3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  The flimsy housing became denser, and more portraits of slum life lined the track. A woman in her nightgown and cloth cap pegged out her laundry for all the world to see; a barrel-chested man washed his hair from a tin pail. Children sat on piles of stones and rubbish, waving as the train passed. They jumped and shouted with excitement when Rhia waved back. She felt a creeping cold. She had never imagined the capital would have poverty worse than Dublin.

  The train was creeping so slowly that they must be nearing Euston. Rhia’s spirits lifted in anticipation of seeing Ryan. His liveliness was always infectious; his costly habits reassuring. Whenever her uncle came to Dublin he brought China silk, French lace and Portuguese wine. And he knew how to make her laugh, a restorative now absent in the Mahoney household. If it was possible to resurrect Mahoney Linen, then Ryan would know how.

  She now wished that she had taken the time to remove her clothing last night; her ribs were sore from the chafing of her stays. She inspected her hair in the speckled oval of glass beneath the luggage rail. It was still more or less braided and only needed a pin or two. She washed her face in the tiny basin and changed her long, lace-up walking boots for the shorter, buttoned boots that were in her carpet bag. They had a pointed toe and pretty heel and they instantly made her feel better. She was ready.

  Thomas’s parcel was beneath the boots, and she sat and eyed the carpet bag, suspecting that Thomas’s gift would only lure her into the homesickness she was taking such care to evade. She would have to open it sooner or later. Rhia rummaged in the bag and drew out the brown paper square tied with string. She put the parcel on her lap and took a deep breath, then immediately wished that she hadn’t; there was a funk in the air; something sulphurous or rotting. When the paper wrapping was peeled away, the folded underside of a heavily woven piece of cloth was exposed. Rhia unfolded it, holding her breath. She knew what this was. Unfolded, the piece covered her knees; a two-foot square of a high grade chintz. The linen upholstery was impeccably woven and as vivid as a botanical garden against the green alpaca of her travelling costume. The pattern was achingly familiar. It was her design, from a long, long time ago; a time when she still believed in fairies and did not mind ghosts. She had spent weeks perfecting it before giving it to Thomas as a gift. He had woven it. She was overcome. The design was of curling boughs laden with golden fruit and birds of jewel colours. It was, she remembered, intended to be the Otherworld, where the magical birds of Rhiannon woke the dead and put the living to sleep.

  Thomas had written a note on a square of the stiff paper used for carding yarn:

  Anam Cara,

  Do not forget who you are.

  Thomas Kelly

  He liked to be mysterious. How could she forget something that she didn’t know? Rhia replaced the chintz in her carpet bag. She felt fortunate to have such a friend, troublesome though he was. But she wouldn’t have married Thomas, in spite of what she’d said to her father, because when they were lying naked on the prickly forest floor she hadn’t wanted him to touch her. She had, regrettably, told him so, and Thomas hadn’t spoken to her for the whole, long summer. It wasn’t just because she was the daughter of a clothier and he was a weaver; they were, like Rhiannon and Pwyll, from different worlds in other ways besides. They both knew that she would never be happy to have a simple life, and Thomas made no secret of the fact that he thought her spoilt.

  She thought of William O’Donahue. Had she wanted him to touch her? She thought not. She had been taken by his manners and sophistication; with the allure of his profession. How fickle she was. With Thomas she was her true self; as bad-tempered or whimsical or inquisitive as she felt. William had clearly not cared for her blessed interestedness. She shivered to think that she might have married a man who would have wanted only a fixed smile in an expensive bonnet.

  The locomotive steamed through the northern reaches of London, the slums had become red brick terraces; row upon row, mile after mile. Rhia felt her stomach somersault, and it wasn’t the pigeon pie. What was the house of a Quaker like? Would the furnishings be austere and uncomfortable? There would almost certainly be no modern conveniences such as pumped water or gaslight. She expected that Antonia Blake would disapprove of her fondness for fine cloth and her aversion to church services.

  The dirty stains of industry on the sky reminded her of ruined linen and of how much her life had changed already. The oily smell of the fog only worsened as the heart of the city approached, and she wondered how anyone could feel healthful in such a place. She heard again Mamo’s whisper in her ear. She must find something to be grateful for, and quickly.

