Nobody’s Girl

by Tania Crosse

  ‘Oh, Nana May, don’t ever think that.’ Wig shook his head, fighting the constriction in his throat yet again. ‘Don’t ever think…’

  He saw the tears glistening in her eyes, and couldn’t hold back his own. He knelt down in front of her chair, and she wrapped him in her arms, just as she’d done when he was a little boy. And together they wept and wept until both their broken hearts were dry.

  Two

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight, Crompton. See you in the morning.’

  The nightwatchman doffed his cap, and Wigmore stepped out into the dank November evening, giving a little shiver as he walked towards the waiting motorcar. He turned up the collar of his overcoat, but the satisfaction of a good day’s work and some new contracts kept a certain warmth inside him. As he opened the car door, the light from the street lamp fell on the large sign above the factory gates and a sense of pride swelled in his heart. Stratfield-Whyte and Sons Ltd, established 1857. Well, it wasn’t and Sons anymore. Not since his own father had died years ago, and Perry never had been the least bit interested in the business.

  Wig wondered vaguely what would happen to the company if he himself never had a son. He supposed if Perry and Sofia never produced an heir either, or at least one who, like himself, was passionate about engineering, he would have to sell it when he became too old to run it. That would be a shame, seeing as it had been founded by his great-grandfather over sixty years before and had been in the family ever since. Just like a good number of the staff whose families had been employed there throughout the generations and were consequently more like old friends. The livelihood of nearly eight hundred men and their families depended on the factory, to say nothing of the number of women who’d stayed on after the war. It was a heavy responsibility for Wig, but just now, business was booming.

  As his chauffeur drove him home through London’s dimly lit streets, however, he scarcely noticed the familiar change from the East End slums to the salubrious area where he and Clarrie lived. Instead, his thoughts had turned immediately to his darling wife. Six months on, but the pain was still so raw, and so often he would find her in the nursery chair where little Rosebud had died in her arms, rocking herself in a silent vigil to the child who would never return. Wig always tried his best, but he was at his wit’s end to know what he could do to ease her grief.

  So often he would hear her slide out of bed at night and pad up the stairs to the nursery. He’d pretend to be asleep because he sensed that was what she wanted, to grieve alone. His own black sorrow was distracted by his tearing concern for her, and the long hours he put in at the factory. He must put his own personal tragedy aside while he was at work. He must. For the sake of his own sanity. But poor Clarrie had nothing to distract her tortured mind.

  As usual that morning, Wig had woken before his wife. He’d heard her get up in the small hours, tormented by her grief and, at some point in the night, she must have come back to bed. She had been fast asleep beside him then, exhausted after her night-time vigil. Wigmore had allowed himself a few moments to gaze on the face he loved so deeply that it hurt. Still so beautiful, but while it had once shone with laughter, now it was lined with sadness. He had softly brushed back a loose curl that had fallen across her cheek. She had taken such pride in her glorious crown of hair, having it regularly cut in the latest fashion. But since Rosebud had gone from their lives, she barely remembered to brush it. Her bouncing locks were growing long again, and for that, at least, Wig was grateful. He wasn’t keen on these short bobs. But he would have Clarrie shave her head completely if it would bring Rosebud back.

  When he arrived back at the house, Wig got out of the motorcar and then listened to it being driven to the garage a few blocks away. The crescent of opulent Victorian mansions had been built in an era when the occupants hired a horse-drawn cab whenever they wanted to go anywhere. Nobody wanted a smelly stable of their own at the bottom of the garden! But it meant that in the new age of the motorcar, garaging had to be found further afield.

  As Wig stood on the pavement, he hesitated for a second or two. He always used to bound up the steps, eager to be with his lovely wife, and to hear her relate her day with their little bundle of joy. Her first smile, her first steps, her first words. The memories cut deep into his heart. For the last six months, it had all been so different. Clarrie would be waiting for him in the drawing room. She’d turn her smile on him, but he knew it was forced. Empty. Her eyes would be shadowed. Red-rimmed. And when dinner was served, a meal that cook had prepared with the utmost care in order to tempt her mistress with her favourite foods, Clarrie would merely pick listlessly at it, with hardly a morsel passing her lips. She was becoming skin and bone, like a ghost. And Wig was worried sick. He couldn’t lose her, too.

