The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘You’ll probably expand all of a sudden,’ said Lilian. ‘Some women do. They don’t show for ages, then all at once they look like they’re ready to drop an elephant. We need to get you off to Miss Rawley before that happens.’

  She pressed her lips together. For now, her condition was a secret. Her parents knew, as did Sir Edward and Lady Kimber, but no one else – well, presumably this Miss Rawley knew. Emma didn’t. Mary was under orders not to succumb in front of Emma to a violent craving she had developed for these new sweets called wine gums, in case it made her curious.

  ‘It’s more likely she’ll notice I’m wearing your clothes,’ she told Lilian. Her own were too tight.

  But Lilian’s sensible skirts and blouses were so similar to Mary’s old clothes that Emma didn’t notice the difference, merely asking, ‘Aren’t you going to wear your lovely new things any more?’

  ‘Would you like some of them? It never felt right, having so many.’

  ‘Oh, could I?’ Emma’s face lit up.

  She had to smile. ‘There’ll be lots of turning-up. I’m taller than you.’

  Neither did Emma question the business of sending her away.

  ‘This Miss Rawley needs help, and it’ll benefit all of you if I’m away for a spell,’ Mary told her. ‘You know, let things die down.’

  How amazing that she could make it sound so reasonable, so normal, when she was being shunted elsewhere while everyone else licked their wounds.

  Anyway, she might like being at Jackson’s House. If this Miss Rawley was enemies with Lady Kimber, she couldn’t be all bad. And if they didn’t get along, she could use her Kimber allowance to set herself up in a cottage and settle down to write. She hadn’t written any articles since before her marriage. Had Vera’s Voice and the rest forgotten about Fay Randall by now?

  Jackson’s House was a tidy distance away, but travelling at a clip through the cool morning, it was no time at all before the cab turned into Hardy Lane. How countrified this part of Chorlton was, compared to the leafy roads of red-brick houses near the rec, where the Maitlands lived.

  The front door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a frilly cap and apron.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mary. ‘I’m Miss Rawley’s companion-help.’

  ‘If you’d like to follow me upstairs …’

  Soon she was in a pleasant room with a flowery china set on the washstand and cut-glass trinket dishes on the dressing table. An oil lamp stood beside the bed.

  ‘Downstairs is lit by gas,’ said the maid, ‘but it’s oil and candles up here.’

  ‘Roses − how lovely.’

  ‘It was Mrs Burley’s idea.’

  ‘Mrs Burley?’

  ‘The cook. She thought − we both thought − you’d like them.’

  ‘Thank you. I do.’ Odd that the servants, not their mistress, had made the gesture.

  ‘I’ll leave you to settle in, miss.’

  She put her things away. Wasn’t Miss Rawley going to send for her? She went downstairs. The back of the hall must lead to the kitchen. She knocked and went in, her fingers brushing the green baize. A solidly built woman was chopping vegetables while the maid cleaned the household brushes in soapy water.

  ‘You must be Mrs Burley. Thank you for the roses.’ She turned to the maid. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Edith, miss.’

  ‘Edith. And I’m Mary Kimber.’

  ‘Kimber, is it?’ said Mrs Burley. ‘Only we’ve been wondering, being as we know how you’re placed, not being wed any more.’

  ‘I wanted to go back to Maitland, but … well, I assume you’re aware of my condition. I want the same name as my child.’

  ‘We’ll take good care of you while you await your happy event, Mrs Kimber,’ said Mrs Burley.

  ‘I was hoping you’d call me Mary.’

  ‘Nay, we couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? I work here, same as you.’

  She gazed at them, willing them to accept her on her terms. Never again would she allow herself to be set above those who did the work.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Burley. ‘After all, you were sent by Sir Edward himself. He wouldn’t want us hobnobbing.’

  ‘At home, my mother works alongside our daily, and that’s how I want to be. It’s how I was brought up.’

  ‘Mary it is, then, but only when you’re in here.’

  ‘On the other side of that door,’ said Edith, ‘you’re Miss Mary.’

