The Trespass (10 page)

‘No-one must cry,’ Asobel said quite crossly. ‘This is a Happy Occasion.’

‘Go and give your Mamma a kiss, and then me,’ ordered William Cooper and Asobel ran round the table kissing as she was bid and everybody laughed and clapped and the toast to Alice proceeded in elderberry and dandelion wine, followed by partridge, mutton, beef, rabbit and four extremely large fruit pies covered in cream from Uncle William’s own cows.

*   *   *

Both were in their long cambric nightdresses; the corsets and the gowns had been unlaced and put away. Mary had a shawl around her shoulders and the two sisters sat on the large, soft four-poster bed. The room was filled with the scent of the big yellow roses that Harriet had picked from the rambling garden. Automatically Harriet took Mary’s twisted, damaged foot in her two hands, rubbed it gently.

‘Well?’

‘Well.’ In the companionable silence they settled, relaxed; at last they were together again. Mary breathed in the scent of the roses, sighed, leant back on the pillows.

‘Whenever I smell roses,’ she said dreamily, ‘there it comes again. I see our mother and her sisters playing croquet. All those blue muslin dresses with their big sleeves, and the hats with ribbons trailing.’

‘That is exactly why I picked the roses,’ said Harriet, and she was smiling. ‘So that you would tell me again.’

‘All that laughter, and the sun shining. It is actually a small part of my memory of her – yet it is the one that is always there, waiting for me. Mother was not even good at croquet!’ And both the sisters laughed a little; Mary lay back on the bed, closed her eyes; Harriet, still massaging the foot, stared down at the face she loved more than any in the world.

After a few moments Mary opened her eyes. ‘Oh I’m so glad to see you, darling, I have missed you so in London. But you look well, it is – good for you to be here.’ And a tiny look of understanding flashed between the two sisters and was gone. ‘And I have enjoyed your letters – I even read little bits to Walter and Richard, and we all remembered The Journal. Why not begin again, write as you used to? It was such fun to read, like Mother’s.’

They still read their mother’s youthful diaries, carefully preserved: all addressed TO THE DEAR READERS OF MY JOURNAL. The pages told of dancing in the Cremorne Gardens, seeing the Diorama Show in the Park; descriptions of dashing vicars and trips to Brighton with her sisters, and the Duke of Wellington’s victories over the French.

Mary had encouraged Harriet to write the same kind of diary to entertain her brothers and sister: so stories appeared of a visit to the Museum when a small yelling boy got stuck in a big vase; of a visit to a Mesmerist when Aunt Lydia got so mesmerised she had to be revived with brandy; stories of a new puppy called Quintus who ate shoes. But at the Academy for Young Ladies in Norfolk Harriet had been shocked to find that her thoughts for THE DEAR READERS OF MY JOURNAL were seized, read, commented on, and destroyed by her governesses, in the name of propriety.

And then, of course, spring had come.

‘No,’ said Harriet shortly. ‘I’m finished with journals. That is for children.’

Mary closed her eyes again. After a moment she said, ‘Augusta has a beautiful gown but she does look so – dissatisfied. She is in a difficult position, being the eldest sister and unmarried – I suppose she is upset.’

Harriet shrugged. ‘It matters to her so much. Asobel informed me once in the summerhouse that at first they were not going to let Alice marry until Augy did, but Aunt Lucretia was frightened they would lose such a catch as Mr Alfred Miller. And Asobel said to me quite seriously: “I suppose they think Alfred is a fish, Harriet.”’ Both sisters laughed again and Harriet’s normally serious face changed completely, opened up,
like a flower,
Mary thought.
It is not lost then. I have been afraid she had forgotten about laughter.

Up and down the deformed foot Harriet’s hands smoothed and pressed gently. ‘It is so swollen. Does it hurt badly?’

‘It has come a long way,’ said Mary dismissively. ‘Has Augy a young man?’

‘I do not believe so. I think Aunt Lucretia has had wistful hopes for years, as has every family with daughters, of the two eligible sons of the Kingdom family seat – but I understand that success has eluded them so far in that rather illustrious direction.’

‘Good heavens, one hears of the Kingdom brothers in London! But that would be out of the question, surely?’

‘Well, the country seat is nearby; perhaps proximity breeds hope. Aunt Lucretia has known Lady Kingdom for many years apparently, as has Father, they tell me, and the groom’s family is acquainted also – I believe Lady Kingdom’s presence is even hoped for tomorrow. But no sons, the sons are mostly in London.’

