by Carol Rivers
The long, elegant sweep of Adelphi Hall’s stairs was behind him, above the coat of arms that symbolized his family’s proud history. He must perform this last duty of his life with valour and courage.
Standing by his son’s sleeping form was his sister, his nemesis. She was about to snuff out the life that he himself had created.
His blood rushed to his temples; his lungs were crushed by an iron band as he watched her lower the pillow.
Lord William Calvey, fourth Earl of Talbott, staggered forward. He reached out, arms outstretched, as she placed the pillow over his son’s face.
‘We have come to see Will Boniface,’ Lillian said, as they stood on the flagstones of Adelphi Hall’s entrance hall. ‘I am a friend of Lady Bertha—’
‘I’m afraid you are too late,’ the doctor interrupted, looking harassed, his spectacles slightly lop-sided on his large nose. ‘I am sorry to deliver the sad news. But the death was quite unexpected. The body has just been taken away by ambulance.’
‘No!’ Flora gasped.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But when? How?’ Lillian said as she held Flora’s arm.
‘Earlier in the evening. The accident was discovered when the nurse returned from her rounds.’
Flora stood, the rain dripping through her hair and onto floor. Michael’s coat was wet through around her shoulders. ‘But this can’t be,’ she murmured as tears welled over her lashes and down her cheeks. Will couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t.
‘What happened?’ Lillian held Flora’s arm tightly.
‘The night nurse was absent, but for only a short while as she checked the other wards. We have just had an intake of men from Ypres and have been exceptionally busy. Lady Bertha agreed to open the servants’ quarters to accommodate them. We have been stretched to our limit both there and in the house.’
‘Not a reason, doctor,’ argued Lillian in an icy tone, ‘to neglect your patients.’
The doctor went red and removed his spectacles. Wiping them nervously with a small piece of cloth, he snapped, ‘We do the very best we can.’
‘Excuse me.’ A soft voice interrupted.
They all turned to see an elderly man wearing a dark uniform. He stood at the foot of the stairs, slightly out of breath. His white hair grew in a silky cap over his head. He was no taller than Flora and looked directly into her eyes as though he knew her. ‘Doctor, this must be a great shock for our visitors. I shall escort them upstairs to his lordship’s quarters and offer them some refreshment, if you have no objection.’
Flora didn’t want any refreshment. She only wanted to see Will, and to understand more about why he had died. But the doctor had said he’d been taken away by ambulance. How could that have happened? If only the car hadn’t broken down and they had arrived sooner!
‘I am Lord William Calvey’s valet, Turner,’ said the elderly man, as finally they reached the top of the house. The long winding stairs had seemed to go on for ever. He took them through a set of great double doors onto a landing that stretched ahead into a dark space. ‘These are known as the attics, but are Lord Calvey’s personal rooms,’ he explained.
Flora sniffed back her sobs. She still couldn’t believe they had been too late to help Will. What had happened? Why didn’t the doctor tell them more?
‘Please follow me into the library.’
Lillian urged Flora to follow. They were both silent, but clung together, their wet clothes seeming of no importance now.
A fire burned in the big grate of the library. The huge stone hearth was engraved with the same coat-of-arms that hung above the entrance hall. Above it was a very large painting of a young soldier on horseback. He wore a scarlet tunic and on the jacket were pinned many medals. The room was lined with shelves of books and lit by gaslight. The windows had thick, purple drapes that Flora thought must have, in their day, been very luxurious.
‘Allow me to take your wet clothes. I shall dry them whilst I make tea.’
Flora took off Michael’s coat and Lillian her jacket. Flora had no interest in the beautiful room, nor did she feel like sitting by the fire. She wanted to go back to the doctor and ask him about Will. Was he afraid to speak up because of Lady Bertha? Flora was certain that because of her, Will was dead.
Turner gestured to the two large armchairs by the fire. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable while I bring the tea.’
After he had gone, Flora sat down. A deep sob came up from her chest. ‘Poor Will. What can have happened, Lillian?’
