by Benita Brown
‘Very well, Mr Hewitt,’ her mother said as the solicitor tied the ribbons of the folder. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘It was my duty. Mrs Bannerman, if there’s anything I can do - anything.’
‘I’ll remember. Now can I offer you an umbrella? It’s quite a walk to the High Street and the rain seems to be worse than ever.’
Her mother turned towards the window as she spoke and looked up into the grey skies. Constance tried to shrink back into the corner but she wasn’t quick enough. Her mother gave her a startled look before turning back to speak to Mr Hewitt.
‘Come, we have plenty in the cloakroom. I don’t think any of them are valuable enough to interest my husband’s creditors.’
‘How kind ... I’ll return it, of course.’
‘There’s no need. Come, I’ll see you to the door.’
Constance waited until she heard the front door close behind Mr Hewitt before she emerged from her hiding place. Her mother was coming back into the room; she hurried over and kneeled down, taking Constance in her arms.
‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry you had to hear all that.’
‘It’s all right, Mama. I knew we might be leaving here.’
‘Who told you?’
‘I overheard Robert’s Grandmother Meakin when they were waiting to take Robert away after Papa’s funeral. She told Robert’s grandfather that as long as they could have Caroline’s boy to live with them, you and I could go to the workhouse for all she cared.’
‘Oh, Constance!’
‘Are we going to the workhouse, Mama?’
‘No, no, of course not. We’re not going to the workhouse. You heard me telling Mr Hewitt that I had some jewellery to sell?’ Constance nodded. ‘Well, that will bring enough for you and me to find a cosy little lodging house somewhere, perhaps at the seaside. Would you like to live at the seaside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then. Now let’s go to the kitchen. I have an idea that Mrs Simmons has left us some raisin cake!’
Constance took her mother’s hand and they hurried through the cold house to the kitchen. The fire in the range was still burning and, her mother had been right, there was a large slab of raisin cake left, as well as a pan of broth, a loaf, some cheese and the remains of a roast leg of lamb.
Those provisions as well as two large tins of biscuits kept them going until Agnes had sold her jewellery and they did find some lodgings by the seaside, although they weren’t exactly cosy. Agnes’ plans to support the two of them by taking pupils for deportment and elocution had kept them going for a while, but it hadn’t been very long before the money had run out and they had ended up in the workhouse after all.
Constance looked up into the sky. Clouds the colour of slate were gathering and she wondered if it was going to rain. Above the noise of the wind in the branches she became aware of a faint creaking sound. A steady rhythmic creaking. When she realized what it was she felt her heart bang painfully against her ribs. There was someone on the swing.
She made her way cautiously along the path that led to the less formal part of the garden where her father had made a swing for her and Robert, slung from the branches of a sturdy old apple tree. The swing had always made a sound like that - it must be the same one - and Constance was consumed with curiosity to see who was sitting there.
‘Be careful, sweetheart. Don’t swing too high.’
She heard the voice before she had rounded the beech hedge and she stopped, tears burning in her throat and at the back of her eyes. It was a man’s voice, and so like her father’s.
Someone laughed and said, ‘Don’t fuss.’ A girl’s voice - a child?
Was she dreaming? Was she imagining things? Perhaps the emotions stirred by coming back here for the first time in ten years had summoned up the ghosts of her father and her former self ...
Constance stumbled forward until she could see the apple tree and the swing gently to-ing and fro-ing beneath its gnarled branches.
It was no child; it was a young woman sitting on the swing. Perhaps she was a little older than Constance, and she might have been pretty except that her fair complexion seemed unnaturally pale and, even from this distance, Constance could see the shadows beneath her eyes. Her light brown hair was caught back from her face with a ribbon, like a child’s, and as she swung, Constance could see the reason for the man’s concern: she was heavily pregnant.
‘Iris, we should go indoors now,’ the man said and, again, puzzlingly, he sounded just like her father.
The man stepped forward and caught at the ropes of the swing, stopping its motion. Almost unwillingly Constance looked at his face and, even although she had not seen him since she was eight years old, she recognized Robert, her half-brother.
She did not realize that she had cried out until she heard her name. ‘Constance! Is that you? It can’t be ...’
The man was coming towards her. She stepped back, caught her skirts in the lower branches of a laurel bush, stumbled and would have fallen if he had not reached out and caught her. Her heart was pounding as she looked up into his face.
‘Constance,’ he repeated, ‘I don’t understand ...’
They looked at each other and, although she was concentrating on the details of his grown-up face, she was aware that, behind him, the young woman, Iris, was moving towards them. Perhaps he heard the rustle of his wife’s skirts on the grass but he smiled self-consciously, dropped his hands from her arms, and stepped back.
