The Scarlet Nightingale Page 4

George Colman, the Younger, The Heir at Law, 1797

  ‘But why can’t I stay there? There’s plenty for me to do. I like working on the farm with the men, and riding my horse in the afternoons.’

  ‘Now don’t be ridiculous, dear. You couldn’t possibly live there alone and you’re most certainly not old enough to manage a farm.’

  ‘I’ve got Semo – Celine, I mean. She can help.’

  ‘You are seventeen. Even with Celine at your elbow you cannot run a farm. And, the entailment means it is no longer yours anyway. It passes to your cousin James.’

  ‘Second cousin. I don’t even know him. I’ve never met him …’ Rosamund’s lip began to tremble.

  Her aunt Venetia, sitting up in bed in her house in Eaton Square, patted the counterpane beside her. ‘Come here. Come along. Dry your eyes and let’s talk things through.’

  The sudden and unexpected death of both her parents had precipitated a dramatic change in Rosamund’s circumstances. She had never thought of living anywhere other than Devonshire; she had never needed to. The life of long summer days and brisk winter walks inspired by a raging sea contributed to a scenario she expected to go on forever. But all that had changed almost overnight.

  She remembered her father talking about her ‘going up to London, to your aunt Venetia’s’ on several occasions, but that had always seemed far ahead in the future, and when she had asked why she must do so, he had murmured something about being ‘finished off’ and ‘prepared’ – but prepared for what he never seemed to have got round to explaining. Now here she was, bundled off to London within the week and given shelter by her aunt. Heaven knows what her mother would have thought, for her mother and Venetia had never got along – the one a dyed-in-the-wool puritan, the other a hedonistic pleasure seeker.

  Venetia, Lady Reeves, was Valentine Hanbury’s sister. Unlike her brother, she had married young and had married well – an ageing baronet who had conveniently died within a few years of their union, leaving her with a house in Eaton Square and a generous income for life. It was just as well, for Venetia had expensive tastes; tastes which she indulged on a regular basis – boxes at the opera, dinners at The Ritz and frequent jaunts to Venice, Florence and Paris, her watering holes of choice. She breakfasted in bed and seldom rose before eleven, filling her afternoons with shopping trips and tea parties, as befitted the widow of an admittedly obscure and relatively minor member of the British aristocracy. She was a snob, but a fair one, and she would have no truck with those who were mean-spirited or who treated their servants poorly. Good manners were, to her, the stuff of life, and although she appeared to do very little of a practical and purposeful nature, she was a minor player in a game whose prime exponents were society hostesses of the calibre of Edith, Lady Londonderry, Sybil Colefax and Emerald Cunard, and she enjoyed to the full her subtle role as a facilitator of such productive encounters, albeit on a slightly lowlier plane than that of her more notorious counterparts.

  Propped up against her lace-edged pillows in her second-floor bedroom, and framed by an elaborately tasselled half-tester whose passementerie alone must have taken up half the life of several dexterous needlewomen, Venetia patted her silver grey hair into place, drew her silk wrap over her shoulders and took the small and poorly manicured hand of her niece in hers. She stroked it gently, endeavouring to pacify this slip of a country girl, and at the same time wondering if she would ever be able to turn her into a lady. For that had been her brother’s intention. He had spoken to Venetia only a few weeks before his tragic death, explaining that he was worried that his daughter’s sights were set on unsuitable goals. It was his own fault, he’d admitted: allowing her to roam at will through the Devonshire countryside, to make her own amusement, to go her own way, to spend her days in the company of cowmen and stable lads. She had had one suitable companion in another local landowner’s daughter, but Diana Molyneux had been shipped off to London and perhaps that was the moment when he, too, should have taken matters in hand. Valentine had explained that he had done his best with Rosamund’s education – thanks to Celine she had become fluent in French, and a tutor he had engaged had filled in other academic gaps. She was surprisingly literate, spending her evenings making up fanciful stories which she copied down in notebook after notebook in her neat italic script, but when it came to wider society, he knew that his daughter was poorly prepared. What did Venetia think he should do?

