The Dream Kingdom

Book 26: Morland Dynasty

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Edwardian England is a country at the peak of its power; a kingdom of peace, prosperity and progress. As Jessie and Violet enjoy their coming-out in the glittering Season of 1908, their thoughts are of pleasure, dancing and falling in love. For the Morlands things seem set fair: new business ventures expand their influence and wealth; there are weddings, babies in the nursery, careers for the boys now reaching manhood. It is an exciting age, with new technologies - motor cars, telephones, radio, aeroplanes - extending man's control over the natural world. But under the appearance of permanence, a different reality is stirring. Socialism, the suffrage movement, the constitutional crisis, all call forth ever more dissent and anger. Increasingly violent protests and strikes disturb the peace; war with Germany looms ever closer. With the King's death, it begins to seem that the safe Edwardian world was only a dream, from which the wakening will be hard indeed.

Release date: August 25, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 640

Sample

May 1908

In a taxi-cab rattling through London in the small hours, Jessie Compton sat up, wide awake, astonished that her two companions
could be half asleep (in the case of her friend Lady Violet Winchmore) or frankly dozing (as was their chaperone Miss Miller,
Violet’s former governess). The girls had danced every dance since ten o’clock, but despite sore feet and prickling eyes,
Jessie felt as though she could begin again in an instant. To be seventeen, in love, and in London for the Season was so exciting,
it felt as though something fizzy had replaced all the blood in her veins. She leaned forward, holding the strap and staring
out of the window at the dark streets, her mind a tumble of bright images.


She had never expected to have a proper London Season, or indeed a formal coming-out at all, for her parents were not wealthy.
But her mother, Henrietta, was the intimate friend and distant cousin of Violet’s mother, Lady Overton (Cousin Venetia, as
Jessie had been told to call her) and they had always hoped that Jessie and Violet would be ‘best friends’ too. So Cousin
Venetia had offered to bring Jessie out with Violet, which relieved the Comptons of most of the expense of it.


So here she was, coming home from the Grosvenor House Spring Ball, one of the largest public functions of the Season; and
she, Jessie Compton, had been one of the privileged elite, whirling round the floor in the arms of one nice young man after another, under the wistful eyes of the lesser girls who could only look on from the sides. It
had been glorious! And then, late in the evening, he had arrived.


He always came late. The wonder was that he had come at all, to a crowded public ball. Despite the fact that she had been chatting
to her partner, Henry Fossey, and appearing to give him her whole attention, she had known the instant he came in at the door. He had made his usual imperious sweep of the room with his eyes (she loved the way he did that, as though
he were the Tsar of Russia and could have anything and anyone he wanted!) and she had felt a squeeze of her heart as his gaze
stopped a moment on her before moving on. Then he had turned away and gone into the card room. Fossey had repeated a question,
making her realise that she had fallen silent for long enough for him to notice. Somehow her brain could not cope with conversation
and gazing at Lord Brancaster at the same time.


She had made the effort to seem normal, not wanting anyone to know how she felt about him. He was heir to the Earl of Holkam.
It was not only foolish to have fallen in love, at her very first ball, with an earl’s son who was so far out of her reach,
it was also wrong of her, given that the point of this London come-out was to give her the chance of attracting a better offer
than she might receive at home.


Oh, but she couldn’t help it! He was so handsome, so effortlessly superior to any of the other nice young men she had met.
She had tried hard to stifle her feelings, but she couldn’t help thinking that he liked her. He seemed to seek her out, nearly
always danced with her when they were at the same ball, and when he danced with her, chatted so nicely and laughed at the
things she said. She had not seen him laugh like that when he was with other girls. And they danced so well together! In his
arms she felt as though she hardly touched the floor, and her body knew every move he made before he made it.


Energy seemed to pour through her just at the thought of dancing with him. She felt so alive she could hardly sit still. Outside
the cab windows, London was wrapped in the dream-quiet of before dawn. The cobbles seemed to glisten in the dim glow of the
headlights, and the small, clattery sound of the engine echoed off the high, sleeping houses of the wealthy. Shops were shuttered,
and the great stores lay dark and deserted like ships in the sea of night.


