For Ever and Ever

CHAPTER ONE - 1895-1

CHAPTER ONE

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1895“Goodbye, Mama! Goodbye, Papa!”

Viola wept profusely as she threw two handfuls of earth into the open grave that had been freshly dug that morning. As she let the earth fall, she felt so utterly alone that it was as if the other mourners, who stood around her, were not present.

Viola Brookfield had only just celebrated her twenty-first birthday when it happened – the tragic series of events that led to both her parents being killed.

They had set off, one bright Spring morning, in their new automobile for a second honeymoon in the South of France.

Viola had not wanted to be left alone in the big house in Connaught Square that was only moments away from Hyde Park.

“Please do not go. I shall be so lonely,” she had implored them as Morton, the butler, supervised the loading of trunks onto the new motor car.

“Darling, we shall not be long – it is only a week and then we shall return with lots of presents for you,” her mother had said, kissing her daughter.

“Mama, I do not care for presents, I would prefer that we were together, as a family.”

“We shall be one once more upon our return,” answered her father, whose dashing good looks still made the ladies’ heads turn.

Reluctantly Viola had waved them off as the automobile sprang noisily into life and slowly inched away from the kerb.

Her last sight of them was as they turned the corner into Connaught Street, her mother waving furiously with the long scarf that secured her hat wound around her elegant throat and its ends floating in the breeze like bunting at a fair.

Her lovely face was alive with pleasure and expectation, while her husband concentrated on the task in hand – looking straight ahead, his face was set into an expression of grim concentration.

He had not looked back.

Viola could not stop berating herself for not being more insistent that they remain in London. For that was the last time she saw either of them.

The headlamps on the car were not strong enough to light their way through the dark French night and, just outside of Nice, the automobile spun off a sharp bend and down a cliff taking them to their deaths.

She remembered the day that the Policeman had come to the door, asking to see her. Morton’s grave face alerted her that something terrible had happened.

“There is an Officer of the Law to see you, Miss Viola,” he had said, his voice shaking as he wrung his hands.

Viola had felt as if she was about to faint, but composed herself sufficiently to walk to the morning room. The Policeman had not sat down and was standing by the door, ready to make a hasty exit as soon as he had imparted his news.

“Miss Brookfield?” he had asked, as she entered the room. “I am afraid that I have some bad news for you. It is your mother and father.”

Viola had been forced to sit down, as her legs began to turn to jelly. She barely heard the remainder of what he said, as she was only conscious of a searing pain that gripped her heart and squeezed it until she could scarcely breathe.

The Policeman had left and she remained sitting in her chair for an age afterwards. Hot tears scalded her cheeks as she moaned softly to herself.

Morton had not known what to do with her when he entered the room some time later and so called for Milly, Viola’s lady’s maid.

Milly rushed to Viola’s side and helped her upstairs to her bedroom, where she remained for the rest of the day, weeping endlessly, refusing food or drink.

A pall of silence fell upon the house and so it remained, with the windows masked with heavy curtains like closed eyelids, until the day of the funeral.

And now just three weeks later the Brookfields were finally being laid to rest in All Souls cemetery in Kensal Green.

As the crowd around the grave began to depart, Viola could not tear herself away.

“Just a moment longer,” she said to her Cousin Agnes, who came up and softly took her arm, “I do not think that I can bear to say the final farewell and leave.”

“Shall I ask for your carriage to be brought to the end of the avenue?” asked Agnes.

“Please, a little longer,” pleaded Viola.

Agnes moved away from her grieving cousin and joined the throng who were making their way back to their own transport.

Viola had not wanted to replace her parents’ wrecked car and now, superstitiously, she refused to travel in any conveyance that did not have a horse pulling it.

A chilly wind suddenly blew across the cemetery and Viola shivered. Her black satin cape was thin and did not provide adequate protection.

“Come, miss, the carriage is here,” suggested Milly, gently.

She and the other servants had stood respectfully at the back of the crowd around the grave and were now making their way to Kensal Road to catch the tram.

“I will come with you, miss, if that is what you want,” offered the girl.

Viola tore her eyes away from the deep trench. She could no longer bear to look at the expensive coffins, placed one on top of the other, with their ornate brass handles and sober plaques.

“Goodbye, Mama. Goodbye, Papa,” she repeated softly feeling as if she was leaving a part of herself down in that muddy trench with them.

Dabbing her eyes, Viola followed Milly to the waiting phaeton. The horses were a pair of black stallions, especially selected for the sombre occasion and the windows were swathed in black curtains.

Stepping inside, Viola was glad that they could be pulled to and obscure her from prying eyes.

*

The past few weeks had passed slowly. Each day she had roamed about the house, weeping quietly to herself as she recalled happier times.

Every corner held a memory for her and so, when the letter from her aunt in India arrived five days after the funeral, she found herself not adverse to her proposal.

“Dearest Niece,” it read.

