CHAPTER SEVEN

“This afternoon I will need you to drive to Chelsea Hospital.” Lady Patchford spoke with imperious precision. Knowing her better now, Mallory considered her mistress oblivious to the way she came across, so used was she to this peremptory form of address. “I am taking the opportunity to catch up on some charity work in which I have an interest. Miss Hewitt will be arriving at Victoria Station at noon. Bring her to me and following luncheon, we will go together.”

“Yes my Lady.”

Mallory had thought she would be needed this morning and had dressed accordingly, but now she could change and relax. For her meeting with Nigella she would wear the new serge suit and boater. The day had not yet warmed up, the sun still struggling valiantly to overcome its cloudy obstacles, but it looked like it would win in the end. She would need to wear gloves, so much part of the dress etiquette and chose the tan leathers to match her shoes. She placed herself not far from the gate, on a rustic seat, a short distance along the gravel path to wait. No set time had been given. The gardens in Belgrave Square had been allowed to stay natural; an oasis of nature in the centre of the bustling city. Strategically placed wrought-iron bench seats invited the strollers to linger and appreciate.

It was obvious that Sumach trees were much in vogue at this period – a novelty from South America. She wondered if that was why the Maples were there, reminding the residents of the neighbourhood of their links with Canada. She enjoyed the quiet time ‘people’ watching, adults and children alike. There were not many men to be seen, at work she supposed. Tall Ash and decorative Birch trees provided shade. At their base ornamental bushes of Privet and Laurel afforded a sense of privacy to the passersby and muted the gleeful cries of excited children playing on the swings, watched assiduously by attentive nannies.

It was a gentle autumnal day, the trilling of small birds among the berries bringing nature to the city; the leaves shimmering with coppery touches and the odd flashes of pale gold. The few remaining late roses glowed in vivid yellows and pinks and seemed to scent the air with the last vestiges of vanishing summer. She did not have to wait long. The Lady Nigella was feeling the morning chill however, as Mallory recognised her coat with the large buttons and puffed sleeves, before she saw the face beneath the broad brimmed hat with the engaging rose flowers.

She came directly towards Mallory who immediately stood and doffed her boater in gentlemanly greeting. It was an unfamiliar gesture, but she liked doing it, especially for the Lady Nigella Patchford. She followed this by offering her arm which the girl took and they began their stroll around the park. Eventually Mallory broke the silence. “You’re looking well this morning my Lady,” she observed, to open the conversation.

“You look well too Mason.” Nigella gave a quick, sideways glance: “And very smart.”

Mallory was pleased. She felt she was beginning to blend in with this Edwardian era and in a funny way, although so different from what she thought of as her ‘real’ life, there were satisfactions to be had – or was it being with Nigella? Don’t go there, Mal, she remonstrated with herself.

“Did you enjoy the concert last night my Lady?”

“It did not disappoint Mason.” Sharply, Nigella laughed. “Oh, I sounded just like my mother. I suppose styles do rub off.” She got herself back on track. “The programme was mainly Sir Edward’s The Dream of Gerontius. The choir was magnificent and the tenor outstanding.”

“And the Lady Ramona …? Did she find it the treat it was intended to be?”

Abruptly, Nigella dropped her hand and hurried forward to a sandstone bench, set back in a secluded alcove featuring a small statue of Peter Pan playing the pipes. This being a remote area of the walkway there were few people about. Mallory followed.

“Oh Mason … the most dreadful thing …” Nigella opened her Marcasite beaded purse to search for a handkerchief. Twisting it between agitated fingers, she turned her doleful eyes towards Mallory and declared in a rush: “Everything is in tatters!”

“My Lady, please slow down. Tell me what has happened.”

“Yesterday, instead of Myles being all for the idea, he urged a ‘wait and see’ approach. Well, already that didn’t go down well with Ramona. She had expected an outline of a plan … with a declaration of love, but she wanted to be guided by him. They talked lots of course, but that was how it was left.” Mallory said nothing. From the girl’s unsettled demeanour there was more to tell.

“This morning Ramona received a hand delivered missive from Lady Stafford-Clarke.”

“Oh dear.” There would be no elopement after all. Mallory breathed out a heavy sigh, but in relief.

“Lady Arial was diplomatic in her wording … studies, age, etcetera, but Ramona could read between the lines. Myles doesn’t have sufficient feelings for her and her lot will have to lie with Lord Knowlesworthy.”

“Will this be so awful?”

“I don’t know; in actuality perhaps not so bad.” Her voice faltered: “But what cuts the deepest is that she really believed Myles loved her. Now all that has been turned on its head and she must come to terms with a new reality.”

Mallory smiled inwardly, but there was a downward cast to her lips: “Oh yes. I can understand why the Lady Ramona is so shattered.” Despite her sympathetic face, her eyes were fervent and knowing. “It’s the hardest thing to adjust to a complete reversal of all your expectations.”

The young man’s response had been explosive, the words delivered with serrated edges. Nigella, recognising their intensity wondered what vengeful act of the imagination had been resurrected, for him to speak so vehemently. Had he known more pain than joy, more solitude than love?

“Then you can understand Mason, our household is an even sorrier place. At least before there was hope.” With a pervading sense of gloomy pessimism she added: “Now there’s nothing,” and wiped away the hot, unwanted tears threatening to well over. She turned her gaze to the little statue representing perpetual youth and complained: “Why do we have to grow up to have all these disappointments laid on us?” She looked fragile in the dappled morning light filtering through the branches above them, picking out the hollows of her pale face. She was no longer that blithe and carefree spirit.

