Laughing, May gave her one more hug. Privately, she thought the children were sent to bed much too early, particularly now that the weather had grown so much more bearable. This was the time of day made for running around the garden, chasing, playing hide and seek in the cool of evening. The late-September evenings were beautiful in a way totally unfamiliar to May. Autumn had never looked like this at home. She had found too much of the summer oppressive, and had learned to respect and fear the heat of the sun. Philippe had teased her about turning into a Frenchwoman. August had proved almost too much for her; September was a welcome change. The autumnal air was still and fragrant in the late evenings, the light golden, making everything in the gardens assume an astonishing clarity, as though each tree, each flowering shrub had become a picture of itself, painted carefully against a shimmering, haze-green background.
But Madame feared what she called its ‘treacherous chills’: she would have none of it where her children were concerned. Running around raised the temperature, which was bad. It made Nathalie’s face red, which was unladylike. It dirtied the clothing, which was unseemly. Having known her now for four long months, May had learned to give up. She and Madame had developed an uneasy distance, each circling the other warily. May had been surprised, and disappointed, that Madame so obviously disliked her. Her initial attitude of cool hostility had never wavered, and May had wondered more than once why she had wanted to employ a governess at all. She guarded her household jealously, and seemed resentful that she had had to make space for someone else. And yet it was she who had accepted Constance MacBride’s suggestion with alacrity, she who assured her that she had already been seeking a recommendation – a young woman of good character, quiet disposition, willing to teach and care for an eight-year-old and a six-year-old. The correspondence between both women had been purposeful, enthusiastic and May had arrived, if not with the expectation of happiness, then certainly with the anticipation of welcome. But that had not happened. Madame was permanently chilly, always waiting, it seemed to May, for her to do something inappropriate. And now, it would appear, all of the woman’s suspicions had been well founded, though in a way she could hardly have foreseen. May felt herself begin to shiver, her stomach turning equally with dread and delight, when she thought about what she and Philippe were about to reveal.
He would have to tell Madame soon, and his father. May couldn’t keep their secret any longer. October was almost here, and with it, the move back to Paris, the children’s return to school. Preparations for that journey were well under way: Isabelle had already gone back to Paris to prepare the apartment for the family’s return. She had grumbled a little before she left about the amount of cleaning and organizing she would have to do on her own.
May was fearful of this removal to the city. She knew that once Madame was aware of May’s new standing, she would no longer want her, that it would not be appropriate for her husband’s future daughter-in-law to work in her home as little more than a maid. Nor would May wish that for herself, although she had lain awake most of the night recently, distressed at the thought of her connection with Nathalie and Jean-Louis being cut in anger.
She had almost driven herself distracted in the last four weeks, ever since Philippe had asked her to marry him. He had warned her it would not be easy, that they would encounter a lot of opposition. She had felt ready for anything then, thrilled and amazed that her feelings no longer had to be kept in check – that he loved her as she loved him. But now, she and Philippe needed to make plans. She wanted to know what was going to happen to her once the summer was over. Was she to seek another position, or would they simply marry at once, having overcome all obstacles? What was she to go to Paris as? Governess, wife, disgraced foreigner? May did not like this feeling of her life being out of control. She wanted everything settled, so that she would know how to behave, could understand what was expected of her. She wished Hannah was here: she needed to tell her in person how wonderful Philippe was, how much she loved him, how he in turn adored her.
She made her way quietly down the servants’ stairs and out into the darkening courtyard. The air was filled with the hectic cries of crickets, the evening heavy with the scent of jasmine. May felt herself expand with pleasure: this was the sort of place one should live, be happy in. It was open, free, the air warm and glorious. Paris would be different, of course, but at least she would always have the summers to look forward to. Her life stretched before her, a wonderful vista of city and country, Philippe, children of their own.
He was standing under the oak tree, his white shirt almost translucent in the fading light. He moved towards her quickly, burying his face in her hair.
‘May,’ he whispered, kissing her, pulling her to him. She loved the way he said her name. ‘I thought you were not coming.’
She smiled up at him.
‘You can blame your little sister. She can’t get enough stories.’
‘I have very little time.’
He pulled away from her, his face serious. May could feel her smile collapse, her happiness crumble. Something was wrong. She had that sense of dread, familiar to her ever since she was a child, that her whole world was just about to implode.
‘Philippe – what is it?’
He kept both hands on her shoulders, steadying her.
‘My father needs me to go back to Paris tonight, on the late train. He got a telegram today – one of the companies is in serious trouble. The manager he trusted most has, apparently, had his hand in the till for some time.’
May began to feel weak; all the blood seemed to drain from the top of her head, making her feel dizzy. She felt all her energy and optimism sink to her feet, which suddenly became leaden. At the same time, she knew. Something more than business was wrong. Philippe was preoccupied, distracted, already miles away from her.
‘I must go – he has no one else he can trust. Just hold tight, I’ll be back in a few days, a week at the most.’
‘Have you told him – about us?’
Philippe shook his head.
‘It’s not the right time – we must wait for a better moment.’
May nodded. She allowed him to hold her close again, briefly.
‘You must go back now, before anyone sees you. The carriage will be waiting to take me to the station.’
