The sad tale of Fanny Macmillan

Airbrushed from family history

Fanny Macmillan, as seen in Harold Macmillan’s A Life in Pictures. The original is missing.

Thank heavens for Ancestry.co.uk, keeper, and revealer, of family secrets. It was a treasure trove for me when I was researching the family life of the Macmillan brothers, founders of the publishing house that bears their name to this day. And then one day in the height of Covid lockdown, when all libraries were closed and research was trickier than usual, it revealed to me the most extraordinary family secret, hidden away for 160 years - the death by suicide of Fanny Macmillan, one of the earliest partners in the business and the widow of its founder, Daniel. Of course, it was not immediately obvious, it required some further digging. But I was intrigued that although Fanny was buried in Cambridge alongside her husband, the probate entry recorded that she had died in York. She was only forty-five. It was a puzzle, as at the time she was sharing a house in Tooting, South London, with her brother-in-law Alexander Macmillan, his wife, and their combined family of eight children. What was she doing living in York?

So I turned to the British Newspaper Archives of 1867, looking for any clues, and there discovered the terribly sad truth: Fanny had killed herself, and in awful circumstances.

Absolutely frightful. In all the histories of the founding of the firm, and in all the biographies of Fanny’s illustrious grandson, Harold Macmillan, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom 1957-63, there was absolutely no hint, no clue, as to this story. The official biography of Alexander gave no explanation of her death, which was dismissed as ‘occurring after a period of illness’. A dramatic understatement. Fanny certainly features in the early history of the firm, particularly after the death of her husband, when she became Alexander’s partner in the business and contributed to its success. But mental health, and suicide, were not something that any Victorian family would want to talk about in public. Now I am taking the opportunity to tell more of Fanny’s story, and give her the credit she deserves.

Frances Eliza Orridge was born in Cambridge in 1821, the only daughter of a prosperous Cambridge chemist. Charles Orridge had premises on Market Hill, just round the corner from the Macmillans’ shop at 1 Trinity Street, and was a notable town worthy, being in his spare time a magistrate, the well-paid governor for twenty years of the county gaol, an official at Addenbrooke’s Hospital, and by way of trade, a purveyor of Orridge’s widely advertised camphorated tooth powder and pure glycerine pomade. Daniel Macmillan was eight years older than his bride, and already afflicted with tuberculosis, but he fell passionately in love with her, as his letters made clear: ‘You are more dear to me than words can utter. I love you with my whole heart, and wish you to know all my thoughts. . . . when I met you and heard your dear voice, and looked into those most blessed eyes of yours, I waited and thought, and thought and waited, till I felt my heart say, as if it were the voice of God ‘this is the right fair saint for you: there your heart and mind will find all you need.’

They were married in September 1850 at St Bene’t’s Church, believed to be the oldest building in Cambridge, and then for honeymoon travelled north via the Lakes, hoping to visit Daniel’s family and friends in Scotland. But by the time they reached Edinburgh the pain in Daniel’s side, and the twinges in his bones, convinced the pair to travel straight back to Torquay, a place where Daniel would spend increasing amounts of time under the care of a Dr Tetley, a specialist in the care of consumption. Their marriage would last just seven years, as Daniel became increasingly unwell, and Fanny became an accomplished nurse. Alexander’s wife Caroline wrote to a friend that even though Fanny had just given birth to her first baby, Frederick: ‘ [Fanny] was up, the brave little thing stood over her husband for an hour to put on his leeches. He is quite well now, for him at least.’ Their marriage would result in four children in all, three boys (Frederick, Maurice and Arthur) and one girl, Katherine, known as Katie.

When Daniel died, in 1857, Alexander and Caroline took Fanny and her children into their home in Cambridge, and the two families lived as one for the rest of Fanny’s wife. Fanny inherited Daniel’s share of the business, and thus became a partner in the firm, a role which Alexander and she took seriously, even though she was also dealing with grief, and coping with four children under the age of seven. She was often mentioned in his letters as ‘Mrs Daniel’, as someone who helped him in his work, reading manuscripts and suggesting new publishing projects. His letters from 1858 onwards often mention his sister-in-law: ‘I find Mrs Daniel a help to me in this as in other matters. Her taste is excellent in most things and I always listen carefully to what she says.’ In among the letters to Macmillan from Alexander Gilchrist, who was working on a biography of William Blake, there is a handwritten note from the publisher forwarding the first manuscript to Fanny for her comment. This was before he had even looked at it himself. In particular, at a time when the public seemed to be fascinated by a stream of self-help books, Fanny suggested that it might be a good idea to remind the public of the value of self-sacrifice: this was rapidly taken up by Alexander and emerged in 1864 as A Book of Golden Deeds of All Times and All Lands, edited by the well-known author Charlotte Yonge.

