Florrie nodded.
Back across the entrance hall, Emmi Bergamin showed them the lounge area, furnished with deep leather sofas and chesterfields. Oil paintings hung on the walls and there was a large bookcase crammed with books. An ornate fireplace and stained-glass windows brought colour and light and harmony to the room. A few patients were seated in the room reading. In the far corner a section of the room had been set aside as a games area, where three or four men were playing cards and dominoes. But the majority of the patients were out on the veranda or the grass terraces or lying on their bed chairs on their private balconies.
‘Dr Hartmann’s room, the X-ray room and treatment rooms are through there—’ Sister Bergamin waved her hand towards the end of the long room. ‘But come now, I will show you your bedroom.’ She led the way up the stairs, which wound around a huge wooden lift.
‘That’s a big lift,’ Jacques remarked, using his schoolboy German as he panted his way up the stairs. All the time, Florrie noticed that the sister was assessing the boy. It was the first time he’d spoken since their arrival.
‘It’s so we can take patients up and down in their beds if we have to. For X-rays, treatment and so on.’ Her smile broadened. ‘But you, young man, don’t look as if you need a lift.’
Jacques paused a moment, clinging to the banister rail. He grinned weakly at her. ‘Not if I can help it, Sister.’
They came to the first floor and stepped into a corridor running the full length of the building, with doors on either side. They turned left to the room at the very end. Opening the door, Emmi Bergamin said, ‘All the rooms on this side are at the front of the building and each room has its own balcony. The rooms on the other side do not. They are usually for staff or for visitors, though we discourage family or friends staying here. The disease is infectious, you know. Here we are. This is one of our very best rooms.’
As they entered the room, Florrie looked about her. This was where Jacques would get well. She had to believe that.
The bedroom at the very end of the corridor was furnished for single occupancy. The walls were panelled in white, with pictures dotted here and there. Pristine white sheets covered the hospital-type bed. There was a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a bedside cabinet, a table, and two chairs and a daybed. The floor was covered with linoleum. More hygienic, Florrie supposed. Sunlight streamed in through the window and the door leading onto the balcony, making the room light and airy and cheerful.
The sister opened a door to the left. ‘This is your bathroom.’
Jacques stepped inside, turning slowly to look around him, whilst Florrie peered in from the doorway.
‘It’s very – luxurious,’ the boy murmured. Indeed it was. The walls and floor were of pale-grey marble. Even the side of the huge white bath was panelled with marble. A white-painted chair stood at the end of the bath with a towel rail above it. Fresh white towels were folded neatly on it and to the right of the chair was a radiator. In the opposite corner was a square washbasin with a glass shelf and a mirror above it.
‘The lavatory is through there.’ Emmi pointed to another door leading off the bathroom. As they all moved back into the bedroom, the sister put down her papers on the small table and opened the door leading onto the balcony. ‘Come, Jacques, you can begin your treatment right away. Sit out here whilst your mother and I unpack your things. Then, when you’ve rested, I’ll take you both down to see Dr Hartmann. He is expecting you.’
The boy sat on one of the cane bed chairs and stretched out. From one of the cupboards, the nurse pulled a thick blanket and tucked it around him, saying, ‘You’re lucky it’s such a nice day.’
Florrie was unpacking his clothes as Emmi Bergamin picked up the sheaf of papers again and flicked through them. ‘I need to take down a few details . . .’ She began to move towards the balcony to speak to Jacques.
Florrie’s head snapped up. ‘What sort of details?’
Emmi half-turned towards her. ‘Oh, just full name, date and place of birth, parents’ names. That sort of thing. Just for our records. And, of course, most importantly, if there is any history of tuberculosis in the family.’
‘History?’ Florrie’s voice rose a little. ‘Why – why do you need to know about his family?’
The nurse turned back and sat down on one of the two chairs. ‘Come, sit down. I will explain.’
