The Outcasts of Time

by Ian Mortimer

  I descend the stairs and find Father Harington still in his library. ‘My word, John, a bath and a shirt make a world of difference. You look quite the part.’

  ‘You are a most generous host, Father Harington. I am deeply grateful.’

  ‘Well, that is kind of you to say so, John, but think nothing of it. So, now that you are ready, we can ring the bell for lunch and go through to the dining room to meet my sister and mother.’

  ‘One thing first, Father Harington. I need to relieve myself.’

  ‘Of course. Down the steps, past the door to the kitchen, through the back door and you’ll see our chamber of office on the right-hand side of the garden.’

  I follow his directions and find the earthen closet very smart and clean. There are two seats, side by side, of different heights. Both are of polished wood boards with a hole in the middle and a hinged wooden cover blocking the hole. There are neat piles of this white vellum-like material on the side. I reckon that I understand what they are to be used for. Apart from the materials with which one should wipe, I cannot help but feel that this is one of the few aspects of daily life that will never change, like sleep and hunger. Sitting there, I almost feel at home.

  Back indoors, the dining room is decorated every bit as opulently as the drawing room I saw earlier. There are eight upholstered seats of the most elegant polished wood, and four places set. The centre is adorned with silver candlesticks, already lit. There are covered dishes there made of glazed white pottery painted with blue figures. Each place has two glasses and three bone-handled knives, two silver tools with prongs, and two silver spoons. The glass drinking goblets are of such fineness I cannot imagine that King Edward himself drank out of such elegant vessels. But what are the tools with prongs for? And how does one eat when both knives have rounded ends? It seems to me that the only thing unchanged from my day is the whiteness of the table linen.

  Father Harington’s sister, who is seated opposite me at the table, has three names: Mary Georgiana Harington. Fortunately, I do not have to use all three every time I address her. I understand her to be seven years younger than her brother but she appears younger still, with very pale skin. Her hair is parted in the middle and combed straight down the sides of her head, and as she moves, it follows her around with a moment’s delay. Her light-blue tunic is decorated with pictures of red roses. The sleeves are short, exposing her bare forearms. In the lobes of her ears there are pieces of gold containing dark-blue jewels.

  Father Harington’s mother, Frances, is old. Her long-sleeved tunic is black. Her dark hair is parted in the centre, like her daughter’s, but whereas Georgiana’s hair hangs down the sides of her face, Frances’s is tied back behind her head. It gives her an austere look, and every time she turns towards me I feel as if I am being judged.

  Father Harington says grace, in a brief manner. Then I open my eyes and stare at the array of implements.

  ‘What is it you do for a living, Mister Offremont?’ asks Frances as she puts some butter on her bread.

  This question, coming on top of my current confusion, almost passes me by. I see that the old lady is using her small knife for the buttering and so I do likewise. ‘I am a stonemason,’ I reply.

  ‘How useful. Do you build churches?’

  ‘I shape figures and pinnacles, as well as cutting the stone for the vaulting and tracery.’

  ‘I hear from my cousin in London that they have finally put Nelson on top of his column in Trafalgar Square. Now that would have been a figure to work on, do you not agree, Mister Offrement?’

  ‘My lady, my name is just John of Wrayment. I am no “mister”.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to refer to me as “my lady” either. I am not a baroness. But what about this column for Admiral Nelson? If you are good with figures, how is it that you don’t move to London and work on our other heroes – I’m sure Lord Melbourne’s not long for this world.’

  ‘Or the Duke of Wellington,’ says Georgiana. ‘Just think how high they’ll make his column when he goes.’

  ‘For my part,’ says Father Harington, ‘I think Trafalgar Square is a travesty of the virtues of our age. We live in the most enlightened decade that mankind has ever known, and yet many poor men’s houses were destroyed by the government to make space for that monument to military vanity. I find it quite depressing that the progressive, reforming administration of the Whigs should have swept so many homes away. Especially when it is to celebrate a man of war and an adulterer who abandoned his own spouse to live in sin with another man’s wife.’

