“I think so,” said Rose.
She pulled a battered cardboard box towards her. It was so old it was almost falling apart. “What’s in this one?” She pulled back the flaps, peered inside and pulled out a large book, about the size of a photo album. The faded green leather cover was embossed in gold leaf and had the words Scrapbook in fancy lettering on the front.
“Oh goodness.” Her grandmother leaned over Rose’s shoulder. “I’d forgotten about this. Now this really is a genuine antique.”
“A scrapbook?”
“Yes. It’s Victorian. It belonged to a lady.”
“Who?”
“Someone called Alice. My grandmother worked for her.”
“Your grandmother?” said Rose, trying to work out how long ago that must have been.
“Yes, her name was Mary and she would have been your great-great-grandmother.”
“Wow,” said Rose. “That’s, like, really old! Can we have a look inside?”
“Of course.” Her grandmother patted the space next to her on the sofa. “Come and sit here.”
Rose sat down and carefully opened the leather cover which creaked with age. Inside, in faded brown ink, were the words This scrapbook is the property of Miss Alice Hawthorne, Bedale House, Richmond, London.
“So, if this belonged to someone called Alice,” said Rose, “how did your grandmother come to have it? Mary, did you say her name was?”
“Yes, Mary. And that’s a very good question,” said her grandmother, “and something of a mystery.”
“Go on.” Rose was intrigued.
“Well, it seems that Alice and Mary came here on holiday, I think in 1899. Alice was from a wealthy family and Mary was her lady’s maid. But something happened to Alice on that trip and she disappeared.”
“What, just vanished?”
“Yes. I never understood exactly what had happened, but Mary ended up with Alice’s scrapbook in her possession. She showed it to me once when I was a little girl and I’ve never forgotten it.” For a moment there was a faraway look in her grandmother’s eyes, as if she was lost in the past, then she said, “Mary always said the best thing about the trip was that she met and married a fisherman. That’s how she came to be living in Scarborough.”
“So you’re saying my great-great-grandmother had a holiday romance and ended up getting married?”
“There’s no need to sound so shocked. Contrary to popular belief, sex wasn’t invented in the 1960s you know!”
Rose laughed, turning the first few pages of the scrapbook. It was full of pictures of late Victorian fashions, ladies modelling silk gowns with bustles and wide-brimmed hats decorated with flowers and ostrich feathers. One double-page spread was filled with fliers from the London music halls advertising the singer Marie Lloyd. Over the page, a poster for Wombwell’s Travelling Menagerie promised intrepid visitors the chance to see giraffes, lions, elephants and even a boa constrictor.
Rose turned the page. “There’s the Grand Hotel,” said her grandmother, pointing to a black and white postcard of Scarborough’s most famous hotel. “Mary was always proud of the fact that she stayed in Scarborough’s most luxurious hotel although she’d turn in her grave if she could see it now. It’s gone rather downhill. I heard from a neighbour that they have slot machines in the lounge these days.” Rose laughed. She didn’t think the hotel was the most attractive building in the world. Each of the four corners was topped with a peculiar circular turret that resembled a Victorian diving bell.
There were more postcards of Scarborough: ladies in white dresses and gentlemen in black suits and bowler hats thronging the promenade; horse-drawn bathing machines; donkey rides on the sands and open-air concerts at the spa. The Victorians certainly knew how to enjoy themselves.
Rose turned the page and found a sepia photograph of two women standing side-by-side on the sea-front. The woman on the right was wearing a plain black dress and a bonnet tied under her chin with a neat bow. The other wore a lace-trimmed white gown with a wide-brimmed hat set at an angle and held a frilly parasol over her shoulder with a white-gloved hand. Clearly visible against the perfectly white dress, was a distinctive black necklace, an intricate design of loops and rosettes made out of black beads. Rose thought the woman in white had a dreamy look about her, but the woman in black was squinting into the sun, her mouth set in a grimace, looking as if she wished the photographer would hurry up and get a move on.
