by Janet Tanner
During those first weeks at Deedham Green two things kept Sarah going. One was the anger at the way she had been treated. The other was the faint hope that when he returned from France and found her gone Gilbert would seek her out and whisk her away from the prison to which Blanche had sentenced her. How he would accomplish this she did not know for clearly there was no place for her now at Chewton Leigh but she could not believe he would abandon her totally. He had saved her once before when she had been in the depths of despair and Sarah had implicit faith in his ability to do so again if he chose to do so. But as the weeks passed with no word from him hope began to fade. It revived briefly when one morning Sarah overheard Mr Smith reading to Mrs Edgell from his newspaper that a Mr Santos Dumont had made a short flight in an aeroplane somewhere in France. Perhaps, Sarah thought, Gilbert had extended his visit in order to see Mr Santos Dumont get his aeroplane into the air, and as yet knew nothing of what had happened during his absence. But her hopes that he might yet seek her out when he found her missing were clouded by the sickening certainty that Blanche would justify herself at Sarah’s expense. Every time she thought of the story Blanche would tell, of the distorted version of the truth she would present, Sarah felt as if the whole of her inside was curling up like a piece of paper crinkling and shrivelling in the heat of a fire. She thought she would have died rather than have Gilbert believe that she had betrayed his confidence in her in such a despicable way, and as the weeks passed with no word from him she was forced to the unwilling conclusion that this was indeed the case. Blanche had told him of her disgrace and he had believed her version of events. The knowledge was a leaden weight in her heart, dragging her down, shackling her. And when hope was gone there was nothing left but the anger.
It sustained her now through the long days and nights, burning in her veins like a potent drug even when she was exhausted, when her hands were red from constant immersion in hot water and her legs felt like lumps of lead. And it was directed now not only at the Morses but also at the unlovable Carsons, at Mrs Edgell and Mr Smith. One day, she promised herself, one day I’ll leave this place and never come back. One day I’ll show them all! But the endless round of chores left little time for planning and her meagre wages held out no hope of independence. The weeks passed and, too tired to fight, Sarah drifted with the tide.
‘We’ve gentry for dinner tonight,’ Mrs Edgell said, puffing out her mountainous bosoms like some obscene turkey cock. ‘ So I hope you’ve a clean apron to put on, my girl, because it will be for you to serve them.’
‘Gentry?’ Sarah experienced a moment’s panic. To her ‘ gentry’ was synonymous with the Morses and it was highly unusual for the Carsons to entertain. ‘Who is it?’
‘You mind your business, my girl, and get on with what you’re paid for,’ the cook snapped. Then, unable to resist parading her superior knowledge, she added: ‘ It’s our prospective member of parliament, if you must know, though anyone would think it was the King himself for all the fuss that’s being made.’
Sarah heaved a sigh of relief. Of course she should have known it was much too far from Somerset for the Morses to be dinner guests.
‘Tendrons de Veau à la Jardinière and Roast Goose!’ the cook grumbled. ‘Who ever heard of such a thing? Why they couldn’t put on a good piece of boiled mutton and caper sauce I don’t know. And apple soufflé and meringues! A nice bread and butter pudding would go down a darn sight better. It wouldn’t keep them awake with indigestion half the night and it might put a bit of flesh on Miss Catherine. She’s been looking very peaky lately.’
Being somewhat overweight herself Mrs Edgell had a hearty disdain for anyone who was less than ample, regarding thinness as a personal affront.
As the afternoon wore on and the hour of reckoning approached Mrs Edgell grew more and more flustered and she sent Sarah scuttling from one job to the next while Mr Smith, wearing a green baize apron to protect his clothing, countermanded her every move with instructions of his own.
‘You can get the table set now.’
‘After the fire has been lit, Mr Smith, if you don’t mind. We don’t want the guests catching their death of cold in that dining-room.’
