Sarah & Eleanor

By Paddy Austin

When two well-born women run away from their homes in Kilkenny to live together, the genteel world of 18th century Ireland is scandalised. Not daunted, Lady Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby pursue their desire, and make a life together that is as happy and fulfilling as it is eccentric. Lovers of the romantic movement, and followers of the philosophies of Rousseau, they create a home in Llangollen in Northern Wales, and become known widely as the Ladies of Llangollen.

Before long, they are the focus of a group of people whose love of philosophy, literature and politics draws them to the beautiful garden and increasingly Gothic home that Sarah and Eleanor share, and they are loved and admired by all who spend time in their company. Increasingly freed from the restraints normally placed on women, but careful of their good name, they are earthy and satirical, intelligent and resourceful and capable of unexpected insights into the world around them.

Sarah's early experiences, particularly at the hands of her adopted uncle, and Eleanor's inability to meet the expectations of her aristocratic mother, lead them to view love and intimacy in ways that are unusual for their time, and their determination to succeed in their chosen way of life is underpinned by their devotion to each other.

Based on a true story, Sarah & Eleanor is a tale of betrayal, seduction, loneliness and desire. But mostly, it is a story of a love that endures through hardships and scandal, and leaves a legacy of achievement still admired today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paddy Austin
• Release date: Oct 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466107489

Paddy Austin

I am a New Zealander indulging my love affair with the UK, by living and working in England for a few years. I love historical fiction, and am particularly interested in the lives of women who have acted against the constraints imposed on them by the times in which they live. I also write about my travels, and enjoy entertaining people with my stories. I have also been known to write doggerel ditties for friends who reach various milestones. I'm living the dream in Oxfordshire, and hope people will enjoy my writing.

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SARAH &ELEANOR

By Paddy Austin

Sarah & Eleanor

Paddy Austin

Copyright 2011 by Paddy Austin

Smashwords Edition

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Acknowledgements

I am indebted to a number of people for their help in the production of this novel. My thanks go to the Denbighshire County Council, for having the foresight to ensure that Plas Newydd is preserved on the hill above Llangollen, which inspired me in the first place, on a serendipitous trip to North Wales. I am also grateful to the volunteer who spent three hours with me at Plas Newydd - sadly, the passage of time means that I don’t remember your name, but your passion for the story and the place helped me more than I can say. To others from the Council and the Archives at Ruthun, my thanks for the generous access to your time and knowledge.

A great deal of the information which lies behind this story has been drawn from the two books by Elizabeth Mavor: the biography The Ladies of Llangollen, and the collection of letter and diary entries, both of which brought Sarah Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler so much to life. I have created a fictional account, which I hope is true to the fascinating and intriguing women who inhabit the pages of those biographical works, and the source materials in the archives.

My grateful thanks to the many people involved in the writing and publication of this book. The very kind reader from the Welsh Book Council whose reader’s report was so enthusiastic, and helped inspire me to carry on with the work; Sarah Quigley who edited the manuscript so sensitively and intelligently, and made the work of re-writing easier than it might otherwise have been; Rae Ewing, who read and re-read patiently, and gave me such good advice; Felicity Price, who called me an author when I despaired of publication; and Quentin Wilson who would have if he could have.

And lastly, my thanks to my children, Josh and Abby, who believe in me in the face of all evidence to the contrary, and to Murray, whose patience and support has been unfailing, and who keeps me believing in unconditional love.

Sarah

What sorrow was thou badst her know

And from her own she learnt to melt at other’s woe

Thomas Gray – Hymn to Adversity

I often believe now that it was inevitable that I came to be loved by Eleanor Butler, and I’m sure I could never have loved anybody else. As I sit here in the library at Plas Newydd, as I go about the routines we established over so many years, I feel like I am living in the past, waiting for the future, knowing that she is waiting for me.

The books around me carry such vivid memories of discussions, debates, the struggle I had in reading French, Eleanor’s patience that wore so thin so often, the visits from people of such brilliance and fascination.

And above all, as I fondle Chance’s soft golden ear and watch her lean against my chair in ecstasy, I think a lot about the nature of love, its pleasures and pains, its demands and satisfactions. And always, always that funny, infuriating, clumsy and wonderful woman who shared my life for fifty years.

I was eight when my mother died, in childbirth they told me, in trying to give me a brother. I remember her as a sad presence, one who used to say very little most of the time. She used to stroke my hair, and tell me that I had her family eyes: ‘good honest blue eyes,’ she would say.

