Silver, p.17
Silver, page 17
“Mrs. Bancroft?”
“Yes Stokes.”
“There is a Mrs. Evesham here to see you. Shall I show her in?”
Evesham? The name brought me fresh confusion and I looked to the sombre butler for some assistance.
“Mrs. Evesham?”
“I do not recognise the name I am afraid, Mrs. Bancroft. Do you wish me to show her in?”
I frowned, suddenly struck by the thought that this woman could be a journalist or a gossip-monger come for some sport.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Show her in.”
The butler turned from his post.
“But don’t stray too far Stokes, she may not be welcome.”
Stokes nodded with grim authority and returned after a few moments followed by the woman from the cab. The woman stood on the threshold of the door, evidently undecided about her errand and she looked at me with a mixture of apology and fear.
“Mrs. Evesham, Madam.”
Stokes’ voice seemed to bring action to the woman and she stepped forward to allow for the door to be closed behind us, Stokes inclining his head to me as he did so.
“I would ask you to sit down?” I gestured to the chairs, walking around the small table “But I am afraid you have caught me at rather a bad time.”
I looked at the woman’s face, waiting for an answer to this statement, some explanation of her unannounced arrival.
“Thank you,” she said, simply and walked to the chair I had indicated and settled herself in it avoiding my eyes as she did so.
I supposed she must have misunderstood my gesture and was about to ask her directly who she was, when a knock came at the door announcing the arrival of the tea tray I had ordered when Mrs. Doone had shown up.
“I was just about to take some tea, would you care to join me?”
“Thank you. That is very kind.”
Mrs. Evesham watched in silence as Maud carefully placed the tea tray down and I took the opportunity to examine this woman a little more closely. As I had noted from the window, she was dressed in an elegant dress of dark grey satin and her blonde hair was shot with white. Her face was well made up and showed very little sign of her obviously advanced years. Her hands now removed from their gloves were lined and speckled with dark spots..
“Will there be anything else Madam?”
“Thank you Maud. That will be all.”
I waited until we were alone before stepping forwards and taking a seat opposite this mysterious stranger and began pouring the tea. There followed an uncomfortable silence and it was obvious that Mrs. Evesham was waiting for Maud to leave us before she would begin. The click of the door in its latch prompted us both from our silence.
“I must apologise…” she started.
“Mrs. Evesham...” I began, our voices colliding in an effort to break the silence. I looked at her and indicated she should finish.
“I must apologise for my coming unannounced. I didn’t know if I should come at all.” She added almost as an aside to herself.
“Forgive my bluntness Mrs. Evesham, but how should I know you?”
She gazed at me. I felt uncomfortable and not a little annoyed.
“Have we perhaps met before?” I volunteered, trying to assist this woman to some recollection of her business with me
I watched as she scanned my face seemingly searching for some recognition. There was something familiar about her which I could not place. Her eyes took me in, watering a little without blinking, a slight smile creeping in to the edges of her lips.
“Yes.” She nodded, still keeping me under her scrutiny. “We have met before…..Imogen.”
The familiar use of my name seemed improper under the circumstances and I blushed.
She leaned forward and continued to stare deep into my eyes, willing me perhaps to remember her.
“I…I’m afraid I don’t recollect our meeting Mrs. Evesham?”
I began to grow a little flustered that I had forgotten who this woman was and she seemed to sense this and looked away. Her attention now on the tea tray, she began lifting sugar cubes into her cup.
“I suppose, I didn’t think that you would. You were so very young.”
I continued to stare at this woman, confused by her intrusion and a little miffed at her vagueness.
“Mrs. Evesham, I am afraid that this is rather a difficult time….”
“Of course,” she nodded, her hands, which had been resting awkwardly in her lap began to fidget with the material of her skirt. “I must apologise again for my intrusion….it’s just I….”
I was still waiting to find out what this maddening woman wanted and I began to grow rather irritated.
“Mrs. Evesham. I must insist that you state your business. I am afraid I do not recollect where I should know you from. I am sorry to be so very blunt but we are a family in grieving and I haven’t the time to entertain strangers.”
She watched as I delivered my tirade and she nodded at me solemnly.
“I know. I am so sorry about your father, Imogen. He was a good man.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in warning, expecting some barbed comment.
“A good man,” she repeated, holding my stare.
“You knew my father?”
“And your mother.”
“Evesham? How is it I’ve never heard of you? Who are you?”
The woman cleared her throat and picked up her cup of tea.
“My name is Elizabeth Evesham,” she paused before adding, “nee Greenwood?”
The name still didn’t mean anything to me and she paused, seemingly expecting some recognition. As none came, she continued.
“I thought perhaps your father had mentioned me?” She spoke quietly almost to herself, a little disappointed it seemed. She glanced around the room nervously as if expecting someone to assist her. A brief silence followed before she found her inspiration on the mantel behind me. She stood and her sudden movement caused me a little alarm, the cup and saucer I had been sipping from clattered together. She walked to the fireplace and reached for a frame in which a studio photograph of my mother and father stood.
