by Carol Hedges
“She says she is staying in London at the moment, and wishes to visit you,” Arthur says in a strangled tone.
“Indeed, she does, and I have replied expressing my desire to see her too.”
“When does this visit take place? I think, as head of the family, I should also attend.”
The old woman gives him a shrewd glance. “In view of the lie you told to me, I do not invite either of you to be present. I wish to speak to your sister alone. And now, I think it is time for my nap. Rose will show you out. Good morning.”
The old lady sits back, sighs and closes her eyes tightly. The brothers rise. Sherborne hisses at the children to stop whatever they are doing and accompany him. Hanover, like a well-trained lapdog, follows his father out of the room, but Harriet waits by the window, her gaze fixed on the old lady’s face. Slowly, one eye opens, swivels round the room, spots her standing there, and closes again.
Harriet retrieves her bonnet and is shown out into the street, where she finds her father and her uncle having a furious argument on the pavement. Hanover is busy teasing a small black and white cat that has appeared out of somewhere.
“I blame you, Arthur!” Sherborne exclaims. “You are the eldest. It was your duty to give Wilhelmina her share of the estate. If you had obeyed his last suggestion, this situation would never have arisen.”
“Oh, you think so?” Arthur sneers. “As I recall, little brother, it was your idea to cut all ties with her. For richer, for even richer, I think was what you said. Blood may be thicker than water, but gold is even thicker still, I believe you also said. And now, thanks to you, our sister is about to step in and cut us both out. You think aunt will leave us a farthing, after Wilhelmina has poured her poison into her ear? So much for all your big plans for your boy’s future!”
Hanover catches these last words and starts to wail. Sherborne gnashes his teeth. “What to do? What to do?” he exclaims, striding backwards and forwards. “Should we wait outside and catch her before she goes in?”
“We could, but sadly, we don’t know when that will be, do we? And even if we found out, what should we say to her? ‘Hello little sister, how unexpectedly nice to meet you after all this time. Sorry about your share of the inheritance; we spent it, but please don’t hold it against us, and can you tell aunt you don’t want any of her money, thank you.’ You think she will just forgive and forget? Did she ever forgive and forget? You think she won’t go straight to our aunt and tell her what we did? No, we have to come up with a plan.”
Sherborne gathers himself together. “You are right. A plan. That is what we must do. I shall go back to my hotel and work on it. I’ll write to you when I have concocted something.”
“Do that, little brother and make sure it is watertight. Because we are on the cusp of inheriting a great deal of money and jewels, let alone a fine house. And I for one, am not going to allow it to slip through my fingers.”
They part company. Sherborne chivvies his reluctant offspring back to the hotel, where they are immediately told to go to their rooms. From her room, Harriet hears her father shouting at her mother, and the accompanying sobbing of the baby. Eventually, when the noise has died down, she gets out her notebook, turns to the back, and begins writing.
The bond between parent and child is supposed to be one of the strongest upon earth, for it is forged upon the natural instincts of the one to love and protect the other, receiving love and obedience in return. But even the strongest of bonds can break, under extreme pressure, especially when stretched beyond the limit of their holding capacity.
Having written a brief note explaining why she has decided to quit her family forever, Harriet packs a few things and quietly opens her bedroom door. Her father ordered her to go to her room. She does not recall being told to stay there, though. She tiptoes down the stairs, strolls casually past the concierge desk, and goes out into the sunshine.
The day is pleasantly warm. Harriet sets her face away from the hotel and begins walking. It is wonderful to be out on her own, taking in the sounds and sights without a heavy hand on her shoulder propelling her at speed past interesting things. Every now and then she stops in her tracks and just looks all round her. This is the great city of London, she tells herself, where prophets walked the streets, where angels gathered on gable ends. If she listens hard, she can hear their wings beating in the still air, so many feathers on the breath of God.
