She drew in her breath sharply at the first quick stab of pain and he held back until he found that she was pulling him in to her. He felt her curling around him, inside her, and she was whispering his name and telling him that she loved and wanted him. And there was nothing in him but delight in her pleasure and urgent desire that only she could release in him.
And he found such joy in her and she in him and their loving was so complete that they believed they were the first lovers in the world to have discovered the secret of life.
And nobody guessed their secret. Edward thought it would be written on their faces for all to see; that their very presence together would speak of their love, but it was not so. He came to her bed every night, when the household slept, and he left before dawn, tiptoeing down the carpeted landing, climbing into his own cold bed and their love was so right that he could not feel ashamed.
On the night before he left the house to return to London they sat downstairs in the warm kitchen when the servants and Mother were asleep. Edward made the fire bright and she sat opposite him, rocking in the big carved chair, while he sat on the fender stool.
‘Will you come to London after the New Year Ball?’ he asked. ‘We’ll celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Oliver is going to hold a party for me in his hotel. You could come with him and stay down there with me.’
‘I can’t promise. It might not be possible,’ she whispered. ‘Mother will object, you know. And I’m so afraid. I need to think about all this.’
He looked anxiously at her. He had been waiting to tell her about his hours spent at Somerset House, searching the registers. Would it upset her to hear? They had always wanted to know. At last he spoke. ‘There’s something I ought to tell you. Something about us. I made a discovery last term and I’m not sure if I should say anything until I know more.’
‘Go on! You can’t start to tell me something and change your mind before you finish. What is it?’ Lizzie seemed to have picked up his anxiety. The gentle rocking of her chair stopped; poised in centre swing. Her hair was loose, a flowing gold mane on her narrow shoulders. He saw her tighten her grip on the padded arms. ‘Tell me, Edward!’
‘Joseph Wainwright was not our father. He died seven years before you were born; nine years before I was.’ He paused, waiting to see her reaction.
‘What are you saying, Edward? If not Joe Wainwright, then who …?’ She was groping for words. ‘Whose children were we?’
‘I don’t have the answer. I went to Somerset House, out of curiosity. You know how evasive Mother and Oliver are? Well, I decided to find out for myself. I wanted to know if he was a quarryman, if that was on the certificate, as we’ve never understood how a quarryman had enough money to leave Mother comfortably off. And I wanted to know the cause of death.’ He paused again, wondering how Lizzie had taken the truth. ‘Only part of what we’ve been told is true.’
He raked the fire thoughtfully and stared into its depths. ‘Joseph Wainwright was Oliver’s father; that part’s true. He was also Tommy’s father; that’s true as well. But Joseph Wainwright died when Tommy was a child, eight years before you were born.’
‘No,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ve seen the grave, Edward. Joseph Wainwright’s grave is at Suttonford. It says he died in 1880.’
‘His death certificate was issued in 1870, Lizzie. I’ve seen the record.’
‘But – I’ve seen the grave.’
‘I expect Oliver made sure you saw it, did he?’
‘He did.’ Lizzie dropped against the back of the chair, white-faced. ‘Oh, Edward. What are we to think? Are we adopted?’
Lizzie still seemed not to grasp the obvious explanation. ‘Did Mother adopt us, Edward?’ she said in a small, frightened voice.
‘No.’ This was going to be hurtful and he could not bear to upset her.
He stopped raking the coals and turned to look at her steadily. ‘It means we are probably bastards – Mother’s bastards.’ He saw shock in Lizzie’s eyes but he had to go on. ‘It would explain a lot. The secrecy and prevarication are all because they don’t want us to know the truth.’
‘We must be Wainwrights. You look like the others. You know you do.’ Lizzie lifted her hands to her face and began to sob.
‘If people expect a likeness they’ll see one. Just because I’m tall and dark-haired doesn’t mean I’m related to anyone who looks the same.’ Edward stood up and placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t cry, Lizzie. You’ll be able to accept it after a time. I have.’
‘Have you asked Mother?’ Lizzie said, trying to control her tears.
