by Clare Flynn
‘It’s my life. Let me live it.’
She nodded, gave a long sigh, then glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Almost time for cocktails. Let’s move to the library – I’ve asked Bannister to mix us gin rickeys.’ She touched his arm. ‘You will indulge me tonight, darling, won’t you? I suppose we must drink to your foolhardy venture, although I’d prefer to be drinking to staying here.’
He leaned over, kissed her on the cheek and pulled her to her feet.
Over dinner Edwina resumed her efforts to persuade her son to change his mind. Unused to being denied her own way, she was like a terrier in pursuing every possible means. She sulked, she complained, she pleaded, she cajoled but her efforts made no impact on Christopher. By the time the meal was almost finished she appeared to have reached a grudging acceptance of her son’s impending desertion and moved onto her favourite subject – society gossip.
‘If you’re going to be in Sarawak, you’ll have to call on the Brookes. Vyner Brooke is married to that awful Sylvia Brett. Must be nearly ten years now. You know, darling, Lord Esher’s daughter. I never liked the girl. Common as muck and so lacking any dignity. And I hear since she’s been out in Borneo she’s got even worse.’ She tutted and gave her head a little shake.
Christopher let her words drift over him, relieved that he had got through the worst part – telling her – and now he had the delightful prospect ahead of him – his return to the island he loved.
Chapter 28
Martha had put David down for his afternoon sleep and was planning to make herself a pot of tea, before catching up with her chores. It was harder, since the baby had arrived, to keep on top of things.
Humiliation at his failure to perform in the marital bed, and David’s need for night-feeds, had led to Reggie making no protest when Martha started sleeping in the single bed in David’s bedroom. Slowly their marriage was reverting to the amicable partnership on which it had been founded. The difference was that now Martha knew she could never completely trust Reggie again and was always on her guard.
There was a knock at the front door. She wiped her hands, took off her apron and went to answer the door, unused to unexpected callers. When her former nursing colleagues dropped by they always gave her forewarning.
Standing on the doorstep was a woman, slightly older than Martha. She was smartly dressed, but gaunt, with angular features, her body painfully thin, her eyes anxious. The woman made no attempt to smile at Martha.
‘Are you Mrs Henderson?’ There was a hint of an Irish accent.
‘Yes.’ Martha was puzzled. ‘And you?’
Ignoring the question, ‘Mrs Reginald Henderson?’
Martha frowned. ‘Yes. What’s this about?’
The woman looked around then said, ‘May I come inside? It’s of a personal nature. We need to talk.’
Unease gripped Martha but she nodded and stepped aside to allow the woman passage. She led her into the parlour and offered to make tea, which the woman refused.
‘Excuse me, but you haven’t told me your name, who you are,’ said Martha, sitting down opposite the stranger.
‘The name’s Henderson. Mrs Reginald Henderson.’
A clutch of fear gripped Martha. The woman was too young to be Reggie’s mother. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My husband was not in a position to marry you, Mrs Henderson. He is still married to me.’
Martha stared at her, unable to believe what she was hearing.
The other Mrs Henderson pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry. It has clearly come as a shock to you. I need to ask you a question. Did you get married or do you style yourself as his wife?’
Martha clenched her hands together. ‘Of course we got married. The ceremony was in a local church.’ She felt her cheeks burning. ‘St Matthews. It’s on the Highgrove Road.’ Why was she behaving defensively? She had done nothing wrong. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘No mistake.’ The woman opened her handbag and took out an envelope and handed it to Martha.
Her hands shaking, Martha opened it and took out a photograph. It showed a couple in wedding clothes – younger incarnations of Reginald Henderson and the woman sitting opposite.
‘Eighteenth of April, 1908. St Anselm’s church in Nottingham. See for yourself.’
Martha unfolded the other piece of paper and saw it was a marriage certificate for Reginald Henderson, profession, student doctor, and Miss Eileen O’Hara, spinster.
‘But this isn’t possible. How can it be?’
