Dear Laura (4 page)

In the grip of Fate, Mrs Hill prophesied sufficient financial disaster, adultery and peril, to undermine the entire British Empire.

*

Upstairs, the two boys lay awake in the dark and re-explored the world that pressed hardest upon them. Lindsey had just completed his first term at Rugby and found it a rough baptism. Edmund, in his second year, contemplated the Scylla and Charybdis behind him and prepared to negotiate the rocks ahead. A dark, sturdy boy, with an uncanny resemblance to his father, he also possessed his father’s silent stoicism. But Lindsey was his mother’s son, delicate of frame and gentle of eyes. He could be emotionally pillaged, and Edmund feared for him. The fear and the knowledge were a double burden for a
fourteen-year
-old lad to bear, but he sought to smooth Lindsey’s path.

‘And keep clear of Heddleston as best you can,’ he continued.

‘I thought him very kind,’ said Lindsey defensively. ‘He told me I could fag for him next year.’

‘Stick to Matthews,’ Edmund advised. ‘If you do well enough he will want to keep you. So shine his shoes and brew his tea as he likes it. Matthews is a good fellow.’

‘And is not Heddleston a good fellow? He is very handsome, and he said I was a young sport, and let me hold his jacket when he boxed with Smith Major.’

‘I am the elder,’ said Edmund, pitting brotherly status against the charms of Heddleston, ‘so you must do as I say.’

His lips compressed over the order. Lindsey turned a puzzled face towards his brother’s bed, but Edmund was staring at the ceiling: determined and inscrutable.

‘Go to sleep now, Lindsey,’ he said.

The boy closed his eyes obediently, but Edmund lay looking into the dark for more than an hour afterwards, thinking over his father’s words.

‘I am astonished that any son of mine should think fit to
complain
that I had sent his brother to one of the best public schools in England. Rugby was my school and your Uncle Titus’s school, and our father’s before that.’ Paid for by a tide of toys,
instructional
for the young mind. ‘I tell you it will make a man of Lindsey. He is too
soft,
Edmund. Your mother has spoiled him and now he pays for her indulgence. What was your purpose in speaking to me of this matter? Did you think I should take him away? No, sir, not if it break him! So look to his welfare, sir, and see that he faces his problems like a man. That is all I have to say to you, Edmund.’ And as the boy went slowly to the door, ‘Do not think to persuade me through your mother. Women have no knowledge of men’s affairs, and no wit for them. This is between the two of us. If you so much as speak to her of it I shall whip you. And it will do her no good to be worried. What can women do but weep? You would not like that.’

‘No, sir. You may trust me, sir.’

Theodore had placed one hand on the lad’s shoulder. But it was not seemly to convey how much he loved him. So he patted the Norfolk jacket briskly and bade him be gone.

*

Released from the tyranny of Nanny Nagle, Blanche drifted into sleep and became very small like Alice in Wonderland. In her dreams she entered the new doll’s house, room by little room, and was mistress of it all and free in her possessions.

N
EW
Year’s Day, 1890, began with a sleepy adagio of housemaid, parlourmaid and kitchenmaid who yawned their way downstairs at 6 a.m. Long before breakfast, busy hands had swept and dusted the main rooms, cleaned grates and lit fires, carried cans of hot and cold water to the bedrooms. While Mrs Hill, fortified by a pot of strong tea and tremendous morning dignity, presided over the range: the best model of its kind and a Crabtree’s Patent Kitchener. Annie Cox had skinned two knuckles polishing it mirror-back with Zebo. Now it simmered beneath the
encumbranc
e of a Victorian breakfast. Porridge heaved fitfully. Bacon, kidneys, sausages sizzled. A kedgeree – Mr Theodore’s favourite dish – was kept hot. Prunes cooled for the children. Harriet toasted her face and the bread. A mess of scrambled eggs lay under a silver cover. Cold meats and piping chops were served up for the side-table.

Tongue between teeth, Annie fetched china from the dresser and counted rows of cutlery. In the parlour, Kate Kipping made the setting as immaculate as herself. An eight-day clock,
purchased
from Messrs Benson & Co. of Ludgate Hill, ticked blandly upon the kitchen wall, in complete harmony with the cook. And she, marshalling her little army, gave orders and issued reprimands out of an experience which, in its way, resembled genius.

‘Missus Hill got eyes in the back of her head,’ Annie Cox whispered woefully to Harriet, but not low enough.

‘And ears to hear, Miss. Take your fingers off of them
sausages
. Ain’t you seen food afore?’

‘Not near so much, Missus Hill. I’m one of fourteen and my dad’s a docker.’

Mrs Hill sniffed. Her origins were higher, since her father had kept his own bakery and she had never known hunger.

‘They breeds like rabbits,’ said Nanny Nagle, entering the kitchen in starched virtue. ‘It’s disgraceful. Fancy having a horde of children like that, with neither bread in their mouths nor blankets to their backs! The cradle in your house must be fair wore out, Annie Cox!’