“May I?” she glanced at me, her hands already stretching to the picture.
The photograph had been taken several years ago at a studio. My mother was seated in an upright chair, my father stood behind her in his finest suit. The image was the only one I had of my mother and I suspect that fact alone had kept John from removing it from the parlour. I nodded as Mrs. Evesham took up the frame.
“The last time I saw your father was almost forty years ago.”
I was about to insist that Mrs. Evesham state her business but I was taken by the fond look she had in her eyes as she studied the photograph. If she had known him forty years ago, she may be the only person who could help me understand his deception.
“I can’t believe he is dead,” she said.
The bluntness of this statement was muted by the emotional outburst which followed. Mrs. Evesham replaced the photo on the mantel and extracted a handkerchief to cover her eyes.
“Mrs. Evesham? How did you know my father?”
Chapter Twelve - Elizabeth, 1869
“I hope you feel better soon, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I am sure I will, Cribbs. I think I shall just sleep for now. Be sure, I am not disturbed.”
With a brief curtsey, Cribbs closed the door behind her with great care and Elizabeth allowed a smile to creep across her face. Listening intently, she could hear the maid’s footsteps fade into nothing as she made her way back downstairs. The picture was so vivid in Elizabeth’s mind that she might well have had two glass floors beneath her feet. If she did, she would have seen through to her older sister Agnes’ bedroom below. It would be as neat and as prim as she kept herself. If she could peer secretly inside this room there would be little of interest within. Agnes would probably be sat in front of her looking glass, thinking nothing and seeing little more. Beneath Agnes’ room was the parlour where their father would be seated in a large winged-back chair, still in his suit, stiffly waiting to be called to dinner. A man of habit, he would not be pleased to be kept waiting and would be less pleased further to learn that Elizabeth was too ill to come to dinner. He would nod his head solemnly when told the news and, fearing something sinister had befallen her, would begin to ask for a doctor. Cribbs would politely interrupt to advise him that she was merely in pain with her monthly course and that there was no need to trouble the doctor. His face would colour at first with such delicate information but lighten to hear his youngest daughter was not at death’s door, and he would settle himself instead with just Agnes for company.
Elizabeth was pleased not to have to listen to Agnes drone on and on about her fiancé, Richard. Instead, their father would have the task of nodding in the right places and seeming to appear interested. She waited a few minutes to hear Agnes’ door opening and closing below her. The sound of lightly placed footsteps descending the staircase assured Elizabeth that she was now alone upstairs. Pulling back the bedcovers, she stepped carefully onto the rug, the bed creaking as she leant across it to the clothes stand upon which her dress had been hung. Straining to hear any sounds above her own breathing, she pulled on her clothes and stockings before silently tiptoeing off the rug and onto bare boards. Her boots were beside her dressing table and, stooping to pick them up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. In the soft glow of the gaslight, her eyes were alive with sparkle and were a perfect replica of her late mother’s own eyes. Were it not for the colour of her golden cherry wood hair and the fuller mouth, she could be a young version of her own mother and she knew this both grieved and pleased her father in equal measure. At seventeen, Elizabeth was not yet a woman but she was no longer a girl. She had also inherited her mother’s long neck and high cheekbones, and she was a striking beauty. This was something that had not escaped Elizabeth’s attention and she smiled at herself in the mirror, pleased with what she saw. Elizabeth, amused at Cribbs’ stupidity, or perhaps impressed by her discretion thought of the girl’s dull face and smiled.
A distant clatter from several floors below hurried Elizabeth in her tasks. Pausing only to apply some powder and lipstick, she clumsily laced up her boots. She was unaccustomed to the task and she silently cursed her own soft fingers. Having simply knotted the laces, she picked up her coat triumphantly before slipping soundlessly onto the landing. A faint and distant rumble assured her that her father was enlightening Agnes with the day’s events at the office and she tiptoed across the landing to the back stairs. The stairs led to the basement kitchen and the smell of dinner drifted temptingly up the stairwell and almost made her change her mind. Feigning being ill with cramps had meant that she had not eaten all day and she felt quite weak with the hunger. Noiselessly, she descended one flight to the first floor and waited. The clanking of pans and pottery sounds seemed close but the muffled voices reassured her that she were safe. Another flight down and she was at the back of the corridor leading to the front door.
“Cribbs!” The loud voice of the cook from the bottom of the stairs startled Elizabeth as he called out for Cribbs. Quickly, Elizabeth ducked inside the open study door as the maid scurried past. The girl muttered bad-temperedly as she passed and Elizabeth caught the words ‘Old Trout’ before Cribbs slipped down the stairs. For Elizabeth, it was the all-clear that she needed. With the house staff downstairs, and her father and sister waiting in the parlour to be called for dinner, she took her chance. Slipping from the shadows of the empty room, she hurried into the entrance hall, skirting the parlour door until she was standing before the front door, her hand upon the knob.
“Elizabeth?”
The suddenness of her father’s voice calling her name made her jump.