Eventually, Harriet arrives at her destination. She selects a suitable doorway and sets up camp. As soon as it grows dark, she will make her move. There is a small sash window on the ground floor, whose catch has been slid to one side. It was done earlier this morning, while nobody was taking any notice of her. All she has to do now is quietly slide up the window and climb over the sill. It is a great big house; nobody will know she is there.
Harriet is about to become a ghost in someone else’s life.
****
The lunchtime gong sounds in the hallway of the Excelsior Hotel, causing Charlotte Harbinger to scurry out of her room and knock at Harriet’s door. When there is no reply, she opens the door and steps into the room, where the explanation for the lack of response becomes clear: there is no Harriet. She progresses to Hanover’s room and repeats the procedure. Hanover is present, but once again, no Harriet. The assumption is made that she must have gone ahead to have her luncheon. Hanover, his mother, and the baby progress to the dining room, where Sherborne is helping himself to cut pork pie, ham, cheese, salads and bread, unaware that his family is currently minus one member.
“Is Harriet here?” Charlotte Harbinger asks, looking distractedly round the dining room. “I do not see her. She is not in her room either.”
Sherborne takes his plate to the family table. “Why is she not in her room? I thought I told both children to remain in their rooms until I said otherwise.”
“I stayed in my room, Papa,” Hanover says virtuously, adding, “Perhaps she’s run away to sea?”
His father stares disapprovingly at him. “Is that supposed to be amusing, Hanover? Because it is not. Girls don’t run away to sea. Now Charlotte, give me a straight answer to a simple question ~ where is Harriet? You are in charge of the children, are you not?”
Charlotte Harbinger gapes at him. “I … I … do not know where she is.”
Sherborne Harbinger rolls his eyes ceiling-wards and pulls out his chair. “Well, I am not going to let her absence spoil my luncheon. I suggest we all help ourselves from the buffet and get on with our meal. I am sure Harriet will appear at some point.”
But she does not. At the end of lunch, Sherborne stands up and addresses his wife.
“Hanover and I are now going to visit Westminster Abbey.”
“Should we not look for Harriet first, dear?” his wife suggests tentatively.
“Harriet is hiding in the hotel. It is not the first time she has secreted herself somewhere, is it? I expect she will reappear by this evening for her supper, when she will face the punishment she deserves. Come Hanover, you are not going to miss the chance to see some tombs of famous people, just because your sister is playing another of her silly games.”
They leave. By the time they return, however, Charlotte Harbinger will have found Harriet’s note and subsequently been informed by the desk manager that he is pretty sure he saw a young girl who resembled her daughter leave the hotel earlier in the day. Needless to say, her mother will be in a state of nervous collapse and have taken to her bed. A search of the immediate neighbourhood is organised by the hotel staff, but fails to come up with any Harriet, leaving Sherborne Harbinger with no alternative but to report his daughter to the local constabulary as a ‘Missing Person’, an act that he does with great reluctance.
****
While Sherborne and his son are trekking around Westminster Abbey, looking at the tombs of dead people, Eugenia Harbinger, who is not yet of their number, sits on the sofa in her sitting room, looking at the grey parrot. Rose, the housekeeper is feeding and cleaning the
bird, and is being treated to a stream of ‘interesting’ remarks that once again throw a most unfortunate light upon the home life of her nephew Sherborne and his family.
The old lady takes a mordant delight in listening to the verbal indiscretions of the bird. Its cawing comments contrast with the unctuous civility of its owner. When one’s end is approaching closer every day, pleasure has to be found where it can. Once, she received it via the seductive words of her suitors. Now, the gnomic utterances of the parrot have taken over.
“Get along with you, ugly child!” the parrot squawks, as Rose replaces its water bowl. “I wish you’d never been born!”
Rose closes the cage door and the bird sidles across to its food. “Harriet, go to bed at once! You will have no supper tonight!” it says, spearing a grape.
The doorbell rings. The old woman’s mouth tightens. Rose gives her a questioning glance.
“I can say you are not receiving, madam?”
