The Buttonmaker’s daughter

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘You’re accusing Uncle Henry of trying to hurt William because he’ll inherit Summerhayes?’

  ‘Your brother has a weak heart. A minute ago, you said that he must suffer no further scares. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

  She felt herself twisting her hands together so hard it hurt. ‘That is a shocking thing to say and I won’t believe it. In any case, if William didn’t inherit, I would. My father has two children, or have you forgotten?’

  He stopped his pacing and sat down beside her. Her figure had grown stiff with anger that he’d dared to suggest her uncle could be guilty of such wickedness. But then he reached out to stroke her hair, his fingers moving slowly down her cheek. ‘How could I forget you?’ he whispered. ‘But…’

  There was a long pause and, when he spoke again, his voice had lost its softness. ‘Your uncle is organising a husband for you, isn’t he? A marriage to one of his own kin, which will anchor you firmly within the clutches of the Fitzroys. If your brother were to come to harm, you would be tied to their apron strings. In fact, neatly trussed.’

  She jerked away from him. ‘I cannot listen to one more word, Aiden. I came to meet you tonight because it seemed most urgent that you see me. But if this is the reason, I’m not prepared to hear more. The whole notion is a sick madness.’

  His mouth tightened. ‘I understand your loyalty, though I think you’re mistaken. But I’ll say no more. Instead, I must tell you why I asked you to come – not your uncle’s wrongdoing as it happens, but something more important perhaps, at least to us.’

  So there was urgent news after all. She put her hand on his arm, pulling him a little closer, spurring him to speak. It seemed to take him a while before he could find the words, but then they came, simple and shattering. ‘Next week, I will be leaving Summerhayes.’

  ‘Leaving?’ In that moment, she felt immensely fragile, unsure even of the wooden seat beneath her. ‘You mean that your work here is finished?’

  ‘Not quite, but as good as. I am to complete the temple interior - Jonathan has been allowed to keep me until Wednesday next, but after that I must be gone. Your father is his client and he has no choice in the matter.’

  Her father had done this? Or was it her uncle who’d made sure that Aiden was dismissed before his contract ended? If so, the caress Henry Fitzroy had seen must be the reason. Could the man beside her be right after all? Henry would not want an intruder on the scene, not when he hoped to marry his niece to Giles Audley. No, she told herself vehemently. There had to be another explanation.

  ‘What will you do?’ Her voice was hollow. Her whole being was hollow.

  ‘I can stay on with Mrs Boxall for a short while. I’ve money to pay the rent for a few weeks, but after that I’ll need to find work.’

  ‘In town?’ There was the slightest hope that he would return to London. At least in the capital, he would be only a few hours away.

  ‘In Canada.’ She had known it, known it was what he’d say. The hollow grew ever larger.

  He turned towards her, his face close to hers, his voice gently persuasive. ‘I mentioned my cousin to you a while ago. Do you remember? I’ve had another letter from him, urging me to book my passage to New York. He’s convinced there are wonderful opportunities in Toronto for someone with my skills. The city is growing fast and needs professional men.’

  She was too dazed to speak. Meeting Aiden was always difficult but once he left Summerhayes it would be almost impossible. After Wednesday next, she might never see him again. The fact was slowly sinking in. But what had she expected? His touch, his kiss, the dreams she had played with these past weeks, what had they really been worth? Deep down she had always known they were destined to tread a different path, yet she’d refused to accept it. She had carried on dreaming, of a future in which Aiden Kellaway would be part of her life. Would be her life.

  ‘You know that war is creeping closer. Wouldn’t you want to stay and fight?’ It was an underhand thing to say but she was battling for her happiness. If it would keep him close a little longer…

  He looked at her askance. ‘War may well come, but who would I fight for?’ he said evenly. ‘This isn’t my country, remember.’

  ‘England may not be your country, but you’re still British. You could fight in the British army.’