  The train slowed and the sky disappeared completely. Above the densely crowded platform a large, proud sign read: LONDON EUSTON.

  Tartan

  Rhia stepped into the fracas on the platform and was practically knocked sideways by a liveried footman. The man was laden with hat boxes and parcels, and was so anxious to keep up with a madam in a striding fur pelisse that he didn’t even stop. The next thing Rhia knew there was a hand beneath her elbow. She swung around defensively, but it was only Ryan’s smiling face that greeted her. He had easily approached without her noticing. She was so relieved to see him that she threw her arms around his neck, making him laugh.

  ‘Rhia dearest, welcome to London!’ He gestured towards the disappearing footman and the general mayhem. ‘I assure you that the city is not all such an abomination, nor as ugly as its northern approach.’ He propelled her swiftly across the platform, dodging urchins and passengers alike with an alacrity that didn’t seem feasible, given the conditions.

  ‘It isn’t at all what I imagined,’ was all Rhia could manage. She didn’t have time even to look at Ryan properly until they reached the relative calm of the reception hall. She thought he looked uncharacteristically haggard, but still the picture of a successful bachelor. He wore long polished boots, a mustard yellow cravat and a rakish frock coat. Aside from his stylish clothing and the fact that he oiled his russet hair, Ryan Mahoney looked much like his brother, with an Irishman’s pale, freckled complexion and wiry build. In nature, though, he was passionate and frivolous, quite the opposite of her father.

  ‘We’ll escape this unholy commotion just as soon as your luggage is in the porter’s office,’ Ryan assured her. ‘My carriage is waiting in the avenue.’ She nodded and her gaze was drawn upward to the vaulted grandeur. Fields had become flatlands and slag heaps for this. Should she be more in awe of the human achievement or the resilience of the natural world? She felt small suddenly, and more than a little overwhelmed. She needed to wash the salt from her hair and the soot from her skin; to move without her stays creaking and to sleep somewhere motionless, then everything would be all right. She had barely slept for days.

  ‘Not every station is as grand as Euston,’ Ryan was saying, watching her. ‘It is the new darling of the London and North-Western Railway and not a farthing has been spared.’

  Perhaps he thought that she was made speechless with awe at the industries of men?

  He chuckled. ‘If you think it is crowded now, you should see the platforms in August, prior to the beginning of the shooting season in Scotland. I always think it a wonder their prey doesn’t hear the racket from the highlands and flee for the season!’

  Rhia felt a little like prey herself. After what seemed an interminable wait, her trunk was located and they stepped into the street. It was a commotion. Carriages, omnibuses and carts jammed the thoroughfare and the footpath was crowded with every manner of basketseller and barrow. A little girl with a tangle of hair and a basket of chestnuts tugged at Rhia’s cloak as Ryan towed her towards his vehicle. Everywhere she looked were billowing chimney stacks and blackened stone. She had expected classicism; elegance. She at least had the heart to smile at her own naivety.

  Her portmanteau was strapped to the back of Ryan’s sleek burgundy landau, and a tartan rug tucked over her knees. They set off. She could feel Ryan’s eyes on her. She tried to hide her disappointm
ent. ‘I … look forward to seeing more of the city,’ she said without conviction.

  ‘And you shall, within moments!’ The landau lurched into the stream of vehicles and didn’t slow until they had almost collided with a milk cart. Rhia glanced at Ryan. His lips were pressed into a thin line and he was frowning as though he was miles away. His face looked thinner, she thought; his jaw sharper. He needed a shave. He caught her eye and smiled instantly.

  ‘I can hardly believe that you are finally visiting the capital. There is so much I want to show you. We’ll walk by the Serpentine and shop at Piccadilly and go to the Royal Opera. You’ll have a smashing time. I’ll wager you are in need of it. Now, tell me of my brother’s health and how your mother is managing. And of your intent to secure a position, which I find most admirable.’

