Author's Note: All characters, events, and places described in this narrative are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This is a story series that I have wanted to write for some time and is inspired by D.H. Lawrence's classic story, Lady Chatterley's Lover. Although that story spoke mainly about class differences of that period, I have also added an exploration of racial differences, something which would have been equally, if not more, scandalous at the time.
Please note that I have also tried my best to capture the language and the social attitudes of this time period, particularly amongst the English aristocracy, including the use of terms that have fallen out of use in the contemporary period.
As always, all comments and feedback are welcomed.
HF
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(Yorkshire, April 1923)
The golden eagle soared high above the grand estate that was set amongst the rolling green countryside of Yorkshire. As the morning sun caught its golden-brown plumage, it looked down on over 500 acres of land that comprised the estate. Although it couldn't comprehend it, the carefully cultivated land that it flew over was a testament to the stability of the English aristocracy that had existed for generations.
As it flew on, it approached the heart of the estate and the site of Blackwood Manor, an imposing 18th-century building built from grey stone and decorated by grand Georgian architecture. Surrounding it were sweeping gardens inspired by the works of Capability Brown and marked by a long driveway lined by rows of beech trees that led to the main entrance. It was indifferent to the efforts that had gone into landscaping around the estate, caring only for where it could locate its next meal.
The eagle soared around the grand building, indifferent to the affairs of the humans that scurried about the building. Landing perfectly on the coping of a balcony, the bird turned its eyes towards the glass, peering within at the humans inside, it's dark eyes reflecting only curiosity at their actions.
Inside her bedroom, Lady Vivienne Ashcombe sat before her dressing table, her green eyes watching in the mirror as her maid, Annie, fastened the final button on her silk dress. It was a pale shade of lavender, modestly cut but undeniably elegant, with delicate pintucks at the bodice and a row of mother-of-pearl buttons running down the back to her waist. The latest Parisian fashion, expensive and desirable.
Moving to the nearby wardrobe, the young girl retrieved a fine wool cardigan in dove grey and helped her mistress slide her arms into the sleeves before draping it over her shoulders, the garment a small concession to the lingering morning chill that hung in the air, despite the fire the crackled in the nearby fireplace. Around her legs her silk stockings were secured with garters of cream lace just above her knees, and on her feet, she wore soft white leather T-strap shoes, polished to a subdued gleam.
Vivienne's auburn hair, which had once cascaded in waves down her back, was now arranged into a sleek bob, a style her mother, the duchess, deplored but which was undeniably fashionable among the more daring ladies of London society. A small expression of her individuality that at times clashed with the expectations of a woman of her station.
"That will be all, Annie," Vivienne said softly, as she stood, smoothing the fine fabric over her hips, ensuring her appearance befitted her status as the wife of a Viscount. If only I could hide the emptiness in my heart, she thought unhappily to herself. She could almost hear the voice of her mother reminding her of her duty, of the expectations placed upon her.
"Yes, my lady," the girl replied in a broad Yorkshire accent, bobbing a quick curtsy before retreating. Vivienne glanced in the mirror at the reflection of the young girl as the left the room. She knew the life of the servants was hard and difficult, despite how well she and her husband looked after their staff. But they were free, free of the expectations that hung around her neck like a millstone. Who had the better life, she often wondered to herself?
It hadn't always been this way -- when she married six years earlier, she had been happy. They had been happy. They had looked forward to a life together, to raising a family. But then he had left for the War.
With a quiet sigh, Vivienne turned away from the mirror and made her way downstairs to the breakfast room. The house was as silent as a mausoleum, save for the distant chime of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Blackwood Manor, for all its grandeur, had become an oppressive place in recent years, and its silence only served to amplify the disquiet that had filled her heart.
Her husband, Lord Henry Ashcombe, was already seated at the breakfast table, dressed in his usual dark three-piece suit, though he had foregone a tie, and his dark-brown hair was more unkept than usual, a clear indication of his state. It had been another sleepless night for him, the night terrors had returned, she had realised. A newspaper lay open before him, and beside it, a steaming cup of black coffee sat untouched.
"Good morning, Henry," Vivienne greeted as she took her seat opposite him. His once handsome face looked haggard and drawn, his eyes vacant. She could barely remember what he looked like when they met.
He gave a curt nod, barely glancing up from his paper.
She unfolded her napkin carefully, willing herself not to let his indifference wound her. She knew it wasn't her that was the source of his discomfort. At least that was what she continued to tell herself. The butler, Mr. Sloane, stepped forward to serve her tea, the grey-haired man's movements precise and practiced, despite his slight stoop. She accepted it with a murmured thanks before attempting to broach conversation again with her husband as the older man withdrew carrying the silver breakfast tray.
"You slept poorly again," she observed, trying to be as delicate as she could be. I must try, for him, for us. She hesitated. "I... I heard you pacing the corridor late into the night."
Henry did not look at her as he replied, "You need not concern yourself with such things, Vivienne."
Vivienne pressed her lips together, valiantly resisting the urge to argue. It had been the same ever since his return from the War four years earlier. He was a different man now -- his warmth and affection had been left in the trenches of France, buried in the mud alongside the men of his Regiment who had not come home to England.
It was always like this now. Conversations stretched thin, his responses clipped and disinterested, cursory at best, bereft of affection. She had once imagined marriage to be filled with quiet companionship, with love and affection that deepened over time. Instead, she now felt like little more than a shadow at his side, tolerated, but not cherished.
Still, she was his wife, and so, she tried. "I was thinking, perhaps, if the weather holds, we might take a drive into York this afternoon. We could visit that new gallery on St. Saviourgate," she ventured.
He turned a page. "I'm busy."
"Busy?" she echoed, carefully keeping any note of disappointment from her voice. "With what?"
"The estate."
The estate. It was always the estate. It seemed the only thing that he was passionate about now was the estate, often spending hours alone pouring over maps and documents in the privacy of his study. Vivienne had often thought that perhaps this reminded him of his time away during the War. But he was home now. Home with her.
They ate in silence for a time, the clink of antique silverware against the porcelain china the only sound between them in the grand room. Gathering her courage, Vivienne finally broached the subject that had weighed on her mind for months.
"Henry," she said gently, not wanting to provoke an argument, something that had become more frequent over the past year as the instances of his night terrors had increased. "I... I know this is difficult, but we must speak of it." She paused, licking her lips that were suddenly dry. "An heir. The estate -- your name --"
"I am aware of my duty, as I of yours," he interrupted, finally lowering the paper to look at her. His hazel eyes were tired, distant, as though he had already left the room in spirit even if his body remained. "I have not forgotten." The way he said it carried a degree of finality to the discussion.
Vivienne swallowed. "Then perhaps we might..." Her words trailed off.
"It will happen when it happens," he said flatly, his eyes returning to the paper.
"Will it?" The words slipped out before Vivienne could stop them. "You barely touch me anymore."
