Bow Belles

by Bow Belles (retail) (epub)

  It was when she had lit the bedside lamp that the woman had turned her head into the pillow before slowly, almost warily, and not without a trace of defiance had turned her face towards Nellie. It was almost as if she were issuing an open challenge, and Nellie had picked up the gauntlet without flinching. Keeping a tight rein on her emotions, she had returned the questioning look before gently stroking the scarred face. Strangely, she had felt no revulsion, only a strong surge of pity for what the woman had endured. And when those beautiful eyes had opened and looked at her with overwhelming gratitude, the barriers had fallen, bringing a firm and affectionate friendship that had grown with the passing of time. After that night, the heavy veil that had so long covered the scarred features was never seen again.

  Nellie hadn’t realised how fond she had become of Anne until the day Mrs Courtney, the wife of a prominent lawyer and close friend of the family, had called on a ridiculous pretence of ‘having just been passing by’. After taking tea with the master, she had made it her business to waylay Nellie with the obvious intention of trying to find out more about the mysterious woman in the upstairs guest-room. When no information was forthcoming, the elegant woman had changed tack, taking on a confiding tone and telling Nellie of her concern about the gossip that was currently circulating among the close circle of family friends about the master’s relationship with what she termed ‘a woman of the streets’.

  To her profound surprise, Nellie had leaped to Anne’s defence, telling the startled woman that Mrs Jones was no woman of the streets, but a respectable lady. Her own temerity had alarmed her until she spotted the master standing in the doorway, unnoticed by his guest, his eyes twinkling merrily as his loyal housekeeper stoutly defended his honour and good name.

  When the irate woman had stormed from the house in a high state of pique, he had placed an affectionate arm around her plump shoulders, winked fondly, and said, ‘Good for you, Nellie! I’ve been wanting to get shot of that infuriating woman for years.’ Then he had taken the flustered woman even further by surprise by gently planting a kiss on her wrinkled forehead. Recalling the incident brought a fresh flush to her plump cheeks, and with renewed vigour she set about tidying the already immaculate room.

  * * *

  Lying in her scented claw-footed bath, Anne Jones looked dispassionately at the jagged scar that ran from her neck down to her groin. The sight no longer caused her any anguish: as she kept telling herself, who other than herself would ever see it? She knew of course the rumours surrounding her and Robert; she knew also that they were unfounded. She had been installed in this room on arrival, and here she had remained, alone. As she dried herself slowly, she wondered how much longer she would be able to remain in this wonderful, serene house in the quiet countryside on the outskirts of Eltham in Kent.

  When the nightmares had first begun, they had vanished upon waking, but these past few months the memories had remained, growing stronger with each day. Just tiny fragments at first, that came and went swiftly like looking through a magic lantern, then gradually the images had grown stronger and more tangible. There were children playing, their faces hidden from her, and streets and shops, also hazy but familiar. But, most of all, there was the man in her dreams. Although his face always remained in the shadows, there was a malevolent presence about him that remained with her long after awakening from her nightmares. But who was he, and why did he hate her so? Passing through into the adjoining room, she sat down at the dressing-table and began to brush her hair.

  ‘Here, ma’am, let me help.’

  Feeling guilty about her previous sharp manner and wanting to make amends, Anne smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs Palmer, I’d appreciate that, and I’m sorry if I appeared rude earlier. I meant no offence or discourtesy towards you.’

  ‘Lord, ma’am, you don’t need to apologise to me. When you’ve been in service as long as I have, you develop a thick skin.’

  Handing over the ornate brush, Anne asked, ‘Do you know what time Robert arrived home last night? I didn’t retire until after eleven and he wasn’t in then.’

  Mrs Palmer, with a worried expression, told her, ‘He only got in an hour ago; he’s been out all night again. The poor man’s working too hard, ma’am. He’ll make himself ill if he’s not careful. All this rushing about from one place to another. It’s not as if he needs to!’ Her words were accompanied by a disapproving sigh. ‘He’s downstairs in the drawing-room waiting to see you before he gets himself to his bed. If I had my way, I’d drop something in his tea to make him stay there for a week. There, ma’am, all finished,’ she said proudly as she viewed the perfectly groomed hair. ‘I’ve laid out your burgundy dress. If you don’t need me any more, I’ll slip downstairs and see if the master’s all right. He seems to be worrying about something lately. Has he said anything to you, ma’am?’