  ‘No, Elizabeth. If this country goes to war, and please God it doesn’t happen, other Irishmen will fight for Britain that’s for sure. But not me.’

  ‘Because you hate the English,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘No, how could I? I’ve lived among them half my life. The hatred, if hatred there is, will be on the other side. If war is declared, I’ll almost certainly be interned. There’ll be no fighting for me, just a prison cell.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ All she understood was that she felt more miserable than she’d ever done in her entire life.

  ‘I’ll be considered an enemy, someone likely to help the Republicans in their plots against this country.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen your brothers, you haven’t spoken to them, you haven’t even written to them. They have nothing to do with you.’ There was bewilderment in her voice and in her face, and he put his arm around her waist and nestled her against himself.

  ‘Things change in war. Justice becomes rough and ready. Any man who is the slightest risk to the state will be suspect. Not immediately, it’s true, but over time. And if the fighting goes badly, it will be a good deal quicker.’

  ‘But how would anyone know who you are or where you were?’ She was clutching at wisps.

  ‘Everyone will have to register. There’ll be no chance of escaping, and my name and place of birth will be like a red flag. It won’t take long for the authorities to link me to troubles over the water.’

  ‘And Canada is the answer?’

  ‘It is.’ He hugged her tight, and the warmth of his touch hurt her more than she could believe possible. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about it. Canada is the answer, and to more than a possible war. After all, the conflict might not spread. It might stay in mainland Europe for all we know. But the idea of making a new start in a country that is young and energetic and growing, I find that exhilarating. A country where it won’t matter if I’m English or Irish or anything else, as long as I work hard to make a good future.’

  ‘And your cousin will help you?’

  ‘He has a spare room and is happy for me to stay until I have the money for a house of my own. And he has contacts. He’s a railwayman and meets a great many people, prospective clients. He’ll introduce me. And with the experience I’ve gained and the professional certificates and Jonathan’s testimonial, I’m certain to find work.’

  ‘When will you go?’ The question was wrenched out of her.

  He made no answer for a while, and when he spoke it was to say, ‘Isn’t it the grand dinner very soon? Joe Lacey has been telling me his mother is being driven half mad by yours. Apparently everything – the house as well as the food – has to be perfect for this Audley fellow.’

  The sudden plunge into a dinner party she’d almost forgotten forced her to push her misery away and summon every atom of stoicism she possessed. Her heart had been chopped into very small pieces but she would not show it.

  ‘From what I know of Mr Audley, I doubt he’d want the fuss.’

  ‘Well, he certainly seems to be getting it. And what about you?’

  ‘I don’t want the fuss either. I don’t want the dinner. It will be a dreadful evening.’ And for the first time, she realised fully how very dreadful it would be.

  ‘Why so bad? I thought you liked him.’

  She couldn’t say what was in her mind. That very shortly, the crux would come. It was too near the dark scene that Aiden had already painted. Her mother and father, her aunt and uncle, would be ranged against her, expecting, pressuring. Very shortly she would be faced with an ultimatum. And she would have to say no.

  ‘I like him well enough, but—’

  ‘
But perhaps not quite well enough,’ he finished for her.

  He pulled her to her feet and cupped her face in his hands. He was looking down at her, a long slow glance, seeking what was in her heart, she thought. Then he bent his head to kiss her full on the lips. A great rushing torrent of emotion, dammed until now, found its escape. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. His mouth was hard on hers and for minutes on end it seemed, they kissed as though their whole world depended on it.

  When they finally pulled apart, he said, ‘Marry me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  August, 1914

  Alice was in a state of high tension. She stared at the note that had come from Amberley, uncertain whether to feel anxious or insulted. How had it come about that she was expected to invite the doctor to eat with them tonight? It must be Henry’s idea, a way of discomfiting her, or more likely, she thought, tight lipped, Louisa’s. Both of them must know it was unacceptable. A physician or solicitor might be asked to take tea, but the only professional men who should be invited for lunch or dinner were officers, clergymen or diplomats. Deciding she felt insulted, she tore the note into small pieces and threw it into the wicker basket.

