Ruskin's Copper Shadow

By Jennifer Wineberg

Did Pauline Trevelyan manipulate John Ruskin into leaving the love of his life in 1865? 

Bonded by their interest in Pre-Raphaelite art, Pauline Trevelyan, the Mistress of Wallington Hall in Northumberland and John Ruskin developed a close friendship.  Pauline had taken his side against Euphemia Gray (Effie) when she had divorced him for non-consummation of their marriage.  The daughter of a Minister would naturally want to protect Ruskin from further scandal when Isabella Milburn one of her servants, fell pregnant.   

A Northumbrian Canon is concerned about this illegitimate child, leading him to unravel a story of deception and betrayal. As a metaphor for Ruskin, his heightened social awareness plunges him into the Brussels underworld to investigate the White Slave Trade.  Like Ruskin he falls in love with a young girl whose unfettered spontaneity and natural beauty inspires him, saving him from his mental and physical tribulations.  Along with other narrative characters the Canon exposes historically based truths, which have led me to believe that John Ruskin is my Great Great Grandfather.

292 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Wineberg
• Release date: Feb 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386448921

Jennifer Wineberg

I am a Geordie to my roots and a passionate supporter of Newcastle United. I love crosswords and have a love hate relationship with the compiler of the crossword in the Financial Times.  I have a daughter who runs a dog walking business and a husband who fought with spaces and apostrophes in an attempt to turn my book into a readable format. My fascination with my Northumbrian roots, the Victorian Era and the moral dilemmas surrounding John Ruskin have all come together in my debut novel 'Ruskin's Copper Shadow'. 

Book preview

The extract from the painting Iron and Coal by William Bell Scott on the front cover is reproduced by courtesy of

National Trust.

It shows Isabella Milburn

My Great Great Grandmother to whom I dedicate this book.

The historical characters in this book existed in the time and place described.  The narrative characters are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Jennifer Wineberg has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

© JENNIFER WINEBERG 2019

First published February 2019

Acknowledgments

To National Trust 

In particular Lloyd Langley House and Collections Manager of Wallington Hall in Northumberland for helping me with my research and allowing my story to be part of the audio narrative at Wallington Hall.

To my husband Stuart Wineberg for editing my copy and washing up whilst I struggled to turn my book into a readable format.

To my brother Malcolm Colling who inspired me to put pen to paper.  He is a much more experienced writer than me and has published many books.

To my sister Dorothy Randle for her support.

To my daughter Ali Wineberg for helping me understand social media 

To Luke Baker who designed the cover.

I am indebted to the following authors and their publications whose painstaking research about John Ruskin and Pauline Lady Trevelyan provided me with the background for my book.

Tim Hilton, The Early Years, 2000

Tim Hilton, John Ruskin The Later Years, 2000

John Batchelor, Lady Trevelyan and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 2006 

Raleigh Trevelyan, Pre-Raphaelite Circle, 1978 

Narrative Characters

The Narrative Characters have been created to provide an anchor to the story

The Canon

Born 2nd June 1839 in Northumberland. Died in Rosalind’s arms on 16 June 1928 aged 89

The Magistrate

Born 9 December 1819 in the slums of Newcastle.  Died alone on 1st January 1886 aged 67 in rented lodgings in Newcastle

The Old Cleric

Born 10 August 1819 in Northumberland 

Died surrounded by his loving family in his cottage in Northumberland on January 15 1883 aged 64 

Rosalind

Born 21 May 1866 in London

Married the Canon 5th May 1886

Mother to Emily, John and Dorothy

Died August 19th 1961 in Morpeth Northumberland

Aged 95 

Gladys and Sam Davidson

Managers of a workhouse near London

Both born sometime in 1844 in London.  Death unknown

Hannah 

Born 10 February 1829 in Newcastle in the Inn she took over from her parents.

Served as housekeeper to the Magistrate until he retired 

Married Job on 2 September 1850

The Inn was burnt down on Sunday 8 October 1854.  The fire started in a flax mill in Gateshead and spread to the nearby chemical works.  It crossed the Tyne from ships moored at Gateshead to those in Newcastle, causing extensive damage to the Newcastle Quayside.  The Inn was rebuilt in 1855

Mother to Lily, Job, Joseph, Robert and James

Died with Lily by her side on 19 August 1904 aged 75 

George

Born in a London slum on 5 December 1849.

