Romance/fantasy/time travel
Episode 11: Mary Sue and the Walking Wounded, part 2
Emily was still tired at nine o'clock the following day. She had spent a sleepless night, between the disorientation of being in 1791, and the anxiety about Tavington's reliability. Breakfast was brought upstairs to her, and she picked at it, unable to find anything that looked like food to her. Her heart was fluttering unsteadily, and she sat in an exhausted stupour, wishing everything were over and resolved, when the chambermaid pertly announced the arrival of "Colonel Tavington."
She looked up, and had never seen such a blessed sight in her life. He was there, in her room, bowing and smiling, ready to be of service to her. Unaccountably, her eyes filled with tears, and she could not get up to greet him. Seeing her distress, he swiftly crossed the room, and sat down beside her.
"My dear Miss Norton—are you quite well?"
"No," she quavered. "I was so afraid you wouldn't come. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I must look awful."
"You look very beautiful," he told her decisively, "but a little tired. Let us go out and attend to our business, and then you can return here and have a long, restorative nap."
He had the bag of money with him, and he expeditiously helped her with her cloak and escorted her downstairs. She was so fatigued, and so relieved, that the very pavement of the street looked like an inviting place to lie down and rest. The Colonel knew where he was going, and helped her along, her arm in his, as they made their way through the picturesque Georgian streets of Bath.
Mr. Grimsby, the lawyer, was silky and efficient; and rather a sycophant. His fawning was wasted on Emily, who was too exhausted to respond. She signed where she was told, and then was told she understood it all. Tavington looked at her anxiously, realizing how completely spent she was.
"Only a little more, Miss Norton," he cajoled her. At last they were finished, and she smiled at the lawyer's compliments without really hearing them. Tavington took her arm again, and they returned to the inn.
They went upstairs, and no sooner had they entered her rooms, than she headed blindly to bed and threw herself down, asleep instantly. Tavington followed her, rather bemused, trying to protect her from injury. He stood looking at the slumbering, defenseless woman; contemplating violation; then he sat down on the bed beside her and removed her dirty shoes. These he set down noiselessly by the bed. Her cloak was unfastened and slid carefully from beneath her. More he dared not attempt. He slipped a pillow under her head, and bent to take a light, lingering kiss from the slightly parted lips.
He found pen and paper and left her a note, telling her that he would call again tomorrow; and that she ought to rest and have a good dinner. Strangely light of heart, he left the rooms; his mind turning to his prospective bride's need for a maid.
-----
So it began for Tavington: and so, in a way, it ended for Emily. No matter where you go, as they say, there you are. She had wanted someone to care about and to care for her. She had never had any real ambition, other than for love. That she certainly had. Tavington nearly smothered his Golden Goose with attentions.
True to his word, he called the following morning. She was still at breakfast, and pressed him to join her. Nothing loath, he sat down to the capital meal a first-rate inn could provide. It did them both a great deal of good, if only because it was more pleasant for them both to share a meal with another. They took their time, savoring the eggs, the marmalade with the delicious bread, the strong, fragrant tea. Emily was less tired, but still feeling a little hazy, uncertain where the borders of reality lay. So much of this seemed like a dream.
Tavington proposed a walk. "Miss Norton, you have seen little of Bath, and need air and exercise." Truth be told, he needed the same. Her hand found the crook of his arm as if by long practice.
"You should see the Royal Crescent, at least," he suggested. "Quite elegant." The time it should have taken was extended by Emily's pleasure at looking at the River Avon, and her curiosity at every little shop they passed: A chandler, a milliner, a bootmaker, a silversmith, a haberdasher. He was in no hurry, and let her dawdle all she liked. Squiring Miss Norton was the most important thing he could conceivably do with his time. She paused longest at the window of an apothecary-perfumer, peering in to see the curious jars and bottles.
"Would you like to go in?"
She was shy, but with a little encouragement, was persuaded to take a closer look. She, it seemed, had a weakness for perfumed soap, and insisted on Tavington giving his opinion. She finally settled on a box of fine Castile soaps, scented with a mixture of rose and verbena; and a pretty blue bottle containing the same essence. To her surprise, the shopkeeper was perfectly willing to deliver her purchase to the White Hart. As they walked along Gay Street, Tavington's own eye was caught by a little jewelry shop. He paused before the door, and took a breath.
"Miss Norton, this may not be the best place for such a question, but I understood—that is, you implied—" He took another breath, and said baldly, "Would you do me the honor of being my wife?"
He groaned inwardly, feeling an utter fool. In the middle of a noisy, crowded street! Could I not even wait for a quiet moment alone with her?
Emily, on the other hand, was neither surprised nor offended. It seemed more and more a strange, happy dream; and in such a dream, it was hardly astonishing that her most fervent wish, her long-cherished fantasy, would come true.
"Of course," she answered, with a sweet and ready smile.
Tavington smiled nervously in response, wondering how such an inept proposal could meet with success. She seemed truly enamored of him. It was a puzzlement: a pleasant puzzlement, but still rather extraordinary. Eleven years ago, he had been quite handsome, it was true. Ladies had pursued him, though they might not encourage his acquaintance with their unmarried daughters. With his public disgrace and terrible injuries, those days had seemed gone forever. But he was desirable in the fair Miss Norton's eyes, and that was all that mattered.