‘We ain’t got a cradle, Miss Nagle,’ said Annie unwisely. ‘My dad fetches a banana cask from the docks and cuts it in half, and my mam sets a bit of blanket in it. But there ain’t a better mam in all the world,’ goaded by their exclamations of horror, ‘nor a nicer baby than our Johnnie. No there ain’t!’ she finished rebelliously.

‘Well, Annie, you can buy him somethink out of your first wages,’ said Harriet kindly, for she came of a large family herself and had been put into service for the same reasons as the
kitchenmaid
: not enough room or provision at home and a driving need for such small wages as she could earn.

‘Five minutes of eight o’clock,’ cried Mrs Hill, in a voice that sounded the attack.

The family were coming downstairs, Laura on her husband’s arm and the children following, into the parlour papered with tropical birds roosting on improbable foliage. His dependants assembled, Theodore took out his gold hunter watch, waited until the hand reached the hour, and rang the bell.

‘Ready?’ said Mrs Hill, and led her staff into the presence.

Neat and quick, Kate drew the Bible from the curtained recess at the bottom of the sideboard and set it before the master. He chose his text from the Book of Proverbs.

‘The
preparations
of
the
heart
belong
to
man:
But
the
answer
of
the
tongue
is
from
the
Lord.’

They listened respectfully, heads bowed. A flock of black dresses and white caps and aprons, with Henry Hann bringing up the rear in sober grey. Then all knelt in prayer and remained in silence for a minute after Theodore had finished.

Mrs Hill, helped to her feet by the maids, nodded briskly to her cohorts. They disappeared as unobtrusively as they had come, to be replaced by Kate with a trayful of porridge and
prunes. Laura ate little as usual: too busy preventing the children from disturbing her husband, who sat behind his
Times.
Blanche was in trouble with her prunes, and the boys scuffed their boots on the chair legs until frowned to quietness. Theodore cleared his throat.

‘The funeral of Mr Robert Browning is reported at great length today,’ he observed. ‘Should you like to hear about it? It is exceptionally well expressed, Laura.’

‘I should like that above all things, if you would be so good. The children, too,’ motioning them to attention, ‘would like to listen.’

‘“Yesterday the remains of the late Mr Browning were removed from his residence in De Vere Gardens, Kensington, where they had lain since their arrival from Florence, and were deposited, in the presence of a large and distinguished company of mourners in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey …”’

Blanche dreamed, Edmund and Lindsey spooned up their porridge silently, Laura moved slowly with the cortège, and Theodore read clearly and deliberately from the columns,

‘“… wreaths so numerous that they had to be carried
separately
… of ferns, laurels and evergreens, white roses, lilies, hyacinths, violets, myrtles and red flowers …”’

When
our
two
souls
stand
up
erect
and
strong
,
she thought.
Face
to
face.

‘“Lord Tennyson, Sir Frederic Leighton, Sir John Millais, Mr Alma Tadema … coffin of Venetian design in light polished wood

What
bitter
wrong
Can
the
earth
do
to
us,
that
we
should
not
long
Be
here
contented?

‘“The inscription on the brass plate read: Robert Browning, Born May 7, 1812. Died December 12, 1889

Think.
In
mounting
higher,
The
angels
would
press
on
us
and
aspire
To
drop
some
golden
orb
of
perfect
song
into
our
deep,
dear
silence.

‘“When it is said,”’ continued Theodore, his voice resonant, ‘“that all is mortal of Mr Browning lies near to Dryden, to Chaucer, and to Cowley, the scene will rise as a picture in the
mind of every intelligent Englishman and of many thousands of English-speaking people all over the world.”’

Let
us
stay
Rather
on
earth,
Beloved,
–
where
the
unfit
Con
trarious
moods
of
men
recoil
away
…

‘Among others unable to be present were Mr Gladstone, Lord Salisbury, Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Bedford, I see. I suppose they cannot
all
have the influenza, do you think, Laura? Laura?’

‘Of course not, Theodore.’

‘But do you know? I cannot recall seeing anything except Lord Salisbury’s ailment reported. Perhaps I have missed it. Of course, since he is the Prime Minister they would naturally mention …’

Oh, let your influenza rage, she thought, and read on – and let me be.

‘Ah! I have missed the service. It was catching Lord Salisbury’s name ahead of me that made me … They began with the chanting of the 90th Psalm, set to Purcell’s music. “Lord, thou hast been our refuge.” That must have sounded very fine. “Then Dr Bridge had set to music for the occasion the beautiful lines of Mrs Browning,
What
would
we
give
to
our
beloved?
…”’

A
place
to
stand
and
love
in
for
a
day,
With
darkness
and
the
death-hour
rounding
it.

‘So passes a great poet,’ said Theodore, looking round at his family.

And a great lover, and a great love affair, Laura thought.

Theodore reached for his handkerchief and sneezed
explosively
. She watched him in hatred. Suddenly the patriarch had dwindled to an anxious huddle.

