by Benita Brown
Most times he went in the sewing room by himself. Now and then he would ask Polly to make up some sandwiches and go in there and lock the door after him. He had explained that he needed peace and quiet in order to concentrate on his designs. Sometimes Matthew Elliot called and Constance was hurt when he was allowed to enter the sewing room - after all, it was supposed to be her room - but John explained that Matthew had agreed to invest some money in the venture and that they had to discuss the details. Details that he seemed to think would be beyond a mere female’s brain.
Constance turned over in bed as she felt the baby move within her. She must sleep for the child’s sake. John would get upset if she looked tired and she knew he was right to do so. He was as eager for the birth of this child as she was and he constantly urged her to take care of herself. But how much nicer it would have been if he stayed at home more often and took care of her himself.
John had instructed Polly and Mrs Green to make sure that she had everything she wanted but what she wanted was her husband’s company. Just to be with him, just to talk to him. She had nothing in common with Polly or her neighbours and she was bored. That was why she had started walking again.
She remembered how on her days off from the house on Rye Hill she had walked for miles around the city and into the suburbs. She thought she must know the shops, the streets and the houses by heart.
Sometimes she and Nella had even ventured down to the Quayside where you could still spy some high-masted sailing ships. They would watch, fascinated, as the steamers arrived at the wharfs and began to discharge their cargoes. There were baskets of fruit and potatoes, cheese, butter and eggs, bacon and lard. And then there was the livestock: squealing pigs and unprotesting sheep being driven on shore; great droves of cattle, the poor beasts hustled and prodded and beaten and dragged away to a fate that Constance and Nella hadn’t wanted to think about.
Once, daringly, they had picked their way across the cobbles and the tramlines and ventured into The Baltic, a waterside café. There was a wooden floor, brass-rimmed, tile-topped tables, and the place smelled of salt herring and strong coffee. They ordered a pot of coffee and sat and observed the family groups of tall, fair-haired Scandinavian emigrants waiting patiently for the call to board the ship that was to take them to America.
‘Lucky folk, they are,’ Nella said wistfully. ‘Off to a new life in the New World. I wish we could get on one of them boats.’ She turned her head to look out of the window and across the Quayside towards the Tyne-Tees Shipping Company dockside office. ‘How about that boat over there?’
Constance had laughed. ‘And what would you do in Hamburg? You can’t speak German!’
‘Germany? Is that where Hamburg is? Ee, Constance, you’re so clever!’
Now Constance smiled as she remembered. Days like that had cheered their miserable existence and given them so much to talk about when they had to return to the forbidding house on Rye Hill.
But in those days she had never walked across the Town Moor. She had never been able to bring herself to approach the house where she had spent her early childhood. The grief and the pain caused by what had happened, what she had lost, had still been too acute.
But now, now that she had a home of her own again, even though it was nowhere near as grand as her father’s house had been, she had begun to feel the urge to visit Lodore House once more. The bitter, sleety winter had given way grudgingly to hesitant, showery sunshine and the parks and gardens were fresh and bright and full of the hope of new life.
Suddenly Constance was overcome with longing to see the spring flowers in the gardens at her old home, the gardens where she and Robert had played. She pictured them now, the lawns, the formal pathways bordered by well-trimmed shrubs, the rose garden, and the walled garden where, on her mother’s instructions, everything was allowed to grow just a little wild.
The daffodils and narcissi would be clustered beneath the old trees, there should be primulas, hyacinths and tulips - and was it too early for the wallflowers? Her mother had loved wallflowers; their sweet, distinctive fragrance seemingly released by the spring sunshine and their vibrant colours - mahogany, gold, magenta, and pink - were a promise of the summer to come.
Too tired to fight the pain and the pleasure of her memories Constance gave herself up to reminiscing. Before she drifted off to sleep she decided that, if the weather remained fine, tomorrow she would pay a visit to the place where in all her young life she had been happiest.
Chapter Fifteen
The sky was overcast and the air was cold. The few people Constance encountered in the streets seemed to be in a hurry to get indoors again and, apart from a solitary man walking a dog, Exhibition Park was deserted. Once she left the park and struck out along one of the paths that crossed the moor she was completely alone except for the cows.
The cows belonged to the Freemen of the city who had the right to graze them on the Town Moor. She glanced at them warily. She wasn’t exactly frightened, but the beasts were large and solid-looking; she found that she was more than usually anxious about her own safety. She supposed it was because she was pregnant.
She remembered one long ago summer day when she had walked on the moor with her mother and Robert. The cows had been grazing lazily. Then they suddenly began to move more purposefully. She and her half-brother stood and stared wide-eyed with curiosity as the strange creatures with big liquid eyes and velvety noses ambled towards them.
For such ungainly looking beasts, they covered the ground quickly and they were close enough for Constance to wonder at the long, lolling tongues and see the flies crawling on their steaming flanks before she felt her mother seize her shoulder and pull her backwards. The three of them ran all the way home across the tussocky grass, laughing and shrieking half with fright and half with sheer high spirits.
