Closer than Sisters.
My Grandmother's diary contains a great many secrets and stories. She left the many notebooks to me in her will; the one thing that came to me from the remaining possessions she had; once the town house was left to my father, the country abode to my aunt, there was naught left save a few trinkets for my brothers, my cousin and myself. In a sense, claiming the diaries as my inheritance was not stupid, as my cousin often told me. I have often been described as Grandmamma in another form, so perhaps it was only natural that I was given a part of her that no one else should have access to: her soul. I exaggerate, maybe not her soul, but these little books of different colours and styles contain her thoughts, opinions and innermost feelings about everything she experienced daily. And there was never a dull moment in her life. I found myself progressively drawn into the story of the note books; the secret life of my Grandmamma. It made me feel closer to her. I understood her every action, thought and the process behind it. It made us closer than me and my sisters.
The books themselves were all mismatched. Grandmamma had been well known for her eclectic tastes in nearly everything.
"I just walked picked up the first one I liked." She told me once, smiling. It was such a typical phrase; one that was likely to come out of her mouth during any gathering concerning gifts. When she bought me Angie, my favourite doll, she had smiled warmly at my reaction and said: "Do you like her, dear? I thought you would. I just walked in and bought the one I liked best." Anything she liked, she bought. Well, not everything, per se. Some things are just unaffordable, but most of the things she liked were well within her budget.
Of course, these books were all written in code. She wouldn't risk one of the many visitors' perusals of her private thoughts, and she had several reasons from keeping my father and his sister away from the books. Names were changed all over the place, words, particularly verbs, exchanged for others so that the meanings would be kept secret. It took me a year and a half to crack.
If I'm honest some of the things she wrote were quite "eye-opening". The code was wholly necessary if she were to keep writing. Her opinions were very strong in every aspect. Some of the secrets divulged were incredibly shocking. One of her earliest descriptions of my grandfather as "a sodding twat who will probably end up dead through his cowardice and idiocy that he is not worth an ant's interest for more than five seconds." Not the sort of language expected to be found in the diary of a high born lady in the late nineteenth century. Though, it appears that he was just as bad. Out of the many occasions, a particular anecdote caught my interest. It was of a tea party at the country house of one Sir Laurence Chuffster. Sir Laurence had been a good friend to both Grandmamma and Grandfather. As far as I can tell, all the brass had been called out for this grandiose occasion: Chuffster's coming of age.
It had not been a large gathering; a few family friends here and there. Lady Cynthia Beaudeline and her husband Cedric.
"No one ever mentions them as anything other than Lady Cynthia and Lord Cedric, she is much too proud to ever allow for her name to be subjected to the humiliation of coming after that of Lord Cedric. I pity the poor man his match, obviously the parent's doing. She is so awful; he probably would never have chosen her. Unless perhaps she persuaded him that her cleavage was something to be admired and worshipped as he obviously believes it to be, poor misguided creature."
The Earl of Gloucester and his wife.
"She is charming and a privilege to meet; he on the other hand remains aloof and uninterested and has no apparent reason for being present at all, yet he is apparently one of Sir Chuffster's greatest companions. Their son is now aged three and is the apple of his mother's eye, the less said about the relationship he has with his father, the better. Honestly, the man ignores the poor boy! She is clearly compensating for his cold shoulder towards the poor child, yet the wretch is obviously suffering from lack of paternal care."
Then came the members of the "bachelor brigade". Sir Laurence and they had been old boys at their school and as such, they were guests of honour. Lord Francis Baker, the Duke of Eely: Reginald Chopin and the local Frenchman Guillaume DuPont. Or rather: "Franny, sister of a baker", "Reggie" and "Willy Du-Ponce", Grandmamma would call them when she saw them. The leader of this little group had been Sir Chuffster's older brother, Albert. However his marriage to the lady Suzanna, a woman of southern origins of some description, had, obviously, made him ineligible for such a position and as such, his younger brother had taken over as leader of this "band of outlaws". His right-hand man was none other than my Grandfather: Navy Admiral Eustace Mason. "Useless Eustace" as Grandmamma dubbed him.
It was twelve noon when the bachelor brigade arrived on scene. Chuffster led the way, surrounded by his cronies. Little Henry of Gloucester and the misses Florence and Georgiana Chuffster were running around in a vivacious game of some description, the rules of which best be known to themselves. At one point, Gloucester ran in front of his father, who grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, hoisting his little legs off the ground.
"Behave!" he hissed at the lad. "Children are to be seen and not heard!" the boy hung his head, the dejected wretch that he was. He'd be stuck in the corner like a vase if that man was allowed to have his way. What lady Roberta thought was probably irrelevant in that her husband probably found the same teaching applied to women, as well. What can I do, I ask you, but shake my head and tut in disbelief. How any woman is supposed to put up with that kind of condescension, I will never understand.
