Burnt Norton (27 page)

Sincerely,

Lady Dorothy Paxton-Hooper

The courier took the letter from her outstretched hand, and as he cantered down the track, Dorothy tried to run after him, but he had gone too far, the horse disappearing into the distance.

She cried and wrung her hands in despair. ‘Dear God, what have I done?’

That afternoon, the foundlings piled into the coaches for their return journey to London. Charles Coram was the last to say goodbye. ‘Thank you, mistress. I wish it hadn’t gone so quick. May I come again one day?’

‘I am sure you can, I would like that, Charles.’ Another lie. Dorothy knew she had ordained this child’s fate.

When Mr Handel took her hand, he held it for a second.

‘Thank you. Your kindness will have its reward,’ he said, as the coach door shut behind him.

After the last coach had left, Thomas and Dorothy returned to the house. Her children played in the ruins.

‘How dismal and empty it seems.’ Thomas sat down heavily in an armchair. ‘If circumstances were different, and I had plenty of money, I would do so much for those children.’

Dorothy couldn’t look in her dear brother’s face.

Within the day, the house was closed once more. ‘I hope Sir Dudley will make good use of our possessions,’ Thomas said. ‘All I wish for is a simple life. Take the harpsichord, Dotty, and when you play, think of our childhood.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, wishing she could go back to those earlier times and untangle the lies.

With the harpsichord safely secured on the cart, and the children stowed inside, Dorothy’s long journey to Surrey began. ‘Goodbye,’ she called, as her brother faded into the distance. ‘Goodbye and forgive me,’ she whispered.

July 1751

Charles Coram didn’t want to leave Burnt Norton. During the week he had spent there, he had experienced a totally different world: he had known freedom. He climbed trees and slid across the polished floors; he jumped ditches and snagged his clothes. At night he climbed from his bed and leant from the window. Across the lawn, silver in the moonlight, lay the crumbling ruin of the mansion. While the other boys saw it and laughed fearfully, Charles wondered about the poor man who had burnt inside.

But one emotion outshone all others: a sense of belonging. Sir Thomas had touched his heart; he had given him more attention than any adult so far in his young life. Of course, Mr Handel had been kind, as had his choirmaster, and from a very young age, Thomas Coram had shown him affection. Certain teachers had inspired him, but nothing compared to this new friendship. He didn’t try to understand it; he just knew Sir Thomas was special. When their eyes met, and the older man’s face broke into a smile, Charles felt his whole being light up with happiness.

He felt nothing of the sort for Lady Dorothy. There was something in her face he didn’t trust, a look about her that scared him. She skulked around at the oddest times, and he suspected that she had been watching him, a nagging doubt that disturbed him long after the coach had left Norton behind. Her last words to him had been dishonest. She didn’t want him to return, he was sure of it.

Back in London, life at the Foundling Home returned to normal, and the trip to Burnt Norton took on the proportions of a distant dream. When the choristers went to St George’s Chapel in Windsor to sing to the King, Eton College Chapel was pointed out to the boys. Charles saw it rising far above the school and thought of Sir Thomas.
He had sung there.
Whenever Charles leant against the solitary yew tree in the Foundling Hospital garden, he imagined the whole coppice of yew trees at Norton. Amongst them he had played hide and seek, concealed himself in their dark boughs, held his breath in excitement. How he longed to be back.

Charles applied himself to his lessons and his singing, believing that hard work would help him to shape his own future and avoid recruitment into the navy. Some of the boys looked forward to such a future, with its possibility of travel and adventure. Not Charles. To his gentle, artistic nature, the sea, with its weather, tides and harsh conditions, was anathema.

Late in the summer of 1751 a messenger came to the hospital. It caused a stir amongst the staff. ‘An anonymous benefactor – who could it be?’

When Charles was singled out and told of his imminent departure, he was not surprised. He also believed that he would never return to London.

‘It’s an honour, young man,’ the kindly Mr Handel said, trying to console him. ‘Not many of our boys are captain’s boys. You could rise through the ranks.’

‘I don’t want to go, sir. I could stay here with you. I want to sing.’

