by John Kerr
Seated at his leather-tooled desk with a robe over his usual business attire, he looked up with an annoyed expression and said, ‘What is it? Can’t you see I’m working?’
Standing in the partly opened doorway, Cecilia observed the large book of accounts – Mrs Clark’s ledger – open on the desk next to a stack of bills, invoices, and receipts. ‘Are you ill?’ she said.
‘Of course not,’ he snapped. ‘With the miserable weather I decided to stay home and try to make some sense out of this.’ He smacked his hand on the ledger.
‘That belongs to Mrs Clark….’
‘She’s your bookkeeper, is she? Well, a fine job she’s done managing your affairs.’
‘I manage my own affairs. Jane merely—’
‘See here,’ said Cranbrook, turning to the ledger. ‘During the months of November and December alone, a total of nine hundred and seventy six pounds expended under the heading Cecilia – Personal. Nearly a thousand pounds! And on what? Dressmakers, milliners, jewellers, florists, God knows what else. Look here. It lists pair of leather and silk boots, eleven quid!’
‘There was the wedding,’ said Cecilia, conscious of a flush of anger on her face, her fingers moving furtively to the edge of her cuff. ‘I need to look my best, my position—’
‘And look what we’re spending on the household.’ Turning the page, Cranbrook ran a finger down a long column of penciled figures. ‘Something like eighty-five pounds a month.’
‘I know what it costs to manage this house,’ said Cecilia sharply. ‘And I can well afford it. It’s my money and I shall spend it as I please.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Cranbrook, rising from his desk and walking over to toss a lump of coal on the grate. ‘As your husband I insist on managing our affairs with some semblance of economy, or it’s just a matter of time before we’re facing the poorhouse.’
‘Oh, pshaw.’
‘Beginning with one of the gardeners, and perhaps your maid Fanny.’ Cranbrook paced before the fire with his hands behind his back.
‘What?’
‘How can you possibly justify two gardeners? And three maids?’
‘I understand,’ said Cecilia with her hands on her hips, ‘that you are accustomed to living in modest circumstances. Well, I am not. I refuse to sacrifice the luxuries I regard as necessities, merely because of your misplaced notion of economy. I forbid you to dismiss the gardener or the maid,’ she concluded, angrily closing the ledger.
‘Forbid me? We shall see about that.’ He pounded his fist on the desk so violently that Cecilia’s teacup was knocked onto the carpet. As she watched with her hand at her lips, Cranbrook stripped off his robe and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘I warned you,’ said Mrs Clark, who sat in the chair by the window in Cecilia’s oak-panelled bedroom and idly glanced at the boxes piled on the floor, the latest delivery of parcels from some of London’s finest shops. As it was mid-morning and Cranbrook had long since departed for work, she spoke without fear of being overheard.
‘You didn’t,’ said Cecilia, seated before the mirror in her boudoir with her back to Mrs Clark. ‘You merely said that a woman’s income belongs to her husband after marriage. Well, I consulted a solicitor and arranged otherwise. Charles has no control over my income.’
‘And yet,’ said Mrs Clark, putting aside a sheaf of bills and rising from the chair to approach Cecilia, ‘he’s dismissed poor Fanny and one of the gardeners, despite your protests.’ Cecilia gazed at Mrs Clark’s reflection in the mirror. ‘And,’ she continued, ‘I overheard him telling Griffiths he intends to dispose of the gelding.’
‘What?’ said Cecilia as she spun around. ‘Sell the gelding?’
Mrs Clark nodded and said, ‘He complained about paying the bills—’
‘You pay the bills.’
‘Not any more, Cissie. Mr Cranbrook, as he insists I address him, has taken over that task. And he has a very sharp pencil when it comes to totting up the figures.’ Looking Cecilia in the eye, Mrs Clark, gently taking Cecilia’s hand and moving it from her cuff, said, ‘You must curtail your spending, no matter the size of your income, or there will be hell to pay.’
It was dark and the grandfather clock in the hall had chimed eight times when the front door swung open, admitting Charles Cranbrook amid a shower of swirling snowflakes. Stripping off his gloves and long coat, he hung them on the stand, along with his hat, and strode into the drawing-room, where Cecilia was seated before a brightly burning fire. ‘You’re late,’ she said, putting aside her wineglass.
