The Lonely Wife

by Val Wood

  ‘I’m so very sorry; that must have been dreadful for you.’ His concern was genuine. ‘Were you there?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I wasn’t. I received a telegram from Charles’s father asking me to come at once. He said that there was disquieting news, but gave no indication of what the news might be.’

  His lips parted. ‘And you went alone?’

  She shook her head. ‘With Dora and the children. I – I didn’t know what the news would be,’ she stammered, not knowing how to explain and realizing that she couldn’t. ‘I – I didn’t – I thought it might be something else entirely, which is why I took the children with me. I – didn’t know what to expect. But he – Charles’s father – came to see me at my parents’ house. So I wasn’t alone when he gave me the news. I …’ She paused. ‘I went to see Charles. It was the only way that I could believe that he was – not here any more.’

  He reached for her hand as she touched her throat, but gently she pulled it away.

  ‘I can’t think of – that is … ’ she closed her eyes momentarily, ‘I can’t think of anything more than getting through the next few days, Edward, and what else – what other developments – they might bring. My position with the estate,’ she looked back at the old house and sighed, ‘well, I don’t know what will happen until I see the contents of Charles’s Will.’

  Edward frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Surely Laurence will inherit when he reaches twenty-one. I recall—’ He stopped.

  ‘I was going to ask,’ he went on after a moment, ‘if I might represent our family at the funeral service, and Hallam would like to represent the estate. That was our reason for seeing you before you left for London, as well as to offer our commiserations.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said on a grateful sigh. ‘I would appreciate that very much indeed.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Beatrix wrote to Maria advising her of the date and time of the funeral; she was quite sure that she would want to attend, and as the funeral service was to be held at the church of St George where Beatrix and Charles had been married, which was not far from Judd Street, it would be easy for her to be there if she wished.

  The day was dull and cold, and all the men at the service, which was attended by many of Charles’s friends and bank officials, turned to stare at the young widow on her father’s arm with Dora in attendance. Edward and Hallam sat near the back, and behind them a woman dressed completely in black with a black mantilla that covered her face and head.

  At the graveside everyone stood in silence as the sounds of the London traffic continued unabated. The horses that had pulled the cortège were decked out in tossing feathered plumes; the mutes who had walked in front of the draped carriages wore long white scarves wrapped around their top hats in express opposition to what Beatrix had requested, and waited patiently to escort the passengers on the return journey.

  ‘Can’t do it, I’m afraid,’ Alfred Dawley had said to Beatrix’s father when he had passed on Beatrix’s request for no extravagance. ‘Not done to have a plain funeral,’ he went on. ‘Not for people in our position, and besides, his mother would have been mortified,’ and he was probably left wondering why Fawcett had turned his back on him and walked away.

  After the burial, when Beatrix had scattered soil into the grave she stood aside in a state of unreality, inclining her head as mourners came to greet her, mumbling platitudes, and wishing she could return to the safety of her parents’ house. One of the mourners was Charles’s friend Paul, who unashamedly shed tears and said he could not yet believe that his friend had gone.

  Others whom she recognized had visited their home in the days when Charles had invited them to summer parties, but she could not recall their names; there were clerks representing the bank, and Edward and Hallam hanging back to speak to her. Edward was wearing a black frock coat and top hat which completely unnerved her, and Hallam was neatly dressed in a dark cord jacket and bowler. She thanked them for coming.

  Alfred Dawley, who was also receiving the mourners, wore a black cloak fashionable for funerals in a previous decade, and a very tall black top hat which was trimmed with a ‘weeper’, a long trailing hat band; he turned to her when she had finished speaking to Edward and Hallam and said she was on no account to worry about anything, and that he would handle all the details of Charles’s Will and those of the estate which would come to Laurence when he came of age.

  ‘That is most kind,’ she murmured sweetly, and set to tell a white lie. ‘But I have already notified my solicitor of Charles’s demise and he will come to visit me at home as soon as I am able to receive him.’

