Kristine Hughes's Blog, page 110

Secrets of Bloxley Bottom: Episode 12: Anne's Treasures

            Anne shut the door of her bedchamber behind her and leaned against it.  How she would love to have a sketch of Prudence, her own beautiful child.  Though even now, after sixteen years, she  winced at the name Prudence,  which was not a name she would have chosen for her daughter. If only….if only...
         Anne opened her wardrobe and reached inside for the worn bag in which she hid her treasures, the little brooch that contained Frederick’s hair woven into a pattern preserved now beneath glass and the two cherished remembrances of  their child.  The tiny cap she’d knitted with the finest strands of soft lambswool and the little silver rattle that had grown dark with tarnish.  She pressed them to her bosom and let the tears flow, recalling the panic and the helplessness she felt when Frederick went off to the battle, just hours before their wedding was to be held. She remembered how he had kissed her and how he had reassured her that her worries over his safety were for naught.             Anne had felt uneasy as she watched him ride out; she’d wondered for years if she suppressed her premonition of his loss. Somehow the  feeling of utter despair that had come over her as he rode away was as alive today as it had been seventeen years ago.  Some days she fought it better than others, but there was a great dark hole in her heart, a hole that she was certain would never again be filled.
            After the Battle of Waterloo, Anne had fled Brussels, then tended the wounded before scouring every published report of the fighting and interrogating every man she encountered in an effort to learn more. She'd been desperate. Eventually, four days after the battle, she and a few others had searched the looted battlefield, seeing firsthand what the horrors had been. She could still smell the stench of decay, see the mutilated corpses of horses, the tangle of broken cartwheels, and watch in her mind's eye the human vultures picking through the debris.             She had not suspected a child was already on the way, even as she searched the makeshift hospitals and private homes of Brussels.             It had been Lady Louisa, via the Duke of Wellington, who had finally found the man who’d seen Frederick die. Anne had insisted upon speaking to him personally, no matter how chilling his account. She’d kept in touch with him until he died two years later, never recovered from his wounds, but at least in the arms of his wife. No such last respite for Frederick, who had died without knowing that he was to be a father.           
            Lady Louisa had taken charge of Anne, keeping her safe and once they could travel, bringing her back to London. Anne had almost nothing to her name at that point, no money, no family, no husband.            All she had was a baby girl, born as the next winter turned to spring. How she loved the precious little bundle she’d held for those first few weeks. She’d defied Lady Louisa and nursed the girl herself, though there had never been any question that parents would have to be found for the child.
            Louisa had handled all the arrangements, whilst protecting both Anne and the new family from gossip. And in all these years, as far as she knew, there had never been a whisper of a rumor. No one knew Anne had given birth to Prudence Newton, the pretty young daughter of Bloxley's rector and his wife. No one suspected that Prudence got her good looks from Frederick Weston, who died at Waterloo, and her sweet disposition from her mother, Miss Anne Humphrey, longtime companion to the dowager baroness Bloxley.            Anne now cherished her afternoons with Prudence in Lady Louisa’s drawing room at the Dower House. But the young lady that Prudence was today seemed a different person from that tiny child. There remained a connection and Anne’s feelings for Prudence were warm and sincere. Yet there was a distance she thought would never be bridged.  From the day Lady Louisa took the baby from Anne’s arms in order to deliver her to the Newtons, there existed two children in Anne's heart – one forever the infant at her breast, the other growing up as the daughter of the rector and his wife.          Anne clutched the cap to her and sank onto her bed.  She could not stop the tears and only with a great effort was able to keep herself from sobbing out loud.

What Are You Reading? Contest Winner!

 Linda, who is reading The Heretic's Wife, is our contest winner! Thanks to all who participated - look for another contest soon. Linda, please email us using the link in the left sidebar and provide your mailing address. We'll get the books out to you this week.      

Victoria and Kristine here, in a rather nosey mood. We want to know what you're reading. Let us know by leaving us a comment that includes a link to the book and also let us know if you give the book a thumbs up or a thumbs down. Short reviews would also be welcome. One lucky winner will receive a copy of these two books, which we have just read:


Counting One's Blessings        Mrs. Queen Takes The Train  The winner will be chosen on Monday, April 29th Good Luck! 

What Are You Reading?

Victoria and Kristine here, in a rather nosey mood. We want to know what you're reading. Let us know by leaving us a comment that includes a link to the book and also let us know if you give the book a thumbs up or a thumbs down. Short reviews would also be welcome. One lucky winner will receive a copy of these two books, which we have just read:


Counting One's Blessings        Mrs. Queen Takes The Train   Good Luck! 

