Yet it always seemed to be Eliot who got the better bargain. Eliot who had won a place at university. Eliot who was considered the more gifted of the two brothers, in intellect, and in his pretensions with his painting. His daubs, as Father had termed them even as Mama had gushed about her favourite son’s prodigious talent.
Eliot also displayed an unnatural talent for gardening, seemingly fascinated by growing stupid flowers, even being able to remember all their blasted Latin names.
Furthermore, when Eliot had travelled as a young graduate from Cambridge, he’d come back able to speak fluent Italian while Charles had been accused by his darling mama of ‘wasting his opportunities’. All because he’d spent months enjoying the Bohemian life with like-minded individuals on a Greek island, instead of going to Renaissance Florence. Charles was pleased to say that he wouldn’t recognise a Botticelli if he fell over one.
Fortunately, their father had largely taken Charles’s side, calling his elder son a useless fop, and a Mother’s Pet. Which had made the division of spoils after his death all the harder to bear.
There’d been the most fearful rows of course when he’d taken to his bed following his stroke. Father yelling like a banshee, mother sobbing and Eliot storming about as grim-faced as one of his favourite Shakespearean heroes. But after Pop’s death, it seemed to be taken for granted that the elder brother would take over the company as well as the family home on Thorny Hills.
Charles himself had been left the family country home, a decaying mansion by Lake Windermere in dire need of complete refurbishment, certainly in Lucy’s view. Of course, he’d also been left a substantial sum of money. Quite a sizeable amount in fact, but nowhere near as much as he’d been promised. No hope of living the life of a gentleman, not with a growing family to consider. But then everyone appreciated how expensive it was to maintain a family, save for his brother who, of course, didn’t have one.
Charles had felt compelled to join the firm and, refusing to sell the Windermere mansion, had bought a fine town house on Stramongate with the aid of a substantial mortgage, where the family could reside during the week. Then there was the question of decent schools for the children, and a seemingly endless array of new gowns and furbelows for his beloved wife.
More recently there was the hoped-for purchase of a steam yacht. Charles already possessed a carriage and the governess cart which Lucy used, but the roads were so dreadful one couldn’t live on the lake without having the facilities of a private yacht. He intended to have it all rigged out in polished mahogany with monogrammed cushions and china crockery, together with the customary Windermere kettle which would boil tea for them over the steam boiler. Lucy had a fancy for weekend picnics on the lake. Delightful social gatherings with friends. And why shouldn’t she? While he could enjoy his favourite country pursuits of sailing, riding, shooting and fishing. But all of this cost money and Eliot absolutely refused to increase his salary, saying he should sell the Windermere mansion if he couldn’t afford to keep it, which was grossly unfair.
Charles scowled as he adjusted the pearl studs of his dress shirt. He could hear Lucy scolding her maid, telling her that if she didn’t buck up her ideas, she’d be out without a character come Monday morning.
It was alarming how much servants cost these days, and did one get value for money? Not according to Lucy. And if Charles sometimes worried about his growing commitments, he did not allow his wife to guess as much. Lucy believed in always buying the very best. She’d once picked up a Constable at auction which had practically bankrupted him, and worse, doubt had been thrown upon its provenance. He’d returned it, of course, which had left her in a sulk for days. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the kudos of being able to acquire decent stuff: the kind of bric-a-brac which gave some indication of their status in society. Garden statues, Chinese pots, gilt vases and marble busts being among his favourites. Their town house was a harmony of fine rugs and classical furniture kept immaculate by the substantial and overpaid staff they employed.
But didn’t he deserve to live in a decent style, commensurate with his position in the community? He was, after all, an Edwardian capitalist, if not quite as rich as he needed to be.
Lucy stormed into the bedroom, and stamped her foot in temper. ‘That girl will have to go. She’s broken one of my best vases. She’s weeping about her mother needing the money she brings in, but I’ve told her she should have thought about her mother before she dropped it.’
