Mr Cavell's Diamond (13 page)

Lett
ers

Park Place
 

Chelsea
 

20
th
December 1831 

Dear Mr
Cavell

As instructed I write to inform you that your wife Caroline Cavell was today delivered of a baby girl. I was in attendance along with a local midwife. Both mother and daughter are well. I shall send my bill to your address in Worthing in due course.

Yours etc,

John
Calvert, Doctor of Medicine

Marine Parade

Worthing
 

21
st
December 1831 

Caroline

I understand that you are safe and well following the birth of your daughter, and I am thankful of that. I loved you once, and I believed for a while the child was my own. Although those feelings and beliefs are long gone, I cannot wish you harm, whatever you might choose to believe, and whatever vitriol you might choose to
include in your letters to me.

Caroline, it is clear our marriage is irreparably broken. I will not live in the same house as an unfaithful, lying wife and her bastard child. I will not live with a woman who hates me as much as your recent letters show. However I will not turn you out on the street or leave you without money.

You may remain living in my house in Chelsea for life. Frances and your daughter may live there too. I shall pay you a monthly allowance. Dennett will write to you with the exact terms. Do not contest the amount – it will be generous enough.

You are no longer welcome in Marine Parade. I would like to say you are no longer welcome in
Worthing, but you have family here and I suppose you will want to visit them on occasion. But do not come near my house, for you will not be granted admission.

Caroline, I am investigating ways in which our marriage might be dissolved. I wish to be free of you, as free as the laws of this country allow. I imagine that you too would wish to be free of me, perhaps to take up with the father of your daughter, whoever he might
be.

This shall be my last letter to you. If you wish to communicate further with me, please do so via William Dennett. You have his address.

Take good care of Frances. There is always a home for her here, should you ever tire of her.

Henry Cavell

Marine Parade

Worthing 

10
th
January 1832 

My dear Dennett

Caroline is now my wife in name only, and is no longer a part of my life.

I must meet with you soon, on your return to
Worthing. I need to discuss my separation from my wife with you. I will make her an allowance each month, and I need you to manage that for me. I do not wish to have to correspond with that woman on any matter from now on.

Your ever loyal friend

Henry

Chapter 11 – June 1832

Henry

It was one of those perfectly still days, with high, thin cloud cover acting as a filter against the sunshine, rendering colours delicate and muted. The sea looked as though a
fine film of oil had been poured over it, dampening the waves except for a tiny fringe of white surf along the edge of the sand. At the horizon, the sea merged almost imperceptibly with the pale grey sky.

That colour would suit Jemima, thought Henry. A gown in subtle, shimmering grey silk, with a simple narrow trim of fine white lace
, would allow her natural fresh beauty to shine out. She was so different from Caroline, who had always wanted more flounces, frills, bows and ribbons in every shade under the sun, sewn on to every section of every gown she owned. Henry allowed his mind to wander for a moment: imagining himself bringing home a silken gown for Jemima, her exclaims of delight, her blushes of pleasure, a shy lifting of her head to kiss him in thanks…

No. Jemima would not, he knew, accept such a gift from him. She would be too embarrassed, she would insist he return the gown to its maker. She would then subtly keep her distance from him, standing a little further away from him when she served him at dinner, leaving a room as he entered, treating him as her master rather than her friend on his ever more frequent visits to her kitchen. He could not risk that happening. He must control himself.

Henry shook his head and turned eastwards, striding along the beach in the direction of the town’s centre. Worthing was growing rapidly, becoming ever more fashionable, and there were many people strolling along the promenade, taking the air. Bathing machines were lined up along the shore, ready for any hardy swimmers who might venture out for a swim in the calm glassy waters.

Indeed, he knew he would never leave
Worthing. It was Jemima’s home, where she’d grown up, and taking her away from Worthing would be like uprooting a beautiful rose – one which would never thrive or bloom anywhere else. And wherever Jemima lived was where he would make his home, whether or not they could ever have any stronger relationship than master and servant. Simply being in her company and receiving, on occasion, her shy smile turned his way would have to be enough.