  There were plenty of other papers on her desk: list after list to ensure this evening’s dinner was perfection. For the last hour, she had been wondering whether to read them for what must be the twentieth time. The decision on food had been easy, at least at first – Joshua hired an excellent cook after all – but then the doubts had begun to set in. Was the choice she’d made sufficiently elegant to serve to such an important group of people, on such an important occasion? She had gone through the menu over and over again, until the relative merits of various soups and seafood, game and garnishes had resulted in abject confusion. That was when Cook had taken that particular piece of paper from her hand and said, severely, ‘Mrs Summer, I will produce a dinner for your guests that you will be proud of.’ And then she had planted herself in front of the new gas-fired cooking range, her hands fixed firmly on expansive hips, and waited for Alice to leave the kitchen. That list had been abandoned.

  But there were others. What should she do about the wine? Joshua showed not the slightest interest, much preferring beer or his nightly snifters of brandy. She had to turn to Ripley for help, but could she trust him to choose the right wine for the right course? Sherry went with the soup, she knew, but when did you serve hock or burgundy? It had never before been a worry. As a girl, she’d had no responsibility for the household, and since her marriage had never entertained formally. The few invitations the family had extended during their early years at Summerhayes had been rebuffed, sometimes with a polite excuse but at others, simply ignored. That had put an end to invitations and an end to any pretensions she might have had as a hostess. Eventually, Ripley had taken matters into his own hands and ordered what he assured her were the most acceptable wines.

  No sooner had the food and wine been settled than she was plunged into an agitated conference with Mr Harris over the flowers. He’d become quite irate, telling her that he hadn’t grown cut flowers for thirty-odd years without knowing exactly what to produce for a dinner party. There would be vases in the hall and the drawing room, all of them filled with godetia and cosmos and zinnias, along with the delicate froth of gypsophila. The inglenook fireplace would be the setting for a huge basket of fresh-picked roses. He could already see it in his mind and it would be nothing short of perfect. She had emerged from that encounter pink-faced and slightly dishevelled, only to walk into a confrontation with Mrs Lacey – the last of an endless succession, it seemed.

  When she’d dared to venture to the housekeeper’s quarters, the woman had shown even less forbearance than Mr Harris and, in Alice’s view, had verged on rudeness.

  ‘I intend to use this table covering, ma’am,’ Mrs Lacey had said, when she saw the anxious face in the doorway. She pointed to a lace-trimmed white damask cloth, ornamented with drawn work, that lay folded and pristine on the severely polished work table. ‘And beneath it, we’ll have a silence cloth and then this silk lining.’

  ‘Should it not all be white?’ she had suggested tentatively.

  ‘No, ma’am. Some colour showing through is best. And the tint of the lining is very delicate. There are napkins to match, you see, and we’ll have these fine lace doilies put under the service plate.’

  ‘They’re a little small.’ She couldn’t stop herself saying it. ‘Don’t we have a larger size?’

  ‘We do, ma’am, but they are of a different pattern.’ Mrs Lacey’s tone clearly indicated she was losing patience. ‘These will afford a large enough space for a butter plate, a soup bowl and one spoon. All other silver will be set in place as it’s needed.’

  ‘And the silver is where?’ Alice astonished herself with her temerity. Only terror of the evening ahead could have prompted her to ask.

  ‘With Ripley,’ the housekeeper answered abruptly. ‘He has cleaned soup spoons, forks for the seafood and the ice cream, knives and forks for the meat courses and, before you ask, ma’am, he’s organised tumblers and wine glasses and the carafe for chilled water.’

  Alice had turned tail and fled.

