A Shooting Star

CHAPTER ONE - 1878-1

CHAPTER ONE

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1878Flavia Linwood gazed dreamily out of the window at the garden and thought she had never seen it look better.

There were flowers everywhere.

After a very cold and wet spring, the temperature had risen with the result that the flowers had bloomed and the weeds had flourished too.

Suddenly the whole place seemed to be transformed from the time of the long winter days.

Flavia loved being in the country and she was sad in some ways that she must now go to London.

Yet she knew that she would enjoy the endless balls and meeting her father’s friends.

Her father had been saying for some time that she must ‘come out’ in a traditional Season, as it was only the mourning after her mother’s death that had prevented her from being a debutante the previous year.

Queen Victoria had made the period of mourning of great Social significance and very lengthy – people were afraid to enjoy themselves if there had been a death in the family and they were to be dressed at all times in black.

Flavia, however, was thinking that most of all she would miss the horses she rode every morning, as well as swimming in the lake at the end of the garden, which she had done this ever since she was a child and some people thought this very strange on the part of a young girl.

But London was waiting for her.

When the maid came in to call her, she told her that the carriage had been ordered for nine-thirty.

“I’ll have to hurry, Betsy,” Flavia exclaimed. “As Papa will be annoyed if I arrive later than he expects.”

“We’ll miss you, Miss Flavia,” the maid muttered. “But it be real right and proper for you to ’ave your time in London. It ought to ’ave been last year, but for your dear mother’s passin’ – God rest ’er soul.”

Flavia did not answer and after she had washed, she dressed quickly.

She dressed in her very smart clothes that had been bought especially for her to travel to London.

One of her many aunts flattered herself that she had good taste and had gone to the most expensive shops in Bond Street for Flavia’s ‘coming out’ wardrobe.

She was nearly nineteen and almost too old to be a debutante.

But, as she had not been able to appear at any of the balls last year, she was going to make up for it now.

She certainly looked extremely smart and elegant in a blue dress that reminded her of the forget-me-nots in the garden and she wore a hat to match trimmed with flowers.

“You look so lovely, Miss Flavia, you do really,” Betsy sighed, “and we’ll miss you till you be back with us again.”

Flavia smiled at Betsy, who had looked after her ever since she had given up having a nanny.

“I’ll miss you all at The Priory too, but don’t forget we will come back whenever Papa is free and at least I will be home at the end of the summer.”

Downstairs her breakfast was waiting for her and, as she finished eating, she heard the family carriage drawn by two fine horses coming round to the front door.

Her trunks were piled onto the top of the carriage and fastened to the back.

When she was finally ready to depart, the servants all came crowding into the hall to say goodbye to her.

There was the housekeeper, Mrs. Nelson, who ruled upstairs with a rod of iron.

There was their dependable cook, Mrs. Ruck, who had reigned supreme in the kitchen for over twenty years.

There was the old butler, Parkinson, who had given her sweetmeats in the pantry when she was old enough to toddle in to see him.

There were housemaids and scullions, footmen and nightwatchmen, all to see her off.

Flavia shook hands with each one of them and then Parkinson helped her into the carriage.

The senior housemaid, who was traveling with her followed closely behind.

As the horses started to move, there were cries of,

“Good luck, miss! Come home soon!”

Then they were driving down the long avenue of oak trees towards the lodge gates.

“I hate leaving home,” Flavia said more to herself than to Martha, the housemaid.

“We’ll all miss you,” remarked Martha, “but, Miss Flavia, you mustn’t forget the ’ouse in Grosvenor Square also be your home.”

“That is what Papa says, but I have been there so seldom that I can hardly remember what it’s like.”

“You’ll soon remember, miss, once you’re there, and I expects when it’s time for you to return ’ome to The Priory, you’ll be feelin’ the other way round.”

“I think that’s very unlikely,” said Flavia. “What I mind more than anything else is leaving the horses.”

“You’ll be ridin’ in Rotten Row in London, miss, and very smart it be too from what I ’ears.”

“I cannot believe it is as much fun as galloping over the fields and riding through the woods,” Flavia insisted.

Martha did not answer and Flavia stared out of the window at the passing countryside.

It would take only three hours to reach London.

She had often wondered why, after her mother died, her father did not come home more often. He could have easily done so, seeing how short the journey was.

Then she remembered his explanation that he was continually required at Windsor Castle, which was in the other direction.

Linwood Priory had originally been the home of monks, who had inhabited the house for a hundred years before the Dissolution of the Monasteries.

Then it had reverted to the Church when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, but it had become private at the end of her reign. She had honoured one of the early Linwoods, who had been of great support to her personally, by making a gift of The Priory to him.

And it became traditional in the family that they should always be in attendance at the Seat of Power and at the beck and call of the Monarch.