‘Paris records the highest number of deaths from influenza so far,’ he cried, seeking reassurance. ‘Cases have had to be postponed in the Law Courts because barristers are unwell. And pulmonary, bronchial and laryngeal complications have appeared. It is the same all over Europe. Laura!’

‘You need not trouble yourself, I am sure, my dear.’

‘Look at the paper!’ he cried, shaking it at her. ‘Look at the reports! Vienna, Berlin, Brussels, Copenhagen, Rome, Sofia, Carsel, Munich. How can you tell me not to trouble myself?’

‘I believe that Mrs Hill put too much pepper on the kidneys, and that is why you sneezed, Theodore. You have no other symptoms.’

He pushed his plate fretfully away.

‘I shall not ride to the City this morning,’ he said, martyred. ‘Henry must take me in the carriage. He will be back before you require it yourself.’

‘Yes, yes, I think that best. To risk the inclemency of the present weather upon a horse would be unwise indeed.’

He replied, staring at the list of deaths, ‘It is this weather that breeds influenza. Mild for the time of year. A green winter and a full churchyard, they say.’

She did not answer, knowing the time of reprieve was at hand, when she might see him off and the children occupied, and Kate would bring her a slice of freshly toasted bread to eat in comfort.

*

On 2 January temporary hospitals were set up at Würzburg, 40,000 cases were reported at Munich, theatres and schools closed. But Lord Salisbury passed a good night at Hatfield, and there was a decided abatement in feverish symptoms. He took solid nourishment for the first time in a week and walked up and down some of the corridors. Queen Victoria and the Prince of Wales requested that the latest information should be
telegraphed
to them morning and evening.

On 3 January in Vienna between forty and fifty people were dying every day. Budapest was hit badly. And, to augment Theodore’s unease,
The
Times
obituary for 1889 on page 5 was exceptionally long: one and a half columns, containing many names of note and distinction.

On 4 January the railways, postal and telegraph services were affected in Holland, owing to the number of sick workers. 378 policemen in Paris had succumbed to the disease and 357 in New York. Switzerland and Spain contributed to the death dance. In England a remarkably spring-like element in the air attracted the European disaster.

In an effort to distract her husband’s preoccupation with his health, Laura took some pains to read up about the Forest-gate District School fire, which had roused public indignation and a
public inquiry. But the twenty-six children, suffocated to death on the top floor of a building without an alarm bell or
watchman
, their doors locked, could not move him beyond mere comment.

‘It has never been compulsory up to the present time to provide means of exit from the danger of fire. Some good may come from this lamentable occurrence. Have you seen
that the
Dowager-Empress
Augusta is prostrated in Berlin? I fear she will not recover. She is very infirm and of a great age.’

He was willing himself towards the axe. Its blade gleamed menacingly on 8 January as the Empress died and was
proclaimed
‘a sphere of gracious and womanly ministration’. Its blade fell the following day, when a serious spread of influenza was reported in most districts of London. Out of 1,900 telegraph boys 222 were off duty, and the disease was now described as ‘Russian influenza’. As Henry assisted his master into the brougham, bought from Hart’s in New Bond Street, Theodore invited affliction.

Laura reckoned she had about three hours before he was brought home again. So she suggested that the parlour table be set with newspapers and the three children paint their picture books. There was some delay as Blanche was arrayed in a Holland pinafore, and cautioned by Nanny not to get dirty. But eventually two fair heads and one dark one pored over their tasks, and all was peaceful.

From her desk, Laura inspected the day’s menu and made up her accounts. Upstairs, Harriet stripped beds and tidied rooms, supplying each with its proper complement of soap, clean towels, candles and writing paper, and wished she was Kate Kipping. Sighing for the lighter tasks of acting lady’s maid to Laura, and answering the front door in a frilled cap and apron, she made her way down to Mrs Hill and hard labour.

Annie Cox was in trouble again, performing a legion of mean tasks under a hail of scolding.

‘And when you’ve finished scrubbing that passage to my satisfaction,’ Mrs Hill cried, ‘you can start a-carrying the coals. And don’t you so much as spill a speck o’ dust or you’ll answer for it! What are you about, Kate?’

But this was simply the habit of authority, since Kate knew very well what she was about and needed no supervision.

‘Mrs Crozier’s coffee, Mrs Hill.’

‘Make us a big pot of tea when Kate takes that tray in, Harriet,’ said the cook. ‘We must keep our strength up, I hope. She’ll be in the parlour until lunch – unless she goes to her room. Did she order the bedroom fire to be lit?’

‘Yes, Mrs Hill,’ said Harriet. ‘She said as Mr Crozier warn’t well and might be back early.’

Kate lifted her eyebrows but said nothing.

‘He worrits hisself to death,’ said Mrs Hill. ‘A kinder
gentleman
never breathed, but he don’t half worrit.’

‘He frightens me,’ Annie Cox confided, wiping her hands on the sacking that served her as an apron.