Lady Clementine

by Marie Benedict

  I spring to action, instructing Bessie to pack our things. Together, we will take the train to Broadstairs, where I will race to Marigold’s side and Bessie will prepare the older children for the journey to Scotland. I wire Winston, instructing him to abandon all work to meet me in Broadstairs.

  By the time I reach Marigold’s side that afternoon, her skin feels fiery. Her ginger hair is soaked with sweat, as is the pillow upon which her head rests, and she is listless. I tell Bessie to cable Winston to send a specialist to Broadstairs immediately.

  After Bessie escorts Randolph, Diana, and Sarah from the room, I turn to Mademoiselle Rose and the landlady, who has remained in the room. “When did she become so ill?”

  The nanny glances at the landlady. “She had a sore throat when she arrived, ma’am.”

  “I don’t mean a sore throat, by God. Marigold always has a sore throat. When did she get this terrible fever?”

  Mademoiselle Rose doesn’t speak, and tears start rolling down her cheeks. The landlady answers instead, “About August 14, ma’am.”

  I cannot believe that I’ve heard her right. “August 14?” That was four days ago.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the landlady answers with downcast eyes.

  “Why didn’t anyone notify me until today?”

  The nanny begins sobbing. “I should ha-have, but I didn’t want you to be mad.”

  Fury surges within me, but it is quickly replaced by despair. I could have been here four days ago to help my poor baby. Four days in which I could have gotten Marigold expert medical care to keep the worst effects of septicemia at bay.

  The landlady leads the nanny out of the room, and I reach for a wet cloth. I sponge my child’s searing hot forehead and cheeks and then lay my cheek against hers. I should have been with her. I should never have left the care of Marigold—of any of my children—to a young, inexperienced nanny. This is all my fault.

  The thud of Winston’s distinctive footsteps sounds in the hallway outside Marigold’s room. I don’t look up when I hear the door open. After all the days and months I’ve spent away from my children, I now cannot take my eyes off my daughter.

  “Oh.” A sob catches in his throat. “Poor Duckadilly.”

  The chair next to me creaks with Winston’s weight. I dare not take my gaze off Marigold.

  “How could I have been playing tennis at Eaton Hall while our daughter was suffering?” I mutter, mostly to myself.

  “Cat, how were you to know?”

  “A mother should know. I’m no fit mother.”

  * * *

  The black, carved lettering looks so fresh and clear against the marble headstone. It appears not at all timeworn and faded like the nearby gravestones in this ancient cemetery of Kensal Green. Leaning down, I trace my finger along the letters of the first three words: Here lies Marigold. How could this possibly be the grave of my poor, precious, two-year-old daughter?

  Tears trickle down my cheeks, but I brush them away. I do not want Diana, Randolph, and Sarah to see my sadness at the death of their little sister. Crying, even wailing, was acceptable at the funeral nearly three weeks ago, but one must bear up afterward. After all, everyone has suffered unimaginable losses, especially in the Great War. We are not alone.

  Had my conceit over Winston’s phoenix-like rise after his return from the trenches angered God? My pride in Winston’s attendance at the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, the agreement that would end the Great War, was unabashed. Had we lost Marigold because of my hubris in the role I played resurrecting his reputation? Or was it simply because of my absent parenting and my self-focused indulgence in my own nervous issues? No matter the reason, the blame is mine to shoulder.

  I hear Sarah humming a tune, and too late, I realize it is “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.” Marigold’s last minutes wash over me, and I feel I cannot breathe.

  Winston and I hadn’t left her side since morning. The London specialist had told us that nothing could be done for poor Marigold; there was no treatment for the septicemia stemming from the painful sore throat that plagued her on arrival at Broadstairs. The only course left, he told us, was to make her as comfortable as possible. And pray.

  She’d been lethargic for hours when she suddenly perked up and said, “Sing me ‘Bubbles.’” The popular ditty, quite wistful in its way with its comparison of the fleeting nature of bubbles and life, was her particular favorite. So I sang it in a wobbly voice.

