Burnt Norton (25 page)

‘God has given you a hard path to follow,’ Miss Anne said solemnly, ‘but we know that you are strong and worthy of his love.’

‘Please, will you ask your brother to watch over my child?’ she asked as she rose to leave. ‘And will you tell me how he is? I will send an address when I have one.’

They nodded. ‘We give you our word,’ said Miss Anne.

Her last call was to Mr Skarm. She entered his room and sat before the great desk.

‘Good luck, Miss Johnson. I hope that fate will be kind to you,’ he said, handing her a promissory note. ‘Take this into a bank, and they will exchange it for you. Travelling with money is dangerous; it will be much safer this way.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I will try to make good use of it.’

The remains of Sir William Keyt were interred under the chancel steps of the church of St Eadburgha in Ebrington.

The following week Norton was closed and dustsheets shrouded the furniture. The indoor staff left, with one exception. Sir Thomas found George Heron in the strong room.

‘The silver is being removed to Hidcote for safety, sir,’ the butler said, as he shut the last of the green baize bags.

‘You are a wise man, and I believe it would be in all of our interests if you would stay at Norton until we have made our plans. Will you do this?’ When it was agreed, Thomas went to find Lorenzo.

‘I am told you are going back to Italy. We shall miss you, Lorenzo,’ Thomas said, clasping his hand. ‘You have been a true friend to our family.’

‘There is no longer anything for me here,’ he replied sadly. ‘Now . . . you promise you will never sell Apollo?’

On the day Lorenzo was due to leave Dorothy took the small cart and drove to Norton. The wind had picked up, and as she set the pony at a brisk pace, falling branches and twigs caught beneath the wheels. She finally arrived, her bonnet removed and pushed beneath the seat for safe keeping, her hair falling in a tangle around her shoulders. In the empty yard, buckets rolled across the cobbles, and the stalls stood empty.

There was no sign of Lorenzo. She was back in the cart and about to leave when she saw Apollo and Lorenzo, horse and rider in perfect harmony, flying up the hill towards her. The enormity of her loss hit her as she ran down the track, not stopping until she reached them at the gate.

‘Look after Apollo, Miss Dorothy,’ he said, his face flushed from exertion. ‘He is old now, and although I must, I can’t bear to leave him.’ She nodded, unable to speak. She couldn’t help but put out her hand to him. He leant forward over Apollo’s neck and accepted it, pressing it to his lips.

She shut her eyes, lifted her face. Her body longed for him. She moved towards him involuntarily, before remembering that she was betrothed to someone else. She pulled away.

‘Keep safe, for I’ll miss you,’ she said. ‘I’ll always remember you, Lorenzo. Always.’ She ran from him, up the path, past the dovecote and the ice house, and only when she reached the courtyard did she turn to look back. They were still there, horse and rider, motionless, frozen in her memory for all time.

In years to come she would remember him as he was then, and she would wonder what would have been had she heeded her father’s advice.

The next September, Dorothy married the Honourable Gilbert Paxton-Hooper. Her wedding was a simple affair, as seemed appropriate.

On the eve of her marriage she went to bed with a heavy heart. She tried to think of her dress – the organza sewn with a thousand pearls, the wide hooped skirt, the scalloped hem. She tried to imagine the silk slippers, her mother’s diamonds, but she could summon little enthusiasm.

During the night she awoke. The sheets were wrapped and knotted around her thighs; her body was clammy with sweat. She climbed out of bed, threw open the window and stared up at the sky. Inhaling the crisp autumn air, she watched the clouds sail across the moon, and she remembered a story Miss Byrne had told her on a similar night many years before.

‘It’s a galleon,’ Miss Byrne had said, her arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t you see, it’s collecting treasure from the moon?’ She could picture herself as she was then, a young girl gazing in wonder at the night sky. If Miss Byrne were here now, she would be giving Dorothy sound advice. ‘If you love him truly, ’tis the most natural thing in the world,’ she would say. But did she love him? Did she feel passion for the man she would marry? By virtue of having to ask, she knew her answer.

