Sixpenny Stalls

by Beryl Kingston

  The excitement of the day made Euphemia bold. ‘I do,’ she said, ‘but I think you are wrong.’

  ‘It’s a matter of opinion,’ he said easily, ‘and of no consequence either way.’

  Then there was a long silence as neither of them could think what to say, he because he had no intention of pursuing the subject, she because she was afraid she might have spoken out of turn. They had reached an elegant bridge across the Thames and there was no sign of Caroline and Henry.

  ‘Mr Dickens is to leave the Daily News at the end of the month,’ Will said at last, as they stood upon the river bank together.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Euphemia commiserated. ‘Why is that? Is it failing?’

  ‘Failing? I should just think not. It’s doing very well. We started with a circulation of four thousand at fivepence a copy and now we are selling to more than twenty thousand people and we’ve halved the price. Oh no, it’s in a very healthy condition, our paper.’

  ‘Then why is Mr Dickens leaving?’

  ‘I don’t think he ever intended to stay for long,’ Will said sadly. ‘He meant to get us started and then leave us to our own devices. He told us his business was writing novels, and that’s true enough in all conscience.’

  ‘You will miss him.’

  ‘Yes, we will,’ Will admitted, smiling at her. ‘He’ll be in and out, I daresay. He ain’t a man to cut his friends.’ But the sigh he gave belied his optimism.

  ‘I wonder what Nan will say when she hears about the house,’ Euphemia said, feeling it might help him to change the subject.

  ‘She will applaud,’ Will said. ‘Being they’re two of a kind, our Nan and Caroline.’

  And of course he was right. Wedding plans were made at dinner that very evening, brisk and business-like. Rattlesden church for the service because that was what Caroline wanted, Euphemia for bridesmaid, Will to give the bride away, Henry’s brother to be best man, and all on the first Thursday in July, because all the current deals should be completed by then, and Will would be in England, and it was the day of the week when the Easter family could be most easily spared from their work. By ten o’clock the guest list had been drawn up, ready for the invitations to be sent in the morning.

  ‘July,’ Euphemia said happily, when it was all arranged. ‘It’s a perfect month to get married. Think of all the lovely weather you’ll have.’

  As it turned out, it was the hottest July for fifty years and on most days the temperature was over ninety in the shade. The prestigious people who crushed into the church of St Nicholas at Rattlesden that Thursday afternoon were soon hot and sticky in their fashionable clothes and the ceremony was wafted by the rhythmical whirr and flutter of their fans.

  Not that the bride and groom paid much attention to any of it, she because she was still locked away from all emotion, he because he was too dizzy with desire to concentrate on anything except her delicious proximity. He was so overpoweringly aware of her it was painful to stand still beside her, breathing in the salty scent of those lace covered arms, watching a tremulous pulse throbbing under the milky skin of her throat, and her mouth so soft and as red as raspberries, and her breasts full and tempting in her beautiful white gown.

  But with careful prompting from her Uncle James they managed to make their vows with only a few mistakes, and to sign the register with nervous hands but more or less legibly, and Miss Caroline Easter was declared to have changed her title if not her name. And then the entire company exploded out into the sunshine and the hot air was a-bubble of rose petals and a photographer was waiting with one of those new camera contraptions all set up on its tripod, like some squat long-legged bird, and bride, groom, best man, bridesmaid and brother were lined up in the porch to have their picture taken. It was a very long-winded business which required them all to stand perfectly still while the photographer counted to sixty, so when it was over and their guests gave them a cheer, they were all quite giggly with relief. Except Caroline.

  While the rest of the group went chattering towards the carriages that would take them back to Bury and the reception at the Athenaeum, she went quietly off by herself to find her father’s grave. And her new husband stood back and let her go, because he knew what it was she wanted to do.

  It was blisteringly hot in the churchyard. Even the headstones were warm to the touch and the grass was burnt brown. Caroline laid her bouquet on her parents’ grave, and knelt down on the rough ground in all her finery to say a prayer to the mother she’d never known and to ask forgiveness of her father for the last time.

