Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  ‘We shall expect to see a good deal of you this winter, Mrs Pooley. Be sure you remain available to accept invitations.’

  ‘Your Royal Highness is most kind,’ I murmured. ‘So long as my husband is here to escort me…’

  A smile twitched in the shadow of his neat beard. He understood me very well. ‘Oh, with or without. With or without. We can always find someone to escort you. But you must come. That’s the thing. My wife’s concerned about you. Says you need to get out more. Get some colour in those pale cheeks, what?’ He put out a gloved fist and raised my chin, forcing me to meet his sparkling eyes. ‘Well, what do you say?’

  What could I say? ‘I shall do my best, sir.’

  * * *

  Though Basil affected not to like ‘fancy do’s’ he contrived to be available for the princess’s Birthday Ball in early December – the most glamorous occasion on Norfolk’s social calendar. He provided me with another new gown of the latest style, and when he saw me fully dressed he told me I was ‘still a very handsome woman’. I fancied there was pride in him as he led me under the brilliance of gas lamps, into the great saloon.

  Once again the prince paid me embarrassing attentions, to the seeming amusement of his wife. Her faithful Oliver Montagu was never far from her side, and among the crowd my uncle Henry engaged himself with various lovely ladies. Most of the company seemed occupied in flirting with people other than their partners. It was modern manners, fashionable in all the best circles, thanks to the Prince of Wales, every shade of human relationship from platonic love to downright adultery, practised with only a modicum of discretion. But that discretion was still necessary; anyone who ignored it was soon cast out from the charmed circle.

  That night, as if the prince’s interest in me had restirred his own desire, my husband made love to me almost gently. He told me again that I was beautiful, and he took pains to rouse me to readiness before he came to me. In the darkness I tried to picture Geoffrey, light shining on his soft dark hair, smiling…

  When it was over and my husband had turned away, snoring as soon as he flopped down, I felt the tears on my face. As always I was left with a gnawing hunger for physical release. No mental illusion could dispel the truth of my unhappiness. Where was Geoffrey? How was Geoffrey? Oh, dear God, keep him well for me. Keep him safe.

  * * *

  Over Christmas, Grace and her family came to stay, filling the farm with noise and chatter, and the running, shouting and crying of children – three of them now, the youngest just nine months old. Johnny came home too. He, Turnbull and Basil had some fine after-dinner arguments about politics and business, which my sister and I were glad to escape.

  After the Turnbulls had departed, the weather clamped down. Deep snows fell. The temperature dropped below freezing and stayed there for weeks; work on the land was impossible. With wages rising, costs increasing, and hares nibbling away at my meagre profits, I couldn’t afford to pay men for nothing. I had to lay off some of our regular hands, since there was no work to be found for them, though I did my best to choose only the young, single men with no families to support. Every farmer was doing the same – which meant that the pool of discontents was enlarged and men without work gathered on village greens and at lane ends, stamping their feet, rubbing their hands and muttering with iced breath about injustice.

  It was so cold, and the snow so deep in the woods, that even the shooting had to be abandoned; the Prince of Wales and his guests found amusement in tobogganing and snowball fights, and in skating on the lake.

  However, it wasn’t cold enough to deter Basil from his business. As soon as the railway was cleared for traffic he set out for Wolferton through crusted snow, bound for Norwich and then for Leeds. He expected to be gone for two weeks or more.

  It was said that the prince had informants everywhere. I can only assume that he must have had one at the railway station; on the day Basil left, a message came from Sandringham House to remind me that ice-skating was available on the lake every night; I was welcome to go whenever I wished.

  Mama thought I would be mad to turn down such an invitation – Mama never did comprehend the subtler ramifications of such things – but Narnie had deeper thoughts and suspicions. And I, too, thought it more prudent to stay away from the ice-skating.

  Then one evening my uncle Henry arrived – in the princess’s own dainty sleigh, with silver bells jingling on it, silver trimmings on the ponies’ harness, and silver lamps gleaming.