A pier glass stood in the corner; she stood before it, a shadowy figure, watching her reflection. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, and her blue eyes looked black in the gloom. She lifted her nightdress above her ankles, assessing her white skin, her delicate bones. She wondered what it would be like. Her experience was limited to animals mating in the field and stolen moments in her novels. Hesitating for a moment she raised her arms, pulled the nightdress over her head and stared at herself: the triangle of hair between her legs, the dark nipples on rounded breasts, the slim waist. Letting the breeze cool her skin, she lay back on the bed. A sigh escaped her lips, and her fingers became Lorenzo’s. As they touched her skin every sense in her body awakened. His hands stroked her breasts until the nipples were standing erect and waves of sensation pulsed down her body. One hand strayed across her stomach and down. The other came up to her mouth and traced the outline of her lips. At the same time she felt his fingers between her legs, touching her with lingering strokes that tantalized and teased, until her body arched towards them. Now it was Lorenzo’s mouth pushing her lips apart, Lorenzo’s body rising above her. There was no turning back as her legs parted and she started to move faster and faster against his fingers, no hesitation on this strange voyage of discovery. It was all-consuming, taking her until she exploded into the light. When she had finished, she lay breathless in her bed, confused and alone.

At noon the following day, Dorothy’s hair was dressed and her stays tightened, but it was hard to return to reality and her mind still wandered. As the tiny buttons were secured along her back she faltered, and as the gloves slipped over her scented wrists and along her arms, her hands quivered. She had slipped away from the present, from the inevitable, towards a man who smelt of meadow hay and saddle soap, and whose smile would haunt her for ever.

Entering the church of the Holy Trinity in Stratford-upon-Avon, kneeling within feet of Shakespeare’s tomb, she said her vows to the man at her side, and hoped that she would be worthy of his love.

Afterwards she bade farewell to her small family.

‘Goodbye, Dotty,’ her mother said softly, holding her at arm’s length, staring into her face. ‘I hope you will love him truly.’

Thomas hugged her tightly and shook his friend’s hand. ‘Goodbye, Dotty. Look after my darling sister, Gilbert. I’ll write to you both. I’ll miss you.’

As the carriage drew away, she remembered Elizabeth’s words: ‘Follow your heart, but follow it honestly.’

Not for the first time, she doubted her integrity.

They stayed in lodgings on the way to Surrey. As she looked at her new husband, she hoped he would inspire passion within her. Standing in front of the fire, in her new negligee of lawn and lace, she waited for him.

‘Stop, my love,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘It is not necessary to undress. Do up your buttons, for I would not embarrass you.’ She redid the buttons, rebraided her hair, and when he snuffed the candle, which she had pleaded for, he laughed.

‘That is for whores,’ he said. ‘Not for my virgin bride.’

Gilbert fumbled with his britches, then released himself into her with no joy. When it was over, her body was sore and unsatisfied, and she turned her face to the pillow to weep.

The years passed. Dorothy’s children were born and christened, and though she didn’t achieve the fulfilment she longed for, she discovered the joys of motherhood. As she held a sleeping baby, she reflected on her mother’s pain – on the loss of her children, her husband, the unnatural order of her life. Each year she returned to Hidcote, and each year she was saddened by her mother’s suffering. On these occasions she saw her brother, unmarried, his energy and beauty fading. When she returned to her own family once more, to the children who demanded her time, she tried not to think of Thomas or of the hand she had played in his destiny. She tried not to think of Lorenzo.

In the spring of 1749, she received a letter from Thomas.

Dearest Dotty,

I hope life is treating you well, and that you and Gilbert are happy.

Firstly I must tell you that we have found a purchaser for Norton. As you know, my agent has been looking for some time, and at last Sir Dudley Ryder has made up his mind. He will complete the purchase over the next few years. I know this news will make you sad, but if I am honest, I’ll be glad to be relieved of the financial burden. Mother is of the same opinion; it is time to move on, to put the past behind us.

We are both in good heart, having stayed with Cousin Jack in London for the last two weeks. We went to the opera, the theatre, and even a few social gatherings, but then something unexpected happened.

