Paradise Walk: Borough of Chelsea S.W.3

© Copyright 2012 Shirley Goulden.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2632-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2633-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2631-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012906333

Trafford rev. 04/24/2012

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgement

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

PARADISE WALK

By

Shirley Goulden

I have been here before,

But when or how I cannot tell:

I know the grass beyond the door,

The sweet keen smell,

The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,—

How long ago I may not know:

But just when at that swallow’s soar

Your neck turned so,

Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?

And shall not thus time’s eddying flight

Still with our lives our love restore

In death’s despite.

And day and night yield one delight once more?

Sudden Light DANTE GABRIEL ROSETTI

(C) Copyright by Shirley van Eyssen (nee Goulden)

1991-1996

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my best friend Shirley Van Eyseen (nee Goulden) whose has been an inspiration in my life since the first day we met.

Shirley has written over 35 Children’ books in her lifetime and had gone down a different path in recent years.

This is Shirley’s second book that she wished to have published

after her death in July 2010.

Shirley’s previous book that I published in June 2011

in her name is called:

‘I am Jack’ . . . . Confessions of the Whitechapel Ripper

Published by www.trafford.com

Caroline Bunting March 2012

Acknowledgement

My thanks and appreciation go to Dave Loveridge of omicronrepro.co.uk for his help in putting together the Manuscript and his inspiration for the Covers.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

This is a Georgian romance set within the framework of a modern love affair.

Jennet Templeton Jay, (Jen), bright and beautiful New England socialite, abandons her extravagant lifestyle to become a writer. Seeking a screen career she travels west to Hollywood and meets dynamic movie director Demitrios (Dem) Dmitri. There is a strong mutual attraction but Dem is married, and no immediate relationship develops, Jen, failing to establish herself as a script-writer, and noting the current vogue for historical romance, now determines to write a novel about Georgian England, a period she had always found fascinating. Accordingly she travels to London, renting a small house in Paradise Walk, Chelsea.

In the interests of authenticity Jen embarks on some detailed research. At the British Museum she again encounters Dem Dmitri, who himself fact-finding for a forthcoming costume picture to be in England. Distanced from his wife Dem feels free to indulge in a pleasant affair, but presently they find themselves inextricably involved—or would have been if the word ‘inextricable’ had been part of Dem’s vocabulary. As it is he eventually makes an albeit soul wrenching but prudent decision to return to return to his wife, Jen in despair. A suicide attempt puts her in the London Clinic, where for a short period of time she is clinically dead, and has a ‘near death’ experience, which may or may not affect the future developments of the story. (Depending on how the reader eventually cares to construe it).

On recovering Jen leaves the Clinic with seemingly no greater ill-effects than a slight distortion of hearing—an illusion of rustling leaves in a street where no leaves fall—and a compulsive absorption in her work on the Georgian novel, which emerges as follows:

Nathanial Cullen, a Yorkshire textile magnate, came to London in 1770. Nineteen years previously he had married (beneath him, so some thought) Susannah Hallybone, who now sought by means of their lately realised wealth to provide her children with such style and background as she herself lamentably lacked. Accordingly Susannah persuaded her husband to set up home somewhat pretentiously in a Cavendish Square mansion, the acquisition of which however happened to be a shrewd investment on his part. Their schoolboy son, Hargreaves, or Harry, was as yet too young to be instrumental in furthering Susannah’s vaunting social ambition, his sister Chloe too plain. It was Elizabeth (Beth), the ravishing eldest daughter, who might be expected to make a brilliant match and upon whom Susannah’s aspirations depended.

Accordingly in 1773, at the age of eighteen, Elizabeth Ollernshaw Cullen was betrothed to Lord Gervaise (Jarvis) Lambert of Paradise Walk, a decadent gambler who intended by this alliance to retrieve the family fortune he had squandered. However, through a chance meeting in Marylebone Pleasure Gardens (in the area where now stands the London Clinic, but where once ladies promenaded in skirts that rustled like falling leaves). Beth had become passionately in love with a handsome young actor, Jack Kincaid, to whom, inspired by a visit to the playhouse, she has represented herself to him as a servant. Despite this attachment, as a daughter of the times Beth was still obliged to submit to her mother’s wishes with regard to matrimony. After her wedding to Lord Lambert she disappeared mysteriously from Kincaid’s life. Kincaid, chagrined, left London to resume his promising career as an actor manager.