  I choked on the words and my own awful sobs, but Winston gripped my hand and prompted me along with his own voice. Together, we continued the song.

  Marigold’s lids opened, and her light-blue eyes fixed on us for a bright moment. For a fleeting moment, hope washed over me. Then she stretched out her little hand to ours and whispered, “Not now…finish the song later.” And then she stopped breathing. I don’t remember anything that happened afterward, except the noise of an animal howling. Winston later told me that it was I who had made that sound.

  * * *

  “Mummy, where should we put Duckadilly’s flowers?” Sarah says.

  As I direct her, Diana, and Randolph to lay their bouquets around her gravestone, Sarah says, “I wish Daddy was here with us.”

  “Me too,” Diana adds as we watch a white butterfly land upon the flowers. This is the first time she’s spoken all day; in some ways, she appears to have taken Marigold’s loss the hardest of her siblings.

  I think, but do not say, that Winston should be here with his family. He should not have left us in Scotland for the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland’s house party at their Dunrobin estate, no matter that the guest of honor was the Prince of Wales. He should have traveled with us to London, stayed with us while we mourned Marigold, and visited her grave with us today.

  But I reserve the full force of my anger for myself. I should have been more cautious in guarding my child. I should not have allowed Winston to take precedence in my life. I should have heeded the warnings to care for my loved ones that began the first day we returned from our trip to Cairo.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  December 23–24, 1930

  Westerham, England

  I turn the lock on the genie’s cupboard, so dubbed by the children. As the days grow closer to Christmas, they speculate as to what delights might be tucked away in its depths, awaiting them on the magic morning. Sometimes, I wonder what they’d think of me if they knew what was hidden in my own personal genie’s cupboard—the dark tangle of beliefs that, while I’m poison to my children, if I can provide order for Winston and our family, perhaps nothing bad will occur again, nothing like the loss of Marigold. But I can never let them unlock that door.

  Even the nine years that have passed since Marigold’s death have done nothing to soften my sense of guilt. Winston and I tried to proceed with our daily lives, but grief would raise its ugly head at the most unexpected times, and we would struggle. As would Diana, Randolph, and Sarah, as they bore witness to our sorrow and experienced sadness of their own. I now believe that, unconsciously and without openly discussing it, we both thought another child might help alleviate this despair, and in less than a year, little Mary, nicknamed “Baby Bud” almost immediately, was born. And the beautiful, serene, even-tempered Mary was indeed a balm.

  But after Marigold’s death, I no longer trusted myself for the children’s daily care, and I no longer felt safe counting upon one of the young nursery governesses who’d streamed through our lives. I knew I had to find a steadfast, loyal soul to ensure the welfare of my children. When I learned that my first cousin, Maryott Whyte, the daughter of Mother’s sister Lady Maude, had finished training as a childcare educator and nurse at the esteemed Norland College, I asked the impoverished gentlewoman—who, like me and Nellie, always knew she’d have to earn a living—to serve as a nanny to my children. Thank God she agreed, because even though she always observes her professional position
, she’s become much more than a governess in the years since she’s been with us. She’s become part of our inner circle of family and friends and, most importantly, godmother to Mary and protector to all my children. She’s become our Moppet. She serves them better than I can serve them myself.

  Yet even the comfort and relief that Moppet provides is not enough some days. On those occasions, when the duties overwhelm and Winston calls for my attention again and again, the need to flee—abroad or inward—takes hold. I cling to the structure I’ve created to prevent myself from slipping back into nervous exhaustion. I tell myself that I must stay strong, that I have the power to form a barricade against disaster. And Christmas forms a critical part of my stronghold.

  The real genie’s cupboard is packed tight with Christmas presents that I’ve been collecting since summer, now wrapped, beribboned, and ready for Christmas morning. I only have to finalize the rest of the decorations and the menus to ensure that this is the finest family holiday celebration we’ve ever hosted at Chartwell. It simply must be.

