Obsession (18 page)

Harriet laughed. ‘I think you are the one who wants to see him mounted, my darling. When you buy this Shetland pony, I do hope Charlie won’t disappoint you by preferring to be up on Shamrock’s back.’

Brook grimaced. ‘I know, I know! I am far too impatient for him to grow up and be old enough to go hunting with me! I shall have to content myself with you and the stately Felicity at my side.’

Harriet laughed. ‘Honestly, Brook,’ she chided him, ‘I do not think that is quite the way Felicity would wish to be described. “Fearless” would be a better adjective.’

Brook laughed. ‘One of these days that good lady is going to take a very nasty fall,’ he declared. ‘All the same, I have to admit Felicity is a very fine horsewoman, even if she does sometimes shout too loudly as she sails over the gates!’

As Brook now took Harriet’s hand in his, it crossed her mind that her friend, Felicity, who she knew to be a great admirer of Brook, would be very unhappy indeed were she to hear his criticism of her.

B
rook had gone up to London to the firm’s offices for an important meeting concerning the future expansion to the family’s estates in Jamaica. His father had invested in the first rail road currently being built out there. It extended the existing line from the capital Kingston to Spanish Town and Brook felt the time had come to purchase some neighbouring land and start growing a crop of bananas and citrus fruit to supplement the income from the sugar cane.

With the new rail road planned the Jamaican hinterland was opening up and produce could be moved down to the port more easily, but first he needed to try and persuade the cautious company directors of the advisability of this plan. He would stay two or three nights at his club, he had told Harriet, and would take the opportunity to buy Christmas presents for Charlie, his father and her. He would also look for something suitable for Una’s large brood as she and her family would be enjoying the festive season on holiday with them at Hunters Hall.

The house was a hive of activity, the bedrooms aired, beds made up and fires lit to ward off any dampness. Cook was busy preparing all the food for such a large number of visitors – Una and Patrick now had seven children – batches of mince pies, four large Christmas puddings, a Christmas fruit cake for the adults and pastry gingerbread men, marzipan angels and an iced chocolate cake for the children.

Although Cook was hot, flustered and spent a lot of time giving endless orders to the overworked kitchen maids, Harriet knew she was actually enjoying the challenge. As a rule, she had only to prepare food for Brook and herself, the staff and an occasional visitor or two. She made clucking noises about all the extra work she had to do but, in reality, she was looking forward to having a house full of children.

‘Mrs Kent has a soft spot for the little ones,’ Harriet remarked, smiling at Brook. ‘In particular Charlie who, when he can escape his nanny, makes his way to the kitchen where she gives him a toffee apple or a cinnamon biscuit or other such treats. The other day, I found her with him on her lap, regaling him with his favourite nursery rhymes, his favourite, needless to say, being “
Diddle-diddle dumpling, my son John, Went to Bed with his trousers on …
”
She substitutes “Charlie” for “John”. Now it sends him into peals of laughter. When she hears Maire searching for him, she hides him behind her chair and swears she hasn’t seen him – a useless fib as the seat of his trousers is usually white with flour after sitting on Cook’s lap.’

Brook, too, spoiled the little boy. Both Harriet and Maire, his nanny, would have liked to have done so but they tried to be less indulgent – not that he seemed in any way spoilt. He simply took it for granted that everyone loved him as he did them. Another of his special friends was the head groom. If Brook was not there to do so, Harriet would walk Charlie down to the stables on a sunny morning to be led round the field on the back of the old farm horse.

His other great friend was his doting grandfather, Sir Walter. The elderly man had always professed in the past that children should be ‘seen and not heard’, yet when Brook or Harriet visited with the boy he gave far more of his attention to Charlie than he did to them.

On this particular cold but sunny December day, Harriet drove over in the governess cart with Charlie and his nanny to visit Sir Walter. They found him once more laid up with gout, his leg heavily bandaged and propped up on a footstool. His favourite armchair was drawn up close to a vast log fire burning cheerfully in the drawing room. He had given strict orders that he was not at home to visitors, but when the footman enquired if he would see Harriet and Charlie, he told the servant not to be “so damned silly!” That of course he was at home to his daughter-in-law and grandson. As the footman showed them in, a look of delight spread over the old man’s bewhiskered face. ‘Come in! Come in, my dears!’ he said. ‘Harriet, sit here by the fire, and you, you rascal, you can sit on my lap
provided
you don’t jolt my leg!’

