The Lonely Wife

by Val Wood

  ‘Do you mean for the journey, Miss Beatrix, or …’ She hesitated. ‘To stay?’

  ‘To stay,’ Beatrix said, and wondered what she would do if Dora refused. To go alone amongst strangers was unthinkable. ‘As my personal maid,’ she added. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to do other housework.’ Although, she thought, I have no idea if there will be other help there. No one has thought to tell me yet. I’m only assuming there will be staff already in the house. Perhaps I’ll find out this evening.

  ‘We could offer you training, Dora,’ she coaxed. ‘There are agencies, I understand, who can teach you what is expected of a lady’s maid.’

  Dora fastened up the top button and smoothed her small hands across Beatrix’s shoulders to straighten the fabric. ‘Oh, I expect I’d manage, miss,’ she said. ‘I’m quite adaptable.’ She tweaked a curl on Beatrix’s forehead. ‘I’m fifteen tomorrow,’ she added casually. ‘So I’m quite grown up. But I’ll still have to ax my ma and da first.’

  ‘But you’ll come if they allow it?’

  Dora beamed. ‘Yes, please, miss. I did tell my ma that you were getting married and going to live out of London and that I’d like to go with you if you axed me.’

  ‘And what did she say?’ Beatrix wondered how Dora had gleaned that information.

  ‘She said as she hoped that you’d come and ax her yourself.’

  ‘And so I will.’ Beatrix took one more look in the cheval glass. ‘We’ll go tomorrow.’

  ‘Not tomorrow, miss.’ Dora shook her head. ‘Tomorrow’s ironing day; Ma will be fair wore out. The day after will be all right.’

  The doorbell rang and Beatrix jumped. ‘I’ll go, miss,’ Dora said. ‘I’ll go and welcome your about to be in-laws!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Charles Dawley’s parents seemed overwhelmingly grand; they were also overbearingly pompous. Mrs Dawley was a tall stately woman, taller than her husband, who was stout with good living and bore a florid complexion probably due to over-indulgence of the grape. He was the chairman of the family bank, where Charles had begun his career with a ready-made directorship.

  Their daughter Anne was slim and thin-faced, with narrow lips and a long nose over which she peered short-sightedly through a lorgnette. She gazed at Beatrix long and hard through it at introduction, before turning away and sitting down, and Beatrix immediately determined that they would not become friends.

  Oddly, it seemed to Beatrix, Charles arrived separately from his parents and sister, driving himself in his own vehicle and arriving before they did. I can perhaps understand why he doesn’t live with them, she thought as they sat at the supper table, for they are so very proper and have no humour whatsoever.

  She did, however, discover more about the Yorkshire estate as the senior Mr Dawley described the house, the farms and the land. He had often visited the place with his own father when he was young, as well as when he was older; and he hated it. ‘Don’t like the countryside at all,’ he boomed. ‘Never did. Give me city streets any day.’

  His uncle had lived to a great age, and only died at the end of the previous year at almost a hundred. ‘I thought he was going to outlive us all,’ Mr Dawley said brusquely and without sentiment, ‘and that Charles would never get his inheritance. It was always meant for the eldest son in the family, you see. My father had been the younger brother, just as I was, so even though my older brother died at two I wasn’t saddled with it, thank the Lord, though I might have gone to law about it if the old duffer had died sooner. But I couldn’t be bothered any more, and he’d willed it to Charles by then. So you’d better get cracking, the two of you.’ He helped himself to more wine from the carafe. ‘No time to lose. Just don’t go giving birth to girls.’

  ‘Father!’ Charles said warningly. ‘There are young ladies present.’

  ‘Hmm! What? Oh, yes! Well they’ll have to learn what’s what sooner rather than later.’

  ‘But not from you, sir.’ Charles leaned across and took the carafe from him. He turned, murmuring his apologies to his hostess. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs Fawcett. I believe my father imbibed too well before leaving home.’

  Mrs Fawcett nodded but did not excuse the manners of Charles’s father; and Beatrix put her hand to her face to hide a smile, knowing that her mother had seen that the Dawleys were not so very grand after all. Good manners registered high in her mother’s belief.

