by Tania Crosse
NOBODY’S GIRL
Tania Crosse
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About Nobody’s Girl
The boom years immediately after the Great War bring nothing but happiness for wealthy industrialist Wigmore Stratfield-Whyte and his wife Clarissa – until tragedy robs them of their greatest treasure.
Many years later, an horrific fatal accident brings young Meg Chandler, a spirited farmer’s daughter, into their lives. Meg wants nothing to do with them, but Clarissa is drawn irresistibly towards the bereaved girl and will move heaven and earth to help her. Will Meg allow Clarissa into her own shattered life, and can the two share a future happiness together? And will Meg’s new acquaintances bring her the contentment she craves – or seek to destroy her?
Set in the Kent countryside in the years leading up to the Second World War, this compelling saga tingles with drama, tension and an overwhelming sense of love.
For my grandson – Gabriel John Grierson
And as ever for my darling husband – My world, my life
Contents
Welcome Page
About Nobody’s Girl
Dedication
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgments
About Tania Crosse
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
One
London – November 1919
‘Oh, my darling Clarrie, whatever’s the matter?’
Wigmore Stratfield-Whyte stood in the doorway to the nursery, cursing himself to hell for the inept question that had just left his lips. Of course he knew what the matter was with his dearest, darling wife. Six months, and it was always the same, day in, day out. She had tried to hide it, God bless her, but he knew.
Their life had been perfect. Idyllic. But that fateful night back in May, a telephone call had fragmented their world into a billion pieces like shards of shattered glass.
Earlier that May evening, Wigmore had stood in the nursery doorway, dressed in bow tie and tails, waiting for his beautiful wife. They were off to a ball at the Ritz. They’d be meeting old friends and acquaintances, but Wig would be conducting some business as well. With the war over, the extensive factory he owned in London’s East End that had turned out thousands upon thousands of shell cases during the conflict had gone back to more peaceful light engineering. The country’s economy had picked up rapidly, enjoying a post-war boom. But it was too quick a recovery in Wig’s opinion. There’d be several people at the ball he wished to speak with, even though business discussions would be his least favourite part of the proceedings. He’d far rather spend the time dancing with Clarissa, the absolute love of his life.
As he had contemplated her across the room, his heart had lurched. God, he was lucky. Despite having had a child, Clarrie was as slender as a rake, flexible as a willow as she bent to kiss their little daughter goodnight. The long, silk Dior gown caressed her trim hips, the low back revealing her smooth skin. A long string of real pearls was worn backwards, or so it seemed to Wig, even though he was assured it was the latest fashion. The garland of tiny, iridescent spheres was wound tightly around Clarrie’s swan-like throat, the remainder swinging down between her shoulder blades in a long loop. Her hair was contained beneath a skullcap of latticed silver lamé enhanced by a clutch of small feathers. Oh, Wig was going to be the envy of every man in the ballroom that night!
‘Now, you two go off and enjoy yourselves!’ Nana May had beamed. ‘You’ll be the belle of the ball, Clarrie, dear. Now, Rosebud, give Mummy and Daddy a big kiss,’ she instructed the toddler, who at once laced her chubby arms about Clarissa’s neck. Her dark brown eyes sparkled up at her mother, and her fiery hair, a throwback to her grandmother they felt, danced about her head in a blazing halo. To Wig, she was his little angel. Perfect. And he counted as a treasure each and every day of the year and nine months that she had brought them both such happiness.
He watched them, lulled in contentment, his wife, his child and the woman who had been his own beloved nanny. From the moment Clarrie had become his wife and moved into the house, she and Nana May had been inseparable. But then, how could anybody not adore the lovable but practical woman who had originally entered the household as nanny when Wig had been born, and never left? Everyone loved her just as if she was one of the family. Unable to part with her when the boys grew older, Wig’s mother had bestowed upon her the role of lady’s maid and companion. Wig could not have been more delighted that, if anything, Clarrie got on even better with Nana May than his mother had. And the beloved woman had reverted to being a skilled and trusted nanny when Wig and Clarrie’s own child had arrived on the scene.
Now Wig went over to have his hug from his little girl who then climbed back up onto Nana May’s lap to wave as her parents turned happily from the nursery, knowing their baby was in safe hands.
The dinner, as expected, had been superb, champagne and wine flowing freely, topped off with brandy and port. Conversation had been scintillating, and Clarrie had shone. Wig observed her, his heart overflowing with love and pride.
‘Excuse me, but are you Mr Stratfield-Whyte?’ a voice at his elbow interrupted his reverie.
‘I am,’ he answered absently, reluctant to take his eyes from Clarrie. ‘What—’
‘A telephone call for you, sir, if you’d like to follow me.’
