The Rise and Fall of Violet Douglas Pennant

By Susan Leona Fisher

On August 28th 1918, the Honourable Violet Douglas Pennant was summarily dismissed from her post as Commandant of the Women's Royal Air Force after 14 weeks in post. Instant dismissal was only used in cases of gross misconduct. What had she done? She demanded answers. Read her story in "The Rise and Fall of Violet Douglas Pennant" by Susan Leona Fisher, a biography, very accessible, written in the style of historical fiction. Free pictorial PDF of personalities and places can be downloaded from author's website.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fisher
• Release date: Apr 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201945008

Susan Leona Fisher

Susan Leona Fisher began writing fiction on her retirement, having been a technical/academic writer in her former working life. She was born in London and now lives in the Yorkshire Dales, having lived in various places in between, due to  her clergyman husband’s various postings. Her route to publication was via the New Writers’ Scheme run by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, of which she is a member. She has written 20 historical romances in settings ranging from the ever-popular Regency period to the Second World War. One of them, A Master of Litigation, made the final for historical romance in the Romantic Novel Awards 2018. She has also written several contemporary romances and one non-fiction biography.

Book preview

The rise and fall of Violet Douglas Pennant

The life and career of the daughter of 2nd Baron Penrhyn of Penrhyn Castle

by

Susan Leona Fisher

––––––––

More on the author on her website:

www.SLFisherAuthor.co.uk

Copyright © 2018 Susan Leona Fisher.

All rights reserved. The right of Susan Leona Fisher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

The characters and events in this publication are based on real circumstances using details gathered from various sets of correspondence, writings and official documents, supplemented by the author’s imagination.

First published on Amazon CreateSpace & Kindle

by Susan Leona Fisher in 2018

Available from Amazon.com and other retail outlets

Cover: Penrhyn Castle, Bangor, North Wales, © the author.

About the book

On August 28th 1918, the Honourable Violet Douglas Pennant was summarily dismissed from her post as Commandant of the Women’s Royal Air Force after 14 weeks in post. Instant dismissal was only used in cases of gross misconduct. What had she done? She demanded answers. This political biography traces her life and explores what went on during her time with the Air Force. It is very accessible, written in the style of historical fiction.

I draw on official documents of the time, including newspaper accounts, diaries, letters, autobiographies, biographies and other papers left by many of the characters involved. Any errors of fact are mine. Violet kept a diary but neither that nor any other personal papers seem to have survived, except a book she published about her dismissal and some official letters.

Each chapter portrays a scene in Violet’s life seen through the eyes of a relative, servant, friend, enemy, working colleague, politician, etc. The aim is to give a balanced view of her personality and the events of the period. Two chapters are her own voice, based on the book she wrote, but presented as her diary might have been. A few explanatory notes are given at the start of some chapters, for those unfamiliar with this period of history and the intricacies of the Douglas Pennant family.

The surname Douglas Pennant appears in various contexts both with and without a hyphen. Here it is omitted.

Acknowledgements

My research into Violet Douglas Pennant began almost 10 years ago, when I read some correspondence about her dismissal as Commandant of the Women’s Royal Air Force in 1918. There followed a long period of detective work, taking me to libraries and records offices across England and Wales and leaving me determined to tell her story.

My grateful thanks to all who assisted my journey, including staff of The British Library Reading Rooms at St Pancras and at Boston Spa, The National Records Office at Kew, The National Library of Wales, Bangor University Library Archives, Powys County Records Office, The London School of Economics Archives, The Churchill Library in Cambridge, John Rylands Library (Guardian Archives) in Manchester, the Parliamentary Archives (Lloyd George papers) at Westminster, plus the authors of many writings about the period, and the Hon Edmond Douglas Pennant, Violet’s great-great-nephew, for talking with me about the family. Also helpful were on-line sources, including The British Newspaper Archive, Hansard archive, Census records and thepeerage.com website.

