Chapter Thirty
It had been a long time before Augusta next found an opportunity to visit her mother. It was not in fact until Luther went to Glasgow on business in connection with the Glasgow to Edinburgh line. Again her father had avoided her but she had discovered from her mother that he had not been able to sell Cameron House. She was not surprised. It had become overwhelmed by the diggings. It was only one of the pieces of wreckage among the conglomeration of flotsam in a vast sea of mud.
As far as her mother was concerned, though, the fact that they were marooned in Cameron House was simply another example of Mr Cameron’s bumbling incompetence. She absolutely refused to listen to any excuses on his behalf.
Augusta had taken some little comforts that Felicity much appreciated, a bottle of eau-de-cologne, a herb cushion, a box of chocolates. She had also purloined—not without some secret palpitations—a few of Luther’s cigars and a bottle of whisky for her father. She had kept in touch by letter as she had promised but it was not until some time after Luther acquired the house in Blythswood Square that she was able to contemplate another visit. The main reason of course was that she had been pregnant and for much of the time indisposed. The other reason was the difficulty of discreet entry to Cameron House. Its front door was in full view of Luther’s office. Both back and front were visible from the diggings, around which Luther so often rode his big, black stallion. Luther had forbidden her to have any contact with her parents. She could understand his inability to forgive them but what dismayed her was the fact that he found pleasure in seeing them suffer. She was sure he would pile more agonies on them if he was given the chance.
After the birth of her daughter Mary Jane she did brave the visit by setting off on foot from Blythswood Square dressed in a new hooded cape that Luther would not recognise. Keeping the hood well forward over her face she had risked the front door. The stairs leading down to the back entrance had been so covered in slippery slime she had been unable to descend them. In an agony of suspense she stood in full view of Luther’s office. It seemed as if the door was never going to be opened and once more she rattled at the knocker. To her surprise it was her father who eventually peered round a narrow crack. Quickly recovering she pushed the door open wider and entered the house.
‘Papa!’ she embraced him before he could escape from her. To her horror he burst into tears.
‘I am so ashamed, Augusta. I have failed your poor mama. Failed her completely.’
‘You mustn’t get so upset, Papa. Things will work out all right yet, you will see. Let us have a nice cup of tea and a chat in the parlour. There might be some way in which I can help.’
Cameron shuffled and wiped at his face with a grubby handkerchief ‘I’ll go down and make it. Then I’ll tell your mother you’re here. She’s upstairs.’
‘You will make the tea? Why can Nessie not make it? Is she ill?’
‘Gone. Everybody’s gone now. One of the carts from the railway came and a crowd of Irish navvies. They took the cook and my last coachman away. The railway has ruined me, Augusta. It’s taken everything. Everything.’
Fury against Luther gave Augusta a blinding headache. How could he be so wickedly vindictive? Forgetting about the tea and even about her father she went through to the parlour and sat down. The filthy, mud-splattered windows made the room funeral dark although it was daylight outside. The whole place shook with the continual clank, clank of a thousand hammers, and the endless cluck, cluck, cluck of the handworked jumpers. The house reverberated with the blast of explosions, fired in seemingly endless succession that brought the acrid smell of the gunpowder in with the cold draught.
She was still sitting, white-faced and stiff, staring ahead, when Cameron shuffled into the room carrying a tray. The china rattled precariously as he put it down on the table beside her.
‘I hope it’s all right,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The tea.’
‘Where is Mama?’
‘Confined to bed.’
‘What’s wrong, is she ill?’
Wretchedly he wrung his hands. ‘She has no one to help her to dress and do her hair. I cannot afford a maid. This house and its contents are all I have left, apart from a few pounds—barely sufficient to keep us in food.’
‘What are you going to do?’
He began to weep again. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Absolutely nothing.’
‘Oh, Papa! Surely things can’t be that bad.’
‘They are. They are. The railway has ruined me.’
‘Then you must sell this house and purchase a much smaller place. Somewhere in a pretty rural setting. It should fetch a good price, and leave you with sufficient to live quietly on. Then you and Mama can be happy again. You must not give up hope.’
‘Who would want to buy this place now? Unless,’ he added bitterly, ‘the railway.’
Augusta stared at him. She wondered if there might be just a chance of that. She could speak to Luther. Although the only chance of him even considering the idea would be if he could make money on the deal.
‘I will speak to my husband, Papa. He might be able to help in that respect.’
‘Gunnet, help me? He would see me in hell first, Augusta.’ The tears welled up again. ‘No, I’m finished—there’s nothing I can do. It’s no use, I’m done for!’
‘Papa, try and pull yourself together. Drink a cup of tea.’
‘I made it for you and Mama but she didn’t want any.’
‘I have drunk mine and it was most refreshing. Now I must go upstairs and see Mama.’
Felicity lay in the four-poster bed with her hair streaming across the pillows. Her cheeks were flushed as if she had a temperature, although the bedroom was icy cold.
‘Oh, Augusta!’ she wailed and stretched out her arms as soon as Augusta entered. ‘Oh, my dear, what is going to become of me?’
Augusta kissed her. ‘You must try to be brave, Mama. You must learn to help yourself.’
‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘First we must get you into a house small enough for you to cope with. This place is quite impossible without servants.’
‘I told Mr Cameron that, Augusta. I told him it was impossible to live without servants. No one can live without servants. It is quite impossible I told him.’
‘Try not to get excited, Mama. Look, I have brought you some novels and some sugar biscuits—your favourites.’
‘Oh, thank you, dear. You are most kind to your poor mama. I do not know what I would do without you. I am being treated with frightful cruelty by Mr Cameron.’
Like a child she rummaged among the biscuits and after selecting one, nibbled at it with eyes closed in ecstasy of enjoyment. ‘Now do tell me about your house in Blythswood Square. I know you have told me before but, oh, it sounds so elegant. I keep imagining myself calling on you, dear. I would have come before but I do not know what has happened to our carriage. Mr Cameron has become so parsimonious he has even denied me a maid to help me to dress and do my hair. And of course my clothes are shockingly neglected. I am ashamed to be seen in there. I am so out of touch with what is fashionable too. Do tell me about your lovely house, my dear.’
‘We have converted one of the upper rooms into a schoolroom for Samuel and Alexander and I have engaged a governess for them. I have also a new under-nursery maid to help Nurse with Mary Jane. Mary Jane is a beautiful child, Mama.’
‘Oh, I can imagine, my dear. And Samuel and Alexander must be quite the little gentlemen. What are the latest modes of furnishings? I am so out of touch.’
‘We have a very nice square piano in the parlour. And we have another prettier one upstairs in the drawing-room. And of course stuffed birds, and animals, and wax fruit under glass domes are very fashionable now. We have quite an impressive display.’
Felicity took another biscuit. ‘Oh, how lucky you are, Augusta. Your dear husband obviously—and quite rightly—indulges your every whim. I am most cruelly treated
, you know. Most cruelly treated.’
‘No, I do not have whims, Mama. As a rule it is I who have to go along with my husband’s wishes and surely this is more correct, difficult though it may be at times. Already he is talking about building a villa in the West End.’
‘Oh, my dear, how exciting. You mean along the banks of the River Kelvin, that lovely wooded area? I have been for a drive there—oh, a long time ago—I have not set foot out of this dreadful place for an age. But I do remember how peaceful it was. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. Oh, it was quite delightful. What a lucky girl you are.’
‘Oh, it is not even at the planning stage. I expect we will be in the house in Blythswood Square for a long time yet. And that will suit me perfectly well. It is a very charming house. The rooms are commodious . . . .’
‘But a villa would be even more spacious, Augusta.’ Felicity sighed with pleasure. ‘You will have reached the very apex of society then. Oh, I am so proud of you, my dear, so very proud of you. And I would be happy, too, I would be able to lift my head high again if only I could get away from this dreadful place.’
‘You will, Mama. I will help you all I can.’
‘If I could just get established in another residence. I am completely overwhelmed by all this noise and all these coarse work-people milling about.’ Her voice trembled pathetically and Augusta put her arms around her.
‘I know, Mama. Try not to think about it. Read your novels. I shall come back as soon as I can.’
‘Are you leaving already? Oh, Augusta!’
Her mother clung to her like a child, and it was only with great difficulty that Augusta managed to quit the bedroom and return downstairs. Her father was nowhere to be seen.
‘Papa? Papa, I must go now.’ She glanced absently round the hall as she pulled on her cloak and gloves, the ordeal of going outside distracting her attention.
She called again. ‘Papa?’ Then, deciding he must have gone out, she put up her hood, eased cautiously from the front door and hurried away.
She felt harrowed by the shambles of Cameron House and the lives of her parents. This distress was intensified when she entered her own home at Blythswood Square. The comparison in comfort and success was too outrageously sharp. She let the neatly uniformed maid take her things and open the parlour door for her.
‘Shall I bring the tea now, ma’am?’ the maid asked.
‘Yes. Have the children had theirs?’
‘In the nursery, ma’am.’
‘I do not wish them to come downstairs just now. I have a headache and must rest. Tell Nurse she may bring them down to say goodnight before they go to bed.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The maid curtsied and left.
The parlour was spotlessly clean and made colourful not only by the green of the trees flickering through the net curtains but by Augusta’s own needlework, bead and shellwork. Interest too was afforded by the indoor plants that she carefully tended herself.
She tried to think of how she might influence Luther to help her parents in their dreadful predicament. He talked of Tib’s husband and mother-in-law and father-in-law as being ‘family’—well, her parents were ‘family’ too, and she wanted them treated as such. The thought of how Luther, far from helping them, had actually deprived them of their last and most loyal servants made Augusta’s head throb until she thought it was going to burst. The realisation of the complete impasse she had reached paralysed her thought. She knew that Luther would do nothing; yet equally she knew that something had to be done. She began to feel sick and was unable even to look at the cucumber sandwiches and seed cake that the maid had brought in.
Eventually she was forced to retreat upstairs to lie down. She remained in bed after Luther arrived home, still unable to formulate what she ought to say to him. It was several days before she could bring herself to broach the subject of Cameron House.
