'From England. You are going to leave me alone,' Inge said dolefully and began to weep big, slow tears. 'How will I manage without you, Uncle Friedrich is helpless! We can't take him to the hospital until the pass is open.'
'We'll arrange something,' Richard said soothingly. 'I must read my letter.'
Without apology he left her and went into his bedroom. He dared not open the letter except when he was alone. The premonition of disaster on seeing that unfamiliar handwriting was too strong.
He tore the envelope and found two letters, one on thick wove paper, wrapped round with the other, written on a sheet of cheap paper torn from a school exercise book.
With trembling fingers he separated them and with a shock recognised his mother's writing. He glanced at the signature on the other sheet. 'Mary Smith.'
Richard sat down heavily on the chair. His mother's letter fell unheeded onto the table before him, and he sat with the other sheet clutched convulsively in his hands. For a full minute he could not summon up the courage to turn the letter over and read it. His mind was numb, refusing to recognise the disaster this must mean. He was aware only of an unbearable weight pressing down on him, a blackness before his eyes, a need to crawl into some subterranean place and hide from whatever menace threatened him.
Eventually, his movements slow and precise, yet still clumsy as if there were no feeling in his fingers, he turned over the sheet of paper.
'Dear Mr Endersby, sir,
'I am sorry to have to tell you this, but I am afraid your wife, our Marigold, died giving birth to your baby in May 1915. The baby also died, I am sorry to say. Marigold had been very sick during her last months, partly, I truly believe, because of the way your parents treated her. First they asked her to go and stay at their big house, and then when she would not agree to give them the child they – well, I'd rather not say, but it was very bad the way they treated her. But she came home to us ill and already in labour, and it was plain to all of us that she was past caring whether she lived or died. There was nothing the midwife could do for her, although we had the best, we really did, sir.
'We thought you was dead as reported, and though they didn't treat our Marigold right I thought it only right to inform your parents that you was alive when your letter to Marigold was sent on to us from Birmingham. I know things weren't right between you, and you said in your letter (which we had to read, sir, please forgive us, and we are grateful to you that you loved our Marigold so much, but we wouldn't have read the letter otherwise) as how you wouldn't write to them until you heard from our Marigold, so I thought it only right to tell them as how you was alive. Your mother wrote back to me and I enclose the letter for you to see. I do not want it back. To think any woman could behave like that to her own flesh and blood defies belief, it really does, but I shouldn't say bad of my betters.
'We are moving from Hednesford shortly to go and live with one of my sisters, and I think that it would be better for you not to reply to this letter, all things considered, because although we know you loved our Marigold it brought her nothing but misfortune to mix above her class. It is best for us all to try and forget and not be reminded of unhappy times.
'I remain, sir,
'Your servant,
'Mrs Mary Smith.'
Richard stared down at the paper, and then his hands began to tremble. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, until the shaking spread to his whole body. Suddenly, fiercely, he reached for the letter from Sophia, lying ignored on the table in front of him. It was short and to the point.
'Dear Mrs Smith,
'Both my sons are dead. Henry died in the trenches, and Richard was dead to me when he was stolen by your daughter. I will see neither of them ever again.
'I remain,
'Yours very sincerely,
'Sophia Endersby.'
Both letters fluttered to the floor and Richard sat still, incapable of movement or thought. He was for a while a mere vessel for a turmoil of feelings, anger, despair, regret, and above all an insufferable agony of loss.
When feeling returns to a numbed extremity, there is pain. As thought returned to Richard's mind, there was a mental anguish that seemed about to split his head asunder. He could not encompass, could not comprehend, such torture of loss.
All these years, two and a half now, he'd been apart from his love. For almost two years he had striven patiently against injury, sickness, and danger in order to return to her. But she was no nore.
How had he not known? That was the first coherent thought in his mind. With such love as theirs, surely if one of them had died the other must have felt a tearing, wrenching pain of loss? It should have been like losing a part of oneself. Instead there had been a nothing, he'd even felt hope and happiness and joy. These were emotions he could now not even recognise, could not remember what they'd felt like. He would never experience any of them again.
Two hours later Inge crept into the room and exclaimed in dismay when she saw Richard still sitting rigidly in the chair.
'Richard, is it bad news?' she asked timidly.
He didn't hear, and she approached cautiously and laid her hand on his arm.
'Richard?' she said again. She stepped back in alarm as he turned slowly towards her. His face was ravaged, suddenly much older, but the look in his eyes terrified her. It was far worse than the petrified look in a rabbit's eyes when the dog had snatched it. There was mingled fear, loss, and rejection of the world, a blankness overlying the other emotions and making his inner soul seem far away, in a distant land.
'What is it?' she persisted.
She had no experience of such sorrow, her only instinct was to talk and touch and gentle a frightened creature, which she recognised Richard was, as she would a petrified bird.
At last he responded. In a voice which seemed rusty with disuse he spoke.
'My wife is dead.'
Inge knew there was nothing she could say. She stood beside him and cradled his head against her breast, feeling the rigidity of his entire body. Slow, painful tears oozed out of his eyes and slid down his cheeks to fall unheeded.