Sultan galloped past him along the beach, chasing a seagull which had been pecking at a dead fish caught in a heap of fishing nets. The bird took to the air noisily at the last moment.

‘Better luck next time, old boy,’ said Henry, laughing. ‘Come on, let’s get back and see what Jemima’s made us for dinner, eh? Hope it’s something better than seagull pie!’

There was an enticing smell of roast beef coming from the kitchen as Henry let himself back into his house. Sultan immediately bounded down the stairs, and Henry grinned as he decided to follow. Why not? The dog knew where he was welcome and where he’d most likely get scraps, attention
and love.

In the kitchen Jemima was busy stirring onions into a thick brown gravy to serve with the beef. As Henry entered she turned and smiled.
‘The dinner is almost ready sir. If you go on up to the dining room I …’

‘
May I eat it here?’ said Henry on impulse. ‘At this table, with you. And Maria.’

‘
Maria has gone to see her Ma,’ said Jemima. ‘It’s her day off.’

‘
Of course, I remember,’ said Henry, inwardly delighted. ‘Well then, just we two. No need to carry everything upstairs to the dining room. I am happy to sit down here in your cosy kitchen.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down, stretching his legs out beneath the table.

‘
Sir, tis
your
kitchen,’ said Jemima, her eyes wide. ‘I only work here.’

‘
I cannot imagine the kitchen without you in it,’ he said. ‘Well, will you allow me to sit here to eat?’

She grinned.
‘Tis not for me to allow or not allow, sir! Tis your house and you must do as you like. I will serve you here if that is your desire.’ She tasted the gravy, and threw in a pinch of salt.

Henry stood up and pulled out a second chair.
‘You may serve me, but then I’d like you to sit down and eat with me.’ He patted the chair. ‘Here. We’ll eat together.’

He watched as Jemima tried in vain to look shocked. It seemed she couldn’t help herself from smiling.
‘Sir, that’s not proper for you and me to sit down together.’

‘
Since when did I care about what was proper, woman? There’s only two of us in the house, so no sense using two rooms, when actually you and I get along very well together. Don’t we?’

‘
Yes sir, when we take Sultan out on the beach. But this is a whole other situation…’

She protested, but still she smiled, as she took the roast beef from the oven and transferred it to a serving plate, which she placed in front of him.
‘Will you carve, sir?’

‘
Thank you.’ He began slicing the meat, watching Jemima out of the corner of his eye as she bustled around him, laying the table, transferring vegetables to bowls and pouring the gravy into a jug.

‘
Will you be wanting wine, sir?’

‘
Will you?’

‘
I can’t drink your wine sir!’

Henry leaned back in his chair and smiled at her.
‘You may, if you want. To keep me company.’

‘
Maybe just one, then,’ she said, running upstairs to the dining room to fetch two wine glasses from the sideboard.

Later, as Henry pushed away his empty pudding bowl, topped up his wine glass and watched Jemima stack the dirty plates and take them through to the scullery, he wondered when he’d ever enjoyed a meal so much. The food had been delicious – Jemima was an accomplished cook. And she had relaxed as the meal progressed, recounting tales of Sultan’s escapades on the beach
and telling him about her family. There had only been one awkward moment – when Jemima had begun to talk about a game she’d taught Frances. Henry fell silent, realising how much he was missing the little girl he’d come to love as his own. He knew he might never see her again.

But Jemima had quickly picked up on his discomfort.
‘She’ll be all right up in London, sir. She’ll remember her Pa, and soon as she’s old enough she’ll come back to see us here.’

Henry smiled at that, comforted not so much by the thought of
Frances coming back one day, as by Jemima’s reference to ‘us’.

If he played this game slowly, perhaps one day, he might win her love.

