by Mary Mackie
‘Why not?’ Seward demanded. ‘I’m game to beard the lions in their den. And won’t that fellow Pooley be there, if we need agricultural argument? We all agreed to add our voices to Will’s cause. We can’t let him down.’
‘We shall simply look foolish without the presence of the chief complainant.’
I couldn’t bear the thought of letting this opportunity go by without a fight. ‘Then if Father’s not well enough to go, I’ll represent Orchards.’
‘You?’ Jonathan uttered in shock.
My boldness amused Seward. ‘And why not? Our Rose is no soft milk-and-water maiden to quail before a couple of pen-pushers, however illustrious their master may be. Made of stouter stuff than that, eh, girl? Like your mother before you.’
He could not possibly know how that final comment gave me heart. I would show Father that I really was Hester’s daughter. ‘Only give me a chance to speak face to face with that land agent. Not even he can talk his way out of it with these as my witness.’
They both stared as I produced the nibbled, wilting leaves, still attached to wizened knobs of mangolds. Jonathan looked aghast, but Seward was so entertained that he laughed aloud and slapped his thigh. ‘By heaven, Rose, that’ll show ’em.’
‘You can’t possibly go in there waving those things!’ Jonathan objected. ‘They’ll think you’re threatening violence.’
The argument was continuing when Farmer Pooley arrived. In his opinion, the evidence of the mangold tops ‘couldn’t do no harm’.
I was still carrying my basket as the four of us set out down King Street.
The audit was being held at the Duke’s Head Hotel, an imposing building which overlooked the expanse of the Tuesday marketplace. On the cobbles, under the shade of a few scattered trees, gay stalls had been erected and vendors cried their wares to dealers and housewives and maidservants: fresh eggs, live eels, bread borne in trays on men’s heads, milk straight from the cow, oranges and lemons brought from the docks, and vegetables dug at dawn from cottage gardens. The further part of the square was taken up by cattle pens, where bullocks, sheep and a few horses were being bartered over. Chickens squawked from cages and a duck had got loose. It took wing, chased by a barking dog, scattering feathers. I hardly noticed the hubbub; my thoughts were on the meeting ahead, on crops ruined by furry kangaroos, and on Dandy screaming in pain because of a few disturbed pheasants.
I felt like an avenging angel, determined to speak up for my family’s rights. With three staunch men to support me, how could I fail?
Staunch? Well, maybe they were, by their own lights, but in their own way each of them was cowed by the eminence of our opponent. Though Prince Albert Edward wasn’t there in person, his puissant presence pervaded the interview.
As an office for the audit, the hotel had provided a room on the first floor. The noise of the market was a murmurous hum, caught and held beyond lace curtains and thick velvet drapes.
On greeting us, the London solicitor, a Mr Partiger, newly come to the prince’s service, was all charm and politeness. Land agent Beck seemed nervous, but relaxed when he realised Father wasn’t there. His patronising smile grated on me as he brought a chair for me and saw Uncle Seward and Mr Pooley settled either side. Uncle Jonathan, ill at ease, remained standing, while the agent resumed his seat behind the desk.
‘Well, gentlemen…’ he began, addressing the three men around me as if I were not there. ‘In respect of the rent for Orchards Farm…’
‘Whatever rent is due, Mr Beck,’ I put in, disconcerting him, ‘it may prove to be beyond my father’s means. How shall we pay rent without income? Our wheat is all chopped down, and this…’ with a satisfying thump, I slapped the pitiful mangolds and their chewed tops on the desk under his startled nose, ‘this is a specimen taken from our best mangold field. All of our crops are in a like condition – because of His Royal Highness’s hares.’
Mr Partiger’s brow furrowed and he eyed my exhibits with distaste. ‘I know very little about root crops, and even less about the habits of hares. What we are here to consider—’
‘What we’re here for at this time o’ day,’ Pooley said, ‘is a man’s right to compensation for damage done by game raised on account of the landlord’s shooting rights. Plain simple justice – that’s what we’re here for today, sirs.’
