Oliver held Florence in his arms until she slept. Since her tearful outburst she had been restrained, trying to control the grief that he knew must come to the surface soon. He did not sleep. He lay still, listening to the intermittent crackling as the fire died away.
Oliver slipped from the house as soon as day broke over the Pennines. There was no wind, no cloud, and as the first rays of the sun lit upon it, revealing the blackened remains of window and door frames and the roof open to the sky, it seemed to him that the place had always been a consuming monster.
It had taken so many people’s sweat and toil to support and maintain it; so many generations had struggled against ruin to hand it on to their children, and what was it now? It was a shell, an eyeless, toothless, smouldering skeleton.
Crows circled above the smoking ruin, clacking and calling, their ragged wings beating lazily, eyes scanning the broad acres of Suttonford for food. The burned-out mansion meant nothing to them, their only concern to replace nests that the fire had destroyed in the elms nearest the fire’s devastation and they would not be impelled to do that until spring.
Oliver knew that he would never build another nest here.
‘Father?’
Oliver turned. It was James.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ James said.
‘You’re back, son,’ Oliver said. He put an arm around James’s shoulders.
‘I came on the late train from Middlefield. You could see the fire from the town,’ James said. He did not pull away from his father’s arm but raised his hand to grasp Oliver’s.
‘What a homecoming,’ Oliver said. ‘This was your inheritance, my boy.’ He was thankful for James’s presence. He knew that they would be together now; a proper team at last.
‘Will we rebuild?’ James asked.
‘It was under-insured, James,’ he said. ‘There won’t be enough to put it back. Do you want to work for it? Do you want to restore Suttonford?’
‘There’s enough coming in, isn’t there, Father? The mills and everything,’ James asked. ‘I’ll work for it. I’ve always loved the place.’
‘Have you, son? How little we know one another,’ Oliver said, regret in his voice for the lost years of James’s childhood. ‘Let’s walk, James,’ he said. ‘Walk down with me to the old cottages at Hollinbank. I have a story to tell you – a confession to make. I’ll find it easier to tell you down there, where it all started for me.’
They were buried, the following Wednesday, in the little graveyard at Suttonford. Florence was deathly pale and silently held on to Oliver’s arm as her mother’s coffin was lowered into the grave that now held her mother and father. The workers on the estate were there and the party moved from Laura’s graveside to that of the young groom. There was to be a funeral tea in the village hall but the family were not expected to attend since young Miss Wainwright was still recovering from her injuries.
The church was full. Servants and estate workers packed the aisle and pews in respectful silence. Oliver had made provision for them. None of them would lose their homes. Florence was still holding herself back and Oliver knew that she must soon give way to grief.
It was over. A compartment had been reserved for Oliver and Florence and they returned to Middlefield by train. They were to be joined, later that day, by Dolly and Edward.
Dolly had responded to the summons to Balgone without protest. She would not mourn the passing of Suttonford but she was needed at Lizzie’s side, Oliver told her.
‘Where will we put everyone?’ Oliver asked Florence. ‘We only have six bedrooms, apart from the servants’ rooms.’
He had been amazed by an unexpected streak of practicality in her. She had risen to the challenge of running a household with only five servants and Nanny. The wheels of domesticity were turning effortlessly but Florence had not let up for a moment and he wanted her to cry, to shout and scream if she had to do it; to be like Dolly and let the world know when things were wrong for her.
‘James, Dolly, Lizzie, Edward, Maud and Nanny and you and me,’ she had replied. ‘That’s six.’
They had slept separately since before Maud was born. On the night of the fire they had lain together but the bed had been a place to rest, a place in a stranger’s house.
‘Lizzie hasn’t been told about Edward. He wants to tell her himself. You haven’t said a word, have you, Florence?’ Oliver asked anxiously.
‘No. I’ve said nothing. Do you think she’ll be upset by it?’ she said. ‘She was so fond of her brother that she may be hurt to think they are not even related.’
