“Yes my Lady.” Somewhere in a distant room of the house, Mallory heard the soft whirring of a mantel clock as it began to chime the hour of eight. This gave her forty-five minutes to give the Tourer the once over, get rid of the grime, bring it back to its sparkling splendour. However, there was no time to waste.
* * *
With fewer distractions everyone was ready and waiting when she drove up. The day was mild with clear skies. No need of heavy top coats. Nigella had selected a high necked, natural-waisted dress with a loose-fitting over blouse which hung below the bosom in a short frill. The sleeves, which extended to the elbow, were finished with hanging, three-quarter flounces, leaving her forearms bare. She wore white, net gloves and looked quite jejune Mallory thought, but attractive nonetheless. Her wide, yellow straw hat had a low crown, with rose flowers on either side. She had a demur appearance which Mallory knew was not her persona, but probably appropriate for a day in the city.
Ramona, being older wore an olive green, tailored day-dress of form fitting ninon, hanging straight to the ground. Two ornamental fastening tabs were attached just below the knee. The decolletage was low, with ‘in-fill’ of cream muslin to cover the upper bosom. This rose high to encircle her neck. Although the whole effect looked chic and sophisticated, Mallory was disappointed to see she had chosen the highest-crowned hat ever. The ‘monstrosity’ was dark green and bore purple and blue fruit, proudly aloft on its massive brim. Just looking at it gave her a headache.
In contrast their mother was quite restrained. Her day-gown was aimed at comfort; white muslin dotted with pale blue flowers, a loosely-cut, high-waisted bodice and a high neckline with a collar of small frills. The sleeves too, were loose-fitting and tapered only slightly. The gloves were navy blue net, to match the dramatic central panel of the dress. All three wore button boots of the softest kid, each pair in a matching colour to the wearer’s outfit and hanging from the forearm, a small beaded purse.
So much detail, so much hand sowing, Mallory observed. These women must keep many a seamstress busy. Well, at least it allows for some distribution of wealth to the poorer classes. From what she had seen so far, there were an awful lot of them in this latter category. Lady Patchford’s hat, although not so high in the crown and Mallory judged she already had enough height, gave ample room to display in the round, masses of gentian blue flowers with bright green leaves. She had collected a navy blue Alpaca stole to guard against a possible chill. These people obviously don’t understand the concept of ‘less is more’.
They were not devotees of the ‘Reform Movement’ in their dress, but then those were mostly the artistic types and some of the literary intelligentsia. Perhaps one day she would get used to all this ostentation, meanwhile their affluence gave her a living so perhaps she should not be so judgemental.
“Good morning Your Ladyship,” she tipped her cap to the girls.
It was a smooth drive to Curzon Street. In her time off, she planned to go to Selfridges on Oxford Street to look for some clothes. The Department Store, open a few months only would be an interesting place to check out. It was a truly exhilarating experience right from the outside in. The ground floor was all glass and steel, the upper storeys beautifully carved stone. The luxury that abounded behind and beneath the display cabinets was overwhelming. Just the amount of highly finished timber and the intricate tiling of the terrazzo floors showed opulence at every turn. There were five floors, each accessible by elevator.
The attendants, both male and female were impeccably attired and although they regarded her curiously, they maintained their deferential attitude. It made her feel self-conscious, but she was determined to be kitted out appropriately, as someone in the employ of Lord Patchford, even if it were only ‘off-the-peg’.
She settled for a box of white, celluloid collars rather than hoping someone would starch linen ones for her. She was told they “were all the rage”. Against the cold, a Norfolk jacket should serve very well. This she figured would fit in with country life and chose a lovat green, Harris tweed with vertical pleats down the front, either side of brown, leather covered buttons. It was belted at the waist.
For underneath Mallory was attracted to the Reform Movement’s latest innovation in a natural fabric – Aertex. It was explained that the weave being loose and therefore full of holes, allowed the air to be trapped. This would keep one’s person warm in winter and allow the body to breath in summer.
