‘Oh, what a sweet room!’ she exclaimed. Jessie snorted. ‘Freezing in the winter, sweltering in the summer, very sweet, I must say. Now move over while I make this bed.’ Charlotte was not listening. She was standing looking up at the sky through the windows in the sloping roof. How wonderful to lie in bed and gaze up at the stars, or glimpse a crescent moon floating by. The room was so tiny, so intimate. There was hardly space for the narrow iron bedstead and otherwise there was only a stool and a wooden washstand, crammed to the right of the door. ‘Out!’ Jessie shouted. ‘Out!’ But Charlotte sat down on the newly made bed. ‘Do you think, after the wedding, Mother would let me have this room, Jessie?’ Jessie did not reply. Her expression was meant to say everything, and it did. Martha came in with a rug, and behind her John, carrying a jug and a bowl. ‘Who are they shoving in here? Someone must’ve gone down in the world,’ John said. ‘How should I know?’ Jessie said. ‘As if I cared.’ ‘They’re lucky,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘Miss, will you get off that bed and go downstairs. I’ve enough to bother me, thank you.’ ‘No,’ Charlotte said. ‘I will not. You can tell Mother if you like.’ ‘Out!’ Jessie yelled, but this time at Martha and John, who were laughing. She followed them, slamming the door shut.
Charlotte lay down and closed her eyes. The bed was hard, much harder than her own, but she felt comfortable. She moved about a little, experimentally, judging how easy it would be to fall off. She felt like one of those knights whose sarcophagi she had stared at in Westminster Abbey, lying, as she was, all straight, with their feet crossed at the ankles and their arms folded. She might lie here and sleep for a hundred years. But she was not sleepy. She felt alert, and curious. What would it be like, to live in this room? If she were poor, this is where she would have to live, or at least sleep. There were three hooks on the back of the door and on one of them, overlooked by Jessie, there still hung a garment. Charlotte could not make out what it was. Cautiously, she lowered herself off the bed and went to examine it. It was a shift, that was all, a poor thing, the cloth worn, the buttons missing. Thrilled with her own daring, Charlotte took her clothes off, all but her knickers, and slipped the shift on. She shivered. There was no looking-glass in the room so she could not see herself, but she felt she knew how she looked: poor. Quickly, she dressed again and hung the shift back where it had been. She would have to go downstairs soon. The guests would be arriving and she had been detailed to look after several cousins and to behave herself. To anger her mother at this stage would be unwise. But she wanted to know about this attic, who slept here, or who used to sleep here, and who was going to be put here for the weekend. If it was a young cousin she had a plan. She would sleep here and give them her bed. She would wear the shift over her naked body and sleep a whole night here and pretend she was different.
*
The presents were laid out in the drawing room. They covered every available surface and it had taken a whole day for the maids to display everything to the satisfaction of the bride’s mother. Lady Falconer’s fear was that offence would be caused if undue prominence were given to a present of little value from a person of great importance – people were odd – or to a gift of obvious expense donated by a person who was lucky to be invited at all. It had made Lady Falconer’s head ache. But, finally, she hoped to have solved this delicate problem by having only close family gifts displayed on the centre table and everyone else’s on smaller tables, brought in from all over the house, arranged right round the edges of the room.
Now that it was done, it all looked very splendid. The crystal glittered, the silver sparkled and the china offerings gleamed. So much stuff, such a magnificent show. The cards were discreetly laid flat in front of each gift so that to identify who had given what entailed a good deal of peering (which anyone with manners would not do). Priscilla would start married life in the style to which she had always been accustomed, and that was most satisfactory. Caroline had not been so fortunate, but then it was the girl’s own fault, and she was doomed to pay the penalty. She did not worry about her sons as yet. They were young, both of them, still at school with no thoughts of romance or marriage in their heads. Then there was Charlotte. Best not to think about Charlotte, who was clever and peculiar, or perhaps peculiar because clever. How could one tell?
