I kiss your hands and your forehead.
your very own Sisi
She folded the letter and sealed it. When Festetics came back with the paper, she laughed and said, ‘I didn’t need the extra paper after all, I managed to get it all onto one sheet. But you can take the letter to be posted. And then I insist that you go to bed. You look quite fatigued. Get your rest, Festy, you mustn’t get ill, as I would be simply lost without you.’
The Countess curtsied again and left the room. This time she managed to get all the way to her bedroom, and despite the tensions that the day had brought, she was asleep in minutes.
Holland Park
It was almost dark when the carriage drew up outside the house in Holland Park. Charlotte could see the round turret of the house silhouetted against the dark blue sky, the lights from the narrow windows shining out. At this time of day, the house really did look like an enchanted castle, rising out of the dark forest of the Kensington streets. The whimsical shape was comforting to Charlotte; she felt as though she had reached not just her destination, but a place of refuge.
It had been a long journey. The night before she had stayed up as late as she could in order to catch a moment with Bay on his return from Easton Neston. Sitting in the drawing room after dinner while the gentlemen were at their port had been excruciating. Augusta was barely speaking to her and she had evidently complained about Charlotte to her mother, who had not, as she normally did, asked Charlotte to come and sit next to her by the fire. Even her aunt had been distant; Adelaide Lisle did not approve of Lady Dunwoody, and when Charlotte had told her that she was going to Holland Park the next day, the widow had dabbed her eyes and said plaintively that she had always tried to do her best by Charlotte, even if her best was clearly not good enough. Charlotte had been upset by this, until she reflected that one reason for her aunt’s distress was that, as Charlotte’s companion and chaperone, all her expenses were covered by the trustees of Charlotte’s estate. When Charlotte assured her that she would join her in London after the exhibition, Lady Lisle became noticeably more cordial, since Charlotte’s fortune would be paying for the establishment in Charles Street. Adelaide Lisle lived in fear of the day when Charlotte no longer had need of her services as a chaperone and she would be forced to return to her drafty little house in the Cathedral Close.
Charlotte had sat in the corner of the great Gothic drawing room, pretending to be engrossed in a copy of Punch. She looked up eagerly every time someone came in to the room, hoping against all rational expectation that Bay would come sauntering in and rescue her from social purdah. But by eleven o’clock there was still no sign of him, and when Lady Crewe announced that she was going to bed, Charlotte had no choice but to follow her.
She did not go upstairs at once, though, but lingered as long as she could in the Great Hall, peering closely at one of the pair of Canaletto scenes of the Grand Canal that an earlier Lord Crewe had brought back from the Grand Tour. She stood in front of the the dimly lit scene of boats and churches for a good five minutes until the butler appeared behind her and asked her if she required a candelabra brought up – was there something in particular she wanted to see? Charlotte realised that this was his discreet way of suggesting that the household was winding down for the night and that it was not altogether seemly for a young female guest to be scrutinising pictures in the darkness. She went up the stairs to her bedroom as slowly as she could, pausing almost at each step as if short of breath, but when she got to the gallery at the top and heard the single chime of fifteen minutes past the hour, she knew that she could not linger any more. Much as she wanted to see Bay on his return, the danger of being discovered lying in wait by Augusta or her mother was too great.
But it was vital to see Bay before she left. She had to explain to him why she was going. He could not be left to think that she was running away from him. He must be told that her feelings for him were undiminished.
As an unmarried woman of limited importance Charlotte had been given one of the lesser bedrooms, on the opposite side to the south-facing facade of the house, so she could not even watch at her window for Bay’s return. She would have to send him a message asking him to meet her in the morning. Her train was an early one, but there would still be time for them to see each other before breakfast. She kept the message brief.
I am going to London tomorrow by the morning train. I will be staying with my godmother, Lady Dunwoody. I hope we can meet before I leave. Yours, CB.
