Mabel Crowley: Book One
Page 5
When the time came for Alice’s delivery, Theodore sent for Dr Stewardson. As instructed, Mabel stayed with the younger Hartleys in Irene’s bedroom, reading fairy tales and dressing and redressing dolls to diffuse the nervous tension. Theodore paced up and down the upstairs corridor, just as every nervous father-to-be during a first birth, and just as he had done throughout the births of his other children.
Once the baby was born, Dr Stewardson opened the bedroom door to alert the anxious husband.
“Yes? What is it? What’s happening?” Theodore’s legs ached and his forehead was covered with sweat. The doctor, who was familiar with such reactions after decades in the medical profession, merely smiled and patted the air with his hands.
“Get out your cigars,” he announced.
Theodore burst into the bedroom and kissed his exhausted wife. “How is she, Doctor?”
“Just fine, Ted. Healthy, just shy of eight pounds.” Dr Stewardson nudged his nurse assistant in the direction of the parents. She murmured to Theodore and transferred the baby bundle into his arms.
“What? Oh!” Theodore only just noticed the baby wrapped in pink blankets. “It’s a girl?” Alice nodded, apprehensive of her husband’s reaction. “Nifty! I’ve always wanted one of those! Hope I’ll be alright; they say fathering a girl is a tricky business.”
Alice threw her head back and laughed, using the little energy she had left. “I love you, darling! And don’t worry. I’ve a feeling you won’t make a complete mess of things.” A couple of quick kisses from each parent to each other and to the tiny one, then a reminder from the wife that the third guardian needed to be notified.
“Of course! Nurse, would you run and fetch Mab— Miss Crowley? She’s just down the hall in Miss Irene’s bedroom.”
The nurse bowed her head and exited the room. After a couple of minutes in which Theodore and Alice finalized the name for their baby girl, Mabel poked her head round the bedroom door.
“Alright, then?”
“Yes, darling! Come in! Come in!” Alice waved her arms to usher in her new arrival. Mabel trotted to the bed and squealed with delight upon seeing the tiny swaddled bundle.
She was a normal-looking baby, similar to other newborns: small, wrinkled, red-faced, cranky. Alice, Theodore and Mabel, proud parents as they were, thought the baby more beautiful than any they’d ever seen—since the births of Harriet and Irene, of course.
“I didn’t know if you wanted the girls to come in, so the nurse is watching them for a few minutes,” Mabel told them, careful to use a softer voice. It was fine, Alice thought. There’d be plenty of time to meet their baby sister later. For the beginning moments, she wanted only the parents to bask in the joy of the moment.
Alice turned the baby and propped her against her chest, as if she were standing. “Mabel, dear, Theodore and I are proud to present the newest member of our family.” Mabel blushed. Alice took the tiny baby’s hand and extended it; Theodore pulled Mabel’s hand to reach the baby’s. “Ruby Crowley Hartley,” announced the beaming mother.
“Pardon?” Mabel’s large eyes dominated half her face. “Ruby’s lovely, but Crowley? What in heaven made you choose it?”
“We considered ‘Mabel’ but thought you might choose it for your own daughter someday,” explained Theodore.
“But Crowley! It’s—”
Alice cut her off before she had time to insult the name. “Dear, you’re such a treasure in our lives. We can only hope that Ruby grows up like you. Even the slightest similarity, and I’ll know I’ve done my job well.” Alice looked into the great grey eyes and transferred the true meaning behind the name through her expression.
Just as Mabel was about to touch Ruby’s hand, Alice cried out in pain. “Ted,” she murmured as she lifted the baby into her husband’s arms.
“Stewardson!” Theodore shouted louder than he needed to. The doctor quickly crossed to the bed and attended to his patient. Theodore looked down at the red, wrinkled lump in his arms and felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He grimaced and handed the child off to Mabel.
“Sir, would you like me to—”
“I don’t care,” Theodore snapped. He’d never used that tone with Mabel before, but he didn’t have the sense to apologize or excuse. His only concern was his wife, not the unwanted babe who caused unnecessary pain and anguish.
Mabel winced and decided to leave the Hartleys alone. She walked slowly, careful not to disturb Ruby. She closed the door behind her, then took in the full beauty of the newborn in her arms. She’d never held a baby this new to the world before. When Mabel had entered the Hartleys’ world, Harriet was over a year old; she had witnessed and supported the pregnancy and birth of this baby. As little Ruby grasped Mabel’s index finger, she felt a maternal instinct that was different than the love she felt for the other two girls. She loved Irene and Harriet as a step-mother; she worshipped them but was always aware that they belonged to another. Mabel couldn’t help but wish that the innocent babe shared her blood in addition to her name.