But apart from that, her memory is frustratingly vague. Perhaps it was her sadness, a sense that she was somehow absent, that makes her fade into the back of my mind, like a faint imprint in the backdrop of my memory, against which everything else stands out in sharp relief and high colour. Occasionally I wonder what would have happened if she had not died – whether this extraordinary life of mine would have turned out as it did.

I sit back in my chair, easing the pressure on my swollen legs slightly with the change of position, and let my mind drift back to Merrin, my first home, and the adventures that came after.

i

‘Well my little fellow – and how have you been spending your day?

Whenever Sarah’s father came into the room where she was sitting, he would always say something like this to her. She never tired of it. He was a big man, most striking, with a loud voice. He would take her under the arms and swing her high in the air. Her stomach would somersault with the sudden movement, then her face would be in his shoulder, and she would smell the mixture of horse and tobacco in his jacket. When he lifted her like this, she would squeal with a mixture of joy and fright, which made him laugh and swing her all the higher.

‘I am well, Papa, and have been busy in the garden,’ she would say, in the deep voice she always affected, which would make him laugh again. So often, she had heard him say he wanted a son. She couldn’t dress like a boy, but she could talk like one, and she could have her interests outdoors, rather than in sewing or playing the piano.

Her garden was her pride and joy. Burke, the gardener, had allocated a spot for her in the flower garden by the parlour window. At the request of her father, he had provided her with plants from his stock, and she pottered happily, pulling weeds, watering the small plants, and waiting for flowers to appear, saving all the news for the evening discussion with her father.

‘The bluebells have come through, Papa, and I can see little green tips where the hyacinths are beginning to break the earth.’

‘I hope you haven’t been digging down to find them again, and breaking the tips!’

‘No, indeed, Papa, I learnt my lesson well last spring.’

If he was pleased with her, and usually he was, he would then sit with her on his knee, telling her stories, sitting straight in his chair, in the military way. He had scars on his arms, from swords he said, and one thin line above his eye, where he had nearly perished beside his father.

‘For a long while we were outnumbered, and we had to trick those wily French into thinking we were a much larger army, while reinforcements came to us from Belgium.’

Sarah would shiver while he told her tales of bloodthirsty encounters and thrilling gallops into the face of the enemy. He was a hero in her eyes, and she would have given anything to be able to don breeches and gallop beside him into battle.

She loved it when he would call her his little fellow. Her mother didn’t like these games. Sometimes, she would speak sharply to Sarah, who would be resentful and rebellious. It was only much later that Sarah realised how hurt her mother must have been, knowing how her husband wanted a son.

When her mother died, her father turned to Sarah’s company more often for comfort, which made her very proud, and stopped her missing her mother quite so much. Sarah loved looking after him, fetching his pipe, listening to him talk of times past. She felt he needed no-one else but her, and she looked forward to being his companion in his old age. How betrayed she felt when she learnt that she had played no such grand part in his plans for his future. It was only a year after her mother died, when Sarah had only begun to lighten the dark dress she wore to mourn her, that he came to seek her out in the garden.

‘Sarah, you must rejoice with me. I am to have a new wife, and you will have a mother again. I am to marry Mary Barker.’

He stood there, smiling broadly, arms akimbo, as large as ever, filling her sight as he always did. His smile faded as he looked at her.

‘What is it, my little one? Your face is as white as that vibernum blossom you are holding! Will you not be pleased to have a new Mama, and maybe a little brother in due course?’

Sarah could only stare, her eyes wide, but dry. Eventually, she found her voice and said, ‘But Papa, you have me. I can be your companion, and I don’t need a brother. I have you, and my garden….’

His cluck of impatience silenced her. ‘I have to marry, little one,’ he said. ‘I need a male heir, and Mary is young and strong. She will give me one, I am sure.’

Sarah sank to her knees on the lawn, staring ahead of her, saying nothing. He stood over her, waiting for her to look up, but she could not. She couldn’t bear to see that beloved face and know that she was not enough for him. Eventually he laughed, a strange, harsh sound, and walked off, telling her that she had better be welcoming to her new mother.

After the wedding, at which she had been an unwilling but well-behaved presence, she went to her favourite ash tree in the woods, and let flow the tears she had held back for fear of her father’s displeasure.