‘Make haste, Sarah! I don’t know what’s the matter with you, girl. You’re like a snail! Have you washed the best china – and the glasses? And the silver will need cleaning afresh. We can’t use dirty silver.’
As usual Mrs Edgell was determined to have the last word.
‘Come here and stir this sauce for me, Sarah. I don’t want it sticking to the pan and going lumpy.’
She waved the spoon threateningly in Sarah’s direction. Sarah went to take it and slipped on a patch of grease which Mrs Edgell must have spilled from the roasting tin while basting the goose. She grabbed at the table to save herself and a cullender of diced carrots, left too near the edge, fell off. Carrots rolled all over the floor.
‘You clumsy fool! Now look what you’ve done!’ Mrs Edgell expostulated.
‘Oh – I’m sorry …’ Sarah dropped to her hands and knees retrieving the small neat dice which she had chopped so painstakingly a half-hour before. Suddenly Mrs Edgell exploded in fury.
‘There! And now my sauce has gone all lumpy!’
She swung at Sarah with the wooden spoon which she was still holding. It caught her behind the ear and as she reeled in shock and pain the cullender tipped again depositing the newly retrieved carrots over the floor once more.
‘You little fool!’ Mrs Edgell screamed, beside herself with rage. ‘You’re useless – useless!’ She struck at Sarah again, catching her this time on the temple. ‘Pick them up. Pick them all up. And then you’ll have to do some more. We can’t serve carrots all covered in bits and hairs.’
Sarah straightened, her eyes blazing in her pale face, a dark lump already rising on her temple. Her ear was stinging too, a sharp throb which sent needles of pain down her neck, and suddenly it was as if she had been transported back in time to the kitchen in the farmhouse at Chewton Leigh when Mrs Pugh had struck her for coddling the eggs.
She had been a child then. She had had no redress against her tormentor. But she was not a child any longer. She was fifteen years old and she owed this horrible woman nothing.
‘Pick them up yourself!’ The words were out before she could stop them; they hung in the air like the echoes of a thunderclap and as she saw the horror and disbelief on the faces of Mrs Edgell and Mr Smith Sarah was intoxicated by her own daring. Then as the two of them converged on her she knew she had gone too far.
‘How dare you!’ Mr Smith thundered. ‘How dare you speak to your elders and betters in that way?’
She might be my elder but she is certainly not my better, Sarah wanted to say, but this time she let discretion be the better part of valour.
‘You will pick up those carrots this instant and do as you are told, my girl. Or you’ll have me to answer to. And if you ever dare to cheek Mrs Edgell again you will be reported to Sir Percy for instant dismissal. Then where will you be, I’d like to know?’
For a moment Sarah held his eyes rebelliously then as a wave of dizziness washed over her she realised this was not the moment for outright confrontation. She bent over, retrieving carrot dice and returning them once more to the cullender and satisfied with his victory Mr Smith stood over her, supervising what he took for her compliance, whilst Mrs Edgell, huffing and puffing, scraped the spoiled sauce into the dustbin and set about making some more.
Neither of them knew what was going on in Sarah’s throbbing head. Neither of them had an inkling of the determination which was welling up and giving birth to a boldness that was encouraging her to throw caution to the winds.
Instant dismissal! Sarah thought. Well, I won’t wait for that. I’m going to leave this place just as soon as I can pack my few things together. Where I will go and what I will do I don’t know. But I’ll find something. Oh, I’ll find something. I’ll make something of myself. Be someone. And when I do no-one will ever st
rike me or speak to me in that manner ever again!
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans … Be
yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Desiderata
Chapter Thirteen
On an evening in the spring of 1909 Gilbert Morse was ensconced in his favourite deep leather chair in the library at Chewton Leigh House with a copy of the day’s Times spread out on his knee and the current Illustrated Weekly News and Punch lying on the low rosewood table beside him.
