by Vicky Adin
Megan was thankful they had tried to help the man but for the first time understood just what impact Constance had really had on people in this small village.
James finished apologising to the crowd and had restored some equilibrium before he invited Megan back to the microphone. Her hands shook, but she hoped her nervousness would not sound in her voice. She cleared her throat.
“Thank you for your patience. As I started to say, it has been my great honour to be part of your community for nearly three months, and I have learnt much about your benefactor – both good and bad, it seems.” A chuckle from the crowd gave her encouragement. “Constance’s older sister Isabel was my great-grandmother. She has left me her own legacy in the form of a journal about her life, which I will treasure always.”
A ripple of conversation ran through the crowd as everyone took in her words. She really was one of them.
“But today is about Constance. In her memory, I would like to gift this garden to the people of the trust so those to come in the future will also remember Constance and the Trevallyan family.”
Polite applause followed, and another murmur spread through the crowd.
On Megan’s nod, Kitto and his team lifted back the covering to reveal a Cornish knot garden. The idea had come to her during a trip to the Torpoint area bordering Devon when she visited Antony House. The knot garden had been magnificent and reminded her of the one she had seen gracing the area in front of the stately railway station in Dunedin a long time ago. To her, it seemed a fitting link between the two countries.
The applause escalated.
Stepping back to allow Tristan to take the microphone, Megan was quickly surrounded by those on the steps who all began talking at once. Jessica pushed her way through to join them, while the photographer pranced around the crowd clicking the camera from every angle.
Tristan put his hand up for quiet. “As chair of the Trevennick Hall Trust, I thank Megan for her generous gift and for making today special. Constance could not have wished for anything better – a symbol of life with no beginning and no end – like her legacy. Her ashes have been placed within the garden alongside a suitably engraved plaque.
“I’ll now ask Megan to lay her wreath and Father Andrew to bless the site. You are invited to pay your respects. There are camellia flowers to throw if you wish.”
After laying the wreath, Megan stood to one side to let others pass and acknowledged as many people as possible. Many said thanks or sorry, some just nodded. Once most of the group had finished paying homage, Tristan addressed them again.
“There is one more part to Megan’s bequest. You may have noticed, on your way here, some realignment of the driveway and new markers down either side. Each marker has a family name on it. These markers represent where a new tree will be planted to form an avenue of flowering shrubs all the way from the top of the drive to this garden. Camellias have been chosen so in time there will be a continuous showing of red blooms throughout the year.”
More applause followed while people commented on the news, forcing Tristan to interrupt again. “I would now ask a representative of each of the families to join me, along with Kitto and his team, to officially plant the first of these trees. Afternoon tea will now be served in the reception rooms, and the gardeners will plant the remaining trees later.”
A weak ray of sunshine broke through the clouds just as he finished speaking. “It seems there’s a touch of spring in the air, so let’s celebrate.”
While Tristan, the delegated family members, the workers and the photographer went to do the ceremonial planting, the remaining crowd swarmed into the reception area, spreading through to the lounges. They were met with a large team of wait staff carrying refreshments and finger foods. For those who normally did the serving, this was indeed a treat.
By four o’clock, as per the invitation, the crowd were bidding their farewells.
“Phew,” said Jenna. “Well, that part’s over. I thought it went well, didn’t you?”
“Brilliantly,” agreed Tristan. “And you played your part very well, Mrs Marsh,” giving her a mock bow.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. I am honoured.” Megan curtsied, making them all laugh. “Except, I still feel sorry for Mr Nankivill. Isn’t there something we can do?”
“There are some people you can’t help, Megan.” Tristan’s tone changed. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interfere.” He was polite but emphatic. “You’re a visitor here, and we don’t expect you to understand village politics, but it’s not your problem. Nor is it your responsibility.”
Left in no doubt where she stood, Megan didn’t quite know what to say next.
Jenna broke the silence. “Time to get changed, I think. See you back here at seven.”
* * * * *
In honour of the evening, Megan had a replica made of the gown Constance wore in the painting in the library. Now, dressed in this 1920s glamour, she felt unsure, wondering if she was doing the right thing. They would all recognise the gown, but would they think it an insult or a compliment? It was meant as a tribute; she hoped everyone would appreciate her intention.
As she descended the stairs, she could hear the string quartet tuning up in the ballroom. The floral displays left a heady fragrance as she moved through each room trying to memorise every piece of furniture and every painting. On entering the ballroom, she was met by Jenna, Tristan and Lowenna.
“Wow, don’t you look stunning!” said Jenna.
“I love it,” echoed Lowenna. “It’s the same as the one in the painting, isn’t it?”
Tristan kissed her hand, his demeanour restored. Megan felt privileged to know these warm, generous people who had so willingly accepted her – up to a point. Everything could have turned out very differently.
“Thank you. And you all look very glamorous too.”
Lowenna poured champagne for each of them. Raising her own glass, she offered a toast. “To Constance Trevallyan and the people of Trevennick Hall.”
