by Mary Mackie
‘I must speak of it! I can’t bear to have you think… I expected too much from you. It was puerile. C-crassly romantic… I blamed you, when the fault was mine. I was angry with you, when someone else had caused my pain. Forgive me, please.’
The hurt in him reached out to me, penetrating all my defences. I heard myself say, ‘Are you really so unhappy?’
He shook his head, not so much in negation as to say that he wouldn’t talk about it. ‘You’re not to blame for that. Don’t think of it. It was my choice, my cross to bear. If only…’ He stopped himself, but the tension was strong between us, a force trying to draw us together, and when he spoke again his voice was low and passionate: ‘I never knowingly lied to you. I just wasn’t free to…’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I shook my head, holding up a hand to fend off his confessions. ‘Go now. It was good of you to come.’
‘It wasn’t good of me! Rose, I know I hurt you. I know I did wrong by you. But I meant every word of that letter. It’s still true. You have only to call and I’ll be here, whenever you need me, for whatever reason.’ What was he talking about? ‘Letter?’
‘The one I wrote to you in Brighton. You said you had it.’
‘I did, but… I didn’t read it all. I was upset. I… I threw it in the fire without finishing it.’
‘I see.’ Dark blue eyes held steady on mine. ‘Then you didn’t read the ending.’
I shook my head. ‘What did it say?’
‘Something like… I’d always be there if you needed a friend. You had only to send word and I’d come. I asked you to reply – to let me know if you were well – and to tell me what really happened.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I heard the rumours, of course, though I knew it had nothing to do with Hal Wyatt. I—’
‘Oh, but it did,’ I said, my voice thick with distress. My mouth trembled as tears came hot behind my eyes. ‘My father… my father found out I’d been meeting someone. I let him think it was Hal – even when he tried to beat the truth out of me. It seemed easier. I didn’t want to make trouble for you. You always made it plain that you weren’t making promises. I knew the risks I was running. So how could I ask you for anything? Even when…’
…even when I found l was going to have your child… But I couldn’t say it. My tears spilled. Through them I saw him put down his cloak and hat and start towards me.
‘Don’t!’ As I flung out my hands to stop him, apple wine described an arc between us, painting a wet stain down his starched white shirtfront, his waistcoat, his evening trousers… He stopped, glancing down at his clothes, while I hung there in sick dismay. ‘Oh… Geoffrey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!’
Without a word, he came closer, eased the wine glass from my nerveless hand and placed it on the mantel. Then he took my face between his hands, making me look at him.
‘I’m sorry for all the distress I caused you,’ he said. ‘If I had known then what I know now… Let me tell you once and then I’ll go away and never mention it again. I just want you to know – I love you, Rose. I love you.’
I couldn’t move. I felt mesmerised as glowing eyes studied my face for long, agonised moments. ‘Please don’t!’ But it was only the breath of a whisper as he bent his head. His lips met mine softly, shockingly, sending jolts of awful lightning through me. My mind seemed to swoop, common sense retreating in face of my irresistible need. No one else had ever made me feel that way. No one else ever could. Only Geoffrey…
When he felt my response his mouth hardened, claiming mine as of right. We clung together as if we would become part of one another, our mouths hungry, our bodies striving…
Air gasped into my lungs when at last he lifted his head to look at me.
‘That’s all I need to know,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘I’ll ask no more, love. The knowing must be enough. But remember, I’m there. I shall always be there.’
He released me so abruptly that I was left swaying, as if the apple wine had gone to my head. I stood there, dazed, long after he had gone, and then I took a lamp into the laundry room and began to examine every inch of the summer curtains, looking for any small holes or imperfections that needed attention before the white linen was stored away ready for next year. That is what I did with my hands and eyes, but my mind was with Geoffrey, and my heart was breaking.
* * *
Reverend Lancaster came the next day to tell me of what had happened at Gunton and to assure me of his faith in me. He wanted his report to be correct in every detail. He even employed a man to watch by the brick earth in the covert until it could be proved beyond doubt that the little foxes were still there. They were not old enough, or hungry enough, to have wandered the three miles or so necessary for them to have killed those particular pheasants.