Heartfelt thanks also to my husband for living with Violet for 10 years and for his expert advice on use of language and to Malyn Bromfield, Helen Fisher and Bob Young for reading the manuscript at various stages and offering such helpful ideas for refining and clarifying both content and style.

SLF, August 2018

I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, 1813

The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.

John Lyly, Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit, 1579

Table of Contents

PART 1: The making of an Honourable lady

1: The waiting

2: A birth

3: A death

4: Young family in mourning

5: A wedding

6: The new Mama

7: Sisters and bridesmaids

8: Matters of inheritance

9: Lady Salisbury’s reception

10: A royal visit

11: Society connections

PART 2: Public servant

12: A new appointment

13: Political connections

14: Ladies who lunch

15: If you don’t like it, resign

16: Chief Officers come and go

17: A new Commandant is appointed

18: A month’s look around

19: Ten weeks of summer

PART 3: The unmaking of a lady

20: A demand for answers

21: The Prime Minister’s Inquiry

22: Questions in parliament

23: House of Lords Select Committee

24: Sued for libel

25: A family funeral

26: New revelations

27: The fight continues

28: Closing years

Author’s note

Bibliography

PART 1: The making of an Honourable lady

1: The waiting

Sunday 31st January 1869, 23 Chapel Street, Belgrave Square, London

It is the time of year when lamps are lit early and sensible people stay indoors, except the landed gentry, who spend the September to January parliamentary recess shooting birds and hunting foxes.

When parliament reconvenes in February, William Ewart Gladstone will be Prime Minister for the first time, the Liberals having convincingly won last month’s General Election over Benjamin Disraeli’s Conservatives. Gladstone was aided by the votes of the urban male working class, newly enfranchised by the 1867 Reform Act.

There were some disappointed Tory candidates, including Major George Sholto Douglas Pennant, currently residing in a rented Belgravia property which he no longer requires, while awaiting a happy event.

Major Douglas Pennant’s family (as at 31 Jan 1869)

George Sholto Douglas Pennant (b 30 Sep 1836)

on 23 Aug 1860 married

Pamela Blanche Rushout (b 16 Mar 1839)

Their children:

Kathleen (Katie) (b 2 Jun 1861)

Alice (b 21 Jun 1862)

Pamela Georgina (Georgie) (b 28 May 1863)

Edward (Teddy) (b 10 Jun 1864)

Hilda (b 24 Jan 1866)

Ina (b 5 Dec 1867)

Violet (about to be born)

____________

Sounds filtered through to Pamela’s consciousness, the plodding clop of a horse in the street below and the slosh of wheels rolling past. It must still be raining. She opened her eyes and heaved a sigh, automatically raising her hands from her sides to cradle her swollen middle. Rock solid again. Past experience told her it would not be long. Thank the good Lord for that, she was so weary. She slightly shifted her prone position on the couch in a fruitless effort to gain more comfort. Nurse Hardy had also dozed off and was slumped in one of the fireside armchairs. Her crochet lay across her lap with the dangling needle threatening to fall to the floor, while her head rested on the chair back, mouth slightly open. People tended not to look their best in sleep.

A murmur of voices wafted up from the ground floor—no doubt Olivia and George back from morning service. She pictured them dripping in the hallway, the manservant Randall, or maybe the young footman Scott, relieving them of their wet coats. St George’s Church in Hanover Square was a good half hour away by cab, but George insisted he would worship nowhere else when in Town, for it was there they had wed. I can re-live that happy event in my mind while pretending to listen to the sermon, he’d once told her.

Her musing was interrupted by the gentle click of the door and the young maid, Carpenter, appeared. Oh, you are awake, madam, she said, dipping a curtsy, and then looking in surprise at the prone Hardy.

Yes, Pamela replied, pushing on her wrists to slide her heavy  body farther back along the couch and sit more upright.

Like Nurse Hardy, Carpenter had been lent by George’s stepmother, Lady Penrhyn, spared from the big family home at Wicken, in Northamptonshire. She was a pretty girl, her sweet dimples in evidence as she stared at the nurse in amusement, before bending down to rescue the crochet hook and the yarn, placing it all neatly on the table beside the sleeping woman.