‘Well, yes indeed, that is one of the matters which must be settled, but…’
The argument proved convoluted and tedious, but with the mangold tops lying between us, silently accusing, and with my three stalwart heroes to aid my cause, eventually our opponents agreed, reluctantly, to pay for damage to Orchards’ crops that summer. A thrill of triumph made me want to cheer. I could hardly wait to tell Father.
‘That’s good of you,’ Uncle Jonathan murmured, glancing at the door as if anxious to be gone. ‘Yes, that’s very fair.’
‘But we haven’t settled a figure,’ I objected.
Mr Beck, on the point of rising, looked at me over his spectacles, his nostrils flaring as if he scented bad drains. ‘Naturally we shall need to verify the extent of the damage before we calculate a figure.’
‘Howsomever,’ said Pooley, stroking his nose, ‘that ought to be agreed that no rent shall be paid until you settle on a fair sum for damages, agreed by both parties.’
‘Oh, come…’ the lawyer sighed.
‘Mr Pooley’s right,’ I said, in a mood to be stubborn. ‘If we pay our rent now, how can we be sure we shall ever get our damages? And what of extra compensation for the importation of live hares? They’re not all being bred on the estate, they’re being brought in directly – in breach of the game agreement.’
I heard Jonathan draw a disapproving breath, and Seward gave me a sidelong, raised-eyebrow look, both amused and amazed by my rashness.
The agent got slowly to his feet, drawing himself up, eyes glinting behind his spectacles. The silence thrummed with threat. It reminded me of the party at Sandringham, when the prince’s temper had been aroused and everyone had stopped breathing.
Into that silence, Edmund Beck enquired in a tone edged with ice, ‘Do my ears deceive me, or is Miss Hamilton questioning the integrity of the Prince of Wales?’
‘No, indeed not,’ Uncle Jonathan said at once, and bent to take my arm. ‘My niece is overwrought because of her father’s illness. She was always a headstrong child. Come, Rose, we’ve attained our objective. Let us not be foolish and say things we shall regret.’
‘We ought to have it in writing!’ I protested.
But Uncle Seward took my other arm, smiling at me pacifically. ‘It will be all right, Rose. Don’t worry. It will be all right.’
I glanced at Pooley, who winked and nodded, seeming to say that enough had been said for one day, and with that we were being bowed out by the obsequious land agent. As the door closed on his palpable relief, I shook free of my uncles’ restraining hands, wishing the meeting had left me with some more tangible result. The Prince of Wales’s integrity was known to be as reliable as a wax bridge in a heatwave.
* * *
Father’s illness confined him to bed at Weal House for several days, after which he was brought home and put into his own bed. Grace and I nursed him for another week before he was able to be up and then slowly resume his work. Whatever was wrong, it was caused by more than a bout of drinking, but when I tried to find out the truth Father grew annoyed with my questions. He said only that he had seen a doctor while at Weal House and that a few days’ rest, with proper sustenance, would find him well again.
As to the outcome of the rent audit, he anticipated no real victory. ‘I’ll believe it when I have the money in my account.’
Because of his illness, I found myself fighting shadow battles with an elusive Edmund Beck, writing letter after letter, making appointments to see him only to find him out when I called. The land agent tried every trick to squirm out of paying fair damages.
Naturally I spoke of this perfidy to my friends at Feltham Grange. Mr Wya
tt was particularly supportive and concerned. I recall strolling in the yew walk with him and Felicity one late October day of gusting winds and scattering leaves, recounting the story and thinking how good it was to tell someone who understood.
‘It’s an outrage!’ Mr Wyatt agreed. ‘For the prince to quibble over a few hundred pounds, when your father’s so ill and you bravely trying to cope alone, why it’s… it’s insupportable. Don’t worry, my dear. I shall take up the cudgels on your behalf.’
He was a small, lightly-built man, looking ill-suited to putting up a fight, or indeed to having sired eight children, but he possessed a determined chin and a way of slapping a clenched fist into his open palm to emphasise points. I was grateful for his concern.
