Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  “My boss is in the shipping business. His fleet carries many automobile components and I hear him discussing business events when I’m driving.” He winked and elbowed the other chauffeur. As men of the world they knew what was what. They wandered back to their own vehicles. It was anticipated the lecture would last about an hour. She should have brought a book, and something to eat. Next time she would know to expect a lot of hanging about. Whilst sitting on the running board, her ruminations ran along the lines that this was a far cry from Lord Patchford’s expectation of a frivolous shopping spree. Lady Patchford had said they were there to attend a lecture delivered by Mr. Charles Masterman. His critical essay: ‘The Condition of England’ had just come out in May and they were all avid to hear the great man himself.

  The wait was longer than an hour; perhaps question time had run over. There was a brief exchange between the Rutherhydes and Lady Patchford as they said their goodbyes, then Mallory was able to organise her passengers. This time it was Lady Ramona who took the front seat. Mallory had to wait her turn in a long line to exit, and not a few of the participants headed in the same direction as she.

  “What did you think of Mr. Masterman, Mona?” her mother asked, once they had left the smoke and noise of the city.

  “I thought he was top-ho Mama …” Ramona bubbled: “… I really agree with him. We are in desperate need of a new enlightenment.” Since she would turn her head to address her mother her words carried clearly and likewise, Lady Glencora spoke up for her daughter’s benefit. Mallory enjoyed the exchanges, helping to make the return journey more interesting.

  “And you Jellie?”

  “I thought his anxieties over the suffragists probably excessive, but like Mona, I really have to agree with his ideas.” Her bright eyes clouded momentarily as she turned slightly towards her mother. “Do you think they will become as militant as he fears? They seem such nice ladies and their requests are nothing beyond reasonable.”

  Mallory thought it was good to hear Lady Nigella expressing herself again. Things must have settled down.

  “I’m not sure Jellie. These women are challenging the values and judgements of the previous generation. Remember the Women’s Social and Political Union, which Emmeline Pankhurst founded with her daughters, grew out of the Independent Labour Party. Initially it was a working-class movement. Once they transferred to London from Manchester, then the more refined ladies became involved. Still, they have not been able to arouse sufficient public sympathy to ensure the ultimate success of their goals. Look too, at the derisive hostility the campaigners for votes for women kindle from many Liberal politicians,” her mother reminded her. She was a great admirer of Vita Goldstein who, in 1903, had stood for the Australian Parliament. Despite her strong leadership abilities, she had failed to obtain the required number of supporters. She had based her feminism on social justice and her catch-cry, which Lady Glencora admired most of all was: ‘I am Master of my fate and Captain of my soul’. How courageous! It was rumoured she would try again next year, this time putting her name up for the Australian Senate.

  Lady Glencora had been watching the passing scenery, but now looked back. “I think they want to maintain the status quo, while this new breed of clever intellectuals wants to push forward into a more liberated climate. They are trying to break away from those stuffy, old observances.”

  “Yes Mama. We see these new debaters who advocate a limit to the powers and rights of our class, as modern … belonging to this century,” Nigella agreed. “Enlightened men like Matthew Arnold and Mr. Shaw. But many of our circle would shudder in horror if they knew how radical we have become. Still, I don’t see Mrs. Pankhurst and her ladies throwing bombs and things. They are campaigning on rhetoric, not action.”

  “Jellie, the old guard is trying to cling to the past while the rest of us, who have a conscience…” Ramona interjected: “…are trying to hurry into a more caring future. We want equality for all, not just women.” She paused for breath, then with a shake of frustration continued. “They seem neurotically against anything new, on principle. They just won’t listen.”

  “Why is the older generation so insecure Mona? Do they feel so threatened that they have to stop their ears and close their eyes?” Nigella looked out at the passing trees, but saw instead her father’s companions indulging in their sports and dinners, extravagantly rich and outwardly complacent. Was there an air of desperation to it all? Could it be that inwardly they feared their very way of life was being poisoned by the new outlook? She dropped a heavy sigh. Was that why Mama had been behaving so strangely? But she was not like them. She was much more of a rebel than they would think. She was forced to observe their conventions; that was all. No, this could not be the reason. There must be something else.