Euphemia Harbinger rearranges her hands in her lap. “No, let them come. Perhaps it will be the little girl again. I enjoyed seeing her ~ she reminds me of myself.”
Rose goes to answer the bell.
She reappears seconds later to announce Arthur Harbinger.
The old woman sighs. “You again?”
“Good day, dearest aunt,” Arthur says, forcing an affable expression onto his dour features, where it fights for control with his normal one. “I trust I find you still in the best of health, as you were this morning?”
“Hardly. I am one day nearer my end. Now, sit down Arthur, you are making the room untidy standing there. I suppose you have come back to try to get me to tell you when your sister is visiting, so that you can stick your nose in, am I right?”
Arthur Harbinger reels back in his chair, as if struck by a mighty blow. “Nothing, NOTHING is further from the truth, dear aunt. I am DELIGHTED that Wilhelmina has chosen, after all this time, to fulfil at least one of her family duties. Her failure to show up at the christening of his three children has left a bleeding wound in Sherborne’s side …well, the sides of both of us. But ~ finally, our sister has realised that she has family obligations.
“As I said, I am overjoyed, and I hope that you will have a pleasant and enjoyable time with her.” He pauses. “There is one thing you should know, however … and it gives me great pain to say it: Wilhelmina … how shall I put it in such a way as not to spoil the meeting? Wilhelmina has always had a slender relationship with the truth. Our beloved parents tried to correct the fault, but I am afraid she resisted their efforts. Of course, I was away at school much of the time, so I only saw her in the holidays, but her capacity to make up stories and embellish the facts was one of the reasons I chose to keep her at a distance.”
“So, you think I shouldn’t believe a word she says?”
“As far as my brother goes, I own, she may have a point. Sherborne was not the best of brothers to her ~ nor to me, I confess. I wish it wasn’t so, but I have to face the truth. Had I been in the house, I would have defended her from his tormenting and bullying, but as I said, I was away. I expect you have seen how he treats his own offspring ~ especially the girl. It is very similar to his behaviour when a boy. I have reasoned with him on many occasions, dearest aunt, believe me. I reminded him of the distress our sister suffered at his hands. But he accepts no responsibility. I worry about that girl of his.”
“She has a name.”
“Yes, she does. Poor little Henrietta. So sad. So very sad.” Arthur Harbinger casts his eyes down to the carpet, a picture of regret.
Men, Euphemia Harbinger thinks to herself. They think they are being so clever, but in reality, they are so transparent you could use them as window-glass. She sits on in silence, willing her glassy nephew to get up and leave.
“I regret having to be the bearer of such information, dearest aunt,” Arthur says finally, lifting his head with a sigh. “But it is best you know the lie of the land, as it were. Now, I see you are tired. I shall leave you to rest. Please give dear sister Wilhelmina my warmest wishes. We were always close as children.”
“Even though you were away at school most of the time?” the old woman puts in slyly.
He is not phased. “Oh, school could not divide two such fond children. She may have forgotten, over time, how we played together, but the memories are imprinted upon my heart.”
He rises, gives her a polite bow, and is shown out by the housekeeper. Harbinger swings his cane jauntily as he heads for the nearest cab rank. He has done some good there, he thinks. The old fool might be bamboozled by sister Wilhelmina and whatever mad tales she chooses to relate; she might even be persuaded to leave her a little something in her Will, but, with a bit of luck, it will come from Sherborne’s portion, not his. He has prepared the ground nicely and sown the seeds of doubt in his aunt’s mind. He saw it clearly on her face. Let his sister come now ~ he has queered her pitch. Job done and done well.
****
Evening gently falls. Harriet stands on a wooden chair by an open window, watching the black angles of the rooftops, and the bright stars between. Increments of light and shadow cross the floor. The attic room she has commandeered for her current living quarters has a bed, a washstand and a small rickety wooden table. It was clearly a maid’s room, at a time when the house had more occupants and numerous servants. There is even a spotlessly clean chamber-pot under the bed. Now, the only resident servant is the living-in housekeeper, and she sleeps in a first-floor bedroom, to be on hand if needed in the night.