"Very well," he declared, taking the initiative, determined not to let this last blessed chance slip through his fingers. "Let us see if we can find a ring that suits you."
She was even more timid about this, hardly daring to express a preference. He found one of gold, prettily worked with a garland of flowers. She smiled in perfect accord. It fit her, and Tavington urged her to wear it.
"We shall be married soon enough." He would call on the parish vicar later today, and see to the banns. Three weeks would be all the engagement they would have, and to his agitated spirits, three weeks seemed to stretch out interminably.
Leaving the shop, he covered his own anxiety with practical matters. On making inquiries, it appeared that Emily had brought very little clothing with her—some linen, a few toiletries, and clothing suitable for a ball or other evening's entertainment—and all the fripperies incumbent upon it.
She explained, "I was only supposed to be gone for a night, and told them I was going to see Bath and go to a ball, and come back the next day. I couldn't really take much of anything. The money was for gambling, I told them. But I really don't have a lot of clothing other than the dress I'm wearing."
Tavington smiled. "Well, I should like to see you in your pink gown again."
She grimaced. "I'm sorry, but that's not possible. I never owned that gown to begin with. It was the property of the company, and I had to return it. And also—remember that it's been ten years. It's long since worn out. I wanted to keep it, but I wasn't allowed."
"It is too bad."
"Well," she shrugged, "My new dress is very pretty, anyway—sort of a lavender. I suppose I'll need more clothes eventually."
"I should say so. We had better bespeak something immediately." Further down the street was a dressmaker, and Tavington insisted they stop and go in. They were there for two hours, and Tavington was shown a chair, and sat patiently while Emily was measured, and then ordered a sensible wardrobe: two day gowns, one of a flowered silk, and one of striped; and a serviceable blue broadcloth for her traveling dress (absolutely essential, as Tavington pointed out, whether they were walking or traveling by coach). Less grand purchases were made as well: petticoats and nightgowns, caps, stockings, garters, and shifts. The seamstress recommended reputable shops where Emily might purchase a more practical traveling cloak, find more comfortable and fashionable corsets, and see some very pretty hats.
But all those things, Tavington decided, could wait for another day, along with their plans to see the Royal Crescent. His lady's energy was plainly flagging, and he gave her his arm back to the inn. Tea was sent for, and she revived, quite happy about her new clothes.
Wedding clothes, the thought flashed through Tavington's mind. I never thought a lady would be buying her wedding clothes on account of me. How extraordinary. How pleasant.
She was so revived, in fact, that when Tavington brought up the issue of the future she had come from, Emily was not only willing, but eager to discuss it. He sat her down at a writing table, with pen and paper and ink, to write down everything about the future that could be of assistance to him.
"Where should I begin?" she asked.
He thought, and the decision was an easy one. "With money matters."
She had had ten years to do her homework. While she had not been allowed to bring books, or references, or anything that could not have existed in 1791, she had laid up great stores of information in her memory. She had known this knowledge would be valuable, and was able to give him specifics about lucrative investments. Within a month, using his own few hundred pounds of savings, he was able to increase the sum five-fold.
She wrote: the history of London and European finance in the last decade of the 18th century; the history of inventions and patents; the recipients of various government contracts; the colonial expansion into the rest of the world, and the various resources discovered---all this flowed from her pen.
He invested: and their small fortune was soon on course to become a far greater one.
Thus, the following three weeks for Tavington and Emily were busy. He came every day. They would spend the mornings in writing and business, and the afternoons in walks, and making purchases for their new household, and in simply getting to know one another better. Tavington showed her all the charming sights of Bath, none of which he had previously thought charming. Now it was all very pleasant to stroll, to visit the shops, to take the waters; not alone, but in the company of a pretty young woman who cared for nothing in the world but him. She knew quite a bit about his world, and yet every so often would be touchingly nonplussed about some everyday detail that he had taken for granted all his life.
Within a week, he had found a lady's maid for her, a sweet-tempered young woman named Annie Mills. Emily was too kind to her of course: that was her nature. Tavington had a private word with the girl and explained what the consequences of indiscretion and disloyalty would be. She never gave Emily any difficulties, and hardly opened her mouth in Tavington's presence. On his arrival each day at the White Hart, Annie was sent to fetch them some refreshments, and was then allowed to spend the rest of the day as she liked until he left after dinner-time.
As the days passed, Tavington and Emily grew closer, and he began to partake in the delicious intimacies that she offered naively, it seemed, as a matter of course. On the very day he had given her the ring, when he had gone to take his leave of her, she had startled him by putting her arms about his neck and kissing him whole-heartedly. He responded, of course; rather taken aback at her boldness, but perceiving a certain trusting innocence in her. She simply thought nothing of permitting him every liberty. Tavington assumed that such was the custom of betrothed couples in her time. He had never been happier. These intimacies, pleasurable in themselves, must bind her faster to him, and that too was desirable.
He was cautious at first, wishing neither to frighten her away, nor to repulse her. She was so naturally seductive, however, so very artless the next day as she expressed, in between kisses, the wish that he should remove his coat. Gradually he was relieved of other garments, keeping on his soft linen shirt as long as possible. Emily unburdened herself as well, lovely as Eve. Sprawled comfortably on her wide bed at the inn, she finally eased this last obstacle over his head, and silenced his embarrassed explanations in various pleasurable ways. Curious about his scars, but not disgusted by them, she simply asked sensible questions, and then resolved on the equally sensible solution of his taking the left side of the bed, so as not to hurt his left shoulder, when he would turn on his side to embrace her.
