Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  Would she have loved me, if she had lived? Would she have approved of a daughter who was stubborn, rebellious, wilful? Try as I would, I was not the Curly-locks type. To sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam was to me the epitome of boredom; reading I enjoyed, but otherwise I was hopeless at feminine pastimes. I would have liked to paint a wagon, or thatch a stack, or muck out the pig, but none of those things was ‘seemly’.

  The candle-lit twinkle in Mother’s eye seemed to sympathise. But what would she have thought of my disgrace, and now our losing Victor? She wouldn’t tell me. She smiled into space, over my head.

  Perhaps that was answer enough.

  * * *

  During the next few days I stayed within doors as convention demanded, accustoming myself to my new home. The villa was grander than the old farmhouse, crammed with heavy furniture, clothed in bobbled velvet, with ornaments and framed photographs in every space and aspidistras growing in big pots. It even had a separate bathroom, with a claw-foot bath and a water tap, and next to it the latest style of water-closet. Outside, gardens were taking shape. Grass had been sown, and in spare moments Benstead and his lad were making flower beds, planting shrubs and preparing the conservatory. With bricks still lying in piles, the drive needing shingle, and a gap in the unfinished wall, the place had a raw, cold appearance.

  Mama remained in her room, too distraught to face what lay below. Johnny kept sullenly to himself, somewhere about the farm or in his room, appearing at meals to toy with his food. And Grace went about with a long face, picking arguments over every trifle.

  Father, as he had sworn he would, stayed beside the coffin with scarcely a break. Each night he drank himself into a snoring stupor, but during the day he kept his wits, needing them to receive the stream of callers who came to offer their respects. Not that he had much to say to them, or to any of us. He kept his feelings locked tight away, as if to deny us the right to share his grief.

  I made it my business to keep a watch for callers and to be on hand when one of the maids answered the door, so that Victor’s lying-in should be conducted with dignity. By thus confronting most of our friends and neighbours directly, I was able to assess their reactions to my long absence.

  They were mostly polite, anxious to express their sorrow at our loss, but behind their outer sanguinity curiosity simmered. Naturally there had been gossip when I left so suddenly; now, I gave it the lie, telling half-truths with a composure that disguised a maelstrom of unease. Yes, I had been away a long time. In Brighton, yes, that was so. Companion to a friend of Aunt Agnes’s. A dear old lady, Henrietta Frazer. Dead now, much to my sorrow. As for the future? – I had had no time to think of that yet. Not yet… Most of them appeared to accept what I said. Why should they not, when most of it was true?

  Nevertheless, I was no longer entirely accepted among the ranks of the respectable majority. Questions remained unanswered; I was under observation.

  My warmest welcome came from our old friends the Pooleys, who both embraced me with love and concern. Their nephew Basil was with them, more subdued than I had ever seen him, and it was with a shock that I realised how deeply my brother’s death had affected him. They had been business partners as well as good friends. He shook my hand and held it tightly as he tried to articulate his feelings, eventually turning away, a glaze of tears in his blue eyes.

  None of it seemed real. I kept thinking I would soon wake to find everything as it had been before I left home. I would have given anything for such a miracle.

  But cold reality ground on.

  * * *

  One afternoon, hearing the doorbell ring, I left the patchwork sewing which gave me something to do with my hands and went into the hall in time to see young Howlett opening the front door.

  ‘Well, my girl,’ a male voice greeted in an energetic way. ‘Is your master at home?’

  Howlett stood there, holding on to the door, gaping at the man in stupefied silence. Curious, I moved further into the hallway, and when he saw me he brushed past the maid and strode into the house towards me, holding out his hand. ‘My dear Miss Hamilton, I simply had to come and say how devastated we all are by the terrible accident that…’

  I don’t recall his words in detail. Like the maid, I was too mesmerised by surprise as I sank into a deep curtsey.

  Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, known to his intimates as Bertie, was then twenty-four years old. Personable, charming and lively, he had already acquired the air of easy camaraderie which was to endear him to so many people, of all classes, throughout his long life. He wore a moustache and short beard which gave him a certain gravitas, but the alert brightness of his blue eyes made one feel that he noted every nuance of what happened about him.

