Break of Dawn

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘Yes, my dear, she did. And I cannot condone that. But let us face facts here. There are women, supposedly happily married, respectable women with a place in society who make a habit of illict relationships. I’m sure you know of one or two. I certainly do. Perhaps your mother was more honest than such as they and this was her downfall.’

  ‘I think you are being kind.’

  ‘If that were so, it’s not before time, is it?’ His eyes, deep in his sockets, held hers.

  She had to ask. ‘Did she want me? Was – was she looking forward to having a baby in spite of the circumstances, or – or was she looking at it as a burden?’

  Hoping his God would make allowances, Jeremiah put one parchment-dry hand over that of his niece’s for a brief moment. ‘She wanted you so much she had returned home to make a different life for herself and her child,’ he lied softly. ‘It wasn’t to be, of course, but thankfully Esther didn’t know this.’

  Sophy had shut her eyes but as a tear seeped from under her closed lids, she whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  If he had been a stronger man, a better man, Jeremiah would have asked for her forgiveness at this point, but as he himself had said, it was his nature to take the line of least resistance, and in case she should refuse, he didn’t obey the prompting of his heart. Instead he described Esther as a little girl and the escapades she had got up to, painting a picture of her until the time she had run away. Sophy drank it in, asking questions about her mother she had never thought she would be able to ask.

  At the end of the evening Sophy found she was able to kiss her uncle goodnight with genuine warmth as she again whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ Jeremiah shook his head. ‘Too little, too late.’ He had half-turned away but then swung back on the icy doorstep. ‘She would have been proud of you, your mother. Very proud of the fine young woman you have become.’

  She watched him as he tramped through the snow to where his horse and trap were waiting under the lean-to at the side of the building. The impression she’d had earlier, of a man far older than his years, intensified as he climbed stiffly into the seat and sat hunched over the reins, his black hat and coat making him appear like an ancient crow as the trap disappeared into the night.

  Jeremiah wasn’t surprised to find the vicarage in almost complete darkness when he drove the horse and trap through the open gates and on to the drive. It was another of the subtle ways in which Mary delighted in showing her contempt for him – instructing Mrs Hogarth and Molly not to wait up for him. He had often thought their housekeeper was so like his wife they could have been sisters, both being without any natural human warmth or womanly softness.

  After settling the horse in his stable, Jeremiah had to walk round to the front of the house again rather than entering by the immediate route, the kitchen door. He knew this would be locked and bolted. He didn’t doubt Mary would have relished bolting the front door against him too, if she had dared, but to date she had not gone this far on any of the evenings he visited their children’s homes. As he did each time he accepted an invitation from one of them, he had asked his wife if she wished to accompany him today. He told himself this was in an effort to bring about some sort of a reconciliation between Mary and her daughter and sons; not even to himself did he admit that he enjoyed letting her know where he was going, knowing it incensed her more than anything else could do. He had left the house shortly after lunch and it was now ten o’clock, and he was quite aware that Mary would have been seething all that time.

  The familiar smell of beeswax and lavender oil greeted him as he stepped into the hall after scraping his boots against the thick cork mat at the entrance. At one time, so many years ago now it was difficult to remember, he had enjoyed coming home after leaving the vicarage even for an hour or two. He had been the master of an orderly and well-run ship then. The house was still orderly and well-run, he supposed, but he knew, and so did the servants, that he was no longer the master of it. Mary had emasculated him more effectively than any bullock.

  Why had he put up with her behaviour? He knew men who had half-killed their wives for far less than Mary subjected him to, every day of his life. He had been made to feel a usurper in his own home, degraded, humiliated. Her every action, every look held him up as weak and spineless, and that’s what he was. He had always been afraid of her, he knew that. And although his children might have some affection for him, they did not respect him. Why would they? Yes, indeed, why would they?

