The Lorimer Line

by Anne Melville

  Her lips trembled as she spoke, and she turned her face unhappily towards him. Charles could see that she was on the verge of tears, but his anger could not be contained.

  ‘It was a promise you had no right to make!’ he cried. ‘Eight years ago my father was still alive. Eight years ago he had not yet reached the state of frenzy in which he died. He was demented, certainly. Oh yes: everyone recognized that! He had a fixed idea that somewhere in the world John Junius Lorimer had concealed a treasure. Everyone who suffered under his obsession thought him mad, and so he became mad. And all the time — all the time - ‘

  His voice choked on sympathy for his father’s ravings. He pushed away Margaret’s attempts to calm or comfort him, and was still further angered by the sound of a knock on the door.

  It was Betty. ‘If you please, sir, it’s John Taylor from the cottages. His wife’s time has come and she’s in great trouble.’

  ‘I can’t come out now,’ said Charles, irritated by the interruption. ‘Tell him that Mother Barrett can deal with it as well as I could. He doesn’t need a doctor for a simple birth.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Betty withdrew in silent disapproval; but she returned a moment later.

  ‘If you please sir. John Taylor says to tell you that Mother Barrett’s been there for six hours already and it’s she who says that she can’t do without a doctor. And he asks to remind you respectfully that he’s paid into the club without missing a week.’

  ‘You must go,’ said Margaret quietly. ‘Think if it were our baby and no one would come to help.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘I must go. John Taylor has paid his weekly penny, and for pennies I must go out into the storm and deliver a baby into a stinking cottage. And all the time there has been a fortune concealed. A treasure. Who will care for my treasure? your father asked. Now we know the answer. You have cared for his treasure. So my mother’s health was broken, my father’s mind unhinged, my own career ruined, all in order that your father’s by-blow could wear a fortune round her neck. Tell Taylor to saddle my horse, Betty. I will go to deliver his brat, and when I come back John Junius Lorimer’s bastard can leave my house and take her inheritance with her.’

  Margaret was crouched on the floor by the low table. She was weeping and he was tempted to take her in his arms. It was rare for him to lose his temper, but the provocation had been great and the relief of expressing the full depth of his anger was great as well.

  Before the echo of the door slamming behind him had died away, he recognized that he was being unfair. Margaret had made a wrong decision, an error of judgement, but the real crime had been committed many years earlier, and she had been in no way to blame for that. When he returned he would tell her so, comforting her and himself at the same time. But at the moment he could not trust himself to be kind or even coherent. He needed something on which to vent his rage. Since it was too late to take a stick to John Junius Lorimer, his mare must bear the brunt of it.

  He leapt into the saddle without speaking to the anxious father-to-be, and shortened the reins with a sharpness which caused the mare to rear, whinnying, as she turned. With an equally uncharacteristic viciousness he dug in his heels and galloped away down his own drive and along the great elm avenue which led to the centre of the village. He was conscious of John Taylor shouting something after him, but the wind whipped away the words and he was in no mood to turn back. Down the dark avenue he rode at full stretch, as though he were chasing the devil. The driving wind and rain beat against his face. It was because he kept his head down against them that he did not see the huge trunk of an elm which had fallen across the road. His mare, a gallant hunter, might have cleared the obstacle if left to herself, but Charles was startled by the change of pace as she gathered herself for the leap, and pulled up her head so that she checked in mid-air. Her forelegs hit the further side of the trunk and buckled under her, sending Charles over her head. As they fell together, he could not tell whether it was the stony road or his mare’s flailing hoof which split open his head. Whichever it was, it made no difference.

  5

  The shock of bereavement freezes the emotions and paralyses the will. How much stronger is the effect when it is tinged with guilt! Margaret had loved Charles for so long, and enjoyed his company as a husband for so short a time, that his loss would have been enough in itself to make her despair. But to her natural unhappiness was added a burden of responsibility made heavier by the fact that she dared not tell anyone what had happened. Her marriage had ended with a quarrel: the first quarrel - the only quarrel - they had ever had; and it had been all her fault. She had made Charles angry. He had died with his mind turned against her, and she could not doubt that his anger had contributed to his death. There was no one to whom she could confess her guilt, because the story would be incomplete unless the rubies were mentioned.

  The rubies had caused enough trouble already. Margaret believed now that she had been wrong to accept responsibility for keeping them secretly until Alexa came of age. But having made that one wrong decision, she had been right when she decided never to tell anyone of their existence - not even Alexa herself until her twenty-first birthday. The tragedy had occurred because she broke her resolve, and she did not intend to make the same mistake again. The need for secrecy combined with her misery to make her withdraw from the world into a depression which no one at first could penetrate.

  Alexa did her best. She tried to soothe her guardian by playing and singing to her; but the music, whether bright or sad, caused Margaret’s tears to flow. Nor could any comfort be provided by embraces or assurances of undying love: if Margaret could not hear Charles’s voice, she would not listen to any other. But Alexa must have taken one other step, for within two days William arrived at Elm Lodge.