‘Poor Grandfather!’ Charlie said as he climbed carefully on to Sir Walter’s lap. He gazed, frowning, at the bandaged leg and shook his head doubtfully. ‘Shall I ask Mama to kiss it better?’ he asked.

Sir Walter shook his head and chuckled. ‘You’ve grown as tall as a Christmas tree since I saw you two weeks ago, young man!’ he said.

The small boy frowned and then replied thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I am nearly as tall as our Christmas tree, Grandfather. Ours has candles on it and an angel on the top and I think it’s much bigger than me.’

Sir Walter winked at Harriet. ‘Maybe you’re right, young man. Now tell me what Santa Claus is going to bring you on Christmas Eve –
if
you are a good boy, that is, and
if
he hasn’t eaten too many mince pies and is so fat he can’t get down the chimney.’

His own growth forgotten, Charlie launched excitedly into details. He was hoping for a pony his father had promised him, and some soldiers, and did his grandfather know his Aunt Felicity had sort of promised she might give him a clockwork train that would go around all by itself and even pull two carriages.

Sir Walter looked questioningly at Harriet, who nodded. ‘Had you forgotten the Dennings’ involvement with the railways, Sir Walter? Paul Denning has managed to acquire a model of a miniature engine and carriages which was made for his company by a German toy manufacturing firm.’

‘Papa has gone to London in a real train,’ Charlie prattled on. ‘He has promised to take Mama and me to London to see a pantomime. Have you ever seen a pantomime, Grandfather?’

‘My parents took me every Christmas when I was a boy!’ Sir Walter informed him. ‘Now down you get and fetch the playing cards from the drawer by the window. You can try and build a card house the way I showed you last time you were here.’

As soon as Charlie had removed himself, Sir Walter turned back to Harriet. ‘Never had much time for children – not even my own: left them to their nannies and m’wife!’ he said. ‘Always preferred animals – well, horses and dogs. Can’t be doing with cats!’ He chuckled. ‘Prefer ’em to a lot of people I know!’

Aware suddenly that he was rambling, he said to Harriet, ‘Ring the bell rope, m’dear, and I’ll ask Jennings to bring up some tea and maybe Cook can find one of those coconut thingamajigs for young Charlie. Good little chap! Very fond of him … Charlie, not Jennings!’ he chuckled. ‘You and Brook must be very pleased with yourselves. Had to wait a long while for him, though, didn’t you? Well, you’ve more than made up for it: this one’s worth a dozen others. Very clever little chap. Don’t you go spoiling him, m’dear!’

Harriet laughed. ‘It is not I who is likely to spoil him but you, Sir Walter. I wager you couldn’t bring yourself to deny him anything he asked for. Brook told me about the Shetland pony he’d planned to give him but that you insisted upon doing so as you wished to let Charlie know it was your present, not his father’s!’

Sir Walter harrumphed, ‘Dare say his father spoils him quite often enough.’ He changed the subject. ‘If I can’t get rid of this confounded gout by Christmas, I won’t be able to get over to you on Christmas Day for lunch. Haven’t met that sister of yours and her husband since your wedding; I seem to remember the husband was quite a decent sort of fellow for an Irishman!’

‘Really, Sir Walter!’ Harriet reproached him with a smile. ‘I do declare there isn’t another country in the whole world you think can match up to ours.’

‘And nor can they!’ Sir Walter replied, shifting his leg an inch or two with a groan. ‘We are an empire, for goodness’ sake! The rest of the world looks up to us, copies our way of life!’

Harriet sighed. ‘Well, we have actually made the Irish part of the British Empire, haven’t we? Brook told me the other day that Queen Victoria rules a quarter of all the countries in the world.’

Sir Walter decided to ignore Harriet’s remark. ‘What the devil’s Jennings doing with our tea?’ he said. ‘Ring the bell again, m’dear!’

But before Harriet could do so, the parlourmaid came in with the refreshments and Charlie quickly left his playing cards and came hurrying over to his grandfather.

‘Cat’s tongues,’ he exclaimed excitedly. ‘Did you order them ’specially for me, Grandfather?’

Sir Walter shook his head. ‘’Course not, old chap! Had them sent down from Fortnum’s especially for m’self.’

Charlie’s eyes widened. ‘But last time I came to tea with you, Grandfather, you said you didn’t like them.’

