Our Lady of Pain

by Marion Chesney

  “I don’t really know what to do about Lady Rose,” said Harry. “There’s this wedding of Daisy’s. I kept the announcement out of the newspapers, not wanting to draw any attention to her. Lady Rose mostly keeps indoors. I must think of a way to protect her when this wretched wedding is over.”

  “I thought you’d be happy about it. I thought you were quite fond of that man of yours.”

  “Oh, Becket’s sterling stuff, but it means I have to give house room to both of them. I’d better find a way to set Becket up in some sort of business. But now that Phil Marshall has left, I’m going to find it very difficult to replace him.”

  “I didn’t think servants were allowed to get married.”

  “They’re not. But I suppose I am considered unconventional enough as it is. Once this wedding is over, I must think of someplace safe to put Lady Rose.”

  “All this should be her parents’ problem, surely,” said Kerridge.

  “Agreed. But I don’t know where they are. I sent a telegram to their hotel in Monte Carlo and paid for a reply. The manager replied saying that Lord and Lady Hadshire had left and he did not have a forwarding address. Where could they have gone?”

  “The Cairo season is on,” said Kerridge.

  “They wouldn’t go there. There’s a cholera scare.”

  In spite of the cholera scare, the Cairo season was a big success. No case of cholera had been reported since the beginning of November. Cairo had international hotels with modern luxury and sanitation, very different from the poor quarters of the city. The Delta Barrage, twenty miles from the town, was a popular place for excursions, and some point-to-point races were held there. Military bands played in all the big hotels, and there were dances and social functions every day. Lord and Lady Hadshire declared life in Cairo to be absolutely splendid and were comforted by the thought that Rose was being looked after by the duchess. They never read the newspapers, and their friends who had, did not feel it would be quite the thing to comment on their daughter’s exploits. They assumed they knew and pitied them for having such a wayward daughter. Better not to mention it, for having a daughter who had made herself unmarriageable was like—well—talking about cholera.

  Rose wanted to ask Daisy what losing her virginity had been like but was constricted by the unwritten laws of society. No young lady should know anything about sex. In fact, an eminent surgeon had just declared that only sluts enjoyed the sexual act. Ladies lay back, thought of England, and suffered.

  If it was all so terrible, then what was the point in any woman’s getting married and forced to endure years and years of breeding?

  She and Daisy were sitting in Rose’s sitting room a few day’s before the wedding. Daisy was still being sick in the mornings, but rallied amazingly in the afternoons. Rose was stitching wedding garters and Daisy was reading a serial story in John Bull magazine.

  Daisy was engrossed in the story. It was raining hard outside. The clock ticked on the mantel and a log fell in the hearth.

  Rose wished with all her heart she were still working with Harry. The days seemed long and monotonous.

  Curiosity at last overcame her. She cleared her throat nervously. “Daisy?”

  “Mmm?” Daisy reluctantly marked where she had been reading with one finger and looked up.

  “Daisy, what is it like?”

  “Getting married?”

  “No.” Rose blushed. “I mean, what is it like to go to bed with a man?”

  Daisy’s green eyes shone. “It is wonderful.”

  “But an eminent surgeon said that ladies are not supposed to enjoy the experience.”

  “Piffle. If you think I enjoyed it because I am of low class, then you are mistaken. If you love someone, then it is the most wonderful thing in the world.”

  Rose sat deep in thought. Did she love Harry? He was infuriating. What if he became involved in another case with a beautiful woman? She gave a little sigh. If Harry really loved her, then he would not have found Dolores attractive at all. And would India really be so bad? She conjured up a picture of a dashing officer kneeling at her feet and proposing marriage.

  The day of Daisy’s wedding dawned bright and sunny. Hunter, who acted as lady’s maid to both Daisy and Rose, exclaimed with delight over the wedding gown. It was made of silk chiffon over silk charmeuse with a beaded and embroidered lace overlay on the bodice and the centre front of the skirt. The bodice and sleeves were edged with beaded trim. It buttoned up the back with tiny silk-covered buttons. On her head Daisy wore a white cloche with a chiffon veil.