  ‘No. No, he hasn’t.’ The softly spoken words reflected Anne’s concern. ‘But I agree with you: there is something worrying him. I’ve noticed it myself, but he says there’s nothing wrong.’

  As Nellie made to leave the room, she hesitated, wondering if she could raise the courage to say what had been on her mind for some time. Then, taking a deep breath, she blurted out. ‘I wish you’d have a look at yourself, ma’am. I mean, I know it’s not my place to interfere, but honestly, it’s not as bad as you think. Why, with some powder and rouge you’d hardly notice…’ She stepped back quickly as a sad smile curved Anne’s full lips.

  ‘I know you mean well, Mrs Palmer, but I’d rather things stayed as they were.’

  At the sight of the housekeeper’s downcast face, Anne rose, her own face filled with sorrow. Crossing the room, she took hold of the gnarled hands and, wetting her lips nervously, said, ‘You’ve been very kind to me, more than anyone could expect, especially in view of the circumstances that brought me here. I’d like to say how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me all this time. And… And no matter what happens in the future, I want you to know I’ll never forget your kindness. Thank you… Nellie.’

  Deeply disturbed by the solemnity of her mistress’s tone, Nellie said shakily, ‘You sound as if you’re saying goodbye. You’re not going to leave us, are you, ma’am?’

  ‘I can’t stay here for ever, much as I’d like to. I don’t belong here, Nellie. I don’t know where I do belong, but I do know it’s not here, and some day I’ll have to return to wherever it is I came from.’

  ‘Oh, ma’am, don’t talk like that! You…’

  ‘Go on now, get downstairs and see to Robert. I’ll be down shortly.’

  When the door closed noiselessly, she sat down on the huge bed, running her fingers idly over the sumptuous quilt. She looked over to the dressing-table and the bare space where a mirror had once stood, shaking her head. It wasn’t the fear of seeing her scarred face that worried her, but the fear that she would recognise the face staring back. For, if that happened, she would probably remember who she was, and she didn’t want to know. Here, as Anne Jones, she was safe, but for her true self, someone hated her enough to want her dead; but who? The men who had attacked her had been acting under orders, she could remember that much. Closing her eyes tight, she strove to recall the exact words that had been tormenting her dreams for months. She concentrated hard, then from the furthermost corners of her mind came snatches of conversation, disjointed and faint in part, but enough to strengthen her suspicions.‘… seems a shame ter mark ’er…’ Then she was pleading for mercy, followed by a gruff, callous voice. ‘Sorry, darlin’, we’ve got our orders.’ Then more pain, and total, merciful, blackness.

  Her eyes snapped open, pulling her back from the terrifying memory. Could it be the man in her dreams who had given the orders? If so, what could she have done to make him hate her so? Shaken by the ordeal of remembering, she began to dress with trembling fingers while continuing her silent ruminations. Why, if she could remember that dreadful scene, couldn’t she remember anything else? It didn’t make sense.

  The psychiatrist
Robert had called in had said that loss of memory had many causes. He had been very kind, but at times she had been hard put to understand what he was saying. He had gesticulated a great deal, using a variety of big, incomprehensible words, yet what it all boiled down to was the fact that he didn’t know how to restore her memory. Her amnesia, he had informed her gravely, could have been caused by the severe blow to the back of her head during the attack, or for psychological reasons. Some people, he had explained patiently, simply shut down on painful memories, their minds unable to cope when faced with a particularly distressing ordeal or traumatic experience. It was the brain’s way of safeguarding itself, apparently. Memory could return quite suddenly, often triggered off by something or someone familiar from the past; or the patient could remain in an amnesic state for the rest of their lives. All in all, the eminent man, who, according to Robert, was a leading man in his field, hadn’t been much use.