  ‘I am married now,’ she said, when the prayer was done. ‘I will be a credit to you both, I promise. I’ve done well by you already, haven’t I? Oh, you must think I have. And I will do even better now.’

  A frond of maidenhair fern curled about her mother’s name, ‘Harriet Easter 1799-1826, who departed this life aged 27 years’, and two moss roses drooped in the heat against the newer inscription ‘also her husband, John Henry Easter 1792-1845’. But she couldn’t feel their presence at all. She couldn’t feel anything. No sorrow, no happiness, no relief. Mama was just a painted face in the portrait that now hung in Nan’s drawing room, Papa a remembered figure stooped over his books at that great desk of his. It was a great disappointment, because she’d arranged to have her wedding in this place so that she could lay the ghosts of her unkindness to him for good and all. And now she couldn’t do it.

  At the top of Aunt Annie’s may tree a blackbird fluted, its high clear joyous song echoing into the shining sky. ‘Married. Married. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health … God’s Holy ordinance … give thee my troth. Treeee. Treeee. Two-eeee.’ I ought to be happy about that at least, she thought. But she couldn’t feel anything.

  Henry was standing behind her, his hands warm on her shoulders. ‘We must go now,’ he said gently, ‘or we shall be too late for the reception. All the others have left.’

  She rose to her feet, sighing slightly, her face pale and withdrawn.

  ‘I love you so much,’ he said, wishing he knew how to comfort her. He wanted to hold her in his arms and smother her with kisses. But he could hardly do that in the middle of a graveyard. ‘So much.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know you do.’ But even her voice sounded distant.

  He led her to their waiting carriage where the two greys drooped and the coachman sweated and the long white ribbons hung unnaturally still in the heat, and they drove to Bury through the sunbaked fields, side by side and unnaturally quiet.

  The reception was nothing more than a blur of faces to the pair of them. They greeted their guests and were kissed and congratulated and supposed they were saying the right things, and they sat at the head of the table and pretended to eat in the buzz and clatter all around them, and cut the cake with due ceremony and a very wobbly knife. But it was an unnatural meal. And Caroline felt that she was the most unnatural of women.

  When she’d made up her mind to marry Henry and live in Richmond and give him both the prospect and the love he needed, it had never entered her mind to doubt that she could do it. But now her whole being was full of doubt, as she sat beside him with a shiny new ring on her finger and felt nothing. No excitement, no affection, not even for Nan. Nothing. I am unnatural, she thought miserably, forcing herself to smile at her guests. What will become of me?

  What became of her was a change of clothing into her blue going-away gown, and another ride in the carriage, this time across Angel Square and down Northgate Street to the new station that had just been built outside the town, where she and Henry climbed into their railway carriage under a last and blinding shower of rose petals and to a chirrup of goodbyes.

  And then with a strong whiff of soot and sulphur and a high-pitched screech of wheels they were off and on their way to London. Married and on their own at last. And rather to her surprise Henry stood up, let down both the carriage windows and pulled down the blinds.

  ‘Won’t people think it rather odd
that the blinds are down?’ she wondered.

  ‘Let them,’ he said with splendid arrogance.

  ‘But what if someone should want to get in?’

  ‘They can’t. I’ve booked the carriage.’

  ‘How could you do that?’

  ‘I paid for all the seats, that’s how,’ he said, looking very pleased with himself. Actually it had been Joseph’s idea, but there was no need to tell her that. Joseph had given him lots of advice in that lethargic way of his and he meant to follow most of it, if she gave him the chance. ‘Nobody can disturb us, my dearest darling girl. We have the place to ourselves.’

  And suddenly that peculiar, familiar, wedding excitement began to tremble in Caroline’s belly. What was he going to do? He looked so intense and so handsome with his skin glowing in the half light he’d created, and those dark eyes shining, and his moustache bushier than she’d ever seen it. What was he going to do? Oh she did hope he would.

