The Burning Roses

Book 29: Morland Dynasty

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

In 1915 the first euphoria of the war has worn off, but the nation is more determined than ever to win. When Ned is sent to the Front ahead of his battalion, Jessie, already involved in various charity works, feels the need to do more and becomes an auxiliary nurse. But life on the wards is harder than she expects. Meanwhile, Helen and Jack settle in a home of their own at last, and Helen takes on a surprise war role of her own. And for Violet in London, a chance meeting with talented young artist threatens to destroy her calm and ordered life. With stalemate on the Eastern Front, everything now hangs on the new September offensive on the Western Front, the Battle of Loos. Both Ned and Bertie will be leading their men over the top, leaving the rest of the family to pray for their safe return.

Release date: August 25, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 544

Sample

February, 1915

Jessie could see that the concert was not going well. The soldiers in their suits of ‘hospital blue’ welcomed any diversion
to ease the tedium (and often pain) of their convalescence; but glancing around the hall from her vantage-point at the side
of the piano, where she was page-turner, she had noted the looks of bemusement, and the slight, uncontrollable fidgetings.


The performers who had volunteered their services were well-meaning, but their choice of material took no account of the audience’s
taste: their experience so far in the war had been confined to wounded officers. Besides, even if it had occurred to people
like Mr Morrison and Mrs Bickersteth that the Tommies would like something different, they would not have thought they ought
to get it. There was a strong element of ‘improvement’ in the afternoon’s choice of material.


Jessie was anxious for the occasion to go well, both for the soldiers’ sake and because she had invested so much of her own
time and effort in it. It was the amply named Clifton Ladies’ Committee for the Relief of Soldiers’ Families and the Comfort
of the Wounded – known for convenience as the Relief Committee – that had mooted the idea. The convalescents, lately arrived
in the newly erected huts in the grounds of Clifton Hospital, plainly deserved some diversion. The idea was probably not unconnected
with the fact that the rival Bootham Ladies’ Committee had announced that they were holding an entertainment for their convalescent soldiers at Bootham Park.


Mrs Upton-Haye had offered the use of Clifton Grange for the event, on condition that it was called a concert rather than
an entertainment, and on the unspoken condition that it would outshine the Bootham event in every respect. This involved,
to begin with, choosing a date before Bootham’s, which had meant all the preparations had to be crammed into an inadequate
amount of time.


Jessie’s uncle Teddy – Mr Edward Morland of Morland Place, one of York’s leading citizens – had been applied to, as he was
for every charitable activity. With his usual willingness he had paid for the timber and supplied his estate carpenters to
erect a platform at one end of the ballroom at the Grange. This was then draped and decorated with strings of Union Jacks
and the red, white and blue bunting left over from the Coronation.


Jessie had been busy all morning, helping to set out Mrs Upton-Haye’s rout chairs (gilded and spindly – she looked alarmed
at every creak as the soldiers shifted on them) in the ballroom, and the trestles for tea in the Marble Hall. She had then
ferried large quantities of food, prepared by Uncle Teddy’s cook, from Morland Place, and finally helped transport the convalescents
from the hospital to the concert, driving back and forth several times. It made her glad that she still had the big Arno.
Her husband, Ned, absent in training camp with his Pals battalion, had wanted to change it for a little car, which he thought
more suitable for Jessie than the heavy motor, but he had not yet got round to it.


Jessie was happy to be busy, not only for the worthy cause, but because it helped to keep her mind off her own troubles. She
was less sure about her personal participation in the concert: Mrs Upton-Haye had persuaded her to play some Chopin, and was
giving over the whole second half of the concert to it. Jessie was to be the leaven in the lump. ‘So good for the men to be exposed to something truly cultural for a change,’ Mrs Upton-Haye had said.


Well, perhaps it might be good for them, but would they enjoy it? Wasn’t the purpose of the concert to give the poor fellows
a little pleasure?


Perhaps she was the only one who thought so. Up on the platform, Mrs Bickersteth, with seismic vibrato, had given them ‘All
in the April Evening’ and ‘Lo Hear the Gen-tel La-hark’, and had finished off with ‘Una Voce Poco Fa’, to which her voice
was sadly not equal – definitely una voce too far, Jessie thought to herself.