  Rose felt a lump in her throat when she saw Daisy attired in her wedding finery. She had paid for everything—the gown, the reception and the flowers to decorate the church. Rose was glad she had been left that legacy which enabled her to pay for the wedding arrangements. She was to act as bridesmaid. Her gown was of pink silk with white lace panels and a high-boned lace collar. Her cartwheel hat of Leghorn straw was decorated with large pink silk roses.

  Matthew Jarvis entered to say that Captain Cathcart had arrived to take them to the church.

  Harry was driving his Rolls, looking very handsome in morning dress. He drove very slowly towards the City, not wanting the ladies’ hats to be blown off as they sat in the open car.

  “You haven’t heard from your family,” said Rose. “I do hope they got their invitations.”

  “I’m sure they’ll all be at the church,” said Daisy, knowing full well her family had not replied because they could not write and had probably found someone literate to read out the invitation to them. The Hadshire servants had all been invited and were following the car in the earl’s carriages.

  “Becket still insists he has no family,” said Rose. “What is his background? Where does he come from?”

  “He never speaks about it,” said Daisy. “He talks about having been a soldier once, but that’s all and he gets angry if I try to probe further.”

  Bouquets held in silver holders had gone out of fashion. Daisy carried a spray of lilac and hothouse roses.

  The church was a small one off Cheapside. Crowds began to gather on the street outside to watch the wedding party. Harry was best man, so he parked the car and told one of the earl’s footmen that he would pay him if he stayed outside the church and guarded it. Then he hurried inside so that he could take his place at the altar with Becket and leave Daisy and Rose to make a slow and stately entrance.

  “What’s that awful smell?” whispered Becket when Harry joined him at the altar.

  Harry was sure the smell was coming from Becket’s prospective in-laws, whom he had spotted crowded into a pew. “Must be drains,” he whispered back, not wanting to alarm Becket about Daisy’s family.

  The service was somewhat marred by Daisy’s father bawling out the hymns in a loud drunken voice. I wish I had never urged her to invite him, thought Rose miserably. He’s drunk already. What’s he going to be like at the reception?

  But when the service was over and Rose walked down the aisle on Harry’s arm behind Daisy and Becket and heard the bells pealing out and the organ playing, she felt a rush of gladness that despite the drunken singing, everything had gone smoothly.

  She had a nervous moment at the reception when Daisy’s father, Bert Levine, insisted on making a speech. “I’d like ter say—” he began.

  “Sit down, Dad,” yelled one of Daisy’s small brothers. “You’re as pissed as a newt.”

  The father rumbled round the table to where the offender was sitting and clipped him on the ear. Then he staggered back to the top table. Rose counted Daisy’s brothers and sisters: three boys and four girls. Mrs. Levine must have a hard life, she thought. Daisy’s mother was a vast woman dressed in a purple velvet gown showing patches of wear.

  “As I was sayin’,” said Bert, “our little Daisy ‘as done us proud. As I was sayin’ … ” He suddenly looked around the room in a dazed way and then slowly keeled over, to be caught by Kerridge just before he hit the floor. Kerridge waved to two of th
e footmen, who rushed forward and pulled Bert into a corner, where he lay throughout the rest of the wedding breakfast, snoring loudly.

  At the end of the proceedings, Daisy, followed by Hunter, retired to the cloakroom to be changed into her going-away clothes. Harry was paying for the honeymoon: two weeks in a grand hotel in Brighton.

  They all trooped out to the car and carriages to see Daisy off. Harry took the wheel to drive them to the station. Rose hugged Daisy and whispered, “Come and see me often. I’ll miss you so much.”

  Daisy and Becket got into the car. The guests cheered. The car moved off. Scruffy children ran after it, shouting, “Hard up! Hard up!” and Becket grinned and tossed pennies to them.

  Rose watched until they were out of sight. Then Matthew Jarvis escorted her to one of the earl’s carriages. Madame Bailloux and Hunter got in with her. What am I going to do without Daisy? wondered Rose and tried not to cry.