  ‘Mrs Mary,’ the cook corrected her. ‘It’s only polite, given your situation.’

  A bell jangled in the middle of a row of bells on the wall above a rack of labelled spare keys.

  ‘That’s the morning room,’ said Edith. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Mary followed her into the hall. Edith opened a door and she walked into a comfortable room with windows open onto the side and back gardens, but the pleasure and relief she had started to feel in the kitchen died an abrupt death when she saw the fixed, angry look on the face of the elderly lady sitting bolt upright, one arm in a sling.

  ‘I hope you haven’t unpacked. As far as I’m concerned, you can turn round and go straight back where you came from.’

  Announcing himself to the clerk, Greg heard the swell of orchestral music. The clerk disappeared into Porter’s sanctum and the music stopped mid-phrase. The clerk reappeared, holding the door open.

  Greg walked in. ‘I’d forgotten about that,’ he said, nodding at the gramophone.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rawley. Harrison will bring the accounts through and we can get down to business.’

  A few days ago, Greg had expected his business up here to involve burying Helen and putting the house up for sale, but when he received no word, he was forced to conclude she must simply have been injured in the fall. He waited for Porter to tell him so. He sat there through all the bloody accounts, remembering the many reasons he had hated his old job, itching to hear how bad Helen’s condition was, but Porter made no mention of her.

  Finally he asked, ‘How’s my aunt?’

  ‘You don’t know? Are you not residing at Jackson’s House during your sojourn in Manchester?’

  Residing? Sojourn? Pompous bastard.

  ‘I came here straight from the train.’

  ‘Then you won’t know.’

  ‘Not if you don’t tell me.’

  ‘I regret to inform you that Miss Rawley recently met with an accident. A fall. She has broken her wrist.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘All?’

  ‘I mean – no other injuries? Poor old girl.’

  ‘A few bumps and bruises, as you’d expect, but I gather she’s making a good recovery.’

  Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. If it hadn’t killed her, that fall should at least have knocked her into the middle of next week, rendering her deeply unconscious and available for having a pillow pressed over her face. She must have rubber bones.

  After all the trouble he had gone to as well, travelling to Manchester overnight and biding his time until he could sneak into Jackson’s House, choosing a warm day when the windows were open. Helen had been outside fiddling with the roses. He had climbed into her morning room and crept across the hall to the study. The windows here were shut. Silently, he opened a sash, letting it down again to rest on a sliver of wood slender enough to make the window appear closed, but strong enough to hold it in position. He then left the house the way he had come.

  He had returned that night, entering through the study window. He fastened a wire across the top of the stairs three inches from the floor, then waited in the master bedroom, watching through a crack as Helen took her tumble. He heard the frump in the frilly apron come screeching onto the stairs and then down again, presumably to fetch reinforcements from the kitchen.

  A few seconds was all it took to remove the wire and sprint downstairs past Helen’s limp body. Next moment he was out of the house via the study window.

  Now he had th
e whole thing to do over again.

  Except it couldn’t be a fall next time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thanking Edith as she admitted him to the morning room to await Miss Rawley, Nathaniel realised the room was occupied.

  ‘Pardon me. I hope I’m not—what are you doing here?’

  ‘Doctor Brewer.’ Mary Maitland – no, wait, she was married now – looked flustered. ‘It must have slipped Miss Rawley’s mind to mention you were expected.’

  Of course: she was Mrs Kimber now. But weren’t the Kimbers estranged from Miss Rawley? Then her words slipped into place or perhaps not so much the words as a certain tightness in her voice.

  ‘Are you Miss Rawley’s companion-help?’

  ‘Yes.’ And evidently that was all she was prepared to say. ‘Won’t you sit down? I haven’t seen you since … since the explosion. I’m so sorry about Mrs Brewer.’

  It still happened sometimes, someone offering condolences. Usually it discomforted him, but not this time.

  ‘Thank you for your letter. It was most kind.’