Mallory smiled gently, an eloquent tenderness colouring her voice. “If we never face adversity, never overcome misfortune … how can we mature … develop our identity, our character?” She ran her eyes along the grove as old memories started to crowd about her, reminders of her own milestones. You’re here to help not indulge in self-pity, she rebuked herself sternly as her eyes recognised a figure she had spotted earlier. Her antennae tuned in. The man was alone in this isolated area; a man not at work? Not working at all for that matter. More like – lurking? Recalling Lady Patchford’s injunction she stood up.

“My Lady, it’s time I took you home. There’s nothing to be done now. Let’s see how this matter unfolds. Perhaps when the Lady Ramona comes to know Lord Knowlesworthy better, she may find her life not so distressing.

Unable to come up with anything herself, Nigella was forced to acquiesce, but still feeling there should be something they could do. Perhaps Mason was right. There could be worse things than being Sedgwick Knowlesworthy’s wife, but she could not think what they might be. Lord Ettington and the Lady Camilla were rather on the ferocious side. Not for Ramona perhaps, but for herself, she found their voices loud and much too intimidating.

Mallory pushed back a low hanging branch in this slightly over-grown section and scanned the path. With their turnabout the man had gone … maybe not far. What could he be after? She was sure he had been interested in them and it would not be herself, so it must be something to do with the girl. Surely she was too young to have enemies? Anyway she had had a good look at him, albeit from a distance, but she would remember that face. They retraced their steps.

“Will you accompany your mother to the hospital today?”

“I’m not sure. Ramona and I have to have another dress fitting later, but then with a bit of luck I may be able to please myself.” She shrugged and continued: “Mama and her good causes, I can’t keep up.” Mallory saw she did not look as dismal as before and even sounded calmer. Perhaps something good had come out of this. “She’s always picking up lame ducks and her latest charity is for unwed mothers. Working men are covered by health insurance schemes, some of them operated by the Friendly Societies and there is poor relief for most people over sixty-five, but for these young girls … there’s nothing.”

“Where do they go?”

“If they’re not taken up, there’s the doss house, but these are rough places mostly for casual dock workers.” She considered for a moment. “Sometimes the infirmary, attached to a workhouse will take them in. The Women’s Hospital began through donations from private benefactors, but now it’s maintained by public subscription. Mama subscribes too, but her particular interest is in these poor girls and their babies.”

“You have no interest in this, my Lady?”

“Not so much in that side of things.” Nigella turned eyes that sparkled with eagerness, to sweep the young man in assessment. “Can you keep a secret, Mason?” Her face was a study in suppressed excitement. Mallory stopped their progress and jammed her hands on her hips to look sternly back at her.

“Sorry!” She hastily looped her hand through his arm and they resumed their stroll. “I haven’t told anyone yet, but I plan to become a Montessori teacher,” then she fastened her gaze on him to see how such a revelation had been received.

“Really!”

The surprise seemed to be satisfyingly appropriate. “Yes. I’ve been studying Maria Montessori’s methods of teaching the little ones. It’s absolutely brilliant,” she trilled. “I want to dedicate my life to this.” She was full of the ardent fervour of a devoted zealot. “Since Madame Montessori developed her ideas of education almost two years ago, her success has become known worldwide.” She raised those impassioned eyes once more to Mallory’s. “Oh, I do so want to be a part of something really worthwhile.”

“You don’t intend to marry?” Mallory enquired, amending her image of this mercurial, idealistic creature. “My apologies my Lady, that was too bold of me.”

Nigella had not even noticed, too lost in her own world. “Oh pooh, I think there’s more to life than running a house and telling servants what to do. I would be a Suffragist now, if I could.” She lifted then dropped her shoulders in a parody of virtuous patience: “But I’m prepared to wait.”

Passing once again by the tall Maples, they looked up to admire their magnificence. “I believe women are capable of doing much more than men give them credit for … do I shock you?” This time it was she who brought them to a halt.

“Not at all, my Lady, I commend your sensibility and take my hat off to you.” Mallory accompanied her words with a little pantomime, sweeping the boater off her head with a Cavalier’s flourish, which resulted in an outburst of glee from Nigella as she performed a deep curtsy in return. Now they were both gasping for breath. Through her laughter, Mallory realised she must learn to cherish these moments of happiness. Such treasures are part of the fabric of life and as such should be recognised as they appear. She must not take them for granted, let them slip by never to be recalled. This thought sobered her and she returned to the subject at hand.

“I’ve heard of this system for the training of young children, but I don’t know the details.”

Launching into a favourite topic to a willing listener filled Nigella’s cup. “Well …the fundamental aim is self-education by the children themselves. As their teacher, I would see to providing them with the right environment, one that is stimulating, that they can explore at their own pace. There would be a special emphasis on encouraging the use of all the senses; lots of different things to interact with. I think this would be an enjoyable experience for them, and for me.”

“Would you go to a training college, or is learning on an apprenticeship basis?”

“Well Mason, here’s the problem.” Nigella concentrated her brows. “I will have to talk my parents into letting me go and so far they show no signs of giving me my head. I think it will be something I’ll have to fight for when I’m older. Mum’s the word for now eh, as Ambrose would say.”

“Of course my Lady, this is your private business. It’s a pity you don’t live in Australia, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The Australian Parliament passed the Commonwealth Franchise Act in 1902 whereby all women were given universal suffrage.” Then she hastily amended: “Oh, not Aboriginal women.”

“Mm…m yes, you’re much more progressive down there,” she agreed.

“Well, I’m not sure about that,” Mallory demurred, then almost musing to herself continued: “But unfortunately it will take another nine years before women can achieve the vote here … you’ll still be too young. The starting age is thirty and … what?”

Nigella had stopped in her tracks once again, a regard of utter amazement freezing her face. “What are you saying, Mason?” the clear green eyes were remarkably intense and direct. Mallory too, was pulled up short, both figuratively and literally.