Theodore cautiously entered the nursery. His head was spinning, so he sat in the stiff chair across from the cradle. In a distorted, faraway voice, he heard Mabel enquire after the health of Alice. She hadn’t shown the children their baby sister; she assumed the proud parents would like to do the honours.
“Oh, that won’t be . . . necessary. You may show them anytime.” Theodore rubbed his temples. “Dr Stewardson is doing everything he can for her,” he said, the words sticking to his throat. “She’s lost a lot of blood, and she’s awfully weak. I knew this was a mistake. I told her—”
“Mistake?” Mabel asked, incredulous. “She’s your child. How could any miracle so beautiful be a mistake?”
“You don’t understand!” Theodore ran his fingers through his hair and clenched the nape of his neck. The skin around his collar was red and bumpy, evidence of recent uncomfortable fidgeting. “We have two children; we didn’t need any more. If anything happens to Alice, I’ll . . .”
“What do you mean, sir?” Mabel asked, suddenly horrified. She hoped she’d misunderstood her employer; desperately wished he was only overreacting to the situation.
“Alice—she wasn’t supposed to have any more children. We were lucky with Irene . . . All the lost ones, then Harriet was an accident. We said we’d stop, and now . . . We always thought I’d go first . . . Oh, my Alice. My poor Alice!” The grieving man wept into his hands.
“Go, sir? Is there . . . are you . . . Do you mean because of your age, sir?” Mabel tried to meet his eyes, but Theodore avoided her stare. “Please, sir, what are you trying to tell?”
Theodore apologized and wiped his face, turning away from Mabel and trying to hide the facts of the situation from her. “I shouldn’t have—I misspoke—”
“What do you mean? You told me there were no complications in the delivery,” Mabel kept asking, desperate to learn the details of Alice’s condition.
Theodore was very tight-lipped. All he revealed was Alice’s weakness and loss of blood, and his worry for her. He had plenty of information, but he concealed it from Mabel, unwilling to reveal the horrors that were at the moment only a worry, but if spoken aloud could become a reality.
“You leave me no choice. If you won’t tell me, I’ll ask Dr Stewardson. He ought to be able to tell me what’s the matter with her!” Mabel rose and walked determinedly to the door of the nursery. Theodore stood in front of the door to block her, moving from left to right as she tried to reach behind him for the door handle. “Sir! Let me pass; this is ridiculous!”
Theodore grabbed her wrists and held them so she couldn’t move. When he spoke, she felt his breath on her face. She’d never stood so close to him before; she’d never been that close to any man, besides Charlie. Mabel felt uncomfortable, and wished he’d let her move away from him. Her heart started to pound and she found it necessary to look everywhere besides his eyes.
“Alice doesn’t want you to wo
rry. She’d prefer that I don’t worry, but I’m her husband. She’s putting on such a brave front. Stewardson’s the one who’s told me the situation, but please don’t talk to him. She’ll see it on your face if you know everything. Just give her this peace, please.”
“You’re one to talk!” Mabel breathed, quickly adding “sir” after her impertinent remark. “You’re moaning and wailing about how worried you are. You’re wringing your own neck, and you tell me I can’t show Alice I’m upset? Ha!” Mabel closed her lips, afraid that since the arguing pair were so close together, they might accidentally touch.
“Of course I’m acting out! Once the bedroom doors are closed, I have to be strong—so strong! I have to be just as brave and fearless as my poor wife! She mustn’t know what I’m thinking. Hiding all this from her is the greatest gift towards her recovery I can give her.” Theodore’s throat strained as he breathed, stretching his swollen veins. His tired eyes tugged down at the corners, begging him to shut his lids and create a barrier from the terrors of the world crashing down upon him.
“But why? Shouldn’t she know that you’re worried—that you care? If you pretend that everything’s fine, won’t she think you don’t even—”
“You don’t understand!” Theodore bellowed. “How could you? You’ve never been in love.”
From that blow, Mabel’s body became limp. She was glad Theodore was still holding on to her wrists; her knees were weak and could buckle at any moment. She thought of Charlie, and in an instant, a surge of cold blood rushed through every vein in her body. Oh Charlie, her beloved Charlie! The pain and heartache she felt every night would be minimal compared to the horrible thought of watching her beloved die slowly, knowing there was no way for her to help.