  I descend the stairs in search of my trustworthy cousin Moppet, or Nana as the children sometimes call her. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I nearly collide with the pleasant-looking, thirty-five-year-old woman. Despite her growing stoutness, she is walking quickly across the front entry in her clipped step, undoubtedly deep in thought over one of the children’s needs. “Ah, Moppet. Just the person I’ve been looking for. Do you know if the holly and ivy are ready to hang?”

  Household decorations are not in her purview, but no one knows the workings of Chartwell better than Moppet, and she enjoys being the keeper of all Chartwellian knowledge, so she doesn’t mind the question. Winston had purchased Chartwell in September 1922, in the days following the birth of Mary. We’d always discussed getting a country house and had looked extensively for the perfect house and piece of land, but he bought the property without my knowledge or consent in the only act of betrayal he’d ever committed. At first, I was so furious, I refused to visit the place. Once I relented and agreed to a tour, my anger only grew. Yes, I agreed with Winston, it did have the quintessential English views over the Weald of Kent toward the South Downs and grassy slopes to the north of the house that led to a spring, the Chart Well, which feeds into a stream, but the house itself was a disaster. Its original footprint was rumored to date from the time of Henry VIII, and someone along the way had superimposed an unattractive Victorian structure on top. As we began—and now continue—renovations to make the place livable for a family of six, plus staff and the requirements of entertaining, we discovered a serious moisture problem along with dry rot, and the money and energy Chartwell has sapped from us is astonishing.

  Still, despite the toll it takes upon me, I have indulged Winston in this Chartwell project with all its frustrations because I understand something about it that he does not. After herculean efforts on both our parts, Winston finally slipped from power—for what seems for good—in 1929. He had tumbled in and out of parliamentary seats beginning in 1922, until, much to my dismay, he switched back to the Conservative Party in 1924, a move that bought him several years in Parliament and the cabinet role of chancellor of the exchequer in the critical postwar years of restructuring and rebuilding not only our economy but others as well. But then, despite his party shift, his hold had been tenuous, and he fell out of favor with Conservatives and voters alike, in part because of his objection to granting dominion status to India, which would allow them to govern their own affairs in a few years. Without government power, Chartwell became the place upon which Winston could affix all his dreams about an ideal England. Now, instead of crafting domestic policies about economics, labor, and international relations, he creates walls, lakes, elaborate tree houses for the children, and even a tennis court and swimming pool. The dream is the same; only the scale and focus are different.

  This exile leaves us scrambling for money, of course, as Winston no longer has a salary. So while I economize, he supports us all with his writing, since 1929 brought not only a loss in power but a loss in the inheritance and all our savings in the market crash. In truth, it is a relief to not have to stand behind him at political rallies and meetings and dinners where he’s extolling the virtues of Conservative Party values that I do not support. The synergy of opinion we once shared on politics in nearly every area no longer exists. Our disagreement over the question of Indian self-governance was only one difference of opinion among many. Only our commitment to each other and our family remains.

  But his demands have not diminished alongside his power, and neither have his blasts of anger and intemperate outbursts. If anything, his need for comfort and order and me has increased now that his attention focuses not outward on the nation but inward on his writing and Chartwell, and I find that if his schedule is met precisely, then he is less inclined to the misbehavior that I do not want inflicted on anyone in this house, not the children, not the staff, and not me.