He wrote to his friend the MP, but because of a misunderstanding the letter was read out, verbatim, in the Houses of Parliament. It caused a storm of abuse to be aimed at the prince, at a time when he was already unpopular because of rumours about his womanising and his gambling. Several journalists called at the farm to obtain more detail – one even accosted me in the lane. Contributors to Punch magazine, in particular, had a merry time composing articles and sketching cartoons lampooning the prince.
Already offended with me for what had occurred at his party the previous spring, he now had good excuse to scowl ferociously when he encountered me about the lanes. His friends also cut me dead, making me burn with humiliation. But the worst blow of all was when the princess drove by, in her charming little trap, and behaved as though she hadn’t even seen me – she who had been so friendly and sweet.
Norfolk society divided itself around me. Only a minority of the ‘quality’ dared to take my side openly; the rest were too afraid of being outcast from the charmed circle that might hope for invitations to Sandringham Hall. Even in church people ignored me, except to talk loudly about me, saying how wicked was ‘she’ who caused trouble for the prince, so ungrateful for favours shown, and so hurtful to the poor princess, barely recovered from her illness and worried over her babies.
I coped with my new disgrace as I had done before, by brazening it out, holding up my head and defying the gossips, however much it hurt in private. My true friends stood by me – the Pooleys, the Wyatts, Ben Chilvers and his wife, and most of the villagers. It was only the social climbers who were too afraid of upsetting the prince, but unfortunately it was the social climbers whom Mama and Grace counted as friends.
Father took it all stoically, seeming detached from the traumas. More and more he existed inside himself, concentrating on his work to the exclusion of all else, and when he wasn’t working he was reading, hour after hour by winter lamplight, devouring books with a steady determination designed to shut out the world and, I afterwards guessed, his own fearful thoughts.
One day, when she and Grace returned from a fundraising at the rectory, Mama exclaimed, ‘I can’t bear it! They look at us as if we were unclean. I spoke to Mrs Harper and she turned her back on me – the verger’s wife turned her back on me!’
‘It’s Rose’s fault!’ Grace tore off her hat, leaving her hair in disarray. ‘Oh, now we shall never be invited to the Birthday Balls! This was my last chance. I shall be married and living in Thetford next year.’
‘But you can come home for the balls,’ Mama cried.
‘It won’t be the same!’ In a passion of disappointment, Grace threw herself down on a settee and beat her fists on red velvet. ‘I shall never forgive you for this, Rose. Never!’
‘All I did was stand up for our rights,’ I said stiffly. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer it if Father was bankrupted? Or doesn’t it matter to you, now that you’ve found yourself a rich husband?’
Grace jumped up, her pretty face contorted. ‘That still infuriates you, doesn’t it? That I stole him away from you? You couldn’t have kept him anyway. He says you’re headstrong. And foolish. He’s ashamed of having to associate with you.’
‘Girls!’ Mama pleaded. ‘Oh, girls, don’t! Rose… Rose, surely this trouble can’t last? We shan’t be outcast for ever, shall we?’
When I hesitated, Grace stepped in, saying, ‘No, of course we shan’t, Mama. We shan’t.’ She glanced over her shoulder at me, her look saying clearly, But you will.
‘See if I care!’ I responded as she led Mama away to lie down and rest. ‘I can do without Birthday Balls, and I can certainly do without William Turnbull.’
Mother’s portrait, gazing serenely from over the mantel, seemed to smile agreement.
Eight
It was a Sunday in December, a clear frosty day, the earth streaked with ice under a crystal blue sky. Turnbull was not with us; he had taken to arriving too late to go to church, in order to avoid the atmosphere. By the lych-gate of Sandringham church we encountered the princess with her companions. I saw sympathy in her eyes, but she turned her face away and swept by. Her companions ignored us, too. I watched her go, seeing the dipping limp that her illness had left and wondering how much of the truth she knew. She had said we would be friends, but between a royal princess and a farmer’s daughter simple friendship is difficult.
We followed them down the path and took our usual pew, amid stirrings and whispers. Everyone whose glance I encountered looked away at once, and all through the service my neck prickled with awareness of hostility. The prince himself appeared late, as was his wont. On his orders, the sermon was never very long.
