The Hamiltons of Ballydown (13 page)

Sarah beamed with delight. She had no idea that
photographic cameras had got smaller. The last time she’d seen one was when the school photographer came and his was just like the one Lady Anne described.

‘Rose dear, a little piece of cake. Just a little piece,’ she said coaxingly.

Rose laughed. ‘I will if you want me to, but then I won’t be able to eat any dinner,’ she warned. ‘You spoil us so.’

‘I’m making up for all the years I had to do without you. I can hardly believe I’ve got you all to myself at last. Well, nearly all. I don’t mind sharing you with Hannah and Sarah, and with Marianne and Teddy when they come,’ she said honestly, as she put the cake back on the trolley.

‘I warn you, Hannah,’ she went on grimly, ‘if Sarah wants to
take
pictures he’ll have you dressed as a goddess or a nymph, or some other bizarre thing so they can practise upon you. Marianne and I’ve got so bored posing for him, he doesn’t dare ask us any more,’ she explained, turning to Rose with a broad grin. ‘He has a studio in one of the attics and he develops in the knife room because it’s got no windows. You can’t imagine how horribly stuffy it is. Cook complains fearfully about the smell coming under the door. But Teddy can be very persistent,’ she added, her tone unusually thoughtful.

She put down her teacup and smiled at Sarah.

‘Sarah, dear, if you’ve finished your tea, I’d love
to see old Blennerhasset’s book. Then, when Mama chases us away, we’ll go down to the library together and I’ll show you some of Teddy’s stuff.’

‘Right, won’t be a moment,’ said Sarah, as she popped up, shot across the room and disappeared at speed.

Rose and Hannah exchanged glances and grinned, while Lady Anne looked from one to the other and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Sarah is practising being ladylike,’ Hannah explained. ‘before Lady Marianne and Lord Cleeve arrive. But sometimes she forgets.’

Rose put down her pen and leant back in her chair. She loved writing letters and her regular epistles to John were a pleasure, but unfortunately the effort of writing still tired her. She would set off in fine form, then find she was writing more and more slowly. If she persisted, first her shoulders would ache, and then, if she went on, the wretched pain in her chest would start up and leave her breathless.

Reluctantly, she went to the window and did her breathing exercises. The air was fresh and the gardens below a joy to behold. Every afternoon she and Lady Anne walked together as far as she could manage and then enjoyed a quiet hour or two before the young people joined them for tea. Sometimes they sat in one of the many shady arbours, sometimes in Lady Anne’s sitting room, not even making a pretence of sewing.

Wondering how she might describe him to John, her thoughts went back to Lord Cleeve. While his height did offset his figure, there was nothing to mitigate the unyielding lines of his plain face. He was seldom animated and rarely revealed his feelings, so for most of the time his face appeared strangely immobile.

She’d watched him, puzzled, when they met at lunch, occasionally at tea, and always in Lady Anne’s sitting room after dinner. He was an able young man, doing well at Cambridge, and sincerely fond of his mother and sister. She wondered if he’d inherited something of the shyness that had dogged
his father for most of his life. Like him, he seldom initiated a conversation, but unlike the young Lord Harrington, who had found
all
speech difficult, this young man was always able to respond.

It took her some days to realise that, although he appeared silent, just occasionally, in the midst of a conversation, he would suddenly speak out with unusual force and fluency, as he’d done the previous evening.

‘My dear Miss Hamilton,’ he said, bowing slightly to Hannah, who had just addressed a question to him. ‘If I am to have the pleasure of calling you and your sister by your first names, then I insist you call me Teddy, except of course when we are in company, which I sincerely hope we will not be,’ he added, glancing at his mother, ‘or in front of the servants, a rule of my father’s which we may not entirely understand, but which we all observe meticulously for his sake.’

Hannah smiled and blushed very slightly as she regarded him perfectly calmly.

‘Then, perhaps, Teddy,’ she said, with just the slightest hesitancy in using his familiar name, ‘you might explain to Sarah and me, why, when you were christened Richard Molyneux, you ask us to call you Teddy.’

To Rose’s surprise, he threw back his head and laughed, glanced from his mother to his sister and addressed himself entirely to Hannah.

‘My nurse made great efforts to teach me the names of all the people with whom I came in contact,’ he began calmly. ‘Apart from Mama and Dada, she encouraged me to learn the names of all the servants and of all my toys. Unfortunately, I decided that, while everything had to have a name, any name would serve, so I selected from my list of names the one that took my fancy. As it happened, the one I learnt first and found easiest to say was
Teddy
, so when I was asked to produce a name for myself that was the one I always chose. So now you know one of the secrets of my early life,’ he concluded.

Whatever Teddy’s personal difficulties might be, Rose could not fault him in his kindness and courtesy to both Hannah and Sarah. Towards his sister, he showed real affection, but this was obvious only in the way he teased her with his ready wit. She went back to her table, took up her pen, described Teddy as coherently as she could before going on to tell John about Sarah’s introduction to photography.

Rose added her signature and a row of kisses, folded up the stiff sheets of paper and put them in an envelope. She had just addressed it to John Hamilton Esq. Ballydown, Corbet, Banbridge, Co.
Down, Ireland, when there was a knock at her door and Betty arrived carrying a salver.