Down side streets, as they passed, she sometimes caught a glimpse of another world, a second London, that existed alongside
the London she and Violet inhabited. That it was so separate was what surprised her. Her home county of Yorkshire was a prosperous
one, and wages were high, though there was still hardship and want when people were too old or sick to work. But at home the
unfortunate were looked after. Her mother had a regular visiting round of such people. In London it did not seem to be anybody’s
business.


Still, Cousin Venetia, who knew about such things because of her work, said there was no longer the desperate poverty of twenty
or thirty years ago; and one day it would all be gone. Science would provide the answers to all mankind’s problems. Jessie
believed this with all her heart. England was the centre of a mighty empire, the engine of invention and innovation, and the
moral conscience of the world. They were so lucky to be English! And as Dad had said, when you were privileged, more was expected
of you than of less fortunate people. You had to behave better, try harder, do more. You could be proud, but you must never
be conceited or arrogant, because after all it was God who had made you English, not your own efforts.


Something caught her eye and she gave an exclamation that woke both her companions. Frantically she leaned forward to rap
on the glass that separated them from the driver. ‘Stop! Stop, please stop!’


The driver applied the brake, and Jessie was out even before the cab had halted properly. She heard him say behind her, ‘What’s wrong, miss?’ She caught up the length of her skirt and ran across the pavement. In the doorway of a corner
shop, beside an alley, a woman was sitting slumped, her bare legs stuck out in front of her, ending in a pair of cracked and
gaping shoes. Her clothes were dirty and worn, her hair dull and straggling, and she had a sleeping baby in her lap, wrapped
in a dirty red comforter.


Jessie reached her, and asked eagerly, ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill? Can I help you?’

The woman grunted, but her chin was sunk on her chest and her eyes were closed. Jessie crouched down and cautiously shook
her shoulder. The woman opened one eye and stared at her blearily. The baby slept on. Both of them were indescribably filthy,
and the smell was making Jessie’s eyes water. She tried to breathe shallowly and said again, ‘Are you ill?’ and then, ‘Haven’t
you anywhere to go? You mustn’t sleep here. It’s bad for the baby, and if a constable comes, he’ll take you up.’


The woman was slow on the uptake, but now at last she seemed to grasp what Jessie was saying. She opened both eyes, lifted
her head a little, and belched. Jessie recoiled at the smell of rotting teeth that came from her mouth. ‘Constable? Gawd,
miss, don’t turn me in! I don’t mean no harm.’ She hacked a cough, and spat the result sideways.


The very repulsiveness of the woman made Jessie determined to help her. ‘I wasn’t going to turn you in,’ she said. ‘Haven’t
you got a home to go to?’ Behind her she heard Miss Miller calling her, pleading with her to come back.


‘I’m short my lodgings, miss,’ the woman said. She reached out and caught hold of Jessie’s arm with a hand so dirty that despite
herself, Jessie flinched away. ‘I’m a decent woman. I’d never sleep on the street, but they won’t let me in without I pay
in advance.’


Jessie heard the cab door open, and knew that Miss Miller’s fear of harm coming to her charge would be greater than an urge towards philanthropy. Any moment now she would be dragged away. She would have to act quickly if she
was to help this woman. ‘How much do you need?’ she asked, reaching into her reticule.


A gleam of calculation entered the woman’s eyes. ‘Five shillin’s’d do it, miss.’ She watched Jessie’s hands like a sparrow
watching a piece of bread. ‘Gawd blesher, miss, Gawd blesher. You’re an angel.’


Miss Miller’s voice, breathless with anxiety, cried, ‘Miss Compton, leave that person alone! Come away!’

Jessie’s fingers encountered a coin and she dragged it forth. She always carried a little money with her in case of emergencies
(she had imagined getting separated from Violet in a crowd, perhaps, and having to pay for a taxi home). ‘Here, take this,’
she said, and saw as the woman’s filthy fingers closed over it the gleam of a sovereign. She felt a pang of dismay, but it
was too late now to take it back.


‘Jesus,’ said the woman.

At that moment Miss Miller caught Jessie’s shoulder. ‘Come away at once, Miss Compton. Whatever do you think you’re doing?’