Meanwhile Beth resigned herself to a loveless marriage and by 1775, having duly fathered a son, (Tiresias), Jarvis began to spend most of his time away from home in Paradise Walk, in company with his Italian manservant, Giacomo, for whom Beth ultimately discovered he had a preference.

Harry, Beth’s younger brother, had run away from boarding school, disappeared and subsequently presumed dead. The shock of such news resulted in his doting father Nathanial suffering a fatal stroke. In fact young Harry had been press-ganged by an old sailor, Solomon Pike, on the orders of an unscrupulous slave trader, Rafer Fielding, and found himself aboard a sailing vessel, the ‘Musquito’, bound for the East Indies. At Kingston, Jamaica, Fielding learned that Harry’s father was rich and influential. Fearing to be apprehended for kidnapping he ordered Pike permanently to ‘dispose’ of the boy. However Pike had formed an affection for the boy and only simulated the execution.

The ‘Musquito’ sailed and Harry was left in Jamaica. An obeah woman (or witch doctor). Mama Luke, befriended him and offered work at her hostelry. He remained about four years, enjoying a pleasant life, until 1777 when the British brigantine ‘Aphrodite’ came into port, en route to New York with provisions for the support of the king’s army against the American rebels. Harry was seized by the desire to return to his own country again, and an old friend from the ‘Musquito’, Gwillym (will) Williams, arranged for him to work his passage to New York and from there back to England. However, after a gallant battle at sea the ‘Aphrodite’ was taken as a prize by the Americans and escorted to Boston Harbour for repair.

During this time Jack Kincaid had gone to America and also became involved in the War of Independence, having joined the the loyalist cause, been granted a commission in the army under Sir Henry Clinton and subsequently captured at the Battle of Saratoga in 1777. He was imprisoned in the barracks on Prospect Hill, Boston, where Harry and Will had now spent several months, they all became best friends, allied in the common endeavour of escaping. Discusions of Harry’s family background during those long hours of confinement did not lead to Kincaid’s associating him with Beth, since he had never discovered her true identity.

Disguised as John Paul Jones, whom he had previously meet in New York, and whom he physically resembled, Kincaid, as an actor, was admirably equipped to impersonate the American captain. By this ruse, with eager co-operation from the prison commander’s daughter, (to whom Kincaid, with accustomed ease, had contrived to render himself irresistible), the group of loyalists escaped. They recaptured the ‘Aphrodite’ and sailed into Kingston, Jamaica, in the hope of obtaining enough money to finane the trip back to England.

In 1778 they managed by a subterfuge obtain some cash belonging to John Paul Jones, and sailed for home, but ran into Spanish freebooters who damaged their ship. Being of a shallower draught the ‘Aphrodite’ escaped persuit and capture by sailing over shoals, but had to be beached near Port Antonio to avoid dinking, despite risking attack from rebellious Maroon slaves in the Blue Mountains, where one of the party was rescued from being toasted alive.

By this time (1779), war had erupted with France, and the outward route was barred by the Governor to all but vessels with a naval escort. They were obliged to remain in Jamaica until 1782 when Admiral Sir George Rodney prepared to attack the French. Kincaid and Harry resolved to turn this situation to their advantage, deliberately misinterpreting the Governor’s orders to allow them to sail with the battle fleet. Kincaid conceived an audacious plan, this time to impersonate Admiral Rodney supposedly being conveyed to his flagship by the ‘Aphrodite’. Once out of the harbour they intended to sail well in the wake of the British flotilla, turn away through the Mona Passage and set course for England. As it happened, however, the escape route was blocked by two Spanish frigates and the ‘Aphrodite’ was forced to continue on towards the Windward Islands, in the hope of turning away before the main engagement. But during the moonless night of December 11th, in the lee of Dominica and under changing winds, the ‘Aphrodite’ inadvertently drifted between the two great battle fleets, and the ship’s company were only alerted to their unfortunate position the following morning when a cannon-ball shrilled its way through their rigging.

