Glass Roses: A Victorian Fairytale

by Britain Kalai Soderquist

  “And how long has it been since you have seen your grandchildren, Mrs. Kirke?”

  “Oh, going on seven or eight years now at least. I was there when the eldest of James’ little ones was born; he is just in his tenth year. But the rest of the bairns I have not seen yet. James married late in life, you see, so his bairns are still quite young. He has some skill with sketching, and he brings me drawings of them when he can, but it is not the same.” She sighed, and her native Scottish accent seemed even deeper than usual.

  “Does your son not bring them up to the castle to see you?”

  “Heavens no, it is far too dangerous!” My surprise must have been evident, for Mrs. Kirke continued. “These woods and hills are full of wolves, child, wolves that would as soon snatch a bairn from his father as look at him. They used to be more afraid of us, but we have had some harsh winters, and they have become more vicious of late, particularly in the springtime when they are hungry from lack of food.”

  I frowned at this logic, for certainly her son either owned or could borrow a horse and cart to bring the children, rather than walking through the woods. At the very least, his eldest son should have accompanied him on his occasional visits, for ten is quite old enough to be helping about the house. There seemed to be more to Mrs. Kirke’s insistence than she was willing to divulge.

  Pretending I had not noticed the fault in her story, I continued. “In your situation I would consider resigning from my position. Surely the Duke would agree that you have filled your place faithfully and have earned his gratitude for your service.”

  “What? I, leave the master?” Another shake of the head and bob of the cap, and she excused herself quite abruptly by saying she had just remembered that she needed to speak with one of the maids about something. But as she walked off, I heard her mutter to herself. “As if I could leave the master, after all he has suffered.” Helen had by this time moved off to bring Henry closer to the castle, made afraid by Mrs. Kirke’s description of the wolves, and therefore did not hear what had been said. I have considered her words a great deal but have yet to reach any conclusion as to what she could mean.

  Indeed, the Duke has become a source of near constant vexation to me. I cannot make out his character at all. He is the sum of many odd parts, but I cannot seem to decipher what that sum equals out to be. Papa tells me that, while somewhat gruff, he can be quite conversational. (They only ever discuss scientific matters, so perhaps Papa has not noticed the Duke’s silence on all other topics.) But when he was in Kent, he was taciturn and unsociable, and quite rude in his lack of respect for the Duncan household ways. His letter to tell me of Papa’s illness and his invitation for us to stay show concern and thoughtfulness, but if he were truly thoughtful, surely he would not have allowed dear little Mrs. Kirke to go so long without a visit to her grandchildren in the village? And what can he have done to create such feelings of loyalty in his servants?

  His Grace is not a likely source of information in this mystery, for he spends as much time away from us as possible. He rises and eats before we reach the breakfast room, avoids luncheon, never takes tea with us, and appears for dinner only to speak monosyllables when necessary. He does sit with us in the formal drawing room most nights, which is an improvement, but he usually reads. Well, I should say he pretends to read, but I believe he is actually continuing his habit of staring at me. Among the neighborhood families in Kent, his behavior was rude and forward. Here in the quiet castle, with only the sounds of the fire and Helen’s or my accompaniment on the piano, it has taken on an eerie quality that I do not like. Sometimes I catch him at it before he quickly drops his eyes to his book again. Once I thought he looked terribly sad, but the look was gone almost as quickly as it had come, so I may have imagined it. I find I am looking forward to the day that Papa is better so that we may return home.

  Your confused cousin,

  Isabella

  28 April, 1845

  Castle Stirling, Scotland

  Dear Eleanor,

  I take up my pen a mere two days after writing my last letter to tell you of some interesting events that have taken place. You are so good that I am certain you will forgive me for the excess of mail. Much of what I have to tell will relate to things that I wrote about in my previous letter.