A Couple In England - Day Five - Part Two

When last we met, I was sitting in the first class carriage of the Bath bound train shivering, coughing and feeling feverish. Beyond the windows, the English countryside sped by as I sat huddled beneath two coats, my gloved hands shoved deep into the pockets of the top coat. I tried to focus my mind . . . how long could this illness (cholera, typhus, the bird flu, whatever it was) possibly last? Was there even the ghost of a chance that it was but a passing fancy and I would recover by tomorrow? I took stock of my symptoms and decided that it was highly unlikely.  The ticket guy came through the car at this point. What is the ticket guy actually called? The conductor? Wasn't the conductor the guy who drove the train? Was he a ticket taker? Nah, that didn't sound right. Does anyone actually drive trains anymore, or are they all on auto-pilot like the airplanes? Remember when you could actually smoke on an airplane? What were they thinking? "Tickets, please." The ticket guy's voice interrupted this fascinating stream of thought. I pulled my bag towards me, fished around for my wallet and finally presented my credit card along with the required tickets.  The ticket guy/ticket taker/conductor upgraded us for the aforementioned fifteen pounds each, sliding my credit card through his hand-held credit card thingy before handing me two new tickets and moving on.  Hubby was looking at me expectantly. "Done and dusted," I told him.  "Huh?  How much did he charge us? Did it work? Speak English, will ya?" Sigh. Cough. Shiver. "Yes, just like the woman told me. We're now officially first class passengers for only fifteen pounds more. You can relax." "Done and dusted? Where do you get this stuff? What was that thing you said to me when we were first dating? Remember? That English thing you threw at me?" "Behoove." "Yeah. Behoove, that's it. I mean, who talks like that? And our wedding ceremony, oh brother!" "I told you to read through the vows beforehand. I encouraged your participation. You couldn't be bothered. You left it all up to me, remember?" "Who knew you were going to go with I pledge you my troth? What in the Hell was that? What in the Hell is a troth?" I chose to interpret Hubby's question as being rhetorical and closed my eyes. The next thing I remember is pulling into Bath Spa Station. I got up, unsteadily, from my seat and took a few steps towards our luggage. "I've got it," Hubby said, in a brook no argument sort of way.  "You can't manage it all," I told him.  "I can. You just worry about yourself." God, I must look even worse than I feel. I directed Hubby to the elevator and we went down a flight.



Coming out of the lift, I marshaled what little strength I had to hand, took one of the bags from Hubby, headed towards the exit turnstiles and tried to get through.



The bar wouldn't budge. Again I tried. Again the bar wouldn't move. After my fourth attempt, and just before I was ready to duck beneath the arm and get the Hell out, a nice young man in a Great Western uniform approached.
"May I help you?" he asked. "Do you have your ticket?"
My ticket? What's my ticket got to do with the price of turnstiles? Not in the mood to argue, I felt in my coat pocket and produced our tickets, which the nice man took from me and inserted into the little slot on the top of the turnstile, which then magically slid open. Yes, Reader, that's how sick I was. Imagine my forgetting the reason for keeping one's ticket handy.



Outside, it was a miserable day - grey and wet with a dash of blowing wind. I huddled under the awning and looked bleakly at the empty forecourt. Don't let the picture above fool you. I swiped it off the web. When Hubby and I arrived, there was not a cab in sight. You'd think the cabs would have the arrival times down pat, especially in such bad weather, but there we were, marooned at Bath Spa Station.
"Where do we get a cab?" Hubby asked.
"Here."
"But there aren't any."
"They'll be along in a minute," I told him, pulling my scarf up to my chin.
"Are you going to be okay?"
"I'm fine," I said, lying through my chattering teeth, whilst all the while thinking a cab, a cab, my kingdom for a cab. Sigh.  Part Three Coming Soon!