‘I think she’ll be happy for him,’ Oliver said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Edward helped his mother from the train and held her arm as they walked to the station entrance in the cattle market where the Balgone carriage was waiting for them.
So this was Middlefield; this funny, winding little town set on an escarpment at the foot of the Pennines. There was real poverty here, as in Liverpool and London. This was not a town built for the wealthy, as Southport was. There were no tree-lined streets, no wide boulevards and splendid shops, no easy flat walks on an endless plain. Middlefield was noisy and untidy with sharp corners and hilly streets.
The Balgone carriage picked them up and Dolly spoke to the driver. ‘Drive us round the town first. I was born here, you know.’
Edward looked at Mother in the black outfit she’d bought. He thought how well the severe style suited her. Her coat and dress were braided around the hem and collar and Mother wore a black hat, a shaped felt affair that hugged her head but lifted becomingly on top, giving her height, its small black veil of lace softening the outline, giving her a flirtatious look.
He also knew that she was nervous. Mother was at her best when she was in charge; when she was needed. She was not a background sort of woman; she liked to be seen and heard. It was going to be an ordeal for her. Even though she hardly remembered Florence from her days at Suttonford, they had both lived there and had lived at opposite ends of the social scale. Mother felt inequality keenly.
He took his eyes from the carriage window and looked down at his long legs, which reached right across the carriage. He wore a new suit, bought with his birthday money; a dark, serviceable suit that would be worn for work and social occasions. His fine slender hands, his own mother’s hands, he now knew, lay loosely across his thighs and he stared past them, unseeing, nervous himself at the prospect of coming face to face with Lizzie. He would have to tell her that they were not brother and sister and he must do it quickly, before Mother found she could hold back no longer and he suddenly wanted it over and done with. He had thought about it for too long.
He felt Mother stiffen at his side as they drove in at the gates of Balgone. The house was hidden from the road, behind a high beech hedge, still coppery-leaved in January.
‘What on earth was Suttonford like, Mother, if this is the little place?’ he asked as they pulled into the short drive. The turrets glittered as the last rays of the afternoon sunshine sparkled on granite coping stones. The long windows were in perfect proportion to the limestone facade and the heavy oak door glowed warm honey at the house’s centre.
‘This is a beautiful house, Edward. Much nicer than Suttonford,’ Dolly whispered before the driver handed them down to where Florence and Oliver waited to greet them.
Edward had never seen Oliver – he must try to think of him as Father – so eager to please. When Oliver visited them in Southport he was always relaxed, easy-going, a carefree sort, and here he was, clucking like a mother hen; watching faces, trying to gauge their reactions from the expressions of his just-introduced family.
They seemed to fill the large hall with their nervous chatter. Mother and Florence were going to like one another, Edward saw, when they had stopped being formal. James shook his hand and introduced the pretty little girl at his side as his betrothed.
‘This is my brother, Edward,’ he said to her, pride in his voice. ‘And his mother, Mrs Wai
nwright.’
James seemed a little nervous, too, as if he wanted to be liked by Edward. The years had made a difference to James. ‘How many Wainwrights does that make?’ Edward said. ‘There must be a houseful of us here now.’
The ice was breaking, expressions were softening. Oliver carried Mother’s case up the wide staircase, going ahead of Mother and Florence, who were beginning to talk easily to one another.
Edward turned to James. ‘Will you take me to Lizzie’s room?’ he asked. ‘I’ll unpack later.’
She was sitting up in bed, stiffly bound. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, against the prim white cotton of her nightdress. He stood for a moment in the doorway, drinking in every detail of the girl he loved, and as James’s footsteps receded down the stairs he closed the door and went to her outstretched arms.
He kissed her tenderly on her mouth, her eyes, her neck, and her eyes were wet with tears as she wound her arms around his neck, careless of the pain she must feel.
‘Do you forgive me?’ she asked softly, her mouth close to his ear. ‘I never want to be away from you again.’