‘Poor Augy.’ And both sisters were quiet for a moment.

‘Mary.’ Harriet was looking down at Mary’s foot but she did not see it. ‘Mary, do you suppose the world is divided, not just into rich people and poor people, but into contented and discontented people, no matter what their position? Augusta has always seemed dissatisfied, even when she was a little girl. Do you think – is it possible – that it is something deep inside us, not the things that happen outside us, that is responsible for our – our demeanour? I do not—’ Harriet hesitated very slightly, ‘I do not speak of myself,’ and a shadow flickered for a moment on her face, ‘but of you. You have so many things in your life that might – that might make you much more dissatisfied than Augy. But when I bring you into my head, when I am thinking of you, I see you laughing at things and having a kind of joy.’

For a moment Mary was silent. She loved her younger sister so much but, since the spring, she seemed to have lost the art of comforting her. Mary knew she had, over the years, somehow passed on to Harriet (as well as the memory of the rustling skirts and the laughter in the rose garden) the kind of natural
joie de vivre
that the handsome, uniformed Charles Cooper, who had seemed to promise so much, had dimmed in his wife but not extinguished. Mary knew it was there, in Harriet.

‘I think you have it too, darling, somewhere inside you, that joy of living. Our mother was like that, and we are our mother’s daughters. It is just that—’ and Mary’s voice was suddenly low, ‘—oh darling, it is just that—’

Immediately Harriet’s face went blank and she interrupted. ‘Are Richard and Walter well?’

And Mary acknowledged the interruption with a tiny nod. They could not speak of what was always so heavily on their minds. ‘As much as one can gather. Richard, poor boy, hardly acknowledges my existence so it is difficult to know how he is, exactly. He seems to be involved in a lot of business, like Father, but Richard gets harassed, I am not sure that he manages as well as Father hopes. And I know Walter is getting into trouble at the gaming tables, I have tried to talk to him, but he will not speak of it. I expect Father will have to deal with it, eventually. I think he feels a little gambling will make a man of Walter, but I fear it is more than a little.’ Both girls fell silent.

‘And the letters you have been writing for workmen?’ asked Mary finally.

Harriet recounted to Mary her experiences in the barn at the back of the village. ‘I was frightened.’ Still her hands went backwards and forwards over her sister’s foot. ‘Are you shocked?’ she asked, when she’d finished her story.

‘At you? Or at the room?’

‘I never saw anything like that before. Of course we see poor people all the time in London, you cannot not see them, but I think – I think my eyes slide over them somehow, so as not to see, not to have to think about their lives. But I had not, ever, been into a place before where they actually lived.’ Harriet’s face was very serious. ‘Have you heard of Godfrey’s Cordial?’ she asked at last.

‘Yes. It is treacle, and water, and spices, and opium.’

Harriet’s eyes opened wide. ‘How do you know that?’

Mary answered her obliquely. ‘You know when I go on my walks round London, it is as if, because of my foot, people do not quite notice me, do not bother me. I always wear a shawl over my head, instead of a bonnet, and I think that makes people not see me, just as you say you do not see the poor. It is as if crippled people only exist in the lower classes: there is no such thing as a crippled lady. No, no –
do not
feel sorry for me,’ (for she felt Harriet stir) ‘I think I am
lucky.
You know very well,’ and she tickled Harriet to make her smile, ‘that I think I am lucky that I have managed to escape from much of the calling and the entertaining that young ladies like us are supposed to be involved with,’ and Harriet made a face. ‘At least we are only very minor young ladies,’ Mary added wryly. ‘Imagine what we would have to go through if we were
royal!
But,’ and she sighed, ‘I’m afraid Father hates to feel he is a minor gentleman. That is why of course he was so incensed at the idea of you becoming a governess.’

‘I only wanted to
do
something,’ Harriet flashed angrily.

‘Father strives at all times to be a real gentleman. It is not enough just to be rich. A gentleman’s daughter does not become a governess: governess is a rude word in the society he aspires to. It would reflect so badly on
him.
Likewise a gentleman’s daughter does not have a real education, even if she is crippled and has no prospect of marriage. She will run his house: that is what she has been educated to do. An over-educated daughter would reflect badly on
him.
’ There was a silence in the room: Harriet felt some sort of odd tension in her sister who she knew so well.

Mary moved her foot. ‘Give me your hairbrush, Harriet.’

And Mary began to brush her sister’s hair, as she had always done.