  Tonight, he was home early. Mr Yard wouldn’t be expecting him yet, and it seemed ridiculous to ring the doorbell of his own home, so Wig used his key to let himself in. Instead of echoing with laughter as Clarrie chased their little daughter through the hall, the house was as silent as a graveyard. Oh, how different from how it used to be. If only Wig could wave a magic wand and turn back the clock.

  Perhaps to 1916. Though a bloody war was raging just across the Channel, the day Wig had carried his wife of just an hour over the threshold had been the happiest of his life. It was not unusual for a man of his social standing to wait a while before he married, and Wig had taken a long time to find the girl of his dreams. But as soon as he’d met Clarissa, he’d known she was the only one for him. Her face had glowed like the sun on their wedding day. She was laughing, her head thrown back, as he set her on her feet in the spacious hall of his family home. The heavy scent from the huge display of lilies on the fine hall table was intoxicating, filling his head, and the polished silver candelabra seemed to have taken on an extra lustre.

  Mr Yard had stood back, holding open the sturdy front door and bowing his head politely. ‘Welcome to your new home, Mrs Stratfield-Whyte,’ he’d said stiffly, although even his well-schooled face couldn’t disguise the hint of a smile at the master’s obvious joy. ‘If you’d like to come into the drawing room for the reception, the wedding breakfast will be served in the dining room at one o’clock.’

  Yes, it would, Clarrie had thought to herself with a secret smile. She herself had planned the table arrangements, the low posies of flowers so that the guests could see each other across the table, colour co-ordinated with her bouquet, the sparkling crystal glass and gleaming silver cutlery set out for the various courses. And the room itself was so beautiful, with glass double doors opening onto the immaculate walled garden that was bathed in sunshine. Oh, yes, it was going to be a wedding breakfast to remember.

  ‘Why, thank you, Mr Yard,’ Clarrie had answered, stifling a giggle as the butler went ahead to open the drawing-room door. ‘But he knows we planned it all,’ she whispered to her new husband once Mr Yard was out of earshot.

  ‘Yes, but protocol in all things,’ Wig whispered back with a grin, cocking one eyebrow in that distinguished way she knew and loved.

  In the drawing room, all the furniture had been polished until it gleamed, and more flower vases overflowed with roses and other handpicked blooms. The massive chandelier hanging from the ornamental ceiling rose in the middle of the room twinkled in the sunlight that streamed through the casement window and was reflected in the mirrored overmantle above the fireplace. The maids were situated strategically, dressed in their best uniforms and holding gleaming silver trays of crystal glasses fizzing with champagne. But Wig and Clarrie could not partake until they had welcomed their guests.

  ‘Mummy! Daddy! Oh, isn’t this a wonderful day?’ Clarrie cried in delight to her parents who were the first in the short queue.

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Her mother smiled lovingly at her. ‘You look stunning, even if I’ve said it before. And Wigmore is such a handsome fellow,’ she added in a whisper, since it wouldn’t do for a man to know that his mother-in-law could see how attractive he was
!

  ‘And I couldn’t have wished for a better son-in-law,’ Clarrie’s father nodded as he stood next to them, pumping Wig’s hand.

  ‘Please, take a drink and make yourselves at home.’

  Clarrie’s parents moved on to make way for the other guests. Mrs Stratfield-Whyte – now Senior – entered the room next, giving Clarissa a peck on the cheek, but squeezing her hand tightly to convey her emotions with a private gesture.

  ‘My dear, you’re the picture of a radiant bride,’ she told her new daughter-in-law with genuine affection. ‘I only wish Monty had still been alive to know what a perfect wife Wig has chosen. So I have no regrets in telling you that this is your house now, to do with as you please.’

  ‘Oh, Mother-in-law, I wouldn’t change anything without your approval, really I wouldn’t,’ Clarrie assured her truthfully.