She had scars, too, it was revealed. Not as terrible as his own, but all mementos of painful experiences. She turned on her stomach, revealing not only very pretty flanks, but a rough ridged patch along one side from being struck by flying glass in a bomb explosion. Under one arm were the red remains of severe burns that had been suffered in the same "airplane" accident that had killed her parents. She lifted the heavy honey-colored locks away from the right side of her neck. A fine white line showed where a "mugger" had held a knife to her throat.
"He only really wanted money, luckily. I threw a big wad of cash down on the ground, and when he lunged for it, I got away. It happened a few days after my aunt died. I wasn't thinking clearly, or I would never have let my guard down. She had suffered so much for so long. And then, at the end, the doctors were too busy keeping her alive a few more seconds to let me say goodbye to her. It was horrible—it was inhuman. That's about the time I put my name on the list for the last time. I decided that if I could get away, I was never going back there."
"I should say not, indeed. What an abominable place." He pulled her closer, and they lay in playful abandon, teasing and touching and whispering. She need have nothing to fear, with him to protect her; and he need fear nothing at all, now that she knew the worst, and still wanted him.
Cocooned in her cozy rooms, with her grateful and ardent lover, it was more than ever a dream to Emily. William seemed to know what she wanted before she herself did. When he was with her, he filled all her senses and all her attention: when he was away, she really thought about very little, and was half-asleep and dreaming of his return.
Within a month they had left Bath behind, and all his disappointments there. They had stayed only long enough to be married; and then how odd it was, as they left the church, to come upon Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Elliot, out for a ramble before going to the Pump Room.
Elliot smiled and bowed slightly; Fenwick affected not to know Tavington. On seeing an attractive woman on the Colonel's arm, however, he looked again. The Tavingtons passed by, not caring whether he acknowledged them or not. Fenwick and Elliot looked at each other, and then tried to catch another glimpse of the lady, thinking that they recognized her. In the next moment, they realized they must have been mistaken, shrugged, and resumed their walk.
With his improved income, Tavington had been able to secure a cottage in the countryside not far from Richmond. Before leaving Bath, more servants were engaged: a cook, a groom-gardener, and a stout maid of all work.
The cottage's location was satisfactory: it was close enough to London for his business in the City to be conveniently accomplished. Thistledowne Cottage was not very large, but was new-built of grey stone, rather pretty, had its own little orchard and outbuildings, and was set in an unusually spacious and well-laid out garden.
Emily adored it at first sight. She had dreamed of just such a place; and in her current dream-like state of unreality, it was perfectly appropriate.
"It's lovely!" she cried, hardly waiting for the carriage to come to a stop before wanting to get out for a closer look. It was far larger than any home she had ever known, really three stories high if she counted the upstairs garrets where the servants would live. Tavington paid off the driver of the hired dray that had transported their belongings, set the servants to unloading the luggage, and escorted his wife indoors. It was not much, for one who had grown up in the gloomy old splendor of an abbey, but it was infinitely better than hired rooms in a lodgings house. The rent was reasonable, given their circumstances; and it was better to start with something small and perhaps move on to a better place, than to follow his father's example in the opposite direction.
He particularly enjoyed having horses again. There were three: a quite nice thoroughbred of his own, a strong and handsome beast to draw their little chaise, and a sound road horse for Parks to ride when accompanying him to London. Tavington had missed riding every day, and soon regained his old skill. He felt better here in the country: fitter, younger, more himself. When he had returned from America after the war he had been very ill indeed. For over a year he could hardly leave his bed, and had nearly succumbed to ennui and despair. Courage had paid dividends after all, for who would have guessed in those miserable dark days that he had so much to live for?
For Emily, the days flowed one into the other, as did the nights. She had her pretty doll's house, her flower garden, her attentive husband. Many months passed before she realized that there might be a price to pay for it all. It was very much like a vacation: or more properly, a daydream about a luxurious all-inclusive vacation. One morning, when Tavington had gone to London on business for few days, she had a painful and heavy period, and it rained; and her vacation seemed to have become an overlong stay at a very dull historical theme park.
For a few hours, she awoke from her dream-like state, realized that she had nothing to do, and that her life was far from perfect. She missed music, and films, flush toilets, hot showers, and proper sanitary supplies. The dull, stodgy food never varied. She had no one to talk to but the servants, and they were too well-trained to converse freely with their mistress. There was no privacy: all her servants would know from the laundry that she was having her period, just as they knew whenever she and William had made love the night before. She wrapped herself carefully in thick cotton bandages, and settled down in bed with a book, a little dissatisfied with her situation.
But Tavington returned that very afternoon, and was so kind and concerned. He had brought her a present: an exquisite necklace of gold filigree set with amethysts. He lay down on the bed beside her and talked to her delightfully, telling her all about the odd people he had dealt with in the City. He laid a warm, strong hand over the place that was cramping; and petted and caressed her until she boiled briefly to a climax, and then sank into the sleep of the just.
