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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
1862. Growing up in the small seaside town of Cowes on the Isle of Wight, free-spirited Eveline Stanhope feels trapped by the weight of expectation from her well-to-do family. Her mother and two elder sisters would rather she focus her attention on marrying well, preferably to the wealthy Charles Sandham, but Eveline wants more for herself, and the arrival of the railway provides just the cause she's been searching for. Driven by the cherished memories of her late father, Eveline is keen to preserve the landscape he loved so much and becomes closely involved with the project. She forms a growing attachment to engineer Thomas Armitage. But when the railway is complete and Thomas moves on, will Eveline wish to return to the way things were?
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HEATHER COOPER
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Contents
Cowes, Isle of Wight
1862
Chapter One
Eveline is Late for Luncheon
Eveline was making her third attempt to sketch the scene before her: the great cedar tree, the four grey walls that surrounded the garden, the huddle of roofs sloping down toward the shore, and the sea beyond. The two drawings she had made already – neither of which captured the magnificence of the tree, or the light glancing from the water – had floated away from her lap, and eventually the third was discarded also. Somehow she could not bring the sketch to life. She turned to the book, and, reminding herself of her resolution to learn some lines of poetry every day, began to murmur those she had chosen as today’s task.
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley, and of rye …
Eventually, as the warmth of the spring day, and the distant rhythm of the waves, and the lullaby of the words, all combined, her eyes began to droop and the book fell from her hands to join the crumpled sketches lying on the grass below, waking her as it landed. Since she was in fact sitting on the broad branch of a beech tree, and was some twelve feet above the ground, there was nothing for it but to climb down the usual way (this involved the edge of the inner wall, which enclosed the rose garden, the roof of the old potting shed – carefully, here, since there was a glass panel to avoid – and an upturned wheelbarrow) to rescue the book and the unsatisfactory sketches, and once on the ground it occurred to her that she might be wanted indoors. As though to confirm that prickle of conscience, she heard the faint familiar chime of the luncheon bell, and with a small sigh of exasperation, which originated more from her own unproductive morning than from its interruption, she slipped back through the low door in the wall, climbed the steps to the lawns, and crossed the terrace to the house.
Within, all was bustle and energy. Eveline could hear her mother’s and sisters’ voices even as she entered the dining room, raised in animated discussion of whether a cold soup should be served for the dinner tomorrow evening, and if pineapples could be got at this late stage, and if they could how they should be prepared. Her two brothers-in-law were engaged in a good-tempered argument over the merits and demerits of a pair of carriage-horses, which Arthur had recently bought, as his wife had taken a fancy to them, and Bevis suspected of having been less of a bargain than Arthur believed; Daisy and Kitty were whispering together; and her aunt and Miss Angell were engaged in trying to persuade six-year-old Henry that he must eat some bread and butter, and some cold chicken, before he could have any hope of the trifle, which was already on the sideboard in all its alluring splendour of cream and cherries and angelica.
‘Eveline, at last!’ Her mother caught sight of her youngest daughter as she tried to seat herself unobtrusively next to Aunt George. ‘Wherever have you been?’
Eveline knew that this question was largely rhetorical, and she remained silent.
‘Well, it is a cold luncheon today, so there is no harm done, but really, Eveline, your hair!’
Eveline’s hair was, she knew, a source of constant sorrow to her mother. Mrs Stanhope had been famous in her youth for the fair ringlets, which framed her heart-shaped face so becomingly. Her hair was a little faded now and there were streaks of silver among the gold beneath her cap, but even in middle age she was a remarkably pretty woman. Her two elder daughters had inherited her looks to a large extent – Louisa, in particular, as lovely as her mother had once been, and Beatrice, although a little less classically beautiful, possessing the same white sloping shoulders and rosebud mouth – but Eveline had taken after her father. She was taller than her mother and sisters by a head, with dark unruly curls that sprang from any attempt to confine them, and unfashionably strong features: a wide mouth, a straight nose, and heavy brows. She had been miserably conscious of the disappointment this caused to her mother since she was twelve years old, and still occasionally felt awkward and clumsy beside her sisters; but she had talked herself out of minding this very much some years before, and now felt there was something of a relief in not being a beauty. She did not expect compliments; she did not spend hours with her hair twisted into painful rags; she did not feel alarm in walking out without a sunshade; and in all this there was a freedom that she would not now have traded for her sisters’ anxiety about their porcelain skin and smooth shining hair.
‘Your mother is a little anxious about tomorrow’s dinner, my dear,’ said her aunt quietly.
‘Of course. It’s no matter, Aunt George. Although I don’t know why Mama is in such a state; she loves to give dinners, as a general rule.’
‘I think,’ said her aunt carefully, ‘that she is concerned about her mix of guests. She has invited Mr Watson, and the young man who works for him, and she worries that the Sandhams may feel they should not be asked to meet them.’
‘We are a small town here, Aunt, of course we must all meet each other! And the Sandhams are not so very grand.’
