Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Mallory observed that today Lady Patchford’s coiffure was high on top and perched above that, not to be missed and secured by two lethal looking and very ornate hat pins: the ‘monstrosity’. No wonder the Cape Cart was down. It had a large, soft velvet crown in matching brown, gathered and puffed up into mounds from a wide, flat brim. Where the two joined, decorative baubles had been stitched in a series of looping, gold curves. No flowers today.

  Baldwin bowed at her passing as her Ladyship gave him a few instructions in a severely vexed tone, then requested he send for Maisie.

  Mallory’s attention was drawn sharply back to the business at hand. “Look to the engine Mason. There’s some sort of knocking sound. I don’t like it!” His Lordship stamped off in his immaculate Tan Willows, dust coat flapping vigorously.

  She drove round to the carriage house and parked. This would be her afternoon’s work so she reckoned she still had time to finish lunch. It would not only be the carburettor needing attention. She had seen how Lord Patchford drove.

  Back in the servants’ quarters there was another summons. This time Maisie came to tell her Lady Patchford required his presence: of course, a report on the weekend.

  Lady Glencora had changed out of her travelling clothes and wrapped herself in a pale lavender peignoir over her silk camisole and petticoat. She had left Maisie in charge of seeing to the sorting, storing and hanging of her wardrobe. However, she was still agitated and before facing Eustace, she needed reassurance that all was well with her daughter. The poor girl had taken her attempts at bracing and fortifying for future tribulations very hard. She could see she was distraught, but there was no doubt, this is a harsh world. She must learn resilience.

  Too many people ready to bring you down if you haven’t developed sufficient resources. She sighed, longing to offer solace. No favours would be rendered by continuing to cosset, but oh, it did wound her heart to see her suffer so. Not a day went by but she must fight the urge to protect her from the agonies life could have in store. She had thought of a way – but that for later. For now, here was this Ramona business.

  Mallory gave the report with only the occasional nod from her mistress then she was dismissed with the instruction that the automobile would be needed for a luncheon engagement tomorrow.

  Lady Glencora did not take time to have Maisie dress her hair before going to Eustace’s dressing room, but simply had her tie it up in a foulard scarf Turkish-style, which was quite coming into fashion. Sir Eustace had changed into his quilted smoking jacket, but was not smoking. She sat herself in his padded, easy chair which left him with the hard Chippendale.

  He began as usual, without preamble: “It’s no use Cora. Something has to be done – and soon. If we wait longer, the child will be too much a woman. No man will feel he has the control he desires. Too much independence in a wife is not an attractive trait.” His frown verged on fierce.

  “But Eustace the girl is still not yet twenty.”

  “Old enough to be married, Madam,” he shot back tersely, attended by a challenging glare. “Anyway, I believe her birthday is coming up soon,” he amended by way of conclusive argument.

  “Eustace, you should have discussed it with me first. I had no idea you and Maynard were hatching this together.”

  Indignantly he denied the implication. “We were not ‘hatching’ anything, as you put it. The topic came up and everything seemed to fall into place.”

  “I bet it was at Maynard’s instigation,” Glencora qualified sharply. “You know he’s been trying to find someone for Sedgewick for years.”

  “I thought you liked him,” his voice rasped. “I seem to recall hearing you sing his praises on numerous occasions,” he added scathingly.

  “I do. I think he’s a charming man and very good company.” Eustace was right, however. There had been a time – but not now. Facing the reality of the situation, she could see numerous obstacles. “As a husband for Ramona …? I’m not sure … I know she really likes Myles Stafford-Clarke and …”

  Eustace interrupted curtly: “It’s no good Cora, he’s a second son. However personable he might be, that young man has no prospects and I can’t help it if the girl fancies him. I have to think of her future and her station in Society.” His eyes became gritty and watchful. He did not want to get into an abrasive exchange with his wife, but he had as good as given his word to Ettington and there was no going back. “She’s probably suffering from infatuation and we all know how unreliable a state that is, especially as a foundation for marriage.” His irritation was getting harder to control and his voice rose sharply. “Infatuation is only for what the heart thinks it sees and for the vision that the eyes believe they see. The girl will get over it.”

  What colour was left in Glencora’s face ebbed away. She did not like it when Eustace worked himself into a humour like this. No good ever came of it. She had been sure he would take care of the financial side of things. He would not see Ramona in want, but as to her ‘station’…? Anyway, what of Ramona herself? She might not take to it at all. Oh dear, she could see choppy seas ahead. And what of Sedgewick! As far as she knew he had not looked at Ramona twice. He was Ambrose’s friend.

  “Did Maynard say how Sedgewick felt?” she pressed as she turned towards her husband with a sinking feeling. Counter arguments seemed to be slipping away. Perhaps she could speak to Arial, somehow get her on side with the young people before it would be too late. She was a strong woman and possibly could have more sway with Eustace.