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 11 Suspicions Confirmed

     At Dower House, Lady Louisa and her companion Anne received Aurelia and Millicent with evident pleasure.     “I had only just commented to Anne about how quiet things seemed today.” Lady Louisa motioned to her butler. “Tea and cakes, Hartley.”     "Yes, milady.”     As soon as he had gone, Aurelia leaned forward in her chair. “We have come with our suspicions, Lady Louisa. Our suspicions of what that Frenchman is up to.”     “Frenchman? Do you mean Tournell? You know he is here to paint my granddaughters.” Lady Louisa wore a look of wariness.     “Well, yes,” said Millicent. “That is just our concern.”     “You see, Lady Louisa, we have learned that he is also painting some of the village girls.” Aurelia gave a decisive nod of her head. “He has asked one to pose for him, and we saw him riding in the Rector's donkey cart with Miss Newton and they appeared to be talking in earnest."     Lady Louisa's mouth formed a concerned frown, “And you are concerned that this will interfere with his work on the portrait of Daphne and Valeria?”     Seated on a nearby chair, Anne, her hand pressed to her heart, also looked concerned at the news.      “Not exactly,” said Millicent. “But neither Aurelia nor I feel that he would be a good influence on any of the local girls, your granddaughters included. I assume they will be well chaperoned while they are with him.”     A cloud darkened Lady Louisa’s features. “I assume their mother will be with them, though I sometimes wonder about how closely Elizabeth watches over them. At times, she seems to be far more interested in her garden than in her daughters.”      Anne’s voice was thin. “You said Miss Newton was driving Mr. Tournell?”     “She was!” Aurelia could not fathom what made Anne so anxious, but there was no use pussy-footing about the situation. “Little Polly, a maid from the inn, brought us some mail yesterday. Poor little dear was confused. It seems that Frenchman asked her to pose for him, and she did not know what to do. Seeing that he is French, I advised her to be very careful and be sure that if he were to draw her at all, it should be in the presence of other people. Do not be alone with him, I said.”     “To you, Mrs. Gammersgill, an artist’s model is of questionable character?” Lady Louisa inquired.     “Not at all. Many people sit for their portraits. But as he should be occupied with working on his portrait of your granddaughters, I cannot see why he would he ask a pretty young girl, a virtual stranger to him, to pose as well.”     “Perhaps he needs a pretty girl for another of his pictures." The Dowager raised her eyebrows. "Most artists paint portraits, I have been given to understand, in order to make money. They also paint pretty pictures to show at exhibitions, and there are usually young girls in them. Perhaps that is all it is about.”     Aurelia nodded. “I sincerely hope that is the case. Polly did not mention he’d asked her to, ah, well, appear in less than her full complement of clothing.”     Lady Louisa could not help smiling. “But you, Aurelia, my dear, suspect that he wants to paint her au naturale?”     Aurelia sniffed. “I have to admit the possibility occurred to both Millicent and myself. I believe some artists like to include nymphs and goddesses in their works, some in a state of undress. I do not care for these pictures myself.”     “Of course we don’t," Millicent added. “But one never knows…” She let the conclusion of her thought hover in the imaginations of her listeners.      Anne made a little sob.     Lady Louisa gave her a cautionary look before saying, “I am under the impression that there are women in London who hire themselves for such modeling. Women of less than moral character.”     Aurelia nodded. “I believe I have read the same kind of information. In a book, of course.”     “The point is,” Lady Louisa directed her remarks to Anne. “That that is the kind of model Tournell would engage if he was interested in nudes. Not maids at a village inn or an innocent miller’s daughter.”     “I suppose so, and everything is probably above board if it is done at the inn or in the presence of other people. But if he wanted her to go with him to Major Twydall’s house, where he is using the old conservatory, I’m suspicious.”     Once the two ladies had left, Anne gave way to a spate of tears.      “My dear,” Lady Louisa said, “I do not think there is a particle of concern here. However, when Prudence comes to us tomorrow, we shall be sure to warn her.”
     But Lady Louisa was too late. Prudence had already spent an hour with Tournell, an hour in which he had sketched her face from several angles, including a profile. And for which she had modestly slipped the bodice of her dress low on her shoulders so that he might capture the beauty of her neck.And she had agreed to come back another time. Tournell assumed it would be only a matter of time before she would agree to remove the bodice altogether.
     When Prudence arrived at Lady Louisa’s the next afternoon, the dowager had shed her air of unconcern. After the initial pleasantries were concluded, she peered at Prudence through her rarely-worn spectacles. “I think you are aware of the presence of a Frenchman, an artist in Bloxley Bottom.”     Neither Lady Louisa nor Anne was prepared for the blush that appeared on Prudence’s cheeks as she squirmed in her chair. “I, ah, I gave him a ride to Major Monty’s the other day. And he made some sketches of me...”     “What!” Lady Louisa’s sharp retort came at the same moment as Anne’s groan.     “I asked him to draw a picture of me, for my mother’s birthday.”      Lady Louisa settled back on the sopha, relief evident on her face. “You asked him?”     Prudence looked from Lady Louisa to Anne and back again. “Was that not all right? Did I do something wrong?”     Anne found her voice. "Where, I mean in what location did he draw you. At your home?"    "Oh no, then it would not be a surprise for Mama.     Anne grimaced, but Prudence did not notice.     "We went to Major Monty's house. Monsieur Tournell has a sort of studio there."     Lady Louisa gave Anne a warning look. "And was Major Twydall there?"     Prudence decided she could tell most of the truth. "Yes, and his manservant too." She left out the fact they had left the studio after only a few moments. "Was that wrong of me?"     Lady Louisa summoned a smile. “No, dear. But I hope you will be careful not to be alone with him. I think it is quite lovely that you want a picture for your mother. I must say, I would welcome one also, if he can make a replica.”     “Yes, indeed.” Anne said, able now to manage a smile. "A portrait of you, Prudence, would be most welcome to us." 


      

 

The Pre-Raphaelites: Victorian Art and Design

The Pre-Raphaelites: Victorian Art and Design 1848-1900 is now at the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C. through May 19, 2013.