  Before Rhia could remind him that this had been his idea not hers, Ryan was talking again. He seemed harried. ‘As I said in my letter, I regret that I could not accommodate you myself, but I was spending so much time at China Wharf that there was no point in the upkeep of a second household. I have sufficient room for desk, bed and storage, and usually dine at my club, all of which suits my bachelor ways estimably!’

  Ryan manoeuvred the landau, more swiftly than seemed necessary or safe, past another wagon laden with crates and barrels. It was a mystery how the narrow roads could withstand so many vehicles. Bloomsbury, he was saying, was a citadel of garrets, accommodating more hungry writers, thespians and artistes than even the halls of Trinity College. He pointed out the sleek homes of merchants and the premises of a gentleman he knew. He enquired after Connor and Brigit again, as though he’d forgotten that he already had.

  Rhia told him their news, occasionally distracted as her eyes skimmed across the rooftops of London. Industry marched on the inner city like a militia of chimneys. Shadowy tenements housed pitiable shops in their front rooms, some with a rickety table out front displaying trinkets and bric-a-brac, from stacks of yellowing catalogues to tins of scavenged boot buttons. This was not at all the city she had imagined. She caught Ryan’s eye and wondered if her disappointment showed.

  ‘London is a fickle mistress,’ he remarked wryly. ‘One moment you are seduced by her and the next rejected.’ It seemed a melodramatic statement and Rhia wondered if he was mocking her. She nodded absently as her eyes followed a chariot drawn by a pair of sleek bays. It looked to be driven by an oversized hat; its plumage so excessive that it could have been the nest of a sea bird.

  She barely had time to take in the cut of the walking dresses and short cloaks that swirled along Hatton Garden before Ryan said they were on Cheapside. Every second shop now seemed to be a tailor or milliner or corset-maker, as if the economy of the city revolved around cloth and clothing. She had, so far, provided a vivid account of the Merchant’s Quay fire and described the physical and worldly well-being of her parents. ‘My mother,’ she concluded, ‘intends to earn a living from wool. The Kellys have a broadcloth loom.’

  Ryan looked thoughtful. ‘Then I must assign a clipper of merino to Dublin as soon as possible.’

  ‘But merino wool is awfully expensive …’ Rhia was secretly relieved. She had hoped he would offer to help.

  ‘Prices have been falling. The sheep thrive in the warm climates, but not only in the southern Continent. Merino is now the primary export from Australia, you know. It is being blended with silk and cashmere. The fleece is more expensive to purchase, but the yarn can be sold for thrice as much as English wool.’

  ‘Then you don’t think it wise to try and revive Mahoney Linen?’

  Ryan sighed heavily. ‘I was never as sentimental about the family legacy as your father. I’m relieved that he was its heir. Had Connor and I been less … disposed to disagreement, I might have stayed in Dublin and been a partner, but that was not to be. As you know, your father is as devoted to tradition as I am to progress. It is 1840, a new decade! The linen industry – the whole cloth trade – has progressed rapidly. Mahoney has been disadvantaged in choosing not to mechanise.’

  True or not, this seemed harsh. ‘And so will any discerning tailor be disadvantaged, not to have good quality linen to cut,’ she retorted.

  ‘There are other cloths, Rhia. New blends of fibres are being machined all the time now. Progress is the word you will hear more than any other in London. Besides, the loomed linens are not so poor in quality as your father would have us believe. The trade is changing. The world is changing.’

  Rhia did not want to be thought old-fashioned, but she didn’t believe, either, that there was no place for tradition in the new world of the machine. She might have pressed her argument further, but the streets had changed again. She sensed that they were passing through an important part of the city.

  ‘This is Cornhill.’ Ryan named the quarter as though this was explanation enough for its vibrancy. The street was pulsating with hurrying clerks and gentlemen wearing polished leather hats and top coats with fur collars. Whatever its industry, the quarter clearly had a vital purpose.

  The landau turned into a narrow, shadowy road, aptly called Cloak Lane, and stopped outside a flat-fronted red brick terrace. They were only a hatch of streets away from Cornhill. Of course! Mrs Blake lived in the City of London. They had just passed through the banking district. She felt a small thrill to be lodging so close to the heartbeat of the capital.