Charles wasn’t interested in the plight of his wife’s maid. He looked at his beloved wife and helpmeet, and his heart sank just a little. ‘Is that a new gown, Beloved?’ he mildly enquired, because Lucy was just as likely to fire off at him too.
‘Is that some sort of criticism? You surely don’t expect me to wear my old one. The Cowpers are practically aristocracy. Her father was knighted, don’t you know?’
Charles sighed. ‘Yes, I do know, my love. But I am still at a loss to understand why that should require you to buy a new gown every time we have dinner with them.’
‘Don’t be peevish!’ Lucy marched over to her long mirror and began to tweak the frills of her gown and fiddle with her coiffure. ‘The girl never did manage to do my hair right. I shall get a French maid next time, far more skills in their smallest finger than a Westmorland girl. And so much more stylish.’
‘I’m not sure we can afford a French maid, my love.’
‘Oh, do stop complaining about money. I hear nothing else from you these days. You’re getting to be quite a bore on the subject, Charles, every bit as mean as your brother. I suppose you’ll be saying next that I can’t have the new drapes for the dining room.’
‘No, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your plans, Beloved, I only wonder if they have to be Chinese silk. And I thought the peacock blue gown you bought last week looked superb on you, and has been seen by only a very few people.’
‘How parsimonious you are of a sudden. It’s so upsetting. Don’t you like me to look well? And I feel so fat and weary in this particular pregnancy.’
And to his utter dismay, she burst into noisy tears so that it took fifteen long minutes before he could calm her again, along with a promise to take her to Italy, once her confinement was safely over. Not that he minded too much. He liked Italy and was really rather in need of a rest himself. Eliot might place unnecessary restrictions upon his power in the company, but he certainly didn’t hold back on the work he piled on to him.
Besides, Lucy was a fine, handsome woman with her ebony hair and violet eyes, a startling beauty in her day - still was, he supposed, despite the plumpness due to her delicate condition, and a certain discontentment about the mouth. She deserved a treat now and then, to cheer her. This pregnancy had distressed her more than the other two, claiming it was too soon, and blaming him for that, though he needed only to tip his hat on the bed and she was off. Secretly, it gave him enormous pleasure that she was enceinte, proving himself to be virile, and his wife fertile. Quite unlike poor Amelia, who still showed no sign of producing. Why didn’t anyone appreciate what a credit his darling Lucy was to this family by keeping the blood line going?
He had rather hoped that this would be to his advantage, that the aunts would see that he deserved decent prospects, in the fullness of time of course. But they had bluntly informed him that they had not the slightest intention of leaving him a single penny in their respective wills; insisting that as a man, with youth and vigour on his side, he was perfectly capable of making his own fortune. Aunt Vera had declared she would leave all her money to the Church, and Cissie would no doubt bestow hers upon some animal charity or other. Surely, he thought, family was far more important than any religious establishment or stupid dog’s home?
Moreover, Lucy had never enjoyed the same advantages or opportunities in life that his brother and Amelia so took for granted. Lucy’s parents had been simple country folk, nothing but an ordinary farmer, land rich but cash poor, most of which would pass to her elder brothers, leaving li
ttle for her sisters, or for Lucy herself. But then didn’t they both suffer from being the youngest in the family, with little hope of a decent inheritance from any direction?
Completely in tune with his mood, as ever, Lucy broke into his thoughts. ‘Has Eliot agreed to give you a more prominent role in the company, now that I’m expecting again and our commitments will increase? Perhaps even permit you to take it over completely and be given the lion’s share of the profits, since you are the one with a son to follow on, possibly with a second on the way.’
‘I do agree that this makes perfect sense, Beloved. Unfortunately, Eliot views the matter rather differently.’
