by Pamela Pope
‘I must ask you to wait,’ he said, and went inside, careful to mask any view of the interior. Ellie didn’t look at Oliver. She stood facing the door, her teeth gritted to stop the slightest quiver of anxiety from showing, and her hands clutching the baby’s shawl so tightly it almost tore. For a moment there was no sound. Then a tremendous bellowing burst forth, like some zoo animal roaring.
‘BLAST YOU, MAN, CLEAR TO HELL OUT OF HERE, I DON’T WANT TO SEE ANY BLOODY PEOPLE.’
There was certainly nothing wrong with Sir Robert Cromer’s lungs. Nor his fists either. They thumped a hard surface to emphasise each word, and this was followed by the shattering of some glass.
‘Begorrah, the man’s on the bottle,’ said Oliver.
William was frightened by the noise and started crying lustily, at which point Ellie had had enough of waiting. She pushed open the door and marched in, her skirt rustling, her chin thrust forward. The scene which met her eyes was so appalling she recoiled. She had seen nothing worse, nor smelt anything so bad, in the Pullman tenements. Not even the inhabitants of the hovels near the brickyards had lived like this.
The room was obviously used to live and sleep in at all times, and judging by the state of the unmade bed at the farthest side it looked as if the occupant rarely left it. Books and papers were stacked round the walls, bottles littered the floor, and clothes lay where they had been discarded.
The old man half-lying across a table was as disgusting as his surroundings, his white hair matted and his velvet dressing-gown stained with the residue of food and various liquids. He was reed-thin. Claw-like hands gripped a bottle of brandy as if it were a lifeline. His parchment skin was colourless where it stretched across the bones of his forehead, but his nose was a mottled purple and his cheeks a network of broken red blood vessels. If there had ever been anything noble about him it had long since been obliterated by dissipation.
Somehow Ellie managed to regain her composure.
‘Grandfather Cromer, your illness is of your own making,’ she said. Shock and anger made her voice shrill. ‘How dare you refuse to see me!’
He looked up, his hooded, bloodshot eyes rheumy. For a moment he stared at her, propping himself up on his forearms. Then he began to cry.
‘My little Sibyl’s come back to me,’ he murmured drunkenly.
Tears ran down Ellie’s face. Oliver Devlin took the baby, put an arm round her and led her away.
Eleven
Annie Hovringham had come to 5 Chesterman Court as a scullery maid in 1860. In those days there had been more servants than she could remember, and she had been so lowly no one had spoken to her except to give orders. But Annie had worked hard, found favour with the cook, and progressed to parlourmaid within two years. The position of housekeeper had come much later. Now, thirty-four years on, she was all these things put together.
Her marriage to the coachman, the late Albert Hovringham, had not been blessed with children, but the youngest child of Sir Robert Cromer had filled the need, and she had doted on him. Master Julian had been a year old when Annie had been given employment, and she had felt sorry for the little mite whose birth had cost his mother her life. His two sisters, so much older, had not shown him much love, and he had been left in the care of various nannies who rarely stayed longer than a few months. Julian had sought affection like other children craved sweetmeats, and Annie had supplied it wholeheartedly, spoiling him from the first. The boy had spent more time with her and Albert in their room above the stables than ever he’d done in the big house.
In caring so much for Master Julian, Annie had found little time for his sisters. Both had resented the child for robbing them of their mother, but while Beatrice had mostly ignored his existence, Sibylla had made that existence intolerable at every opportunity. It had been hard to forgive her unkindness. Now, when Mr Julian came and helped himself to his father’s possessions, Annie closed her eyes and told herself it was the old man and his daughters who were to blame for the way things had turned out.
Now Miss Sibylla’s daughter had arrived unannounced while Annie had been out trying to gain a little more credit at the grocer’s, and it had fairly taken the wind out of her sails.
When Mr Frobisher had filled her in with details of how Mrs Berman had been so demanding, it had been in keeping with her memories of Miss Sibylla, and she had been prepared to make things difficult in turn. But the young lady had been so overcome when she’d got to the bedroom it had been impossible not to feel sorry for her. That was why Annie had relented and brought her a breakfast tray.