  ‘Will he?’ He seemed quite taken aback. ‘He’s here. Parkinson! Has he not introduced himself?’

  ‘Parkinson? No, that is not the name. Robinson-Gough; do you remember him? He was at school with Charles. Highly recommended. His offices are in York, so much more convenient than London.’

  She turned back to where Edward and Hallam were standing and said to her father-in-law, who seemed to have been thrown into disarray by her comment, ‘May I introduce our farm manager, Simon Hallam, and you will perhaps know Edward Newby.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Alfred Dawley tipped his hat to Hallam and then turned to Edward. ‘What was the name again?’ he asked rather brusquely.

  ‘Newby,’ Edward responded. ‘You perhaps won’t remember me, I was only a boy when we last met, but you’ll remember my father. Luke Newby, a good friend of Neville Dawley.’

  Beatrix watched as an expression of unease crossed Alfred Dawley’s face; why would he be uncomfortable about that?

  ‘How do you do. If you’ll excuse me,’ Dawley stutteringly made his apologies, ‘I need to speak to some other people,’ and Beatrix watched as he hurried over towards a man dressed very soberly in black and wearing a watch and chain, which he looked at several times, as if he were anxious to be gone. She saw Alfred Dawley say something to him, and the man frowned, shook his head, and scanned over to where Beatrix was standing.

  She glanced about her; a woman was standing by the graveside, covered completely by her black garments; her shoulders were shaking. Beatrix’s father was in conversation with Edward so she stepped across to speak to the woman, who had to be Maria, for there were no other women present.

  When she approached her, Maria stepped back, her head bent. ‘I am so sorry. I should not be here, but thank you, thank you for allowing me to come.’ She gave a great sob. ‘I am so unhappy. I cannot bear to live without Charles.’

  ‘But you must,’ Beatrix said in alarm. ‘You must stay in the house to preserve his memory.’

  Maria shook her head. ‘I don’t belong here. I am a foreigner, yet I can’t go back to Spain.’

  ‘Maria! Will you trust me? I will try to do my best for you, but I can’t do it now, not whilst I am in mourning. Meanwhile, this is what I want you to do. Tomorrow you must find a locksmith and have the locks changed on the door. Ask to have two keys made, one for you and one for me. Do not give them to anyone else. Do you understand? Two keys only. One for you; one for me. Do not give a copy to anyone else, not even Charles’s father. Ask them to charge it to me.’

  ‘They will ask for the money in hand.’ Maria lifted her veil and wiped her eyes. ‘Everyone does.’

  Beatrix sighed; she really wanted to go home, or at least to her parents’ home. She spotted Edward looking her way and discreetly signalled to him.

  ‘Edward,’ she whispered. ‘Do you have any money with you?’

  He gave a small smile at the odd question. ‘Some,’ he said.

  ‘Would you kindly give this lady enough to pay a locksmith to change a lock and supply two keys, and I will pay you back when next I see you.’

  He nodded and took out a notebook and purse and gave Maria a crown. ‘It won’t be so much, sir,’ she choked.

  ‘With the change you may buy yourself a new bonnet,’ he said softly.

  Beatrix blinked away tears; how kind he was. The few sim
ple words opened up her heart as they seemed to do for Maria, who dipped her knee, tears streaming down her face as she lifted her veil to wipe them, turned to Beatrix and dipped again, and walked away.

  Edward gazed at Maria’s back as she walked towards the gate of the graveyard and shook his head before offering his arm to walk Beatrix back to her father. He knows who she is, Beatrix thought. How does he know?

  He told her when she asked. He had seen Maria by chance when Charles had brought her to look at the house; he didn’t believe they had gone inside but only looked at the exterior. ‘I was making fast a window cord when they came,’ he said briefly. ‘She wouldn’t have remembered me.’

