Matriarch

Chapter 1-2

Mind you, I don’t think that one could entirely blame her; after all, her husband kept a mistress, and I have to say that we thought she must have known. Fritzhugh and I often talked about it, and I am sure it would have hurt her a great deal, particularly as everyone, except her, apparently knew who she was, and that she was very vivacious and in the theatre. The news from South Africa was not good, Handsmere’s men had got very sunburnt, and their bright uniforms stood out on the veldt, which made them easy targets for the Boers. Her husband wrote explaining they were going to try and use a new concept known as camouflage, which would help them to merge into the surrounding bush. She wrote, thoroughly endorsing the idea, although, as she told Fritz that as he was getting rather rotund, it was difficult to imagine his father disguised as a rock or a small tree.

While he was away, she made a point of travelling up to London to see Fritzhugh, and her letters said she found him much more settled and mature. There had been no more of his chasing around and setting the tongues of London society wagging. She also wrote that it was time she set about arranging a match for Fritz. Not that he had much trouble on his own, for they literally threw themselves at him.

“Nan, how would his mother know that?”

“Well darling, in fact she didn’t, Fritz told me. I am quite sure he exaggerated a great deal, but that doesn’t matter in the least, because he only ever did so to entertain me. While we are on the subject, his mother once observed that she was shocked at how the younger maids were easily flustered whenever he was home, and that she would not tolerate any funny business with them. Meanwhile, her husband’s letters arrived a bundle at a time. They were full of action and thrilling to read, and she would have pictured her darling husband riding flat out after the enemy. They must be very stubborn to want to keep fighting, she often remarked, but she was pleased to think of him representing their glorious family name in the van of the Empire.

Sadly, the flow of letters stopped, and instinctively she knew. A polite letter from that wooden-headed Lord Kitchener followed, which informed her that Handsmere had been wounded. It went on to assure her that he was receiving the best possible attention, which gave her cause for confidence, or so she thought. For barely four weeks later, a fellow officer arrived to tell her that her husband had died of his wounds. “That was very sad,” I remarked, and promptly made us a pot of tea while my young mind tried to digest this turn in the story. “Why not put out the biscuits we made yesterday? Shall I continue?” she would say when I was settled.

“Yes Nan, but I still think his father’s death was very sad.”

“Fritz was doing his best to bear up, but tried to conceal that he was drinking heavily, as I understand his mother was. It would have been a difficult time for them. And so it was that around eight months later, the executor of Lord Brancliff’s Estate came up from London. There was a solicitor and a senior clerk. According to Fritz, they were serious-looking gentlemen in black frock-coats who gave the appearance of carrying the weight of the entire world upon their shoulders. Their manner made his mother uneasy. Fritz had travelled down from London and was doing his best to be the head of the household and to comfort her. After a desolate lunch, during which there was no cheer, and the air hung like a damp rug, the legal advice was dispensed by Bartholomew Craven, a solicitor, who presided over the proceedings.

‘I must ask you to adjourn to the study where we have to apply ourselves to some very serious business,’ he announced in a sombre voice, ‘and indeed, may I assure you, my Lady, and you, my Lord, that you have the deepest and most sincere sympathy of all the partners of your solicitors, Messrs Craddock, Farnshure, and Branskin, who remain steadfastly at your service.’ Fritz could recall all the minutia of this occasion, although he said he would disappear to fortify himself from a brandy decanter which was kept on the day-room sideboard. She could smell it on him, and was mortified to think that so could their visitors.

Mr. Craven began: ‘we are gathered here today to read The Last Will and Testament of the Late Lord Handsmere, Ponsonby, Harry, Brancliff, Colonel in Chief of our most Sovereign Majesty’s Horse Guards KC, MG, MC,’ which he did in a solemn voice, stopping every now and again to clear his throat. The income from the estate went to Lady Sarah solely during her lifetime, or until she remarried. Upon her death, the estate passed to Fritzhugh. The will was a lengthy one with gifts and bequests to various worthy causes and to his retainers. Mr. Craven droned on and on about his responsibilities and about the great complexity of the estate. His monotonous voice made it difficult for Fritz, much fortified from the decanter, to stay awake.

There followed a long winded elucidation during which he revealed the alarming fact to the immediately startled audience, that in his considered opinion, the estate was well on the way to becoming insolvent. That edification out of the way, he distributed a list of assets and liabilities, the greater part of which appeared to be the latter. He went on to explain that Lord Handsmere had been a gambler, and that his estate had been rudely diminished. Mr. Craven recommended the sale of some of the less sound assets of the estate as soon as possible. Lady Sarah said her goodbyes to their visitors from London and requested a large brandy, as slowly she absorbed the ramifications of the day. She asked her son, the new Lord Brancliff, to join her.

