by Tamara Gill
“I know that the incident with Constance is not the first, although it is one of the worst, in the long series of ill-treatments you take it upon yourself to commit upon the people whom I employ here.”
Amelia looked a little shocked at the intensity of his words as he continued.
“They are good, trustworthy, hard-working, uncomplaining ordinary men and women, who depend upon me for their livelihoods and the well-being of their families. It stops here and now Amelia. And you Clara and Harriet, your aiding and abetting of this behaviour stops here and now also. Though from what I hear, you two are hardly less contemptible in your treatment of my staff.”
“But Papa, this isn't fair, it's -”
“You may speak when I have finished! If the three of you wish to continue enjoying the privileges and luxuries of your station in life – a station which you inhabit thanks to the pure chance of birth – under this roof, your behaviour will have to change drastically. Until I see evidence of this change, there will be no unapproved visits by your friends to this house, no social activities whatsoever, no visits to the theatre, no Balls, dances, house visits to the Simpsons, Thompsons or Althorpes, unless I approve of them. Also - and this will be of particular interest to you Clara - there will be no London Season, unless I have ample evidence of this – permanent – change in your attitudes and behaviour. Furthermore, your pin money will be reduced, as from today, by one-third. If there is something particular which you feel you must have, you may ask me and I'll consider its merits.”
The three girls' mouths began to droop to match their shoulders. They looked at each other incredulously, and back to their father. Then Clara spoke, her voice a little shaky.
“But father… I…”
The Earl waved her to silence and continued speaking.
“Finally, I don't expect you to become female scholars overnight, but another condition of these new strictures being lifted – or ameliorated – is that you each do something to broaden your intellectual horizons. To wit: I wish to see you with books in your hands – and in front of your eyes. Great strides are being taken in the physical sciences, in history, in geography, and in other fields - try to acquaint yourselves with them. Knowledge is a great improver of character. Now, you are free to go. I shall see you at dinner, for which I expect not to be kept waiting by you for the usual one hour to forty minutes – you will be on time, or you will not eat.”
The girls still stood, watching their father rearrange the papers on his desk and sit down, as if they had disappeared into thin air.
“No Season! But this is... incomprehensible! Father! What's happened to you! Why am I to be made to pay for something that Amelia did! It's outrageous! I won’t have it! I cannot, I will not miss my Season!”
While Clara, her reddened face working with outrage, spewed this out at the Earl, Harriet sputtered about the fact that she already read far more books than her two sisters did, combined. Not to be left behind, Amelia exploded into life.
“This is grossly, sickeningly unfair, father! I've done nothing, nothing at all! What do you expect me to do, lick the servants' heels? Help them with their work perhaps? These 'good, solid people’, who spend their time lazing about gossiping - when they're not spying on us! How can you take their sides against us! It's just unbelievable... it’s tyrannical!”
She was working herself into a fury – it was obvious.
The Earl sat, coolly appraising them as they railed on, three harpies in silk dresses, the cost of one of which would feed a family on his estate for months. When they appeared to have spent themselves – or perhaps were merely pausing for their second wind – he said a few words that shocked them, perhaps more than everything else they'd heard.
“If your mother were here now, as perhaps, in some sense, she is, she would be utterly appalled and disgusted by the sight and sound of the three of you.”
It was said in a voice close to a whisper. A whisper which recalled the image of her beloved mama to Clara's eyes. She choked suddenly with the urge to burst into tears. Harriet and Amelia too paused, and looked at each other, and then down to the carpet.
The Earl himself was not seeing his darling wife, in his mind, but Constance. Her mind, her bearing, her whole attitude, was in stark contrast to those of his daughters. And how ardently she had responded to his kiss, brief though it was! But now she was gone, for good. He couldn't expect to see her again, except perhaps from a distance. She'd been far too deeply offended under his roof for her pride to countenance a return. No, all he could do was learn from the lesson she had left him and strive to ensure that his children never again hurt anyone as much as they had hurt this accomplished and beautiful young woman.
