by Nancy Carson
Lately, though, he had had some measure of success with women. There was no doubt that Dorinda had been in love with him – a beautiful girl like her. Indeed, it was Dorinda who had made all the running. Then there was Isabel, to whom he had lost his virginity so willingly and so deliciously. Whoever would have thought that he and Dickie Dempster’s widow …? And it was not over yet. They both enjoyed their times together cavorting in her bed. Isabel had taught him much about women in the six months they had been consorting, women’s wiles, women’s ways. Not that she had given him lessons; he had merely studied her and witnessed how she operated. Suggestions she had given, however – and in abundance – on the most effective ways to please each other between the sheets. To her, bed was not only a place to sleep, but a place for recreation too. It was somewhere to shed all inhibitions, a temple for extreme pleasure.
Isabel was an enigma – she did not fit into the conventional mould of young women that fitted Arthur’s notions. In his limited experience, most of the women he had ever come into contact with – mothers, daughters, sisters, cousins, aunts, customers, women who went to church – he could not imagine any of them to be much troubled by sexual feeling. If they were, or ever had been, they hid the fact inordinately well. But then, he had never seen any of them in the privacy of their beds with their respective men.
It boiled down to this: Isabel was not the pure, sexually modest type of woman he ought to attach himself to on a permanent basis. She was no angel. She was not enduringly, incorruptibly good. That did not mean she was irredeemably bad or evil. She simply did not meet his criteria for the perfect wife.
But then, judged by those standards, neither did Lucy Piddock. Only Dorinda qualified. Maybe he had been too eager to let go of Dorinda, too blinded by the physical and sensory delights that Isabel bestowed. Maybe he should write to Dorinda, try and re-ignite their courtship, raise it to a more serious level, make his intentions clear …
Just then, he heard a knock at the door and went to answer it, taking the oil lamp to light his way.
‘Lucy!’ he exclaimed, surprised to see her standing there. ‘What brings you out on a blustery night like this all alone?’
She smiled with pleasure at seeing him. ‘Mother would’ve come, but Father came home from work with a torn jacket and she’s had to mend if for him. So I offered to come in her place.’
‘I could’ve managed Mother on my own. There’s no need for you to be inconvenienced.’
‘Can I come in?’ Her bright eyes looked at him appealingly.
‘Yes, course you can. Sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you standing out in the cold. It’s just a surprise to see you, that’s all.’
‘Are you sure I haven’t called at a bad time?’ she asked, uncertain of his welcome.
‘No, it’s as good a time as any.’ He smiled to reassure her. ‘Come on upstairs, Luce. I was just thinking what a bloody mess this house is. It’s like a perishing morgue. A cold and draughty hole. It needs a mint of money spending on it. I’m ashamed of it. Just look around you …’
‘I know what you mean,’ Lucy agreed. ‘It is a bit of a shambles.’
They proceeded to climb the stairs, Arthur lighting the way.
‘And dusty,’ he added. ‘I’ll have to give it a good spring clean, I reckon.’
‘I could help you,’ she said brightly. ‘As long as I could bring Julia. She could lie quiet. She’d be no trouble.’
‘You’d do that for me?’ he asked, touched by her unselfishness.
‘If it helped you.’
They reached Dinah’s bedroom and he led Lucy in. ‘Mother, Lucy’s come to see to you tonight. Mrs Piddock couldn’t make it so she’s sent Lucy.’
‘How are you Mrs Goodrich?’ Lucy immediately enquired.
‘I’ve bin better, my wench,’ Dinah groaned dolefully, full of self pity over her suffering.
Lucy looked at Arthur with a worried expression. She had not expected to see Mrs Goodrich looking so ill. The woman, never heavy, had lost weight since last time she’d seen her. Her skin was drawn and she was as pale as death.
‘I’ll help you lift her on the commode,’ Arthur said. ‘Then I’ll leave you to it. I prefer to give Mother a bit of privacy befitting a woman of her years, when she’s on the commode.’