It was only when they reached the safety of their own garden gate that Agnes realized that she had dropped her parasol, probably when she had seized hold of the children. Robert offered to go back for it but Agnes said it was of no consequence and that, anyway, the cows might have eaten it by now.
‘Oh, no, Mama,’ Robert said. ‘I don’t think they would eat it, although they might have trampled it, I suppose.’
Constance remembered how serious, how concerned, his expression had been and how her mother had looked at her stepson lovingly before bending down to kiss him.
‘You are a good boy,’ she’d said. ‘I shall tell your father.’
Her mother had loved Robert, Constance was sure of it, and she had tried to make up for the fact that he had lost his own mother. And Robert had loved both Agnes and his little half-sister, she was equally sure of that. So, no matter how kind his grandparents might have been to him in the years since their father had died, her half-brother had been the loser too. She wondered if he ever thought about their shared childhood.
Constance was approaching the wall. Six foot high and made with big grey stones, it was the barrier between the ordered cultivation of the gardens of Lodore House and the rough moorland. There was a large wooden gate set into the wall but she doubted that it would have been left open. Whoever lived there now probably kept it bolted just as her parents had done.
Who did live there now? With a shock she realized that in all the years since she and her mother had been forced to leave, she had never wondered about Lodore House’s new residents. In her mind she had been able to see no family other than her own inhabiting the spacious rooms or relaxing in the gardens which had been her mother’s joy and her father’s pride.
With both hands, but without much hope, Constance took hold of the heavy metal ring and turned it. The latch lifted and the gate swung open a little way. She took a step forward and then hesitated. Was there someone in the garden?
She stood very still and listened but she could hear nothing except the leaves of the trees rustling in the cold breeze. She pushed the gate further open and noticed how it scraped back over a clump of weeds growing in the midd
le of the garden path. Her eyes followed the path as it led away from her, winding between lawns that needed cutting and shrub borders that needed trimming. Was the house empty then? Had it remained empty and waiting for her to return all these years?
No, she didn’t think so. The gardens, at least the parts of them that she could see, were not exactly neglected, they were just not as carefully tended as they had been in her father’s day. Suddenly she remembered how they had looked the last time she had seen them, drenched with rain, the leaves dripping, the lawns thick with water.
It had seemed to Constance that it had rained ever since the day of her father’s funeral ...
Constance hugged her knees as she crouched on the window seat in the library. She had hidden behind the heavy velvet curtain; her mother did not know she was there. Beyond the cold glass the sodden branches of the trees dipped and sighed in the wind, and now and then a fierce gust sent the first fallen leaves scurrying across the lawn. At the other side of the curtain she could hear the voices of her mother and Adam Hewitt as they sat facing each other across her father’s desk, discussing the mound of papers that lay between them.
Every now and then she would peep out and watch them. She knew that Adam Hewitt was something called a solicitor and they were discussing business, and from the grave tone of their voices she knew that it was very serious.
At one stage Mrs Simmons, the cook, interrupted them. She was dressed in a warm cloak and bonnet as if she was about to go out, but she was also carrying a tray of tea things. Agnes Bannerman looked up.
‘Are you leaving us now, Mrs Simmons?’
The older woman appeared sad. ‘Yes, Mrs Bannerman, and I’m sorry to go. If there was any way I could stay and help you - I’ve a bit saved, you wouldn’t have to pay me until things are sorted out.’
Agnes sighed. ‘That’s kind of you. But I don’t think things are going to be sorted out. Constance and I will be leaving Lodore House very shortly.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Mrs Simmons edged the tray she was carrying on to the end of the desk and Mr Hewitt quickly leaned over to pull assorted documents out of the way. When the cook straightened up again her face was red. ‘I’ll be off then. I’ve got me things packed and me sister’s expecting me - I’ve got a cab waiting.’
Constance could see that Mrs Simmons was close to tears. Adam Hewitt cleared his throat and reached in his pocket for a coin. ‘Here you are, Mrs Simmons. Thank you for the tea and cake; very thoughtful of you on such a miserable day. Now allow me to give you your cab fare - and let me help you out with your luggage.’
The young solicitor walked to the door with Mrs Simmons. When she heard their footsteps echoing across the marble floor of the entrance hall Constance peeped out at her mother. Agnes was sitting staring at the documents spread out on the table in front of her as if, try as she might, she couldn’t make sense of them.
Mr Hewitt returned and Constance withdrew slightly but he didn’t glance in her direction. He gestured towards the tray and when her mother nodded he began to pour the tea. Agnes stood up suddenly and moved away from the table. The young man looked at her in surprise.
