A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  The apple pie had a thick crust and was dry. She bit on a clove and wanted to spit it out but swallowed it instead. She would write to Joe about the crinoline. Would he laugh? She knew he wouldn’t. She would write and tell him that they couldn’t come to Cornwall this year because of her mother’s confinement, but was he still coming to London to work with a sculptor? And she would tell him that she was now a suffragist but an increasingly impatient one. How do we make these politicians listen? Gentle persuasion doesn’t seem to be enough, she would say, but from the North we are hearing of another way.

  Yes, she was calmer now and after dessert she rose.

  ‘Good night, Father,’ she said, and left the room, anxious to breathe freely but glad that she had spent time in his company thinking of her life lived in opposition to his.

  Edith Watson lay back on her pillows, watching the moon through the window. It was late and Hannah had left her to work and write letters, leaving the curtains wide open as her mother wished. Edith smiled slightly at the new-found authority of her daughter over Mrs Brennan and how she drew on her St John’s training to insist on her own way; how Mrs Brennan had been forced to acquiesce. Except for today when she had shut the window in spite of Hannah’s instructions. But Hannah would rectify that tomorrow, Edith knew.

  She had finished her meal tonight and Hannah had been pleased. She had smoothed the pillows and sheets and sat in the light of the oil lamp mending a stocking for school tomorrow. There was a strength in Hannah now, Edith thought. The rebellion and tension of last year seemed to have gone, though sometimes a shadow was there, deep in the back of her eyes, and this made Edith unhappy. That shadow had been there tonight before she had turned and walked over to the dress. Edith could still see its shape, though not its colour, and her heart broke for her daughter. Her first dance and only an invitation because of her cousin and not even a fashionable dress.

  She felt angry with Harry for his tactlessness but knew that she should not be, for how could men change the way they were? If they were not strong and masterful, how would their families survive? Edith picked at the sheet, then lay her hands on the moving body that kicked within her. This baby felt strong and she breathed deeply as Hannah had taught her, trying to disperse the tension that had suddenly gripped her shoulders. Please, dear God, let it be strong, let me be forgiven for my lusts. For she knew now that they had gone for ever. She no longer desired her husband, no longer craved his touch. There was emptiness where that heat had been but she did not miss it for a warmth had taken over the rest of her life. A warmth that was the companionship of her daughter. A warmth which kept at a distance the fear which drew from her all her health and strength.

  Edith looked again at the dress; its faded colour, its outmoded shape and heaved herself upright, reaching for the bell which hung behind her bed, determined as never before. Mrs Brennan must bring her husband to her. Money must be made available for Hannah’s dress.

  John Watson flung his tie on to his dressing-room chair. Damn and blast the woman, but yes, perhaps this time she was right. Arthur was after all the son of a Lord, the second son but still a valuable ladder in the order of things. Perhaps, as Edith said, there was a possibility of a match between Hannah and the boy. She was cowed now, biddable, and the season was well under way. It could be that those girls who ‘came out’ would snap him up first, but the advantage Hannah had was that Harry was the boy’s friend. John Watson strode to the window past the heavy mahogany wardrobes which lined the room, hearing the last few birds in the trees which lined the avenue, seeing the hansom cab draw to a halt under the lamp further down the street. Would there be a match between Harry and Esther? He felt excitement begin to rise. They weren’t first cousins after all and Thomas was worth a bit. It would bring the family up, but not as much as Hannah’s marriage into the peerage.

  He turned from the window, snatching up his tie again, knotting it rapidly before pulling on his black jacket. He was feeling a tension he had not experienced since Hannah had challenged him at Thomas’s. If he was prepared to buy a new dress the least the girl could do was to bring the young cub Arthur to heel. He ground his teeth. God help the girl if she let him down. God help that interfering mother. He strode to the door. Yes, he would provide the money for a decent dress but Edith had better ensure that the girl repaid his generosity.