  ‘Up with you,’ he murmured, tugging at the hand I had given him, lifting me back to my feet. Our eyes met on a level and I saw the concern, and the genuine interest, with which he regarded me.

  Then a movement in the doorway drew my attention beyond the prince, to where a young woman was coming in, with another man silhouetted by the light from outside.

  ‘Alix—’ the prince began.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, Bertie, my dear,’ the young woman broke in sweetly. ‘I know you told me to stay outside, but I, also, wish to pay my respects to our tenants in their grief. As your wife, it is my place, is it not?’

  Even before I heard the softly-accented English, I had known her from the many likenesses which had been printed in newspapers and magazines ever since she arrived in England for her marriage to the prince, more than two years before. The lovely Alexandra, daughter of the King of Denmark, had already provided her young husband with two small sons, but her figure remained girlishly slender in her velvet riding outfit, with a little veiled hat on her piled hair. Her look was soft and sad as she approached me and, when I made to curtsey, she prevented me and instead embraced me, her cheek to mine. ‘I do so understand,’ she murmured, her eyes misted as she looked at me. ‘We are so sorry. My poor child.’

  ‘Child’ she called me on that first meeting. Yet she was nearly eleven months younger than I. Her twenty-first birthday fell on the first of December that year.

  As I struggled for a reply, she made a little graceful gesture, drawing my attention to the man who had followed her. ‘You are acquainted, I believe, with Mr Devlin.’

  Geoffrey.

  The rest of the world grew dim about us. He looked older, more mature, more sombre. Otherwise unchanged. Every line of him still achingly familiar – the broad shoulders, the lean, elegant body, the soft dark hair and slate-blue eyes… Waves of heat and cold rolled over me, and pain that said I still cared too much despite the hurt he had caused me. Nor was he unmoved by our meeting. In his searching gaze I read many things – including hope.

  I couldn’t cope with it, not then. My eyes unfocused, I held out my hand as convention demanded. ‘Mr Devlin.’

  ‘You must know how sorry I was to hear the news,’ he said, his cold hand folding round mine.

  His touch set my blood alight, sending disturbing waves of awareness coursing through me, bringing fever to my cheeks. It made me angry, both with him and myself. He should have known better than to come at such a time! How dared he intrude on my grief? How dared he?! Extricating my hand from his grasp, I turned my shoulder to him, giving my whole attention to my royal visitors.

  I showed them into the drawing-room, where I hovered by the door as they greeted my father and said more gracious and comforting things, all sincerely expressed. Father was gruff, but gratified that his royal landlord had bothered to interrupt a day’s hunting in order to call. He was equally polite to Geoffrey, who said he had called on his father’s behalf as well as his own; Sir Arthur wished to convey his condolences.

  I fancied a certain constraint between them, and a glint in Father’s eye when Sir Arthur’s name was mentioned, but it was no more than a fleeting impression.

  ‘We must not intrude any longer, Bertie,’ the princess said after a while, holding out
her hand to my father. ‘Good day, Mr Hamilton.’

  He bowed over her hand. ‘Goodbye, ma’am. Thank you.’

  While the prince and Geoffrey made their farewells, Princess Alexandra turned to the door and I followed her out into the hallway where she again offered her hand, stopping me when I would have made another curtsey.

  ‘No, my dear, it’s not necessary. Here at Sandringham we are not royalty. We are your friends.’ Her blue eyes shone with sincerity as her fingers pressed mine. ‘I hope we shall be good friends, Miss Hamilton. I, too, grew up in a place like this. That is why I love it so much, because it reminds me of my home.’ Her gaze grew wistful as she thought of it, then she gave me a sweet smile. ‘We have much in common, I think. Shall we be friends?’

  ‘I hope so, ma’am,’ I said.

  ‘I hope so, too,’ she assured me, and swept out, holding the long skirts of her riding habit clear of the damp gravel. Outside, a group of other riders waited. One of them helped the princess to remount.