“You will appreciate Sir, that this will permit the noxious exhalations to be released.” The assistant assumed a very important manner as he imparted this scientific piece of information. Since wool was the only other alternative for next to the skin, she thought Aertex should be the go. She came away with two short sleeved vests, buttoning down the front and two pairs of men’s ‘drawers’, also with front buttons and covering the thighs. Oh well, nobody’s going to see me in this ‘neck-to-knees’ so I shouldn’t worry about appearances. Just concentrate on staying warm. All this heavy clothing would also disguise her shape which was good.
Three quarters of an hour later she had a smart serge single breasted, light brown ‘sac’ suit in the ‘round-cut’ style, with padded shoulders. The serge was durable worsted with large, black checks running across. Money well spent, it would last her a long time. The trousers were narrow legged, sharply creased in front and sported the latest style in turn ups.
“Very dapper Sir,” the assistant nodded his approval.
When it had come time to choose something for her head the decision had been difficult, torn as she was between the new look soft ‘golf’ cap in tweed, or a straw boater. The boater won. Budget blown it was time to stop. Time anyway to return to Curzon Street.
Her wait outside was extended and a light, fresh mist was beginning to descend. Just as she began considering her options, the Ladies appeared. She was informed they would be returning to Belgrave Square for luncheon.
“The girls have decided to take tea at Fortnum and Mason’s at four o’clock.”
She thought Lady Patchford looked even more stressed and much in need of some ‘down’ time. Obviously their morning had not gone as well as hers.
“Drive them over at three-thirty. Don’t be late!”
There was dejection all round, judging from the two dispirited faces.
“No my Lady.”
* * *
How different the young Ladies appeared this afternoon. Although she needed to concentrate on where she was going, Mallory observed the mood to be buoyant and expectant. Sitting in the back they whispered together in animated conspiracy.
It took substantial manoeuvring to get through the traffic, but now she was more adept. Really though, London’s streets were a nightmare. And I wanted to do this? As she pulled up outside the store, a uniformed doorman jumped into action swinging open a big glass door.
“Mason, you can safely park the Tourer at the back, then meet me in the lobby.” Lady Nigella was delivering these commands as Lady Ramona alighted not waiting for her sister, but rushing in without a glance.
Whatever’s going on? “Yes my Lady.”
She obeyed the orders and returned to the front. The doorman looked surprised, but she explained she was to receive further instructions. Inside, the height of the arched ceilings immediately impressed her, seeming to dwarf the shoppers milling below. The intricate tiling in a bold, black and white design made footsteps resonate and the openness of the space created a noisy, echoing hubbub.
The front department of the store housed displays where the public could browse and choose from a selection of varied fabrics: bolts of surah, plush or fustian to name a few. She saw a shoe section in a quieter, carpeted alcove well supplied with comfortably upholstered, easy chairs and individual, wood-framed mirrors at floor level. Millinery was prominently displayed with every imaginable trimming for customization, especially silk flowers and laces. Close by was a Drapers wing where she glimpsed boxes of handkerchiefs and scarves. There were more cases beyond
with gloves of different materials and leathers; all manner of decorative purses had their own subdivision.
Nigella was on the lookout and came forward to lead her through to the tearoom.
I’m expected to take afternoon tea? She followed.
On their way they passed an extensive display of different types of tinned goods, from oriental teas to custom candies to shortbread biscuits. Mallory thought just the tins themselves were collectors’ items.
The hostess in formal black dress, greeted and guided them to two tufted chairs set across from a small table. This was covered in white linen with an elaborate vase of yellow roses in the centre. Other patrons, handsomely attired and engaged in animated conversation, were sipping tea. Frequently bright laugher interspersed their delicate nibbling. Mallory felt the inadequacy of her appearance, but Nigella seemed oblivious.
In this room the ceiling was not so lofty and the decor, which included soft damasks and velvets of pale pinks and greens, muted the intrusive sounds of china and silver-ware. A female pianist, situated in a corner and slightly camouflaged by magnificent Foxtail Palms and Aspidistras, deftly touched the keys, stringing together a medley of well-known arias from popular operas. Her ear was caught by the melody of the Humming Chorus from Madam Butterfly.
