, enjoying all the rich, crumbly creaminess of the cake, and relaxed back into the comfort of the armchair. She could spend hours in a room like this, surrounded by the scent of books and the aroma of knowledge. On her left, she caught David watching her over the top of his glasses.
He spoke first. ‘I’d like to apologise to you, Mrs Sinclair.’
‘That isn’t necessary, Mr Marlowe.’
‘David, please. I think it is. We got off on the wrong foot yesterday. My sister is always accusing me of being too abrupt with people. I’m afraid it’s one of my less endearing character traits.’ He flicked the hair off his face. ‘Please accept my sincere apologies if I offended you in any way.’