  Climbing the first flight of stairs, he did not continue to the second which led to the bedrooms. Instead, he entered his study and poured himself a glass of whisky from the decanter he kept on his desk. There was no fire burning in the grate despite the bitterly cold night, although he didn’t doubt that in Mary’s private sitting room – which had been the children’s schoolroom at one time – the fire would be banked up high for the night and the room as warm as toast. Mary had decided some years before that the household budget couldn’t run to a fire in his study any more, along with his bedroom, of course.

  He threw back his head and downed the whisky in one swallow before pouring another. He was cold, inside and out, and weary, but overall bitterly ashamed. Seeing Sophy again had brought the past to life, stirring the canker of guilt and remorse that had grown in his latter years. She was his sister’s child, his own flesh and blood, and yet he had stood by from when she was a baby and seen her ill-treated and abused without lifting a finger. His knuckles white as he gripped the heavy crystal glass, he stared at his hand before suddenly throwing the glass at the empty fireplace where it shattered into a hundred pieces.

  Shivering – the room was like an ice-box – he stood up. At least in bed he could get warm eventually. He mounted the narrower, steeper stairs which led to the bedrooms with his head down, and so it was he didn’t see Mary standing on the landing until he reached the top step, whereupon he started and nearly fell backwards. Her bedroom door was open and a shaft of light was coming from it.

  Assuming the sound of the breaking glass had awoken her, he said tersely, ‘I broke a glass. Get back to bed.’

  ‘I wasn’t in bed. I have been waiting for you.’ She had moved forward as he made to pass her, causing him to step down one step and crane his head as he looked up at her. ‘I think you have something to tell me, don’t you?’

  He peered at her, his eyes narrowing. She was angry, furiously angry, he knew the signs. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d found out Sophy was back and staying with Patience.

  When he didn’t reply, she said in the same clipped tone which vibrated with fury, ‘I had visitors while you were out. Mrs Fletcher and her daughter.’

  He knew Rachel Fletcher and he couldn’t abide the woman, nor her spinster daughter who was as plain as a pikestaff and had a coquettish manner all at odds with her appearance. The two were avid gossips and great friends of Mary. He didn’t doubt the three of them spent many happy hours in malicious vocal muck-spreading, all done under the guise of being concerned for their fellow man, of course. Quietly, he said, ‘There is nothing unusual in that.’

  ‘True.’ Her thin face with its sharp nose was mottled in the dim light coming from the landing window. ‘But what they had to tell me was unusual, or perhaps the fact that I was not aware of it. Oh yes, Rachel took great delight in that. How long was it going to be before you did me the courtesy of informing me that the girl was back?’

  All this time and she still couldn’t bring herself to say Sophy’s name. It was unbelievable, the hate that drove her. He knew she hated him and there were times when he thought she hated Patience and the boys too. She was riddled with it. How else could you explain her refusal to have anything to do with John’s boys, her own grandchildren? And she had never mentioned Peter once since the day he had told her that Patience had given birth to their third grandson.

  Keeping his voice flat, Jeremiah said, ‘I didn’t tell you because many years ago, you forbade the mention of her name in this house,
remember? Besides which, she is not back in the way you imagine, for good. She is visiting Patience for a short while before returning home.’

  ‘You’re telling me Patience has had contact with her? For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ask Patience yourself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.’

  Mary didn’t move. ‘You’ve been there today, condoning Patience’s treachery, haven’t you, you weak-kneed excuse for a man. That girl ruined our lives and turned my own children against me, but all that doesn’t matter, does it? Does it?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, you’ll wake the servants. And what are you complaining about anyway? You could have come with me today. You could have come with me in the past.’

  ‘You knew I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then that is your choice, isn’t it, Mary? And no one turned your children against you, you did that all by yourself. You have three beautiful grandsons you’ve never seen. Doesn’t that concern you?’

  ‘Listen to yourself.’ Her voice was a hiss now, filled with loathing. ‘You’re spineless. You stood by and saw your sons marry beneath themselves and make us a laughing-stock among our friends, and your daughter debase herself by working as a skivvy and said not a word.’

