A Dream of her Own

by Benita Brown

  ‘So?’ Frank prompted. ‘It’s not unusual for one or more children not to carry a family trait.’

  ‘Especially if it isn’t one of the family.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Constance believes that only Beatrice is Gerald Sowerby’s daughter. She’s persuaded herself that Amy is her husband’s child.’

  ‘Why does she think that?’

  ‘The girls look different and Constance says that as they grow the differences have become more marked.’

  ‘But that’s possible in twins. They may not be identical - that is, they may not have grown from the same seed.’ He looked to see if Nella was embarrassed by his plain-speaking and saw that she wasn’t. She was listening intently. ‘They may be what we call fraternal twins. That is, two separate babies right from the start.’

  ‘So they would be like normal sisters?’ Nella asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But could they hev different fathers?’

  ‘Constance really believes this?’

  Nella frowned. ‘Amy has hair like white gold. She has blue eyes and fair skin just like John. Beatrice’s hair has a reddish shine and her eyes are a deeper blue—’

  ‘Like her mother’s,’ Frank said, and Nella gave him a strange look. He would have to be careful.

  ‘Yes, like her mother’s. But it’s more than the way they look. Amy is an easy baby, gentle and placid, no trouble to her nursemaid, whereas Beatrice, who came into the world first, by the way, is already showing signs of being strong-willed and difficult.’

  ‘Those physical differences still don’t prove anything. Look how different in appearance my brother and I are. And he was blessed with all the good looks.’ Frank smiled self-deprecatingly.

  ‘I know, I know. I’ve tried to tell her she’s imagining things but she won’t hev it. I think it’s driving her crazy. That’s why I’ve come to you. I thought with your medical knowledge you might know if it can be true. If it is medically possible for two babies who shared a womb to hev different fathers.’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I may be able to find out.’ Nella looked relieved. ‘And you think this will help her?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘What is the answer she wants, do you think?’

  Nella frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Surely Constance wants to hear that her intuition is wrong. Surely she would wish both children to have been fathered by her husband?’ Frank tried not to show how much he hated those words, ‘her husband’.

  ‘Rather that than both fathered by Gerald Sowerby!’ Nella’s eyes glittered dangerously. ‘But the birthmark - there’s no getting over the birthmark, is there?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘And she loves the child, you know...’ Nella shook her head wonderingly. ‘I’ve told you, there’s no accounting for mother love. But that makes her feel guilty - as if she’s cheated her husband - broken her vows.’

  Frank gave way to a surge of anger. ‘What happened wasn’t her fault!’

  He thought of Constance as having been doubly betrayed. First she had been grievously wronged by the dissolute Gerald Sowerby and then, in all likelihood, trapped into a marriage with a man who needed the respectability this would give him.

  Nella looked straight into his eyes. He could tell that she knew. Her words confirmed it. ‘Of course it wasn’t. We know that because we love her ... don’t we?

  ‘Yes.’

  Nella’s smile was sad. ‘I’m sorry. I guessed the way it was with you and yet I still asked you to help. It must be torture for you. But believe me, I know that it would ease her mind if she could believe that Amy, at least, was John’s daughter.’

  Frank waited until he could speak without betraying any emotion. ‘Then I will do what I can.’

  ‘Aunt Muriel, I wish you would wait for John to come home.’

  Muriel Barton and her daughter, Esther, had called to take afternoon tea with Constance, and now John’s aunt had suddenly announced that she wanted to inspect John’s workroom.

  ‘And when will John be home?’ she asked.

  ‘After business hours ... I mean ... he doesn’t always come straight ...’

  ‘Exactly. And I want to have a look at the place now. So shall we go up? It’s at the top of the house, isn’t it?’

  Muriel Barton led the way up to the top floor with Esther following and Constance trailing miserably behind. She had never set foot in the sewing room since the night her daughters were born and she had never intended to go there again, but she could hardly begin to explain this to John’s aunt and cousin. She was pleased to note that the older woman was flushed and out of breath by the time they reached the top landing.

  ‘Well, lead the way,’ Mrs Barton said, and Esther smirked and stood back to let Constance pass.

  Constance paused with her hand on the door handle. For a moment she considered that John might keep the room locked; after all, it had become so much his private domain. But the handle turned, the door opened, and her hope died. She stood back and let the other two women enter before her.

  Muriel Barton took a few steps into the room and looked round suspiciously. Constance wondered what she was expecting to see. Esther had hurried straight over to the dressmaker’s dummy and was gazing raptly at a half-finished evening gown of blue velvet. Constance felt sick as she remembered the last blue velvet gown she had looked at in this room.