  ‘Oh, Edward,’ Frances replies, ‘the people need heroes too. It is not all about finding homes and improving the living conditions of the poor. You’re beginning to sound like Mister Chadwick.’

  ‘We’ve got enough heroes,’ says Georgiana. ‘The problem is they’re all men. I can read and write, discuss and dispute as well as any man – yet I am not permitted to study . . .’

  ‘We know, Georgie,’ says Father Harington. ‘But there are more pressing—’

  ‘You say you know but you never speak up for us. For you, it’s all about the poor, as if only the poor matter. Let me tell you, even rich women can be made poor by unthinking and uncaring men.’

  A serving woman whom I have not previously seen enters with Eliza. They are each carrying two white ceramic circular platters. Eliza sets hers down in front of Father Harington and myself; the other woman sets hers down in front of Frances and Georgiana.

  ‘Oh, that does look delicious,’ exclaims Georgiana.

  ‘There are only so many fights one can take on,’ explains Father Harington to his sister. ‘I agree, it is a profound injustice that young women from a good home are not able to attend a university. But you are not destitute, and many intelligent women are quite capable of finding ways of pursuing their interests without the burden of having to attend a college. It is an even greater injustice that the poor daughters of this city cannot get a decent education. But you say you want me to speak on your behalf. So, what should I say? That the poor families who depend on their sons’ and daughters’ wages should give up that income and spend more money sending them to school? They would be twice as badly off. Change must happen gradually, and first we must improve the living conditions of the poor and the income their households receive, and then we may be able to reform their education.’

  ‘But you won’t improve their lot until you give them decent schooling,’ insists Georgiana.

  ‘How do you find your pie, Mister Offremont?’ asks Frances.

  A piece of pastry falls off my round-ended knife and on to my plate. Unable to spear it, I have been trying to steady it on the flat blade while I move it to my mouth. ‘It is very wholesome,’ I reply, seeing Father Harington raise a segment to his mouth on his pronged implement.

  ‘What is this tool called?’ I ask.

  ‘A fork,’ replies Georgiana. ‘Do they not have them where you come from?’

  ‘We could never have afforded silver,’ I say.

  ‘Have you seen what the theatre is showing tonight?’ asks Frances. ‘A play by that playwright.’

  ‘I’ve already bought tickets,’ replies Father Harington.

  Frances chokes.

  There is silence for a long moment, broken only by the clink of cutlery against the platters. Everyone looks at Frances.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she says at last, drinking some water. ‘I thought you said you had bought some tickets.’

  ‘I have indeed. For the three of us to see the Marlowe play.’

  ‘Edward!’ Frances has stopped eating.

  ‘Mother, the man was almost as clever as Shakespeare.’

  ‘You may keep such opinions to yourself. I know the truth.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ exclaims Father Harington. ‘Pray, what makes your opinion better?’

  ‘We gave you a good education so you would not embarrass me by asking such foolish questions,’ says Frances. ‘In case you do not remember, I am the widow
of a clergyman, and the mother of a clergyman, and it would be wrong for a woman in my position to see a play written by a man who openly denied that God existed and then made matters worse by consenting to acts of . . . of sodomy!’

  ‘He did not consent to them, Mother,’ says Georgiana. ‘He wanted them to happen. Is this Doctor Faustus we are talking about?’

  ‘Daughter of mine, you are NOT going to see that play!’ says Frances, putting her knife and fork on the table.

  ‘But why not?’ she replies. ‘Edward has bought tickets.’

  ‘Because you are the daughter of a clergyman, and the sister of a clergyman, and I do hope that one day you will be the wife of a clergyman and thus the mother of clergymen. And any self-respecting man of the cloth who hears that you stepped into a place where that man’s shameful words were uttered will hastily revise any good opinion of your virtue that you had managed to instil in him.’