‘But you haven’t told me how you know about Godfrey’s Cordial,’ said Harriet.

‘Well, it is just that when I walk I get to know people, and they tell me things. The draper’s wife in Great Cumberland Place. The bookbinder in the same street – he has shown me the paste and the paper. And I often stop at the Oxford Street Apothecary and wave at him, not because I am ill but because I love the red and blue bottles in the windows and all the lozenges and powders and perfumes. And I took you once, remember? to see Mr Dawson, the second-hand bookseller in Oxford Street where I almost always stop. I love the smell in his shop, that wonderful smell of books. And lately – lately I have been – I have been elsewhere. I say to the servants that I must make a call on Lady Fitchings or Lady Murray. Sometimes I ask Peters to fetch me a hansom cab.’

‘Peters is still there?’ Harriet’s voice was tinged with distaste. Peters was a new manservant their father had hired: both girls felt that he listened at doors.

‘He’s still there. There is no point in saying anything to Father, you know how he absolutely insists on hiring the servants himself. Although,’ and Mary gave her quick, warm smile, ‘one of them I do like, one of the maids, a young girl called Lucy. She is so keen and earnest and she polishes things that have already been polished but when I point this out to her she says she does it “for luck”. She’s very fond of Quintus.’

‘Oh Quintus, I miss him so – how is Quintus?’

‘He is still chasing rats. And Lucy sings to him!’

‘
Sings
to Quintus?’

‘She has a beautiful high, clear voice. I heard her singing to him that she dreamt she dwelt in marble halls with vassals and serfs by her side.’

Harriet laughed.

‘And another time I heard her telling him about Spitalfields!’

‘Was he interested?’

‘Yes, he did seem to be so. He was wagging his tail and he appeared to be smiling. And Lucy can read a bit. She reads to him, very slowly.’

‘What does she read?’

‘Stories of suspense from penny journals:
And then just as darkness fell over the moors the Lord of the Manor appeared before her in the gloom
…’

‘Does Quintus enjoy the stories?’

‘He
loves
them, his ears prick up and he breathes heavily.’

Harriet giggled. ‘And then what happened on the moors?’

‘Just as the Lord of the Manor appeared it said
to be continued next week!
’

Laughter pealed out of the bedroom and along the hall.

‘But darling, Peters. There is something so odd about Peters, the way he creeps about. You know, Harriet,’ Mary stopped brushing, tapped her sister’s shoulder to get her attention, ‘the other day, just before morning prayers, I looked at the servants. They never stand in a group, quite. They stand apart from each other a little as if they do not quite like, or trust, each other. And for a moment, in their black and white uniforms, they reminded me of a chess set,’ and Mary began to laugh again, ‘the white starched aprons and caps and the black jackets of the footmen and the butlers, and Peters’ white gloves. I would have liked to push them around a board, the new maids are the pawns, Peters is a thin, suspicious bishop
to be continued next week
…’ As the laughter subsided she added, ‘Father is the King, of course.’

‘Where do you go in this hansom cab that Peters orders for you?’

Mary paused for just a moment before she answered, made several brushing strokes. ‘I go to Seven Dials.’

There was a sudden, frightened silence in the room.

‘No, Harriet darling, listen to me. The cholera epidemic is worse than we suppose. People like us can perhaps be of use.’

‘Mary!’ Harriet turned right round, looked at her sister. ‘Have you been going into poor people’s houses right where the cholera is found?’ Her voice rose wildly in alarm, she saw again the hovel in the town and the small voice coming from the pile of blankets. ‘Mary, how could you be so
foolish,
what are you thinking of? You could put yourself in danger,’ and she threw her arms around her sister and held her, almost weeping. After a moment Mary gently disengaged herself, but still held her sister lightly.

‘Dearest, you have only been away three weeks. I have only been twice.’ She took a deep breath and went on. ‘Harriet, it is not enough just to
be.
I cannot think that God has allowed us to come into his world just to
be.
We are the lucky ones—’ she felt Harriet stiffen, ‘—I mean by that that we do not starve and suffer so, the way many people starve and suffer not a mile from Bryanston Square. It is money only that separates us. Our mother taught me – and perhaps I have not taught you well enough – that it is our duty to help people less fortunate than ourselves, to think of people other than ourselves. My darling, I would stifle if I had to live like Alice or Augusta. I have been extraordinarily lucky in some ways. But I must live my life and now, in some way, be
useful.
’