by Laura Martin
Chapter Eight
Glancing at his wife’s profile, Oliver tried to get a handle on the turmoil of emotions raging inside him. Things had been much calmer, much more pleasant at home since they’d had their little conversation about the future. Lucy had relaxed a little more around him, begun acting more like her true self rather than a nervous house guest. It was a slow progress, but progress all the same. Oliver was nothing if not patient.
For his part, he had let go of some of the resentment he felt towards her. If he was honest, he still hadn’t forgiven her for taking David away and for giving him an entire year of worry and uncertainty. He probably never would. But he did realise that if they were going to have a future together, he needed to try his hardest to move on, or at the very least let Lucy think he had.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Lucy asked, her face pale as she looked at him from across the carriage.
He nodded wordlessly, worried his voice might betray the depth of emotion he was feeling if he spoke.
She was taking him to visit their son’s grave for the first time. He’d known where it was for over a week, after he’d prised that information from her on the day of their reunion, but this was the first time he would set foot in the actual graveyard.
Three times that week he’d walked to the boundary wall of the graveyard—once he’d even made it as far as the gate into the church—but never had he been able to step inside. Today Lucy had mentioned she was going to visit the grave of their son, as she did every week, and had tentatively invited him to join her.
They stepped out of the carriage, Oliver drawing his collar up against the downpour that soaked him within seconds before the coachman jumped down and offered them an umbrella. Holding it out so Lucy would be covered, Oliver shivered as the droplets of rain began coursing down his neck.
‘Come under,’ Lucy said, pulling on his arm until they were huddled together underneath the umbrella. Her warm body pressed up against his arm and immediately he felt better. This wasn’t something you wanted to be doing alone.
Avoiding the worst of the puddles and mud, they made their way around the side of the church, into the graveyard. Even in the muted daylight, Oliver could see the tombstones nearest the church were old and worn, some of them crumbling or split in two while others had suffered from exposure to the elements, and the inscriptions unreadable.
‘This way,’ Lucy said as she led him down the stone path. Further away from the church the graves were much more recent and there were a few mounds of earth with crude wooden crosses marking the spots of burials within the last six months.
They carefully picked their way through a row of graves before stopping in front of a simple tombstone with just one line of writing.
‘David Oliver Greenhall’ it read, and as Oliver let his eyes focus on the words, he felt a deep ache in his heart. This was his son, his boy, the child that could have been so many things. He might not ever have got to hold him, to look into his eyes, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t loved him.
Beside him Lucy crouched down, seeming not to notice as her skirt soaked up the muddy water lying around the grave. She laid a hand on the stone and closed her eyes, speaking softly so Oliver could barely hear the words. At first he thought she was saying a prayer, but as snippets of phrases floated up to him he realised she was just talking to their son. Oliver listened as she told him about their reunion and how she had brought his father to visit his grave.
Eventually she stood up and Oliver could see the tears streaming down her face. Instinctively he reached out and wiped them away with his thumb, pulling Lucy close to him and embracing her as the sobs racked her body.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t normally get this emotional. Would you like a few minutes alone with him?’
Oliver nodded, handing Lucy the umbrella and waiting until she had stepped away before crouching down himself. It seemed strange to talk to a stone and at first no words would come.
‘David,’ he said hesitantly, ‘it’s your father.’ He felt ridiculous saying the words. He’d never got to be the boy’s father. Lucy had disappeared with their son before he could even hold him in his arms.
‘You haven’t once left my thoughts this past year. I wish I could have done more for you. I wish I could have done something for you.’ He paused, swallowing a couple of times as he tried to suppress the image of him holding a tiny baby. It was one he’d dreamed of a hundred times, one that had never got to become a reality. ‘I hope wherever you are, you’re now at peace. Know that you’ll always be in my heart.’
He reached out and laid a hand on the tombstone, closing his eyes for a few seconds as the image of how he’d always imagined his son flashed in his mind. Slowly he stood, taking a moment to steady himself, before turning to face Lucy.
She waited for him to step back, then bustled to the grave, pulling out a couple of weeds and brushing a muddy smear off the tombstone. When she was satisfied all was straight, she rejoined Oliver.
‘I’d like to build a memorial on the estate for David,’ Oliver said quietly as they walked back towards the church, the rain heavier now and hammering down on the umbrella, almost obscuring his words. ‘I thought about trying to get permission to move his body, but I think that would be cruel. Nevertheless, I would like some form of remembrance near the rest of my deceased relatives and ancestors on the estate.’
‘You’d like David to be remembered as your firstborn?’ Lucy asked, her eyes widening.
‘Of course. I was thinking a small memorial next to where my parents and brothers are buried, so he’s surrounded by family.’
He saw her bite her lip before taking a few deep breaths and realised Lucy was trying hard not to cry.
‘That’s a very nice thing to do,’ she said eventually.
‘He was my son,’ Oliver said simply.