‘I’m sorry,’ Agnes said. ‘Did I startle you? But I’m so cold.’ She hurried away from him across the expanse of oriental carpet towards the marble fireplace where she stopped and stared down at the meagre, smoking fire. She picked up the coal scuttle and sighed with exasperation. ‘There’s nothing left but coal dust.’
‘Shall I go and fetch more? Just tell me—’
‘There’s no more.’ Her mother looked sad. ‘No more coal, very little food, and the servants have deserted us. Mrs Simmons, good soul that she is, was the last to go.’
‘Mrs Bannerman,’ Adam Hewitt looked embarrassed, ‘I didn’t realize that the servants had all gone. I could arrange for a small payment - some kind of allowance - just to have someone here to help until ... until you leave ...’
He stopped when he saw the way Agnes was staring at him. Constance saw that the colour had drained from her mother’s face; her black mourning clothes made her look slighter and frailer than ever.
‘There’s no need,’ she said. She turned away from him and tipped the contents of the coal scuttle on to the hearth. A cloud of soot billowed out and she hurried back to her seat at the desk. ‘No need, I assure you. Constance and I will be leaving as soon as I can arrange it. Now’ - she made a sweeping gesture across the mound of papers - ‘explain what I must do.’
‘I will but, please, drink your tea while it’s hot.’
Constance heard the concern in his voice and, even though she was only eight years old, she understood that Adam Hewitt was unhappy to be the cause of so much distress. After a moment he continued, ‘It’s very simple, Mrs Bannerman. Today I only need your signature on some of those documents and the business will be complete. As for the explanation, I thought that my father had already gone over everything in great detail.’
‘He may have done but, if you remember, that was the day of my husband’s funeral. My mind may not have been up to the task on such a day.’
Her tone was subdued; Constance saw the young man’s look of dismay.
‘Forgive me.’
‘Forgive you? Whatever has happened, I know it isn’t your fault. Now please ...’
‘Of course. As you know, Bannerman’s has failed. Although your husband made his initial fortune in the chemical industry he had invested heavily in his new venture - the manufacture of electric lights—’
‘It seemed to be doing so well.’
‘At first, that’s true. But he simply could not compete with Edison and Swan. It was their own invention, after all. And not only that, entirely against my father’s advice, your husband had been making a series of extremely unwise investments abroad.
‘I cannot help assuming that his heart attack was caused by the fact that he had already guessed at the size of his losses. His will may leave everything to you and the children but I assure you, Mrs Bannerman, there is nothing left for you to inherit.’
‘Except debts.’
‘No, Mrs Bannerman. At least we have been able to spare you the burden of the debts, with the sale of the factory sites and all remaining stock, plus we have found a buyer for this house.’
‘My home.’
‘Yes. I - I - haven’t met the party concerned; he prefers to deal only through his solicitor, but the offer was generous. You need have no fear of being pursued by creditors.’
‘Only of having nowhere to live.’
‘Ah well, as for your stepson, Robert, his mother’s family are quite happy to provide a loving home for him.’
‘Of course, but not for Robert’s sister or me.’
‘Half-sister. And, to be fair, why—’
‘Why should they? Quite. Let us forget compassion and remember only that they have never forgiven me for marrying Richard so soon after Caroline’s death. They thought we had offended their daughter’s memory. They could never accept that it was because he had loved her so much that he was so in need of solace. I made him happy once more. Was that such a sin?’
‘Mrs Bannerman, what will you do?’
Her mother didn’t answer at once and Constance leaned out further from her hiding place behind the curtain. Agnes was staring at the solicitor as if she wasn’t really seeing him. He repeated his question, ‘You and Constance, what will you do? Where will you go? Have you no relatives of your own who would take you in? No money of your own to provide a place to live?’
‘Don’t worry, we shall be gone soon. I assume you will want to inform the new owner when he can take possession.’
‘Yes, but please don’t think that I don’t care what happens to you and your daughter. I wish you could assure me ...’
Her mother didn’t seem to notice the young man’s distress. She continued as if she hadn’t been listening, ‘I have no family. My parents died young and any money they left me I gave, willingly, to Richard to invest in his business.’
It was said without rancour or regret and when, a moment later, Agnes Bannerman picked up the pen and began to sign the documents on the table in front of her, her hand was quite steady. Adam Hewitt stared at her throughout. Constance thought that she had never seen a grown man look so unhappy.
Eventually her mother laid the pen down and said, ‘I have a little jewellery of my own.’
‘Your own?’
‘I mean the jewellery that I brought with me into the marriage, not that which my husband bought for me. I presume that that is still mine and that I will be able to sell it in order to provide some kind of home for Constance and myself?’
‘Yes, yes, I think - I’m sure that will be quite in order.’
‘Ought you to check with your father?’
‘No, no, I won’t even tell him. I mean, go ahead, sell it, raise whatever you can.’ The solicitor sounded flustered. Constance formed the impression that he wanted to bring the conversation to an end. Hurriedly he gathered up all the documents and placed them in a large folder.