‘Good morning, Mrs Berman,’ she said. She put the tray down and carefully pulled aside the plum velvet curtains so as not to disturb the dust. ‘I trust you slept well.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t sleep at all.’ The girl looked lost in the enormous bed with dull cream hangings. The baby was beside her, his blue eyes wide and inquisitive. ‘I should like a personal maid to see to my clothes, Mrs Hovringham. Can you send someone to me, please.’
Annie came round the bed and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Mrs Berman, there’s only me and Mr Frobisher to run this house and we only have one pair of hands each. So if you’re staying, you’ll need to learn how to do things for yourself.’ It was going to come hard on her but she might as well know straight away.
Surprisingly there was no show of tantrums. The newcomer looked resigned to anything.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’m not helpless. In fact, I probably know more about hard times than you.’ She pushed back the bedcovers, swung her feet to the floor, and padded to the table where the tray had been deposited. ‘Thank you for bringing my breakfast. I prefer coffee to tea, but tomorrow I’ll be down in the kitchen to make it myself.’
The morning was bright, which was a mixed blessing since it showed up the shabbiness of the room. Mrs Berman was caught in a shaft of sunlight which made her look pale and fragile, but that was probably due to tiredness after her long journey, and the lack of welcome she’d received at the end of it. She was certainly not behaving in a helpless fashion. Annie was intrigued.
‘Surely Miss Sibylla made a very good marriage. Mr Harvey was always a very ambitious gentleman.’
‘My parents are among the wealthiest people in Chicago,’ said the girl. ‘My husband is one of the poorest, or he was until he made off with my dowry yesterday. He’s deserted me.’ She poured tea and sipped from the Dresden cup, one of the few that remained. ‘I’m telling you this from the beginning so that there’s no need for any falsehood.’
The disclosure was so unexpected it robbed Annie of words. She said, ‘Oh!’ on a startled breath, and remained rooted to the spot. This was like one of the melodramas in the novelettes she read avidly to lift her depression. How could anyone speak so brazenly of such shame? She longed to know more, but was forestalled.
‘And now,’ the deserted wife went on, ‘I want to know how things have got into this dreadful state. My mother would be horrified if she knew.’
‘Your mother has never cared.’
‘She wrote to my grandfather to say I was coming — did he not tell you?’
‘Sir Robert has little idea of what goes on around him these days, as I’m sure you’ll understand now you’ve seen him. If there was a letter I doubt if it was opened.’ The baby started to whimper and Annie was drawn to him. ‘He’s a beautiful child. May I hold him?’
‘Of course.’
The first bond was forged. Truth to tell, it was good to have another woman in the house, Annie thought, and it seemed as if the situation was going to turn out different from what she had feared. There was a mystery to be unravelled for a start — and that promised to liven things up. Then there was the child … Annie picked up the warm baby and held him against her ample bosom, revelling in the feel of his small body and the milky smell of his breath.
‘How could any man leave a mite like this?’ she murmured.
‘I’ve been tormented by th
e same question all night.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Yesterday I had every intention of leaving this house before I’d been in it an hour. I was horrified, truly horrified. It was Mr Devlin who reminded me that I’m penniless and in a foreign country so I have no option but to stay for the present. Mr Devlin is my husband’s brother-in-law and having come to my rescue at the dockside he kindly insisted on seeing me safely to London. What he must think I just don’t know.’
‘He’s down in the kitchen, ma’am, eating breakfast, and I don’t think he’s too shocked or unhappy.’
‘I must see him before he departs.’
‘Yes, Mrs Berman.’
‘Perhaps you should call me Miss Elena,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve taken a great dislike to my husband’s name.’
Shouting commenced along the corridor. Annie sighed and handed the baby back, yet her heart was not quite so heavy as it had been at the same hour yesterday.