‘No. I couldn’t. I don’t know if it’s cowardice or if I don’t want my suspicions confirmed,’ he said. ‘But I know I don’t want to upset her. I’m sure she wants to keep it from us. I’m going to make Oliver give me the answer. We’ve nothing to go on. No names. Even Mother’s maiden name revealed nothing. It’s impossible to do anything more at Somerset House without a name. We are both registered as the children of Dorothea Wainwright and Joseph Wainwright. But we’re not and now I don’t believe that we ever had the same father.’
He had said these last words carefully, hoping that she would understand their significance but she seemed afraid and bewildered. ‘Do you see what this means, Lizzie?’ he asked gently. ’We may only be half-sister and half-brother.’
Lizzie pulled herself out of the chair. ‘Leave me alone tonight, Edward. I need to think.’ She went towards the door. ‘Do you think you could get the truth from Oliver,’ she asked bitterly, ‘or is he another bastard?’
Lizzie could not bear it. If she was a bastard then did it matter about her own wrongdoing? Wasn’t she born in sin and an outcast anyway? No wonder Mother wouldn’t talk about it. She could have felt pity for a woman who made a mistake and had one child out of wedlock … but two? She lay wakeful and shocked throughout the night. Had her life up to now been a sham? How could those few words change her life for ever? No wonder Mother and Oliver were unable to tell them the truth. ‘We are Mother’s bastards.’ She had clung to childhood too long.
Had Mother, Edward and she been an unwanted responsibility for Oliver? It must have been Oliver who had kept them all these years. She saw that now. Had Edward suspected? Was that why he was determined to pay for his own medical training? And what could she do to put a stop to this – the life of a parasite?
The train pulled across the flat plain of Lancashire, through fields overlaid with a thin fall of snow. Lizzie held her hat in her hands and closed her eyes as she rested her head against the back of the seat.
She felt worthless; not because of her love for Edward, for that was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. The terrible events of yesterday crowded into her thoughts. She would never forget last night’s scene with Mother.
They had seen Edward off at the station and returned home. Mother was sad that they would not have him at home for another few months, but pleased at the prospect of the grand party they would share with him in London, soon.
For herself she had felt numb and dazed, unable to reassure Edward with a word or a look that he had been right to tell her what he knew. Edward had tried to find her alone but she had stayed at Mother’s side until they left to take him to the train.
When they returned she spent the afternoon packing for her return to Cheshire, unable to drive the question from her mind, the question that would hang over her, tormenting her for ever unless she steeled herself to demand from Mother the facts she had to know.
And at last, after supper, she insisted that Mother sit with her in the drawing room and listen. ‘Edward has not been occupied with his studies the whole time, Mother,’ she began.
‘Oh! What’s he up to then? Got a lady friend, has he?’ Mother settled herself into the armchair opposite. ‘It’s lovely having a daughter; someone to chat to, cosy-like by the fire. A woman doesn’t always feel like making the effort; always “primping” to go to the theatre,’ she said.
Lizzie watched her take a cigaret
te from the green-enamelled box she kept on the lacquered table, strike a match to it and idly follow with her eyes the curls of grey smoke. Mother stabbed at the air with the cigarette, making circles follow one another upwards towards the ceiling.
‘You should try one, Lizzie. A lot of young women are taking it up.’ She offered the box to Lizzie.
‘Edward’s been doing a bit of investigating, Mother,’ Lizzie persisted, waving away the cigarette box.
‘Investigating what? Diseases and that?’ Mother asked incuriously, closing her eyes as she inhaled the hot smoke, holding her breath for a second before sending it out in a quick, blue stream.
‘He went to Somerset House.’ Now she felt herself to be close to tears. She knew that she sounded nervous but she had to go on.
‘Where’s that then?’ Mother asked encouragingly.
‘It’s where the registers are kept.’
Mother looked at her quickly, uncomprehending. ‘You look pale, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I hope there’s nothing was wrong with you. I’ve no time for feminine “vapours” and all that nonsense.’ She said nothing for a moment then looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean – registers?’