‘But your voice will break soon; you can’t rely on it for ever.’

His best friend, Moses, whose skin was black and whose mam left him by the river without the basket, tried to reassure him. ‘Like as not, I was born on one of them slave ships. I’m used to the sea, Charlie boy. I’ll be there for you.’

‘Thank you, Moses,’ he said, ‘but I won’t be coming back.’

‘Hush now. You have a good friend to look after you. You’ll do that, won’t you, Moses?’ Mr Handel said.

‘I’ll try to, sir, if a powder monkey is allowed to care for his friend.’

Along with thirteen other boys from the Foundling Hospital, Moses and Charles boarded HMS
Lancaster
under the command of Admiral John Byng. As Mr Handel and the staff waved them goodbye, there were many amongst them who wondered if they would ever see the boys again.

On 19 May 1756, five hard and desolate years after boarding his first ship, Charles Coram wrote a letter to Sir Thomas Keyt. It was the night before engagement with the French off the coast of Minorca.

Dear Sir Thomas,

Before battle, most of the crew send messages to their loved ones, but I don’t know my family, and I’m hoping you won’t mind if I turn to you instead.

My apologies, sir, but tomorrow will be my first battle, and you’ve been kind to me. I want to tell you what is in my heart. If I’m done for, my best friend will make sure you get this letter. He’s called Moses and he’s given me his word.

Thank you, sir, for ensuring my position as captain’s servant. I know it was you and it has made things easier. I’m no powder monkey, but if I’m honest, I didn’t want to go to sea. Not that I’m ungrateful, but it’s nothing but rats, sickness, floggings and exhaustion. Sometimes at night I hear my mates’ tears. We all pretend to be brave, but it’s not easy. We just want to come home. The hospital was strict and there were rules and more rules, but at least you got to lie in a bed at night, not in a hammock in the gun deck of a ship. Most of all you weren’t cold and scared, more scared than you can imagine.

At first light we will fight the Frenchies. I don’t want to. I’ve got nothing against them. I hope you will forgive me for seeming ungrateful, but Mr Handel said it’s no crime to be scared. If you get this letter, I will have gone to the maker. Would you be kind enough to find my mother? I feel sure she would like to know.

Goodbye and thank you,

Charles Coram

He sealed the letter with borrowed wax and went below to find his friend.

When the battle came, Moses, as apprentice seaman and powder monkey, ran the gunpowder from the ship’s magazine to the gun deck. Charles was in the rigging as lookout, high above the ship. He didn’t see it coming, but he heard the earth-shattering splintering of wood as the mast crashed towards the sea.

In July Dorothy made her annual journey to Gloucestershire. She was shocked to learn of her mother’s growing blindness.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Mama?’

‘Darling, it’s of little importance. I am most sad about losing access to my precious books. There is still so much to learn,’ she sighed, ‘but then, what use is knowledge to an old woman like me?’

‘You are such a good woman. You never burden others with your pain, and you never judge anyone.’

Lady Keyt laughed. ‘I do, my love, and if you ask my poor servants, I’m sure they’d tell you that I complain all the time.’

‘Mother, have you ever done anything that you’re ashamed of?’

‘Of course I have, but I’m hoping that God will forgive me quite soon, for I’m ready to make his acquaintance.’

That night they dined alone. Afterwards, Dorothy helped her mother into the drawing room.

‘Dorothy, I believe we have letters today. Would you read them to me? They’re on the salver in the hall.’

Taking a candle, she walked through the panelled hallway. She lifted the letter from the silver dish, and at once her hand started shaking. Though the letter was addressed to her mother, the Foundling Hospital seal was unmistakable.

‘Are you coming?’ She heard her mother’s frail voice.

‘In a moment, Mother.’

Breaking the seal she opened the envelope. Inside were two letters.

The Foundling Hospital

Bloomsbury

London

Dear Lady Keyt,

I have had the pleasure of meeting you in the company of your esteemed son on at least three occasions, though principally at Norton House, when I performed
Messiah
for your guests. Unfortunately, I am unable to contact Sir Thomas directly, for I believe he has since moved.

