captivating beauty of former times, with proud flashing eyes and abundant raven hair, to the gaunt and slightly stooped figure, her hair now prematurely flecked with grey, who sat opposite her husband each morning, come rain or shine, and whatever the season, silently staring out over his shoulder into the garden, whilst he, with his back to the window, read
She would spend days on end, especially during the dreary winter weeks, shut away in her rooms above the Library, and generally saw no one, except her maid and her companion, Miss Eames, and of course her husband at meal-times. But, as time went by, she would sometimes, and on a sudden, take it into her head to go up to town, or to some other place, regardless of the weather and the state of the roads. Once, for instance, she insisted, with something of her old force, that she absolutely must go to see an old friend, and so off she went to the South Coast in the midst of a most ferocious downpour, accompanied only by Miss Eames, to the considerable disapproval of my cousin, and the consternation of those of us who loved her and fretted after her well-being. This, I see from my journal, was towards the close of the year 1821.
I remember the incident particularly because, after she returned from the coast, she appeared to have regained a little of her former spirit, almost as if a weight had been lifted from her. Little by little, she began to show her husband small considerations, and as I came into the Yellow Parlour of a morning I would sometimes even catch her smiling at some trifling pleasantry of Lord Tansor’s – a slight, pained smile, to be sure; but it gladdened my heart to see it. Then, as the spring came on, she began to busy herself a little – planning a new area of garden, replacing the window-curtains in her private sitting-room, arranging a weekend party for some of her husband’s political associates, sometimes accompanying his Lordship to town. And so a kind of contentment returned to my cousin’s marriage, though things were not – nor ever would be – as they had been formerly, and my Lady’s eyes never regained the radiant energy captured so well in the unfinished portrait that hung by the breakfast-table in the Yellow Parlour.
This partial restoration of happiness between my cousin and his wife, muted and delicate though it was, continued, culminating in an announcement, made to the general delight of their many friends, that her Ladyship was with child. Lord Tansor’s joy at the news was plain for all to see, for it had been the cause of much distress and anxiety for my cousin that his union with Lady Tansor had, so far, denied him the thing he desired above all others: an heir of his own body.
The change in him was quite remarkable. I even remember hearing him whistle, something I had never heard him do before, as he was coming down the stairs one morning, a little later than usual, to take his breakfast. He became wonderfully solicitous towards his wife, showing her every attention she could have desired; so absorbed in her welfare did he become that he would often send me away of a morning, saying that he could not put his mind to business at such a time, or reprimanding me sharply for intruding when, as he said, I could see that her Ladyship was tired, or that her Ladyship needed his company that morning, or strongly conveying by word or look some other mark of his determination to do nothing else that day but devote himself to my Lady’s service.
The object of his concern, however, received these unwonted demonstrations of partiality with little outward show of satisfaction; indeed, she appeared to regard them with an increasing irritation that seemed likely to throw into disarray the state of peace and equilibrium that had latterly been established between them. This did not in the least deflect her husband from his purpose, but it produced an uncomfortable atmosphere in which my cousin doggedly, and with unusual patience, sought even more ways of expressing his care for his wife’s condition, whilst she became peevish and captious, brushing off his well-meant enquiries with a brusqueness that I fear he did not deserve. Once, when I was about to knock at the door of the Yellow Parlour as usual one morning, I heard her telling him sharply that she did not want to be molly-coddled so by him, that she neither desired it nor deserved it. I reflected afterwards on her words, concluding that some residual action of guilt for having abandoned her husband was responsible, in concert with the natural anxieties of impending motherhood, for her peppery behaviour.
So things went on until the 17th of November, in the year ’22, when, at a little after three o’clock in the afternoon, my Lady gave birth to a son. The boy, who would be christened Henry Hereward, was a hale and hearty creature from the first; but his mother, grievously weakened by the exertion of bringing him into the world, sank into a deep decline that lasted several days. She lay, hardly breathing, lingering between life and death, in the great curtained bed, fashioned to a fantastic design by du Cerceau,* that had been brought to Evenwood by Lady Constantia Silk on her marriage to Lord Tansor’s father. Gradually, she began to revive, take a little food, and sit up. A week to the day after the birth of her son, her husband, accompanied by the wet-nurse, brought the child to her for the first time; but she would not look at it. Propped up in the heavy-curtained bed, she closed her eyes and said only that she wished to sleep. My cousin remonstrated gently that she ought to make the acquaintance of their fine son and heir; but, with her eyes still shut, she told him, in a barely audible whisper, that she had no wish to see him.
‘I have done my duty,’ was all she would say when pressed by her husband to open her eyes just a little and look upon her son’s face for the first time. She would not even consent to attend the boy’s christening, which had been held off until she should have recovered sufficiently.
So Lord Tansor left her alone, and did not return. Thenceforth, he devoted himself to the nurture of his son, where formerly his wife had been his only care.
II
Friday, 21st October 1853 (continued)
The winter of 1822 came on, damp and raw. Her Ladyship left her bed, but refused to dress, sitting instead wrapped up in a shawl in an arm-chair before the fire, which burned night and day, and sometimes falling asleep there until her maid came in to draw back the window-curtains in the morning. The weeks passed, but still she would not see her son or quit her apartments. Her reply, when urged by friends to rouse herself and take up the duties of motherhood, was always the same: ‘I have done my duty. The debt is paid. There is no need to do more.’
One by one, she cut herself off from all visitors, even my late dear wife, of whom she had been particularly fond. Only her companion, Miss Julia Eames, was permitted to stay with her in the gloomy panelled chamber in which she spent most of her days. My cousin did not quite approve of Miss Eames, and had often questioned the necessity of her remaining in his house when his wife enjoyed such a wide acquaintance, both in the country and in town. But my Lady, alas, as was often the case, would not accede to his wishes, and it became a regular source of friction between them that she angrily refused to give up her companion.
It was to Miss Eames, and to her alone, that my Lady turned for comfort and companionship in the weeks and months following the birth of her son. I became particularly aware of the intimacy that existed between them when, one day, in the late spring of 1823, my Lady sent word that she wished me to bring up a copy of Felltham’s
When I took the volume she had requested up to my Lady’s sitting-room, I discovered her in close conversation with Miss Eames, heads together, talking with quiet intensity, their chairs drawn round a small work-table on which, open to view, was an ebony writing-box containing a considerable number of letters and other papers. On seeing