“Is that them?” asked Rose. “Alice and Mary?”
“Yes, that’s Mary,” said her grandmother, pointing at the woman in black. “The woman in white is Alice.”
Rose studied the photograph. It was strange to think she was seeing her own great-great-grandmother from so long ago. Mary herself could have had no idea that one day her great-great-granddaughter would look at this picture. Rose peered closely at Mary’s face. There was a firmness about the mouth that reminded her of her own mother. Mary didn’t look as if she would stand for any nonsense. Alice, on the other hand, was more difficult to pin down. She seemed less solid, less anchored to the real world than other people, as if a gust of wind might catch her parasol and send her flying into the air.
At the top of the next page, in the same flowery handwriting as inside the front cover, were the words Scarborough Fair. There were fliers for a travelling fair featuring a host of bizarre attractions from The Spectacular Bearded Lady to Pepper’s Ghost and The Living Skeleton. “Looks like they went to the fair whilst they were here,” said Rose, thinking about her own plans for later that evening.
“I’m sure they did,” said her grandmother. “But as you can see, fairs were rather different in those days.”
The next page was entitled A Day Trip to Whitby. There was a postcard of Whitby Abbey standing dark and brooding on the cliff and another of the one-hundred and ninety-nine steps that led from the town to the Abbey.
The rest of the scrapbook was blank, but when Rose flicked through the pages to the end, a loose sheet of newspaper slipped out and floated to the floor. She bent to pick it up, its yellowed paper dry and brittle between her thumb and finger. At once, the headline caught her attention.
Lady Goes Missing, Feared Dead.
“Is this about Alice?” asked Rose.
“Ah, yes,” said her grandmother, reaching for her reading glasses. “Mary must have cut this out and kept it.”
Rose glanced quickly over the article which was printed in small, closely spaced type. On the nineteenth of August, 1899, Miss Alice Hawthorne had disappeared. A shawl that she had been wearing had been found covered in blood in St Mary’s Church. Inspector Booth was actively following all lines of enquiry and was appealing for witnesses to come forward.
“Do you know what happened?” asked Rose.
Her grandmother shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I should have asked more questions when I was young, but people never do. Anyway, you should have the scrapbook now,” she said, handing it to Rose. “It’s a family heirloom.”
“Oh, I’d love it, thank you.”
Her grandmother delved into the box and pulled out a bundle of envelopes tied with a red ribbon. “You might as well have these too.”
“What are they?”
“Mary was a great letter writer. People were in those days, when there was no email. These are the letters she wrote to her own mother in London. They came back to her when her mother passed away in the 1930s.”
“Have you read them?” asked Rose, turning the bundle of letters over in her hands. Was it right to read someone else’s correspondence?
“No,” laughed her grandmother. “I dare say they’re full of trivia, but they might be interesting. You never know.”
CHAPTER SIX
Grand Hotel,
Scarborough,
9pm, 13th August, 1899
Dearest Susan,
Where to begin! We have had the most wonderful afternoon you could possibly imagine. Mary and I took the funicular railway, a most ingenious device
, down to the sea-front and strolled along the promenade. The sand was a rich golden colour and the sea sparkled silver in the sun.
The promenade was bustling with society. There were finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, happily strolling and wishing each other good day. There were donkey rides on the sands for the children and deck chairs for hire. Down by the water’s edge there was a row of horse-drawn bathing machines painted in red and cream stripes and gentlemen and ladies were actually bathing in the sea. They looked to be having so much fun! The men wore striped bathing suits and the ladies wore frilly knickerbockers and slips in colourful reds and blues. Oh Susan, how I longed to throw off my clothes and join them. I noticed where the bathing machines may be hired from and tomorrow, if the weather is fine, I will persuade Mary to come with me into the water.