‘They are large fish in this small pond, my dear, and they think themselves so. But I have always found Mr Watson’s company more to my taste than that of the Sandhams; he is thoughtful, and has seen a great deal of the world, besides, which is more than one can say of Augusta Sandham, whose horizons are bounded entirely by the stout walls of her house and her estate.’
Eveline sighed. ‘As are mine, Aunt George, are they not?’
Her aunt regarded her gravely. ‘Anyone who reads widely is a citizen of the world, my love, and you are a reader.’
‘I love to read, indeed I do, but that will not do for me. It cannot be enough. I have seen so little. I have been to so few places; hardly beyond this town, and when I do it is to visit other people whom I already know, who have houses very like ours, and eat dinners like ours, and listen to the same music after dinner, and – oh! It is so … confining!’
‘Then you will have to make your own adventures, my dear,’ said her aunt calmly, and turned her attention back to Miss Angell and Henry and the trifle.
Eveline’s plan to spend the rest of the day reading was thwarted by her mother’s saying that she would need her for the afternoon; there was so much to be done for the next day, and Eveline could help her check through the lists of food to be ordered and prepared and decide on the flowers.
‘The roses are not in bloom yet, but jonquils will be perfect. And primulas, perhaps, for the table?’
‘Shall I go and gather them now?’ asked Eveline, seeing a chance to escape from the house presenting itself.
‘No, the morning will be better – and I need you to help me with the seating plan now. Can we put Mr Watson next to Lady Sandham? Will that offend her?’
‘I hardly see how she could be offended by being seated next to a sensible, interesting man.’
Her mother regarded her crossly. ‘You know perfectly well, Evie. Mr Watson is a director of the Railway Company now; and he made his money in shipbuilding. Augusta Sandham thinks herself a great deal too grand to mix with people in trade as a general rule, and only his wealth reconciles her to meeting him at all; and then, he asked me so particularly to invite his young friend who is something clever in the railways, too, that I could not say no.’
‘Are the railways trade, exactly?’
‘Worse than trade,’ said her mother briskly. ‘And the railway is to run alongside the Sandhams’ park, and ruin their peace and spoil their view.’
‘As it will for many people. And Arthur’s fortune came from trade, and they have never minded Arthur; who could?’
‘That is two generations ago, and Arthur is a gentleman; anyone may see that. And then, Evie, although I have invited Mr Watson’s young friend, I do not know him at all, and I understand him to have come from the north – Yorkshire, or some other very cold, bleak place. Heaven knows what Augusta will make of him. She will put on her grandest airs, you may be sure.’
‘Well, put Lady Sandham next to Bevis; he will charm her. And I think if you seat Mr Watson next to Aunt George, he will have a much pleasanter evening.’
‘Are you trying to match-make, Evie? Mr Watson and your aunt?’
‘Of course not, Mama! Aunt George would not marry.’
‘She is not so old – a few years older than me, and Mr Watson is a pleasant man, and rich. Would it be so very shocking?’
‘No, not shocking, exactly; but’ – she stopped to consider why the idea was so unwelcome – ‘Aunt George belongs here.’
‘If it is only our wishes that keep her here, then that is a selfish reason. I do not see why she should not have a home of her own, and a husband, if she wishes it.’
‘I think it is you who are matchmaking, Mama.’
‘Nonsense, Evie. It is only that Mr Watson is such a dear friend, and it is so many years since his poor wife died, that I do not like to think of him alone.’
Georgiana was Mr Stanhope’s only sister, his elder by two years, and had come to live with her brother’s family a few years after his marriage. Louisa and Beatrice were very small, and a maiden aunt was certainly a great help to the family in caring for and entertaining two little girls so close in age. Georgiana was too much of a mouthful for the children, and she soon became Aunt George to everyone. When the girls were old enough to need a governess, Miss Angell had arrived; but Aunt George had stayed, and was able to enhance their education by adding Latin and mathematics to Miss Angell’s repertoire of history, French, and watercolours. There seemed to be no rivalry between the two ladies as to their teaching territories, and when Eveline arrived (perhaps a little unexpectedly, for she was born some ten years after Louisa, and nine years after Beatrice) she was duly educated by both as her sisters had been. Miss Angell was much beloved by all the girls, and Aunt George, though she could be acerbic, was a teacher and a companion full of wisdom and merriment in equal measure. When Louisa married at nineteen, and Beatrice the following year, the household seemed quiet and a little melancholy; yet Beatrice was now living only a few streets away, and Louisa, though further off, was a still frequent visitor to her parental home; and the relief from the talk of wedding dresses and lace, which seemed to have obsessed her mother and sisters for so long, was felt by Eveline to be an advantage, at least. She continued to read, to study, to walk with her father along the river learning the names of the flowers and birds, and occasionally she contrived to escape to climb trees, undetected by her mother.