  He felt in his pocket then turned back to the dresser and picked up his money. Anger was building now, anger and tension. She was meek now, he’d seen to that, he thought, as he slammed the door behind him and started down the stairs and out into the street. Meek but still too intelligent. Had he done the right thing by turning her into a teacher? What would a Lord’s son think of a girl who was almost reduced to trade? The streets were darker now away from the wide avenues. Narrow alleys with stray dogs and rubbish piled high echoed his footsteps.

  Anger was mounting as he pictured her at the dining-table. Treaty of Vereeniging indeed. How dare she attempt to display her knowledge. She must wear a dress which would attract the boy, but which showed nothing of her body. His breathing was rapid now. Hannah must keep her mouth shut; her mother must see to that, if she was capable of seeing to anything. Would this new child be a boy? Would it live? He doubted that his wife was capable of even that. Were women capable of anything except the ruination of all they touched? The dampness of the river was all around him now and feverishly he plunged on to the tow path. Was there no purity to be found at all? He quickened his stride. His relief was not far away now, and soon, from the depths of him, would come the word ‘Mother’, and tonight he would not dream of her.

  8

  The coronation had been postponed because King Edward had collapsed with appendicitis on 23 June but, or so the bulletins said, was recovering well. The dance was to proceed as arranged, Aunt Camilla had told her mother.

  The day of the 26th seemed long, the hours difficult to fill, but at last it was nearly time and the new dress fitted perfectly. Polly had pulled and laced her stays before hooking the pearl buttons which were the same rich white as her heavy silk dress. Hannah stepped back from her mother’s mirror, her arms held out from her sides. She turned slowly, watching her reflection in the mirror. Could this woman be her, graceful and poised, hair coiled and full? Could this woman really be her? She lifted her eyes to her mother who stood at the foot of the bed.

  ‘You look quite beautiful, Hannah,’ her mother began, but could not continue because her voice was full; and Hannah saw her turn and pick up the fan which Joe had sent and Hannah could not speak either because her own throat was too full of gratitude.

  How had this dear woman persuaded her father to spend such a great deal of money on the best dressmaker in the area? Her mother would not say but had told Hannah to accept that the green crinoline would not be seen again and they had laughed together. Hannah lifted her skirt and walked across to her mother, helping her into bed, smoothing the sheets and seeing from the clock on the dressing-table that Aunt Camilla and Esther would be arriving with the carriage in fifteen minutes.

  Her hands were shaking as she took the fan which her mother offered her, her grey eyes soft. It was beautiful, made from ivory and painted by Joe in the palest of creams, for he had not laughed at her letter but had worked without sleep for two days and nights, or so Eliza had written, to produce something unique for her to take to the dance. Eliza had sent a string of her own pearls which matched the cream exactly and now lay cool on her skin. Hannah felt them now, rolled them between her fingers before flicking open the fan and sweeping it backwards and forwards. The draught lifted strands of her mother’s hair which was brushed but not yet pinned and disciplined. It cooled them both and neither spoke but listened to the late calls of the birds in the garden. Hannah looked at the clock again. There were ten minutes left now. Her legs were trembling. She wore silk stockings which Miss Fletcher and her suffragist friends had given her. Her hands were trembling now and she did not sit down in the chair at the side of her mother’s b
ed for fear of creasing her dress and she saw her mother smile.

  ‘You’ll have to sit down in the carriage, my dear,’ she said and Hannah nodded.

  ‘I know, but I just feel so strange, Mother; so scared, I suppose. It’s worse than facing a class of monsters.’

  Her hands were damp and she wanted to run them down her dress but could not. She felt the carved ivory stems of joe’s fan, its edges smooth but definite in her hands and then even the thought of his face bent over his workbench, his hands so large and hard, could not calm her. She looked at her own hands and wished they were as delicate as Esther’s and then she spun round, dropping the fan, her eyes seeking but not seeing her gloves; where were her gloves? She turned back to the dressing-table where an oil lamp burned, to the mahogany side table where another was lit. Her hands were at her mouth now. Oh God, she couldn’t go with bare arms.

  ‘Oh, Mother, my gloves, my bare arms, my hands.’