A small staff was sufficient for a place this size and they weren’t needed at Wicken Park at present anyway, since neither of George’s parents were in residence. Lord Penrhyn was in Wales at Penrhyn Castle, while her ladyship was visiting Cannes. Their huge town mansion, Mortimer House, was only round the corner from here, but that too was closed for the winter season. George had brought his valet Randall up to Town with him, rather unnecessarily so in Pamela’s opinion, for they had no social engagements.

Carpenter turned back round to face Pamela. Should I bring some tea now, madam, she asked, only master’s returned.

Yes, do, Pamela said, momentarily distracted by the sight of her ankles—so swollen this time. Even keeping them up like this didn’t seem to make a difference. The girl came over.

Let me plump those cushions for you, madam.

Thank you, Pamela said, leaning forward a little.

The flurry of activity woke the nurse, who sat up at once, grunted and looked across at Pamela in some alarm, perhaps thinking the baby was coming. How she wished it was.

There we are, Carpenter said, as she turned for the door and almost collided with George. Oh, excuse me, sir, she said, scurrying out like a frightened rabbit.

Hardy pushed herself to her feet at once. Excuse me, Mrs Pennant. I’ll take the opportunity to check everything’s ready upstairs. I’m not sure the girl’s seen to the bed warmers yet. She gave a quick tip of the head to George and shut the door as she left.

Pamela had noticed how the servants seemed a little in awe of George, or perhaps simply uncomfortable in his presence. He saved all his warmth for her and their children.

George came directly over and perched his gaunt frame on the edge of the couch. How’s my darling girl...and the little one, of course? he asked, as he placed his hands either side of her and leant forward to kiss her lips in a lovely soft touch.

"As well as can be expected is the answer, she replied, at least as far as I’m concerned. Your child on the other hand—he’s been kicking for all he’s worth, eager to show his face to the world. And I’m certainly ready to be shut of him."

So it’s a boy! How do you know? He was smiling—something he’d done infrequently of late. It made his face less drawn. He had looked so haggard these past few months, and unhealthily thin—older than his 32 years perhaps.

No polite young lady would be so rough, she said, returning his smile, glad to have cheered him a little. I’ve even selected his names, if you approve. We’ve already named Edward after your father and Sholto for your second name. I thought Charles for my father this time, and George as the second name of course.

I see, he said, those blue eyes sparkling in fun. "And if you happen to be wrong, I suppose we could always name her Charlotte Georgina! Anything else of which I should be forewarned before I meet this strong-willed young gentleman?" He rested one palm on her bump. The hardness had eased now and they both felt the kick. He laughed with delight and she rested her hand on top of his.

Well, now, she said, trying to sound considered and serious, but unable to keep the smile from her voice or her face. I understand the lad is well versed politically speaking, having spent several of his most recent formative months listening to debates and pronouncements on the issues of the day. I doubt it shall be long before we observe him in action in our venerable houses of parliament.

Pamela regretted the remark at once, for George’s expression immediately turned sullen. His hand slipped away to rest on his knee and his gaze fell from her face to somewhere on the rug at his feet.

He shall have to do a good deal better than his father, in that case, he said, in that clipped, rapid way of speaking he had when upset or angry.

She knew better than to say more on the subject and, fortunately, at that moment, a tap sounded on the door and Carpenter entered with a tray of tea things.

George rose. I must change. The rain seeped through to my shirt. He left the room without another word or look.

Shall I place this by you, madam? the girl asked. Miss Olivia asked me to say she’ll be a moment. Her hem was that soaked through, all round it was, about twelve inches deep and she had to change her dress. It’s a horrid day out there.

Thank you, yes, Pamela said, sliding her slippered feet to the floor and swivelling round to sit upright. And put a little more coal on the fire, would you? We must have it nice and warm for Mr Pennant and Miss Rushout to dry themselves.

Yes, madam, she said, showing those dimples again, before crouching down to see to the grate.