  My letter was posted and gone just after breakfast on Saturday, and this morning I was pondering over what I had written to you while I helped Henry build a model of the castle with his blocks. (The rendering was very poor indeed, but he seemed pleased with it.) The main course of my thoughts was directed at Mrs. Kirke and her long absence from her grandchildren. It occurred to me then that throughout the fortnight we had been in residence at the castle, Mrs. Kirke had gone out of her way to be in our company whenever Henry and Arthur were with us. She had been exceedingly kind to them, and the thought that she might be imagining her own “little bairns” when she looked at them put me quite close to tears. Playing there on the floor of the sitting room I felt it was a terrible shame that Mrs. Kirke should have to make do with someone else’s children instead of seeing those of her own family. I resolved in that moment to do something about it. Several more minutes passed, in which Henry reduced the model castle to rubble whilst pretending to be a dragon and I tried to think of a solution.

  The sound of hoof beats on gravel distracted us both, and Henry flew to the window to see if he could catch sight of the rider. I joined him in time to see the Duke riding swiftly away on his large black Thoroughbred. The sight of the horse stirred a memory in me, and suddenly I had the solution: we had brought our own carriage from Kent when we traveled to be with Papa! Thus far we had only used it to attend church, for though the ride to the castle’s tiny stone chapel is short, I have been unwilling to risk Papa’s health to the changeable weather. (The parish rector rides up every week to perform the service for the castle staff. The Duke does not attend with us, unless he enters and listens unseen, but it is a very small building and cannot contain many hiding places.) The horses were well rested and the journey was not long. Could I not take Mrs. Kirke to the village to see her grandchildren myself?

  I was so taken with the idea that I went to find Helen instantly. She approved of my plan most heartily and requested to join us. While she readied the children, I went to be certain that Papa would not mind (which of course he did not), and then was off in search of Mrs. Kirke. She was not to be found in any of the main rooms about the castle, so I made my way to where I thought the kitchens might be, down the narrow tower steps to the lower level that contains the servants’ living quarters.

  I found the kitchen along the south wall. It is a surprisingly sunny room, with windows screened by the topmost bed of rose bushes. A large fireplace takes up the entire west wall and a second fireplace that heats several brick ovens stands on the east wall. In the space between are several large tables for cooking and baking, with one long trestle table set with chairs close to the windows. As I entered, I noticed that the heavy stone floor was swept clean, and the aroma of baking bread wafted through the room.

  The whole of the castle’s small staff were collected in the room, with the exception of Coburn and Mrs. Kirke. A door stood ajar to my left, leading to what I guessed was the butler’s room and the kitchen pantry. Gathered around the table were the various staff members. All three maids, Annie, Mary, and Kitty, were clustered at one end. The Duke’s valet, Pierre, performed card tricks for the ladies, while the two footmen and the groom laughed over a game they were playing with a second deck. Papa’s valet, Robinson, watched Pierre with a scowl of disapproval, though Saunders (our coachman) seemed entertained by the cheeky way in which Pierre flirted with the maids.

  As I stepped into the kitchen, Robinson noticed me and got to his feet at once. The other servants stopped their activities and stood too, the groom buttoning his vest and one of the footmen tugging on his coat, which had been hung on the back of his chair.

  “Oh, I did not mean to disturb you. Please do not troub
le yourselves,” I said, somewhat embarrassed. I had not realized until that moment how very awkward it can be to walk into the kitchen in a strange household, having never done it before.

  Pierre stepped forward to cover my discomfort. “Ah no, mademoiselle, it is no trouble at all. We are most happy to oblige.” He took my hand and bowed over it in the most elaborate and courtly manner. “Je suis Pierre. Enchanté, Cherie,” he said in French, kissing my hand quite boldly. The maids giggled, except for Mary who looked flustered. One of the footmen nudged the groom. Robinson scowled again and cleared his throat. Pierre took no notice. “Would you care to join us? Perhaps you are fond of magic tricks? I know one or two that I think you would enjoy very much.”