‘Come for your post, ma’am,’ she said, curtseying, as she crossed the room and stood beside Rose’s writing table in the window. ‘And Her Ladyship sent you this.’

On the silver salver was a pretty china plate, a small fruit knife and a clean napkin. Beside them, in a tiny woven straw basket, sat a single peach, perfectly ripe and warm from the sun.

‘Have you seen the latest prints, Rose?’ asked Lady Anne, as they came back into her sitting room together after their afternoon stroll.

‘More? Already?’ she asked, a note of anxiety in her voice. ‘Has poor Teddy been shut up in the knife room again?’

‘No, dear, that’s only for the big glass plates,’ her friend replied reassuringly. ‘With the Kodaks, you send the spools to the factory and the prints come in the post. Teddy says some of these are his. A few are Marianne’s. But most are Sarah’s. Shall we see what they’ve been up to?’

‘This must be the lake,’ said Rose, picking up the first one slowly. ‘Oh dear. I think it’s draining away,’ she went on, beginning to laugh.

‘That’s Marianne’s for sure. Yes, it must be. Look, Teddy has no feet,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘What do you think this one is?’ she went on, as she turned
the next print upside down and then back again.

‘That’s better. My goodness that’s good,’ said Lady Anne vigorously, as she held out a picture of an elderly gardener about to pick a peach.

‘That must be one of Teddy’s,’ said Rose.

‘No, its not. It’s one of Sarah’s,’ her friend replied beaming.

‘How ever do you know?’

‘Look! Look just there,’ she said pointing. ‘She’s caught Old Hartley picking a peach
and
she’s caught reflections of Teddy and Hannah watching her. Isn’t she clever?’

Rose looked more closely and there, sure enough, were two figures standing close beside each other, intent upon Sarah taking her picture. She had to admit Sarah’s pictures were rather good. So far, there wasn’t a fuzzy or lopsided one among them. There were lots of pictures of people working. A laundry maid ironing. Cook mixing something in a bowl. A groom throwing up a saddle on a pony. The postman arriving on his bicycle. The pictures all looked so natural, yet the people pictured must have seen her at work.

‘They do seem to be enjoying themselves, Rose,’ said Lady Anne happily, as they collected up the prints.

‘Yes, Anne dear, you’ve all made the girls so welcome,’ Rose said warmly. ‘Teddy’s spent hours teaching Sarah to use his cameras.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘Sarah’s grown up. I have to admit the young girl I brought with me has suddenly disappeared. Oh, I knew she’d already left girlhood behind. That happened one day when a poor woman with a sick child came to the door and Sarah simply took charge, but I could still see the young girl on the journey. She was still there when we first got here. Now, somehow, I just don’t see that girl any more.’

She paused and thought for a moment.

‘Do you know, Anne, I think it’s the photography that’s done it.’

‘Isn’t that funny? Funny peculiar, I mean,’ the younger woman replied. ‘The very same thing happened to me last autumn. We went up to town for the season and Marianne had her ball. She took it all very casually. Paid no special attention to her dress. She wasn’t awkward or anything like that, but she wasn’t excited like most girls are. The morning after, she came and told me who she’d danced with and which of them she never wanted to dance with ever again. She was different. Just like that. Overnight.’

‘So we neither of us have
children
any more?’ said Rose slowly.

‘No, we don’t. They may still be able to have fun like children, but even that’s almost gone for mine. What about Jamie and Sam, Rose? Did they change quickly when they went to work?’

Rose paused a moment. She was seeing Sam’s smile as he came and handed her his empty lunch box every evening. Then she thought of Jamie’s infrequent and irregular visits.

‘Jamie changed very quickly,’ Rose began. ‘Even the first time he came home, he was telling John and Sam things about his work as if they’d have difficulty understanding him. Yes, they were technical things, but even I could have managed them if I’d put my mind to it. But Sam didn’t change. It’s not that he’s not growing up properly. Already, he’s a lot more mature than Jamie, but there’s something about Sam that will always be childlike. He’s so trusting, so good-natured. I’d almost say innocent. I used to worry about him so.’

‘But you don’t now?’

‘Oh, I suppose I do in an everyday sort of way,’ she admitted, ‘but since I was ill I seem to see things differently.’

‘Because you nearly died?’

‘Probably,’ she said, nodding. ‘I try to think about it, but I can’t make much sense of it yet. I feel even more grateful than I was before just to be alive, to have my family and my dear friends, but I accept now they could well manage without me were I not there.’

Rose paused, aware of the protest her friend was about to make.

‘I don’t mean my friends don’t care about me, or
wouldn’t be grieved,’ she said quickly, ‘its just … I know there’s nothing I can do about living, or dying. It has to be accepted. So many things in life just have to be accepted,’ she went on, quietly. ‘There’s no use worrying about them. I’d never seen that before. And there’s a strange kind of relief in knowing that there’s no point in worrying.’

Lady Anne sat very still and said nothing. She waited to see if Rose would go on and when she didn’t, she took her hand.

‘You always were my teacher,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t go and die on me. I need you. I sometimes think you are the only person in the world who understands me. Harrington tries and I can forgive him almost anything because he loves me so, but you know what goes on in my mind in a way even the dearest man can’t, especially when I don’t know what’s going on myself. Bless you, Rose. You’re beginning to look tired and its time you had a rest. I’ll walk up to your room with you.’