“You are very sweet, Mrs. Spencer.”
“We all make mistakes in life,” she began. Her hand brushed away a wet curl from my cheek. “It’s how you grow and learn from your errors that will one day make you the woman you should be.”
Grow. Yes, my entire body was growing, and my clothes were becoming tighter. I had no maternity outfits. Rather than deal with my emotional pain, my thoughts flitted to frivolous pursuits. Father had given me a small allowance for expenses.
“Yes, I am growing.” I giggled, putting my hand upon my belly bump. “I’m afraid that I will need new clothes soon.”
“Well, we can go shopping after your first visit to the physician. Your father has provided for you to see a doctor during your term.”
At least Father cared about my health when Mother no doubt wished I would die. Of course, I could die in childbirth. The thought sent a tingle of fear through my body. A month ago, I wanted to die. Now I wanted to live to give birth. Clearly, I had become a jumble of twisted emotions.
“Come down for a cup of tea, and we can talk about what lies ahead for the months that you will be with us.”
“All right,” I acquiesced, hoping for more French pastries to enjoy. Mrs. Spencer had been more of a mother to me in the past ten minutes than mine had been in a lifetime.
AFTER FIVE MONTHS OF pastries and gaining weight, the bump had turned into an enormous watermelon. Now in my eighth month, I couldn’t imagine what another month of growth would do to my body. I already walked like a waddling duck.
My days at the Spencers had been filled with good company and small tasks to keep me busy. Mrs. Spencer, whose first name I learned to be Catherine, had become a dear friend. Mr. Spencer always treated me with consideration, conveying to me in albeit fatherly tones whenever he had something to say.
During the months that passed, my health remained good. A physician in Lyon kept a close watch on me, giving me assurance that all proceeded toward giving birth as it should. Delivery had been arranged to occur at the local medical facility.
As the time drew nearer, Mrs. Spencer warned me of what would transpire. In my heart, I knew that more good-byes were ahead. Good-bye to my baby, and good-bye to my refuge at the Spencers. Attending finishing school had not been my choice, but I knew that it would be a respite from life with my parents that I desperately needed. There would be time to heal my emotional wounds while attempting to turn myself into a lady of title as my father suggested. I refused to believe my mother’s prophetic declaration that I had been doomed to a loveless existence. After all, what did she know of love?
I felt prepared for what lay ahead until my body went into labor pains. If the time had come to suffer for my transgression, God had rightfully given agony to women as penitence whether we be saint or sinner. The baby decided to burst from my body, and nothing could save me from that occasion.
Catherine sat by my side, holding my hand, dabbing sweat from my forehead. After all the months we had been together, I could not comprehend her kindness that never waned in spite of my failings. Had I been Catholic, I would have nominated her for sainthood.
On August 12, 1935, two months after my seventeenth birthday, I gave birth to a little girl. When she left my womb, I screamed bloody murder. As soon as she slipped into the world, the doctor cut the cord, and the nurse wrapped and carried her away.
“It’s a baby girl,” Catherine announced joyously.
“I want to hold her,” I begged, stretching out my arms. The nurse ignored my plea while the doctor finished whatever doctors do after babies are born.
“I’m sorry, dearest,” Catherine consoled. “It’s for the best.” She squeezed my hand in consolation.
The painful physical birth had ended only to be replaced with the tragic reality that I would never know my daughter nor would she know me. She wailed in the arms of another as she disappeared through the doorway. Perhaps she knew in her little heart that our ties had been permanently severed beyond the mere cutting of an umbilical cord.
Whatever provisions for her adoption had been made, I would never be told. I possessed no recourse but to agree since my parents forbade me to raise her. Nevertheless, I clung tenaciously to the hope that one day we would reunite. I secretly named her Mary Jane and whispered my good-byes through the hot tears of regret. Catherine heard my cries and hugged me in my sorrow.