  “Sedgewick will do his duty.” Temper flashed momentarily across her husband’s face as the cords in his neck pulled tight above the starched, white linen collar. “He knows where his responsibilities lie.”

  In fact Sir Maynard had made no mention of his son’s interest in the Lady Ramona. They had broached the issue purely from the point of their respective titles and positions. He was keen to have his daughter marry higher into the peerage. The fact that Knowlesworthy would one day be Earl of Ettington, more than made up for the almost ten year age gap. It was unlikely Ambrose could aim so high, being a Viscount. Of course, there was always Nigella. But right now Ramona gave him the best chance to cement his rank.

  His mind raced: After all … this is in the best interest of all of us and certainly Ramona will be swayed by the prospect of becoming a Countess. And when Nigella is presented … well her prospects could only be enhanced by a liaison such as this. No, Cora has to see this is the sense of it; the best solution.

  Eustace moved his chair closer to Glencora’s, then sat and clasped her hand in both of his. He must try to be more conciliatory. Softening his voice he continued: “My dear, you know how much I love our girls and want only what’s best for them and …” Glencora’s hand spasmed at his words, though she tried to control it. He misread the response believing her to be tired and too upset. Quickly he resorted to a warmer reassurance, hoping to prevent an attack of the vapours, to which she was so prone and which privately, he could not abide.

  “Cora it’s all right, my dear. You’ll see. This will work out very well. It’s not like we’ve picked an ogre for Ramona. Sedgewick is a jolly good sort, has an excellent seat … they know each other. I have confidence he will treat our little girl right and when it comes Nigella’s turn … she could be in good standing to aim even higher.” He smiled again at the thought and sat back. A Marchioness, a Duchess even….

  “Eustace, there’s no need for this. Our circle is the very best.” A chill was growing inside her as alarm flared; the direction of his desires too disturbing. Her frown grew more pronounced as she pressed stiff fingers to her forehead, feeling the stabs of yet another awful migraine right behind her eyes, but she rushed on. “We don’t need aggrandisement through marriage. You don’t think our situation to be so dire, surely?”

  “No of course not, but in this world, associations of the right sort can only be to the good.” He stood and strolled to his dressing stand, opening a drawer to extract a handkerchief then smoothed
his moustaches. The more he thought, the more positive he felt this was the best course of action – definitely. He tucked the kerchief into his breast pocket.

  “Speak to Ramona this very night Madam, the sooner the better. I can send word to Ettington that we’re ready to arrange the contract and negotiate the settlements.” Once the plan had been conceived then it should be full steam ahead. He looked at his wife again and nodded decisively. “Nothing gained by dilly-dallying,” he puffed.

  Glencora reached out her hand to suggest prudence, her deep, hazel eyes round with pleading. “Let’s see how this goes with Ramona first Eustace. You want me to broach the subject, but perhaps we should be together. If we encounter resistance, you can lend your weight to the argument,” she appealed. Perhaps she was being persuaded, but had no confidence in Ramona.

  “Very well my dear.” Eustace could see things turning his way. “This evening after dinner, we can send Nigella off and tell Ramona the good news.” He clicked open his fob watch with masterful fingers: “It’s time we got ready.”

  His wife inclined her head and gracefully rose to her feet. It was throbbing, worse than when they had arrived home. She would send Maisie to Constance for some more Beecham’s Pills. She would need to feel better than this for tonight’s drama. The pills helped not only with her sick headaches, but also in the calming of her nerves. These days she seemed to live on them. At least she had not resorted to Laudanum, like some of her friends. She suspected a possible addiction on their part, calling for it whether it was needed or not.

  * * *

  “Are you awake?” Ramona’s whisper carried clearly to the sleeping form as she hesitated on the threshold of Nigella’s room. Not a heavy sleeper, Nigella stirred at her sister’s voice and rolled over.

  “No, come in.” She sat, pulling up her knees as she smoothed out the covers for her to sit. “What’s the matter, Mona?”

  Ramona approached the bed and sank onto it, feeling for Nigella’s hand in the gloom. Only moonlight, filtering through the chink in the chenille drapes enabled her to see her sister’s body.

  “Oh Jellie it’s so awful!” Ramona’s throat, tight with emotion allowed just faint sounds to be emitted, but these were enough to alert Nigella to her agitation.

  “Come, lie here next to me.” She stretched down her legs and drew Ramona towards the pillows to cradle her head in the crook of her arm. “What is it Sweeting?”

  “Oh Jellie it’s too, too horrible.”

  “Tell me Mona.” Now Nigella was beginning to feel alarm herself. Ramona was the one who was always so bright and cheerful. She and Ambrose could be the ones to go moody, or throw a tantrum. Mona was everyone’s darling.

  “Papa says I am to be married to Lord Sedgewick Knowlesworthy. What am I to do? I love Myles and I’m almost sure he loves me.” Big tears began to spill onto her cheeks as she sobbed into the soft shoulder, her own heaving with the effort to draw breath.