  She rushed to the chairs which were by the window, her dress, caught up by a small bustle at the back but hanging almost straight at the front, hampering her stride. Perhaps she had left them there when they had sat after her mother’s meal but now in the clear evening light there was no sign of them and then she heard her mother’s voice, calling, laughing.

  ‘Hannah, listen to me. They’re here. I have them safe.’

  And then they heard the door bell and knew that it was time. Hannah ran to her mother.

  ‘Walk, Hannah, walk, or you will be red and hot and your hair will be down around your shoulders.’ Her mother held up the gloves telling Hannah to keep her fingers straight; rolling them on up to her elbows. And Hannah was, for a moment, a child again, and she did not want to move from this room with its pictures, its lace bedspread, its furniture which had not changed since her birth. She wanted to stay here, with her mother and not face the stares of Esther and Camilla who were expecting the crinoline, or meet her brother, for the first time since January, or that perfect friend of his, Arthur.

  ‘Miss Hannah!’ It was Polly and Hannah took one last look in the mirror before turning back to her mother.

  ‘Will I do, Mother?’ she asked.

  Edith Watson nodded, taking her hands in hers, pulling Hannah towards her. ‘You look beautiful, my dear, very beautiful and I love you so much.’

  Hannah felt her mother’s breath on her cheek, her cool lips as they brushed her skin and knew that she would remember this moment until she died.

  ‘And I love you, Mother,’ she replied, holding her mother in her arms now, her face deep in that loose thick hair knowing that sleights and images would now no longer be necessary to show their love.

  ‘Miss Hannah,’ called Polly again, and Hannah stood up now and smiled, easing her mother back on to her pillows.

  She turned and walked towards the door, past the small table to the right of the blanket chest. The smell of fresh lilac was rich and full, the blooms losing colour in the fading light. They should not be there.

  ‘I thought the tree was finished,’ Hannah said, not turning to her mother, her voice carefully level.

  ‘Mrs Brennan found just enough for one last vase, my dear,’ she said and Hannah walked down the stairs, the fan loose in her gloved hand, unable to free herself from the smell of lilac.

  Esther and her mother had left her the whole of the seat for her crinoline and were less than talkative on the journey to Lord Wilmot’s house. Neither had commented on the dress but their eyes had said much. Hannah sat opposite them now, her mother’s cloak hanging loosely from her shoulders, thinking already of how she would write to Joe to thank him, and tell him of the new dress; but soon he had said he would be here, in London, and so letters would no longer be necessary. Soon, he had said, they could sit and talk of her plans. Had she forgotten that she was going to teach women how to improve their lives? Was it enough just to fight for the vote? What about education? Hannah shook her head. Yes, there was a great deal to talk about, and no, she hadn’t forgotten she would write to him. But there was plenty of time, wasn’t there? The carriage swayed past windows still hung with flags which had not yet been removed. When would the King be crowned, she wondered. It seemed unfair to be dancing while he lay ill, but then again, it was not often that he and his Marlborough set had to miss their fun. Perhaps it would do them good.

  She smiled slightly and looking up caught Esther’s eye. She smiled again and laughed as Esther pulled a face.

  ‘Crinoline indeed,’ she said. ‘You are a shady character, Hannah Watson, and no example to your pupils.’

  They were still laughing as the carriage drew up and the door was opened by a liveried footman. As Camilla and Esther stepped out Hannah rocked with the movement of the carriage springs. She could see the crowds collected on the pavement and the policeman stationed to prevent them from pressing too far forward in their efforts to see the guests arriving. Esther was waiting for her, her blonde hair glistening in the light which flooded out from the great hall of the house, and Hannah gathered her dress and let her fan hang from the loop around her wrist as she stepped on to the red carpeted pavement.

  ‘We’d better watch the clock,’ she murmured to Esther as they followed Camilla up the porticoed steps. ‘If we’re not home by midnight we’ll turn into pumpkins.’

  ‘It is rather grand,’ whispered Esther as they were admitted by another footman and their invitations taken from them and delivered to the butler.

  ‘Be good girls,’ whispered Camilla. ‘I shall be playing bridge with Lady Wilmot in the library.’

  They nodded.