Mabel’s heart was pounding so wildly out of her chest, she envisioned Charlie standing before her—against the door, in Theodore’s place! Could it be? Had the past two years been a terrible nightmare and now Charlie had come back to her to make everything alright? Could it be? If she touched his hair, if she kissed his lips; would he stay or disappear, melting into the vision of Theodore once more? She swayed on the spot, unsure of which man really stood before her. The next moment, both men had left the nursery, and Mabel remained in the room alone.
Theodore was right; the next week, Alice kept up a positive attitude, refusing to admit that anything whatsoever was wrong with her. However, the continued presence of Dr Stewardson and his nurse indicated otherwise. Alice was all smiles, hugging and kissing all three of her girls whenever she was awake. She was unable to nurse Ruby and unable to leave her bed; the bedroom became the new living room and all members of the Hartley family congregated on and around the bed any and every time Dr Stewardson allowed them past the doors.
Usually, Theodore would sit on the bed beside his wife; Irene and Harriet would climb aboard and cuddle up to their parents. Mabel stood or sat beside the bed, holding and rocking Ruby, as she seemed to be the only adult with a free hand. Sometimes Alice held her baby, but never Theodore. He hadn’t held her since the day she was born; he was waiting for an improvement in Alice’s health before giving affection to Ruby.
Irene took to baby Ruby immediately, but Harriet wished to spend time with her mother rather than her new sister. Irene had already adjusted to filling the role as the oldest child, but Harriet was having a rough time. She was no longer the baby, but nor was she the oldest; what was her purpose? Naturally, a four-year-old lacks the mental capabilities to analyze her feelings in such a way; but Harriet knew that one of the Hartley girls was out of place. Judging by her father’s cold attitude about the baby, it was Ruby who didn’t belong. Harriet, looking more like her father every day, adopted his indifference towards Ruby.
Mabel saw the Hartley family, all on perfect behaviour, all completely ignoring the storm cloud above their heads. Mabel tried to remain as steady and calm as Theodore, but when she was alone with Alice, it was ever more difficult. Seeing her frail body wrapped in sheets and blankets was too heartbreaking. Once, she broke down in tears and buried her face in her handkerchief. Alice merely said, “There, there” and changed the subject to that of the spring fashions in Paris.
After a particularly horrid day, in which everyone prepared themselves for the worst that never came, Mabel tiptoed into the bedroom to visit Alice. They sat and talked of nonsense for a few minutes, then Alice spoke in a tone quite unlike her usual shimmering, optimistic voice.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Mabel.”
“Of course. I came in earlier, but you were sleeping.”
“No, I meant here in our house, to help Theodore . . . take care of things. You’re not ever leaving, are you? I mean, now that the baby’s come, you’ll stay here with the girls, won’t you? You’ll stay with Theodore, won’t you?”
Mabel saw a sad reality in Alice’s eyes for two seconds, but as soon as Mabel agreed to stay, Alice pushed the look out of her eyes and smiled once again. A tiny fist rapped on the door, and Dr Stewardson let in young Harriet. The pudgy four-year-old climbed onto the bed and kissed Alice’s cheek before cuddling under her arm. Mabel excused herself and let the mother enjoy the little time left she had with her daughter.
Inside of a week, Alice was dead.
Mabel helped the two older children into their first mourning dresses; it had been decided that Ruby stay at home with the wet nurse during the funeral. She was too young to venture outside the house, and Theodore didn’t want her present during the before-funeral memorial. At the time, the girls took no notice of their different dress, but once mourners started arriving, both Irene and Harriet asked Mabel why they were wearing white and the grown-ups were dressed in black. Mabel didn’t know how to explain the distinction between proper mourning attire to children, and every answer she gave proved unsatisfactory and prompted subsequent unanswerable questions.
Before the procession through town and to the church began, Emerson House hosted a feast for family and dear friends. Theodore was burdened with providing countless introductions, as his hostess knew none of the guests present. The visitors, from all over England, expressed their condolences to the widower, then, seeing that he was in no condition for lengthy remembrances and conversations, helped themselves to the pheasant, glazed ham, and spirits offered in the dining room. Mabel ate little and Theodore ate less, employing one hand always to hold a drink. Alice’s casket lay on a table in the parlour room, surrounded by framed photographs and portraits of her. Mourners who wished to pay their respects spent a few minutes in the parlour room before returning to the throngs in the sitting and dining rooms.
The procession through town was extensive. The six black horses pulling the hearse wore great ostrich plumes, and the feathers’ brothers adorned the top of the hearse. The lavish carriage was decorated in black and silver and was followed by two dozen matching black carriages provided by the undertaker’s business. Another three dozen carriages followed, carrying those who wished to attend the funeral but who weren’t included in the grieving widower’s initial list of inclusion. Theodore wanted no one turned away; if they wished to honour Alice, they were welcomed and appreciated. As a result, hundreds of friends and family, along with residents of Bath, London, York and the other cities in which the Hartleys had lived, attended the funeral service of Alice Hartley.