‘When my husband returned from his brief time at the Front he was a changed man in so many ways. He had lost his eye but he had also lost himself. The kind and loving man I married had changed into a violent and angry person, who beat me without cause and with regularity. Life with him became a living hell.’ She raised her eyes to meet Martha’s. ‘I tried to persuade him to seek help. He of all people, being a medical man with a specialisation in psychiatric health, should have known that was the right course. But he refused. What is it they say? “Physician heal thyself”?’ She studied Martha’s face, assessing her. ‘So he didn’t tell you he was married?’
‘He said his wife had died of the influenza. During the war.’
Mrs Henderson gave a hollow laugh. ‘He did, did he? Killed me off then? Metaphorically speaking.’
Martha said nothing.
‘I begged him to get help but he took no notice. I stuck it out until 1917, when one night he punched me so hard he broke my jaw.’ She lifted her hand and touched her chin. ‘So I left him. I went home to Ireland. My mother took me in. I’ve been caring for her in her old age, but she passed away almost a year ago. All the time I was gone I heard not a single word from Reginald. He must have known I would have gone back to Ireland.’ She shook her head lightly. ‘He was probably ashamed of what he had done. After Mother died, I returned to Nottingham to find him, hoping he might by now have sought help for his condition. My mother’s death made me take stock of my life. I began to remember the good things about Reginald.’
She dropped her eyes for a moment, then fixed them on Martha again. ‘I decided to do what I could to save my marriage, convince him to seek treatment if he hadn’t already done so.’ She looked down at her hands, fingering her gold wedding band. ‘It took me until now to track him down. I met one of his army colleagues who told me he transferred to the asylum here before the end of the war.’
They were interrupted by the howling of the baby. Martha jumped to her feet. ‘The child’s not Reggie’s,’ she said quickly. ‘Please wait. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
She went upstairs and picked David up from his cot, holding him against her, dropping kisses on his soft hair, stroking his back to comfort him. The child calmed. ‘Did you have a bad dream, David, my darling boy?’ she murmured. She tried to lay him down but he began to cry again. Conscious of the waiting woman in the parlour, she wrapped his shawl around him and carried him downstairs.
She paced in front of the fireplace, hoping movement would keep the child quiet. Turning to the other woman, she said, ‘I was working here in the asylum when I discovered I was expecting my son. There was no question of me marrying the father for reasons I would prefer not to discuss. I thought I would end up in the workhouse, but Regg… Dr Henderson offered to marry me and give the child a name.’ She paused. ‘He and I have never… Ours is a marriage in name only. He married me out of kindness. I had no idea you were alive.’
The woman studied her sceptically. ‘You’re trying to tell me that he has never had sexual relations with you? You can’t expect me to believe that.’
‘He takes medication.’ Martha didn’t want to tell this stranger all the details. It was up to Reggie to tell her the details, not her. ‘It affects him.’
‘Are you trying to say he’s impotent? He certainly wasn’t when we were married.’
‘He wasn’t taking the pills then. And he was aggressive then, you said?’
The woman nodded. But her expression indica
ted she was suspicious.
Martha adjusted David’s shawl and avoided looking at Mrs Henderson.
‘You swear that child is not my husband’s?’
‘On my baby’s life. David’s father is the only man I have ever loved. He loved me too. Sadly, we could not be together.’
‘He was married too.’ The question was spoken rhetorically.
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’ As the baby had fallen asleep again in her arms, she sat down. ‘What happens now? What do you intend to do?’
Mrs Henderson sighed. ‘I will go the police and they will probably take him into custody. My husband is a bigamist and whether he has had relations with you or not, he must be punished for it. I’m sorry that you and your child will have to suffer the consequences of his deceit. I intend to tell the police that I believe you were duped by him. They will probably want to talk to you themselves. I can’t help that. And there will be a scandal. And of course you are no longer married. Your marriage is void.’
Martha didn’t know how to take all this in. It was too much.
