Authors: Margaret Dickinson
He smiled. ‘My grandfather worked here as a gardener and he used to talk about her. In fact, you couldn’t get him to stop talking about her. I only saw her twice and she was getting
on a bit by then, of course, but she was still striking. And everyone loved her, except,’ he sighed heavily, ‘the one person who should have loved her the most. Poor lady.’
‘Tell me about her – please.’ Tiffany couldn’t help the pleading tone in her voice and, sensing it, the man smiled down at her.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’m in no rush. It’s – it’s what I came for. I’d love to learn as much as I can about her, but only if you’ve time.’
‘Oh, I’ve time. But let’s sit down, my dear. My old legs aren’t what they used to be.’
They sat down on two chairs near the fire, but facing the two portraits.
‘Well, now, where to begin?’ He fell silent for a moment, his gaze still on the enchanting face in the painting, and then he murmured again, ‘Where to begin?’
Grimsby, Lincolnshire, January 1896
‘Please can we go home, Miss Annabel? It’s freezing.’
‘Just another five minutes,’ Annabel murmured, staring through the gloom of the winter’s evening, watching the road ahead.
They were sitting in the horse-drawn chaise on the seafront at Cleethorpes, not far from the pier that stretched out into the cold sea. There were no holidaymakers today, no visitors walking its
length. Although the chaise offered a little more shelter than an open trap, the wind blew in from the sea, stinging their faces and chilling their bones.
‘If you’re late for dinner, your father will ask questions. And you know I can’t tell lies. I go bright red and he knows straightaway.’
‘I don’t expect you to tell lies for me, Jane.’
The maid shivered. ‘The horse is getting cold too. See how he’s pawing at the ground.’
The chaise rocked dangerously as the restless horse moved.
‘Miss Annabel,’ Jane said firmly, ‘he’s not coming and we’re both going to be in such trouble when we get back. What will Mrs Rowley say if I’m not there to
help with the dinner? You know I have to help out in the kitchen.’
The Constantine household had few staff: a butler, Roland Walmsley, who also served as valet to his master, a cook-cum-housekeeper, Mrs Rowley, a kitchen maid, Lucy, and Jane, who was everything
else; housemaid and lady’s maid to Mrs Constantine and to Miss Annabel. The only outside staff were a part-time gardener and a groom, Billy, who looked after the two horses and usually drove
Annabel or her mother wherever they wanted to go. But today, Annabel had insisted upon driving the chaise herself with only her maid for company.
Annabel sighed and took up the reins, saying, ‘Gee up.’ The horse, glad of some activity at last, lurched forward and the two girls clutched at the sides of the vehicle.
‘He’ll have us over,’ Jane muttered, but the sure-footed horse began to trot happily towards home. A little way along the road into Grimsby, Annabel pulled on the reins so that
the horse turned to the right. Prince hesitated, yet he obeyed his mistress’s instructions.
‘Where are you going, miss? This isn’t the way home.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Annabel’s tone was airy. ‘I thought it was. Oh dear, we’re lost.’ She flicked the reins so that the horse picked up speed, taking them even
further away from the road they needed to be on.
‘Miss Annabel—’
‘I think it’s a short cut.’
‘No, it isn’t. You know very well it isn’t. You’re going towards the docks,’ Jane said, ‘and if you’ve some madcap notion of trying to find him, then
– then . . .’
Annabel pulled gently on the reins bringing Prince to a steady walking pace. They reached a crossroads and, skilfully, Annabel turned the horse so that they were facing back the way they had
just come. Prince began to trot again, more hopeful now that they were really going home to his warm stable. His speed quickened even more when he recognized Bargate, the road where the
Constantines lived.
The house was a square building with a central front door and a bay window on either side. It had a small front garden but a larger one behind the house where their gardener cultivated both
flower borders and a kitchen garden. As a young girl, Annabel had been allowed to help in the grounds and in the greenhouse, but as she’d grown older, her father had dictated that she should
apply herself to more ladylike occupations.
‘It is not fitting for you to be grubbing about in the dirt with only a servant as a companion.’
And so Annabel’s love of the land was only satisfied on her visits to her grandparents who, unbeknown to her father, allowed her to help about the farm.