The cabbie had climbed out, and was approaching too. ‘Leave well alone, miss, take my advice. You don’t want to do with creeturs
like that one. Dead drunk, like as not.’


Jessie suspected any resistance on her part might result in the woman having to give back the money, so she stood up, turned,
and said meekly, ‘It’s all right, I’m coming.’


Miss Miller seized her arm and hurried her along, muttering and clucking with disapproval. The cabbie sprang nippily to hold
the door for them. Inside the taxi, Violet was looking sleepily puzzled. Jessie climbed in, feeling warm with satisfaction
at what she had done. She was glad now that it had been a sovereign. After all, there was the baby. A sovereign would keep
them both for quite a while.


The cabbie slammed the door and climbed into his seat, and as the taxi began to move Jessie looked across at the doorway. The woman was on her feet, with the baby in one arm,
staring at the coin in her other hand. But a man had come slouching out of the alley, a man in filthy clothes and a cap, and
Jessie gave a cry of horror as she saw him snatch the money from the woman, at the same time dealing her a blow to the head
that made her reel backwards.


‘Stop him! He’s taking the money!’

The cabbie had automatically braked at Jessie’s cry, but now he accelerated again and the cab jerked away.

‘Oh please stop!’ she cried. ‘We must help her!’

‘Nonsense!’ Miss Miller said, sounding alarmed. ‘Go on, driver! Don’t stop. What can you be thinking of, Miss Compton?’

‘That man’s taking the money I gave her,’ Jessie said desperately as the taxi hurried them away from the scene.

The cabbie, whose glass was partly open, said, ‘His moll, most like. You didn’t oughter’ve done it, miss. Wasted, that’s what
that money was. You can’t help that sort anyway. Give ’em anything, and they just drink it away.’


‘It was so thoughtless of you,’ Miss Miller said. ‘Suppose you had caught something from her? Suppose she had attacked you? Why, she might have
been the lure for a gang of white slavers!’ she suggested, in breathless horror. ‘What would your mother, or Lady Overton, say if anything were to happen to you? I’m
supposed to be taking care of you,’ she finished rather pathetically.


Jessie felt sorry for her, realising all at once how uncomfortable the chaperone’s position was, how frightened she had really
been. But it wasn’t right to see someone lying in a doorway and not see if they needed help – she was sure about that, at
least. And perhaps that man would give the woman something. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to help her.’


‘It’s not your business to help,’ Miss Miller said. ‘Those people can take care of themselves.’

They rode in silence after that. The taxi-cab pulled up outside the Overtons’ house, and Jessie and Violet stepped out of
the leather-smelling stuffiness and shivered a little in the cool air of dawn while Miss Miller paid the driver. When the
cab finally rattled off round the corner of the gardens, Miss Miller was still frowning, her lips moving as though she were
rehearsing excuses. Jessie stepped close to her and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry I upset you. You’re right, it was thoughtless
of me. I won’t do it again. Please don’t tell anyone.’


‘Very well,’ said Miss Miller, only too glad to agree on silence. She had not relished having to confess what she had not
prevented Jessie from doing.


Jessie followed Violet up the steps of the house, content. In the east the black velvet sky was changing to luminous turquoise,
with the morning star shining like a single rose-diamond, infinitely precious; and the first blackbird called, a clear and
somehow enquiring thread of song, vibrating out of the dark towards the light. What Miss Miller had said was true, in a way,
she reflected: it was not her business to help that woman. When she was grown up and married, she would do her part, as her
mother did; but just now, for these few weeks of the Season, her business was pleasure, dancing, and falling in love. Everyone
was saying it was the most brilliant Season of the past decade; and Violet was one of its leading débutantes. She was so beautiful,
so graceful, and good and kind, too. Jessie felt privileged to be her friend. There was no doubt that Violet would make a
brilliant marriage sooner or later; and if she didn’t meet the man of her dreams this year, there would be other Seasons to
come. But for Jessie this opportunity would not be repeated. She had only until August.