  A slight clearing of the prince’s throat alerted me to his presence in the hall and I stepped back from the door, dipping a curtsey, saying, ‘Your Royal Highness, it was kind of you to—’

  ‘It was the least I could do, to offer what small comfort is in my power.’ He bent and took my arm, raising me to my feet, his gaze warm and full of understanding. Smiling a little, he lifted my hand to his lips and lightly kissed my knuckles. ‘I trust we shall soon meet again in happier circumstances. Such a beautiful lady will be an asset to the company at Sandringham Hall. What do you say, Devlin?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, sir,’ Geoffrey said.

  I don’t remember speaking. Perhaps I was incapable of coherent speech. I only know I was shockingly aware that the prince was sending me subtle signals of personal interest, disconcerting enough in themselves, but especially inappropriate at such a time.

  And then he was gone, striding for the door. Behind him, Geoffrey hovered.

  ‘Thank you for calling,’ I said, unable to look at him, gesturing him to leave. ‘If you will excuse me…’

  ‘Of course. Goodbye, Rose.’

  He was waiting for me to hold out my hand in farewell, but I could not touch him again. Once had been enough.

  ‘Well…’ he said. ‘G-goodbye.’

  I watched him walk from the house, his long, loping stride so familiar it made me weep inside. With agile grace he swung up to the saddle, the prince made some remark to his companions, and then they were off down the drive, making for the gateless entrance. Geoffrey glanced towards the house one last time, adjusting his hat in a way that became a salutation of farewell.

  It was not over between us. It was very far from over.

  Slowly, I closed the door and leaned on it, seeing Howlett regarding me with wonder, the whites of her eyes showing all round the irises. Fortunately, she had been so amazed by the presence of royalty that she had failed to notice any other nuances.

  ‘Oh, miss!’ was all she seemed able to say. ‘Oh, miss!!’

  Feeling wretched, I lashed out at the nearest target. ‘Don’t stand there gaping, Howlett. Haven’t you any work to do?’

  Poor Howlett had me marked down as a termagant.

  * * *

  Because Father had decreed that Victor must be buried beside Mother, at Morsford, two services were held. The first took place at the neat carrstone church of St Mary Magdalene, at Sandringham.

  Eschewing the luxury of a hearse for this part of the ceremonies, Father had ordered one of our own farm wagons painted black, with a bier set up on it, all draped with black cloth. On it, the coffin was wreathed in winter foliage and chrysanthemums. The cortège moved down the lane, through West Newton, and across the undulating ground of Sandringham Park, skirting the ornamental lake, where the big house dominated the rise beyond.

  The church was full and overflowing. Afterwards, stepping out into a cutting wind, I realised how well-loved my brother must have been; farmers, labourers, villagers, craftsmen and shopkeepers, folk from Feltham, West Newton, Dersingham and elsewhere, lined the path to offer their respects as we passed by.

  Father walked first, bare-headed in the wind, stone-faced, erect. And beside him came Johnny, thin and pale, knuckling an unmanly tear from his eye with an impatient hand. Father took no notice of him, neither touching him nor speaking to him. Grace and I followed, both of us heavily veiled, my sister hanging on my arm weeping quietly and constantly – weeping enough for both of us. For myself, I felt too much to weep. I felt dead inside, too numbed to accept what was happening. It was as if I were acting a part in a play. Behind me, I heard Mama moan now and then, as she had throughout the service, a wet handkerchief to her mouth and her eyes brimming over it. ‘Bear up,’ Narnie kept saying. ‘Bear up, my lamb, it will soon be over.’

  All of our own men, their families, and the household servants, were there beside the path – their work had been suspended for the day. I saw Ben Chilvers and his wife; and, among the crowd, anxious not to intrude, Mr and Mrs Wyatt and their oldest daughter, Felicity, who was sobbing so bitterly that, though she hid her face in a handkerchief, she could not disguise the despair that racked her.

  Felicity had always been emotional, but such empathy with our sorrow was extraordinary.

