An Independent Woman

by Anna Jacobs

  “I can’t take your food rations!” Marcus protested, having seen for himself today how little was allocated to each person.

  She drew herself up, seeming suddenly much larger and far more intimidating. “I hope you’re not refusing my hospitality, Mr Graye!”

  He found himself disinclined to argue with her and saw Vic hiding a smile.

  When they left, they were both full of meat and potato pie, followed by scones which had even had a small dab of butter on them. Marcus had left some of his provisions behind and been promised a pan of stew, which would delivered to the Lodge before tea time by Mrs Diggle’s youngest.

  Vic grinned at him. “Told you what she was like. You find yourself doing what she says whether you intended to or not. She’s a good-hearted soul, even if she is bossy, always the first to help out in times of trouble.”

  “And she’s a superb cook. How did she get food to spare when they’re so short at the Hall?”

  “There’s a lot of swapping goes on round here. People grow things or breed animals, and don’t see why they shouldn’t have a small share for their trouble. There’s no profiteering, though. They don’t sell the extra stuff. I don’t blame them, either. They’ve worked damned hard during the war years, women and old men mucking in with the outside work.”

  The inside of the Lodge looked even more shabby and run-down after Mrs Diggle’ cosy little house.

  “I think I need a rest,” Marcus confessed as he limped across to sink into a chair. “I’ll sit and read through these papers the lawyer gave me, then maybe we’ll go across to the Hall later and do an inspection. I need to have a picture in my mind of what the whole place is like, not my youthful memories but an adult’s view.”

  “While you’re resting, I’ll nip across to the stables and have a word with Hill, then see if there’s anything left to salvage in the vegetable garden. I’ve been itching to search through it ever since yesterday. It’s amazing what you can find that’s still edible if a garden’s been planted properly, even at this time of year. And I’m sure I saw some late apples still hanging on some of the trees in the orchard. Even if they’re wizened they can be used for cooking. If they’re not needed at the Hall, maybe we could offer them to Mrs Diggle? She’ll organise for them to be picked and put to good use, I’m sure. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  When Vic returned, Marcus was asleep and the fire had died down. He set some small pieces of wood on it quietly, but inevitably woke the other man. “Sorry. But there’s a cold wind blowing outside and you’ll need to keep a good fire burning because this place still feels damp.”

  Marcus yawned and stretched. “How are the gardens?”

  “There are cabbages and a few leeks, and though the slugs have got to them, you can always cut the bad bits out. Hill says they did manage to dig up most of the potatoes and earth them, so there should be enough potatoes to last you through the winter, and there are even some strings of onions. He plaited them in the evenings and they’re hanging in the barn, which is nice and dry.

  Next year, we can plant the garden properly and provide most of our own vegetables.”

  “Next year,” Marcus said wonderingly. “Isn’t it wonderful to be able to say ‘next year’ with confidence?”

  They both stood for a moment contemplating that miracle, because for a few years they’d neither of them been able to say “tomorrow” with certainty.

  Marcus pushed himself upright, willing himself to ignore the pain and find the energy to move.

  “Right then. Let’s go and inspect the Hall, find out exactly what I’ve inherited.”

  “Are you sure you want me to come with you?”

  “Yes. I may need your help and—well, it’s good to have company when one is raising old ghosts.”

  Gladys was working in the kitchen and smiled when Marcus explained what he was doing there. “I’m glad you inherited the old place, sir.”

  The men walked round the ground floor, finding three sitting rooms, a small dining room which the family used to take their meals and a formal dining room with heavy mahogany furniture and a massive table with extra leaves stored underneath it.

  “How many people could you seat at this table?” Vic wondered.

  “More than I shall ever invite here,” Marcus muttered, not liking the sombre darkness of the wood-panelled walls which seemed to soak up all the available light.

  Beyond the kitchen and pantries were the housekeeper’s bedroom and sitting room, currently unoccupied.

  “These might suit you and Pearl,” Marcus suggested.

  Vic’s face brightened because the rooms were spacious and already furnished. “I’ll bring her to look round, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course it’s all right.”

  Upstairs, one of the two wings had four large bedrooms, in one of which his aunt Pamela was still keeping to her bed, and the other had six smaller rooms, two of which had been used as a schoolroom and nursery. There was a bathroom in each wing with antiquated fittings and rusty stains on the baths.

  “Don’t they use these any more?” Vic whispered, trying to turn a tap and finding it difficult.

  When he did succeed, water gushed out, wetting his arm. “It’s very old-fashioned.”

  “I think my aunt made my uncle install the bathrooms. They were probably the very latest thing then. But they don’t look to have been used much lately.”

  On the second floor were the servants’ quarters on one side, even smaller rooms than the west wing, with no bathroom here. Piles of discarded furniture and other detritus from former generations of Lonnerdens filled the big open space over the other wing of the house. Between the two areas was a place with tiers of slatted shelves where fruit was stored, apples mainly. The smell reminded Marcus of the harvest home services held in the small church when he was a lad.