Lucy acknowledged his sentiment and smiled.
‘When she’s done I’ll come and empty the slops,’ he added.
Together, they transferred Dinah to the commode, which stood at the side of the bed, and Arthur removed himself to his own bedroom to make himself scarce. It was woman’s work, he acknowledged to himself, the work of a ministering angel. Only women were capable of being ministering angels. Well … most women. He could hardly imagine Dorinda doing what Lucy was now doing. Dorinda was too pernickety, too aloof, too high and mighty to lower herself to such ministering … Ah, well, maybe he would not write to Dorinda anyway.
He stood and gazed out of the window, watching the twinkling lights of the houses. The sky to the north glowed red, lighting up the low clouds, as it was frequently wont to do with all the earthly furnaces and hearths ablaze. Funny how Lucy had come to help tend to his mother. It was thoughtful of her. Funny, too, how they had remained friends, how they still had this healthy regard for each other, despite all that had happened.
He recalled what Hannah had said: she’d have you now, Arthur, mark my words. He’d thought little of it at the time, dismissed it as unlikely. Even now he was inclined to doubt it, to consider it the wishful thinking of a mother who regretted the scrape her daughter had got herself into with another, when it might otherwise have been avoided.
The door to his mother’s bedroom opened and Lucy called his name. He went to her.
‘We’re done now, Arthur.’
Dinah was back in bed, neatly tucked in and comfortable.
‘Thanks, Lucy. I do appreciate you coming.’
‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘Stay here and talk to her for five minutes while I empty the slops and fetch some coal to make up her fire.’
‘Course I will.’
‘You can wash your hands in the bowl on the washstand. See it?’
She nodded, washed her hands and, with Arthur out of room, she drew a wicker chair up at the side of Dinah’s bed. ‘I bet you’re glad to see Arthur home, Mrs Goodrich, after his time in Bristol,’ she said when Arthur had left them to talk.
‘That I am, and no two ways. He’s bin golden while I’ve bin bad. Lord knows what I woulda done without him. Course, I blame his fairther, God rest his soul the old sod, that the chap ever buggered off in the fust place. If the daft old bugger had bin fairer with him he’d never have left … And he’d never have met that flighty Bristol piece as he brought here. I couldn’t abide her. I rue the day as he gi’d yo’ up for her, young Lucy.’
‘You didn’t like Dorinda then, Mrs Goodrich?’
‘Her was never the right sort for our Arthur. Thought too much of herself. Afeared o’ getting her hands dirty. Hardly ate a thing while her was here.’
‘I think she was frightened of losing her figure.’
‘What figure? There was nothing of her. The wench could’ve sat and ate till kingdom come, and still never put weight on.’
‘She didn’t want children either,’ Lucy remarked intently.
‘Well, yo’ can hardly blame her for that. Vile business, having kids.’
‘I’ve got a baby now, you know, Mrs Goodrich?’
‘You? By our Arthur, you mean? He never said. Wait till he comes back, I’ll skin him alive.’
‘No, not by Arthur. I met this other chap …’
‘Am yer wed?’
‘We never got wed, Mrs Goodrich. He died as a result of the railway accident.’
‘So yo’ was a widder afore ever yo’ got wed. Fancy. Pitiful that. Still, you shouldn’t have bin a-dabbling afore you got married. Then you wouldn’t be saddled with a bab.’
‘But I wouldn’t be without my
baby, Mrs Goodrich. She’s my life now.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose yo’ll ever land an ’usband now, with a bastard child trailing behind yer.’
‘I suppose not,’ Lucy agreed, determined not to take offence, for she knew how outspoken and tactless Dinah could be. ‘Shall I give you a drink of water before Arthur comes back with the coal?’
‘Wairter? D’you want me to catch the cholera? No, I’ll have beer. Or whisky.’
Arthur returned, with a bucket of coal. He raked out the fire and piled a few lumps on. ‘I’ll walk you back, Lucy, when I’ve washed my hands,’ he said. ‘She’ll be all right for half an hour.’