  ‘My dear, your pumpkin awaits!’ Henry exclaimed as he stood in our hallway in winter uniform, whiskers bristling. He was almost as plump as his master. ‘Do be a good girl, go and change into something a little prettier, find your skates and come along. Their Royal Highnesses won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Oh do, Rose!’ Mama cried, clasping her hands. ‘Oh, how exciting! What an adventure.’

  Given no choice, unless I wished mortally to offend my royal landlord, I did as I was bidden, though my thoughts were dark with misgivings. I wore my green velvet with Russian frogging, and its matching hood to keep me warm, and a fox-fur muff for my hands. Swift, despite my protests, produced a pair of Johnny’s skates for me, and Violet insisted on helping me dress, tidying my hair and draping the hood just so.

  Cinderella had had her fairy godmother to protect her. All I had was my uncle, who had once before proven himself no white knight. He whipped up the ponies and we went jingling off through a clear night shining with stars. As the icy air rushed past my face I huddled deeper into my hood and muff. ‘I hope I shan’t regret this.’

  ‘Regret it? My dear girl – a party at Sandringham…’

  ‘The last time you took me to a party at Sandringham—’

  Henry cut me off: ‘Don’t be so damned provincial, Rose. You’re a married woman. You know what’s what. Nobody’s going to force you into doing something you don’t want to do. Enjoy yourself, for goodness’ sake! Many a young woman would give her eye-teeth for the chance.’

  We skimmed through deep snow across Sandringham Park, seeing the lake in its hollow surrounded by a ring of lights, and the tall-chimneyed roofs of the house black against the sky beyond. With stars thick overhead and snow underfoot, with great trees studding the park and hanging over the frozen lake, the place was turned into fairyland by the light of coloured lanterns strung in trees. Flaring torches ringed the lake and marked paths across the ice, and fires blazed here and there with groups of spectators huddled round them.

  Uncle Henry stopped the sleigh and bade me alight, then he drove off into the darkness to see the ponies safely tended.

  Music flowed from the island in the lake, where a band was playing. A crowd of villagers, graciously allowed to come and witness the spectacle, gathered around fires at the far end, while the prince’s guests dotted the slopes below the house. Figures appeared and vanished in the torchlight as they moved across the ice, their voices calling, laughter breaking out as someone fell. Two ladies were being pushed in chairs fastened to slides. A string of six or seven people went whirling by, the last in the chain being whipped at alarming speed round a bend, to disappear behind the shrubberied island, where firelight glinted on brass instruments as the band played waltzes. From the shrieks that followed, I guessed that the last man in the chain had come to grief, shot off the ice into deep drifts of snow.

  Keeping on the periphery, among the shadows, I made out a few familiar faces of people I had met on previous occasions. There was a tent set up below the terrace with tables beside it, and a brazier or two – roasting chestnuts, I guessed. Then I heard the princess’s laugh and saw her swirling on the ice, arm in arm with one of her ladies-in-waiting. I was standing near a flare when she picked me out and came skimming towards me, calling, ‘Welcome, Mrs Pooley. Put on your skates. The ice is wonderful!’ Laughing, she moved on, her weak side supported by her companion.

  It was only then that I realised I had left my skates in the sleigh, but on reflection, seeing the grace of some of the skate
rs, I would not have cared to display my lack of practice.

  The chain of skaters appeared again, going a little more sedately. It passed a young woman in a dark blue outfit trimmed with white, and the last man in the chain grabbed her hand, making her squeal. But she could match any of them. Rather than being dragged behind, she skated more quickly, so that the chain formed a U as they came speeding past me, skates whispering like bird-wings.

  The net of skaters almost scooped up another couple, who struggled to clear the way and just escaped, the man supporting the woman. But he was unsteady. His feet went from under him and he fell flat on his behind, much to the amusement of his companion.

  Light illuminated the lady’s face briefly and, to my astonishment, I saw that it was Felicity Wyatt. As to the man with her… as far as I could make out he was a stranger, a big man, dressed in a thick top coat and flat-crowned hat.

  ‘My dear Mrs Pooley.’ The prince’s voice broke across my thoughts and I spun round to find him smiling at me. ‘Aren’t you frozen stiff standing there? Why don’t you join them?’

  ‘Oh, I… I’m afraid I don’t skate, sir.’

  ‘What, never? Then let someone take you in a chair.’