Father unknown.  Found his alcoholic mother Elizabeth dead on 12 July 1878 and moved up to Newcastle to join his uncle the Magistrate shortly afterwards

Married Lily in Newcastle on 16 April 1884

Moved into the Magistrate’s abandoned office and raised four children

George, Isaac, Lily and Hannah

Died on 6 September 1930 aged 80 with his family at his bedside

Lily

Born on 11 October 1851 to Hannah and her husband Job

Worked in the Inn before she married George

Died on 15 December 1936 aged 85 in the care of her children  

Historical Characters

The historical characters existed in the time and place described in the book

Isabella Milburn (nee Charlton)

My Great Great Great Grandmother  

Born between 1813 and 1817 in Close Houses 

Married Nicholas Milburn my Great Great Great Grandfather who was born between 1813 and 1817 in Kirkhale Northumberland

The same village that Capability Brown came from.

Died 1 March 1886 aged between 69 and 73 years old

Employed as a shepherd on the Wallington Estate 

Isabella died July 28 1883 aged between 66 and 70 years old in Close Houses

Known children were Anne, Isabella and Mary Jane

Isabella McVinnie (nee Milburn)

My Great Great Grandmother 

Born 4 December 1851 and Christened 15 January 1852 in 9 Close Houses on Wallington Hall Estate Cambo Northumberland 

Used as a model for the wall panel entitled Iron and Steel painted by William Bell Scott in 1861 in Wallington Hall Northumberland

Married William McVinnie from Belsay Northumberland in April 1873 in Newcastle upon Tyne. His occupation changed from blacksmith to coal miner and eventually to stoneminer possibly at Bearle Quarries.  Her 5 children were Robert, Nicholas, William, Mary and John

She lived for most of her married life in Ovingham near Hexham where she

died of cardiac disease or what I prefer to call a broken heart on 25 January 1911 aged 58

Mabel Evelina Pratt (nee Evelina Milburn)

My Great Grandmother 

Born 19 August 1865. Christened December 24 1865

Married Alexander Pratt a blacksmith, who was born in Eighton Banks in June 1864, on 11 February 1888 in Newcastle upon Tyne  

Her children were Frederick James Pratt and Ada Evelina Pratt

She moved to 80 Station Road, Bill Quay, Gateshead, Durham where she died in early 1931 at the age of 65

My mother Betsy Lightfoot Wood who was 16 years old at the time played the organ at Alexander’s funeral at St Mary’s Church Heworth Gateshead in 1942 even though she had no connection with the family at that time.  He was buried in an unmarked grave in the churchyard

Annie Weightman (nee Milburn)

Born 1845 in Close Houses. She was Isabella’s sister

Married George Weightman from Staley Northumberland. He progressed from mill servant to miller’s traveller in grain.  Today we would call him a grain salesman.

Mother of six children

Edward, Ellison, Thomas, Paulina, Blanche and Lucy Mary  

Died 1918 Ovingham Northumberland aged 73  

Ada Evelina Pratt

My Grandmother

Born 24th June 1890 in Elswick Newcastle

Married John T Colling in St Nicholas’ Cathedral on 27th May 1912

Spent most of the rest of her life at 86 Station Road, Bill Quay, Gateshead where she raised 5 children John, Mabel Evelina, Emily, Alan (my father) and Alexander.

On 5 October 1942 she inherited £3549 7s 5d from her father Alexander Pratt a retired blacksmith who lived next door at 80 Station Road.  This was a considerable amount of money when compared to adjacent entries on the national probate calendar.

My grandmother died 19th February 1969

Susan Begne

Born 1817 in Edinburgh

Was Married. Death date unknown 

Cook and domestic servant. Lived in servant quarters in Wallington Hall along with the staff listed below

Margaret Charlton

Housemaid unmarried

Born Gosforth Northumberland in 1822

Mary Hall

Kitchen Maid unmarried

Born Haydon Northumberland in 1841

Mary Hepple

Housemaid unmarried

Born 1843 Heddon on the Wall Northumberland.

Elisabeth Henderson

unmarried

Born 1826 Elsdon Northumberland

Joseph Dining

Footman unmarried

Born 1846 Whickham Durham 

Other Staff at Wallington Hall at the same time as Susan

James Shopland

Butler to Sir Charles Trevelyan. Previously from Champ house in Somerset. 

Born in Somerset in 1825. Lived in Close houses 

Married Mary from Heddon on the Wall who was the mother of approximately 8 children 

Owners of the Hall

Lady Pauline Jermyn Trevelyan

Wife of Sir Walter Trevelyan

Born in Hawkedon Suffolk on 25 January 1816. The daughter of a clergyman.