She wanted to write something warmer at the end – your very own Charlotte, perhaps – but in a house as big as Melton a letter could so easily be intercepted. Although her ‘understanding’ with Bay was known, they were not formally engaged, and respectable young women did not arrange meetings with young men without a chaperone. Charlotte wondered how she could get the note to Bay. She was reluctant to trust a servant with it, but as his room was in the bachelor wing on the other side of the house, she could not deliver it to his door herself.
She tugged the bell pull and waited for what seemed like an age, until Grace, the pretty maid who had done her hair the night before, arrived, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She had clearly been in bed because her dress was half-unbuttoned and her hair was hanging down her back.
‘I am sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I wonder if you could deliver this note to Captain Middleton.’
The maid stared at her.
‘You see, I am going to London tomorrow by the early train, and I am most anxious to speak to him before I go.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I am sorry, miss, but I am not allowed to go over to the bachelors’ wing at night. If I was found out I would lose my position.’
Charlotte said, ‘Can you give it to someone else? One of the footmen? It’s very important.’
Grace seemed to consider this, and Charlotte realised that she was waiting for something.
‘I am happy to give you something for your trouble.’ She looked around for her reticule and took out a guinea; it was too much, she knew – she was giving herself away.
The girl’s eyes widened when she saw the coin Charlotte was holding out to her.
‘I’ll see if I can find the hall boy, miss. He will be doing the gentlemen’s boots now. It will be no trouble for him to give it to the Captain.’
‘Is he reliable, the boy?’
‘I would say so, miss.’ But her glance flicked over to the reticule.
Charlotte took out another coin, a sixpence, and said, ‘Give this to him, it’s very important that Captain Middleton receives the letter.’ The maid put the note and the coins in her pocket.
‘You see, I don’t want to leave Melton without saying goodbye to him.’
Charlotte said this as much to herself as to Grace, but the maid smiled and said, ‘I understand, miss. He’s a fine gentleman. I wouldn’t want to leave him either without saying goodbye.’
Still smiling, she left the room, and Charlotte threw herself on the bed, her face burning. She had always been proud of the fact she was the one who observed other people’s behaviour, but now she was turning into one of those people that the servants gossiped about. She was glad that she had made the decision to leave.
In the morning Charlotte was up and dressed by seven. The Great Hall was grey in the morning light and smelt of woodsmoke. It was empty apart from a maid in a brown holland apron who was cleaning out the vast fireplace. Charlotte went into the breakfast room, where the footmen were setting out chafing dishes of eggs and bacon, devilled kidneys, and kedgeree. Lord Crewe was sitting at one end of the table reading The Times. The rule at Melton was no conversation at breakfast; everyone ate and drank as if wrapped in individual membranes like eggs. Charlotte drank tea and ate a piece of toast while Lord Crewe dismembered a kipper with lip-smacking thoroughness. One by one the other members of the house party drifted in: only married ladies were allowed the luxury of breakfasting in their rooms. Charlotte had sat with her back to the window so she could see who came in,
and she could not help but raise her head every time the door opened. But there was no sign of Bay. She heard the stable clock strike eight o’clock. It was time for her to get ready for the train.
She was standing in the hall in her bonnet waiting for the carriage to be brought round when she felt a light touch on her shoulder. She wheeled around in expectation, only to see the florid face and ginger whiskers of Chicken Hartopp.
‘I am so glad I caught you, Miss Baird. Fred told me last night that you were leaving this morning. I didn’t want you to leave without saying goodbye.’ Hartopp took one of Charlotte’s small gloved hands in his huge paw and squeezed it. ‘Melton won’t be the same without you, y’know. Very much hope I may call upon you in town.’
Hartopp gave her a look that she knew was intended to convey just how much he would miss her.
‘Well, I am sorry to be leaving Melton, but my godmother says she really cannot manage without me. The Queen is to open the exhibition, you see, and apparently my presence is essential.’ She retrieved her hand. ‘Perhaps you would do me a favour, Captain Hartopp. Can you say goodbye to Captain Middleton for me? I was hoping to see him this morning, but I am running out of time.’
Hartopp nodded his great head. ‘He must have had a very late night with the Empress. My room is next to his and he wasn’t back when I retired for the night. Found the poor wretch of a hall boy asleep outside in the passage on account of having to deliver a message to Middleton. Sent him to bed and told him I would give it to him myself.’