Not that the room was particularly cold. Pamela slipped the shawl from her shoulders and automatically raised the lid of the silver tea-pot to give the brew a stir, her mind elsewhere, hardly noticing the maid curtsy and leave the room.

Thinking back, George had every right to be angry, she supposed. He had worked so hard—as had she. During the campaigning, she’d read newspaper accounts of Mr Jones-Parry’s speech-making and how well received the man was. She’d suggested to George that a few public meetings might be helpful publicity for him too, since Jones-Parry’s speeches were forever being quoted in the North Wales Chronicle. But no, meeting small groups face-to-face in their villages, on their home ground so to speak, was certain to secure their votes. The personal touch was the better approach, he vowed—and once George determined a course of action there was little chance of him reconsidering.

She poured herself a cup of tea and leant back with the saucer balanced on her bump. It served well as a table. Surely she’d not been this big with Ina. It must be a boy. What would he be like? Edward, their only son to date, was not yet five years old, already being trained up for his inheritance He was named after his grandfather, who had recently been honoured by the Queen—Baron Penrhyn of Llandygai he was now. Goodness that Welsh pronunciation was challenging, another skill she’d had to make at least some effort to acquire in the past eight years. Mind you, neither George nor his father knew many Welsh words and most of the staff at Penrhyn Castle spoke only English.

The award of a Barony, of course, necessitated her father-in-law resigning as Caernarvonshire’s Member of Parliament to take his seat in the Lords. In the usual tradition of these things passing from father to son, George stood in the by-election and was duly returned, there being no other candidate. Everyone assumed, when the General Election came round last month, that he’d retain the seat. But this time he was not unopposed. He underestimated the strength of the growing support for the Liberal party and, in particular, for Mr Jones-Parry, a Welsh-speaking, chapel-going native with a large following.

George...well, George was not his father. Lord Penrhyn was a robust and confident man. As a third son of a third son, with few prospects of inheritance, his fortune had been made by a prudent marriage. Pamela had never known George’s mother, and it was doubtful whether George or his four siblings remembered much about her either, for she died when they were very young.

Robbed of the chance to rear her brood to adulthood, she did however leave the family a substantial legacy, lands she inherited from her own father shortly before her death. That gave Edward Douglas lucrative estates in the West Indies and in Wales. Overnight, he owned six sugar plantations in Jamaica—the family avoided mention of the slaves who would originally have worked them—a sizeable chunk of fertile Caernarvonshire agricultural land and a huge slate quarry. The inheritance required him to take his wife’s family name, so Douglas became Douglas Pennant.

George and his siblings acquired a step-mother less than four years later and seven half-sisters followed. He rarely dwelt on his upbringing, but the little he had revealed to Pamela left her wondering how it had affected him. As the elder of two boys, he was heir to a fortune and the expectations that accompanied it. Pamela suspected he might be something of a disappointment to his father, for his education at Eton and later at Oxford had both been cut short—one did not ask why. He was a skilled angler and enjoyed the hunt, but his ambition to join the army was denied him by his father, who presumably wanted to preserve his heir from danger. George had to content himself with a role in the local volunteer militia, in which he’d achieved the rank of Major by the time of their marriage.

She knew how much George loved her, and he was rarely absent from her bed. How the years had flown. It seemed only yesterday that her uncle’s wife Lady Foley, Mary Howard as was, presented Pamela at court. Mary’s brother was Henry Howard, the 4th Duke of Norfolk, a close friend of George’s. Inevitably she and George met, fell in love and wed soon after her first season. The duke had been George’s best man at their wedding, but sadly had died a mere three months later. She wondered whether George missed his friend. He tended not to share his feelings.

Pamela absentmindedly took a sip of tea, now almost cold. She screwed up her nose with distaste, and awkwardly leant forward to place her still half-full cup and its saucer back on the table.

Which would you prefer to be, boy or girl? she asked her unborn child, stroking her middle once more. Both had their difficulties. For an heir, life’s map was already drawn, generally involving parliament and other civic roles. For a second son it was the Army or the Church. For a girl, of course, it was marriage and babies.