A neat waitress approached to take their order. Mallory indicated she would like Nigella to choose so with the tea, which was Darjeeling, their waitress brought a plate of cucumber sandwiches and an assortment of light Congress tarts. At last they were alone. Mallory looked across enquiringly.
“Please, Mason. You won’t say anything about this,” Nigella pleaded, drawing her dark eyebrows together in earnest entreaty.
“Say anything about what?”
“Oh dear … it’s so difficult.” Hastily, she looked away then looking back, marshalled her reserves and resumed: “You see we need your help. There’s no-one else we can turn to. I assured Ramona you would be a brick, but she’s very nervous. She doesn’t know you as well as I do so naturally … she lacks confidence, but I don’t.”
“You know my Lady I will help you … and the Lady Ramona … any way I can. You have my word on that, but I need to know how.”
Nigella had ignored her tea, but now proceeded to take some refreshment as her nerves settled and she was able to relax. She made explanations, without elaborating on their parents’ part in all of this, but enough for Mallory to comprehend the seriousness. With a candid smile she concluded: “You see, today was a chance for Ramona to tell Myles all about it and to have some time to make plans.”
“They are here?” Mallory looked about in surprise.
“Yes, they’re taking tea in one of the private alcoves. Ramona needed to apprise Myles of what could happen if they didn’t do something … and quickly. I think she’s hopeful they can elope.”
Mallory tried not to show her dismay at this possibility. Yes she was willing to help them … but to run away….
“My Lady …” she hesitated, returning her cup carefully to its delicate saucer: “… are they thinking of a drive to Gretna Green?”
“I’m not sure what they have in mind. I think Ramona hopes Myles can come up with some sort of plan.”
“This Lord Knowlesworthy … do you know him? Is he a bad man?”
“Not really. I’ve met him a few times. He seemed very nice, but Ramona doesn’t love him …” Nigella held her stare and stated emphatically: “… she loves Myles.”
“May I ask, my Lady? Does the Honourable Sir Myles Stafford-Clarke love your sister?”
“I think so …” Nigella dropped her gaze, seeming less sure on this point. She looked across at her companion, the sudden stab of doubt deadening the striking dynamism of her eyes as she viewed the situation from another angle.
Mallory moved on to the tarts. “On my honour my Lady, I will not mention one word of this to anyone, but may I suggest we find out what sort of plan the young couple come up with? Then we can see how we might be able to help.”
The seed of this new doubt blunted Nigella’s appetite, shaking her reliance on a ‘sort of plan’. “Yes. We must wait on their decision,” she concurred. With nothing decided her mind moved on. “Mama gave us an hour and then we have to return to change.” She inspected a small timepiece she had pinned to her dress. “We’re going to a concert at the Wigmore Hall. Sir Thomas Beecham will be conducting an all Elgar programme. It seems we will be treated to his Salut D’Amore and his Chansons de Matin et Nuit: three pieces Ramona’s been working on.” The green eyes took on an emerald sparkle again, with her excited anticipation of the evening ahead. In spite of herself, effervescent spirits bubbled over. Her first attendance at an adult engagement how could they not?
“Lord Bromley is escorting us. It’s a special treat for Ramona since Mama knows she’s been unhappy of late.”
“And you, my Lady … you will enjoy it?”
“Oh yes. His music is so romantic.” Her lips pouted in that girlish habit Mallory was coming to recognise. “Handel and Mozart are all right in their way, but a bit fuddy-duddy don’t you think?” She looked quizzically across the table, head tilted slightly. Mallory did not want to answer directly, but neatly side-stepped with: “My taste runs rather more to Rachmaninoff, or Richard Strauss. His A Hero’s Life is a beautiful, lyric tone poem. You know … something more modern.”
Lifting her chin she protested: “You can’t get more modern then Sir Edward Elgar!” then realized that had not sounded very cordial and tried to make amends. “Well, I see you like the foreigners.”
