The Lorimer Line

by Anne Melville

  Claudine greeted Margaret politely and spoke to Ralph in a way which made it clear that they had conversed earlier in the afternoon. To Margaret’s still greater surpise, Ralph answered the question in halting French. She asked him about this later, when the carriage had returned to fetch her and they were both on their way back to Brinsley House.

  ’Claudine is to teach Matthew French,’ said Ralph. ‘They are to speak it together all the time when they are alone. I asked her to help me with the language as well.’

  ‘But surely you don’t attend the French classes at Clifton?’ said Margaret. Even as she asked the question she guessed the answer. French was taught only to those boys who lacked the ability to be successful in Latin and Greek. If Ralph had been moved from the Classical to the Modern Side, he would have reason enough to look anxious. John Junius had no great regard for the virtues of dead languages, but he expected that in any selection which took place within the school his son should always be chosen for the upper part, whether it related to work or sport.

  Her suspicions were right. Ralph was silent for a moment and then burst into a sulky tirade.

  ‘They told me in May that I must spend less time playing cricket and more on Greek verse,’ he said. ‘But suppose the Cheltenham match had been lost because I was out of practice. The masters would have been the first to complain that I wasn’t showing the proper school spirit. And it was unfair to make me change so late. Now I’m behind everyone who started French earlier, so I shall do badly on the Modern Side as well.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Margaret soothingly. ‘This is your last year at school. It was a marvellous century you scored against Cheltenham and Oxford surely would rather have a first-class cricketer than a mediocre scholar.’

  ‘I may not be allowed to go to Oxford. William wasn’t.’

  ‘Papa wished William to go into his business as early as possible. Your talents are different. He will be proud to see you captain the university at cricket one day.’

  ‘You think I’m to be a gentleman, do you?’ Still resentful, Ralph tried to laugh. ‘Well, I see I’m fit for nothing else. So I must chatter to servants and hope that a boy of four doesn’t prove more apt to learn than myself.’

  It was not easy for Margaret to sympathize with him. She had for some years been well taught in the schoolroom of Brinsley House. Because William was ten years older than his younger brother, a time had come when he was ready for school but Ralph was still too young for serious study. John Junius, recognizing a good tutor when he had one, had retained Mr Pennydale’s services until Ralph should be ready for him.

  But in the Lorimer household value was always expected for money. With Mr Pennydale on the premises and a daughter whose time must somehow be occupied, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world that Margaret should be given almost the same education as her brothers. Some of the effects were unusual. Most girls were taught to paint delicate water colours. Mr Pennydale, finding himself expected to demonstrate an art for which he had no talent, had chosen instead to equip Margaret with a knowledge of anatomy so that she could attempt figure drawing in a scientific manner. She had rebelled against Greek, but worked hard at Latin - and enjoyed her lessons.

  By the time she was sixteen, Ralph was ready to begin his career at Clifton College and Mr Pennydale’s services were no longer required. She had pleaded with her father to allow her to join her closest friend, Lydia, as a boarder at the Ladies’ College in Cheltenham. This request was refused, and from that time onwards Margaret’s life had been the conventional one of the daughter of a wealthy family. It was not surprising that she sometimes felt jealous of her brother’s greater opportunities, realizing that she would have made better use of them if she had been in Ralph’s position.

  The unfairness of the situation was often on her mind. Just because she was a girl, so many doors were closed to her. The conventions of her society allowed her only a single choice. She could marry, or she could remain single, living in her parents’ home. There was no other decision to be made, and she was not free to make even that one herself.

  Sometimes, when her wish to be a doctor overwhelmed her, she raged silently against the restrictions of her life. But there were more frequent periods when she was able to accept her situation with contentment. There was just one door which would open to her and never to her brothers. She could give birth to a baby, as they could not. One day, she promised herself, she would have children of her own.

  4

  Before any bowl of soup can reach the lips of the poor, a good deal of champagne necessarily makes its way down the throats of the rich. When the need is for something as substantial as a building, the fertile soil of a wealthy community must be cultivated with both energy and style. Margaret gave a good deal of attention to the details of her mother’s evening reception, but naturally her own direct contribution to it exercised her most. Almost every day she sent the carriage for Luisa, using the need to practise together as an excuse to provide her friend with a good meal.

  On these occasions the baby, Alexa, remained behind. Luisa’s relations with her landlady had been strained for a time because she had difficulty in paying the rent promptly every week. But recently there had been no mention of the arrears, and Mrs Lambert had even volunteered to look after the baby occasionally. Luisa considered that this new reasonableness was caused by the regular appearance of the grandest carriage in the city outside Mrs Lambert’s front door, but it was Margaret’s opinion that Alexa herself was irresistible to any woman.

  After their practice the two young women walked together on the Downs. Good food and fresh air had already worked a small miracle on Luisa’s appearance. Her long black hair had regained its glossiness and her skin, although still pale, had lost its strained appearance. She had somehow managed to acquire a new gown which, although plain, showed off her slender figure to advantage.