Now you’ve done it! How will you get yourself out of this without looking like a complete fruit loop? Crickey! “Oh … I … I mean. Well …” The mumbling in the throat was not helping. “What I meant to say is …” Nigella remained immobile, still stunned by his words. “Well … the Suffragettes are not making much progress are they? There’s a lot yet to be done,” she finished lamely.

Fortunately they had arrived at the park gate with only a short distance to #17. A small diversion was enough of a reprieve. She swung it open on its creaky hinges to let the girl through, but Nigella seemed unable to move. “My Lady …” she indicated the way.

Nigella’s brain was whirling, but with great effort she brought her fleeting and scattered thoughts under control. However, her body still revolved on an axis of stupefaction. It was with difficulty that she placed one foot in front of the other. His words had shocked her deeply. Although always fascinating, there had been something strange about this man. Now she was completely bemused. She needed to think. At the house they climbed the steps and Mallory pushed the button for Nesbitt to usher in the young mistress. She touched her boater: “Goodbye my Lady. Have a good one.”

Nigella nodded and regarded him one last time as she disappeared inside. What an odd thing to say. He certainly was full of surprises.

* * *

Mallory had ample time to change and get to the station. Meanwhile, she kept thinking over what she had said, wondering if she had spooked Nigella too much. Their next encounter would surely give her the answer.

She recognised Miss Hewitt easily, standing under the big clock tower and collected her without delay. All trains from Birmingham arrived at Victoria and at that time of day she was prominent as the most elegant passenger. She looked very much the lady in a brown, fustian coatee over a pleated, cream blouse and matching, slightly flared, brown skirt. The coatee was contoured in two smooth sections across each breast and buttoned in the centre before curving away, down to the waist. She has a very trim waist, Mallory noticed, well worth accentuating.

The sleeves were in the gigot-style, massively full to the elbow, tapering tightly to the wrist. Idly, she wondered if Miss Hewitt was of the age when it was no longer obligatory to be accompanied on long journeys. That indeterminate age when the prospect of marriage is less likely perhaps?

Lady Patchford had wanted the Tourer at two o’clock and so here she was, once more in attendance. The two women had spent a working lunch sorting out the guest lists for the forthcoming celebrations, ready to complete the invitations tomorrow. With everything under control Lady Glencora could attend to her other responsibilities, her disposition more positive than it had been in a long time.

As Mallory drove over to Chelsea she was surprised to see how little some parts had changed. It had managed to preserve that village atmosphere and the Women’s Hospital looked the same. She dropped her passengers at the main entrance, both women looking very important as they mounted the steps. Lady Glencora, for this visit had chosen a blue voile costume, the fabric lending itself to ruches and folds which shimmered softly. The tiers of the bodice and basque, which fell to well below her hips, were all edged in a lustrous, black braid. Even the straight skirt, which finished in a short, rounded train, was tiered. Also, the long sleeves were gently gathered along their length to end in braided cuffs. The high-necked chemise, revealed by a plunging open V to the bosom, was made of white lawn, but the little frill under her chin was edged in a pale blue trimming.

She watched as the main door was opened and the ladies were greeted by Matron and two staff nurses. By comparison, they appeared very functional in their navy and white uniforms, a white veil like a nun’s Mallory thought, totally covering the hair. Her ladies’ head-gear was of course, large and prominent, but this time she liked Miss Hewitt’s broad-brimmed hat, trimmed with bright, red cherries. Perhaps I’m getting used to this top knot business, she smiled to herself.

Before returning to the car, she bought a newspaper from the street vendor, choosing the Daily Mail. It was still a morning paper. It would be interesting to see how much it had changed. A frisson of exhilaration ran through her: I’m holding the revolutionary precursor of all the popular journalism that has evolved from this parent. She sat back.

The tone was as racy as ever cutting out the heavy, long windedness of Victorian prose. She could identify the same style as in the Twenty-first Century: bright, easy to read and provocative. She had to acknowledge, Lord Northcliffe had a genius touch. He seemed to know what the new reading public wanted, could identify with their impatience. She was impressed too, that he could get people to turn out this stuff morning and evening, every day.

It was engrossing to read about the social reforms, to learn where they had originated. The progressive ideas advocated by William Booth and Seebohn Rowntree. Is he the same one whose father, the Liberal Quaker, manufactured chocolate bars? And Booth: the Salvation Army man? These ideas were being introduced by the Liberal Government through David Lloyd-George as Chancellor of the Exchequer and Churchill as President of the Board of Trade.

Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill? Well I never.

Liberal politicians were advocating a form of ‘social imperialism’ and as she read on she learned this was a policy of state intervention, to strengthen the bodies and abilities of people through nutrition and education. When added to the consciousness raising of the Non-Conformist movement, these reforms could not be held back. This movement toward National Insurance made great demands on Herbert Henry Asquith’s cool resolution and Lloyd-George’s fiery energy. She read what fierce opposition they were facing, especially from the House of Lords.

But of course, filled with all those wealthy landlords they’d be the last to agree.

The reporter gave a lively account of Lloyd-George mocking and denouncing the peers at every opportunity, but now the nobility was retaliating. Last night, in the House, they refused to pass his Finance Bill on which his people’s budget was based. She thought back. Would it be next year he would manage to decrease their power? She was pretty sure he would dissolve his Government in order to fight a general election – and win.

She moved on to the letters to the editor. Someone was most concerned that the old age pension scheme, which put five shillings in the pocket of men in their seventies, would encourage them to spend their last years in a life of debauchery.

Ye…err right. There has to be one in every bunch.

