Soul Page 14

  Lavinia smiled, a slight tic under one eyelid her only sign of discomfort. ‘I am content to work by my husband’s side.’

  ‘Mrs Huntington, you may be a good bluestocking, but you are a bad actress.’ Lady Morgan pulled off her kid gloves. ‘I am positive the season must hold a certain fascination, particularly to a peculiar creature like yourself. You have to understand: society is to the daughters of a family what business is to the sons. I cannot believe your father has been so neglectful in this area of your education. We have a steep climb ahead of us, but fortunately for you, I have no fear of heights.’

  The aristocrat perched carefully on the edge of a chaise longue and took Lavinia’s limp hand into her own. ‘A wife is a reflection of both a gentleman’s taste and his estate. The Huntingtons are an old and respected family. Impeccable lineage. You, as James’s wife, are the family’s current frontispiece. As you know, the official season begins in June and finishes by mid-August. By that time, we aim to have you firmly established in the upper echelons. After all James has been known to hunt with the Prince Consort himself.’

  ‘Twelve weeks is not long.’

  ‘In my first season, I attended fifty balls, sixty parties, thirty dinners, twenty-five breakfasts and received five marriage proposals. But then, my dear, I was on a quest, whereas you, with your extraordinary good fortune…’ Here she faltered, suddenly realising such a line of conversation might lead to the topic of her own questionable lineage, a subject Lady Morgan considered strictly taboo. ‘Well, at least your treasure hunt is over. Still, even a young wife needs female companionship and social mobility. We must make sure you attend one of Lady Waldegrave’s famous Friday to Monday parties—both Gladstone and Disraeli have been known to breakfast at Strawberry Hill and an interesting Celt is always welcome. Then in May we have the annual exhibition at the Royal Academy of the Arts—always an opportunity to display one’s latest Paris acquisition. Oh, how could I forget! You must be presented to the Queen at St James’s Palace. I believe you have not yet undergone that momentous experience?’

  ‘I have not. I will need a sponsor.’

  ‘Say no more, my dear girl, St James’s Palace in August it will be. I shall have it arranged in a flash. After that, of course, it will be de rigeur to attend one of the royal soirées—you wait and see.’ Lady Morgan continued relentlessly, counting the months off with her fingers. ‘The Derby is May also. June is Ascot—by far the more desirable event, but one must put in an appearance at the Derby, the hoi polloi does expect it. The end of June brings the Henley Regatta, and then there are the cricket matches at Lord’s. Personally, I always favour Oxford versus Cambridge over Eton versus Harrow. Yachting at Cowes in August, not to mention the obligatory morning ride along Rotten Row. And, of course, by now, what with the balls, the fetes, the charity galas, the whole of society is completely exhausted, so by the twelfth of August, when Parliament adjourns, all and sundry vanish to the north. Suddenly Mayfair is fini. Why, you could hear a sparrow expire, it is so deathly quiet. Luckily for you, your husband has a lovely estate just south of Inverness, and some fine grouse, if my memory serves me. Shooting continues through September and October—partridges, then pheasants—and foxhunting begins on the first Monday of November. And then the whole merry cycle begins all over again. You will be so terribly busy.’

  ‘And I shall resolve to enjoy myself terribly.’ Lavinia tried to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘Poppycock! No one cares about enjoyment; like nuptial rights, it is one’s duty.’

  Lady Morgan accepted the glass of sherry handed to her by the maid then leaned toward Lavinia as if she were about to impart some great secret.

  ‘The Colonel is, of course, a complicated individual, that we both know. If I may speak candidly…’

  ‘I would not expect less from you, Lady Morgan.’

  Lady Morgan glanced at the girl sharply; she couldn’t tell whether Lavinia was insulting her or not but this was the confusing audacity of young women, she noted, they were all so contemporary in their directness.

  ‘Then candid I will be. James is an individual who is used to certain pleasures. A man of his status may enjoy freedoms we women, married or otherwise, cannot begin to imagine.’ Here Lady Morgan faltered, distracted by the ambition of her own imagination. A polite cough from Lavinia drew her back to the demure setting of the drawing room.