The coffin, with three engraved silver plates bordering the sides, was covered in a black velvet cloth. When it was removed from the hearse by the pallbearers, Irene saw the carnations and roses spilling out of the carriage.
“Why are there so many flowers?” she asked Mabel. The answer didn’t make much sense to the young child; the flowers were from people who loved her mother and wished to celebrate her. But if her mother had gone, why did they still bring the flowers?
“I don’t know, darling,” Mabel felt reduced to say. Seven years old was too young to learn the intimate details of funeral arrangements. Poor Harriet possessed an equal number
of questions in her mind, but was too overwhelmed by the crowds of people to ask them. She merely clung to her father, who in turn clung desperately to her, and the child wondered when her mother would return.
As the Hartleys entered the church, Mabel walked behind them and prepared to sit a few rows back. After all, she was neither immediate family nor a long-standing friend. Technically she should sit in the back half of the church with the servants, but she knew Theodore wouldn’t hear of it. As it was, when he saw her turn and walk down a pew four rows from the front, he stopped his march down the aisle, thus preventing all those behind him making their descent down the aisle from continuing. All eyes on them, Theodore refused to resume his walk until Mabel joined him in the front row.
The service began, nearest of kin in the front rows, followed by close friends, and finally servants and those who knew or knew of Alice and desired to be included in the remembrance. The very first row held only Theodore and Mabel and the children; they wished to be alone. Although if witnessed it wouldn’t have been entirely proper, Mabel and Theodore held hands throughout the service. Irene sat to the left of Mabel, and Harriet to the right of her father. All four sat solemnly, connected through their gloved hands, all trying to preserve the family unit that could never be the same.
Indeed, they appeared to complete a family picture, with Mabel taking the place of the matriarch. Those who saw the closeness between the governess and the master wondered if they had been engaged in an affair before Alice had passed. How cruel and tasteless to bring one’s mistress to the funeral of one’s wife—and to force the children to hold hands and embrace her! Would he reduce his mourning period so they could marry? What a scandal—the great Hartley married to a servant girl!
However, those who were acquainted with the Hartley household knew the strong love between Theodore and Alice. Quick to preserve correct memories of history, they defended Theodore to rude gossip-mongers, explaining the devotion he’d felt for his wife. They were confident he would not marry the governess, but if he did, they were positively sure that he would only do so for the sake of the children.
Once everyone had filed out of the church, the women were helped into the carriages and the men made towards the cemetery for the final procession. There was quite a bit of gossip for the ladies to explore and spread while waiting for the men to return from the burial.
Would he or wouldn’t he? Who was she? Her father was wealthy—then why was she working as a governess? Perhaps she’d always intended to split up the great Hartley marriage and steal Theodore for herself! The children seemed to love her, but perhaps she’d turned them against their mother. Children are so malleable; they’re easily duped by trickery. But Theodore! How could he have been fooled by the harlot? No, no, they were all three of them close. Well, in that case, had Alice arranged this before she died? Yes, the women were friends, and Alice had planned it all! She knew her husband would miss her terribly, and she’d instructed that he marry the governess after she’d gone. Of course! No wonder he’d put on such a public display during the service; he was showing Alice that he was honouring her last wishes. Had the governess known of the arrangement; had she been active in creating it? Perhaps she’d been in an affair with Theodore long before Alice’s demise, then manipulated the sickly Alice into thinking up the post-mortem marriage. Poor Alice was too weak to think for herself, so she agreed to anything that might ease the pain of her husband she loved so dearly. The governess thought she’d fooled everyone, and all the time, she’d been preparing for her new occupation of Mrs Hartley. Yes, that was the truth!
That night, Theodore kissed the children atop their heads and sent them to bed. Mabel helped them undress, folding their mourning dresses into a box she hoped they’d never again have to unpack.
Harriet fell asleep quickly, before Mabel had finished even a page from her storybook. Irene took some time; she was the oldest child and was full of open-ended questions about the day’s events. She sat on the edge of the bed in her bloomers and camisole, holding her arms straight up above her head until Mabel helped her into her nightgown.
“M-Mabel?” After two years, Irene had only recently stopped calling her “Miss Crowley”. Sometimes she stuttered and corrected herself, and sometimes she merged them, saying “Miss Mabel”, but either way, she was making an effort to distinguish the change in her relationship with her former teacher.