On the eve of Eveline’s thirteenth birthday, however, her life changed. Mr Stanhope had taken his youngest daughter walking along the river path, which led away from the little town, as he so often did, and on their return to the house he had felt tired, and had gone upstairs to rest before the evening meal. At six o’clock Mrs Stanhope had gone to wake him and remind him to dress for dinner – he was inclined to be absent-minded, and to neglect the formalities on which his wife placed a good deal of importance – but he could not be woken, and when Dr Pearson arrived he could do nothing but shake his head sadly and give his opinion that Mr Stanhope’s heart had failed, very suddenly, and in all probability with little pain.
The memories of the year following her father’s death were as blurred as imperfectly remembered dreams: the rustle of the black silk dress her mother wore; the twilight gloom of the house with the blinds all drawn; the falling apart of the household routines, so that meals were forgotten and lessons neglected. Yet, as time passed, her mother began to wear lilac ribbons, there were new curtains in the morning room, and order returned. Eveline still spent her mornings learning whatever her governess and Aunt George had decided to teach her, but the dancing and music teachers who had been engaged when Louisa and Beatrice were growing up were somehow forgotten. Eveline missed most bitterly the walks she had been used to taking with her father – the river path, the sandy flats by the estuary, and the seashore; instead she spent long afternoons curled in the chair in her father’s study where he had used to sit. No one took a great deal of notice of her in there, which suited her very well, and she read her way indiscriminately through her father’s books: Shakespeare and Milton and Shelley and Byron; atlases and herbals; medical textbooks; maps and charts; great tomes with engravings of scenery from Italy, and Egypt, and the Lake Country; treatises on the rotation of crops and diseases of cattle; books with coloured pictures of birds and animals; and tucked away on the higher reaches of the shelves, reachable only by the use of the library steps, a beautiful book with pictures of men and women from the East, naked or in exquisite dress, in gardens full of flowers and on silken cushions, with golden bells on their ankles and jewels about their necks, entwined gracefully together in all sorts of interesting and astonishing ways.
This afternoon, however, there would be no chance to retreat to the sanctuary of the study. After the seating plan was done to Mrs Stanhope’s exacting standards, Eveline was required to mind Daisy and Kitty and Henry while her sisters walked into town in search of shoe roses and scent – Louisa a little condescending now about the shops, which she once found enchanting but compared unfavourably with those in Newport, the town nearest her new home – and Beatrice anxious to learn from her sister what the latest fashion dictated in the wider world. Eveline was fond of her nieces and nephew, but two hours in their company were enough to make her very glad to see her sisters returning. They were delighted with their purchases.
‘New lace gloves, Eveline, look, how pretty! Although a little delicate for you, perhaps, but there were some red silk roses, which might become you,’ said Beatrice.
‘And what will you wear for the dinner tomorrow, Evie?’ asked Louisa, admiring the lace against her wrist.
‘I had not thought,’ said Eveline.
Louisa shrieked at this. ‘Come upstairs – the Angell will take the children now, and we will see what might be suitable. I must say that green thing you have on now does nothing for your looks. And you really must dress well for tomorrow: Charles Sandham will be there, and he is a man of taste, I know.’
Eveline regarded her sister with suspicion.
‘You know him, then?’
‘We met him in town, with his uncle, and were introduced – just back from a grand tour, you know, Italy, Greece, Vienna; oh, wonderful places! He is full of the most interesting stories.’
‘And handsome, too,’ added Beatrice.
Eveline recollected the seating plan for tomorrow’s dinner, and her mother’s insistence that Charles Sandham be seated next to her.
‘Are you and Mama conspiring to marry me to Charles Sandham?’
‘You would be extremely lucky if Charles offered for you, Evie,’ said Louisa briskly. ‘But if you would make an effort – here, sit down, let me try to do something with your hair – one never knows.’
Eveline sighed and submitted to her sister’s ministrations.
Chapter Two
The Dinner Party
The guests were seated. Lady Sandham, as Eveline had predicted, was being charmed by Bevis, who was listening with apparent fascination to her strictures on how a new parlourmaid should be trained. All his attention was focused on her; had she been the most entertaining and beautiful woman in the world, he could have hardly looked more rapt in admiration. This, thought Eveline admiringly, was the secret of Louisa’s husband’s charm: not that he himself was particularly clever or amusing, but that he could make anyone he conversed with feel that they were clever and amusing themselves, because he listened with such attention, and responded so admiringly, and smiled so readily. Mr Watson and Aunt George were engaged in a lively conversation about the latest of Mr Dickens’ novels, and Arthur, seated on the other side of Charles Sandham from Eveline, was engrossing him in the ongoing tale of the carriage-horses. Louisa and Beatrice were either side of Sir William, who looked very well pleased with the arrangement; and their last guest, Mr Armitage, the young man who worked with Mr Watson, although his looks were somewhat forbidding, was listening to Miss Angell’s talk of a design for a new herb garden with no apparent impatience. Mrs Stanhope felt the dinner was going to be a success.
