by John Pearson
If only the man drank or swore or attempted an occasional something with the maids (as all the butlers she had ever known invariably did) she would have felt much easier with him. Instead there was always that soft, knowing Scottish voice with its “Surely, m’lady?” or its “Wouldn’t the master prefer, m’lady?” And to make it ten times worse, Hudson was always, always right.
He had been right that morning too when he suggested that “perhaps young Master James should see a doctor with that cough of his?” And she had been in the wrong—she admitted it now freely to herself—when she jumped at him and shouted to him to mind his own beastly business. She had apologised to him later in the morning, and he had said, “But, m’lady, you have nothing to apologise for. Of course you were in the right.”
That too was typical of Hudson.
Marjorie was certain she would remember where she had seen Lilianne before. So was Prudence. But as it turned out, it was Richard (that staunch enemy and critic of all female scandalmongering) who solved the mystery. When he came home for dinner, he was clearly longing to tell Marjorie his news, but he restrained himself. Finally, at dinner, he said, “Do you remember a man called Pinkerton? He was in the House. A Liberal, I’m glad to say?”
Marjorie shook her head. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you met him once. He gave a party two or three years ago at the house he had at South Street. Tall man, pink face, orange whiskers. Dreadful ruffian.”
“Heavens!” Marjorie almost shouted. “That was it. That was where I saw her. Dearest, you’re a genius. She was with him. Lilianne. What ever happened to him?”
“Absconded to South America with all his company’s money …”
“And leaving Lilianne. Richard, do you realise what this means? Poor Hugo’s in the hands of an adventuress.”
“You make it sound as if he were entwined by a boa constrictor.”
“And so he is, a female boa constrictor. Dearest, we really must do something to save the poor lamb.”
Richard’s inclination, as with most human problems, was to stay clear and let it sort out on its own; and particularly so in this case, as he felt no responsibility for Hugo, and knew that Lilianne’s success would infuriate Lady Southwold. But Marjorie wouldn’t hear of this. Moral rectitude and sisterly concern alike dictated action. Hugo must be saved. And Richard would have to be his saviour. There was no one else.
But before he could bend his mind to this delicate affair, he had other problems. Hudson was the first. After dinner he asked Richard if he might have “a few words on a somewhat delicate personal topic.” Richard said, “Of course, Hudson,” and took him to his study. It was there, seated nervously in Richard’s easy chair (Richard sat judiciously behind his desk), that Hudson, the perfect butler, the paragon of deference and duty, stammered out his own all too human story.
He was in love. Her name was Annie Ferguson. She lived outside Aberdeen, where her father was bailiff on Lord Rayleigh’s place. They had been corresponding now for several years.
“And you wish to marry her?’ said Richard wearily.
“Naturally, sir.”
There was an awkward silence: both men realised exactly what this meant. There was no place at 165 for a married butler.
“What will you do?” said Richard finally.
“I plan to return to Scotland. The young person’s father is retiring, and is willing to recommend me for the post he holds. I take it I could count on a satisfactory reference from you, sir.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Hudson! What do you take me for?”
“You are most kind, sir. In these circumstances, not all employers would be anxious to provide a reference.”
“Listen,” said Richard. “You’ve been the loyalest of servants and of friends. I will always be grateful for what you have done for me and for my family. I wish you every happiness. The only thing I do ask is that you give us time to find a suitable successor and stay long enough to see him in.”
“Of course, sir. You are very kind. I’m sorry, sir, but …”
Had Hudson not been on the edge of tears he would have tried to explain the problems and frustrations of a celibate butler’s life—and Richard would have been most embarrassed.
Richard decided not to break the news to Marjorie at once, for on top of her worries about Hugo, there was James. That night his cough was worse, Nannie Webster was muttering darkly about bronchitis, and at 2:00 A.M. there was a knocking on the bedroom door. Marjorie rose. It was Nanny Webster.