“Yes, darling?”
Irene asked about the flowers again. What had happened to them? Where did they go? She asked about the hundreds of people who were at their home and had accompanied them to the church. How did they all know to come to the house at the same time? Why did they all disappear by the end of the day?
By now, Irene was tucked snugly into bed, the white and pink eiderdown beneath her pointed chin. Again, she repeated the name of her governess, and again, Mabel answered, “Yes, darling?”
“Are you going to be my new mother?” Irene looked up at her with glistening, pitiful eyes.
“No, dear, of course not!” Mabel sat down on the bed beside the child.
Irene began to cry. “But that means I won’t have a mother!” she wailed.
Mabel took her in her arms and rocked her back and forth. “Of course you’ll have a mother,” she cooed. “Your mother will always be with you, in your heart and in your memories.”
The seven-year-old didn’t understand; she wanted Mabel to be a replacement. She’d become such a part of the family, and had sat with her father in the church that afternoon. They’d held hands, and they’d been so kind to each other for years! Why couldn’t Mabel marry her father? Mabel tried to explain why she couldn’t become her mother, but promised that she’d always be her “Mabel”.
“Don’t you love me?” Irene was bawling and could barely get her words out. The front of Mabel’s dress was wet from her tears.
Mabel assured Irene that she loved her more than words could say, and that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She understood why Irene was so inconsolable. Irene was afraid and didn’t want her to unexpectedly leave as Alice had. Mabel did her best to convince her, but she knew the only way to truly prove her loyalty would be through her actions. She’d never leave; Irene would find out in time.
In the weeks that followed, the adults in Emerson House continued to wear appropriate mourning clothes and spend their days in silence, and the children continued to require answers to their countless questions. It was as if the questions were literally pressing against their chests, and if they didn’t vocalize them, their poor, fragile hearts would burst into a thousand pieces. So impatient, so demanding—so confused and frightened. The servants dismissed the children, telling them to talk to their father about such matters. Theodore only agreed to answer questions that seemed completely innocent in nature. Why bluebirds fly and bees buzz, and so on. Any more personal questions and he sent his girls to Mabel.
Mabel assumed it was part of their grievance period, asking endless questions about topics they couldn’t possibly understand, none of which involved their mother’s absence. They’d learned from their father that they would be ignored if they spoke about their mother; if they desperately wished to talk about their mother, they spoke softly to Mabel at night before bed.
Both “parents” kissed each child at their bedside as they had every night before Alice’s passing, trying to give the children some semblance of normalcy despite the absence of half their true parentage. However, only one parent kissed Ruby atop the head. Only one parent held and fed Ruby; one parent spoke to her and cared for her: Mabel. Theodore refused to associate with Ruby in any capacity; he recoiled if he came within a half-metre radius of the baby. Mabel was the sole guardian of the youngest, so much so that it was assumed that Ruby would grow up thinking Mabel was her actual mother.
Theodore was distraught; time had not healed his wounds. He would often call Mabel “Alice”, confused because of the womanly presence in the
house. “Go and ask your mother” became the most commonly spoken phrase in the house. Sometimes his daughters obeyed and approached Mabel without correcting the error, and sometimes they gently informed their grieving father of the difference in women.
Mabel never corrected him, and she had learned to keep both her and the children’s distance from Theodore when he was especially depressed. She tried to take care of the girls as best she could, and the wet nurse’s continued employment helped a great deal. Mabel had never experienced the care of a newborn before; she dreaded the day Nurse Christina left her fully in charge of the midnight cries and four o’clock feedings.
Once, Mabel made the mistake of addressing Theodore’s lack of feeling towards his child. Didn’t he want to be involved in any of the parenting decisions regarding the youngest Hartley? Wasn’t he interested at all in the updates of the newborn? Mabel had seen his delight in Harriet when she was younger; couldn’t he at least try to provide Ruby with the same loving environment?
“I’ve told you, I want nothing to do with her.”
Theodore was immovable, but Mabel felt she’d earned the right to disagree with her master. She had an obligation to the child; Ruby should be nurtured as her older sisters had. Mabel started towards him, holding the baby out to him.
“Wouldn’t you like to hold her?”
Theodore’s cold stare upset her. He took a step back, as if afraid he’d catch an incurable disease if he came too close to Ruby.
“Forgive me, sir. I just thought she might be of some comfort to you. She’s a part of Alice, after all,” Mabel pleaded with her master, hoping he might hold his daughter for the first time since her birth.
