1838
Charlotte leaned close to the chessboard, as her husband pushed a knight towards her. She did not hear a single sound of the city night. London was banished; they were behind their high walls, their ornamental gates.
‘Thank you for asking me to play,’ she said. ‘I thought you did not wish me to.’ He had never really liked the idea of her plotting, or game-playing, she was sure: he never really wished her to think more than sixty seconds ahead.
A little half-smile warmed his face. ‘An occasional game, with your husband, is not unproper,’ he said. ‘The London house looks well, does it not?’
‘Very fine,’ she replied.
It is a terrible place, she thought, everything white and gold and blue and red, imagined into life by Ashton. He was a man of definites.
He toppled her king, with satisfaction.
The chess game finished, they retired separately, her London maid – new, and taciturn – assisting her swiftly before retiring. Charlotte was sitting on her bed, listening to the tick of the clock, when his knock surprised her. She had assumed he would leave her to sleep, as the doctor had seen her. He was a fastidious man.
She called his name, and when he opened the door she saw hesitation in him, a rare thing. He was still dressed. He held a box in his hands. It was covered in brown leather bordered with ornate gold tooling.
‘My dear?’ she said, watching him, paused on the threshold, as though he were gathering his words. His eyes glittered; she had sensed his excitement about something throughout the evening, had thought his meeting with the architect must have pleased him.
‘I have something for you. From Hamptons. I meant today to be – a happier occasion. But you seem recovered. So – here.’ He handed it to her.
She took the box and opened it. There, on a bed of navy blue velvet, lay the largest diamond she had ever seen, cut into an asymmetrical pear shape.
She looked at her husband wordlessly.
‘Le Fantôme,’ he said, like a child who has opened a Christmas present. ‘Nearly thirty-five carats.’ He could not help himself; he took the box from her hands, and she saw then that the delight in his eyes had been caused by the diamond and his possession of it, and all that that possession said about him.
He was telling her its provenance. He spoke of a shipwreck, of royal houses, of private collections, of an unbroken whispered thread of history that this strangely cut diamond had. Named for the inclusion deep inside the stone, which had seemed so mysterious to its first owners, this was no modern gem. This thing had to be known, decoded, and treasured. And now it was theirs.
Charlotte smiled brightly. ‘It will be a wonderful addition to your collection,’ she said, watching the light from the diamond on his face. She could not help but think of its provenance with misgiving, of the generations holding it and then handing it on as something burning with history.
He looked up at her. ‘I will have it set in a tiara for you. It will be part of our family jewels. It will show what I have achieved. Redlands, our children, my growing influence in the City. I can see you in your green dress, or your red dress, with that diamond in your hair. You will seem a queen to those around you.’
‘I cannot possibly keep the diamond in my jewel box,’ said Charlotte.
‘Of course not! It shall go into a safe. But you are pleased, aren’t you? This diamond is for you. This diamond is for you.’ He sought a better reaction, she knew, from repetition. What should she do? Burst into tears? Feign joy and sink to her knees with audible prayers of thanksgiving? ‘I am so grateful, dear Ashton,’ she said, as strongly as she could, and yet all she could think was: I would give anything for my horse to still be alive. I would give this diamond to Hamptons, and this dress and this room, and this house which is not a home.
They climbed into opposite sides of the cold bed. She sensed she had disappointed him in some unnameable way, but that he was puzzled rather than angry. Their coupling was brief, almost chaste, and silent. They did not look at each other directly.
‘Are you looking forward to going home tomorrow?’ he said afterwards, rolling away from her.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I am like an old lady these days, only happy in my own little salon, with my own occupations.’
He kissed her on the cheek and climbed out of the bed. ‘You are still young, my love. I cannot imagine you ever being old. I will let you sleep. It has been a difficult day. I will take this.’ He closed the diamond into its box; it had lain beside the bed throughout.
She watched him go, and the sound of his footsteps faded immediately, so that it were as though he had never been there at all, except for the disordered bed, and the slight soreness he had left behind.
It was not difficult to get older, she found. She rather welcomed the idea of fading, and of her husband losing interest in her. What was difficult was remembering what it had felt like to be young: the sense of endless possibility, and the certainty of future happiness. Mr Dale-Collingwood had reminded her of the romantic dreams of her youth. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling as her candle burned down. She remembered his kindness, the way he had guided her away from the scene of the accident. The instant sympathy which had seemed to connect them. Then she put it aside, and blew out her candle.
