Fell the Angels

by John Kerr

  ‘Come in, Charles,’ said Sir Harry, ‘and meet our guests.’

  Charles Cranbrook, a 30-year-old man-about-town with sandy brown hair and neatly trimmed side-whiskers wearing a dark-brown jacket and charcoal trousers with boots polished to a high gloss, walked up to Cecilia, bowed at the waist, and said, ‘How do you do.’

  With a pretty smile, Cecilia said, ‘Very well, thank you. I’m Cecilia Henderson and this is my estate manager, Mrs Jane Clark.’

  ‘Whose late husband,’ interjected Sir Harry, ‘managed one of our plantations in Jamaica.’

  Turning to Mrs Clark, Charles smiled and said, ‘I seem to recall Mrs Clark.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said one of the servants, standing inconspicuously beside a marble-top table against the wall. ‘I believe this is the master’s tobacco.’

  ‘Why, thank you, my good man,’ said Charles, walking over to accept a leather pouch. Turning to Cecilia, he said, ‘I’m afraid I must be going, but I’m delighted to have made your acquaintance.’ He paused, looking for a moment in her eyes. ‘Goodbye, Mother,’ he concluded, and then walked briskly from the room.

  ‘Youth,’ commented Sir Harry.

  Goodbye, said Cecilia inwardly, retaining a mental image of Charles’s interesting, if not especially handsome face.

  Putting her teacup aside, Mrs Clark turned to Sir Harry and said, ‘We, too, must be going, before it grows dark.’

  ‘Are you staying over in the city?’

  ‘No,’ said Cecilia as she rose from her chair. ‘Returning to The Priory, my house in Balham.’

  ‘I hope we shall see you again before long,’ said Lady Cranbrook.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Cecilia. ‘Nothing would please me more.’

  ‘Do you have a coach?’ asked Sir Harry.

  ‘We instructed our driver to wait,’ replied Mrs Clark.

  Escorted to the door by their hosts, Cecilia offered her profuse thanks for their hospitality, donned her hat, coat, and gloves, and followed Mrs Clark to the cab waiting at the pavement. With a final wave to the Cranbrooks standing in the doorway, the two women climbed up onto the seat and, with a snap of the whip at the horse’s ears, the hansom was on its way in the fading light of the midwinter afternoon.

  ‘Well, Cissie,’ said Mrs Clark, seated opposite in the half-empty railway carriage, ‘what did you think?’ Both women had spent most of the thirty-minute trip from Palace Green to Victoria Station in silent introspection, listening to the creaking wheels and hoofbeats as the hansom rolled along in the gathering dusk.

  ‘Think?’ said Cecilia. ‘Of the Cranbrook mansion? Very grand, even more so than our own house in Belgravia—’

  ‘No. About Charles. When I last saw him, he was a youth, quite bright but a bit of a cad.’

  ‘I thought him, well, rather interesting. Not unattractive. Well dressed but not a dandy. I suppose he has money?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘His stepfather certainly has riches. But Charles’ mother – Lady Cranbrook – married Sir Harry when Charles was virtually a grown man. So one doesn’t know.’

  Appearing in the swaying doorway, the conductor called out, ‘Next stop, Balham.’

  ‘All in all,’ said Cecilia with a smile, ‘a very successful outing. And who knows? Perhaps I may see Charles again.’

  As Mrs Clark had her own room on the second floor of The Priory, down the passage from Cecilia, took all of her meals there, and led an otherwise parsimonious lifestyle, her savings were sufficient to enrol her son and daughter in mediocre schools in the south of England, where she hoped they would acquire enough of an education and polish to rise above tradesman status. On a clear, mild April morning, Mrs Clark, accompanied by Cecilia, boarded the train at the Balham station en route to Brighton to attend sports day at her son’s school, St Anne’s Asylum for the Children of Distressed Gentlefolk. Sharing a first-class compartment, Cecilia put aside her novel and said, ‘Tell me, Janie, what does one do at a sports day?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Clark, who for a change was wearing a plumcoloured dress, ‘all the boys are required to participate in athletics – team sports, cricket, rugby, that sort of thing.’ Cecilia nodded. ‘And each term the parents are invited to attend an exhibition. Hence, sports day.’

  ‘I see. Will we observe a match?’

