When Maidens Mourn (43 page)

And she hadn’t shed a tear.

Now she laid her head against his shoulder, marveling at the simple comfort to be found in the strength of his arms around her and the slow beat of his heart so close to hers. She said, “I was thinking about Gabrielle. About how she felt as if she were missing out on all the joys and wonders that make life worth living. And so she gave in to her love for Lieutenant Arceneaux. And then she died because of it.”

“She didn’t die because she loved. She died because she was noble and honest and wanted to do the right thing, whereas her brother wanted only his own pleasure. Her choice didn’t need to end in tragedy.”

“Yet it did.”

“It did, yes.”

A silence fell between them. And she learned that the silence of a shared sorrow could also bring its own kind of comfort.

His hand shifted in a soft caress. She sucked in a shaky breath, then another, and raised her head to meet his gaze. His lips were parted, the sunlight glazing the high bones of his cheeks.

“Did you close the door behind you?” she asked, her voice husky with undisguised want.

“Yes.”

Her gaze still locked with his, she brushed her lips against his. “Good.”

She saw the flare of surprise in his eyes, felt his fingers tug impatiently at the laces that held her gown. He said, “It’s not dark yet.”

She gave him a wide, saucy smile. “I know.”

Later—much later—Sebastian lay beside her in a shaft of moonlight spilling through the open window. She raised herself on one bent arm, her fingertips skimming down over his naked chest and belly. He drew in his breath with a quiet hiss, and she smiled.

“Is the offer of a honeymoon still open?” she asked.

He crooked his elbow about her neck. “I think we deserve one, don’t you?”

She shifted so that her forearms rested on his chest, her hair falling forward to curtain her face, her eyes suddenly serious. “We can do better than this, Sebastian.”

He drew her closer, one hand drifting to the small of her back. “In the end I’d say we worked quite well together.” He brought up his free hand to catch her hair away from her face. “But I think we can do better, yes.”

And he raised his head to meet her kiss.

T
his story was inspired by Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s haunting poem “The Lady of Shalott,” first published in 1833, then revised and republished in 1842. Tennyson himself was inspired by a thirteenth-century Italian novella,
La donna di Scalotta
.

Gabrielle and Hildeyard Tennyson are fictional characters of my own invention, but the family of Alfred Tennyson was indeed plagued by epilepsy, alcoholism, and insanity. The poet’s own father, a brilliant but troubled reverend from Somersby, Lincolnshire, was severely afflicted with epilepsy, and two of Alfred’s brothers spent most of their lives in mental institutions. Alfred feared the family affliction his entire life, although to my knowledge I am the only one to suggest that this is the “curse” referenced in his poem. Alfred did indeed have an older brother named George, although he was born in 1806 and died in infancy.

Alfred’s uncle, Charles Tennyson d’Eyncourt, is much as depicted here; however, while he attended Cambridge and sent his sons to Eton, there is no actual record of him having attended Eton. Six years younger than Alfred’s father, he was nevertheless named the heir of the “Old Man of the Wolds” when his elder brother began exhibiting signs of severe epilepsy at puberty. The animosity
between the two households was intense, with the wealthy Charles ironically coming to look down upon his older brother’s family as “poor relations.” Although he always denied it, Charles, too, suffered from a milder form of epilepsy. He did serve many years as a member of Parliament, although not until after the end of the Napoleonic Wars, and he did indeed change his name to d’Eyncourt, although his repeated attempts to do so were frustrated until 1835. I have moved the date of that name change up to avoid the confusion of too many Tennysons in the story. Later in life, d’Eyncourt bitterly resented his nephew’s literary fame and was especially incensed when Alfred was made a lord (d’Eyncourt did finally achieve that honor himself, but much later in life). Charles’s sister, Mary Bourne, is also a real figure, a dour, unhappy woman who found singular solace in the conviction that she would go to heaven while the rest of her family—particularly the Somersby Tennyson branch—suffered the everlasting torments of hell. I am indebted to Robert Bernard Martin for his groundbreaking study of the Tennyson family in
Tennyson: The Unquiet Heart
.

Epilepsy, once also known as “the falling sickness,” was little understood in the nineteenth century and considered something shameful, to be kept hidden.

In 1812, archaeology was still in its infancy, although some of the first excavations at Stonehenge were undertaken as early as the seventeenth century. Further work was carried out there in 1798 and 1810 by William Cunnington and Richard Colt Hoare.