An article written about the country’s leading exporters and the large employers did reveal however, that these were worried men. They were living in a country committed to free trade, whereby they must import food and raw materials at the cheapest possible rate. They were complaining about how daily, they faced increasingly keen competition and this on top of a wall of tariffs.

Sounds like the Australian businessman of today … oh where’m I thinking?

These people felt money was tight; the Navy was costing more and more, the country simply could not afford these fancy benefits. She had to smile. They thought an increase in direct taxation might meet the bill, but tax was already so high – nine pence in the pound on earned income and a whopping one shilling in the pound on the unearned. She put down the paper and rested her head against the car seat to reflect on what she had read. By the end of the Edwardian era, all these major innovations would be in place and the lives of ordinary families would be transformed. A deep sigh escaped her. As yet they had no inkling of the sheer horror and the enormous casualties the Great War would wreak on every town, village and city in the land. Large tears formed and escaped from beneath closed lids. This would probably be the end of her – the people she was getting to know. For all her knowledge, she was helpless to mutate the course of destiny. She was not in a Sci-Fi movie, she had no miraculous powers.

The tears continued as she suffered through this private grief and felt the loneliness creeping up inside her once more. Eventually she dashed them away and picked up the paper again. She had to deal with her helplessness, not indulge it. Grappling stoically to control her moment of weakness she shook her head and scanned more columns of interest. There were stunt races being organised in the countryside, then a competition offering fantastic prizes. ‘Fill in this coupon for your chance to win—’ Oh, how familiar. She found a section outlining campaigns for sudden and irrational causes. They were totally far-fetched. ‘Fill in this coupon and send your donation to—’ These Edwardians are such an inventive and unconventional lot. I do like them, though.

Indeed, the paper had something for everyone. On her way through to the sports’ page at the back, she spotted the gossip and fashion sections for female readers. The demand seemed to be for news items that were brisk and brief. Nothing had changed.

Amongst the usual reports on the local football scores, her eye was caught by a short column devoted to the exploits of a French inventor. Just over two months ago, Louis Bleriot had flown his monoplane across the English Channel. This represented the first successful flight across the open sea. Then followed a short review of previous flights: Orville and Wilbur Wright’s experiments with gasoline powered aircraft and their maiden flight in the Flyer, December 17th. 1903: at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. It had lasted about thirty seconds. Another Frenchman funnily enough, a bicycle manufacturer, like them, Paul Cornu, on November 13th. 1907, was the first man to fly a helicopter. The writer of the article was throwing down the challenge: How long will it take for someone of good English stock to match these exploits?

Don’t know the answer to that one.

At last, raising her head briefly, she was in time to see Matron bidding farewell to her distinguished visitor and secretary. Immediately, folding away the paper, she jumped out to be on duty. At their service!

“We will spend the rest of the afternoon at the new art exhibition Mason.”

“Yes my Lady. Where do we go?”

“Take us to the Grafton Galleries, just off Bond Street.”

“Yes my Lady.”

On their way Miss Hewitt enquired of Mason if he liked the French impressionists. She was surprised to be directly addressed, but Francine Hewitt was a modern Miss. She answered that indeed she especially liked Cezanne and Monet.

Lady Glencora continued: “We’re hoping to generate more interest for this show … help Monsieur Durand-Rouel, who has generously sponsored its delivery from Paris.”

“Yes my Lady.”

“If you have an interest you may accompany us, Mason. There will be few art appreciators there at this time of day and although not exactly a rush, we will be better than none.”

“Thank you my Lady.” Rent a crowd Edwardian style, now this is novel. What an opportunity.

“You may park out front. The doorman will be in attendance.”

“Yes my Lady.”

The Ladies were effusively greeted by the Patron who was meticulously polite then courteously, he nodded to Mallory. Having shown them through to the reserved room, he effacingly bowed himself out. Mallory observed that the proverbial British resistance to modern French painting was, indeed, in evidence. The poor attendance was a sad indictment of the Englishman’s tendency toward insularity, especially where the French were concerned. Perhaps it’s just in their history, she thought as an excuse.

Miss Hewitt made an observation to both of them which Mallory considered generous of her, that the old Academicians, suspicious of anything French, have probably denounced this whole venture as another attempt to corrupt and then ruin the fair youth of the land.

“Perhaps a bit extreme Francine, but I do agree. The fossils at the Society are angry with the artists who dare to desecrate their virgin canvases with ‘reckless daubs’ such as these.”

They moved on.

“I read an article in Punch Ma’am, put out by the New English Art Club commenting upon the current attitude of the gentlemen of the Royal Academy,” Francine expanded. “They have a deep seated fear because the manner and style of this art defies their ideas of painting and is also an ominous challenge to them. If I can quote: ‘Like a death sentence coming out of the unknown’”.

Mallory found this extreme too, but the Edwardians were a twitchy mob, prone to see threats to their established order round every corner. They could never go back to that solid, Victorian view of the world where half the globe was coloured pink and the sun never set on the British Empire.

Lady Glencora concurred. “But these are the times we live in.” She had witnessed for herself, that cultural elite, energetic with new-found confidence at Masterson’s lecture. Their world was bright with promise and she knew its progress could not be denied forever. Radiotelegraphy: the opportunities opening up through turbine driven ships: the timeless dream of flight within their sights. Was not news travelling faster than ever? They were determined to become the undisputed masters of the universe. The old certainties, one by one, were being disputed on every front, even if there was an underlying edge of darkness. That menace, looming on the horizon which Theodore and Virgo were always going on about, which Eustace would not see.