Anyway, we proceeded on our planned route and took the path up to the top of the headland. The walk was just as invigorating as I had hoped it would be. We came first to St Mary’s church which overlooks the South Bay. It seemed like the perfect place to stop for a short rest and I spent a few moments in contemplation beside the grave of Anne Brontë, that poor dear sister of Charlotte and Emily who died so tragically young (well they all did, I suppose.) Her grave is situated in the most beautiful spot overlooking the bay. If I were to die here, I too should like to be buried in this graveyard with a view of the sea so that I could spend eternity dreaming of far-off lands. Oh dear, I am becoming morbid and sentimental. Rest assured, I have no intention of dying here, rather this place fills me with life and vigour.
I am letting my words run away with me because I am putting off telling you what happened next. On the far edge of the graveyard, overlooking the bay, there was a painter, a handsome young man with shoulder-length fair hair and fine features. He was painting a view of the distant coastline, oil on canvas. I watched him at work from a short distance, not wishing to disturb him. But he must have sensed my presence for he turned, greeted me in a most gentlemanly manner and invited me to take a closer look at the painting if I so wished.
I was thrilled to do so and stepped up to the canvas. I told him how perfectly I thought he had captured the reflection of the sunlight on the water. He said that had been his intention but he wasn’t sure if he had achieved it. I assured him that he had and he thanked me for my good opinion of his work. Henry has never asked me my opinion on anything. He then enquired whether I was keen on paintings and art and I told him that I love to wander around the rooms of the National Gallery when I am in London. He asked me if I had a favourite artist and I said I particularly like the landscapes of William Turner and he said that he, too, adores the work of Turner, the unique way in which he captures light and makes you want to fall into one of his paintings and bathe in its radiance, and I thought to myself, this man understands my feelings exactly. It was as if I had stumbled upon a kindred spirit. Susan, I can’t tell you what it was like to converse with someone so sympathetic. Henry has no understanding or liking for art of any description. He regards artists as wastrels and spongers. He is a philistine who sees the monetary value of everything and the beauty of nothing.
I asked the painter if he lives in Scarborough. He told me that he normally resides in York but that he comes to Scarborough every summer to paint the changing coastline and that it is an endless source of fascination for him. I enquired how it could be that the coastline changes, for surely, I said, the land is solid, the ground under our feet is sure and firm. He didn’t patronise me as Henry would have done but took my point seriously, explaining that, in fact, the land is forever changing and shifting. He told me how the sea erodes the cliffs and how a walk along the coastline always reveals something new: a fossil lain buried for thousands of years, a cave carved out by the waves. Sometimes whole sections of the cliff fall into the sea! His words had a profound effect on me for they revealed something which I had not before considered, namely that so often we build our lives on ideas that we believe are firm and fixed, but which could easily crumble beneath our feet.
I wanted to ask him to show me the cliffs and fossils about which he seemed so knowledgeable, but then Mary, who had been dozing on a bench by the church, joined us. I think she was alarmed to find me talking to a man and eyed him suspiciously, but he was not offended and greeted her warmly. He asked us if we would do him the honour of accompanying him around the castle, which I was only too happy to do. He was an excellent tour guide, telling us all about the castle’s illustrious history and the damage it suffered during the Civil War. Afterwards, he walked us back to our hotel.
Oh Susan, even though I have only just met him, I feel as if I have known this man all my life. The painter’s name is Mr George Hartright and I have taken the bold step of inviting him to take tea with us tomorrow afternoon at the hotel. I saw no harm in it, since I have Mary to act as chaperone, but I know Henry would not be pleased. Promise me you will burn this letter!
Your ever loving sister,
Alice.
~~~
Grand Hotel,
Scarborough,
9pm, 13th August, 1899
Dear Ma,
What an afternoon! I’m quite jiggered. We took the funicular railway down to the sea-front and goodness me, it descended so quickly and steeply I thought I was going to see the fish I’d had for lunch again. I was glad to get out and walk on the prom.
It’s ever so busy here, like blooming Piccadilly Circus, and I thought we were coming to the seaside to get away from it all!
