Chapter Fifteen - The Passing Bell

Broad Street, Presteigne, Radnorshire, Wales. Lithograph by Joseph Murray Ince, 1832. 
Joseph, my third great-granduncle, is standing by the doorway of the home where he grew up, later known as Roseland. His parents moved from London to Presteigne around 1812 and then to St David’s Street in about 1827. Joseph’s Aunt Mary Ward, formerly Saunders, lived in the house directly on the right, known as Church House, with her daughter Sarah and Susannah Ward. The entrance to St Andrew’s churchyard is alongside the house.

Susannah stood quietly watching Joseph. Shades of ivy vines stretched across the windows of Church House, making their way upon his sketchbook paper. He saw her there, behind the window glass, just as he saw every element in the cobblestone and brickwork. Soon, the door would open, and there would be an invitation in for cake and tea. But mostly for conversation. Joseph knew his cousin Susannah meant well. At forty-five and a spinster, she was more like a second mother to him. She could see his concern for his mother's health, and it was clear he had returned to Presteigne from London for the inevitable.

Perfection seemed to be his mother's noble pursuit. Even now, completely bedbound, she insisted on the finest cap, shawl and bed linens when a visitor came to call. There was no denying Ann Elizabeth was a lady. She had managed her household silently for so many years and was still trying to uphold domestic affairs. All the while, Henry's father suffered quietly. Even as a doctor, he was helpless. Dropsy had caused swelling throughout her body. His constant tapping to remove the fluid, along with years of potions and remedies, could no longer save her.

Henry would sit by his mother, his eyes gazing around the room, never quite settling on thoughts. He would talk about the children, the farm, and perhaps a new family letter that had arrived. Other times, he sat quietly, watching his mother sleep, while his memories fell like dominoes through the days. Charlotte often sat with him, slipping more and more into the shadows, wondering what his mother truly thought of her. Sometimes, Henry's mother would ask her to read aloud a favourite poem, the words revealing the melodic heart of a woman she came to know so little about. Even after all this time, Charlotte still did not know if it was her imagination, her conscience speaking, or feelings of inadequacy that kept her feeling so awkward in her presence. Sometimes, she even found herself afraid to risk not being there, showing proper respect, as she had been taught that a dying person possessed the power to invoke a curse. She did not want to provoke her. She knew she ought not to think that way and dared not utter a single word of it to Henry.

Earlier in the year, Charlotte gave birth to their third child, Ann Susan Charlotte Ince. "Susan" was christened by the Reverend James Beebee at the parish church on March 29, 1830. She was likely named after Charlotte's mother, Ann Roe, in the usual naming fashion. The name Susan was likely passed down from Henry's mother's paternal line, derived from Susannah. Having two middle names was not common at that time. In fact, most children recorded in the Presteigne baptism records then did not even have a middle name. However, Charlotte always seemed to enjoy a touch of poetic extravagance, and I expect nothing less from her.

Anne Susan Charlotte, daughter of Henry and Charlotte Ince of Broad Heath,
baptised on 29 Mar 1830, St Andrew's Church, Presteigne

As one might expect, Joseph spent much of his day sketching and painting. He had exhibited at the Royal Academy again that spring, as well as at the Society of British Artists. Although much of his recent artwork consisted of seascapes and his travels to Sweden, his sketches were always filled with scenes from and around Radnorshire. It was where he had lived since the age of six, and despite moving to London, it would always remain home to him. When turning the pages of Joseph's sketchbook from the previous year, it seems as if he had begun to draw a series of area churches. But then a different thought appears to have crossed his mind, for he soon began to draw a variety of Radnorshire scenes that he would later choose to lithograph. 

Presteigne, from Joseph M Ince's sketchbook, 1829

The summer season, just as the year before, brought heavy rain. Twice in two months, the banks of the Lugg overflowed, and more recently, it carried away stacks of hay and freshly cut grass, leaving the farmers to wonder about the consequences. A blight had begun to affect the apple trees in the area, and if it spread to their orchard, it would cause significant hardship. Rain was hoped for on St. Peter's Day (June 29th) to bless the apples, but never wished for on St. Swithin's Day (July 15th), for if it did rain, it would continue for forty days. St. Swithin is not part of Welsh tradition, but the old familiar rhyme, "St. Swithin's Day, if it does rain, for forty days it will remain," like passing clouds, crossed freely across the Welsh and English borderland. St. Cewydd, the medieval Welsh weather saint, known as Cewydd y Glas (Cewydd of the Rain), is also linked with forty days of rain; however, his story has been much forgotten. There are several churches dedicated to him, keeping his mystery alive, including two churches in Radnorshire. Meanwhile, much to the farmers' delight, it appears the day came and went without a single tear from the sky.