  When pressed, Robert had told her the place she had been found was notorious for prostitutes, pimps and pickpockets, yet it was obvious she’d had some education. But she couldn’t be anyone of importance, else the police would have been out in force looking for her. It was equally obvious that no-one had thought to report her missing, otherwise she would have been claimed by now. She knew Robert had given a detailed description of her at the Whitechapel police station, together with the date she had been found, and for weeks afterwards she had waited nervously for the police to call and tell her they had found her family or friends; anyone, for that matter. But the police visit had never materialised.

  So who was she; where had she come from? Good God! She couldn’t have just fallen from the sky. Had she made so little impact on the world that not a single soul had cared enough to search for her?

  Sitting by the window, she looked down over the landscaped gardens and carefully tended flowerbeds, their many different hues creating a contrasting explosion of colour against the lawn. Under the leafy shadows of a willow stood a bench where she often sat for hours, drinking in the warmth of the sun and breathing the sweet fragrances that permeated the air. Here she had found tranquillity and peace of mind. Here she had been able to dispel not only the horrors of recurring nightmares, but also the painful operations she had undergone to restore her body and face to as close to its original state as medical science could achieve.

  But no matter how hard she tried to fight it, the feeling of dread that her days here were numbered persisted with a relentless urgency. And while she prayed that her life as she knew it now would continue indefinitely, a small part of her longed for the truth of her past to be revealed. For then, and only then, could the underlying anxiety that had become her constant companion be lifted. As she sat, her thoughts drifted back, and she shook her head. There must be people who loved her; there must be. Why else had this restless uncertainty suddenly entered her life, and the dreams that were becoming more vivid each night; especially the faceless children who seemed to be calling out to her? She purposefully blocked out the image of the dark-haired man. Her subconscious was slowly but forcibly penetrating the black curtain that hid her past, and she knew, deep down, that it was her own will that was preventing the curtain from lifting. She just didn’t know why; she was afraid to know why.

  And, finally, there was Robert, the kind, always encouraging, man who had saved her life and been the instrument of healing her body and saving her sanity. She could still recall the day she had told him she was well enough to leave his care. Her heart thumping and almost in tears, she had entered the drawing-room and thanked him for all he had done. With an outward composure she had made for the door, praying that he wouldn’t let her go, for she had nowhere to go, and her prayers had been answered. He had taken hold of her arms and asked gently if she wanted to leave, and when she had tearfully shaken her head, he had lifted her chin and said, ‘Then you shall stay. This is your home now.’

  The question of her leaving had never been broached again. Without him, she would be lying now in an unmarked pauper’s grave. He had done so much for her, asking nothing in return except her company. He had laid his good name open to speculation because of her, snapping his fingers and laughing in the face of what he termed ‘the hypocrisy of moral and social standards’. Bringing his dear face to mind, she smiled tenderly, remembering how her initial feelings of gratitude and respect had gradually turned into a deep, all-enveloping love; a love that was almost certainly one-sided. For Robert had never indicated, either by word or action, that the feelings he held for her were more than friendship. Her eyelids blinked rapidly. Maybe it was for the best. How much worse it would be if they had become lovers, only to discover some time in the future that she had a husband and maybe children who were waiting for her to return.

  Thinking of her benefactor brought her quickly to her feet. He was waiting to see her before retiring to his bed. She mustn’t keep him waiting any longer. Trying to shake off the feeling of impending doom, she smoothed down the full skirts of the burgundy dress, took a few more minutes to compose herself, then descended the stairs to the drawing-room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear. I confess I was on the verge of dozing off.’ Dr Robert Peakes-Brown rose to greet the fair-haired woman. He was a man of medium height with a faint sprinkling of grey in his dark brown hair. Warm brown eyes stared out of a strong, kindly face above a broad body kept trim by his hectic lifestyle.