Sedgewick Place was where David should be laid to rest, but that couldn’t be helped now. The very least Oliver could do was build a memorial among the rest of the Greenhall family, somewhere he and Lucy could visit while staying in Sussex so far away from the resting place of their little boy.
They walked from the graveyard, pausing by the carriage. Lucy seemed reluctant to give up his arm and Oliver wasn’t going to be the one to shrug her off.
‘Perhaps you could walk me to the Foundation,’ she suggested. ‘If you don’t mind being out in this weather.’
‘Not at all.’
It was the first time she’d requested his company voluntarily and Oliver felt a flicker of warmth inside him. Today was difficult—visiting his son’s grave for the first time was always going to be painful. He’d expected his resentment of Lucy to flare, for the feelings of betrayal to rise up, but instead he was just glad she was there with him, there to share his pain.
They walked, skirting around puddles and jumping back from the splash of carriages as they flung water from their wheels on to the pavement. For a while Lucy remained silent, although just having her presence voluntarily on his arm was enough for Oliver.
‘Tell me,’ he said eventually, ‘how you came to be so involved at the Foundation.’
He half-expected her to withdraw into herself again, but instead she treated him to a cautious smile.
‘At first, when Mary found me and David, we were just normal residents. She brought us to the Foundation, gave us food and a small room, and promised to help me look for a job once David was a few weeks older.’
Oliver nodded, seeing the sadness in his wife’s eyes just as he did whenever she mentioned their son.
‘When he passed away she was the one who helped me organise the burial and she told me I’d have a home at the Foundation for however long I needed it. For weeks I did little more than cry and mourn, but Mary made sure I ate a little and slowly she encouraged me out of my room to mix with some of the other residents.’ Lucy smiled fon
dly as she remembered the kindness shown to her by the older woman. ‘A few months after David died, Mary came in all in a flap about her accounts. There was a governor’s meeting and she couldn’t get the figures to balance properly.’
‘You always were good at the accounts,’ Oliver murmured, anticipating where the story was leading.
‘I suppose I was. I offered to take a look at them for her—it seemed the least I could do after she’d been so kind to me. I had them sorted and in order in a few hours, much to Mary’s amazement.’ She shrugged. ‘They weren’t much different to household accounts, but just on a larger scale.’
‘I can see how you became indispensable.’
‘I had been planning on finding a job somewhere, but Mary asked if I wished to stay. In return for doing the accounts and various pieces of administration, I’d get my room and food, and a small weekly wage.’
‘A good deal for both of you.’
‘Exactly. And that’s how it started, but as time went on and I got to know the work Mary was doing and the residents in the Foundation, I wanted to get more involved. I still do the accounts and most of the paperwork, but I also teach a few lessons and oversee the programme we run to get women into work.’
‘It is rare to see such passion for one’s work,’ Oliver said.
It was true, not many people enjoyed their jobs like Lucy seemed to. For her it was a vocation, a calling. He’d felt the same way about the army at first. He’d believed in the cause, in the idea of liberating the repressed, but after years of his friends and comrades being killed and injured he’d become more jaded. Marrying Lucy and wanting to be at home with her and his new child had been the final reason to give up his commission in a long line of reasons. And ever since, he’d felt a little directionless. He envied Lucy her passion. Although he was proud of his family estate, running it didn’t give him the same thrill Lucy’s work seemed to provide her.
‘And you never thought to move away from the Foundation? Find a residence elsewhere?’
Lucy shrugged, but he noticed his words had cut deeper than he had anticipated. He wondered if staying in such a place as St Giles was her idea of penance. Penance for losing their son, penance for not being able to do more for him. It would make sense; there was really no reason for Lucy to stay in the slums, even if she worked at the Foundation every day. Something else other than convenience was keeping her there.
They turned into the narrower streets, stepping carefully through the muck on the pavements, trying to avoid the worst of it. This was the fourth time Oliver had been to the Foundation now and he was beginning to find the route familiar. Today there was hardly anyone outside, and the few people that hurried past had upturned collars and downcast faces against the rain.
‘Your money,’ a low voice demanded as they rounded a corner.
Beside him, Oliver felt Lucy stiffen, but she didn’t show any other sign of panic. He cursed—he’d become complacent, forgotten what sort of place this was. Strolling arm in arm with Lucy had made him forget they had entered one of the most deprived areas of London.
He watched as Lucy dipped her head and searched the thief’s face, frowning slightly through the pouring rain.
‘Give me your money and no one has to get hurt,’ the man said, flashing a knife from the sleeve of his coat.
‘Do I know you?’ Lucy asked.
‘No questions. Just your money.’
Oliver narrowed his eyes. He could probably disarm the thief if he acted quickly, a swift blow to the throat was usually enough to stop any assailant, especially if you could take them by surprise. The thief wouldn’t expect a finely dressed couple to fight back. If he’d been on his own that was exactly what Oliver would have done, but he had Lucy’s safety to think of now.
Carefully he dug a hand into his jacket, loath to give over anything to this criminal, but not willing to put Lucy at risk.