  As a result, I focus a considerable amount of my time and energy on Winston’s needs. I arrange for his long, twice-daily bath to be poured exactly at midday and seven in the evening at a temperature of 98 degrees, rising to 104. After his bath-time ritual, I ensure that his clothes are laid out with a cream shirt for morning and white for evening, his newspapers ironed, piled, and folded in a precise manner, and his six toothbrushes laid out in a row and used in strict rotation. Lunch is served at 1:15 p.m., and dinner at precisely 8:30 p.m., even if Winston doesn’t appear for an hour. I coordinate with the cook to create menus with the hearty English fare that Winston prefers, even though I dislike it, including roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, clear soup and dover sole with chocolate éclairs, pheasant, and dressed crab. And I make myself fully available to him whenever he summons me for an afternoon game of bezique, as is his usual request, or to debate a political issue. All our fortunes and contentment rise and fall on Winston, and so I oblige, no matter the vagaries of his moods. Given his change in political views, I find it easier to focus on the minutiae of our lives, and I know I’m lucky to have the staff to help me. When my efforts are for naught and the mood becomes oppressive, I busy myself with a bit of gardening, following the advice of my cousin Venetia, herself an excellent gardener, beekeeping, or a trip elsewhere. I am determined that our family and my marriage will survive—if not always thrive—and I will not end my days like Mother, who passed away in late 1925 and suffered a sad, lonely, somewhat destitute, and often drink-fueled descent.

  * * *

  In answer to my question, Moppet nods. “I think I saw Grace wandering around the first floor with two gardeners and a pile of greens, Clementine.”

  I squeeze her arm in thanks. “I knew you’d know.”

  Moppet smiles warmly but hurries off. Her clear priority is the children—her young charge Mary in particular, with whom she has an extraordinary bond—and that is precisely as I wish it. The equality of our social positions means that she can jettison obsequiousness and focus upon her duties. I cannot imagine life without her.

  “Grace!” I call out for the bright, efficient gardener’s daughter who has become another integral part of the staff since she joined us, serving in many capacities, including secretary. Winston and the children insist on calling her a variety of nicknames, and to her credit, she never flinches or complains. Even when I do on her behalf. “Are we all set for the decorating?”

  The lanky, long-nosed girl, glasses perched on her nose, strides into the entryway. “Yes, ma’am. The appropriate number of branches and strands have been laid out in the parlor, dining room, and entry hall. We are just awaiting your direction for locations.”

  “Ah yes.” I walk into the parlor with Grace and two gardeners trailing behind me. “Let’s decorate the mantle with several branches of the holly each, and wrap the ivy around the columns. Do you have the laurel and yew?”

  Grace looks over at the gardeners, who nod. They are too scared to speak to me dir
ectly, or so Winston reports. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let’s add the laurel to the ivy and yew to the holly. And then repeat the sequence in the dining room and entryway.”

  “The men will do as you wish, ma’am,” Grace says. “Shall we examine the tree next?”

  We stand before the evergreen, cut from the woods that border Chartwell to the rear. “It is perfectly triangular, Grace.” I turn to the gardeners and say, “You have outdone yourselves this year.”

  They nod but still do not speak. Maybe I am as daunting as Winston tells me I am.

  I continue, “Now, I think the branches will support the usual hundred candles, don’t you?”

  “I do, ma’am,” Grace answers.

  “And the men know precisely how to hang the della Robbia Christ child plaque aloft in the front hall?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. They will hang it exactly the same way as last year.”

  “Excellent. Then I’m off to meet with the cook about the menus for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day. We will have fifteen with our six, Jack and Goonie and their children, and Nellie and her crew.” I step out of the room, but suddenly, I am overcome with the crisp scent of the Christmas tree. I inhale deeply, and for a moment, I feel all my cares lift from my shoulders.

  I turn back to Grace. “The smell of pine is glorious. I think this will be our best Christmas yet.”

  * * *

  Through the crack in the double doors between the drawing room and the library, I stare at the quiet queue of children: our elder three, Diana, Randolph, and Sarah; Jack and Goonie’s children, Johnny, Peregrine, and Clarissa; Nellie and Bertram’s boys, Giles and Esmond; and, at the very end, our little Mary, of course. Astonishing, really, how they arrange themselves in approximate age order every year without the slightest instruction. Although, when I think about it, I guess that the order is probably Randolph’s doing so he can enter the room near the front of the line and lord it over those who trail behind.