  ‘A skivvy? What are you talking about? Patience was a nurse, as you know full well.’

  ‘And what are they if not skivvies, doing the most menial tasks whilst exposed to sights no well-brought-up young lady should experience. It’s a disgrace. She’s a disgrace. I can’t hold my head up any longer in polite society and you talk about grandsons? I have no grandsons! Our two eldest sons are as dead to me and Patience too, and if you had any self-respect, you would feel the same. But no. Not only do you persist in ingratiating yourself with them, but you humiliate me by acknowledging that girl after the misery she has caused.’

  ‘There is no reasoning with you,’ Jeremiah said wearily. He was tired. He was always tired these days, and at this moment he wanted nothing so much as his bed. He made to step up on to the landing again but still Mary held her ground, and short of manhandling her out of the way there was nothing he could do.

  ‘She has beguiled you, hasn’t she? Like she beguiled our boys and turned them against me. That sort of woman is born knowing how to make men dance to her tune, and I have no doubt how she has been keeping herself since leaving this house.’

  Jeremiah’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the light coming in the window from the white shining world outside the house enabled him to see his wife’s face with some clarity. He took in the twitching lips, the globule of spittle in one corner of her mouth and thought, She’s deranged, she’s become unhinged. And it was in response to this thought that his voice took on something of a placatory note when he said, ‘Of course she hasn’t beguiled me, Mary. She’s a pleasant young woman, that’s all – and one who’s recently suffered the loss of her husband, I might add.’

  He would have gone on but for his wife’s ‘Huh!’ of a laugh. ‘And you believed that? You think she was married? And the others, I suppose they fell for that too?’ She bent forward slightly, her eyes gimlet-hard. ‘If ever there was a case of history repeating itself, this is it. A husband! Don’t you see? She’s obviously in trouble and has come creeping back with her tail between her legs and her stomach full.’

  It was rare Mary spoke so explicitly; bodily matters were never mentioned. Knowing he should leave it – turn away and return to his study or bodily move her out of the way, Jeremiah did neither of those things. Sophy’s face as they had talked about Esther was still fresh in his mind, the softness in her eyes as she had kissed him goodnight and the note in her voice when she had whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  He straightened, easing his neck in its stiff clerical collar. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but she was most certainly married. Furthermore, she has made a very successful life for herself in London and has a beautiful home, according to Patience who has visited. Sophy is a respectable woman, Mary, and—’

  ‘You.’ His mention of the despised name was the last straw. Mary wasn’t a big woman but the suddenness of her attack as she thrust out her hands and caught Jeremiah on his shoulders took him by surprise. It was purely a reflex action that caused him to grab at his wife as he lost his balance. The stairs were narrow and steep, and the stair-runner in the centre of each step did nothing to cushion the impact as the two bodies bounced and rolled, plummeting to the landing below. Mary was dead before she reached the polished floorboards, her neck broken. Jeremiah survived the fall but not the massive heart-attack which followed within moments. By the time Mrs Hogarth and Molly reached the scene there was nothing they could do. Jeremiah and his wife lay in a tangle of limbs, closer in death than they had ever been in life.

  ‘Sophy mustn’t know.’

  ‘What?’ John stared at his sister, taken aback. He had been informed of his parents’ demise by a solemn-faced constable who had knocked on the door as the family were rising. After sending the policeman on to Matthew’s house a few doors away, he had made the journey to Barnes View on the other side of town himself.

  ‘She’s leaving this morning and I don’t want her to know. For it to happen while she’s here – oh, I don’t know. I feel she might think it’s somehow something to do with her, and she’s had enough to deal with over the last months.’

