A Perfect Plan

About the Author

Carolyn Osborne lives well off the beaten path in Virginia, on a little mountainside near the Blue Ridge. She shares her life in a 200+-year-old house with her very tolerant husband and their dog, cat, and birds.

Outdoors, she walks a lot, tends her chickens and ponds of orfes, water lilies and lotus.

Indoors, she writes, reads lots of history and science fiction, and cleans house very little. She loves her family, doing research, and bringing history to life.

An unknown artist’s rendering* of

The Rectory, Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk, England 1780s

*Probably based on an engraving in James Stainer Clarke, Sir Thomas Masterman Hardy and John McArthur's The Life of Admiral Lord Nelson, Vol. I, Fischer, Son, & Company, Newgate, 1809

Like the image above, the cover image of Burnham Thorpe Rectory is one of the several renderings that were probably inspired by a plate in The Life of Nelson. This painting is traditionally attributed to Rebecca Bolton, the daughter of Susannah Nelson Bolton, Catherine's sister.

The little portraits on the title page are from The Nelsons of Burnham Thorpe (1911) by Mary Eyre Matcham, a great-granddaughter of Catherine Nelson Matcham and George Matcham. They are miniatures, probably made in pencil and ink, and at the time her book was written, they were at Newhouse.

A Perfect Plan

A Story of Real Life and Love

in England during the 1780’s

By

Carolyn Melander Osborne

Copyright, May, 2016. Carolyn Melander Osborne All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means — graphic, electronic or mechanical — without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. If you have obtained a copy of this from someone else, you are strongly encouraged to purchase a copy for yourself.

Formatting by Anessa Books

ISBN-13: 1530524136

ISBN-10: 153052431X

Dedication: Helena’s Stories

On a sunny July afternoon in 1998, we were driving from my sister’s house in Greensboro, North Carolina to our home near Charlottesville, Virginia. The road stretched endless ahead of us, and the sun and the miles traveled were making us sleepy. In the back seat, my husband was snoring softly. I was driving, and my mother was ‘riding shotgun.’

Probably to help me stay alert, Mom started talking about our old family stories. Some of them were familiar, but many were not. Not respecting any order of time or place, she told me stories set in North Carolina around 1800, France and England in the 12th Century, India in Victorian times, the remote island of St. Helena in the 1800s, California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains in the 1870’s, and England in the 1780’s. She talked about wars and shipwrecks; massacres and weddings; preachers and bandits; heroes and ordinary folk; despots of the benevolent and not-so-benevolent kind; wagon trains and horses and rattlesnakes. And, she said, these are only some of the family stories. These were stories that had to be preserved.

I asked her who was related to whom, and she tried to explain ten centuries of a documented but not quite articulated family tree. I finally had to ask, Mom, where is all this written down?

Oh, said she, rather breezily, I have several boxes and many bags, and some drawers of mixed clippings, copies of stories and family trees, letters…. all of them work done by your Aunt Grace, my Uncle Rob, my cousin Erina, myself…. The list went on, naming family members I knew, and some I didn’t.

What these dedicated family researchers had not had, but we now did, was the great benefit of being able to do research in the Age of Information. The following December, my husband and I drove from Virginia to Mom’s house in Texas to celebrate Christmas. We drove home, our car loaded with the results of many years of work by many people. There was a big project ahead.

I organized and entered all the data I could, used the Internet and hard-copy books as a resource and after about two years ended up with a comprehensive, 2000+ member family tree, of which one line covered 38 generations, back to Charlemagne.

The tree was a project I was glad to assemble, but it didn’t tell the stories, which I especially wanted to do. Whether they are true, fantastical or somewhere in between, our stories are part of our family identity and culture. We used the information in the Tree, adding in brief summaries of the stories plus interesting items which had come up in research, and created a family book.