‘There’s Billy waiting for us,’ Jane said as the chaise came to a halt. She climbed down and then turned to help her young mistress alight, whilst Billy hurried to hold the
horse’s head.
‘Good evening, Billy,’ Annabel said with a forced gaiety she was no longer feeling. ‘I’m so sorry we’re late. We got lost.’
Beside her, she heard Jane pull in a sharp breath but her maid said nothing. Annabel knew the girl would follow her lead and realize that her mistress had given her a ready-made excuse should
she be questioned.
‘You go in the back way, Jane. I’ll go to the front door. Mr Walmsley will let me in. And remember’ – she lowered her voice as Billy began to unhitch the horse from the
shafts – ‘we got lost.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Jane bobbed a quick curtsy and scurried in through the back door.
Annabel walked around the side of the house and rang the front door bell.
‘Good evening, Mr Walmsley,’ she said smoothly when the butler opened the door.
Despite having been told to do so on numerous occasions, Annabel flatly refused to address their servants by anything other than their full name or, for the younger ones, their Christian name.
She abhorred the use of mere surnames and the butler had long ago given up trying to get her to change. Even her disciplinarian father couldn’t enforce the rule with his wayward daughter.
Hearing her voice, Ambrose flung open the door to his study and strode into the hall. He was a short, portly man in his early fifties with a florid complexion and bristling sideburns.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he barked.
Annabel turned towards him as she removed her cape, hat and gloves and handed them to Roland Walmsley.
‘Out for a drive in the chaise, Father, but I took a wrong turning in the dusk and I got a little lost. I’m so sorry I’m late for dinner.’ She turned back to the butler.
‘Mr Walmsley, please tell Mrs Rowley that it’s my fault Jane is late, not hers.’
Roland Walmsley bowed and hid his smile. He could guess where his young mistress had been, though wild horses would not drag it out of him, nor would he question Jane. She was utterly loyal to
Miss Annabel, as were all the servants.
Ambrose glared at his daughter. ‘We’ve held dinner back for half an hour and Mrs Rowley is
not
best pleased.’ Mrs Rowley was the only person who warranted – in
Ambrose’s opinion – a courtesy title. ‘You’d better get changed – and be quick about it.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Annabel bowed her head meekly and hurried towards the staircase. Ambrose watched her go, his eyes narrowing. Had his ruse worked? he wondered. Annabel’s
expression gave nothing away. As he watched her climb the stairs, he fancied he saw her shoulders drooping in disappointment. But he couldn’t be sure. His daughter was difficult to read.
He’d interrogate the maid, he decided. She’d give herself away at once.
But this time, even Jane’s resolve proved difficult to break. After dinner was over, he called her to his study. She faced her master fearlessly with wide, innocent eyes. Pulling herself
up to her full five feet two inches, she straightened her shoulders and explained calmly, ‘We got lost, sir. Miss Annabel took a wrong turning in the dark and then it was difficult to turn
the horse round. By the time we got to the right road again, sir, oh, I reckon half an hour or more had gone by.’
Ambrose frowned. ‘Did you meet anyone, girl?’
Her eyes widened even more. ‘Meet anyone, sir?’
‘Don’t act stupid with me, girl. You know very well what I mean. Did Miss Annabel have an assignation?’
The girl shook her head vehemently. ‘Oh no, sir. We didn’t meet anyone.’
Ambrose stepped close to her so that his bulbous red nose was only inches from her small, well-shaped nose. In a low, threatening tone he said slowly, ‘If I find out you’ve been
lying to me, girl, it’ll be the worse for you. You understand?’
Jane nodded vigorously. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, sir. Honest, I wouldn’t.’
Ambrose grunted as he stepped away. He still didn’t believe her. In his experience anyone who used the word ‘honest’ to emphasize whatever they were saying, was usually
lying.
Jane scuttled back to the kitchen, her cheeks flaming. She hoped that was the last questioning she would have to face from the master, but there was always the mistress to contend with. She was
almost more fearsome than Mr Constantine.
‘
Now
what have you been up to?’ Mrs Rowley frowned. ‘Are you in trouble? Because if you are, I want to know about it.’
Oh no, not you an’ all! Jane thought. ‘Nothing, Mrs Rowley,’ she said aloud. ‘I was out with Miss Annabel and we were late back. That’s all.’