She spoke evenly. ‘Master’s awake, Miss Elena. There’ll be no peace now till he’s drunk himself into the next stupor. Come down to the kitchen when you’re dressed and I’ll have a bowl of warm water ready to bathe the little one.’
When the woman had gone Ellie took William over to the window and looked out. Once there might have been a glimpse of Hyde Park; now there was only a view of more grand buildings which must have been erected since Mama’s day.
‘What we have to remember, my darling, is that we’re living in Chesterman Court for the moment, not Fulton Street, even though there seems little difference.’ She kissed the top of the baby’s head and let him look down at a passing carriage and pair. Then she pressed her cheek urgently against his infant face. ‘Oh William, what are we going to do?’
The night had seemed neverending. Through the long, sleepless hours Ellie’s emotions had ranged from darkest despair and disbelief to repressed anger, and she had tossed around on the pillow until her head hurt. Coming on top of her suffering and humiliation over Max, the discovery of her grandfather’s condition had actually caused little pain at all. She had been too numb to feel the full impact. It was as if, deep down, she had known that the high expectations she had carried euphorically across the Atlantic were bound to be false, and that after losing Max nothing would go right. Now, in the light of a new day, many grievous problems had to be faced.
There was nothing she could do about Max, no matter how much she fumed and fretted. Having had him on her mind all night it was now time to let the torment rest and think about her future. She wouldn’t be staying here longer than was absolutely necessary, of course, but she could see no immediate alternative until she had made some investigations. Planning the best course of action would be good therapy.
First of all she had to make Sir Robert Cromer understand that she was his grand-daughter and not his ‘dear Sibyl’. It would have been a waste of time pressing the matter last evening, even if she had felt up to it, and after a few minutes she had left him to his pathetic ramblings. Today, however, it would be interesting to discover the reason for his inebriated state. The house couldn’t have become so rundown, nor its owner so degraded, without there being some primary cause.
‘He’s a dreadful old man, William,’ Ellie said aloud, ‘but he’s my grandfather, and your great-grandfather, so I guess we’ll have to put up with him until we can do something about it.’ Her son gurgled and smiled as if there was nothing wrong, and his innocence brought a lump to her throat. She hugged him tighter. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever trust a man again after what your father’s done to us.’ Then: ‘You’ll never let me down, will you, my darling?’
Downstairs, Annie Hovringham relieved her of the baby while Ellie went to the dining-room. Here at least there were a few signs of former glory, though again, various shapes on the walls denoted the removal of pictures. The long table had fourteen chairs round it, six along each side and at each end, one with arms. Oliver Devlin sat at the head of the table, eating a cooked breakfast.
‘Will you be having some?’ he asked, without getting up. He indicated the sideboard behind him. ‘There’s more under the silver cover.’
‘I’ve had mine,’ she said. ‘What time are you leaving?’
‘I’ll not be going until you ask me to. I’m thinking you’ll need a friendly face around for a while and I’ve no definite plans.’
‘Thank you. It won’t be for long. I’m going to find out where my Uncle Julian and Aunt Beatrice live — one of them will surely take me in.’
‘Now that sounds sensible.’ He wiped his mouth on a napkin. ‘Will you be occupied this morning, only I’ve a few bits of business to attend to in the city.’
‘Please do whatever you want.’
Ellie left him to finish his meal. She was grateful for his support but didn’t want him to feel obliged to be with her every minute of the day. Besides, she had things she wanted to do herself.
She found the kitchen. Mrs Hovringham looked in her element letting William splash his feet in a china wash-stand bowl in front of the fire. A towel covered her lap, and she held his chubby body round the middle with capable hands which would give him confidence. William found it the greatest fun. He was laughing the way he had done the last time Hedda Berman had bathed him, and seeing it Ellie experienced a wave of homesickness which had to be hastily thrust aside.
‘It’s a long time since I did this,’ the woman said. ‘But you never forget the knack.’
‘Mrs Hovringham, what does my grandfather have for breakfast? I’d like to take it up to him.’
‘Bless you, he never eats anything.’
‘Then he will today.’