Mr Morrison, who fancied himself a tenor, had given a selection of sentimental folk songs from forty years ago, featuring
young ladies with names like Pretty Peggy, Sweet Polly and Dainty Maud, who had a propensity to intense virtue and early death,
which seemed somehow interlinked. He sang with an embarras of feeling, pressing his hands to his breast, rolling his eyes tragically and dragging out the mournful parts to such lengths
that Miss Trevor from the church, accompanying him on the piano, was at a loss how to fill in the time until they joined forces
again and had to insert a lot of superfluous runs and trills.


Little Billy Watts, who was only seven, gave a violin recital. Jessie had no idea what he had played, and guessed that the
enthusiastic applause at the end was a tribute to the fact that he had stopped doing it.


Mr Belfield gave them ‘Full Fathom Five’, and then ‘In the De-he-hepths of the Dee-hee-heep’, a basso profundo song which went so low that even the most vigorous bending of his knees could not get him down far enough and he had disconcertingly
to jump up the octave to finish.


Mingled with this musical cornucopia there had been a number of poetical recitals and monologues of an uplifting and deeply
patriotic nature. And old Mr Wicksteed, who had been wounded as a young lieutenant at Balaclava, gave his well-known account
of the Charge of the Light Brigade, made confusing for those who had not heard it before by the fact that, like Lord Raglan
before him, Mr Wicksteed continually referred to the enemy as ‘the French’. As he was very deaf and almost blind, it was impossible
to stop him once he’d started, and he rambled on at length, his voice descending at several points to an incoherent mumble as, eyes closed,
he relived those days of his glory in the privacy of his own memory.


It was no wonder, Jessie thought, that she had noted more sighs than smiles among the audience. But at last it was time for
the tea interval. The men rose and rushed as fast as their various injuries would allow into the grand entrance hall where,
behind the trestle tables, the Relief Committee presided over huge teapots, pitchers of milk and lemonade, mountains of sandwiches
and plates of home-made cakes, buns and biscuits. There was no danger that this part of the entertainment would fail to please:
hospital food was ample but dull. The Committee, in their best hats, beamed, and the men were able to thank them with honest
fervour.


Those whose injuries made it hard for them to stand were accommodated on benches around the walls, and Jessie was ferrying
tea and cake to them when Mrs Major Wycherley, her particular friend, arrived. Mrs Upton-Haye, who was standing near the door
with her hands lightly clasped before her, surveying the fruits of her benevolence with a gracious smile, buttonholed her,
and it was some moments before Mrs Wycherley could prise herself away and hurry to Jessie’s side.


‘Oh dear, I’m sorry I’m so late. One of the young officers had a telegram about his brother, and there was no-one but me for
him to talk to. In the circumstances I could hardly rush away. I’m glad I’m in time to turn for you. But to miss the whole
first half was shocking of me. How did it go?’


Jessie searched for words. ‘It was – memorable.’

‘Oh dear, was it that bad? Who are these two cups for?’

‘There are four men over in the corner who haven’t got anything. Take some cake, too. I’ll bring the other two.’

‘I’ll wait for you,’ said Mrs Wycherley. ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier for us and for the soldiers if they had been mugs?’
She watched the wielding of a vast enamel teapot, which needed two hands to lift it. ‘What enormous teapots, though. Where
did they come from?’


‘They’re the ones we use at Morland Place when we have the summer fête there. Uncle Teddy lent them. There are enamel mugs that go with them, but Mrs Upton-Haye wouldn’t have them.
She said that outdoor events were one thing but she couldn’t bear tin mugs in the house. She insisted on cups and saucers.’


‘Oh, well,’ said Mrs Wycherley, who had more experience than Jessie of the vagaries of volunteers, ‘it was nice of her to
offer the house for the concert. And at least the saucer gives you somewhere to put the cake. That fruit cake looks nice –
shall we take some of that? I expect they’d like something substantial.’


‘It might take their minds off cigarettes. Mrs Upton-Haye won’t let them smoke, either. Next time,’ Jessie vowed, ‘we hold
it in the Scout Hall or the Working Men’s Institute. Then they can smoke all they like.’


Mrs Wycherley laughed. ‘I dare say they are glad of the change, anyway. You know how bored convalescents get, and it must
be worse for the men than for the officers.’ She and Jessie had been visiting wounded Belgian officers since the war began.


