The Landower Legacy Page 3

  I caught scraps of the conversation.

  "They say she refused to wear a crown."

  "It's to be a bonnet."

  "A bonnet! Fancy!"

  "Hush! Lese-majesty."

  "But it's true. Halifax has told her that the people want a gilding for their money and Rosebery says an Empire should be ruled by a sceptre not a bonnet."

  "Will it really be a bonnet? I don't believe it."

  "Oh yes, the order has gone out. Bonnets and long high dresses without mantle."

  "It will not be much like a royal occasion."

  "My dear, where she is there could be nothing but a royal occasion."

  Captain Carmichael said, and he had a very clear voice which was audible right to the top of the house, "It's true, I hope, that she had insisted on modifying the Prince Consort's rules about divorcees."

  "Yes. Incredible, is it not? She wishes the poor ladies who are innocent parties to divorce to be admitted to the celebrations."

  My father had come out a few seconds before.

  "Reasonable, of course," said the Captain. "Why should they be penalized for what is not their fault?"

  "Immorality should be penalized," said my father.

  "My dear Tressidor," retorted the Captain, "innocent parties are not guilty. How otherwise could they be innocent?"

  "The Prince Consort was right," insisted my father. "He excluded all who were involved in these sordid affairs, and I am glad to say that Salisbury has put his foot down about inviting foreign divorcees."

  "There has to be some human feeling surely," went on the Captain.

  My father said in a very cold voice: "There are principles involved."

  And my mother cut in: "Let us go to dinner, shall we? Why do we stand about here?"

  She was clearly changing the subject and as they started downstairs someone said to her, "I hear you will be at the Ponsonbys'."

  "I was kindly asked by Marcia Sanson. My little girls are so looking forward to it."

  The voices faded away.

  I sat there for some time thinking: I believe that Captain Carmichael and my father do not like each other very much.

  Then I crept into bed, felt my locket safe beneath the pillow and went to sleep.

  We were up early next morning and Miss Bell was very careful with our toilettes. She had long pondered, going through our moderate wardrobes deciding on what garments would best do justice to our mother; she picked bottle green for me and crushed strawberry for Olivia. Our dresses were both made on the same lines with flounced skirts, decorous bodices and sleeves to the elbow. We wore long white stockings and black boots, and carried white gloves, and each of us had a straw hat, mine bearing a green ribbon and Olivia's crushed strawberry.

  We felt very smart. But when we saw our mother we realized how insignificant we were beside her splendour. She looked every bit the "beautiful Mrs. Tressidor." She wore pink, a favourite colour of hers and one which was most becoming. The skirt of her dress was full and flounced and so draped to call attention to a waist, which in that age of small waists, was remarkable. The tightly fitting bodice further accentuated the charm of her figure; she wore a pale cream fichu at the neck which matched the lace at the cuffs of her sleeves. Her hat was the same mingling shades of cream and pink and perched jauntily on the top of her magnificent hair, while its cream-coloured ostrich feather fell over the brim and reached almost to her eyes as though to call attention to their sparkle. She looked young and excited and we all set off in a fever of anticipation.

  The carriage was waiting for us, and Olivia and I sat one on either side of her as we rode out of the square.

  The horses trotted along for a while and my mother suddenly called to the driver: "Blain, I want you to go to Waterloo Place."

  Blain turned in surprise as though he had not heard correctly. "But, Madam . . ." he began.

  She smiled sweetly. "I've changed my mind. Waterloo Place."

  "Very good, Madam," said Blain.

  "Mama," I cried, "are we not going to Lady Ponsonby's?"

  "No, dear. We are going somewhere else instead."

  "But everyone said ..."

  "Plans are changed. I think you will like this place better."

  Her eyes were brimming with mischief and an excitement gripped me. I had an inspiration. I had seen that look in her eyes before, and it recalled a certain person who, I believed, had put it there.

  "Mama," I said thoughtfully, "are we going to see Captain Carmichael?"