The beach was littered with bathing machines that look like horse boxes. And you should have seen what the gentlemen and ladies were wearing! The most ridiculous outfits you ever saw. It made me blush to see the men in those close-fitting bathing suits which leave nothing to the imagination. I bet the water was freezing too. You won’t get me in the sea, that’s for sure.
Now if they could build a funicular railway from the hotel down to the beach, you’d have thought they could build one up to the castle. It’s one heck of a climb. We got as far as St Mary’s church and thankfully Alice decided it was time for a rest. I parked myself on a bench hoping to shut my eyes for a moment or two whilst Alice went off to look for the grave of Anne Brontë. She’s read all the novels by those Brontë sisters, although apparently Henry doesn’t approve of ladies reading, saying it gives them “fanciful ideas.”
Now, you’ll probably tell me that I’m the one with fanciful ideas, but as I was sitting there having forty winks, I got this funny feeling that we were being watched. I couldn’t tell you why, it was just something I felt. I counted to ten and then turned round pretty sharpish to try and catch them out, whoever it was, but there was no one there. Maybe I imagined it after all. All this sun and sea air must be addling my brain. Still, I just had this feeling, like someone had walked over my grave.
But then I noticed that Alice had started talking to a painter and I had to go over and join her because it isn’t right for a young lady to be seen talking to a man on her own. They were chatting and laughing and I thought, she’s behaving with this stranger as if she’s known him all her life. I intended to say it was time to head back to the hotel, but the painter greeted me so pleasantly that I took quite a liking to him, although I thought he should get his hair cut. Mr Hartright his name is, and he took us round the castle, or at least what’s left of it. He knew ever so much about the place, but I couldn’t keep up with it all. By the time we’d finished my head was swimming with dates and battles. He has promised to call on us tomorrow at the hotel for afternoon tea. I’ll write and tell you all about it tomorrow.
Love,
Mary.
~~~
Sea-View Villa,
Scarborough,
10pm, 13th August, 1899
Dear Sir Henry,
I spent the day observing the activities of Miss Alice Hawthorne and her maid, Mary, as per your instructions. This morning the weather was dismal and consequently the ladies stayed in their hotel. At a quarter past two they emerged from th
e hotel, took a walk along the promenade and proceeded up the hill to St Mary’s Church where they stopped for a rest. I followed at a safe distance behind them.
In the graveyard of the church Miss Hawthorne fell into conversation with a young painter, a foppish sort of fellow with long hair. I was not close enough to hear their words, but from their mannerisms and expressions they appeared to be discussing his painting and the landscape. Mary, during this time, was snoozing on a bench and not carrying out her role as chaperone. Mary eventually woke up and noticed what was going on. The painter then took both of them round the castle and then walked them back to their hotel. He seems to have ingratiated himself with both of them in a remarkably short space of time. If you would like me to cause him to suffer a little accident or something, then just say the word.
The maid is somewhat fidgety and may prove to be a problem. She kept looking over her shoulder as if she suspected someone was following them, even though I kept well out of sight. After they returned to their hotel, I kept watch for an hour longer but they did not reappear. I will return to the hotel in the morning and send you further communication by the evening mail.
Your faithful servant,
Jackson.
~~~
As Kitty sat at her dressing room mirror, removing her stage make-up and reflecting that the audience had been even more enthusiastic than usual this evening. there came a knock at her door.
“Come in,” called Kitty.
The door opened a fraction and Alfie poked his head in.
“It’s all right,” laughed Kitty. “I’m perfectly decent. You can come in.”
Alfie blushed and entered the room, carefully stepping round a silk gown that Kitty had draped carelessly over a chair and which had such a voluminous skirt that it filled half the space in this cramped little room. Alfie was carrying a note like the one he had brought her yesterday evening. This time he also carried a single red rose.
Scarborough Fair (Scarborough Fair series Book 1) Page 5
