When It Rained at Hembry Castle Chapter 27

In the Paradise

T

he July sky grew darker and then it was raining, one of those London summer rains that came and went and left the air murkier for it. Frederick waved away Rogers, the driver at Staton House, who chased after him with a second overcoat in an attempt to protect my lord from the whims of the weather, bemoaning the lack of an umbrella.

“It’s all right, Rogers.” Frederick darted out from under the canopy of the coat. “I’m quite happy walking. It’s only a little water.”

He outpaced the older Rogers in only four steps, and he heard the driver muttering behind him. Frederick truly didn’t mind the rain. It wasn’t an angry rain, not yet, and city life continued as it usually did because if life stopped in England when it rained then there would be little life indeed. People darted across the street, some under umbrellas, some pulling their hats closer to their noses, some tugging their coats closer to their ears. The carriages continued on their way, the horses annoyed by the splashes of wet, and the people pressed forward. Frederick was another one of the walking men who pulled his hat down and his coat up. He needed to walk to release the excess energy that had been eating at him since he left Hembry. He couldn’t get the image of Daphne, pressing back her tears, wanting so much to be brave, out of his mind. For the longest time she wouldn’t admit her feelings, insisting that she admired young Mr. Ellis’ determination and diligence. She respected his intelligence and approved of his sense of humor. She admired his talent and especially she loved his stories and she would read them aloud again and again.

Could Edward have hoodwinked them all? Frederick wasn’t sure. There was genuine affection between Edward and Daphne, Frederick was sure of it. There was nothing dark or hidden in Edward’s manner, at least not that Frederick had seen, to make him think Edward was trying to hurt or take advantage. It didn’t make sense. Frederick went over possible scenarios as he walked, trying out various reasons why Edward might have done what he had, leaving Daphne in the dark about his engagement to Miss Chattaway, and not one of those reasons were flattering to Edward.

Frederick arrived at the house on Fetter Lane where Edward lived and knocked at the front door. While he waited he realized the rain was falling harder, pelting his hat like hail. A young girl opened the door.

“Ma,” the girl yelled. “It’s a man.”

“What man?” her mother called back.

The little girl looked at Frederick from his dripping hat to his liquefied shoes. “A wet man.”

“My name is Frederick Staton.”

“His name is Frederick Staton,” called the daughter.

“For heaven’s sake, child, let the wet man named Frederick Staton in.”

The girl opened the door wider, and Frederick was allowed inside. He took off his hat and coat, which the little girl hung on a peg on the wall, standing on her toes because the peg was taller than she was.

“Excuse me for making you wait in the rain,” said the woman, wiping her hands on her apron. “I was getting dinner ready for my boarders.”

“Is Mr. Edward Ellis at home?” Frederick asked.

“Mr. Ellis is always at home, sir, when he’s not at work. Needs a wife that young man. I says to him, Mr. Ellis, I says, Mr. Ellis, you’re a young man at an age when you need a companion, and a female one too, if you understand my meaning.”

“I do, indeed.” Frederick covered his mouth with his hand, turning his laugh into a cough since he didn’t want to offend the proprietor of the boarding house.

“Prudence, run and fetch Mr. Ellis for...”

“His name’s Staton,” said Prudence.

“Hmm,” said the landlady. “Mr. Ellis said he used to work for Lord Staton at the newspaper.”

“That would be me.”

“You’re Lord Staton? Dear me, my lord. Please do come into my humble home.” The woman flattened her apron, pressed her hair out of its bun, then bowed, curtsied, and bowed again. “I didn’t realize I had the honor of hosting such a personage as yourself in my humble home. Allow me to fetch you a cup of tea. Allow me to dry your clothes. Allow me to...”

Frederick shook his head. “I assure you, I’m only here to speak to Mr. Ellis. Please do return to whatever you were doing.”

The landlady ran around Frederick so fast he couldn’t keep track of her and his neck hurt with the strain of trying. “But I couldn’t have Lord Staton leaving without feeling he was properly attended to, your highness.”

Frederick laughed. “I’m not your highness, Mrs…”

“Mrs. Chapman, your majesty. And good of you to ask too.”

Her daughter returned downstairs alone. “Mr. Ellis won’t come. He won’t answer his door.”