  ‘And for that I am to be chained up at home? How is it Edward can go?’

  ‘He is a gentleman and may do what he likes. But he will face dire consequences if he does.’

  ‘You see, sister dearest, what would happen if I spoke up for the rights of well-brought-up young women? I would not get far. Not even as far as the other end of the table.’

  ‘Well,’ says Georgiana, ‘I do not see what is so terrible about a man kissing men.’

  ‘It isn’t about the kissing,’ says Frances.

  ‘I understand that,’ says Georgiana, straightening her back. ‘I just don’t think that his playing with boys was as immoral as what a lot of men do to their wives. How is it that a man can take everything his wife owns, and beat her – even to the point of breaking her limbs – and that is not against the law, whereas a man making love to another man is a hanging offence? Frankly I think we should be hanging the wife-beaters, not the love-makers.’

  ‘My dear,’ says Frances, ‘I thought you were campaigning for women’s rights, not the freedom of sodomites.’

  ‘I am, Mother, but you were talking about Marlowe.’

  ‘Don’t you dare say his name,’ says Frances.

  Georgiana continues. ‘If people of your generation object so strongly to the principle that men might give other men pleasure, then I am hardly surprised that you have done nothing to object to the principle that they may cause women pain.’

  ‘Mister Offremont,’ asks Frances, ‘do you have quiet, peaceful dinners at home? Or do you also have a family?’

  ‘Sssh,’ says Father Harington, looking at his mother warningly.

  ‘I had a family,’ I say, swallowing my last piece of pie, which did taste good. I put my knife and fork back on the tablecloth. ‘I had a beautiful wife called Catherine. We had three sons, called William, John and James. But they all perished many years ago, her and them.’

  There is silence.

  ‘I am sorry,’ says Frances at length. ‘That is truly awful.’

  ‘That is indeed terrible,’ says Georgiana. ‘But, Mister Offremont, do you think women like me should be allowed to attend a university and do things men do, such as practise as a physician or a surgeon, and vote for a Member of Parliament?’

  ‘I really do not think our guest—’ begins Frances.

  But Father Harington holds up his hand. ‘No, Mother, Mister Offremont is most eloquent. It would be interesting to hear what he says on the matter. Should men and women be equals?’

  I clear my throat. ‘With respect, Father Harington, those are different questions. What your sister asked me was whether women should be allowed to do certain things that men do today. Your question about equality – that is quite a different thing. That is about whether they should do everything men do today.’

  ‘I am not sure I follow you,’ replies Father Harington, who has finished his food and is setting his knife and fork together in the middle of his plate. ‘But let us know your opinion.’

  ‘I’ve seen many men and women in different times and places, and some men treat their women in one way and some in another. To say that one is correct and another wrong is just to pick and choose: there is no rightness in the act of choosing. But it seems to me a fair question, should women be allowed to be physicians? In my day they could be, albeit not doctors of medicine, and many of us sought the help of women when suffering a disease. These days folk have clearly decided that women should not perform medical treatments, at least not publicly. Far be it from me to say they are wrong in deciding that. But in the future, women physicians could be allowed to practise freely, as they could in the time of good King Edward. And the queen could allow women to enter schools and do learning. But that won’t make them equal. Being allowed to do something does not make you the equal of all the others that do the same thing.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ says Georgiana. ‘We’ll make the best doctors.’

  ‘My lady,’ I add, ‘you must justify bringing this change about. You need to convince all of society that it is in everyone’s interests, not just your own.’

  ‘Piffle,’ replies Georgiana. ‘It is simply a matter of fairness. And the good we will do, of course.’

  ‘My lady, I have lived many long years and I can tell you that fairness is to society what water is to a duck’s back. Society does not change because of fairness: it changes because it sees an advantage. And it won’t change if most people do not see an advantage. What if rich women have the vote for Parliament – and are physicians and so forth – and poor men do not? Some hard-working men might feel aggrieved if they are passed over for rich women.’