And so, she drifted away from reality, back into her happy waking dream. Oh, there were alarms and incursions: one day her maid had the toothache; what passed for a dentist was summoned, and poor Annie Mills passed an hour of unspeakable agony as the ignorant, dirty man tore out the abscessed molar with rusty pliers. The stench was shockingly putrid, the girl fainted, and Emily spent a number of days in disagreeable reality, tending her servant, and doing her best to see that she did not develop an infection due to her ordeal. Emily herself caught cold in October, and endured a miserable two weeks.
In January, however, she awakened permanently. She had been feeling out of sorts, with swollen breasts that seemed to threaten a painful and prolonged menstrual period. She was more tired than usual, and all the food seemed particularly nasty and unappetizing. Time passed, and no period arrived. Instead, she began to experience what she could only interpret to be heartburn, and food seemed more revolting than ever. The day of reckoning came at last; a day so cold that even sitting before the cheery fire in the drawing room she felt chilled to the core. It was not snowy, but grey and wet, with a heavy, baleful mist hanging in the frosty air.
She was pregnant. She came to herself, realized where she was, and what her condition could mean. She had fled the 21st century to escape the hurts she had experienced there, but something equally dangerous had crept up and taken her unawares when she thought herself safe. Almost panicking, she sat and breathed deeply for a few minutes. I'm pregnant, in the eighteenth century. Women die in childbirth in this time. Medical science is rudimentary. Some idiot pretending to be a doctor may try to bleed me, or starve me, or give me poisons like mercury or laudanum, and call them medicine.
Sitting down at her dainty little writing desk, she began writing out everything she could remember about hygiene, about childbirth and childcare, about first aid, and about proper medical practice in general. At least her husband knew her secret, and would certainly believe her claims. His success in the financial and political realms had given her complete credibility with him.
He came in from his morning ride, glowing with the pleasant exercise. He leaned down and gave her a kiss, and he had not had time to straighten up again, before she blurted out, "I'm pregnant."
Tavington was overjoyed. "My love, how marvelous! Have you had the apothecary to see you? We must set about fitting up a nursery." His happiness was not only due to the blessed event, in fact. He had just spent a remarkably successful week in London. Knowing what was about to happen gave him a tremendous advantage in stock-trading: he had made a little over thirty thousand pounds in four days. Judiciously, he had been lending money to some very influential men, fully understanding that they could not pay their debts to him. To save them embarrassment, he had generously offered to tear up their notes, if they would grant him a trivial favor of two. Only too relieved and grateful, they introduced him to friends, obtained membership for him in their clubs, and gave him access to even more highly placed individuals. Tavington was slowly and deviously rehabilitating his name.
Emily saw that he was happy. It irked her beyond words that he did not seem to grasp the implications of her situation. She turned from him angrily, and began pacing the room. "Don't you understand? I'm in danger! I'm in danger!" She whirled on him, crying, "I really could die!"
Instantly sympathetic, Tavington gathered her against him and held her tightly. "My darling, you must not give way to such terrible notions! You are a healthy young woman and you will have the best of care. Think how delightful it will be to have a little one of our own!"
She leaned against him, but avoided putting too much weight on his sensitive left shoulder. "Medicine here is so primitive compared to my time! I've been writing everything I remember, but all sorts of things could go wrong!"
Interested, and hoping to calm her by discussing the medical issue in a more objective way, he asked to see her notes, and was intrigued by the information in them. He would talk to the midwife and to the apothecary, Mr. Jenkins. Some of what his wife wanted could be managed—the boiled instruments, the meticulous cleanliness. If their local practitioners proved obdurate, he would find others who would not be. His Emily was too precious to risk to the incompetent.
With affectionate words and lavish promises, Tavington succeeded in soothing her most immediate fears. Never again, however, was she to fall back into her Dreamland. Now there was too much to do. She was not a very good seamstress, but Annie was; and they spent hours getting all the baby's things ready. She could do plain stitching fairly well, and stuck to that; letting Annie cut out and put together darling little garments, including a delicately embroidered christening gown.
Now and then, the same sickening fear would lash at her, leaping on her from ambush as she sewed, or lay awake at night, or sat at dinner, conscious of the changes in her body. She might die—either in labor or in the weeks that followed of some gruesome infection. When she first felt the baby move she actually felt happy; but then a new horror arose—child mortality in the late 18th century. Her baby could die of a multitude of complaints that no longer threatened children in her own time: measles, diphtheria, whooping cough, polio. Obsessively, she kept writing, trying to draw every fact out of her memory. When her child was old enough, she would make sure he or she was inoculated against smallpox. At least there's that! As part of her time travel preparations, she had been immunized against that disease, as well as against a battery of other killers: typhus, tetanus, cholera, malaria, several forms of influenza. If only she could have brought the vaccines along!
Good nutrition is key, she wrote, in a carefully legible hand. Many children die not from disease itself, but because the disease weakens them in other ways. Clean water is essential.
Their own water supply was satisfactory: a deep well on their own property that she now saw was scrupulously kept covered when not in use. She visited their little dairy and learned what the maid did with the milk. It will have to be boiled before the baby drinks it. Permanently. Until he or she is eighteen, if need be.