  It had been, too. Of all the letters he had received, hers had shown transparent compassion and sorrow. She had written movingly of Imogen’s bravery.

  ‘I see you two have met.’

  Nathaniel glanced round. ‘I’m pleased to see you up and about, Miss Rawley.’

  ‘Did you expect me to wilt on the sofa because I’ve temporarily lost the use of my arm? Would you excuse us, Mrs Kimber?’

  The moment she rose to leave, he saw the bulge in the front of her dress. He glanced away.

  ‘You know that person?’ Miss Rawley demanded as the door closed.

  ‘That sounds scathing.’

  ‘It’s meant to. Do I take it I have you to thank for her presence here?’

  ‘You wanted me to write to Sir Edward on your behalf.’

  ‘But I didn’t want you to suggest a friend of yours for the post.’

  ‘She isn’t my friend.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind informing Sir Edward of her unsuitability.’

  ‘I’m not your secretary, Miss Rawley. I did you a favour by writing. If you don’t like the outcome, sort it out yourself.’

  ‘How do you know Mrs Kimber?’

  ‘She worked at the clinic last year. I knew her before that, actually. She’s a writer, a journalist – well, I don’t suppose she is any more. I don’t suppose she needs to write now she’s married.’

  Not for the money, no. But hadn’t her writing been prompted by something more than money? He had read some of her articles and been impressed. They weren’t the work of a money-driven hack.

  ‘The marriage was annulled,’ said Miss Rawley. ‘You look blank. Don’t you read the paper?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then I don’t see how you can have missed it.’

  ‘I’m not interested in tittle-tattle. The marriage was annulled, you say? But she’s …’ He hadn’t been mistaken, surely?

  ‘Precisely, and I’m to keep her here until after the child is born.’

  ‘You won’t require help that long.’

  ‘Sir Edward’s orders. He’s assisted me by providing a companion-help and I’m to assist the Kimbers by providing a hidey-hole for the cast-off wife while everyone holds their breath waiting to see if it’s a boy or a girl.’

  ‘What difference does that make? No, don’t tell me. I’m not interested in gossip. If you’ll place this cushion across your lap, I’ll undo the sling. Wiggle your fingers. How does that feel?’ Presently he reapplied the sling. ‘Your wrist is making a good recovery.’

  ‘Good as in swift?’

  ‘Good as in uncomplicated. Older bones take longer to knit.’

  ‘I did trip over something, you know. There! That look on your face, that’s the look everyone gets. You don’t believe me.’

  ‘The mind can play tricks.’

  ‘Yours might, Doctor, but mine would never do anything so absurd. When I say I fell over something, that is precisely what happened.’

  ‘Edith has taken your insistence personally. She feels you’re blaming her.’

  ‘If she left something lying about, she should say so.’

  He felt sorry for Edith. He felt sympathy for Mary Kimber too, having to care for Miss Rawley in this mood. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate with a failed marriage and a baby on the way. What sort of man discarded his pregnant wife?

  Nothing to do with me.

  But he kept thinking about it.

  Hearing a man’s voice in the hall, Helen looked up. She wasn’t expecting Doctor Brewer, though she would be glad to see him. They were getting along better now. Did he think so too? When she first knew him, he had tried to deflect her bluntness with polite reserve, but now he gave as good as he got. She had always been a great one for arguing. She liked to think it was because she came from a legal family, but no one else had ever thought so.

  Greg walked in.

  ‘How do, Aunt Helen. Porter tells me you’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘As you see.’ She indicated the sling. ‘Your room is ready.’

  ‘Do you keep it ready at all times, just in case? How touching.’

  ‘Mr Porter informed me of your appointment. Naturally, I assumed you’d stay here. This is Mrs Mary Kimber. Mrs Kimber – my nephew, Mr Rawley.’

  ‘Kimber?’ He looked at her with interest. ‘How do you do?’

  They shook hands. Greg’s left hand was encased in a close-fitting glove.

  Before Helen could comment, he said, ‘It holds a dressing in place.’ He turned to the Mary girl. ‘It’s kind of you to visit my aunt.’