  “It’s utterly ridiculous of course,” Lady Glencora interjected hotly. “But they feel if allowed to continue, their rights as property owners will be threatened and naturally with this level of paranoia, they have to close ranks.”

  Nigella thought for a moment. “Is this why the Royal Academy has been so swift in its intolerant reactions? They’ve been banning many books and plays lately.”

  “Yes Jellie.” Trying to find the rationale for this rigid behaviour, she pondered: “Perhaps it’s lying in the depths of their unconscious? We’re living in a time of extremes. There are those who discuss ideas and those who denounce them. You can see that on the one side optimism dawns, but on the other, alarm grows … so much tension.”

  Ramona recalled that militancy in the Women’s movement had been encouraged by a comment made by the Home Secretary during one of those many debates the House had had on women’s suffrage. “Mr. Gladstone said: ‘Success is achieved only by the application of the ‘force majeure’ which activates arms’. Then look what happened to those poor women.” His words sank them into a reverie and the rest of the journey continued with each one immersed in her own pre-occupation until Lady Glencora requested the Cape-cart hood be raised against the threat of rain. Mallory had observed the rolling approach of leaden clouds herself, the skies churning to a slate grey.

  Having anticipated this eventuality she knew exactly what to do. The ladies alighted and watched as she unhooked the straps and since she had thought to oil the hinges, quickly raised the hood and clipped it into place, unfolding the rear seat windscreen at the same time. Returning to their seats the girls reversed their positions. This time Nigella did speak.

  “That was very well done. Wilkins would always make such a botch of it. Have you had much experience with the ‘Silver Ghost’ Mason?”

  “I have had considerable driving experience my Lady, but not with this particular vehicle.” Mallory laughed, happy to be talking to the girl again. “But you know what they say … ‘when you’ve driven one you’ve driven them all’.”

  “No Mason, I’m not familiar with what people say.” She felt her youthfulness had been found out and was disappointed it should be this particular person to have done so.

  “Oh my apologies my Lady I was not thinking.” She glanced quickly at the girl, noting the flutter of the black lashes against the flushed cheeks. “Of course, I meant in the motoring world ‘people’. I would not expect Your Ladyship to know of such things. Please forgive my crassness.”

  With this acknowledgement Nigella felt somewhat mollified, enabling her to settle down to enjoy further exchanges. “I’m glad you’re our new chauffeur Mason, but does this mean you will no longer be looking after Burrow?”

  “Not at all my Lady I’m seconded to Mr. Beeson, when His Lordship has no need of my services.”

  “Oh, Jake will be happy about that, I know how difficult he found him.” About to ask another question, her words were cut off by a tapping on the rear windscreen. Mallory pulled to a halt to enquire what was needed.

  “I just thought I’d let you know Mason. The next right will be the turn-off for the Stratford road. After about a mile and a half, the signpost for Guilfoyle Village will also
come up on your right.”

  The interruption had the effect of cutting off Nigella’s relaxed curiosity, resulting in their completing the journey in silence. Mallory could sense her previous mood had passed and was not about to invade a private space, uninvited.

  It was four o’clock when she pulled up at Guilfoyle Park and Reynolds was helping the Ladies down. Baldwin waited at the top of the steps.

  “Excuse me, Your Ladyship!”

  Lady Glencora turned back.

  “I must report to Lord Patchford.”

  “Come and see me at five-thirty. Maisie will have finished with my toilette by then.”

  “Yes Your Ladyship.”

  Both girls turned and said: “Thank you Mason.”

