Tyringham Park

by Rosemary McLoughlin

  “No.”

  “There must be something to be done.”

  “There is something. I was hoping you would mention it.” Dixon paused to make sure she was selecting the correct phrase. “I thought that, seeing that . . .” She took a deep breath. “Can I come and stay with you?”

  “Stay with me?” Manus was taken aback. “You mean until Lady Blackshaw returns?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I mean to come and live with you permanently.”

  “I don’t think that would be proper. Even with my father there.”

  “I mean as your wife.”

  “Wife?” Manus made an explosive sound of disbelief that sounded to Dixon like a jeering laugh.

  Dixon blushed all over her face and neck into her hair-line and hung her head. “I thought you liked me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to react like that. You took me by surprise. I do like you,” he said, removing his hand. “Very much. But not in that way.”

  “Do you have a sweetheart in the village?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll help you any way I can with Miss East and Lady Blackshaw, but I can’t marry you.”

  He reached out to take her hand again.

  She snatched it back, kept her eyes averted, and stumbled from the room.

  Now dry-eyed and purposeful, Dixon went back to the house and made her way along quiet corridors, up staircases and along further corridors to Lady Blackshaw’s bedroom in the south wing. All was quiet. It would be an hour before the first servant began early-morning duty.

  She thought back to one day recently when she and the girls had followed Teresa into Edwina’s room to collect a worn coverlet that needed to be mended. While they were there Teresa pointed to an open ordinary-looking box on the dressing table containing necklaces of diamonds, rubies and emeralds tangled around matching rings and bracelets. Dixon couldn’t believe beautiful things like that were jumbled together in such a careless fashion and felt a desire to lift out all the pieces, untangle them, and sort them out. Before she’d had time to touch a single jewel Teresa said with authority it was time to leave and, scooping up the coverlet, led the way out.

  Dixon remembered being miffed that Teresa knew all about the jewels and was at home in Edwina’s bedroom whereas she, senior in service if not in age, had never seen the jewels or been in the bedroom before.

  This morning the wooden box was in its previous position. The pieces of jewellery were on view in the same state they’d been in when she last saw them. With care she extricated a diamond necklace and its matching ring, along with a sapphire bracelet and its matching ring. She slipped them into her pocket, left the room and went back to the nursery to relive the shock of the previous night.

  After Miss East and Charlotte escaped, she’d lost control, howling and raging in a fury that she felt was strong enough to kill her, and at the time she wished it had. A young kitchen porter, obviously sent up by Miss East, had almost fallen backwards with fright when he saw her, but waited around long enough for Dr Finn to reassure him that everything was under control and he could leave with a clear conscience.

  Dixon relived all the humiliations at the orphanage where she wasn’t deemed worthy of an education, good enough only for minding infants, but they were as nothing compared to being publicly declared unfit to do even that by a woman who came from the same part of the world and same stock as herself. Dr Finn, whose kind perceptive gaze unnerved her as she felt he had an ability to see through her mask and read her thoughts and still think well of her, stayed for over an hour to reassure himself she was calm enough to be left alone and there was no fear she would do anything rash. He apologised for treating her roughly and offered to fetch someone to stay with her, but she said she didn’t need his help as she would be leaving the Park first thing in the morning and had no intention of returning. In fact, only for it being dark she would leave this very minute.

  And now, all those collective humiliations at the orphanage and in the nursery the previous night were as nothing compared to being laughed at by Manus when she offered herself to him as a wife. She felt a stab in her chest when she thought of it, and she thought of it every few seconds.

  To distract herself, she picked up the envelope she had earlier thrown at Lily East and opened it. Inside was a letter, written on Blackshaw notepaper like the one Teresa Kelly received before she left. The Blackshaw family crest and address were at the top of the page and it was signed by the steward on behalf of Lord Waldron at the bottom. “It’s a reference,” Teresa had explained about her own one. “Worth a fortune for the likes of us.” She had read out words like ‘honest’, ‘trustworthy’, ‘hardworking’. She was particularly pleased because, even though she had worked at the Park for only twenty months, the steward had included the long years of devotion to her father to explain the missing years. “What a thoughtful man!” she’d said.

  Dixon would have to wait until she found someone to read hers to her, but judging by the generous amount of money the steward had enclosed, he was being thoughtful once again.

  Marrying Manus had always been her ambition. She wouldn’t have wasted eight of the best years of her life in this morgue if she hadn’t thought she would overcome Manus’s awe of her and claim him in the end. That look of pleasure, intensified during the last two years, that showed on his delighted face every time he saw her and the girls approaching had sustained her hopes and quietened her impatience during all those dreary months.

  She couldn’t have misread the signs of love.

  It was the timing that had wrecked her plans. He felt so guilty about being unaware that Victoria had disappeared when he was so close by, and was so worn out from searching all hours, that he was not his usual self. What had happened that terrible day had knocked all the stuffing out of him. He didn’t seem to know what she was talking about, looking at her as if she were making a joke when she proposed marriage to him.

  And now time had run out. Betrayed by Charlotte, outsmarted and outmanoeuvred by Miss East. Who would have thought a young girl and an old woman would defeat her in the end?