‘I am so sorry, my dear.’
‘Was it Lady Bertha?’ Flora was angry now. ‘I can’t bear to think of her—’
‘Don’t torture yourself.’
‘But I have to know what happened.’
‘As soon as we are dry and rested, we shall find out more.’
‘I want to see my brother. I haven’t said goodbye.’
Lillian nodded, her face pale in the glow of the fire. ‘I shall make certain we have all the facts. And that you are taken to see Will.’
Just then, the valet returned. He lowered a silver tray with a silver teapot, jug, cups and saucers to the large polished table.
‘We’re grateful for this,’ said Lillian, as Turner poured the tea. ‘But really, there is no time to waste.’ She gazed up at the valet. ‘Miss Shine must be acquainted with the facts of her brother’s death.’
‘I have a great deal to tell you,’ the valet replied, ‘after which, I am sure all your concerns will have been addressed.’
‘I only want to know how my Will died,’ Flora said resolutely.
He nodded, his silver hair reflected brightly in the firelight. ‘Of course. And you will be relieved to know that William is very much alive.’
Flora jumped up, her tears forgotten. ‘Will is alive?’
‘He is at this moment resting in the servants’ quarters and is with your friend, Hilda Jones. He will remain safely in her company until you are finished here and go to meet him.’
‘But the doctor said—’
‘He was referring to Lady Bertha and assumed you had come to see her.’
‘It’s Bertie who is dead?’ Lillian said in a shocked voice.
‘I am afraid Lady Bertha was found unconscious. We must assume that her ladyship perished whilst trying to assist Lord William who collapsed at Will’s bedside. No doubt she had courageously tried to break her brother’s fall, but Lord William’s considerable weight must have been too much for her. She struck her head and did not recover.’
‘And it was Lady Bertha who was taken away in the ambulance?’
Turner nodded. ‘A tragic accident.’
Flora blinked hard, gazing at the elderly valet. The doctor had been trying to explain away the circumstances of Lady Bertha’s death, not Will’s. He was alive!
Chapter Forty-One
‘Will is Lord William’s and my mother’s son,’ Flora repeated, nodding her head at this confirmation of Sister Patricia’s story.
Turner gave another of his quiet smiles as the fire flickered around them. ‘In 1895, when Lord Guy was just six years old, your mother, Constance, was employed as his nurse. Lord William and your mother fell in love. William – your half-brother – was born before his lordship was recalled to his regiment. A loyal retainer on the estate took charge of your mother and the baby, but,’ Turner hesitated, ‘their whereabouts were discovered.’
‘I was told my mother fled to London. She was in fear of her life.’
The valet agreed. ‘I am afraid she had good reason. Even though, on Lord William’s return, Lady Bertha insisted that Constance left of her own accord.’
‘Did Lord William search for her?’ Flora asked.
Turner cleared his throat. ‘He never stopped searching. Months passed, then years. Then one day, a young woman visited Adelphi. Lord William gazed from that very window and saw you standing on the hill overlooking the house. A young man was with you—’
‘Michael!’ Flora exclaimed. �
�I was with Michael. But how did Lord William know who I was?’
‘He didn’t,’ Turner replied with a shrug, ‘but you are, Miss Shine, the very picture of your mother. Lord William sent me to Mrs Burns to discover who you were. My investigations led me to Hilda Jones, whom you had come to visit. I learned of the good sisters of St Boniface and of their orphanage. Lord William despatched me to London and I discovered more of Hilda, and of a young man named William Boniface who had been brought to the orphanage in the year of 1897. The same year that Constance Shine and her son William had disappeared. Quite recently, my master insisted on travelling to the convent himself to learn more.’
Flora held back the tears. Had this all really happened? ‘Then Lord William knows my mother is dead.’
Turner said nothing, but nodded.
‘Is he very ill?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘He is expecting you.’
Lillian embraced her. ‘Have courage, my dear.’
Flora swallowed and followed Turner from the library.