Of course, neither of them would accept an offer from the most desirable parti in the world if they didn’t love him. It was love they were looking for – true love, love that lasted to the grave and beyond.
They had discussed it endlessly in those hours they spent chatting in their bedrooms. They had agreed that there was one right person for everyone, and their business was to find him. And they had agreed
that one would know at once, that there would be a ‘sort of lightning’, as Violet had put it. Jessie had felt that lightning
when she first saw him. Oh, dancing with him was so wonderful …!


Her thoughts had come full circle. Tired now, she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Outside, dawn had broken,
and London was starting up, like a clockwork machine set in motion, slowly at first, clicking and whirring and gathering speed,
until it became the frantic, roaring thing of full daytime. It began quietly with the first milk-horse, clopping hollowly
on the cobbles, head nodding sleepily as it stopped automatically at each house, knowing its route to its very bones. Then
there was the postman, rapping his way along the street; and the first maid, popping up from a basement, gummy-eyed, to beat
out the kitchen mat at the top of the area steps. The early workmen appeared, in caps and shapeless jackets and big boots,
walking off to their jobs; and live-out servants came hurrying in to theirs. Housemaids came out to scrub steps, footmen to
polish brass door furniture, reluctant lady’s maids to walk the mistress’s dog. Then motor-vans appeared, delivering luxuries,
flowers, wine to the wealthy, and boys on bicycles with baskets on the front, bringing meat and groceries and bread. There
was the coal lorry, tipping its glistening black treasure down the little round vents in the pavements; the sweep, grey-faced
and white-eyed, with his bag of brushes, to see to the other end of the process. The light broadened and the sky disappeared
behind its curtain of smoke as London’s countless chimneys sent up their working ribbons. The machine roared at full throttle,
and the thrilling, chill silence of dawn was like a distant memory of another world entirely.


After a late night the girls were always left to sleep in. Jessie was roused at last by a faint click of the door being opened,
followed by the rustling of skirts as the maid crossed the room to open the curtains. Jessie heard with amusement the soft sound of the window being closed. London maids
hated open windows. They said it was because they let in smuts and smells, but Jessie thought this was only a surface excuse,
and that really they had a superstitious fear, as if the devil might slip in through any unsealed door or window and take
possession of their souls. Jessie liked her bedroom window open, and waged a constant, unacknowledged battle with cousin Venetia’s
servants on the subject.


Sanders – Violet’s lady’s maid, whom they were sharing – turned from the window and, seeing that Jessie’s eyes were open,
smiled and said, ‘Good morning, miss.’


‘Good morning. What time is it?’

‘Eleven, miss. Luncheon at one. Lady Violet’s awake. Shall I send your tray in there?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Jessie said.

Sanders went out, and Jessie lingered for a moment longer in the downy comfort of her bed – twice as large as her own at home.
She loved staying at the Overtons’ house in Manchester Square. It was so different from Morland Place. Here Jessie and Violet
had their own bathroom – between their two bedrooms and adjoining each – and there was hot running water, heated by a boiler
and pumped up. At home, baths were taken before the bedroom fire and water had to be carried up from the kitchen in great
cans. Also the Overtons had the telephone, necessary because Cousin Venetia was a doctor (one of the first lady-doctors ever
to qualify), and they had electric light. Cousin Venetia complained that it was not as reliable as gas and that the electric
globes were so weak they were always breaking. And it was true that electricity didn’t give as much light as either lamps
or a gas-mantel. It was all right for general purposes, but not very good for reading. But Jessie still felt it was like a
miracle simply to flick a switch and flood a room with light.


All the same, she did rather miss the cosiness of the ritual back home, when blue dusk seeped into the room, and the servants came to light the lamps and draw the curtains and settle the family in for the evening. Home was so nice,
after all! And it was good to think that it would be there waiting for her, when the excitement of this Season was over.


The Season! Energy surged through her, and she scrambled out of bed. What the girls liked first thing in the morning was for
Jessie to run through and jump into Violet’s bed so they could discuss the previous day’s marvels before dressing. There was
always so much to talk about; and this morning was special, for several reasons. She went to her dressing-table and took a
small package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbon, out of the top drawer, and went through the bathroom into Violet’s
room.


Violet was sitting up in bed looking ruffled and sweet and very beautiful, as she always did when just awake. Jessie thought
suddenly and with a pang that soon Vi would get married and then she would never see her like this again. It came to her that
these days of their come-out were very precious, and that they were sharing something special, which would never come again.