When her arms were stiff with holding him he gradually relaxed, and then took a deep breath.
'Thank you, child. I'm sorry.'
'No, I'm sorry,' she protested. 'Is there anything I can do?'
'Burn those letters!' he said harshly. 'I want no reminder, and I could not touch them again!'
'Who are they from?' she exclaimed, surprised.
'My mother, and my wife's mother. My wife and child are dead! And neither of them even thought to tell me how long the child lived! Or even if it was a son!' he added wonderingly. 'I shall never know.'
'You'll know when you go to Heaven,' Inge said composedly. 'You'll be with them there, like we'll be with Aunt Gertrude and Muttie and Papa.'
He stared at her in astonishment. She had such a simple, certain faith, and it was comforting.
'I shall, shan't I?' he said. 'What time is it? How long have I been sitting here?'
'It's time for Uncle Friedrich's exercises, and then I'll cook dinner.'
He dragged himself back to the routine of the house, fetching wood, building up the fires, and making all secure in the outhouses.
After supper, when neither of them had spoken very much, and Uncle Friedrich had been settled for the night, Inge looked doubtfully at Richard.
'What will you do? Will you leave me here alone now?' she asked anxiously.
Richard had not even considered beyond his present tasks. He glanced around the bright, cheerful room. He thought of the snow-covered slopes outside, invisible now through the sturdy shutters, and the first signs of spring which followed the thaw. It was beautiful here, there were no problems but those of day-by-day survival.
'I'll stay with you until Uncle Friedrich gets better,'
***
Chapter 16
The year of 1918 brought joy and sorrow. As the peace negotiations took place and the survivors emerged from the horrors of moder
n warfare, there were unparalleled scenes of rejoicing across England.
Those men who were maimed and scarred, depending on their philosophy either thanked God for their lives at least, or cursed the misfortune which had put their face or their leg in the way of that particular shell or piece of shrapnel.
Marigold planned a gala evening to celebrate the armistice at her hotel, by now one of the most famous in Birmingham.
And then, two weeks before the date, Ivy succumbed to the influenza epidemic which was sweeping across the world. Mary insisted on nursing her, saying Marigold was far too busy, and anyway she didn't want to risk either Marigold or Poppy being infected.
Poppy was ill the following day, however, and then John, who had insisted on sitting with Ivy while Mary rested, became ill too.
They all appeared to be recovering when Mary herself was stricken. Lucy immediately left her son and daughter with Mrs Kelly and came to Edgbaston to help Marigold nurse her parents.
'Mom is much the worst,' Marigold said worriedly a few days later. 'The others are nearly better, but she's so ill I'm scared. Pa wants to go and see her. Do you think he should?'
'It might help her, and surely he's almost better now?' Lucy replied.
'He would have been in already except he can't get upstairs on his own.'
'I'll find a couple of men to carry up his chair,' Lucy said. 'You go and get him ready.'
John was not in his room, although his wheelchair stood beside his bed. Had someone come and carried him? It had never happened before, he refused all except the absolutely essential help, determined to be as independent as possible.
Marigold went to her mother's room, and halted, aghast, as she opened the door.
John had somehow managed to drag himself along and climb the stairs, and was now struggling to clamber onto the bed where Mary lay. Before Marigold could rush to help him he succeeded, collapsing with a grunt beside his wife.
Mary was conscious, but unable to move. She smiled faintly as John took her gently in his arms and kissed her lingeringly on the lips. They were so absorbed they didn't see Marigold, who dared not move in case she disturbed them.
'I love you so much, and I've just been a burden these last few years,' John whispered. 'I meant to do so much for you. Please forgive me, love, and don't leave me. I can't manage without you.'
Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and Mary, with a great effort, lifted her hand and wiped them away.
'You've been the best husband ever,' she managed to say before her hand fell back and she closed her eyes.
They lay there, entwined, and with infinite care Marigold closed the door. She was leaning against the doorpost, silently weeping, when Lucy found her.
'What is it? Is she worse?' Luct demanded.
'Hush! No, come away!'
Marigold went to sit on the window seat of a large bay window overlooking the main road, and described what she had seen to Lucy.
'Your Pa climbed these stairs on his own? But he hasn't moved without the wheelchair for years!'
'He loved her so much.' And perhaps thought he might never see her again, she added silently.
'God must have helped him. But what should we do?'
'Leave them alone. It's all we can do for them. I'll take them both some food later.'
When she hesitantly knocked on the door two hours later Mary was dead, cradled in John's arms. He offered no resistance when they carried him down to his own room, but refused either to eat or speak. Marigold sat with him that night as he lay staring up at the ceiling, then towards dawn he turned his head towards her.
His voice was strange, cracked and hoarse.
'I've been the most fortunate man alive, with Mary and her children,' he said haltingly. 'God bless you, love.'
They were his last words. He had no more will to live, and by evening he too was dead.
'They're together,' Lucy comforted. 'They loved one another very much. How are Poppy and Ivy this evening?'
'Both beginning to recover, thank goodness. I could not bear it if either of them died.'