  Venetia had been quite clear about what he should do. He should send the girl to live with her in London. She had no shortage of accommodation, she had a butler, a cook and a maid, and if Celine came with her, the child would have a companion and Venetia would be able to make use of the girl’s governess around the house, where another pair of hands would certainly come in useful.

  The fact that events had caused all this to come to pass so quickly was unfortunate – tragic – but at least there had been some sort of plan in place and the fact that it was being executed sooner rather than later would, in the long term, probably prove beneficial to the girl’s ultimate development.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’ Venetia stroked the rough skin at the back of Rosamund’s hand. ‘None of us saw this coming, but come it has and I fear we will have to make the best of it.’

  Venetia watched as Rosamund gazed transfixed at the pattern on the counterpane – an elaborate mixture of intertwined leaves and rosebuds. Only a few days ago, the poor thing had been looking at real ones on the sun-drenched walls of Daneway; now, here she was in the heart of London, so far from sea and field, from woodland and stream; the prospect must seem worse than death itself.

  ‘I know how much you loved Devonshire. And I know why. I was a country girl once myself, remember. I was brought up there with your father. It is a special place; a place for dreaming and for feeling at one with nature. Looking at me lying here in my bed, you are probably wondering how I can possibly know how you are feeling, but I, too, rode horses along the beach and had picnics on the sand.’

  Rosamund looked up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Venetia’s eyes took on a dreamy quality as she reminisced. ‘I thought I should stay there forever. But then I began to feel some kind of unease; a feeling that I was missing something. That there was a life outside my own that could offer me untold riches.’

  Rosamund pulled back a little and glanced about the room – at the fine furniture, the paintings and sumptuous fabrics that seemed to envelope her aunt in a kind of luxurious cocoon.

  Venetia saw what was going through Rosamund’s mind. ‘No, not these sorts of riches, lovely as they are. But the riches of society in its true sense. Meeting people, finding out their likes and dislikes, observing their sensibilities and being conscious and considerate of them.’ Then, seeing her niece’s wide-eyed expression, ‘I know it makes no sense to you whatsoever at the moment, but it will. You will meet new people …’

  ‘But I’m not sure I want to …’

  ‘Oh, you will. It will be hard at first. You will feel like a fish out of water. I know I did. There were times when I wanted to bolt back to Devonshire and leave the city – and the people – behind. But you must remember one thing: Devonshire will always be there. No one is going to take it away …’

  ‘But they have taken it away,’ interrupted Rosamund. ‘Taken it away completely—’

  Her aunt cut in: ‘Your father has left you an annual income which will make sure you want for very little – for the foreseeable future, anyway. And the sea will still be yours, and the sand, and the combe, and the stream. No one really “owns” them, you know. You can still keep them in your heart, no one can stop that – not an entailment, not an Act of Parliament, not anything.’

  Venetia lifted Rosamund’s chin and fixed her with a knowing gaze. ‘When you look around this room, you will probably think that I am a materialistic sort of aunt. One who revels in possessions. I enjoy them, it’s true, and I am lucky enough to live a life of comparative luxury. But I do not regard it as an entitlement,
and I know that one day, when I pass out of this world, I can take none of it with me. I am a custodian; I look after these things while I am here, and when I am gone, it will be someone else’s pleasure to take care of them for the generations that follow.’

  Venetia saw the tears welling in Rosamund’s eyes. She curved her arm around the girl’s neck and drew the small, blonde head on to her shoulder. ‘You’ve had a great shock, my child. A very great shock. Your entire world has fallen apart and you have been expelled from the one place you knew and loved more than any other. That cannot be helped. But what can be helped is where we go from here. I can’t bring Daneway back to you, but I can show you the alternatives. I can open your eyes to what else is out there.’

  Rosamund sat up and made to protest, but Venetia interrupted her. ‘Your father made me promise that I would help, and help I shall. Celine has come with you, so you will not be entirely alone, and the things you find you cannot say to me, you will be able to confide in her when you are alone together.’

  Taking both of Rosamund’s hands in her own, she fixed her with a penetrating gaze and asked, ‘So. Are you prepared to give it a go, or are you going to sulk and pine for Devonshire for the rest of your life?’