The idea of the little book I spoke to your brother about was suggested by my sister-in-law (who is also my partner) Mrs Daniel Macmillan. She was struck with the large attention that seemed to be drawn to the idea of getting on, as depicted in such works as Self-Help. And noble and good and important as this idea is, it seemed to her and to me that another aspect of human effort should be brought out – help of others. She suggested to me some months since that a little book of the Golden Treasury series should be made of it and the title we hit on for it was ‘the Golden Deeds of all Ages and Nations’. Our notion was that the greatest instances of self-sacrifice of all times should be selected and told in as simple, terse, beautiful language as possible.

Alexander encouraged Fanny to mix socially with his female authors, cementing relationships in a way that he was unable to do. But there were limits to what Alexander could expect from Fanny, domestically, let alone commercially. Even after the domestic pressure was relieved by a move from the cramped conditions above the shop in Cambridge to the large house in leafy Tooting that Alexander rented in 1863, Fanny was becoming increasingly unwell, prone to headaches, and dizzy spells, and then to depression. At some point in early 1866, Fanny first attempted suicide by cutting her wrists.

Alexander and Caroline could no longer cope, and engaged Mrs Turner, a full-time nurse. Then they contacted Dr Tetley in Torquay, who had cared for Daniel for so many years and thus knew Fanny well. Through him they were eventually introduced to Dr Kitching, the Medical Superintendent at The Retreat in York. This was a well-known establishment run by the Quakers and known to take a much more sympathetic approach to mental illness than any other asylum in England.

The original building of The Retreat in York, c 1796

Alexander’s letters to Dr Kitching are preserved in the archives of The Retreat. He wrote first on 14 August 1866 explaining that Fanny had been ‘under mental disturbances for the last three months’. He and his wife were going to take her to Eastbourne for a holiday, ‘to try the effect of the society of her old friends’, but her current doctors thought it likely that she would need ‘systematic care’ in an institution. Kitching and Alexander initially agreed that Fanny would be admitted to the asylum as a first-class patient at three guineas a week, and he and Caroline would call in on the way to a holiday in Scotland to inspect the building, leaving Fanny at home with her nurse, Mrs Turner, and Caroline’s sister, Fanny Brimley. Following their visit it seems to have been decided that Fanny would not be admitted to The Retreat itself, but that she and Mrs Turner would take lodgings in York and be attended privately by Dr Kitching. The family were trying to make her life as comfortable as possible. Fanny’s surviving brother, William Orridge, installed Fanny and her nurse in a house in October, and there is no further information about her progress in Kitching’s files.

When news of the incident reached Tooting, Alexander rushed north to be with her, but Fanny died on 21 January 1867, three days after suffering terrible self-inflicted burns to her face and neck. She left four children under the age of sixteen, the youngest, Arthur, being just ten. To Alexander’s probable relief, although the story was picked up by many local newspapers and even some London press including the Morning Post, none of the articles made the connection with the Macmillan publishing concern. Alexander was not a witness at the inquest, the family being represented by William Orridge. She was buried in Mill Road Cemetery in Cambridge beside her husband, F. D. Maurice having come down from London to officiate.

In a strikingly honest letter to his friend Edward Thring, the headmaster of Uppingham School, in April 1867, Alexander wrote:

When I look at the date of your letter, Feb 27, and remember how gratefully it came to me while our great sorrow was fresh on us, like the words of a brother, and how on reading it again and again it still has to me the flavour of the Divine, became truly human sympathy, I feel rather ashamed of myself that I have not earlier written to thank you … A feeling akin to resentment often comes across my mind, when all the burden, blessed as it is in its way, comes over one and the work to be done, and which she and he who went so long before her would so gladly and so wisely have shared with me: “how is it when our life’s work, both as regards the business and to us far more important the rearing of the young human creatures, our children and God’s children, was becoming day by day of so much more importance, and so far more difficult, how is it that I am left without their help who would have done it so infinitely better than I can hope to do it?”

It is possible that Fanny’s children were never told exactly what had happened to their mother (at the time both her elder boys were boarding at Uppingham School, and little Arthur was at Summer Fields). Alexander told Thring that he tried not to make their loss seem any heavier than it was. Some of Fanny’s ill-health may have been unwittingly self-inflicted. In a letter to Miss Mulock in November 1860, Alexander wrote: ‘Has Fanny M told you of the wonderful Chloride of Potash which has been getting them all right? I hope she will.’ This compound was taken to alleviate sore throats, but in large quantities over time it can be toxic and can cause confusion and anxiety.