‘He was looking for Dad’s death certificate. In Somerset House, where the big registers are; births, marriages, death registers. Registers of everybody, Mother.’ Her heart was racing. She saw the blood drain from her mother’s face.
‘Births and deaths? Yours? Edward’s?’ Mother asked in a whisper. Lizzie watched her press the cigarette out against the side of the china ash dish, extinguishing it in a little shower of sparks.
‘Yes. Edward found Dad’s death certificate. Only he wasn’t our dad, was he? Joe Wainwright died seven years before I was born. Nine years before you had Edward.’ She started to cry and mop her eyes with the lace cuff of her dress. ‘You must tell. Whose children are we?’
‘I can’t. I can’t tell you,’ Mother said dully. She dropped her eyes from Lizzie’s pleading face and put her trembling hands on the arms of her chair. ‘This is dreadful. Why couldn’t you have said all this when Oliver was here? Oliver would have known what to say to you,’ she cried. ‘I must get out of this room. It’s too stuffy. It’s the smell of Christmas … candlewax and tangerines and everything.’
She ran to the door and kicked the draught roll away with her foot.
‘Don’t you see what it means, Mother? Edward and I are nobodies. We are bastards, Mother. Bastards!’ Lizzie found herself shouting in her distress. Then she watched in horror as Mother crumpled up in a dead faint in the open doorway.
‘Nellie, Bertha, quickly!’ Lizzie ran along the narrow passageway to the kitchen. ‘Mother’s ill. Help me get her into bed. Bring the smelling salts. Nellie – run for the doctor.’
They propped Dolly up in bed and passed the bottle of sal volatile backwards and forwards under her nostrils until her eyes opened. But she did not speak.
‘Mother? Are you all right?’ Lizzie put her arm around her mother’s shoulders, holding her as she would a child. ‘The doctor’s coming.’
Mother made a croaking noise at the back of her throat, as if she wanted to tell her something. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she clutched at Lizzie’s hand.
Lizzie wished she had never spoken; wished she could put the clock back. God alone knew what poor Mother had gone through already. Perhaps their father was a madman and Mother had fled from him. Why would they have left Suttonford, unless to escape? She must not do this to Mother; question her about the past. Mother never spoke about her life before they came to Southport.
It seemed an eternity until the doctor arrived and was shown into the room. He patted Lizzie’s hand. ‘Will you help me to examine your mother, Miss Wainwright?’
Lizzie’s hands, normally so deft, were clumsy lumps of clay as she unbuttoned Mother’s dress. She had to bite her lip and avoid looking into Mother’s face as she unthreaded laces, released hooks and buttons on the succession of chemises, petticoats and stays her mother wore.
The old doctor warmed his hands at the fire as Lizzie worked silently and at last Mother lay, oddly childlike, beneath the sheet. Lizzie studied his face anxiously as he worked, prodding and pressing, eyes on the ceiling so not to offend his patient while he made his examination.
‘Thank you, Miss Wainwright. You may dress your mother now. I will give you my diagnosis downstairs,’ he told her.
Lizzie tucked Mother up and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. I’m sorry, Mother. Sorry I did this to you.’
The old physician told her, ‘Your mother has had a stroke. It has taken away her power of speech. There is nothing wrong with her systems. She has a fine constitution but she’ll need medical attention if she’s to make a complete recovery. I’ll take her to the new hospital immediately.’
‘I can look after her,’ she said. ‘She’ll get well if you leave her here.’
‘No. She needs to be in trained hands. We have very advanced methods now, my dear.’ He looked at her over his spectacles. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Wainwright. The galvanising baths are particularly beneficial in these cases. I shall see that your mother has the best of treatment.’
‘Can I go with her?’ Lizzie pleaded.
‘No. I shall lift her into my carriage and take her to the hospital. There are to be no visits for a month. She must have a month of complete rest. A daily bulletin will be posted in the hospital foyer and flowers and fruit can be left for her.’
She helped him carry Mother to the carriage and settled her on to the seat, piling pillows and cushions around her. And Mother was conscious all the time, Lizzie knew. Mother’s eyes were frightened and pleading, as if she were trying silently to beg Lizzie not to send her away.
