Robbie’s mother gazed at him with scared eyes. ‘He doesn’t mean to, it’s the drink. He’s not a bad man …’
‘What about the baby? Does he harm it?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s not a mark on ’er.’
Nicholas sighed and went outside the room with Dr Sangster. ‘I don’t know what we can do. There’s only one alternative – the workhouse – but would his life be any better there?’
Dr Sangster shrugged. ‘Who knows? We can’t even be sure if he’ll have a life, not until after the operation.’
Later, after he had satisfied himself as to the progress of his own patient, Nicholas was about to put on his warm overcoat and top hat ready to go home when Nurse Barton appeared outside the ward. ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ she said. ‘I’m going to hear Sylvia Pankhurst and Annie Kenney speak tonight. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come, Dr Carstairs? I may be a feminist, but I’m not blind to the fact that every male presence adds weight to our cause.’
Nicholas gazed at her, admiring her courage in the way she stood up for her principles and made a sudden decision. ‘Of course I will. Just tell me where it’s being held and when.’
Her face lit up as she told him. ‘I knew you would if it were possible.’
There were times, Nicholas thought as he put on his warm overcoat and top hat and left to go home, when he despaired of the human race. Not only were women living in a democracy deprived of their legal rights, but the excuse of drunkenness for ill-treating a defenceless young child or abusing women was one he often heard. Yet ministering to the poor and sick as he had these past two years, he often found patients protesting that their husbands or fathers were ‘good men when they weren’t in drink’. Nicholas would never forget when a burly docker had lurched in from the local alehouse and, finding a doctor in attendance, had savagely thrown his tin plate of dinner across the room. The sight of an eight-year-old girl crouching to scoop the mess of potatoes and meat off the floor to cram into her hungry mouth had sickened him. Yet in all conscience he could not turn his back on these people; Nicholas hadn’t taken the Hippocratic oath that ‘he would use treatments for the benefit of the ill’ only to apply them exclusively to those with wealth. Although he was no saint; he was as ambitious as the next man, and well aware that he valued, even at times coveted, the finer things of life.
The meeting hall was large and chilly, sparsely furnished with rows of wooden chairs before a stage framed by limp, faded maroon curtains. On it stood a table behind which were three chairs. Two well-dressed women were arranging carafes of water and glasses and checking watches on their lapels. The centre chair was still empty, and Nicholas guessed they were still awaiting their distinguished guest. He glanced around for Nurse Barton then saw a gloved hand wave to him from the third row. The audience held a majority of women, many of whom were busy taking out hatpins in order to remove their large feather-bedecked hats so that those seated behind would be able to see the anticipated speaker.
‘I didn’t recognise you out of uniform,’ he whispered as he sat beside her.
‘Just look for the nose.’
He chuckled. ‘You don’t change.’
‘I’m a born spinster, Dr Carstairs, but not, as we’re accused of being, a sour one.’
He glanced around the room. ‘You seem to have very wealthy supporters.’
‘You tell me how a working class woman, especially if married with children, could find the time? That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want the vote.’
‘I take your point.’
The room was now crowded to full capacity, with people standing at the back, and then with a stir, Sylvia Pankhurst and Annie Kenney arrived, the latter a much younger woman than Nicholas had imagined. But her words were no less powerful, her delivery no less stirring. Afterwards, a few men at the back threw out derisory remarks, but the overall reaction was one of enthusiastic applause.
‘Did you notice that she had lost one of her fingers?’ he said as they made their way out of the hall.
‘Yes, as a child she was a weaver in a cotton mill, and I heard it was an accident with a bobbin. Inspiring, isn’t she?’
He agreed, and was thoughtful as he made his way home. The evening may have been unplanned but the experience had certainly been an interesting one.
It was a week later when Nicholas was visiting his patient in Cadogan Square, and saw the tall four-storey house where he had first seen Helena, that the memories came flooding back. He now found it difficult to believe that he had actually gone to wait outside St Margaret’s Church on that cold January morning. And was infuriated to find that as he neared the house – even though he knew there was little chance of seeing Helena, whose husband would undoubtedly have his own residence in the capital – he found it impossible not to glance up at the casement window. And there was someone there, a small face pressed against the glass, her swollen jaw bound in a blue silk scarf, and he guessed she was suffering from mumps. The child looked so disconsolate that Nicholas smiled up at her and she gave a shy wave in return.
The house must be one of those on lease during the summer Season. It was in a way a salutary lesson, illustrating that life had moved on, and that, Nicholas thought grimly, was what he needed to do.
At Graylings, illness was also prevalent. Oliver, to his fury, had succumbed to a severe bout of influenza and his ill humour was affecting everyone around him.
The local doctor had emerged from Oliver’s bedroom with a flushed face and tight lips, but Nurse Bowers, despite her youthful appearance, had a backbone of steel and remained with her patient. ‘We don’t want any bad temper, now do we,’ she said, briskly undoing the buttons on his pyjama jacket.
‘You are far too familiar, Nurse.’
She ignored him as she scooped out goose fat and camphor and spread it over his chest. ‘I’m only doing my duty.’