Married Sir Walter Trevelyan in May 1835

Diagnosed with an ovarian tumour in 1850

She died on 13 May 1866 with John Ruskin and her husband at her bedside in Neuchatel Switzerland where she was buried on 16 May aged 50

Sir Walter Calverley Trevelyan

Baronet and Landed Proprietor of the Wallington Desmesne

Born at Wallington Hall 31 March 1797

After the death of his first wife he married Laura Coppell Lofft from Troston in Suffolk

He died childless on 23 March 1879 aged 82

Reverend John Pincher Faunthorpe

Born 1839, died1924

Principal of Whitelands College an Anglican Teacher Training College for Women between 1872 and 1907.

Ruskin became a college benefactor in the mid 1870’s

In October 1881 Faunthorpe was given a piece of gold by Ruskin to signify his status as an accepted adherent of St George’s Company

John Ruskin

In 2019 we are celebrating 200 years since his birth.

I have deliberately kept him until last because I am in awe of his achievements.  Despite being tortured by shyness and a tendency to be socially dysfunctional he involved himself in the art world, architectural design, political debate, and even in the draining of swampland in the slums.

He regarded the teaching of art as being the teaching of all things.  He did not believe that life could be funnelled into specialities, as discrete entities. 

Keir Hardy and other founders of the Labour Party listed him as being one of their biggest inspiration. Tolstoy said that he was one of the most remarkable men of our time.

Born 8 February 1819 at 54 Hunter Street Brunswick London to John James Ruskin a successful wine salesman and Margaret his wife. 

John was their only child. 

He died 20 January 1900 at Brantwood in the Lake District.

‘Art is only justified when it is of service to the best in man when beauty of form is

given to beauty of thought alone’

John Ruskin px11 ‘The Crown of Wild Olive and the Cestus of Algaia’

J M Dent and Sons Ltd 1908

Prologue - The Cook’s Narrative

Eighteen Hundred and Sixty Five

‘NO TIME FOR MEN FOLK,’ muttered Susan the Cook under her breath.

Her brief marriage in Scotland had been to a man with ale-laden breath and clumsy grimy hands.  With a start she recalled how she had borne him a son who had died in her arms. 

Such a brief flash of life.

As soon as it had struggled painfully out of her body she wanted to hide it under her petticoats fearing it would soon bear the blue fist marks that stained her own life. 

Days sucked dry by the echo of heavy feet and the incessant banging on the door and the screaming because he was too drunk to unlock the catch.  That was before she was crushed by his voice and anything else he could lay his hands on.  The day she left was no different to any other grey day except she found his money.  It was stuffed into a tin of tobacco on the mantelpiece and she knew it was enough to catch the coach to Newcastle.  She had never been there but fancied the idea of building a new life in a city, which had a new castle.  After a few days working as a barmaid she heard of a vacancy in a country house.  She had been trained as a cook before being molested by the man who stole away her life, so felt excited about the prospect of living in a place surrounded by trees and grass instead of dim alleyways full of crumbling houses.  Although she had escaped a violent husband, she soon discovered that she had merely exchanged the poverty of the Edinburgh slums for a cold attic room and a grinding workload.

If afternoon tea was delayed in the world of pot pourri and polish his Lordship’s moustache would quiver in dissatisfaction.  The fact that a kitchen maid had scalded herself on the teapot was irrelevant.  He demanded promptness in the same way as he expected the sun to rise.  Its occurrence needed neither praise nor comment.  Some days were so demanding that Susan heard the timepiece in the drawing room strike twelve as she laid her weary head on the straw filled pillow. 

Today she was preparing for a banquet and had enlisted the help of the house servants who had reported to her as soon as they had completed their regular duties.  To cater for this extra demand she needed to check the range cooker.  When she had opened the creaking door wide enough for her to withstand the heat, she shovelled coal into its greedy mouth.  After plunging her dirty hands into the washing bucket she looked down at her etched fingers.  As a grey forty eight year old she felt at home amongst the hewn tables and battered pots for she knew that her tenure at Wallington Hall had nothing to do with her appearance.  It merely relied upon her ability to satisfy the demands of her Masters, which was why her kitchen was steeped in the stench of severed animals.  After roasting and drizzling they were stolen away by the white-gloved butler who presented them to table to be picked at by persons harbouring no interest in the sweating lackeys who had prepared them.  As Susan stared up at the meat hooks, hanging like vicious question marks above her head, it reminded her of a difficult dilemma. 