The service ended, the royal party left first. Reluctant to face the wall of silence which would greet us, Father, Mama, Grace and I lingered, finding gloves, settling capes, using every tactic to delay until the crowd had dispersed. But on that day, while half the congregation still waited to leave the building, a man came striding down the aisle to greet Father. ‘Mr Hamilton, sir, good morning to you. I hope I see you well?’ The cheerful sound of his voice in the hushed church made many heads turn.
I had never thought I would be so pleased to see Basil Pooley again, though it wasn’t so much the man himself that pleased me as the way he boldly declared himself an ally, at a time and place designed to cock a snook at the gossips.
He was smartly dressed in dark suit and coat, well-groomed and muscular, tow-coloured hair curling long in his neck with bushy, scimitar-shaped side-whiskers of a gingerish hue. He couldn’t alter the skewed angle of his nose, or whiten his ruddy skin, but I thought again that he was an attractive man, growing more attractive as the years rubbed off rough edges.
‘Mrs Hamilton!’ he cried, taking Mama’s hand. ‘A sight for sore eyes, as ever, ma’am. And Miss Grace – a joy to behold, a breath of spring on a winter’s day.’ Twinkling at my sister, he added, ‘I gather you’re to wed Mr Turnbull. Ah, but what a lucky man he is. He’d best be good to you – tell him so from me. Won’t that make him mad!’
Blooming rosily under his gaze, Grace laughed and told him to stop his nonsense, though I could see she was flattered by his compliments. Even Mama had a touch of pink in her cheeks and a smile on her lips.
‘Miss Hamilton.’ As I stepped from the row of pews he sketched me a bow and I gave him my hand. We hadn’t met since that encounter at Fenny Jakes’s cottage eighteen months before. He had at first avoided me and then, according to his uncle, gone to London on business and found reason to remain there.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ I said. It was the simple truth.
His expression, as his eyes met mine, was wary, questioning, his glance searching my face for a brief moment before his smile beamed out. He said, ‘The pleasure’s mine, Miss Rose. If you’ll allow me…’ and he tucked my hand into the curve of his arm, leading me out from the church.
The royal party was making away across the park, the path lined by the usual crowd of onlookers who came to stare. Most of the congregation still lingered, exchanging gossip and saying farewells against a background of departing carriages. Chatting happily, Basil led me among the crowd, greeting this one and that with an air of unconcern. A fierce surge of elation made me laugh with him, defying the surprised looks and wh
ispers that followed us.
‘Brazen hussy!’ a female voice hissed.
The epithet stung me, but I went on smiling at Basil, clinging closely to his arm. Yes, I was glad to see him again. In the depths of my despair, he had dared to stand by me.
Basil continued to champion us, joining us in church, sometimes meeting Father at the market and occasionally accepting an invitation to Sunday lunch, usually when he knew William Turnbull would not be there. He and Turnbull could not seem to like each other; to have them both at the same table caused friction.
* * *
The planning of the wedding fully occupied both Grace and Mama that winter. Their main concern was how many of the guests would stay away because of my ‘difficulty’ with the prince.
The ceremony was to take place at Eastertide, at the church of St Margaret’s in Lynn, in order to allow distant guests to put up easily in the town and not have the trouble of travelling out to Sandringham. It also meant that more people would see Grace in her finery, that she would ride through a busy town instead of quiet country lanes, that she could leave from the grandeur of Weal House, and that Maria Kinnersley, living next door, would witness all the preparations.
By the time the day arrived, most of the guests had accepted the invitation. They evidently pitied my family for the recalcitrant changeling nurtured in its midst. Showing off new dresses and hats, exchanging pleasantries with all about them, they filled the church, smiling and nodding to greet Mama as she took her place. Few of them looked at me, fewer still acknowledged me. Smiles died when they lighted on me. If a glance inadvertently met mine it would pause, glaze, and slide beyond me, becoming a greeting for another acquaintance. I even sensed it in my own family, particularly the Morsford cousins, and some of the Turnbull relatives looked askance – heaven knew what tales they had heard. But Felicity stayed close, and Basil Pooley, with his aunt and uncle, forming a kind of loyal guard to shield me from hostility. With their help I managed to smile through most of the day, even if my heart felt dead inside me.