  ‘I should think so. William plays on the older boys’ cricket team.’

  To Mrs Clark’s mild surprise, Cecilia had never witnessed a cricket match and consequently sat amid the visiting parents, resting her chin on her fists, utterly fascinated yet baffled by the crack of the bat on the bounding ball and dash of the boys to the wickets, invigorated by the salt-laden Channel breeze across the broad, emerald expanse. ‘Look, Cissie,’ said Mrs Clark, pointing, ‘William’s coming up to bat.’ Cecilia watched as a gangly youth, clad in white, strode to the pitch to face the bowler, a tall, muscular boy who with a hop, skip, and windmill motion of his arm, hurled a ball that bounced at the feet of the batsman. ‘Swing, Willie!’ cried Mrs Clark. ‘You can do it!’ On the next toss, William swung clumsily, driving the ball high in the air and deep into the outfield. ‘Run, Willie!’ exhorted his mother, restraining the impulse to leap up from her seat.

  As the boy loped to the wicket, Cecilia turned to Mrs Clark with a smile. ‘Jolly well done,’ she said, with a clap of her hands. Heedless of the score, or the innings, or which of the sides had the advantage, Cecilia was content to observe the action and listen to the cheers of the boys and their families until the sun sank low in the western sky and the umpire at last announced that the game was suspended for the evening, to be resumed in the morning. Having met William, a thin, awkward boy with a shock of dark hair, Cecilia advised that she intended to return to the hotel, where they would meet for dinner, while Mrs Clark had the rare opportunity to see her son privately. As the setting sun tinged the horizon with a band of mauve, Cecilia strolled from the school grounds into the seaside town, oppressed by thoughts of Dr Gully and her deepening isolation. ‘Without a friend in the world,’ she muttered to herself, as she approached the old hotel on the promenade, ‘apart from dear Jane.’

  Cecilia sat at a banquette facing the bevelled glass doors, observing the men and women, some accompanied by children, who crowded into the hotel lobby, noticing in particular the ladies’ hats, decorated with plumage with absurdly wide brims, resolved that she must have one, or two, just possibly three. At length Mrs Clark appeared, looking wan from the long afternoon, and somewhat gloomy, perhaps due to her simple dress and comparative lack of ornamentation. ‘Over here, Jane,’ said Cecilia, as Mrs Clark walked by.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  Cecilia rose and placed a hand on Mrs Clark’s arm. ‘Let’s take a turn on the promenade, shall we?’ she said. ‘I could use a breath of fresh air before dinner.’

  After walking arm-in-arm several blocks from the sea-front hotel, the two women halted at the entrance to the long, covered pier, festooned with Japanese lanterns and packed with visitors. ‘The penny arcade,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘Reminds me of my childhood, when my father would give a shilling each to my brother and me to wager.’ Cecilia smiled, thinking back to the lavish entertainments on the grounds at Buscot Park to which she and her sisters had been treated by their over-indulgent parents.

  ‘Let’s return to the hotel,’ said Cecilia, fighting another wave of melancholy. ‘I’m ready for dinner.’

  Strolling past The Crown, a popular public house whose patrons spilled out on the pavement, Mrs Clark almost collided with an impeccably dressed young man. ‘Beg pardon,’ he said as he tipped his silk top hat. ‘Oh,’ he added with a look of surprise, ‘it’s Miss Henderson.’

  ‘Mr Cranbrook,’ said Cecilia, with a happy smile that dimpled her cheeks. ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘and a happy one at that.’

  ‘We were just returning to our hotel for dinner,’ said Cecilia. ‘Would you care to join us?’


  ‘I’d be delighted, as I’m at loose ends this evening.’

  Seated across from Cecilia and Mrs Clark, Charles Cranbrook ordered a bottle of claret and then resumed a humorous account of his reason for visiting Brighton. ‘One of the chief disadvantages,’ he said, ‘of being admitted to the Inns of Court, is the requirement to argue cases before our circuit judges. Here, we’re in Quarter Sessions.’ Cecilia nodded politely. ‘Nothing very exciting, I assure you. The usual action for trespass, that sort of thing. Ah, here’s our wine.’ After allowing the waiter to pour each of them a glass, he said, ‘I understand, Mrs Clark, you’re visiting your son in school?’