  John looked at William. They were sitting in William’s study and Sophy was in the nursery, making the most of her last hour with Peter. William nodded. ‘I agree with Patience.’ He didn’t voice what he was thinking out of respect for John and Patience – Mary had been their mother, after all – but as far-fetched as it seemed, he felt as though his mother-in-law was continuing her vendetta against Sophy beyond the grave. And regardless of what the police constable had said, he didn’t think this tragedy was a straightforward accident either. He didn’t know what had gone on at the vicarage last night, they’d never know, and maybe that was something to thank God for, but Mary Hutton had been capable of anything.

  John was staring at them in bewilderment. ‘She’ll have to know sometime.’

  ‘Of course she will.’ Patience wiped her eyes. She was shocked and upset, but through the turmoil she knew this was the right thing to do. ‘I’ll write and tell her in a few weeks and let her assume it happened then. I’ll say that due to special circumstances – I haven’t thought about that yet, but I’ll come up with something – the funeral had to be quick. Sophy may not have wanted to attend anyway, but just in case . . .’

  John stood up, and as Patience and William rose he hugged his sister. ‘As you see fit. I made my goodbyes to Sophy yesterday, so would you prefer me to slip away so she doesn’t know I’ve called this morning? Yes, I think that’s best. I can come back this evening with Matthew; there’ll be things to discuss.’

  For the next hour Patience was on tenterhooks, but then the cab arrived and all was bustle and activity. She accompanied Sophy and Sadie to the station with William, and once they had settled the two women into a carriage, she hugged her cousin tightly. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  ‘So am I.’ As the guard blew his whistle and William stepped down on to the platform, holding out his hand for Patience to descend, Sophy hugged her again. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she whispered. ‘It was good to talk to your father last night. I – I liked him.’

  Her throat full, Patience couldn’t reply. Knowing Sophy would put her distress down to their parting, she joined William and he shut the carriage door, putting his arm round her. They stood waving until the train had steamed out of sight, and then as William drew her against his chest, Patience gave free rein to the sobs shaking her body.

  Chapter 23

  Over the next weeks Sophy felt as though the visit to Sunderland had set a seal on the next phase of her life. Seeing her uncle again, talking about her mother and the life she had led as a little girl in Southwick and why Esther had done the things she had, had settled something inside her. The shame and bitterness whi
ch had accompanied thoughts of her mother for so long was gone, and the relief was overwhelming. Even when news came of the accident, her main feeling was one of thankfulness that she had spoken to her uncle before it was too late, although she grieved for Patience and her other cousins that they had lost both parents in one fell swoop, even if they had been estranged from their mother. She didn’t know how she felt about Mary. She would have liked to think that she had forgiven her aunt for the things Mary had done and said, but when she looked into her heart she knew that wasn’t so. And so she pushed it to the back of her mind and refused to think about it.

  The company were playing to full houses at the General Theatre and the initial eight-week run had been extended to twenty. Her work, along with her enthusiasm to support the Actresses’ Franchise League and other suffrage societies kept her fully occupied, with little time to think about her feelings for Kane. In the spring of 1909, when a member of the Women’s Freedom League sailed over the House of Commons in a balloon painted with the slogan Votes for Women, Sophy was at the forefront of the crowd cheering her on from the ground. She was one of many actresses selling the suffrage newspaper Votes for Women on a regular basis, and on a rainy day in the middle of April she and several other suffragettes drove round the London streets in a prison van marked EP, in support of Emmeline Pankhurst, before dispatching themselves as human letters to 10 Downing Street. She knew Kane disapproved of such escapades, more by what he didn’t say than what he did, but such is the perversity of the human spirit that this made her more determined, if anything.

  When the play at the General was extended again, it was officially pronounced a resounding success, much to everyone’s delight. Sophy was pleased, although she was aware that the newspapers were far more interested in the antics of the more militant suffragettes than in the performance of a play which pointed out the hardships and injustices women suffered under the present laws of the land. Inevitable clashes with the police were beginning to become widespread, and although this worried her and other members of the Actresses’ Franchise League, it was not enough to stop her joining in the marches.