Charlotte felt herself blushing. ‘I am afraid the message was from me. You see, I didn’t have a chance to tell him I was going away.’
‘Haven’t seen Middleton myself to talk to in days. Now that he is the confidant of royalty he’s got no time for us less exalted beings.’ Hartopp was smiling but Charlotte noticed the edge in his voice.
‘Being the Empress’s pilot is a great honour. I dare say it is very demanding.’ Charlotte held out the challenge.
Hartopp tugged at his whiskers. Charlotte thought that rarely had she seen someone thinking so visibly. She fancied she could see his brain bulging with the effort. But his ruminations were interrupted by Fred, who came strolling down the stairs.
‘So you are really off then, Mitten? Augusta is not happy with you, you know. Thinks you are deserting her in her hour of need. Wants me to forbid you to go, but I told her it was no use. I know how much you enjoy hobnobbing with Lady Dunwoody and her aesthetic cronies. Almost as much Middleton enjoys rubbing shoulders with royalty, eh Hartopp?’
‘He ’s quite the courtier. He’ll be wearing silk stockings and knee breeches next,’ said Hartopp. Both men laughed.
Charlotte did not join in. She saw that the carriage had drawn up outside the door and that the maid who was to chaperone her on the journey back to London was already sitting inside.
‘I am sure you will find a way of mollifying Augusta, Fred. Goodbye, Captain Hartopp.’
She walked down the steps to the carriage, where a footman was holding the door open for her. As she climbed into the back beside the maid, she looked back at the house to where Fred and Hartopp were standing. As the carriage set off down the drive, she saw Bay come out of the house and stand between them. Hartopp said something to him and all three men laughed.
Charlotte had tried not to think about that laugh on the train to London. She did not want to see the three men standing loose and complicit on the steps. She did not want to calculate exactly when Bay had learnt that she was leaving, nor to speculate what Fred and Hartopp had said to him to stop him running down the steps to say goodbye. Had Hartopp told him about the note? Or had they been laughing about something quite different, some morsel from the night before? Whatever it had been, Charlotte felt the injustice of that laughter, and it burned at the back of her throat all day. As the carriage had drawn up outside Melton Halt, she had found herself reluctant to take the hand of the coachman waiting to hand her down; she had almost said, ‘I do believe that I have changed my mind, please take me back to the house,’ but somehow the words would not come. She had walked out onto the platform, half expecting another tap on the shoulder, and to turn round and see not the whiskery Hartopp but Bay. But no one had come. She had boarded the train, choosing a window seat, just in case Bay should make a last-minute appearance, but as the guard blew his whistle and the engine started, there was no sign of him. When the train pulled into St Albans thirty minutes later, Charlotte realised that she had a crick in her neck from looking backwards.
* * *
Just as the hansom cab stopped and Charlotte got out, the door to Lady Dunwoody’s house flew open and a man came out walking backwards down the front steps as he called out his goodbyes to his hostess. In his haste he missed the bottom step and he fell backwards into Charlotte’s unsuspecting arms. He was very tall and smelt of limes and tobacco. He was also heavy and Charlotte was almost winded by the weight of him.
‘Oh my. What a situation.’ The man, who was young and had an accent that Charlotte thought might be American, righted himself and turned to face her. He was wearing a cloak made out of a dark red velvet and a kind of soft hat that Charlotte had before now only seen in cartoons in Punch.
‘Now that we have embraced, perhaps we don’t need a more formal introduction. But if we are to start as we mean to go on, perhaps I should tell you my Christian name, which is Caspar, although you can call me Dearest if that’s too formal.’
Charlotte found herself smiling. Caspar had a wide, freckled face and he beamed at her as if meeting her was the most delightful thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life.
‘My name is Charlotte Baird, I am Lady Dunwoody’s god-daughter.’ She held out her hand and Caspar took it.
