by Mary Malloy
Jeffries handed her over to his wife, who handed her bags over to another man, whose name was not shared with Lizzie, and the three stepped into the house. The main entrance brought her directly into the cavernous great hall of the original castle. High overhead the arched ceiling was held up by enormous carved beams. On either side was a massive stone fireplace and flanking each were tapestries two stories high.
“We don’t ordinarily use this door,” Mrs. Jeffries explained, “but Sir George thought that you, being a historian, would like it.”
“Indeed I do,” Lizzie said. “It’s fabulous.”
High double doors opened off the room on either side. To her right Lizzie saw a grand formal dining room, and to her left a room that would, in America, probably be called the living room, though this one, with four or five different groupings of couches, chairs, and tables, reminded her more of the lobby of a fancy hotel. They continued straight ahead, finally passing through a door in a massive, though delicately carved, wooden panel. Above Lizzie recognized the gallery from which musicians would have entertained the guests in ancient days.
She was sorry that she was being hurried through this oldest part of the house, and wished that she could have stumbled on the place by herself with time to linger at each change of perspective. In her mind the very atmosphere was infused with the breath of past inhabitants, with the vibrations of the strings and horns that had once played in the space above her. She threw all hesitation to the wind and instantly adored the place.
They went through another door and dramatically changed centuries. Gone were the stone walls, carved beams, and tapestries of the medieval castle; now they were in a light and airy Georgian hall. The walls were painted in creamy pastels and a decorative plaster frieze border ran around the top of the wall and framed the doorways. Lizzie was glad that Martin had given her the book. She immediately recognized this part of the house as the work of the architect Robert Adam.
Two elaborate carved staircases dominated the room, curving up from the floor of the hall to meet on a balconied mezzanine above her. Opposite the staircase were tall glass doors, topped by an elaborate fan-shaped window with beveled glass. Lizzie could see from here out onto the stone terrace and beyond it to the garden, sloping down toward the sea. From here the outline of the house became clear. Framing the terrace on one side was the old Tudor wing, and opposite was the wing built by Inigo Jones. The fourth side of the square was open, except for some low stone ruins that must once have defined that side of the castle yard that faced the Bristol Channel.
Again there were double doors to her right and left. The ones on her right were closed, but on the left she caught a quick glimpse of a library before Mrs. Jeffries led her up the stairs. The two arcs of the staircase came up to a landing where a large painting covered almost the whole of the wall. It was of two young men, in their late teens or early twenties, and an adolescent girl. They sat in a lush landscape.
“What a lovely painting,” Lizzie said, stepping slightly closer to read the brass title on the frame. The Children of Sir John Hatton, 1773, by Thomas Gainsborough, it said.
“He’s the ‘Blue Boy’ painter,” Mrs. Jeffries explained.
Lizzie nodded. “Is one of these boys Lieutenant Francis Hatton, who made the Cook voyage?”
“If I remember correctly, he’s the one on the right,” the housekeeper answered, “but we have a catalogue and I can look it up for you later.”
“Thanks,” Lizzie said, moving slowly along the few remaining stairs up to the next floor and gazing at the other pictures hanging above her. It pleased her that Francis Hatton looked intelligent and exuberant in the portrait.
Mrs. Jeffries showed her to her room on the second floor of the Inigo Jones wing of the house. It was at the end of a long wide hall and as they entered it Lizzie was struck by the beauty of the house’s setting, which was even more dramatic from this height. Tall windows were on two sides of the room and she was drawn immediately to the windows across from the door, which faced the older Tudor wing of the house. She then turned to the windows on her right. The view was across the formal garden, barren in the winter, but giving every indication of how glorious it must be in summer. Beyond it was the ruined wall of the original castle fortifications, and beyond that fields and moors stretched out along the long slope down to the sea.
What would it be like to live here? Her imagination placed her at various locations around the house, and in various centuries of its history. She forgot that Mrs. Jeffries was still in the room until she heard her speak.
“Sir George wanted to give you some time to get settled, but will be available to meet you whenever you’re ready.”
Lizzie thanked her, got a tour of the room, closets, and adjoining bathroom, and told the housekeeper that she expected she would be back downstairs within a half hour.
When Mrs. Jeffries was gone, Lizzie took a few minutes to survey the room that would be her home for the next few weeks. It was extremely pleasant. The furniture was solid and heavy but the room was made to seem quite light by the expanse of windows, and by the fabric that covered the bed and the two wooden-armed chairs, an ivory silk embroidered all over with vines and small flowers. The bed had gauzy curtains, pulled back near the head, and matching fabric was at the windows. She could not help being drawn back to the view, and with each visit to the windows she took in more of the details.
The Tudor wing of the house was directly opposite across the terrace and formal garden. The surface facing Lizzie was not flat, but came forward and stepped back as projecting gabled sections of the wall alternated with areas set back into darker recesses. The windows there were mostly small, unlike the windows through which she looked. All in all, Lizzie thought, she had been placed in the more comfortable part of the house, and she appreciated the fact that her room was on the end. Beyond the Tudor wing of the house she could just see the village of Hengeport as it meandered its way down the hill to its harbor.