There was a light tap on the door and Joan, the receptionist came into Marigold's office cum sitting room.
'Mrs Endersby, I'm sorry, I know you don't want to be disturbed but the Colonel's here. He asked if you could spare him a moment.'
'Yes of course. Show him in, Joan.'
'Shall I go?'
'There's no need, Lucy.'
Colonel Thomas, as handsome as ever, came swiftly into the room. He smiled briefly at Lucy but went straight to Marigold and took both her hands in his.
'My dear Marigold, I've just heard. I am so very sorry. Your parents were both wonderful people and will be sorely missed.'
'Bill! Oh, Bill!'
Marigold, who had remained rigidly calm and dry-eyed since the first shock of comprehending her father's determination to be with his wife, and coped grimly but sympathetically with Poppy's wild sobs and Ivy's hysterics, seemed to collapse suddenly. Before Lucy's eyes she crumbled, and as the Colonel sat down beside her and gathered her into his arms, she wept.
Lucy signed to him that she would go, and crept out of the room. Marigold's unyielding composure had been unnatural, it would be good for her to weep. And the Colonel seemed to be perfectly capable of offering comfort. Lucy went to see if there was anything she could do about the hotel.
It was so well organised, she discovered, that despite half the staff being struck down with the influenza there was little sign of anything untoward happening. Of course many of the bookings had been cancelled and there were fewer guests than normal for the staff to deal with, but Lucy was impressed with this evidence of Marigold's flair for organisation.
An hour later Marigold emerged, calm and dry-eyed again. She came to find Lucy and say she had invited the Colonel to dine with them in the private parlour.
'He stays here often?' Lucy asked. 'He seems a very pleasant man.'
Marigold cast her a faint smile.
'He's a good friend, Lucy, although part of it is his wish to buy the hotel!'
'Buy this? Are you thinking of selling?'
'No, never. It's given us a home and I'm making a lot of money, but more important I could not bear to be without work. It stops me thinking. And now – it will be more necessary than ever!'
Observing Bill Thomas over dinner Lucy concluded that even if Marigold was unaware of it, the Colonel's interest in her was a warmer one than a business friendship. It would be good for her.
Although Lucy accepted Marigold's belief that Richard was alive somewhere, privately she considered that they must have heard by now if he were. The next few months should be decisive. If he were a prisoner for some reason unidentified, surely with the ending of the war he would be discovered? Similarly if he were hiding away from the Germans somewhere behind the lines. He would be able to come back. If he did not within a year, Marigold must accept the probability of his death.
Bill stayed for two weeks and quietly, almost without her noticing, relieved Marigold of the pressures of running the hotel while she dealt with the funeral arrangements. He supervised the gala evening which Marigold, although she did not attend, refused to cancel.
'It is not any business of my guests that I have been bereaved,' she insisted. 'It is my business to provide them with what has been promised.'
She became absorbed in work and continued to provide for the guests' requirements so effectively that less than a year after John and Mary died she opened a second hotel in Wolverhampton.
'Why are you calling it 'Endersby's'? It should be 'Smith's', Ivy complained when Marigold took them to see the newly completed building.
'Marigold's name is Endersby,' Poppy said sharply.
'And it's Richard's money. I feel I'm doing something for him,' Marigold said quietly.
'For his memory?'
'No, for him. He will return one day,' Marigold insisted without heat. She was used to Ivy's frequent questions about why she didn't accept Richard
was dead.
'He must be or he'd have come home by now. He would if he loved you as much as you say he did,' Ivy said once, and Marigold turned away to hide the hurt she felt at Ivy's lack of belief.
She was the only one who clung to her conviction that Richard was still alive somewhere. Sophia had never believed it, and despite Marigold's wishes taught little Dick that his father had gone to heaven to be with the angels. She didn't know what Richard's father thought. As usual, except in matters of business when he was still very supportive of her, he kept his thoughts and feelings hidden.
Bill Thomas, no longer in Colonel's uniform, had on two occasions recently asked her to marry him.
'I respect your hopes that Richard might be alive still,' he said the second time. 'It looks increasingly unlikely, however, and it would be a wicked waste for you to spend your life alone.'
'Alone, with dozens of guests and all the staff as well as Poppy and Ivy?' she asked, smiling slightly.
'It is not at all the same,' he said sternly, and she nodded in wry agreement.
She and Richard had had just a few weeks of married bliss, of being together and loving one another. She had no idea what it would be like to live as his wife for months, years, a lifetime. She was certain, however, that she did not wish to live as anyone else's wife, although she was quite fond of Bill in a gentle, undemanding way. He was kind, helpful, and understood her business problems. He wasn't Richard.
'I could never marry anyone else if I were not totally certain Richard were dead,' she said, trying to soften her refusal.
'It must be assumed after a time, there are ways of obtaining legal presumption of death,' he informed her.
'But I don't want to assume he's dead!' she said, impatient at last at this one streak of insensitivity in him.
Bill had not mentioned it again, but Marigold knew it would be only a few weeks before he returned to the subject.
The Cobweb Cage Page 36