  “Is this why Mama sent me to my room?”

  “Yes. Papa said he had some good news for me.”

  “Mona you poor lamb. What is there to be done?” She put her other arm around her sister’s trembling body and held her tight. “Speak to Papa tomorrow. You can plead with him that you love another. He likes Myles doesn’t he? Mama does, get her to tell him.”

  “It’s no use Jellie, Mama is as set on this liaison as he. I already appealed to her. She knows my feelings. She only turned away from me and looked at Papa.” The sobbing broke out afresh and the two girls clung to each other.

  Ramona had been her happiest this past weekend. The dinner party with Myles had been wonderful and during lunch with Phyllida, the secrets she had revealed had given her so much pleasure. Phyllida had been thrilled for her, envious even. Now this! How could she bear such torture? How can Papa … and Mama especially, be so heartless, so cruel? And I thought they loved me. This new assessment altered her entire perception. What a wretched, wretched life. What a horrible, horrible world. She wished she could die.

  “Mona Sweeting, something may yet be done. Let’s sleep on it and see what tomorrow brings.” Nigella began to disentangle herself. “Come under the covers with me.” Her voice too, sounded strangled, squeezing as it was past such a big lump in her throat.

  “No I cannot stay, I’m too restless. I need to devise something. I shall go to the kitchen and get myself a drink. I’ll meet you in the orangery after my music lesson and we can talk some more.” She sat up, pulling her wrap more tightly across her chest and bent down to give her sister a thank-you kiss.

  “All right Mona, I’ll see you then.”

  Sleep was impossible, so much seemed to be changing around them. She had been upset for herself, now she was distressed for Ramona. She knew Lord Knowlesworthy slightly. He was awfully old, although he and Ambrose seemed to get along well. She punched her pillow and turned it over. It was hard to think of him as Ramona’s husband and it was easy to see why she had fallen for Myles. What had happened to their parents that they had turned on them so? What had they ever done to deserve this? In the end her brain, having taken too many turns, it could twist no more. Exhausted, she fell into a broken, un-restful sleep.

  * * *

  Ambrose returned the next afternoon, hollow-eyed and distraught. Nigella met him on his way to the stables, casually dressed in riding gear crop in hand, intent upon saddling up Chester and taking off. He pressed on, not breaking his stride.

  “You’re in a mighty rush Patchy.” she observed, slightly breathless.

  “Just feel like a gallop, that’s all,” he responded curtly, looking to neither left nor right.

  “That’s what I was going to do. Can we go together?” She matched his step as they approached Tricklebank to ask for assistance.

  As it happened, Mallory was giving Jake a hand cleaning out an old stall which Mr. Higgins wanted ready for the farrier. She had collected Lady Patchford after her luncheon engagement then Jake had put in a request for her services. She was dumping the muck on the pile when she saw brother and sister cantering off towards the north paddock and surmised there would be no need of her surveillance duties whilst they were together. She would hang about to be sure of her safe return though.

  Out on the grassy slopes Ambrose opened up Chester, snapping the reins in his gloved hands, urging the horse on into a frantic gallop. Nigella gave Burrow his head. He responded with that boundless eagerness, as always. The inner restlessness driving her brother was familiar to her. She knew that need to release pent up energy; the release that could leave you feeling cleansed and recharged. She felt exhilarated and gloried in their speed for speed’s sake, tearing through the wall of wind of their own making. The sky was high and intensely blue, with only an occasional silver grey cloud. Faintly, a rooster’s call pierced the thudding isolation of their world.

  Eventually Ambrose loosened up on Chester’s reins and they resumed their canter, all the while climbing higher until they slowed to a walk, the hooves clinking over loose stones. They followed the upper reaches of the same water course she had ridden that day with the groom. The air was fresh and cool. When they turned, the view that unfolded showed almost the whole of the Guilfoyle Estate, a patchwork of fields, hedges and copses, picked out in vibrant greens or charcoal greys, depending upon the high flying clouds.

  Ambrose looked to the distance, his body rigid, unmoved by the beauty and immensity of the sight. This would be his domain one day. He noted the various accretions to the house each Patchford, in his time had added: the Jacobean Wing, then the Georgian Wing until finally, his grandfather created the ‘obscenity’, as he called it, the Victorian Wing. It was not with pride he observed them, but the jaundiced eye of hostility. Giving the horses their freedom they could take their ease, resting against a large, round boulder. This was a favourite haunt for Ambrose. Deposited by the ancient glaciers, the rock held within it a transcendent power bestowed by the primordial universe from which, in the past, he had drawn strength. Nigella shaded
her eyes as she looked out. Ambrose continued idly tossing stones at another rock, his faded blue eyes remaining as ice cold as his glaciers.

  “Something’s bothering you Patchy,” she turned back to her brother giving him a probing, keen-eyed inspection. He did not look up.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Come on, I know you … and we’re too alike. When I ride like that … something inside me wants out. Want to talk?”