  ‘I was saying?’

  ‘“We cannot begin to imagine…”’

  ‘Quite.’ The aristocrat relaunched into a lecture Lavinia suspected she had uttered more than once. ‘It is the unspoken understanding between a man and his wife that contributes to the success of such a union. This is the sacrifice we women have to make. Do you understand my meaning?’

  ‘Concisely, you wish me to ignore certain behaviours?’

  ‘My dear, like many before you, it has been your fate to marry a multifarious man. But I have concluded that the only worthy asset in a man—apart from an income of at least two thousand guineas per annum—is complexity. It is the one asset that improves with age, and will never bore. Trust me, beauty does become somewhat predictable the older one gets.’

  Lady Morgan sat back, reflecting on the aesthetic contribution Hamish Campbell had made to her own salon; a contribution she had lately begun to miss.

  ‘But I have a great and natural affection for my husband.’

  ‘In that case, I trust you will be sensible and turn a blind eye when appropriate.’

  ‘A blind eye, Lady Morgan?’

  Sighing meaningfully, Lady Morgan studied the stuffed parrot that sat on a branch in the corner of the room—one of the Colonel’s Amazonian companions, which he had had immortalised out of sentiment. The quizzical expression in its glass eyes irritated her. It was as if the parrot embodied the obtuse nature of the young wife. If only Lavinia had a comprehension of the innate struggle between man and woman, the nuances upon which society turned; if only she were a pragmatist and not the deluded fantasist she appeared to be.

  ‘I blame the French,’ Lady Morgan said, ‘and those dreadful novels they write. They have reduced love to a malady of victimhood, and suffering is so bad for the complexion.’

  ‘I suppose you hate Hugo too?’

  ‘Stendhal, George Sand—all charlatans. Protéges-moi de cette bêtise nôble. (Protect me from this well-intended folly.) You must appreciate that love is the last reason for which a man marries, Mrs Huntington. He might think it so at the time, but men…’ She leaned forward, fixing Lavinia with her black eyes, ‘men do not think with their brains, even gentlemen, except in matters of money.’

  Lavinia did not break her gaze. ‘Is it truly naive to believe in passion, honesty and integrity?’

  ‘In sophisticated circles, it is not only naive, it is positively hazardous.’

  Lady Morgan had come out of friendship, but the girl was trying in that wilful way that was typical of the Irish. Sensing Lavinia’s rising ire, she feigned interest in several Japanese artefacts in the room. Lavinia leaned forward.

  ‘My dear Lady Morgan, I was taught to believe that the relations between a man and his wife were a private matter. But because I respect the lengthy friendship between yourself and my husband, I forgive you your indiscretion.’

  Horrified by the young woman’s impertinence, Lady Morgan spluttered madeira down her dress. Lavinia handed her a napkin.

  ‘With regard to the season,’ she continued with enforced cheer, ‘James informs me that you are able to engineer invitations to the Holly Ball on the twenty-first?’

  Appalled at Lavinia’s further presumption, Lady Morgan broke into a stammer. ‘He di-di-did?’

  ‘And I think it would be most Christian of you to invite James and myself as your guests,’ Lavinia insisted, deliberately oblivious. ‘No doubt the occasion will provide an excellent opportunity to introduce me to society and for my husband to engender support for his next publishing venture.’

  23

  THE PARCEL SAT ON THE NURS
ERY FLOOR, a huge mass of brown paper and string, a small card tied to one corner.

  ‘Look, Aidan! A present from your grandpapa in Ireland!’

  The child clung to her, eyes wide, as Lavinia carried him across the room and placed him onto wobbly feet beside the parcel. She pulled the card off—her father’s formal handwriting made her instantly homesick. She pictured him bent over his desk, his arthritic fingers twisted around the quill.

  Lavinia opened the card then knelt beside her son. ‘To my dearest grandson, so that he may grow up to be the bravest dragoon in the world!’

  She pushed the wrapped parcel and watched Aidan’s face light up with delight as it swayed on its rockers.

  ‘I wonder what it could be?’

