Voices in a Haunted Room

by Philippa Carr

  “It is unwise to make such vows, Claudine.”

  I stood up and he was beside me.

  “What a beautiful day,” he said. “The river, the quiet of the countryside… and you alone here with me.”

  “Let us go back,” I said.

  We rode back and when we reached the City the crowds were still in the streets.

  There were one or two servants in the house. They told us that they were having time free in the evening when the others returned.

  It was about five o’clock.

  Jonathan said: “As you have no desire to remain in the house, I suggest we go out again. In an hour, eh? We’ll get a boat and I’ll row you down the river… or up if you prefer. You shall decide.”

  I was so happy and the day was not yet over. I wanted so much to be with him. I believed I enjoyed the battle within myself and I was gratified because I was sure of my ability to win.

  “Change into something, not too elaborate,” he said. “We don’t want to attract the attention of rogues and pickpockets. We’ll look like a merchant and his wife out to enjoy all the fun.”

  It must have been about six o’clock when we left the house. The river was even more crowded and the taverns overflowing. Jonathan put his arm through mine protectively and held me close against him as we made our way down to the river’s edge, where he hired a boat.

  There were a lot of craft on the river and. Jonathan said we must get away from the crowds. It was not easy but Jonathan was determined, and as most people did not want to stray too far from the centre of the town where all the fun was, in due course we found ourselves passing through Kew on the way to Richmond.

  There was magic in the evening, or perhaps I felt that because Jonathan was beside me. He managed the boat with easy skill. I trailed my hand in the water and thought: I’m happy. I want this to go on and on. There was no harm in being happy, was there?

  “This is pleasant isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “You look contented. I like to see you thus. This has been a wonderful day for me, Claudine.”

  “I have enjoyed it very much.”

  “And do you feel you know me a little better now?”

  “Yes. I think perhaps I do.”

  “And do I improve on closer acquaintance?”

  I was silent.

  “Do I?” he insisted.

  “I could never think as you do, Jonathan. I could not take such a view of life.”

  “So you would suffer agonies of remorse when there is no need to.”

  “Oh, Jonathan, as I see it, there is every need to.”

  “One of these days I will make you see from my point of view.”

  “It is too late,” I told him. “I married David and you are going to marry Millicent. Let your consolation—if consolation you need—be that her father’s financial interests will make very sturdy bricks in that great family edifice which it is so important to build. If you had married me, I should have brought you nothing. Think what you would have missed!”

  “David would have had Millicent then.”

  “David… Millicent. Oh no!”

  “I agree he would have been no match for her. Accept life, Claudine. He takes you. I take Millicent. But you and I are caught in love, and if in life one cannot have everything one wants, at least one can take what one can get.”

  “I had never before considered how magnanimous it was of your father to agree to the marriage of one of his sons to a penniless girl.”

  “The circumstances were unusual. There was your mother’s influence and you were no ordinary penniless girl. As long as one of us took Millicent, the other could have you.”

  “I cannot believe it was worked out like that.”

  “Not so plainly. These matters are arranged by gentle suggestions. But they are nonetheless firm for all that. But why waste this evening on such sordid matters? Do you like it here, Claudine? The stars will be coming out soon. I know of a very pleasant inn near the Richmond towpath.”

  “How knowledgeable you are about the inns of the country!”

  “It is quite an art to know where to eat well.”

  “More friends of yours?”

  “All innkeepers are friends of mine. Yes, I am right. There is the first star. Venus, I think. See how bright she is. The star of love.”

  “It could well be Mars,” I told him.

  “Oh Claudine, why did you do this? What fun we could have had, you and I together. Your miserable conscience could have gone slumbering on.”

  “You promised not to talk of it,” I said.

  “So I did… and I think the inn is just along here. There. You can see the lights. I’ll pull in at the privy steps and tie up the boat.”

  He lifted me out and held me for a few seconds, smiling up at me. Then he took my hand and we went into the riverside inn. There were several people there and ale was being served which the people were drinking while they ate the whitebait, which was a speciality of the inn.

  I was amazed to see how easily Jonathan fitted in with this kind of company. We sat at one of the tables, drank mild ale, and ate the fish which was brought to us.

  “There,” he said. “You have never done this before.”

  “Never,” I agreed.

  “Enjoying it?”

  “Very much.”

  “Is it the venue or the company? Come, Claudine, you can be honest.”

  I said: “I think perhaps it is both.”

  He speared a whitebait on the prong of his fork.

  “Delicious,” he said. “Small but none the worse for that, eh? No wonder whitebait is becoming more and more popular.”

  Someone started to sing. The singer had a good tenor voice but his song was one which could be called controversial on a day such as this. I knew it well, as most people did. It had been written by a Yorkshire man, William Upton, about his lady love; but it fitted another couple so well that this was the very reason why it had become so popular.

  The Richmond Hill in the song might be that Richmond in Yorkshire, but there was also a Richmond near London and Mrs. Fitzherbert had lived at Marble Hill close by; moreover there was a rumour that she and the Prince had met on the towpath at Richmond. So that song had become popular throughout the country—made so by the Prince’s romance, without which Mr. Upton’s song would have gone unnoticed.