  ‘Oh, no! No, thank you, sir. I’m happy just to watch. It’s a wonderful sight.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ he said, but his eyes were on my face. ‘Come, let’s go and get some negus to warm us.’

  He tramped off through the trodden snow, leaving me to follow more slowly. I glanced at the lake, figures swishing and gliding, in and out of the flaring light. There was no sign of Felicity and her intriguing escort, not on the ice nor on the banks, where spectators were dark shapes against flares and firelight.

  The prince was returning to find me, bringing two steaming tumblers of watered wine mixed with sugar and spices. The hot drink was welcome, warming both my hands and my insides as I replied to the prince’s light conversation. But when someone else came up to speak to him, I edged away and lost myself in the shadows.

  Making my way up the slope to leave my empty tumbler on one of the tables, I saw Felicity again, standing by one of the braziers enjoying roasted chestnuts which her sturdy escort held in his gloved hand. Her plain face was alight as she looked up at him; she was chattering breathlessly, recounting some family incident.

  ‘Felicity,’ I broke in, touching her arm. ‘Hello. Whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘Rose!’ she beamed. ‘Oh… we were invited to come at any time, whenever we pleased, so long as the ice lasts. Christiana and Kitty and Verity have all been on other evenings, so tonight I let myself be persuaded.’ She slanted a mischievous glance at her companion. ‘I had a good excuse, as you can see.’

  Beneath the brim of his hat an edge of red firelight shone on the side of his face, gleaming in soft fair hair growing long to the collar of his coat. A slow smile spread, showing his teeth and lighting his eyes. Just for an instant – of absolute sheer panic – I fancied it might be Hal Wyatt. But no, this man was more relaxed, more amenable.

  My expression as I peered at him made Felicity laugh. ‘You don’t remember him, do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid…’

  ‘It’s Robert. It’s my brother Robert.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ The exclamation was out before I could stop it. The sickly boy, rumoured to be afflicted with consumption, had turned into a well-built, attractive man of apparent robust health.

  He offered me chestnuts, which I ate with relish, and then he fetched more cups of hot negus that spread a warm glow while we talked. New Zealand had worked wonders for him, he said, given him health, strength and confidence. He had his own sheep farm now – hundreds of broad rolling acres of grass and forest. He described it with wide gestures, building pictures that made me feel I could see the green landscape with its mountains and spouting geysers. Robert loved it, that was clear. However, he had thought it time that he paid his family a visit. He intended to stay a while, maybe six months or more, and then – who knew? – he might try to persuade one or more of his sisters to go back with him. Single young ladies were in short supply in the colony.

  ‘That’s not for me,’ Felicity sighed. ‘But Kitty, or Verity…’

  ‘You could all come,’ Robert said, so earnestly that I had to laugh.

  ‘No doubt he would welcome three or four young ladies to keep house for him.’

  His grin told me he didn’t mind my teasing, though he said, ‘Oh, I’ve a Maori woman does that, and very efficiently, too. But I won’t deny it’s lonely at times. That’s another reason I came home. Do either of you ladies have a friend in need of a husband?’

  Felicity and I shared a look. She said, ‘We shall have to put on our thinking caps. I’m sure we can find you someone. What do you say, Rose?’

  At that point, His Royal Highness came up, chided me for ‘disappearing’ and rather pointedly drew me away from my friends. I saw them return to the ice, making off into the darkness. The prince led me down to the lake, where he tried to borrow some skates for me, so that he might judge my skill for himself. As I demurred and protested, Duke Francis of Teck gallantly came to my aid by suggesting that the prince might strap on some skates and show his own prowess. Others, overhearing, joined in the fun. Joking attempts were made to impel His Royal Highness on to the ice, while he spluttered with laughter and loudly objected.

  Under cover of the jollity, I made my escape. Risky as it was to keep evading the prince and thus chance his anger, it would be riskier still to stay within his orbit. The last thing I wanted, largely because of my friendship with the princess, was to have my name scandalously linked with that of His Royal Highness.

  On cold feet, I slipped and slithered across the slope, skirting a naphtha flare – and stopped, disconcerted, as a man turned to face me.