  Her cheeks turned pink, which made her prettier than ever.

  "Why? Whatever made you say that?"

  "I just wondered . . . because . . ."

  "Because what?"

  "Does he live in Waterloo Place?"

  "Close by."

  "So it is ..."

  "We shall get a better view there."

  I sat back in my seat. Something had been added to the day.

  He was waiting to greet us, clearly expecting us. I thought it rather odd that we should have set out as for the Ponsonbys' when this must have been arranged the evening before.

  However, I was too excited to think much about it. We were here and that was all that mattered.

  Captain Carmichael's rooms were small compared with ours, but there was a lovable disorder about them which I immediately sensed.

  "Welcome!" he cried. "My lovely ladies, welcome all."

  I liked being referred to as a lovely lady, but it clearly embarrassed Olivia, who was perfectly sure that the description did not fit her.

  "You are in good time," he went on.

  "Which is absolutely necessary if we were to get here," said my mother. "These streets will be closed to traffic soon."

  "The procession will pass this way on the outward journey to the Abbey," he said, "but you will not be able to leave until after it has returned, which pleases me very much, since it will give me more of the most delightful company I know. Now let me show my beauteous ladies the seating accommodation, and I expect the girls would like to watch what is going on in the streets."

  He led us to chairs in the window from which we had a good view of Waterloo Place.

  "The route will be from the Palace through Constitution Hill, Piccadilly, Waterloo Place and Parliament Street to the Abbey, so you are in a good position. Now I daresay you would like some refreshment. I have some very special lemonade for you young people and some little biscuits to go with it—a speciality made for me by my cook, Mr. Fortnum."

  My mother giggled and said: "I believe that to be incorrect. They were made by Mr. Mason."

  "Fortnum or Mason, what matters it?"

  I laughed immoderately because I knew that Fortnum and Mason was a shop in Piccadilly, and Captain Carmichael meant he had bought the biscuits from them.

  "I will come and help you with the lemonade," said my mother.

  I was astonished. The idea of her getting anything was so surprising. At home she would ring if she wanted a cushion for her chair.

  They went out together. Olivia looked a little dismayed.

  "It's exciting," I said.

  "Why did we come here? I thought we were going to the Ponsonbys'. And what does he mean about his cooks? Fortnum and Mason is a shop."

  "Oh, Olivia," I said, "you are so solemn. This is going to be fun."

  They were quite a long time coming with the lemonade and when they did, my mother had removed her hat. She looked flushed but very much at home, and she made a great show of pouring out the lemonade.

  "Luncheon will be served later," said Captain Carmichael.

  I can still remember every moment of that day. There was a certain magic about it, a certain feeling of waiting, like the moment in the theatre when the curtain is about to go up and one is not quite sure what is going to be revealed. But I might have thought that afterwards in view of everything that happened, as one is inclined to do, looking back on important days in one's life, imagining they were pregnant with foreboding ... no, hardly foreboding. I
felt nothing of that, only a tremendous excitement, as though something really important was going to happen.

  There came the great moment when we could hear the approaching procession. I loved the Handel march; it seemed most appropriate; and there she was—a rather disappointing little figure and yes, in a bonnet. True, it was a rather special bonnet, made of lace and sparkling with diamonds, but nevertheless a bonnet. The cheers were deafening, and she sat there acknowledging them now and then with a lift of her hand, not so appreciative as I thought she might have been of this show of excessive loyalty. But it was a wonderful sight. Her carriage was preceded by the Princes of her own House—her sons, sons-in-law and grandsons. I counted them. There were seventeen in all; and the most grand among them was the Queen's son-in-law, Crown Prince Fritz of Prussia, clad in white and silver with the German Eagle on his helmet.

  There was procession after procession. I was thrilled by the sight of the Indian Princes in their magnificent robes sparkling with jewels. There were among them envoys from Europe, four Kings—those of Saxony, Belgium, Denmark and the Hellenes; and Greece, Portugal, Sweden and Austria—like Prussia—had sent their Crown Princes.

