The Female Line

My first memory was when I was 3 years of age. It was when my baby brother was born, and he came to Maidstone Manor to live with my papa and me. My Papa is very important, he is the Lord of Maidstone, Earl of Aldermarch and Chief of the English Provinces overseas. All of the nobles named him Aldermarch. Papa very rarely stayed at Maidstone, instead I was left in the care of his wife, the Lady Catherine and my attendants.

I did not live with my mother until I was a young lady of fifteen. They frequently told me my mother was a madwoman, and wild. I speculated as I grew up, but I never saw her during my childhood. It never entered my mind, not even later in time that my father must have carried on visiting her, especially when my younger brother was born. He never allowed me to talk about my mother let alone see her. I was his child, his property, and he said I needed to be protected from her madness. Yet this did not stop me from wondering, or creating my own image of the mother I had lost.

The Lady Catherine was at times indifferent to us. Now I am grown I believe it must have been hard for her, caught up in my fathers machinations. Yet, she always remained a lady. I never saw her recoil in the adversity which followed. She was in a word, unconcerned.

***

I recall playing with Billy, my favourite puppet whilst sitting on the warm hearth rug in the nursery. There was a merry fire in the corner of the large rectangular room. I felt safe and protected, I always did when in here, it was my little world. I intently took in my surroundings, the familiar inviting room filled my gaze, my beautiful oak panelled bedstead which I shared with Nurse Amelia, my small bookcase adjacent, whereupon stood my bible, and a few poetry books that Nurse Amelia regularly read aloud to me. My gaze next rested upon my little dollhouse with exquisite small furniture, and my lovely dollies with beautiful clothes, then my chest of drawers, where all my dresses and little booties were kept and a chest at the foot of my bed where I kept my toys and worldly possessions.
But then rather haughtily, a new shape came into focus when I looked near the cold window and that was of another bedstead, a small oak cot with exquisite dark blue silk bed sheets and a new bolster all of which Miss Amelia had been embroidering for a while now, with my fathers badge - the famous black horse with wings almost covering its hind legs which were fashioned as if the horse was about to leap at your person. The imagery symbolised my father perfectly, the darkness within covered with shades of beauty. The rich shades of blue symbolised my fathers status as a Lord of Maidstone, one of the most profitable seats in England, and his other titles.
There was also a new mahogany rocking chair painted deep red and I later learnt it was for the wet nurse and the rocker who had been recently employed. I pouted and tutted under my breath when I recollected how my father, the great Lord had stridden into my room two days thence, still with his hunting clothes on and announced his news with a broad smile and a fast voice that my world, my nursery was to be invaded.

***

‘Be joyful my little pearl, I have great news!’ he said with a rare smile on his face. He came towards me, and I stood demanding to picked up. He held me eagerly and spun me around, his long black hair swishing this way and that as he twirled round and round on the spot, tickling my nose. I wrinkled my face when he stopped… ‘Again!’ I demanded but he laughed and sat me down on my bedstead. He positioned himself on my wooden chest where my toys were stored at the foot of my bed. Billy was lying there, he picked him up and put him in his lap. He opened his mouth, with a look of deep concentration of his face.
’You’re to have a little brother or sister to play with! Isn’t that great news.’
I was confused… ‘Papa?’
‘Your mamma, is due to have another baby, my pearly queen.’
‘Mamma’ I repeated, the word sounded strange to me. Mamma‘s existed in fairytales, like Snow Whites beautiful mamma, and Cinderella‘s kind and caring Mamma… But in the fairytales those Mamma’s were dead and the children who were left were living with a stepmother, like mine, the Lady Catherine. She was like a siren to me, with her wispy blonde hair, massive lips and enquiring eyes, and small petite frame. She came to see me once a week, stroked my cheek, talked to Nurse Amelia and then went away again.
But I knew my mamma wasn’t dead. ‘Is she better then?’ I demanded remembering nurse Amelia’s repetitive narrative whenever the subject arose. ‘Nurse Amelia said she was very unwell and in hospital all the time. Is she going to come home? Are we going to live together?’
My father looked furtive and rested his gaze on Miss Amelia who was sorting out my chest of drawers. She made her way closer, sat down on the floor and took my little hands in hers.
‘Lady Emily,’ she said in her strong Irish accent, ‘Your mother dearest is still very unwell, and it could be a long time before she can come home.’ I turned away from her cheerless demeanour and looked at my father who was absently touching Billy‘s rag doll hair.
‘May I see her?’ I asked with trepidation. My fathers eyes widened and he said in a controlled and authoritative tone, ‘No Emily, your mother is ill, you cannot see her at all… Not now, and not until she is better. Forget about mamma for now.’ I quivered under his hard gaze. ‘I came to tell you that you are going to have a new fellow in your nursery. Are you not happy about that? He will share your toys and I expect to leave him in your charge from time to time.’
It dawned on me then that I would have to share my little world. I clenched my fists. I was three years old, I had not much experience with babies apart from the coachman’s twin boys who would cry all the time. My pout appeared on my mouth as I always did when unsure.
‘I-I don’t know.’ I said… my father gave an irritated look, his good mood had evaporated.
‘You’ll soon get used to it girl,’ he said and then got up, with a wince and left my nursery. I noticed he was not walking properly. Billy had fallen from his knee when he stood up and he stepped on him as he left my world.
I learnt that day that my mother was not a subject to be broached when it came to my father and his frequent but awkward visits to my nursery. I also learnt, to be happy, as the one thing my father despised was an unhappy woman.

***

I can recollect looking at him with immense curiosity. He had just arrived and was placed immediately in his beautiful newly made oak cot with the sapphire silk sheets and the azure velvet bolster coupled with my fathers arms. He had a tuft of wispy blonde hair, and was very pale, unlike my darker complexion, yet it was very like my fathers. He had small lips and was drooling. His eyes were open and he was looking straight at me, his eyes also reminded me of my fathers, big and black. He didn’t look like any baby I’d ever seen. He was so small and he was swaddled tightly. I straightened my bonnet and looked up quickly, as if I was not too enthralled by him, as if I hadn’t taken the full measure of my new companion.
‘Are you quite positive he is my brother?’ I asked my father while cocking my head sideways to see the baby again as if I was examining him.
‘Of course,’ he said and as if reading my mind, ‘Your great-grandmother, your granddaddy’s mamma, the Lady Cecily Anne, had beautiful blonde hair, that went all the way down to her waist,’ he said to me, ‘that is where it comes from.’
‘What is his name?’ I asked my father.
‘His name is Alain.’ He said with a resigned smile, ‘Your mother bid it be so, to represent her family’s French origins.’
‘Alain Montagu, sounds queer papa.’
‘Alain DeLisle’ said my papa pushing back a lock of my hair which had slipped from my bonnet, ’He is to be, DeLisle like you, again to represent your mothers family.’

My father never notified me of the obvious factoid, one all knew but my three year old self. It was as it should be, the bastard not bearing a family name.

When my father left, Nurse Amelia who was now in charge of me and Alain, sat on the chair next to the cot, put me in her lap and sang a song to us both, so sweet, and would always remind me of the day Alain was bought to us…

"I have no name;
I am but two days old."
What shall I call thee?
"I happy am,
Joy is my name."
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!

‘He’s our infant joy my love’ Nurse Amelia would trill, ‘we have to take especial care of him.’