The stroll continued, leaving Mallory to muse on the unexpected revelation that Lady Glencora was a complex creature with more to her than the initial encounter could reveal. Here were untapped depths of passionate commitment, reaching down fathoms below that regal surface, but she played her part so well. Perhaps, if it were not for her position, she too, would be in the vanguard of the idealistic elite. But how could she? For all her zeal, she was as imprisoned as a caged bird, its wings clipped, unable to fly free in the face of rigid decorum. She looked across at her, so earnestly talking as they admired the artist’s use of pigment; his skilful strokes. Was it possible she could be a woman out of time, just like herself only the other way around; Lady Glencora too soon – she, too late. Conceivably, this was where Lady Nigella found her rebellious spirit, although the Lady Ramona did not appear so inclined to flout conventions.

Well, likely she would if the Honourable Miles would be party to it.

She turned her scrutiny back to the paintings. Canvases were not only hung on walls, but were strategically placed on easels, suddenly catching the viewer’s attention. She followed along, taking everything in. The room was an enchanted grotto awash with vivid colour and coruscating light.

Having absorbed the new offerings, the Ladies returned to the English Impressionist rooms. The contrast with the French was immediate. These artists were fascinated with the mystery of esoteric images, the blurred shapes dimly discerned in cryptic shadows. They managed to illuminate by implication, what others over-looked as commonplace. The style of these impressionists resonated with Mallory. The pre-eminent of the Edwardian avant-garde were all laid out for her to appreciate: Walter Richard Sickert, so typical of his period and revered by many of the younger generation. She stood before one of his best known renditions of the London music hall scene and marvelled at his ability for the under-statement: Augustus John and some lesser known masterpieces by his gifted sister; the absorbing mystical landscapes of Wilson Steer.

Next were Sir William Orpen’s Homage to Monet and his New English Art Club Jury, where they were deciding which pictures to select. Amazing! This was like an illustrated guide to Edwardian artistic life. The new painters were steadily moving away from established picture-making and from the routine methodology of the New English School. They preferred foggy London streets and dark interiors inhabited by ghostly shades. She was struck by the privacy of their style, so very English. It seemed there were those who had begun to look for spiritual satisfaction more through art and culture than conventional religion; ‘Divine Creation’ was just as likely to be seen as ‘Nature’s Creation’.

Max Beerbohm: his works delicately poised between lampoon and caricature, were gems. They finished the tour with a selection by William Nicholson. Mallory felt he unreservedly shared with them his delight in painting, making her wish she had at least some small talent.

Almost back in Belgravia, Lady Glencora gave instructions for Mallory to be ready at seven o’clock. After an early dinner, they were going to the Court Theatre in Sloane Square. She addressed Francine. “I know it’s small and rather unfashionable for the times, but the Playgoers’ Society does some very interesting readings of dramas we can’t get in the West End.”

“I think this an excellent idea, Ma’am.” Francine’s hat with its bright cherries, bounced merrily. “I heard Lady Ramona remarking they would be giving a rendition of George Bernard Shaw’s: You Never Can Tell. I haven’t read that one”

“Last time we were in London we saw a production from the Vedrenne-Barker season. You know they select the most engrossing plays and that was how we were introduced to GBS. It was his Man and Superman if I remember rightly, so we’re making the most of this opportunity tonight.”

“I like reading men like G. K. Chesterton and H. G. Wells, men of conscience. Their followers give us an explosion of fine talent.”

“Oh Francine, you do my poor heart good.” Lady Glencora patted her hand. “I too, feel we’re in a new century that wants to open out, expand its horizons. If only we can overcome this oppressive tunnel vision.”

Hearing their discussion, Mallory speculated that what they wanted to expand towards could still be a possibility. More so than in her world where the popular view had solidified through too many wars. The Twenty-first Century had had too much serious terrorist activity. Religious intolerance and world-wide propaganda now had a strangle-hold. For these people, there is still so much to hope for. As yet there is no global warming or threat of over population. No fear of terrorist bombs or nuclear detonations. She was slowing to a stop as Lady Glencora invited Francine to join her, and Lady Ramona for the play-reading.

“Thank you very much Ma’am. I would like that exceedingly.” Francine thought her mistress the most wonderful woman and she, the luckiest of secretaries.

At seven o’clock Mallory collected the three Ladies and chauffeured them to the Court House. They looked incredibly opulent in their evening finery, which this time placed the feathers bobbing about in their hair. This was not a full theatre production, but still they had to present themselves. Can they never go out and relax … just hang out? What a different audience from her last visit to the theatre. Not all from the wealthy class by any means. They looked more serious, more intent, many clutching a copy of the text. She wished she could go in, but settled for an uncomfortable sleep on the back seat.

On the drive home she knew she had missed a special night. Even Lady Ramona had been able to forget her woes and enjoy the readings.

“Mason, we are due to return to Guilfoyle Park on Sunday.” The others had gone inside and Lady Patchford was delivering her last instructions.

“Yes my Lady.”

“The young Ladies will have their final fitting at the dressmaker’s in the morning then our business in London is concluded.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Be ready at nine-thirty.”

“Yes my Lady.”

* * *

What a positively miserable, drizzly day. Black clouds hung everywhere and even faces seemed to take their cue from the weather. Everyone was already wrapped in multiple layers as protection from the chill of approaching winter. Mallory hugged herself against this biting wind, pitching and yanking in erratic swirls at anything in its path, while she waited for her passengers. A few early autumn leaves danced about her cap. Later, she was to collect the correspondence that Miss Hewitt was finishing up, to deliver to the Central Sorting Office for posting. Once her duties had been attended to, she could devote her time to making sure the ‘Silver Ghost’ was in readiness with enough air in the tires, water in the radiator and every spark plug shining bright. It was important there be no mishaps and now on the return journey, she knew what to expect.

“Good morning Lady Ramona. Good morning Lady Nigella.”