Charles felt a spurt of irritation that his wife had raised the matter while it remained unsettled, had in fact become a bone of contention between them. Eliot had laughed out loud when Charles had put the suggestion to him, baldly stating that feeding his family was Charles’s own responsibility and not that of the company. There was also a great deal more about not believing everything their father had told them, of cutting his coat according to his cloth, and other such nonsense which Charles preferred not to reflect upon.
‘In any case, from what we learned last evening, it would seem that he means to get himself a son, after all, one way or another.’
A quick, indrawn breath from Lucy. ‘You mean the adoption of that pauper child? Surely, you don’t seriously believe that will take place, do you? I assumed it was some stupid fancy on Amelia’s part, and would quickly die a death. Eliot will surely put paid to such nonsense.’
Charles looked grim. ‘I very much fear that Eliot means to go ahead with it, and with all speed. He is as much besotted by the boy as his pathetic wife.’
Lucy put a hand to her throat and her cry of dismay rose in pitch to a frightening level. ‘Then how will we manage? Didn’t you tell him about the planned refurbishments to the Windermere house for the sake of the children?’
They’d both convinced themselves that the planned addition of a nursery wing, plus a new conservatory, not to mention the steam yacht, would be for the children’s benefit and not their own pleasure at all. That they needed to keep this exceedingly expensive property on the lake for the health of their growing family. Nevertheless, inwardly Charles squirmed. He’d made a point of not mentioning these plans to Eliot, knowing what his reaction would be. The mortgage on the Stramongate house was already straining his bank account to the limits, a further loan for the improvements could buckle it entirely. ‘Time enough for such details later, Beloved, when the work begins.’
‘But if he does adopt this child, where will that leave our own precious darlings? Without any inheritance at all, that’s where.’ Once more the tears spurted. ‘We’ll be the paupers then. Oh, what are we to do? We are ruined, ruined!’
‘Not at all, my sweet. No, no, indeed not! Do not fret yourself.’
‘Oh my, I fear I am about to faint. Please, Charles, bring my Sal Volatile. Hurry!’
At his wits’ end, Charles hurried to carry out her order, as he always did, endeavouring to keep his wife calm, reminding Lucy of the child she carried, of making her face all red and blotchy, of ruining her hair, and when all of that failed, of their dinner date with the Cowpers, which rapidly brought her back under control.
‘There’s my girl. Chin up, we’ll find a solution to the conundrum, make no mistake. I’ll not see our little treasures pushed out into the cold, as I was. Oh, dear me no. Now, my dear, go and freshen your pretty face with a little cold water and we’ll be on our way. You know how you always like to be punctual, and you do look charming, quite delicious, the new gown was worth every penny of whatever it might have cost. I am a most fortunate man, most fortunate indeed.’ And pulling her into his arms, kissed her heartily while fondling her breasts. That was another thing he enjoyed about Lucy, her full breasts, ripe as plums. But then pregnancy always suited her.
Blushing bright pink, Lucy slapped his hand playfully away. ‘Shameful man.’ But he could see that she was pleased by the attention. Perhaps he’d be able to talk her out of the Chinese silk drapes after all, on the grounds that they were about to restore their other house, and must save every penny for that. If not, then he’d just have to bring his dratted brother to heel, one way or another.
Kate was up with the lark every single morning, marvelling at the clear view of the distant mountains she could see through the bars of the nursery windows, their peaks dusted with a frosting of snow against a clear blue sky. Closer to hand she could look down upon the river; sluggish this morning as it slid quietly along past wide, grassy banks, most unlike the raging torrent which had swept away her lovely husband. Beyond the church, which she could just see if she strained her head to one side, lay Poor House Lane and the yards where she had spent her youth. In crossing the river, she seemed to have crossed a Rubicon in her own life, just as the bible stated. She’d made a decision and Kate rather thought there would be no going back, even if she wanted to.
She meant to write to Dermot, tell him that she’d tried, at least, and that she wished him well. Sure and it was vital that they kept in touch.