Flora felt the softness of the rug beneath her feet. A figure lay in the imposing bed, dwarfed by the heavy, dark furniture of the room. A white armoire was the only relief to the heavy flock wallpaper patterned with birds, trees and winding leaves. Flora felt that she would like to throw the windows open and let in the air.
Turner gestured to a big chair padded with cushions beside the bed. The dark colours of the room seemed enhanced by the pale light of the single glass chandelier that looked slightly out of place overhead, but reflected a clear light on the bearded face of Lord William Calvey. He looked up, his eyes watery and searching, as if unable to focus.
‘Is that you, Turner?’ He stretched out a shaking hand.
‘Yes, my lord. Miss Shine is here.’
Flora sat down on the chair. Turner nodded, then made his way out of the room and softly closed the door behind him.
‘Miss Shine.’ Lord William’s voice was weak and raspy.
Flora leaned forward. ‘It’s Flora,’ she told him.
‘Let me see you.’
Flora stood up and leaned over the bed. An aged hand came up to her face. She felt his touch, tender and inquisitive. A tear squeezed from the corner of his pale eye.
‘Thank you.’
The hand flopped down on the embroidered cover. Flora took it. Her fingers slipped gently around his. ‘I’m very sorry you’re ill.’
A faint smile touched his lips under the grey beard. ‘And I am sorry I have left our meeting too late. But William is safe now. Bertha is gone and I have sent Guy and Gabriella to the Italian house—’ He tried to draw in breath.
‘Please save your strength.’ Flora could see he was very ill. A soft rattle came from the back of his throat.
‘Listen.’ His words were growing fainter. ‘William will be well provided for. I have seen to that.’
‘Did you love my mother?’ Flora’s tears were very close now. It was the only question she needed to ask.
‘Life meant nothing to me without her,’ he whispered. ‘I loved her beyond words. But I let Bertha convince me that Constance had chosen to leave Adelphi—’ He coughed and gripped her hand. ‘But I still searched for her and the baby. Until . . .’ He raised his head with an effort. ‘Look, there is your mother.’
Flora’s gaze followed his pale eyes to a photograph of a beautiful young woman with curling blonde hair and pale skin. The ornate frame and its subject stood beside the bed on a mahogany chest of drawers.
‘My mother?’ she repeated.
‘Yes. You see how you are so alike?’ His head fell back again. ‘Soon I shall see her.’
‘Lord William, I—’
His bony fingers tightened around her hand. ‘You and William – look after one another. Make good lives for yourselves. Tell him he is the son I always hoped for. And that I loved him. Pray God, he will forgive me . . .’
Flora watched helplessly as he gasped a painful breath. Slowly, his head fell a little to the side on the pillow. In the silence of the room, she sat still, grasping the still-warm hand of Lord William Calvey, fourth Earl of Talbott, and master of Adelphi Hall. The man who Flora believed had truly loved her mother.
Epilogue
16 months later
21 December 1918
Flora took Michael’s arm as they stood at the graveside.
Discreetly, her husband changed his weight from one foot to the other. Flora hoped he was not in discomfort. His old thigh injury, the cause of his discharge three months before the war had ended in November, was never likely to leave him. He had survived the fighting with honours. And they had both had to accept his limitations with good grace. What was an occasionally painful limb in comparison to the fatalities many of his comrades had suffered during the Macedonian campaign?
‘Do you think my mother and father are together?’ Flora asked her husband. Even though Michael carried an umbrella, she was grateful for the warmth of her fashionable fur hat protecting her soft blonde waves from the icy flakes of snow. Huddling close to him, she gave a wistful sigh. ‘Do you think, Michael, that life goes on for ever?’
‘I believe our energies are eternal,’ he replied with conviction. ‘I saw many things at war. I learned about human character in times of great hardship. I was privileged to be with men who stood at death’s door. And though they were afraid, a force beyond this life saw them through the experience. It is remarkable to know that hope is the very fabric of our souls.’