Gradually, her new mother helped to lessen the sorrow. She taught Sarah to play the pianoforte, and to net purses of fine quality. Sarah grew to enjoy her company, particularly now that her father had become more distant to her. It was some comfort to her that he would look kindly on her as she sat with her stepmother, talking or working quietly. It did not seem to be the same with Mary, though. The moment her husband came into the room, she would become tense and jumpy, unable to concentrate on her work, her eyes following him anxiously about the room. Sarah wondered at this, remembering that her own mother had reacted in a similar way to him.

Twice, Sarah’s stepmother announced to him that she was with child, and Chambre grew extremely excited, telling Sarah that soon she would have a baby brother. Then he became more like the old Papa, treating his wife tenderly, playing boisterous games with Sarah again. But the pleasure was short-lived. Twice, her stepmother spent time in bed and, when she came downstairs again, white and tearful, she would tell Sarah that there would be no brother this time. Then Chambre would grow short with both of them, and they would see much less of him for a time.

Both times, Sarah had wished fervently that the baby brother would go away, and now she grew afraid that she had caused these catastrophes to happen. In her evening prayers, she prayed that she would not be punished for such witchcraft. To make up for her wickedness, she became more solicitous of her stepmother’s health, fetching for her, enquiring after her well-being. When she thought no-one was looking, she would gaze at the front of her stepmother’s gown to see if her prayers had been answered, and if a baby might be coming.

Just before Sarah’s twelfth birthday, the household brimmed over with excitement again. Her stepmother was once more with child, and had carried it for far longer than the previous two. Her body started to swell, and her face grew round and rosy with pregnancy and satisfaction. Sarah continued her prayers, this time wishing for a healthy brother with all her heart. Her father’s prediction had come true; her stepmother had become like a mother to her, and she wanted so much for everyone to be happy again.

As the time for the birth of the child grew near, Sarah came downstairs one morning to find a huge bustle in the hall. Servants were running to and fro, and Chambre was striding down the stairs, his voice booming orders. He caught sight of her.

‘Sarah, you must look after your mama very carefully until I return. I have to go to Dublin on urgent business. I do not like to leave her at this time but, if I go now and hurry, I will be back before the baby comes.’ He set off on his huge grey horse, away from the house. The sight of him galloping down the lane, the horse’s great hooves flicking up mud, was to be the last Sarah ever had.

Some days later, as she was coming in from the garden with a posy of flowers for her stepmother, she heard cries coming from the rooms upstairs. Terrified that the baby had been lost again, she rushed into the room, not stopping to knock. Her stepmother was lying on the bed, tossing and wailing, as Frances the housekeeper tried to calm her.

‘What is it, Mother?’ Sarah’s voice was very far from firm.

Frances looked around and hushed her. ‘Be quiet now, Sarah. Your father’s gone. We’ve lost him!’

For a moment, in her confusion, Sarah heard her literally, thinking that her father had been mislaid, that they would have to search for him under the bed, in the garden. Then the housekeeper’s words struck home. She sank to the floor, her mouth wide, no sound coming from it other than huge gasps, as she tried to draw breath into a chest that felt as if it had been crushed.

‘You poor little soul,’ Frances cried. ‘It’s your father as you’ve lost, and you no more than a child.’ She went to Sarah, bending and lifting her into her arms, holding her and sobbing, which only caused Sarah to become more frightened. Suddenly, her stepmother’s wails turned to groans of pain, and she called out. ‘Frances, the pains have come. My time has come early!’

Frances put Sarah down, and held her shoulders, looking into her face and giving her a little shake. ‘Quick, Miss Sarah. Run down and get James to send for the midwife. Tell him to hurry. Mrs Ponsonby’s baby is coming early! Quick!’ And she shooed Sarah out of the room.

Sarah ran down the stairs to the kitchens, where Frances’s husband James was stoking up the fire. She delivered the message, then, unsure of what else to do, ran back to the bedroom.

‘You go to your room, lovely. This is no place for a child,’ said Frances. Sarah caught a glimpse of her stepmother’s face, contorted and red. She was gasping with the pain, and tossing her head around. She caught sight of Sarah.

‘No! Stay, Sarah. Come, hold my hand. I need you, little one.’

Not knowing quite what she was doing, Sarah ran to the bed, and scrambled up beside her stepmother. She held out her hand and suppressed a squeal as it was squeezed tightly. With her other hand she brushed the wet hair out of her stepmother’s eyes, and said, ‘It’s alright, Mama, I’m here. You’re safe.’

For what seemed to be hours, Sarah sat there, sometimes holding her stepmother’s hand, sometimes wiping her face with the damp cloth Frances held out to her. She forgot about her father, forgot everything but the panting, straining woman beside her. When the midwife came and told her to go she was quite determined.