Moses, a young gentleman and former foundling who serves in His Majesty’s Navy, recently delivered a letter into my hand. He was insistent that I should help locate Sir Thomas. I am greatly distressed, for I have now learnt that my principal soloist was lost at sea. I am told that during a conflict with the French, off the coast of Minorca, Charles Coram was thrown from the rigging. He is presumed to be dead.

I can only tell you that he was an inspiration to all of those around him and he shall be sadly missed.

In accordance with his wishes, I am determined that the enclosed letter should reach your son.

Your servant,

George Frideric Handel

Written by the hand of my assistant, John Christopher Smith.

Dorothy put the letter down and buried her head in her hands. She had caused the death of an innocent child, her own nephew. Tucked inside the smaller envelope was a letter from the boy himself. As her tears fell, smudging the ink, she read the letter and her shame increased. Charles Coram had trusted her brother, and she had betrayed them both. Returning to the drawing room, she looked into her mother’s sweet face as she slept.

The following evening, Thomas joined them for dinner.

‘Hello, Thomas, are you well?’

‘Yes, Dotty, I’m fine,’ he answered. But Dorothy could see the pain in his gaunt face. His eyes, once a startling blue, had dulled with worry.

He trusted me, Dorothy thought miserably, and I have stolen his every chance at happiness.

They ate in silence, each lost in memories.

‘Do you like your new house?’ Dorothy asked finally.

‘It’s small, but well enough, for I have only myself to care for. I would have loved a wife and children, but life is not always as we wish it to be.’

He looked at her, but Dorothy could not meet his eye.

‘You can still get married, have children – you are young yet.’

‘No, I can’t. There has been too much pain in this family, too much loss.’ He paused. ‘There was a child that I was fond of, a foundling. Do you remember at the concert, the boy they called Charles Coram? I could have given him a home, but they sent him to sea. Now of course we are at war, and I may well never see him again.’

Dorothy put her hand into the pocket of her dress and felt the letter. The words trembled on her lips but she looked at her plate and said nothing.

Afterwards, when they stood in the porch to say goodbye, Thomas took her hands. ‘Dotty,’ he said earnestly, the lamplight illuminating his haggard face, ‘you take care now, for you are very precious. And watch those children of yours, for they are precious, too.’

In her dreams that night, hell came for her. The devil dragged her from her bed. He threw her into the inferno and laughed as the flames consumed her. It was nothing less than she deserved.

August 1756

Despite her best intentions, the five years since the concert had not been kind to Molly. Through no fault of her own, her hard work had reaped less than she had hoped. However, a recent increase in clients had changed her position, and at her own insistence she had paid the final instalment of her debt to her brother, and any outstanding bills were cleared. It was only now that she felt able to claim her son. She still had not heard from his father.

She was making the final adjustments to a client’s gown when she heard a knock. She opened the front door to find the two Hogarth sisters standing outside.

‘Miss Anne, Miss Mary, what a wonderful surprise!’

‘Our apologies, we came at such short notice, my dear,’ Miss Mary said. ‘We didn’t have the time to let you know.’

‘How lovely to see you. Are you visiting friends near by?’

‘No, Molly,’ Miss Anne said, coming towards her at last, holding out her hands. ‘We are not visiting friends; we came to see you. I’m afraid we have some very bad news.’

‘What’s wrong? It’s not my son? Please don’t let it be my son.’

Miss Mary took her hand.

‘Molly, your son is dead. We don’t know the details, but he was lost at sea. I am so very sorry.’

They approached her with their arms outstretched. Avoiding their embrace, Molly staggered to her desk, her head spinning with grief.

‘But it’s not possible; I’ve seen him. He sang like an angel.’ She sank to the floor. ‘I have made my arrangements, I’m going to get him, despite his family’s plans to keep us apart. He can’t be dead.’

‘We had to tell you ourselves. A letter wouldn’t do.’

‘No, it’s not true – please don’t let it be true!’

For days the Hogarth sisters remained at her side.

‘Take this my dear, it will help a little.’ The bitter concoction did nothing to lessen her agony, but it did dull her senses, and despite herself she slept.