  A little to Margaret’s surprise, Luisa’s wardrobe had also been the object of John Junius’s interest. When he heard from his daughter of the occasion on which she proposed to sing with her former teacher, he made it clear at once that Luisa must be dressed in a manner suitable for the company. Margaret and she must go together, he commanded, to order gowns of equal elegance to be made up and charged to his account.

  Margaret suspected that the result might not be quite as he intended. Luisa had spent the months of her absence from Bristol in London. She had visited a new store called Liberty’s in the first week of its opening and was overwhelmed by the new aesthetic style of dress which she saw there - so different from the tightly fitted gowns which had been fashionable until then, with their bustles and trains and the necessity for stiff-backed corseting. At that time she could not afford to indulge herself in the new fashion, but John Junius’s offer gave her an opportunity now which she could not resist.

  While Margaret watched doubtfully, Luisa chose a shimmering Indian silk for her gown and sketched the soft and fluid line in which it should be made up. Because of her tallness and the grace of her movements she would look striking even in a style so unfamiliar to the ladies of Bristol society. But Margaret, lacking her presence and confidence, was not prepared to stray so far from what was expected. She ordered her own gown to be made from a stiff blue silk which rustled so loudly with every movement that Luisa laughingly declared it would be a miracle if any of the singing were heard at all.

  When the evening of the reception came, it was natural that Margaret should feel responsible for putting David Gregson at his ease. He would know none of the wealthy citizens who had been invited, and they might behave coldly to someone who was present only as a servant of the charity’s committee. Margaret faced this prospect on David’s behalf before the guests arrived. Her duty as a hostess, she recognized happily, would force her to make sure that he was never left alone.

  The reality was a little different. She had a more important duty this evening — that of persuading her mother’s richer guests to subscribe to the charitab
le fund. There was a good deal to say about the insanitary conditions in which so many sick women lived, and the urgency of the need to remove both the women themselves and their children. It had all to be said again and again, to one person at a time, so that everyone would believe her own contribution to be vital. Margaret promised herself that when the time came for the company to remove into the great dining room, where the refreshments had been laid out, she would find the opportunity to apologize to David for treating him so discourteously.

  The moment came. The butler bowed in the doorway, the footmen with their trays of glasses stepped back out of the way, and Georgiana graciously indicated that a small supper was prepared for her guests. Looking round for David, Margaret discovered that after all he was not alone. He was offering his arm to Luisa.

  Margaret stifled her disappointment as best she could. David’s behaviour was perfectly proper. He was recognizing that the daughter of his hostess must necessarily concern herself with guests more important than himself. It had been clever of him to identify the one person present whose status was as low as his own.

  By the time the company returned to the big drawing room, which was used only on occasions such as this, its sofas and chairs had been rearranged to face the piano. David, at the back of the room, remained standing, looking at the two musicians over the seated ladies. Margaret’s throat went dry with nervousness. But she was to start the concert with a piano piece which she had practised to perfection. There was no reason to be apprehensive, she told herself.

  Taking her seat at the piano, she caught the attention of the whispering audience with the dramatic opening chords of The Maiden’s Prayer before showing off her agile fingers with the rippling arpeggios and trill-like bird songs which one hand provided as accompaniment for the melody played by the other. The piece was bound to be well known to all the ladies in the audience who had daughters of their own. Perhaps it was for that very reason, because they had heard it more stumblingly practised in their own drawing rooms, that they were generous in their applause.

  The two girls then changed places so that Luisa could play the accompaniments to their songs. Margaret stood stiffly, half facing her, with one gloved hand resting on the piano. Her first solo was an old favourite: I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls. Luisa played the introduction and Margaret began to sing.

  Throughout their little concert David’s eyes were fixed on the performers. An hour earlier Margaret would have taken it for granted that he was watching her. But now her pleasure was spoilt by Luisa’s presence. When they began their duets, Luisa sang the alto part and, although she took care to adjust her voice to Margaret’s sweet but less powerful soprano, the richness of her tone left no doubt that hers was the superior talent.

  Margaret, recognizing that Luisa had few advantages in life to compare with those of her own birth, had never before experienced any jealousy. Now, for the first time, she found herself resenting not only her musical inferiority but also the fact that her friend, unlike herself, was so poised and stately. Elegance was a gift which Margaret had always affected to despise, since she knew that she could never possess it, but at this moment she was brought near to tears by the knowledge of her own lack of style.

  The reason for her jealousy was not hard to find when she looked at it honestly. As she ruefully castigated herself for not allowing poor Luisa her superiority in these areas, she realized the explanation with a shock so sudden and intense that for a moment her head swam. What she felt was not just pique. She had fallen in love.