When they were settled, in the east wing drawing room, she asked in a rather dismissive tone, which was how Fritz remembered it, ‘Who was that woman, a Henrietta May, who takes three hundred pounds from your dear father’s estate?’ ‘Oh, my dear, dear mater,’ Fritz said, feeling not in the least bit remorseful for his pater’s infidelities, and rather more like Wellington at Waterloo, quickly manoeuvring his forces to fill a gap. ‘Nobody of any consequence, I would think just one of pater’s many theatre friends in London.’ Then in, he thought, a skilful stratagem, he feinted, to ward off her charge into the unmentionable, ‘I did not know he owned a cattle station in the north of Australia, did you mama?’ ‘Dear Fritz, there appears to be quite a lot we did not know about my dear husband. He was a good man; I loved him with all my heart and will miss him dearly, but we should be comforted with the knowledge he died bravely for Queen and Empire.’ ‘We shall miss him, mama.’

The dreary days of that winter passed with uncommon delay, until one day a note arrived from the Earl of Fairley asking if he might call upon Lady Sarah. She accepted, and in no time, he had invited the fair lady to call him ‘Bunty’, a name he had acquired at school. She had made up her mind that a union with the Earl would be a very sensible match. He had in his favour, an excellent seat on a horse, a much smaller estate that was easier to manage but ideal for hunting, and an income that was said to be large. He was moderate in drink, and most agreeably, she enjoyed his kisses. Before long, they had taken to meeting at a friendly inn, an easy sulky ride from their estates, where they were made most comfortable. After a few dalliances, Bunty proposed, and the lovely Lady Sarah immediately accepted. They were married soon after.”

“Nan, she didn’t waste any time.” The old lady smiled, “Dear one, in my opinion, Fritzhugh probably felt his father’s death more keenly than his mother, as she soon resumed her busy, if restricted, social life. I think his loss would have hastened his coming to maturity. He was a self-confident young man when I met him, which would only have been a year or so later. Fritz never took to his mother’s new husband at all. They encouraged him to follow in his father’s martial footsteps. But much to their surprise, Fritz announced he was going to Australia to gain experience on the estate’s Australian cattle run. The vast selection was known as Arrawatta, which Lord Brancliff had purchased as a speculation, sight unseen, during a collapse of the Australian market. My husband told me that what really appealed to him was it being so large that much of it had not yet been seen by white men.

Those were difficult times, and he hoped the change might lessen his fondness for drink, which I must say he controlled; but it was always there during our life together. Fritz had also decided to separate himself from his mistress, whom his pater had so kindly arranged for him in London. Apparently, since his father’s death, she had become very possessive; he said he could not move without her prying, and of course he was glad he had concealed these things from his mother.

So the more he found out about this faraway land on the very edge of the Empire, the more it appealed to him. There was also the advantage of being far removed from the odious influence of his stepfather. Also, as Fritz would freely admit, his behaviour at home was, in his own most benevolent view, erratic and his mother was becoming concerned. One evening she confronted him. ‘Fritzhugh,’ she said firmly, ‘have you been drinking, and are you aware your tie and top stud are all askew? You know Bunty expects us to gather for drinks before dinner and I was sure I smelled brandy on your breath.’

‘Mater, I may have had one or two.’

Of course it had been more; his relationship with Bunty had deteriorated, and as you would expect, his stepfather hid his own feelings from his new wife. So the Earl went out of his way to encourage Fritz’s leaving. Hardest of all was the Earl’s constant criticism of anything to do with his pater. The mere thought of that gauche man trying to follow in his father’s footsteps was enough to drive young Fritz to the nearest bottle. He was still grieving, but he was determined to make his farewells with all the good grace that he could muster.

But the real shock of leaving England came with his arrival in the top end of Australia, where the conditions were very different from what he had contemplated. The sun shone down with a ferocity he could not have imagined, and a cloud of small black bush flies adopted him as their own. The harshness made the young Englishman blanch in genuine apprehension. Fritzhugh even began to entertain the thought that he may have acted in haste. The prospect of the long ride into Arrawatta with the mailman was no exception. Although they were to become very close friends for the rest of their too short lives, their first meeting proved to be a great clash of cultures.

He was fond of recalling those early days.

‘No mate, you can’t take all of those ports,’ the mailman announced, pushing his old felt hat to the back of his head, so that he could scratch a habitual itch, while casting a disapproving eye over Fritzhugh’s large collection of leather portmanteaus, all emblazoned with the family crest. ‘Struth mate, I mean to say, out to where you’re going is just a slab hut among the trees.’ The caravan sat looking at them curiously as the mild altercation continued, and an aged Afghan began the loading. ‘Well my good man,’ Fritzhugh said, standing on his dignity, as if the well-being of the Empire depended upon it, ‘we cannot very well leave my ports out in the middle of nowhere, can we?’ ‘Listen mate, if I had b****y well known you were going to bring this much baggage, I would have brought a dozen extra camels. I have never seen a cove with so much stuff. Tell you what, it is the dry now so we will stack them well away from the track and I will leave early to pick them up on me next run, no one comes through here except me, and one of the neighbours wants me to bring in an extra load.’