Florrie sank onto the chaise longue and clasped her hands together to stop them trembling. Wide-eyed, she stared at the nurse, her heart thumping and fear rising in her throat.
‘Dr Hartmann believes that although this disease is not hereditary as such, there may be a weakness within a family that makes them susceptible to contracting it. He would be the first to say that it is only a theory at present, but he is making a study of family histories and hopes to write a paper for the medical journals one day.’ Emmi Bergamin smiled and her eyes were afire with something akin to adoration. ‘Dr Hartmann is making it his life’s work.’
Florrie continued to stare at her in silence.
‘So, you see,’ Emmi went on. ‘All the details we collect from families will form part of his study.’
Florrie turned pale. ‘And – and must you have everyone’s?’
‘Oh yes,’ Emmi was firm. ‘It is a condition of your son being here.’
‘I – I didn’t know.’
‘You should have been told. I am sorry if it was not made clear to you.’ Her pen was already poised over a blank sheet of paper. ‘Now, shall we begin?’
Florrie’s mind was in turmoil. What could she do? How could she possibly tell this girl everything when Jacques himself didn’t even know the truth? She should have told him, Florrie castigated herself. She should have told him as soon as he’d been old enough to understand. And now she was caught in a trap. She couldn’t get up, repack his things and whisk him away. He needed to stay here. He needed treatment. And she? Well, she had to see Ernst Hartmann again.
Begin? Where should she begin? The war? No, no, before that. When had it all started? And then she remembered.
It had all started the day she’d refused to marry Gervase.
Two
Lincolnshire, England – New Year’s Eve, 1912
Edgar Maltby thumped the desk with his fist. He rose slowly and menacingly to his feet.
‘If I say you will marry Gervase Richards, girl, then marry him you will.’
Florrie faced him squarely. Her knees were trembling and, behind her back, her fingers were twisting nervously. Even at eighteen it was bold, perhaps even rash, to go against her father’s wishes. But outwardly she was calm.
‘I don’t love him, Father, and I won’t marry someone I don’t love.’
‘Love! Don’t be so foolish, girl. He’s the sole owner of the whole of the Bixley Estate since his father died. How can you possibly refuse him?’ Edgar shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you sometimes, Florence, really I don’t. You’ve been friends for years. You and Gervase. You’ve been inseparable. And even your brother, young though he is, has idolized the man. So, why—?’
‘Perhaps that’s why, Father. He feels like another brother to me. Not – not a husband.’
‘Well, you’d better start thinking of him as just that. He’s asked my permission to propose to you and I don’t want to hear that you’ve refused him. Or else—’
Now Florrie’s brown eyes blazed with anger. She stood tall and straight-backed, holding her head proudly and defiantly, but without arrogance. ‘Or what, Father? You’ll cast me out? Send me to the workhouse?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl,’ Edgar growled. He sat down in his chair again and leaned back, regarding her through half-closed eyes. He was a big man – tall and broad – and now, in middle age, he was acquiring the rotund shape that came with good living. He was a serious man, smiling rarely and laughing even less. Even as a child Florrie had wondered what it was in his life that made him seem so cross most of the time. And at this moment the frown lines on his forehead we
re even deeper than normal. His mouth tight beneath the dark moustache, he said slowly, ‘If you refuse Richards you will seriously displease me.’
Florrie softened a little. Despite his dictatorial manner, she respected her father and disliked making him angry. Yet there was a streak of stubbornness in her that wouldn’t allow her to let him ride roughshod over her and direct the rest of her life. She believed she’d the right to decide her own future. Fond though she was of Gervase – he was a good, kind man and she knew he’d be her lifelong friend – she couldn’t imagine herself married to him.
‘Florence, listen to me—’ Edgar spread his hands, palms upwards. In anyone else the gesture might have been seen as a sign of weakness or submission – but not in her father. ‘Richards loves you very much. He’ll give you everything. You’ll want for nothing. Can’t you see that?’
‘Of course I can, Father. But I’m not in love with him.’