‘I love you,’ he told her as his hands caressed her shoulders. ‘I never stopped loving you.’
Her tears were falling onto the white sheet and she made no attempt to stem them as he lifted her face to his and kissed her, a gentle, loving kiss to tell her that he understood. ‘I know what you’ve suffered, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to explain. I’m sorry, really I am.’
‘I couldn’t have come to you, Edward.’ She held tight on to him. Her eyes were swimming in tears and he felt the shaking, slender shoulders heave under his hands as she fought to control them. ‘But – but I only ever wanted you,’ she sobbed. ‘I do love you, Edward.’
‘Lizzie,’ he said quietly. ‘Listen to me. I have something to tell you. Can you stand any more shocks?’
‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘We’re not brother and sister, Lizzie.’ He found that he was saying the words baldly and he took her hands in his and began again. ‘We are not brother and sister. Mother brought me up for Oliver. I’m Oliver’s son by another woman. I was with my real mother when she died in a London hospital.’
‘What?’
‘You are the daughter of Mother and a man she met at Suttonford. He was a farm manager, Lizzie. Nothing to be ashamed of. He died a few years ago. I’ve seen his death certificate.’
Lizzie looked at him as if he were talking like a madman and he smiled as he continued. ‘Oliver knows we love one another. And I’ve told Mother, too. They’d never guessed.’
He saw that she was starting to believe him. Her eyes were wide and she gripped his hands as if to reassure herself that what was happening was not a dream. ‘We’ll wait a year before we marry,’ he said tenderly. ‘But we’ll never be apart again.’
‘Is this true?’ Lizzie fell back against the pillows on the high, ornately carved bed. She placed her hands over her tear-streaked face, the gesture he loved, then opened them to look at him. ‘You haven’t made it up, have you?’ she asked.
He pulled the vellum envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. Her hands were shaking, he noticed, as she unfolded the birth certificate and read out loud, ‘Oliver Hadfield. Is that you, Edward?’
‘Yes. I haven’t decided which name I’ll keep. I thought I’d ask you which you’d rather be,’ he said.
She was laughing and crying at the same time now and he covered her face with his own, kissing her, tasting her salty tears until she pushed him away.
‘No you didn’t,’ she said. ‘You are making that part up.’
‘All right. But which would you prefer to be, Lizzie? Mrs Wainwright or Mrs Hadfield?’
‘I think I’ll stick to Wainwright,’ she answered.
‘That will make four of you,’ he said, smiling at her.
‘Four?’
‘Yes. When James marries there will be four – four Mrs Wainwrights.’
‘Will you help me downstairs at dinnertime? I’d like to sit at the table tonight with everybody.’ She pulled him towards herself and kissed his mouth softly. ‘Go now,’ she said. ‘Ask Mother to come to me. I can’t believe it. She’ll tell me the whole story.’
He went to the door, turned and smiled at her before he went down the stairs to talk to the family.
When he went upstairs to change for dinner Oliver saw that Florence had moved his things into her room. She had ordered a fire to be lit and its warm glow against the black fireplace in its blue-and-white-tiled surround made the spacious bedroom warm and relaxing.
He took off his suit, lay on the oyster-silk quilt of the bed in his dressing gown and thought about the events of the day. It was going to be all right, he told himself. Once Florence had recovered from the loss of her mother she would enjoy having less responsibility. She had been quite like her younger self at tea, chattering to Dolly in the drawing room, showing her around the house, following Dolly to the kitchen as his stepmother did a tour of inspection.
And at dinner tonight she would sit opposite him with the whole family gathered together and there would be talk and laughter around his table. It was all he ever dreamed of.
‘Oliver? Are you asleep?’
He opened his eyes. Florence held out a cup and saucer to him.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘I’ve made you a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Try it.’
‘Is this the first time you’ve made tea?’ He grinned as he raised himself on one elbow and pulled the paisley silk around his nakedness.
