Break of Dawn

by Rita Bradshaw

  He swallowed against the shock and outrage and did not return her smile, nor did he address her as he would any other person who was a guest in his home. Looking down at her, he said tightly, ‘Why have you come here, Esther?’

  She didn’t seem at all taken aback by his attitude, and as her smile died she answered him as directly as he’d spoken to her. ‘I am going to have a baby and I am temporarily without funds. I had nowhere else to go.’

  Her voice was still the same, clear and beautifully modulated with a hint of the soft breathlessness which had captivated all his friends when they were young. His mother had insisted Esther attend elocution lessons when they were children, worried that her daughter would pick up the north-east dialect. The result had been very successful, the child’s distinct pronunciation and articulation devoid of any idiom or accent. After Esther had run away, their father had accused his wife of planting the idea of becoming an actress – albeit unwittingly – by her actions, something Jeremiah knew his mother had never forgiven his father for until her dying day.

  Remembering the turmoil of that time, his voice was a hiss when he said, ‘And the father? Your husband?’

  Afterwards he thought he might have believed there was some hope for her if she had lowered her head in shame or wept, but when she stared him straight in the face and said evenly, ‘The two are not synonymous,’ it was all he could do not to take her by the throat and throttle the wickedness out of her.

  ‘Esther is not married, Jeremiah.’ Mary spoke for the first time since he had entered the room, each word a snap. ‘And we have ascertained that paternity is not possible to pin down.’

  He would never have imagined Mary would speak so bluntly about such matters. The fact that she had done so shocked him nearly as much as the inference her words held. ‘You mean . . .’ He cleared his throat, unable to go on.

  ‘It’s normal for the girls to have several admirers.’ Esther’s tone was not defensive, more matter-of-fact. ‘No one thinks anything of it. Everything’s different in London.’

  Jeremiah felt a heat rising up in him made up of fury, em barrassment and shame. And yet he had known, hadn’t he? The minute he’d set eyes on her he had known what she’d become. The seed of it had always been there, it had merely needed the watering of it to make it grow, and from what he had heard about the music halls and theatres in the capital, it was Sodom and Gomorrah. There were words bubbling in his head, profane, coarse, foul words that he wanted to spit into her face, but by an effort of will he had not known he was capable of, he subdued what he perceived as the flesh and the devil. ‘There is no place for you here,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘You broke our mother’s heart and sent her and Father to an early grave. As far as I am concerned, I have no sister.’

  ‘I understand from your wife that Mother and Father died of the cholera.’ Esther’s voice was low now and weighted with scorn. ‘Even you cannot imagine I had a hand in that. And I am not so naive to believe that my leaving home affected Mother’s heart one way or the other. We never liked each other, as you well know. I am sure that once you had all covered my tracks with the story of a trip abroad and my subsequent marriage to this Frenchman, there was a sigh of relief all round that I was gone.’

  There was an element of truth in what she said but Jeremiah would have sooner walked on hot coals than admit it. He stared into the face which was still lovely in spite of the life of debauchery, and he had the urge, almost overpowering, as it had been once before, to strangle the life out of her. Clearly, Mary had told his sister the explanation they had put about regarding her sudden departure, but that did not trouble him. It was the fact that his wife was fully aware of this shameful and humiliating part of his life that had his stomach in knots. After Esther had left he had prayed daily for years that she was dead and burning in hell, and eventually he had persuaded himself that the Almighty had answered his pleadings.

  ‘You’re a common slut, worse than the dockside whores. At least they are driven to do what they do in the main just to survive. But you, you were a gentlewoman of good birth and breeding, the daughter of a minister with fine connections.’

  ‘Good birth and breeding and fine connections?’ Esther gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘Most of my gentlemen can boast the same, along with refined, cultured wives, but that doesn’t stop them coming to me for pleasures the like of which you have no idea of. Every man is the same under the skin – even you, my dear brother.’

  Jeremiah almost choked, so great was his fury. If he had ever been in doubt that the devil could enter a human being he doubted it no more. His sister was possessed, it was the only possible answer to such fiendish depravity. ‘You will leave this house this instant,’ he began, only to be checked by his wife rising to her feet.

  For only the second time since he had entered the room he looked at Mary, and she seemed to take on the form of an avenging angel before his maddened gaze. ‘Esther will be residing here until the child is born,’ she told him. ‘Your sister will take her meals in her room and will exercise only within the grounds of the house if she wishes to take the air. There will be no contact with the children, nor with any visitors who may call. This has been agreed.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We will fulfil our Christian duty, Jeremiah.’