Chapter Six
Polished and Finished
Father had successfully enrolled me in a posh finishing school near Lake Geneva as he stated. Apparently, having performed a stellar job in keeping my illegitimate child buried like any other scandal, the school officials had no inkling of my past. It was a lesson that good money could purchase anything in life, including my education as a lady.
With strict protocol regarding no men in our dormitory rooms and curfew by ten o’clock at night, I had no interest in involving my life with another man. After the ten-month course had ended, I received a summons in June of 1936 to return home to resume my place at Kentwood. Father had become eager to bring me back to England sooner than intended. Adolf Hitler had become führer of Germany, and too many political upheavals occurred elsewhere on the Continent. With memories of the Great War still in his mind, I understood his worry. Even I had become disturbed by the news on the radio. The entire affair scared the daylights out of me, and I was anxious to leave.
By now, I had been well taught in the skills of etiquette, civility, polite conversation, posture, poise, entertaining, social dance, and other skills that would eventually make me an intelligent and well-bred wife, albeit my morality had been a bit tarnished. Many other aristocratic ladies who came from families of wealth and noble standing attended my classes. I enjoyed the company of other young women my age and realized my gradual maturity into womanhood, having recently turned eighteen. I attributed the transformation to not only the school but also the fact that I had become a mother.
As I stood gazing into my open suitcase, my hands fingered the gold locket around my neck. Catherine, as a thoughtful parting gift before coming to Geneva, had given the jewelry to me. She had somehow or other managed to clip a strand from my daughter’s hair and tucked it away in the center of the trinket piece. Her kind gesture had allowed me to keep the child that I would never know, forever near my heart, at the end of a gold chain. Every day I wore it and refused to take it off.
“Isabella, here is your sweater that I borrowed.” A voice from the door to my room brought my attention back to the packing at hand.
“Oh, thank you, Susan. I nearly forgot about it. You are kind to return the item.”
“Thank you for letting me borrow it.” She smiled in response.
Susan had become a friend during my stay at Château Mont-Choisi. Though she never knew the meaning of the locket that hung around my neck, I trusted her like a sister.
“I will miss you.” My hands received the sweater, and I looked at it for a moment. “Why don’t you keep it? This old suitcase is bursting at the seams already.” I held it out to her.
“Really?”
“Yes, please keep it.”
“It’s such a beautiful blue, and I’ve always liked it.” She took it and held it in her hands, grinning at the gift. “You have been a good friend,” she added. Her arms flung around my neck, and we gave each other a tight hug.
“Stop it now, or I’ll lose all the poise that I have learned and start to cry,” I complained in jest.
“Write me,” Susan implored.
“Of course I will. Your address is in my wallet, and as soon as I return, I promise to pen a letter.”
With one last hug, I said farewell. My bags had been packed, and a taxi waited for me outside to take me to the train station. I felt no remorse leaving the school of etiquette, though I admitted the experience had been an interesting one, to say the least. Throughout my training, I learned skills but swore never to turn into my mother’s emotionless exterior for the sake of propriety.
When I arrived
at the train station with ticket safely stowed in my handbag, the station bustled with travelers. Frankly, I had forgotten the sea of human beings with luggage, rushing to and fro, with announcements blaring over the loudspeaker about departing and arriving trains on various tracks. At first I inwardly panicked as if thrown headfirst into a social world that I had managed to escape for some time.
Gathering as much poise as I could muster, I clumsily staggered with two suitcases to the schedule board to find what track I would be departing from in the next hour. Unable to remember what line I had booked, I halted for a moment, set my bags down on either side of me, and rifled through my purse. When I found the ticket, it snagged on my passport and landed on the floor. As I was about to bend down and pick it up, a pair of booted feet approached and a leather-gloved hand snatched it instead.
“Let me help,” the male voice said. I lifted my eyes, surprised to see a military uniform. Mercifully, the armband showed no swastika. I imagined the handsome young man to be French.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling. I stuffed it back in my purse, grabbed my suitcases, and shuffled away as fast as I could, looking for another schedule board.