  A narrow staircase led up to the roof and he forced himself up it, even though his leg and side were aching fiercely now. Somehow it seemed important to take proper possession of his inheritance. In the upper attic they found two rooms, some shabby travelling trunks and a tallboy missing one foot and standing on a brick. A door led outside to a short railed walkway which gave access to the roof and also provided sweeping views of the meadows and farmland, with the moors in the distance.

  The two men stood there, side by side.

  “Home,” Marcus said softly.

  It didn’t need any other words to express their feelings.

  After a while Vic pointed. “There are some tiles missing and cracked.”

  Marcus nodded. “We’ll get a tiler in to check it all out.” He turned. “I think I’ve had enough looking round for now.”

  “Don’t you want to look over the cellars?”

  “Why bother? Gladys said they were nearly empty. My uncle and cousin apparently drank the wine cellar dry.” He started going carefully down the narrow stairs. “I’d better see the village doctor tomorrow. I’m going to need these dressings changing.”

  “Old Dr Hindhurst died. We don’t have a doctor in the village any more. You’ll have to go into Tinsley. Dr Marsh came out of retirement when his son went to war, or there’s Dr Tolson.”

  Marcus sighed. “I don’t like Tolson, so let’s try Marsh. Perhaps you can take me there tomorrow morning?”

  “I also need to vote, sir. First time I’ve been entitled and I’m not going to miss doing it.”

  “I shan’t be able to, because I wasn’t in time to register here. Never mind. Next time.”

  Chapter 3

  The following morning Serena woke feeling very excited. Today, the fourteenth of December, a General Election was being held, and it was the first at which women would be entitled to vote—

  not all women, however, only those over 30, but she qualified for that, just, and had secretly made the appropriate arrangements to be registered.

  For the past few years she’d read everything she could about female suffrage in the newspapers and followed developments avi
dly earlier in the year as the Representation of the People Bill was debated in Parliament. She’d also listened in silence with eyes lowered to her father’s tirades against Lloyd George and, it sometimes seemed to her, he hated every other political party as well.

  His fury that women were to have a say in the government of their country was no less fierce for being expressed in a calm, steady voice. The words he used to describe women’s capacity to reason were scathing and it didn’t seem to occur to him how insulting that was to his daughter and wife.

  Serena was looking forward to exercising her rights as a citizen and voting for the first time. It was terrifying to go directly against his orders, but to vote would be symbolic, somehow, of the new life she hoped to build for herself, so she intended to do it, whatever the cost.

  As she joined Fleming for breakfast, he shook open his newspaper and greeted her with his usual grunt. But he was soon stabbing at the page. “These fools who write for newspapers are treating the fact that women are voting for the first time today as if it’s something to be approved of. Well, no female in my family will ever do such an unwomanly thing.”

  She didn’t need to reply since he took her compliance for granted, but simply continued eating.

  For the first time in weeks she found herself with an appetite and enjoyed the fine ham and crusty new bread, perhaps because it was spiced with the sauce of rebellion.

  When Fleming had left for his place of business, Serena put on her outdoor things and made her way to the nearest polling station before she lost her courage. If she could vote, she felt she could do anything. After standing patiently in line, she listened to a cursory explanation of what to do from the election officer before marking her ballot paper. She watched in delight as it slipped through the slot afterwards and had to be nudged to move on.

  Such a small thing to do, making a mark on a piece of paper, but such a huge step for the women who were at last allowed to do it.

  As she left the polling station she held her head high, feeling herself the equal of anyone in the country, a new woman as some called themselves. However the exhilaration died down abruptly when she encountered Mr Hammerton right outside.

  He tipped his hat then looked at the door she’d come through. “Miss Fleming! Surely you’ve not been voting?”

  She could feel her face getting hot and knew her blush had betrayed her.

  His smile was full of malice. “Well, well. And your father assured me that you had no desire to vote.”

  “Did he?” She moved on quickly, wishing she hadn’t met him, because he was as close a friend as Fleming had, as well as a business colleague.

  Sure enough, Fleming came home that afternoon in a towering rage, his eyes glinting like shards of ice. “Hammerton tells me you were at the polling station!” he snapped as he strode into the parlour.

  She looked up. “Yes.”

  “I thought I forbade you to vote.”

  She could only look at him, feeling as if her voice was hiding somewhere deep inside her, afraid to come out.

  “What were you doing there?”

  She had never heard him shout like this. Her heart began to thump nervously and she sounded breathless when she at last managed to reply. “Voting.”

  He slapped her face hard. “How dare you disobey me? You know I don’t believe in votes for women and I expressly forbade you to join in that circus.”

  She jumped to her feet, letting her embroidery fall to the floor. He had never raised a hand to her before, not even when she was a child. “It’s my legal right to do so and I decided to exercise that privilege.” For a moment they stood glaring at one another and she wondered if he was going to hit her again.

  When he didn’t move, she picked up her embroidery and put it in the bag, then walked towards the door without a word.