  Later that day, Matthew called on her brandishing a telegram. “Lord and Lady Hadshire are returning, my lady. They will be here in two days’ time.”

  When Matthew had left, Madame Bailloux, who was sitting with Rose, said, “I may as well make my preparations to return to Paris. You will not need me any more.”

  “I am now in need of a companion,” said Rose. “Would you consider the position?”

  The Frenchwoman wanted very much to return home, but the thought of preserving her savings while she enjoyed free board was too tempting. “If your mama, the countess, agrees, I will stay for a little. Perhaps we should go to a theatre or some amusement tonight to lift the spirits. We have been confined to the house for quite awhile.”

  Rose brightened. “My parents have a box at the opera. We could go there.”

  “Excellent. I will ask Mr. Jarvis to arrange a carriage for us. We will go en grande tenue and then you will feel better, hein?”

  The opera was Rigoletto. Rose leaned forward in the box, lost in the music. At the interval, Madame Bailloux raised her opera glasses and scanned the boxes, demanding to know the names of all the best-dressed women.

  She lowered them and said, “So many people are staring at us. Why is that?”

  “I am considered scandalous,” said Rose. “They have no doubt read in the newspapers about the events in Paris. I am afraid my parents will really have to send me to India now. I have become unmarriageable.”

  “The good captain seems taken with you. He is not what I would call conventional.”

  “I do not think he wants to marry me,” said Rose. “We were engaged, but only in name. We arranged it to stop me being sent to India.”

  “If Captain Cathcart agreed to such a scheme, then he really must care for you.”

  “I think I irritate him, madame.”

  “You may call me Celine. We are friends, non?”

  “I hope so,” said Rose and felt a little of her feeling over the loss of Daisy dissipate.

  As they stood outside the opera house after the performance, waiting for their carriage, Rose felt the same frisson of fear she had experienced on the quay in Paris and looked wildly around.

  “What is the matter?” asked Celine.

  “Just a feeling,” said Rose. “I had the same feeling in Paris just before I was pushed in the river.” She could see the earl’s carriage inching through the press of cars and carriages. Rose scanned the crowd. Apart from the people leaving the opera, there were crowds of onlookers, come to gaze at the fine gowns and jewels of the ladies.

  She sighed with relief when at last they were safely in the carriage. “Probably my imagination,” she said.

  When they arrived at the town house, the first footman told them that Captain Cathcart was waiting for them in the drawing room.

  “Don’t tell him anything about my fears,” said Rose to Celine, as they mounted the stairs. “I do not want to be sent away to anywhere nasty again.”

  “Why did you go out?” demanded Harry as soon as they walked in.

  “I was restless,” said Rose. “It is miserable being confined here.”

  “Someone tried to kill you in Paris and that someone has probably followed us back to London. I wish we knew the real identity of Dolores Duval. I wonder if she was English, but then why would she turn up in Brittany?”

  “My parents are due back,” said Rose. “What am I to do? They will either send me to India or back to that convent.”

  “I will discuss matters with them when they return. You must be sent somewhere safe.”

  “I am dreading their return,” said Rose in a small voice. “What if they send Madame Bailloux away?”

  “We must see to it that they don’t. I wonder if it would not be better to send you out of London before they return.” He rang the bell and asked a footman to fetch Matthew. When the secretary arrived, Harry asked, “Can you think of anywhere to send Lady Rose which is far from London?”

  Matthew stood for what seemed a long time, his brow furrowed. Then his face cleared. “There is your Aunt Elizabeth.”

  “She is not really my aunt,” said Rose. “She is a distant cousin of my father’s.”

  “Where does she live?” asked Harry.

  “In Drumdorn Castle, somewhere in Argyll on the coast.”

  “Sounds ideal. When did you last see her?”

  “Several years ago,” said Rose. “Aunt Elizabeth came on a visit to Stacey Court. I remember her as being amiable but eccentric.”

  “Would you send her a telegram?” asked Harry. “And suggest that Lady Rose goes on a long visit.”

  “What will Lord Hadshire say?”

  “I will deal with him.”

