Nelly had a feeling off kinship for Massie, the first human being that she felt she had been close to in years, apart from Carson. His abandonment of her was unexpected, painful, but she soon learned she was not unique.
Massie was small and had an elfin face, hazel eyes, and a pitted complexion due to an attack of smallpox when she was a little girl. Her hair was brown and curly, and there was an engaging wiriness about her which had come from her tough upbringing on the streets.
Strangely enough, her experience of life had not soured Massie. She lived in permanent hope, in expectation of better things.
She thought that this might at last have been realised when she met Nelly. Together they imagined life in the country, a place they had never seen and could hardly imagine. They thought that in the country there were no such things as dirt, smells and poverty. They had no knowledge at all about the deprivations of life in rural England.
Carson used to talk about his love for his home, of the beauty of the country, and Nelly passed this on, second-hand. It was all that she could do.
‘Strange that he left you like he did,’ Massie would venture after Nelly had repeated the story of her romance, as she did quite often. It was a real romance, not like Massie’s rough experiences at all.
‘’E was talking about marriage, about living in the country, and I believed ‘im,’ Nelly would bleat. ‘He wanted to be a farmer. I believed ‘im, strewth, I really did.’
The two girls sat on Massie’s bed in the dark dormitory, whispering into each other’s ears so as not to disturb the sleepers on either side.
Whereas Massie had gladly parted with her unwanted progeny – product of a two-minute stand, usually against a wall in a dark passage – as soon as they were born, she began to realise that, because of her love for Carson, Nelly had no such intention. Carson’s baby was loved before it was born, as she, once, had loved him. She felt that if she hung on to the baby it would ultimately lead her to him; but at the moment there was no place in that hard world for an unmarried woman with a baby, unless it was on the streets, where the only prospects were of poverty, infection and early death.
She didn’t want that, either for her baby or herself.
On the other side of London, in a very different place and in different circumstances, the Martyn family sat down with their guests to the kind of dinner an intimate of the Frances Roper Home had certainly never tasted and probably could not have imagined.
It was served on Sèvres porcelain that was almost priceless, having once been in the possession of that monarch of taste and discrimination, Louis XV. It was matched by silver and glass that Lally and Prosper had collected in the course of their many journeys abroad, and had had carefully shipped back to London. Forays that furnished both their London home and the house in Dorset were made into auction houses, to cabinet-makers, silversmiths, collectors, even the homes of impoverished noblemen who, like their counterparts in England, the Woodvilles, had spent their substance too freely. The tapered candles in their silver candlesticks, reflected in the highly polished walnut of the Chippendale table, made it seem twice as large, and the diners, peering downwards, had the uncanny sensation of seeing, like some ghostly emanation, a picture of themselves. Behind each chair stood a servant in full livery.
The food prepared by the Martyn chef was worthy of the occasion. In fact every meal he prepared was seen by him as a chance to create a work of art, and this was no exception: Soupe Tourangelle, Tourte de Saumon à la Mode Martyn, Gigot Braisé à la Septaine, a board of cheeses from the famous pastoral districts of France, and Le Klafoutis with thick Jersey cream. To drink, they had a very dry sherry with the soup, a Chassagne-Montrachet with the fish, Romanée-Conti with the lamb and cheese, and with the cherry flan an exquisite Beaumes de Venise whose sweet after-taste lingered on the palate.
The guests, too, were of an importance to justify such a show: Admiral Sir Anthony Hill and Lady Hill, and especially their pretty daughter Emma.
Admiral Hill’s father was a gentleman from Leicestershire who had never worked, but had sufficient funds to keep himself and his family in a lifestyle of great comfort. His eldest son, Anthony, however, had joined the navy as a youth of eighteen, and gone to the Royal College at Dartmouth, after which his career had been a predictable one. He had risen slowly through the navy hierarchy at a time of peace, when England acted as policeman rather than warrior. Eventually he was knighted, retired from the navy while still relatively young, and had started to dabble on the stock exchange with some of his inheritance. It was here that he came into contact with the investment arm of the Martyn-Heering bank, and Prosper Martyn and his bright young nephew in particular.