Enter Chuffy and the platoon of idiots to the sound of a fanfare. What is with these daft Englishmen and their need to prove that they are indeed big men even though their genitalia say otherwise? Useless Eustace surveyed the garden below from the top of the stairwell that led to the Chuffster's beautiful emerald carpet.
"Oh Chuffy, you imbecile!" he groaned in a stage whisper. "You invited the Scottish Terrier?"
"Scottish I might be, but the one looking more like the dog would be the "distinguished admiral" who is currently staring down his nose at me." Of course, my tongue has often gotten me into trouble; yet it has often gotten me out of it. Chuffy let out a loud guffaw.
"All in good fun, Lynnie. All in good fun. I'm sure yours and Mason's famously Shakespearean jousts for the place of most superior intellect will prove entertaining." That was Chuffy in a nutshell. Always seeking entertainment in everything he did or in his entourage. Hence the reason why I, Lynda Scott, had been invited. He finds me entertaining with my hard views on women's subjugation and how people should be treated with respect thoroughly amusing. And my accent doesn't appear to help my sincerity to this cause. It irritates me, and I have been told that I pull a stunningly unique grimace when irritated. While surrounded by the gentry, I am the only one who is not of any particular status. My father is a "self-made man" and I am proud of it.
"Well, Lynda." Yelled Useless from his position on the pavilion above, allowing for all present to provide witness and audience to the debut of this "entertaining joust".
"Well, Useless?"
"Still searching for a Scot to marry?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Come now Lynda, I think we all know what I'm getting at. You're what age now? Not much younger than I, if I remember correctly. Seventeen, am I right? You should be married off soon, or you'll reach the end of your looks. Weren't you engaged at some stage?" the remainder of this tediously pointless sparring of wits I will not bother to write down. In a short summary, I shall merely state that Admiral Eustace Mason did decide thereupon to state that I was no more than a common harlot; as I had no title to flaunt and no husband so to speak, therefore I must be seeking certain pleasures outside present company and as none of the sources of that particular pleasure had yet been introduced to present company, it is only natural to assume that I am, therefore, a lady of very ambiguous morality. That, naturally, got my goat and I told him that to retaliate that kind of comment with dignified wit was below me.
Try with all my might to remain passive, I still felt an angry blush threaten my cheeks and so I excused myself from the dignified company of Gloucester and his wife and splashed my face with cold water in the privacy of the loo.
When I read that, I wondered how she could ever have consented to marry him. Well, I can only say that it happened in a most wild and interesting fashion.
I am not sure as of yet why I consented to marry that man. I have been engaged to Laurence Chuffster for half a year, and during those six months, I have spent an inordinate amount of time among his friends as they prepared to bid him farewell as their leader. I like Chuffy, better indeed than I do the rest. Reggie is too small to be worth the bother; a man whose head does not reach his wife's poitrine can only be considered incompetent at the very least; and impotent at best. Franny the baker's sister is too much of what the English call an eccentric. With his love of bright colours and collections of worthless scraps and pieces of what he deems art; the word "mess" is too light to describe the chaos with which he surrounds himself. Needless to say poncey Willy is far too "a la mode" and such a man to take more care of the lace bordering his handkerchief than any living being to make a good match for anyone, particularly not someone as willful as myself.
It was the dinner do at Willy's. Chuffy had bought me a new dress to wear for the tremendous occasion that is New Year's Eve. Say what you like about the Frenchman's cold heart, his warm stomach and analytical tongue knew how to produce a gastronomic affair fit for royalty. Barbaric though it may seem, the frog's legs and the snails actually made exquisite entrées for that splendid supper. Of course, being French meant that we had to have a degustation of the wines of his beloved country. I felt my cheeks flush as the night progressed and when the smile on my face became rather hard to remove, I stopped drinking wine and asked a bottle of water off the serving girl: Jeanne.
"And now, ladiez and gentel men, I offer you ze opportunity to joigne me in a dance untill ze dawn approaches wiz ze speed of ze flying 'orses of Phoebos." As usual, the Frenchman never speaks much in the way of sense. He just speaks in riddles and expects the rest of the world to follow him. Chuffy lead me to the dance floor prepared as a hired band struck up some tune that I found myself waltzing to. I could not help but wish it were a Ceillidh back home; those were more entertaining in every sense of the word.
I do not remember much of what happened during the dance, but at some point, after a good long while, I might add, I was whisked off the dance floor by my partner of the last dance. The night's activity had been done in such a frenzied manner that I could not recall as to whom it was as held my hand and dragged me out of the room until he turned to face me when we had reached the breezy balcony. It was then that he faced me and I realized it was Eustace Mason. Now that we were no longer under the gaze of the distinguished gentry that attended this do of mister DuPont's, I noticed that the look in his eye was unfocussed, though the look in mine was in all probability not much better.
"What do you want, Eussie?" say I, or rather, I mean to say, whether or not I actually said as such is another question entirely.
"I have something to ask you." He seemed to be saying.
"Oh get rid of the accent, Englishman! Talk properly, will you please?" I appear to have told him. "And get down to the point." He laughed.