All of which brought her to the sticking point. The baby would have his best shot if she nursed him herself. She was not excited at the prospect. She had heard too many women complain about the trouble, the discomfort, the inconvenience it could cause. She might not be able to do much about the discomfort, but at least she was not a working mother. She was at home, with nothing much else to do. A nurserymaid she could agree to—someone to change the baby would be a godsend. She could nap when the baby napped. She would do her best to give the little guy every edge to assure his survival. Furthermore, it would provide her with the only kind of contraception she was going to have. If she could nurse her child for a full year, chances were reasonable that she would not become pregnant during that time. Why, oh, why didn't I bring along some birth-control patches? They're allowed, because no one in this time could possibly imagine what they are! She could understand Tavington wanting a child—even two—but more than that was simply playing Russian Roulette with her life. I've been living in a dream world! I must have been out of my mind!
She did not cease to love her husband. He was still as kind and considerate as ever. And there was this: she knew herself important to him in a way that she had never been important to anyone else since losing her family. She was one of the Unreturned: she knew that her disappearance from her old world mattered no more to it than a teacup of water scooped from the ocean. But here in her new home, she was everything to Tavington. She was the foundation of his new prosperity and comfort, the source of the information that kept him on top of things during his mysterious trips to the City. Nor did he resent her for this; but he seemed to have accepted it as part of her dowry, as essential to their domestic partnership. She had provided the basic funds and the data: he was putting it all to work.
-----
She survived the birth, and the next one, two years later as well. There were moments when she thought she'd rather die, when the pain was so terrible that nothing could be worth it—but unlike the heroine of a romance novel, she never fainted into blessed oblivion. She was miserably conscious and suffering for all the hours it took. And then she suffered some more, with afterpains lasting two weeks following childbirth that somehow nobody had ever told her about.
Nursing turned out better than she had hoped, though, especially with her first—her little son, and her husband's pride and joy. Emily was busy, now, all right—constantly busy with a four-year old boy, and a two-year old angelic terror of a girl-- and probably more children lay in wait in her future. Tavington liked children—at least his own. He wanted more.
Yes, Tavington reflected, as he sat in his study, contemplating a major acquisition. I want more. He had been doing well already, but young Will's birth had lit a fire in him. He had built up a splendid, if not unheard-of fortune. In the past five years, his assets had grown steadily, and at times even exponentially. He had amassed nearly two hundred thousand pounds. He had developed a network of business and social contacts. He had rendered a number of men obliged to him by giving them a hint at the right moment. He had even attempted to warn O'Hara of his danger, before the now-Lieutenant-General left for his posting at Toulon. O'Hara had ignored the counsel that would have prevented both him and his command falling captive to the revolutionaries. Word of this extraordinary perspicacity had come to influential ears, and now the Foreign Office was approaching Tavington regularly for advice, believing him to have access to valuable secret intelligence. Tavington snorted a scornful laugh. He did—but not in a form they could have imagined.
It was damp, and his wounds ached, as they often did in such weather. The discomfort always created in him a feeling of angry resentment. In the King's service he had been shot, stabbed, slashed, clubbed, thrown from his horse. He had endured sickness and injury and every kind of hardship; and he had gotten nothing for his pains but public opprobrium, official disdain, and a miserable existence on half-pay. Now, every new thousand he earned, every advantage gained, even the splendid new coach and team he had purchased, were not only consolations: they were a form of revenge against the world that had given him such mean rewards for his sacrifices as a soldier.
He had confided as much to Emily. She understood how callous the world could be, having been badly treated by her own. She gazed out the low French window at their garden, and said, "Well, you know, Will, they say that living well is the best revenge."
He had been much struck by the wisdom of that. Live well he would: yes, and his wife and children too. And God help those who stood in the way.
It was time to make another step toward his goal of resurrecting his reputation and restoring his family name to eminence and honor. At dinner, he told Emily of his newest scheme.
"But I love this place!" she protested, quite unhappy at the idea of moving. "Thistledowne Cottage is our home. It was our first home. The children were born here. And it's wonderful! What more do we need?"
Patiently, Tavington attempted to make his wife understand why this admittedly comfortable and picturesque cottage was totally unfit for an ancient and esteemed family that was now once again on the rise. "A very charming spot for a short while," he added, " but hardly appropriate for us, now that our income is over twelve thousand a year!"
"I see," she sulked. "You want a trophy house."
He understood what she meant, though the term was unknown to him. "Yes," he admitted frankly. "I want what you call a trophy house—a noble country seat. It is very important to me, and it will be important to our children someday. If I could purchase my family's old home, Blackburn Abbey, I would. Alas, the Throckmortons refuse to sell. Ellsmere Hall is a famous old place, and very beautiful from all accounts. I shall go up to Norfolk and have a look at it. Would you like to come with me?"
While she hated the idea of parting with the cottage, she liked seeing William so happy. Like a good wife, and a very good sport, she endured a week's separation from her children to take the first vacation they had had together since their marriage. Despite all the discomforts and inconveniences of travel, it was, she admitted to herself, really a lot of fun to have her husband to herself for a little while.
And Ellsmere Hall was certainly impressive. It was not as bad as she had feared: instead of the intimidating, oppressive pile of stones she had expected, she found a rambling, rather romantic 15th century manor house; with mullioned windows, a riot of climbing roses, a real oak-paneled Great Hall in the medieval style, and even the remains of a minstrel's gallery. On the other hand, it was very big: so big that it was seemed out of human scale—more a magnificent hotel than a home.
