daughter of a successful merchant, married him for the potential she saw in his title: he married her for her wealth. He presented her to the King, where from gratitude of her husband’s fidelity to the crown, she was offered a posting in Queen Charlotte’s court. Papa promptly returned to sea, making only infrequent visits to England which resulted in Simon, myself, and Anne – in that order – and we grew up as orphans in the reign of mad King George III.
Prudent investing of Mother’s money had made us prosperous. Our house and estates – Simon’s inheritance – were well maintained and brought steady income: our tenants were happy and healthy.
Yet these were difficult times for England under the reign of a King whose declining sanity resulted in public faux pas at best. In this age of debauchery, despotism and unrest, he was known to be utterly faithful, even boring, though his eldest son, George IV, was the opposite. Prinnie to his chums, was extravagant, impulsive and known to have a fondness for the ladies. It was to this group that Mother gravitated.
Meanwhile, across the Channel, the French had executed their King and much of their aristocracy and at the turn of the century Napoleon Bonaparte had proclaimed himself Emperor of France. By 1803, England was again under French attack – by Napoleon’s Continental System, intended to cause considerable damage to Britain’s trade.
But I was only a child and content to be so. My brother, sister and I ensconced in our country home in Yorkshire, were blissfully unaware of the future gaping before us and how European events would shape our lives.
And this night, after Mother’s unexpected return, I drifted on the cusp of sleep, and was vaguely aware of the lady gliding silently through my room. I cannot recall when it was that I first saw her. It seemed that she had always been there, floating without a sound from room to room with a strange, purposeful expression. I never thought of her as a ghost, for weren’t ghosts expected to frighten you? And she was pretty, if somewhat oddly clothed …
And while I lay there, stirring restlessly, the winds of change swirled and cried about our house.
CHAPTER 2
The following morning, I rose at my customarily early hour to wash and dress. Janet assisted with the numerous buttons up the back of my gown but made no attempt to dress my hair – for it, like Medusa’s, had a life of its own and persistently escaped pins and ribbons to riot in coiling tendrils about my face. Anne, conversely, demanded her hair be coiffed every morning as though a visit from Queen Charlotte herself was expected.
Following Janet into my sister’s room I found Anne before her mirror – 13 years and already the coquette! “Good morning, sister,” she greeted me brightly. I watched her preening – preferring to squint into the mirror than wear spectacles – as Janet brushed her glorious mane and twisted it into a shining plaited rope that hung down her back.
My sister was a rich brunette with dazzling hazel eyes and a rose complexion. Her leaning towards plumpness would doubtless see her become a voluptuous beauty, though Simon and I, faithful to sibling tradition, teased her endlessly with chants of, “Butterball! Butterball!” Anne, seemingly the quietest of us, exacted her revenge last week by filling my riding boot with custard – a reprisal I discovered by squelching my stockinged foot into it.
“You seem to have recovered well,” I said, thinking that Simon’s cynicism about Anne was warranted.
Her face fell dramatically, “Oh Alex, I’m trying so hard to be brave.”
“I see. In any case, it will be lessons as normal this morning so I trust your bravery holds out.”
She wrinkled her pert nose. “Lessons … pooh! Who needs lessons? Soon, Mother will obtain a position for me at court. I shan’t need lessons then.” Her musical voice and sibilant lisp were not affectations but she was already aware of their power. The stable lads, target practice for her as yet imperfect skills, tumbled over each other like puppies for a mere second of her attention.
“It appears there’s no court position for Mother let alone you and besides, you know if you don’t attend lessons Master Baxter will report it to her.”
“Mother won’t be home long and when she returns to London, she’ll doubtless take me with her. You’ll be sorry you poked fun at me.”
“Ooh you’re a right one, young Miss,” Janet said, angling a wink in my direction and tying off the plait with a silk ribbon, the same lilac shade as Anne’s dress. “Come get a wriggle-on. If you stare into that glass any longer you’ll wear it out.”
Simon was already seated at the breakfast table as Anne and I entered. Cook was laying out a basket of freshly-baked bread and a bowl of honey. The spherical woman greeted us with a broad-faced grin.
“Where’s Beth?” I asked, setting my napkin over my lap.
“Abed, Miss Alex, with the ‘ead cold. There’s fruit compote for any wantin’ it.”
“Thank you, Cook,” Anne said feebly, “but I haven’t much appetite today.”
Simon looked at her. “Unwell, Annie?”
I snorted scornfully, “She was well enough two minutes ago. Stop the theatrics Anne.” I turned to Cook, “Compote would be lovely, thank you.”
Anne made a face at me and poured herself a cup of tea. Undeterred, I dripped honey on a hunk of bread and applied myself with great enthusiasm, taking perverse pleasure in forgetting my table manners before Cook. She was constantly reminding me of my birth station and my mother’s expectation of a good husband for me. “Yer name will count for naught if yer cannot eat like a lady,” she warned as she returned with a steaming bowl of stewed fruits. “What gentleman will want yer for his wife if yer shovel food into yer gob like a smithy shovelling coal?”
Simon leaned over and commented sotto voce, “Or Agnes shovelling swill.” I erupted with mirth at Simon’s reference to our scullery maid, whose father was a local pig-farmer.
Cook shook her head and made a tutting sound. “Sir Simon, I’d expect better from yer. As lord an’ master, yer needs to learn respect for those beneath yer.”
“As lord and master, Mistress Cook, you needs must learn respect for me,” he responded in mock pomposity.
Immediately the large woman dropped to her knees, her pinny twisting in her hands, “Oh kind sir, pray have mercy upon a lowly matron such as I!” Then, hauling herself upright, she glared ruddy-faced around the table. “Get on with them meals yer disagreeable lot before I take the broomstick to yer!” We broke into laughter as Cook haughtily returned to the kitchen.
Lessons were conducted in the library where sharp-faced Master Baxter reigned. My papa had been more liberal than his contemporaries and had instructed Master Baxter to expose Anne and me to the same subjects as Simon. Consequently, our lessons included history, Latin, English literature, music and mathematics. I was good at history and literature, but I excelled with figures which, though amusing, was useless since I was destined to make a good marriage, breed children to further my future husband’s line, and fall in love – probably in that order. I should have no use for mathematics.
Twice weekly, music and dance were included in our curriculum. The day following Mother’s return Master Baxter, repairing to the parlour, stationed himself at the piano