“I can scarcely bring myself to believe the terrible events that have taken place since I last wrote to you. To think that only a month ago, I was writing to congratulate you upon the occasion of your twenty-first birthday and now I find my hand shaking with grief as I write this letter.

Lord Wakefield, your uncle, and myself, your loving aunt, cannot find the words to describe our desolation. To think that I might never look upon my dear sister’s face again fills me with the utmost misery.

Your uncle and I have had long discussions about what will now happen to you, and we think it best if you came to live with us in Mandavi for the foreseeable future.

You need to be around your family at this sad time and I would not hear of you going anywhere else. Perhaps, by being together we can lessen our grief.

I realise that the journey will be long and arduous, but if you feel you would like to accept our offer, please write at once and we shall make arrangements for you to be met at Bombay and accompanied on the journey North to Mandavi.

Fondest love,

Your Aunt Mary.”

‘India,’ sighed Viola. The very name conjured up a continent of untold exoticism and mystery.

Lady Wakefield was her mother’s elder sister and, from what her mother had told her, it had been a whirlwind romance and wedding. Lord Wakefield was a very important man in the Province where they lived and was the Governor.

Although there was a Prince Potentate, it was Lord Wakefield who reported directly to Her Majesty’s Viceroy.

Viola had not seen Lord Wakefield for many years. Although Aunt Mary had visited a few years earlier when the couple had been summoned to Court, Uncle Hugo had not accompanied her to their house in Connaught Square.

‘I wonder if he looks very old now?’ she asked herself. ‘He must be at least fifty, as he was a lot older than Aunt Mary and Mama.’

She remembered Uncle Hugo as being a stern man with a clipped moustache and an erect posture. However, he had always been kind to her and usually brought her small presents – as a child, her nursery was full of carved wooden elephants lavishly decorated with red silken tassels that smelled of spices and strange perfumes.

Viola arose from her seat and folded the letter carefully. She did not need to think over her aunt’s offer for very long. She had already decided that she could not stay on in Connaught Square.

‘It will mean having to shut up the house,’ she thought to herself, as she walked towards her father’s old study, ‘and there is the problem of our house on the Isle of Wight.’

Viola’s mother had inherited the large sprawling manor house from a maiden aunt, when Aunt Mary had refused it after the old lady had died.

It had always been a place of rest and retreat. It boasted one of the finest stables in the South of England and even Queen Victoria herself had been known to borrow mounts from its vast stock of superior beasts.

‘The horses,’ thought Viola, suddenly overwhelmed at the responsibility that had fallen upon her young shoulders. ‘What will I do with them if I go to India?’

She thought of Jet and Sable, Flash and Thunder – each had their own personality and Viola had mastered riding them all – even the feisty Copper, whom her father had struggled to tame.

Viola wandered over to the study window and looked out over the Square. Pulling back the heavy curtain, she could see that life was going on as normal – the chimney sweep was crossing the road with his band of boys, the dairyman was calling with his deliveries – yet, inside number 30, it was as if time was standing still.

‘Mama and Papa would not want me to moulder away here when I am still young and attractive,’ she pondered. ‘How many times did Papa take me to one side and tell me that I should enjoy myself now before I married?’

Marriage! It was the last thing on Viola’s mind. She had only experience of a few mild flirtations that had come to nothing – the charming Captain of the Queen’s Guards whom she had met last summer and there had been Georgie Carolan, the son of an Irish Peer who had charmed her with his lilting accent and fine manners.

‘No, the idea of marriage will be quite out of the question for the next year or so. Even if some of my friends are finding husbands, I declare that, at the moment, I would not care if I was to be an old maid for life!’

Just then Milly came in to the study, holding a white linen dress.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I wondered what you wished me to do with this? I was goin’ through your wardrobe and it was at the bottom.”

Viola held the soft fabric with a hint of regret. She would not be wearing white this summer, as she would be in strict mourning for at least a year.

“Please have it dyed black, Milly – I shall need it where I am going.”

Milly gave her a curious look.

“And where is that, miss?”

“India,” breathed Viola. “I have made a decision. My aunt has written and invited me to stay with her indefinitely.”

Milly frowned as she took back the dress. Viola could see that the prospect did not excite her for, as her lady’s maid, she would be expected to travel with her.

“You do not seem too pleased at the idea,” remarked Viola.

The girl flushed bright red and then stammered,

“Oh, miss, I couldn’t go to India – not with my mother in such poor health. It would kill her sure as eggs is eggs, miss, if I were to go high-tailin’ it off to India.”

Viola paused and reflected for a moment.

“I will not force you to come with me, Milly. If you do not wish to go, I shall make enquiries amongst my friends to see if we can find you another post. I intend to shut up the house and only Morton and Mrs. Gilks will be kept on.”

“I wish you were stayin’, miss,” said Milly, with her eyes filling, “you’ve been so good me.”

“And I will continue to be so,” replied Viola. “I promise that I will make sure you have a place to go to, now– will you ask Morton and Mrs. Gilks to come upstairs? I wish to inform them of my intentions.”