 At the Tate Britain, the Show was titled as above.Picture: Astarte Syriaca, 1877, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Victoria, here.  On my recent trip to Washington DC, I met fellow writers Diane Gaston and Julie Halperson to tour the exhibition, have lunch and see what other fun we could have at the NGA.


Diane, Victoria, Julie at the Garden Cafe


Rotunda, NGA, Constitution Avenue, Washington, DC  We go almost every year, and we never run out of delicious meals or fascinating artwork.  See my post about the collection of American Furniture of the Federal Period here.  You might have noted above that when the Pre-Raphaelites exhibition was shown at the Tate Britain in London, the title includes "The Victorian Avant Garde." Why it was altered for the American run, I do not know, but the original title seems more apropos since there were several other movements in Victorian Art and Design from 1848-1900. You can access the Tate's website on the Pre-Raphaelite Exhibition here.    Ophelia, 1851--52, by John Everett Millais (1829-1896) According to the NGA, this exhibition is "The first major survey of the art of the Pre-Raphaelites to be shown in the United States features some 130 paintings, sculptures, works on paper, and decorative art objects. The young members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, formed in 1848, shook the art world of mid-19th-century Britain by rejecting traditional approaches to painting. Combining scientific precision, an innovative approach to subject matter, and brilliant, clear colors, Pre-Raphaelitism was Britain's first avant-garde art movement."   Laus Venens 1873-75, by Edward Coley Burne-JonesTyne & Wear Museums The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood formed in the mid-19th century by a  groups of young artists who wanted to return the art of painting and associate art to the values of the early Quattrocento (Italy, 15th C).  The "rebels" admired the colors and focus of the early Renaissance masters such as Botticelli and Bellini.  Their principles extended into the decorative arts and even political movements, particularly those associated with  the Arts and Crafts movement and William Morris's designs.    William Morris Bed, Kelmscott Manor Collections Photo  Upon conclusion of the Washington D.C.  show, the exhibition will travel to The State Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow, June 10–September 30, 2013.

A Couple In England - Day Five - Part One

   Or Bath In The Time Of Cholera . . . . . .   Hubby and I began our last day in London in the usual way - at Café Nero.  "Are you depressed because we're leaving London?" he asked me as we sipped our coffees at the outdoor table.  "Not exactly depressed," I answered, thinking his question a bit odd. "Why do you ask?" "You don't look so good. I thought maybe you were depressed." "No, not depressed." Sick, but not depressed. I had awoken that morning to the realization that I was well and truly coming down with something. You know that feeling you get where you just don't feel like yourself? Like your head's in a fog and you're not really present? Like you already have a somewhat sore throat and you're just waiting for the other symptoms to drop? Yeah, that's the feeling. And I had it. In spades.
We went back to the room, where I finished packing and then got us downstairs and into a cab.  "Paddington Station," I told the driver.  "You know where we're going?" Hubby asked.  "Yeah. To Paddington Station." "But do you know how to get us to Bath?" "Not really, but then I don't have to know. The guy who drives the train knows. All we have to do is buy a ticket and get on." I smiled at him. "It's okay, Hon. I've done this before. You've done it before, too."

"I've never been to Bath." "No, but we went to Oxford on the train last time we were over, remember? Same station." This seemed to reassure him and before long we pulled up in front of Paddington Station.  


I paid off the cab and we got our luggage out of the boot and headed into the Station. I took a few steps and stopped. "What's wrong?" asked Hubby. "Nothing. I'm just trying to get my bearings," I said, leading us deeper into the crowd. Before long I spotted the coffee bar I'd sat at so many times before (often with Victoria) and knew that I was, indeed, heading in the right direction.  

  As I headed toward the ticket booths, I began to feel as though I were walking through thick, sucking mud, each step a monumental effort.  Oh, Jeez, I don't feel so good. You're fine. You're going to Bath. You've been waiting for the Bath portion of this trip for ages now. The Wellington Suite! Come on, you can do it. That's it, one foot in front of the other. Good show! Shut up, will ya?     Finally, the ticket office was in sight. I left Hubby guarding the luggage and approached a window.     "Two first class tickets to Bath Spa, please," I told the woman behind the glass partition, who was looking down at her monitor.  She punched a couple of buttons on her keyboard. "Two hundred and fifty four pounds," she said.  I leaned in closer to the speaking hole in the glass. "I'm sorry. You must have misunderstood me. I said to firsts to Bath, not two first class tickets on the Concord to Dubai." My good woman. She looked up at me then and I swear she did a double-take. And gasped. Her entire demeanor suddenly changed. Did I look that bad? "Look," she said, "Being as it's Sunday, I'll give you two regular singles and you get in the first class coach. When the man comes round for your tickets, he'll upgrade your tickets to first class for an extra fifteen pounds each. Sound good?" "Sounds exactly right. How much are two regular singles?" "Sixty-one pounds all together." "Sold. Does that work everyday?" She shook her head. "Just on Sundays and Bank Holidays." She slid the tickets through the window. "Track three." I thanked her and made my way back to where Hubby was waiting.  "Let's go. We're on track three." "Where's track three?" I looked about as we neared the tracks. "Here it is." "How do you know?" I pointed to the sign that read "Track Three - Bath Spa." "Where are you going? There's an open door on this car here." "First Class. We're going to the First Class carriage. Just follow me."