‘I came here this afternoon because I wanted to find out whether you knew the truth. Apparently the second wife rarely does, but I had to be sure for myself. And I thought it would be better that you heard it first from me rather than from the police.’
Martha nodded. They sat for few moments in silence.
Eventually Martha said, ‘What about you? What will you do?’
The woman touched her wedding ring again. ‘I don’t know. Divorce possibly. But… I loved my husband and I believe it’s medical help he needs. I hope that he will get that help while he’s in prison. My going to the police is the only way to clear all this up. All the lies. The deceit.’
‘Prison? Will it come to that?’ Martha felt a sudden rush of horror, as well as pity for the man who had deceived her. After all, he had given her shelter, made her son legitimate, and apart from the brief spell when his rages caused him to physically attack her, he had shown her kindness and affection.
‘Bigamy is a crime.’
‘But prison? That would be such a waste. He does good work here at St Crispin’s.’
‘They will doubtless take that into consideration. I’ve talked to a lawyer. He told me bigamy carries up to seven years, but given Reginald’s circumstances, and assuming neither you nor I are screaming for blood, he could receive a sentence of as little as six months. Given his professional reputation and the fact that his mental state traces to his war service, the solicitor believes he would get a minimal custodial sentence.’
When Mrs Henderson had left, Martha paced up and down, trying to make sense of what had taken place. She was still trying to take in the full import of what had happened that afternoon. Initial pity for Henderson was soon replaced by anger. He had married her under false pretences. He had lied to her when he had promised their marriage would never be consummated. And he had attacked her – and his legitimate wife – with callous violence. And now, his irresponsible actions would have terrible consequences for her and for David.
As her baby stirred in her arms, purred and went back to sleep, she felt a stab of fear. What would become of her? And what would become of her child?
Chapter 29
The superintendent narrowed his eyes at Martha with ill-disguised disgust. ‘You and your child can stay at St Crispin’s until the end of the month, then I want you out of the house and gone from here.’
Martha lowered her eyes. Only three weeks to find somewhere to go.
‘I’m only letting you stay here as long as that because Dr Henderson begged me to do so when they took him away.’ He glared over the desk at her with loathing. ‘It always went against my better judgement agreeing that you could work as an auxiliary here, when you had a relative as a patient. Most improper. And I had a feeling a woman like you would take advantage of Reggie. I’ll be honest, when he said he was going to marry you I tried to dissuade him but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘A woman like me?’ She lifted her eyes to look at him.
The superintendent’s gaze was cold. ‘A woman of another class. A cleaner. And a woman of low morals.’
She said nothing. What was the point of arguing with him? His mind was clearly made up.
‘You gave away your daughter and didn’t visit her in twenty years.’ He picked up a piece of paper from his desk, glanced at it without reading then put it down again. ‘As soon as you met Dr Henderson you conceived the plan of marrying him. Poor Reggie.’ The last two words were muttered half under his breath.
He got up and walked over to stand by the window. ‘Dr Henderson has told me the child isn’t his. That he offered to marry you to make your son legitimate.’ He twiddled the wooden pull from the window-blind between his fingers. ‘You have ruined the life and reputation of a good man, Mrs Walters. Dr Henderson was doing great work here, ground-breaking work. Even if he avoids a lengthy prison sentence, he will never work in medicine again.’
He stared out of the window, his back to Martha. ‘End of the month. No longer. After that don’t come anywhere near St Crispin’s again.’
There was no point in protesting. Martha knew he wasn’t alone in his sentiments. Not a single one of the nurses – women she had thought of as her friends – had come near her since the news erupted. She wasn’t surprised. They had all adored Dr Henderson.
She got up and left the superintendent’s office without further words, and walked across the lawn to the small house that had been her home. One of the hospital cleaners, glad to make an extra shilling, was sitting with David. When the woman left, Martha scooped up her son from the hearth rug where he was playing with some wooden bricks. She held him against her body, breathing in his soft, powdery smell. ‘Oh, my darling boy, what’s to become of us?’