Chapter Ten
“It was for me to the realise the error of my ways Edward, but still, I wish you had been a little more insistent in bringing the behaviour of my daughters to my attention.”
His Lordship was taking a turn on the sweep of lawn before the front of the great house with Mr Collins, the pair of them stopping every few paces to look around them, at the beauty of the summery spring day, at the splendid frontage of Perry's ancestral home, and out across the level acres of the great estate to the hazy blue-green horizon.
“Myself and Mrs Temp did as much as we dared in enlightening your Lordship, but we too were not as fully cognizant of the dreadfulness of their behaviour as we should have been. Most of the staff, though they have full confidence in your character, my Lord, are wary of complaining about ill-treatment at the hands of your children, if I may be so bold as to frame it this way, my Lord.”
“Edward, no one is here but us and those rooks, so be so good as to use my first name.”
“I will my Lord.”
Perry laughed at his head butler's perennially dry sense of humour and walked on.
“Yes, of course, I understand their reluctance. But you must impress upon them that I consider it their duty to come to you or Mrs Templeton to report any more incidents. This is in my daughters' own interests. I've let them get away with far too much - far, far, too much, I know it now. I can only hope that my determination to reverse my course hasn't come too late.”
“I'm happy to be able to report that, apparently, such is not the case. Four of the staff have already come to me personally to exclaim how different things are, as they go about their work. When I press them to explain what they mean, they express their amazement at how much more 'genteel and tractable' their ladyships seem. Even Rosemary, that arch-curmudgeon, was heard by Mrs Temp, telling Anne that Lady Clara actually smiled at her and thanked her when she brought her bathing water in the morning.”
“Really Edward! That's splendid! But we mustn't get carried away with ourselves. We mustn't become complacent. The girls have to sustain this behaviour permanently. It must become second nature, and then their first and only nature. I will not have a repeat of what happened with Mrs Leslie.”
“I'm confident that there will be no relapse, Perry. As I've said so often, the girls are not essentially bad-natured. They've been spoiled, like so many other daughters and sons of our aristocracy, but not permanently so. They've always needed a firm hand, and now, at last, they have it. If the hand doesn't waver neither will they.”
“Thank you for that reassurance my friend.”
Collins looked at him for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but was, uncharacteristically unsure if he should.
“Edward – I can see that there is something you want to say – out with it, please.”
“It’s… it’s just the thought of Mrs Leslie. Given her experience as a governess, should we, perhaps, have given her that actual authority? Over Amelia, at least? Might all this have been stopped far earlier, if Mrs Leslie had been in a position to influence Amelia from the start?”
Perry stopped walking, and stared at Collins, letting the man’s words sink in. He was right. What a fool he had been not to see the possibility. And now it was too late. Having once put Amelia in a position wher
e she had authority over Constance, the possibility of turning the other way around, even should Constance accept the idea, was gone.
“Edward, you are probably right – we should have done just that. I was a fool not to consider it from the start. But I had hoped…”
“Yes, we all had. But now, you have done what was needed all along. I trust that you have the fortitude to hold to the rules that you have laid down for them – and so long as you do, I am sure that the girls will improve.”
“If I waver, remind me of my commitment to this, my old friend.”
“Of course, Perry, if it becomes necessary.”
Perry almost forgot himself and clapped Collins on the shoulder, a familiarity not to be indulged in, in full daylight in front of the house.
He put both hands behind his back for safety and turned to look at the house once more.
“I can feel the atmosphere lightening already. It's amazing what the removal of a few privileges and luxuries can accomplish. Or the prospect of not attending the London Season. I pray it isn't simply that.”
They turned back towards the house, and the vastly different chores ahead of each of them.
But the two men on the lawn would have been fascinated by the conversation going on at that very moment behind a latticed window on the third floor.
~~~~~
“All you care about is your damned coming out Clara!”