  Mallory drove into the carriage house, parked and opened up the bonnet to let the engine cool. She would give the ‘Ghost’ the once-over before dark and could plan for tomorrow when she had seen her employers. She splashed water on her face then brushed down her cap and jacket. Next the Balmorals got a quick polish and as she checked that her hair looked correctly in place, she heard her belly rumble with a most embarrassing loudness. Cook had better have prepared lots. She took off to Sir Eustace’s study.

  * * *

  “Enter.”

  “Your Lordship.”

  “Ah Mason, how did it go today? I will see the Ladies at dinner, but I’m speaking technically you understand.” Lord Patchford was not yet dressed for dinner, but at ease in a dark, wine coloured smoking jacket, enjoying his pipe.

  “Yes Your Lordship. She ran very well Sir. I’m letting the engine cool and then I’ll check the oil and water levels. Tomorrow, in a better light I’ll see to the carburettor and of course, anything else that needs attention.” She had taken up her respectful stance, but with feet apart this time considering the strict ‘to attention’ posture not necessarily required, at this development of their association.

  “Tomorrow I need the Tourer for a trip Lady Patchford and I will be taking to visit friends. I would like you to have it ready by ten o’clock. We will be staying overnight at the Earl of Ettington’s estate; should get a spot of shooting in.” Lord Patchford’s pale eyes still managed to twinkle in anticipation. “He’s renowned for his Grouse and the Partridge season is just starting. Should get some pretty good bags too,” he mused to himself. “Baldwin will have the trunk and valises ready for loading by nine o’clock.”

  “Yes Your Lordship.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  “Thank you Your Lordship.”

  Mallory felt comfortable moving about the house. She made her way unerringly to Lady Patchford’s suite of rooms in the east wing. Another knock: another entrance.

  Her Ladyship was once more relaxing on her chaise in a flowing peignoir, tied at the waist by a wide sash her feet were up, encased in soft, pink leather slippers. She indicated that Mallory should take the occasional chair next to the escritoire. Sitting carefully, she placed her cap on her knee.

  “Lord Patchford will have told you our plans for the weekend, Mason?” She set down her reading glasses on the low, marquetry table beside her and returned her feet to the floor.

  “Yes Your Ladyship.”

  “Mrs. Aldred will be supervising all household affairs. Sir Ambrose will be joining us to visit Lord Knowlesworthy, but the girls will remain here. Lady Ramona has her friend, Lady Phyllida visiting, but Lady Nigella will be on her own. I will not be here to keep an eye on her so I am putting you in charge.” This instruction was accompanied by Lady Patchford’s forbidding examination of her servant. The grey-green tones in her hazel eyes flashed to the point that meant her will would be done.

  “Yes Your Ladyship.”

  “Clear the plans with Mrs. Aldred first if the Lady Nigella wants to go somewhere. She is free to roam the estate, but is not allowed beyond its boundaries.”

  “No, Your Ladyship.”

  “You may go.”

  “Thank you Your Ladyship.”

  * * *

  Next morning, at nine o’clock, Mallory had the ‘Silver Ghost’ under the porte-cochere and Reynolds was giving her a hand to strap on the baggage, Baldwin standing to one side, supervising. It was hard to believe they would need so much just for one night. Then she remembered: these people are obliged to have the right outfit for every occasion. What a drag!

  Whatever, it was a glorious morning for a drive and as the sun burned through the clouds, she reckoned they would have that tonneau down in no time. Her responsibilities at an end and no summons from Mr. Beeson, she decided to tinker with the de Dion and spent a productive hour getting to know her new charge. The carriage house, not being far from the main drive, she observed Lady Phyllida’s arrival in time for lunch. She had travelled under her own steam, pedal-cycling on a big quadricycle, powered by the easily managed de Dion engine.

  Is the Stockwell Estate the neighbouring one I passed yesterday?