‘I am staying here. My mother needs me, and I will not leave her.’

After a while, the midwife grew used to Sarah. She contented herself with giving brief instructions, busying herself under the shift that Sarah’s stepmother had been stripped down to, occasionally grunting and muttering to herself. Because of the interest in that part of her stepmother, Sarah decided that was where the baby must have grown, and stole anxious glances from time to time to see what might emerge from the damp cotton shroud. At last, the panting grew more urgent, and Mary strained mightily, letting out great groans of pain.

‘That’s right ma’am, push, push! He’s coming. The little one is coming. I can see his head.’

Sarah slipped unnoticed from beside her stepmother, and stole down to the end of the bed. What she saw made her head swim, and the room go black for a time. Between Mary’s legs was a gaping, bloody mess, with a small round object coming out of the middle. The midwife’s hands were locked around that something, inside the red gap, and suddenly she pulled. Sarah’s stepmother let out an unworldly shriek, and the midwife pulled back, a scrawny, bloody body between her hands.

Blood gushed out of the gap that was left, and a long strip of skin unravelled, attached to the baby. Sarah concentrated hard, holding the bedpost tightly, willing herself not to scream or faint. From behind her she heard a sound like a mewling cat, and the midwife said, ‘There you are ma’am! A fine baby boy! Just as well he came early – he’s pretty big as he is.’

Sarah’s stepmother didn’t answer. She lay back on the pillows, exhausted and panting. A grim smile curled her mouth. Eventually, she said, ‘There you are, Chambre. The boy you wanted. And there you are, crushed under your horse.’

Sarah looked at her, appalled, then at Frances, who held a warning finger to her lips. The world spun around her, and blackness descended.

ii

Sarah tried to love her brother, named Chambre for his father. She took him for walks in the baby carriage, but in her mind, he was too closely linked with the horror of that Monday when he was born. He seemed to be the reason her father had gone. Eventually, as he grew to recognise her and gurgle with pleasure when he saw her, she began to grow fonder of him, realising he was not to be blamed for her loss.

In less than two years from the death of her father, Sarah’s stepmother accepted the proposal to become the wife of Sir Robert Staples, the Squire of a large estate in the neighbouring county, and a widower. When she told Sarah, she could not look at her in the eyes. Young as Sarah was, she could have told her that betrayal was becoming a familiar companion to her, and her stepmother need not feel guilty.

Frances who, from the night of Chambre’s birth, had taken Sarah on as her own particular protégée, cried noisily when Sarah bade her goodbye. Sarah had been sure that Frances would go with them, but it was not to be.

‘Your Mama says that Sir Robert has all his own staff, and that he does not want the expense of any more,’ Frances said to her, her mouth tight. ‘No doubt you will be looked after by some very grand folks, who would disdain to share their responsibilities with yokels such as us!’

‘Oh, Frances, I shan’t forget you,’ Sarah promised, hugging her tightly. ‘When I am in my own house, I shall send for you, you can be sure.’

‘That’s as may be, Miss Sarah, and I would gladly come. But you may not have the choice when the time comes.’

As they left the front doors of Sarah’s family home, rolling down the driveway where she had seen her father gallop off on his grey, she looked back for a very long time, trying to imprint the beloved grounds and house on her mind.

Dunmore, Sir Robert’s estate, had a much more imposing aspect than Merrin, and Sarah was quite overwhelmed by it from the outset. There were many servants, most of them seeming grander than her own family had been. The house was enormous, with a long, formal central building flanked by a wing at each end, set in acres of grounds, with formal gardens, quite unlike the shrubberies and rose beds she had been used to. Everything seemed regimented, spontaneity impossible. Nowhere could Sarah hear laughter except in the kitchens, where she couldn’t go. From the moment when Sir Robert bowed stiffly at Sarah, welcomed her to Dunmore and told her to treat it as her home, then ignored her completely, she never felt as if she belonged there. Feeling as if it might disappear from her at any time, she settled in to a routine whose major advantage was its sameness.

As Sarah neared her seventeenth birthday, her stepmother’s body swelled again, and she appeared less often in company as her confinement began to take a toll on her health. She grew very large, and seemed to find movement increasingly uncomfortable. In the last two months, she took completely to her bed.

On a chilly May morning, Sarah awoke to a sense of something being not quite right. There seemed a hush within the house; the maid had not been to stoke up her fire, and she dressed herself with some urgency – not just to warm herself up in the chill bedroom, but because she felt a presentiment that something was happening. Downstairs, she was met by the maid, Annie. Annie’s eyes were red, and she sniffed dolefully as she dropped a quick curtsey.