It was therefore not surprising that Queen Victoria was constantly seeking the advice of Lord Linwood.

He was very conscious of his own importance and with him duty always came first.

If his only daughter suffered because of his duty, he felt that she would understand, as if the Queen wanted him, he must at once be at Her Majesty’s side.

Flavia had therefore felt when her mother died that she had lost not only one parent but two, and she had often wondered whether her mother had realised how much her father longed to be in London.

And how much he yearned to be in attendance at the Seat of Power.

But now, almost like a distant trumpet call, he had told Flavia to come to London.

Because her year of mourning was over there was no possible excuse for her not to obey him.

Everyone at The Priory, however, had felt ashamed, although they did not say so openly. It was wrong, they muttered over and over again among themselves, that Miss Flavia was so much alone.

Even if she still had to mourn for her mother, there should have been plenty of girls of her own age to keep her company.

Now, however, at the end of May, she had been freed.

Her father had duly sent for her to come to London exactly one day after her year of mourning was over.

‘I suppose really,’ she thought, ‘I am feeling a little shy and nervous at going into the Social world after living so quietly in the country.’

After a moment another thought entered her head,

‘Papa said I was to hurry. I wonder why.’

But as the carriage rumbled on, she knew it was no use discussing this with Martha.

The maid had closed her eyes and if she was not asleep, she obviously had no wish to talk and Flavia rather suspected that she felt sick in a carriage.

The horses were fresh and, as the roads were dry, they were moving at a fast rate towards London.

They stopped at a large coaching inn at luncheon time and Mr. Masters, Lord Linwood’s private secretary in the country, had ordered a private room where Flavia could enjoy her luncheon.

She would much rather have eaten in the dining room with the other guests. It would have been interesting to see them and know who else was travelling as she was.

But it was no use her arguing against what was considered right and proper by her father.

She was well aware that because her maid was with her rather than a relative or a friend, it was correct that they should eat alone in a private room.

The luncheon was edible if rather dull and so they did not stay long.

As they set off again, Flavia told herself she must feel excited at nearing London and seeing her father and becoming a debutante that Season.

“Otherwise I will be too old, Papa,” she had said when he talked to her about it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he had responded. “You are still only eighteen and, whilst some debutantes make their debut at seventeen, the correct age is eighteen.”

Flavia did not argue that she would be nineteen the following month, as she had found, as others had found before her, that her father disliked being contradicted.

She supposed, when she was thinking it over, that as her father’s daughter, she would be invited to a great number of parties.

It was rather frightening to think that she had in fact no personal friends she could look forward to meeting.

Her mother had not been very well for the last two years of her life and so they had entertained very little in the country. She had been very content just to be quietly with her husband and daughter.

When Flavia thought it all over, she came to the conclusion that she really had no close friends at all.

Except of course the horses and the dogs!

She had not been allowed to have a pet dog of her own and her father’s dogs were kept in the stables, but she took them out with her whenever she went riding.

She thought that now her mother was dead, who had not been very fond of animals, she could persuade her father to allow her have two dogs in the house.

Yet, when he had come home for a short visit, there had been so many other pressing matters to discuss with him that she had not got round to asking.

They reached London just before four o’clock.

Martha had already said that she could do with a nice cup of tea and Flavia had told her it was certain to be waiting for them on their arrival.

There was one event that the servants never missed and that was teatime.

At The Priory Mrs. Ruck prided herself on her teas and there was always enough to eat in the drawing room for a great many more than just one slim girl.

As they turned into Grosvenor Square, Martha sat upright and pulled her hat down firmly over her forehead.

The horses came to a standstill outside one of the large houses overlooking the Square, and there was a pause before a footman opened the door of the carriage because the red carpet had to be run down over the pavement.

Flavia stepped out.

A smart butler she had not seen before, bowed.

“Welcome to London, Miss Flavia,” he intoned. “His Lordship’s expected back at six o’clock.”

Flavia walked into the hall where there were four footmen in attendance and she saw, as she expected, there was a housekeeper in rustling black silk with a chatelaine at her waist at the top of the stairs.

“Mrs. Shepherd’s waiting for you, miss,” the butler said, “and tea’ll be served in the downstairs sitting room.”

“Thank you,” Flavia managed to say. “I will come down as soon as I have taken off my hat and coat.”

She remembered Mrs. Shepherd and shook her by the hand and the housekeeper then took her to one of the main bedrooms on the first floor.

It was an elegantly furnished room and, as Flavia looked around, she laughed and exclaimed,

“I’m glad I am now old enough to sleep here. I was rather afraid I might still be in the nursery!”

Mrs. Shepherd did not seem to think her remark particularly amusing and replied in a choked voice,