“Not so Amelia. I really do think it pays to be nice to the staff. And you shouldn’t swear – it’s not ladylike – what if you forgot, and did it in front of someone important?”
“Being nice to them costs less effort too - none at all, in fact. I mean: I tried smiling at Mabel this morning when she brought my breakfast tray and, when I asked her – asked rather than told her – if she could fix the toast that wasn't browned enough, she positively skipped out the door with the toast rack, trotted down to the kitchen, and before you could say Percy Bysshe Shelley, was back with the toast exactly the shade I like it. Amazing! And before she left, she smiled back. And Mabel would far rather have a slow-worm crawl across her face than a smile. Really incredible.” Harriet leaned back against the bedstead of her bed, pleased with this anecdote.
“Don't look so smug Harriet. Not when all you're doing is betraying our class by bowing and scraping to those of the lower orders. They should be thanking us for allowing them to wait on us. It's disgusting, the sight of the aristocracy even deigning to notice the lower class.”
“'Disgusting' is it Amelia? So you think that our Mother was disgusting?”
Both Harriet and Amelia started, bristling at this remark of Clara's.
“Clara! What an awful thing to say!”
“I'm sorry if it sounds harsh, but I'm simply trying to get Amelia to follow her own logic to the end. I mean, if the aristocracy are 'disgusting' – your word Amelia, not mine – if they notice anyone of a lower class, then our dear mother, as a descendent of one of the noblest, most ancient families in England was 'disgusting' – simply because she was, as I remember it, polite to the servants. Which we know of course is utterly preposterous.”
Harriet leaned back against the plush velvet-covered headboard. “Yes, she's right Amelia. You're old enough to remember how nice and polite and considerate Mama was to the servants, she made a point of it. And did we ever have a problem with any of the staff? It was inconceivable that we could have.”
Amelia was silent a moment. “Yes, I concede that. But Mama was an angel. We are not.”
“Bosh Amelia! Mama may be an angel now, in heaven, but when she lived, she was human, as we are. I, for one, think it's time that we tried to imitate her form of humanity.”
Harriet and Amelia, visibly impressed by what Clara had said, though unwilling to let her see it, became busy with adjusting something on their dresses. It was Amelia who was first to regain her composure.
“I still think that your only concern is your Season, Clara.”
“You're free to think what you like. But, is there any such thing as a pure motive? If something selfish spurs us on to be as good as our Mama was, can it be all bad?”
“It sounds like you've been reading Papa's cynical old Greek philosophy books Clara.”
“No, I haven't Harriet. But that reminds me. Did I leave my copy of Defoe in here?”
~~~~~
The spring advanced and the days passed, each one increasing the unaccustomed peace of Blackwood Chase. Mrs Templeton kept pinching herself jovially, amazed that she was still working in the same house which had previously been noted for its regularly foul emotional weather, its thunder-storms of feminine tantrums. And the other servants went about their routine with a now irrepressible spring in their step.
Perry was pleased, vastly so, as he kept repeating to himself. Yet something nagged at him, and left him out of sorts. Something was missing. He smiled with everyone else, but his smile faded quickly. What was it that was missing?
He had quiet, polite, even – miracle of miracles! – attentive, daughters who had stopped making him wait for dinner, a happy staff, and his estate was profitable.
Even the gnawing problems at Court were slowly disentangling themselves.
What was wrong with him then! What was he looking for – literally so! - peering around every corner of the house, running his eyes quickly over each room he entered, as if checking for thieves?
He was looking for Constance. She was the missing element, the void, the lack, the niggling absence. She'd only worked in the house for a short time and yet, somehow, he had become used to her presence. How odd human nature was. Why he was so busy most of the time that he'd barely noticed her. Or had he only thought that he'd barely noticed her? Had he been deceiving himself?