Arthur, having exhausted the carriage-horses once again fell silent, and Charles Sandham turned to Eveline. A nephew, and the sole heir, of Sir William, Charles had been talked of in the neighbourhood, since Eveline could remember, with much interest: said to be a fine boy, and then a handsome man; rumoured to be a little wild, and then forgiven on account of his youth; spoken of variously as cultured, and clever, and sophisticated. Despite all these interesting speculations, however, he had not visited his uncle and aunt for any extended period until this spring, when his university education and subsequent travels abroad had ended. He had come into a modest fortune on attaining his majority, it was said, and lived in London in some style; and he had the expectation of a very substantial fortune from his uncle in the future. Mrs Stanhope’s dinner was, in effect, in his honour, for the Stanhope family had not previously met him, apart from Louisa’s chance encounter, and the Sandhams were among their closest neighbours, and certainly the most important in Mrs Stanhope’s eyes. The estate marched with their own – although the Sandhams’ park was very much larger, and their house very much more grand, and their drive was so very long and sweeping that the two families always paid their visits to each other by carriage, even though Eveline had often thought that, had there been a gate in the high walls that separated their ancestral acres, the distance could have been covered on foot in a great deal less time.
‘The views from this room are very fine, Miss Stanhope,’ Charles began. He gave her a smile, which seemed to combine an acknowledgement of his own good looks, with a slight ruefulness that he should have been so blessed. ‘I see that you look across the lawns down to the sea, and your gardens are most delightful. The prospect puts me in mind a little of Italy. I was there, you know, for some weeks last summer.’
‘I should so love to see Italy, Mr Sandham! But I cannot believe that this view of ours bears any resemblance to the places you have seen.’
‘Oh, of course it is not so fine as the views across the bay of Spezia, for example, or as truly dramatic as those from Ravello.’
Eveline felt all the inadequacy of the very view she had tried to draw yesterday, and how dreary it must be in comparison to the grandeurs he had seen.
‘I should very much like to hear of your travels,’ she said. ‘I understand you have seen a good deal of Europe?’
‘Indeed.’ He flourished his knife and fork expansively. ‘Where shall I start? Well, Miss Stanhope, we crossed to France on a rough sea, to begin with; it was a dangerous beginning! Paris was our first stop, of course, and I spent a month there. We lodged very near the Opera …’
Eveline was entranced by these traveller’s tales. Charles Sandham spoke well, and described the scenery, the fine buildings, the paintings and sculptures, the galleries and gardens, in much detail. He and his party had visited Versailles; crossed the Alps by a high pass; braved the catacombs of Rome; sailed along the Italian coast. She observed his profile as he spoke: fine features, fair curls, hazel eyes. Certainly he was a handsome man. The evening was passing in a far more agreeable way than she had thought possible.
In the drawing room afterwards, however, when the gentlemen had been left to the port and the brandy, the conversation became a great deal more difficult. Lady Sandham, a little deaf and therefore prone to speak more loudly than she was aware of, was seated by Eveline on a small sofa, and taking up a good deal more than her share of the space.
‘This is a very small party, Miss Stanhope. Some of the respectable families are out of town, of course; I suppose the Debournes are gone up to London, so you could not get them.’
‘Mama prefers smaller parties, Lady Sandham,’ said Eveline.
‘Small select parties are always preferable, of course, but it is odd to be meeting these men connected with that dreadful railway. We have known Mr Watson for some time, of course; he was mayor of the town, I recall, years ago, so of course one meets him everywhere, and yet he is not quite …’ She let her voice trail away, as though lost for an exact description of what Mr Watson was not. ‘And the young man with him – your dear mama is so generous in her invitations, is she not? But really, is he, do you think’ – she lowered her voice a fraction, although it retained its general stridency – ‘a gentleman? The way he speaks – so very curious to hear – not quite what we are used to, perhaps …’
‘Mama is indeed hospitable, Lady Sandham,’ said Eveline carefully, ‘and no friend of Mr Watson can ever be unwelcome here; Mr Watson was a dear friend of my father, you know, long before he became a director of the railway, and he speaks so highly of this Mr Armitage, who is the chief engineer, I believe.’
‘Engineer? Indeed,’ said Lady Sandham, raising her eyebrows. ‘How very original. I am quite sure I have never met anyone of that type before.’
‘Well,’ said Eveline firmly, ‘I think we are fortunate in all our guests.’ She caught Aunt George’s eye, who was listening with interest and some amusement.
Lady Sandham began again.
‘And how odd that you should have your old governess to dine with you! In my day the governess would have dined with the other servants.’
Eveline flushed scarlet with annoyance at this, hoping very much that Miss Angell had not overheard.
‘Miss Angell is no longer our governess. She is a dear friend and we are honoured that she dines with us.’
‘You are a very modern young woman, miss.’
‘I hope I am. I would not wish to be an old-fashioned one.’ Eveline stood up. ‘May I fetch you some tea?’ Eveline walked away towards the other side of the room. Aunt George no longer looked amused; she was white with rage.
