A Dream of her Own

by Benita Brown

After that first shocked moment Matthew had been the first to realize what was happening. John had looked utterly horrified - and helpless. He’d stood there with one frilled strap of the ridiculous blue velvet gown falling down his shoulder, and the white flower in his hair - yes, there’d been a flower in his hair - was swooping down towards one eye.

  Even in her pain, Constance had felt the urge to laugh. In fact she thought that she probably had laughed but the hysterical sounds she made had been mistaken for cries of pain and terror.

  ‘John!’ Matthew had commanded. ‘I think your child will be born tonight. Go and get changed as quickly as you can and then rouse Polly. I shall go for your doctor.’

  Neither of them had thought to lift her on to the sofa or even give her a cushion or two. She had heard a whispered conversation at the door before she had been left alone. She didn’t know how long she’d lain there, she only knew that her birth pains had started.

  When John returned, Polly was with him. ‘When I came home I brought some samples of cloth upstairs,’ Constance heard him saying as they entered the room. ‘Your mistress must have heard me and she came up to see what I was doing. She shouldn’t have climbed these stairs, should she?’

  Polly seemed to accept this attempt at an explanation. ‘Didn’t you think to take her back to bed?’ she said. And that was as near as she’d ever been to criticizing him. And, of course, Constance could never tell Polly, or anyone, what she had just witnessed and what had really brought on the labour.

  And how could she ever explain to Mrs Green that her state of mind was not just that of a new mother? That it was more than just feeling weepy after childbirth? For since her daughters had been born - two babies instead of one - there was something else that was troubling her. Something so crazy to contemplate that she feared she was losing her mind.

  She looked at her daughters now. They were turned towards each other even though they were in separate cribs. ‘Faces like little cherubs,’ Polly would say, ‘and golden hair like halos.’ Albert was fond of remarking that they were like peas in a pod. But they weren’t. And surely it couldn’t only be Constance who had noticed the differences ...

  Yes, their hair was blonde. But Amy’s hair was as pale as an angel’s whereas Beatrice’s hair sometimes glinted red-gold. Both were healthy but already it was plain that Amy was going to be dainty, whereas Beatrice was more robust. Amy was easy to please, easy to placate, whereas her sister, older by ten minutes, was more demanding and less biddable even at this age. And there was something else about Beatrice ...

  When Polly informed her that the evening meal was ready, Constance said that she felt tired after the long walk she had taken earlier and that she would be grateful if Polly would bring her a tray to the nursery.

  ‘Oh, and tell Florence she can keep you company until it’s time for the twins’ last feeding bottle,’ she added.

  Polly hesitated. ‘What shall I tell Mr Edington?’

  ‘Tell him what I have just told you. And say that I hope he enjoys his dinner.’

  When she had finished her meal, she sat by the nursery fire until Florence returned with the bottles and they managed the feed together. And, even then, when the girls were washed and changed and put down for the night, and Florence was yawning and glancing meaningfully towards her bed, even then Constance lingered until she heard two sets of footsteps mounting the third-floor stairs.

  On the floor above her the door to the room that she would never set foot in again opened and closed. She knew that John would be there for hours - probably all night.

  Only then did Constance leave the nursery.

  Sleep didn’t come easily. Constance tried to push from her mind all her anxieties about John and her daughters, and what their life together had become.

  She tried to imagine life as she thought it should be. John hurrying home to her each night and taking her in his arms ... Going up to the nursery with her to play with their much-loved children ... The girls looking just like their father ...

  She realized that she had sobbed out loud and she turned her face into the pillow. She remained like that, shoulders tense, crying silently until she managed to banish all disturbing thoughts from her mind.

  But then, as so often, another image came to disturb her and she was frightened by her own response to it. She tried to resist, she knew that she ought to, but the image was insistent. And finally, with a sigh, she relaxed and allowed herself the luxury of thinking about Frank Alvini.

  It was always the same. She saw his kind, intelligent face, his dark eyes, the way they seemed to search and find answers without his having to say a word.

  As she drifted off to sleep Constance prayed that she would not dream.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ‘Why don’t you stop pacing about and tell me why you are so agitated?’

  Matthew was sitting by the fire in the sewing room. He looked up at John curiously. He had never seen him so fretful. Was there any way he could have heard the news? No, there had been no announcement ... so it was something else.

  ‘John, did you hear me?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He came and sat on the ottoman at the other side of the hearth but he looked as if he might take off and start pacing again any minute.

  Matthew sighed. He had planned that tonight would be so different. He had wanted it to be something special because he had something to tell John. But it was obvious that his news would have to wait. ‘So, tell me what’s upsetting you,’ he said.

  John sat hunched and miserable; he stared into the fire rather than look at him. He looks like a cross child, Matthew thought. Or a child who has been crossed. He smiled at his own whimsy.