Flora smiled in gratitude as she gazed down at the handsome grey marble headstone feathered with snow. The inscription read, ‘Constance Shine and John Devonish, beloved parents of Flora and mother of William, forever loved and sadly missed.’
‘I know so little about them.’
‘You know they gave you life and loved you. Can any of us ask for more?’
Flora shivered lightly, lowering the spray of winter flowers to the carpet of snow at her feet. She took comfort from the fact that, in a few months, they would return to find the crocuses and daffodils there, and winter but a distant memory.
‘Come along, or the party will start without us.’
Flora said a silent farewell over the tribute she had created for her parents. It was a place to remember them, to honour the past. She hoped they would have liked that.
Michael guided her over the fresh scattering of lacy flakes, to the gravel path and waiting automobile.
Flora watched her husband open the car door. He looked so very handsome in his homburg hat trimmed with navy-blue silk, a shade lighter than his heavy deep-blue overcoat and black astrakhan collar. They had both worn dark colours since the armistice a month ago, as a sign of respect for the millions of lives that had been lost in the Great War. But it had seemed even more appropriate this morning, as they drove here first, before Christmas began, to honour her departed loved ones.
‘Christmas will bring very mixed feelings for people this year,’ Michael said as he drove them out of the icy white cemetery.
‘Yes, so many families will be in mourning.’
‘Yet, we must also give thanks for what we have.’ Michael took his eyes briefly from the road. ‘After all, we have something very special to celebrate.’
‘Let’s not tell anyone till after Christmas,’ Flora implored. She wanted to keep their secret until the New Year. Somehow it seemed more fitting.
‘As you wish,’ he agreed reluctantly, ‘but it won’t be easy.’
Now she looked at his deeply tanned face, marked by the fine-lined scars of combat. His green eyes gazed back at her and softened as he spoke: ‘How fortunate we are, Flora, to have our life together.’
‘And such a wonderful life! Who could have guessed before the war began that Will was to discover his father. And that, despite losing his arm, he would return to his trade and make such a success of it.’
Very soon the bakery came into sight. Michael stopped the car and helped her out. F
lora stared at the snow-capped peaked roof of the Poplar factory. How proud she was of Will and the success he had made of his business. The bakery’s tall chimneys belched smoke over the great white-and-black sign that proudly announced, ‘Boniface Bakeries. Fine breads, confectioneries and speciality tarts.’
‘I am certain Will is set to rival even J Lyons and Company!’ exclaimed Michael, with a wry smile. ‘I wonder what delicacies your brother will have prepared for the Christmas party?’
‘It has to be mince pies and Christmas puddings, perhaps his individual fruit pies – those that boast his secret recipe,’ Flora said hopefully, recalling her recent craving for spices. ‘But, Michael, you must help me to resist. My skirts are already far too small.’
‘Isn’t it said that an expectant mother must eat for two?’ Michael’s green eyes twinkled.
Flora felt a thrill of excitement. Even now, she found it difficult to believe that she was expecting. Or that her name was no longer Miss Flora Shine, but Mrs Michael Appleby. It was only twelve weeks ago that the priest had married them at St Edmund’s. She had asked for a simple service, with Dr Tapper agreeing to give her away while Lillian arranged a modest wedding breakfast at Shire Street. Will and Hilda had taken their first day off from the factory since its opening at the start of the year. Will had baked them a three-tiered wedding cake and Flora had kept the two small figures, the bride and groom created in pink and white icing, to place with her treasures: her shawl and her butterfly brooch, and the framed photograph of her mother, which had once graced the bedside of Lord William Calvey. Treasures that one day she would pass to her children as they learned the story of their heritage.
Michael gazed up into the grey afternoon sky, which showed no sign of the midnight-blue universe behind. ‘I wonder if we shall see our star this Christmas?’
‘I’m certain we will.’ Flora slipped her arm even more tightly through his. ‘I looked out for it last Christmas. I saw it and asked it to keep you safe.’