  He put his arm across the doorway, not touching her but spearing her with a chill gaze. “My daughter does not vote. If you ever disobey me again, I’ll turn you out of the house with only the clothes you stand up in and see how you manage to live then. That I swear.”

  Then he took a deep breath and turned away, moving towards the dining room as if this encounter had not even happened. After a moment pride made her decide not to hide upstairs in her room, so she set her embroidery on the hall stand and took her usual place opposite him at the table. She’d always wondered what would happen if he let his anger loose and now she’d found out. Her cheek was sore but she wasn’t going to rub it and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt her.

  He ate his dinner in complete silence.

  With his chill gaze resting on her from time to time, Serena found it hard to eat, but forced as much as she could down, for appearances’ sake.

  When he had finished his usual hearty meal he said, “Don’t forget to bring your mother’s jewels with you when you come to my office tomorrow morning. And don’t even think of disobeying me about that. I’ve decided to make allowances for today’s violation of my rules because of your mother’s recent death and your recent bout of influenza, but I shan’t do so again.”

  She bowed her head and let him take that for assent if he wanted to. She couldn’t understand why he was so emphatic that she hand over the jewellery into his keeping. The pieces weren’t particularly valuable, though some of them were quite pretty.

  As soon as she could, she escaped to her bedroom, locking the door and standing with her back against it. She began to shake and stumbled across to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing her cheek which was still sore. It was a while before the shaking stopped and she could pull herself together. Getting up, she wrung out a cloth in cold water and held it to her cheek, sighing with relief at its cool comfort. When she looked at her cheek in the dressing table mirror, she could still see the faint imprint of his fingers.

  Could she really get her own way against him? Was it worth the risk of even trying? He could be ruthless, she had seen that time and time again, a maid dismissed on the spot, her mother reduced to tears over a trifle and abjectly begging his forgiveness, once a competitor deliberately driven to bankruptcy, though she had only found that out by accident. And she’d heard rumours of other things too, rumours she hadn’t believed true but now wondered about. He had looked so different this evening, so vicious.

  Perhaps she should have got married years ago, escaping in the only way he would have tolerated? But her mother had always told her only to marry for love, and with the example of an unhappy marriage before her every single day, Serena had agreed wholeheartedly with this dictum. Her only escape from this restricted life had been in her mind and imagination. She had devoured novels where the intrepid heroines defied fate to find true love, and sometimes escaped into daydreams about the sort of man she’d like to marry if she could, the sort of life she’d like to lead . . .

  Only she wasn’t an intrepid heroine, was still hesitating about acting independently.

  Had she stayed here for her mother’s sake or because she was too cowardly to go out into the world on her own? She was about to find out.

  Suddenly she remembered her excitement at voting, the happiness in other women’s faces at the polling centre, the way they had smiled and nodded to one another, and she felt her spine stiffen. For all his icy rage there was nothing he could do about her voting now. And somehow, because she’d succeeded in voting, she felt she could find the courage to do the rest. Besides, if things went as she’d planned, she would be out of his house tomorrow. And later, out of the town, living somewhere far away.

  What would he do when he found out?

  She shivered suddenly. What could he do but disown her, never speak to her again? She was counting on that, especially since she wasn’t really his daughter. He could hardly drag her back here by force, after all.

  “I shall expect you at my rooms at ten sharp,” Ernest reminded her before he left the breakfast table the following morning.

  He stared at her, not moving until she said, “Yes, Father.” She stayed
where she was as he nodded, walked into the hall to don his coat and settled his hat squarely on his. As the front door closed behind him, she slipped into the front parlour and peeped out of the window.

  It might be foolish, but today she needed to be certain he really had left for work. His office was so close he could walk home at any time, but he rarely did. He liked showing off his wealth by using the car. She watched the chauffeur hold open the rear door of the black Aylesford Cabriolet and sighed with relief as Fleming vanished from sight beneath its hood. Even in summer he rarely drove with the hood down because once someone had thrown mud at him.

  When the car had turned the corner of Cavendish Terrace, she pressed her hand against her breast because her heart was pounding furiously. Then she whirled round and ran up the stairs to finish packing the last few items into her shopping basket. As she donned her outdoor clothes, she looked round her bedroom for the last time and felt unexpectedly sad. She’d slept here since she was a small child—been quietly happy here on her own, wept here too sometimes. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever sleeping anywhere else since she’d turned ten because her mother’s health had prevented them from taking holidays and anyway, her father disliked having his routines changed.

  She walked slowly along to her mother’s bedroom for a final farewell, but the furniture was covered in dust sheets and the familiar loving presence seemed to have vanished completely.

  Taking a deep breath she walked down the stairs, left her basket near the front door and went to let Cook know she was leaving.

  “What time will you be back, miss?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not till the afternoon. Don’t worry too much about dinner. Something light will do for me and Father will no doubt be eating at his club again.”

  She left the house, forcing herself to walk at a decorous pace along the street and up to Yorkshire Road, resisting the urge to run as fast as she could. As she’d planned, she went first to the grocer’s they patronised.