We got to the First Class carriage, threw our selves and our luggage inside and set about choosing our seats. "These are reserved," Hubby pointed out. "Look, the signs on the seats say reserved."

"They're reserved for First Class customers. That's us. Just pick a seat." "Are you sure?" I told Hubby all that had transpired at the ticket window. To which he said, "How do you know that will work? What happens if we have to pay full whack?" Sigh. "I don't think she'd lie to me about it. If worse comes to worse, we'll move."  



At long last and somewhat grudgingly Hubby chose a seat on one side of the aisle, while I took the empty seat on the opposite side of the aisle. We both had two seats and a table to ourselves. The remainder of the carriage was empty.  Our train pulled out of the station and it was just a few moments later that I was attacked. Someone, I didn't see what the blighter looked like, hit me with the sick stick. Full force. It began with the chills. Soon after the chills were replaced by the feeling that someone had filled my spine with a shaft of ice. I began to shiver in earnest and what little reserves of strength I'd previously had now completely deserted me.  "You okay?" asked Hubby. I shook my head. "You don't look good. Are you sick?" I nodded, finally admitting what I'd tried to keep at bay by not speaking of it. The jig was indeed up. I tightened the scarf round my neck and drew on my gloves. "I'm freezing," I whispered. "Here," Hubby said, taking off his coat and covering me with it.  "Now you'll be cold," I told him. "No, I won't. It's not cold in here at all. The heat's on." Bundled up as I was now, in my coat and Hubby's, I continued to shake with the cold.  My cough returned and my throat felt as though it was being slit by razor blades. The train soon entered a tunnel and I was able to see my reflection in the glass - I looked as though I'd died on Friday. Bear in mind that this was Sunday. . . . not a pretty sight.  Did I have the flu? The Norovirus? Some other virus? Bird Flu? Cholera? Did people still get cholera? What about malaria? Understand, I am by no means a hypochondriac. Really. But I hadn't been this sick for yonks. It was the type of total incapacitation one usually only sees in small children and that I can only recall having as a child, when doctors used to actually make house calls and mothers would wrap handkerchief's smothered in Vick's Vapo Rub round small patients necks. It had come on fast and hit me like a freight train, no pun intended. I thought fleetingly of dying, which served to cheer me up somewhat, for not only would the misery end, but I would have accomplished my hearts desire - to die in England. To die, with any luck, more specifically in Bath would be a real coup. If I made it that far. And to die in England, in Bath, in Duke's Hotel, whilst occupying the Wellington Suite would be the icing on the cake.  Typically, the highlight of a train trip in England for me was to look out the window at the surrounding countryside, to catch unexpected glimpses of quaint houses, sheep, cows, fields and hedgerows, not to mention snapshots of various towns along the way as glimpsed through the windows as one sped by. This time, I took little interest in the passing views. All I could think of was the irony  of my getting sick just as I was headed for Bath. And Duke's Hotel. And the Wellington Suite.  When first planning this trip, I'd meticulously done my research into Bath hotels. This portion of the trip was especially important, as we'd be spending New Year's Eve there. Imagine my joy when I found that there was a small hotel off Great Pulteney Street, not far from Laura Place, where they actually used a likeness of the Duke of Wellington as their logo. Where their suits were named after various dukes - including Wellington. I booked the suite on the spot and have been looking forward to it ever since.  Typhoid? Could I have typhoid? I seemed to recall something about one of the symptoms of thyphoid being a bloody nose. Or was I confusing the blood with consumption? I'd have to brush up on my 19th century illnesses. If I lived that long.  Part Two Coming Soon! 

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 10: The Late Bloomer

There was no question of Captain Hugh Bradley Smythe’s missing his visit to the Duke of Wellington. Wild horses could not have kept him from his appointment, though they had tried their level best to do so. Or at least one had. Blast, his ankle was devilish sore. “Are you certain you won’t have a bit of fish paste?” asked the rather buxom woman seated next to him in the coach. There were, in addition to Hugh and the fish lady, a very plain looking girl of about seventeen years of age who was traveling with a lad of about four years and an elderly and so far silent gentleman, soberly dressed, who was seated on the other side of the boy. Hugh had the very dubious privilege to be seated across from these three and beside the fish lady, the odor of whose sandwich now fully permeated the interior of the coach and threatened to upset Hugh’s stomach Really. How much was one man expected to bear?
The coach encountered a rocky patch of road that wrenched a groan from both the great springs beneath the carriage and from Hugh, who felt a stab of pain through his right ankle and side. 