Cabs were still arriving at the door, blocking the road. The horses were having difficulty turning round in the narrow space in front of the house and there was barely room for those leaving to pass those still approaching from East Heath Road. Lady Falconer thanked God that she had reliable staff – from her housekeeper, Jessie Martin, downwards, they were utterly loyal and immensely hard-working. She had family and friends who regularly mourned the passing of the last century and the demise, or so they alleged, of devoted, unselfish servants, but Lady Falconer did not. Her servants stayed. She paid them well and treated them well, or so she believed. And she was understanding. Servants were servants, in her view, and expectations of impeccable moral behaviour should not be set too high. No servant girl was thrown out of her house if, as occasionally happened, she found herself (as these girls put it) ‘in the family way’. If marriage was possible, it was arranged, and sometimes the girl was even allowed back, in due course, though in a lowly capacity. Lady Falconer believed her magnanimity was held to be astonishing and she was proud of it. Stealing, she handled differently. Pilfering, she could tolerate, in moderation, reckoning it to be inevitable, but if it went too far she faced the challenge and dealt with it. Stealing on a grander scale, however, she reacted to ferociously. If jewellery or silver went missing the police were called instantly, and the whole household suffered until the culprit was found. Oh, she ran a tight ship, did Lady Falconer, and was known for it.
Charlotte was standing on the stairs, staring vacantly into space in that unattractive way of hers. The hall was like Euston Station (Lady Falconer had only been there once but she was extravagantly fond of making comparisons to it), packed full of arriving guests, all calling out to each other, all falling over each other’s luggage which the harassed servants could not get out of the way quickly enough. ‘Hettie!’ cried Lady Falconer’s sister Philomena, rushing forward to embrace her. Lady Falconer endured the embrace stoically but returned it with a mere pat on her annoying sister’s broad back. Sometimes she thought there had been some kind of strange accident and that Charlotte was really Philomena’s daughter. It was not just that this sister of hers looked physically like her daughter – both tall, broad-shouldered, both rather heavy, with almost unmanageable thick black hair – but that they shared the same distinctly odd characteristics. And yet they did not take to one another, each seeming wary of the other. This, in Lady Falconer’s opinion, was a pity. She would have liked to pack Charlotte off for long periods to Philomena, who lived in the country, in Hampshire, but had not been able to. ‘I will not go,’ Charlotte had said, and, when told that she would go where she was sent, ‘I will run away and cause a scandal, you know I will.’ Alas, her mother did know it. Charlotte, at fourteen, an age when she ought to have grown out of tantrums, was capable of quite appalling behaviour – one wondered, constantly, where she got her ideas from. Books, most probably, but she could not be banned from reading. Her father would not allow it.
Sir Edward loved his library. So did Charlotte. She was the only one of his five children who ever went into it for the reasons one ought to enter a library: to read, in peace and quiet, and to study. At first it had been amusing – even his wife had been mildly amused – to see the tiny girl reaching up to turn the rather heavy knob on the library door and then totter into the room and climb up onto a chair to reach the shelf her father kept especially for her. She would select a picture book and then sit on the floor solemnly ‘reading’ it, long before she could read (though she could read fluently soon after her fourth birthday). Sir Edward was delighted. He encouraged her, sat for hours with her on his knee and read to her. She was his favourite, and he did not seem to notice her oddness. ‘She has a fine mind,
a keen intellect,’ he pronounced with pride, and when his wife pointed out that she also was rude and strong-willed and had no social graces whatsoever, he shrugged. ‘Leave her alone,’ he said, ‘she will do well in the end.’ He had married his wife for her beauty and she was well aware of this. He had, in fact, hardly known her when he proposed – he had simply been mesmerised by her exquisite face, heart-shaped, the eyes violet, framed with an abundance of golden – yes, golden – hair. Sexually, she was the most desirable woman he had ever encountered and he had had to have her. But it was, in any case, a good match, which both families approved. Henrietta was a good wife, in the accepted sense. A superb hostess, a tremendous organiser, and looks that graced any occasion. It was possible for Sir Edward to do whatever he wanted, knowing that his children, his household, his very life, were in excellent hands. He was aware of how other men envied him, as who would not. Only he knew what was lacking, and he would have been a fool to make it public.