‘Did I now? Must have forgotten! Well, you’d better eat them all or they’ll be wasted, won’t they? A lot of poor children in the world would give their eyes for one of those.’

Charlie paused in the process of helping himself. ‘I can’t eat ALL of them, Grandfather. Can you send some to the poor children? Why are they so poor they have to give their eyes?’

‘Enough!’ Harriet broke in. ‘You will tire your grandfather out with your questions. Ask Papa to explain such things to you when he gets home. That’s where we will be going as soon as we have finished our tea. It will be dark in little over an hour and I’d prefer to be home by daylight.’

‘Quite right, too!’ said Sir Walter. ‘Will you be so good as to pass me that tobacco box on the sideboard, m’dear?’

Harriet put down her teacup and went to fetch the pretty brass eighteen-inch-high box, and brought it over to Sir Walter. She already knew that it was not tobacco he kept in it – he only smoked cigars imported from Havana. She sighed as she handed the box to him.

‘Please!’ she said as he beckoned Charlie to come closer. ‘Not too much!’

She knew perfectly well from this ritual what was about to happen – it always did when it was time to leave. Sir Walter would take a silver threepenny piece out of the box and conceal it in one of his hands. Holding out both closed fists to the small boy, he’d say, ‘Well, which one has the money in it? Find the right one and it’s yours.’

Sometimes Charlie did find the right one by chance. When he failed to do so, Sir Walter would say, ‘Best guess out of three: so two more guesses, m’boy.’ This time, the silver coin was not quite completely concealed, and the child could spy it.

‘As you are now on your way to becoming a rich man,’ Sir Walter remarked, ‘you will soon be able to buy a palace to live in just like our Queen Victoria.’

Not, as he’d said on an earlier occasion to Brook, that Her Majesty ever lived in Buckingham Palace these days. She seemed to have made up her mind to spend the rest of her life mourning the death of Albert, her beloved Prince Consort, down in Osborne House on the Isle of Wight. ‘Isn’t quite the right thing to be doing.’ He’d echoed the thoughts of a great many other people. She had a duty to her subjects and it would be far better for the country if she made an effort and got on with life … did her duty to those who looked up to her for guidance.

Harriet bent and kissed Sir Walter’s cheek, and Charlie would have climbed back on to his lap to say his thank-you’s and goodbye had not his grandfather reminded him quickly about his painful foot.

‘You will come to see us on Christmas Day, won’t you, Grandfather? Mama says all my cousins will be there so we can play lots of games.’

‘I’ll do my best!’ Sir Walter told him, and as he watched the two of them leave the room, he gave a long sigh followed by another groan as he moved his bad leg by mistake. His glance caught the picture of his wife with her beloved King Charles spaniel on her lap which was hanging on the wall facing him. The portrait had been painted by the artist Edwin Landseer, who had come principally to paint Sir Walter’s favourite Labrador. It struck him suddenly that Brook’s youngster had just the same eye colouring and pretty brown curls. The boy was more like his grandmother than Brook or Harriet, he thought – bloodline skipping a generation the way it often does with dogs and horses.

The thought reminded him that he’d not seen, since luncheon, his new Labrador, Napier, named after the admiral, Sir Charles, who he happened to admire. One of the footmen was to have taken the dog for a walk. The poor chap was missing his days out shooting, Sir Walter thought, once more cursing his ‘confounded gout’.

He would have a whiskey and soda, he decided, despite the doctor’s stupid orders not to drink alcohol. Young Harriet and the child’s visit had tired him. Pretty girl! He could see why Brook had married her! He himself preferred females a bit more meretricious, like that neighbour of theirs, Mrs Felicity Whatsit! Made one wish that one was a good deal younger … able to enjoy a bit of a fling with her. He’d gathered there wasn’t much class there, but a great deal of money. She’d make a useful wife for someone. Brook could have done with a rich wife – not that he ever thought badly of Brook’s choice. Harriet was a sweet girl – a good mother, too, even if she wasn’t much of a breeder. But he wasn’t going to complain about that – not now she and Brook had produced the grandson he doted on.

The parlourmaid interrupted his reverie, and he told her she could remove the tea things and, gout be damned, she must tell Jennings to hurry up and bring him a whiskey and soda.

The old man had fallen asleep before the butler returned with his drink, and with a fond look at his master, the servant put the decanter down on the table by his chair and left him to his dreams.