  John turned his head and looked at him. ‘I’m glad that you are amused,’ he said.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t snap at me; just tell me what the matter is.’ Matthew knew he had sounded sharp but he was pleased to see that it had had the required effect.

  ‘It’s Constance,’ John said without further preamble.

  Matthew was puzzled. Not surprisingly there had been a coldness between husband and wife ever since that dreadful night when she had found John and Matthew together. But now that he was a father, John had not seemed to mind too much that he and Constance were living like strangers under the same roof. ‘Is she still refusing to talk to you about anything but the essentials?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Surely you had realized that you might have to explain one day? Hadn’t you prepared her at all?’

  John looked at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Matthew stared back, equally at a loss. At last he said, ‘I thought you were upset because you had been trying to make things better with Constance ... trying to explain what kind of man you are.’

  ‘How could I ever do that?’

  ‘It’s not impossible. And if you promised her that you would always look after her - that, in fact, she might be lucky—’

  ‘Lucky!’

  ‘Well, there would never be another woman, would there? There would be no mistresses.’

  John’s smile was rueful. ‘You don’t know Constance, do you? I have come to realize that my wife wants much more from marriage than to be looked after. But that’s not the point. I wanted to talk to her about something in particular and, as she often does, she managed to evade me.’

  Matthew saw his plans for the next few hours evaporating. He leaned forward and took up a bottle of red wine from the hamper at his feet. ‘I’ll open this and pour us both a glass. And you must tell me what it is that is ruining our evening together.’

  John had the grace to look contrite. He waited until Matthew had handed him his glass of wine and then he began, ‘When I came home today Polly told me that Constance had gone for a walk.’

  ‘In this January weather?’

  ‘She’s always liked walking. That’s how we met her, remember? Anyway, it was getting dark and cold, and I suppose I was worried—’

&nb
sp; ‘You only suppose?’

  ‘Don’t tease. Yes, she is my wife and the mother of my children; I’m not heartless. I was worried. So, not knowing what to do, I walked along to the end of the terrace only to find her waving goodbye to a man in an automobile.’

  ‘She had been out with a man? Constance?’ Matthew supposed that he should not have been surprised. After all, Constance was young, beautiful and healthy, and John had not proved to be the husband she had hoped for.

  ‘She said it was her brother.’

  ‘Aah.’

  Matthew watched John’s eyes widen. ‘You believe that?’ John asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I knew. I knew Constance had a brother - half-brother, actually - and I thought it might not be too long before they found each other.’

  ‘Why have you never told me?’

  ‘Because I didn’t think you were interested. Oh, I didn’t know from the start; I only found out later. But does this worry you?’

  ‘Why should it worry me?’

  ‘Because Constance is not the friendless orphan that you-we - thought she was. There is someone to care what - what sort of man she has married; someone she may confide in.’

  ‘You’d better tell me what you know.’

  ‘I will. But first let’s dive into this hamper that I’ve brought. There’re all kinds of treats in there. Do you remember when we used to have feasts in my father’s old stables?’

  Matthew watched John’s expression lighten and then his pleasure grow as he began to explore the contents in the hamper. What a child he was sometimes, and how easy to please. Matthew realized how very much he was going to miss him.

  As they shared the game pie, the cheese savouries, the Turkish delight and the chocolate, Matthew told John as much as he had been able to find out, first, about Constance’s father, Richard Bannerman, and how disaster had overtaken his family when he had gone bankrupt; and, secondly, about Constance’s older half-brother, Robert, who had gone to live with his grandparents, the Meakins.

  ‘Meakin? Do you mean Captain Meakin? But he owns a fleet of colliers,’ John said. ‘They must be wealthy. How did Constance and her mother end up in the workhouse?’

  ‘The worthy couple wanted nothing to do with their son-in-law’s second family. They hardened their hearts, I suppose.’

  ‘And Robert? Did he harden his heart?’

  ‘He was only a child himself. He can’t have known what had happened to Constance. But now...’

  John put down his wine glass. ‘Do you think she will confide in him?’

  ‘That is something you will have to find out. But I don’t think so. I would judge that she has too much delicacy, too much pride. And there’s something else. I think Robert Bannerman may have troubles of his own.’

  John shrugged as if the other man’s troubles could not possibly interest him but Matthew continued, ‘The rumour is that Meakin leaves everything to Robert Bannerman and that he has been neglecting matters of business: not maintaining the boats properly, painting over the rust just in time for the Lloyd’s inspectors - and they aren’t always as thorough as they might be. I’ve heard it said that Meakins are underinsured. If they’re not careful they could end up in Carey Street.’