Since the cubs were demonstrably not guilty, we concluded that the villain in the case must be the wily old dog fox from Ambleford.
Basil, arriving home from a business foray in the north, also took up my cause. Through his efforts, and through Jack’s lurking behind corners and listening to village gossip, we discovered what was probably the truth of the affair.
The under-keeper Pyke had failed in his duties, by falling asleep or perhaps by deserting his post for some warmer pursuit. Later, upon discovering the dead pheasants, and knowing that the estate held no foxes but mine, he had covered his own culpability by accusing me of avian murder.
It took Mr Lancaster some weeks to write his full report, and in the meantime word reached us that the prince was treating his friends and acquaintances to a version of the story in which I figured as something between a traitor and a witch. In Norfolk I was once again chief pariah, variously whispered about, pointed at, or ignored… This distressed Mr Lancaster. Wishing to clear my name as soon as possible, he volunteered to convey his report to the prince in person.
I waited, hardly able to concentrate on anything for thinking of the gentle young rector walking, like Daniel, into the lion’s den. If he failed in his mission, he too would earn the prince’s displeasure and might even lose his living.
After a few anxious days, I saw his little pony trap come up the drive through December rain. I hurried to open the door and found him smiling at me under a large black umbrella.
‘Good news?’ I cried.
‘Let us rather say – not bad news,’ he demurred. ‘The prince is more tempered now. More inclined to listen. I believe we shall have a fair hearing at the enquiry. It’s to be held at Sandringham early in the New Year. His Royal Highness promises to attend. He’ll be staying at Holkham with the Earl of Leicester, who has agreed to act as umpire.’
‘I see.’ Crestfallen, I grasped at his cricketing analogy in an attempt at humour. ‘And who’s bowling for my team?’
‘Why, I am! Now don’t you worry, my dear Mrs Pooley. I shall muster the best field I can find. We shall have your Mr Beck caught in the slips before you can say Jack Robinson. Mark my words.’
Which was all very well, but we were not embarking on a friendly game of cricket. My future rested on the outcome of this enquiry.
* * *
On a clear cold January day, when the wind blew across the Wash direct from the North Pole, Basil and I rode together in our carriage to our appointment with the prince at Sandringham. The big house was still undergoing renovations, with scaffolding obscuring its outlines, half the roof missing, and piles of bricks and rubble lying about. A footman met us and conducted us through the chaos to an ante-room bare of all furniture save for a row of chairs and what looked to be an old pew from a church. Here we were joined by Mr Lancaster.
We waited a good half-hour before being called into a larger room whose walls were draped in sheeting to contain the dust of work going on above. Since the hearth was full of rubble, four braziers warmed the room. A long table had been placed at one end, with behind it the Earl of Leicester, while to one side, in tall-backed armchairs, sat the Duke of Cambridge – the Queen’s cousin, commander-in-chief of the army – and beside him the scowling fig
ure of the Prince of Wales.
His Royal Highness slouched in his chair, bearded chin in hand, eyes narrowed, lips pushed out. Like the spoiled brat he still was, I thought. But that spoiled brat was heir to the throne, and as such he could make or mar my life for ever.
What sort of mood was he in? Not good, I imagined. Lately scandal had surrounded his name – he had been cited as co-respondent in a divorce case; the proceedings promised to be vastly embarrassing for the royal family. I pitied the poor princess.
Throughout the hearing I kept half an eye on the prince, watching his reactions as witnesses came and went. Then Pyke came on.
He could not resist embellishing his tale to make himself the hero – how he caught the three culprits red-handed, or rather, red-mouthed, and recognised them at once; how he set his dog Tyke to chase the foxes off, and how he followed them all the way to the earth in Poacher’s Wood – all this in the dead of a moonless night. Cross-questioned by the Earl of Leicester, Pyke talked himself into a pit, for he was making the whole thing up. As this became apparent, the prince’s scowl darkened, but now it was directed at the under-keeper. When Pyke left the room, the prince was heard to mutter, ‘The fellow’s a damned liar.’