‘Dolly showed me how to do it,’ she said. ‘I like her very much.’
‘I’m glad.’ He sipped appreciatively. ‘Just right!’ he pronounced.
She took off the bustled black dress and drew on a loose gown of blue wool. Oliver put the cup down and patted the quilt, inviting her to rest. He placed an arm around her shoulders as she came to him.
He heard her sigh and there was resignation as well as weariness in the sound. ‘What is it, Florence?’ he said gently. ‘What’s up?’
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘Why haven’t you cried? You’ve lost your mother.’ He would have to encourage her tears. She must not keep them in any longer. There was a moment’s silence before she answered him, whispering her reply, not looking at him.
‘I’m afraid,’ she said.
‘Afraid of what?’
‘Afraid of losing you.’
‘You aren’t going to lose me, my darling. I’ll live for a long time yet. You have lost the mother you’ve had for nearly forty years.’
If he repeated it to her, he reasoned, she would come to accept it; she would not be afraid of facing life without the woman who had seldom left her side. He propped himself up and looked into her face. ‘Come on, Florence. Let yourself go. The loss will be easier if you can shed tears.’
Florence closed her eyes and spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. The words were forced, as if she had held them back for too long. ‘I’m not sorry she’s dead,’ she began. ‘I hated her. You’ll never know how much I hated her.’
She paused for a second or two but did not look at him and Oliver was silent. ‘I hated her until I thought my hatred would eat me up. I tried to change. I tried to be good. I have never told a soul before.’
She opened her eyes and sat, looking at him steadily, but there was a burning in their grey calmness that he had never seen before. ‘You think I am a sweet, good soul, don’t you, Oliver? There were times when I wanted to kill her, to give her more and more of her foul brandy, to push it down her throat until it choked her.’
Her hands were tight, clenched fists and she pulled herself bolt upright against the backrest, as far away from him as it was possible to be. ‘She told me, you know. Before my wedding day, before we even announced our engagement, that you had married me to get Suttonford. She told me that my grandfather had offered you the estate if you would marry me and put your money b
ehind him …’
He was angry but he did not stop her but listened with growing horror to the revelation of inhumanity that his darling wife had bottled up for all these years.
‘On my wedding eve she told me that you had other women. She told me you didn’t love me and she said that if ever Suttonford went, you’d leave me.’
He was still shocked and silent but Florence put a hand out in warning and stood up. She was shaking with anger and courage and her voice was high-pitched. ‘She told me that if I had sons you would stay with me when Grandfather died. She said I must woo you, entice you, seduce you, to get you away from your mistresses.’
She stopped for breath for a moment before continuing in her normal, even tone. ‘It was not until you told me about Edward that I suspected she had been lying, for if she’d known the truth about Edward she would never have kept it from me.’
Florence clasped her hands and turned her face away from his, towards the fire. He could hear the sorrow in her voice. ‘Every time you touched me, Oliver, I felt that she was watching me, goading me, telling me to respond, to encourage what she called your base instincts, to submit to your gross desires. And a feeling grew in me, grew and took me over; a feeling that you despised me, that all you wanted was the estate and what the Bible calls “issue”.’
She turned around and looked at him. ‘So you can go if you wish, my darling. There can be no more “issue”. Dr Russell says it is finished. I shall never conceive again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If you want to leave, go now, Oliver. I don’t think I can live with you, without love, any longer.’ Tears were pouring down her face now and she made no attempt to check them.
Oliver took her hands and pulled her so that she stood before him where he sat on the bed. The Oldfield family used to raise these feelings of growing anger in him but now the Oldfields were gone and he had to convince Florence of his love for her; of the love that had won the battle against them.
The bedroom clock sounded unnaturally loud as he began to speak. ‘I have never heard such a tale of cruelty,’ he said as he held her gaze steadily. ‘I had no idea you had been told all those lies.’
The Runaway Page 47