Wig frowned as he got to his feet. Who on earth— Ah, probably his younger brother, Peregrine. Must have phoned the house and either Mr Yard, the butler, or Nana May had innocently revealed his whereabouts for the evening. It was getting late, but Perry had the cheek of the devil. During the great conflict, he’d been employed by the government as a war artist, but now he was having to make his own way in the world and his earnings as an artist had plummeted. To top it all, his wife, Sofia, though a lovable young woman, was as extravagant as hell. They’d decamped to the arty environs of Cornwall, where Perry hoped to make his mark. He had yet to get the big break he sought, but Wig recognised his talent and was happy to support him from the family fortune. But surely a begging call could wait until the morning?
‘Yes?’ Wig answered the phone somewhat curtly.
‘Wigmore? Oh, thank God. I’ve called the doctor. He’s on his way. Can you come home?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Wig nearly dropped the receiver as he shook his head in confusion. ‘Nana, who’s ill?’
‘Rosebud,’ her voice trembled down the line. ‘I went to check on her before I went to bed and she was sweating. Like a real, proper fever. And I can’t wake her up. She seems… torpid.’
‘My dear, it’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure,’ he said quietly as he returned to their table, trying not to betray his own fears. ‘But Nana May has just rung. Rosebud’s not looking very well, and she’s called the doctor. So I think perhaps we ought to go home.’
Despite his efforts not to alarm her, Clarrie sprang up and dashed out of the room without a farewell. Wig followed her outside to the waiting car and their chauffeur raced them back home, the streets being thankfully much quieter than when they’d set out. Clarrie sat stiffly, wringing her hands, shivering even with Wig’s jacket around her slender form. Wig had an arm about her trembling shoulders, holding her close, but he felt physically sick with worry himself. Nana May wouldn’t have called them unless she thought it could be serious.
Clarrie almost fell out of the motorcar in her panic as they pulled up outside the house. She flew up the steps, Wigmore hot on her heels. The front door opened as if by magic, Mr Yard dipping his head in respectful concern as master and mistress skidded past him and up the two flights of stairs to the nursery. Wig dreaded what they would find.
The doctor was bending over the cot, listening to their little daughter’s chest through his stethoscope as she lay quite still on her back, and yet awake, with her eyes wide open and glazed. Wig could see she didn’t look right. Beside him, Clarrie gasped, both hands going over her mouth, and once again, Wig squeezed his arm about his wife’s shoulders. Nana May was standing at the head of the cot, her face rigid.
‘What’s… wrong with her, doctor?’ Wig managed to croak.
The doctor turned to them, lips drawn into a knot. ‘She has a high fever, and your nanny tells me she experienced a convulsion just before I arrived.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Wig felt Clarrie slump against him. ‘It’s… it’s not the Spanish ’flu?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ the doctor admitted. ‘That seems to have run its course, but I can’t rule it out entirely. It could be a number of things.’
‘So… what can we do?’ Nana May demanded.
‘Well, you were right to call me. And you’ve already done the right thing,’ Dr Symonds approved, ‘undressing her and trying to keep her cool. Bring the fever down. Now, I’ll give you some aspirin powder to put in some water. I’ll write down the quantities. Try and get her to drink it whenever she appears conscious, but be careful she doesn’t choke. Other than that, there’s not a lot to be done. Reassure her when she’s lucid, keep her comfortable. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’
Clarrie gazed, wide-eyed in horror, at the doctor whose expression was full of sympathy. She looked as if she might faint, and Wig quickly pulled up the nursing chair for her to sink into.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Wig told the doctor, and proceeded to accompany the fellow down the stairs. ‘Are you… keeping anything back? For my wife’s sake?’ he asked fearfully.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily. It could simply be one of those childhood things that passes in hours. Or, I have to warn you, it could be a lot more serious,’ the doctor admitted. ‘It did come on very quickly.’
‘Yes, she was fine when we went out—’
‘And she could be fine by the morning. But don’t hesitate to call me if she gets worse in the meantime.’
‘Yes, doctor. Thank you.’
Mr Yard appeared miraculously as they reached the hall and opened the front door for the visitor so that Wig was able to hurry back upstairs at once. Nana May was tucking a blanket around Clarrie who was shivering in the chair.
‘You should really be going to bed to get some sleep,’ the older woman was saying gently. ‘I can sit with her.’
‘Oh, Nana May, you’ve done your best. But I can’t leave her. And I wouldn’t sleep anyway.’
Wig knew Clarrie was distraught and patted her shoulder. ‘I’ll stay as well,’ he said. ‘You try and get some sleep now, Nana. You may be needed later,’ he added in a low voice as Nana May nodded and backed quietly from the room.
Wig pulled up a chair beside his wife. He took her hand. She turned to him, tears pooling in her eyes. He wanted so much to reassure her, but his throat was as dry as desert sand.