‘But you like him, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. There’s nothing anyone could dislike about him.’ She smiled at the thought of the young man who’d been her friend for as long as she could remember.
‘And you get along with his sister, don’t you?’
There were only the two of them left now, living between Bixley Manor and the Richards’ London town house. Isobel Richards seemed to spend most of her time there, leaving her brother to live at the Manor and run the family estate.
‘Of course.’
‘Then for Heaven’s sake, girl . . . ?’
‘Because I care enough about him not to marry him. He deserves better than me.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that? Our family is of equal—’
‘No – I don’t mean that.’ She gestured impatiently. Why, with her father, did everything have to revolve around their position in society? ‘He deserves a wife who loves him in return.’
‘But then,’ Edgar said quietly, for once with an insight that was anathema to his nature, ‘he won’t love her, now will he?’
For once, Florrie couldn’t think of a reply.
Dismissed from her father’s study in what amounted to disgrace, Florrie flew up the stairs, two steps at a time, and ran along the landing to the south wing of the house where Augusta Maltby had her rooms.
‘Gran!’ Florrie burst into the elderly lady’s bedroom without so much as a knock on the door.
‘Goodness me, child, whatever brings you flying into my room shrieking like a banshee and without even the courtesy of announcing your impending arrival?’
Florrie was halted in her tracks, but she grinned. ‘Sorry, Gran.’ She loved the way Augusta pretended grandness when in truth she could have held her own amongst the rough and tumble of the stable-yard lads.
‘And don’t call me “Gran”. It’s “Grandmama” or “Grandmother” to you, my girl.’
Florrie took a flying leap and landed on the end of the bed. ‘On our high horse today, are we, Grandmama?’
The twinkle in the old lady’s eyes belied her words. ‘Not for long with you around,’ she muttered, pretending to be offended. She gazed at the lovely face of her granddaughter. Such clear skin – and without the aid of any cosmetics, she was sure; such mischievous eyes that gave warning of a steely resolve. And that beautiful long hair – a rich, dark brown – curling and waving around her head. So like Augusta’s own ‘crowning glory’ had once been.
Florence Maltby was what many would call ‘a little madam’, but to her grandmother she represented all that was good in the youth of the Edwardian era. Though, Augusta reminded herself, even those days were gone with the death of the old king two years earlier. Now his son, George V, ruled an unsettled world – a world where a young woman would need spirit and determination to survive.
Augusta smiled fondly, her brief irritation forgotten. ‘So, what is it this time? You’re going to London to join Mrs Pankhurst and her followers?’
Florrie’s eyes widened. ‘How – how did you know?’
Augusta’s eyes sparkled with mischief and the indomitable spirit that even age could not quench. ‘Because if I was your age right now, that’s exactly what I would do. But I’m a little old to be chaining myself to the railings outside Number Ten or Buckingham Palace.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Florrie laughed. At sixty-eight, her grandmother was still slim and energetic and Florrie could easily visualize her marching at the head of a protest waving a banner.
‘Besides, I’m needed here.’ Her eyes twinkled wickedly. ‘Who would keep your father in check if I disappeared off to London?’
They exchanged a smile, then Augusta said, ‘Brush my hair, dear girl, will you?’
As Florrie scrambled off the bed, her grandmother raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Tut-tut, whenever are we going to get you to behave in a more ladylike manner, child?’
‘Never, I should think,’ Florrie said cheerfully as she picked up the silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing table and returned to the bedside. Gently, she brushed her grandmother’s grey hair. It was thinning now, but once it had been as luxurious and vibrant as Florrie’s own locks. There was silence in the room for a moment. Augusta shut her eyes and submitted to the pleasure of the brush strokes and the feel of the girl’s tender fingers.