‘But I didn’t want this concert to be in the “better than nothing” category,’ Jessie said, as they carried the cups over to
the last four soldiers. ‘Mrs Upton-Haye is going to make some closing remarks. She has a speech written out – pages of it
– all about duty and sacrifice and the noble calling and so on. I’m not sure it isn’t too high a price to pay for an afternoon
away from the hospital. Oh, please don’t get up,’ she added, as they reached the men, who naturally tried to rise at the approach
of ladies. ‘You’ve just got settled. We’ve brought you tea and cake.’


‘Can you manage?’ said Mrs Wycherley. ‘Let me put your stick down here for you. That’s better. I’m so sorry you can’t smoke.’

‘Don’t worry yourself, ma’am,’ said one of them, looking embarrassed at being apologised to by high-ups. ‘We’re all right
as we are.’


‘It’s right kind of you to lay all this on for us, mum,’ said another with his leg in a cast.

‘It’s our pleasure,’ said Mrs Wycherley, seriously, ‘and it’s very little in return for all you men are doing for us over
there. Where were you injured?’


She questioned them expertly and they were soon at ease and telling their stories, even venturing a little joke or two.

‘I’m afraid the concert is rather dull for you,’ Jessie said at last.

‘Oh, no, mum. It’s ever such a nice change,’ said the soldier whose left foot was missing, and whose face was drawn in lines
of suffering. ‘We like a bit o’ music, don’t we, lads?’


The others murmured agreement as fervently as natural honesty allowed.

‘You were down the front, by the pianny, weren’t you, miss?’ said another. ‘Thought I saw you.’

‘Mrs Morland is going to play for you after tea,’ said Mrs Wycherley, as though offering a great treat. Jessie made a face
at her, more sure than ever that the Tommies wouldn’t enjoy it.


‘That’ll be nice, mum,’ said the soldier in the cast. ‘What’ll you be playing, if I might ask?’

‘Chopin,’ said Jessie, shortly.

‘I don’t know that one,’ he said. ‘Is it a song?’

‘A song? No, it’s—’ Her face suddenly grew thoughtful. ‘Excuse me one moment.’ She pulled Mrs Wycherley aside and said, in
an urgent undertone, ‘I have to do something. Can you take over for me?’


‘With the tea? Certainly.’

‘I may be a little while.’

Mrs Wycherley raised her eyebrows. ‘Not too long, I hope. You know I can’t play the piano.’

‘Oh, no, I’ll be back to do my piece. But if I’m not quite in time, can you stall them?’

Mrs Wycherley asked no more questions. ‘Of course, dear. I’ll think of something. You’d better try to get out without Mrs
Upton-Haye seeing you, though, or she might bar the door.’


Jessie gave her a distracted smile and hurried away.

She had not returned by the time the men filed back into the ballroom, and Mrs Wycherley drifted down to the front to be
ready to intervene if necessary. But fortunately Mrs Upton-Haye opened the second half with a lengthy list of individual thanks
to those who had made the occasion possible, and then asked the vicar to make a few remarks. He was still making them when
Jessie came tiptoeing down the side aisle with a folder of music under her arm.


Reaching Mrs Wycherley, she whispered, ‘Am I late?’

‘No. Nothing but the vicar has happened yet. I think he’s attempting to give the longest sermon in history.’

Fortunately the sight of two ladies whispering made him lose his thread, and he was forced to go early to his concluding prayer.
At the ‘amen’ Jessie headed for the piano, and Mrs Wycherley stood beside her to turn. Jessie put the folder on the top, selected
a piece of music, put it on the stand, and as Mrs Wycherley’s eyebrows went up in surprise, she faced the audience, now politely
hushed, and said, ‘I have an announcement to make. I was asked to play you some music by Chopin, but during the tea interval
I had second thoughts about it, and I decided you might enjoy this more.’