Turning away from her sister, Lady Falconer saw that Charlotte had disappeared just as the cousins she had been deputed to take charge of arrived. There was no mystery as to where she would have gone: the library, locking herself in, no doubt. But now Priscilla had come down and the noise was overwhelming, the screams of recognition, the fervent cries of admiration drowning any instructions to go and get Miss Charlotte which Lady Falconer might have attempted to give one of the servants. Instead, she stood watching the bride-to-be being mobbed by her relations, and she could not help smiling. The tension in her eased a little. Priscilla was a darling. Sweet, gentle, and devastatingly lovely. The gentleness had been a worry – she was much too easily influenced and could have been taken advantage of – and her father found her ‘not bright’, but now she was to be married to Robert Charlesworth all was well. She was a credit to her family and her wedding at St Margaret’s, Westminster, would be the wedding of the 1908 season. ‘Does the fellow know her?’ Sir Edward had asked, after Robert had proposed. ‘Do you think he knows the girl?’
Such a pointless question, or so his wife thought. What was this ‘knowing’ he was so keen on? Over and over again he asked it, as though it had some obvious and yet profound meaning. Well, it was quite beyond her. ‘If I had truly known you …’ Edward had once said to her, and then stopped. It was in a fit of rare anger, while they were going to bed. She had ignored him. She had said she wished to sleep alone that night, and he had left the room, slamming the door, saying, ‘If I had truly known you …’ Nonsensical. He had known all he had needed to know, surely, and yet in those peevish words had been the unmistakable suggestion that he had been tricked. On another occasion, during an argument about Charlotte’s education, he had stared at her and said, ‘If I had known …’ and, again, stopped. She could very well have riposted to his ‘If I had known’ with ‘If I had known’, said with greater emphasis. She had known he was rich, handsome, from a good family, and said to be clever. It was his cleverness that had needed more attention on her part. Nothing wrong with a man being clever, but being bookish turned out to be intensely irritating. And then there was the painting. She hadn’t known Edward had artistic leanings, and that if his nose was not in a book when he was at home he would be absorbed in front of an easel, painting unrecognisable portraits.
Lady Falconer put a hand to her forehead and pulled herself together. The gong had sounded, the hall had emptied and it was time for the ‘light’ luncheon she had ordered. Cold chicken, cold salmon, cold beef, all temptingly displayed on great oval platters and surrounded by bowls of salads of varying kinds together with tiny crystal goblets of strawberry mousse and lemon syllabub. There was a sumptuous cheese board – all the French cheeses as well as good old English Cheddar and Stilton – and jugs of celery beside the biscuits. Guests, only family today, were invited to help themselves and then be seated round the big table, draped with a starched white cloth overlaid with another embroidered cloth. Very pretty, she thought, as she went into the dining room. Priscilla was already seated, a mere cream cracker and sliver of cheese on her plate, next to her Aunt Philomena, who had helped herself to all the meats and very little of the salad. Someone asked Priscilla where her honeymoon was to be spent. She shook her head, lowered her eyes, and blushed.
Lady Falconer knew. She had been flattered when Robert consulted her as to where he and his bride should stay in Paris. Her answer had been swift – the Crillon, of course, where else? That was where she and Edward had spent the first night of their honeymoon some twenty-one years ago, on their way south to Nice. Robert and Priscilla, too, were to go on to Nice. Nothing had changed, the pattern was being followed. Robert had not needed to ask Lady Falconer to keep the secret. The only danger was that Charlotte might tell because, unfortunately, she had overheard. The girl was so rarely seen in the drawing room, where Lady Falconer was arranging flowers as Robert approached her, that it had been a shock when she sprang up from the sofa where she had been lying (hidden from view by its high back) and expressed the opinion that to go to Paris for one’s honeymoon was terribly boring, and that Robert ought to be thinking about a trip up the Amazon or a boat to China.
She had promised, lip curled in exaggerated scorn, not to say a word to her sister. But one never knew with Charlotte. However, she and Priscilla were not intimate sisters and had not much to do with each other, so Charlotte was unlikely to be tempted to tell all. She had helped Priscilla pack her trunk, though. It was one of the many weird things about Charlotte: she had a passion for packing. Packing anything. A maid’s talent, if ever there was one. She said she enjoyed fitting things into confined spaces and found it an agreeable, almost intellectual, exercise. Edward, when she came out with this, had roared with laughter and said, ‘That’s my girl!’ So Charlotte had packed Priscilla’s trunk, taking hours over it. Priscilla had sat on her bed and watched in awe, and her maid had sulked at being displaced like this. Charlotte had set everything out first, on the floor and on the bed beside Priscilla, and then she had counted all the items, enumerating the shoes (six pairs), the coats (four), the jackets (six), the dresses (ten), the skirts (four), the blouses (four) and then the nightdresses and underwear. The nightdresses had astonished her. She held them up and exclaimed over the lace trimmings – ‘It is as if you will be going out to a party, not to bed!’ Charlotte cried, and ‘What a waste, when Robert will just rip them off you!’ Enough to make Priscilla burst into tears, and rush from her own bedroom.