George had recently done his duty at the Hilary Quarter Magistrates’ Session in Caernarvon. No wonder he was in ill-humour when he returned to London after sharing the bench with both his father and Mr Jones-Parry MP, a combined reminder of his recent failure. He had only to look the first in the eye to see disappointment and the other to read triumph.

Her reverie was interrupted by the door opening and she glanced round to see her sister enter the room.

Olly, here you are! She held out her hands in greeting. Excuse me not rising, but it becomes nigh impossible to move. Did you get very wet?

Oh, that dress needed laundering anyway, Olivia replied. Dear sister, I think perhaps you should be lying down. Olivia bent to take Pamela’s hands in hers and kissed her on the cheek.

Pamela laughed at that. "It will soon be a case of lying-in—by this evening at the latest I should think. She leant back against the cushions. Could you see to pouring your own tea?"

She observed the frown creasing Olivia’s face as she bent to her task and imagined, without the need for speech, the words going through her protective older sister’s head—George is so very fond of you, my dear, but so many babies...is it wise?. They’d had such a conversation before, in this very house a little over a year ago, when Ina was born.

To forestall its repetition, Pamela quickly said, George is having to change too. Oh dear, I’ve upset him by mentioning elections. She touched her stomach. I joked that this one will likely go into politics because he heard so much electioneering in the autumn campaign last year.

How you managed all that travelling around canvassing in your condition I can’t imagine. At least that should have earned you a sympathy vote.

You’d think so. Unfortunately we were about a hundred votes short. Anyway, towards the end all I did was post out campaign leaflets. Poor George. He just assumed he’d retain the seat. After all he was unopposed at the by-election in sixty-six and it’s been in Conservative hands for seventy-five years.

And his father held it for twenty-five of those, added Olivia, repeating the information that had been so often quoted by Lord Penrhyn and others.

Pamela sighed. Yes my father-in-law was astounded at the outcome, and very disappointed of course.

Understandably, Olivia said, sinking into one of the fireside chairs, before taking a sip of tea. Extending the franchise last year was always going to benefit the Liberals.

George says it was more than that. There were some dirty tricks. He was pelted with mud on one visit and something sharp cut into his hat. If he’d not been wearing it he’d likely have been injured. That was in the closing weeks of the campaign.

What a good thing you weren’t accompanying him by then.

Exactly what he said. Of course, the Jones-Parry supporters denied any responsibility, just as they did in relation to those pamphlets misrepresenting George’s views on the Church. George is like an elephant you know, he never forgets anything. He’ll hold resentment against Jones-Parry for ever.

Olivia didn’t comment, but rose and put down her finished cup. She stepped over to the window. I think the rain’s easing off now, she said.

Pamela took the hint. Perhaps it wasn’t right to speak of her husband’s character, but Olivia had always been her close friend and confidante, as well as her protector, so it came as naturally as thinking her own thoughts out loud. How different their lives were now. People used to say they looked like twins, with the same heart-shaped face and fine bone structure. Not now, Pamela thought woefully. Anyone would think me the elder. Her face felt quite puffy.

Do look at the letters from the children, Pamela said, by way of  diverting from her self-deprecation. They’re on the little bureau over there, one from Katie and one from Alice. In fact I really must pen a reply, while I have time.

Olivia went and fetched them and sat back down, pouring over them with delight. She was very fond of her five nieces and one nephew.

It must have been raining a considerable amount there at Maidenhead. Alice says the river is running very high and even flooded the field in front of the house...I’m sorry to hear little Georgina’s doll has lost an eye. Olivia glanced across at Pamela. Let’s hope the wonderful Mademoiselle Keller is as skilled at doll repair as she is at teaching them copperplate. I’ve never seen such well-formed letters from a six year old, all so properly joined up like that.

She glanced at the second missive. Ah, the sun finally came out, for they went on a long walk...Katie says she will send you some snowdrops. Olivia put the letters down on the table between them. Delightful. How the children love being able to run about in a large garden and learn about nature and go for walks. Will George want to continue the lease on this house, do you think? After all, he only took it because he thought he’d be required in Westminster.