  The whole world, it seemed on that day, was determined to pay homage to the little old lady in her lace and diamond bonnet, who had reigned for fifty years.

  Even when the procession had passed, I still felt dazed by the spectacle; the music was still ringing in my ears, and I could still see the magnificently caparisoned horses and their brilliant riders while my mother disappeared with the Captain, having mentioned something about luncheon.

  The Captain wheeled in a trolley on which was cold chicken, some crusty bread and a dish of butter.

  He brought a little table to the window. There was just room for the four of us to sit at it. Deftly he covered it with a lacy cloth.

  What a luncheon that was! Later I thought it was like the end of an era, the end of innocence. That delicious cold chicken was like tasting the tree of knowledge.

  The Captain opened a bottle which had been standing in a bucket of ice, and he produced four glasses.

  "Do you think they should?" asked my mother.

  "Just a thimbleful."

  The thimblefuls were half glasses. I sipped the fuzzy liquid in ecstasy, and felt intoxicated with a very special sort of happiness. The world seemed wonderful and I envisioned this as the beginning of a new existence when Olivia and I became our mother's dearest friends; we accompanied her on expeditions such as this one which she and the Captain between them conspired to arrange for our delight.

  Crowds were beginning to gather in the streets below and now that the procession had passed the streets were no longer closed to traffic.

  "On the return journey from the Abbey to the Palace she will go via Whitehall and the Mall," said the Captain, "so the rest of the day is ours."

  "We must not be back too late," said my mother.

  "My dear, the streets will be impassable just now and will be for some time. We're safe in our eyrie."

  We all laughed. Indeed, we were laughing a good deal and at nothing in particular which is perhaps the expression of real happiness.

  The sound of voices below was muted and remote—outside our magic circle. Captain Carmichael talked all the time and we laughed; he made us talk too, and even Olivia did ... a little. Our mother seemed like a different person; every now and then she would say "Jock!" in a tone of mock reproof which even Olivia guessed was a form of endearment.

  Jock Carmichael told us about the Army and what it was like to serve in it. He had been overseas many times and expected to go to India. He looked at our mother and a faint sadness touched them both —but that was for the future and seemed too far away to worry about.

  He was an old friend of the family, he told us. "Why, I knew your mother before you were born." He looked at me when he said that. "And then ... I was sent to the Sudan, and I didn't see any of you for a long time." He smiled at my mother. "And when I came back it seemed as if I had never been away."

  Olivia was having difficulty in keeping her eyes open. I felt the same. A dreamy contentment was creeping over me, but I fought hard against sleep, as I did not want to lose a moment of that enchanted afternoon.

  Then the street life burst forth. A hurdy-gurdy had appeared and was playing tunes from The Mikado and The Pirates of Penzance. People started singing and dancing; the hurdy-gurdy was rivalled by a one-man band, a versatile performer who carried pan-pipes fixed under his mouth, a drum on his back—to be beaten by a stick tied to his elbows; cymbals on his drum were clashed by a string attached to his knees; and he carried a triangle. The dexterity with which he performed won the great admiration of all, and the pennies rattled into the hat at his feet.

  There was one man selling pamphlets. "Fifty Glorious Years," he called. "Read about the Life of Her Majesty the Queen." There were two gipsy women, dark-skinned with big brass earrings and red bandanna handkerchiefs tied about their heads. "Read your fortune, ladies. Cross the palm with silver and a fine fortune will be yours." Then came the clown on stilts—a comical figure who made the children scream with delight as he stumped through the crowds, so tall that he could bring his hat right up to the windows. We dropped coins into it; he grinned and bowed—no mean feat on stilts—and hobbled away.

  It was a happy scene—everyone intent on enjoying the day.

  "You see," said Captain Carmichael, "how impossible it would be to get through the streets just yet."

  Then the tragedy occurred.