Sir Anthony had a large house, Ingleton Hall, in Leicestershire, and a small town house in Knightsbridge, and Emma was his only daughter.
Not unnaturally, she was cherished by the Hills, cherished and rather spoiled. She was just eighteen, rather small, with an appealing heart-shaped face and fluffy blonde hair. Her large violet eyes were considered her most remarkable asset.
Emma was not unintelligent, though she had not been very well educated – mostly at home by a governess, because her parents considered her too delicate to send to school. She had, however, gone to a Swiss finishing school, where she had been taught all the accomplishments considered necessary for a young lady about to embark in society: she could sketch, paint, sing, play the piano and violin, ride – she was especially keen on hunting – and she enjoyed reading. She was not an intellectual – thank heaven, no one wanted that! – but she was by no means stupid. But more important than that, as far as the Martyns were concerned, was her pedigree: she came from a good, old-established family, and as she was wealthy in her own right she could not be considered a gold-digger.
Perfect, in fact, for Roger.
Until that evening Roger had never met Miss Hill, but he had heard of her. She was occasionally mentioned at table, invariably as ‘pretty Miss Hill’, by Prosper in the hope, perhaps, of planting a seed of interest.
But Roger was not impressed, and it was not at his instigation that Miss Hill was now facing him.
In the autumn of 1910 Roger was twenty-four. He was rather effete, not particularly robust, extremely interested in fashion, and possessed of looks that fascinated women and men alike.
Lally and Prosper knew absolutely nothing of the darker side of his life, spent in the shadows of the London underworld of vice, in streets and dark alleys, in the parks or by the docks.
The young couple had been strategically placed, facing each other across the table, and Miss Hill kept glancing at Roger, not with the provocative shyness of a young unmarried woman, but openly and with considerable interest. Maybe she had heard as much about him as he had heard about her. She had a bright, lively, unselfconscious manner, and joined in the conversation. Lally thought she was absolutely delightful and, in looks only, she reminded her a little of herself when young. Lally kept on smiling at Roger encouragingly, as though to suggest what a surprise it was to them all to find pretty Miss Hill so agreeable.
Roger, knowing quite well what was in Lally’s mind, smiled back.
Lady Hill was extremely taken by Roger and found it difficult to conceal her excitement. During dinner most of the attention of the diners was occupied by the excellence of the food, and lavish praise was showered on the chef and messages sent to the kitchen. There was some casual talk about the business world, murmurs of unrest abroad. Afterwards it was decided that the men would not linger after dinner at table, passing round the port, but coffee and liqueurs would be taken in the drawing-room because the older generation wished to have a rubber or two of bridge, thus leaving the young couple the better to make each other’s acquaintance.
For a moment, as he found himself alone, facing Miss Hill in the drawing-room in front of a roaring fire with the curtains closed against the cold, Roger experienced a sensation of panic. But Emma had been well brought up and she knew how to handle the situation. Despite
her youth, she had mixed in society; her parents liked to entertain both in Leicestershire and London and, as the only child, she was encouraged to participate.
‘Do you play bridge, Roger?’ she asked, seeming so confident, so at ease, that his nervousness evaporated. After all, Miss Hill was a sensible girl who probably no more wished to marry him than he wished to marry her.
‘I play a little, but it’s not a game I’m particularly fond of,’ he replied, extracting his cigarette-case from his pocket and holding it out to her. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘Well,’ she looked doubtfully towards the door, ‘I’m not actually supposed to, but why not?’
Roger laughed and, as he leaned forward to light her cigarette, he saw that she was smiling mischievously into his eyes. Undoubtedly she liked him. He lit his own and then, tucking his case back into his pocket, placed one foot on the fender, an arm on the mantelpiece, and stood gazing down at her. Yes, she was pretty; not a beauty, but engaging and frank. She was undoubtedly modern, and would play tennis too and be a sport, the sort of woman one could feel comfortable with.