“Good morning Mason,” Lady Ramona responded. Lady Nigella gave only the briefest nod. She had wanted to be allowed to take the train with Miss Hewitt. What a lark! Her mother did not give her permission however; consequently the young Miss was sulky and mutinous, looking quite out of sorts in fact. Poor seamstress, I bet the fittings won’t go very well today.

* * *

Life at Guilfoyle Park began to take on a certain pattern for Mallory. She was much in demand on a daily basis, with little time to help out in the stables. It seemed the whole establishment was in a constant state of upheaval due to the elaborate preparations for the Lady Ramona’s birthday dinner and ball. It was two weeks away with not enough time to get all the things done that were needed.

“Constance!” Lady Glencora was dressed for business. No frills today, just a serviceable blouse and skirt and her comfortable, glacé kid house shoes.

“Yes Ma’am?”

“Please have Nigella come to me in my chamber. I will be there in half an hour.

“Yes Ma’am.” Mrs. Aldred left her Ladyship looking out the tall windows of her boudoir. She had found her easily distracted of late, making her tasks immoderately more difficult. Not very helpful at all when success or failure lies at my door, she grumbled under her breath. Still, it was not her place to remind her mistress to ‘pay attention’. She gave a shudder at the very thought and hurried on her way. Who knew where the Lady Nigella was to be found these days. It was either under your feet, or nowhere to be seen and she had only thirty minutes.

Glencora had been giving much thought to what to do about Nigella. Worry over her daughter had been robbing her of sleep, but she really could not afford to collapse now. She must resolve this problem. Finally, after prolonged agonising a strategy had presented itself and now she could act. She retrieved a stiff, cloth paper envelope containing one single sheet of velum from her bureau and collected a set of keys from the bottom drawer. Thus armed, she proceeded to her chamber to await her daughter. Nigella was not long in arriving. She had planned to paint in the rose garden in some cloistered spot, away from all the hustle and bustle, but Mrs. Aldred had found her first. She greeted her mother with an effusive hug; so nice to have all her attention.

“Please sit Jellie. I have important matters to discuss with you.”

“Yes Mama.” Have I done something again? She looks so stern. She remembered the last time she had had to sit through an ‘important’ discussion. She placed herself delicately on the spindly chair next to her mother’s and composed her features.

“As you know, Mona turns twenty next week and at that time your father plans to announce her betrothal to Lord Knowlesworthy.” Nigella said nothing, only continued to regard her mother with large, solemn eyes. “This means Mona’s future is assured. She will be taken care of and we are confident it will be in a manner as befits our daughter.”

This time Nigella bobbed her head and whispered a soft: “Yes, Mama.”

Glencora reached out and took her other daughter’s hand in both of her own. “I know I’ve upset you lately, with my words …” She looked deeply into the depths of this child’s trusting eyes: “… I have only wanted to help you Jellie. You’re growing fast and you needed to develop a more mature outlook on life.” She stopped. It was so hard when none of this was her daughter’s fault and she was so painfully aware that it was al l her own. Filled with guilt, still she must remain resolute. Dropping the hand she was holding, she stood and moved away. Nigella followed with her eyes, growing more uneasy with each pace that her mother took; to the window, to the canopied bed back to the window. Then she stood, it seemed like forever, to gaze out over Guilfoyle Park, that outward sign of their status and wealth, eventually she turned.

“I have to be honest with you Jellie … your future … your station in life … your position … it might not be so … assured as Ramona’s.” She stopped again. She did not think she had ever done anything so exacting as this in her life and was far from confident. Was she up to the task? Courage Mon Coeur! If Jellie would only say something! Nigella continued her silent study, her brain the while whirling in spirals, but she would not show impetuosity. Her mother would reveal all in her own, measured time. If she tried hard, she could be like Ramona.

Glencora resumed her pacing. Maybe she would skip that part. Move on. “What I propose Jellie, is to bequeath to you outright, what it is in my power to give. I have written it all down.” She picked up the envelope and handed it over. Nigella reached out slowly and grasped it gently still wondering what was to come. Why would her other speak of a bequest? The envelope was not sealed. “Open it … read!”

To whom it may concern:

This day September 18th. in the year of our Lord 1909 I do bequeath to my daughter, Nigella Violet Glencora Patchford, all my jewels, both inherited and bestowed. Here follows a complete list:-

1. Emeralds:	Choker, drop earrings, tiara
2. Rubies:	Pendant necklace, drop earrings. Bracelet.
3. Amethysts:	Choker, earrings, bracelet.
4. Diamonds:	Tiara, necklace, drop earrings. Dress clips, buckle.
5. Pearls:	Three strands, pendant necklace, Drop earrings.
6. Rings:	13 rings in a combination of the above stones in diamond settings, plus one Black opal.
7. Gold:	Rings, chains and bracelets.

This inheritance shall become the sole property of my daughter, the afore mentioned Honourable Lady Nigella Patchford, upon attaining the age of nineteen, if she has not yet been given in marriage before November 10th, 1911.

Hereunder, I do set my seal and signature:

Lady Glencora Regina Elizabeth Patchford

Witness: Francine Jane Hewitt

Sept. 20th. 1909.

Nigella dropped the document to her lap. “Mama, what is this?” her voice faded as she could not believe her eyes.

“This, my darling is my way of helping you, should anything untoward befall you. If everything goes well and you marry, you will have a husband to take care of you and you will receive your natural inheritance, just like Ramona.”

“But Mama, what is it you think can ‘befall’ me, as you put it?” This was becoming as cryptic as Ambrose last week. What is happening to this family? Oh Mama, you are making me so unhappy.

“Nigella, can you not accept my help?” Glencora drew her eyebrows together in a threatening frown. “Do you have to question everything?” She could feel herself coming apart. She needed to take her pills; lie down. Nigella sensed her mother’s fragility. Now was not the time to press her in her distress, perhaps later.