She got into bed beside Violet, kissed her cheek and said, ‘Happy birthday, darling!’

Violet smiled. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’

‘Of course I remembered. You’re seventeen today. That’s a milestone.’ She presented the package in her hand. ‘This is for
you.’


Violet unwrapped it. It was a paper fan between wooden sticks, the paper painted with a watercolour scene of a lady in a crinoline
with a black-and-white greyhound. The sticks were embellished with flowers and the whole was clear-varnished, and finished
with a tassel of royal blue silk.


‘It’s lovely!’ Violet cried.

‘I made it,’ Jessie said. ‘Well, I bought the sticks, actually, but I did the painting and folding and sticking and everything.
Making the tassel was the hardest part – goodness, how fiddling!’


‘But, Jess, how clever of you!’

‘Oh, not really,’ Jessie said, bathed in the glow of accomplished giving. Vi was such a nice person to give things to. Despite
her parents being frightfully rich, she wasn’t the least bit spoilt. ‘I read in a book how to do it. I’ve been doing it in
the early morning, before you were awake. I wanted it to be a surprise.’


‘It’s a lovely surprise,’ Violet said. ‘And the painting is wonderful! You really are good at it.’

‘The lady in the crinoline is meant to be you,’ Jessie said. ‘I was going to do her with a handsome young man, but I can do
dogs better.’


‘I’m glad you did the dog,’ Violet said. ‘I like the dog.’

‘I’m not sure I’d know which man to paint you with, anyway. I was watching you last night and – well, it’s not Tommy Fairbanks
any more, is it?


‘Oh, was it obvious?’

‘Only to me. So?’

Violet sighed. ‘No, you’re right. Tommy’s a dear, but he can’t compare with – with someone else.’

‘Someone else,’ Jessie said, regarding Violet’s face closely. ‘I thought I knew you so well, but I haven’t been able to guess
who it is.’


‘Haven’t you? I was afraid I was making a spectacle of myself.’

‘Not you, Vi darling. Discretion itself. So who is it? Do tell.’

Violet hesitated a moment, then said, ‘George Carrick.’

‘Really? I wasn’t near to guessing that. Well, Tommy’s handsomer, I think,’ Jessie said judiciously, ‘but Carrick has something
about him. And he is heir to a marquisate. You have to consider that. I’m sure your parents would like you to be a marchioness.’


Violet flushed a little. ‘I’ve only danced with him a few times.’

‘But couldn’t you tell at once? One ought to know, with true love.’

‘Yes, you knew at once, didn’t you, with Brancaster?’ Violet said.

Jessie almost wished that she hadn’t told Violet of her feelings, because it was harder to resist them with Violet encouraging
her. But of course, they told each other everything; and besides, Violet would have guessed anyway. ‘I’m a country gentleman’s
daughter with no dowry,’ she said. ‘Brancaster would never think of me. How could he?’


‘But I’m sure he does! He seems to appear at everything you go to, and he always talks to you, and he dances with you an awful lot.’


‘Lots of men dance with me – Willie Hunter and George Cooper and the rest. It doesn’t mean anything. That’s what they’re meant
to do – dance with us.’


‘I’m sure it means something with Brancaster. Thomas says he’s very careful about paying attention to débutantes, after that
scandal last year. Mary Talbot said to me at supper that no-one expected him to come last night. And, after all, he didn’t
dance with anyone else, did he?’


‘He danced with you,’ Jessie pointed out.

‘Only out of politeness, because you’re staying with us.’

‘And he danced with Amelia Vanbrugh.’

‘But Amy Van’s a cousin, isn’t she? So that doesn’t count.’

Jessie sighed. ‘Oh, Vi. Robert Fitzjames Howard, Viscount Brancaster, and Miss Jessie Compton from Yorkshire? It’s not likely.’

‘You always say that, but why shouldn’t he love you?’ Violet saw nothing surprising in anyone’s falling in love with her friend,
whom she thought not only pretty but far wittier and cleverer than any of the other girls they knew.