“It’s young James, m’lady. I’m most worried. He keeps calling for you.”
Marjorie was used to James’s illnesses but they always frightened her. This was worse than anything that she had seen before. He had thrown back his blankets and was lying very still. There was a night light burning: this made his small, pale face seem paler still, with vast shadows round his big bright eyes. When Marjorie took him in her arms, his boney little body seemed unnaturally hot. His nightshirt was quite damp with sweat.
“What is his temperature?” asked Marjorie.
“I’ve not taken it, m’lady.”
Marjorie said nothing, but took the thermometer from its silver case, shook it, and inserted it beneath his tongue.
“There,” she said, “there, my darling boy. Mummy will make you better.”
The child lay and stared at her with his mournful elephant beside him on the pillow. When Marjorie read the thermometer, it showed 104 degrees.
“Shall we call Doctor?” Nanny Webster asked.
“Of course,” said Marjorie. “Kindly wake Hudson. He can fetch him.”
Dr. Bingley lived in Chester Street, just round the corner, but the ten minutes that he took to come were quite the longest Marjorie ever lived through. He was a plump, bustling young man with a pompous manner. He insisted on taking the patient’s temperature again, sounded his chest, tut-tutted, then listened to his heart with his stethoscope. Even when the cold ivory of the instrument touched the child’s chest, he did not move, but simply lay there, staring at his elephant.
“No call for great alarm,” the doctor said finally. “Just keep him warm. A light diet. Inhalations for the chest. I shall return in the morning, and we’ll see then about medicines. In the meantime, Lady Marjorie, I would suggest some sleep.”
But neither Marjorie nor Richard slept again that night. Richard, in dressing gown and slippers, saw the doctor out. With him, the doctor’s reassuring manner abruptly disappeared.
“I didn’t wish to alarm Lady Marjorie at this time of night, but I must warn you that it could be serious.”
“Serious, Doctor?”
“One cannot take pneumonia lightly in a child of four.”
It seemed as if life at 165 was suddenly ruled by the sickroom. The house was hushed. The servants spoke in whispers. Marjorie was distraught and spent her days and nights in the nursery. When she slept (which she did rarely) it was for an hour or two on the camp bed put up near her son’s.
Part of the trouble was that she blamed herself for what had happened. As she sobbed out to Richard, “He was far too young to be kept up so late. I should have had more sense. If anything should happen …”
“Nonsense, Marjorie. Nothing will. He’s a sturdy little boy, and you’ve nothing to reproach yourself about—nothing at all.”
But Marjorie did reproach herself, inevitably, and by the second day it was impossible to pretend that this was some childish illness that James would soon shrug off. He still lay there in his narrow little bed and still said nothing, and it was frightening to see how wasted he had become in so short a time. His temperature remained as high as ever, and by the second night, Dr. Bingley was prescribing cold, wet towels to keep his temperature as low as possible. And it was that night too that he became delirious.
Marjorie called Richard and they sat, anxiously holding hands, as their son, face flushed and big eyes bright with fever, rambled on in the darkened nursery. Most of the time the pathetic little vo
ice talked nonsense. Then he became frightened. There were foxes after him, “wicked, horrid foxes,” and he was shrieking out for somebody to save him.
Marjorie clutched him, but he lay there whimpering. “Uncle Hugo,” he was saying, “Uncle Hugo, kill the wicked foxes!”
Marjorie and Richard both agreed that Hugo must be summoned. Between fitful bouts of sleep, James kept calling for him for the remainder of the night and through the next morning. But nobody seemed to know where Hugo was. In London he usually stayed at Brown’s Hotel, but the hotel said they had no news of him, and a telegram to Southwold brought no reply. James was weakening visibly now, and Dr. Bingley said there was nothing further he could do.
“The fever must take its course, Lady Marjorie.”
And still the weak, frightened little voice called out for Hugo. It was Richard who finally suggested trying the address in Onslow Gardens.