The legend that Arthur is not actually dead but will someday return to save England in her hour of need is real, hence his sobriquet “the once and
future
king.” For obvious reasons, this legend was the bane of unpopular British monarchs, who were repeatedly driven to try to convince their subjects that Arthur really was dead. The lack of a grave site complicated this effort, which may have led to the “discovery” of Arthur’s burial site at Glastonbury Abbey in the twelfth century.

Camlet Moat, once called Camelot, is a real place whose history is much as described here. It is now part of Trent Park, a country park open to the public, although the original eighteenth-century estate was named Trent Place. Over the years Trent Place went through many owners, several of whom instituted extensive remodeling projects. The amateur excavations on the island described here were actually carried out by two later owners, the Bevans during the 1880s and Sir Philip Sassoon in the early twentieth century. Curiously, the findings of those excavations are not reflected on the local council’s information board currently in place at the site.

The island has long been reputed to have an association with the grail maidens of old, and yes, Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville’s ties to the site also are real, as are his strange relationship with the Templars and the tales of his treasure. The story that he drowned in the well on the island and still haunts it, protecting his treasure, is indeed a local legend, although he actually died from an arrow in the head. Even the tales tying the highwayman Dick Turpin to the site are real; he frequently hid out at Camlet Moat during the course of his brief, ill-fated career. The numerous legends associated with the island can be found in various nineteenth-century works on the environs of London, including Jerrold’s
Highways and Byways in Middlesex
, Thorne’s
Handbook to the Environs of London
, and Lysons’s
The Environs of London
. For a modern, more fanciful interpretation of the site, see Street’s
London’s Camelot and the Secrets of the Holy Grail.

The antiquarian Richard Gough was a real figure who did indeed live at Gough Hall near Camlet Moat. He left his library to Oxford, but not his collections, which were sold.

In the 1990s, a local man named Derek Mahoney claimed to have found the leaden cross from Arthur’s Glastonbury grave amongst mud dredged from an ornamental lake near Gough Hall. The local council claimed the find; Mahoney went to jail rather
than surrender it, and then committed suicide. The cross, seen only briefly by the British Museum, again disappeared. It is assumed but has never proven to be a modern forgery.

The system of billeting paroled French and allied officers around England is as described, albeit slightly more complicated. Although the concept of a gentleman’s “word of honor” might seem strange to many today, paroled officers—as gentlemen—were given a startling amount of freedom. Many began businesses, married British women, and had children. The British government even allocated them a half-guinea-a-week allowance. Their restrictions were few: a curfew, a circumscribed location within which movement was allowed, an injunction to obey the laws of the land and to communicate with France only through the agent appointed by the Admiralty. From 1809 to 1812, nearly 700 paroled officers tried to escape, of whom some 242 were recaptured. The calico printer’s cart described here (basically a closed cart of a type typically used by tradesmen who printed designs on cloth) was one of the ruses used in an escape attempt in the summer of 1812.

Although the waltz was not allowed at Almack’s in London in 1812, it was danced elsewhere in England well before that date. The family wedding Mary Bourne prattles about to Hero in
chapter 17
actually took place in 1806; her letters about the event mention the waltz.

Although we tend to think of neo-Druidism as a modern phenomenon, it was actually quite popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as part of the Romantic movement, which identified the Druids as national heroes. An Ancient Order of Druids was formed as early as 1781. Among the writers associated with the movement were William Stukely (who incorrectly believed Stonehenge was built by the Druids) and Iolo Morganwg (born Edward Williams), a Welsh nationalist with a deep admiration for the French Revolution. A form of spiritualism that stressed harmony with nature and respect for all beings, eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century Druidism also drew on the teachings of the Enlightenment. Lacking any written texts, a rigid dogma, or a central authority, neo-Druidism was basically a philosophy of living that located the divinity within all living creatures.

The foundation stone for what was then known as the Strand Bridge was laid in October of 1811, at the site of the old Savoy Palace. By the time the bridge opened nearly six years later, it had been renamed the Waterloo Bridge.

Although women were not a common sight in the British Museum’s Reading Room, they were allowed to become registered readers. According to the museum’s records, three were listed as registered readers for the years 1770 to 1810, and five were listed in 1820 alone. The museum closed in August and September, but for the sake of my story I have allowed it to remain open a few extra days.