  His sympathy displayed itself in practical help. He arranged the funeral and visited Charles’s lawyer and banker to discuss Margaret’s financial position on her behalf. The needs of his own business meant, however, that he could not stay too long away from Bristol. Margaret was still in the throes of her first grief when he tried, before leaving, to make her consider plans for her future.

  ‘As soon as I arrive at Brinsley House I shall arrange for a suite of rooms to be prepared for you,’ he said. ‘You must make your home with us again, of course, and you would be wise, for the sake of your child, to come as soon as possible. The business of closing up Elm Lodge and deciding whether it should be sold or let can be postponed until after your confinement. After the shock you have had to endure, I feel sure you ought to rest and be calm.’

  It was impossible for Margaret to be calm, but even more impossible for her to agree without thought to what he took for granted. There was nothing unexpected about her brother’s suggestion. Since his father’s death William had accepted without hesitation his responsibilities as head of the Lorimer family. All the hesitations now were on Margaret’s side. She had not given any thought to the future - indeed, she had hardly yet come to terms with the fact that it must be a future without Charles. But the independent streak in her nature forced itself through the listlessness of bereavement, making her reluctant to return to a way of life which she had already rejected once.

  ‘You are very generous, William,’ she said. ‘But I no longer have any employment in Bristol.’

  ‘If you come to Bristol, you will not need employment. You can devote yourself to your child. You will owe it to him to do so. And I must tell you frankly, your income is not enough to maintain you here.’

  The need to think clearly and express arguments acted as a first step to lift Margaret out of her apathy.

  ‘Country life is less demanding than Bristol society, and has more to offer,’ she pointed out. ‘The investment you made for me when Lower Croft was sold will keep us clothed. We grow all the vegetables we need. There is fruit to come, the pigs are fattening and the hens are laying well. A good many families have to exist on a smallholding no larger than the grounds of Elm Lodge. And I am learning how t
o live as a farmer’s wife. Already I can bottle fruit and preserve eggs and smoke hams like a countrywoman born.’

  William’s expression showed what he thought of this state of affairs, but Margaret refused to be ashamed. Her practical nature had taken pride in the speed with which she had acquired new skills at the beginning of her married life. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘if I stay here I can increase my income by taking over the practice.’

  ‘That is a ridiculous idea. You would never be accepted as a doctor here.’

  ‘I am as well qualified as Charles was.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. Do you seriously imagine that a farm labourer would allow himself to be examined by a woman, even if it were proper for you to make such an examination?’

  ‘He has no objection to his wife being examined by a man,’ she retorted. Then she controlled her tongue. Her arguments with William too often developed into quarrels, but she did not wish to offend him now. Even if his invitation were prompted more by a sense of duty than by affection, it was a kind one. It would be ungrateful of her to tell him how stifling she found Sophie’s cold company. During her last stay at Brinsley House she had at least been able to escape to her work at the orphanage. If she were to return now, she would be expected to stay at home and devote herself entirely to her baby, in spite of the fact that all the actual work of bringing him up would be performed by servants. The prospect was a suffocating one - and yet William might prove to be right when he claimed that she had no alternative.

  ‘It is too soon for me to make decisions of this sort, William,’ she said. ‘Please believe that I am grateful to you for your generous invitation. Whether I accept it or not, I do most sincerely appreciate the knowledge that I can rely on your support and turn to you in an emergency. But the whole pattern of my future life will be affected by this choice, and I must think about it carefully.’

  ‘You have no choice,’ said William bluntly. ‘For the child’s sake, you must come to Brinsley House. But I can see that I have spoken too soon. You are not yet able to think clearly enough to come to any sensible conclusion. My invitation will remain open until you are ready to accept it. You may write to me at any time.’

  After he had left, Margaret paced up and down her drawing room, trying to resolve her own uncertainties. She knew that a good deal of what William had said was true. The birth of the baby would increase the regular expenses of the household right from the beginning - for before Margaret could undertake to work, she must employ a nursemaid - whereas her income would always be irregular.

  It was also true that the villagers would not easily accept a female doctor. And yet, thought Margaret, they would have no choice. The area was too poor to support two doctors. If she announced that she was continuing Charles’s practice, it would not seem worthwhile for any other practitioner to put up his plate in the area. Nor would Charles’s patients want to see their years of club payments wasted. They would be forced to come to Margaret as long as they were in credit; and if she did her work well, they would surely be prepared to continue the payments.

  It might be possible, she thought, and allowed herself to contrast in her mind the stiff formality of life at Brinsley House with a softer picture of Alexa singing to a baby as she rocked its cradle, while Margaret herself sewed peacefully by the fire. With economy and hard work, it could be done.

  But what if she were to fall ill? Suppose - with Alexa and a baby both dependent solely on herself - something should happen to make her unable to support them. Was it fair to expose a child to the risk of insecurity when he had been offered the sort of comfortable upbringing that she herself had enjoyed?