Isabella had arrived unannounced like all the young servant girls and she had been passed to Susan to train.  Everything had gone well at first.  She had turned up on time, with her neatly made uniforms folded up in a black tin, but after the first week her tasks remained either ignored or half finished.  After winning the debacle with the dairymaid some years ago Susan had established a fierce reputation amongst her staff.  Determined that Ma’am would not have to intervene again she grabbed hold of Isabella in the corridor, intent on remonstrating with her.  She had no intention of letting a waif like her interfere with the smooth running of her world. 

Isabella had initially displayed shock, but then became limp and calm almost as a trapped animal accepting her fate.  When Susan released her grip, she had expected her to try and flee like other belligerent servants had done.  Instead, she raised her hand to clear her hair away from her eyes and gazed at her.  There was a serenity about her, which Susan had never seen in someone so young.  It was as if she possessed an inner strength.  When Susan looked more closely, she noted that her copper locks were ruffled and her eyes were dull.  A tear stuck stubbornly to the end of one of her eyelashes, and salt trails streaked her cheeks.  Whatever had created this emotional turmoil had completely drained her dry.  For a split second Susan wanted to embrace her, despite the fact that her head was reeling with complaints from the household staff about the girl’s laziness. 

‘What’s wrong little bairn?’  Susan had enquired, bending down close to her. 

Terror had cracked the girl’s amber eyes but she had remained silent.  Susan had wanted to stay longer, but she knew that Mary Hepple was waiting for her back in the kitchen with a list of supplies and Mary Hall had a problem with a broken pot. 

That was two weeks ago and today basins bubbled and griddles seethed in tune with the demands of her Ladyship’s banqueting guests.  Susan’s eyes drifted sadly over to her mutton dumpling crouching on the table next to her.  The rich gravy inside had long since cooled and the pastry was oozing congealing fat.  Robbed of the opportunity to enjoy this morsel hot from the range, but driven by hunger, she crammed the cold greasy lump into her mouth. 

Pepper and spice soon filled the air as Susan taught Mary how to make a sauce for the goose.  The Maid wiped the sweat from her face and as she smiled, a few black teeth poked through her wet gums.  Her cheeks had long ago collapsed and her jaws constantly searched in vain for a grinding surface like a large rodent.  Having despatched the main course, Susan’s focus was now on the steamed puddings.  She had already checked the seething cauldron suspended above the flames and supervised the weighing out of sugar, flour, salt and beef fat.  Next came the mixed spice and grated nutmeg, which were always kept under lock and key.  Master complained so much about the cost, that every time she used them she heard his anguished tones echoing in her head. 

Puddings demanded a lot of preparation but once the rich gooey mix had been incarcerated within the muslin and their necks tied with string, they could be left suspended for hours in the boiling pot.  They were generous like that.  Feeling under control Susan stepped outside to take in some fresh air in the garden.  She noticed a forlorn figure and despite the fact she was not wearing her maid’s uniform Susan still recognised her.  It was Isabella.

‘Wish I’d had nothin to do wiv her,’ she muttered.  Just a few days ago Susan had shared her concerns about Isabella’s sickness with Ma’am.  Berating herself for not addressing her indolence instead, Susan concluded that she was getting soft in her old age.  To Susan’s surprise Ma’am had sought an appointment with the young servant girl, something she had never done before.  Unbeknown to the Cook, whilst she was thinking about this problem, her staff had followed her.  Standing alongside her their expressions of bad intent were etched clearly across their faces.  Their frustrations at having spent the last few months having to cope with an unpredictable extra workload spilled over. 

‘Let’s give ‘er a beating,’ screamed Margaret.

It was that comment that galvanised the group into action.  Susan watched stunned as the women dragged Isabella back into the kitchen.  One of them gripped the back of her cotton dress and rent it in two before throwing the girl face down on to the slate floor.  The household besoms, which were stood to attention against the wall, became their weapons of choice.  However deep their grievances, beating Isabella was not acceptable.  Susan’s voice roared across the kitchen.

‘That’s enough!’

The Cook expected instant obedience and today was no different.  Although they all lowered their brooms they could not resist a last spiteful comment before leaving the girl lying on the floor.  When the mob slunk back into the steamy turmoil the unpleasant vapour from their bodies as they slunk past made Susan shudder as to what would have happened if she had not stopped them.  Susan picked up Isabella and took her into the scullery area away from the main kitchen.  Laying her gently on the rough hewn bench reserved for cutting up carcases of meat she shuddered as she realised that Isabella was not much bigger than the lambs she regularly jointed. 