Florrie glanced around her. She never tired of coming to her grandmother’s rooms. Augusta’s belongings, cluttered around her, had fascinated Florrie for as long as she could remember. The furniture was heavy, Victorian mahogany that was polished lovingly every week. Every surface was covered with lace runners, photographs and ornaments – mementoes of a happy life. Even the walls were almost covered with paintings and pictures, hung haphazardly, and every one of them held a special meaning for the old lady. Especially the huge portrait of her late husband, Nathaniel Maltby, that hung opposite the end of her bed.
‘Actually, it wasn’t about that,’ Florrie confided, bringing her attention back to her grandmother’s question. ‘He – he doesn’t know about that yet.’
‘By he I presume you mean your father.’
‘Mm.’
‘So – what is it that my son won’t let you do now?’
‘Well, this time, it’s what he wants me to do that I won’t.’
‘Ah, that makes a change,’ Augusta remarked drily.
There was a pause whilst Florrie continued to brush.
‘So, out with it, girl.’
‘He – he wants me to marry Gervase.’
Augusta twisted round to look up at her granddaughter, so quickly that Florrie almost caught her face with the brush. But she managed to snatch it away just before the bristles touched the soft, wrinkled skin.
‘You don’t want to?’ Even Augusta was surprised at this. ‘But – but you’re always together. He’s your best friend. Yours and James’s too.’
Florrie dropped the brush and sat down on the bed again. ‘I know,’ she said and now there were tears in her eyes. Gervase was the last person in the world – outside her own family – whom she wanted to hurt. ‘I do love him, Gran—’ This time Augusta didn’t complain at the shortened name. ‘But not like that. I – I love him like a brother, not – not—’ A faint blush tinged her cheeks. ‘Like a husband.’
‘Ah.’ Augusta gave a deep sigh. ‘I see.’ She lay back against the plump pillows and regarded her granddaughter thoughtfully.
‘Are – are you angry with me too?’ Florrie asked. She could stand up to her father, but her grandmother was a different matter.
‘I should be.’
Florrie clasped the thin, purple-veined hand. ‘But you’re not! Oh, Gran, please say you understand.’
‘My dearest girl, of course I do.’
‘I – I thought this time you might agree with Father.’
Augusta snorted. ‘That’d be a first.’ Florrie giggled, but now her grandmother was thoughtful. ‘I had a similar problem with my own father. Only he disapproved of the man I wanted to marry.’
Florrie gasped. This was something she hadn
’t known. ‘You – you mean, you were in love with someone before Grandpops?’
Augusta laughed. ‘Good Heavens, no! Your grandfather was the only man in my life. No, it was him my father disapproved of.’
‘Disapproved of Grandpops?’ Florrie’s voice squeaked in surprise. She couldn’t believe it. ‘But how could anyone have disliked him?’
‘Exactly!’ Augusta’s mouth twitched with amusement, then more seriously she added, ‘Actually, he quite liked him, but he thought he wasn’t suitable.’
‘Ah – he thought he wasn’t good enough for you? Not your class?’
Augusta chuckled. ‘Well, he certainly wasn’t my class, but it was the other way about, my dear. I wasn’t good enough for him.’
‘What! I don’t understand.’
The elderly lady regarded the guileless young face in front of her. ‘I think perhaps I should explain,’ she said slowly. ‘Though you must promise me not to speak of this in front of your father – or your mother for that matter.’ Her mouth moved with wry amusement. ‘Your dear papa doesn’t like to be reminded of the lowly stock he comes from.’
‘Lowly stock? Father?’ Florrie began to laugh.
‘Oh, you can laugh, child, but your father takes it all very seriously and has been at pains to hide his true ancestry.’
‘But – but we’ve a family tree in copperplate handwriting hanging in the hall for all to see. It even has a coat of arms somewhere way back in great-great-great somebody or other’s time.’
Augusta chuckled. ‘I know, but have you ever noticed that it just follows the male line of the Maltbys – never the distaff side?’ She paused and then added pointedly, ‘There are none of my family shown on the tree, are there?’
Florrie stared at her. ‘No – there aren’t. But I never realized.’
Suffragette Girl Page 2