Daniel and Fanny are buried togther in Cambridge

There is a terrible second half to this story, as if it were not sad enough. Fanny’s only daughter, Katie, was a bright and happy little girl, who grew up in Alexander’s household in Tooting. When she was about five, Alexander wrote to her godmother, ‘Katherine is growing quite a companionable young lady. She is bright, healthy and well-grown, and very sharp – cleverer I think than either of her elder brothers and as good as good withal. So you need not be ashamed of your godchild.’ But at some point in her teenage life, something began to go badly wrong. On 25 July 1878, a patient recorded as ‘Kath C Macmillan’ was admitted as a private patient to Normansfield, an asylum in Hampton Wick near Teddington owned and managed by Dr John Longden Down (after whom Down’s syndrome was named). Kate would have been twenty-two at the time. By 1877, of course, she had lost both her parents and had watched her younger brother Arthur die of the same disease that had killed her father. Her oldest brother, Fred, who had been away for many years, now had his own household and wife, and Maurice was busy working as a classics master at St Paul’s School. She may have suffered from depression, but I think it likely that her withdrawal from society into medical care may have been triggered by the onset of an organic illness such as epilepsy, which had struck once she reached her teens.

The Normansfield asylum took up to a hundred and sixty private patients at £200 per annum, a considerable amount of money, but Kate had inherited money from her parents. It catered for the offspring of well-off families who suffered from physical or learning disabilities or epilepsy. Dr Langdon Down and his wife Mary had purchased a large mansion set in five acres of grounds in Teddington, and the intention was to treat the patients as humanely as possible, teaching them life skills, taking part in daily exercise sessions including roller-skating, riding, tennis, and swimming, and by 1877, helping out at a small farm. Katie was there for nearly a year, not leaving until June 1879, in time to attend her cousin George’s wedding. Unfortunately, the recovery was not permanent. All Emma, Alexander’s second wife would later say on the subject was ‘Katie, his niece, affectionate and wayward, very lovable, but not easy. She was often away.’

At the time of the 1891 census Katie was one of a dozen so-called ‘lunatics’ living at The Grove, a women-only asylum in Hendon. It may well be that she had in fact developed epilepsy as a teenager, which was poorly understood and could only be treated with bromide at that time. If left untreated, the deterioration can be severe. It can also be linked with depression and psychosis. By 1901 Kate was under the full-time residential care of a Dr Bisdee, initially living as the only boarder at his home in Hoddesden, Hertfordshire and then moving with the Bisdee family to Weston-Super-Mare. In 1911, Kate fell from a fourth-storey window in the doctor’s house and died within hours. The newspaper reports of the inquest made no mention of her famous family, and a verdict of accidental death was recorded, although reading the evidence, suicide would seem a more plausible conclusion.

Fanny, Daniel Macmillan’s widow, and her daughter Kate were the grandmother and aunt, respectively, of Harold Macmillan, later Prime Minister, but their stories were buried with them. Kate has completely vanished from the biographies of her brothers and nephew, and it was only a chance find in the archives at the University of Reading of a letter from the son of her physician, that led me to discover the circumstances of her death.If Frederick and Maurice, Fanny’s two elder sons, were kept in the dark about their mother’s illness, they certainly would have known what had happened to their sister Kate. Her death occurred when Maurice’s son Harold, the future Prime Minister, was sixteen years old, and his mother Nellie would have been well aware of the horror, and of the history of mental illness and suicidal tendencies in Daniel’s family.

The young Harold Macmillan

Harold Macmillan’s political career started well, elected as a Conservative MP for Stockton in 1924, and married to the daughter of the Duke of Devonshire. But by 1929 he had lost his seat and his wife was having an affair with his friend Bob Boothby. Knowing, as his mother would have done, the history of mental instability that had killed both his grandmother and his aunt Kate, and had affected his cousin Malcolm, Nellie became watchful and protective. In 1931 Harold appears to have had a serious nervous breakdown, struggling under the continual misery of war wounds, the lull in his political career, and his wife’s infidelity. There were even rumours of a suicide attempt. Nellie took control and, perhaps remembering Fanny and Kate, despatched him to a sanatorium in Bavaria to be nursed back to health.

Literature for the People will be published on Thursday this week, and will of course focus on the fascinating rags to riches story of the Macmillan brothers, the firm they built and the literary giants they nurtured and befriended. But it will also shine a light for the very first time on the women in the family, on Alexander’s two wives, on his clever and beautful daughters, and on the sad tale of Fanny and Kate, who do not deserve to be airbrushed out of history.