The door opened and Fanny entered, a pail of hot water dangling from one arm, and a tray of breakfast in her hands. Kate could see boiled eggs, tea and toast, and her mouth began to water. Would she ever recover from this perpetual feeling of hunger, she wondered. Fanny set both down in tight-lipped silence, as always not responding when Kate thanked her. She hadn’t spoken to her since that very first meal in the kitchen, nearly a week ago now. None of the servants had. It had been a depressingly silent week. On this occasion, it was only when Kate offered to fetch it herself in future that the girl was finally driven to speak.
‘You ’s not allowed to leave the bairn unattended. Instructions from the mistress. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be waiting on you, you can be sure of that. Oh, and the mistress says when Baby is dressed, would you please go down to the small parlour. She would like to talk to you about proper arrangements for his routine.’
‘Of course. And thank you again for bringing breakfast up for us, Fanny. If you’ve not the time, we’d be happy to eat in the kitchen instead.’
Fanny looked shocked. ‘Nursemaids stay in the nursery, with the bairn, for everything, including meals. That’s how it’s done.’
It had already been made clear to Kate that she was not expected below stairs. A state of affairs which made her thoroughly depressed and quite at a loss. It was going to be very lonely indeed if she was never allowed below stairs with the other servants, and they didn’t speak to her if she should happen to go down. Clearly, there were all kinds of pitfalls ahead, all manner of rules and regulations she needed to learn and understand. Even so, she persisted in her attempts to be friendly, thankful that Fanny had at last responded, and so she eagerly addressed her departing figure.
‘Perhaps you and I could come to some arrangement then, whereby I could help you with some of your chores in return?’
But Fanny simply gave a loud snort and stalked out of the room, head high, closing the door with a sharp click behind her. Kate felt certain that had it not been for the close proximity of her mistress taking breakfast in her own room nearby, she would very likely have slammed it.
‘Ah, Kate. I hope you are happily settled in. I’ve left you in peace till you felt quite at home, but now I think it time we sort out essential arrangements. Sit our little cherub down on the rug, there’s a good girl, while we chat. We’ve a great deal to discuss.’
She did not invite Kate to sit.
Every morning during this last week, the mistress had visited the nursery, cooing and gurgling over Callum for so long that getting him up and dressed had frequently been delayed by a half hour or more. At first, Kate had been at a loss to know what to dress him in as his old clothes weren’t even fit for the rag-bag, but inspection of the chest of mahogany drawers revealed many items of baby wear, mainly undergarments and old fashioned dresses, of the finest materials and beautifully clean. Some of t
hem she considered to be rather girlish and at times struggled to find something that was just right for him. This morning, she’d chosen a dress with pleats and a sailor collar, and a matching set of pants to go underneath, so today he looked a fine little chap, sitting happily on the rug playing with a wooden engine Kate had found in a toy cupboard; his cheeks all pink and surely plumper already.
Amelia said, ‘While you’ve been settling in, I have not been idle but busily taking advice. Now I’ve made a list which I’d like you to peruse with care, at your leisure. Oh dear, you can read, I trust. I quite forgot to ask.’
‘To be sure ma’am, Daddy taught me fine how to read. And Dermot can read too, so he can.’
‘Excellent, and most commendable of your father. Well then, I shall run quickly through the bare essentials and if you see any problems, you have only to say.’ Hardly pausing to draw breath, she proceeded to read from the paper. ‘The nurseries must be painted and redecorated according to the dictates of Doctor Barker’s Advice to Mothers, a copy of which I have here, loaned to me by my dear sister-in-law who has two children of her own and a third on the way. It must be quite plain and unadorned with a table and a couple of chairs. A rocking chair, a shallow bath on a stand for baby, and a place to store his clothes, most of which we already have. There is also a toy cupboard, and the crib which has been in the family for generations and will serve him well, of course. But he is to have no pillow, as that would make him round-shouldered, and the mattress must be changed to one of straw, which is healthier, I am told.’
The Girl From Poorhouse Lane Page 9
