First Chapter of THE WEEPING SANDS

THE WEEPING SANDS

Part 1

Chapter 1

17^th September, 1831

The Lavan Sands disappeared before us in a swirling sea-mist. The opposite shore, at Beaumaris, our destination, clearly visible at the start of the journey from Conway, was now obscure. The prospect before us was dismal, and yet Mr Hughes, our coachman from Chester, having spoken to the guide at Penmaenmawr, insisted that this was our best means of crossing to the Anglesey shore before daylight faded. The alternative, he pointed out, entailed a further  drive of six miles to the new toll bridge at Bangor, and then a four mile return from Porthaethwy to Beaumaris.

My sister Isobel was indisposed this morning, after a sleepless night,  and that was the reason for the delay of our departure from Conway.

Venturing onto the sands, we found them firm and even, and made good progress, coming opposite the ferry on the Anglesey shore after little more than half an hour. Our luggage transferred to the ferryboat, we bade farewell to Mr Hughes, who appeared to be in  no small haste to be on his way, and began our crossing of the channel, which was half a mile wide at the state of the tide when we came to it. The ferryman told us that the licence for the crossing has been in his family for six generations, but his business has been greatly diminished by the new Menai Bridge, and he foresees a time soon when the ferry will be used only by those whose trade is with the shellfish with which the surrounding sandbanks and shelves are plentifully supplied.

Our journey to Baron Hill was completed by a short drive through the village, and we are grateful to Sir Richard  Bulkeley, who had made arrangements from London, for his household to be in readiness for our arrival. My sister, who had grown agitated during the latter stages of our crossing of the Lavan Sands, retired to bed soon after our arrival, and I, too, tired after four days of travel, having spent this last hour bringing my diary up to date, am now ready for rest.

18^th September, 1831

Our host, Sir Richard, the tenth Baronet, is presently in London, and we are unlikely to see him for several weeks as his business keeps him there through most of the autumn. Our connections with the Bulkeley family are tenuous, going back several generations on our mother`s side to a relative who was married to someone of the Bulkeley line, but hearing of my sister`s recent difficulties, Sir Richard was gracious enough to offer Baron Hill, remote as it is from the distractions and tribulations of the capital, as a place suitable for convalescence and recuperation.

I should explain.

During the spring of this year my sister formed a most unfortunate liaison. The man concerned, James Pennington, an artist, was engaged to paint her portrait, and it seems that during the sittings arranged for that purpose, an attachment was formed in which my sister`s affections were cruelly exploited.  So far advanced were the clandestine plans agreed upon between them – for no proper relationship could be sanctioned between parties of such disparate social standing, and this they knew – that my sister had been discovered missing from Evesham Place for more than twelve hours before the couple were apprehended at Dartford, apparently en route for the Kentish coast and elopement in France.

It was, of course, quite natural that the family should hold James Pennington accountable for the deterioration in my sister`s health which followed these events, but Doctor Fairhurst, though by no means excusing that young man`s behaviour, was firmly of the opinion that the decisions taken by my sister – to follow a course of action that would alienate her forever from her family and those of her own class, to link herself to an impecunious artist, to chain herself to an uncertain life of poverty and degradation, amidst the known immorality of many of those with whom she must mix, already denoted a mental condition that was seriously out of balance with nature.

Her condition is one which renders her prone to extreme changes of mood, sometimes to profound melancholy, and sleeplessness, sometimes to excitability; sometimes to imaginings in which the stuff of dreams and nightmares seems to become a waking reality.

However, I am in great hope that the tranquillity and beauty of this place will provide the tonic needed to restore her spirits. No description of mine can match the splendour of Baron Hill. Set above the town, it commands an open view of changing panorama of the Welsh mountains beyond.

My mother was unfortunate in both her marriages. My father, a nephew of the Earl of Duxbury, contracted a fever in the American colonies, and died there even before I was born. Her second husband, Isobel`s father, was killed in the fighting at Salamanca, and the Hall at Flixbury Manor, where we lived, passed by inheritance to his younger brother who was kind enough to let us remain in residence there until my mother`s death eight years later, when I was twelve and Isobel ten. After that, we became wards of Mr Harcourt, my mother`s cousin, by the terms of her will, and our domestic and financial arrangements fell to his charge.

Though born each of a different father, we were brought up entirely as sisters, both taking the surname, Harcourt, my mother`s maiden name, and the fact that I had never known my father, and that Isobel had no clear memory of hers, meant that no invidious comparisons were ever drawn, nor did any rivalries exist between us as is sometimes the case with siblings of different parentage.

Thankfully, I have a small annuity which was left to me in trust by my father, and when she reaches her age of maturity, Isobel will inherit a portion of her own father`s legacy, which includes twenty acres of land near Flixbury, and an income of £2,000 per annum, so that we may both hope to live in reasonable independence, though, as my guardian, Mr Harcourt, explained, Isobel`s prospective wealth might well make her a target for men of questionable motives, and, in this respect, it was even more important to protect her from the attentions  of Mr Pennington.

The house here, we are informed, dates back to the time of the first King James, though it was greatly modified in the last century and adapted in the Palladian style by Samuel Wyatt. It was at this time also that the formal gardens were laid out.

The town of Beaumaris was defended during the civil war. The town was strongly for the king, but the forces were defeated not far from here by the Parliamentary army led by General Thomas Mytton whose men were billeted in the town. It is said that one  of the Beaumaris men, a Thomas Cheadle secretly had conference with the Parliament men to gain advantage for himself.

The fortification here, though seemingly less imposing and warlike than others to be found in Wales is much praised for its formal beauty and symmetry. There is another castle, some two miles distant, we have been informed, and to which, it is proposed, we take an outing in suitable weather, which is greatly dilapidated and overgrown, with only the rampart and a broken tower to identify it. It is known to some of the local people as Lady Cheadle`s fort

But poor Sir Richard! His own life has not been without tragedy. Having succeeded to the estate in the summer of 1827,  his happiness seemed complete when he was married the following year to Charlotte Hughes, dear Charlotte whom we met twice at Bath before she was married, and who was truly the sweetest of creatures. And then, before another year was out, poor Sir Richard was in mourning for his new bride. Such is the terrible uncertainty of life.