‘It is so handy for the railway now, Luther,’ she pointed out. ‘Would it not be most suitable for their offices? Do you not think the railway directors might be interested in acquiring the property if it was brought to their attention?’
‘No,’ he replied abruptly. ‘They’re going to convert the Wardlaw Church into offices.’
‘But do you not think they might need . . . .’
‘No,’ he repeated, this time piercing her with a look that left no doubt in her head.
There was no hope at all of eliciting her husband’s help or advice in this matter.
Chapter Thirty-one
Augusta occupied herself with her household duties as though nothing was amiss. She arranged the flowers with her usual delicate artistry. She discussed menus with the cook. Her fingertips searched along window ledges and furniture tops for any sign of dust. She issued necessary instructions to the servants, praised or lectured them, as the occasion required. She visited the children in the nursery to listen, with a fond smile, to their chatter. She even entertained some lady visitors to afternoon tea. All without betraying her deep distraction.
It seemed impossible that she could chat over the teacups about such trivialities as Miss Wallace, Marchande de Corset a la mode de Paris, the inventor of the improved French stays, who was coming to Glasgow.
The discussion regarding when one should leave a card at A & J Black, Silk Mercers of Argyle Street, to intimate that one wished Miss Wallace’s attention was, to all outward appearances, of absorbing interest and importance. Yet at the same time Augusta’s mind revolved obsessively around her mama and papa’s problems. It seemed truly shocking that she and Luther should be living in luxury and do nothing for her parents who were in such dire need.
Luther had even deprived them of the services of Nessie and Sid. It was monstrously cruel of him. Unable to contain her outrage she had eventually confronted him with this but he had brushed her accusations aside with:
‘It’s time somebody gave a thought about Nessie and Sid.’
‘But what about Mama and Papa? They have no one to look after them now.’
‘Fine! They can start doing something for themselves for a change.’
‘Luther, you are inhuman! You cannot allow this situation to continue. They are my family after all. You cannot just stand aside and let them suffer.’
‘As far as I am concerned the Camerons don’t exist.’
‘If you do not do something to help them I will never be able to forgive you.’
‘Did you help my mother, Augusta?’
‘But your mother . . . .’
‘That’s enough, don’t say another word.’ He interrupted her with such menace that she was afraid to continue. Nor did she dare to broach the subject again.
She continued with the daily routine outwardly calm and collected, but inwardly tense with pain. She longed to visit her parents again, but did not know how she could face her father. She dreaded having to admit to him that it was exactly as he feared. There was no hope of Luther coming to his assistance. Thoughts of her father’s broken, weeping figure tormented her and made her grudge against Luther grow to such proportions that she could hardly look at him. When she did her eyes sent icicles of hate stabbing out at him. He did not seem to notice. When he wasn’t at the diggings or at the office, he was engaged in conversation with Billy. This added another twist to her resentment. Luther spent more time talking to Billy than he did talking to her. More often than not, when he was alone with her, he preferred to read his newspaper. He was engrossed in doing so now, when suddenly he surprised her by putting it down and staring across at her. For a while he said nothing, just looked at her. Then abruptly, and without feeling, he said:
‘Cameron has hanged himself.’
She froze at his words and stared back at him without moving a muscle.
‘Here, read it for yourself.’ He held the paper out but she ignored it. ‘Will I pour you a drink?’ he said.
‘No, thank you,’ she replied.
‘Well, there’s no use looking at me like that, Augusta. He brought his trou
bles on himself.’
‘You could have helped him.’
‘No, I could not.’
‘You mean you would not.’
‘We’ve been all over this before, and I’ve no intention of repeating myself. Either get on with your embroidery, or leave the room.’
She tried to stare him out but failed. Picking up her embroidery she stitched with trembling fingers for a minute or two. Then she said:
‘I will have to go into mourning.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I shall have to buy new clothes.’
‘Very well, but not black. I forbid it.’
‘This is monstrous. You cannot forbid me to wear mourning for my own father.’
‘How many more times must I repeat, he’s not your father. He disowned you when he flung you out on the street.’
She went cold with hatred. ‘You always found the greatest pleasure in Mama and Papa’s misfortunes. You are completely wicked.’
‘Did they grieve over my misfortunes?’
‘That is not the point.’
‘No, the point is that they caused my misfortunes. They caused not only me and my family to suffer but you too, Augusta. They had no thought for you, my mother, brother and sisters or our children. It was no thanks to them that Samuel didn’t die in the Briggait. We nearly all bloody well starved to death there. You’ve conveniently forgotten that but I never will.’
She did not know what to say. Her lip trembled, but she kept her chin high as she rose.
Luther sighed. ‘Come here.’
Ignoring him she swept across the room and out into the hall. She kept thinking, ‘Poor Papa.’ She kept seeing him in the last stages of his misery. The vision was too dreadful to bear and as soon as she was safely locked in the privacy of her own bedroom, she wept until she was empty with exhaustion. Then thoughts of her mother began to fill the void. Such an urgency of concern overcame her, it was almost more than she could do to prevent herself from flying from the room to go and comfort and assist her. She was forced, however, to wait until the next day, when Luther had left the house, before venturing out herself.
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 22