After that, my own witnesses were almost an anticlimax – Benstead and the boy Jack stepped in to tell how carefully we had kept the foxes, and there were others who had had some knowledge of the cubs and my handling of them. As a finale, to my astonishment Reverend Lancaster summoned Geoffrey Devlin, who strode into the room and took his place in a determined manner.
‘What’s it got to do with him?’ Basil muttered, but subsided when the prince glared at him and the earl said, ‘Quiet, please.’
We exchanged no more than a swift glance of acknowledgement, but my cheeks grew hot and something inside me quirked with insatiable longing. Geoffrey, tall and lithe, elegant in country tweeds, light slanting on his dark hair…
Invited to give his account of my character, he did so in firm tones with no hint of hesitation: ‘Mrs Pooley is among His Royal Highness’s most loyal servants. She would never wish him harm in any way, and certainly not in the petty, underhand manner of which she is accused. I can assure this court that if Mrs Pooley has a point to make she will make it openly, not sneak about causing malicious damage. It’s not her way. Her straightness, her courage, her honesty and her steadfastness are beyond question. Anyone who knows her will most vehemently defend her against these ridiculous charges.’
Hearing him speak out so publicly on my behalf was disconcerting, not to say embarrassing, and I wondered what harm he might be doing his own reputation. However, it seemed that his evidence reminded the prince of other encounters with my ‘straightness’ and by the time Geoffrey finished I fancied that His Royal Highness was regarding me in a not disapproving manner.
The evidence for the defence was irrefutable. Indeed, before the earl had properly concluded the business, the Prince of Wales was on his feet, coming to shake my hand.
‘Mrs Pooley, I can’t tell you how delighted I am by this verdict. The whole thing was due to a misconception. Of course I suspected it all along, but justice has to be seen to be done, as I’m sure you will agree. At times one is morally obliged to stand up and defend oneself, if only to clear the air.’
Perhaps he had the coming divorce case in mind.
Geoffrey did not wait to be thanked. He let his eyes meet mine across the room in an intimate, speaking glance, and then he was gone, which may have been as well since Basil seemed put out by what he called ‘Devlin interference’.
‘He was trying to help,’ I said. ‘It was kind of him to support us.’
‘Seems to me he’s always interfering in your affairs,’ my husband objected. ‘Time he looked to his own wife and left mine to me. I’d have defended you – if I’d been asked.’
Overhearing this, Mr Lancaster put in, ‘Oh, but as a good husband you’re expected to defend your wife, Mr Pooley. Since everyone knows that there has always been a slight… shall we say “rivalry”?… between Ambleford and Orchards, it was far more meaningful for Mr Devlin to speak up.’
Basil scratched his chin, grudging, ‘P’raps so, Rector. I hadn’t looked at it like that.’
* * *
The under-keeper Pyke was dismissed. He didn’t leave the area at once but stayed around spreading spite and rumour. He said that I had once threatened to shoot him when he caught me in the pheasant preserves, which was near enough true, but he also claimed, among other calumnies, that I was leader of a gang of poachers. It got so bad that, one night at the local inn, the gentle Ben Chilvers lost his temper in my defence. Pyke ended up with a bloody nose, but when he made complaint all the witnesses swore he had been so drunk he had walked into a door. After that, Pyke vanished from my ken.
Word of my vindication spread. The cloud of suspicion lifted. People couldn’t wait to smile on me again and Mama blossomed in the light of social approval: she and Ellen seemed to be out in the carriage half the time, paying and returning calls.
I received many letters – from friends delighting in my return to grace, from acquaintances trying to flatter, and from enemies seeking to cultivate me now that I was in favour again. After the first few, Basil lost interest in them.
Which was fortuitous since one of those messages was definitely not for his eyes. Recognising the handwriting, I hid the envelope under the pile of others on the breakfast table.