Lucy smiled. ‘All right. Thank you … She’d like some beer before she goes to sleep, Arthur.’
‘I’ll bring her some.’
Lucy turned to the invalid. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Goodrich … I hope you’re feeling better soon.’ She followed Arthur downstairs and into the parlour.
‘Would you like a crock of beer yourself, Lucy?’ he asked.
‘Yes, if you’ve got some. If not, I could go and fetch some.’
‘I fetched some earlier. It might be a bit flat by now, but it’ll be all right to drink.’ He went to the pantry and retrieved a jug of beer from the cold shelf, and poured it out by the light of the oil lamp he’d been carrying about with him. ‘Sit yourself down a bit, Lucy. You might as well.’
She sat down and sipped the beer, watching his face intently as he sat beside her.
‘You’ve changed, you know, Arthur,’ she said softly. ‘Such a lot.’
He took a gulp of beer and looked at her. ‘Yes, I think I might have done.’
‘You’re so much more … I don’t know how to put it … so much more sure of yourself these days … You don’t complain about daft little ailments anymore, either.’
‘I don’t seem to get any daft little ailments anymore,’ he responded. ‘I think the railway accident and seeing all those poor folk suffering put paid to all that.’
She smiled disconsolately. She wanted to say more, to tell him how she felt about him these days, to make amends, but could not find the words. Anyway, he would most likely not be interested. He would probably laugh in her face. After all, she had a child now … But then, so did Isabel Dempster.
‘Have you seen anything of Mrs Dempster lately?’ she enquired.
‘Not for a while. Not with having to look after Mother.’
‘That’s a shame. I imagine you’ve become very fond of Mrs Dempster.’
‘In a way,’ he answered.
‘It’s funny how I fell in love with Dickie, and when he died, you started seeing his widow. How peculiar that is. Don’t you think so, Arthur?’
‘I can see the irony,’ he conceded, ‘but I’d hate you to think there’s more to it than there really is.’
‘Oh?’ she exclaimed. ‘But it was plain to see there was something between you. Isn’t it serious, then?’
‘It depends what you mean by serious. I’m fond of her, Lucy, but I don’t intend to marry her, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
Lucy sighed with relief. The possibility had been bothering her for some time, and she had not known the strength of the relationship. ‘All the same, it’s time a man of your age was thinking about marriage. You can’t be tied to your mother’s apron-strings for the rest of your life.’
‘Hmm,’ he mused, and took another draft of beer. ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking about that myself. I’ve been thinking the very same thing. As a matter of fact, I was thinking only tonight of writing to Dorinda again.’
‘But I don’t think she suited you, Arthur. Nor does your mother.’
‘No, it’s a certain fact Mother wouldn’t suit me …’
She thumped him playfully and grinned at his glibness. ‘You know what I mean, Arthur Goodrich.’
‘Well, I changed my mind about Dorinda anyway, Luce. I compared her to you tonight, helping Mother. Dorinda could no more do what you did than fly in the air. Dorinda has no compassion, she only ever thinks of herself.’
‘She’s vain,’ Lucy added for good measure.
‘Yes, I know she’s vain.’
‘I used to be vain as well, you know, Arthur.’
‘You? I never noticed any vanity in you particularly.’
‘It was a different sort of vanity. I wanted the man I marry to be perfectly handsome in every way. Only handsome would do. I wanted to be the envy of all my friends with a fine, handsome husband. I was prepared to overlook any other characteristics in a man, just so long as he was wickedly handsome. Handsomeness was the be all and end all, just so long as he cared for me as well. And Dickie came along and I thought all my prayers were answered. Then … when he was so ill … and a wife suddenly appeared out of the blue … I realised that looks are not everything. Dickie deceived me cruelly, Arthur, you know he did. It was then that I began to realise that other qualities in a man are much more important than fine looks.’ Arthur listened intently to this confession he had never expected. ‘You, Arthur, for instance, are kind and considerate. You haven’t got a dishonest bone in your body, an evil thought in your head. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. You’d rather help somebody than hinder them. You’re well-mannered. Dickie, by comparison, was neither use nor ornament.’