  She and her mother retired to the sitting room when the guests had left and her father sought refuge in his study with his pipe and slippers, muttering that he hoped that would be the last he saw of them. ‘Not young Dawley,’ he was swift to say. ‘I don’t mean him, not in the least. He’s obviously cut from a finer cloth than his father; not that I remember old Dawley being as disagreeable as he was tonight. Retirement doesn’t suit him. Maybe his wife is too demanding; that’ll be it, I’d say. Some wives are.’

  He’d shut the door behind him, and his wife had stared meaningfully at it before turning away, mumbling beneath her breath, ‘And so are some men!’

  ‘What did Mr Dawley mean when he said there was no time to lose?’ Beatrix asked her mother.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Fawcett answered. ‘Perhaps because Charles is over thirty. That isn’t old for a man to marry, but he will need an heir to carry on the name.’ She sighed. ‘You could indeed give birth to daughters first.’

  ‘Oh,’ Beatrix murmured. ‘Is that why I was chosen, to provide an heir? Not because he caught sight of me at Susannah Cummings’s party?’

  ‘There must have been lots of suitable young ladies present that evening, but you obviously stood out,’ her mother said consolingly. ‘He asked who you were, didn’t he? He wouldn’t have done so had he not been impressed.’

  Was he, though, Beatrix wondered? Or did I just look suitable? An innocent young woman. Not frivolous, not flirty like some, and never having known any young men apart from the brothers of friends. My father and Mr Dawley must have discussed me at some length. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I always thought that I would have a say in my marriage, that I would meet someone and fall in love; but am I being foolish and romantic? Is this why parents take control, to be sure that their sons and daughters make a ‘good match’?

  She sighed. Am I a lamb to the slaughter? Charles seems nice, though; a gentleman, unlike his father, but old enough to choose his own bride. She pondered on this as she recalled the night when he’d said he could give her parties and balls if that was what she wanted. I would quite like some excitement in my life. Will I find that in Yorkshire?

  ‘Could we go to visit the Yorkshire estate, Mama? Charles did say we could if we wished. We’re almost into September, and now that the Dawleys have been to supper and we’ve met them …’

  Her mother nodded. ‘We’d have to make sure that Charles’s parents don’t say they’ll come with us and spoil it for you. I’ll drop a note to him and say it is your request; that you’d like to see the house where he is proposing you might live. I’ll tell him that it would be just the two of us. I’m fairly sure that your father won’t wish to accompany us.’

  What my mother means is that she won’t tell him, Beatrix realized. She’ll tell him the day before departure and say she had been sure he wouldn’t want to come. He always says he doesn’t like rail travel in any case. He doesn’t even like going to Brighton, and that isn’t far compared with travelling to Yorkshire.

  ‘Your Mr Dawley is most accommodating,’ her mother said three days later. ‘He has suggested we travel next Wednesday, spend the day at the house on Thursday and return home on Friday. If we agree, he’ll notify the housekeeper to make things ready for us!’

  ‘Oh, how lovely.’ Beatrix was immediately uplifted. This journey will decide me, although my mother said it’s already too late to change my mind. ‘Yes,’ she said positively. ‘Let’s do that, Mama.’

  She felt it was imperative to speak to Dora’s mother to ask permission for Dora to come with her to Yorkshire. She told her mother w
here she was going, but not her father, as she was sure he’d say that her mother should go with her to find out what kind of family they were, and Beatrix already knew. Dora’s mother was a cleaner and did ironing in her own time at home, and her father worked on the London docks, getting work whenever he could.

  I have to make a stand, she thought. I am soon to be a married woman, after all, and I will need to be able to make decisions.

  ‘I’ve put out your plain grey dress, miss,’ Dora said on the day they were to visit her mother.

  ‘This grey?’ She looked at the plain gown hanging on the wardrobe door. ‘But this is my everyday dress. It’s not very elegant.’

  ‘I know, miss. That’s why I chose it. Don’t forget where you’re going. There’re a lot of poor people down where Ma and Pa live; and don’t wear your gold chain either, miss,’ Dora warned. ‘We don’t want anybody snatching it. You could wear a white collar with the frock, if you like?’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ Beatrix said, and wondered when she would actually get the chance to make a decision of her own. ‘I expect you know best.’