The gentlemen’s entrance was a relief. Eveline hoped for a further chance to hear Charles talk of Florence and Venice, but his uncle had engaged him in discussion of a yacht he was minded to buy – sailing looked set fair to become Sir William’s latest enthusiasm, for he had heard a rumour that the Prince of Wales was to become a member of the yacht club. She walked to the window; the light was almost gone, and the trees were black silhouettes against an inky sky. The guests would be leaving soon, and she might, she thought, make a sketch from the window of her bedroom of the trees against that sky. Suddenly she was impatient to escape from the chatter and the teacups and horrible Augusta Sandham. She might perhaps plead fatigue, she thought, and took a step towards the door, hoping to steal away unnoticed.
‘You were admiring the night sky, Miss Stanhope?’
She turned, and to her annoyance, found that Mr Armitage was standing at her side, regarding her intently. He had a strong, angular face, with a mouth that looked rather hard and stern. She swallowed her impatience.
‘I was, indeed, admiring it – I was thinking that it would make a fine picture, if I could draw it.’
‘You are an artist, then?’
‘I try, Mr Armitage, but alas, my skill is not what I would wish it to be. I see scenes that I wish to sketch, scenes such as the twilight out there, with the light fading, and the trees so dark and dramatic, but I never quite seem to capture on paper the essence of what I see.’
He seemed to mull this over in silence for a few moments, and then said, ‘I have no such talents, but I admire those who have.’
‘You have other talents, though, Mr Armitage, I understand. Mr Watson has sung your praises to us all. You are a very skilled engineer, he says.’
Mr Armitage nodded briefly, but did not speak.
Eveline sighed; here, it seemed, was a man with even less taste for small talk than she had herself. She cast around for something to say.
‘I hope you are enjoying this evening?’
‘Yes, well enough,’ he said shortly, and then added, ‘but you are perhaps not, Miss Stanhope? I had the distinct impression you were about to leave us.’
‘No, of course not – that is, I have a slight headache.’
‘Then of course you must go.’ He bowed slightly; she could not read his expression. Her mother, however, was regarding her from a few feet away with a very readable face – Mrs Stanhope was all too aware that her youngest daughter was prone to escape from social gatherings on flimsy excuses, and she had seen Eveline’s surreptitious move towards the door.
‘Oh, it is nothing,’ said Eveline reluctantly. She searched afresh for a topic of conversation, since he still gave no indication of doing so. ‘Is the new railway progressing as it should, Mr Armitage? Will we have an end soon to all the digging and noise?’
‘If all goes well, the line will open in under two months. You will be able to travel to Newport with a journey of ten minutes. I hope you will be among the first of the passengers to do so?’
‘Ten minutes?’ She thought of the journey as it was now: the rattle and creaking of the old carriage, the horses tiring as they tackled the long hill, the jolting, the cold in winter. To reach Newport, the town some five miles away, which, a great deal larger than their own little seaside town, could boast finer shops, and a concert hall, and all manner of amusements, was an hour’s journey on a fine day; more when rain and mud prevailed; a whole day when a horse went lame or a wheel came loose.
‘Indeed. And ten trains a day. You will be able to stay there for your shopping and gossiping all day, or just for a half-hour.’
‘Shopping and gossiping, Mr Armitage? Is that your view of women’s occupations?’
‘Or whatever else you may choose to do, of course.’
‘So much destruction seems a high price to pay for such trivial pursuits.’
‘Destruction?’
‘Yes, destruction, of our paths and woodlands and meadows! The walk along the river, so peaceful and beautiful, is all lost now; explosions, great scars across the meadows, the trees felled, a tunnel being gouged out of the hill, and the countryside quite spoilt.’
He looked unconcerned. ‘You want a railway. There is a price. But the countryside will mend.’
‘I am not at all sure that I do want a railway! In fact, I am very sure that many people do not.’
‘You feel much as Lady Sandham does, I collect.’
Eveline, furious at being supposed to think as Augusta Sandham did on any subject at all, promptly lost her temper.
‘You cannot possibly know, Mr Armitage, what effect your railway will have on the people who live here. It may bring advantages for men, and business – although the poor fishermen who live by the river will be ruined, I dare say, now their cottages are quite cut off – but as you have already suggested, it cannot benefit women except by enabling them to be useless and stupid in a wider sphere than before; and the countryside will never again be as it was. You come here from the north and when you leave again you will take no responsibility for what you have inflicted upon us!’
‘I am sorry you should feel so, Miss Stanhope, although it is not my railway. I am an engineer, not the owner of a railway company. Nevertheless, I believe you are wrong, and that it will benefit both men and women. Travel and commerce will be open in a way none of us could previously have dreamt of, and not just to the rich, but to all. It will make a difference to the working people of this country, for the good – it is already happening in other parts of the country – I have seen it.’
He paused, and looked at her sardonically. ‘Although, of course, you are right about one thing; I am from the north, and I will leave again when my work here is done.’ He nodded his head at her, turned, and walked away to where Arthur and Bevis were proposing a game of billiards, which they cordially invited him and Charles to join.