  ‘Here comes the pudding,’ says Frances. ‘Now one thing I want to make exactly clear. When it comes to second helpings of bread and butter pudding, we are all equals.’

  ‘You do find fairness in society,’ says Father Harington. ‘Take the telegraph, for instance. Women are just as free as men to send a telegram . . .’ He looks at me, and sees my blank expression. ‘You don’t know what a telegram is, do you, John?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It is a message sent by pulses of electrical energy along long wires set out besides the railway lines. It arrives at its destination almost immediately. The telegraph will change the world, as surely as railways have done. People will be able to send messages at a moment’s notice telling policemen to apprehend criminals.’

  ‘Policemen?’ I ask.

  ‘Special constables,’ replies Father Harington, starting to eat his pudding with a spoon and fork.

  I pick up my spoon and follow his example. ‘I’ve known some women that did not need the law to protect them. They took their advantages and disadvantages and beat them together into something that could be called fair retribution, if not equality. Women have always been able to get their husbands to do their bidding: it is an art almost as old as love itself. And women don’t always need to use love. Even if you could bring about equality in law, it would not be the same as equality in life. And I reckon women get much more benefit from the latter than they do from the former.’

  ‘I still want to see the play,’ says Georgiana.

  ‘No,’ Frances replies.

  ‘Mother, I am twenty-five years of age.’

  ‘Then you are old enough to know better.’

  There is silence.

  At length, Father Harington sets his spoon down. ‘Dearest sister, I will take you to the play – in spite of our mother’s protestations – if you will play the pianoforte for us. Perhaps that piece of music by Mozart that I love?’

  ‘Edward, she is my daughter!’ says Frances.

  ‘The Fantasy in D Minor?’ asks Georgiana.

  ‘John told me earlier that he is not familiar with the works of the great Wolfgang Amadeus.’

  ‘Edward!’

  ‘Mother, she is my sister. She is under my roof. She is under my protection. And when she marries her clergyman, I will be the one who gives her away at the altar, not you. Besides, the play we are going to see features neither sodomy nor atheism.’

  ‘You mean, you h
ave read it?’ asks Frances, aghast.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Devils! I don’t know what to make of you two. Your father will be turning in his grave.’

  ‘If he wakes, he’ll hear his daughter playing Mozart, and that is enough to soothe any troubled soul.’

  At the end of the meal, Father Harington gives thanks for the food and we leave the servants to clear away our dirty dishes. We make our way back to the drawing room. Georgiana opens up the huge musical instrument that Father Harington called a pianoforte. We settle on the soft chairs to listen.

  And then she plays a few slow notes.

  The music is like nothing I have ever heard. This is what people who live in the lap of luxury think is heavenly. And how right they are. It is a pure blessing. It is like the sound of reminiscence itself. As she plays, Georgiana is not looking at us; for her, the music is about divine inspiration, not about her and us. She closes her eyes. We are just bystanders while she performs the miracle on the instrument with her fingers.

  I wish Catherine could hear this. William, I know, would rather run his hands over Georgiana’s breasts than listen to her run her fingers over the instrument. But Catherine would love it. And she never knew such a thing. She never knew such beauty could come out of musical notes. This is why there are tears in my eyes when Georgiana stops playing.

  There is a long silence, which is only broken when Father Harington says, ‘That was special. Thank you.’

  ‘It has made everything special,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know why you want to corrupt yourself by going to see a filthy play,’ says Frances.

  ‘Oh, Mother, let it be,’ says Georgiana, shutting the cover of the piano forte with a bang.

  ‘John, do you fancy going for a walk?’ asks Father Harington.

  We take our leave. Father Harington lends me a coat. Soon we are out, walking along Southernhay, him swinging his cane and pointing to various buildings. The sun has gone in and it is a cold, grey day now. People are out doing business. The wind is sharper than it was.