Now, goaded to join the action, the ‘Aphrodite’ was emboldened to attack one of the smaller frigates, the ‘Ceres’, (formerly a British ship), at close range, sustained heavy damage, and boarded her with grappling irons to avoid sinking. After a desperate hand=to-hand struggle they managed to gain control of the vessel, triumphantly re-hoisting the white ensign.

After the French fleet had been defeated, the ‘Ceres’, under its restored British command, and towing the damaged ‘Aphrodite’ came alongside the ‘Formidable’ and was formally surrendered to Sir George Rodney. The Admiral, elated by his great victory, fortunately was willing to take the escapade in good part, even including Kincaid’s coolly admitted impersonation of himself, and elected to have the ‘Aphrodite’ towed along with the other damaged vessels back to Jamaica for repair. Moreover he was prepared to advise the Governor that no further embargo on their departure for home was necessary, since, in his opinion, it would be the enemy’s misfortune to engage in s possible encounter with the ‘Aphrodite’ and Jack Kincaid!

Back in England fame and fortune awaited them, entitled as they were to claim a sizeable prize for the restoration of the ‘Aphrodite’ to her rightful owners, and in addition rumour credited them with the capture of a French warship, Harry and Kincaid found themselves celebrated heroes, even being honoured by the king.

A small black boy, named Little Luke (Mama Luke’s protégé), had stowed away on the return journey from Jamaica and was presented as a ‘gift’ from Harry to his nephew, Tiresias. However it was Harry’s presentation of Jack Kincaid to his sister, Lady Lambert, which made the greatest impression, since even the imperturbable Kincaid was astounded to discover her identity—almost failing to support his lady as she swooned.

Jarvis had been killed in a duel, un-mourned by Beth. Their son, Tiresias, a child of rare physical beauty, was now eight, his mother’s treasure, but cold and unresponsive to her as father had been. She had become increasingly uneasy about the boy, without being aware of course that he was unfortunately, in modern terms autistic.

Beth and Kincaid renewed their relationship on a far deeper level until the romantic idyll was cruelly shattered. Tiresias had killed Little Luke in a most macabre fashion, and Beth, to save her adored son from the insane asylum, decided to take his life. Kincaid however intervened to protect her from the hangman, and, he himself smothered the child. The heightening tragedy then escalated to Kincaid’s arrest, confession of the crime, and a change of role from national hero to convicted murderer. This metamorphosis though diminished neither his extraordinary aplomb nor his ability to draw an enthusiastic audience—at Tyburn.

Accompanying Kincaid to the gallows, Beth, determined swiftly to end his suffering, hurled herself at the body, pulling down on the legs. The hangman, loath to deprive the eager mob of their entertainment, dealt Beth, (pregnant by Kincaid) a brutal kick in the stomach. Carried to Paradise Walk by their friends she eventually gave birth to young Jackson, but could not herself survive more than a few weeks. However, ‘Impudent rascal—I see you have not done laughing yet,’ were her joyful final words, from which perhaps it might be assumed that Kincaid, noted for his humour, had returned for her in order to have the last laugh, so to speak… . Here ends Beth’s history, and we return to the present.

Jen has become extraordinarily involved emotionally in the unfortunate fate of her hero and heroine, and when the novel is finished she feels drained of strength and contracts a severe bout of influenza. Finally recovering, though pale and wan, she accepts an invitation from her friend and doctor, Jeremy Raphael, for an invigorating Sunday morning walk and lunch in Notting Hill. Afterwards they stroll back down Old Church Street towards Chelsea, stopping to inspect some quaint little antique shops along the way. Alarmingly Jen passes out, strikes her head on the kerb and has to be taken to hospital. Now she becomes unnaturally exhilarate, and Jeremy, concerned, takes her home to recover. After restless dreams of Dem Dmitri she wakes and, extremely agitated by delayed shock, recalls why she had fainted. In the antique shop window Jen had seen an old sampler, on which were worked some words she had actually come across herself in an early eighteenth century primer and been moved to use in her novel.