‘For one thing, because I won’t have any money – which he is sure to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Because someone will have been sure to tell him. Now, Vi, don’t look like that! George Cooper told me that Angela Burnet
told him that Edith Owen’s father’s business is failing. He said he was really glad that you and I don’t talk about other girls like that,’ she added with gratification. ‘He said some of them are dreadful cats.’


‘I don’t know how they can,’ Violet said, with indignation. ‘But I tell you what, Jess,’ she went on, ‘if anyone can marry
for love without worrying about dowries and such-like, it’s Brancaster. I heard my father say the Fitzjames Howards own most
of Lincolnshire.’


Jessie yielded to temptation. ‘Oh, Vi, I know it’s wrong, but when I’m dancing with him and I know all the other girls are
staring at me and envying me – well, it feels so marvellous! Don’t hate me, but I do love making them jealous!’


‘I could never hate you,’ Violet said – a little sadly, but Jessie, thinking of Brancaster, didn’t notice.

‘I’ve tried to be sensible about it, but I can’t seem to help it. Every time I see him I fall in love all over again, and
you must admit there isn’t anyone to touch him.’


Violet did admit it.

‘Do you really think he could possibly care for me? Last night at supper I said something – I forget what – that made him
laugh, and he said I had a ready wit. Do you think that means he likes me?’


Violet gave her whole mind to the question, and they plunged into the débutante’s customary discussion, analysing exactly
what was meant by every word and gesture of the young men they were currently in love with – and, indeed, of all the other
young men who might possibly be in love with them.


‘I wonder if Brancaster will be at Ascot next week?’ Jessie said at last. Lord Overton was a close friend of and equerry to
the King, and was taking the girls on Gold Cup day, to the Royal Enclosure.


‘Bound to be, I should think,’ Violet said. ‘He must guess you’ll be there.’

Sanders came in at that moment to announce that Lady Violet’s bath was ready, so Jessie was spared the necessity to reply.

* * *

There was to be a special family luncheon for Violet’s birthday, and while the girls were dressing, the first guest was already
downstairs in the drawing-room talking to Violet’s parents. Lady Anne Farraline was unmarried and lived in London in Bedford
Square, alone except for a lady companion, who had been ‘foisted on her’, as she put it, for decency’s sake by her brother
William, and whom she therefore ignored completely. Miss Vaughan had been very much put out at first, finding that Lady Anne
went everywhere alone and without consulting her at all; but as there was nothing she could do about it, and as Lord Batchworth
was too busy on his country estate with his own growing family ever to come up to London or enquire what his sister was doing,
she soon accepted the situation. Miss Vaughan was a devotee of the theatre, and being in London, with all her living expenses
paid and her time and her salary entirely at her disposal, she was able to indulge the passion to the full. So, as Anne was
wont to say, the niceties were observed and everyone was happy.


Venetia worried a good deal about Anne, and thought it a dreadful waste that she had never married. Anne Farraline had been
a great beauty and though now in her forties she was very striking still, tall and fair with large blue eyes that flashed
fire; but she had dedicated her life and her considerable energy and talents to the Cause – the enfranchisement of women –
and scorned the follies of love.


There were two main women’s suffrage societies: the NUWSS, dubbed by the press the ‘Nusses’, or the ‘nice Suffragettes’, who
were dedicated to peaceful and constitutional methods; and the militant group, the WSPU, who were called the Wasps, or the
‘nasty Suffragettes’ because they made a nuisance of themselves, interrupted meetings and got themselves arrested. Anne, much
to Venetia’s regret, belonged to the latter group, and had already served one term in prison for attempting to make a speech
in the lobby of the House of Commons.


Venetia and Lord Overton were both intellectually in favour of the Cause. Venetia had herself been a rebel and pioneer. In
their courting days Overton had not been sympathetic to Venetia’s titanic struggle to break into what had always been a man’s
world, but the pain of losing the woman he loved had concentrated his mind wonderfully and he had managed to perform a right-about-face
on the subject with considerable grace. During the years of their marriage his sense of justice had overcome the residual
prejudices of the age and his upbringing, and he was now firmly committed to the ideal of equality for women. But his position
was delicate. The King was very much against votes for women, and as a close companion of His Majesty he could not afford