She had not lied to Ashton. She had been glad to leave Redlands to come to London, and now she was glad to leave London for Redlands. As a young woman she had hated leave-takings and goodbyes, but as a married woman she thirsted for them. Every time she travelled she courted the possibility of change. Then she would arrive and – smiling, greeting the servants, ordering the dinner, choosing a gown to wear – realize that everything was the same as it had been, as it would be, for ever and ever, amen.
*
The next morning, Charlotte left the scent of her perfume in the rooms of the London house. She had smothered herself with oil of lily of the valley: the flower that symbolized the return of happiness. Her pride had not failed her yet. She would be fragrant, leaving a sweetness that would take hours to fade as the staff shut up the house again, threw dust sheets over the furniture, and mocked her and her husband. These things, people remembered.
My mistress was a bitch, a trial, a whore, but she always smelt sweet.
The air was cold. A fresh pair of horses, and their travelling coach. The footman opened the carriage door, and she took her husband’s hand and jumped up the steps. She always took his hand with an exaggerated flourish, because she knew his love of a graceful gesture. Today, she saw from his dark expression that his mood had turned, and that she had irritated him. But her own husband was too powerful to be pitied. Even Henry Dale-Collingwood, she thought, is indentured into service, like me. Perhaps that answered why they had that strange kinship. The coach set off.
‘What did you do with your gown?’ Ashton said. He had been watching her expression, and she felt guilt pass over her face like a shadow.
She looked at the window, its blank black surface, shielded by a blind. ‘Which gown?’
A small sigh. ‘The one I sent to Paris for. The one you got the horse’s blood on. The one you knelt in the road in.’ She heard the rhythm of building annoyance.
‘It was ruined. I left it with Sarah.’
‘I see. So one of our London maids will be dressed in the finest day gown our Parisian dressmaker had to offer.’
‘It would have been impossible to get the blood out of it.’ At least in her mind, she would have always seen it there, the seeping stain. ‘I have said sorry.’
‘Yes, you have said sorry.’ He leaned forwards, balancing his weight on his silver-topped cane. ‘But I’m not sure you truly appreciate what you have done.’
She sat silently; it was impossible to interrupt at this point. The mismatch of their emotions, of their respective reactions to every situation, had been so charming and playful in their courtship, but marriage had rendered it dreadful.
‘Is this about the diamond?’ she said, in a low voice. ‘It is very beautiful, Ashton. If I did not show my feelings enough, it is only because I was tired.’
His eyes flashed at her. ‘It is about your ingratitude, but not about the diamond. I went to a great deal of trouble to order that gown. I ordered it, knowing you would suit it, knowing that you liked it, having shown you the fashion plates. The care I took over it, Charlotte. Imagining that you would be delighted to wear it; that you would take care of it.’
‘I was very grateful for the gown, and for the other gowns you ordered with it. I still am. I did take care of it. I did not mean to soil it. The whole matter was very unpleasant for me.’
‘You point out I bought you a lot of gowns, as if that lessens the offence. Don’t play that game with me. And please remember that the whole matter was very unpleasant for me too. In the midst of all the difficulties, you were another worry added to my list of worries, because of your indelicate behaviour.’
She tried not to let any expression cross her face.
‘Don’t do that!’
Her tone even, her face still. ‘Do what?’
‘Make your face small and tight and pinched like that.’
She closed her eyes. It was impossible; if her face showed her annoyance, it would provoke him; blank, it provoked him. The only possible defence was stillness, and silence. She must play dead, she must fake utter submission. Each beat that passed was hopeful, each moment when no words broke from him. But she would not weep.
‘You have been very ungrateful,’ he said eventually.
She kept her eyes closed. She knew now he would leave it, but that her own battle was not over. For now, in the sudden rush of relief, she would have to suppress the breaking wave of her own anger. When she opened her eyes, her husband was dozing, and she could not help but imagine satisfaction in the line of his mouth.
They made good time. The hours passed quickly in silence and reverie; in the late afternoon they were on the Long Drive, the straight, tree-lined avenue which led to the façade of Redlands. Charlotte knew it by the perfection of the surface and the straightness of the road.
‘Home,’ said Ashton. She saw the contentment in his face. She smiled slightly, enough to show agreement. She had lived here for the nine years of their marriage. Thanks to the endless repetition of the house’s routine, her memory tricked her into thinking it had gone quickly. And it was home, because here she had had her children. As always she glanced at the distant spire in a clump of trees, the parish church where her first child, Loveday, now rested. The twins, Isabel and Thomas, still lived.