“Are you certain he’s home?” asked Frederick.

“I’m certain, your holiness.” Mrs. Chapman flattened her hair with her hand again. “I saw him come in myself, and he had another visitor come by a little while after, another well-dressed man. When the visitor left Mr. Ellis had the wretchedest look about him you ever did see. He wouldn’t even answer when I asked him when he wanted his dinner.”

“Allow me to try.”

Prudence showed Frederick the door on the third floor. Frederick banged on the door with an angry fist. Edward was not getting away so easily.

“Edward! It’s Frederick. I need a moment of your time.”

There was rustling on the other side. The door creaked open, and Frederick couldn’t believe the state of the young man. Edward’s hair was sticking out on all sides, pointing north, south, east, and west. His clothes were unkempt, his shirt out of his trousers, black ink smudged over his face, hands, and shirt sleeves, which were rolled up around his elbows. Edward said nothing as he allowed Frederick inside. The young man moaned a mournful tune as he paced the floor, which didn’t take long in the cramped quarters. Frederick thanked the little girl and her mother and shut the door in their astonished faces.

“Mitchell Chattaway was just here,” Edward said.

“What perfect timing since I’m here to speak to you on that very same subject. I dined with the Chattaways last night, and Mr. Chattaway had some interesting things to say to me concerning you and his eldest daughter.” Frederick watched Edward, who was pacing the floor, back and forth, back and forth. Frederick wondered what the tenant on the second floor must be thinking. “So it’s true then. You made a promise to Chattaway’s daughter. You’re engaged.”

Edward let out a cry somewhere between frustration and pain. He dropped to the sofa, his head in his hands.

“I asked for Miss Chattaway’s hand, but then I met your daughter, and then…” Edward moaned again. “I’ve never been so confused about anything in all my life.” Edward sat on his heels before the Earl. “I want you to know how I feel about your daughter, Lord Staton. I’ve loved her from the moment I met her.”

“Aren’t we being formal?”

“I want you to know how serious I am in my love for your daughter.”

“You said you were confused.”

“I’m not confused by my feelings for Lady Daphne. I’m confused by what to do. I don’t know how to get out of the promise I made to Miss Chattaway, but I can’t marry her, not now.”

“Did you make yourself clear to Chattaway? Did you tell him you’re not in love with his daughter?”

“I tried to make him understand. I begged him. I pleaded with him. Christina is a lovely girl. She’s sweet natured, and she’s kind. She’ll find another man far better suited to her than I’d ever be. I told him I was in love with Daphne, and he laughed and said that at no time would the Earl of Staton’s daughter marry the grandson of servants. I told him Daphne was different, that you were different, but he wouldn’t hear it. He was yelling so loudly I thought the windows would shatter. He threatened to take me to court if I didn’t go through with it.”

“He has a perfect right to do so.”

Poor Edward was so miserable, staring at the window as though he expected to see Mitchell Chattaway flying outside shaking his fists, like Jacob Marley rattling his chains at Scrooge. Edward paced again from here to there and back again, a child’s yo-yo with Chattaway pulling the string up and down, side to side, anywhere he wanted at his whim. Frederick wanted to feel sorry for Edward. In his heart of hearts he did feel sorry for Edward, yet he was also furious with the young man for toying with Daphne’s affections. Daphne, who had fallen in love with this young man. Daphne, with a warm, loving heart who treated everyone around her with kindness. Even when the fact of Edward’s betrayal had come to light, she would not say an unkind thing about him, insisting the fault was hers and hers alone. Whether Edward meant to hurt Daphne or not, he did, deeply. Frederick, with his father’s love, wanted to fix everything even though it was so much harder to do now she was one-and-twenty. When she was five and she skinned her hand tripping outside he had only to kiss the injured fingers and he could see the pain vanish in her smile. But this was too hard to fix with a kiss or a kind word. Frederick never disliked being Earl of Staton more than he did at that moment. What good was a title if he couldn’t help his own daughter?