Suddenly he smiled. ‘But this is marvellous!’
‘Marvellous, Robert?’
‘Of course. Do you know I never thought I’d see you again, and now - although I don’t understand it - here you are!’
‘Did you care?’
Robert, who had grown up to look so like their father, frowned. ‘Care? What do you mean?’
‘Did you care that you might never see me again?’
‘Of course I did!’
‘And yet you made no attempt to find us - my mother and me.’
Robert pushed a lock of his dark hair back from his brow and Constance remembered with a stab of pain that their father used to make the very same gesture when he was vexed with them. ‘Constance, that’s not fair. I was only a child, eleven years old, when my grandparents came to take me to live with them. They promised me that you would be coming to visit.’
‘They what?’
‘They said that your mother had agreed to let you come and stay with me - for holidays - but you never came. They said your mother would not allow it.’
‘I see.’
But Constance didn’t see. Her mother had never told her about such an arrangement and, if it were true, she would surely have allowed her to go. Agnes Bannerman had loved her stepson; surely she would have made every effort to allow Constance and her half-brother to stay in touch.
‘It’s true, you know.’ Robert was looking at her, reading the doubt in her expression. ‘My grandmother wrote many times to your mother, but she never answered the letters. Eventually she told me that your mother probably didn’t want anything more to do with me.’
And with those words Constance knew that none of it was true. Even though it would cause him pain, Robert’s grandmother had told him a pack of lies. The truth was that the Meakins had wanted nothing more to do with the young woman who had married their son-in-law so soon after their daughter’s death. They must still have hated Agnes Bannerman for taking their daughter’s place even though she had proved a kind and loving mother to their only grandson.
‘We never quarrelled when we were children, Constance.’ Robert looked troubled.
‘Are we quarrelling?’
‘I hope not.’ He reached for her hand. ‘But we have so much to talk about. Will you come in to the house?’
‘I suppose so. But perhaps ...’
Robert sensed her hesitation and clasped her hand more firmly. ‘No, you mustn’t leave, not now. And you must meet my wife, Iris.’ He turned and smiled at the young w
oman who was now standing at his shoulder, ‘What do you think? This is my little sister, Constance. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Briefly Iris’s lips thinned into an uncertain smile, then she looked up into her husband’s face. Her manner excluded Constance as she spoke. ‘Robert,’ she said, ‘I’m cold ... and tired.’
Immediately he let go of Constance’s hand. His look became one of concern and she knew that, for a moment, she was forgotten. ‘Are you, sweetheart? Then we must go in at once. A cup of tea will revive you.’
Their look was so intimate that Constance dropped her gaze. He is as protective of her as John is of me, she thought, and for the same reason. And yet there is something between them, something more personal than John and I have. It’s not just the child that Robert is anxious for.
Constance was surprised at the insight she had just been granted and, unwilling to think about its significance, she forced a smile to her lips and looked at her brother’s wife. The girl had turned to face her. She wasn’t smiling.
‘Come.’ Robert had slipped an arm round his wife’s shoulder and he gestured with the other one for Constance to join them as they walked towards the house. ‘I want you two to become friends.’
‘If you say so,’ Iris replied, and Constance suspected that her listless tone had nothing to do with her condition.
My brother’s wife doesn’t want me here, she thought. If I had more pride I should make some excuse and slip away now, but I can’t, not yet. Constance knew that having come so far at last, she had to set foot once more inside her childhood home.
Chapter Sixteen
They’ve ruined this room. Constance looked round in dismay.
Robert had led the way to the small sitting room where her mother had answered her correspondence and seen to the household business. But in Agnes Bannerman’s day the room had been light and airy with oriental rugs scattered on the polished floorboards and the furnishing kept to a minimum. In fact, Constance could remember only her mother’s elegant writing desk, a bookcase, an occasional table and an armchair at either side of the small hearth, nothing else.
Now, heavy carpet covered most of the floor. Dark green waxy-leafed plants and a profusion of pottery knick-knacks stood on occasional tables, and gloomy oil paintings featuring Scottish glens and romantically ruined castles obscured the walls. Her mother’s elegant silk-upholstered furniture had been replaced by overstuffed leather and velvet chairs and embroidered cushions.
Constance took advantage of one of these cushions by stuffing it into place in the small of her back. Although she knew she didn’t show it yet, she was nearly six months pregnant. The dresses that John had designed and made for her hid her condition very skilfully. John’s inspiration had been fuelled by the desire to maintain reserve and respectability without harming the child she was carrying, and he had succeeded. She knew that if he worked hard enough he had the talent to become a fashionable couturier.