But her home it was to be. And to top it all, within a month of their refreshing second honeymoon, she realized she was pregnant yet again. Nonetheless, within five weeks they had packed up their household, their children, and their faithful servants, and headed north. Emily cast a nostalgic look back at their darling little cottage. now empty and forlorn, and knew that things would never be the same.
-----
I'd like the gardens better, she decided, if I were ever permitted to see them.
The gardens of Ellsmere Hall were a glorious maze: hedges, stone walls, arbors, locked iron doors, and latched gates. She wandered out on fine days, peering longingly at the tops of statues and flowering bushes, but somehow she could not reach the things she most wanted to see. When she would come across one of the gardeners, he would touch his forelock, never looking her in the eye, and make some excuse as to why she could not enter parts of the garden; and even more outrageously, claim that what she thought she had seen did not exist.
They did not like her, she realized; and did not respect her. She had been too friendly, too conciliating; too chary of claiming her rights as the chatelaine of Ellsmere Hall. It seemed that the servants had been very fond of the last mistress, a proper lady, Lady Georgiana Makepeace, the one whose husband had proved unable to maintain the state the house called for. There were constant, petty annoyances: in addition to the inability to wander as she pleased in the gardens, the cook's ideas of suitable meals for little children were in unqualified opposition to her own.
She should not have known about this slight. In the servants' opinion, a "proper" mistress like Lady Georgiana would not be visiting the nursery at mealtimes, and so would not have known why young William was so thin, and why little Margaret was so greedy for sweets when she visited them at teatime. However, one Thursday Emily had gone upstairs at one o'clock to see the children at their dinner. Or rather, to see them refusing to eat it.
"What it is?" Emily asked, spooning up the thick gravy coating an unknown spongy blob.
"Brain stew, ma'am," Fanny, the nurserymaid, informed her timidly. William kicked his small booted feet against the table legs angrily.
"It's horrid! I hate it!"
"'Orrid! 'Orrid!" seconded Margaret with great enthusiasm, recklessly pounding her spoon on her plate.
Emily took a bite, and then did something she had told the children not to. Hastily, she found a napkin and spat the noxious mess into it. Her normal passivity cracked like a dam under too much pressure. She had to clutch her head for a moment before managing coherent words.
"Have all the children's meals been like this? Why haven't you told me?"
Fanny was truly frightened. "Beg pardon, ma'am. I spoke to Lucy, the maid who brings the meals up, but she said that Mrs. Busby, the head cook, said it was good enough for this nursery! And once I complained, the food got worse. And I didn't know—some ladies think children should eat what they're given—"
Emily looked at the tray. There were two small cups of milk, which she could tell had not been boiled per her instructions. There were two small bowls of rice pudding. She tasted it. Bland, but not too bad. No bread, no jam, no butter.
"All right," she said, trying to remain calm. "Will, Margaret: eat your pudding. I'll see what else I can get for you." She did not clearly remember where the kitchens were, but she would find them.
"Cake, Mamma!" cried Margaret.
"No!" Emily muttered. "No cake. Real food."
Actually, it was not that difficult. All she had to do was follow her nose downstairs. In the large servants' hall, the help was having their own dinner: large, meaty joints of beef; game pie; bowls of turnips, of potatoes, of parsnips, all lavishly buttered; baskets of bread, fruit preserves, jars of honey, cups of cider.
They eat better than we do, Emily thought, blazing with resentment. One of the footmen saw her, and jumped to his feet. The rest turned and with some bows and curtseys and exclamations of surprise, rose as well.
"How may we serve you, Madam?" asked Pratt, the butler, in his most unctuous tones.
Emily could not trust herself to speak. Wordlessly, she stalked to the table and snatched up two plates. Pushing the nervous staff aside, she carefully filled each one with a healthy child's portion. She quickly cut the beef into tiny pieces. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her maid, Annie, and her cook from Thistledowne, Sarah Hayes, now reduced to underlings in this grand establishment. In a carefully controlled voice she ordered, "Fill two cups with clean water, Annie. Sarah, find a tray for these plates, and follow me."
Sarah found covers for the plates as well, so the food would be at least lukewarm by the time they got back to the nursery. Her servants fell into step behind her, and she swept out of the servants' hall, shaking with anger—shaking even more at the buzz of conversation that erupted as the door closed.
For the next three days, she refused to eat the meals the cook attempted to have served to her. For herself and her children, she sent Annie and Sarah to randomly select from whatever was being served up in the servants' hall. She felt horribly vulnerable: she had never understood what the term spit in one's soup could mean before, and the thought of blindly eating anything these hostile, incomprehensible people would put before her nearly made her retch.
She was intermittently nauseous from her pregnancy as well. Sarah was assigned to the children's milk and meals; Annie to her own food.
The food Annie brought her was certainly better than she had had before, but so heavy. God, she thought one day, trying to face a plate of sausages. What I wouldn't give for some good Thai food.
When Tavington, accompanied by his valet, returned on a Friday evening, he found his household in a state of undeclared war. His wife looked ill and angry: sitting in the upstairs drawing room, clutching a pillow to her middle, her lips pressed together as if reluctant to tell him what was wrong. The servants were slinking about like frightened rabbits. He asked his wife if she had already dined, and found that she had not. He had not lived with her for five years without knowing something was wrong.
Tavington sat by her on the sofa, and stroked her hair. "My dearest, are you ill?"