A naturally kind, not to mention well-mannered young man, Hugh still felt compelled to reply to the woman's offer through gritted teeth, “No, madam, I thank you, but I’m rather tired and believe I’ll try to nap. Thank you.”
“Sorright, pet, there’s more where this come from if you change yer mind. You have yerself a nice doze.” Being that the weather was mild and rather fine, Hugh was able to use one hand to let the window of the coach down a bit in order to dispel the reek of fish. He leant his head a bit to the right, closed his eyes and settled down for a nap. Not that he thought it would be at all possible for him to sleep, but his closed eyes might keep the fish lady quiet for a few miles, at the least.
Hugh had looked forward to this journey ever since the invitation to Walmer Castle had been issued to him upon fairly short notice by the Duke of Wellington himself. A note written in the Duke’s own hand. Imagine. Hugh could not fathom why the Duke should have singled him out of a literal army of officers of much higher repute who were, no doubt, more worthy of the honour. Regardless of whether or not Hugh felt he was entitled to such notice, he was bound and determined to go to Walmer. And to do himself and his regiment proud. He’d dashed straight down to Hoby’s and had ordered new boots, telling Hoby that he had but a week to delivery. Hoby had, of course, scoffed at such a rushed order, but had agreed to work himself and his assistants round the clock upon hearing that the boots were to be worn by Hugh at Walmer Castle. In fact, the Duke being one of Hoby’s regular and long standing customers himself, Hoby and brought out the drawings for the Duke’s personal boots, upon which Hugh had ordered that his pair be made as closely as possible to the Great Man’s preferences. Hoby had delivered and now, with his ankle relentlessly throbbing within the confines of his brand new, unforgiving boots, Hugh wished instead that he had ordered Hoby to fashion him a pair of soft, comforting house slippers.  Another jolt shot up through the carriage, racketed around Hugh’s ankle and then delivered itself up to play havoc with the two broken ribs. Hugh wanted to cry. He longed to cry; not in pain, so much, but in frustration. Of all the times to take a tumble from a horse! And what a tumble. Hawkins had, in fact, described it as nothing short of spectacular. The horse had come out of the accident unscathed, thank God, though Hugh's pride had been dented. No matter, being singled out by the Duke of Wellington more than made up for the teasing he'd taken at the hands of his fellow soldiers.

What the deuce could the Duke want of him? What was the nature of this summons? Hugh had served under Lord Fitzroy Somerset, who himself variously acted as Wellington's ADC and military secretary, but surely there was nothing in that rather routine service to distinguish Hugh in the Duke's eyes. Otherwise, the time Hugh had so far spent in the military had been fairly uneventful. Might the Duke have career plans for him? If so, they might change the entire course of Hugh's life. The mind boggled and, as it did, the eyelids, encouraged by the rocking motion of the carriage, began to fall and before long Hugh was fast asleep beside the woman with the fish paste.
 

Elizabeth, Baroness Bloxley, had not revealed her excitement at her artistic commission to anyone. Her daughters were fairly wrapped up in their own lives, preparing for their portraits. Andrew was away at school and she did not think he’d consider her little achievement worth writing about. What did he care that the earl wanted his mother to illustrate his wildflower book? He’d much rather hear about his mare’s new colt, born just last week.As for Bloxley himself, he’d been preoccupied of late. Even more distant than usual. Perhaps he had another paramour, although Elizabeth doubted it. His last mistress had caused much too much trouble for him. He had no idea Elizabeth knew about his dalliances, but then he paid no attention to the conversation of the servants -- conversation she pretended not to hear but conversation she had often found informative about all sorts of matters at the hall, on the estate and in the village. She’d learned to listen discreetly to servant gossip from her husband’s mother, the dowager baroness, when she’d asked her, many years ago, how she managed to keep up with the doings of the families in her neighborhood.So for the moment, Elizabeth kept the contents of the earl’s letter to herself. He lived far enough away that not even the Dowager would pick up the scent. Elizabeth felt decidedly, if secretly, triumphant. Her drawing and painting were the perfect occupations, everyone said, for a lady of her standing. Her artistic talent had in the past been viewed by all who know of them as nothing but a diversion, as harmless and diverting as embroidery or knitting. Through all the years of patronizing remarks and gentle teasing about her attention to her pens and brushes, Elizabeth had smiled and kept her skills sharp.
And now she had actually been given a genuine artistic comission - an assignment for which she would be compensated. She knew what Bloxley would say when she told him, as sometime she would have to do. She could hear him in her head. “If you need money for anything, my dear, you have only to come to me.”
How could she explain her feelings to him? It had nothing to do money. It had everything to do with her work being worthy of appreciation and being deemed as serious talent. She knew exactly what she would do with the money she earned. She would buy herself a little brooch or a ring as a memento of her achievement and then she’d put the rest of the money in the poor box at church. In amounts small enough to  deflect curiosity or interest. 
Elizabeth sighed and set her mind to thinking about how she could gather the first specimens the earl wanted her to paint. She rather liked having this little secret for herself. It gave her a warm feeling inside, filling her with a shivery sparkle that resembled how she’d sometimes felt after – oh no, she would not think such thoughts. That too could be part of her secret.