"Very well. I want you to call off your engagement to Larry." I remember thinking he was completely mad. I told him as much. He laughed again. "I'm not one to beg, but please, Lynnie," I don't recall him ever using that name when referring to me. "Don't marry Laurence Chuffster."
"Why, Eussie; do you fear that if I actually marry Chuffy that I might actually prove you wrong in your opinion of my desire to lead the life of an old maid? Well, I do beg your pardon, Mason, but I shall marry whom I wish at whatever time I desire and I doubt very much that there is anything you can do to impede that." I turned to return to the other guests. He grabbed a hold of my wrist.
"Willful woman!" he sighed. I think he sighed. I cannot be sure. He dragged me elsewhere while I struggled to allow his grip on my wrist to lessen. But to no avail. Before I could attempt an escape, I was flung onto something soft. A mattress. "Glad I was invited to spend a few days with Guillaume." Chuckled the man who was pinning my arms to the mattress with his hands. Leaning forward, his lips brushed mine in a, believe it or not, very tender kiss. He leaned over me.
"Call off the engagement, Lynnie, I beg of you." He whispered in my ear. "Please, let me marry you here and now."
And for that reason alone, I called off the engagement to Chuffster this morning. My wild and tempestuous marriage to Admiral Eustace Mason on the first of January will soon be followed by a wedding ceremony in the local church at the end of the week.
Apparently Laurence Chuffster immediately forgave the pair; his sole thoughts go towards entertainment during present circumstances and not towards the future. After that night, she proved to all how much she loved the man she had married, especially to him in question. She bore him two children, a son and a daughter in that order, yet when he went to war a mere five years after their official wedding, leaving her with a child of three years and a baby of a few weeks to care for, the only two to have survived the natural passage into this world of the five she had carried. Such is the futility of man, born to die. It saddens me, yet I cannot dwell on things beyond my control. She wrote after telling of the three children she lot, each and every time. She wrote the same thing on a tear blotched page when news came that Eustace died. The ship he had been in charge of sank in a German torpedo attack in 1917. He died at the age of thirty three; she was thirty two. Contrary to all expectations, she did not marry again, even though she had a few suitors. Including a proposal from one Laurence Chuffster. I am perhaps the only woman who can reasonably put up with him: his mentality, his behaviour and his attitude for more than five minutes. Had I not called off the engagement all those years ago, perhaps I would have kept the same view of him. Unfortunately, I have matured greatly over the past decade-and-a-bit, I am no longer the nineteen year old girl he was once engaged to; I am Mrs. Lynda Mason.
My father neither encouraged nor discouraged her. It was her choice, he said. Nevertheless, he was relieved when she rejected suitor after suitor. It left his position as head of the family secure and unquestionnable.
The most frightening story I found in those diaries was…. Well I am not really at liberty to say. It is a family secret. Yet I have to write it in my own diaries or else I will be crushed under the burden of remaining silent.
My aunt had always wanted a child. For years she had thought she was one of those few, misfortunate women who are incapable of childbearing. I was aged five at that time, the time when both she and my mother started to gain weight due to the fact that they were both carrying children.
Margaret was ecstatic. Of course she was. Personally, I was in a state of shock. My baby was having a baby. Of course, Richard's children are a blessing in every sense, but it is different when it is your daughter who is pregnant. Richard's wife, Augusta was pregnant as well, and it pleased me that there are to be two arrivals at the same time. I say it pleased me. Both women felt the pangs this afternoon, at the same time. Twin cousins. An amazing phenomenon. I ran to be with my daughter, her husband, Hugh Fergusson, was already there.
"Hughie!" Margie yelled as the almost unbearable pain started again. I ran to her side, taking her hand in my own, squeezing it gently. "Mother."
"I'm here love," say I, passing my hand through her rapidly dampening hair "Go, Hugh. I shall look after her from here." He nods and leaves, the poor man was relieved that he would not have to see her suffer so. The blasted doctor arrived late. The midwife did what she could, but that was not enough. Then came the impossible truth. This birth was wrong, it could not continue to reveal a happy end. The baby was born dead. The problematic birth meant that my Margie would never be able to bear another child again. I thanked the doctor and told him not to tell Hugh. I would take care of such matters. Margie had fainted after the child had been brought into this world dead. I went and saw my son's child, who looked so much like her father…I took the decision. May the Lord forgive the act of a callous woman, but I changed the infants in the cots, the living for the dead. I made it look like Richard's child died, and Margie's lived. Richard has children…he is blessed with three, two sons and a daughter. Margie's first born, and only child, is dead. I could not take her smile away. And neither of my children, nor my grandchild in question must find out about this. Else I shall be the worst mother in the world. I only wanted my daughter's happiness…I did it for her. Let me be sent to the fires of Hell for it, but I would have done nothing else. I do not want them to discover this secret, else they might curse my ghost, which, though it is no more than I deserve, would break me.
The shock I had when I read that particular passage, I cannot express in any words. Euphemia: my cousin….my sister.