  Dora nodded. ‘Yes, I do, miss. But it’s all right for me to look neat and tidy cos then everybody will know I’m in work and be pleased for me.’

  ‘I see.’ Beatrix undid the chain round her neck. ‘So what will your mother be doing today, Dora, if she’s not working in someone else’s house?’

  Dora picked up the grey dress and slipped it over Beatrix’s head. ‘Oh, today’s her day off. She’ll just be cleaning her own ’ouse.’

  On Dora’s advice Beatrix wore a plain navy hat borrowed from her mother and a navy shawl draped across her shoulders. They crossed the Russell Square gardens and headed towards the site of the new King’s Cross railway station.

  ‘You seem to know your way about, Dora,’ she puffed. ‘Could we slow down, please?’

  ‘Beg pardon, miss,’ Dora said. ‘I’m used to rushing, you see. If I’ve got ten minutes to spare when I’m out on an errand, then I sometimes run home and make sure everybody’s all right.’

  ‘Why, who else is there? I thought you were the only one!’

  Dora laughed. ‘How could that be, miss? My ma and da have been married for eighteen years. I’m second eldest and there’s six more after me.’

  They had approached streets behind the station, not anywhere that Beatrix knew, and she saw that there were empty spaces where once there had been houses, now demolished for the building of the new railway and station. The streets were packed with vehicles, horses and wagons and men pushing wheelbarrows and handcarts, shouting out their wares or calling to one another and creating such a ruckus that Beatrix felt dizzy.

  ‘Are we nearly there? We should have got a hansom. We’ve passed several waiting for fares.’

  ‘Oh, my ma wouldn’t have liked that, miss! The neighbours would’ve had sumfink to say and my ma’s very private. Anyway, we’re nearly there; round this corner – and here we are, number twenty-four. We’ve got the whole of the ground floor,’ she said proudly.

  Beatrix looked at the shabby paintwork on the door and windows but saw that the net curtains were clean and the doorstep was well scrubbed; her eyes lifted to the window of the upper floor and she saw that although the pane of glass was grubby with soot the curtain up there was also clean.

  It must be difficult to keep a house fresh and unsoiled in an area like this, she thought, and as she stepped inside at Dora’s invitation and into the parlour, as Dora called it, she swiftly looked around and saw that the copper kettle and saucepans shone brightly and the rag rug in front of the hearth was well shaken.

  Has this been done especially for my visit? she wondered, but as soon as Mrs Murray came through another door she knew it hadn’t, for Mrs Murray, as round as a ball, wore a brown pleated bonnet and a spotless white apron over her skirt, and was wiping her red hands on a clean rag whilst a small child was tucked under one arm.

  ‘Morning, miss.’ Mrs Murray didn’t dip her knee and somehow Beatrix was glad of it; she felt that she was on equal terms with the keeper of this house which smelt of soap and polish, and something else; she wrinkled her nose. Soup! Onions and – what else? Fresh market aromas!

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Murray.’ She smiled. ‘There’s a good smell. Am I interrupting your midday meal?’

  ‘Not a bit, miss. I’ve always got a pan of soup simmering.’ Dora’s mother indicated the pan on the low fire. ‘With all my brood what might come in at any time of day, there’s always sumfink ready and waiting.’ She pointed to an easy chair. ‘Won’t you sit down, miss? Do you fancy a cuppa tea – a Rosy Lee as we say round here?’ She handed the baby to Dora, who tickled its tummy.

  Beatrix laughed. ‘I’ll certainly sit down, Mrs Murray, but we won’t stop for tea, thank you, for we must be getting back, but I wanted to be sure that it was all right to take Dora with me to Yorkshire. Not yet of course; my wedding isn’t until the spring.’

  She blushed as she explained. Saying it aloud made it seem real and imminent, even though it was still some months away.

  ‘I’ve talked it over with her pa, and he says it’s all right for her to go, even though it’s so far up north. I’ll knit her some scarves and mittens and woolly jumpers, cos I expect the winters’ll be bad up there.’