Mrs. Jeffries had offered to unpack Lizzie’s bags for her, but she had absolutely refused, embarrassed that the housekeeper might judge the disarray of her packing and find her wardrobe inappropriate. There was a formality and stiffness to Mrs. Jeffries, almost as if she was used to a higher standard of guest. Lizzie didn’t know quite what to think of her.
She opened her suitcase and sighed. When she packed for the trip she hadn’t a clue what George Hatton was expecting of her. For starters, she wasn’t even sure if she was going to be treated as a house guest or an employee, and Martin had been no help. When she asked him what she should pack to wear in a stately home he had suggested gowns and tiaras.
Lizzie held certain stereotypes about English people of this class getting dressed up for dinner, and it was her impression that their houses never had adequate heat or plumbing. She had decided that she would need warm clothing and that her usual wardrobe of corduroy slacks and comfortable sweaters would be fine for working during the day. Just in case things got fancy for dinner, she had packed her two nice dresses, one of which she hadn’t worn in months.
Now she pulled it from her suitcase and held it in front of her as she examined herself in the long mirror on the back of the closet door. Lizzie was happy and well adjusted and had always liked the way she looked, but she had to admit that at this moment she was hopelessly unfashionable. Curvy and soft in a world that prized gaunt fitness, she also had curly hair that absolutely refused to be controlled. She had never felt comfortable wearing it short, and with each added inch of length it threatened to curl and frizz more and so she had, for years, worn it just to the length of her shoulders. Some years she had been lucky and fashionability had come her way, at other times she had simply had to wait it out, but her curly brown hair remained the same. As she ran a comb through it, she took stock, as she regularly did, of the grey that was creeping in around the edges. She would be forty years old on her next birthday.
The dress looked fine. She was, after all, here to work, not to live. George Hatton would just have to accept her as she was. She finished combing her hair, brushed her teeth, put on the dress, and retraced her steps to the staircase, lingering for a minute to look again at the portrait of Francis Hatton. His brother was darker and appeared more brooding, as if he had more responsibilities pressing on him. Their sister was a pink-cheeked girl, an apparently happy child There was another picture hanging beside the Gainsborough that seemed to show the same girl as a young woman. Lizzie didn’t know if it was just a strong family resemblance, but she stood for a moment looking from the girl to the woman.
“Are you comfortable in your room, Dr. Manning?” Mrs. Jeffries asked from the bottom of the stairs.
“Yes, very comfortable, thank you,” Lizzie answered. She found herself unable to resist asking, “Is this the same girl?” as she gestured between the two pictures. Mrs. Jeffries said that it was.
In her separate portrait, Francis Hatton’s sister seemed more fragile, her large grey eyes intelligent but sad. Lizzie wondered what life had dealt her in the intervening years. She continued down to the bottom of the stairs.
Mrs. Jeffries did not look her directly in the eyes, but Lizzie had a feeling she was being studied by the housekeeper when she wasn’t looking. She searched in the woman’s face for a resemblance to the amiable young man who had picked her up at the airport and could see from the lines on Mrs. Jeffries face that she must often smile and laugh. Her face was stern enough now though, as she turned and led Lizzie toward the double doors that led to the library. “Sir George is anxious to meet you,” she said.
Lizzie found herself somewhat nervous at the prospect of meeting George Hatton. She had a strong mental image of British aristocrats, derived mostly from Jane Austen novels, P.G. Wodehouse short stories, Jackie’s rants, and various episodes of Monty Python, but no real experience with anyone like Sir George. She was already feeling surprisingly comfortable in the house and didn’t want to lose that feeling by meeting its owner and finding him condescending, exasperating, or stupid. It was consequently a pleasant surprise to find him perfectly civil and seemingly interested in her work. He was not exactly warm, but neither was he twitty or dithering, he didn’t speak with a lisp or a stutter, his handshake was firm, and he looked her right in the eye when he welcomed her to his house.
She still hadn’t decided how she would address him. She didn’t want to be impolite, but she was determined not to be deferential. He called her “Dr. Manning” and she, almost automatically, called him “Mr. Hatton.” He raised an eyebrow slightly at that, but was too polite to comment. She invited him to call her “Lizzie,” and he returned that she might call him “George, if that suited her.” She said that it did and was relieved to have this first bit of discomfort behind her.
George asked Mrs. Jeffries to bring them a pot of coffee, and offered Lizzie one of two tall wing chairs situated in front of a large fireplace. As they sat down she had an opportunity to study him. If there was some indefinable yet recognizable aristocratic type, George Hatton was it. In a different time and under other circumstances, Lizzie could see how people might take it for an innate nobility. He was very tall and had an elegance about him that was hard to describe but very noticeable. His hair was perfectly white, his eyes a clear grey-blue. Though he was probably at least seventy years old, he was still a very handsome man. He was also extraordinarily polite, making every effort to make Lizzie comfortable, even telling her how much he had enjoyed her book.