We’ve not discussed it, but I can’t see any point in the expense. Besides, it’s an awfully tall, thin house, with so many stairs. I shan’t miss it at all. Talking of which...I must make an attempt to climb them. Could you help me? The nurse has gone up to prepare already. She and I both know things are about to happen.

Pamela eased herself forward on the seat and Olivia, with practised skill, put a hand to her elbow and another to her back to help her stand.

All right?

Yes, Pamela replied, very all right. At last...but I’m afraid...

Olivia glanced down. Oh, your lovely satin slippers!

Not to mention the lovely Axminster rug.

Don’t you worry about that, my dear sister, let’s get you up those stairs. You have a baby to deliver.

2: A birth

Emily Carpenter sat at the small oak table that did for the servants’ board in this compact house and supped her tea. Mrs Evans had allowed her some sugar.

You’re running up and down them stairs day-in, day-out, she’d said. We need to build you up. You’re nothing but a slip of a thing. Sit you down there and rest while I see to the soup.

Mrs Agnes Evans was Under Cook back at the big Douglas Pennant house in Northamptonshire. They’d both been in service at Wicken Park for a few years now. Emily glanced at her hands, cupped round the mug for warmth—not so red and raw as they once were—started as a laundry maid, hadn’t she. Now she was more of a general maid. They’d wanted a small staff to run this place while Major Pennant and his lady needed it. Emily had volunteered. What other chance would she get to spend a few weeks in London Town.

Nurse Hardy had been told she must come—requested was how she put it. She spoke rather like one of the gentry herself. I’ve nursed the Lady Penrhyn through her last two confinements, she’d boasted. That was his lordship’s second wife of course, the first having died long ago.

The nurse had visited this house before, having also attended Mrs Pennant at her last delivery just over a year ago, a fact she’d mentioned on more than one occasion. That meant she knew the layout of the house, as she had also repeatedly told them—not that there was much to it, except stairs of course. The kitchen and service rooms were sunk below the level of the street, so there were steps to climb every time they attended to something in the house, which spread over four floors—all that carpet to brush. Emily spent several hours a day on her knees. The nurse was busy upstairs now, having visited the kitchen to fuss about bed-warmers, after waking from her afternoon nap. Fancy dropping off in front of mistress like that.

Now Mrs Pennant’s sister was back from church, she was quietly taking charge—lovely lady she was. Emily recalled meeting her for the first time, when she visited Wicken Park one Eastertide, years ago. So slim and pretty she was, like Mrs Pennant, before the babies came along. Mr and Mrs Pennant were newly married back then. Master Rushout had come to visit too, the younger brother.

Emily felt the heat suffuse her face. All the girls had fancied him, nice clean-cut boy and all of eighteen, just a year older than her. Rumour had it he still wasn’t wed. Now that the Douglas Pennants and the Rushouts were connected by marriage, Emily wasn’t the only one who hoped he would visit more often. A girl could dream, after all.

She raised her mug with both hands to tip it back and drain the last drop of tea, relishing the final bit of warmth. That attic bedroom was very chilly. And here was Andrew Scott coming from the back yard, all bent to one side labouring under the weight of the coal bucket, trying to prevent it scraping the stone flags. At least he did the heavy work. Back at Wicken Park he was a footman. Here he was acting as butler too, and didn’t he want everyone to know it.

I’ll be getting this lot upstairs, Aggie he told Mrs Evans, who turned from what she was doing at the stove and nodded.

Good lad, she said. Cook had a soft spot for our Andrew.

Then I’ll fetch another load for the kitchen, he added as he passed through the room. Any tea left in the pot and maybe a scone to go with it? He winked at Emily as he went by. He knew just how to winkle things out of Cook and what cheek to call her Aggie like that. She’d never get away with it.

Carpenter, butter a scone for his lordship, if you please, Mrs Evans said in a hoity-toity tone, catching Andrew’s backside with a flip of her towel as he passed. Cheeky young devil!