  She told her father that she was ready to leave and the thought came to her that never would she have imagined she would need her father as much as she did now. She felt as if she were drowning in matters out of her control: the London house, Charles’s Will, and most of all her son’s estate, which if she had to fight for it would need all the strength she could muster. Why she felt threatened, she couldn’t put into words, but it had been triggered by Alfred Dawley’s smooth suggestion that she was not to worry and should leave all the legal details to him.

  When they returned home, her father invited her to come into his study and her mother sent in a tray with coffee and a plate of bread, beef and ham. There was still a lingering trace of tobacco smoke, but it was not unpleasant as her father had given up his pipe, her mother had put up new curtains and changed the cushions and the room had a fresher smell than it once had.

  By the time they finished talking Beatrix had a headache, but they had discussed all the considerations that were worrying her, and with her father’s reassurance that they could all be attended to she went upstairs and slept for two hours, but awoke wishing that she had brought the children with her, for she was missing them and their chatter.

  Her father returned home the following lunchtime after several successful visits to various people to ask advice on her behalf and sending a letter post-haste to the York lawyer Stephen Robinson-Gough, requesting a meeting at the home of his daughter Mrs Beatrix Dawley ten days hence, for Beatrix had embroidered her words to Alfred Dawley when she claimed she had already arranged a meeting with her solicitor; it was actually still on her reminder list, waiting to be actioned.

  He had made one call at his former bank, where he spoke to the present manager to confirm a query, and was pleased by the welcome he received, to know that he was still held in high esteem; and another to the office of Parkinson, Charles’s former solicitor, who appeared at an inner door of his chambers just as Ambrose Fawcett was enquiring for an urgent appointment.

  Parkinson invited him to come into his office as his next appointment was late, and as he later explained to Beatrix, who had come again to his study, he seemed a decent enough fellow who had looked after the matter of the estate well, in spite of some difficulties with Charles’s father which naturally he didn’t divulge.

  ‘He explained that he couldn’t give me any details, which was as I expected,’ he told Beatrix. ‘But what he did confide was that if Charles had made a Will, he hadn’t asked him to take instruction; and as far as he could ascertain, and he had pressed Charles on many occasions, there wasn’t one.

  ‘A remarkable lapse, I would say,’ her father mumbled, ‘but one that might make it easier for you in the long run, as you will automatically inherit. Had he made a Will and left the estate to Laurence then you would have been the property custodian.’ He had a very serious expression as he continued. ‘This makes you a most desirable target for any Tom, Dick or Harry in need of a great deal of money, for if they can persuade you to marry them you will have to give it all up to them. You will need advice from Robinson-Gough to clarify.’

  He paused before opening the door for her. ‘I must confess that I hadn’t given enough consideration to the fact that the system is very unfair indeed towards women.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Dora asked if she might take the morning off to visit her parents and Beatrix said yes, of course she could, and to stay the whole day or overnight if she wished.

  ‘I’ll stay for the day, ma’am, but come back before supper. My ma and pa have a routine and I wouldn’t like to bother ’em, even though they’ll be glad to see me.’

  She deserved to have time off, Beatrix thought; she’s forever at my side, taking care of my every whim. She glanced out of the window shortly after she heard Dora’s footsteps on the stairs and the bang of the front door, and saw Hallam crossing towards her from where he must have been waiting by the gardens in the square. Dora took his arm.

  Ah, Beatrix thought. Is he going to ask for her hand? How lucky I’ve been to have her. Will she now be leaving me?

  She dressed in the black cape and a black bonnet that her mother produced out of a cupboard. Mrs Fawcett had shrugged her shoulders as she handed it to Beatrix, and murmured that it was as well to be prepared. Her father had ordered a cab and they set off, probably in the same direction as Dora was heading, she surmised.

  Maria was in and busily cleaning the inside of the windows when they arrived at the door. ‘This is my father, Maria,’ Beatrix told her. ‘Might we have a few words?’

  Maria took a sharp breath and put her hand to her chest, but Beatrix assured her that there was nothing to worry about. Her father took a seat and said how very nice the house was and indeed it was, Beatrix considered: every surface was polished, the cushions were plumped, and the hearthrug, which she noted was new, had been well shaken.