  ‘Oh, come on, this place is positively antiquated,’ a voice behind the elder Mrs Stratfield-Whyte interrupted. ‘So dark. It needs bringing into the twentieth century. And God knows we could all do with cheering up with this dreadful war. Now, come on, Wig, old chap. Let your little brother kiss the bride. Took you long enough, but you chose well in the end.’

  ‘Perry, you take the biscuit, you know.’ Wigmore gave a half-exasperated, half-amused shake of his head. ‘But I’m so pleased you managed to get leave.’

  ‘I can’t spend all my time at the Front. A war artist needs to get back to his studio to paint.’ Peregrine shook back his wild, over-long hair and lifted an ironic eyebrow as he stepped back from giving Clarissa a swift kiss.

  ‘Darling, you look amazing,’ Sofia, Peregrine’s young wife, declared, swinging her diaphanous scarf about her neck. ‘Pity it couldn’t be a big society wedding, but I understand. With the war and all that. But Perry, you simply must paint Clarissa’s portrait when this beastly business is all over. In her wedding gown, of course. It’d look glorious hanging over the mantelpiece.’

  ‘Indeed, it would,’ Wig agreed, beaming down adoringly at Clarissa, who looked just like a fairy princess.

  ‘Oh, is that real champers? Come on, Perry, you know how I adore the real thing.’

  Peregrine and Sofia moved on, allowing the short, stout figure behind them to come into view. Such a warmth came over Wig that it seemed to melt his heart.

  ‘Dear Nana May,’ he greeted her with deep affection in his voice as he bent down to kiss her.

  ‘My dear boy, I’m so proud of you,’ the ageing woman declared. ‘And Clarissa, my dear, it’s not really my place to say so, but welcome to the family.’

  ‘But you are family, Nana,’ Wig insisted.

  ‘And you’ll be nanny to all of our children as well,’ Clarrie assured her, since she’d loved Nana May from the moment she’d met her the previous year. ‘We’re going to fill the nursery, aren’t we, Wig?’

  But now, three years on, Wig hesitated as he stood in the hall. He remembered every detail of that wonderful day, a beacon among the gloom of the war. But as his fingers closed about the handle of the drawing-room door, the irony of that brief exchange of words sliced across his memory, and the figures, the happy voices, faded into nothingness.

  The elation and excitement of the wedding had been overshadowed by the continuing war. At the factory, they were turning out thousands upon thousands of shell cases, Wig’s engineering genius for designing faster, more efficient machines for armament factories all over the country making him too precious to the government to be sent to the front. So, apart from when his expertise was required elsewhere in the country, he had returned each night to the peaceful paradise of his own home, and the slender, loving arms of his delightful wife.

  Pushing the memories aside, Wig drew in a breath to brace himself as he opened the drawing-room door. The first thing he saw was Perry’s exquisite portrait of Clarrie in her wedding dress, looking so very happy. If only he could see that joy on her face again. Now Wig had expected to find his wife sitting in one of the finely upholstered armchairs, staring sadly into the fire as it crackled, aloof and unperturbed, in the grate. But this evening, the room was empty, the guard carefully in place before the flaming coals.

  Wig felt his pulse quicken. Perhaps Clarrie had gone to visit a friend, the first time she’d ventured out alone since their little treasure had died. Or perhaps she’d descended to the kitchen. She’d always been such a chatty, easy-going soul, caring nothing for the rigid upstairs-downstairs divide that ruled most households of similar status. She would invariably go down to the kitchen to discuss menus rather than have the cook come up to her, and could often be found talking with the servants as if they were life-long friends. Wig’s mother, God rest her soul, hadn’t entirely approved of her daughter-in-law’s lax attitudes but had accepted it as a sign of the times. But just now, Wig would be more than pleased if Clarrie was enjoying some company below-stairs, since it would be a first small step towards her recovery.

  He went to the servants’ staircase and listened. Animated conversation was wafting upwards. He couldn’t identify Clarrie’s voice in particular, but he didn’t want to interrupt and spoil any progress she might be making. So he left his hat and coat on the hall stand and went up the main stairs to the bedrooms. Originally there had been four bedrooms on this level. However, when the expanding factory had allowed Wig’s grandfather to purchase the grand house back in the 1860s, the first thing he’d done had been to create a proper bathroom out of the smallest bedroom.