  Aunt Elizabeth sent a telegram the following day to say she would be delighted to entertain Rose. The day passed in packing and hurried preparations. Rose was to travel north with Madame Bailloux and Hunter, the maid, for company. Harry said he would also send Becket and Daisy up to join her as soon as they had returned from their honeymoon. Rose could only be amazed at how placidly Madame Bailloux accepted all the rush.

  It was a long and exhausting journey. First the train to Glasgow and then the hire of a car and chauffeur to take them into the wilds of Argyll over a twisting nightmare road called The Rest and Be Thankful.

  Drumdorn Castle was perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. It was an old castle with smoky stone-flagged rooms downstairs and small cold bedrooms upstairs. Aunt Elizabeth, Lady Carrick, was a widow who greeted them effusively. She was a tall, thin, spare woman, dressed in the clothes of the last century and wearing a white lace cap over grey hair. Her face was wrinkled and she had very heavy, shaggy eyebrows.

  “So delighted to see you, my dear,” she said. “I do not often have company apart from the servants.”

  “It is very kind of you to invite us. I feel I should tell you why we have come here.”

  Aunt Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled. “You mean it wasn’t for the delights of my company?”

  “I am delighted to have a chance to get to know you better,” said Rose, “but the fact is, my life is considered to be in danger.”

  “We do get the newspapers even in as remote a part as this,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “I have been following your adventures. You will be safe here. There is a sort of bush telegraph operates in this area. Any stranger within miles of the castle will be spotted. I received a telegram from Captain Cathcart and I gather he is to join us shortly. I find it all very exciting. Do change for dinner and we will talk further.”

  The dining room was more like a smoke-filled baronial hall. “The wind’s in the wrong direction,” said Aunt Elizabeth as another cloud of smoke belched out of the enormous fireplace.

  Tattered banners hung from the ceiling and dingy suits of armour lined the walls. There was a large landscape painting over the fireplace but it was so black with smoke that it was hard to make out what landscape it was supposed to be portraying.

  There was an elderly gentleman in knee breeches sitting on a stool by the fireplace, his white head resting uncomfor
tably on a caryatid.

  “Who is that gentleman?” asked Rose.

  “That’s Angus,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “He was my butler for many years. He doesn’t want to be pensioned off and feel useless, so he prefers to remain on duty.”

  “Are you finished with your soup yet?” demanded a highland footman looming over Rose.

  “Yes,” said Rose, startled, not yet being used to the democratic freedom of speech of highland servants.

  “When you get the warm weather,” said Madame Bailloux hopefully, “perhaps the fire will not be necessary.” She was sure her gowns would reek of smoke for months to come.

  “We sometimes get a few warm days,” said Aunt Elizabeth, “but not often.”

  Madame Bailloux suddenly thought longingly of Paris. The sun would be shining and people would be sitting on the terraces, chatting and drinking coffee. Living in London had been relatively pleasant, but she did not know how long she could take being a guest in this smoky castle.

  She sighed with relief when they moved to a drawing room where the fire was modest and did not smoke. The furniture was heavy and Victorian. There were many stuffed birds in glass cases, a grand piano draped in what looked like a Persian carpet, and little tables laden down with framed photographs.

  Aunt Elizabeth demanded to be entertained, so Rose sat down at the piano and did her best, although a few of the yellowing keys seemed to be stuck down with damp.

  Then the cards were brought out and they played whist for pennies, Aunt Elizabeth gleefully winning every hand.

  At last it was time for bed. They collected their bed candles from a table in the hall and walked up the stone stairs to their rooms.

  Rose was undressed by Hunter and then climbed into an enormous four-poster bed. It was covered with two large quilts, but the sheets were damp. Rose’s last waking thought was that she must get the maids to air them in the morning.

  In the following two weeks, while they awaited the arrival of Harry with Becket and Daisy—he had telegrammed to say that he had decided to wait for them—the weather turned fine. Rose, accompanied by Madame Bailloux, went for long walks along the cliffs, fascinated by the many seabirds and the rise and swell of the waves as they crashed at the foot of the cliffs.