Life and Death of the Wicked Lady Skelton (9 page)

In her excellent portrait by an unknown artist (which happily was stored in London at the time of the fire) she wears a large hat of fashionably masculine shape with an upturned brim and an ostrich feather; her hair is powdered and drawn back from her face in curls; she has a narrow black velvet ribbon round her throat, and over her pale-coloured dress she wears a little black silk cape or mantelet fastened in front with a cameo brooch. Her face – that of a woman in her late thirties – is not beautiful but it is comely and arresting. There is something almost boyish
about her wide forehead and rounded chin, but her dark lively eyes are very feminine. Though there is good humour in the firmly closed mouth, determination is the dominant expression of Lady Sophia's face. Here, you feel, is a woman who would have swum triumphantly through life in any class or any century. She has none of that air of overbred, swan-like helplessness which characterises many portraits of eighteenth-century women.

No wonder that her husband and her children (seven sons and four daughters) loved and deferred to her. No wonder that the villagers of Maiden Worthy accepted her beneficent if autocratic rule with due meekness.

She was a fine horsewoman and an enthusiastic rider to hounds, and the only woman to see the end of the Garston Gorze hunt, famed in local song and story. But there was more to Lady Sophia than physical dash and daring. When the neighbourhood was scourged by an epidemic of ‘putrid fever', or typhus, Lady Sophia sent her children away to safety and settled down, with Sir Charles to keep her company, to help the over-worked apothecary Mr Browning fight the disease. Defying infection, she sailed into cottage after cottage bringing blankets, syllabubs, sage tea and courage to her husband's stricken tenants, and acting as Mr Browning's assistant – if the word ‘assist' can be stretched sufficiently to cover the cheerful unconcern with which she pooh-poohed his suggestions and disobeyed his instructions.

Her ideas on hygiene were in advance of her times. Regardless of the outcries of her patients and the protests of the hapless Mr Browning, she tore open tiny casement
windows, letting the fresh air into darkened, pestiferous cottages, ordered infected bedding to be burnt and, with her own hands, shaved the heads of her female patients, promising them each a gift of a close cap with blue ribbons if they submitted with patience to her ministrations.

On her own initiative she drew a quarantine cordon round the parish, forbidding its inhabitants, under pain of her severe displeasure, to leave it or to allow strangers to enter it. Her methods, high-handed though they were, were justified by the fact that there were fewer deaths in Maiden Worthy than in any of the surrounding parishes, and that it was the first village to be free of the epidemic.

It is no surprise after this to learn that, in later years, when England was faced by the threat of a Napoleonic invasion, Lady Sophia Skelton raised and, at her own cost, maintained a body of volunteers from among her husband's tenants.

Certainly a woman of character, and one not easily deflected from her purpose. Which makes it the stranger that of her vaunting architectural schemes there remains no trace except the Folly, or miniature Grecian temple, set down in desolate incongruity by the banks of the river, and those plans which were stored away for years, dusty and forgotten in the attic at Maryiot Cells; for the partial rebuilding of the west wing after the outbreak of fire in 1782 was obviously an emergency measure and in no way connected with Lady Sophia's original plan.

The solution of this teasing little mystery can however be pieced together from the bundle of letters, tied with faded red ribbon, which accompanies the plans. A solution?
Perhaps that is hardly the word for an explanation so unnatural, so contrary to reason and so strange.

The letters are written by Lady Sophia to Sir Charles who was over in Dublin at that time, engaged on business connected with property in that city which had been left to him by his great-uncle Lord Maynooth.

The plans for the reconstruction of Maryiot Cells had evidently reached completion, and demolition work was to begin in a matter of a few weeks, when Lady Sophia would remove herself and her family to Beechlands Grove, which fortunately or unfortunately (according to whether you consider it from Lady Sophia's or Mr Wedgeworth's point of view) was within driving distance of Maryiot Cells.

Probably Sir Charles was not altogether sorry to miss the final stages of the running battle between his lady and his architect. His long, handsome face, as depicted in his portrait, which is a pendant to that of his wife, is perfectly amiable but lacks her conquering air.

Lady Sophia was a devoted wife and mother, and she wrote often and affectionately to her absent lord. The first few letters, of which the following is a typical specimen, deal with the daily happenings at Maryiot Cells, trivial in themselves but important to this fond and united couple.

March 9th 1782.

‘My dearest husband,

I give you a thousand thanks for your kind letter which
was vastly welcome. It vexed me to learn that you had such a bad crossing, but I rejoice to hear that, thanks to your cousin's claret and your own excellent constitution, you were totally recovered from the effects of it when you wrote to me. Anything that causes you uneasiness, however slight, must cause uneasiness to your wife who loves you better than herself. Pray, my dear Sir Charles, regard your health as my most precious possession and treat it accordingly.

Our sweet lambs are well and send their duty and kisses to dear Papa. Your daughter Elizabeth – the baggage! – desires me to remind Papa to bring her a pretty toy from Dublin. The new footman is a dolt. I thought 'twas not possible to find anyone stupider than Samuel, but events have proved me wrong. However he appears to take the utmost pains to please, poor creature, so I shall endeavour to bear with him.

Lady Roxley called this morning desiring to carry me with her to visit the “nouvelle mariée”, but I resisted her solicitations, for to tell the truth, I dare not leave this place for a moment in case Mr Wedgeworth should profit by my absence to plan “quelque bêtise”.
⁴

I have made it tolerably clear to him, I believe, what I require of him, that is to say to carry out
my
ideas (and of course yours too, my love) not his own. I find that his opinion agrees with mine lately in a way that I would not have believed possible when we first entered into this building project. I must confess that I had a few words with him yesterday over the extra windows in the boudoir, Mr W. maintaining that he would risk his reputation extremely by consenting to any such thing, but upon my assuring him
that I held my comfort far dearer than any man's reputation (and why, pray, should I mope in darkness during the winter months to please any man?) he hauled down his colours, as brother Jack
*
would say.

