The Kindness of Sisters: Annabella Milbanke and the Destruction of the Byrons. David Crane

      THE KINDNESS OF SISTERS

       Annabella Milbanke and the Destruction of the Byrons

      DAVID CRANE

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

Prologue

I A Meeting of Opposites

II The Meeting

       III A Sense of Failure

       Marriage

       Sleeping With the Vampire

       The Kindness of Sisters

       An Instrument of Destruction

       The End of the Affair

       A Preparation for Invisibilty

       Epilogue

       Endnotes

       Select Bibliography

       Index

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Other Works

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       PROLOGUE

      The glory of mankind has been to produce lives, to provide vivid, independent, individual men, not buildings or engineering works or art, not even the public good.

      D. H. Lawrence¹

      You should not have warred with the World – it will not do – it is too strong always for any individual.

      Madame de Stael to Byron²

      In the late afternoon of 15 June 1938, a small group of men stood at a gaping hole at the south-west corner of the chancel of St Mary Magdalen, Hucknall. Beneath their feet a short flight of steps led down to a low, cramped vault, and by the glare of a photographer’s lamp they could make out a pile of coffins heaped on top of each other in a mouldering jumble of wood and bone and twisted lead that had lain undisturbed for over fifty years.

      They had converged on the church in some secrecy. Earlier in the day a lorry had brought builders’ tools and planks to the north door, and one by one through the afternoon a surveyor, antiquarian and doctor had appeared. Finally a mason and three labourers arrived and began lifting the massive, cracked slab of York stone that now lay beside the open crypt.

      It took them two hours to raise the stone, but by six o’clock in the evening it was done. During the course of the work there were other visitors in the church, but once the vault was open most of these, and all the women, were asked to leave.

      Even by English standards, those who remained were a curiously prosaic lot to be indulging a taste in literary necrophilia. There was clearly a generous streak of romance in the character of Canon Barber, the Vicar of Hucknall, but if a brace of churchwardens and half the professional classes of the county were not ballast enough to steady the most extravagant imagination, he had also co-opted the Diocesan Surveyor and local MP in a bid for respectability.

      A miner’s lamp was swung into the vault to test the air, a ladder lowered to avoid the shallow, awkward steps, and Canon Barber climbed down, followed in turn by the surveyor, photographer and antiquarian. The purpose of the meeting, if the Canon is to be believed, was to establish the existence of a lost medieval crypt, and although it was soon plain that any such hopes were misplaced, measurements were duly taken and recorded, leaving the way clear for the real, if unacknowledged, business of the day.

      The labourers were dismissed until the next morning, and the party adjourned to the church hall, only returning at the dead of night. Again, Canon Barber was the first down. Alone in the vault, lit now only by the photographer’s lamps, he had time for a more careful inspection. It was a cramped, rectangular chamber six feet wide, just over seven feet long, and no more than eight feet beneath the floor of the nave. Its walls were of plastered brick, with two sloping slabs of stone making the vaulted roof. In three piles, running north to south rested the more or less intact shells of about half a dozen coffins, with the crushed debris of others beneath them. Round his feet lay the dust and bones of three centuries.

      There seemed to be no order to anything. At the foot of the stairs, though, he identified the seventeenth century coffin of a baby, its lead lining buckled and twisted under the weight of a double-cube funerary chest, to which scraps of faded purple velvet still clung. On the lid was a brass plate with the following inscription:

       Within the Urnare depositedthe heart and the brainof the deceasedLord Noel Byron

      The lid was loose, and inside was a sealed lead case, with a second inscription adding an oddly casual ‘etc’ to the contents of the urn. Beyond the chest, Barber could now distinguish more easily the coffin for which he was searching. It was made of well-preserved oak and ornately decorated. Further shreds of purple material – faded since to crimson – clung to the brass headed coffin nails. On the lid rested the remains of a Baron’s coronet. The velvet and ermine had rotted away, and the pearls had been wrenched from their finials. Only the simple rim survived to identify the rank and probable identity of the dead.

      There was no coffin plate to confirm Barber’s guess, but the lid was loose and he could see that the lead casing had already been cut open. ‘Somebody’, he recalled with an endearing disingenuousness, ‘had deliberately opened the coffin.

      A horrible thought came over me that souvenirs might have been taken from the coffin. The idea was revolting, but I could not dismiss it. Had the body itself been removed? Terrible thought! From time to time visitors to the church had asserted in my hearing that the body of the Poet was not in the Vault. I wondered now on what ground this assertion could have been made. Had they known of the opening of the coffin, and received some secret information that the body had been removed? The more I thought about it, the more fearful I became of the possibility of the