‘What are you doing?’ Lucy rasped at him, pulling his arm from his jacket. ‘If we give him money, it’ll just encourage this behaviour.’
‘You make it sound like a child refusing to eat their vegetables. I’m not sure thievery is so easily discouraged.’
‘I understand you might be going through a difficult time,’ Lucy said, turning back to the man in front of them, ‘but this is not the answer. There are people who can help you get back on your feet.’
‘Assuming he wants to reform,’ Oliver muttered. The crazy woman was going to get herself killed.
‘Your money,’ the man demanded, his voice a little more shrill than before. Oliver knew soon he would become irrational.
‘There is a very good charity—they have their headquarters down New Compton Street—they can help with a warm meal and a place to stay if you need it. And work, too.’
‘Your money,’ the man demanded again, his voice almost hysterical.
‘Please excuse my wife,’ Oliver said, pushing Lucy to safety behind him. ‘She’s got too much compassion.’
Lightning quick Oliver struck out with his arm, the side of his palm jerking into the thief’s throat. The man gurgled and gasped, sinking down the wall as he clutched at his neck.
‘Oliver, really,’ Lucy admonished, ‘you could have hurt him.’
Giving her a withering glance, he stepped over the man’s legs, pulling Lucy behind him, ignoring her protests as he marched her quickly through the streets. Only once they were inside the walls of the Foundation did he let her stop to catch her breath.
‘You didn’t need to hit him.’
‘I could have tried talking him to death, but that didn’t seem to be working that well for you.’
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
‘Violence is never the answer.’
‘When a man threatens my wife with a knife, violence is always the answer.’
He saw her expression soften and knew he was forgiven.
‘Thank you for getting us out of that situation,’ she said.
‘What situation?’ Mary asked as she bustled into the office.
‘A man just tried to rob us,’ Lucy explained.
‘I hope you didn’t give him anything.’
So this was where Lucy got her cavalier attitude to knife-wielding thieves from.
‘Lord Sedgewick hit him in the throat.’
Mary laughed, a short sharp bark of a laugh that Oliver found he quite liked despite its ear-splitting qualities.
‘Good work—not that I don’t have sympathy for the poor chaps, living in squalid conditions with no hope of employment—but we can’t help everyone.’
‘I must be getting to the children,’ Lucy said.
Today was the day she took one of the classes, Oliver had learnt, an obligation she was not in any hurry to give up.
‘Shall I meet you back at home?’
He shook his head, thinking of the man with the knife and knowing he would find it difficult to let Lucy wander through these streets on her own ever again.
* * *
True to his word, Oliver had waited for her throughout the afternoon at the Foundation. She knew he’d been worried about her safety after the encounter with the would-be thief on their walk. She didn’t dare tell him the number of times she’d been robbed in the past year. Normally it was just pickpockets, little hands that sneaked in and found your purse before you knew anything was happening, but a couple of times before she had been threatened with a knife by one of the more desperate souls who passed through the slums. Of course she exercised common sense and tried not to walk alone through the most dangerous areas, especially after dark, but St Giles was familiar to her, a home of sorts, and sometimes she did forget the potential dangers lurking around dark corners.
Over the months, she had thought about moving away from the Foundation on a number of occasions. Although St Giles was where she needed to be for her work, it
didn’t mean she had to live there. Even Mary, the most devoted to the women and children, had a small residence in a more salubrious part of London and spent half her nights there.
For Lucy it was about connection. In St Giles she felt closest to her son. It was where he was buried, where he’d spent most of the few weeks of his short life. If she was completely honest, there was also an element of thinking she had to do penance for failing to protect him better. Not many people chose to live in St Giles out of choice and Lucy knew her decision to stay there so long hadn’t been entirely rational, but in a way it had been her home for just over a year.
‘Shall we go home?’ Oliver asked as she pulled on her cloak, still damp from the rain earlier in the day.
‘I wondered if you wanted to spend a little time out and about?’ His face clouded with suspicion and Lucy had to suppress a laugh. ‘Don’t worry—I’m not going to get you handing out leaflets to the women of London.’
After her behaviour at the Hickams’ ball she had resolved to make an effort with her husband. That meant actually talking to him, getting to know him and allowing herself to see he wasn’t the cold man she had first supposed. Tonight was her olive branch, a suggestion to spend time together for the sole purpose of just being together.
‘What do you propose?’
‘A little light entertainment,’ Lucy said.
To her delight Oliver agreed, although he insisted on taking a carriage as soon as they were able to hail one as they reached the main thoroughfare.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked as she hopped up behind him after giving instructions to the coachman.
‘It’s a surprise. I promise you an evening of entertainment unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed before.’
He grimaced, no doubt picturing all manner of sins.
‘Is it somewhere fit for a viscountess?’ he asked.
Lucy bristled before casting him a sidelong glance and realising he was joking. Joking in that very serious, difficult-to-interpret way of his, but joking all the same.