It was the longest night of Wig’s life. Once or twice he found himself dozing into a twilight sleep from which he jolted with a start, his heart instantly racing. Each time, as he went to check on little Rosebud, he saw that Clarrie was still wide awake, not relaxing her vigil for a second, her face set in despair. At one point, perhaps about five o’clock since dawn was coming up, he heard Nana May pad into the room in her dressing gown. Clarrie, this time, had nodded off, the child held in her arms, inert but still breathing. Wig gazed down on them, Clarrie’s head bowed in sleep and Rosebud’s little face flushed with fever. And Wig’s heart broke.
‘I’ll go down and make us all some cocoa,’ Nana May whispered, creeping silently away, and Wig wondered what on earth he’d have done without her.
When she returned carrying a tray of steaming cups, Wig gently shook Clarrie’s arm. She came to instantly, her peaceful face at once taut and strained again.
‘Let me take Rosebud,’ Nana May offered, and Clarrie reluctantly passed over the small form. The child moaned at the movement, screwing up her eyes. Nana May laid her in the cot, and inspected her little body. She smiled reassuringly at Clarrie, then drew Wig aside.
‘She’s developed a rash,’ she whispered, her tone as steady and stalwart as ever, with only her eyes betraying her fear. ‘I’ll go and call Dr Symonds again.’
And that was it, the deepening of the nightmare, as if it could be any worse. The doctor gave a name to what he thought it might be. Something beginning with ‘m’ that only Nana with her limited medical knowledge took in. No one was to blame. The child could have contracted it anywhere. But there simply weren’t any medicines. They could only hope and pray. Perhaps with the good food the child had always enjoyed, it would give her some strength. But Dr Symonds didn’t want to give them too much encouragement.
Rosebud faded, the rash becoming blotchy and widespread. On the third evening, she passed away in her mother’s arms, with her father and her nanny kneeling at her feet. Wig had looked up through his tear-blurred vision at his beautiful wife, her face pale and drawn with dark circles under her eyes that now swam with tears. On her lap, she cradled the small, frail, lifeless frame of their beloved daughter. Their treasure. Their world. Now ended.
He felt a light pressure on his hand. Nana May, the rock, the stalwart of his life, was squeezing it. And her other hand had reached out to Clarrie’s, offering what little comfort she could. For what else could she do?
*
Everything wavered in front of her eyes, the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows catching on the dust motes in the air and casting coloured patterns on the little white coffin. The delicate wreath of pink and white flowers. The vicar in his flowing robes. The choirboys in their ruffs. None of it seemed real, dancing shadows coming and going. Numb, scoured of all feeling. Nothingness. If it weren’t for Wig’s arm about her, holding her up, she would have slipped from the pew and dissolved onto the floor.
The vicar’s kind, compassionate voice as he led the service came and went in her head. The sweet, young voices of the choir carrying little Rosebud’s soul to heaven. If only she could go with her.
At last it was time to follow the pallbearers back down the aisle, through the sea of solemn faces swathed about in black. How could they possibly understand her grief? They seemed like strangers, their identities blanked from her mind. She kept her eyes trained on the coffin as if by doing so she could bring her baby back to life. Stumbling, her legs weak. Wig catching her, half carrying her towards the open doors.
The strong sunlight dazzled h
er. How could it shine so brightly when her heart was in such a deep, black place? How could it be so cruel?
The vicar slowly led the way through the gravestones, some standing tall and erect, others slanting with age and moss, to the small hole in the ground beside Wig’s parents, the grandmother Rosebud had known so briefly and the grandfather she had never known at all. With the greatest care, the bearers lowered their lightweight burden into its final resting place.
Clarrie turned to bury her face against Wig’s broad chest, drawing strength from his presence. Tears blinded her as she gave way to her clawing grief, weeping in great heaving sobs. She couldn’t bear to look. Snatches of the vicar’s dulled words. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Her little one reduced to nothing. How could it be?
‘Clarrie, darling.’ Wig’s voice, no more than a whisper. The only voice that could help her. ‘It’s time.’
She lifted her head, looked up at him. Tears were trickling down his cheeks, too. Silent and unstoppable. He gave the tiniest nod over her shoulder. She dragged her head round to the small silver trowel that was being held out to her. She took it in a shaking hand. She must do it. Her last act of remembrance, her final chance to say goodbye to her darling little girl though it was the last thing in the world she wanted, and she tipped the soil down onto the coffin.
She all but fainted. Hands supporting her while Wig did his very last thing for his child. Then Clarrie’s parents, followed by Perry and Sofia who had driven up from Cornwall, and finally Nana May. And then Clarrie was borne away to the waiting car. It was over. Her little Rosebud gone forever.
Later that evening, when all the mourners had left the wake, the servants had cleared everything away and Clarrie was in bed, released into oblivion by the merciful sleeping draught the doctor had prescribed, Wig and Nana May were alone in the drawing room. Silence hung heavily between them, each dragged down into sombre thoughts.
‘I know it wasn’t,’ Nana May spoke at last, her voice choked, ‘but I almost feel as if it was my fault. If only there’d been something I could’ve done to save her.’