He was unprepared for the storm of tears that followed. The story poured out: the locked, secret gardens; the spitefulness of the servants; his children's wretched meals; his wife's current state of mind in which she felt besieged in their own home.
"I don't care for myself," she cried, "but the children! Do you want the children to die of tuberculosis—consumption—before they turn twelve?"
He had learned, over the years, to listen in silence. He cared nothing for the servants, and everything for his wife. If she was unhappy, no one was going to be happy. Seeing her distress, he indulged her by sending down Annie to find them both something to eat, and they supped there in the drawing room from a tray. Gradually her sobs abated, while Tavington fed her roasted chicken. When her eyelids began to droop, Tavington felt he had heard enough.
"Annie, " he directed, "help Mrs. Tavington up to her bed. My love," he informed his wife, "I have some business to see to, and will join you presently." As soon as she was gone he summoned Parks, whose usually placid features betrayed that he had been informed of the state of affairs in the household.
In his crispest tones, Tavington said, "I want to see the cook, the butler, the head gardener, and the head parlormaid at once."
Parks endeavored to maintain his poise. "Here, sir?"
"Yes! Here, damn you!" He relented, and growled, "I've a few knees to set knocking, it appears."
Parks bowed. "Quite so, sir."
Tavington was truly put out. He briefly wondered, how did those imbeciles imagine that they could get away with such insubordination? He sighed. Emily did not have a knack with servants. It had taken some time for her to learn to deal with their six servants at Thistledowne. This large staff at Ellsmere had plainly thought they could take advantage of her. If had not been for her maternal protectiveness, they probably would have continued this insolence. He would have to find a trustworthy and efficient housekeeper to oversee the household. Emily had better things to do with her time, anyway.
The subsequent interview was brief but savage. The cook was summarily sacked amidst wails and tears, and the others were informed that Sarah would be taking her place. The butler was reprimanded for his failure to supervise the staff properly. The underservants were warned of the consequences of any hint of impertinence to Tavington, his wife, or his children. The head gardener came in for some of the harshest words.
"When Mrs. Tavington," declared the Colonel, "wishes to walk in her garden, she will find no locked doors and no latched gates: in short, no impediments to her pleasure. The gardens are not yours nor your minions. They are ours. If that is not clear to you, I can find others who will have no difficulty in discharging my commands. Do you understand me?"
They had all understood him quite well, and crept away. "The mistress is too soft by half," Hetty, the parlormaid, confided in an awestruck whisper to the other maids, "but the Colonel is a right Tartar!"
-----
In 1797, Bonaparte was moving from victory to victory. Italy had been swallowed by the French: the Low Countries were threatened. There were terrifying rumors that an invasion of England was being contemplated. The Royal Navy was in hot pursuit of the French fleet, knowing that control of the Channel was vital to the kingdom's security. Tavington was summoned to a private meeting with the Prime Minister, William Pitt, and the rest of the Cabinet; and they urged him to use his contacts for the sake of his country.
Outside the windows, a thin drizzle of rain fell relentlessly. Though it was still afternoon, it had grown dark under the lowering clouds. At Pitt's order, the candles were lit, and odd shadows flickered across the faces of anxious men. Some of them had derided their fellows for taking Tavington's advice in the past. No longer. Rapt attention was focused on the former Colonel of Dragoons.
Tavington leaned forward, eyes glittering. Emily had never seen such an expression on her husband's face, but his old enemies in the Colonies would have had no difficulty in recognizing it.
"I want a peerage," he declared, and subsided into his chair, daring them to refuse; hating them because they just might refuse.
They did not. There was some haggling. The ministers decried his lack of patriotism, and thought he should be fobbed off with a knighthood. Tavington sneered politely at such an offer and held firm. He did not get everything he demanded—he did not get an earldom, but he would be made a viscount. He would be received at court the following spring. Tavington hid his savage glee behind a mask of cool indifference. He would be publicly recognized. He would sit in the House of Lords. His peerless Emily would be a peeress. His children would bear the word Honourable before their names.
He decided to end his career as a master of rumor and intelligence with one last, grand flourish. History was already beginning to warp and distort with the changes he had introduced. Tiny changes spread their ripples throughout the world, like pebbles thrown into a still pond. Emily had described this as "the butterfly effect" to him, and he understood that it was only a matter of time before the future became as impenetrable to her as to any other inhabitant of the period. She might know of inventions, discoveries, and general trends, but the movements of the chess pieces were changing.
A map was rolled out, and the strategy of the French fleet over the next few months was detailed. Bonaparte's designs on Egypt were revealed. Had Tavington's intelligence been less reliable before this, his statements now would have been met with incredulity. As it was, there was time, not to forestall Bonaparte, but to lie in wait, trap, and ambush the fleet before French troops could disembark.
Nelson and his fleet were dispatched, under orders of the deepest secrecy. The surprise was complete. Only two of the French ships, carrying a small force of soldiers and a party of scholars and scientists, managed to land, and those ultimately had to be rescued from the fury of the Mamelukes by a detachment of Royal Marines. Otherwise, the destruction of the French fleet, including the transports bearing the French army, was nearly total. The ensuing British stay in Cairo-- Nelson's adventures there, and the fascinating accounts and pictures of the ancient monuments-- made for thrilling reading in the newspapers. Of greater political moment was the death of the intrepid young General Bonaparte, drowned in the Nile Delta like some Ptolemy of old. Much ink was spilled on his behalf, speculating on what his future might have been; and poets and playwrights alike found him a tragic and mysterious embodiment of overweening ambition and wasted potential. He became one of the great "what if's" of history.