  She did her best to conquer the surge of emotion. David had appealed to her at first sight for no better reason than the look of his curly hair and handsome face and slim figure. Later in their first meeting she had approved of his honest outspokenness and was grateful for the sympathy he showed towards her ambition. He was ambitious himself – she was sure of that, and in turn sympathized with him. Although conscious of being in this one respect held back by the wealth and position of her family, she could understand how much more severely David was handicapped by the poverty into which he had been born. From their conversation in Leigh Woods she knew that he had been an only child and that his parents were already dead. He was alone in the world in a way which she could hardly imagine. All these different impressions had combined to make her aware of a peculiar interest in him, but only now did she realize how much her feelings had deepened.

  After the music was over, the sight of David coming towards the piano made her steel herself to hear his compliments directed elsewhere. Yet it was after all her own hand over which he bowed. She told herself that this was merely social politeness, but his admiration appeared to be sincere. A little at a time she allowed relief to creep over her and dared to feel pleasure in the conversation with an intensity heightened by her earlier apprehension. It even seemed safe at last to turn towards Luisa.

  ‘I believe you are already acquainted with Mr Gregson,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a strange coincidence,’ David replied. ‘Miss Reni and I lodge in the same house. We keep different hours, so that even on the staircase we have never met until tonight. I have often heard her practising the very songs which you have just performed, but without knowing that I should have the privilege of attending their performance. Mrs Lambert, my landlady, knowing my employment, mentioned to me on one occasion the arrival of the Lorimer carriage to call for Miss Reni, and still it did not occur to me that I might meet her here tonight.’

  There was no hint of confusion in his voice, so that the thought which flashed through Margaret’s mind was unprovoked. Could it be that David was the father of Luisa’s child?

  She dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to her. David had come to Lorimer’s only in January, and at that time Luisa was in London and already pregnant. Margaret flushed with shame at the wickedness of her own thoughts. She began to turn away from David, feeling that she was unfit to converse with him. But he took the opportunity to raise another subject with her.

  ‘I learned yesterday of another property which might be worth inspection, Miss Lorimer,’ he said. ‘I wondered if we - if you would allow me …’

  He had apparently not enough courage to come to the point, but Margaret was eager to rescue him.

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Gregson, let us by all means make another expedition. Perhaps on this occasion we shall be more fortunate.’

  They appointed a time. The evening, which until a few moments earlier had seemed in ruins, was suddenly a triumph. Margaret’s happiness must have shown in her face, for even her father commented on it as he came across now to compliment the singers.

  ‘You are looking very well tonight, Margaret. Extremely well. And you sang, I thought, with great expression. He turned to Luisa. ‘I must thank you on behalf of our family, Signorina Reni, for devoting your talents to this cause. I hope it may not be too long before you sing for us again. It was most beautiful. My carriage will of course take you home whenever you wish to leave, but I hope that we may enjoy your company a little longer yet.’

  ‘Papa,’ said Margaret, and then hesitated. But her father seemed to be in a more affable mood than usual. ‘Papa, Mr Gregson lodges, it appears, in the same residence as Luisa.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said John Junius. His bushy eyebrows lowered in a disapproving frown, as though it were not correct for an unmarried lady and gentleman to share a landlady. But almost at once he gave David a cool nod of recognition.

  ‘We must leave Signorina Reni, I think, to decide whether she wishes to be escorted on her return journey. All the seats in the carriage are entirely at her disposal.’

  After he left, Luisa laughed gaily at David.

  ‘Well, I hope, Mr Gregson, that you will accept a seat. Your journey will be unpleasant otherwise, for I can hear that the rain is heavy.’

  ‘I hardly need the threat of rain and mud to drive me into such charming company, Miss Reni.’

  An hour ago the exchange would have made Margaret even more jealous than before, and t
he thought of David closeted in the carriage with Luisa would have been insupportable. But by now she was beginning to recognize the humour with which he paid the compliments expected by society, laughing at himself even as he did so. And a woman with a baby was no sort of rival. She was even able to raise a smile as she saw them leave together.

  She was still smiling as Betty unpinned her hair later that evening and warmed her nightdress before the fire. But later still, as she lay in bed, the smile faded, replaced by anxious consideration. It was not enough to acknowledge her own feelings. It was not enough even to hope that her father’s accountant found her of some interest. If the relationship were to develop further, it would be necessary for some initiative to be taken. She had the wish to act: had she the courage?

  5

  When a search has provided the excuse for companionship between a young lady and gentleman, its successful conclusion is not always greeted with the satisfaction it might seem to deserve. It was with dismay that David realized, on a bleak and snow-swept day in January, that his expeditions in Margaret Lorimer’s company had come to an end. Croft House - the fifth property they had inspected together - was precisely suitable.

  The house was old and spacious. It had been the centre of a manorial farm before the city swelled to engulf it, allowing an astute owner to grow houses rather than corn on his fields. He had kept enough land to provide a pleasure garden, however, so that the surroundings were verdant. The barns and stables which clustered round the old farmyard had not been used for many years, but were still dry. It would be a simple matter to convert them into dormitory accommodation for children.