“Some comfort?” Theodore spoke quietly and deliberately. “Really. Which part of my dead wife is she? The blood that’s no longer running through her veins? Her cold skin? Her pale eyes that will never again look into mine? Understand this, Miss Crowley,” he hissed, “if I want a reminder of my loving wife, I have two daughters.” Theodore stood, his anger transforming him into someone unrecognizable. “You want that creature? She’s yours—name and the whole lot! She’s no child of mine. All I see is death . . .”
Theodore stormed out of the room and down the hall. He locked himself in his office and didn’t depart until the next morning. When he opened his eyes and saw a sideways view of his office, Theodore immediately shut them tight. He remained slumped over on his desk, but pretended he was upstairs in the master suite, sleeping peacefully beside Alice. After waiting nearly half an hour for his wife to nudge him or kiss his cheek, Theodore opened his eyes once more; the only familiar sight was the small amount of whisky still remaining in last night’s tumbler.
“Chah-lie! Chah-lie!”
Charlie turned to the direction of the shouting. Bessie was atop a stallion, bareback, galloping towards him. She pulled the reins tight when she reached him, and the horse reared up on his hind legs. She dismounted just as she’d been taught and ran the remaining distance to her beau. She gathered her skirts with both hands, abandoning her hold on her bonnet and losing the battle with the wind. Her hair framed her face with wild tendrils, and her cheeks were especially pink by the time she reached Charlie. She bent over, bracing herself on her knees, and panted. With her head aimed at the ground, she retrieved the newspaper that was securely tucked into her vest, and swung her arm towards Charlie. He took the paper, but before he unfolded it, Bessie gasped out the words:
“War, Charlie! We’re at war!”
“What?” Charlie spread out the newspaper and stared at the headline. “WAR” in large block letters announced itself at the top of the paper. He looked back at Bessie, who was still heaving, frightened and surprised. He returned his eyes to the newspaper and read the headline again, hoping that he’d been mistaken at first glance.
“Come, Charlie. We’ll tell your family.” Bessie started up the hill towards his house, assuming Charlie would follow her.
Charlie stood in the fields, his eyes fixed on the newspaper. The stallion butted his head against Charlie’s chest, and instinctively Charlie ran his hand up the horse’s nose and forehead. He thought of the years he’d spent caring for the horses, and all the plans he held for the future. Now, he wondered if he’d have a future. Now, all his struggles and the hurts of the past seemed irrelevant to those he would most likely have to face.
Charlie led the horse to the watering trough and secured him to the nearby fence. He started up to the house, then remembered Bessie’s bonnet still on the ground. He stooped down and picked it up; as he held it in his hands, two thoughts pushed to the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to be present when his parents learned about the war, and he wanted to kiss Bessie the instant he saw her.
In the granting of Charlie’s wishes, he learned the wisdom of taking care when wishing for his heart’s desires. After the arduous climb up the hill, he dragged his cemented feet past the doorway of his house. Mr and Mrs Archer were sitting at the kitchen table, utterly destroyed. Elbows on the table, Jonathon’s hands covered his eyes, the weight of the world crushing his shoulders. Charlie’s mother was sobbing, her head resting on the table. She heard her son’s footsteps and wailed as she rose from the table and embraced him.
“My boys! My poor boys!”
Charlie tried unsuccessfully to comfort his mother with perfunctory pats on her back. Jonathon relieved his son of the burden and transferred the weeping woman’s arms from Charlie’s neck to his own. After twenty-five years of marriage, Jonathon knew how to console his wife better than anyone. She wailed, pleading to God to protect her boys, begging to see her youngest John again before he was sent to war.
“Of course you will, Hettie,” he cooed gently. “John’s bound to come home as soon as he reads the papers. He could spend weeks here with us, you know. All the paperwork could take a—long time before—the boys are—sent.” A third terrifying thought occurred to Hester and she blubbered into her husband’s shirt; what if Jonathon fought as well? She couldn’t stand to be a widow before she was even a grandmother!
“Don’t worry about me, love. I’m too old. The army wouldn’t even take me, I’ll wager. You’ll have to put up with me for a few more years, you’ll see,” Jonathon said, wiping her nose with his shirt. “Why, I’m surprised at you, Hettie!” He turned to Charlie and Bessie. “After twenty-five years, you’d think she’d beg me to volunteer!” Hester’s breathing was beginning to steady; Jonathon stopped talking and merely rocked her back and forth.