“Sorry Mama,” she apologised as she held back the hurting lump in her throat.

“Let me show you.” She led the way to stand in front of a portrait of herself. It had been painted when she was a girl. Not a large picture, the frame of gilded wood. She swung it away soundlessly from the wall, like opening a door on oiled hinges. Nigella gasped, a small safe was revealed. Selecting a key from the ring she carried, Glencora inserted it into the lock and removed two velvet cases. She took them to her dressing table, where they sat together on the tapestry stool. Each box was opened in turn, its contents examined. The jewellery was magnificent and Nigella could only marvel at the beauty of the pieces. One by one each of the remaining boxes, and there were many, was collected and opened for her to inspect, then returned to the safe. The bequest was also locked with the other contents and afterwards Glencora went to sit on the side of the bed, Nigella just a short space away.

“Only you, I and Mrs. Aldred know where my jewels are kept. Not even your father knows their whereabouts. This is our secret Nigella.” She turned and faced her daughter. “If ever the time comes …” She took the small key and with hands that trembled, threaded it onto a fine gold chain: “… Come close to me child.” Glencora leaned forward and carefully placed the chain over the bent head to drape it around her daughter’s neck. “You will take this key and lead the lawyer, or whoever is in charge, to this picture to claim your inheritance and your independence. Do you understand me?” Nigella was speechless. She could only shake her head in disbelief.

Mother and daughter regarded each other in the cheval glass opposite; one so bewildered, the other so concerned. Suddenly, Nigella experienced a rush of fear which jolted her senses. She leaned forward to throw her arms about her mother’s neck, the tears pricking her eyes: “Oh Mama you’re not going to … die, are you?”

Glencora’s guilt grew tenfold when she realised she was causing her even more distress. She could not leave her like this. The suffering she saw in those eyes, luminous with innocence tore at her heart. She hugged her to her, trying to squeeze out this intense wretchedness.

“No Jellie, hush now. Everything’s all right.” Emotion welled up. “Oh my darling, please don’t take on so. I’m so sorry for all of this.” Yes, the shame she had borne in silence these years past. Her crushed face was a mask of regret. “No, I’m not sick.”

“Tell me Mama. What is it?” However, relief was flooding through her. Nothing could be as bad as that and it was not that.

Now Glencora knew she would have to explain, otherwise the child could send herself crazy with speculation. The prospect touched her with fear and she was terrified to put these shameful truths into words. Was Nigella old enough to bear such a burden; the repercussions from what she was about to reveal could have such far reaching consequences. But she was at a point of no return. The torment in her pale face was naked for an instant, then she made a shaky attempt at a smile.

“I will tell you Jellie, but first I must ask you to forgive me. I never intended any harm would come to you. I have only ever wanted a happy and fulfilling life for you.”

“Mama of course, you don’t have to ask.” The response was effusive, so joyful was she that her fear had been groundless. “Despite what you may think, I’m a very capable girl. Sometimes I sound foolish, but inside I’m really quite sensible.” The clear green, unsuspecting eyes gazed steadfastly back into the hazel ones, flecked with gold just like her own. She wanted to reassure her dearest, darlingest Mama that she need not worry for her. She would never do anything to cause her unhappiness. She pulled herself together ready to deal with whatever might come her way. She would show her that she was indeed a Patchford through and through, made of sterling stuff; bright, attentive and capable.

“Jellie, this is very difficult for me, so first I will ask you a question.”

Oh Mama, anything … anything at all. “Yes Mama?”

“Have you noticed any differences between you and Ramona and Ambrose?”

“I think Ambrose and I are alike in temperament, but Ramona is different.”

This was not what she had expected to hear, but it was true enough. “I meant more along the lines of … appearance,” she held her breath.

“Well … they’re both taller than I am. But I’ve not finished growing yet,” the girl announced confidently.

“Jellie you will never be tall … and fair, like them.” Her close study of her daughter continued unabated. The bewildered air returned to Nigella’s expression. “Jellie … they take after their father.” Dear God in Heaven, she had said it at last. It took not a moment for Nigella to understand, but the shock of realisation lasted a long time and kept her mute, too astounded to speak. She could only sit on that bedside and stare at the agonized features before her, at the tears shimmering in those beloved, deep-set eyes.

* * *

Between chauffeuring and errands, all Mallory’s spare time was spent in looking after the vehicles. Her hopes of socializing, getting to know people better could not be realised. Wilkins had been right. There was definitely no time to hook up with Fiona Beevis and she could only get to speak to Dottie briefly at breakfast. However, she did notice that, with increasing frequency on her return from trips, the Lady Nigella would be close at hand. She would watch as she cleaned the cars or tinkered with the engines. Sometimes she would be talkative, at others sitting quietly on an upturned crate. Mallory got used to this moodiness. She’s of that age, she rationalized: with the extra activity going on in the house she could even feel in the way. No, it was not easy being a child in a grown-up world, especially when you do not feel like a child. This went well for Mallory. Her mistress still insisted upon vigilant surveillance, followed by regular reports.

Other days Nigella would ask her to saddle up Burrow and she would join her on Talbot. Even then it could be a wild ride or, in contrast, a sedate trot accompanied by desultory conversation. These exchanges were generally on unremarkable matters. Despite such neutrality, a feeling was coming across that some-how the girl was becoming emotionally involved. There was nothing said, but she could sense a new intensity to her manner. She had to choose her words with care, if she were not to cause a withdrawal into her shell. Her companion’s disposition had become sensitive and brittle; was less carefree and perhaps in some ways, more dependent. She was realising that this young girl was balancing on the edge. She thought back to that first ride together. There had been tension then, but this had intensified. Surely it would not be her lot to live a tortured existence, surrounded as she was, by all this opulence and deference?