  Dropping a light kiss on Anne’s cheek, he said tiredly, ‘I’m afraid I’m poor company this morning.’ And, looking over her head to the disapproving figure of his housekeeper, he continued with light-hearted gravity, ‘No doubt you’ve already been informed of my nocturnal habits. Would you think me dreadfully rude if I retired, my dear? I am awfully tired.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Robert! Of course I don’t mind. You should have gone straight to bed instead of waiting for me. Go on now, get some sleep.’ She playfully shooed him towards the door. ‘Before Mrs Palmer calls for Collins to carry you up the stairs!’

  Stifling a yawn, the weary man did as he was bid, only to be stopped in his tracks by the now hesitant voice that followed him.

  ‘Robert, just a moment, please. I know you’re anxious to get to bed, but… is there something troubling you? You’ve been very preoccupied these last few days. Is—is it anything concerning me?’

  Forcing a smile, Robert replied lightly, ‘Good heavens, Anne, whatever put that idea into your head? I’ve simply had a lot of extra work lately. As you know, funding this year hasn’t been as good as we had hoped, and the Board has been meeting late to try and think up ways to raise more capital. Last night’s meeting went on longer than I had bargained for, and before leaving I stopped by the ward to check on my patients, and…’ He shrugged his shoulders as if in apology. ‘Well, I’m afraid I lost all track of time. Now I really must get to bed before I fall asleep on my feet.’

  Conscious of Anne’s worried expression, he went up to his room, his body and heart heavy with fatigue. The heavy curtains had already been drawn, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Dismissing the hovering Collins, he undressed himself slowly and climbed into the large brass bed, his eyes red and aching from lack of sleep. Yet, in spite of his desperate need for slumber, his mind remained active.

  He had told Anne the truth concerning the Board meeting. The London, like all hospitals, depended solely upon public subscriptions and donations. Its everyday existence relied on voluntary effort and, in a poor area like Whitechapel, it had always been difficult to raise the vital funds. It required almost thirty thousand pounds a year to keep the hospital afloat, and without the untiring efforts of Lord Knutsford, chairman of the hospital – known affectionately as ‘The King of Beggars’ because of his ingenious efforts to raise money – and others like him, it was doubtful if the hospital would have survived this long. The subject of public funding was forever prevalent in Robert’s mind, but the hospital’s future wasn’t the reason for his occupation this morning, nor was
it why he had been reluctant to return home these past few days. The truth was that he had been afraid to face Anne, afraid that the knowledge he was keeping from her would be evident in his face.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she had asked. What could he have replied? ‘Well, yes, Anne, as a matter of fact there is. Although your name isn’t Anne, as you already know. I’ve just discovered your name is Florence Browning, you have four children – and a husband who is at this moment lying in a hospital bed after apparently falling down a flight of stairs. I say “apparently”, because on examination I found very suspicious bruising to his stomach, and though the man insists it was an accident, I am inclined to think he was helped down the said stairs by an extremely heavy boot. Which brings me to another worry. Who was it who kicked your husband down the stairs? I thought at first the culprit might have been a disgruntled boyfriend of your daughter’s, but I don’t believe that to be the case now. But both your husband and daughter are hiding something, or, to put it another way, shielding someone. Has that someone anything to do with what happened to you, Anne? If so, then you’re still in danger, and I’ll do everything in my power to stop you from returning home until I am sure you will be safe.’

  His feverish mind raced on, rehearsing the words he must speak, even though those very words would drive Anne from his life. ‘As a result of his “accident”, your husband suffered a mild heart attack, but not serious enough to prevent him from returning home. Being the weak man he is, however, he has been more than happy to go along with my wishes to remain in hospital while your daughter takes over the role of parent in his absence. Though I’ve met her on only two occasions, I am of the opinion it is a role she adopted the day you disappeared from their lives. And while I have the greatest admiration for her, I’m afraid I cannot say the same for your husband. He has spoken of you at great length – encouraged by me, I confess – and far from being concerned as to your fate, he has been eager only to relate how his life has been greatly inconvenienced by your disappearance. All in all, he’s quite a pitiful creature, and knowing you as I do, I can’t understand how you came to be married to such a man… Now that’s out of the way, shall we have some tea, my dear?’