‘More of the same?’ Basil enquired. ‘I’ll look at them later. I’m off to Lynn. Anything I can bring you?’
‘No, nothing, thank you.’
‘What about you, Mother H?’
Mama looked up, smiling vaguely, saying, ‘Yes, very well, dear, thank you,’ which caused us to exchange a covert glance of mingled amusement and dismay.
When he had gone, I looked again at the envelope I had hidden. It was addressed in Geoffrey’s hand. Unable to wait, I slit it open with fumbling fingers, making sure Mama remained unaware.
The letter itself was innocuous, a formal message such as any neighbour might have penned. Not even Basil could have objected to a word of it. But Basil might have wondered why there was a small photograph enclosed. My face felt hot as I secreted that photograph in a pocket, while Mama chattered on unheard.
From then on I frequently wore Geoffrey’s likeness near my heart in a gold locket brooch. Only I knew it was there, but its nearness comforted me. It was little enough to ask, surely? It wasn’t hurting anyone.
However, my conscience troubled me when I heard that Lucy Devlin had taken a bad fall while out hunting. She broke her collar bone – ‘Lucky it wasn’t her neck,’ said the villagers. She was known to be unhappy. Everyone speculated as to why that should be. But, whatever it was, it had nothing to do with me. That marriage had been doomed from the start.
So I argued with myself, but in my heart I did feel responsible, in part. Lucy might not know there was another woman in her husband’s life, but she must certainly be aware that Geoffrey didn’t love her as he should.
I could only renew my vows never to do anything to hurt her – never again to be guilty of encouraging Geoffrey in any way.
He appeared to have reached a similar decision. That spring, he took his wife off to Italy to convalesce after her accident. They stayed away for most of the year.
* * *
During the early part of 1870, the involvement of the Prince of Wales as a co-respondent in the Mordaunt divorce case exercised the vitriolic pens of Fleet Street. Although the petition was dismissed, for months afterwards the prince was subject to abuse and jeers whenever he went out in public. Magazines lampooned him in vicious caricatures; scurrilous pamphlets circulated; he was called a ‘louse’ and it was hoped that he would ‘never dishonour his country by becoming king’.
In Norfolk these stories were received with concern, largely on account of the princess, but elsewhere a general ill-feeling against royalty was abroad. The Queen herself caused mutterings – she cost th
e country a fortune, she and her brood of German brats, and what did the people get in return? Not even a glimpse of her. She remained incarcerated at Windsor, her excuse being continuing grief for her Albert, but there were shocking rumours about her relationship with her Scottish manservant John Brown.
Events in Europe added to the disquiet. The French monarchy fell and a new République was declared. Its spirit crossed the Channel. One read of Republican Clubs being formed all across the country – there was one in Norwich – and at a crowded meeting in Trafalgar Square, French-style caps of liberty were raised and ‘The Republic of England’ announced. Even in Lynn you could hear anti-royalist remarks, and anti-royalist leaflets blew on the wind down King Street.
Perhaps it was his anxiety over these threats that made the prince so irascible when he visited Sandringham at harvest-time. Despite the inscription which declared that the new house was ‘built by Albert Edward and his wife Alexandra in the Year of our Lord 1870’, heaps of rubble remained and ceilings were unplastered. The prince was furious and let it be known that he would cancel the Birthday Dinner which he gave to his labourers every 9 November, unless the house was finished by then.
His annoyance galvanised the workers. The remodelled mansion, now called Sandringham House to distinguish it from the old building, was ready for occupation by the time the prince’s birthday arrived.
To celebrate the rebirth of his country home, the prince planned a whole series of house-warming celebrations. For Basil and me, and for Mama, came gilt-edged invitations to attend a ball on 2 December.
When Basil came in that evening, Mama and I were in the parlour, she excitedly talking of what we must wear. ‘Grace says that crinolines are most definitely out. Oh, we must go up to London, Rose, we really must, to be sure of having the latest pattern.’