When the guests had gone, and Eveline at last reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, it was past midnight. Jennie, the new maid, yawning and half-asleep herself, jumped up guiltily from the chair by the dying fire.
‘Don’t worry, Jennie, I can manage perfectly well,’ she said. ‘Go to bed. I’m sorry to have kept you up so late.’
She undressed, and prepared for bed, and then wrapped a blanket around herself and sat in the window seat to gaze at the darkness and indulge all her feelings of outrage. Augusta Sandham’s unkindness about dear Miss Angell was horrible; and then that tall man, with his cold gaze and his lack of understanding about what the coming of the railway meant to her, to her family, to their town! She thought of the walk by the river that her father had so often taken with her: her earliest memories were of the sunlight on the water, the coolness of the shade beneath the woods along the banks, and the wild roses towering high above her infant head. In the autumn, they would pick blackberries, and at this time of year, there would have been primroses in great pale drifts beneath the hawthorns, and she would pick bunches for her father, burying her face in the fragrant petals as she gathered them. Next month the May blossom would be out, and the Queen Anne’s lace frothing beside the path, and the bluebells with their ravishing scent. Now that was all torn away; gangs of men had dug and laboured and shouted, rock had been blasted so that the noise echoed over the town, trees had been felled, and the whole glorious stretch of land laid waste. She closed her eyes and leant her head against the wall, trying to take refuge in her memories. Drowsing, she was again by the river with Papa, listening to his voice – ‘and here, Eveline, this is willowherb; the great willowherb, I think, rather than the more usual variety, the rosebay; the dog roses are very fine this year, I notice,’ and he had stopped to write in the notebook he always carried, while Eveline ran ahead, having spotted a red squirrel on the branch of an oak tree ahead. Was she six, or seven? It was midsummer, and so hot that petticoats and stockings and boots and a dress and a bonnet all were encumbrances, and her skirts had wrapped themselves around her ankles as she ran. She came to a break in the trees where there was a little wooden jetty overhanging the water and stopped. A group of boys – a dozen of them, some no older than her, some perhaps ten or twelve – were swimming. Some were splashing in the limpid shallows; some jumping from the edge of the jetty where the water was deep and green; some running down the grassy bank below the path to hurl themselves into the delicious coolness. All were entirely naked.
Eveline had stopped and gazed at the boys. Their thin, pale bodies were foreign to her. Their shouts rose to her ears as her father caught up with her, and they stood together, silent and unseen, watching. She wished with all her heart that she too could take off her clothes and feel the water on her hot skin, could dig bare toes into the soft mud at the water’s edge, could jump and let the river close over her head, and rise up laughing and spluttering and gasping with the cold. No sooner had those wishes formed, however, than she knew, somehow, that she would not be allowed to do so; that Mama and her sisters and Miss Angell and even Aunt George would all regard such a thing as shocking, not to be thought of, forbidden, although she hardly knew why; and she looked up at her father, and knew that he too wished, for a moment, that to swim naked on a summer’s day was not forbidden, while accepting that, for his daughter, it was impossible. They had turned then and walked back, hand in hand, both silent.
Eveline had soon forgotten the scene, or thought she had. Now, though, half-dreaming, she saw again the dimpled water and heard the shouts of the boys by the river. They would be grown, now, those boys; they would be young men − perhaps they were working to build the railway. There had been an accident a few months ago, when part of the new tunnel being driven through the rock had collapsed and a young man working there had died. She had read his name in the newspaper – she had forgotten it now – but he had lived in the town. He might have been swimming in the river on that long-ago summer’s day. She found she was shivering, and climbed into the high bed, but she did not draw the curtains, and she lay awake for a long time watching a crescent moon, sharp and clear and remote, move very slowly across the sky.
Chapter Three
The Professor of Photography
‘Louisa and Bevis are walking into town this morning,’ said Mrs Stanhope, ‘to have their likenesses taken, and Beatrice and Arthur have decided to join them. It will be delightful to have their portraits, and you must not be left out, my dear. Perhaps you could change your dress, Evie; that blue walking costume would look well, I think.’
‘Their portraits? Surely that would mean hours of sitting for the painter, and are they not travelling back tomorrow?’
Mrs Stanhope laughed. ‘Not painted, silly girl! Have you not seen the new establishment in the high street – the Professor of Photography? They are to sit for photographs. I would like all my daughters photographed together – it will be a charming group.’
‘Oh no, really, Mama, I cannot possibly – I have promised to help Aunt George this morning, with … with her plans for the garden, and in any case Louisa and Beatrice will look charming enough without me.’
‘Nonsense, Eveline.’ Her mother could be implacable on occasion. ‘I should like all my daughters photographed together. Now run upstairs, and put on something elegant instead of that green thing.’
Beatrice and Arthur’s house was a handsome villa, much embellished, since their marriage, with stucco columns, and a porch, and a veranda. It was in a less elevated position than the Stanhopes’, and closer to the high street. Louisa, Bevis and Eveline called to collect them on their way to the photographer, and there was a great deal of talk about the previous evening.