  “Yes thank you, Pierre, that is quite enough,” Coburn said, stepping forward from the door behind us and shooing Pierre away. He bowed stiffly, and I was suddenly struck with the realization that, despite his Scottish surname, he is actually quite English. “Miss Copley, how may I help you this morning?”

  “I was looking for Mrs. Kirke,” I replied, still a little hesitant due to Pierre’s forward attentions. “I was wondering if she would accompany me on a trip into the village.” Mrs. Kirke had followed Coburn into the kitchen from the pantry and now raised a hand to her mouth. It was clear she had guessed my intent, and it was with difficulty that I kept myself from smiling.

  “I am certain she would be happy to assist you, Miss Copley,” Coburn said, still as formal as ever. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought he was trying not to smile as well. “Bruce, please assist Mr. Saunders in preparing Miss Copley’s carriage.” Coburn bowed again and I left, smiling at the lilting sounds of Pierre’s “Ma belle Marie, mon petite fleur,” as he tried to win his way back into Mary’s favor.

  Within a quarter of an hour we were rolling away from the castle and on our way down to the village. Mrs. Kirke said very little, but the slight fluttering of her hands in her lap never ceased. Eventually I could see the beginnings of the village, where the cottages were set further apart to provide the shepherds with the space required for raising sheep. As we approached the first of these properties, Mrs. Kirke suddenly sat up, quite alert, and gazed out the window. I followed her gaze and saw a quaint little cottage with a short stone wall running around the perimeter, separating it from the muddy farmyard nearby. A second wall formed what I assumed were pens to hold the sheep when they were not grazing on the hills. A wooden barn stood some distance from the house, and I caught a glimpse of a large and flourishing vegetable garden around the back. The house itself had a foundation of the same stone as the wall, and was planted around with climbing roses that reminded me of the Duke’s garden. The roof was thatched and the windows were glass, a sign that the family who lived there enjoyed a steady income. It was humble, to be sure, but nothing I observed suggested impoverishment.

  Knocking loudly on the roof of the carriage, I alerted Saunders that it was time to stop. He reined in the horses and jumped down from the seat to open the door for us. I stepped out first, and then turned to help Mrs. Kirke. The door to the cottage opened, and a woman who looked to be about Helen’s age came out into the yard, clearly surprised at the sight of a gentleman’s carriage outside her home. She carried a baby a little younger than Arthur on one hip, and three other children spilled onto the grass around her. When she saw Mrs. Kirke, she gasped and moved quickly toward us.

  “Mother!” she exclaimed. (I was touched by the love that single word carried in it.)

  “Oh Eliza, look at you! Look at your wee bairns! Oh, where has little James got to? I suppose he is out with the sheep. Heavens, how they have grown!” Mrs. Kirke reached down and touched the curls of one of the children, a girl of about six years. Once Eliza had made her children understand who Mrs. Kirke was, there was a great deal of kissing and embracing before anyone remembered that Helen and I were there.

  “Mrs. Kirke, perhaps Helen and I may go on toward the village and call upon you in a little while,” I suggested after the introductions had been made.

  “Oh yes, you must come to tea,” said the younger Mrs. Kirke, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. “We shall have some now, if you would prefer to step inside.”

  A glance at Helen was all the communication I needed before replying, “You are very kind, but we do not wish to inconvenience you at such an early hour. I have a great desire to explore your charming village. We shall wander about for an hour or so and join you then. Would that be acceptable?” The other ladies assented, and Helen and I returned to the carriage.

  Saunders let us down on the edge of the village square. It is excessively charming, though smaller even than your village in Kent. The locals all belong to the working class (apparently Mrs. Kirke was not exaggerating when she said the Duke is the only man of consequence in the area). The stone and wood buildings are in good repair, and there are several quaint places of business that were bustling with patrons while we visited. We spent a merry hour and a half exploring the tiny tea shop, the little milliner, the general goods vendor, and a quaint old bookshop. Between visits to the shops, Henry ran about chasing the geese, and Arthur followed along behind, keeping a safe distance from the hissing birds.