‘Yes.’
He looked straight at her.
‘You must trust me, May. Give me time to resolve this crisis for him – then he will be ready to accept you, to accept us.’
She tried to smile at him, but she knew. Somehow, this was the beginning of the end. She sensed Madame’s hand in this.
‘Go now,’ he said, kissing her. ‘I love you.’
She made her way back through the gardens, keeping to the now deepening shadows. It was impossible to believe that this was the same evening, that she was the same person as moments before. What had seemed to her then a life filled with joy and light now stretched before her as some sort of frozen wasteland. She would not cry, not yet, not until she was safely inside her own room.
It was impossible to crush the intuition that someone was watching her from some window, some hidden vantage point. The silences, the hostility, the disapproval of recent days and weeks all came into focus. They knew, and she would be punished.
Mary and Hannah: Autumn 1899
MARY STEPPED OFF the train in Holywood and followed the stream of people making their way out of the station. She tried to remember Miss Mulqueen’s directions. She didn’t want to ask anybody, didn’t want to show her hand before she had to. She followed the most likely looking group of women up Station Hill towards what appeared to be the main street. She bent her head and battled against the strong wind. At one point, she had to hold on to her hat with both hands. She turned her back for a moment, just to draw breath. The sea was a dark, pewter-toned mass, frilled with vigorous white horses. Mary decided she liked the salty tang; this was the sort of air that would have done Cecilia good, the sort of air that had t
he trains to Holywood and Bangor crowded every weekend in summer. She just wished it had been a little less hearty today.
Once she reached the junction at the top of the hill, she pulled the piece of paper Miss Mulqueen had given her out of the pocket of her coat. She turned left and walked briskly down High Street, through the town and past the maypole, its tattered flag snapping uselessly at the gusting wind. She could already see the squat tower of the Priory ahead of her. She began to feel nervous again. Stewarts Place, Miss Mulqueen had said, just before the old Priory, on the left-hand side of the street.
Mary consulted her scrap of paper again. She counted the letters, trying to match them quickly to the street sign before anyone could see what she was doing. The sense of relief was enormous; she was here. She hadn’t had to ask anyone for help. She never forgot her way: one visit and the streets were engraved for ever on her memory. All she needed was to get there safely, just the once. It seemed to her that one of the sharper, more observant bits of her mind made up for the part that had never been properly taught how to read. Next time, she thought, she would walk here with confidence, keeping her head held high: if there was to be a next time.
She pushed open the wrought-iron gate and began to make her way down the garden path towards the front door. She had a sudden moment of blank panic: what was this woman’s name? Miss Mulqueen had told her, of that she was sure, but she had no memory of it, no sound to remember, nothing. She’d just have to keep her head, she decided firmly, and try and get by without it. She consulted the scrap of paper again, uselessly. Even if Miss Mulqueen had written it for her, she had nothing to match it up to, no visible outward sign to tell her she was right or wrong. She sighed, spoke silently to herself. Ye’d better help me here, Cecilia – I haven’t your head for the readin’.
The number twelve was in tarnished brass, just to the left of the door. It had to be a good omen, she decided. Number twelve Fortwilliam Park had been where she had learned to breathe again, to gather her forces and eventually, to survive. Number twelve Stewarts Place was going to be good to her, she was sure of it. It had to be more than a coincidence that the numbers of both houses were the same. Quickly, she took in all the telling details before her. She wanted to see affluence with just the right amount of neglect. The front door was wood-grained and in good condition, but the fanlight and the stained-glass panels hadn’t seen soap and water for some time. The black and red diamond-patterned tiles of the porch could do with a good scrubbing, too. This looked hopeful: a young Dublin bride with no notion of how to keep house. Mary’s spirits began to rise. She might indeed be wanted here; this could be her chance to get right out of Belfast altogether and into a town like this: bright, prosperous, with all the healthy benefits of sea air. She blessed herself furtively before pressing the front doorbell.
The sound of the doorbell was sudden and somehow shocking in the empty house. Hannah was becoming used to the map of each of her days now: the smooth terrain of the mornings, followed by the bumpier ground of afternoon visits, and finally the calm plateaux of evening.
Constance MacBride had taken to arriving most afternoons now, with several other imperious elderly ladies in tow. Hannah was convinced that the novelty of undertaking a journey some four miles north of Belfast and the excellence of the sea air were more of a draw than the mildly intriguing presence of a Dublin daughter-in-law. Nevertheless, Constance MacBride kept arriving with grim predictability, her presence an annoyance to Betty, who liked to spend her afternoons snoozing by the fire in the kitchen with an enormous tabby cat curled on her lap. Hannah realized quite quickly that her mother-in-law enjoyed fussing around her, unable to conceal her joy at the prospect of her first grandchild.
Hannah was more than relieved when the elderly ladies eventually departed, full of tea and good humour, and she could subside gratefully into the tranquillity of evening, with her piano, her sunlit garden and her new husband, surrounded by the ever-present aroma of pipe-tobacco. She was becoming accustomed now to having her hours measured out, to knowing what each day was likely to bring her. At first, she had been surprised that she never felt bored. She had expected to miss the constant companionship of her two sisters; she feared the emptiness of her own company. Instead, she welcomed the uncluttered times of each day, times which she could fill with music and the delightful anticipation of the arrival of her first baby.