  Even though she’d become lady of the house upon her marriage to Wig, Clarrie hadn’t made any changes to its décor until after her mother-in-law had died unexpectedly from a heart attack. After a suitable period of mourning, she’d refurbished the entire property with modern materials. She had perfect taste, Wig considered, blending the old with the new. He admired every nook and cranny she’d turned her attention to, from the lighter, more delicate William Morris wallpaper designs she’d chosen, down to the tiniest detail of each room.

  None of it seemed to matter anymore, though, and Wig’s broad chest lifted and fell in a desperate sigh. It was in the ensuing silence that he heard it. A stifled, unearthly howl from the floor above.

  Wig at once catapulted up the narrower staircase to the attic rooms. The nursery door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, he could see the back of his wife’s black-clad figure. She was on her knees, rocking back and forth, her sorrow unleashed in racking sobs that rent the deathly stillness of the house.

  Once again, the memories came flooding back. Wig reared away from the picture that formed itself before his eyes. The nightmare of that evening was just as torturing now as when it had happened.

  The memory tore at Wig’s heart, how Clarrie had howled, wouldn’t let him take her beloved baby from her arms. Now, six months later, Wig had to gulp down his own grief as he watched Clarrie in the nursery again, his heart bleeding. The amazing, enchanting woman who was his wife was broken into a million pieces. Wig had to tear himself from his own paralysis, his own misery, before he could dash forward and encompass his dearest love in his arms. She clung to him, fingernails digging through the front of his starched shirt. Pressed between them was the beautiful rag doll she’d been hugging to her chest.

  ‘Oh, Wig, I just can’t bear it,’ she moaned between torn breaths. ‘All this… it means nothing without her.’

  What could Wig do but hold her tight? Smooth her hair. Shush her like a child, and kiss the top of her head as she wept against him. His own throat was choked, but he must find some words to ease her pain.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he managed to whisper. ‘But you made her life so happy.’

  ‘But… she had so much more to live for. And now—’

  Clarrie’s tears broke out afresh and Wig searched his heart for something, for some comfort to offer her. ‘We can never replace her,’ he murmured thickly at last. Dare he say it, what had been on his mind of late? ‘But… when you’re ready… we can have other children.’

  It was the first time he’d br
oached the subject. They hadn’t even made love since that dreadful day, and he missed her. So he waited, feeling her relax against his shoulder before she turned her tear-streaked face to look earnestly up into his.

  ‘Do… do you think so?’ she sniffed.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. ‘We must look to the future. But first we must build up your strength again.’

  ‘But… I don’t know.’ He saw Clarrie wring her hands in anguish. ‘It won’t seem right. This is her nursery.’

  ‘I know. But we can redecorate it.’

  Clarrie turned her head to gaze around the room. ‘Perhaps…’

  ‘Think about it, anyway,’ Wig suggested softly. ‘But for now, shall we take a little aperitif while we wait for dinner?’

  She gave him a watery smile, but did he detect a little spark of something else in it? The old Clarrie? He hoped so. And when she went up to bed later that night, he sensed there was a little more purpose in her step.

  *

  As ever, Nana May went up with her mistress to help her undress and make her comfortable for the night. But the older woman wasn’t ready for bed herself yet and, going back downstairs, she let herself into the drawing room where Wig was enjoying a nightcap of whisky and soda.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve been saying to her, Wig,’ she commented, easing herself into an armchair, ‘but Clarrie seemed a little more her old self this evening.’

  She watched shrewdly as Wig glanced across at her. She kept a lot to herself but loved this family she was part of as if it truly was her own, especially since she had no living relatives herself. She’d been a constant part of Wig’s life since the day he’d been born, and she knew he both adored and respected her, as she did him. But there were times when she had to speak her mind, and now was one of them. Her steady eyes held Wig’s across the small space that separated them, all but forcing him to answer her.