Charlie took the newspaper out from under his arm and read the article again, looking for mention of conscription. He found none, but it gave him little comfort. No doubt after a few days, once the paperwork was sorted out, the government would issue a draft. How he wished his older brother was home! Of course, he wouldn’t be frightened; John was always the brave one. Emily, his sister-in-law, was just as strong-willed as her husband. She’d sooner board up the house and tie John to a chair in the attic than see him off to war.
Sure enough, John and Emily travelled to the Archer’s home in Bruton a few days after the news spread across the country. Hugs and kisses and tears and prayers filled the first two hours of the reunion. Hester busied herself in the kitchen in the following hours, preparing her eldest son’s favourite dinner: cucumber soup, roasted salmon with dill and cherry sauce, brown bread pudding and lemon cheesecakes. Emily made attempts to help, but her mother-in-law wouldn’t hear of it. Emily could cook for John every day of the year, and Hester wanted to cook for her boy for what might have been one of the last times.
The hot August sun was finally starting the long descent to the horizon, and the male Archers sat on the porch, shirts unbuttoned, talking of work and family and everything unrelated to war. Just when the available topics began to dwindle, Hettie announced their admittance into the house for dinner.
John and Emily stayed in John’s old room, enjoying what they thought were their last weeks together. Once the war broke ou
t, John gave notice to his employer, fully expecting a new job shortly. If John was drafted, it was arranged that Emily would stay with her in-laws until her husband returned. As time passed and the young Archers continued to stay with Jonathon and Hester, they travelled back and forth from their home in London to Bruton, bringing more and more of their belongings back with them. After two months, John gave notice to his landlord and made a noncommittal arrangement for the reclaiming of their furnishings upon their return to London.
Every mother, father, son, sister, girlfriend and grandparent snatched up the hot morning newspaper and, careful not to smudge the fresh ink, scanned for updates of the war. Was there a draft? Were their boys alright? Many young men immediately volunteered, and as the weeks passed, the constant supply of voluntary servicemen obviated a draft. As grateful as all the Archers—and the Martins—were, they felt increasingly shamed as the months passed and more and more of the male population donned uniforms to serve their country. However guilty Charlie and John felt, the women of the family made it quite clear that they were doing their duty. They had responsibilities at home; Hester, Emily, and Bessie forbade the boys to leave them.
In the winter months, as the Archers prepared for a patriotically paltry festive season, John and Emily provided the family with a gift greater than any money could buy. Jonathon guffawed loudly and patted his son on the back, then kissed his daughter-in-law on both cheeks. He ran into the bedroom to find his box of cigars hidden and saved for the announcement of his first grandchild. Hettie wept and hugged both prospective parents, taking Emily into the bedroom once cigar smoke permeated the air; both women engaged in endless chatter about the baby and pregnancy and motherhood, neither one expecting their comments to be addressed or their questions to be answered.
“Certainly glad there’s no draft now. I’m not leaving my home unless I’m marched down to the station with a bayonet at my back,” John laughed. He puffed on his cigar and asked, “How do I look, Father?”
“Just fine, Father!” Jonathon roared with laughter, taking no notice that his ever-masculine son coughed on the smoke of his cigar.
It was nighttime, with darkness and stillness reserved only for lovers at a midnight rendezvous. Charlie and Bessie had met in the barn, as was their frequent custom, and they lay in each other’s arms and listened to the soft, pelting rain on the roof.
“John and Emily are going to have a baby,” he said, his voice cracking as it hadn’t in years. He felt obligated to tell her, but afterwards regretted it immensely.
“How lovely,” she said quickly. After half a moment’s pause, just long enough to take a breath, she finally let the words that had been suppressed for years bubble and spill out from her lips. “Have you ever thought about it, Charlie? I mean, for us, wouldn’t it be lovely? Not right away, of course, but in a while, won’t we? Charlie, we will, won’t we?”
Charlie didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He tried to sink inside himself, hoping that if he succeeded, Bessie would think he’d disappeared. If she was alone, she couldn’t possibly expect an answer.
Bessie did wonder if she was alone; her companion hadn’t made a sound or movement since her speech. She looked at him, but as his eyes were open, he was not asleep. She shook him to find out if he’d suddenly and inexplicably died from the shock of her words. Perhaps she’d hallucinated and not spoken at all!
“Charlie? Did you hear me?”
Charlie grunted and shifted his weight. Bessie moved as well and, in her haste to sit up, accidentally elbowed Charlie in the ribs. Charlie groaned loudly and waved off her apology. They sat, side by side, elbows on their knees, heads tilted to look at each other. Charlie braced himself before speaking; he knew the longer he stayed with Bessie, the sooner this inevitable “talk” would occur.