  ‘I gather a diamond mine investor lives next door,’ Esther continued as they waited to be announced. ‘Obviously a great deal of money in that business.’

  Hannah looked at her as the butler announced their names to the waiting hosts who were lined up at the entrance to the ballroom. She really is very serious about all this, isn’t she, Hannah thought, and wondered what it would be like to have Esther as a sister-in-law.

  Lord Wilmot was elderly with white hair but a grey moustache. His faded blue eyes smiled politely but nothing more. His handshake was limp and bored. Lady Wilmot wore a diamond necklace and Esther squeezed Hannah’s hand fiercely, her eyes wide. Was it Harry or his potential wealth she was after, Hannah mused, but was unaffected by the thought, for Harry no longer concerned her.

  Arthur was standing next to his older brother. He shook hands with Camilla and Esther, saying how pleased he was to meet them and that they would find Harry over by the west door, and then turned to Hannah.

  He was taller than Joe and his hair was the colour of the oats ripening in the field which lay on the approach to the moor.

  ‘You are very much more beautiful than Harry,’ he said and the hand which took hers was warm and strong and his voice was confident and sure.

  He did not smile as he held her there but his eyes were violet with black flecks and Hannah knew why Harry was his friend. Hannah saw his brother, who was taller and darker nudge his arm and Arthur released her hand then and turned to greet the woman who smelt of eau de cologne and was too close to Hannah.

  She walked on into the crowded ballroom, feeling a smile grow on her face.

  ‘Rather a lovely young man,’ Esther said as she held her arm. ‘Are you impressed?’

  Hannah laughed, pausing to allow a man with a monocle to precede them through the crowded ballroom to the west door where she could see Harry waiting, his face strained, his eyes anxious as he looked to either side and then in front but still he had not seen them.

  Esther pinched her arm. ‘Well, have you gone deaf? Are you impressed?’

  Hannah flicked out her fan, waved it in front of Esther’s face. ‘Calm down, silly child. I can see why Harry likes him. He’s sure of himself, he’s …’ she sought for the word that she wanted. ‘He’s easy somehow.’

  ‘And very handsome,’ Esther snapped.

  ‘And very handsome,’ Hannah agreed, though she would have used the word beautiful
. She looked across at Harry again, who was moving towards them now, his face eager, but as he reached them and looked only at Esther she saw that he trembled as he took his cousin’s hand and kissed it. He was tall and broad, all signs of boyhood gone. Her father would be proud, she thought, of this son who was an undoubted gentleman.

  Hannah looked away, outside the feelings that were gripping her brother, outside the love that poured from him. She saw the brilliant crystal chandeliers, lit by electricity, hanging from the white-and-gold-painted ceiling. She felt the heat from the flickering candles held tight in the branches of the silver candelabras which stood on every side table, alongside displays of flowers which added their scent to the heavy air. And then she looked back again at Esther and her brother and still they stood with their eyes only for each other.

  Yes, she thought, Arthur was beautiful, like this room, white and light and easy, and she wished that she had someone who looked at her with eyes suddenly dark, who held her with hands that trembled and stopped her feeling so alone.

  The music whirled on, drawing dancers into its rhythm. Dresses shone and jewels glittered and nearby the candles fluttered in the draught from a newly opened window. Now Harry turned to her and smiled and said, ‘How are you, Hannah?’

  But although his eyes were looking at her they were not seeing. They were still filled with Esther and so she said, ‘Quite well, thank you, Harry,’ knowing as she spoke that he did not hear her, though he nodded and smiled.

  He stopped a waiter and handed punch to Esther and then to her and it was cool on her lips. She watched the swirl of pink liquid as she waved the glass gently, the fruit collecting together against the rim. A grape and an apple segment. Apples for Uncle Simon, she chanted in time to the music. Apple lofts and wrinkled fruit. Joe on the moor, gold-red hair and strength. Arthur with hair the colour of oats. And she saw him coming now, weaving through the jostling guests, nodding and laughing and greeting but keeping his eyes for her, looking at her as Harry had not and she smiled as he came because now she would not be standing alone, on the outside of Harry’s love.