All too soon Tristan reminded them their guests would be arriving any minute so they had better form the welcoming committee. Whilst the idea of an evening soirée was Megan’s idea, Jenna and Tristan had insisted on it being a formal affair, with formal invitations and attire. The option of wearing period costume from an era of choice had worked in Megan’s favour.
The Hall was set up similar to the Edwardian house parties of old where music, charades, bridge and baccarat would be played during the evening. Every light was on, numerous candles decorated the tables, mantelpieces and window nooks, and the woodwork gleamed in their golden glow. The place looked impressive yet welcoming.
Right on time, the guests started appearing. James and Jessica were among the first group, along with Mabel and Hugh.
“You look lovely, Megan,” flattered James.
“Wouldn’t ’ave missed it for the world, lovey,” said Mabel, tugging at Hugh’s arm as she pushed past them and happily took a glass of refreshment from the trays held by the staff.
Groups soon formed, and Megan was introduced to many people she didn’t know as she welcomed others she’d already met. The string quartet played in the background, setting the mood, and everyone was most complimentary.
When the last of the guests had arrived and the doors shut, Megan and the others mingled while the canapés and drinks were discreetly offered. The atmosphere was buoyant, and laughter often rang out from one group or another. Some of the older people had taken seats at the card tables. Megan could see several hands of whist and a rubber of bridge. Two men were in the midst of a game of chess, but mostly people were happy to gossip, admire the decor and listen to the music.
At nine o’clock, Tristan called everyone into the ballroom where seats had been set out. After a few short introductions and words of thanks to everyone for attending, he invited James Boscowan to take the podium.
“There is one last thing we would like to do,” he announced in his rich, deep voice. “Megan has informe
d us she will be leaving here in a couple of days. She plans to follow the quest that brought her to us in the first place – that of pursuing Isabel throughout her journey to New Zealand. We wish her well in her venture and hope she finds what she seeks.”
Soft murmurs followed his announcement, whether in surprise or relief at her leaving, Megan wasn’t sure. Some people were still antagonistic towards her even while they enjoyed her hospitality.
“I’d now like to invite Megan to join me.”
Surprised at the unexpected turn of events, Megan made her way to the podium. Jenna and Lowenna followed.
“As a farewell gift from the greater Trevallyan family – and I use the term in its broadest sense –” James explained, “please accept this token of our friendship and appreciation.”
Lowenna hugged Megan as she handed over a small parcel.
“For all you folk who can’t see what it is,” boomed James while Megan unwrapped it, “this necklace and earrings are a Cornish knot design, to match the garden she dedicated today. They are made from ancient tin taken from the Trevallyan mine and set with a small diamond.
“And now to our next presentation,” James continued, silencing the comments as he warmed to his role. “Megan admired one of the paintings from the collection in this house. Thought to be of Isabel and Constance when they were young, Megan offered to buy it. The combined trust and board have decided to gift it to Megan, in the hope that one day she may return to us.”
Spontaneous applause broke out as Jenna handed Megan the painting. Flabbergasted that the board would let her have it at all, let alone gift it to her, she was humbled by her reception. Her friends had worked hard on her behalf.
“Thank you,” she mouthed to the crowd but was too choked up to say any more.
“That’s the end of the formal part, everyone,” announced Tristan, stepping up to the microphone. “Let the dancing begin!”
Isabel’s Journal
27 November 1910 – Paris
At last, Paris, the city I have heard so much about, the city of youth and excitement. It seems nothing is impossible here. Everywhere I look, I see so many modern things. Mother would be shocked with the fashions, the length of the skirts, and the lack of corsets. Rather forward, but so much fun. I like the new Empire line by a designer called Poiret.
I want to go everywhere and see everything! There are so many automobiles and funny little two-wheel thingies, like motorised bicycles with fat tyres. In the streets, one has to be careful where one walks but they are able to dart around the traffic very efficiently.
I must also buy a few new hats, as I’m seeing feathers everywhere on people with obvious style and class, and a fur to wrap around my shoulders. They look very elegant. There is so much to see!!!
Chapter 19
Megan’s Diary
13 February 2011
At last, my search for Isabel starts in earnest. I’m in Paris and as excited as she must have been. Isabel spent a lot of time going to house parties, which I won’t be able to do, but there is still the theatre and the cabarets, Montmartre, the artists’ quarter, and the galleries. I’m not sure what I would have thought back then.
Some of the artwork of the time just doesn’t appeal, looking very tortured and unrealistic, but I like the early Impressionists. La Belle Époque – the beautiful era – is my favourite. French imperialism was at its height, and life for the wealthy was full of optimism. It wasn’t so good for the poor and peasant underclass, I admit, but it was full of new opportunities. The whole period was about new ideas – new artists, new styles and new designs, about haute couture and haute cuisine.
It must have been exciting to be in Paris – the city of love and romance and the epitome of glamour. No wonder it has enchanted people for centuries, including me. I can’t wait.
Eager to fulfil the choices ahead of her, Megan stood in the Champ de Mars beneath the Eiffel Tower, just as Isabel and Mrs Baragwanath had, a century earlier. Tilting her head back, she looked high into the blue sky of an out-of-the-box winter’s day. She tried to imagine what the two women would have thought about it in their day. It must have seemed like science fiction to them.