  He sat beside her and put an arm about her waist and drew her towards him so that they were both still moving together as their first kiss began. And it was delicious. She wanted it to go on for ever, for that gently moving mouth of his was trawling pleasure all through her in the most wondrous way. When he stopped and seemed about to raise his head, she put her hands into the warm hair at the nape of his neck and held him, moving her own lips from side to side to continue the pleasure, and encourage him to go on. Which he did, for he needed very little encouragement. When they finally drew apart they were both flushed and breathless.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘I do love you after all.’ He was like the Prince in the fairy tale waking Snow White from her trance with a kiss. Oh, just like the Prince in the fairy tale.

  Desire was so strong in him he didn’t notice what she was saying. He wanted to kiss her and kiss her and go on and on until they got to Richmond and their own home and their own bed and the final pleasure he’d waited for and needed and deferred for so long, the pleasure that would surely reward them both if he followed brother Joseph’s advice. ‘Um,’ he said kissing her again.

  By the time they reached the terminus at Shoreditch Road, they were so dishevelled that it took them several giggling minutes to make themselves presentable enough to go out into the forecourt and hire the cab that would take them across the Thames to Nine Elms to catch the train to Richmond.

  It was late afternoon and the sky above their sooty city was such a dazzling white it hurt their eyes to look at it, and the streets were hot and dusty and pungent with horse manure. But neither of them cared. They sat in their trundling cab together, thigh to warm thigh and hand in tingling hand, waiting with delicious anticipation for the privacy of their next enclosed journey, and the chance to kiss again.

  And so the bride came blushing into Richmond, where the groom carried her most lovingly and lingeringly over their new threshold, and they greeted all the new servants they’d hired who were standing in line in the hall ready to meet them, and Henry asked Farren, the butler, if everything was arranged as he’d requested, and was assured that it was, and then they walked arm in arm up their old oak staircase and into their newly decorated bedroom with its beautiful view over the darkening river.

  There was warm water waiting in the ewers and scented soap in the dishes and fresh towels on the rails.

  ‘We have plenty of time to wash and change,’ Henry said, with his arm still about her waist. ‘They are not to serve supper until ten o’clock.’

  ‘Then you may kiss me again,’ she said.

  And again and again. All the time, pausing only to shed shoes and stockings, to untie a cravat and remove a waistcoat, to unhook a bodice, step out of skirt and petticoats and remove those fearful stays which were pinching most cruelly.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, flinging them across the nearest chair when the last hook and eye had been released, ‘you don’t know what a lovely thing it is to breathe again.’

  ‘Come to bed,’ he said, catching at her hands as she pirouetted to celebrate her freedom, ‘and you shall breathe as much as you like.’

  ‘Shall you kiss me again?’ she said, allowing him to lead her.

  ‘Oh yes, you lovely, greedy creature. But there are better ways to love you than by mere kisses.’

  ‘Better than kisses?’ she said breathlessly. It brought her heart into her throat even to consider the possibility. His shirt had fallen off one shoulder revealing a chest shadowed with soft dark hair, and below the white cloth of his dishevelled garment his legs were very long and very muscular.

  ‘Much, much better,’ he promised, tumbling backwards onto the bed with his arms held firmly about her lovely yielding waist, so that she fell with him and they rolled over and over among the covers, flesh against flesh, and giggling. ‘Let me show you.’

  So he did.

  And it was.

  Chapter 19

  When the train carrying the bride and groom was finally out of sight, the wedding party left standing on the platform at Bury St Edmunds found themselves at rather a loss. Speeding a departing couple from a railway station was a new experience and quite an exciting one, but afterwards there was nothing left to do except pack up and go home themselves. All the fun and interest seemed to have left with the newly-weds.

  Matilda was the first to make for her carriage, announcing her intention of taking Billy back to their house in Chequer Square at once, and confiding to Nan that he’d had more than enough excitement for one day, and the sooner they went back to their nice quiet summer routine, the healthier he would be. And once the first Easters had left most of the others followed, Annie and James to Rattlesden with their children and grandchildren in a procession of carriages and a cheerful muddle, the groom’s sister Jane and her family to Cumberland, school friends to cabs, college friends to horse, and the Ippark Easters to their country seat after a courtly farewell to Nan.