They talked for several minutes about Francis Hatton and his voyage with Captain Cook. George was obviously quite proud of the connection, and Lizzie told him how excited she was about working with the objects and especially the journal.
“Those pages you sent me could not have been better chosen for convincing me to take on this project,” she said.
He admitted that after reading her book he had selected those passages with her in mind. Lizzie was flattered and, for a moment, didn’t know how to respond.
Mrs. Jeffries returned with coffee, saving Lizzie the necessity of having to make an immediate reply, and giving her an opportunity to watch the interaction between the master and the servant as the latter set a tray of coffee things on the table next to Lizzie’s chair. George and his housekeeper seemed entirely comfortable with but respectful of each other. Lizzie tried to catch the eye of Mrs. Jeffries, but the other woman was careful not to look at her, and Lizzie made no attempt to engage her in conversation other than to thank her for the service, which George echoed.
Lizzie found herself unexpectedly liking George Hatton. Mostly it was because he was being extraordinarily cordial to her, but he was also surprising her in several ways large and small. Whatever her expectations might have been, they were not for a smart, handsome, and seemingly generous-spirited man. Had she been expecting him to be imperious or dismissive with the housekeeper on whom he depended for his comfort, she thought? A woman whom he had probably known for many years?
Now that she was actually here at Hengemont, such notions seemed ludicrous. Lizzie reminded herself sternly that it was the twenty-first century. If not for the consternation it would certainly cause George Hatton and Mrs. Jeffries, she thought she might occasionally give herself a smart slap on the cheek as a reminder.
Other thoughts still poked at her though: Pete Jeffries’ comments about distinctions between classes, and the fact that Mrs. Jeffries, without exception, referred to her boss as “Sir George,” and he, in turn, never called her anything but “Mrs. Jeffries,” despite the fact that they probably had known each other for many years. And then the whole notion of servants was so antithetical to Lizzie anyway.
When she looked up, George seemed to be studying her. At least he had that in common with Mrs. Jeffries.
She picked up her cup, settled back in her chair, and asked him why Francis Hatton’s journal had never been published. It was a question that had been bothering her ever since she first received George’s letter. “Your ancestor was a good writer and more insightful than most of his shipmates,” she said.
“Francis Hatton specifically instructed his heirs not to surrender it to the Admiralty or allow it to be published,” George explained.
Lizzie thought of her conversation with Jackie. “Why didn’t he want it made public?” she asked. “Are there things in it that would have embarrassed him?”
George shook his head. “Not to my mind, but it’s not complete and I think he might have just hoped to finish it at some point.”
“But why would he keep his heirs from publishing it? Certainly by the time it got into their hands his opportunities for finishing it were kaput.”
Her host smiled at her and Lizzie wondered if she was being too informal. She was alternating between feeling very comfortable and suddenly being struck by a realization of where she was. With each jolt of awareness she felt as if her head had just hit the desk during a lecture and waked her.
She made an effort to smile back. “So why are you willing to publish it now?”
“Well,” he started slowly, “two centuries have passed and there is still interest in the voyage and in this account of it. Whatever he wanted done before it was published seems now to be beyond doing.”
“What do you mean, ‘whatever he wanted done’? Did he put conditions on the publication?”
With a clunk, George Hatton put his coffee cup on the table which sat between their two chairs. “I’m not sure what he wanted, I suppose. I haven’t actually read any conditions, I just heard from my father that Francis was unwilling to have the journal published.” He poured more coffee in his cup and made a gesture with the pot to offer Lizzie a warm-up, which she accepted.
“There has always been a pretty steady stream of attention paid to Cook voyage material,” Lizzie said, “but have you noticed some particular interest in Francis Hatton’s account now?”
Lizzie had heard the briefest mention of this from Tom Clark in their phone conversation a few weeks earlier. She too would be very happy to participate in such a project for the British Museum. If Francis Hatton’s collection of souvenir objects was as interesting as his journal, she might be able to position herself as a guest curator for some part of the exhibition, and could certainly publish something in conjunction with it. As she mulled this, George began a rambling discourse on what he knew about Cook’s third voyage to the Pacific Ocean.
Despite his keen interest in the subject, Lizzie quickly found that she knew a lot more than he did about Cook’s activities, and while she would have concentrated on what he was saying if he had stuck to specific information about his ancestor, she found her attention wandering around the library.
The room pleased her enormously; it was exactly what a library should be and she could not have improved on it if she had designed it herself. It was about twice as long as it was wide, and bookshelves were on every wall from the floor to a height of about ten feet. Above them there was still enough room under the tall ceiling for a row of portraits. The line of the shelves was broken only by the fireplace, four tall gothic windows, and three sets of double doors: the pair through which she had entered, another made of glass panes, which opened onto the stone terrace, and a third which she suddenly heard George telling her hid Francis Hatton’s museum “cabinet.”