Jemima

I hardly believe what
is happening in my life these days. Every week now, when Maria has her half-day off, Mr Cavell comes to the kitchen and eats his dinner with me, and asks me to fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar and we share it atwixt us. Only for it being the kitchen and not the dining room, and there being no one to wait on us, I am like the mistress of the house clinking my glass with the master’s. I like it all so much but I don’t believe it can be true or can last.

Yesterday w
as one of those days when Maria was off, and after dinner Mr Cavell asked me could I mend a shirt for him. ‘Yes sir,’ I said, and he went off to fetch the shirt while I waited for him in the hallway.

‘
Here,’ he said, handing me the shirt. ‘The sleeve is coming away. Can you mend it?’

I look
ed at the shirt and it was an easy repair. ‘Of course, sir, I will do it rightaway,’ I told him, and I started down the stairs back to the kitchen where I like to sit and sew. Better than going all the way up to my attic room.

‘
Bring it into the drawing room,’ he said. ‘We can continue to chat while you work. I’ll fetch the rest of the wine.’

Well, in all my years working in this house I
have never sat down in the drawing room, still less brought my work in there. I have cleaned that room a thousand times, blacked the grate and swept the floor, beat the carpets and dusted the furniture, plumped the cushions and washed the windows, served tea and wine and whiskey to all manner of folk but I have never sat in any single one of those chairs or sofas.

He s
aw that I looked uncomfortable and he smiled. ‘Jemima, it’s all right. It’s just a room the same as any other, and I would like your company in it. Come on, I spend a lot of time in the kitchen, your domain, now it is occasion for you to spend some time in mine. Bring your sewing basket. You may take the chair by the window. There is still good daylight for working. Better than down in the kitchen. There, you see, I am saving your eyesight! Come on, now.’

What c
ould I do but follow him, with the shirt and my basket? So I sat in that armchair near the window overlooking the sea, and I sewed that sleeve back into the shirt. Mr Cavell sat in the chair opposite me. And all the while he continued talking about this and that, and asking me about my family, and what did I think of Sultan’s health, and how Mr Dennett was spending more and more time in London and he wondered did Mr Dennett have a sweetheart up there for there was a Harriett he had mentioned from time to time, and how was the light, was it good enough for the sewing and was it my mother had taught me to sew?

‘
Sir, yes it was,’ I said. ‘Here, I have finished, see?’ I handed him the shirt and he exclaimed over the stitches, how they were so small and neat. Truth be told they were not the best, though good enough.

I pick
ed up my basket and stood to leave. And then, oh my heart beats loudly to remember it! Mr Cavell put out his hand and caught mine, and pulled me towards him and said, ‘Don’t leave me. Sit, do. Look, there’s wine left in the bottle, I shall pour you a glass.’

I s
at down again but he did not let go my hand nor pour the wine. He had his eyes fixed on mine and I saw – I saw –
love
in them. Love for
me
.

‘
Sir, I…’ I said, but somehow that broke the spell and he let go my hand.

‘
I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down at his hand that had held mine. ‘Go, if you must. I’ll not keep you longer this evening. Thank you for sewing my shirt.’

I want
ed to say I’ll stay, I’ll drink wine with you and chat about Mr Dennett’s sweetheart, and hold your hand and watch the sky outside the window turn red then purple then black. But my mouth was dry and the words wouldn’t come, and instead, I picked up the shirt and basket and stood up again.

‘
It’s late, sir,’ I muttered, and I curtseyed, though I have not done that to him for many a month. He nodded and reached for his newspaper, and I left the room.

When the door close
d behind me my knees nearly gave way, and all I could think of was the touch of his hand on mine and the look in his eye.

That was yesterday, and there was little sleep for me last night.

Today
is Mr Cavell’s birthday. We have Mr Dennett and some other gentlemen coming to dinner, and Maria and I must put on our clean caps and aprons and cook the best food in Worthing. I was wishing Mr Cavell’s birthday had come yesterday on Maria’s day off, and I might have made it special for him, and then I think, how, Jemima? How, exactly, would I make it special for him? What kind of girl am I become? I swept the thoughts out my mind and ran off to the kitchen to get on with the cooking.