I still find these stories exciting. Some are inherently dramatic, but many of them were just occurrences in the ordinary lives of ordinary people that gained drama and interest in historical context. When our family book was finished in 2002, I promised Mom that I would someday write at least some of the stories from the personal perspective of the people involved. Doing this involves much research, some guesswork, and often only sort-of justified assumptions. On the other hand, the more historical research I do, the more I am aware how much of history is fleshed out in exactly that way. I am happy to call these stories historical fiction, but each story contains at least a kernel of reality from another time. Toward the end of this book, the Author’s Notes distinguish between recorded history and assumptions, and real versus fictional characters. Past that, End Notes support the historical information.

Mom died in 2004, but she survives in the hearts of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and in her furtherance of the stories of her ancestors. It is to my mother, Helena, that I dedicate Helena’s Stories. She was a remarkable woman.

Acknowledgements

If time is money, then I am deeply in debt to the many family members and friends who patiently read and re-read this book as it morphed haltingly into its final form. Their time, attention, wonderfully helpful suggestions and unwavering support have been critical, and I am truly grateful to them.

I especially want to acknowledge Marianne Shepherd who challenged me to get started, and Nancy and Don Montagna and Susan Collins, whose suggestions helped me set the direction of the book and its characters. I also want to thank romance author Caryn Moya Block (author, Moonkissed Romance) for her professional input, expertise, and wonderful encouragement.

Thank you to my writing group for helping me over the ‘new writer’ hurdles. You know who you are, and I thank you all.

And, thank you to Skip, who has patiently put up with my all-absorbing project. I love you, Mr. O.

About A Perfect Plan

One of the stories I fell in love with while writing our family book is that of Catherine Nelson, my five-generations-back grandmother. She was the sister of English hero Horatio Nelson but made her star shine in the best traditions of a Regency Romance heroine. A Perfect Plan is what I would like to think was her story.

This book is a novel, not a history book. In it, I deviate from the generally accepted idea that Catherine Nelson and George Matcham met in Bath in December of 1785 and married a few months later. Instead, I have them meet earlier when Matcham made his first known tour (as an adult) of the British Isles in 1779 or 1780. Identified in genealogies as George Matcham, Traveler, he was clearly an intelligent, restless and curious man. He and Catherine as a couple showed considerable influence from the Age of Enlightenment in which they were raised — both in their curiosity and joy in travel and in their more tolerant treatment of others.

I have used the interval from 1780 to 1785 to develop both of their characters, their family backgrounds, and their relationship. This story was great fun to write, is as accurate as I could make it (which is pretty accurate) and, I hope, brings to life the well-documented love of two rather wonderful ordinary people.

I hope that you’ll enjoy meeting them.

Prologue

The Rectory, Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk, England

November, 1779

NANCY… NANCY, HOLD tighter to my hand. I can help you — I know I can. Just don’t let go of me!

Kitty was terrified. Her sister had been knocked off her feet by the wind and was twisting in the clutch of a powerful storm, anchored only by Kitty’s grip on her hand.

Staring at her little sister, Nancy looked calm, as always. No, Kitty, I cannot hold on… there is too much wind.

Kitty grabbed the trunk of the young tree at the corner of the house with her free hand and held tightly to her sister with the other while the violent storm pulled at them both. Nancy’s pale blonde hair had blown loose and, with her wide skirts, was catching the wind. She was perilously close to being swept away. The wind shifted direction a little and Kitty used the chance to grab her hand more firmly, but Nancy was still in the air, strangely, floating.

I have you. Try to get your hand around my wrist. Do it quickly! Kitty could see by the way the tree branches were bending that the wind was veering back into a threatening direction.

No. I just can’t... I can’t do this. The slender white hand loosed its hold and slipped out of Kitty’s grasp. The fierce wind pulled Nancy away, up into the stormy sky, her hair spread around her strangely calm face like a halo, and her blue skirts belled around her like an angel’s wings.

Oh, no… oh, Nancy!