And then Frederick wondered—what could he do? He watched Edward, still swinging from the yo-yo, staggering from side to side, the panic filling his hazel eyes like water rising behind a dam. Frederick thought of Mitchell Chattaway, an easy-going, good-natured man. Frederick guessed that Chattaway was not acting on his own but as an emissary for his wife. Christina Chattaway was a lovely, charming girl, if dreamy-eyed and a little on the quiet side. Yes, she always seemed to be one step behind the rest of the conversation. But she was good-natured like her father and friendly once you got to know her. Daphne and Christina were immediate friends from the moment they met. Did Christina know about Edward’s feelings for Daphne? Frederick suspected she did. Women were astute about such things.

Was it true then? Had Edward been stalling, trying to find a way to break out of his understanding with Christina? Looking at the state of the young man, whose agitated hands were pulling at his chocolate-brown hair with such force Frederick feared the locks would fall in a lump to the floor, he guessed Edward wasn’t all right with the way things turned out.

Then Frederick had to consider. More than anything else in this world, he wanted his daughter to be happy. He knew she had been having a hard time since arriving in England. What was supposed to be a short trip to see his ailing father had become a permanent residency, especially now he was Earl. She had been put through the wringer by his mother as much as any wet linen in the laundry room. Frederick pictured Jacinda, the laundress at Hembry Castle when he was a boy. He remembered walking past the servants’ entrance, past the stables and the larder to the small building where he’d watch as Jacinda and her assistants soaked the clothing and linens in buckets of soapy water, then flattened them through the wringer. That’s what his mother was doing to Daphne—flattening her and wringing out her excess liquid—teaching her how to walk, how to curtsey, how to speak at table, which conversations are appropriate in Society and which are not, desperate to wash away anything about Daphne that didn’t fit into the tightly woven fabric of the aristocracy. Frederick had learned such ways from infancy, and the manners were carved into him like engravings into silver. Even after all his time away, the protocol still came naturally for him. It wasn’t natural for Daphne, and it was hard for her, remembering all the rules, both spoken and hidden. Daphne was bearing up well enough, she was a strong girl, but Frederick knew she wasn’t happy. Her only joy in England had been Edward, and now it seemed he was gone as well. What can I do, Frederick wondered? How can I fix this for my darling girl?

“Edward?” Edward stopped, his yo-yo string snapped. “Edward, I need to ask you a question. It’s rather personal, and of course you’re under no obligation to answer. I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I believe I’m beyond embarrassment, Lord Staton. Ask me what you wish.”

“Have you ever been alone with Miss Chattaway? I mean, have you...”

“No! Nothing like that. We were never alone for more than a moment or two.”

“I don’t mean to be boorish, my friend, but it only takes a moment or two.”

“I swear to you, Lord Staton...”

“I’m still Frederick, I hope.”

“Nothing improper occurred between Christina Chattaway and me. The truth is, I hardly know her. I had been to her family’s home for dinner on several occasions when Mr. Chattaway invited me, and Miss Chattaway was sweet natured, and she seemed interested in me and my work. I thought it would be nice to have someone here when I got home or when I had to work late into the night.”

“You were lonely. I can understand that. I felt lonely my whole life until I met Daphne’s mother. Diana was the first person to understand me.”

“That’s it exactly! Daphne understands me. She sees me, she sees all of me.”

“She certainly didn’t see this.” Frederick brushed aside his frustration with a shake of his head. He decided that honesty might well be his best policy. “Daphne loves you, Edward.”

“Does she? Truly?”

“She loves you so much her heart is breaking.” Frederick looked into Edward’s eyes. “I need to know what your intentions were toward my daughter, Edward. If you had already made a promise to Miss Chattaway, why did you make Daphne believe you were in love with her?”

“If Daphne believes I’m in love with her it’s because I am in love with her. I know I had already promised Miss Chattaway, but when I saw Daphne, from that first time at your father’s funeral, something about her spoke to me somewhere inside I didn’t even know existed. I think I loved her from that very moment, and the more I knew her, the more I knew her heart, the more I understood the depths of my feelings for her. But I couldn’t speak out because of Miss Chattaway. I kept hoping I would discover a way out of the engagement that would free me without hurting Miss Chattaway.”