‘I think our parents have thrown us together,’ she said conspiratorially, after taking a few puffs of her cigarette, which showed she was not an expert. She gazed at him with a frank, slightly playful smile, and unexpectedly he found himself wishing she were a boy.
‘I’m afraid they have,’ he agreed. ‘Only the Martyns are not my parents.’
‘Oh?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I am Lally Martyn’s nephew. My mother died when I was born and she brought me up.’
‘Oh, poor you,’ Emma leaned forward, her face creased with sympathy.
‘I’ve had a very good life. I can’t complain,’ Roger said offhandedly.
‘You look awfully like Mrs Martyn.’
‘There is a family likeness.’
‘And you, I suppose, are an only child like me.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He looked at her thoughtfully for a time while she went on insouciantly pretending to enjoy her cigarette.
His respect for her grew. After all, one day, like it or not, he would have to marry; and maybe a young woman with independent means and a mind of her own would be better than some clinging, simpering female looking for love.
For the next few weeks Roger and Emma were thrown constantly and deliberately together. Emma had been presented at court in the spring, but even then many of her fellow debutantes were engaged; some were now married. It was never too early to hook your man and ensure you would not be one of those unfortunates left on the shelf until their twenties.
There were private dances and balls, one every night, and, inevitably, Roger and Emma were there with Admiral and Lady Hill in attendance, sometimes Lally and Prosper too. Naturally, there was one at the Knightsbridge home of the Hills. Emma wore a variety of exquisite couture clothes, ordered by her mother the previous winter with an eye on her only daughter obtaining a mate.
There were weekends at country houses, there was riding in The Row – both Roger and Emma were excellent riders, and both looked entirely comme il faut in their tailored riding outfits. People thought that, as a couple, they were ideally matched: in looks, in taste, in everything. They were fun-loving, danced well. Add to that the fact that they both had money, and what more could one want? Was there ever such a blessed couple, so destined to be together?
They were scarcely ever alone, and when they were, the conversation was of the bantering kind, nothing was ever taken seriously. But Roger saw all the women he liked as ‘chums’, and Emma was no different.
Emma knew very little about men, and Roger had such glamour. The instant she saw him she wanted him, knowing, like her parents before her, that he would be exactly right as her mate: he had the right background, the right schooling, the right connections - and he was no idler! A young man moving to the top of an international business, very fast.
Emma really never stopped to question anything else about Roger. She supposed all the intimate talk, ‘that side of things’, about which her mother darkly hinted, would come later.
The end of the autumn season drew near, and one early morning after a ball at the Langham they were driving home alone in a cab, since Prosper and Lally, their chaperones for the evening, had left before midnight.
Emma lay back with her head against the seat, eyes closed, and Roger gazed at her face, dimly illuminated by the gaslights along Oxford Street. Her long lashes curled upwards on her cheek and tiny curls clung to her forehead, which still gleamed with perspiration from the effort of dancing in a stuffy ballroom.
Emma, who had only been pretending to sleep, suddenly opened her eyes and stared straight at Roger. ‘You can if you like,’ she said.
‘What?’ He appeared taken aback.
‘You know. Kiss.’
‘But, do you think ...?’ His heart began to hammer in his breast.
‘Don’t be silly! Why do you think they went early?’
She grabbed his lapel, so he bent his head and kissed her and, as an arm fastened tightly behind his back, he was struck by a feeling of nausea so strong that he thought he was going to be sick. He raised his head and then leaned it for a moment against her chest, panting.
‘Roger!’ she cried anxiously, lifting his head with her free hand. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I feel a little giddy,’ he said. Then he sat upright and, getting out his handkerchief, began to mop his brow. ‘It’s been a very strenuous day. Sorry, darling.’ Smiling wanly in the street lights, he clasped her hand.