  On Richmond Hill there lives a lass

  More bright than May day morn,

  Whose charms all other maids’ surpass

  A rose without a thorn.

  This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet

  Has won my right good will.

  I’d crowns resign to call thee mine

  Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

  The last lines were particularly apt because there had been a time when the Prince of Wales had considered, some said, resigning his crown for the sake of Maria Fitzherbert. However, all that was past now; he had repudiated Maria, and if his new wife was Caroline of Brunswick, his mistress was Lady Jersey.

  Some joined in the chorus, but there were some who refrained from doing so and showed more than a little repugnance.

  Then one man rose, and taking the singer by the lapel of his coat with one hand, shouted: “It is an insult to the monarchy.” At which he threw the wine from his half-filled tankard into the face of the singer.

  There was a scuffle and it seemed that the company was taking sides.

  Jonathan seized my arm and hustled me through the crowd.

  When we were outside he said: “We’ll leave the royalists and the republicans to settle their score.”

  “Do you think it was really serious?” I asked. “I should like to have stayed to see what happened.”

  “They’ve drunk too much.”

  “The singer had a pleasant voice and I am sure he meant no harm.”

  “He chose the wrong song at a time like this. People are looking for trouble. They are seizing opportunities to declaim against the
monarchy. To sing of the Prince’s amours on his wedding day was lese majesty in the eyes of some… or it may be that the gentleman made his graceful gesture of aiming his drink into the other’s face merely to start trouble. I’m sorry for the innkeeper; he’s a good man and keeps a respectable house.”

  We could hear the shouts coming through the night air.

  “Here’s the boat,” said Jonathan.

  “You got out very quickly.”

  “I recognized the signs and I have a precious charge. I assured your mother that I would look after you, and I would not let you run the slightest risk.”

  He had taken the oars and we slid away from the bank. I looked back at the inn. Some of the people had come outside and were shouting at each other.

  “I was enjoying the whitebait,” I said.

  “I was enjoying the company… and as long as I still have that, little fishes do not concern me. There will be many a little contretemps before the night is out, you can be sure.”

  It was dark now. I looked up at the stars and then at the bushes on the bank. I was happy. Jonathan started to sing. He had a strong tenor voice which was attractive, and the song he sang was full of a haunting beauty.

  Drink to me only with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine;

  Or leave a kiss but in the cup

  And I’ll not look for wine.

  The thirst that from the soul doth rise

  Doth ask a drink divine:

  But might I of Jove’s nectar sip

  I would not change for thine.

  And as I sat back in that boat and looked at his face in the starlight and listened to the rise and fall of his voice and the beautiful words which Ben Jonson had written to a certain Celia, I knew that I loved him and that nothing… my marriage… his marriage… could alter that.

  I think he knew it too, and that, in his way, he loved me. We were both silent until we came to Westminster Stairs and we left the boat and walked home through the streets.

  There was still revelry; people were singing and some danced and many were drunk. Jonathan showed a tender concern for me and I felt very safe, secure and happy.

  When we reached the house, my mother and Dickon had returned. They were seated in the small sitting room before a fire.

  “Oh, I’m glad you’ve come,” said my mother. “We were getting quite concerned, weren’t we, Dickon?”

  Dickon answered: “You were. I knew Jonathan would take good care of Claudine.”

  “What a day!” said my mother. “Are you tired? Are you hungry?”

  “Not tired. We’ve been on the river and we came away when a brawl started.”

  “Wise,” commented Dickon. “There’ll be plenty of brawls tonight, I can tell you.”

  “Why does a day of rejoicing always have to end up in fighting?” I asked my mother.

  “Put it down to strong drink and human nature,” said Dickon.

  He poured out wine and gave it to us.

  “Our whitebait supper was interrupted,” I said.

  “That was very unfortunate,” said my mother. “Well, you both look as if you have enjoyed the day.”

  “We did,” I told her.

  “We rode to the Dog and Whistle at Greenwich and then afterwards went by boat to Richmond.”

  “You kept away from all the fuss.”

  “That was the idea,” said Jonathan.

  “But you are the ones who have been right in the centre,” I added. “Do tell us what happened.”

  “It was rather sad,” said my mother. “I was so sorry for the Princess. She is so gauche and so plain, and you know the Prince’s taste for things exquisite.”

  “It must be awful to be forced into marriage,” I said.

  “The penalty of royalty,” commented Dickon. “The Prince likes all that goes with his royal state. All right. That’s fine. But he has to pay for it.”

  “Everything has to be paid for in this world,” said my mother.

  Jonathan disagreed. “Sometimes it can be avoided,” he said. “After all, some kings have had brides whom they have loved deeply. They had the right woman and the royalty too.”

  “Life is not always very fair,” I added.