  ‘What is it, Constance? You’re not expecting again, are you?’ Muriel Barton was staring at her.

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘There’s no need to bite my head off and there’s no of course about it. I only asked because you looked so pasty-faced for a minute.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can assure you that I’m not expecting another child.’

  ‘Noo-oo,’ John’s aunt drew the word out thoughtfully. ‘More’s the pity. I imagine that John feels that he’s done all that’s required of him.’ She glanced uneasily at Esther as if wishing that she hadn’t said that, but her daughter had moved across to the work table and was leafing through some of John’s sketches.

  Constance imagined that John would be irritated by the intrusion but she felt powerless to stop it - also she didn’t know if she cared sufficiently to do so.

  ‘But these are wonderful,’ Esther said. ‘Oh, Mother, you must persuade John to let me work with him!’

  Constance stared at the girl in astonishment. In the romantic novels that she brought home from the library and devoured with a kind of guilty pleasure, John’s cousin would have been described as a striking dark-haired beauty, vivacious but self-seeking, and ready to make the heroine’s life a misery in one way or another. But neither in the pages of a novel nor in real life would such a young woman want to work!

  Muriel Barton was smiling wryly. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Constance, but my daughter is actually quite talented. She’s what I call artistic. You might not think so to look at her but she makes a lot of her own clothes - including the outfit she’s wearing now.’

  Constance glanced at Esther and her eyes widened.

  Muriel Barton’s smile was smug. ‘Good, isn’t she?’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  Esther’s dress was of dove-grey wool crepe with a belt and buttons covered with scarlet satin. Her black strap shoes could be glimpsed because the skirt was a little shorter than usual, and that was the latest fashion. But what was really noticeable was that it was what was known as a hobble skirt, not so tight that it restricted her movement, but tight enough to require small slits at each side to make walking easier.

  ‘She’s very good,’ Constance said, and she meant it.

  ‘And there’s no need for her to do all that - we can afford to buy her anything she wants. But she says she likes to keep ahead of fashion, not follow it.’

  John’s cousin had gone over to the shelves to look at the bales of fabric. She was stroking and fingering the cloth almost lovingly.

 
; ‘Is that why you’ve come here?’ Constance asked. ‘To ask me if I’ll persuade John to let Esther work with him? Because if you have, I must tell you that I have no influence with him.’

  Muriel Barton’s dismissive tone was almost insulting. ‘No, Walter will tell John that he must take Esther into his enterprise—’

  ‘Tell? Must? But John’s shop is managed separately from the rest of the business; he is responsible for his own accounts and he’s doing very well,’ Constance said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the older woman sounded impatient, ‘but now that his friend Matthew Elliot is no longer financing him - don’ t look surprised; everybody knows that Elliot no longer has time for John now that he’s taken up with the Heslop girl - John will need more funds if he wants to expand - open more shops, perhaps in other cities. And I’m sure that he does.’

  ‘So why have you come here today?’

  ‘Two reasons. I wanted to see for myself, or in this case, let Esther see. You see, on this matter I trust her judgement. If Esther still wants to go ahead with her plan after having a look around here in the workroom, then I will tell Walter to talk to John.’

  ‘I see.’

  Constance imagined that no matter how talented Esther Barton might be, she might also prove difficult to work with. She remembered John telling her in the early days of their marriage how much he wanted to be free of the constraints of working entirely for the family firm. She wondered whether she now cared much that he might be trapped after all ...

  ‘And the other reason?’ she asked. Aunt Muriel frowned. ‘When I asked why you came here today you said there were two reasons.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ She turned to look at her daughter. ‘Esther, I want you to go and wait for me downstairs.’

  ‘But, Mother—’

  ‘You can come here again, but now I want to talk to Constance alone. Go to the nursery, if you like. Go and look at the twins.’

  As if my daughters were an exhibit, Constance thought. She was irritated that John’s aunt should give orders like this in her house but she had neither the energy nor the will to oppose her. She observed Esther’s sulky expression as she left the room; John’s young cousin was not the least bit interested in looking at the twins but she probably did not want to argue with her mother at this stage. Not when she needed her to further her plans. Constance sighed. The girl would probably be a disruptive presence in the nursery and she would have to apologize to Florence when the Bartons had gone.

  ‘Now, Constance, shall we sit down?’ Muriel Barton led the way to the other end of the room near the fireplace. ‘My, he has got this cosy, hasn’t he?’ She was staring at the small sofa, the occasional tables and the easy chairs grouped around the hearth. The floor at this end of the room was covered with a small but luxurious Persian carpet.