Walking Sticks: A Fine Collection

One of the treasures of the Naples (Florida) Museum of Art is the Ruth Gordon Collection of Walking Sticks.


 
The Naples Museum of Art is part of The Philharmonic Center for the Arts which includes a large concert hall and a smaller performance space as well. 


 Looking into the Courtyard, the Concert hall is on the left and the art museum on the right. 
I love the sign at the door, above. To visit the Naples Museum of Art online, click here.    Beau Brummell on Jermyn Street, London  No well dressed male in the 18th or 19th Century went out without his walking stick.  Of course, the idea of a staff or cane is as old as human beings themselves...we can imagine cavemen carried them (perhaps as cudgels as well) an certainly many Biblical characters are portrayed with some sort of stick. But they became fine art just a few hundred years ago.   Victorian-era Romanian handle set with turquoise and garnets  The Romanian handle to a ladies walking stick (above) has a compartment in the top for its owner to store her perfume.  The stick is made of partridge wood. According to the museum's brochure, "All of the United States Presidents from George Washington to Harry S. Truman carried a walking stick. They were considered a symbol of discipline, leadership and respect." Dagger Stick, 16th C. The bronze top of the stick above must be unscrewed to remove the dagger.  It was considered a good luck charm and was passed down through generations of British actors. Ruth Gordon (1814-2005) began to acquire her many walking sticks on a trip to Brighton, where she bought parasols at antique markets to protect herself from the sun. She presented the collection to the Naples Museum of Art in memory of her son, Martin Gordon, who founded the Gordon's Print Price Annual.   Chinese Cloisonné Handle Above is a rare French enamel lid which opens to a working watch and delicate artwork.  Inside the watch is an engraving of the makers name. Unpictured but shown at the museum is a swordstick, one of those blades concealed in a walking stick, so beloved by historical fiction fans.   Carved Ivory Handle Above, the intricate carving of "Hear no evil see no evil, speak no evil" in ivory, from China and several centuries old.   Ladies handle Above is a stunning handle of amethyst quartz and rock crystal capped with French enamel, an elegant accessory for a great lady.   Three Walking Sticks from the Ruth Gordon Collection  The center stick above is the collection's oldest, carved from the dried sap of a cinnabar tree. It is an ancient Chinese design, representing a tradition of using cinnabar to create potions ensuring longevity. On the left and right are Chinese and Japanese examples of cloisonné handles. For a good long, close-up look at these fantastic walking sticks visit the Naples Museum of Art, 5833 Pelican Bay Boulevard, Naples, Florida  

A Couple In England - Day Four - Part Four

Hubby and I entered our hotel and made a bee line for the bar, where we picked up a bucket of ice before heading up to our room. Once upstairs, I made us each a rum and coke, which we gratefully sipped while relaxing - me in a chair, Hubby on the bed.
"What are we doing tonight?" Hubby asked once he'd gotten some of the nectar down his throat.
"Dinner and the theatre."
"What theatre?"
"One Man, Two Governors. It's a comedy. It's supposed to be truly funny. We could have dinner at Burger and Lobster before the show."
Hubby gave me a look that I imagined was usually reserved for death row convicts.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked.
"Would you be really mad if I didn't go to the theatre?"
"Not go to the theatre? It's the Theatre Royal Haymarket," I told him. Why I should tell him that, I've no idea. It just came out. "What's wrong? Don't you feel well? We have tickets. Already booked. For months now."
"I've had enough fun for today. We've been on our feet all day, Hon. My back hurts, I'm tired and I'm old. You keep forgetting that I'm old." "You're not old," I told him, topping up our drinks. "Do you want to go to Burger and Lobster for dinner then?" "Can we just eat downstairs in the hotel restaurant?" This was not good. Hubby must be well and truly tired to turn down a repeat visit to Burger and Lobster. Which was just in the next street, bear in mind.  So after finishing our cocktails, we made our way downstairs to the Tiger Green Brasserie for dinner, walking through the bar on our way to the dining room.