  “As for the Prince,” went on Jonathan, “it’s only a momentary discomfort. This marriage is not going to make much difference to his way of life. He just has the inconvenience of spending a few nights with his bride, and once she becomes pregnant he can be off.”

  “He did seem very put out though, didn’t he, Dickon?” said my mother. “I am sure the two dukes who walked beside him were holding him up because he had been drinking so much that he was unsteady.”

  “There was a moment when I thought he was going to refuse to go ahead with it,” said Dickon.

  “Oh yes,” continued my mother. “The King must have felt sure of it because at one point he stood up and whispered something to the Prince. It was quite conspicuous, for the pair were kneeling before the Archbishop at the time and the Prince had actually got to his feet.”

  “He must have been very drunk,” said Dickon.

  “I believe he was. But at one point I really did wonder what was going to happen. I was quite relieved when it was over. The music was lovely, the choir sang:

  For blessed are they that fear the Lord.

  Oh well is thee! Oh well is thee!

  How happy shalt thou be.

  But it was rather unfortunate to talk about happiness, for both the bride and groom showed clearly that that was the last thing they were feeling. And then the chorus of ‘Happy, happy shalt thou be’ sounded a little hollow.”

  “Well, you have had the satisfaction of being present at a historic occasion,” I reminded her.

  “I shall never forget it. I particularly noticed Lady Jersey. She seemed more contented than anyone.”

  “She was afraid the Prince might have a beautiful bride with whom he would fall in love,” said Dickon.

  “Temporarily, of course,” added Jonathan. “His amours are generally transient. But a lady of uncertain age like Madam Jersey cannot afford even little interruptions.”

  “It is a great pity he left Maria,” said my mother. “She was so good for him and I think he truly loved her.”

  “He couldn’t have done or he wouldn’t have repudiated her,” I put in sharply.

  “Imagine the pressure,” said my mother. “I don’t think he has ever been happy since they parted.”

  “Don’t waste your sentiment on HRH,” said Dickon. “I think he is quite capable of taking care of himself.”

  “Well, he didn’t seem so today,” said my mother. “Tell us about the Dog and Whistle.”

  We sat there talking desultorily and sleepily but none of us wanted the day to end. The candles guttered and some of them went out but no one thought of replacing them. It was very pleasant, very intimate. There were long silences which no one seemed to notice. I suppose we were all busy with our own thoughts and they seemed to be pleasant ones.

  I kept going over the incidents of the day. I could smell the river; I could taste Matty’s roast beef; I could see the shining brasses in the inn parlour; I could hear the soft lapping of water against a bank.

  It had been a happy day.

  The spell was broken as the fire collapsed into the grate.

  “It will soon be out,” said Dickon.

  “And it’s getting chilly,” added my mother.

  She yawned and rose. She and I went upstairs together, her arm through mine. She kissed me at my door and I went in and lighted the candles on my dressing table.

  I looked at my reflection. I seemed almost beautiful by candlelight. Candlelight can flatter, I told myself. But there was something more than that. There was a softness, a radiance, about me. It had been a day I should never forget.

  I brushed my hair dreamily and thought of “Drink to me only with thine eyes.”

  Suddenly I rose and locked my door.

  Surely he would not attempt to c
ome to me, not here in this house with my mother close at hand. But would he not dare anything?

  That was why I must lock my door, for if he did come, how could I trust myself on a night like this?

  In spite of the late night we were all up early the next morning, and my mother was already at breakfast when I went down.

  “Oh, there you are!” she said. “Did you sleep well after all the excitement?”

  “Not at first, but I feel surprisingly refreshed.”

  “What a day! I shall never forget it. I’m glad it’s over though. I’m longing to see Jessica. I do hate leaving her so long. And you must feel the same about Amaryllis.”

  I admitted I did.

  “I thought we’d go back the day after tomorrow.”

  “Yes, why not?”

  “If Dickon can make it,” she added.

  “Has he said so?”

  “He’s not quite sure. But in case he does I want to go to the mercer’s this morning. I must get some more of that lace. He said he would have it in today. Will you come with me this morning? I might want your opinion.”

  “I’ll like that.”

  “All right then. Ten o’clock? We can walk there. It’s not more than ten minutes away.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  We went to the mercer’s shop and were some time choosing the lace. My mother also bought some pale mauve and pink ribbons which she thought would be useful for the babies’ clothes.

  As we came out of the shop she said: “I know what we’ll do. We’ll have some coffee or chocolate. I do think the coffee houses are interesting.”

  I agreed with her that they had become a part of London life and they were more than just a place to stop and take a drink of coffee or chocolate. One could eat there, read the papers which were available for clients, could write letters and most of all listen to the conversations of the great. Certain coffee houses were frequented by people in various walks of life; there were the political coffee houses, literary coffee houses, musical coffee houses, and there people could congregate and join in discussions on their favourite topics. Sometimes well-known men of wit and erudition frequented them. In his day Samuel Johnson had held court at the Turk’s Head or the Bedford or Cheshire Cheese; and Walpole and Addison had rivalled Congreve and Vanbrugh at the Kit Cat.