‘So you’ve changed as well as me,’ he remarked.
‘I have. I know I have. Without question. I’ve grown up. I’ve had to. You know, Arthur …’ She put her hand on his and he took it, holding it affectionately. Encouraged, she sighed and went on. ‘You know, Arthur, I bitterly regret now that I never could give myself to you in the way I should’ve done. I’d give anything to be able to go back to where we were.’
‘Would you?’ He sounded surprised.
‘I would. Things would be different … Knowing what I know now, I would treasure you.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Stop me if I’m making a fool of myself, Arthur …’
‘You’re not making a fool of yourself, Lucy.’ His voice was stretched taut with emotion. ‘For goodness sake don’t think that. Say what you will.’
‘Well … I just wish …’
‘What do you wish? Tell me.’
‘Oh …’ She sighed nervously. This was about to become a very revealing confession with a great deal at stake, and she wasn’t sure she could take rejection now if rejection were to follow, after all she’d been through. ‘You’ll think me mad if I say it. You’ll think I’ve got the cheek of the devil.’
‘I won’t know until you tell me.’ He suspected what it was she was trying to say, but for him to give any response she had to come out with it. She had to say what was in her heart.
‘Well … I know it’s just dreams now … because I’ve got Julia … but I do wish, with all my heart, that you and me could be together again …’
He remained silent, and Lucy knew she should have said nothing. Now she wanted to apologise for being so stupid, so emotional, but she’d said what was in her heart, so how could she apologise?
‘It’s not dreams, Lucy,’ he said at long last.
She looked at him in astonishment, suddenly filled with hope. ‘It’s not?’
‘Why should it be just dreams? Why shouldn’t it be real, if we both want it to be? I think the world of you, Lucy. Surely you must know it. I’d give anything for us to be together again.’
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I just never really thought you’d ever feel that way about me. I never dared hope.’
‘But I do. I think I always have deep down. I always thought the world of you, Arthur. I just had to get Dickie Dempster out of my system first.’
‘Hmm … I had to get him out of mine as well, Lucy.’
She looked at him, uncertain as to what he meant. Then the penny dropped. ‘With Isabel, you mean?’
‘Yes, with Isabel. By using Isabel.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Can’t you imagine?’
‘You mean …’
He nodded. ‘I mean we’ve been lovers, Lucy,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not proud of it, particularly, but I confess it. I confess it because I don’t want any skeletons tumbling out of any cupboards later.’
She smiled, and her eyes by the light of the oil lamp looked large, exuding such an engaging expression of happiness. ‘So, we’re even,’ she said contentedly. ‘So you could never throw Dickie in my face for fear I throw Isabel in yours.’
‘I reckon that’s true,’ he admitted with a chuckle.
‘But what about Julia?’ she asked.
‘What about her?’
‘Do you think you can accept her? Can you accept that I’m a fallen woman?’
‘If you can accept I’m a fallen man. As for Julia, I think she’s beautiful. It’s not her fault she’s Dickie Dempster’s daughter.’
‘But would you always be kind to her, Arthur?’ she pleaded. ‘Could you treat her as your own?’
‘I reckon so … Hey, are you asking me to marry you, Lucy?’
She grinned. ‘No, that’s up to you to ask me. If it’s what you’d want.’
‘Shall we see how we get on?’ he replied. He saw the look of disappointment in her eyes at his reply and realised at once that it sounded sceptical, and that she’d misinterpreted it. ‘What I mean is, Luce, let’s decide when my mother’s recovered. The way she is now I couldn’t make any promises about anything, and I wouldn’t want to subject you to looking after her. That would be a punishment you don’t deserve.’
‘I wouldn’t mind, Arthur.’
‘No, it’s best we wait till she’s better.’
‘So in the meantime, have we started courting again?’ She looked into his eyes expectantly.