   


We were seated and menues were produced and before too much longer Hubby and I had ordered further drinks (a Black Russian for him, a glass of Pinot Noir for me) and a steak each. As we waited for our meals to arrive, I glanced around the room, recalling that the hotel had been created by knocking together several adjoining townhouses. I fell into a familiar reverie - if I were given this space, how would I make it livable? I usually do this when I'm killing time in a space with some history. Which is odd, as I don't have any sort of a design background, but there you have it. I'd restore the fireplaces, first off and, as always, my mind ranged round the room while I decided which walls I would cover with bookshelves.  "You're mad at me because I don't want to go to the theater, aren't you? Is that why you're not talking to me?" Hubby's voice brought me back to the present.  "No. Not at all. I'll just go by myself. It would be more fun with you, but I can still go." Our steaks arrived and we began to eat. "What are we doing tomorrow." "Tomorrow we take the train to Bath. I can't wait for you to see it. It's a gorgeous city, the architecture is fabulous and the surrounding countryside is just like a picture postcard." "Is that where you want to live one day? Where are we going to live? Not London? I couldn't take the crowds." "No, not London. I don't have a particular place in mind," I said, sipping my wine. "When the time comes, we'll make a circle round London that represents a two hour train journey to town. Once we see what falls within that circle, we can make a more educated choice.' "You. You can make the choice. I don't know anything about living in England. Just pick somewhere peaceful, will you? What's Bath like? Is it going to be as crowded as London?" "No! It's nothing like London. Oh, it's going to be fabulous," I said. "Bath at New Year's. Fireworks over the Abbey. The Wellington Suite at Duke's Hotel. And a few surprises." Hubby actually groaned. "Oh, God, no surprises. Please, no surprises."  After dinner, we went up to our room, where I bundled up in my outerwear, gave Hubby a farewell kiss and left for the theatre. First, I stopped in at Boot's and got Hubby some Nuromol (ibuprofen and paracetamol) and a box of those things you stick on your back that heat up and are supposed to help aches and pains. Reader, I had anticipated my return to Bath for months and was not about to let Hubby's ailments throw a damper on all that I had planned.  I arrived at the Theatre Royal Haymarket and found my seat, placing all my belongings on Hubby's empty seat beside me. I settled in and looked around at the gorgeous interior of the Theatre, which began life as a theatre in 1720. Samuel Foote acquired the lease in 1747, and in 1766 he gained a royal patent to perform dramas in the summer months. The original building was a little further north in the same street. It has been at its current location since 1821, when it was redesigned by John Nash. In 1873, the first ever matinee performance at a theatre was put on here, a custom soon followed by theatres world wide.




  Should you wish to learn more about Samuel Foote, I direct you to Ian Kelly's fabulous biography, which can be found here.  The theatre began to fill and I began to cough. Hack, hack, hack. I fished around in my bag and found a candy to suck on. The lights dimmed and the play began just as I was beginning to suspect a sore throat coming on.  As to the play, here's the most concise review of the plot I found on the web: "One Man, Two Governors is set in Brighton in 1963 and centres around Francis Henshall, a man hard up for cash, desperate to know where his next meal is coming from and who is easily confused. Henshall accidentally ends up being the personal minder for two separate employers, one Rosco Crabbe, a well known gangster (of sorts), and Stanley Stubbers a criminal who is fleeing the police. But of course, Rosco is actually Rachel, his sister, disguising herself as her Rosco, who is now dead, in order to retrieve cash that is owed to Rosco so that Rachel can run away with her criminal lover, who is none other than the aforementioned Stanley Stubbers.    As the play unfolds we see a frantic Henshall, completely unaware of the connection and indeed that Rachel is in disguise, desperately trying to keep the two separated so neither one realises he’s taken a job with two employers. It’s a silly, slapstick comedy play, which are often either way too over the top and put on that they feel strained or borderline lame. Not this one though – we were laughing out loud almost from the moment we were seated, right the way through the end. With a good balance between a structured plot, planned gags, audience participation and improvisation this play had me in stitches and included clever dialogue which, while British, was easily understood and translatable."
You can read the complete review here. The play was fabulous, laugh out loud funny in many places and it thoroughly took my mind off my cough. As the curtain came down, I bounded from my seat and ran down the stairs and out into the rainy night so as to avoid the exiting crowd. Waiting just in front of the theatre was a young man on a bicycle propelled rickshaw.  "Where to?" he asked, apparently unaware of the drizzle and frigid temperature.  "Half Moon Street," I said, out of politeness.  He looked puzzled. "Half Moon Street . . . . let me see . . . . is that over by . . . . . ?" "Thanks anyway," I said over my shoulder as I hopped into the first cab in the waiting rank. I made it back to our hotel without further incident, but really this was a day for strange cab encounters.  Hubby was still awake when I returned. "How was it?" he asked. "Hysterical. You would have loved it. How do you feel?" "I feel okay. I just wasn't up for any more fun." I kissed him and then made a start on packing. Later, after a long, hot shower I got into bed and contemplated all the joys that were in store for us tomorrow. I would miss London, of course, but Bath awaited. And the Wellington Suite. And fireworks. Oh, joy! To Be Continued . . . . . .