‘I thought Charles Sandham delightful,’ said Beatrice. ‘Such an air, such manners! Evie, he talked to you a good deal.’
Louisa and Beatrice exchanged speaking glances.
‘He did seem to like you, Evie,’ said Louisa. ‘And he spoke to me after dinner, at great length – told me of Venice, the palaces and churches built practically in the water, everything just as one has imagined! He certainly is most entertaining.’
‘I liked him very much,’ added Bevis. ‘I have invited him to stay whenever he should care to.’
Louisa looked pleased at this news, although she chided her husband a little for his not having consulted her before issuing an invitation.
‘Really, Bevis, you know we agreed that we should have new furnishings in the drawing room before we have any guests!’
‘Perhaps he will advise us on our choice; he seems to have a fine eye for such things − all that talk of art and so forth! Still, he says the card table and the races are more to his taste, if the truth were known, and we are to play a few hands sometime.’
‘You are not to keep him away from us, Louisa,’ said Beatrice crossly, ‘we are far more in need of entertaining company here than you.’
‘Mr Watson is always a delightful guest, I think,’ said Eveline. ‘He seems almost one of the family, after so many years as a friend. He is glad, I think, that the railway is nearly complete, for he has been so busy as its director, and once it is done he intends to devote his time to reading and fishing.’
‘Oh, he is a dear man.’ This from Louisa. ‘But the young man who accompanied him – what can Mama have been thinking to invite him? He was so unsmiling – hardly said a word – and when he did, that voice! I declare I could hardly understand him. No graces, no compliments – whereas dear Charles was most effusive about my new lilac satin, and said he had seen gowns of a similar cut in Paris, but none so exquisitely displayed! He quite made me blush.’
‘Yet he was very attractive, I thought,’ said Beatrice. ‘Mr Armitage, that is. Not handsome, exactly, but tall and striking. A pity that he speaks so oddly.’
‘He comes from Yorkshire,’ said Eveline, ‘how should he speak? I suppose he thinks the same of us.’
‘He played a good game of billiards, at any rate,’ said Arthur.
They had arrived at the studio of the Professor of Photography, a gentleman from London who had set up his shop a few months ago and had become something of a craze for the people of the little town. Louisa and Bevis were photographed first; Louisa seated on a white wicker chair, with Bevis leaning against a painted column behind her, and a huge palm providing an exotic touch.
‘Now, perfectly still, please!’
Minutes passed as the Professor disappeared beneath the black tent behind the camera tripod, and Louisa’s and Bevis’s faces assumed a kind of desperate glare with the effort of not moving a muscle. After that, Beatrice and Arthur were arranged in identical poses; then the two couples together, with the ladies seated and the gentlemen standing behind their wives, against a painted landscape of improbably dramatic mountains and a balustrade; and finally, Louisa, Beatrice and Eveline in a group. For this, the Professor – a portly man with a fine moustache, who was quite possibly not a professor at all − placed Louisa and Beatrice on a seat with baskets of flowers beside them, and Eveline standing behind them holding a bunch of lilies of the valley. (‘Really?’ said Eveline when the flowers were proposed, but her sisters agreed with the Professor that they would add a maidenly note, which would perfect the scene, and she was overruled.) As the long minutes stretched by, Eveline felt first that she might scream, then that she might faint; her very eyes seemed to hurt with the effort of keeping them open, while the back of her neck developed an excruciating pain that radiated through her shoulders. The relief of being allowed to move at last was intense.
‘Wonderful, ladies, gentlemen, thank you! Perfect subjects, youth and beauty combined!’
Eveline, although with no very warm feelings towards the Professor after the torture he had made them endure, would have liked to know what the next part of the process would be. Although the Professor was a large, untidy man, his clothes and hands stained with inky blotches, it was with infinite delicacy that he removed the glass plates from his camera to carry them away to another room, from which emanated strong smells of something metallic and harsh.
‘How is the image formed?’ she asked him, as the others were putting on capes and coats and hats.
He smiled at her; he had a kindly, crumpled face. ‘Next, the plates will have a developing solution poured over them. One must be very gentle with that: too heavy a hand will blur the image. Then—’ but Louisa and Beatrice were impatient to leave the dark, stuffy rooms, and Eveline learnt no more.
It was arranged that the photographs would be sent up to Mrs Stanhope as soon as they were ready; within the next few days, the Professor assured them. On leaving the studio, by now giddy with relief at their liberation, the party decided to walk along the seafront, where there was always something new of interest. And today was no exception, for a small crowd had gathered to watch half a dozen horses dragging carts, on which small painted wooden huts were balanced, down to the water’s edge. It was soon discovered that these were new bathing machines, and very superior models at that.
‘I believe the queen herself uses a bathing machine,’ said Louisa. ‘I really do not think I could do so, however − the cold! And then getting in and out of one’s clothes in a little wooden box – too, too fatiguing!’
Beatrice agreed, but Arthur and Bevis were much in favour.