  In the bright yellow light of the flare Geoffrey and I stared at each other, both of us startled, both of us uncertain. Was he thinner than I remembered? Were those fresh hollows under his cheekbones, or was the firelight throwing shadows, aided by my own anxiety? I remembered another night, another meeting, and in his face I read an unguarded longing that said he remembered too. I was aware of a strong force between us, trying to draw us together. It took all my will to step backwards, away from him. As I turned blindly away, I heard him say my name, and in the same moment a clear voice cried, ‘Geoffrey!’ Not far away, out on the ice, stood the expert skater in her dark outfit trimmed with white. I recognised her now: Lucinda, Geoffrey’s wife. Not waiting to see what happened between them, I hurried away into the night.

  All I wanted was to escape. I hoped to find Uncle Henry, who might take me home. But Henry, as always when I needed him, was nowhere to be seen. There was only one thing to do, and that was walk home.

  In an attempt to keep myself completely hidden, I picked my way up to a knoll overlooking the lake, where chestnut trees spread bare branches. It was dark there, apart from the starlight on the snow, and in the shadows of the trees I doubted I could be seen by anyone within the gleam of light. The night was still, and though my face and hands were cold the rest of me was tolerably warm as I looked back on the scene – watchers by the fires, skaters flitting into light and melting into shadow. From that distance they were just moving shapes, touched by light. I didn’t know where Geoffrey was, or Lucy. Probably away beyond the island, hidden by the bulk of trees and shrubs where firelight played on the men in the band. I was nearer to the far end of the lake, where two fires warmed the knots of villagers who had been allowed to come and watch the gentry at play.

  To complete the spectacle, a sparkle of fireworks exploded in the sky, sending yellow flickers trailing in an arc across the stars. ‘Ooh’s’ and ‘Aah’s’ arose. A rocket sprang up, shedding streamers of silver fire, to blossom in great red globes that faded and died; then a shower of golden rain erupted, lighting up the house on its rise above the lake.

  Half blinded by the brilliance, I fancied I saw someone moving towards me in the deep shade. I b
linked to clear the illusion, but the shadow was still there and as he came into the faint starshine between two trees a burst of green light told me he was no phantom. Then he was beside me, reaching for me, saying, ‘Oh, my dear darling…’

  The sound of it pierced all my defences. I found myself moving into his arms, lifting my cold lips to meet his, melting against him. Like coming home after a long and weary journey.

  ‘Oh, love,’ I breathed, laying my head against his coat while he wrapped me more closely, his face bent near mine. ‘Are you safe? Are you well? When I heard you were hurt…’

  ‘I know. I know. I wanted to write to you. I planned to get a note to you, through our young go-between, but they allowed me no time alone. We were away to Italy before I gathered my wits. Dear love, if you knew how desperately I missed you…’

  His mouth enveloped mine again, sweet savage kisses telling our mutual feeling.

  ‘I missed you, too,’ I whispered when I could. ‘I was so afraid… To know you were hurt… Not to be able to see you… Do you know who did it? Was it Amos Chilvers?’

  He didn’t answer me. ‘Rose,’ he muttered against my brow, holding me painfully tight. ‘Oh, my darling Rose, when may I see you? I must see you soon. I need to be with you. I know you don’t care for Pooley, and Lucy…’ he paused, adding in a rush, ‘God help me, but I no longer care what Lucy thinks. She’s forfeited all right to my loyalty. It’s you I love. Come to me. Is the cottage still empty?’

  ‘No. No, it’s been taken.’

  ‘Blast!’ he muttered. ‘I was afraid of that.’

  ‘Geoffrey…’ Easing a little away, I looked up at him, though in the darkness he was only a black shape. ‘What is it you’re asking of me – to become your mistress?’

  ‘Yes.’ Blunt and honest – disconcertingly so.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Only until I f-find some other solution,’ he said.

  He hadn’t changed – he still sought to sweeten the bitter pill with promises half-meant. There was no ‘other solution’, not for us. Divorce was unthinkable. The scandal would drive us into social exile: his father would probably cut him off from his inheritance, and I would bear the label of ‘scarlet woman’ for the rest of my life.