Press on dear girl, proceed with care the course you have begun. And shall success your labours crown with pleasures yet unknown.

It was what she had then observed, stitched neat and clear in a corner of the sampler, that caused Jen to crash into mindless oblivion.

Chloe Hallybone Culle, her work, Cavendish Square, London in the Month and Year of our Lord, March 1773.

These details of name, time and place conveyed with startling clarity that what she had written was no bizarre invention but a factual representation both of the period’s barbarity and culture—far memories of days long gone, memories that had belonged to Elizabeth Lambert, and yet were her own. Jen now believes she and Beth are one, and would always be so, on into the next lifetime. This conviction she dare not impart even to Jeremy, for fear of being though unbalanced.

In the ensuing days Jen cuts out all human contact, wandering about in a kind of waking dream where Jack Kincaid and Dem Dmitri figure in weird fantasies, indistinguishable one from the other. She is now deeply confused, and what had been revealed to her she no longer recognises. Returning to her former state of deep depression, Jen again is driven heavily to overdose on tranquilisers. In a while she goes to her processor and, tapping only three words, leans over the keyboard, falling into a profound and wakeless sleep.

By the time Jeremy Raphael forces his way into the house on Paradise Walk. Jen is gone—but the printer has long since tun out of paper and is mindlessly reprinting its insistent message on the empty platen:

life after life after life after life after life after life . . . .

(C) Copyright by Shirley van Eyssen (nee Goulden) 1991.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Jennet Templeton Jay was pronounced dead at

8:32 on the morning of July 18, 1989.

The Templetons of Massachusetts had arrived in the United States, if not on the Mayflower, certainly (with their undoubted sense of occasion) in time for the Boston Tea-Party. Indeed the family had then, and in the future, played a prominent role in some of the more notorious political shindigs; for which reasons they had been banished from British shores, to recover their fortunes in the transport of cargo triangularly between the Colonies, Europe and the Caribbean. During the early fifties Elfrida Templeton married Faulkner Gardiner Jay, second son and subsequent sole heir to the colossal J.Y.J. gentlemen’s underwear empire, thereafter producing a pair of all-American jocks and one daughter.

Jennet (or Jen) was the third child of this union, who by virtue of her costly and exclusive education possessed the outward attributes of a healthy wealthy young American socialite. Both her public image and personal appearance were glossy, bright and beautiful as her russet hair and lips and cheeks and carefully manicured nails. A paper doll, bandbox neat, fresh, aseptic and peppy as America’s favourite mouthwash.

But there was a brightness of mind and spirit which in early youth had not emerged—intelligence in her set being a drawback to popularity. At Radcliffe, however, she was encouraged to develop her intellect, and produced some creditable, and (discreditable), lampoons for the college magazine, a few fairly promising short stories and an intriguing but totally un-actable play. All of which experience inspired her interest in film writing as a career. Accordingly after college Jen travelled west to the movie Mecca.

Impressed by her family connections Jen was taken up by certain Hollywood hostesses, those married to celebrities but with no role of their own to play outside the party promotional scene. Jen had no ambition to be one of their decorative props, and though she attended some of the star-studded balls and wakes, it was only in the hope of penetrating that esoteric circle of actors, writers, directors and other artists who were the creative mainsprings of the industry. Unfortunately, though Jen’s social qualifications may have provided an entree to the Beverly Hills party circuit, they actually minimized her chances of being accepted by this elite, most of whom had reached eminence only as a result of their own exceptional abilities. In due course she became bored and disillusioned with the idea of remaining in Hollywood.

Maxwell Maltz telephoned, waking her before six a.m. one smog-bound morning. Few either enjoyed or respected a regular night’s sleep in those parts, least of all Max, who at all hours of the day and night was constantly arranging meetings of a social-cum-business nature between various important and beautiful people. He was a failed producer who had become a wheeling-dealing contact man, the payoff depending on who did what for (or to) whom as a result of his introductions. Thoroughly unscrupulous, Max possessed, and promoted to the utmost, an oddly persuasive fascination, which coupled with a sensual if somewhat raffish appearance, made him not entirely unacceptable to some women. He amused Jen, particularly since the relationship was uncomplicated by the fact that Max sought only to use her name and not her body. To do him justice Max did uphold one single principle, which was a conviction that business and pleasure should not be confused.