  But then, even her own childhood security had collapsed. Nothing in life could be relied upon to last for ever. The speed of her pacing increased as she put to herself first one side of each argument and then the other. Only two hours earlier she had been listless and tearful. William had at least succeeded in jolting her out of that state and into a consideration of her new position. But now she found herself driven to distraction in a new way. To return to Brinsley House would be cowardly: to refuse the invitation would be rash. The two conclusions were instinctive, not logical, and she was unable to reconcile them. A single course of action could be regarded as either sensible or weak, depending only on the viewpoint. Looking from each side in turn, Margaret found herself reduced once again to tears, although this time their cause was not loss but mental strain.

  From this stress she was rescued by the arrival of Ralph and Lydia and the two children, Kate and Brinsley, who had been born in Jamaica. Margaret had known that they would be arriving in England for a three-month home furlough at about this time, but was expecting a visit only after they had rested for some days in Bristol. Instead they came at once, without warning, explaining after the first embraces and cries of surprise and sympathy were over that they had been anxious not to put Margaret to the trouble of preparing for them. Charles’s death had occurred while they were still at sea, on their way home from Jamaica, but Sophie had told them the news as soon as they arrived at Bristol.

  ‘You will hardly find me a cheerful hostess,’ said Margaret, aware that Ralph was looking anxiously at her swollen eyes, reddened with weeping. Indeed, he turned almost at once to his wife to suggest that they ought not to inflict themselves for more than an hour on a household in mourning, but Lydia brushed the suggestion aside.

  ‘With Betty’s help, I shall do everything that is needed,’ she declared. ‘I make no apologies, Margaret, for bursting into your home in such a way. My years in Jamaica have taught me that it is a waste of time there to make tactful suggestions or ask permission to take liberties. I have become a managing busy-body, and I cannot shake off the habit so soon after leaving the mission. I hope you are a good enough friend to forgive me.’

  Margaret was far too pleased to see Lydia and Ralph to make any objection. She stood up, intending to accompany her friend upstairs, but at once was forced to sit down again.

  ‘How useless I am!’ she exclaimed, angry at her own weakness. ‘Just within these last few days I seem to have become so heavy. And without energy to do anything at all.’

  ‘Are you eating properly?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘I have no appetite.’

  ‘And sleeping?’

  ‘How can I sleep when I am so unhappy?’ Margaret found herself yet again on the brink of tears. She saw Lydia signal to Ralph, who without hesitation picked up his sister and carried her up to her bedroom. Lydia followed, shooing him out of the room as soon as he had laid Margaret down on her bed.

  ‘How far are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Seven months.’

  ‘Then you are being very foolish,’ said Lydia. She spoke sternly, but held Margaret’s hand as she did so. ‘You know the risk to a baby at precisely this time. I’ve no doubt all your friends have advised you to rest, and you have brushed aside their advice. But I am speaking as your doctor, and I am ordering you to rest. You are to stay in bed for the next two weeks and you are to eat whatever I send up. For the sake of the baby’s health, if you have no regard for your own. Who is looking after the practice?’

  ‘No one,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Then who is going to deliver your child?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’

  ‘You deserve to have your face slapped for speaking in such a way,’ said Lydia briskly. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. For the next three months I am the village doctor. And yours.’

  ‘You can’t spend your holiday working.’

  ‘I’m only happy when I’m working,’ said Lydia. ‘Ralph may travel round and visit his bachelor friends if he wishes. I shall be content to stay here, and no place could be healthier for the children. May I ask Betty to find me a girl from the village who will care for them?’

  ‘Of course.’ Margaret managed to smile, in spite of her swimming head. ‘You are very good to me, Lydia.’

  Lydia kissed her affectionately. ‘I know you would do
the same for me,’ she said. ‘I am going to produce the most beautiful baby for you, and I shall be so proud of him that you will hardly be allowed to remember that you arc his mother. I shall expect you to obey my orders. There is nothing I can do to console you in your distress at Charles’s death, I know, but you have made yourself ill, and your body must be restored to strength before you can hope to regain your full courage.’

  Courage. It was a curious word for Lydia to choose, Margaret thought as, later that evening, warmed by a fire in her bedroom and a drink of hot milk, she began at last to drift towards sleep. Perhaps her friend had been referring only to the pains of childbirth. But it was equally true that courage was needed simply to accept the prospect of a future in which Charles could play no part, to take charge of her own life. The choice which William had presented to her earlier that day would have to be made sooner or later, but for the moment she was content to relax in her friend’s care. Earlier, she had been frightened by the feeling that her distracted mind was causing the collapse of her body. It came as a wonderful relief to be told that it was the weakness of the body which was more probably causing the confusion of her mind. She pushed away the decisions which must soon be made, and slept.

  The days and weeks passed gently, uneventfully. As soon as Lydia allowed her to come down from her bed to a sofa, Margaret found herself able to enjoy Alexa’s playing and singing without any of the anguish it had caused her earlier. Lydia’s reports of her reception in the village were amusing; but could not all be regarded as a joke. Margaret pressed for more details as time passed, and gradually came to satisfy herself that Lydia’s brisk efficiency was having an effect. By the time Margaret herself was ready to take over, the first shock of seeing a woman doctor would have faded; it might not yet seem a normal thing to the villagers, but at least it could no longer be regarded as an impossibility.