Hereford Journal, 9 June 1830

7 July 1830, Hereford Journal

Watercolour by Joseph Murray Ince

August moved slowly, through strays of blue cornflowers and rambles of pink dog roses. Buttercups collected morning dew, and along the hedgerows, honeysuckle spiralled clockwise. It was Saturday's market day, Charlotte and her brother Samuel were preparing the early ride into town with eggs and fresh butter, when word came that Henry's mother had taken a turn for the worse. With baby Susan sleeping in Charlotte's lap, she and Henry hurried beneath a curdled sky, the horse keeping pace with Henry's heart as they entered the town.

On that day, the fourteenth of August, Ann Elizabeth breathed her last. A cold breeze made Charlotte shudder as she watched the faces in the room grow pale in silence. Sometimes the expected still feels like the unexpected. And the peace of knowing there is no more suffering still wrenches the heart. Henry's father had confronted tragedy and death so many times with his profession, but this time it was Ann Elizabeth, his wife of thirty-four years. The passing bell signalled her death, ringing in intervals of seven strokes from St Andrew's Church tower.

Letters filled with sorrow were quickly written, the page folded into its own envelope, addressed and sealed with black wax, ready to be brought to the postmistress. As a token of affection, Ann Elizabeth likely left rings of remembrance for her sister Mary, who had stayed by her side for days, and her dear brother, George. They were the last remaining Saunders siblings. The Reverend Beebee came to the house offering prayers, and plans were made for Saturday's funeral. Dr Vinent Cooksey, Dr Aaron Davies and Dr Cross offered condolences to their friend and colleague, as did close friends Dr Edward Jenkins, Cecil Parsons and Edward Lee James. Arrangements were also made for out-of-town guests. Surely Uncle George Saunders would be arriving any day now. And it is likely that Henry's father's sister, Isabella, and her husband, George Cowell, would also be there soon.

Meanwhile, the kitchen buzzed with preparation, and the hallways stayed in constant relay. The curtains were drawn, and black ribbons set out for those who called in. The door knocker was wrapped in darkest crepe. There were candles and flowers where Ann Elizabeth lay, and the room was sheathed in black matte cloth. Keeping vigil, the entire family felt the pain of brokenness. For such a busy household, the walls held such stillness. The clock's ticking went unheard. It was as if the heaviness of their mourning clothes absorbed all sound.

On the day of the funeral, family and friends followed the procession to the church. Charlotte probably left the two youngest children in the care of her family. Little Henry Robert, now two and a half, in his white gown edged with black, clung tightly to Charlotte's skirt. Had he been a little older, he might have even led the procession with flowers. The hearse, pulled by black horses, travelled down High Street and along Broad, stopping at the entrance of the churchyard not far from the Ince's previous residence. Nearby, Aunt Mary had been waiting outside her house, for she dared not watch for them from the window or catch her reflection in the glass. Doing so would only bring ill luck. While the pallbearers carried the coffin through the lynch gate to the churchyard behind her home, Mary reached for her brother's arm and, with her daughters, Sarah and Susannah, followed the small group to the grave site. It is worth mentioning that many women did not attend funerals; some stayed behind to prepare food or look after the babies. Others were discouraged, even by the clergy, from taking part, seen as too delicate or thought simply in the way with their tears. A foolish stereotype when in fact it was usually women, weak or strong, young or old, who prepared the body after death. Charlotte would be there; she would catch the shadows in Joseph's eyes and reach for the trembling of Henry's hand. As a token of remembrance, she softly cast a sprig of rosemary into the grave.

Church House, Broad Street, Presteigne, at a later time, with St Andrew's Church in the background.
Where Aunt Mary Ward once lived with her daughters, Sarah and Susannah.

Upon returning from the church, conversations huddled in the parlour. There were cakes, bread, cold meats, wine, and cider set upon the tables,  and chocolates as well. A neighbour brought a tray of little sponge cakes, a tradition her family had held to for many years. The children had black ribbons tied around their waists, and the black cravat Uncle George Saunders was wearing looked as laden as his brow. Cousin Esther and her husband, George Meredith, travelled by coach from their country seat near Tenbury at Berrington Court in Worcestershire, accompanied by their daughters, Georgiana and Ellen. Their son, William, whom Joseph had accompanied in Scandinavia two years earlier, was unable to be there. "Apologies, Uncle Ince", Esther whispered in Henry Robert's ear. "William is in Spain, travelling in the company of Mr Benjamin Disraeli, soon to embark for Malta. They are travelling incognito, due to certain financial affairs of Mr. Disraeli." All the while, Charlotte watched from the far corner of the room. Esther's mourning gown was not just suitable but wonderfully beautiful. Charlotte had heard so much about the family from Joseph. She began to wonder why he did not fall in love with his lovely cousins.