  Being strangers to the village, we naturally attracted much attention from the locals. Only the shopkeepers spoke with us, however, which Helen and I both found curious; perhaps the others were intimidated by the quality of our dress. Even the shopkeepers were not exactly pleased to speak with us once they learned where we were staying. The man who sold me some new art supplies (to replace the ones I left home) greeted us cheerfully when we entered the shop, but by the time I had made my purchase, he seemed anxious to be rid of us. The elderly lady who ran the tea shop paled noticeably and became short-tempered. Helen and I were at quite a loss to understand this odd behavior, as no one would exchange more than a few words with us after they learned we were the Duke’s guests. Our last stop, the bookshop, was the only one where we carried on a full conversation, and even that was rather strange.

  The shop itself is of moderate size, but so full that one can hardly move from one end to the other in a straight line. Books are piled about in some unintelligible manner known only to their seller. Every shelf is stacked at least two rows deep, some with books piled atop the ones properly shelved. The owner of the bookshop is an elderly gentleman with a crooked nose and small frame. His hair is wispy and thin on the top; the color is like the dust that gathers on his books.

  He greeted us warmly, just like the other merchants we had met that morning. “Good day, ladies. My name is Mr. Scott. What might you be looking for today?”

  “Nothing in particular, sir. We simply could not help coming to admire your shop,” I replied, earning a smile from him. A few minutes were spent browsing through the shelves until I eventually found a book to purchase: a copy of Homer (in the original Greek) to replace my heavily marked version at home.

  The shopkeeper seemed impressed with my selection. “It is not often we have such educated visitors come through our little village. Are you passing by on your way to Edinburgh, then?” he asked as he wrapped my purchase in brown paper.

  Helen and I exchanged a quick glance, obviously both wondering if we wished to upset yet another member of the village. “No, we are staying some miles off as guests of a friend,” I said finally.

  The little man’s expression became troubled. “I see.” He knotted the string of the wrapping and used a small knife to cut away the excess. He seemed to hesitate as he gave me the book, as though he wanted to say something but was not sure he should.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Scott?” I asked as kindly as I could.

  “It… forgive me for asking, but you are not guests of the Duke of Stirling, by chance?”

  “We are,” I replied, curious to see how he would react.

  Mr. Scott rubbed his chin with one hand, his brow wrinkling. “I am afraid you will not find much warmth from others in the village if they learn of it. His Grace is not liked her
e, though we are part of his family holdings.”

  “Indeed? I was not aware his lands extended this far,” I said, even more interested now.

  “Aye, that they do. It was not always so, and ten years is not long enough for some to accustom themselves to the change.”

  “No indeed,” Helen said quietly beside me.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Scott, but why is His Grace disliked by the villagers?” I asked, unable to hold in the question any longer.

  Mr. Scott stared at me for a long moment before shaking his head. “It is of no matter, Miss. I should not have mentioned it. I hope you will enjoy your book.” He smiled weakly at us, and I could see that it would be no use trying to ask him for more information. I thanked Mr. Scott for his help, Helen gathered her boys from a corner where they had settled with some ink prints, and we left.

  As we stepped out of the bookshop, Henry bounded forward toward the geese again just as a large black horse came down the high street. Helen cried out, and I ran forward to grab Henry’s hand before he could step into the horse’s path. His rider drew in rein expertly to further avoid a collision with us.

  “Miss Copley, what the devil are you doing here?” said a familiar, gruff voice, and I realized with a start that it was the Duke himself.

  “Your Grace,” I said, curtseying as best as I could while Henry tried to pull away from me. Helen came forward and curtsied as well before taking Henry’s hand and leading him away from the horse. The Duke nodded stiffly to her then returned his gaze to me. I realized he was waiting for an explanation, so I added, “We have come to bring Mrs. Kirke to visit her grandchildren. We were just about to return for tea.”