“I’m afraid there’s no way to break off an engagement without hurting the young woman being broken from, especially if that young woman has done nothing to deserve it, which Miss Chattaway has not.” Frederick shivered, realizing for the first time since arriving at Edward’s he was cold. He stood before the hearth, hands out to absorb the warmth. “If you had not already engaged yourself to Miss Chattaway, your intention toward my daughter would be?”

“I would marry her tomorrow.” Edward’s voice cracked and his cheeks reddened, from embarrassment more than the heat of the fire, Frederick thought. “I know you’re the Earl of Staton now, and I’m the grandson of your servants. I know I have no right to hope, but I love her, Lord Staton. What kind of cruelty is there in the world that I meet Daphne, the woman who has stolen my heart, after I met Miss Chattaway and not before?”

“Perhaps Miss Chattaway will make you happy after all. She seems a gentle soul. I’m certain she’ll do everything in her power to be the wife you wish for.”

“Miss Chattaway doesn’t have Daphne’s spirit or her independence. She doesn’t know her own mind like Daphne. She doesn’t understand me like Daphne.” Edward turned away, his cheeks that embarrassed red again, his index finger scratching the air as though he were writing something down. “I know I wish for too much. I know I’m hardly the man your mother would like Daphne to marry.”

Frederick laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. My mother doesn’t even like to speak to people who don’t keep a carriage.” Frederick saw desperation in the young man’s eyes, and the last of his frustration dissipated. “Are you telling me the truth, Edward Ellis? Would you marry my daughter if you were no longer tied to Miss Chattaway?”

“Your daughter is the only woman in the world for me.”

Frederick sighed. “Very well then. I’ll speak to Mitchell Chattaway and see what I can do. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

Edward dropped to his knees and grabbed Frederick’s hands. Frederick pulled Edward to his feet. “Please, son, I’m not the Queen, or the Pope. You needn’t kiss my ring. I’m doing this for my daughter, but I’m doing this for you too. I can see you love Daphne, and heaven knows she’s as much in love with you. If my intervening can help in any way, then I must try. If worse comes to worst, you’ll have to break off the engagement knowing the Chattaways would sue you. I can pay any monetary damages the courts required of you, but it’s your reputation I’m concerned about. Your career is just getting started. It would be terrible to see your professional life destroyed because of a romantic scandal. Others have been ruined for less. Still, I am the Earl of Staton. That must be worth something.”

“Lady Staton won’t be happy if there’s a scandal.”

“We’re already on the verge of scandal with my brother’s peculiar death. Another one hardly matters. I was never supposed to be the Earl, so no one would be surprised if I muddy things up a bit. I am the wayward, after all.”

“Will you go now?” Edward asked.

“Not tonight.” Frederick looked at his watch. “I don’t want to corner the Chattaways when they’re not expecting it, especially not when Mrs. Chattaway will be there chirping into her husband’s ear. I’ll try to catch Chattaway on his own tomorrow.”

Frederick opened the door, sending the landlady and her daughter tumbling down the stairs.

This was Edward Ellis’

life during the summer of 1871: at the offices of the Daily Observer at the crack of dawn, writing, editing, creating layouts, keeping the staff on task, arguing with the printer. Home after dark to work on his own stories for Fergusonandwately until he was so tired he often woke up with his head on his desk, a crick in his neck, and ink in his hair. Then, at first light, it was back to the offices of the Daily Observer. Certainly, he was thrilled when Tales from Southwark was released. He remembered holding the first copy, warm from the printer’s, while he ran across Hyde Park toward Staton House where Daphne waited for him. He waved the book at her, and she rushed down the stairs, across the street, and onto the green expanse of the park, not stopping until she pulled the volume from his grasp and dropped onto the grass and started to read aloud. She didn’t care about her half-mourning lavender dress on the wet grass, she didn’t care which fine ladies in which grand carriages and four saw her, she didn’t care about anything except Edward and his book. And then it was back to the grind—back to the Observer, then back home to write until he fell unconscious.