She sat down, and began to play ‘Tipperary’. Because she was reading the music she didn’t see, as Mrs Wycherley did, the instant
brightening of faces all over the room, but she heard the enthusiasm with which the men joined in the chorus, and there was
no doubt about the storm of applause that broke when the song was ended. Mrs Upton-Haye, sitting in the front row beside the
vicar, glared and fidgeted, but as the vicar himself joined in the last chorus, she did not feel she could go over and remonstrate;
nor could she take Mrs Ned Morland off, since there was nothing else arranged that could take her place. Seething inwardly,
she was forced to smile coldly and let her continue.


Jessie played more popular ‘numbers’, like ‘Boys in Khaki, Boys in Blue’ and ‘Sister Susie Sewing Shirts for Soldiers’. Her
voice, though true, was too small to fill a hall; but fortunately Mrs Wycherley could sing, and had a strong voice. She took over the verses, facing the audience so that she could encourage the men to roar the choruses. Later, in a spirit
of pure mischief, Jessie put up ‘Aba Daba Honeymoon’, which the men adored but which made Mrs Upton-Haye reel in shock at
the vulgarity, then ‘Ragtime Soldier Man’, and as a finale thumped out ‘I Like Pickled Onions’, which almost made the hostess
faint dead away. The men enjoyed that one so much they roared through it twice and then applauded, stamped and whistled their
approval. At Mrs Wycherley’s urging, Jessie stood, pink-faced with pleasure, to take a bow.


Mrs Upton-Haye hurried up onto the platform to terminate the proceedings before they could plumb any greater depths, and in
her agitation quite forgot her speech, so the afternoon ended for the men without a damper.


‘You sly thing!’ said Mrs Wycherley as Jessie put the music back in the folder. ‘Where did you get all this?’

‘I drove back to Morland Place for it. My sister-in-law, Ethel, has all the new songs. My brother Robbie buys her everything
as soon as it comes out. I couldn’t bear the idea of making those poor men sit through Chopin.’


‘They might have liked it,’ Mrs Wycherley suggested.

‘Not the way I play it,’ Jessie laughed.

‘Oh, Lord, Mrs Upton-Haye is trying to come this way. Fortunately the vicar has her pinned. We’d better hurry, before she
can wriggle free.’


They walked quickly up the aisle, threading through the departing soldiers, who gladly made way for them, with grateful grins
and nods when they saw who it was. ‘Was she very annoyed?’ Jessie asked.


‘I thought she would explode in “Ragtime Soldier Man”, when we got to the bit that says, “As long as I can run/They’ll never
find me/They’ll be behind me”. It didn’t really fit in with the patriotic tone of the entertainment. And then, my dear, the
vulgarity of the pickled-onion song!’


Jessie grinned. ‘It’s a pity she didn’t let me do some encores. I have “Snookey Ookums” in here, and “Monkey Doodle Doo”.
I’d have loved her to hear those.’


‘And I’d have loved to see her face,’ Mrs Wycherley said, laughing.


Jessie left the hall elated, but reaction set in as she drove the short distance home to Maystone Villa, her nice little square
stone house on the Clifton Road. Darkness had long fallen and the dank February chill made the bare trees that loomed into
her headlights look dreary. The wind pressing past the motor’s windows bothered her. In the first days after she had lost
the baby, while she was being cared for by her mother at Morland Place, she had been haunted by a sound like a baby crying.
Sometimes, since she had come back to Maystone, she heard it again, at nights, when the wind was in the chimney. The sound
made her ache with a misery like a physical pain. Her baby had never cried. It had been dead in her womb, Dr Hasty said, which
was why she had miscarried. She shivered. Even inside the motor, her heavy coat wasn’t enough to keep out the deadly cold.
It looked and smelt to her as though it might snow tonight or tomorrow.


Home at last. As she crunched over the gravel Gladding, the stableman/gardener, emerged unwillingly to put the motor away
– the only task concerning it that he would undertake. Jessie even had to get a Boy Scout to clean it, for Gladding said he
only groomed horses: ‘Ah don’t ’ave to do wi’ them smelly things. The devil’s work, they are, and Ah’ll not encourage ’em.’
He even grumbled under his breath now as he held the door for her; but then the front door of the house opened and a warm
body dashed out and flung itself at her with a gladness that raised her spirits. Brach, her Morland hound bitch, always behaved
as if every parting, however short, had been a lifetime long.


Jessie caressed the big, harsh-haired body as it revolved round her with cat-like fluidity, and winced as the iron bar of
a tail lashed at her knees. ‘Oh, foolish, foolish girl. Yes, I missed you too!’