Isabel had written a few impressions of the famous tower but often only listed the places they’d visited. One entry ran, ‘Today, we went to Notre Dame. We had morning tea in a cute little tea shop. I rested in the afternoon before dressing.’ Not a single word about where they stayed, how she got anywhere, the weather, or what she thought of the cathedral! She spent more time describing what she wore to the evening house parties, balls, the theatre or cabarets than to what she saw during the day.
Thinking back to when she had been eighteen, Megan admitted that endless monuments to dead people would not have thrilled her either. For the fashionable Isabel, Paris must have seemed wonderful. A city that offered fulfilment for her interest in art, fashion and having a good time. Life then was all about freedom, modernity and experimentation.
Megan had booked an apartment hotel for a month and planned to explore Paris the way Isabel had described, by choosing random pages from the journal.
Isabel’s Journal
11 December 1910
Mrs B is putting a damper on everything. We are not to go to the Folies Bergère or the Moulin Rouge as those places are considered below our class even though I’ve seen the posters and read the reviews. Pity. They look such fun with lots of music and dancing.
We may visit the Ritz and Maxim’s - Paris’s newest and best restaurant - she says, if I behave myself. How insulting. I have a mind not to go – just to be difficult. But that would be silly, as only I would miss out.
So far, we have mostly visited monuments and buildings: Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe, the Panthéon, the Palais-Royal, the Tomb of Napoleon, the Conciergerie ... The list is endless and much of it wearisome.
The Eiffel Tower, I admit, is impressive in its height, but it was only built as a temporary entrance for the 1889 World’s Fair and was due to be dismantled last year. It’s very odd, if you ask me. It looks temporary with all that open fretwork but I’m told the radio mast at the top, which helps guide the aeroplanes, saved it. I don’t really care. Neither do I care that the River Seine flooded earlier this year. What is everyone so bothered about?
This evening, on our way to the theatre, we are to witness the latest invention, a neon lighting display. I wonder what I should wear. It is cold, so I will need my new cloak with the fur-trimmed hood and my new gloves. And tomorrow we will walk Rue Saint-Honoré, the street in Paris to be seen, and the home of every fashion house of note. That sounds far more interesting.
Megan had been to Paris before, with Tony. Now that she was here and looking forward to reliving Isabel’s time, she hoped she wouldn’t ‘see’ him at every turn. The city was busy and lively. Despite the late winter chill, Megan found it easier to share in the everyday lifestyle of Parisians without the tourist throngs of summer. Going to the markets to buy fresh food to take back to her little kitchenette was something she particularly enjoyed. So, too, did she enjoy riding the Metro, sipping coffee on the sidewalk and strolling the most famous streets as she visited gardens and admired the statues.
Every day she ventured out to soak up the atmosphere and rediscover sculptures and paintings so numerous, so alluring and so famous it was impossible to choose between them. Montmartre was exactly as she remembered – and as Isabel described. She bought a painting and had it shipped home. She read snippets of information from the guidebook and admired the architecture and beautiful stained-glass windows of yet another great monument to Paris’s historical past.
One afternoon, relaxing in the relative quiet of the garden at Rodin’s museum, she listened to the muffled cacophony of horns amid the roar of traffic in the not-so-distant distance. How different it must be from the slow-paced clip-clop of hooves on cobbles and jingle of harnesses of a century ago.
To begin with she’d been glad Isabel’s journal had brought her to these pl
aces. After all, no one could look at Rodin’s bronze and marble sculpture, The thinker – beautiful, elegant, rugged, every muscle shown in detail – and not be captivated, but as time passed she seemed less sure.
At one time, she had looked forward to the French nightlife Isabel had written about – the food, the wines and the music, to see if they were anything like they were when Isabel experienced them, but by day’s end she was drained. Unable to convince herself to go out again and dine alone, she preferred to cook something simple and sit in her apartment reading and writing.
Although thoughts of Tony had not intruded the way she first feared, so far she hadn’t felt the elation she had expected either. Reliving history through Isabel’s eyes must make it seem more important, more authentic, mustn’t it?
Isabel’s Journal
12 December 1910 – Paris
I’ve been on the Metro, an underground rail system that takes you to different parts of the city! I’m not at all sure I liked being underground, but it is a fast and easy way of getting about. We took the Metro when we visited Sacré Coeur, the basilica being built on the Montmartre hill above the city. The views are breathtaking and the building, once finished, will be a fine edifice indeed.
What interested me most were the artists in the streets behind the basilica. I love seeing them at work. To see them create a picture on a blank canvas, that looks just like what I can see, is inspiring. The more modern works – Impressionism, I’m told they call it – where the viewer must discern their own story, I find very exciting. I cannot understand some of the newer styles – cubism and art nouveau and the ones that look like daubs of paint splashed everywhere – mean nothing.
I would like to talk at length to the artists about their thinking. How do they do it? I doubt Mrs B will give permission, but I will try.