Being busy was a good thing. It kept him from dwelling on the misery that was always lurking one step behind him. He should have been bursting with anticipation. The one thing he had wanted since he read his first Dickens novel—his very own book with his very own words and his very own name on the cover—had happened and all he felt was forlorn because the Chattaways were turning on the pressure for a wedding date. He had to keep thinking of excuses. First, he said he needed a better paying position, which he then received when Frederick officially handed him the editorship. Then, he said he was too busy because he was now the editor of the Observer, which Mr. Chattaway pointed out wasn’t the greatest excuse since he, Mr. Chattaway, was an editor and married at the same time, and even had four daughters in the bargain (largely attributed to Mrs. Chattaway). Then Edward said he had to finish writing his story collection, which then was finished, and published, and even sold well. The Chattaways were pleased to point out that Edward now had an extra income from his books, in addition to the larger income from the Observer. Then Edward had to start writing the second collection, not giving himself a moment to breathe after completing Tales from Southwark. That was when the Chattaways became loud in their impatience. Edward’s solution? Leaving letters from anyone named Chattaway unopened. But the unopened letters still would have their say, and the Chattaways began to invade Edward’s consciousness at all hours of the day and night. The odd thing was he never heard from Christina. The messages, the invitations, and more recently the rebukes, had come from her parents.

Mitchell Chattaway’s timing was impeccable. Edward had decided, just that morning, that he would finally put an end to his misery, and the Chattaways’. Mr. Chattaway is a reasonable man, Edward thought. Christina guessed about Daphne months ago, and I told her she was wrong though she was so very right. If I tell Christina the truth now, I believe she would let me go with best wishes because that’s the kind of person she is. He would go to the Chattaways after Observer business was done, he would be honest, and open, and tell them what happened—that he had only the most honorable intentions toward Christina when he asked for her hand, but circumstances changed, and now it would be the least honorable thing to marry Christina when he was in love with another. Christina would not be happy married to him, and she deserved all the happiness life could bring her. Edward rehearsed the speech over again until he began writing his words for the Chattaways as the headline for the front page of the Observer (fortunately Tewson, the copy editor, caught it before it went to the printer’s). Observer business done for the day, Edward grabbed his coat and hat, headed toward the Chattaways, then thought he should return the trinkets Christina had given him. He didn’t mean to seem ungrateful. He only meant to show that they should both move on. He arrived at Fetter Lane, nodded at Mrs. Chapman, patted Prudence on the head, and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He rummaged through his bookcase and grabbed the volume of poetry, then went through his desk drawer for the pens and pen knives Christina had given him. He placed them in a carpetbag and was ready to leave when he heard a knock at his door. There was Mitchell Chattaway, red-faced and red-voiced, yelling about how surprised he was to discover that Lord Staton hadn’t known about Edward’s engagement to Christina. Why did Edward feel the need to keep the engagement secret from Lord Staton, Mr. Chattaway wanted to know? When Edward gave no reply, Mr. Chattaway let Edward know in no uncertain terms that there was no way out of the engagement without a court case. Edward fell into despair, thinking he would never know joy again. By the time he crawled into bed that night, after Lord Staton’s visit, he had glimmers of hope, though he was afraid to grasp those glimmers too tightly for fear they might evaporate before he could close them tight in his hand.

The next day was business as usual. Edward dragged himself from his flat, dodging passers-by and hiding alongside lampposts in case Mitchell Chattaway appeared to make a case of him again. The omnibuses passed, each with its route and color on display: Paragons, Paddingtons, and Favourites represented by red, green, and blue. Occasionally, Edward took the omnibus to Fleet Street, though that morning he walked without his usual interest in the music of city sounds. Where normally he was energized by the industry—the dressmakers and the milliners and the cobblers, the breweries and the clock makers and the jewelers, the shipyards with the fish-women and the dock porters and the steamboats floating by—now all passed like specters from scenes from a previous life. He passed identical rows of identical terraced houses with identical window baskets overflowing with identical rhododendrons. He watched the women heading toward Bond Street where they would daydream at the window displays, attend matinees, or partake of tea at one of the new-fangled ladies teashops. The truth was, Edward didn’t want to be out in the world that day. He wanted to stay in bed with a blanket over his head and a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