  Before Rosamund could speak, Venetia added: ‘It would be such a waste, you know. There is a whole world out there for you to explore, and it is a world that is – at the moment I am afraid – full of unrest. But no one is going to improve matters except us. The politicians may do what they will, but it really is down to you and me to make the best of our own lot. If we really do “come this way only once”, then we need to make the best of it, don’t you think?’

  It was Celine more than anyone who guided Rosamund through the darkness. It was she who knew her charge inside out – her strengths, her weaknesses, her abilities and her failings. Seventeen years of companionship had taught her when to intervene and when to leave well alone. For the most part she listened, and in the first few weeks there was little to listen to, for Rosamund went into herself more than Celine had ever known. But just by being there, by occasionally simply putting her arm around Rosamund and holding her as she sobbed silently, Celine took on the role of mender.

  It was Celine who brought the meals that remained uneaten, the cups of tea that remained un-drunk, and who laid out the clothes that were not worn. It was she who dared to enter the room and open the curtains and explain that the sun was shining, until eventually the cloud of sorrow, while not disappearing, did begin to lift a little.

  I remember feeling as though life as I knew it had ended. Well, it had, of course. But my aunt Venetia, in spite of her apparent love of the finer and more frivolous things in life, was a wise old bird. She knew that if she did not chivvy me along then I would go back into myself and become a sullen, sulky girl who was unlikely to make anything of herself at all. I wanted to protest, but it did occur to me that my aunt’s summary of the situation was probably an accurate one. I went back to my room and pulled from the drawer a small wooden box filled with some of the seashells I had collected as a child. They were my one tangible connection with Devonshire; a touchstone, if you like. But I knew that I must move on; I would keep them forever and remember my roots, but I had to look forwards and, as my aunt said, make something of myself. I suppose I did in a way …

  Not that it happened all at once. Night after night I would sit on the wide window seat of my bedroom that overlooked Eaton Square, watching people coming and going from the opera or from supper and dinner parties. It seemed that I spent much of my childhood and youth sitting in window seats watching the world go by. But the view from this one was quite different from the one in Devonshire.

  I would hear voices below me in the house, and the sound of laughter. I wanted nothing to do with it at first and my aunt, very sensibly, did not force me to be present at her gatherings and tea parties. At least, not for a while. I suppose she knew that it would take time, and she was prepared to give me a chance to come round. After all, any child who has lost both parents at once – and I was really still a child at seventeen, not at all what we would now call ‘streetwise’ – needs to be given space to come to terms with their loss. Without Celine I would have taken so much longer to come round to the belief that life was still worth living, for it was she more than anyone who gave me the impetus to pull myself together. I have no doubt that she and my aunt had many discussions on how best to sort me out. Eventually, between the two of them, they worked their magic.

  It all began rather gently. About a month after we had arrived, Aunt Venetia would invite me to take tea with her in the afternoons in her drawing room. She was alone at first, then perhaps one of her friends would come to join us. I was paralysed with fear to begin with. Yes, I had been taught good table manners and suchlike – what my aunt would call ‘the social graces’ – but I had very little in the way of conversation about current affairs or … well … almost anything of any interest to men and women of the world. Naïve as I was, nevertheless I knew they would not be interested in the finer points of mackerel fishing or the harvesting of wheat.

  ‘So do you think we should be a peaceable nation, child, or are you all for going to war?’

  It was the first time in her life that anyone had asked Rosamund for an opinion on a matter of national importance. The questioner was Lady Felicity Campion, one of Venetia’s friends who was a regular at her afternoon tea parties. She was a silver-haired woman with a ramrod-straight back who would always sit on the very edge of the sofa with her cup in one hand and her saucer in the other. She wore a high toque and a fox fur around her neck over her favourite lavender-blue two-piece suit which clearly owed its cut to a Bruton Street salon. The fox fur would be pulled apart to reveal an impressive three-stranded pearl necklace, which, along with the toque, gave its owner more than a passing resemblance to Queen Mary. Lady Felicity’s voice was equally querulous and intimidating.