 

Trying not to stare, Charlotte was grateful that Aunt Isabella motioned for her to come sit by her. She appreciated Aunt Isabella's company from the first time she and Henry visited the Cowells in London and knew she could count on her to keep her mind at ease with familial chatter. "Forgive me for offering my opinion", Aunt Isabella murmured to Charlotte, "but I cannot help but express my reservations regarding Mr. William's companionship with Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, whom I hear is rather too charming in the company of the ladies."  Isabella's banter soon shifted, her jet black earrings punctuating each topic into the next with a simple nod of her head; from the kindness of Joseph in helping her youngest daughter Charlotte with painting, her sister Mary Ann unable to attend due to such bad health, "surely Mr Willson's pyramid cemetery obsession is causing them all ill health", to how well Henry's Aunt Mary looks despite her elderly age, and Aunt Mary's daughters – will they be finding husbands soon?" Charlotte realised she had little to add except for babies, chickens, and perhaps a fresh batting of wool for winter stockings. Still, there was something about Henry's Aunt Isabella, from the moment Charlotte sat in her home on Fitzroy Square, talking of poets and romanticists, that made Charlotte feel they met on common ground.

"Have you heard that my cherished daughter, Isabella and her husband, Mr Charles Ince, continue to live in Jamaica?" Aunt Isabella added. Oh, and to think, it has been merely two short years since Mrs Ann Elizabeth and my brother Henry Robert celebrated with us at Isabella's wedding. And at my son George's wedding too that year." With that, her eyes, remembering the days, paused for a moment, her words swallowed by memories. She looked up with a faint smile. I think it's time for some tea, Mrs Ince, don't you?

George Cowell, Aunt Isabella's husband, was deep in conversation with Henry, who was inquiring about his Uncle Frederick in West Virginia. To ease his wife's worries about her brother Frederick's well-being, George agreed to assist with inheritance matters to help send Frederick interest money to pay off the debt on his farm. However, he now feared that the division between Frederick and his wife, Martha, and children was too great. Their bitterness towards Frederick will only lead to further hardship for all.

Young Henry Robert, on his best behaviour despite a tiring day for a three-year-old, was happily sitting on Uncle George Saunders' lap. Charlotte's mother, Ann, had come to the door with the two younger children, Edward and Susan, knowing it was time for the baby's feeding. Though she put on her best grey dress, hat, and shoes, she stayed only briefly to offer several curtsies and condolences to those at the doorway. Charlotte urged her to stay for at least cake and tea, but in a room full of London family, where the burden of appearances mattered, her mother recognised it was best this way for Charlotte's sake.

 There were more introductions and shaking of hands. Cousin Isabella, who was the daughter of Henry's mother's oldest brother, Thomas Saunders, was there with her husband, the Reverend Samuel White DD, vicar of Hampstead and the parish incumbent. Charlotte would have been amused at the time to learn that the poet John Keats once referred to Isabella's husband as "the parson of Hampstead quarrelling with all the world." In writing a letter to his brother, John Keats suggests that with Queen Charlotte's death in 1818, Samuel White instructed the workmen to hang the black cloth in the church wrong side out, saving it to sell later when black cloth would be in high demand during public mourning at a price to fill his pockets. Whether Keats knew this firsthand or was merely expressing his distrust of the clergy is not known, but in defending his position and reminding others of the power that comes with it, the Reverend Samuel White proves fervently tenacious.

The Reverend Samuel White, husband of Ann Elizabeth's niece, Isabella

 

The Reverend James Beebee and his wife, Hannah, bid their good nights, possibly waiting until the morning to record Ann Elizabeth's burial in the parish register. Although he writes her age as fifty-six, she was sixty-five at the time. It may have been a simple twist of numbers or simply the age he was given. Or perhaps being seven years older than her husband, Henry Robert, she just preferred to appear younger.

Ann Elizabeth Ince, formerly Saunders' burial record, 21 August 1830, St Andrew's Church

One by one, as the night closed in, the remaining men retreated to Henry's father's office with port wine and cigars. Aunt Mary was home, awaiting the Whites, who would be staying the night. There were family stories and memories shared. The day had been long, but it served Ann Elizabeth well. Henry Robert set upon her dressing table a rose he could not part with, and beneath the dark night with a faint sliver of a waxing moon, Henry, Charlotte and the children returned home. 

Ann Elizabeth and many women of her era remain largely invisible, often just a name in parish records or a family will, unless a death notice in the local newspaper provides a few scarce details. They are sometimes merely a signature, showing that they could write and perhaps read. In Ann Elizabeth's case, her subscription to Thomas Horton's book, An Elegy Written in a Courtyard in Presteign, suggests she was literate. It may even reflect her compassion or concern over the tragedy surrounding the hanging of young Mary Morgan for murdering her newborn. Rare family letters sometimes surface, and in one, Ann Elizabeth's struggle with dropsy is noted, as published in Sarah Ingles' book on Henry's grandfather, furniture maker William Ince. I am grateful for these glimpses. But how can I know her desires, pastimes, and pleasures? My thoughts of Ann Elizabeth arise from a mix of these things, her family, surroundings, and—admittedly—from my own heart. After all, I dare say, she is part of me.

Ann Elizabeth's death notice, 25 August 1830, Hereford Journal

Ann Elizabeth “Mrs Ince” listed as a subscriber,
as well as her sister Mary, “Mrs Ward”
in Thomas Horton's An Elegy written in the Church Yard