He went himself. It was not far and it gave him something positive to do. Number 53 turned out to be a large grey house let out in apartments. There was a blear-eyed woman downstairs. No, there was no Lord Ashby living there. Perhaps he should try the House of Lords. Richard now had the patience of desperation. Was there a Miss Spinkhill-Greye?
“Mrs., she calls herself. Second floor. Knock hard—she’s usually in bed. I wouldn’t know who with.”
Richard thanked her and ran up the stairs. The old drab was right. Richard had to knock and knock to get an answer, and when Lilli-anne appeared she wore a flimsy wrapper and her hair was round her shoulders.
“For God’s sake,” she shouted, and then, recognising Richard, said, “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Bellamy, I didn’t know that it was you.”
At first she insisted she had not seen Hugo, “not for a week at least.” But when Richard told her it was a matter of life and death, she said, “All right. Come in. I’ll fetch him.”
Hugo must still have been in bed. He came out in his underpants and shirt, rubbing his eyes and muttering, “What in Hell’s name, Lillie?”
Then, seeing Richard, he said angrily, “So that’s your game, Richard. Spying on me, eh? Well, tell my mother what you like. This is the woman I intend to marry.”
“Your private life’s your own affair,” said Richard stiffly. “I’m asking you to come and see my son. He’s dying and he’s calling for you.”
Hugo, to do him justice, came at once, but he appeared to be too late. James was in a coma when he arrived, and the doctor was there.
Although Hugo whispered, “Jumbo, old chap, hullo. It’s Uncle Hugo!” there was no sign of recognition in the unfocussed eyes. The only sign of life was the child’s rapid breathing.
“This is the crisis of the illness,” said the doctor. “He’s in God’s hands.”
“How long will the crisis last?’ whispered Marjorie.
“A few hours. Maybe longer. One never knows. The longer it goes on, the better chance he has.”
The bedside vigil went on through the remainder of that day and through the night. Hugo took turns with Marjorie and Richard as they tried to rest. But no one slept. From time to time, Hudson would tiptoe in with sandwiches and pots of tea, but no one ate much either.
Marjorie no longer wept, but she said once to Richard, “If we lose him, I won’t be able to go on.”
Richard kissed her gently.
“Thank God, I’ve still got you,” she said.
They sat together, hand in hand, for what seemed an eternity. Hugo was sitting on James’s bed and the three of them saw the grey light of dawn creep through the curtains. There had been no sound or movement from the child for hours.
Then suddenly there was a noise, faint, like a small voice speaking from far away, in the dim shadows of the nursery.
“Uncle Hugo. Did you kill those foxes?”
James was awake and—miraculously, it seemed—alive.
“Yes, old chap,” said Hugo very gently. “We got them all. They won’t bother you again.”
“Thank you,” said James, “I knew you’d kill them. They were horrid.”
He tried to smile, then floated off to sleep.
It was a slow recovery, through April and most of May, and everyone agreed that Hugo was wonderful. He all but lived at 165 throughout the period, playing with James and telling him endless stories. On the few occasions when he was away, James would pine for him. Under the circumstances, it was inevitable that Lilianne as well should become part of the daily life at 165.
She was extremely tactful, making herself liked by the servants— particularly by Nanny Webster, which surprised Richard—and was most helpful and polite to Marjorie. James liked her; so, despite herself, did Marjorie.
“Maybe her past is questionable,” she remarked to Richard, “but she does have a great deal in her favour. She’s very kind and certainly makes Hugo happy.”
“Perhaps he really ought to marry her, then?”
“And have Lilianne as the next Lady Southwold? Now, Richard, that would never do.”
But whether it would do or not, the idea was becoming more of a possibility each day, and neither Marjorie nor Richard had the heart to do anything against it.