How Redlands filled the sight. The central symmetrical body of the house had been added to with two long wings. Its windows glittered in the afternoon sunshine. She had seen it at its best on her first visit: in the midst of a ripe English summer, its lines softened by the green of abundant shrubs and trees, her eyes drawn by the blue of a cloudless midsummer sky. Intoxicating, it had seemed like a magical place. No other arrival had ever matched that first one.
The staff lined up to greet them. Charlotte smiled blandly, nodded, murmured, her hand on Ashton’s arm. Her own maid, Katie, was not in the receiving line: she would be upstairs, waiting, with lavender water.
The wood-panelled stone hallway was cool. Already she heard the sound of their son coming, the distant running footsteps in a strange rhythm, for he was galloping like a knight on a horse. He and his sister had rattled around this vast house for days. She would have to wait for him to reach them. Her son, with his large eyes, and his silken hair, and his plump cheeks. He was his father’s boy, and even as a baby he had looked at her with that uncomprehending, expressionless stillness that she could not fathom.
‘Papa!’ He stopped himself at the top of the first staircase – for there were many at Redlands. ‘Mama.’ His nurse caught up with him. Beneath an arch with a coat of arms above, he stood, their little prince.
‘My dear,’ Charlotte said. ‘Where is your sister?’
‘Miss Isabel is resting, ma’am,’ said the nurse. ‘She is a little tired today. No cause for alarm.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am.’
‘I will visit her later.’
‘My sister is a weakling.’
‘Hush now, dear.’
‘Come here,’ said Ashton, holding out a hand. Thomas came down to them, slowly now, and in the manner of a little Cavalier, which he had been practising, she could tell. He babbled of swords, and of his tutor, and of his nurse being naughty to him. Charlotte touched his hair: soft, clean, and as golden as hers was dark.
‘I must change,’ she murmured. He made a slight move towards her, and she found herself dipping to kiss his head. He did not smell of her; he did not smell of her daughters; he was, still, a little foreign object. ‘You look very fine in your new suit.’
‘You look very fine too,’ he said. His chin rested on her shoulder. It was enough.
She rose, and Ashton put his hand out to her. She took it, and kissed it, in a swell of tenderness which had seemed unimaginable hours before. Such was the shifting kaleidoscope of her marriage, for her feelings towards her husband were not constant – they changed with the light and the hour. She left Ashton talking to their son and his nurse, and climbed the stairs softly. She saw the shadow of a servant at the turn of one flight, and she took another, pretending she had not seen them. Past the eyes of a dozen Kinsburg ancestors, made rich by glass; past a wall of arms and armour; through a corridor where the Dutch still lifes hung, to her suite of rooms, where her maid, Katie, greeted her. Charlotte embraced her, enquired after her, and finally sat down with a sigh.
‘I’ll wear the green dress,’ she said.
‘Best not be late to tea,’ said Katie. ‘Mr Lemaire has been working flat out.’ And she smirked.
Charlotte groaned. Barbara, the wife of Ashton’s brother Nicholas, largely expressed difficult emotions through the medium of patisserie, and had engaged a French specialist, Mr Lemaire, to execute it. The scale of the cakes she ordered for tea was proportional to her rage each day. They were cakes of garish colours, iced elaborately, stuffed with cream, sixteen-layered, mirror-glazed. Cakes that had to be attacked rather than eaten. Barbara rarely ate a slice herself, instead forcing portions on those around her.
Charlotte went to the window as Katie brought the gown she had asked for. She looked out at the perfectly manicured gardens of Redlands, with their topiary and fountains, and always a gardener, so perfectly dressed, carefully and quietly tending to something. She had looked at this view every day of her marriage. In the past it had chilled her; its perfection had a certain power over her. But now, all of a sudden, the columns of light and shadow falling through the pruned trees on the horizon were no longer about order and confinement; they were simply beautiful.
‘You seem well, madam,’ murmured Katie.
Charlotte looked at her and wondered if everyone could see the hope in her eyes when she thought of Henry. She did not have to see him again, but he had changed everything. She felt that beyond the window, the sun had been released from a covering of clouds, and was filling the room with an intense golden light. Some kind of new beginning had been made.
She felt the density of the feeling between her and Henry as they sat in the lodge, comrades and friends. She was filled with it, as the golden light warmed her.
She smiled at Katie. ‘I have been calm too long,’ she said. Her maid shrugged, used to her strangeness.