  Soon the Park would be awake and news of her dismissal would spread. Would anyone take her part? Not likely, not with the hold Miss East had over them all. Would Manus keep to himself what had passed between them?

  There was little enough to pack. She secured the jewels and money in the lining of her coat, then stamped on the uniforms she had tossed on the floor as a final gesture.

  One last look around the large room, then down the three flights of stairs. The dawn chorus accompanied her along the back of the house, passing Miss East’s door, then around the house and down the avenue past the stables where she looked straight ahead for fear she might see Manus.

  No one saw her as she made her way through Ballybrian to the station and sat waiting for the first train to Dublin. When it came she felt a stirring of relief that it would take her away from here, the backdrop to her embarrassing miscalculations.

  Would the young Constable Declan Doyle, who had taken such an obvious shine to her, be sorry for his missed chance when he heard that she was gone?

  More to the point, would Manus regret letting her go when he came back to himself and realised how much he had loved her?

  Her mind began racing through scenes of returning in triumph to avenge herself on those who had wronged her, but for the moment she must control it and try to concentrate. A young woman travelling on her own needed a protector. What she must do was keep her wits about her and find a gentleman, a companion or a family to attach herself to as soon as possible.

  One other thing she needed was a new name. She had already chosen ‘Elizabeth’. No more ‘Cry Baby’ or ‘Baby’ or ‘Nursie’ or ‘Nurse’. Because of the name on the reference, ‘Dixon’ couldn’t be changed, but she didn’t mind that – at least it was a real name. ‘Elizabeth’ had a ring to it, a seriousness that would match the new
image she intended to invent for herself.

  Elizabeth Dixon. Not Eliza, or Betty, or Lizzie or Beth Dixon. Elizabeth Dixon. That would do nicely. No one else had bothered to give her a proper name, so, while she was giving herself one, she might as well make it a royally impressive one.

  By the time the train to Dublin pulled in an hour later, Elizabeth Dixon was still imagining returning to Tyringham Park, not in her present form as a disgraced nanny, but as something else entirely. What exactly she didn’t know yet, but it would be something worthy of her new name. Something to make Manus and Lily East sit up and take notice, and something to send shivers down the spine of that rich brat Charlotte who by then would be older and wouldn’t have Lily East’s authority and protection to hide behind.

  11

  London

  1917

  Arriving in London, Edwina left her maid and luggage at the Officers’ Quarters while she met her husband for an allotted ten minutes before he had to dash back to the War Office.

  Her chair was too low. Glad of the space between her husband and herself, she concentrated on the brass buttons and medals on his uniform to avoid looking directly at his face.

  “Too bad you had to make the trip over, old thing. No way could I be spared. You know that. You received my letter?” Waldron put his pipe on the ashtray and looked at it while he was talking. He made vague circular hand movements.

  “Yes. I realised before I received it that you couldn’t leave the Office.”

  “Quite. Well, what brings you here? Has something new come up?” He picked up a pen, checked the ink, and started doodling.

  “Nothing, unfortunately.” Edwina managed to control the urge to reach over and knock the pen from his hand. “I need your help.”

  “My help?” He almost looked at her but raised his eyes only as far as her neck. “I didn’t think there was anything I could do from a distance. Otherwise I would have done it, of course.”

  Edwina’s face tightened with the effort of holding back a sarcastic rejoinder. To give herself time to collect herself, she took off her coat and turned to drape it on the back of her chair, all the while telling herself she mustn’t fall at the first fence.

  “I’m sure you would,” she said finally, settling back. She waited.

  He was concentrating on making short, repetitive movements with his pen and was unaware of her, so she continued to wait.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said at last. “Where were we?” He stilled his hands. “You wanted my help. What specifically can I do?”

  “I want you to find Teresa Kelly for me.”

  “Can’t say I can put a face to the name. Who is she?”

  “One of the servants. A girl from the village . . .”

  “You know we never employ local people. Those Papists are likely to shoot one in one’s bed with the least hint of an uprising. I thought I told you –”

  “I know you did, but you can’t blame me. If you must blame someone, make it Miss East. She installed Teresa Kelly when I was in Dublin giving birth to Victoria, and I wasn’t informed.”

  “Oh, dear.” Waldron poised his pen and adopted an unblinking attentive expression to avoid having to comment on that piece of information. The effort made his eyes smart. “Why do you want to find this particular servant?”

  “I think she stole Victoria.”

  He made a sound as if to speak, but she talked over him.

  “As a matter of fact I’m sure she did. I’ve no evidence but I just know. Call it a mother’s instinct.”

  Waldron made a sound like a snort that turned into a cough. He tapped his chest and took up his pipe for a puff. The coughing stopped. “Works every time,” he said as he wiped his mouth.

  Earlier, Edwina had noticed the pipe falling sideways, allowing a revolting brown slime to trickle from the mouthpiece. Now that she’d seen him take a mouthful of it, she was glad she hadn’t warned him about it.

  “What do the police think?” Waldron pulled a face, drank from the glass beside him and made some throat-clearing noises.