The day after that Edward again pulled himself out of bed, dressed himself, and walked through the front door at Fetter Lane. He thought back over his conversation with Lord Staton, and he prayed the glimmers of hope were still flickering. He hadn’t heard from the Earl since their discussion, and he hoped the silence meant things weren’t settled either way. Edward knew how fortunate he was to have a friend in Lord Staton. The Earl could have said, “You shouldn’t have made such a rash decision about Miss Chattaway,” or “You’ve made your bed and now you must lie in it,” leaving Daphne free to marry whichever willing member of the aristocracy her grandmother snatched for her. Edward was afraid to allow his thoughts to roam to the one place where he might find some peace—that place where, if Lord Staton’s meeting with Mr. Chattaway went well, Edward would be free from his promise to Christina and he could marry the woman he loved. Lord Staton seemed certain that Daphne would marry Edward if he asked. Lord Staton didn’t seem at all concerned that he, Edward, was the grandson of the butler and housekeeper. Was it possible?

Edward stopped in his usual place for contemplation, leaning over the Victoria Embankment, staring down into the gray depths of the Thames at high tide as it made its snake-like trail through the heart of London. It was July now, the lumbering fog at bay, the green shrubbery of summer at full bloom. Edward watched the passers-by as he listened to the street vendors call their wares. He thought of Daphne and smiled. All this trouble for an American girl, he thought, and she’s worth every moment of it.

Edward knew he had to face the worst that could happen—the Chattaways could refuse to end the engagement. What then? Would he marry Christina for fear of scandal and the loss of his career? Would he end the engagement anyway, come what may? He checked the rising sun and sighed, not wanting to leave this spot where he could think undisturbed. When he arrived at the offices of the Observer, he couldn’t concentrate. Later, when the others took a break for their afternoon meal, Edward went outside. It was feeling close in the office and he wiped away the humidity lingering on his temples with his handkerchief. He stepped into the L of Gough Square and saw the flower vendor, the same ruddy-faced man with the same ruddy-faced son, a little taller now, who had given Daphne the flowers. Edward pictured the pile of work on his desk, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back inside.

“Edward!”

Edward’s knees quivered, the humidity now in his palms, but he faced Lord Staton with his head high. Whatever the news, he would take it like a man. The Earl gestured with his walking stick. “Come with me!” the stick seemed to call, and without asking why, Edward followed Frederick toward Hyde Park. As they reached Park Lane, Edward was certain they were going to Staton House. Lord Staton slowed his pace to explain.

Daphne had been

restless all day, unsure why she was beckoned to Staton House at such short notice. Pamela had packed two bags for her, appearing certain about what Daphne would need when Daphne herself hadn’t a clue. When Mrs. Ellis wiped away a tear and wished her good journey, and when Mr. Ellis bowed to her more deeply than he ever had before, Daphne worried.

“Please, Mrs. Ellis,” she pleaded, “you must tell me. Is something wrong with my father?”

“I promise you, Lady Daphne, your father is well. And you will be too.”

“Will be?”

Mrs. Ellis wiped away another tear and again wished Daphne good journey. After Daphne arrived at Staton House, Pamela asked for permission to visit her sister and disappeared. Her father was gone as well, leaving behind a cryptic message saying he would be home as soon as he could. Her thoughts turned to Edward and her courage escaped her. She knew her listlessness came from loving Edward and knowing he belonged to someone else. Maybe it was better this way, she thought. She couldn’t marry Lord Darges, or any duke’s son, or any earl’s son, or any baronet’s son, for that matter. The men she had been introduced to were nice in their own ways, but they belonged to a world she would never feel comfortable in. In that moment, with the rain falling, the sky covered in slate-like clouds, and the house lights not yet lit, the darkness matched Daphne’s state of mind. No one had ever touched her heart the way Edward had, and she didn’t think anyone would again. It’s all right, she thought. She would release him, set him gently from her heart, and wish him well. And when people clamored over the great author Edward Ellis, she could say she knew him once, and he was a fine man indeed.

The front door slammed open and startled her. She heard hurried steps on the winding staircase, and as she stood her bedroom door flew open. There he was, Edward, rain-soaked, treading water onto the Turkish rugs, his hat in his hands, his chocolate-brown hair matted to his face. Before she could say anything, he was at her feet, on his knees, taking her hands to his lips and kissing her fingers. He said words, some beautiful words that a thoughtful man like Edward would think to say. When he said, with his heart in his eyes and a lump in his throat, “My dearest Daphne, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Daphne sank to her knees beside him and said yes.