‘Swimming is a fine sport,’ said Arthur, ‘and I was reckoned something of a champion at Cambridge.’
‘I should like to learn to swim, Arthur,’ said Eveline. ‘Could you teach me? Is it hard to learn?’
‘No, after a little while it feels perfectly easy,’ Arthur assured her. ‘The water supports you, you know, and with practice you can float, or—’
‘Arthur!’ His wife stopped him. ‘You know perfectly well that you could not teach her to swim, and Eveline, really, what a thing to ask! Gentlemen and ladies cannot bathe together – what an idea! How … indecorous!’
‘Then how am I to learn, Beatrice?’ asked Eveline impatiently.
‘I don’t think you should learn at all.’
‘But the queen may swim? And I may not?’
‘Oh, well, Mama will have something to say, I imagine. I cannot think she would agree.’
Mrs Stanhope, however, to the surprise of all her daughters, did not immediately rule out the idea of Eveline’s learning to swim. When Beatrice and Arthur had walked back to their house, and the rest of the party had returned, Eveline broached the subject, and her mother said merely that if a respectable bathing-woman could be found to attend Eveline she would have no objection.
‘Although, Evie, you will need a proper bathing dress, and as you have so little inclination for going to the dressmaker as a general rule, I do not know how you are to get one.’
‘I would go to the dressmaker if it were for a bathing dress, Mama, of course. It is only the hours one has to stand about being pinned into things and deciding on stupid bits of satin and ribbon that make it so tedious.’
Louisa rolled her eyes.
‘Really, Eveline, you are a peculiar girl! How are we to get you a husband if you do not take an interest in such things?’
‘Please do not feel that you have to get me a husband, Louisa. I am very happy without one, and I certainly would not want one that had to be procured for me by my sister.’
‘Eveline, you will apologise to Louisa for that remark,’ said Mrs Stanhope sharply. ‘She is trying to help, and she is quite correct in what she says. You can be very provoking in the way you affect this disdain for pretty clothes.’
Eveline bit her lip.
‘Very well, I am sorry. But really, I cannot see why I have to—’
‘That will do,’ said her mother. ‘And in fact, you will need a new dress before long, something very smart, for we have an invitation here to the grand opening of the railway in June. All the town will be there, and I know the Sandhams are to cut a ribbon and make a speech, and there is to be a luncheon afterwards, with everyone who is anyone attending.’
‘I thought the Sandhams were set against the railway, for bringing noise and spoiling the view across their park,’ said Eveline. ‘Why are they now so ready to cut ribbons and make speeches?’
‘Oh, Augusta would not stand upon her principles if it meant missing a chance to play the grande dame,’ said her mother. ‘And Sir William will always do as his wife wishes. He is too sensible to do otherwise.’
‘Are Bevis and I included in the invitation, Mama?’ asked Louisa. ‘For we can quite easily make another visit, you know – we need not bring the children.’
‘Yes, you are included, my love – all of us are, George and Miss Angell too, I am happy to say. And you must of course bring the children. Eveline can mind them, you know.’
‘Oh, delightful! I shall certainly need a new costume,’ said Louisa, ‘and I have seen the very thing, I believe, at my dressmaker’s; a crinoline skirt, very full, in peacock blue, with pagoda sleeves.’
‘That does sound very lovely,’ agreed her mother. ‘Now, Eveline, what about you? It is not too soon to think about it, you know. A pretty apricot, perhaps, or a soft primrose?’
‘I do not wish to attend the opening of the railway,’ said Eveline. ‘How can we, Mama, when it has spoilt all those places which Papa loved so much, and caused so much destruction?’
‘If your father were here,’ said Mrs Stanhope, ‘I feel sure he would be interested in the railway – the engines, you know, he would have been fascinated by those! And the idea of travelling in ten minutes a distance which now takes us for ever!’
‘He would have hated the ugliness of it all. The quiet walks, all gone, and the horrible brick houses that have sprung up everywhere.’
‘You will allow me to differ,’ said her mother. ‘And we all miss Papa, Eveline, but we must live our lives without him now, and this event is important for us and for the town. He liked Mr Watson, too, and the invitation is from him. Papa would certainly have wanted us to attend.’
Eveline struggled with her feelings for a moment. There was much truth in what her mother had said, for her father would have been most interested in the railway, she knew. Yet surely Papa would have wished her to stay true to herself, and to her principles?
‘Did Mr Watson call himself to bring the invitation?’ she asked, cautiously.
‘No, it was Mr Armitage who brought it. He did not stay; merely thanked me for a pleasant evening last night, hoped that we would all be able to attend, and left. He does not have a great deal of small talk, I must say.’
Eveline, promising to cut flowers for the dinner table, escaped from the house that afternoon, taking an old satchel to hold her sketchbook and pencils and a volume of verse, and made her way through the rose garden to the door in the far wall. With practised ease she climbed once more into her beloved tree, and settled on the broad smooth branch, which formed a seat. This time she hung her satchel firmly on a convenient spur. The new