  ‘Bankrupt?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  John stared into the fire moodily. Matthew was relieved that he hadn’t thought to ask how he had come by all this information. That part of the story could come later, although Matthew didn’t know how much longer he could delay the telling of it.

  He reached for John’s glass and filled it. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘And don’t sit so far away from me. In fact, why don’t we spread this rug on the floor like we used to in the tack room? That’s right, toss those cushions down.’

  He sat on the floor next to John and they made themselves comfortable amongst the blankets and the cushions.

  ‘This is our magic place, remember,’ Matthew said softly, ‘our room in the tower ... where just for the moment we can be alone together ... and I need so much to be alone with you tonight . . .’

  Nella was bone-weary and it would have been so easy just to sink into the comfortable feather mattress and go to sleep, but there was something she had to do. She lay on her side, propped up on a mound of pillows, supporting her head with one hand while she watched her husband. His eyes were closed and his breathing was even. Soon it would be safe to go. As she waited, she thought about the first night they had slept together.

  She remembered that, even though Valentino’s mother, helped by his brother, Frank, had explained to her that she had nothing to fear, she hadn’t been able to help worrying just a little when at last they were alone. It had been a strangely wonderful day, she remembered now, like a dream.

  The wedding had been arranged to take place during the brief break before the pantomime opened. Harry had cancelled rehearsals and the whole cast came to sit on Nella’s side of the cathedral. They were her family, along with Lucy, Alice, and Mr and Mrs Small and their lodgers. But Constance, the nearest person to family that Nella had ever had, had been unable to come.

  On the bridegroom’s side were Italian relatives from all over the north of England, along with prosperous business folk and almost the entire staff of the restaurant. Jimmy Nelson, in the best suit he had ever owned, was instructed to look after Madame Alvini and keep her supplied with clean handkerchiefs.

  Outside, in the streets, crowds of people waited to catch a glimpse of the golden couple: Nella Nicholson, the famous stage star, Tyneside’s own Little Sparrow, and Valentino, the handsome master of Alvini’s.

  When Harry escorted Nella down the aisle there was a gasp of wonder from the congregation. Her ivory satin dress was covered with hundreds of seed pearls and the train, carried by two small Italian cousins, was arranged so skilfully that it completely obscured the shape of her shoulders.

  The candles, the incense, the scent of the massed white flowers made Nella think she was living a romantic dream. Valentino was waiting with Frank by the altar and, when he turned to face her, and she lifted back her veil, his expression of wonder was enough to fill her heart with love for the rest of her days.

  When they left the church the crowd cheered and threw rice and flower petals. The cheering continued as the carriage took them up Grainger Street, then along Neville Street, where the cast from the Empire came out to wave them by. Another crowd was waiting in the Haymarket and they roared with delight when Valentino descended from the carriage and then lifted Nella up into his arms to carry her into Alvini’s.

  During the wedding breakfast he had not stopped smiling until the last guest had gone. He had been almost like an actor, Nella thought, playing the part of the happy bridegroom. He knew what was expected of him. But once they were alone the smile had been replaced by a slight frown.

  In fact there had been a moment when he had seemed puzzled that his new wife intended to share his bedroom. When Nella had emerged from behind the screen where she had undressed and put on her nightgown, she’d found him standing frowning uncertainly in the middle of the room.

  Before she could say anything there’d been a knock on the door and his mother came in carrying a tray with two cups of warm milk and honey. ‘Here you are, Valentino,’ she had said. ‘One for you and one for your wife.’

  ‘Ah yes, my wife.’ His smile had returned and he’d climbed into the bed, which was big enough for the two of them to lie there all night without bothering each other.

  He was so childlike that Nella sometimes wondered why he didn’t at least want a cuddle, but she supposed that it was better that he didn’t. There might just be enough manhood there to cause her trouble if he got roused.

  So tonight, like every other night, he had been content to get into bed and close his eyes almost as if she wasn’t there. When at last she was sure that he was fast asleep, she eased herself away from him to the edge of the bed and then lowered her feet to the floor. H
er limbs jolted painfully. Even though she didn’t walk about much on stage, she had to stand a lot and it was beginning to tell.

  Harry had mentioned that he might devise an act for her where she could sit on a swing and move gently to and fro while she sang. She had quite liked the idea until Lucy reminded them of Rose Kelly, billed as ‘The Little Flower Girl’, who used to swing out over the audience tossing scented paper rose petals as she sang. Her career ended one night when she fell off the swing into the orchestra pit and broke her back. So Harry was having to think again.

  By the light of the oil-lamp that was always left burning low on the bedside table, Nella reached for a large paisley shawl and draped it round herself. She pushed her feet into her slippers and left the room as quietly as she could. Late as it was, she could hear sounds from the restaurant echoing up from below, so Frank would not be in bed yet. Good.