  ‘Yes, at St. Anne’s. Today was the boys’ spring sports day.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles after sampling the wine. ‘The sports day with its athletic exhibitions. I always loathed it.’

  Smiling pleasantly, Cecilia studied his face; his neatly brushed, light-brown hair, trimmed side-whiskers, penetrating, intelligent eyes and something almost cruel about his mouth. Making eye contact with her, Charles said, ‘Miss Henderson …’

  ‘Cecilia.’

  ‘Cecilia, you have no children of your own?’

  ‘No. My late husband and I were not blessed with children.’

  ‘Someday,’ said Charles, ‘I intend to have a large brood of them.’

  Cecilia sipped her wine, ran a finger along the edge of her decorated cuff, smiled, and said, ‘But first you shall have to find a wife.’

  Chapter Nine

  WALKING QUICKLY ALONG the flagstone path on a warm May morning, Cecilia halted at the entrance to the stables and called out, ‘Griffiths?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’ replied the stableman, emerging from the nearest stall.

  ‘Have you groomed and saddled Bluebell?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. And the gelding.’ He looked approvingly at his wealthy employer; what a show she made of it, as she was clad in a green redingote riding habit, a double-breasted tailored jacket over her dress and boots, with a white silk scarf knotted at her neck and tiny hat pinned to her auburn hair.

  ‘I’m riding alone today,’ said Cecilia, as she strolled into the enclosure, redolent of straw and horse manure. Emerging at the far end in bright sunshine, she smiled at Griffiths and said, ‘Help me up, if you please.’ Placing one finely polished boot in the stirrup, she grasped the pommel as he lifted her by the waist onto the side-saddle on the bay mare. ‘Thank you, Griffiths,’ she said, slipping a half-crown into his hand. ‘Advise Mrs Clark that I’ll return by midday.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And remind her I’m expecting company for lunch.’ With the reins in her left hand, Cecilia slapped the mare’s haunch with her crop and cantered along the gravel path through the alley of oaks, emerging on Tooting Bec Common, the open fields of which were blanketed with bright yellow and blue wildflowers. An accomplished horsewoman, she turned the mare onto the dusty track through the common, slowing to a trot as she bypassed several nannies pushing prams and then returning to a canter. ‘Good girl,’ said Cecilia with a reassuring pat on the mare’s neck, thinking that the strong, spirited animal might have been taught to jump but for the absence of fences or hedges. At the far end of the common she slowed the horse to a walk, traversed the streets of the village and then entered the somewhat smaller Streatham Common, where she skilfully put the mare through her gaits, from a trot to a canter and a final gallop across a quarter-mile of soft turf. ‘Whoa,’ she called, with a tug on the reins at the approach of the woods that bordered the common, halting the mare to water at a public trough before heading home. Almost an hour had passed when she turned on the gravel drive to the Priory stables where Griffiths was waiting with his arms crossed at his chest. Taking Cecilia’s hand and helping her down, he said, ‘She’s had her exercise, from the look of her’, noting the mare’s sleek, lathered neck and haunches.

  ‘She’s had water,’ said Cecilia as she straightened the front of her jacket, ‘but I’ve no doubt she could use more.’ Unknotting the scarf at her neck, she walked quickly along the path to the door at the rear of the house, glancing up at the noonday sun and wondering with a quickening of her pulse if her visitor had arrived. Entering the kitchen, with its exposed beams and array of gleaming copper pots and pans, she walked over to the stove where the cook stood over a cauldron of simmering soup. Bending down to inhale its inviting aroma, Cecilia asked, ‘Has Mrs Clark specified the hour lunch is to be served?’

  ‘Yes, mum,’ replied the cook as another servant entered the kitchen. ‘At one o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cecilia as she turned to go.

  As Cecilia entered the central passageway, Mrs Clark rose from her desk beneath the stairs, smiled briefly and said, ‘Your guest has arrived. I showed him into the drawing-room.’

  Charles Cranbrook stood beside the Broadwood grand piano in the corner of the drawing-room, lightly running a finger over its gleaming walnut finish. During his five minutes alone he had carefully examined Cecilia’s collection of fine art and furnishings: the Gainsborough over the mantel, a fine bronze figure of winged Mercury, a large Meissen urn, and the expensively upholstered rosewood chairs and settee. The piano alone, he reckoned, must have cost a thousand quid, and he seriously doubted Cecilia could play it. Hearing footsteps, he turned as Cecilia appeared in the arched entrance from the passageway. ‘Hallo,’ he called out in a cheerful voice.