It had been a perfect spring day but now the curtains had been drawn against the fading light, a fire crackled cheerfully in the grate to banish the winter chill which would return when the sun finally fell over the fold of Somerset hills and Gilbert had retired to spend the hour before dinner relaxing after the rigours of the day with a whisky and soda and the newspapers he had not had time to read before leaving for the office that morning.
He turned the pages, searching for news on the subject which interested him most – the progress being made in the construction of flying machines. Reports appeared almost daily now; the scepticism with which the press had so recently treated the new inventions had turned to a flush of excitement as fantasy became reality. The Daily Mail, for so long the one newspaper to take the possibility of powered flight seriously, had now offered prizes of £1000 to the first pilot to fly the English Channel and £10,000 for the first to link their two publishing centres, London and Manchester, by air. At first the very idea had been laughed to scorn but now fewer people were laughing. Already Bleriot, the Frenchman, had made a cross country flight of twenty-five miles, it was said, though he had had to put down three times before completing the distance, and Wilbur Wright had covered an incredible seventy-seven miles in Auvours in December to win the Michelin prize and set up a new world record.
Ever since he had been to France almost three years earlier to see Santos Dumont’s efforts to get a flying machine into the sky, Gilbert had been fascinated by the idea of powered flight. He had extended his visit in order to be there at the magic moment, when the wheels left the ground for the first time, and back in England he had paid more than one visit to Brooklands as the guest of Alliott Verdon-Roe, who had managed some short hops in his own Avro Biplane with a borrowed Antoinette engine the previous June. For a time Gilbert had toyed with the idea that Morse Motors might themselves be able to produce engines of the same calibre, fight yet reliable, and he had gone so far as to mention it to Lawrence, who was now effectively in charge of the works.
Lawrence, however, had merely frowned.
‘That is a little ambitious, isn’t it, Father? This flying business is still very much in its infancy. No-one knows yet whether it will ever be a viable proposition. I believe if we are to keep the firm on an even keel we should stick with what we know well and do best.’
His tone was reproving and faintly patronising and for a moment Gilbert felt uncomfortably as if he was the younger man, foolishly carried away by youthful enthusiasm, while Lawrence was his sensible senior, gently pointing out his folly. It was by no means the first time he had experienced this feeling of role reversal; since Lawrence had taken over the works the mantle of responsibility had drained him of every vestige of humour and the thirst for adventure. It was a pity, Gilbert considered, that he should have lost his youth in this way and sometimes he reflected that if the genes which gave Lawrence and Alicia their characters had been more thoroughly mixed both of them might have felt the benefit.
Alicia had grown into a wild and wilful young woman whose circle was composed mainly of the young bucks of the hunting set who seemed to spend even more of their lives drinking and partying until dawn than they did setting their mounts at hedges and ditches in pursuit of the fox. But Gilbert could not see much harm in it – better to sow their wild oats while they were young than to conform too soon and become rakes and roués at forty as King Edward had done when he was Prince of Wales. Without a doubt the years would quieten down Alicia’s rebellious streak – but he doubted they would do anything to mellow Lawrence. If at twenty-three he could give the impression of a solid stick-in-the-mud of twice his age, what in heaven’s name would he be like by the time he was fifty?
For once Gilbert was unable to find any mention in his newspaper of the doings of the aeroplane men and he folded the paper neatly, put it aside, and opened the Illustrated Weekly News. There was, so the front cover promised, an article on ballooning and though Gilbert considered it an outmoded form of flight it still interested him nonetheless.
He had just begun to search for the article when there was a knock at the library door. ‘Yes?’ he called, a trifle impatiently.
The door opened and Hugh looked in.
‘Could I have a word with you, Father?’
‘Yes – yes, of course.’ Gilbert laid the Illustrated Weekly News down on the table beside him. ‘Come in, Hugh.’
Hugh did so but although he treated his father to his usual flashing smile there was something hesitant in his manner and Gilbert’s heart sank. He knew that look of old. When Hugh had been a little boy it had heralded a confession of some kind – the charming smile intended to disarm his father into sparing him a hiding for his latest apiece of mischief.