‘And I can easily dismiss you.’
‘Now that wouldn’t be very sensible, would it? Sit up now, Mr Faraday, and let me plump your pillows.’
Oliver felt her support his aching and sweating head and felt too weak to argue. At least he had issued instructions that Helena was not to enter the room. For all he knew she could already be pregnant and there must be no risk of infection or risk of a miscarriage …
Having to rely on regular updates from Nurse Bowers during the next three weeks, Helena felt a useless onlooker, her only distraction the music lessons, her only outside company that of the music tutor.
James Longford’s visits to Graylings were frequent ones. ‘I’m so appreciative of your tuition,’ she said to him one day. ‘I already feel more confident when I play.’
‘Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs Faraday.’
Helena wondered if she would ever become used to such formality. Her instinct was to say, ‘Please, you must call me Helena,’ but she knew that Oliver would think she was being too familiar.
She smiled at him, liking the relaxed way he sat on one of the gold velvet chairs, one long leg draped over the other. ‘You never tell me anything of your personal life. Are you married, for instance?’
He laughed. ‘And who would marry me.’
‘I’m sure there would be several young ladies.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so.’
‘I shall of course see you again on Friday?’
‘At the usual time, yes.’
Helena smiled at him and left, leaving him to tidy away his music.
On Friday morning, Nurse Bowers came to say goodbye and to say that Mr Faraday was now well enough to resume normal life. Helena was relieved. Surely that would mean that Oliver would soon make plans for their honeymoon. She was becoming desperate for distraction, to shake off the ennui that seemed to be with her these days. Later, when James Longford arrived for their lesson, she thought with
some mystification that he seemed different, almost like a coiled spring.
‘That was excellent,’ he said after she finished playing a sonata. ‘As I have said before, Mrs Faraday, you have an exceptional ear. And how I envy you to be able to indulge it in this beautiful music room … I’ve always longed for a Steinway.’ He glanced at the grand piano. ‘I make do with an upright one that belonged to my father. Although it does have a mellow tone, and of course I keep it regularly tuned.’
‘Did you never wish to play professionally?’
‘I had dreams, yes, but I am afraid that in this world one needs patronage to succeed, even to achieve one’s potential. You have been kind enough to say when I have played for you that I have talent, a gift even. But I have to eat, so that is why I …’
‘Have to teach idle women such as myself.’ Helena turned to him only for her sympathetic smile to falter as within seconds he was crouching before her, taking her hands and cradling them in his own. ‘Mrs Faraday … my lovely Helena … you must know that I’m madly in love with you …’
‘Mr Longford!’ Appalled, she began to struggle to free her hands. At that same moment, the door opened, and on hearing Helena’s horrified gasp the tutor turned to see Oliver’s glowering face. Crimson-faced, the tutor scrambled to his feet.
Oliver’s voice was like a whip. ‘Good morning, Helena. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of an introduction to this young man.’
She felt sick and struggled to keep her voice even. ‘Oliver, this is my music tutor, Mr Longford.’
‘And I am Mr Faraday, you impudent fellow. Get out! If you ever set foot on my land again I’ll have you horsewhipped.’
With bowed shoulders, the tutor grabbed his music case and, after a despairing glance at Helena, hurried out.
Oliver walked across to examine the chaise longue at one side of the room.
Helena was aghast. ‘What you saw was not how it appeared!’
He turned. ‘Then pray what was it, Helena?’
She flung out her hands. ‘The man just suddenly declared that he was in love with me … I was as shocked and surprised as you.’
‘Yet you allowed him to hold your hands, to crouch before you in that ridiculous manner?’
‘He gave me no choice!’ She backed away as Oliver came towards her. ‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t think that I gave him any encouragement?’
‘Didn’t you? You are a beautiful woman, Helena. Did you never think that your familiarity of manner, of which I’ve had cause to chide you, might give the wrong impression?’ He seized her wrist so roughly that Helena flinched. ‘You’re not a young and silly girl any more, you’re my wife, the mistress of Graylings, and I’ll thank you to uphold that position. Do you hear me?’
‘You’re hurting me!’
He let her go. She rubbed at her wrist, about to protest her innocence again, but Oliver was already striding out of the room. Utterly miserable, Helena watched the door close behind him. She slumped back on to the piano stool.
That stupid, stupid man! How could he have put her in such a compromising position! To mistake what she had offered as friendship, a shared enjoyment in music. What had he said, that he was madly in love with her? Hoping for patronage was a more likely scenario and if Oliver had not appeared, Helena would have dismissed the tutor herself.
However, what hurt most was the injustice, her husband’s lack of trust. How could he even think that she would betray him at Graylings, while he lay ill in bed? How could he have looked at that chaise longue and imagined …
Helena’s eyes began to sting with tears of humiliation and she brushed them away as her anger rose. She deserved an apology and unless it was forthcoming and soon, Oliver would find she had her own way of expressing her displeasure.