‘The judge refused to recess the trial before six,’ said Cranbrook, walking up to the fire to warm his hands. ‘And then with the weather the train was a good hour late leaving Victoria.’
‘Your drink, sir,’ said Sawyers, holding out a salver.
‘Thanks,’ said Cranbrook, reaching for his glass and taking a sip of diluted Scotch.
‘Tell the cook,’ said Cecilia, ‘we’ll be ready for dinner as soon as Mr Cranbrook has finished his drink.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘We’re having a delicious soup, leek and potato,’ said Cecilia to Charles, ‘and your favourite roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. And then early to bed on this wintry night.’
‘Good,’ said Cranbrook with something like a smile. He gave Cecilia a brief, wolfish look and then took a large swallow of whisky.
Following dinner at the long dining-room table, during which Charles chiefly discussed the trial in progress, a typical commercial dispute about which Cecilia feigned interest as she enjoyed several glasses of wine, he abruptly stood up, tossed his napkin on the table, and said, ‘Come along, darling. Time for bed.’
In her previous marriage, and throughout her long affair with Dr Gully, Cecilia was accustomed to choosing the circumstances for love-making, the time of day and month and only when it suited her mood, on the unspoken assumption that her partner would acquiesce. And though intercourse with the inebriated Richard Castello seldom, if ever, gave satisfaction to either party, she had discovered with the gifted doctor that it was the source of ineffable pleasure, the conferring or withholding of which by a woman exerted powerful control over a man, a lesson as old as Eve. But since she had first slept with Charles Cranbrook, Cecilia discovered to her dismay that the tables had turned.
The word ‘rape’ was never spoken in the presence of a girl or young woman of the English upper classes, and so as a child in Adelaide Cecilia had been baffled when a mixed-race serving girl informed her that another of the servants had been sentenced to prison for rape. Consulting the dictionary, she read that it meant ‘sexual intercourse forced on a woman against her will’, which both disgusted and frightened her. Now, in her first month of marriage to Charles she was beginning to believe that rape was the prerogative of a husband under English law. This night, sleepy with wine, she fervently desired it would be otherwise, standing barefoot in her boudoir in her broderie Anglaise bodice and knee-length knickers. Approaching her silently from behind as she brushed out her hair, Charles slipped his hands around her waist and softly kissed the nape of her neck. ‘Not now,’ she murmured. Suddenly spinning her around, he seized the tops of her bodice and tore it apart.
‘There,’ he said with a leer, admiring her bare breasts. He suddenly kissed her hard on the mouth as he fondled her nipples.
Breaking away, she said, ‘Please, don’t,’ conscious of his nakedness beneath his silk dressing-gown.
Undeterred, Cranbrook lifted her in his strong arms, carried her to the bedroom and lowered her on the bed. Not bothering with the covers, he violently pulled down her underwear, threw off his robe, and straddled her, forcing his way into her with animal intensity. Thankfully for Cecilia, he was done within minutes, panting as he lay next to her immobile form. Without a word, she rose and went to her bath, anxious to wash away every trace of him and hopefully avoid another pregnancy.
‘You wanted a word with me, sir?’ said Griffiths, standing in the entr
ance to Charles Cranbrook’s study.
‘Come in,’ said Cranbrook, seated at his desk in shirtsleeves and a silk brocaded waistcoat. Ill at ease in his muddied riding boots, Griffiths clumsily sat in a chair facing his employer.
‘Pity about the carriage,’ said Cranbrook, folding his hands in front of him.
‘Aye,’ said Griffiths with a nod. ‘A turrible accident. Thankfully, the missus warn’t injured.’
‘She might have been killed,’ said Cranbrook with a menacing glare. ‘And a very fine carriage is now a shambles.’
Griffiths hung his head and muttered, ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Sorry? I’m paying you to take care of my wife and belongings, and you go crashing into a wine-cart on Bond Street!’
‘It warn’t my fault, sir. The driver of the cart came flyin’ round the corner and before I could get out of the way, he—’
‘That’s enough,’ interrupted Cranbrook, raising a hand. ‘I’m discharging you.’
‘What?’ said Griffiths, looking up at Cranbrook with a startled expression.
‘You’re sacked. I’ll expect you out of the coachhouse in a fortnight.’