Hi Jay-bird. Max here. You asleep or something? He sounded aggrieved at the end of the line.

Jen, shocked awake by the bell’s shriek mumbled incoherently. Do me a favour Max—drop dead ’till ten, will you? she groaned.

"Who has time to die? I gotta party organized for tonight. How’d you like to meet Warren Wilcox—you know Warren, he wrote Starfield and Armageddon? Warren’s doing that Dem Dmitri picture for the Polaris outfit. We’re eating at Spagos, seven thirty for eight—Mark Travers might drop by. Gotta be there Jay-bird, I need ya!"

"Max, who needs you?", Jen gathered her energy to yell. Not at this time of night, for heaven’s sake!

Night’s through, it’s morning already, start of a great new day, announced Max, totally unabashed. Get out in the world, meet a few people—see ya later—wear something gorgeous, Gorgeous. The line went dead before Jen could further express her indignation. Of course she went to the dinner, without quite knowing why. Everyone did for Max.

Mark Travers, suave movie idol for three decades, had been lured reluctantly from his Palm Springs retreat to attend the dinner. His agent had reminded him that he was then back-to-back two box-office flops and should not miss the chance of landing a part in the prestigious Dmitri production. Jen was seated next to him on one side, and though he was still extremely handsome, she had the impression that his scintillating charm was reserved only for the three minutes a day in which he was required to project it. She made sporadic efforts to engage him in a mildly controversial subject unconnected with the movies, and arousing small response turned to her partner on the left.

Her first impression of Dem Dmitri was his apparent lack of concern for anyone’s opinion, particularly of his faded wife Paula, who sat in the background, chic and champagne dyed, while her husband fiercely propounded his somewhat extremist political views. Jen thought him arrogant, self-opinionated and inordinately attractive. Although not particularly tall, Dem was of muscular physique, with shoulders of a prizefighter and a pair of startling blue eyes which flashed power as he spoke. She saw him as if surrounded by radiant energy; her illusions being intensified by an occasional disarming smile, which in rare moments of levity he directed at her. There was an easy intimacy in that smile, as if already they shared secrets. Jen had been in Hollywood long enough to be aware that this technique of total rapport did not necessarily promise more than an evening’s entertainment; and yet she carried a poignant memory of him back to New York, where she returned soon afterwards to reassess her career.

Having failed to be dazzled or to bedazzle Hollywood Jen decided that, rather than again extend butterfly wings into the social whirl, she would apply herself to the construction of an historical novel. Since a trip to Europe some years back she had been captivated by eighteenth century art and literature, and now resolved to settle in London for a while. It was there, after several months, that she again encountered Dem Dmitri.

Jen had taken a tiny house in a picturesque Chelsea alley called Paradise Walk. Her New York literary agent liaised with an English firm whose managing director owned the property, and having fled London for the Home Counties had converted it into a company residence, complete with word-processing paraphernalia for the use of visiting authors. The quaint side street with its line of gaily painted doors was once Bull Walk, a turning off the formerly fashionable Paradise Row. She had been pleased by her good fortune in acquiring the little house, for this was a pleasant and historical spot.

Jen sensed the tranquility that had once graced this area near the river down which many a stately procession had sailed, and beyond whose banks stretched the once rural slopes of Streatham and the wind milled fields of Battersea. From the Botanic, or Physic Garden nearby the seductive perfume of healing herbs had wafted on the wind as far as the pleasure gardens at Ranelagh. Down at `The Swan’ roisterers watched the river sports, while fashionable city folk in their carriages lent ton to the occasion. The famous Duchess of Mazarin had stayed there long ago, whose father the Cardinal had awarded her ten thousand golden pistoles, consequently receiving a proposal of marriage from the exiled Charles II which she could well afford to refuse. Nell Gwynn bore the king a son who lived at Paradise Row. It was said of her (and what