Nigella did not open up to her like she had before, but their conversations began to take on a reflective, more thoughtful tone. She seemed to be searching, but would not say for what, or perhaps she did not know. Whatever was going on, Mallory did her best to be supportive. She was never quite sure if her accounts hit the mark. Since their return to the Park Nigella had lost her girlish impetuosity; she would simply nod or release a sigh. Nevertheless, she kept coming back.

* * *

A week later, when she returned from a drive to Cheltenham, Mallory was instructed by Reynolds to see Mr. Crosby immediately. She did not take time to change, but hurried over to his offices. The reception was stormy, the bailiff coming straight to the point.

“We were tipped off Mason, no need to know by whom, but it lead us to the coach house. We found this.” He held a jewelled clip one of a pair, in his out-stretched hand. It was stunning: a cluster of small diamonds surrounding a rosette of rubies in the shape of a leaf. “Have you sold its partner already?”

Mallory stared in disbelief. “Mr. Crosby, I’ve never seen this in my life.”

“Baldwin says he’s seen you on a few occasions lurking in a private part of the Big House. Do you have an explanation for that?”

“From time to time I do go to see her Ladyship, but I’m not lurking Mr. Crosby,” she protested. This was awful. She realised with dismay she was being accused of theft, but who would do this?

“So you say Mason, but you’ve no business there at all unless, as I suspect, you’re up to no good.” He shook his head which set his jowls quivering. She could not say more, she had given her word and anyway, she would not be believed. In a low, hard voice he continued: “I would suspend you from all duties, but his Lordship wishes the matter to be investigated before we take that step. However, you are strictly limited to the servants’ quarters when unescorted.” With this order she was dismissed. “That will be all.”

She walked back to her room anger seething inside, her heart pounding with suppressed indignation. She swore, only the once, but with a white-hot fury. The accusation had stung, like a burn from a flaming missile and her mind filled with foreboding: It could be up before the Captain’s table then ending my miserable days in Broadmoor, locked up with the criminally insane! As she bathed and changed before going over for supper, her brain revolved with farfetched notions. She had no idea who could have set her up like this. It was beyond all understanding, but whatever, she was in deep trouble.

Her reception in the servants’ hall was frosty. The news is out then. As she took her seat, she could see most faces were curious, but no–one stood out as definitely smirking. Nothing was said. When the meal was almost at an end, Mr. Baldwin appeared, he did not eat with the servants, but with Mrs. Aldred in her private rooms. He delivered the command that his Lordship wished to speak to Mason immediately. They all turned and stared. This would be it!

“Enter.” She stood before his massive desk and waited.

“Mason, what’s this I hear?” Sir Eustace was full of bristling impatience as he looked accusingly over the rim of his spectacles, fixing her with a confronting stare.

She took a staccato breath, but met his stare directly: “Your Lordship, I have no knowledge of this … at all.”

Sir Eustace bit out through closed teeth: “I am very disappointed in you Mason. If I find out you’re telling me a pack of lies I’ll …”

“Your Lordship …”

“Silence! Don’t try to bluster your way out of this. I have called in the local constabulary. Detective Inspector Daniels will be here tomorrow to look into the matter and he and his sergeant will thoroughly investigate the circumstances of this theft. Lady Patchford missed her broach or whatever it is, last Friday. They’ll question everyone as to their whereabouts that day, so you will have a fair chance with all the rest to explain yourself.”

She ground her teeth: “Yes Your Lordship.”

“You’ve been doing good work Mason, but don’t think you are indispensable. I have someone else who has offered for the job and if I find you to be a thief, you will be out and he will be in. You are dismissed.”

“Yes my Lord,” she replied hearing her voice shake, despite every effort not to betray her feelings. She left and returned to her room head down, thinking furiously all the while. Bloody hell this is serious. Last Friday? Have I been here a month already? Nothing special: an ordinary day just like the others. Did I go in to report to Lady Patchford? Shit a brick! That put her in the east wing … and this investigation? I can’t go through that. The masquerade would be discovered. Proved innocent or not, she could not risk being found out.

She was sitting on her narrow bed, trying to think what to do, how to deal with this, when there was a quick, loud rap at the door. When she opened it, there stood Jake Beeson, one friendly face. “Ah Mr. Beeson, come in,” she breathed in relief and stepped aside. Jake, who had no pipe for once, entered and sat down.

“I ’eard the news lad an’ I don’t believe it.”

“Thank you Mr. Beeson.” In a voice that trembled she added: “For what it’s worth, I didn’t do this.”

“I believe ya’, lad. But I’ve come t’ tell ya’ somat else.” She took the edge of her bed again, ready to listen.

“Yes, I think as young Tricklebank ’as got it in fer ya’.”

Len? “But why?”

“Well … it’s like this. Afore ya’ come along, Tricklebank ’ad it in ’is ’ead t’ take over from the previous driver. ’e’d made no secret that ’e wouldn’t be a stable ’and all ’is life. ’es been goin’ t’ night school; studyin’ mechanics, you know fer them fancy automobiles.”

“Ah!”

“Yeah, then ya’ comes along out o’ the blue an’ pops right in, see?”

“So you think this could be his way to get rid of me; take over?” Her mouth pulled tight, lips thin with contempt.

“Ya’ got it lad, can ya’ clear yer name?”

“I don’t know …” she replied thoughtfully: “… there’s going to be an investigation.” Her gaze was speculative as she looked across at the old man. “I guess I’ll have to wait to see how that goes,” she replied slowly.

“All right Mason, I’ll be orf. Good luck anyway.”