I believe it will not be long now before the work of pulling down this antique and incommodious building will begin. I am more in love with the idea of our fine new house than ever, am ready to endure every inconvenience to obtain it, and pray God that He will spare us and our children to enjoy many happy years together in it.

I will acquaint you when I shall move to Beechlands Grove. I shall stay here as long as I can to see what Mr Wedgeworth and his minions are about.

If you should bring me some muslin for the little girls' caps and fine linen damask for tablecloths I will not say nay to it, but pray do not trouble yourself if you are too much occupied with business.

Believe me, my dear Sir Charles, your faithful, affectionate and obedient wife,

S. Skelton.'

Her next letter strikes a less carefree note.

March l0th.

‘You will be surprised, my dear Sir Charles, at receiving another letter written less than twenty-four hours after my last and, lest you should conclude that some illness of the children has occasioned it, I hasten to relieve your mind
by assuring you that they are pure well (not excepting our sweet rogue Frederick, who is a little perverse and saucy by reason of toothing, but nothing to signify).

I am also in tolerable good health though in extreme ill humour, Mr Wedgeworth having come to me today to inform me – if you please – that he cannot get any workmen from the neighbourhood to work on the house. Recollecting that he was always for bringing a number of hands down from London, I rehearsed to him again our reasons for employing men from these parts, viz not only greater economy, but also our wish to give employment to the neighbourhood. I added that when he had completed the task of demolishing the old house and building up the new he might bring down what London craftsmen he chose for its embellishment. I was sensible that I must leave such matters to him, but I hoped that Buckinghamshire was not such a county of ninnies that it could not produce sufficient good labourers − stone masons, carpenters and so on – for his purpose.

When I was out of breath Mr W. said, “Indeed you quite mistake me. I by no means think myself capable of gainsaying any of your ladyship's wishes. In this case it is the workmen themselves who make so bold. If you do not believe me pray ask your steward,” and with that he bounced out of the room. What ridiculous “canard”
⁵
or, more likely, misunderstanding is behind this business, I cannot guess though I shall soon find out (it was too late when he came to me for me to see Hunter). In any case you may depend upon it that I will soon clear it up.

Now, mon très cher, I must beg your forgiveness for venting my peevishness upon you. I fancy how you will laugh when you receive this letter and say, “There is Sophie
flaming
again!”

Never mind, you are at liberty to laugh at me as much as you please as long as you think of and love,

Your ever affectionate wife and partner, S.S.'

But the matter was not to be cleared up as easily as Lady Sophia anticipated. Her next letter reads:

March 13th.

‘My dear husband,

I fear that I can by no means give you so good an account of affairs here as I would wish. I saw Hunter at the earliest opportunity after my conversation with Mr Wedgeworth and asked him to explain this nonsensical business about the workmen. Whereupon he assured me that it was indeed as Mr W. had said, that he could not for any money – nor he added for an even stronger consideration viz the esteem and respect that the people hereabouts have for the family and for us both – induce a soul to undertake the labour of pulling down this house.

This news struck me dumb, as you may imagine. If I did not know Hunter to be a man of integrity and honest character I would not have believed him. Upon my questioning him as to the reason for this extraordinary state of affairs, he became as close as an oyster, shifted from foot to foot, and mumbled that the country people here were prone to take notions and to listen to foolish old tales. You
may guess that I am not satisfied with such lame excuses and will make it my chief purpose and business to sift this matter to the bottom.

Till then adieu, my dear love.

Your affectionate and entirely devoted wife,

Sophia Skelton.'

The next few days brought Lady Sophia some explanation but little satisfaction.

March 16th.

‘I have but this moment returned, my dear Sir Charles, from visiting William Waite at his cottage, whither I went in my chaise, with the idea that if anyone could explain to me the reason for the insolence, indolence – I know not what to call it – in short the extraordinary conduct of these workmen, it would be this venerable and good old man, who may truly be termed the Father of the parish.
*

He was as pleased to see me as ever, and not only I flatter myself for the sake of the pigeon pie that I brought with me. I acquainted him with my problem which he listened to with many head noddings and sage “Aye, aye, I had heard as much”, and then gave me an explanation that I am sure would divert you were it not proof of the pitiable fears and superstitions to which the lower class of people are so prone.

In short, my dear Sir Charles, these foolish folk will not work on this house because they believe it to be haunted.
The spirit (I will not honour her with the name of lady!) who is so uncourteously interfering with my plans is, it would seem, your great great aunt of evil memory, Barbara Lady Skelton.

What could give clearer evidence, my dear husband, of the enduring influence of bad deeds, for while the virtues of your many honourable and discreet ancestresses have been forgotten, the crimes of a profligate woman, who has mouldered in her tomb these ninety odd years, are still so well remembered in the neighbourhood that grown men (in this age of reason) dare not lift a pickaxe against the house that she inhabited for fear of displeasing her shade!

Something of my feelings must have appeared in my face, for old William said, “I fancy my lady that you have not much notion of spirits?”

“None whatsoever,” I assured him laughing. Upon which the old man said, “If I may make so bold as to ask, has your ladyship never been troubled with any disturbances since you and Sir Charles took up residence at the Great House?” I told him, “I will not deny that there has been idle talk among the maidservants, but for my part I have never heard nor seen anything during these last two years that could not have been caused by mortal agency. I know very well what the country people say about Maryiot Cells, but the notion of haunted houses is quite exploded except among those with weak and ignorant minds.”