As well as the trunk, there was a large valise. Charlotte frowned as she inspected the two pieces of luggage. If Priscilla was to spend a mere night in Paris, then the valise could be used for the smarter clothes, a selection only, and the rest could go in the trunk. She relished choosing what she judged would be appropriate garb for Paris, dressing her sister in her mind as she did so. People thought that a girl who was large and plain would have no idea about clothes but Charlotte knew herself to have good taste whereas Priscilla, small and beautiful, had none. She wore what her mother and her dressmaker chose for her and would be completely hopeless on her own. Kindly, Charlotte even wrote little notes – ‘Wear this with red skirt’ – and pinned them neatly to the garments. Priscilla would obey these helpful hints, she knew. She placed tissue paper into the folds of the clothes and laid them into the valise. It was new and had a delicious, leathery smell which Charlotte inhaled deeply. A few old labels still were stuck on the lid of the trunk, but Charlotte had been told not to remove them, and had judged (correctly) that this must mean they were indications of smart travelling. It was her job, though, to put new labels on the valise, with Priscilla’s married name plain to see. She couldn’t put them on now, or Priscilla would see and the secret would be out, but she had them prepared, ready to attach at the appropriate time. She would give them to John, who would do it.
The job done, Charlotte closed the lids and turned the little keys in the locks. Poor Priscilla. There was no envy in Charlotte’s heart for her sister whereas when Caroline eloped she had been eaten up with a
raw and painful jealousy. ‘A lamb to the slaughter,’ her father had said of Priscilla, and sighed. Her mother had been furious and had shocked his daughters by reprimanding him in their presence. ‘A good marriage,’ she fumed, ‘is no kind of slaughter!’ ‘It is interesting that you say so,’ her father had said, and stood up, dropped his napkin onto his plate, and left the room before pudding appeared.
Charlotte had pondered long and hard over what her father’s words could have meant – not ‘a lamb to the slaughter’, she understood that well enough, and in her opinion it was an entirely appropriate description, but ‘It is interesting that you say so’, to her mother. Had he meant that her mother should see that a good marriage was a kind of slaughter, including therefore her own? If so, who or what had been slaughtered? Certainly not her mother. But perhaps her father’s words had had a more abstract meaning. Perhaps he saw hopes and expectations being slaughtered. In that case, Priscilla was unlikely to suffer the doom he had prophesied. So far as Charlotte knew, and she felt she did know everything there was to know about her sister, Priscilla had perfectly ordinary hopes and expectations which would take little fulfilling.
The luncheon over, the older family members went to their bedrooms to rest and the others spilled out into the garden and lolled around. Some of the cousins started playing croquet but soon collapsed in giggles, swearing it was too hot to do anything. Charlotte watched them from the french windows. She never joined in games, despising all sport. Her eye was on Maud, a child of twelve, who she had discovered was to be billeted in the little attic. She had heard her mother apologising to Maud’s mother, Clara (a second cousin of Edward’s, a woman of no account), saying the house was so full that no other room was available, and she had heard Clara fall over herself to say that Maud would be perfectly happy in the sweet little attic. But Maud had cried. Charlotte heard her, and heard Clara being very cross with her. Maud hiccuped, and dried her eyes, but she was still in a sulk and Charlotte had her targeted. She waited until Maud came in for a glass of lemonade and then she pounced. She led the startled Maud into the library and shut the door. ‘Now, Maud, dear,’ she said, ‘I have a proposition to put to you.’ ‘A what?’ said Maud, anxiety creasing her broad forehead (a fringe would’ve been merciful, Charlotte had often thought). ‘A proposition, a plan.’ ‘I do not care for plans,’ Maud said. Quite idiotic, but Charlotte kept her temper. ‘You have not heard it yet,’ she said. ‘Listen.’
Keeping the World Away Page 11