That night, Martha sat up late, thinking, in the glow of the firelight. After examining all the possible options, she reached a conclusion. Her son’s welfare was paramount. She would have to swallow her pride and seek help from the Shipleys. From Kit. He would have to be told about his son. If his father had paid for the support of Jane all those years, then Kit must now do something to help David.
She hadn’t wanted him to know about David. Jane had still been alive and dependent on the Shipleys when she’d discovered her pregnancy. Doing anything that might have jeopardised her daughter’s future had been out of the question. She didn’t want to think about how Mrs Shipley would have reacted. She couldn’t have risked her cutting off the payments. But now that Jane was gone, David was everything to her. In fact he was the only thing she cared about now. Seeking Kit’s help was her only hope. And Mrs Shipley wouldn’t have to find out.
Martha knew Kit had married – she’d seen the photographs in a magazine she found the previous spring, in the ward sister’s office. She remembered how she felt when she saw those photographs – Lady Lavinia looking radiant and Kit looking as though he were about to mount the scaffold. Her heart had swelled with love for him, twinned with sadness that they were now lost to each other for ever. She couldn’t have hoped for anything else, but it still cut her to the quick, knowing that they would never be together. If she had known when Henderson asked her to marry him that Jane would be dead a few weeks later, she would never have agreed. It was hard not to think what if…
Discovering his son’s existence would be a shock to Kit. Martha didn’t want to make matters worse for him. By now, surely he would be reconciled to life with Lady Lavinia. Martha’s appearance with his child would throw everything into confusion. But what choice did she have?
* * *
Two weeks later, Martha walked up the long driveway to Newlands, having left David in the village in the care of the retired schoolmistress. There was a frost on the grass and little indication of the coming of spring. Martha breathed in lungfuls of air, conscious of the hammering of her heart in her chest. How would Kit react to her turning up out of the blue? Would he be pleased to see her? Angry? Distressed? She was filled wi
th trepidation. One thing she was certain about – however he felt about her, he would not shirk his responsibility towards his son.
When she reached the top of the sweeping drive, Martha hesitated. Should she go round to the back of the house and knock at the servants’ door? She had never used the grand porticoed front entrance. But this was not servants’ business.
Nerves on edge, she ascended the stone steps and tugged on the bell-pull.
It was a few minutes before Bannister appeared. When he saw Martha, his face registered surprise. The elderly butler had known her all her life and, she suspected, like all the servants at Newlands, probably knew about her brief relationship with Kit. Gossip travelled at lightning speed on a country estate.
‘Mrs Walters?’ He frowned and turned to look over his shoulder, then moved towards her. ‘You’ll have to go round to the back.’
‘I’m here to see Captain Shipley.’ She stood her ground.
‘Captain Shipley is overseas.’
‘Overseas?’ She hadn’t anticipated that possibility. ‘For how long?’
‘Indefinitely.’
Martha bit her lip, disappointment surging through her, but told herself she had to think of her son. ‘In that case I would like to see Mrs Shipley.’ Then, afraid that he might think she meant Lady Lavinia, she added, ‘His mother.’
Bannister frowned again. ‘Wait here,’ he said curtly, then disappeared inside the house, closing the door behind him.
She stood under the stone portico, shivering. There was a sharp wind and the daffodils growing along the edges of the gravel driveway were bent over sideways. The prospect of telling Mrs Shipley about her situation was not an appealing one. If Martha had been nervous before, she was petrified now.
The door opened wide and Bannister ushered her inside.
Martha remembered her last audience with Edwina Shipley – standing, humiliated, in front of a big oak desk while the woman handed her a cheque. Would this be a repeat of that experience? But today she was shown into a small parlour, unexpectedly cosy, with a crackling fire burning in the grate, a couple of sleeping spaniels and there in an armchair, Mrs Shipley herself. She waved a hand to indicate that Martha should sit down opposite her.