“Music is such a personal taste isn’t it my Lady?” Mallory was conciliatory in turn, not wishing to deflate this bright and impulsive enthusiast. “I would be willing to bet you like Jean Sibelius … and he’s Finish.”
“Yes, very true,” she had to acquiesce and her lips curved up. The difference of opinion was allowed to exist without animosity. She looked at the time once more. “I must fetch Ramona.”
“I’ll collect the Tourer and wait for you out front.” Mallory pushed back her chair, expressing her thanks for the tea.
When the two girls arrived, there were no smiles. They sat in the back in silence. At #17 they alighted, but only Nigella remained to speak. “I know you have to see Mama in the morning for instructions.” She looked hard into Mallory’s eyes. “You will keep your promise?”
“You have my word my Lady.” She hesitated then quickly asked if everything was all right.
Nigella turned to the house, it seemed she was trying to decide something then briefly turned back. “After you have seen Mama, wait for me in the Gardens, we can talk there.”
* * *
A night off in the Big Smoke! Mallory was stretched out on her cot after supper, at ease in casual cords and shirt, listening to the quietness of the night, a gentle breeze rustling in the trees and only loneliness for company. A silence, dense and impenetrable was beginning to fill the room, then an emotional pain so tortured, invaded her and hot tears stung her eyes. They spilled onto her cheeks to dampen the pillow. This was happening all too often, but she was powerless to stem the torrent of feeling that could swamp her. Everything about her was suddenly unstable; the walls of her paltry life seeming to close in, with no escape.
She could just hear at the edge of her mind, the long ago whispers of those she loved so much and melancholy filled her empty spaces. She looked into the abyss and sorrow so intense, welled up inside, as waves of suffocating terror rolled over her. An instinct bone deep, was telling her this wretchedness would never end. She was doomed to live a life of aching isolation; a life more acquainted with loneliness than love. It seemed she was on the edge of a precipice, looking down into a gully of her own trepidation. It was dark and deep down there; the monster that was her fear, threatening to tower over her and consume her. Writhing onto her side she curled into a ball knowing she needed to find the strength to make this misery go away, but her spirit was defeated, her optimism all but crushed.
She had
to get out. This was no good. She could lose herself in a crowd … anything would be better than this. If she had learned something from the twenty-first century it was the value of living in the moment – for the moment. She could do nothing about the past and the future was a law unto itself. The question crossed her mind: why is it that time is normally unidirectional? She was living in an aberration of time-shifting, but generally time went only one way. Did it have something to do with the structure of our universe as part of a Galactic entity, the same as light waves? Perhaps from the Big Bang? Too weighty for me, but still I have to get over this. She needed to take the infinity of the human mind and chill it to clockwork.
Sitting up, she swung her legs to the floor and determined to take herself down to Piccadilly Circus; blend in, mingle, be at one with the Londoners. She needed to make herself feel a part of 1909. She changed into her serge suit and slicked down her hair.
Recognising familiar landmarks was good, but watching the people was something else. Here was Nelson’s Column and the lions, but to see the passers-by as though dressed in fancy costume – that was surreal and totally confronting. She had made herself part of the scene and yet was still apart; she was here in the flesh, but still outside. Would a drink help? She went in search of the nearest public house. This took some time as a gathering fog was beginning to wreath the street lights in a yellow haze. Visibility was decreasing, blotting out the signs and it was not until she was almost upon it that she found The Wellington Arms. Unfortunately she had to run the gauntlet of a Band of Hope Reformists who enthusiastically urged her to see the light and sign the temperance pledge: Renounce the demon drink and remain teetotal. Already familiar with the sight of reeling drunkards, both here and in the village, she was aware of the seriousness of the problem. It would not be until the first war that opening hours would be moved to late morning, with the implementation of the afternoon ‘gap’. For now, she knew that at least in London, the working man could continue to buy his cheap drinks from dawn ’til midnight.
Til Morning Comes Page 20