‘Oh aye.’ Even Mrs Rowley’s tone was sceptical. ‘And where were you “out”, might I ask?’
No, you may not ask, Jane wanted to reply, but she knew that any cheeky retort would earn her a severe reprimand. Instead, she said calmly, ‘Just out for a drive, Mrs Rowley. Miss Annabel
took a wrong turning in the dark.’
‘She shouldn’t be out in the dark on her own.’
‘She wasn’t on her own. I was with her.’
Mrs Rowley rolled her eyes. ‘And a fat lot of good you’d have been if there’d been any trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble, Mrs Rowley?’
The cook said no more on the subject, contenting herself with a glare and a sharp, ‘Get on with your work now you are here. There’s a pile of washing-up to be done and Lucy’s
already drooping with tiredness having to do your work as well as her own while you go off gallivanting.’
For the next few hours there was no time to think, but later that night as she lay in her narrow bed in the attic room she shared with Lucy, Jane thought over the problem she faced with her
young mistress. She was devoted to Miss Annabel and would do anything for her – anything – but she was very afraid that what they had been doing over the past few weeks and months was
about to be discovered.
Annabel, too, was lying awake.
Why hadn’t Gil come to meet her? Was it all over? Didn’t he love her any more? Had all his ardent declarations been false?
She had first met Gilbert Radcliffe on a tour of her father’s business offices near the fish docks. That day, Gilbert, as the office under-manager, had been deputed to show the
boss’s daughter around. At only twenty-five he held a surprisingly high position within the company and was well thought of by his immediate superior, the office manager, Mr Smeeton, and her
father too. But Annabel was under no illusion that should their secret meetings over the weeks since then be discovered, the young man would no longer be held in such high esteem. Ambrose had big
plans for his daughter and they did not include marriage to one of his employees.
Ambrose Constantine was a self-made man. He had been born in one of the poorer areas of the town, the third son of a deck hand on trawlers. He, too, had begun his working life at sea as a
deckie-learner, but Ambrose was ambitious. He soon worked his way up to the position of Mate, working hard and enduring the vicious conditions of life at sea to earn good money and save every penny
he could. Oh, how he saved his money. But by the time he was twenty, his father and two older brothers had been lost at sea. Broken-hearted, his mother died the following year, leaving Ambrose
alone, though the loss of his family only hardened his determination to succeed. He left the sea and became a fish merchant and by the age of twenty-four was employing ten men in the fish docks. He
first saw Sarah Armstrong across the aisle of a church, when they were both attending a funeral in late May 1874. She was no beauty, but she was tall and walked with a haughty grace that appealed
to Ambrose. She had a strong face and a determined set to her chin. At the gathering in a nearby hotel after the service, Ambrose contrived an introduction to her and found himself gazing into her
dark blue eyes and wanting to know all about her.
‘How do you know Mr Wheeler?’ he began, referring to the deceased, whose coffin they had just watched being lowered ceremoniously into the earth.
‘I didn’t know him well, but I’ve accompanied my father today. He used to do business with him and felt he should pay his respects.’
‘So – is your father in the fish trade?’
Sarah had laughed. ‘No, no, he’s a farmer, but he met Mr Wheeler on market days.’ Abraham Wheeler had been an auctioneer throughout Lincolnshire, conducting sales of anything
from fish to sheep and cows.
Curious about the fair-haired, stocky young man who, she knew, had deliberately sought an introduction to her, Sarah asked, ‘And you? How do you know him?’
‘The fish markets.’ He smiled. ‘He was very helpful to me when I started out.’
‘And where have you finished up?’
‘Oh, I haven’t finished yet, not by a long way.’
Sarah’s eyes gleamed as she heard the fire of ambition in his tone. She liked that. She had always bemoaned the fact that she’d been born a girl; men could do so much more with their
lives than women, who seemed destined to be wives and mothers and housekeepers. Her father’s farm would one day be hers – she was an only child – yet she had no interest in the
land. Every summer brought her hay fever misery and even getting too close to a horse could set her sneezing. Each June she spent time near the sea, which seemed to ease her symptoms.
Crossing her fingers at the lie she was about to tell, she said boldly, ‘I’m coming to stay in Cleethorpes next week.’ She paused, knowing instinctively that he would suggest a
meeting. And he did.