Eventually I found the departing track number and headed in its direction. My anxious nerves had multiplied tenfold as I bumped into numerous people scurrying alongside railcars. The smell of iron, steam, and oil filled my nostrils. When I found the numbered coach, a kind porter helped me with my luggage and led me to my private sleeping quarters. Grateful for my father’s generous allowance to purchase a first-class ticket, I tipped the porter for bringing my bags and slid the door closed for privacy.
Exhausted, I slumped onto the cushioned seat. Outside, passengers thronged the walkway between trains. Steam hissed from nearby engines. Watching the commotion left me in a tizzy, so I drew the shade and exhaled a sigh of relief. My poor hatpin had slipped, causing my headpiece to cling lopsided to my head. I removed it and set it down next to me. As I kicked off my shoes because of my aching feet, I examined the surroundings. They looked comfortable and clean for the journey home.
The travel from Geneva to Calais would take nearly twelve hours, and as I glanced at my watch, I cringed that my arrival in Calais would be in the dead of night. I hadn’t thought of spending the evening there before taking a ferry across to Dover and then another train to London. When I traveled with my mother, pregnant, I must have been in a daze the entire way. The trip home felt as if it would take an eternity before I set foot again at Kentwood Manor.
The whistle screeched, and the train lurched forward, beginning its smooth transition down the track. I pulled up the shade and watched as we left the station, saying farewell to the fascinating city. On our way, we would travel through Lyon, which only brought a pang of sadness as I remember the baby that I had given birth to nearly a year ago. Naturally, I wondered where she lived, thinking someone from the Continent may have taken her. It could even be possible that she resided somewhere else in the world like the United States. Thinking of her whereabouts reminded me of the gnawing void in my heart until tears welled in my eyes. I would never know, and it was fruitless to speculate about my daughter’s whereabouts. Nevertheless, I prayed she would be safe and well.
Tired at the thought, I leaned back and then down on my side, bringing my feet up. I wanted to sleep the entire way but knew full well that my stomach would growl in a few hours, demanding food. Just as I felt my eyelids flutter to dreamland, a knock upon my door aroused me.
“Ticket, please,” came the booming voice of a conductor.
“Just a minute,” I called out, grabbing my purse and rifling through the contents once more. Retrieving it, I tiptoed in my silk hose to the door too lazy to put my shoes back on. As I slid it open, a tall uniformed man grabbed it, gave it a quick perusal, punched a hole in the form, then handed it back.
“Thank you,” he said, walking down to the next compartment. Afterward, I slid the door shut, resumed my position, and took advantage of the moment alone.
After a deep sleep, I woke up disoriented two hours later. The train continued toward our destination. I stuck my head out of the cabin to see if I could find a porter. Luckily, one headed toward me down the narrow aisle.
“Where are we?” I asked, glancing out the window, looking for anything familiar. We were traveling through the country.
“East of Lyon,” he said. He tipped his hat and continued on his way.
Lyon? I couldn’t believe that I had missed seeing the city, but perhaps it had been for my benefit. I slid the door closed, and my stomach growled. When I lifted my sleeve and looked at my watch, it had turned six o’clock. The dining car would be open, and I felt famished.
It took almost a half hour to wash my face, change my wrinkled dress, and rearrange my curls that were in disarray. When I felt presentable, I finally put my shoes back on. They had a short two-inch heel but had not been the most comfortable as I had discovered, hauling suitcases around the train station.
As soon as I stepped out into the hallway, the train turned toward the right, curving around a bend. My footing, already unsure, caused me to bump into the window. I had forgotten the challenges of walking down corridors and between cars. Another porter came scurrying down the hallway.
“Is the dining car to my right or left?” I asked, glancing both ways unsure.
“To your left, ma’am, next car,” he said, squeezing by me going in the opposite direction.