  Constance didn’t look at her as she took her place unwillingly in one of the velvet upholstered chairs. ‘That’s because he spends a lot of time up here. He - he works late. Sometimes all night.’ She didn’t know why she had added that last sentence and she looked up quickly to find the older woman regarding her with narrowed eyes.

  ‘And does he work here all alone?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Constance was aware that she was flushing and she was uneasy as to where this conversation was leading.

  There was a small silence and then Muriel Barton said, ‘Constance, I owe you an apology.’

  ‘What! I mean, I beg your pardon?’ Constance was completely taken aback. John’s aunt actually laughed. ‘That startled you, didn’t it?’ And then her smile faded. ‘Am I such an ogre?’

  ‘No. I mean—’

  ‘Don’t bother to contradict me but I hope you will understand why I acted like I did if I explain something.’

  She stared into the hearth as if gathering her thoughts. The fire had been laid but not lit and, although the fire surround was decorated with colourful Dutch tiles, it somehow looked cheerless. Outside the window a bank of clouds moved across the sky and obscured the sun. The room darkened. When John’s aunt turned to regard her again, Constance could not quite make out her expression.

  ‘I wasn’t very pleasant to you on your wedding day; I didn’t make you welcome, did I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My husband, who is a much nicer person than I am, took to you straight away. He said that you were just what John needed.’

  ‘Needed?’

  Muriel Barton ignored the interruption and went on, ‘But I was convinced that you had latched on to John because it was you who needed something ... A husband.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do. You’re not stupid, Constance, far from it. I think you knew straight away what I was hinting at.’

  ‘I ... you thought I had married John for his money. You thought it was a way to escape the drudgery of life as a servant. You did not believe that I loved him.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ Had the other woman noticed the past tense? And was it really in the past, her love for John?

  ‘I believe that now. Poor Constance.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘But it’s worse than that, I’m afraid. God forgive me, when young Elliot turned up at the wedding I even imagined that he had got you in the family way and John was marrying you as a favour to his rich friend.’

  ‘That’s disgraceful!’

  ‘I know. And I acknowledge freely that I was wrong. You only have to look at the little ones, Amy in particular, to see that John is the father.’

  Now it was Constance who could not meet the other woman’s eyes. She gripped the arms of the chair and stared into the intricate patterns of the oriental rug at her feet.

  ‘I can see how angry you are and I don’t blame you. But there’s something else you have to understand. I believed that John would be only too pleased to accept such a bride - a bride who was already pregnant because ... because ... Oh, for goodness’ sake, Constance, I don’t have to spell it out, do I? You must know by now what kind of man he is!’

  She didn’t answer. She went on staring at the rug.

  ‘But what I didn’t know at the time was that Matthew Elliot is that kind of man, too. And I can’t help feeling sorry for Eleanor Heslop in spite of all her money!’

  At last Constance looked up at her. ‘Why have you decided to tell me all this now? No matter what you say, I can’t entirely believe that it is because you feel that you have misjudged me.’

  ‘No.’ She sighed. ‘You’re right. I did misjudge you and I’m sorry. All the more sorry because I upset Frances when I knew she was desperate for John to make a happy marriage ... after what Duncan did to her.’

  Constance stared at her. ‘Did to her? You know, at first I thought John’s father was dead, and then, when his mother was dying she said ... she said that he had loved her but that there was someone that he loved more.’

  ‘There was. It was another man.’

  ‘I see.’ Something, some thoughts, fell into place in her mind like the pieces of a puzzle fitting together. ‘No wonder John’s mother told me that the family would rather he had died than leave her in such a way.’

  ‘Can you blame us, Constance? We are not so rich that we can ignore the constraints of society. Any hint of scandal could have destroyed the family business - and it still could - which is one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you today.’

  ‘I see.’ She rose from the chair. ‘Forgive me, but I think you should go now.’

  ‘No, Constance, listen to me. Since Elliot left town John has been seen with more doubtful friends ... People are talking ...’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Talk to him ... Ask him to spend more time with his wife and family. If you cannot change his ways at least beg him to be discreet. Tell him that you would like another baby ... After all, surely he would like a son to inherit the business ...’

  Constance found that she was shaking with rage. Muriel Barton’s eyes widened and she rose from her
chair slowly and began to edge away. Constance moved round behind the chair she had been sitting in and gripped the back of it. She was unaware that she was sobbing until she heard the other speak.

  ‘Constance ... don’t ... I haven’t been tactful ...’

  ‘Just go.’

  John’s aunt began to back away.

  ‘Go!’