Kitty woke up abruptly, trembling and panting with fear. Nancy! The covers had twisted up on the bed they shared. Nancy? Kitty looked over and there Nancy was, lying next to her, fast asleep. Oh, thank God, thank God. What a horrible dream. Outside, the dawn was breaking on a stormy morning, and cold November winds howled around the corners of the old house.

She straightened the covers, tucking them in carefully around her sister. It would not do for her to catch a chill.

Still shaken, Kitty started to get dressed. That was just dreadful. Why am I so fanciful sometimes? Though dreams did not trouble her often, those that did were nearly always about her mother, who had died so young, or about not being able to save Nancy from some peril. But, she is here. She’s safe at home and sleeping peacefully. Mama died so long ago that I can’t even remember her. I must consider why I have these dreams: what they mean to me.

Not yet fifteen years old, Catherine Nelson had already learned that even troublesome dreams could be the source of useful ideas. She pulled her dress on quickly and went downstairs, to sit in the kitchen and consider.

Bidwell Manor, Newton St-Cyres, Devon, England — April, 1780

IT IS SO very nice finally to have George here! Elizabeth Bidwell Matcham had missed her son.

They were in her India room. When the room was completed months earlier, she decided that when George arrived, she would first spend time with him there.

Although it was part of her family’s very old, very traditional manor house, this one room was different from the others because of its decor. Almost as soon as she had arrived from Bombay, Elizabeth had designed it to be her retreat, where she could feel closer to far-away India, her home for so very many years. All that had been missing was her son’s presence, and now he was here, at least for a while.

George has become a fine looking man. I always thought he would. Her mind went back to her favorite image from his childhood: a grinning, excited, dark-haired little boy with a mongoose perched on his shoulder. Simon, my dear, we have done well. I wish you could see our boy now.

But, how is he, really? Well, I shall just ask. George, are you heart-whole now? Only his mother would dare ask him such a thing. She was not at all sure he would answer her.

Though he had become a poised and worldly man, he looked uncomfortable. Clearly, he was struggling with her question. I have just traveled, essentially by myself, for a year. I’ve been in Asia, Europe and part of Africa. What is not mended by now may never be. I am not trying to be evasive, Mother. That is as much as I know.

My poor son. He is wounded still. Just tell me none of this grief is for that… for, Patricia.

It was never Patricia. The rest does not matter, Mother. I’m here now. There is nothing more to say about it. George sat back a bit, looking somewhat grim.

They talked about family matters and old friends, and in a short while, he started smiling again as he told her his plans. His voice became enthusiastic. "After I conclude my business in London, I shall travel over as much of England as I can. Mother, I will find my answer to that question you and I both have asked ourselves so often: ‘Which are you, English or Indian?’ It is fine to be a man of many countries, but I need to decide, finally, where to establish my home and family. When I find the answer, I can plan the rest of my life. I have been looking forward to this little journey of discovery in England for more than two years."

I am glad you’re making this trip, George. I think you’ll enjoy your journey greatly. Perhaps it will heal his sorrow.

And I am glad to see you comfortably here, Mother. George looked around the room. It’s very nice to see the manor again, and you have made this into a lovely retreat. The whitewashed room was furnished with dark wood chairs strewn with embroidered cushions. Bright Kilim rugs contrasted with the polished wood floors, and lined drapes of Indian stamped cotton obscured the rainy April day. The walls were bright with Elizabeth’s collection of fine Indian textiles and embroideries, interspersed with the dark wood shelves and cabinets that displayed the many artifacts she had collected.

She smiled, gratified. I am so pleased with this room that I moved a bit early from the winter house in Bath just to visit with you here, first. I am so glad you like it. Elizabeth took great pride in the collection she had built. She glanced around the room, and her eyes stopped at the cluster of carved ivory gods and goddesses. Does the little Sarasvati still travel with you?