Straightening my shoulders like a finished woman should, I headed down the corridor. After I had reached the end of the car, I pulled the heavy door and considered the path ahead of me. Walking between railcars scared the daylights out of me. You could see the ground flying by between the cracks, and the clickety-clack of the metal wheels on the rails roared in my ears. All that stood between certain death and me was a flimsy metal strip, wobbling back and forth, which made a path toward another door that led to the dining car.
“You can make it across in one wide stride,” said a male voice, coming up behind me. I swung my head around, thinking an impatient porter wanted me to get on with it. Instead, I saw a familiar face that I couldn’t place. As I gawked at him curiously, he spoke once more.
“Allow me to go ahead, and I’ll reach out my hand and give you a tug across the abyss.” He chuckled.
“Oh, sure, with one stride I’m sure any man with long legs can make it.” I balked. “With these heels, it will take me two to three nightmarish steps.”
He smirked, pushed by me, and with one giant stride, crossed over and stood in front of the other door.
“Come on now. Give me your hand,” he ordered, reaching out toward me.
Naturally, I glanced at the large palm on the other side and then lowered my head, considering the ground whizzing underneath my feet. My stomach growled again, reminding me that I could either cross or starve.
“All right then,” I said, clasping my fingers around his warm flesh.
“One, two, three,” he said. On three, I threw my right leg in front of me and went airborne. Thankfully, he pulled me toward him with a sharp jerk, and I landed on two feet.
“See, that wasn’t so bad.” He glanced down into my eyes as my breasts pressed against his upper body. After he had cleared his throat, aware of the awkward position, he held my hand and swung open the dining car door. When he pulled me through to the other side, I suddenly remembered the gentleman’s name.
“Are you Mr. Spencer? Reginald Spencer?”
“Ah, you remembered. And you are Lady Isabella Stuart.”
Embarrassed that he knew of my indiscretions, I sheepishly looked elsewhere. Would I carry this embarrassment for the remainder of my life?
“Do you mind if I join you for dinner?” he asked.
Dinner? I had hoped for time alone, but it seemed fate had other plans.
Chapter Seven
Dinner for Two
The dinner hour had just begun, so we didn’t need to wait for a table. Because of my past indiscr
etions, I wondered if Mr. Spencer expected a silly girl to keep him company. Things had changed, and so had I. As my father hoped, I felt more like a lady, finished and polished from my recent experiences.
As we settled into our chairs and were handed a menu, I glanced out the window at the passing scenery. Dusk had painted the skyline pink. A few moments later, I turned my attention back to Mr. Spencer. His eyes perused the menu.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I began. Interrupting his focus, Mr. Spencer lifted his gaze toward me.
“Yes, I am returning from visiting my parents in Lyon,” he replied.
“Oh, how are they?” I asked enthusiastically. “I dare say my time with them was most enjoyable. They were kind and supportive.”
“Both are well, thank you.” He hesitated for a moment and then laid the menu down on the table. “I’m attempting to convince them to return to England,” he admitted with a worried glint in his eyes.
“Are you as worried as everyone else about...” I glanced around before speaking the man’s name in a whisper. “Hitler?”
He shook his head affirmatively. Speculation of possible invasions by Germany of neighboring countries swirled. Many believed, however, that France could hold their borders should Hitler attempt to do the unthinkable.
“I hope they took your advice,” I responded in concern.
“I’m afraid not. Father can be a bit stubborn though I think Mother may eventually convince him.”
“Did your father serve in the Great War?”
“Yes, in France. He lost a brother, but thankfully he returned home.”
“Sad indeed,” I replied, wincing at the thought. “My mother lost a cousin in Belgium.”
We both fell silent, and then it suddenly dawned on me that Catrina wasn’t present. “Is your wife not dining with you this evening?” My innocent question caused distress in his eyes, and he instantly broke our gaze by looking down at the tabletop.
Ladies of Disgrace Box Set Page 4