On the small table are the remains of Harriet’s supper: fragments of soft white bread, a pot of strawberry jam, a pitcher of lemonade and some cake crumbs, all filched from the larder while nobody was around. Being a ghost is very much easier than she thought.
The darkness shifts and wanes. The streets below are peopled with shades. In Harriet’s imagination, they are joined by the ghosts of the past, who lived and died and now hang about the city. Dragging their slinking shadows, they stand at doors and crave admittance.
****
There is nothing like a nice juicy pie, into which a well-manicured parliamentary finger can be inserted. Here is the Honourable Thomas Langland, MP, seated at a table in a private room in his Gentleman’s Club. The table is laid for two. The silverware gleams, the linen is starched, the crystal glasses glint in the overhead light.
Langland is entertaining a business acquaintance, namely, Wm. Boxworth ~ aka William Wilberforce Wilkins Boxworth, a squat, wide-mouthed, small-eyed, unscrupulous, moral-free property developer. People meeting Boxworth for the first time are invariably reminded of a species of unpleasant and venomous toad. The effect is heightened by his pockmarked face and croaky voice.
Plates of beefsteak and kidney pudding have been served and are being consumed, despite the heat of the day. Boxworth is a formidable trencherman, shovelling food into his mouth and splashing gravy liberally onto the spotless white linen tablecloth. His companion picks at his meal and regards his guest with fastidious distaste.
Eventually, having scraped his plate clean with his knife, and wiped his mouth on a napkin, Boxworth sighs, stifles a burp, leans back and undoes a couple of waistcoat buttons on his loud check suit. “Well, Langland, that was a fine meal, that was. Sets a man up for the afternoon, a good dinner like that.”
Langland, who has long discarded the concept of a midday dinner for the more refined term luncheon, inclines his head accommodatingly. “Shall we order coffee and brandy?” he asks. “We have much to discuss.”
He raises a hand, and beckons to one of the hovering-at-a-discreet-distance club staff. A quiet word, and the man glides out of the room, returning a short while later. The silver tray is set down, and the fragrant brew poured from a silver coffee pot into the small porcelain cups, which are placed alongside the balloon-shaped brandy glasses. Langland gets out his gold monogrammed cigar case.
“I trust everything is in place?” he says, proffering the case to his guest.
B
oxworth helps himself, then stirs his coffee vigorously. “The room is booked at the George Hotel. Posters and flyers distributed, and advertisements have been placed in all the best newspapers. I told you, Langland, if I embark on an enterprise, it is done properly. As you very well know, eh? And when it is an enterprise that’s going to make me a very rich man, it is done even more properly … eh? … eh? … haw, haw, haw!”
Langland smiles thinly. Truth to tell, he finds the companionship of Wm. Boxworth not to his taste. The man has absolutely no class. None at all. He’d be embarrassed to introduce him to any of his county set, or to be seen with him socially. But his prowess in the field of speculative enterprises is second to none. A rough diamond, with the emphasis on rough. He has the same ruthless streak as Langland possesses. He also has the gift of the gab, a useful trick for spiriting money out of investors’ pockets. Langland himself has already backed him on several speculative and barely legal building projects ~ for which he has received a good return for his initial outlay.
This, however, is to be the biggest enterprise yet. Langland has already played his part: he has used his influence to get parliamentary authority for a scheme to build a railway line to bring travellers into the City from one of the newly built suburbs. Of course, such an undertaking requires vast amounts of money, to be raised by offering shares to potential investors in the joint stock company, which is what the morrow’s meeting is about.
The public mania for investing in railway shares is at its frenetic height. Millions of pounds have been put into the various underground and overhead railway companies, the ornate stations that serve them and the vast hotels that hover nearby, making their shareholders large fortunes. It is even rumoured that Queen Victoria herself has bought shares in one company (according to Punch magazine).