Hugh was no longer a little boy to be walloped, of course. He was twenty-one years old now, taller than his father by two inches, with the dashing good looks and debonair manner that set feminine hearts beating wherever he went and brought a gleam of serious intent to many a hopeful mother’s eye. But none of them had been able to trap Hugh as yet. He was still footloose and fancy free and the trail of dashed hopes and broken hearts stretched behind him ever longer, for the uniform he now wore only added to his glamour.
Hugh had done well at Sandhurst, passing out with honours, and Gilbert had been able to secure him a commission in the Life Guards. A short spell with the Household Cavalry had just ended; now Hugh was home on an embarkation leave before sailing for India.
Gilbert had looked forward to Hugh’s furlough, anticipating the talks they would be able to have and the man-to-man humour they would be able to share, but Hugh had been curiously reticent. On the surface he was the same young man he had always been, charming, open and merry, but more than once Gilbert had surprised a thoughtful, almost brooding, expression on his face and he felt certain that Hugh was hiding something. Several times he had been on the point of asking Hugh what was troubling him but he had thought better of it. It was not the first time Hugh had behaved in this way and it would not be the last. He would tell Gilbert what was on his mind in his own good time if he wanted him to know – and in all probability he did not.
It has something to do with a young woman if I am not mistaken, Gilbert thought. I only hope the young hothead has not done anything dishonourable. Well, if he has and there’s an angry father after him with a double barrelled shotgun he will have to be man enough to stand up and face the music.
‘Well, Hugh, this is pleasant,’ he said, giving no indication of his thoughts, ‘I see far too little of you. I suppose it is unavoidable with you going straight from school to Sandhurst and straight from Sandhurst to a regiment but all the same …’ He paused, then continued: ‘ I’m having a whisky and soda. Will you join me?’
‘Thank you, Father, I will.’ Hugh’s voice was a fraction too eager and when Gilbert handed him the tumbler he tossed half of it back with one quick gulp.
Gilbert sighed inwardly. There was something, not a doubt of it. Well, he might as well come out with it, and quickly.
‘What’s wrong, Hugh?’ he asked, countermanding his decision to wait for the boy to raise the subject of what was troubling him.
Hugh hesitated, a little taken aback by the directness of the question. ‘Nothing really, Father.’
‘Don’t play the fool with me, Hugh. You wouldn’t be here downing my whisky with that look on your face if there wasn’t something wrong. What is it – a girl?’
Briefly a curious expression flickered in Hugh�
��s eyes, a look of guilt surprised which convinced Gilbert momentarily that he had been right. Then Hugh’s brow cleared and he laughed.
‘No, Father, it’s not a girl. Not this time. I’m afraid it’s much more humdrum than that. I wondered if I might borrow some money.’
Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. ‘Money? What for?’
Faint colour rose in Hugh’s cheeks. ‘ Well, Father, a chap has to live …’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Gilbert said, turning his whisky glass between his hands. ‘But I thought we had taken everything into account when I organised your commission – the upkeep of your horses and polo ponies and an allowance for you to be able to live comfortably … How much do you want to borrow?’
Hugh drained his glass and turned away, unable to meet his father’s eye.
‘Five hundred.’
‘Five hundred!’ Gilbert repeated, stunned, then as the figure came home to him he repeated it again, more loudly and with angry emphasis. ‘ Five hundred pounds! Did I hear you aright, Hugh?’
‘Yes, Father, I’m afraid you did.’
‘But what in heaven’s name do you want with five hundred pounds? That is more than double your annual commission!’
‘Yes,’ Hugh agreed uncomfortably. ‘ But I’ll pay it back, Father, I swear I will.’
‘Out of what may I ask? And you still have not answered my question, Hugh. Why do you need five hundred pounds?’
‘I owe it to one of my brother officers,’ Hugh admitted, having the grace to look a little shamefaced. ‘ We had a game of poker and I’m afraid I lost.’