When the carriage, with the doctor at the reins, disappeared round the corner, Lizzie ran into the house and flew to her room. She did not want to speak to anybody. She wanted to die. But she lay on her bed, her thoughts in turmoil.
What had she done? She and Edward had gone beyond the boundaries of morality – of decent human behaviour. Even if Edward was right and she was his half-sister they had committed one of the gravest sins. And in seeking to find excuses for it she had broken Mother’s heart.
What if Mother died? If Mother died then she would blame herself for the rest of her life. Mother hadn’t wanted them to know the truth. Why had she spoken to Mother as she had? She turned her face into the pillow so that Nellie and Bertha would not hear her cries.
‘Mother,’ she sobbed, far into the night. ‘Please forgive me. Only get well. That is all I want. I’ll give him up. I’ll never see Edward again. It’s my fault. Not Edward’s. I’m older than Edward. I ought to have known. Have I kept Edward to myself? He would have been better without me. Oh, Mother. You must wish you had never had me. I ought never to have been born. Oh, Mother, please, please get well.’
Dawn came and she had not slept. She got up and went to her washstand. There was not a scrap of colour in her face. But she knew what she must do.
She would atone. She would write to Edward and tell him to forget her. If she told him of her fears he would try to find her. She would tell him that she did not love him. She would go to Suttonford and ask Florence and Oliver’s help in finding work. For she would accept no more charity from Oliver. She would find rooms – perhaps rent a little house in Middlefield where Edward would not find her.
She could not live here, in Southport, a reminder and temptation to Edward. And she could not continue to live at Suttonford. She would earn her own living. But how? What could she do? Oliver would help her.
There was a month to go before Mother was allowed visitors. Mother would then tell her everything, Lizzie knew. All the things she no longer wanted to hear.
It was late afternoon, dry underfoot but with a sky full of unshed snow, when the train reached Suttonford. The trap was waiting for her. The journey only took a few minutes at a fair trot along the gravel road and Lizzie watched the carriage lantern swinging
ahead as they approached the house.
‘I’ll go in the back way,’ she told the groom. ‘Drive into the stable yard, will you?’
She did not like making a fuss of her return. She’d send a message to Florence and rest in her room before she went to speak to Oliver. A servant would take her bags up, as there were plenty of servants, here at the back of the house.
The lamps were being lit in the old kitchen, ranged along the side cupboards and neatly, in rows, on the big deal table. It was hard to imagine what it must have been like in her mother’s day. The new kitchen next door was tiled and held a modern range and had shallow sinks with brass taps for hot and cold water. The servants lined up, waiting for the lamp man to hand lamps to them to carry to every corner of the house.
The smell of lamps would for ever remind Lizzie of this house. Life was easier in Southport, where gas lights were there for the pull of a mantle-chain but she liked the mystery and softness that the oil lamps gave to a room.
Oliver looked at the calendar on his study desk. Below the little window showing nineteen hundred years was another and he turned the brass wheel at the side of the wooden frame to today’s date, the twenty-ninth of December. Upstairs, at her own little desk, Florence was carefully writing out the invitations to his birthday dinner early in the new year. Oliver’s birthday was only days before Edward’s twenty-first.
How strange, he thought, that he would then be exactly twice Edward’s age. He looked up and glanced through the window before he pulled the heavy tapestry curtain. There was no snow yet but the lake was frozen. He could just make out the trees at the water’s edge. If the ice held no doubt Florence would soon be arranging skating parties. He smiled to himself as he realised how much happiness the presence of Lizzie had brought into Florence’s life. Now she had an outlet for her ingenuity for she was trying so hard to make a match.
He set a lamp on the desk. In the drawer was a book of telephone numbers and he searched through the pages for that of the army barracks at Chester. Florence said he was to invite the officers newly returned from South Africa to attend the New Year Ball. There might also be some about to leave for the war with the Boers who would be glad of a night’s diversion.
The Runaway Page 38