‘But, sir,’ said Griffiths, rising from his chair. ‘It ain’t right. I swear, it was the fault of the other driver.’
‘That’s what they always say,’ said Cranbrook. ‘Now, you may go.’
Glaring at Cranbrook, a flush spread over Griffith’s face. ‘It ain’t right,’ he repeated. ‘The wife’s expectin’ a baby in two months. I’ll take this up with the missus.’
‘Do as you please,’ said Cranbrook, rising from his chair. ‘It won’t do any good. And if you’re not out of the coachhouse in a fortnight, I’ll have you evicted.’
Cecilia remained sequestered in her boudoir with the door latched until at least a half-hour had passed since her husband had dressed for dinner and descended the stairs. Brooding with anger since her talk with Griffiths, she’d refused to discuss the matter with Mrs Clark and exchanged only a brief, hateful look with Cranbrook when she passed him in the upstairs passageway. Choosing a dark red dress that matched her mood, she emerged from the boudoir and started down the stairs to confront him. Seated in an armchair with his pipe and newspaper, Cranbrook affected an air of indifference as Cecilia entered the gas-lit drawing-room.
‘Sawyers,’ she called out in a loud voice.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the butler, who appeared after a moment.
‘Bring me a glass of brandy.’
Cranbrook shot her a curious look over the top of his newspaper.
‘I suppose Sawyers will be next on the chopping block,’ said Cecilia with her hands on her hips. Cranbrook sucked on his pipe, expelled a cloud of aromatic smoke, and then carefully folded the paper and put it aside. The butler reappeared, served Cecilia her drink, and withdrew. Taking a sip, she said, ‘How dare you sack Griffiths without consulting me?’
‘He was negligent,’ replied Cranbrook, ‘and cost me fifty quid in repair bills.’
Cecilia was unable to stop herself from rubbing her wrist gently along the soft silk of her cuff. ‘First it was Fanny and Rance, the gardener,’ she said with flashing eyes, ‘and now my very own groom! And Griffiths claims you blamed the accident on him!’ Cranbrook met this accusation with a smirk. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I’ve reinstated him. And I demand you give him an apology.’
‘You demand?’ said Cranbrook, leaping up from his chair. ‘An apology? Griffiths is sacked, and there’s no more to be said about it.’
‘I won’t stand for it!’ said Cecilia with a stamp of her foot.
Walking up to within a foot of her, Cranbrook waved his pipe in her face and said, ‘I’m master of this house, and you had better get used to it. If I’m not satisfied with the stableman, I shall sack the stableman, or the cook, or the laundress….’
‘You beast!’
‘Or even your dear friend Mrs Clark—’
‘Liar!’
‘If it suits me.’
‘Never!’
‘Hah!’ said Cranbrook, turning away.
Taking a swallow of brandy, Cecilia threw the glass against the marble fireplace and ran from the room, nearly colliding with Jane Clark, standing in the shadows at the foot of the staircase.
Mrs Clark tapped lightly on the door to the study and, hearing a muffled response, turned the knob and let herself in. Charles Cranbrook was seated at his desk with an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth, holding a sheet of paper. ‘Yes, Mr Cranbrook,’ she said, eyeing him coldly. ‘You wished to see me?’
‘Yes,’ he said sourly, removing the pipe. ‘It’s another of these infernal letters. God damn that miserable wretch Gully.’
‘Are you certain it’s from Gully?’
‘Of course it’s Gully. Accusing me of marrying Cecilia for her money. Threatening to expose me.’
‘May I see it?’ Cranbrook pushed the sheet of paper across his desk. Quickly scanning it, Mrs Clark said, ‘I don’t recognize the handwriting. I’m almost certain it’s not the doctor’s.’
‘Not the doctor’s?’ exclaimed Cranbrook, rising from his chair and aggressively leaning across the desk. ‘You don’t mean to say there’s more than one lunatic behind these anonymous libels?’
Sitting in a chair facing the desk, Mrs Clark gazed impassively at Cranbrook and said, ‘There’s certainly more than one person with a motive to punish poor Cissie for her ill-judged affair.’
‘Punish Cecilia?’