“Bessie,” he started, “we’re both young and have our whole lives ahead of us. With the war, my options are limited.”
Bessie gasped and interrupted his lecture. “What are you saying? Are you going to volunteer?” Charlie stuttered and hesitated. “Charlie, tell me!”
“I don’t know,” he said, trying to remain calm. “There’s a lot to think about. It’s been months now—”
“You can’t! You promised your family! You promised me!” Bessie was becoming hysterical, a trait that Charlie did not generally like in women.
“I promised you nothing! Why are you talking about children and marriage? Don’t you know there’s a war on? The last thing I want is to leave you widowed with a child!”
Bessie swooned and draped herself across him. “Oh Charlie,” she breathed. “You want to marry me?” Charlie looked away from her and told her that marriage was a serious subject and they should wait until the war was over to talk about it. “But you do want to? You will, once the war’s over?”
“Will what?” What had he gotten himself into? He was only trying to spare her feelings and avoid an argument. Of course he didn’t want to marry her; if he had, he would have married her a year ago.
“Marry me, of course!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Charlie put his head in his hands.
“Charlie, don’t you love me?”
“Of course I love you, Mabel, but that’s not the point! There’s a war on; don’t you understand?”
Bessie was silent, her heaving chest now sunken in as if she were a corpse. Her thick lips drooped, waiting for the apology that never came. She wiped the saliva away from the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Yes, I understand,” she said, rising and heading towards the door. “I know there’s a war on. I also know now why you’ve never wanted to marry me.”
Charlie looked up, confused. Bessie led her horse out from the stall and mounted the saddle. Charlie watched her leave without saying a word but wondering about the sudden change in her behaviour. When she was almost out the door, she stopped and turned back to him.
“In case you forgot, my name’s Bessie,” she said. Her tongue filled with contempt as she spat her next words. “Not Mabel.” Bessie kicked her heels into their stirrups and rode quickly off into the night.
At last, Charlie realized what he’d said. He walked slowly up to the main house, unaware of the rain, thinking only of the hurt he’d caused Bessie and the love he still felt for Mabel. He hung his wet clothes over his bedroom door and dried his hair with a towel, all the while thinking of Mrs Mabel Hartley.
Perhaps he should volunteer, he thought. If he stayed at home, he’d have to apologize and explain himself to Bessie. In package of his apology, no doubt, he’d have to marry her. If he volunteered, he wouldn’t have to marry her. He might not return, but at least he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life married to that woman. How poetic, he thought, for him to die with his love for Mabel in his heart. She would have liked that—so dramatic and romantic! Yes, that’s what he’d do—die for his country and for Mabel! First thing in the morning, he’d kiss his mother goodbye and ride down to the station. Unless it was raining, then he’d wait for the weather to improve. He’d probably wait until the first of the year; he wouldn’t want to spoil his mother’s Christmas, especially after John and Emily’s announcement. John would have to promise that he wouldn’t enlist, otherwise Charlie wouldn’t go. Their mother’s heart wouldn’t be able to stand both sons leaving for war. What if John didn’t promise? If John didn’t promise, and if it was raining, then Charlie wouldn’t have to leave. But what about Bessie? Oh dear, then he’d have to go.
Steady on, he reminded himself. Mabel was always the one with impulsive whims and momentary emotions. His job had been to balance and steady her, not to create fleeting urges of his own. It must have been the poignancy and finality of war that brought Mabel to his mind. Yes, that was it, nothing more. He’d accepted the life she’d made for herself in Bath, and he’d moved on as well. Bessie was a fine girl with fine qualities. She was persistent and a good worker. She was polite to his family, and most importantly, she w
as grateful for his affection. Her family didn’t refuse her to see him, nor was there an obvious class difference between them. Bessie was a fine girl: the sort with whom he could envision a future.
There was no need for dramatics about the war. There wasn’t yet a draft, so Charlie could stay at home and live his life as planned. He would continue to work at Archer & Sons, and in a few years, or if nature necessitated a sooner date, he would marry Bessie. The new Archers, and the naturally the next generation, would live with the elder Archers and together, they would turn the stables into something grand!
Charlie loved his country, but he admitted that those who fought must have held greater affection for her. If he joined the service, there was no telling what might happen. If he stayed at home, Charlie would live his life according to plan, knowing that it had been everything he ever wanted—almost . . .
The final image in his mind before Charlie succumbed to the sand behind his eyelids was of the woman he loved. She was beautiful and Charlie knew he would love her for the rest of his life. His heart whispered her name, and just as he fell asleep, Charlie shed a tear for the love of his life.
1915