Chapter Nineteen
Molly, on her way to dust one of the rarely used bedrooms, found herself almost physically brushed aside. Mr Faraday, his face like thunder, was storming out of the music room. She watched him stride away along the corridor and hesitated. Should she tap on the door to see if Miss Helena was all right? It didn’t do to intrude, not between husband and wife; she’d be overstepping the mark. Besides, what if Mr Faraday came back? He struck the fear of God into her, that man.
So she continued on her way to the well-furnished room to begin its routine clean, and looking at its emptiness thought of the cramped cottage where she had grown up. The whole of the downstairs could have fitted into this little-used bedroom. It was unfair that many families had to struggle to lead decent lives in such conditions when others were born into great houses like this. Nor did they have the chance of a decent education. Poverty bred more poverty, but then it always had done. She shook out the dustsheets before beginning to polish the dressing table, headboard and footboard, all the time thinking of her own life, her own ambitions. Very few managed to escape the class they were born into, but she still had the hope that she might be different. One day to have a home of her own with a proper water closet – never again did she want to use a smelly outside privy next to a pigsty.
Oliver was in a quandary. According to the small leather notebook he kept in a bedside drawer, Helena’s monthly date had been due during his illness. If she still wasn’t pregnant, which is what he suspected, then the chill between them needed to be thawed, and soon. As for James Longford, he had already ensured with a veiled hint of unsuitability that man would never again find employment among decent families in Hertfordshire.
And so eventually one evening, Oliver went over to sit beside Helena on an elegant silk-cushioned sofa. ‘My dear – please say you will forgive me.’
She turned to him. ‘And exactly what do you want me to forgive you for?’
‘I can only plead that jealousy unbalanced my reason. I should never have accused you of wrongdoing. I’m sorry.’
‘You didn’t trust me.’ Helena’s voice was tight with suppressed anger.
‘I promise it will never happen again.’ He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny leather box. ‘I thought – to make amends …’
‘I cannot be bought Oliver.’
‘Helena, that was not my intention; I was at fault and I admit it. But this atmosphere between us, surely you agree that it cannot continue.’
For a moment she was silent, then said, ‘I know.’
‘I wish you would accept this.’ He opened the lid of the box to reveal an antique cameo ring. ‘My father gave it to my mother on their first wedding anniversary. Won’t you at least try it on?’
She slipped it on to the third finger of her right hand where it fitted perfectly. It was undeniably beautiful.
‘So – please,’ Oliver said, ‘are we friends again?’
Helena, aware what the question entailed, also knew that she had no alternative. She nodded.
However, when later he went through the connecting door to try again for an heir to Graylings, even he could see that Helena’s bare shoulders were rigid beneath their slender pink lace straps. As he extinguished the lamps, Oliver, conscious that their honeymoon was overdue, decided to delay no longer. They would go to Italy. Surely in such a romantic country Helena would respond with the passion necessary to conceive.
At Broadway Manor, the kitchen was a hive of activity, with Cook in her element as she barked orders at her helpers.
‘I’ve never cooked for an MP before,’ she said, putting one floury hand up to her damp forehead.
‘Yes, and this might well be a significant occasion as he’s a senior member of the new Liberal Government,’ the butler said. ‘There’s been much talk of politics in this house during the past few months.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re not saying that Mr Standish …’
He shook his head. ‘Forget I said anything, I spoke out of turn.’
But when he had left, one of the youn
g footmen said, ‘Glory, that’d be a turn up for the books, wouldn’t it. Which party do you think he’d represent?’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Annie glared at him. ‘He’d hardly invite a Liberal if he was a Tory!’
‘I didn’t know you were interested in politics. Unusual for a girl, isn’t it?’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I believe in women having the vote, for one thing!’
They both glanced round as Enid Hewson came in, carrying some sewing. ‘I thought I might come down here for a bit and have a cup of tea with you all.’ She settled herself into an armchair.
‘I could do with a sit down too,’ Cook said. ‘What news have you got? I know there was a letter from Miss Helena.’ Enid sucked on the end of a piece of cotton before threading a needle. ‘Apparently they’re going to Rome first for their honeymoon, then travelling on to Florence and Venice, so I suppose it’ll be several weeks.’
‘It must be wonderful,’ Annie said, arranging slices of cooking apples in an oval dish, before sprinkling them with lemon juice. ‘I’d just love to travel and see other countries.’
The two older women exchanged glances.
‘I think you’re better off where you’re known, love,’ Cook said gently.
‘Where people are used to me, you mean? I certainly wouldn’t want to frighten the natives!’
A new voice joined in. ‘It took me about ten minutes to get used to your scars, Annie, and you’ve got lovely eyes and hair, and a nice smile. I wish I had.’
‘Charlotte, you’re—’
‘Homely.’ The new parlourmaid gave a toothy grin. ‘Don’t worry, I know. I don’t mind, really. I think a nice nature’s better than good looks.’
‘Well, talking of honeymoons, Ida said they had a lovely time in Colwyn Bay.’ Annie went to wash her hands at the sink. ‘And it’s who you’re with that’s important. I liked her Charlie much better than Mr Faraday.’
Elsie, the other new parlourmaid, was pouring out everyone’s tea. ‘I think I’ve got a bit of a tummy upset.’
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