In the yellow slice of light at the doorway Tomlinson had appeared and was smiling a welcome. Tomlinson had been her lady’s maid, and was now effectively housekeeper in the depleted household, but after so many years she was a friend,
too.


‘Did it go well, madam?’ she asked, as Jessie came towards her with Brach still twirling and trying to trip her up.

‘It got better towards the end,’ Jessie said. ‘I think the men enjoyed it.’

‘Supper’s ready any time you want it,’ said Tomlinson, studying her face. ‘You look tired. A glass of wine would do you good.’

‘That would be nice,’ Jessie agreed. ‘But first I must go and see the horses. Will you take this in?’ She handed her the folder
of music. ‘And remind me to take it back to Mrs Robert tomorrow.’


Tomlinson looked a mild query. ‘Take the music back to Mrs Robert?’

‘I didn’t play the Chopin after all.’ And she turned away towards the stable.

Tomlinson opened the folder and looked at the first sheet. ‘Ragtime,’ she murmured, and smiled. It was good to see her lady
getting back a bit of spirit. But she did look tired. It was easy to overdo things when you’d recently had a miscarriage.
She must make sure she rested properly tomorrow – even if she had to tie her to the sofa.


Jessie stopped on the way in the feed-room to pick up a couple of handfuls of horse-nuts, and then went into the stable. There
were only four horses in residence at the moment, and until two weeks ago there hadn’t been any, which hadn’t made Gladding
complain any less about his work. Jessie had stopped riding altogether while she was pregnant – not that it had mattered in
the end, she thought bitterly. She might just as well have enjoyed herself for all the difference it made. During that time
her darling Hotspur, the black gelding who had been given to her by her beloved late father, had been turned out – though
she had gone to visit him in his field most days. He came forward eagerly now to greet her, knuckering softly and lowering
his head for her caresses.


‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to take you out today, darling,’ she told him. He lipped up the nuts from her palm and nodded appreciatively. ‘I hope Gladding exercised you properly.’
Hotspur made another deep chuckling sound and stamped a foot. It often seemed to Jessie that he tried to join in conversations
with her. ‘We’ll have a long ride tomorrow, I promise.’ He nuzzled her hair, and then lowered his nose to blow at Brach, who
licked his muzzle in response. They were old friends.


The other occupied boxes contained the two Bhutia mares, Mouse and Minna – Jessie had broken them to harness and they pulled
the phaeton and the trap – and the new young mare she had brought up to school. Vesper was a two-year-old, and Jessie was
bringing her on as an eventual replacement for Hotspur when he grew too old. That was assuming the army did not take her,
as they had taken Jessie’s hunters. Gladding was strictly forbidden to ride Vesper, and gave her led exercise only, when Jessie
was too busy to take her out. It was not a satisfactory arrangement, and another reason why Jessie hated the mean old man
whose delight seemed to be to make everyone around him miserable. Why couldn’t she have a nice groom, and one who wouldn’t
spoil young horses?


She stayed a long time with the horses – so long that Brach lay down in the straw and set her nose on her paws – conscious
of an unwillingness to go back to the house. It seemed so empty now, with Ned away (and no new baby in the room Tomlinson
had been going to make into the nursery). She did not, of course, entertain without him, so it hardly mattered that she was
down to only three indoor staff: Tomlinson, and the housemaids, Peggy and Susie. She hadn’t even had a cook since Mrs Peck
left – but Peggy could cook well enough for her alone.


But a house without a man in it seemed an oddly disjointed thing, an entity that had lost its purpose. It made her realise
how often, not only at Maystone but in all the households she knew, things were always done a certain way, or never done at
all, because ‘the master liked it that way’. Mealtimes were set for his convenience; the choice of menu reflected his tastes; the routines, the cleaning rotas, the lighting of fires, the very placing of the ornaments and which
side of the door the umbrella stand was sited – all the details of daily life were arranged round the man of the house.