  ‘I’m not visiting. I’m the companion-help.’

  Drat her, did she have to say that? Helen hated Greg’s knowing the extent of her infirmity. She hated everything about having Mary Kimber here, starting with the simple fact that she wasn’t Eleanor. With the annulment fresh in the neighbourhood’s minds, what better moment for Sir Edward to spirit his beloved child away? Instead she had been fobbed off with the discarded wife.

  ‘Not that I’m in need of assistance,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Porter says you fell.’

  ‘I tripped over something – not that anyone believes me, including,’ she added, ‘people who weren’t here and know nothing about it.’

  ‘Edith swears there was nothing to trip over,’ Mary said quietly.

  Helen was annoyed with her for answering back, though she would have despised her if she hadn’t. She eyed Greg. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope you’ll say how long you’re staying.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll trespass on your hospitality just the one night.’

  ‘No longer?’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

  That galled her too. She hated Mary for witnessing Greg’s lack of respect. Fortunately, he evidently had no more desire for her company than she had for his. He went out, not returning till late. The next morning, he departed after breakfast.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’ asked Mary.

  Helen gestured, dismissing the offer. There were times when she had no option but to accept help, but that didn’t mean she must appreciate it, even if Mary was a big improvement on Edith, who was a silly old fusspot.

  ‘Then I’ll go for a walk,’ said Mary.

  ‘Fine.’

  It suited her to get rid of the girl. It was high time she made peace with Edith.

  She knocked before entering the kitchen.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course, madam,’ said Mrs Burley. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Only if you’ll both join me.’ The look they exchanged didn’t escape her notice. ‘I’ve come to say I don’t blame you, Edith, for my accident.’

  ‘I promise you, madam, there was nothing on the landing.’

  ‘Then let’s put it behind us,’ Helen said, adding with a glance at her sling, ‘in so far as this plague-y thing can be forgotten.’
>
  ‘Thank you, madam.’ Edith’s voice rang with relief.

  Helen felt relieved too. Not that she was backing down about having tripped, but from now on she must keep that to herself. It would be unbearable to alienate these two.

  ‘Now, if you’d kindly put the kettle on, Mrs Burley.’

  Soon the three of them were enjoying cups of tea, discussing, of all things, these newfangled rolls of toilet paper and whether they should be introduced into Jackson’s House. When they had drunk the pot dry, Helen returned to her morning room. She didn’t want Mary finding her being chummy in the kitchen.

  Presently the girl appeared.

  ‘No, I don’t require your services,’ Helen said before she could offer. ‘Isn’t there a letter you can write?’

  ‘My parents would like to hear from me, but I needn’t write this minute. Is Doctor Brewer calling to see you today?’

  ‘No. This is his prison morning.’

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘He does forcible feeding. Doctor Slater told me.’

  Mary’s face blanched. ‘Excuse me. I think I will write my letter after all.’

  When the door shut behind her, Helen felt a twinge of something unexpected. Guilt. What had made her say such a cruel thing? The truth was she admired these women who were prepared to go to such lengths to achieve their aims. It made her wish she were fifty years younger.

  Yet, she had deliberately hurt Mary. Had she done it because she herself had lived with pain for so long? At times, loneliness was an ache inside her chest. People would be astonished if they knew how she yearned for closeness, for intimacy … for a friend. Yet there was something in her, something spiky and out of kilter, that made her push others away, punishing them and punishing herself because they weren’t the people she so badly wanted them to be – because they weren’t Christina or Eleanor.

  Mary couldn’t believe it of him. She couldn’t believe it of herself either. Had she really once been attracted to a man who force-fed women? She swallowed hard, disgusted at herself as well as him. She had thought better of Doctor Nathaniel Brewer – yet why had she? Because she had liked him? No, he had battled and overcome all those obstacles to set up the clinic and that had made him seem a decent man with a conscience. She had admired and respected that. But how could the same man overpower and forcibly feed women?