  ‘I hope you will visit with us in Sussex, Aunt Nan,’ Joseph said, ‘now that we have made one another’s acquaintance at last.’

  ‘Aye,’ Nan said, ‘I will. Depend upon it. Seeing that we’re related all over again, in a manner a’ speaking.’

  The last pair to say goodbye were Mirabelle and Edward.

  ‘You are more than welcome to stay with us for a day or two,’ Nan suggested. She and Frederick Brougham had decided to forego the capital until the weather improved. Neither of them had any desire to be stuck in the stench of London, where, as they all knew only too well, the drains smelt, the river stank, the roads were foul with rotting horse manure, drinking water was in scant supply and evil-tasting, and the slums bred cholera. No, no, much better to stay in Bury. But now that Caroline had gone, the place was suddenly far less attractive and she recognized a real need of other young company to replace her absent favourite. If she could persuade this young woman to remain behind, it would lift the day a little. She was quite the most intelligent of her new relations, and had been telling them all about Mr Dickens’ new novel, which was to be called Dombey and Son and sounded most promising.

  ‘That’s uncommon kind of you,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I’m to visit my cousin in Hertford later in the month, but a day or two here in the country air would be most refreshing.’

  But Edward declined. ‘No, thank ‘ee kindly, Nan,’ he said. ‘There’s work to be done. Pa may rest, but the work don’t. Mirry may stay if she pleases, but I must get back.’

  So Mirabelle stopped at Angel Hill and went to the theatre that evening with Nan and Frederick and Will and Euphemia, and entertained them afterwards with gently malicious gossip about the players. Her company was enlivening, just as Nan had hoped, and that was just as well, because Will and Euphemia were both quiet and cast-down. For a supposedly joyous occasion, Nan thought, this wedding was having a very odd effect upon them.

  The five of them stayed on in Bury together for more than a week, visiting Annie and James at Rattlesden, and Billy and Matilda in Chequer Square, riding every morning and finally attending the Summer Ball at the Athenae
um.

  But on the morning after the ball a letter arrived for Mirabelle, and when she’d read it, she told them that, dearly though she loved their company, she must soon be moving on.

  ‘I promised my cousin in Hertford that I would visit with her this month,’ she explained, ‘and here’s the month more than half gone and her letter forwarded on to remind me.’

  Will was going back to work that morning and seemed relieved to be off on his travels again. There was to be a meeting of Chartists in Nottingham which his new editor, Mr Forster, said was ‘part of something brewing’, and he was to attend it and report on it.

  ‘Perhaps you and Mirabelle could travel part of the way together,’ Nan suggested.

  ‘I mean to take a coach across country to Ely and catch the train to Nottingham from there,’ he said. ‘We could keep company on the coach, I daresay, for the Hertford line runs from Ely too. I don’t fancy London in this heat.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Nan approved. ‘There en’t no sense a-running into trouble. I mean to keep out of the place too, as much as I may. I shall travel down now and then whenever I’m needed. Frederick is a gentleman of leisure, of course, and don’t need to travel anywhere.’

  ‘Except to be with you and run my estate and keep my practice healthy,’ Frederick observed wryly, ‘and that don’t take more than two lives and twelve months in a year.’

  She grinned at that, knowing what a lot of work he put into his legal practice. ‘What shall you do, Pheemy?’ she said.

  ‘I should return to London, I think,’ Euphemia said. ‘Perhaps I could travel down through Hertford with you, Mirabelle?’ And when Mirabelle smiled her agreement, ‘There is so much work to do in Jimmy’s school, and with Caroline married and Matty so near to …’

  The little hesitation was necessary because she couldn’t say that Matty was pregnant, not in front of Will and Mr Brougham. That wouldn’t have been proper.

  ‘Of course,’ Nan said smoothly. ‘She’ll be glad of your company, my dear, especially in this heat. You must persuade her to rest as much as she can. She’s a deal too conscientious for her own good is our Matty.’ The baby was due in September and it was no weather to be carrying in.