Six days ago, we attended a benefit concert at the Foundling Hospital. George Frideric Handel conducted the first performance of his Foundling Hospital Anthem. It was a wonderful affair: the Prince of Wales and many public figures were raising money to fund the new chapel. Before the concert started, we were invited to view the paintings on display. The hospital is unique, for on the one hand it rescues poor foundlings, but on the other it promotes British art. I wish you could have seen the paintings; perhaps I can persuade you to leave the country for a few days.

The evening was a glorious occasion, but that’s not all of it. We were shown to our seats by the choristers, fine young lads in black robes and white cassocks. Our guide was a boy of about seven or eight years old.

Dotty, though the child was well fed and clean, and cheerful enough, my heart was moved by the longing in his eyes. He made me want to put something back into a society where children are ill-treated and abandoned by their mothers, where infants are left on the streets to die.

I asked the boy his name, and he told me that he was Charles Coram, and that he loved to sing. He asked me to hear him perform, and when the choir sang, I was moved once more. I now feel I have a purpose.

I have no children of my own, no obligations; I want to do something for that young man and others like him. Before we sell it, I have decided to have one last party and hold my own concert at Norton, and I will ask Handel to perform his work,
Messiah
. I believe we could alert people to the plight of these poor children, and raise money at the same time. We can call it the farewell concert. Will you assist me, Dorothy?

Your loving brother,

Thomas,

In anticipation of your reply.

Tightness closed around Dorothy’s chest. For years she had tried to justify her behaviour to herself. If she had been a better person, she would have owned up to her actions, would have lifted the veil from her brother’s eyes. Instead the lies continued.

Of course I’ll help you
, she wrote.
It will be a pleasure
.

Molly survived these years of hardship and toil. She kept going, for there was a child in London without a mother’s love. One day she would claim him and make up for all the lost years.

She did get her shop, a small property outside London. As she had envisioned since she was a child, a blue sign with gold lettering hung above the door, but as the roads improved, her customers drifted to the city. Before long someone else’s sign hung above the door, and Molly returned to Gloucestershire, with Dorothy’s money all but spent.

For two years she worked as a seamstress in a small hilltop village. ‘Stow-on-the-Wold, where the winds blow cold,’ they said, and it was true, and the cold seeped into her bones at night. Every morning she read the trade cards in the village shop, until her opportunity came.

Premises for sale, Chipping Campden.

It was perfectly located on the High Street near the centre. She lacked the money, but Will, who had found marriage and success, gave her a loan. Molly worked hard, and her reputation for excellence spread. Soon she would go to London. She dreamt of collecting her son.

Next year, perhaps, she would be rich enough.

She was turning the hem on a client’s gown when Ruth surprised her with a visit.

‘Well well, Molly Johnson,’ Ruth said, looking her up and down. ‘Still pretty, still slim – how do you do it after all these years? Look at me. I’ve gone to the dogs: too much food and no fine men. That’s my problem, no reason to take care of myself.’

Molly hugged her and laughed, then hugged her again.

‘Ruth, dear Ruth, I am sorry I didn’t contact you, but I have had to keep my head down around here.’

‘Well, you were a hard one to track down. “Miss Jones”, for heaven’s sake! Whatever next? It was your lovely brother Will who told me where you were, and indeed who you bloody were. Lord, if you do it again I’ll give up on you.’

For the next hour they caught up on old times.

‘I work for Lady Keyt at Hidcote. I’m her housekeeper now; I suppose that’s why I’m still with her after all these years. I haven’t been to the old house since it was closed; it still scares me to death when I think about the fire. They say a gent from the city wants to buy it – the Attorney General, whatever that is. Word has it, his sights are set on a peerage and he needs a country seat.’

They slipped back easily into their old friendship. Ruth was on the point of leaving when Molly asked her to accompany her on a trip to Norton. ‘I have not yet seen the ruin, Ruth, and I would like to pay my last respects.’

‘Tomorrow is my day off. I’ll be here at three.’

The following day, as their cart bumped along the rutted track, Molly remembered her arrival at Norton.