  But she was left with one more list, the only one in the end for which she was solely responsible. It was by far the most challenging: the evening’s seating plan. She must decide who was to sit beside who, and where exactly they were to be positioned around the table. She supposed Joshua should be at the head and Henry at the foot, or should she be seated at one end? If not, should she be next to her brother or her husband? Should Elizabeth be facing Giles Audley or seated beside him? Where should she put Louisa, and where Dr Daniels? And, as for William and Oliver – she blanched at the idea that they might be included, and decided to consign them to the kitchen once more. Not that they’d minded a jot when she told them. Oliver had looked at her with his cheeky grin and said, ‘That’s all right, Mrs Summer. William and I will be fine together.’

  Together. That was the problem. They never left each other’s side, and since William’s illness, their closeness had become even more intense if that were possible. For a very short while, she’d contemplated writing to Mr Amos – the family apparently had no telephone – and asking him to collect his son as soon as convenient. She couldn’t tell him the truth, that she sensed the boys’ friendship was in some way not right. She would have to manufacture an excuse. She could write there had been a family emergency, and she had been called away. But it had been only minutes before she’d realised the plan was impossible. As soon as Mr Amos got to Summerhayes, he would realise there was no emergency and that Oliver was being sent away. He might even assume it was because they were Jewish and the Summers were responding to pressure from their neighbours. She’d gone quite cold at the thought.

  For a short while, her hopes had risen when William fell ill. She had thought that Oliver would grow bored with a friend who had little strength for their previous rough pursuits, and would himself ask to leave for home. But he had stayed, negating all her preconceptions. Stayed and spent hours with William in their shared room, helping her son put together his nature collection, or reading books with him, or even doing the despised jigsaw puzzles. A part of her was grateful for his not abandoning William, but for a boy of such energy and wicked humour to be so thoughtful, so kind, so loving, made her uneasy.

  When the two did venture out, it was to take relatively sedate strolls on the terrace or around the lawn, since William could not be persuaded to walk much beyond the outbuildings. She had found them one day in the tool shed, William giving his friend a lecture on how every implement should be used. She hadn’t realised he was so knowledgeable. She wished his father had overheard the conversation: he might be forced then to reconsider his view of William as a futile heir. Joshua, of course, had noticed nothing of the unlikely friendship blossoming beneath his eyes. He was blind to nuance. In his book, William was behaving true to form. He was a weak child, a disappointing son, a mother
’s boy. The fact that his son now spent most of his time far from Alice appeared not to have dawned on him. He was far too concerned with the events in Europe to give much attention to his family. Every day he brought bad news and today was no exception.

  She looked up as he erupted through the door, waving the morning paper. ‘The country is done for now. Germany has declared war on France and invaded Belgium.’

  He plumped himself down on an occasional chair, overflowing its basket weave seat and threatening its spindle legs with imminent collapse. ‘And Woodrow Wilson has made it clear the United States will stay neutral. There’ll be no assistance from that quarter.’

  She felt her husband’s gloom filling the space. ‘But do we need assistance?’ she ventured.

  He looked at her as though he were a scientist who had just discovered a strange specimen in his laboratory. ‘Have you any idea of the odds we’ll face?’

  She hadn’t and it all seemed so far away. She glanced through the window. It was another day of brilliant sunshine, a fresh breeze was blowing and fat, fluffy clouds billowed across the sky. For weeks, England had basked in the sun and the surrounding countryside glowed. It would be the most beautiful autumn and she knew from the servants’ chatter that local farmers were expecting a prolific harvest. The idea of war seemed inconceivable.

  She made a feeble attempt to keep the world at bay. ‘But it’s Belgium that has been invaded, isn’t it? We have the English Channel between us.’

  He leant towards her, impatience stamped on his face. ‘We’ve signed a treaty guaranteeing Belgian neutrality. And last Sunday, sent a letter to the French ambassador pledging to support France if Germany attacked them.’

  ‘But why? Why do we have to be involved?’ It seemed to her that the most sensible course of action was to leave the Continentals to get on with things on their own. If they wanted to squabble, it was hardly England’s business.