  “They think Victoria fell into the river and was washed out to sea. They discounted my theory as a mother’s wishful thinking.” Her voice had a flat quality to it. “But no one knows anything for sure. No one saw anything and nothing was –”

  “Quite. I get your point. Why then do you suspect the servant you mentioned?” His hand had found the pen again. He was making such tiny strokes he must have thought he wouldn’t be noticed.

  “Te-re-sa Ke-lly,” she said, drawing out the syllables of the name as if she were talking to someone with limited understanding, “was seen leaving on the same afternoon Victoria disappeared. That’s enough in itself to point to her.”

  “Could be pure coincidence.”

  “Too much of a coincidence. What are the chances of those two things happening together?”

  “That’s what a coincidence is.” His pen looked as if it was making flourishes.

  Edwina took two deep breaths and continued with what she’d rehearsed on the way over: Teresa was forty, had given up hope of having children of her own, was besotted with Victoria and had begun indoor employment at the Park at the same time Victoria was born.

  “Another coincidence?” He was colouring with a red pencil, licking the point after each stroke, and making sure he stayed inside the lines. “What does Miss East think? Sound woman. She always knows what’s what.”

  “No point in asking her. She’s completely one-eyed. Blames Dixon for everything and thought the sun shone out of Teresa Kelly. Of course they had a lot in common, both old maids who played cards and hankered after children.”

  “Wouldn’t dismiss her opinion out of hand. A rock of sense, that woman.” He was now stretching his arm to reach the top right-hand corner of his drawing while trying not to lean over.

  “You always favoured –”

  “Come in,” he ordered, reacting to a tap on the door.

  Edwina started – she was fully occupied with her thoughts and hadn’t heard the knock. Waldron sat up straight, patted the long strands of hair across his bald patch to make sure they were in position, smoothed his handlebar moustache, and draped one arm over the back of his chair.

  A young soldier entered, saluted, handed Waldron an envelope, saluted, turned, looked intently at Edwina for a second and left the room without speaking.

  “Nice-looking boy,” said Edwina absent-mindedly. “He looks about fourteen.”

  “He does, doesn’t he? Thatcher. Name, not trade. Talented chap. Lucky to have him. Asthmatic – not eligible for active service. More man than boy, actually. He’s twenty-five.” Waldron made a surreptitious move to choose a green pencil and lick it. “Allergic to horses, unfortunately. Imagine never being able to ride.”

  “Why are we wasting our time talking about him?” she asked.

  Waldron bridled. “Just making conversation. You brought it up.” He was stabbing the paper with the pencil. “So what is it you think I can do that you haven’t already done?”

  “I want you to use your contacts in the army and fisheries and Civil Service –” Waldron’s chest expanded and the medals rose two inches.

  “– to force them to show you shipping and ferry records. I want you to find out if a middle-aged woman and a young child left Irish shores on the 7th of July or thereabouts. If they went over to the mainland or wherever else.”

  “That’s quite a list.”

  “I’m sure a man as powerful and influential as you will have no trouble dealing with it.”

  Waldron was pleased with the compliment. “I’ll certainly pull out all the stops. Everything else over there still the same?”

  “More or less. We’re quiet enough but there have been rumblings since that uprising in Dublin last year. Did you hear much about that over here?”

  For the first time since they’d sat down he looked straight at her and smiled. “Hear much about it, did you say? Hear much about it?” He turned to an imaginary audience, both a
rms raised as if acknowledging applause, then back to her, pausing for greater impact. “The papers were full of it for weeks, but my name wasn’t mentioned which was jolly annoying as I had a pivotal part to play.” He paused again to make sure she was listening. “I was one of the advisors who recommended the ringleaders be shot.”

  Edwina sat stony-faced and was not applauding.

  He leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t given my life to the service of the Empire for nothing. Troublemakers like that have to be shown who’s boss early on in the piece. And they were shown. In no uncertain terms.” He emphasised his words with three sharp stabs of his pencil, breaking the lead. “A lesson to the rest. Never fails.”

  Edwina stood up, dropping her handbag on the floor. “Does anyone in Ireland know you were involved?”

  “Can’t say, actually.” Waldron stood, straightened his jacket and came round to the other side of the desk to pick up the handbag and help her with her coat. “But don’t see why not. Never made any secret of it. Proud of it, in fact.”

  She moved away from him on the pretext of looking at the large piece of paper on his desktop and was surprised to see on it, not doodles, but a fully realised drawing of a battle scene featuring horses with stylised twirls for manes and tails, soldiers on horseback complete with helmets, chin-straps, red coats, black boots and spurs, canons and mountains in the distance, and a tangle of bodies on the ground.

  “What’s this?”

  “The Crimean War. My favourite subject.”

  “May I have it?”

  “Of course. Always giving them away.” He smiled as he signed it on the bottom right-hand corner. “Getting quite a name for myself.” He rolled up the sheet and gave it to her. “About your Teresa Whatshername. I’ll set the wheels in motion straight away even though I’m up to my eyes. Pity you didn’t tell me earlier.” He opened the door for her.

  Thatcher, standing to attention outside the door, saluted.