  As the undertaker’s men fixed the coffin back on the wagon, I saw two well-dressed gentlemen standing nearby; they were equerries from Sandringham, there to represent the Prince of Wales. And with them, his dark head bared to the cold wind, was Geoffrey Devlin. I was glad of the veil that covered my face in moving swathes of black silk gauze as our glances locked. Beneath tight corsets and layers of black crape and wool my skin broke out in a sweat as I read the concern in his eyes – the wish to be able to speak with me and offer comfort.

  No! I turned my face away, denying the answering call in my blood. He had no right to come seeking me with that disturbing look in his eyes, not now. Not ever! But especially not on this day when my only thoughts must be of my brother and my grieving family. Did he really think we could go on as if nothing had happened?

  Many of the congregation followed in silence, some on horseback, some crowding on wagons, a few on foot, as my brother was taken on his last journey along familiar lanes, to the railway station at Wolferton, where we boarded the train for Lynn. Only as the train drew away, to the accompaniment of the Dersingham band playing ‘Nearer my God to Thee’, with the crowd of mourners standing bare-headed in a flurry of rain, did a tear trickle down my cheek.

  I did not see Geoffrey among the crowd at the station. I guessed that, having done his neighbourly duty, he had gone home. Neighbourly duty, of course – I was a fool to read more into it, but then where he was concerned I had always let wishful thinking override logic. The fact was the same now as it had been three long years ago – his plans for the future could never include a licit place for me.

  From King’s Lynn we travelled by carriage to Morsford Hall, where we stayed overnight with Uncle Seward and his family before the second service, and the interment, took place. In the yew-shaded churchyard at Morsford, with rooks calling above, Victor was laid beside Mother.

  * * *

  Family and friends gathered at Morsford Hall for the funeral repast, a vast buffet laid out in the Great Hall. A log fire spat and sparked in the medieval hearth, sending shadows dancing about the tapestried walls, while draughts stirred and eddied, keeping everyone on the move in an effort to stay warm.

  Among the throng of relatives and close friends, Aunt Agnes made play of normality; we were polite, but we were strangers. My uncles, Jonathan and Seward, found themselves a corner where they discussed banking business; my cousin Annette, Seward’s daughter, showed off her lawyer husband, her expensive clothes, and her heavily-draped third pregnancy; and Aunt Beatrice, Jonathan’s wife, went about, as ever, dispensing words of Christian comfort. The Pooleys were there, with Basil, who kept hovering at my elbow paying attentions that I didn’t want. I’m afraid I was sharp with him
, wishing he would leave me alone, glad when William Turnbull, the burly engineer, engaged me in conversation. Basil retreated, but watched us from a distance like a kestrel waiting to pounce.

  ‘I blame myself for Victor’s death,’ Turnbull said, his eyes melancholy in his bearded face. ‘The engine must have had some fault. Some hair-line imperfection in the casting, or the welding. I shall send a wagon to collect the pieces for examination at the beginning of next week. I shall work upon it myself, with all the technical skills at my command. Be assured that we shall make doubly certain of our safety checks from now on, Miss Hamilton.’

  ‘That won’t bring my brother back,’ I replied.

  ‘But it will mean that his death may help to save someone else.’

  ‘It was an accident. No one could have foreseen it.’ I wished he would not talk about it; I had almost managed to shut out thoughts of our reason for being here.

  ‘Nevertheless, I feel responsible. I designed that engine.’

  ‘Such things do happen. One reads of them in the newspapers.’

  ‘Not with Turnbull engines, you don’t!’ His eyes flashed and his full red lips stuck out belligerently.

  Tired of his obsession, I snapped, ‘Then I must conclude that it’s your business you’re most concerned about – not my brother.’

  His look reproached me as he blinked slowly, owlishly. ‘That’s a harsh judgement, Miss Hamilton. I’d be a fool not to take into account that customers might think twice about our engines after such an accident. Of course I’m concerned. The business is important to me – and to the men we employ, and their families. That’s one matter. My personal feelings about Victor are another. Quite another. I loved him like a brother.’