consult a globe because I could track Henry’s journey to Pest. But nothing much else happened in the Baltic, either. Our navy’s job, said Father, was to crush the Russian fleet. I imagined a flotilla of little wooden boats all in splinters. Our troops, meanwhile, were landed in Constantinople (a sheet of parchment, soaked in tea, upon which I wrote a recklessly abbreviated history of that ancient city). At the end of April Father suggested I draw another map, this time of the Mediterranean, with arrows to mark the trade routes, showing why the Russians must not be allowed to take Constantinople from the Turks. If they did, he said, our entire empire was at stake, including India, because bullying Russia would be able eventually to march away with the lot. On the next page I drew a steamship. A journey to the Black Sea took eight days by steam, a month by sail. A long explanation by Father followed, including a diagram, labeled by me, of how the giant screws were turned by steam to work the paddles.
After that I lost interest and instead returned to the much more rewarding project of embroidering flower motifs on the governesses’ hand-towels, to match the pillow-cases. The opening of the home had been put back to early July, because no reliable relief matron could be found, which gave me more time to prepare a little entertainment for the assembled residents and dignitaries. I had chosen to sing “Where E’er You Walk,” though the accompaniment was very tricky. These particular lyrics were appropriate, we thought, to the governesses, particularly the trees crowding into a shade, though not perhaps the implied romance. When I thought of green glades I imagined the garden at The Elms on leafy summer afternoons.
And then a black-bordered letter arrived from Aunt Isabella, which put the disappointing war, the governesses, and even, for half an hour or so, Henry completely out of my head.
Stukeley Hall May 12, 1854
My dear Sister,
I have dreadful news. My husband is no more. (Tears had fallen on the word more, making it almost illegible.)
I believe Max told you, while in London, that we had little hope. Perhaps, even then, I underestimated the severity of his illness. Since December, when he fell from his horse in that unspeakable lane, he has required constant nursing and scarcely left his room. I am worn to a shadow of myself.
The terms of the will are not in my favor. I am bearing up, I expected nothing, but it seems very hard, after all ...(more tears, the next line an illegible smear) The estate, Stukeley, all goes to Horatio, and as you know over the years that young man and I have had our differences. Maximilian is to have a small income but Rosa and I, it seems, are nearly destitute. We have what we stand up in, little more. It’s very hard... I don’t understand how...
Dear Sister, I am so weak I can scarcely raise my head from the pillow but I cannot bear to live in this house another minute where I am not welcome and where I have so many, many memories which rise up to torment me at every turn. You would think, after all I’ve done for his father ...
Rosa urged me to write. A change of scene, she says, may be my only hope. We are coming, dear Sister, to London. I never thought...
Here my aunt’s writing faded out altogether. Instead, in a much firmer, larger hand, Cousin Rosa had written:
We are sorry to give you no warning. The truth is we can’t stand it here another minute. We’ ll take the nine-fifteen train from Derby on Friday next (19th). We won’t be any trouble because Mother will bring her maid, Nora. We should be with you by early evening. Rosa.
Since Mother was preoccupied with the governesses, preparations for our visitors were left to me and the task was daunting. Rosa and her mother were used to the airy spaces of Stukeley Hall: marble floors, Turkish rugs, vistas of spreading lawns, gushing fountains, and walled gardens. Fosse House, Clapham, built by Father to
After that I lost interest and instead returned to the much more rewarding project of embroidering flower motifs on the governesses’ hand-towels, to match the pillow-cases. The opening of the home had been put back to early July, because no reliable relief matron could be found, which gave me more time to prepare a little entertainment for the assembled residents and dignitaries. I had chosen to sing “Where E’er You Walk,” though the accompaniment was very tricky. These particular lyrics were appropriate, we thought, to the governesses, particularly the trees crowding into a shade, though not perhaps the implied romance. When I thought of green glades I imagined the garden at The Elms on leafy summer afternoons.
And then a black-bordered letter arrived from Aunt Isabella, which put the disappointing war, the governesses, and even, for half an hour or so, Henry completely out of my head.
Stukeley Hall May 12, 1854
My dear Sister,
I have dreadful news. My husband is no more. (Tears had fallen on the word more, making it almost illegible.)
I believe Max told you, while in London, that we had little hope. Perhaps, even then, I underestimated the severity of his illness. Since December, when he fell from his horse in that unspeakable lane, he has required constant nursing and scarcely left his room. I am worn to a shadow of myself.
The terms of the will are not in my favor. I am bearing up, I expected nothing, but it seems very hard, after all ...(more tears, the next line an illegible smear) The estate, Stukeley, all goes to Horatio, and as you know over the years that young man and I have had our differences. Maximilian is to have a small income but Rosa and I, it seems, are nearly destitute. We have what we stand up in, little more. It’s very hard... I don’t understand how...
Dear Sister, I am so weak I can scarcely raise my head from the pillow but I cannot bear to live in this house another minute where I am not welcome and where I have so many, many memories which rise up to torment me at every turn. You would think, after all I’ve done for his father ...
Rosa urged me to write. A change of scene, she says, may be my only hope. We are coming, dear Sister, to London. I never thought...
Here my aunt’s writing faded out altogether. Instead, in a much firmer, larger hand, Cousin Rosa had written:
We are sorry to give you no warning. The truth is we can’t stand it here another minute. We’ ll take the nine-fifteen train from Derby on Friday next (19th). We won’t be any trouble because Mother will bring her maid, Nora. We should be with you by early evening. Rosa.
Since Mother was preoccupied with the governesses, preparations for our visitors were left to me and the task was daunting. Rosa and her mother were used to the airy spaces of Stukeley Hall: marble floors, Turkish rugs, vistas of spreading lawns, gushing fountains, and walled gardens. Fosse House, Clapham, built by Father to
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