“Good heavens, Agnes! How could you even suggest such a thing?”
His voice came from inside the parlour and Elizabeth was half torn between staying to listen to why he should call out like that and what on earth Agnes had suggested, but the fright made her jumpy and instead she slipped out into the fresh, spring city air. Despite the earlier heat of the day, the evening breeze from the river some streets away was chill and Elizabeth was glad of the coat she drew around her. Hurrying down the front steps, she walked quickly up the King’s Road heading towards Victoria. She kept her head down, casting sideways glances about her. She was fuelled by adrenalin but her nerves were making her skittish. As she crossed a side road, an elderly gent bumped into her, apologising profusely as he did so. Her heart thundered as she thought for a moment that she recognised him. She pulled away from his apologetic hands but he was insistent, checking that she was okay.
“Going somewhere in a hurry like that, Miss, and you will be sure to meet with something eventually. A sticky end perhaps?” He chuckled at his wit and smiled good-naturedly at her. She drew her hands back from his and, apologising for her haste, she bustled off, leaving him shaking his head. A few streets away, she began to slow down and her sense of dread was quickly replaced with excitement as she instead took pleasure in the feeling of freedom and anticipation of the night ahead. The fading light of the evening sun, setting behind, threw a long shadow before her. After twenty minutes or so, the number of passing carriages and cabs diminished as she turned into Elizabeth Street and the relative calm of Belgravia. Her steps faltered and she paused at the corner of Chester Row, looking left and right. She was not stood for long before a voice from close behind her startled her.
“Miss Greenwood!”
Elizabeth spun round to face the direction of the voice and, from the growing shadows of the tall houses and prim hedges, she made out a familiar outline. A young man of about twenty, dressed in evening wear stepped from the gloom on to the pavement and into the glow of the evening light beside her. He swept her a bow with the tip of his hat and appraised her fully as he drew himself up again. His hair beneath the fine silk hat was pale and cropped neatly. He sported a tidy but thin moustache that looked as though if it has taken a great effort to cultivate. The rest of his face was smooth and his complexion was as sallow as wax. Stood before Elizabeth, he gave off an air of quiet confidence and high self-opinion. He touched his moustache with a smug grin before taking the hand she offered him in greeting. His eyes did not leave hers for a moment as he planted a soft kiss upon her gloved hand.
“I was not sure if you were in earnest, Miss Greenwood. What luck that I decided to wait another few minutes for you. I had all but abandoned the idea for one of your whims.”
“Mr. Bateman, I do believe you are pleased to see me.” Smiling at him, Elizabeth turned and began to walk away from the young man. He hurried to accompany her, his cane flailing for a moment whilst he measured his steps in time with her quick and purposeful gait.
“I’ll hail us a cab quickly, we can’t have little Miss Greenwood spotted out at this hour can we?”
Elizabeth considered this for a moment but despite the implications, had to agree that this was a wise precaution. The short walk to Chester Row was dangerous enough, a young girl out late on her own, but to be seen by one of her father’s fogeys in the company of this particular young man, and unaccompanied, would be a disastrous scandal. She raised an eyebrow at the young man as if she were considering his slight and found his wit wanting. The young man laughed at this gesture and turned to stride ahead to the King’s Road, where he raised his topper to a passing hansom. Stepping back as the horse pulled up beside him, he opened the door and held his hand out for Elizabeth’s.
“Cleveland Street,” he called up to the cabbie before jumping up behind her. “And there’s an extra shilling if you can make it before ten,” he added. The latch of the door barely clicked before the cab lurched off, causing Bateman to pitch forwards. He steadied himself on the seat back before settling himself opposite Elizabeth.
“Nothing like a keen start, Miss Greenwood. I very much like how the stars are aligning this evening.”
Elizabeth smiled to herself in the gloom of the cab and turned away from the cool gaze of her companion. The breeze from the darkening sky was refreshing after the unseasonal heat of the day and she closed her eyes, offering up her chin to the draught.
Beyond the window, another side to this city was beginning to wake up. Elizabeth’s head rested on the frame and she watched as the familiar sights were replaced by versions of themselves she had not seen before. As the cab drew up past Park Lane towards Marble Arch, she could see Hyde Park alter before her very eyes. Beyond the boundary of the iron fence and the privet hedges, the well-travelled Broad Walk - by day a smart passage for ladies to traverse - was all but abandoned, the shadows already proving too much of a danger to a gentleman and his wallet. The greenery, so peaceful and inviting during the day, repelled by night, as under its cover may lurk any number of assailants. As the carriage rolled on slowly in the heavy traffic, lights from the gas jets of Park Lane glimmered across the fence, and Elizabeth saw a furtive flash of white and spotted a pair of eyes from under a bush. A girl, not much older than Elizabeth, was relieving herself in the undergrowth, the dirty white of her petticoats hitched up behind her back, her thin grubby legs camouflaged in the evening light. Their eyes met for an instant and then a shadow fell across the girl’s face and the carriage had moved on.