Isabella’s wrist hung limply, but she opened her eyes momentarily.  She noticed how swollen her stomach was.  It was solid and when she pressed her hand gently against it she felt a movement.

‘Ow could you be so brainless.  She’s with child.’ said Susan quietly to herself as memories flooded back to her about the sad little purple lump that had died in her arms.  Feelings of remorse flooded in to fill those spaces she thought she had closed off all those years ago.  Isabella’s complaints about feeling out of sorts made sense to her now, but she still couldn’t understand why Ma’am had been so interested. 

Sir Walter Trevelyan and Lady Pauline controlled everything in Susan’s life; her church attendance; her mean little space in the rafters; the clothes on her back.  However, one thing that Ma’am and Master could not control was gossip.  Tittle tattle allowed the servants to strip the silken gowned ones of their finery.  Like the rest of the staff Susan had mastered the art of retaining every word uttered by the stiff fingered ones.  Cupped lips spread complaints about the bath water from one guest whilst tired cheeks pressed to chinks in walls would reveal meaningless names of painters whom her Ladyship supported.  It was a well-known topic of gossip that the love between her Ladyship and her husband was more cerebral than physical and unlike so many households Susan knew that Isabella was safe from his unsolicited advances.  The Butler had confided to Susan that his Lordship was so confident about his intention of not having any children that he had settled his estate upon his nephew.  Susan often wondered whether she would prefer to work in a household rife with innuendo and immorality, to distract her from the daily grind.  That was before Isabella joined the household. 

‘Who was it that gave you this bairn?’  Susan whispered. 

Margaret had told Susan that she had seen the guest, who was now spending so much time with Isabella, some years ago in conflict with her Ladyship’s painter, William Bell Scott.  The stranger had been a regular visitor to the Hall but had never drawn attention to himself.  He seemed to have spent a lot of his time with Ma’am. 

‘This man.  He’s jus’ like a shadow,’ Susan thought to herself. ‘Always around but nobody knows him.  I hope he hasn’t hurt thee.’ 

She checked for bruising and sighed with relief when she found no evidence of the shameful marks that had once covered her own body.

‘I’ll look after you little one ’ she whispered to the sleeping girl on the slab.  She shuddered as she thought about the workhouse.  It was common knowledge that most servant girls who became full bellied ended up there with their babies.  She carefully removed Isabella’s torn clothes and washed her clean.  Susan always kept spare smocks in the store cupboard and whilst lifting her arms to put on the garment the girl’s hands fell open.  She saw a series of deep lacerations on her palms and on closing Isabella’s fingers she discovered that her fingernails matched the position of the scars.  Then she realised that these marks coincided with her visit to Ma’am. 

‘Poor little mite.  Did Ma’am frighten you into doin’ this?’ 

The Cook lifted her gently off the table and held her so tightly that she could not only feel Isabella’s heart but she was sure she could feel the faint tremor of her developing child.

‘This was meant to be’, thought Susan tearfully as she held Isabella as if she had just found the most precious thing in her life.  ‘Rescuin’ you gives me summat to love.  Summat to live for it does’ she sniffed. 

Laying her gently on her soft old chair she sat near her on a hard wooden stool watching her breathe as if her existence depended upon it.  Just then the footman arrived carrying an expensive looking gentleman’s coat and an old sack containing something heavy. 

‘For Isabella’ he said.

Before she had an opportunity to enquire further he had vanished.  Isabella burrowed into the thick folds of the garment as if it was familiar to her and grasped the neck of the old sack, tied up with sisal. 

‘Maybe he cares for you after all’ said Susan.  ‘I aint niver been so mixed up about anything as much as I am about you and this man.’ 

She saw a smile creep across Isabella’s face and went to get some stew from one of the cooking pots bubbling on the range.  Grateful not to have been noticed by the rest of the staff Susan slipped back to where the maid was resting.  Isabella sat up slowly and an outstretched hand emerged from the thick black coat.  Taking the spoon, she ate the stew greedily.  Normally, Susan would have eaten some herself but she had lost her appetite today. 

She watched from her vantage point as the puddings were served and dirty dishes were piled up and scrubbed with salt and sand.  Eventually the kitchen was empty save for herself and Isabella.  There was something special about this girl.  Susan called the footman to send a message to Isabella’s parents telling them that she was indisposed and would be staying the night in the Hall. 

‘God have mercy ’ whispered Susan.  ‘Life is going to be tough but I’ll be there for you.’

Leaving Isabella fast asleep in the kitchen chair she made her weary way to bed.  As soon as she awoke she rushed down to the