  Tearing off the paper, she encouraged Aidan to do the same, until, both laughing, they sat in a swirl of flying brown paper and the rocking horse was revealed. It stood shiny with red and black paint, gold embellishing its saddle, a mane of real black horsehair hanging over one shoulder.

  ‘Horsey! Horsey!’ Aidan clapped his hands with impatience as Lavinia lifted him into the saddle. To her surprise, he instinctively grasped the miniature leather reins and began riding. Leaning down, she kissed him. ‘My wee man, your ma is so proud of you.’

  ‘Bravo! Aidan, you are a natural horseman.’

  The Colonel stood at the nursery door, dressed in his evening clothes.

  ‘Papa!’ Aidan held up his arms. Immediately, the Colonel came over and took Lavinia’s place beside the child.

  ‘Now isn’t this grand? Your very own horse and a fine stallion at that!’

  Lavinia watched as Aidan, keen to impress his father, galloped faster and faster.

  ‘It’s an expensive gift, Lavinia, and very kind of your father.’

  ‘Aidan is his only grandchild.’

  ‘And look at our son, our beautiful boy—isn’t he a wonder?’

  Lavinia, seeing James’s loving look, softened. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she kissed the back of his neck.

  He did not look up from the child. ‘I have to leave for the Carlton shortly—a regrettable business meeting. You must not wait up for me, Lavinia.’

  After a solitary dinner, Lavinia wound her way through the corridor to the music room. She sat at the piano and began a piece her father had taught her—the memory of which now felt as if it were from a different life belonging to a different woman. A knock at the door disturbed her playing.

  ‘Madam, would you care to study the menu I have prepared for tomorrow?’ The housekeeper stood in the doorway holding a piece of card.

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you, Mrs Beetle.’

  ‘But it is customary for the head of the household—’

  ‘Do we have guests tomorrow?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  ‘Then I shall trust that Cook will prepare her usual excellent cuisine.’

  ‘Madam, I think I should point out that the Colonel expects—’

  ‘Mrs Beetle, I am perfectly aware of my duties. I just wish, at this moment, to be allowed some reflection on my own. Is that too much to expect?’

  ‘No, madam.’ After the smallest of curtsies, Mrs Beetle backed out of the room. Sighing, Lavinia returned to her playing, only to be interrupted five minutes later by a maid sent in by Mrs Beetle to draw the curtains.

  Exasperated, Lavinia left the music room and, craving solitude, made her way to the courtyard. Before she realised it she found herself in the stables.

  The shivering flanks of the horses gleamed. Each stood in its own stall, some with their noses thrust into buckets, chewing meditatively; others glancing hopefully over their glossy backs at Lavinia. Seeing she was not their keeper, they turned back to their feed.

  A lantern blazed overhead, and in the far stall an extra lamp burned to warm a recently born foal and its mare. Lifting her skirts, Lavinia walked over and reached across to caress the mare. Its skin was warm and coarse to touch, but of immediate comfort. Lavinia felt like a young girl again, hiding in a secret haven, relishing her escape from the sense of being constantly observed: by the servants, by Lady Morgan, by her husband…

  ‘That letter there is a J. I swear on it. That much I do know.’

  A voice, male, deep and American, rumbled from the other side of the stables. Lavinia walked along the row of horses. Aloysius the coachman sat in an empty stall, his back against the door, a lantern in one hand.

  Sitting next to him was a Negro boy of about eighteen, dressed in a riding coat and breeches. Lavinia did not recognise his livery. The two were examining a piece of paper Aloysius was holding up to the lantern’s light.

  ‘Samuel, that is no J; that would be a T, as in Tattle.’

  ‘I know a J when I sees one!’

  ‘Aloysius?’

  Upon seeing Lavinia the two men immediately hid the jug of stout they’d been drinking from. Throwing on their caps and dusting the straw from their clothes, they jumped to their feet.

  ‘Madam, you be after something?’

  ‘No, I just came to visit the horses. It’s always been a refuge to me, the stables.’

  She smiled to reassure them, but Aloysius, disconcerted by the impropriety of the moment, was staring at the floor, his large hands pawing the paper apprehensively. He indicated the youth next to him.

  ‘This is Samuel, he’s the coachman over at the embassy.’