‘What on earth is the matter, Annie? Where is everyone?’

‘Oh, Miss Sarah, don’t you know? Lady Staples was brought to her labours last night, and she took real bad. The baby was too big for her, Miss, and she couldn’t bring it into the world. They’re dead, Miss – mother and baby! Sir Robert’s gone mad and rode off in the rain, and the whole house is upturned!’

A few short weeks later, Sarah faced her stepfather in the library. He had asked for her to attend him after breakfast, and she feared the worst. He looked down at her in the distant, abstracted way he had, and said abruptly, ‘Well Sarah, we have to find a home for you. You can’t stay here.’

Sarah had difficulty controlling the shaking in her voice, but she remained outwardly calm as she said, ‘I realise that, Sir Robert. I am not your daughter, and I have no claim on you. I do wonder, though, where I will go. I do not believe I have any money, and I cannot establish myself independently.’

‘Of course not! I’m not a monster, y’know. I wouldn’t turn you out to make your own way in the world, and you still not much more than a child! I’ve made enquiries. You’re to go to your relation, Lady Betty Fownes – a cousin of your mother, I believe. Her husband, Sir William, is in the first ranks of society. You’ll do very well there. They’ll be in a position to introduce you into society, find you a respectable marriage.’

Sarah’s heart sank. Another move to another family, where again she would be an outsider, and where the prospect of being introduced into society did not give her the thrill that Sir Robert clearly expected. She managed to master her feelings, however, and smiled at her stepfather, who was clearly impatient for her to be gone. ‘You are very kind to have done this for me, Sir Robert. You have thought of everything.’

He held out his hand, gave Sarah’s a brisk shake, and said, ‘Good, that’s done, then. You will leave for Woodstock tomorrow.’

Sarah dropped into a deep curtsey, as much to hide her shock as out of respect, thanked him again and left the room.

The next day, Sarah said her farewells. Little Chambre cried at the prospect of losing his sister, and Sarah promised to write to him if he would send her drawings.

Before she knew what was happening, she was seated in Sir Robert’s coach, bound for a place called Woodstock in Kilkenny County, and a new family she had never met.

ii

Sarah’s first sight of Woodstock was more encouraging than she expected. The house stood on a rise, visible from a considerable distance, and reached by a long, straight avenue of chestnut trees.

A low house of cream-coloured stone, with long flanking wings on either side, it was gracefully proportioned and welcoming. Large windows gave out onto the terrace and lawns, which sloped down to a lake, around which the driveway swooped to the wide front door. The picture was one of warmth and comfort, in spite of the watery sun struggling through the morning cloud. Sarah had been feeling low from leaving Dunmore, and had slept fitfully at the roadside inn on the previous night, but now she felt her mood lift, and she leant forward in anticipation of the first sight of her new family.

As the carriage drew up at the front steps, the door opened and she saw a woman hurry out, followed by a number of servants. The woman hesitated, then ran down the steps as the footman opened the carriage door.

‘Sarah, my dear! Welcome! Welcome!’ She engulfed Sarah in a hug.

‘Lady Betty?’ Sarah asked when she finally emerged from the lavender-scented embrace.

‘Aunt, my dear. This is your home, and I am your family. By rights, I am your cousin, but at my age it seems absurd for you to call me Cousin. You must call me Aunt.’

Sarah found herself quite disarmed by the effusive welcome. ‘Thank you, Aunt. It is very good to be here,’ she said.

Lady Betty hurried her up the steps, talking incessantly, asking about the trip, the state of the sheets at the inn, the condition of Dunmore, and Sir Robert’s health. By the time they reached the door, she was in a breathless state, barely able to make the introductions to Mr Baker the butler and his wife, the housekeeper, and to Mary Carryll, who was to be Sarah’s personal maid.

As for Sarah, she was suddenly quite overwhelmed by the attention, on top of all that had happened over the past weeks, and began to feel faint, which caused her to stagger slightly. Lady Betty’s smile was replaced by a look of concern.

‘My poor child – you are completely worn out, and here I am rattling on at you! We must get you upstairs to rest and freshen up before you meet anyone else.’

Sarah found herself bustled up the grand staircase and along a corridor, past imposing portraits, past tapestries and wall sconces, and through a carved wooden door. Inside was a pretty room, painted in shades of blue, with an enormous four-poster, a crackling fire, and a view out over flower