And so the early call to her door this morning startled her. She was not expecting any visitor – in fact, she was on her way out to the post office as a diversion, an escape from the constant complaints issuing from the kitchen.
She turned away from the mirror and made her way to the top of the stairs, hat still in hand. Betty was quite deaf, and may not have heard the single peal. She was just about to descend the last flight when she saw the elderly woman open the front door. She had a moment’s pity for the grey, stooped figure whose feet seemed daily more reluctant to carry her around.
There was a young, slightly windswept woman standing in the porch. Hannah hurried down the last few steps when she heard the brusque, challenging tone.
‘Betty?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Betty simply turned and made her way back down the hallway. She didn’t even glare in Hannah’s direction this time. Hannah sighed to herself. Charles had promised her that much, and he had been right – Betty’s main virtue was her unquestioning obedience.
This woman was very young, Mary thought, good-looking, with abundant fair hair piled softly on top of her head. She held a wide-brimmed hat in one hand, a long silver pin in the other. What was her name? Mary felt the back of her neck prickle with embarrassment: not only could she not greet the woman properly, she had also interrupted her preparations for going out. She decided to curtsy, briefly.
‘Mary McCurry, ma’am. Miss Mulqueen sent me.’
‘Oh – yes, please – come in.’
Mary was intrigued by the woman’s accent. It was one she had not heard before, and so she accepted its strangeness. It was the faint, smoky echo of Belfast that puzzled her.
The lady of the house was about to lead the way back into the hallway when a sudden gust of wind blew the front door almost closed. She lurched forward to stop it with both hands before it clicked to, and let go of her hat and hatpin at the same time. Mary wasn’t quick enough. The pin tinkled on to the tiles below and the large hat cartwheeled down the garden path, staggered drunkenly to the right, and took off down High Street. Occasionally, it paused in the middle of the road before becoming filled with air and taking flight again. Mary followed, flooded with a strong, superstitious conviction. If she managed to retrieve this hat, then the position had to be hers. If she lost it, or gave up halfway, the young woman she had just met would take that as a sign of her character: lacking in determination, unreliable.
She held her skirts well above her ankles as she ran, but she didn’t care. Nobody around her would be interested in her ankles, and anyway she wore stout, unromantic boots, worth their salt for running up and down endless staircases, not for catching the eye of a passing man. She could never be accused of immodesty. One final burst of speed and she managed to put the toe of her right boot on the outer brim of the lady’s rather fine hat. It looked a little sad now, though, its feathers badly ruffled, its ribbons dampened by the misting, freezing rain which had started to fall, its drops transformed into fine needles in the strong wind.
Triumphantly, she picked it up, brushed the grainy bits of dirt from its surface, and held it firmly, like an offering, in both hands. When she got back to Stewarts Place, the young woman was still standing in the doorway, her eyes and cheeks bright with laughter. Mary smiled, too. She could see that the woman’s laughter was kind – one that enjoyed the fun with you, rather than against you. Something in the way she now stood made Mary look more closely, discreetly, just for an instant. There was a definite swell under the front of her dress, a gentle undulation that Mary might never have seen if the young woman had not, for
that split second, turned sideways. Mary felt suddenly elated. This woman needed her: it was obvious. If she couldn’t keep her tiles clean, then how on earth would she ever be able to look after a baby on her own?
The violent gust of wind which suddenly wrenched the open door from her grasp took Hannah completely by surprise. She lunged forward, trying to catch it before it slammed shut. She had no choice: she let go of her hat and hatpin, expecting both of them to land safely at her feet in the porch. Instead, her hat seemed to become possessed of a mind of its own. With some initial difficulty in finding its balance, it took sudden, gleeful flight and lurched rapidly all the way down the garden path, taking to the air as soon as it reached the main road outside. All Hannah could manage was a surprised ‘Oh!’ She was disappointed – she had really liked that hat. She was just about to say something when, without a word, the young woman in the workday boots literally took off after it, chasing the flimsy mix of straw and ribbons for all she was worth, driving rain and strong winds notwithstanding.
Hannah wanted to call out after her, to get her to stop. She cut a most comical figure – holding on to her skirts, sticking out first one foot, then the other, as though dancing to some mad tune inside her head. She tried again and again to trap the unruly hat, only to be defeated as it took flight again, feathers fluttering everywhere like small, demented birds – and off she went once more in apparently useless pursuit.
Hannah couldn’t help laughing. Then, to her surprise, she saw the girl stop suddenly, her foot planted solidly beneath her. She bent down, and there was something triumphant about her as she stood upright, the hat held firmly now between her two hands. Hannah thought she could see her grinning to herself. At that moment, she liked her immensely. She didn’t care what secrets Miss Mulqueen’s character reference might reveal, she would have this girl in her house. Anybody that determined deserved a chance. It took only a few moments for the young woman to arrive, breathless, at Hannah’s side, holding out the hat like some sort of tattered peace-offering.
Another Kind of Life Page 24