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Emma said but, feeling that something was slipping away from her, she turned her head and gazed out of the window all the way home.
When they got to the door of the Hills’ home in Brompton Square, the admiral hurried out, still fully dressed although it was so late.
‘You’re very late,’ he cried. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine, Daddy.’ Emma stepped from the cab and ran into his arms. ‘Everything’s fine.’
The admiral then wound his arms round his daughter and looked up at Roger, who was gazing out of the window of the cab, his silk scarf loose around his neck.
‘Had a good time?’ the admiral said.
‘Simply wonderful. Everything’s fine.’ He tried hard to inject into his voice a sense of joy, even elation, that he didn’t feel.
‘Care to come in for a nightcap?’ the admiral asked, still with his arms round Emma who, with troubled eyes, was gazing at Roger.
‘It’s terribly late, Admiral,’ Roger said, stifling a yawn. ‘I think I should be going home. I have to be at the office tomorrow as usual. Work all day, partying all night ...’ His voice trailed off.
‘Roger didn’t feel too well on the way here, Daddy,’ Emma explained.
‘Oh?’ The admiral looked concerned.
‘Simply the heat, I think, sir.’ Roger passed his hand across his forehead. ‘It’s all go, you know, with these parties.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Admiral Hill laughed and, putting his hand through the window of the cab, shook Roger’s. ‘We are very much looking forward to visiting your home at the end of the month. Your aunt has kindly invited us for a few days.’
‘That’s splendid news,’ Roger said and, blowing a kiss to Emma, he tapped sharply on the cabbie’s window.
Then, as the cab set off, he leaned back and closed his eyes. The more he saw of Emma, the more he liked her; she was jolly good fun to be with. But, as a woman, she disgusted him.
***
Nelly lay on her bed, clawing at her stomach, while Massie hovered anxiously beside her, every now and then bathing her forehead with a wet towel.
Nelly had been in labour for twenty-four hours and still the baby would not come. She twisted this way and that in agony on her bed in the labour ward attached to the home, where there were a couple of other groaning occupants beside herself. The beds were covere
d with towels instead of sheets, and the women wore shifts which could easily be adjusted whenever the midwife came to examine them.
But Nelly was a worry. As a young, strong girl she should have had no trouble. The midwife was in constant attendance on her, listening to her belly through her obstetric funnel. She thought the heartbeat sounded as though it was getting increasingly faint. To her mind, it would be no great pity if one more illegitimate soul were lost to the world.
They liked to try and avoid calling the doctor because doctors cost money. But even less did the board relish an inquest if a baby was lost, and finally the midwife decided to send for Dr Strickland, the home’s honorary medical officer.
Dr Strickland arrived just after midnight, grumbling a good deal at the hour he had been called and the nature of the case, unmarried mothers being the lowest of the low on his list of priorities; but one look at the girl squirming on the bed told him she was in serious trouble.
He put down his black bag, removed his coat and put on his apron, winding the sides of his pince-nez carefully around his ears. Then, while the midwife grasped one of Nelly’s legs and Massie the other, he peered inside.
‘Breech,’ he said, straightening up again. ‘No doubt about it. The baby is the wrong way round. It is obviously in distress.’
Nelly, alert enough to hear what was being said, gave a loud scream, and the midwife slapped her face to shut her up.
‘Quiet,’ she commanded, ‘and behave yourself. Do exactly what the doctor says.’
The doctor was sweating a little. He knew forceps were no good and, as he had seen one small leg dangling out of the birth passage, already turning blue, he thought the case was hopeless. He whispered a few words to the midwife and rolled up his sleeves.
The midwife again grasped one leg, Massie clung on to the other and the doctor, as gently as he could, but firmly, wriggled his hand past the dangling foot and as far as he could up the birth-passage, where he was able to disengage the other foot and drag the infant out, not only alive but squalling lustily.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 16