‘It’s an honour to meet you, Charlotte Baird,’ Caspar said. ‘Lady D talks about you all the time. You are the photographic paragon, her proudest creation. She showed me some of your plates. If we weren’t practically engaged I would be quite jealous. But now that we are almost as one flesh, I am prepared to make allowance for your talents; in fact I think we will be quite a formidable team. We will take New York by storm, Charlotte Baird.’
‘But would I ever get a chance to speak, Mr…?’
‘Hewes!’ Lady Dunwoody, who was standing in the doorway, broke in. ‘Leave Charlotte alone, she will be exhausted after her journey and in no mood to deal with your nonsense.’ She came down the steps and kissed Charlotte on the cheek. ‘I am so happy to see you, my dear. Mr Hewes is very skilful in the dark room but he is so talkative!’
Caspar Hewes was not abashed. ‘Oh Lady D, you may want to work in silence, but I fancy that Charlotte Baird is a conversationalist. For the dark room is not a tomb but a confessional. I think that as we labour side by side pulling out plates hither and thither, there will be chatter, there may even be confidences. Am I right?’ He finished his speech by making Charlotte an extravagant bow.
‘I think, Mr Hewes, that you will talk and I will listen, but I think that we will both be content.’ Charlotte put her hand to her cheek, suddenly aware that there might be a smut from the train on her cheek.
‘Only content? Oh Charlotte, Charlotte, what a decorous English word. You may be content but as a vulgar American I will be irradiated with happiness.’
‘That’s quite enough, Caspar,’ Lady Dunwoody interrupted. ‘Go back to wherever it is you live and we will see you in the morning. Miss Baird is not used to Americans.’
‘I am not Americans, Lady D. You must not prejudice your divine goddaughter against my race. I am Caspar Hewes, late of San Francisco, California and now resident at twenty-one, Tite Street. You could travel the breadth of my fair country and never come across someone quite like me.’
‘Well, that is a relief. Now do go home, won’t you, or I shall be forced to shut the door in your face.’ Lady Dunwoody led Charlotte up the stairs, leaving the maid to navigate the trunks and boxes.
‘Very well, I will accept my banishment. Goodni
ght, Charlotte Baird, I look forward to entering the darkness with you tomorrow.’ Caspar drew the claret folds of his cape around him and walked off down the dark street, his voluminous silhouette fading in and out of the yellow gaslights. Charlotte turned to go into the house.
‘Such a particular young man,’ said Lady Dunwoody. ‘Talented, but so unpredictable. I never know what he is going to say or do from one moment to the next. Perhaps that is an American thing.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He came to one of my Thursdays. I noticed him at once, of course – he looks like a heron in my drawing room – and of course, his ridiculous clothes.’ Celia Dunwoody was wearing a red kimono. Charlotte had seen pictures of Japanese geishas wearing this garment, but it looked rather different on Lady Dunwoody, who was tall and barrel-shaped. The kimono, which had clearly been made for a shorter person, ended mid-calf, revealing a rather un-Oriental expanse of buttoned boot. But Lady Dunwoody was not someone who was defeated by detail. She continued talking at rather than to Charlotte in her loud voice, which swooped up and down the octaves like a parrot.
‘I assumed that he was one of Violet’s aesthetes – you know how she likes to go about with a brace of poets – but then he announces that he is Caspar Hewes of San Francisco and that he has travelled five thousand miles because he wants to see a great photographer at work. Since then he has practically lived here, holding things, making suggestions. He is always saying, “Have you thought about doing it this way?” I don’t think I have ever met anyone who asked so many questions.’
Lady Dunwoody swept Charlotte through the hall into her drawing room. ‘But enough of Mr Hewes. You must take off your bonnet and I shall ring for some tea. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. There is so much to be done.’
* * *
That night as Charlotte went upstairs to her room in the turret, she wondered why her godmother had not mentioned Caspar Hewes in her letter. From the work she had seen in Lady Dunwoody’s studio, he seemed more than capable of assisting her with the exhibition; if anything he was more skilful than she was. And yet Lady Dunwoody had been so very urgent that she should come.
The Fortune Hunter Page 18