  Lady Phyllida did not enter the house and shortly thereafter, Lady Ramona appeared sportingly attired in a straight, beige skirt and cream golf jersey. This was long-sleeved, double breasted and reached to the hips. A serviceable, plain leather belt also buttoned, kept it trim. She was pulling on dark brown leather gloves which matched the belt and in place of a ‘monstrosity’ on her piled up hair, was a jaunty, tartan beret with just the shortest feather. She looked excited and ready for a spin as she took her place in the front seat, resting her feet on the specially angled board. Lady Phyllida sat herself up on the back seat, which reminded Mallory of a regular bicycle saddle, only much bigger, and leaned forward to grab the handle bars. Then she shouted out, exhilarated: “Hold tight Mona, we’re taking off.” In their wake, soft clouds of dust spiralled up in the warm air.

  Mrs. Aldred’s stern voice floated from the top step, reminding them to be no longer than an hour as they set out at a sedate pace, preserving their ladylike decorum.

  Mallory smiled thinking: So much for a ‘flying’ start and returned to her task. Soon it was time to pack everything away and clean herself up for her meal. As she sauntered back to the servants’ wing she wondered if she should check with Mrs. Aldred. There had been no sign of the young mistress, but as it turned out this was not necessary. At lunch, Emily informed her that the Lady Nigella would like to have the Runabout ready at two o’clock. On such a fine day she planned to do some painting. Mrs. Aldred was agreeable to this proposal, but as with the girls gave stern restrictions. Lady Nigella must be back in good time to change for dinner. The Dowager, Lady Patchford and the Reverend Jobbling would be in attendance and she must not be late.

  At two-o’clock the wide skies were a celestial blue and the sun burning hot, but Mallory wore her full rig and just had to hope to park in the shade. Lady Nigella arrived with Baldwin who carried an easel, compactly folded with a little stool; a leather covered tea box and a wooden paints’ box. All this he placed in the boot compartment behind the seat, with the tools.

  “Thank you Baldwin. I’ll be back at five.”

  “Yes Miss Nigella,” Baldwin replied as he helped her up onto the padded bench.

  Today Nigella was casually attired in a long sleeved, white and pale green striped blouse, still buttoned to the neck, despite the heat and a bottle-green Frieze, walking skirt only modestly flaring from two front darts, each detailed with four black buttons in a vertical line. When she sat, Mallory had a glimpse of pin spot, cashmere hose rising from sturdy country shoes of calf leather, laced rather than buttoned, with low heels. Does she expect to go walking? A wide brimmed straw hat adorned with one single bow, covered her hair. Dressed like this, she looked to be no older than thirteen or fourteen. Her hands were encased in soft, pale cream, fabric gloves.

  “Where to my Lady,” Mallory asked, as she turned the starting handle and the engine gently throbbed.

  “I thought I would see the quality of light at Featherstone Copse first and then make a decision.”

  “Very well my Lady. I know the way to the Copse.” She circle
d round the rampant horses, looking magnificent in the fountain’s sparkling droplets and turned left through the tall pillars of the main gates. It was a much longer way round than when she had walked over the rise that first day, but she remembered the road where she had encountered the irate gamekeeper. First impressions could be so deceiving. Mr. Higgins was not such a bad old stick after all. She parked at the same gap and collected the painting gear.

  “Do you want the tea-box my Lady?”

  “No Mason thank you perhaps later. Mrs. Aldred insisted upon packing it ‘just in case’, she said.” She smiled thinking it highly unlikely.

  They descended to the tree line and stood about. As she began to wander, Mallory risked undoing the top button of the jacket. Although it was somewhat cooler under the spreading branches of the Horse Chestnut trees, the afternoon was still intensely hot. Nigella returned declaring nothing inspired her. “Perhaps a more distant vista will suit my mood.”

  They climbed the rise, away from the direction of the big house and upon turning to look to the east both were entranced by the view that met their gaze. They were looking down on the apple orchard where the tumbling river sang in the shady coolness. In the distance they could just discern the rooves of Guilfoyle village and the spire of St. Austell’s. In her mind’s eye Mallory could see it set off superbly, in a simple wood frame. Even the clouds played their part.