  Beatrix’s mouth rounded into an O. She hadn’t really considered the weather, and perhaps even the spring wouldn’t be as warm as London. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘That’s a very good idea.’

  When they left, Beatrix was reassured that Dora’s parents were pleased for Dora to travel with her. In fact her mother seemed more than pleased that her daughter was going up a step, as she called it, by going to live and work in a mansion. Beatrix heaved out a breath. She wished that she was so positive. It seemed very exciting, but she was also very nervous.

  They crossed the road to head back in the direction of Russell Square and as they looked carefully both ways to avoid the hansom cabs and cabriolets that were hurtling in both directions, she caught sight of a fair-haired man in a top hat waiting to cross from the opposite side. As she and Dora arrived on the pavement he was just hurrying off it, and for a minute she thought it was Charles; she turned to look back, but he was lost in the milling crowd.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Charles Dawley hurried across to the temporary booking office and paid for three first-class tickets to Hull for the following week. He put them in his inside coat pocket and went back outside into the hectic bustle. A woman was selling flowers and he bought a bouquet of lilies and roses, paid over the price she asked for and hurried back across the busy road, dodging the traffic as he headed towards Judd Street.

  Fifteen minutes later, for he knew all the shortcuts, he was hurrying down a narrow terrace of houses built in the previous century, taking a key from the briefcase he was carrying and inserting it into the front door of one of them. The door was unlocked. Surely …! He pushed it cautiously; although this end of the street was in a respectable area, from time to time there would be a burglary if a careless neighbour had left a door or a window unlocked.

  She was home; there was always something different about the atmosphere of the house – her perfume, a scent of the exotic, a charge of energy – but he entered the small hall guardedly. He had wanted to be there first.

  A slipper came sailing across at him, catching him on his shoulder, and he made ready for its twin. She had a terrible aim, but he smiled as he entered the sitting room and saw her standing there with it in her hand.

  ‘You are pig!!’ she screeched. ‘Eenglish pig!’

  ‘Hello, darling.’ He laid the flowers carefully on the chenille-covered table. ‘I didn’t think you’d be home yet. I was hoping to surprise you.’ She hurled herself at him and he caught hold of her arms before she hit him. ‘What in heaven’s name have I done to deserve this welcome?’ He held her fast and kissed her cheek.

  ‘You are Eenglish pig,’ she shrieked again. ‘I hear about you. What you have don
e.’

  ‘What? How have you heard? Who told you?’ He knew exactly what she was talking about but was surprised she had heard the news; he had wanted to tell her himself.

  ‘On the train, from the ship. I saw your friend Pearson. He tell me. He saw it in the newspaper.’

  Typical of Roger Pearson, he thought. Roger would have taken great delight in imparting the news; he had designs on Maria himself. But Charles blamed his mother, for she it was who had placed the announcement of the betrothal in The Times when he had said specifically that she was not to; he wanted to do it himself when the time was right and Maria had returned from her visit to Spain.

  ‘I told you that it would happen soon.’ He kissed her cheek tenderly and then her lips. ‘I warned you before you went away.’

  She shook back her dark hair, then reached to kiss his mouth and nipped his bottom lip with her teeth.

  ‘Ow, you Spanish bitch,’ he hissed at her. ‘Now you’re for it.’

  She tossed her head. ‘You get nothing from me’ – she stopped his hand from lifting her skirts – ‘until you tell me.’

  He unfastened the buttons on his coat and shrugged out of it, then sat down on the small sofa and patted the seat next to him. She sat down and put her head on his shoulder.

  ‘It was not good to hear this news from your friend,’ she said petulantly. ‘He spoil coming home for me.’

  ‘He is not my friend, Maria. Only someone I know.’ Pearson had done it deliberately, he knew that. The coincidence of meeting her, travelling alone: he would have hoped that Maria wouldn’t come home. He would have been ready with an offer himself. But he didn’t know Maria, or understand their relationship, which was long and strong.

  ‘Then tell me,’ she said, her anger fading. ‘You say you love me, yet you marry this Eenglish woman.’

  ‘I have to; I’ve explained it to you several times. I will lose my inheritance if I don’t marry, and I can’t marry you.’ He turned and kissed her cheek again. ‘Not when you are married already.’