In the early hours of the first day of June Margaret was awakened by the sudden onset of her labour pains. She lay for a little while without moving, knowing from her experience as a doctor that there was plenty of time. But between the contractions she felt the need to move about, changing her position; and soon, restless, she got out of bed and wrapped herself warmly. Lydia would not mind being awakened too soon, and the time would pass more easily if they could talk.
On the way, she paused to open each door in turn, illuminating the rooms briefly with her candle. Alexa was asleep in the first room, her beautiful hair covering the white pillow with reddish gold. Behind the next door, the nursery was waiting for its future occupant. What sort of life would he have, this new person who was now demanding to be born?
As she asked herself the question, she knew that she was ready to find the answer. The very violence of the pains that jerked her into rigidity at steady intervals carried a curious reassurance. They told her that her body had recovered, and so her mind could once again be expected to perform rationally. In a few hours she would no doubt be tired again, needing to rest and recover for a second time. This was the moment when she should consider again the choice which William had put to her.
Her instincts had not changed. To return to Brinsley House would be an act of cowardice. But was the alternative realistic? Would she be able, alone, to launch Alexa into the world and bring up a child from babyhood?
Any father must sometimes ask himself the same question, she supposed, although with less choice in the answer. Were men ever frightened at the thought of the responsibilities to which they were committed? The question reminded her of her own father. She closed the door of the nursery which would not be empty for very much longer, and went into the little room where the quarrel with Charles had begun.
The portrait of John Junius Lorimer was still propped with its face to the wall. She bent down to lift and turn it, but it was heavier than she had expected. As she strained at the weight, her body was gripped by a pain so much greater than any which had come before that for a moment she could not move. When at last her muscles relaxed, allowing her to straighten herself, she knew that there was no more time to be wasted. ‘Lydia!’ she called. ‘Lydia!’
Four hours later, Margaret looked at her son for the first time and wept. She wept for the baby who would never have a father; and for Charles, who would have loved this little boy. Lydia, understanding, made no attempt either to tease or console her, but took the newly-born child away again to be washed and wrapped. By the time she came back with the tiny white bundle, Margaret had sobbed her grief under control and was waiting, exhausted but calm, to take the baby into her arms.
He was a Lorimer, not a Scott. Though he would be christened Robert Charles Scott, there was no sign of Charles’s grave solidity in the mobile face and the tiny, threshing fists which seemed already to be exploring the new world in which he found himself. He was a small baby, as Margaret had been, and his downy hair was bright red.
Margaret lay for a little while without moving, happy in her exhaustion. Beside her, Robert whimpered, and his lips sucked at the air. As she put him to her breast for the first time, she was amazed at the sudden flood of love which filled her heart. Although her body was so tired that she hardly had the strength to lift an arm, she felt strong and protective - and, at the same time, serious. She was responsible for Robert, and it was time to make the decision which would determine the course of his life. She asked Lydia if the portrait of John Junius could be brought into the room, and within a few moments it had been propped up on a chair so that she could see it without lifting her head. She stared across the room at her father’s face as the baby sucked for a little while and then fell asleep with his head pillowed on her breast.
As though it were yesterday, she remembered when she had first seen the portrait, because it was the day on which she first met David Gregson - a day which had seemed to bring her happiness but which had proved to be the start of a chapter of disasters. How much of what was to happen had John Junius anticipated? she wondered. His greenish eyes seemed to pierce their way out of the portrait from beneath an untroubled brow: his mouth was firm with confidence. If his anxieties had already begun at the time of the sittings, he had taken care to give the artist no hint of them.
His memory offered no guidance to his daughter, who had loved him so deeply while he lived and had suffered so much from his actions since he died. As far as women were concerned, he had been a man of his time. Women, in his eyes, were intended by nature to be dependent creatures. He cherished his wife as a possession even when he no longer cared for her in any other way; and he would have taken it for granted that his daughter should stay at home until she married - for the whole of her life if no husband could be found. There could be no doubt that he would wholly have approved the way in which William assumed that a widowed sister should return to Brinsley House.
It seemed that there was no help to be found there - and yet, as she gazed at the likeness, Margaret felt her blood stir: it was, after all, Lorimer blood. Brinsley Lorimer had set sail across the ocean with no fear of the storms he would face when he was far from land. John Junius Lorimer had faced the even stormier seas of finance and industry with an equal courage. He had been defeated in the end, but the earlier years of his career had been full of risk and resolution. All the Lorimers had been adventurers at heart, and Margaret herself had shown the same spirit of adventure fifteen years earlier when she broke away from the conventions of her society and resolved to make herself independent. What was independence worth if she could relinquish it whenever a difficulty arose? Of what value was a burst of initiative if it faded at the first setback? If Brinsley Lorimer’s first ship had sunk beneath him he would have built himself another, and she could do the same. All that she needed was courage.
‘Have I enough?’ she asked aloud, still staring at the portrait, and found her answer in the solid, autocratic face of a man who had always claimed the right to control his own life, even to choosing the moment of his death. He had brought her up in the prosperous and comfortable style which he thought that a Lorimer deserved, and that style had been snatched away from her even before his death. He had left her a legacy of deceit and confusion, robbing her in turn of the only two men she had ever loved and bringing this part of her life to as final a conclusion as the other. One thing remained, something which could never be taken away. She was a Lorimer, and from this man she had inherited the Lorimer spirit, a compound of intelligence and application and flair with, above all, the willingness to take a risk. Yes, she had enough courage.
Newly awake, Alexa appeared in the doorway, still wearing her white nightgown. Her long hair, a more golden shade of red than the baby’s, streamed unbrushed over her shoulders; her eyes were bright with excitement.
‘May I hold him?’
‘Of course.’
They made a pretty picture: the beautiful young girl looking down at the sleeping child. In a gesture copied from John Junius himself, Margaret gave a quick nod towards the portrait. It signified that a decision had been taken, the matter under consideration was settled. William had given her the strength that came from opposition, and Lydia the strength of example; but from Robert she took the even greater strength of love. In the past she had accepted support from a father, brother, husband. That period was over. This was not the first time in her life that she had resolved to be independent, but it was the most important, because there were more lives than her own at stake. Exhausted though she was, she felt her body flooding with joy and excitement. By her own efforts she would provide support for Alexa and baby Robert, the daughter and grandson of John Junius Lorimer. As her eyes at last closed in weariness, she made herself a promise. She would not fail them.
To
Jeremy,
Jocelyn,
and Jonathan
This electronic edition published in July 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
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Copyright © William Heinemann Ltd 1977
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ISBN: 9781448203284
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The Lorimer Line Page 39