‘Yes,’ continued Mrs Clark calmly, ‘by attempting to destroy her marriage. Judging from the penmanship, I wouldn’t be surprised if the author is a woman.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Cranbrook, beginning to pace behind his desk. ‘It’s that blasted Gully.’
‘Such as Throckmorton’s spinster sister,’ said Mrs Clark, handing Cranbrook the letter.
‘It’s Gully, all right,’ said Cranbrook, pointing a finger at Mrs Clark, ‘and you’re merely trying to protect Cecilia by saying otherwise. Well, by God, I won’t have it! She can go back to that old bugger, as far as I’m concerned.’ Tossing the letter on the desk, he stormed from the room.
After a moment Mrs Clark rose and followed him to the hall, watching as he threw open the door and strode quickly down the gravel drive. ‘Wait!’ she called out, hurrying after him. He turned and stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘I’m leaving,’ he said. ‘I know what’s up between Gully and that wicked Cecilia.’
‘You’re mistaken,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘I’m sure of it.’ Cranbrook glared at her. ‘You mustn’t blame Cecilia for the actions of some jealous fool.’
Cranbrook considered, his ardour dimmed by her cold logic and the even colder February wind. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said after a moment. ‘But I’ll never rest until I see Gully’s coffin going across Tooting Bec Common.’
Cecilia climbed down from the hansom into the cold, steady rain, paid the driver a generous tip, and hurried into the house. Hanging her hat and coat, she walked into the drawing-room, craving a cup of hot tea. Anticipating her wishes, Mrs Clark appeared, holding a tray with a teapot, cups, saucers, and milk jug. Lowering it to the butler’s table, she looked Cecilia in the eye and said, ‘Well? What did the doctor say?’
‘Just as I thought,’ said Cecilia, bending down to pour herself a cup of tea. ‘I’m expecting.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Charles will be thrilled. Perhaps it will take his mind off household economy.’ She took a sip of tea and said, ‘Would you be a dear, Jane, and go to the telegraph office? I want to announce the news to my parents and advise them I’m coming to Buscot Park for a visit.’
‘All right. When will you be leaving?’
‘On Saturday next. I’d go sooner but I have a fitting in Mayfair on Tuesday for my new wardrobe.’
Cecilia’s telegram elicited a prompt reply from her father, advising that they were delighted to learn she was expecting and would welcome her visit. Charles, too,
expressed his satisfaction and for a time behaved decently toward her, even with a modicum of cheerfulness. Within a week, however, he reverted to his former demeanour, glaring at her across the dinner table, responding to her small talk in monosyllables, and spending as much time as possible away with male companions at his clubs. When the day came for her departure, Charles, having dismissed Griffiths, offered to drive Cecilia to the Balham railway station in the carriage. ‘As you wish,’ said Cecilia, ‘though I’m sure Mrs Clark—’
‘No, I’ll drive.’ Cranbrook helped his wife into the carriage, stowed her luggage, and climbed onto the driver’s seat. Within a few minutes they entered Balham on Bedford Hill Road. Passing by Orwell Lodge, he abruptly halted the mare with a jerk on the reins, turned to Cecilia, and sneeringly remarked, ‘Do you see anyone familiar? Old man Gully, perhaps?’
Restraining the impulse to slap him, Cecilia said, ‘Why must you torment me? I’m not always talking about your other woman.’ Cranbrook glowered at her, lifted his whip, and for a moment looked as if he might strike her, sending her fingers to her cuff in furious rubbing. Snapping the whip at the horse’s ears, he started off with a creak of wheels. Arriving at the station, Cranbrook turned back to Cecilia and said, ‘How long will you be away?’
‘I was planning to stay a week,’ said Cecilia as she climbed down. ‘But I despise you, Charles, and am leaving for good!’ Watching as a porter hefted her luggage, Cranbrook curled his lip and said, ‘Convey my regards to your father and mother.’ With that, he snapped his whip and drove away, leaving Cecilia alone on the pavement with a forlorn expression and her hand at her belly.
Despite tearful entreaties, Sir Richard Henderson, who had never forgiven his daughter for her shameful affair with Gully, insisted that she return to her husband after staying a week at Buscot Park. ‘At all events,’ he said over breakfast in a sunlit alcove, ‘your mother and I are departing on Saturday for a month-long excursion to Italy. Your place is with Charles, especially as you’ve been blessed with a child.’