I have never thanked you for her, have I, Mother? Well, I do thank you. She has journeyed faithfully with me wherever I have gone these past years. I believe she will return to you at some point, but I am not yet ready to part with her. She’ll travel with me on this journey, too, and help me keep India in my mind. George’s deep blue eyes became even darker.

To keep India, and Gita, in his mind, I fear. Elizabeth’s heart ached for her son’s pain. He is like his father: he loves so very deeply. Perhaps it was a mistake giving the Sarasvati to him, but I meant well, and I cannot change that now. I must not say anything.

That night, George Matcham took the Indian figure from his luggage and carefully unwrapped it. He looked at her lovely, delicately carved ivory face, and smiled, then gently set her on the table by his bed. We have traveled very far, little goddess. Soon, we will travel together again, although perhaps for the last time.

Chapter One: Guests are Expected

Burnham Thorpe Rectory

October, 1780

GUESTS ARRIVING TODAY… there is so much I must do! Kitty Nelson awoke with a start, brushing at her face. Some of her sister’s pale blonde curls had escaped their nighttime braid and spilled onto her pillow. They were making her nose itch. She saw the morning's sunshine had already brightened the room. It was time to get up. She sat up and shook Nancy’s shoulder. Nancy, wake up, wake up.

Nancy rolled over, Oh, dear God… Kitty, let me sleep a bit more. I had such a poor night. She pulled Kitty’s pillow over her head.

But, there is so much left to do. Can I rely on Nancy at all? Kitty had to stop herself from saying, "Don't you dare leave all of this to me." Her surge of anger caught her by surprise but directly turned to regret. Stop that. You are being unfair. Nancy never chose to be ill. She will do what she can, and the visit will be fine. Collect yourself — she is your sister.

As she had learned to do in recent years, Kitty drew a deep breath through her nose to calm herself and then smiled at her sister. Nancy was still buried beneath Kitty’s pillow, so could not see that smile, but it was good to do it anyway. I really do love you, Nancy.

Up in ten minutes then, lazy one. Remember that Cousin Howman and his guest will arrive early this afternoon. They only have three or four hours' ride from Beccles.

Kitty continued chattering nervously while unbraiding her hair and teasing out the tangles with her comb. I do wish we'd had more notice, Nancy — I am sure Howman did not consider that. They have a house full of servants and are probably ready for guests at any time. I imagine he and Maeve must spend much of their time in company. Here, it is just you and me, and mostly, that is just me and of course Agnes, so we must prepare for them. I think if we had guests more often, it would be easier in some ways, do you think? She pulled her dress on hastily.

Pushing the pillow aside, Nancy gave her sister a baleful look. Is this sleeping for ten minutes? I don’t believe it is. She sighed and sat up, rubbing her eyes and shaking her hair behind her shoulders. Yes, it would be easier if we had guests more often, or if we had more servants than Agnes and Tom. We do not, though. Are all the menus set?

Kitty pinned up her hair hastily, pulling a cap over it to get it out of her way. Nearly complete. Agnes and I will finish them this morning. It can be a bit difficult, of course: we must not spend too much on food, but we must not run short, either. So, we plan and plan, and somehow, we succeed. Our Aunt and Uncle Howman were always very good to us, and now we must be good hostesses to their son. Besides which, I like Cousin Howman. I wonder who he is bringing as his guest?

Someone he knows from the East India Company, so likely he’s some fat old merchant. Nancy shrugged off the question but then paused. To be fair, he is probably well-off, and he must also be either nice or interesting if Cousin likes him enough to bring him here.

Oh… Kitty had been so busy planning and preparing for guests that she not taken the time to consider the visit’s purpose. Do you think Howman is match-making? Perhaps he’s bringing someone splendid for you. Certainly, not for me.

Likely he is matchmaking, Nancy grumbled. "I am one-and-twenty, just the age. That is what I am supposed to be doing — getting married. I also am supposed to be excited about it. I am not, though.