  Two or three horsemen had made a way for themselves through the crowds who good-naturedly allowed them to pass through.

  At that moment another rider came into the square. I knew enough about horses to see at once that he was not in control of the animal. The horse paused a fraction of a second, his ear cocked, and I was sure that the masses of people in the square and the noise they were creating alarmed him.

  He lifted his front legs and swayed blindly; then he lowered his head and charged into the crowd. There was a shout; someone fell. I saw the rider desperately trying to maintain control before he was thrown into the air. There was a hushed silence and then the screams broke out; the horse had gone mad and was dashing blindly through the crowds.

  We stared in horror. Captain Carmichael made for the door, but my mother clung to his arm.

  "No! No!" she cried. "No, Jock. It's unsafe down there."

  "The poor creature has gone wild with terror. He only needs proper handling."

  "No, Jock, no!"

  My attention had turned from the square to those two—she was clinging to his arm, begging him not to go down.

  When I looked again the horse had fallen. There was chaos. Several people had been hurt. Some were shouting, some were crying; the happy scene had become one of tragedy.

  "There is nothing, nothing you can do," sobbed my mother. "Oh, Jock, please stay with us. I couldn't bear ..."

  Olivia, who loved horses as much as I did, was weeping for the poor animal.

  Some men had arrived on horseback and there were people with stretchers. I tried not to hear the shot as it rang out. I knew it was the best thing possible for the horse who must have injured himself too badly to recover.

  The police had arrived. The streets were cleared. A hush had fallen on us all. What an end to a day of rejoicing.

  Captain Carmichael tried to be merry again.

  "It's life," he said ruefully.

  It was late afternoon when the carriage took us home. In the carriage my mother sat between Olivia and me and put an arm around each of us.

  "Let's remember only the nice things," she said. "It was wonderful, wasn't it ... before ..."

  We agreed that it had been.

  "And you saw the Queen and all the Kings and Princes. You'll always remember that part, won't you? Don't let's think about the accident, eh? Don't let's even talk about it ... to anyone."

  We agreed that would be best.

  The next day Miss Bell to
ok us for a walk in the Park. Everywhere there were tents for the poor children who were gathered there—thirty thousand of them, and to the strains of military bands each child was presented with a currant bun and a mug of milk. The mugs were a gift to them—Jubilee mugs inscribed to the glory of the great Queen.

  "They will remember it forever," said Miss Bell. "As we all shall." And she talked about the Kings and Princes and told us a little about the countries from which they came, exercising her talent for turning every event into a lesson.

  It was all very interesting and neither Olivia nor I mentioned the accident. I heard some of the servants discussing it.

  " 'ere, d'you know. There was a terrible accident . . . near Waterloo Place, they say. An 'orse run wild . . . 'undreds was 'urt, and had to be took to 'ospital."

  "Horses," said her companion. "In the streets. Ought not to be allowed."

  "Well, 'ow'd you get about without 'em, eh?"

  "They shouldn't be allowed to run wild, that's what."

  I resisted the temptation to join in and tell them that I had been a spectator. Somewhere at the back of my mind was the knowledge that it would be dangerous to do so.

  It was late afternoon. My mother, I think, was preparing for dinner. There were no guests that evening, but even so preparations were always lengthy—guests or no guests. She and my father would dine alone at the big dining table at which I had never sat. Olivia reminded me that when we "came out," which would be when we were seventeen, we should dine there with our parents. I was rather fond of my food and I could not imagine anything more likely to rob me of my appetite than to be obliged to eat under the eyes of my father. But the prospect was so far in the future that it did not greatly disturb me.

  It must have been about seven o'clock. I was on the way to the schoolroom where we had our meals with Miss Bell—we always partook of bread and butter and a glass of milk before retiring—when to my horror I came face to face with my father. I almost ran into him and pulled up sharply as he loomed up before me.

  "Oh," he said. "Caroline." As though he had to give a little thought to the matter before he could remember my name.

  "Good evening, Papa," I said.