As something of a realist, Richard began to wonder how long it would be before somebody from Southwold learned what was going on and tried to come between the lovers. And as something of a realist, he did not give much for their chances once this happened. But for some while they seemed to be enjoying a sort of charmed immunity from the world outside, and quite inevitably the Bellamys abetted them.
The first hint that their immunity was ending came towards the end of May. By then James was totally recovered—a little thinner than before, but just as lively as (and a touch more spoiled than) before his illness. Naturally, the boy’s illness had changed Richard’s attitude to Hugo. He was immensely grateful to him. As for Marjorie, she looked on her brother as her son’s saviour.
Because of this, they both expressed concern one night at dinner when Hugo suddenly exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do. The mater’s on the warpath once again.”
“You mean she’s found out about Lilianne?” said Marjorie.
“Good Lord, no! That would be the end of everything. But Connie Stuyvesant is back in England—especially to see this wretched Jubilee affair—and Mother, bless her heart, has asked her down to Southwold. I am expected there as well and, as Mama puts it in her letter, ‘it will be a good opportunity to pop the question.’ Marjorie, my love, what on earth am I to do?”
“What do you want to do?” asked Richard.
“I’ve told you. I want to marry Lillie.”
“But you’re scared of Mother,” Marjorie added.
“Aren’t we all,” he said.
Richard and Marjorie that night had the sort of long discussion married couples love. What was to be done? They owed a debt to Hugo and clearly ought to do their best to make him happy. They also saw his situation as a romantic one and not unlike their own. But here their agreement ended. Marjorie was all for doing something positive to help her brother. Richard was warier.
“It’s usually disastrous if one interferes in affairs like this.”
“But if one doesn’t interfere, poor Hugo will simply be bullied into marrying this rich American. If I let that happen after the way that he saved Jumbo’s life, I never would forgive myself.”
Marjorie had made her mind up and there was not much anybody—Richard least of all—could do about it. Miss Stuyvesant was no great problem. Marjorie discovered she was still in London, met her and told her plainly that her brother was not in love with her.
“Since I’m not in love with him, that makes two of us,” the lady answered with some spirit.
Lady Southwold was as usual rather more difficult, but once again Marjorie thought the straightest course was best.
“Poor, dear Hugo,” she told her mother, “I’ve heard that he’s been jilted by that terrible American. And after so long. It really is too bad.”
“It’s criminal,” said Lad
y Southwold. “What does the hussy think she’s up to?”
“What else can one expect with somebody from Baltimore?” said Marjorie snobbishly. “But he really should get married.”
“If he doesn’t soon he’ll die a bachelor.”
“Luckily there is somebody else—a girl named Lilianne. Buckinghamshire family. Rather pretty.”
“Rich?”
“Extremely.”
“I must invite her down. Would Hugo come with her?”
“He might,” said Marjorie.
And so that muddled, all but tragic season of the Jubilee seemed to end happily, and on a perfect June day the two Bellamys and their small son James watched the old Queen drive down Whitehall towards the Abbey. Hugo Lord Ashby was in the Abbey with his fiancée, Lilianne; so were his parents. Hugo and Lilianne were as happy as they should have been; so were the Southwolds. Their son was marrying at last. It was a great weight off their minds, and Lady Southwold, perverse as ever, thoroughly approved his choice.
And so as the fanfare sounded and the bells rang out and the small black figure of the Empress Queen progressed up the aisle, it was a celebration for the Bellamys and for the Southwolds too. It was a memorable year.
1888
8. Marjorie and the Prince
“Ortolans,” thought Richard to himself. “Birds no bigger than a sparrow, caught in the South of France, sent at great expense to London, bought by the Prince of Wales’s chef, trussed, cooked, fussed over, and then turned out as the highlight of the meal.” He found something symbolic and depressing about ortolans: to him they tasted exactly as he imagined roast sparrows would taste, but because of the name, because of the expense and rarity they represented, they were considered de rigueur at this sort of banquet and everybody gobbled them.