Ned was at training camp up on Black Brow with the York Commercials – the Pals battalion Uncle Teddy had helped to bring into
being – and when the battalion was ready, it would go overseas, perhaps to France; so he would not occupy his house, except
for brief periods of leave, until the war was over. And how long would that be? Her cousin Bertie had said from the beginning
that it would not ‘all be over by Christmas’, as people had claimed. Bertie had said it would be three or four years, and
though that had seemed impossible in the heady excitement of August 1914, it was beginning now to seem horribly likely. The
terrible weeks-long battle of Ypres had been a victory, but with nothing gained, except that the line had not been broken.
The German attack had been repulsed; but the price had been so dreadfully high. The British Expeditionary Force had virtually
ceased to exist. Bertie’s battalion, which had gone to France twelve hundred strong, had been reduced to 108 men and three
officers.


No, it seemed likely now that it would not soon be over. Women like her – thousands, all over the country – would have to
get used to living without men in their households. They would have to find other things to fill their days, and other ways
to organise their routines.


Brach suddenly sat up, ears pricked, and whined. Then she stood and stared up at Jessie with urgency, pawing her leg. Her
kind could not bark, but she had her own ways of communicating. ‘What is it, girl?’ Jessie asked, and turned her head to listen.
The sound of tyres on the gravel. Not motor tyres, but the thin tandem sound of bicycle wheels. Her mind flew to the obvious
conclusion – a telegram? But who would contact her urgently at this time of night? It couldn’t be Morland Place, because they
would have telephoned. She had a husband, two brothers and two cousins all in uniform, but Ned, brother Frank and cousin Lenny
Manning were all still in training, and Jack, her favourite brother, who was in the RFC, had been shot down in November and
his injuries would prevent his return to active service for some months yet. Only Bertie was at the front. But an ‘official’
telegram about Bertie would not come to her, it would go to his wife, Maud; and Maud would not telegraph her.


While she was thinking these things she had been hurrying out of the stables and towards the house, and was in time to see
the telegraph boy climbing back onto his bicycle out in the road. Tomlinson was standing at the front door holding the envelope;
Peggy and Susie lurked behind her at the end of the hall. Already, in a manless household, a telegram had become an event.


‘Oh, madam, I was just going to come and find you.’

‘It’s all right, I heard the wheels.’

‘It’s addressed to you, not the master,’ Tomlinson said, handing over the envelope.

She opened it where she stood, unable to bear even the delay of going indoors, however undignified that might seem to the
servants. Then she smiled.


‘Coming home short leave Tuesday stop,’ she read aloud. ‘Please meet 5.55 p.m. train stop. Signed, E. Morland.’

‘But it’s after six now,’ Tomlinson said. She looked over her shoulder at the hall clock. ‘It’s nearly half past!’

‘This was sent this morning,’ Jessie said. ‘It must have got mislaid.’

‘It’s a disgrace,’ Tomlinson said indignantly. ‘You pay enough for a telegram! Something should be said to that postmaster.’

‘Yes, but not this minute. I shall have to go to the station as I am. Run and tell Gladding to get the motor out again, will
you?’


But even as she said it there was the sound of an engine out in the road and a taxi-cab clattered into the drive and pulled
up. Brach flattened her ears and sang, almost dancing on the spot in her excitement, as the door opened and a figure muffled
in army greatcoat and cap stepped out.


‘He must have got tired of waiting,’ Jessie said.


The master had come home.

It seemed to Jessie that the house had come alive again. There was movement, bustle; there were lights all over the house,
the sound of men’s voices – Ned had brought his servant Daltry, who had been his manservant before the war and had followed
him into the army. Daltry seemed to be everywhere: taking Ned’s bag to his dressing-room, supervising the lighting of the
dining-room fire – Susie was on her knees before it with a sheet of newspaper – laughing in the kitchen with the maids as
they hurried to transform Jessie’s supper into a proper dinner, fetching up wine to go with it. He had taken off his khaki
jacket right away and donned his black apron, and now was rubbing up the silver and laying the table. His presence had had
a visible effect on the female servants, in the way they held themselves, moved, the way they turned their heads, laughed.
The men meant extra work for them, but they didn’t mind. It had given them purpose again.


Brach trotted busily back and forth, from room to room, from person to person, the ticking sound of her nails on the hall
floor each time she crossed a small poignant background that Jessie heard out of all proportion to its volume or importance,
as at times of great emotion one will notice tiny irrelevant details. Brach thrust her nose into everything