‘Mr Frobisher always goes up to him in the morning. He washes and shaves him.’
‘But doesn’t take him anything to eat. I shall see to it that he gets something this morning.’
Annie Hovringham looked horrified. ‘It wouldn’t be wise to try. Likely he’ll throw something at you.’
‘It’s all right, I’m not afraid of him.’
A few minutes later, after further remonstrations from the housekeeper, Ellie was once more at the door of the lion’s den, steadily holding a tray appetisingly arranged with a bowl of steaming porridge, a folded napkin, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. If she wanted to get any sense out of the old man she knew from hearing some of the Pullman women talk about drunken husbands that it had to be early in the day.
She listened for a moment, but there was no sound so she knocked loudly and went in. Mr Frobisher wasn’t there, but had obviously left only recently. Grandfather Cromer was in bed, his head back against the stacked pillows, his face cleanshaven and his eyes shut.
‘Good morning, Grandfather,’ Ellie said, approaching the bed. His eyes flicked open. They were bright blue like her own. ‘I’ve brought you some food and I’m going to sit here while you eat it.’
He didn’t look as bad as he had done last night. There was something pathetic about the bony shoulders hunched in a striped nightshirt, and his hands fluttered on the sheet like birds frightened to settle.
‘Sibyl, I’m so glad you’ve come home. You must have known I needed you,’ he said, in a normal voice.
‘I’m not Sibyl. I’m Ellie, Sibyl’s daughter.’
‘You haven’t changed, girl. Does that Yankee treat you well?’
‘I want you to eat some porridge, Grandfather.’ Ellie sat on the edge of the bed and put the tray across his lap, keeping hold of the handles in case he decided to swipe it to the floor, but he merely stared at it blankly. She plucked up courage and put a small spoonful to his mouth. ‘This is what you need to make you strong again.’
He meekly swallowed the first offering. The second he spat out. ‘I don’t want that filthy stuff Get me brandy.’
‘You’re not having brandy until you’ve eaten every bit of this,’ she said, undiscouraged.
‘Damn you, Sibyl, you know I hate porridge.’
�
�Then what do you like? I’ll bring you something else but you must eat it. How long have you been living like this?’
‘Since Beatrice died,’ he said. ‘She looked after me when you’d gone.’
He was lost in memories for several minutes, during which time Ellie popped in several more spoonsful without him objecting. It was like feeding a child. And she was equally preoccupied, having learnt that one of her considered options could come to nothing as there was no longer an Aunt Beatrice. Clearly her mother knew nothing of her sister’s death or she would have mentioned it. The news made Ellie a little more sympathetic towards the old man. It must have been a terrible shock to him and could account for his reliance on drink.
She saw the need to humour him if she wanted his cooperation. ‘And where is Julian these days?’ she asked, as if talking of a brother rather than an uncle.
The effect of his son’s name was fearful. Grandfather Cromer’s knees shot up, spilling the orange juice, and he pushed Ellie away with such strength she landed on the floor beside the bed. He looked down at her, hawk-eyed, and prodded the air with a claw-like index finger.
‘Don’t ever mention your brother’s name again. Don’t you know how he’s treated me? He’s taken everything — everything! And he only comes here to bleed me to death so that he can have the house as well.’
Ellie scrambled up, by which time Grandfather Cromer was lying back again on the pillows with his eyes shut, as if exhausted. She was so taken aback by the onslaught it took a moment to get her breath, and she was furious.
‘I don’t wonder your family all left you if this is the way you treated them,’ she stormed. ‘I was trying to show you a little kindness.’
‘You came here thinking I had money. Well, I haven’t any!’
‘So you do know I’m not Sibyl.’
‘I’m not senile.’
‘And I’m not a gold-digger. What I’d hoped for was some affection and comfort but you’re obviously not capable of giving either. Goodbye, Grandfather.’
She took her skirt and smoothed it, then marched towards the door with her head tilted so as to stem the threatened tears. The old devil could live in this squalor for the rest of his life and grow more and more sour on his grievances. She need have nothing to do with him.