Emily took her empty mug to the sink and went over to the dresser to reach down the cake tin.

Do one for yourself, while you’re at it, Cook said. You need fattening up.

Thank you, Mrs Evans, don’t mind if I do. It was a step too far to ask if she could also spread some of that lovely strawberry jam that had come down with them from Wicken. What about yourself?

Cook placed a hand flat on her middle, which was far from flat, as if checking. Not for now. I’ll maybe have one later.

Emily was in the process of using the sharp bread knife to slice a scone in half when Andrew quite crashed back into the kitchen, the empty coal bucket swinging in one hand and a scrap of paper clutched in the other.

Watch out! she cried. You almost made me cut my finger. Wouldn’t want red spots all over your nice white scone, would you?

I would if it’s jam, he said laughingly, placing the bucket by the stove. I’ll have to get your coal later, Aggie. Got a job to do for master. He held up the paper. Got to fetch the doc. Baby’s coming.

Don’t you rush out like that, Mrs Evans fussed, already at the coat hooks to one side of the stove. You wrap up now, or you’ll get sick and be no use to anyone.

Sound just like my Ma used to, you do, he said, laughing as he bent his knees so Cook could help him on with his old wool jacket.

Know where to go, lad? Cook asked him.

Course—know London like the back of my hand, don’t I. He smoothed out the scrap of paper. Dr Robinson, 150 Sloane Street. It’ll be the Sloane Square end. I’ll get there in fifteen minutes, easy.

Emily wondered what the medical man would think of being called out on a Sunday afternoon. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind, seeing as it was gentry. He’d likely present a sizeable bill afterwards.

Once he’d gone, Mrs Evans got busy. She filled the kettle to the brim and slid it over the hot part of the stove. They’ll be needing lots of warm water. And you make yourself useful, Carpenter. Go along to the linen cupboard and see there are plenty of towels put in Mrs Pennant’s room. I expect she’ll be glad of a clean nightdress once everything’s done, so fetch that too. Then ask Miss Hardy if there’s anything else she needs. And after that, it’ll be time to light the lamps. These winter evenings draw in so quick, don’t they?

Scones were quite forgotten now the business of birthing took over the household. Emily collected a bundle of towels and lugged them up two flights to the mistress’s bedroom. How many more times am I likely to be going back and forth before the day’s done, she wondered—more than a few, for sure.

Outside the bedroom, Emily tapped the door and waited for Miss Hardy’s summons. The nurse gave none, but came and opened the door instead.

Good girl, she said clasping the pile of towels with one hand atop and one beneath. The nurse turned to carry them into the room and Emily saw Major Pennant sat in a chair beside the bed, head bent close to Mrs Pennant’s, quietly talking, just murmurings—she couldn’t distinguish any words. Miss Rushout was in the room too, because there was a glimpse of her dark blue skirt over there near the dressing table. They had the lamps lit already, giving a cosy, warm picture.

I was told as to fetch a fresh nightdress, Miss Hardy, Emily said as the nurse came back to close the door.

All organised, Carpenter. I’ll ring the bell if we need anything more. Just see Dr Robinson up when he comes.

Yes, ma’am, Emily said, unsure whether she was pleased or relieved not to be invited to enter the room. The door closed on the bedroom and she sighed as she turned back for the stairs. She’d never seen a birth before. Her older sisters were all wed now with families of their own, but she’d never been in attendance to witness the process by which she’d repeatedly become an auntie. Being in service didn’t furnish much opportunity to visit home, though she sent her old Ma some of her wages. At 24, she wondered if any chap would want her now. It would be nice to have a family of her own. A girl could dream—dream her life away more like. No time for that, she told herself, I’ve the gas lamps to light.

Downstairs, Emily found Mrs Evans arranging a lace-edged linen cloth on the best tray. She looked up. Good, you’re here, she said crisply. Everything all right upstairs?

Yes, ma’am, all quiet and peaceful at the moment.

Mrs Evans