He had, indeed. All of that short time he'd been watching her out of the corner of his eye, his senses registering the subtle aroma of her presence. It was as if a whole new sense had sprung into life within him, with her arrival. It was this new sense which suffered now, when the object which had brought it into life was gone, for good.
'For God's sake man get hold of yourself! She is not returning here. And recall, she is a servant, despite her less than lowly origins. Any relationship with her would be an impossibility. A mistress? Fie man! Would you demean that proud beauty with such an arrangement?'
Peregrine went on with his letter to his mother, about Clara's Season, seeing in each curl of the ink he so carefully placed on the vellum the shapely figure of Constance, the fine curve of her lips, the pleasant roundness of her bosom, the flare of her hips, the delightful turn of her ankles...
The letter took a very long time to write.
Chapter Eleven
Constance had developed the habit of taking an afternoon stroll along the Blackwood brook, a clear and delightfully winding stream which ran past Woodsbridge Village and bordered the southern edge of the Blackwood estate. She told her mother-in-law – and herself - that it was an excellent way of clearing her mind and trying to think constructively about their future. Though this was true, what she didn't go on to say to Margaret was that it also provided the possibility of her catching a glimpse of the Earl as he rode about his estate.
The merest glimpse would do, she admitted to herself as she sat in her favourite clearing, a few feet from where the Blackwood brook wound its sparkling way. It was lowering to realise just how much she hoped to see him, even when she knew that it was pointless to hope for such a thing.
'Oh, why can't I just forget that I ever laid eyes on him! Or kissed him, or... felt his strong arms holding me so tight!... How useless the stoics are, how useless all philosophy is, when it comes to taming our desires! For even if I do catch a glimpse of him today – and I haven't, not once, since I started walking here – what good will it do me?
If I see him, it'll only make it harder to forget him. And I have to forget, I have to! I have to concentrate on the practicalities of life and stop dreaming these fairy tale dreams. No one is going to sweep me away on a white cha
rger to live happily ever after, no one... I'm a housemaid, for goodness’ sake! I may have been born into a good solid middle-class family, but that doesn't make me marriage material for a Lord. Imagine him introducing me to his friends and family! Why, if we were married, I'd doubtless have to be introduced at Court!'
The patent absurdity of this scenario brought tears of laughter to her eyes, and then the laughter became choking sobs. She was crying, she realised, for everything that might be, in a perfect world - everything that she was never likely to have. The sobs went on for some time, and she granted herself that release, letting them flow freely until they naturally eased to a stop. When they did, she rose, and drew out her handkerchief to wipe away the tears.
She was standing, still wiping her face after this necessary self-indulgence, when she heard a disturbance in the trees behind her. The image of the older village children, who often played along the brook, flitted through her mind. She turned, her face rearranged into a welcoming smile, which froze before it had fully formed. For it was the Earl of Blackwood, on his favourite mare, who was just emerging from the trees.
Horse and rider froze too, as one body, the horse swinging its head restlessly, obviously eager to drink from the brook after a long ride, yet responsive to its rider’s sudden stillness. Constance stood, breathless with the shock, her heart now pounding fiercely, and struggled to form a coherent word. Nothing came.
She gave up, and simply stared dazedly as his Lordship swung down from the mare's back and, somewhat awkwardly and unnecessarily dusting himself down, cleared his throat as he strode towards her.
“I... I had no idea... I had no idea you were here Mrs Leslie. I was just leading Zenobia here for a drink, it's such a warm day.”
It was indeed a warm day, and overheated from the ride in the warm late spring sun, he had previously removed his coat and cravat, and loosened his waistcoat and shirt. The coat lay across the pommel of the saddle still, and the exposed skin of his neck and upper-chest, where the loosened shirt revealed it, was dewed with sweat, Constance noted. Still unable to speak, she watched as he withdrew his crumpled cravat from his pocket and wiped his face and neck. Her mouth felt dry, and her body flushed with warmth at the sight. But she dragged her eyes from that tantalising skin, and forced herself to meet his gaze.