  A smile broke like a white streak across the other man’s face. Lavinia saw he had one front tooth missing.

  ‘Ma’am, at your service. Begging your pardon, but the master’s visiting number forty and so while I’m waiting I’ve put the footman in charge of the coach and taken the opportunity to visit my friend Aloysius—with my master’s permission, ma’am, I swear.’ Samuel tipped his cap.

  Lavinia had only ever seen one black man before and she tried to conceal her wonder. He was a well-made youth, with large slightly bulbous brown eyes, a nose that looked as if it might have seen a few fights, and a mass of tight oiled curls framing his round face.

  ‘Which embassy?’ Lavinia settled herself on a work bench. ‘And please, sit again and enjoy your tobacco and ale. I had not intended to disturb you.’

  Samuel waited until Aloysius nodded permission and then the two of them settled awkwardly back down. As the Irishman snubbed out a smoking piece of straw that had been ignited by the embers of his hidden clay pipe, Samuel took off his cap and polished the insignia.

  ‘The embassy of the Confederate States of America, ma’am. I belong to Mr Dudley Hunt; he’s the ambassador and I am his coachman,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Samuel does himself a disservice,’ Aloysius interrupted. ‘He’s the best horseman I know. This laddie can calm the jumpiest stallion, and guide a panicked team through a flood as if it were a meadow, madam.’

  ‘Mr Hunt is lucky to have you in his employment.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’m not employed. Mr Dudley Hunt owns me, and my papa and the rest of us. That’s the way it is in the South.’

  ‘And that’s why there is a war on, Mr Samuel.’

  ‘So they say, ma’am, so they say.’ Samuel, anxious about the introduction of political matters, looked from Lavinia to Aloysius.

  ‘Samuel has brought me a letter from America,’ Aloysius interjected, thinking it would be wise to change the topic of conversation.

  Samuel held up the envelope, the address stained and faded on the front. ‘There was a Union postal cart captured by the Confederate forces, and they finds this letter and sends it to Mr Dudley Hunt Esquire, who throws it out. But I knows the word “coachman” and the word “Mayfair”, so I finds Aloysius myself and now I have myself an Irishman as a true friend, now ain’t I a huckleberry above a persimmon?’

  Aloysius put his hand up to silence the coachman.

  ‘I believe the letter is from my brother, madam.’

  ‘And what is his news?’

  A slow flush inched its way from under Aloysius’s woollen collar and up to his large ears. ‘I
can’t properly say. Being the fifth child I wasn’t sent to school as such. But Seamus, he was the fortunate one. Fortunate to have left and fortunate to have got to America alive.’

  ‘You cannot read?’

  Now the coachman’s face was scarlet. He looked down at his riding boots. Lavinia stretched out her hand and Aloysius handed the letter to her over the gate. As he did, she noticed that the tips of two fingers were missing and his hands were scarred.

  She examined the parchment under the light of the lantern Aloysius had placed on the wooden doorpost. The handwriting was laboured and the spelling dreadful. It appeared Seamus had received little more of an education than his brother.

  ‘It is dated the seventeenth of February and begins, My dear brother Aloysius—’

  ‘Well, even I knew that much,’ Aloysius grumbled, determined to win back some dignity. Ignoring him, and Samuel’s sudden grin, Lavinia continued.

  ‘I hope this letter finds you in good health and in good employment. Brother, I write to tell you that I am now a soldier with President Lincoln’s Union Army. We are a worthy bunch of Irishmen with the 69th New York State militia regiment. I have volunteered and they have given me my own horse, saddle and supplies. It will be food and a roof over my head, and I am hoping we will be fighting in Virginia by the spring. I will try and write you during the campaign, and I have chosen you as next of kin should I perish. Yours in good grace, your brother Seamus.’

  In the ensuing silence, Samuel let out a long slow whistle and slapped his thigh. ‘Goddamn! I am all chawed up. If I could, I would be fighting with him my own sweet self! The Good Lord knows I would!’

  Forgetting himself, Aloysius reached across and took the letter from Lavinia, then stared blindly at the page as if the face of his brother were printed there.