  The subject of Antonia Blake had not been raised at all during the journey from Euston, but now that she was to meet her puritanical hostess, Rhia felt her nervousness return. Ryan patted her hand absently. ‘You will never meet a kinder soul than Antonia. Did I tell you that her husband’s cousin is also lodging at Cloak Lane? He is a professional portraitist.’

  ‘A painter!’

  ‘No, not a painter. Laurence Blake is thoroughly modern. He makes photogenic portraits.’

  Before she could reply, Ryan was reaching for the door knocker. It was the wrought head of a mythical beast with a ring through its nose, and the first sign that the Blake household might not be as ascetic as Rhia had expected.

  She braced herself as the door swung open.

  Cambric

  Antonia frowned as the front door hinge creaked. It was an unsettling sound; she must remember to drip a little linseed onto it. She completed the last neat column of entries swiftly as she listened to the arrival of the Mahoneys.

  ‘Good morning, Juliette!’ Ryan boomed his greeting with unnatural cheer, no doubt in response to Juliette’s dour airs.

  ‘Morning, Mr Mahoney sir. Miss.’

  Antonia stood. She smoothed her skirts and patted her hair and stepped into the hall. She waited for a moment in the shadows, not wanting to interrupt before the moment was right. Juliette was holding a ruby red cloak; but Rhia Mahoney was obscured behind her. The colour of the cloak spoke volumes about Antonia’s new lodger.

  ‘Mrs Blake says you’re to go straight to the morning room where it’s warm. She’ll be with you presently.’ Juliette took Ryan’s top coat and then showed them inside.

  When Antonia stepped into the morning room, Ryan was warming himself by the fire and Rhia was examining the photogenic landscape on the wall with her back to the door. It was the work of one of Laurence’s colleagues. Rhia turned. Antonia was surprised. Rhia looked nothing at all like her uncle; her features were strong and dark; not pretty, but striking. She was small. Elfin, almost. Her gaze was a little too direct to be entirely respectful or genteel. In fact, if Antonia didn’t know better she would describe those dark eyes of hers as fey.

  Ryan made introductions and Rhia gave the landscape a parting glance before stepping forward and extending her hand, which Antonia took.

  ‘Do you like the photogenic drawing?’ she asked, not knowing what else to say. ‘Isn’t the paleness of the trees eerie,’ she continued. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rhia agreed, though she seemed almost suspicious when she glanced back to the picture. What a peculiar creature she was. She tore her gaze away and looked a
round appreciatively. ‘It is a pretty room,’ she said. ‘How clever to paper the walls in such a warm colour. It’s just like a field of wheat with the sun on it.’

  This pleased Antonia. She had taken great care with the room. It had seemed necessary to redecorate it after Josiah’s death. The walls were amber with a pale lemon leaf pattern, and were hung not only with photogenic drawings but also – most recently – with several of the Madonnas from her collection. Josiah had not approved of icons. The French oak armchairs by the hearth were upholstered in bright saffron. The breakfast table was set back a little from the front window and laid with delicate white china. The morning room now felt lit by the sun even when only thin winter light strained through the lace curtains.

  Antonia took in Rhia’s travelling costume at a glance. Stylish but not showy. She imagined that she herself seemed out of place in her own pretty room. Her usual sombre grey was so dark that it was almost black, relieved only by a white collar. Her brown hair was, as always, parted in the middle and pinned back in a neat, net-covered mound. She thought fleetingly of a time when she had worn cloths that rustled and whispered, when pearls had clicked softly at her neck. It surprised her, to be reminded of her former self. Was Rhia Mahoney going to bring ghosts into the house?

  Antonia forced a bright smile. She was the benevolent hostess. ‘I expected you a little later, but then, I should have remembered that your landau is as swift as a racing chariot, Ryan.’ Ryan bowed and smiled. He was as debonair as ever, even though he looked dreadful. Too much claret at his club last night, no doubt. He was uncharacteristically quiet.

  Antonia took Rhia’s arm and guided her to the breakfast table. ‘Come! You must be hungry and weary after your long journey. How wonderful it is to finally meet you. I confess that I have heard much about you from your uncle, so I feel that I know you a little already. I’m so pleased to have you here, Rhia.’