The ministers, not knowing that Tavington had forsworn further intervention in events, kept their word to him. Triumphant, it only remained for him to choose the name he would hold his title under. As the Ellsmere title was vacant, and the estate his own—and as the name was well-sounding itself, he chose that. Lord Ellsmere he would be now, and he would leave behind the ill-starred Colonel Tavington forever.
Emily rather enjoyed her presentation at Court, ridiculous as all the pomp and protocol were. It was odd to hear herself addressed as Lady Ellsmere, but she could adapt to that--she had adapted to worse. She had even adapted to her life at Ellsmere Hall; and saw that however absurdly, her consequence with her servants had been raised by her accession to a title.
"It's also useful when dealing with shopkeepers and the country gentry," she admitted wryly to her husband, as they drove back home to Norfolk. His smile was sardonic, but there was still a hint of the same victorious gleam that his expression had held since his crucial interview with the Prime Minister. She patted his arm, and he smiled more broadly, blooming like a flower in the sun.
He agreed. "And with the moneymen of the City! My reputation for brilliance shines even more brightly now that I've a handle to my name. I'll miss the lot of them, the blackguards, but I've made all the fortune that even I could ask for; I've been received by the King, taken my seat in the Lords---and now I want to spend my time with my family!"
-----
Another author could end the story here. The heroine, raised to nobility, blessed with wealth, position, a loving husband, delightful children, at the height of her success, is ushered back to "happily ever after" at her palatial estate.
But the form of real life resists such a conclusion. Oh, Emily had some happy years yet ahead of her, though her occasional fears for the health of a husband older than she raised concerns from time to time; and the children's misery during the inevitable childhood ailments caused many sleepless nights. Nonetheless, she was happy, as the world and she herself would account happiness. She had even managed to make a few friends outside her own family circle: her housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, was kind and motherly; the wife of the local rector proved a pleasant, companionable woman of about the same age as Emily herself; and there were some decent county families who could supply the occasional welcome guests to Ellsmere Hall. The past reality of her existence in the 21st century faded with time, and became irrelevant.
She had feared childbirth, recognizing its undeniable hazards. Her fourth and last child, born prematurely eight months after his parents' reception at Court, nearly died within days of his birth; and afterwards Emily succeeded in persuading her husband to follow a natural monthly method that reduced her chances of conception. Four children, three boys and a girl, made a sufficiently large family. Indeed, she had survived the most obvious dangers of the period, and bid fair to rear children who would live to be adults.
But still, as they say, you have to die of something. Some years later, as often happens, it was not she, but her husband, who first noticed the lump in her breast. She was terribly frightened at first, and yet the blow fell with the inevitability of a tree under the woodsman's axe. It was William who was more appalled and anguished, imploring her to think—to remember-- if there was not something she could do, some bit of her magical knowledge that could save her. In the few months ahead, he learned the limits of his wife's information; and she, as she surrendered the struggle, and retreated to the dreams of laudanum, recognized the superiority of the past in the face of imminent death. She would not suffer, as her aunt had, the torture of hopes raised and dashed, over and over again. She would not die surrounded by objective, dispassionate strangers, with tubes up her nose. She would be leaving William long before she was ready, but she knew that his hand would be in hers to the very end.
-----
On the chilly October day that saw Lady Ellsmere laid to rest, there was quite a gathering at the parish church. She was buried in the crypt, and the little crowd of mourners watched in respectful silence as the black-clad family of the deceased lady departed after the entombment. The vicar, too, held his peace, not wishing to further disturb the deeply grieving Lord Ellsmere or his children. The family, though they had been good friends to himself and his wife, had always been a bit strange. Rumors of Lord Ellsmere's savagery in the American rebellion had never quite died down. There were equally wild rumors about the source of his fortune and his mysterious role in the war with the French.
And then there was Lady Ellsmere herself, a sweet and peculiar woman of unknown origins, whose foibles and sometimes bizarre speech and behavior had been the talk of her servants and the whole county at times. The mutual devotion of Lord and Lady Ellsmere was above question, but their manner of showing it sometimes verged upon the odd. Certainly the wording on her tomb was unique. The vicar had not dared to lodge a protest, but he and his wife were to find it all a subject for speculation both now and forever.
Emily Elizabeth Norton Tavington, Lady Ellsmere
2025-1809
Unreturned-----
Notes: The White Hart Inn is a real place. It is still a working hotel, and you can stay there if you go to Bath.
O'Hara was captured by forces of the French Revolution at Toulon in 1793 (during which a young Bonaparte first came to prominence in our universe). He was badly wounded, imprisoned under hideous conditions, and repeatedly threatened with death until the fall of Robespierre. It permanently soured his outlook on life.
Ellsmere Hall is inspired by Elsing Hall in Norfolk, a wonderful moated manor house with spectacular gardens in the English style.
Brain stew is not an invention of mine. Nursery menus in great houses were often foul.
"Roll up the map of Europe!" cried William Pitt in another universe, after Napoleon's victory at Austerlitz.
Next episode: Tavington's Atlantis