The Queen of Bushy House
By Molly Gartland
Chapter 1
Mrs Jordan
July 1818
Bushy House greets me, unchanged. A gentle breeze stirs the soaring oaks lining the cobbled approach; I hear the rustle of their leaves but cannot feel the wind’s caress. This house – meant for a duchess, never for the likes of me – was once our haven, our secluded hideaway. For nearly fifteen years I lived here, half-fearing it might be swept away in a scene change and vanish into the wings. Now the house draws in my ghostly form, and I reach for the door. I slip through brass and oak, finding comfort within these familiar walls, far from that ramshackle cottage on the outskirts of Paris – the sorry setting of my final scene.
A long journey on the wind has brought me home. I was lost – buffeted by gales, or trapped in stillness, until the gaping, muddy mouth of the Thames gave me bearings. I followed the mighty river through the capital – past Covent Garden’s charming gaslights, then westward, towards the lush pasture of Petersham Meadow. I was pulled from one familiar landmark to the next, and when I came upon the manicured gardens of Hampton Court Palace, on the edge of my beloved Bushy Park, I knew I had arrived.
“Squawk! Mama loves me!”
Polly. In the dayroom, my pink parrot perches in her golden cage. I slip between the bars and reach out to stroke her neck feathers, but she doesn’t tip her head. She doesn’t feel my touch.
I pucker, blowing kisses.
She imitates me, her usual response, and looks me right in the eye. I am seen and heard. My lonely soul tickles with delight.
“Mama’s here,” I say.
She clucks, beady eye locked on me.
My portrait, a Romney from my early days in London, hangs above the mantelpiece. William, the Duke of Clarence, cast me aside like an old newspaper, but he hasn’t removed this evidence of me. I hover close to this painting, taking in the brushstrokes which form my face. When it was painted, I had not yet met the duke, and I was madly in love with someone else. I was twenty-five, dazzling the London stage; a starlet on the rise, reaching for giddy heights and terrified I would tumble down, back into the muck. Romney hasn’t captured these worries and secrets – the true me.
Footsteps in the hallway, purposeful and composed, grow nearer. Fear pulses through my still veins, and I curl into the curtain folds.
Sophy enters with quick, deliberate steps and glances about the room. She carries herself with confidence – shoulders pressed back and spine straight – the aristocratic air I always lacked. She has my eyes and William’s mouth and jawline, a perfect blend of us.
My portrait looms above her, and I realise that she is nearly the same age as I was when it was painted. I had endured much by that age; her first two decades of life could not be more different. She has never known the gnawing pains of hunger or the hopeless terror of being without a home. Still an innocent – I hope.
I reach for her, but she slips through my embrace. Her gaze lands on the embroidery basket near the window and her brow furrows.
“Have you seen my riding crop?” a little voice calls from the hallway.
“Don’t bellow from another room,” Sophy scolds.
Mely, our youngest, skips in and rummages between the sofa cushions. She will always be my baby.
“Why are you wearing your riding clothes?” Sophy asks.
Mely stops searching. “Just one more ride – please?”
“We’re not packed,” Sophy says. “Your embroidery is still here. Have you sorted your paints and brushes? You’ll want them in London.”
Mely bites her lip and shakes her head. Her chin trembles. I wrap myself around her, but I cannot comfort. I am a mother unable to mother.
“I know it is difficult, but it’s not seemly to stay here with Papa and his new bride.”
Bride. The word stings. What will become of my children?
“But Jasper…”
“The groom will look after him, and I’m sure you’ll be able to come out for a ride from time to time.” Sophy’s tone softens as she kneels beside her little sister. “London has much to offer.”
Sophy has always been her father’s princess, regardless of legalities. He spoiled her from birth. Seeing her comfort her sister stirs my soul; she has matured in my absence.
“I found it!” sings Ta. My fourth-born daughter bursts into the room waving the crop. “Let’s go!”
“Not you too!” Sophy says. “Amelia and Augusta FitzClarence, I despair!”
“Does it really matter when we leave?” Ta retorts.
“Once you’re out there, you’ll ride the length and breadth of the park and decide to do it all over again.”
Ta scowls. “Why are you telling us what to do? You’re not Mama.”
I’m your mother.
They take no notice, their argument growing louder. Polly whistles obscenities, adding to the din.
“The carriage leaves in an hour – with or without you,” Sophy warns.
“Fine,” says Ta. “We’ll stay here.”
They bicker like players straying off-script.
“What’s all this shouting?” Mary says, entering the room alongside Eliza, completing my brood of daughters.
“Hold! Reset the scene!” I call. But they ignore my direction, voices rising.
Eliza presses her fingers to her lips and lets out a long and impressive whistle, which Polly imitates marvellously.
Silence falls.
Wherever did Eliza learn to whistle like that?
“What would Mama say if she saw us like this?” Eliza asks.
I’m enjoying every minute, dear girl. I’ve missed you, arguments and all.
“She never abided our quarrelling,” Mely declares.
Hearing her speak of me, I am less lonesome.
“We need one another – now more than ever,” Eliza adds.
The sisters exchange glances, and the tension eases, as if they all suddenly grasp the weight of the changes before them.
“We promise to be back in an hour,” says Ta.
Mely places her hand solemnly on her heart.
“Departing after lunch would be most practical,” Mary says. “Gives us plenty of time to pack and reach London by tea.” She looks to Sophy, waiting for her response.
“I suppose,” Sophy relents. “No point travelling on an empty stomach.”
The two youngest race off towards the stables.
A few hours later, their trunks are loaded into the cart. My girls climb into the carriage – ribboned, bowed and snugly fitted, like confections in a pretty tin. If only I could creep in and curl up with them.
But I cannot go; I must wait for the bride who will take my place.