Today she was wearing a cleverly flared three-quarter-length woollen biscuit-coloured coat over a tailored walking dress of the same colour. Both dress and coat were trimmed with brown velvet the same colour and material as her toque. She had secured the hat on her piled-up hair with a creamy faux-pearl hatpin that John had chosen.
However, Constance knew that, no matter how proud John was of her appearance, he would not have been pleased if he knew she was still walking about so freely and so far from home. He didn’t mind if she strolled as far as the park and he had even asked Mrs Green to accompany her on such jaunts and told them to treat themselves to cakes and tea at the Willow Tea Rooms. But he also wanted her to rest as much as possible. Today’s excursion would not please him. However, she thought, he came home so late these days that there was no danger of him finding out.
It was obvious that Robert and his wife had not guessed that she was expecting a child. But then Iris was completely taken up with her own condition. Constance watched surreptitiously as her half-brother settled the sulky-looking girl in the most comfortable chair and brought her an embroidered footstool. Then he crossed to the bell pull near the hearth.
After he had tugged it once he kneeled to make up the fire. ‘It’s chilly, isn’t it?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘The May flowers may be in bloom but I think we’re going to have to wait a little longer for any real warm weather.’
‘At least it’s warmer here than it is in Berwick,’ Iris said, and she gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘And, Robert, you shouldn’t do that, you should wait for the girl.’
‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘But the poor little thing is still getting used to being in service. And, while I’m thinking about it, perhaps I’d better go down to the kitchen myself and see that the tray is set up properly.’
‘Really, Robert, there’s no need ...’ his wife began.
‘I think there is. You know you get upset when things aren’t done quite how you like them.’ He turned and smiled ruefully at Constance. ‘Iris has very high standards and I don’t want her to have to start training any more new maids, not now.’
Constance watched him go. How loyal he is, she thought. The truth of it is probably that his wife is a demanding and difficult mistress. I wonder how she would have coped with Polly? For a moment she felt guilty when she remembered her wedding day. She remembered how eager to please Polly had seemed and yet she had still been quick to find fault with the poor girl. Had she been too eager to establish herself in her new position as a mistress rather than a servant? Perhaps.
And yet Polly had needed the rough edges smoothing over. Well, anyway, they were rubbing along together well enough now, especially as Constance was willing to turn a blind eye to the number of times Albert Green found an excuse to call at the back door. Constance smiled.
‘Do you find it amusing?
She turned her head to find Iris glaring at her crossly.
‘Amusing?’
‘The fact that my servants are impossible?’
‘No, of course not. I know how difficult it can be training a new maid. In fact I’ve had some problems myself.’
‘Have you?’ Her brother’s wife found this interesting and she studied Constance anew as if still trying to assess her position in the social scale. She allowed herself a brief conspiratorial smile. ‘You know, I find the working people here are not as respectful as those in the Borders,’ she confided. ‘The girls from the families serving the big estates have been brought up to know their place. These town folk are a rebellious lot with too many ideas about their rights. Rights, for heaven’s sake!’
Constance tried to imagine what would have happened if she had stood up for her rights when she had been working at the Sowerbys’ house in Rye Hill - and failed. Either Iris had been very unfortunate in her choice of servants so far, or she was an even worse mistress than Mrs Sowerby. At the thought of the Sowerbys her mind gave the customary shudder and, quickly, she blanked out the unwelcome memories.
‘Constance?’ Her brother’s wife was staring at her.
‘Sorry. Did you say something?’
‘Yes. I asked you why you came here today.’ The warmth had dissipated and both her look and the tone of her voice were suspicious.
‘Oh.’ She ought to have been prepared for this question. ‘I ... I wanted to see the house. I was curious to see if was still as I remembered it.’
‘If you mean you want a guided tour your curiosity will have to remain unsatisfied.’ Her mouth clamped shut in a mean little line.
‘Guided tour?’
‘I won’t allow you to go tramping through my home.’ She gave the slightest emphasis to the word ‘my’.
‘I wasn’t going to suggest such a thing.’ Constance was shocked at the animosity.
‘And do you live near by?’
‘Not ... not too far away.’ Instinctively Constance knew that Iris would think it very strange that she had walked across the Town Moor unaccompanied. She would consider it not quite the done thing.
Luckily Iris hadn’t noti
ced Constance’s hesitation, and she continued, ‘You really didn’t know that your brother was living here?’
‘No. How could I? You know that we lost touch with each other when ... when our father died.’
‘And do you want to renew your acquaintance now?’
‘Acquaintance! We are brother and sister—’ Constance broke off when the door opened and Robert hurried in.
He had caught her last words and he glanced swiftly at his wife who beamed a smile at him. ‘Aah,’ she sighed, ‘the tea. How welcome.’