  ‘We want to ask you if Charles kept any papers here; official papers, I mean.’ Mr Fawcett gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘Oh, yes, he did. He said so that his father didn’t see them; he did not trust his father always to do the right thing. You may come upstairs and I show you where he keep them.’

  They followed her up the narrow staircase and into a very small room that looked as if it was used as a dressing room, for there was a chest of drawers, a very large wardrobe, a mirror on a stand and a tall filing cabinet.

  ‘I know where is the key.’ She smiled proudly. ‘I am the only one who knows, not his father, no one else. Please, you close eyes.’

  They both did as they were bid and each heard the clang of the drawer as she opened it. ‘There,’ she said. ‘You can open eyes now.’

  The bottom drawer of the filing cabinet was open and they saw several files neatly contained within it.

  ‘May I?’ Beatrix’s father asked politely, and she nodded.

  ‘They are yours now, I think?’ she said to Beatrix, who replied that yes, they were, or at least her son’s, but he was too young to understand them.

  ‘Ah, yes. Charles say to me that the old house and the land would one day belong to his son.’ She shrugged. ‘He tell me that he doesn’t want it; it was his father who say he must have it.’

  Beatrix glanced at her father as he took out several files, then she turned back to Maria and said, ‘Could we trouble you for a pot of tea whilst my father looks for the papers we need? And I wish to speak to you about this house.’

  Immediately Maria was apologetic over her lack of manners and led Beatrix downstairs to sit down whilst she made tea. When she had done that and taken a cup upstairs to Mr Fawcett, Beatrix said, ‘You have a lovely home, Maria. May I call you Maria? I don’t know your surname.’

  ‘I use Garcia,’ she said softly. ‘It is my mother’s maiden name, not my ’usband’s or my father’s. I don’t wish to use them. My ’usband is not a good man.’ She gazed at Beatrix. ‘I would like it if you call me Maria.’ She paused for a moment, and then said, ‘I loved Charles always, and although he marry you he say to me that it is what the English do, but he still love me and care for me.’

  Beatrix nodded and agreed that was possibly true, and thought that Charles probably did love Maria in his way, although not enough to give her his London house. ‘We have ascertained Charles’s wishes, and one of them is that although you will no
t own this house and therefore cannot sell it, you may stay in it for as long as you live. If you decide to marry or live with another man, however, then there will be rent to pay.’

  ‘I will never marry,’ Maria said determinedly. ‘I cannot, as my husband is still alive in Spain, but may my friend Bianca come and live with me? Like me she is alone, and we can grow old together.’

  ‘Yes, she may, but only one friend, no more than that. I will ask my solicitor to send you the particulars and someone will visit once a year to check if any repairs are needed. But you will always be notified that they are coming.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Maria said. ‘I understand. I am very grateful.’ She leaned forward, and raising Beatrix’s hand planted a kiss on it.

  Her father came down with some of the papers and said he thought he had everything. ‘There is a list of jewellery here,’ he said to Maria. ‘Perhaps what he has bought you over the years?’

  Maria paled. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘For me, Charles said, for if he wasn’t here, and if ever I needed money I could sell.’

  ‘Then you must insure it against loss or theft,’ Mr Fawcett advised. ‘Don’t just keep it in a drawer for burglars to find.’

  Her face cleared. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I will do that.’

  They left her then, and as they stepped over the doorstep Maria pressed the new door key into Beatrix’s hand. ‘You are very kind and beautiful lady,’ she said softly. ‘You are kinder than I expected. Charles was very lucky to marry you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Beatrix said, feeling quite moved by the other woman’s sincerity.

  ‘Did you find a Will?’ she asked her father as they bowled away in the cab.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘But a letter of intent which I think will be enough; it was written some years ago. June 1852.’

  ‘After Laurie’s birth,’ she said, a tear sliding down her cheek. ‘What does it say?’