  ‘I’m going up to change,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll just be a minute. Have the maid fetch you something to drink.’

  ‘Right ho.’ As the hem of Cecilia’s dress disappeared up the stairs, a maid wearing a black dress with starched white apron arrived from the kitchen. ‘I say,’ said Charles, moving in her direction, ‘is there a chilled bottle of champagne to hand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Bring it along,’ instructed Charles, resting his arm on the back of the rosewood settee, ‘with two glasses.’

  By the time Cecilia descended the staircase, wearing pale-pink organdie with a scarlet sash and matching shoes peeking from beneath the cloud of flounce, Charles had consumed the better part of a flute of fine champagne and made up his mind that life in The Priory would suit someone of his expensive tastes very nicely indeed. He reached for the bottle in the silver bucket, poured a second glass, and walked up to Cecilia. ‘You look smashing,’ he said, as he handed it to her. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve raided your supply of champagne.’

  ‘Mind?’ she said before taking a sip. ‘It’s there to be drunk.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Charles, reaching out to touch glasses. ‘I understand you’ve been out riding.’

  ‘A wonderful ride on the common,’ said Cecilia, ‘and then over to Streatham and back.’

  ‘How very convenient, to have your own stable, and adjacent to Tooting Bec.’

  ‘It’s why I chose to live here. To be able to take advantage of a day like today, yet close enough to the city for shopping and the theatre.’

  ‘Why, I suppose,’ said Charles, as he strolled with Cecilia back into the drawing-room, ‘a man might even take the train to work in the City.’

  ‘It’s frequently done,’ said Cecilia, as she sat in one of the plush armchairs. ‘Or so I’m told.’

  Charles sat facing her, with one neatly creased charcoal trouser and polished boot crossed over his knee, interlacing his fingers. ‘I spoke to Mrs Clark,’ he said, ‘on my way in. I gather she looks after the household.’

  ‘Jane sees to everything,’ said Cecilia. ‘Apart from my financial affairs, of course, which are managed by my banker at Coutts.’

  ‘Coutts on the Strand,’ repeated Charles, ‘a very reputable establishment.’ And, he considered, a bank that catered almost exclusively to the very rich and powerful. ‘I suppose your late husband chose to bank there….’

  ‘My late husband was a military man who knew nothing of investments. But he had the good fortune,’ added Cecilia with a smile, ‘to be the only son of Sir Alfred C
astello.’

  ‘The Tory MP….’

  ‘And founder of the international telegraph company. It was my solicitor who recommended Coutts, after my husband’s death.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Excuse me, mum.’

  Cecilia and Charles turned to the maid standing in the archway. ‘Luncheon is served,’ she said with a diffident smile.

  Following an elaborate repast which featured more champagne, Yorkshire pudding to accompany the roast beef, and a raspberry tart, Cecilia invited Charles to take a walk with her in the orchard. As the day was warm, he left his coat in the drawing-room and strolled in shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Bending down to inspect a primrose, Cecilia snapped off the blossom and held it to her nose. ‘Pretty,’ she said, ‘but with little scent.’

  ‘Like some girls I know,’ said Charles with a half smile. ‘Pretty, but with little sense.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Cecilia with a laugh. ‘You’re very clever.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Of course. Though I know so little about you.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Well, about your upbringing, your schooling, what you intend to do with your life.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ said Charles with another of his crooked smiles.

  Reaching the end of the orchard, Cecilia sat on a wooden bench facing the green expanse of the common and listened as Charles gave a succinct account of his childhood, the only son of a prosperous but not wealthy businessman in Manchester named Turner, who died when Charles was twelve. ‘After Mother remarried,’ he said, ‘I decided to take my stepfather’s name.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Cecilia.

  ‘In ’62, when I was eighteen. My first year at King’s College, in London. I made up my mind to study law and went on to Oxford – I was a Magdalen man.’

  ‘King’s College and Oxford,’ said Cecilia with a smile. ‘You’re certainly well educated.’