  Rosamund felt herself colouring up, but as the room fell silent and her Aunt Venetia glanced at her with a worried look, she was aware that she must respond and not let her down. The three other ladies present all turned towards her with a mixture of expressions that varied from the kindly to the disdainful.

  ‘It rather depends on the outcome of the talks, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Which talks are they, dear?’ asked Lady Felicity.

  ‘The talks between the Prime Minister and Herr Hitler, and whether or not we can trust him.’

  ‘And do you think we can?’

  ‘I’m not certain, but I think it unlikely.’

  ‘Really? So what then? Will you side with Mr Churchill?’

  ‘We have to defend ourselves if we are threatened. I don’t see how we cannot.’ Rosamund was warming to her subject now and saw a gentle smile creeping over her aunt Venetia’s face. ‘And we cannot stand by and see other countries invaded. Surely we have to stand together and help each other in such circumstances. We can’t just turn a blind eye, can we?’

  Just as she was about to launch into an impassioned speech about the responsibilities of a civilised society, Venetia cut in. ‘Yes, well, we all clearly have different feelings but I do think fairness is common to us all. Now then, who’s for a little more seed cake?’

  I learned early on the pitfalls of expressing myself too frequently and too passionately, and so I listened a lot, and handed round the finger sandwiches and iced fancies. I learned about Mr Chamberlain and Mr Churchill and discovered how Aunt Venetia’s friends were divided in their opinions – some supporting Chamberlain, ‘the appeaser’, and others supporting Churchill, whom my aunt referred to as ‘the warmonger’. They talked about Germany having annexed Austria, and then invading Sudetenland – part of Czechoslovakia – which, even to my young ears, seemed quite wrong. It surprised me that Aunt Venetia was not more exercised by it, but I realise now that her acquaintanceship with Lord Halifax – an appeaser and ally of Chamberlain’s – probably coloured her judgement. It was one of those occasions – and ther
e were several – where, much as I came to love her, my aunt and I did not see eye to eye.

  Cities and countries that hitherto I had never heard of came under discussion. I spent time looking at an atlas to work out where all these strange-sounding places were. It was not long before I grasped that even small, sheltered worlds like the one I had inhabited in the West Country would be affected by what went on in these seemingly far distant lands. It was, I suppose, my first realisation that the world could be an unkind place; that not everyone was willing to rub along with the next man. Just as there were school bullies, so there were bullies on the national stage as well, and putting one’s head in the sand and ignoring them was unlikely to make them go away.

  Did I side with Mr Chamberlain or Mr Churchill? In the beginning I was not sure. I most certainly did not want a war that might damage the country I loved so much – which was clearly my aunt Venetia’s point of view – but at the same time I felt so sorry for those people in Austria and Sudetenland whose own country had been taken from them. How would I feel if Hitler had annexed Devonshire? It seems rather simple when put in those terms, but from that moment on I knew I would most certainly fight to protect the land and the people I loved, for if I did not, what was I worth?

  Chapter 4

  LONDON

  SEPTEMBER 1939 – JUNE 1940

  ‘There never was a good war, or a bad peace.’

  Benjamin Franklin, 1783

  ‘Well, I suppose it was inevitable. But I can’t help feeling sorry for dear old Neville Chamberlain. He meant well, but that’s possibly the worst thing to have written on one’s tombstone. I can’t see him lasting long as Prime Minister …’

  It was a Monday morning. Venetia Reeves was in her usual antemeridian position, propped up on her lace-edged pillows, thumbing through the Daily Sketch, while Rosamund was sitting on the window seat in her aunt’s bedroom, looking out over the square below. Celine was busying herself folding newly washed clothing. It was something Rosamund tried to dissuade her from doing, now that she was of an age where she felt she should undertake the task herself, but Celine had insisted that it was something she had always done and she would be happiest if it could continue that way. At least Rosamund could insist that Celine do the job in the company of her and her aunt, rather than in the laundry room as though she were some kind of skivvy. On this particular morning it had taken longer than usual to discuss the previous day’s news. Mr Chamberlain had addressed the nation via the wireless the day before – Sunday 3rd September. The Germans had invaded Poland. It was a state of affairs, he had explained in a voice of gloomy resignation, which meant that ‘this country is now at war with Germany’.