  Helplessly he stared into the forbidding face of his wife. Gone was the compliant, amenable spouse he had shared his life with for the last twelve years, and in her place was a tight-lipped, angry woman who felt she had been ill-used. But how could he have told Mary the truth? And he had never dreamed that Esther would have the temerity to return to the place of her birth if she was still alive. Weakly now, he mumbled, ‘Mary, listen to me. This is impossible. Your uncle—’

  ‘Do not speak his name.’ She actually took a step towards him before she checked herself. ‘He is a good man, a righteous man, and you have repaid his patronage with a web of deceit and deception. He would not forgive you, Jeremiah, and neither can I .’

  She stopped the response he’d been about to make with an upraised palm, and after one last scathing glance at him, turned to Esther, who had had the good sense to remain silent during the exchange between husband and wife. ‘Bridget has lit a fire in your room and will bring you a tray later,’ she said with icy politeness, pulling on the bell-cord at the side of the fireplace. ‘As far as the servants are concerned, the story my husband and his parents circulated will hold true. You are the wife of a French nobleman who unfortunately met with an accident recently, and after his untimely death it was discovered that the estate was deeply in debt. You wished to be with family when your child was born.’

  Esther nodded. She wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and it would seem this dried-up stick of a woman was the one she needed to appease. Nevertheless, her sister-in-law’s overt condemnation rankled, and Esther vowed that before she left this house she would see her day with the pair of them.

  ‘While you are under this roof you will be known as Mrs Esther Lemaire,’ Mary added, her back as straight as a ramrod, ‘and you will conduct yourself accordingly. I want no mention of your stage name, Marceau, in this house. I will not have a breath of scandal contaminating my children. Is that clear? One indiscreet word and you will live to regret it.’

  After a perfunctory tap at the door, Bridget entered the room, glancing uncertainly at the tableau vivant facing her. Again it was Mary who took control, her voice cool and without emotion when she said, ‘Mrs Lemaire is tired after her journey and wishes to retire for the night. Show her to her room and see to it a dinner tray is provided at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Jeremiah waited until the maid and his sister had left the drawing room, the latter sweeping past him as though she was the lady of the manor, and the moment the door was shut, he said, ‘Please listen to me, Mary. I had no idea Esther was still alive, I swear it.’

  ‘And that makes your subterfuge acceptable? I think not.’

 
‘You didn’t have to let her stay.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ She had never spoken to him in such a tone before. ‘If we had not offered your sister refuge in her condition, what do you think the servants would have thought? Not only thought but said, Jeremiah. Gossip travels like wildfire, make no mistake about that, and human nature being what it is this tasty morsel would have kept folk well-fed for years. She is dressed like’ – here Mary’s speech failed her for a moment – ‘like a strumpet, but by keeping to the story of marriage to a Frenchman, this can be explained by the fact that the fashions in France are more flamboyant than in England. I have made it clear what I expect of her and that for most of the time she will stay in her room. The servants will not think that unreasonable in view of her condition and the long journey she has undertaken.’

  ‘The servants.’ There was a note of irritation in Jeremiah’s voice now. ‘What does it matter what they think? And they wouldn’t dare breathe a word, I’d make sure of that.’

  Mary shook her head slowly, and again she spoke to him as she had never done in twelve years of marriage. ‘You are not a stupid man, Jeremiah, so don’t act like one,’ she said acidly.

  And it said much for how the balance of their relationship had changed in just a few short hours that her husband made no reply . . .

  It was a week later and the blizzards that had arrived the night Esther had come home had finally died out. The snow lay thick and the keen north-east wind had gathered it into deep drifts which in places could swallow horse and cart whole.

  Esther had made no attempt to leave her room, not because of the weather which would have made it impossible for her to walk in the gardens of the vicarage, but because she had felt unwell and wanted nothing more than to lie in a warm bed and watch the flickering flames of the fire which Bridget raked out and lit every morning. Normally possessed of a vitality which enabled her to function on no more than four or five hours’ sleep a night, she felt drained and exhausted and slightly nauseous, eating only a few mouthfuls of the meals brought to her and sleeping most of the time when the child in her womb allowed her to do so.

  For the first morning since Esther had arrived at the house a weak winter sun was shining when Bridget brought her breakfast. After the maid had plumped up the pillows behind her back and placed the tray containing a bowl of creamy porridge and a plate of bacon and eggs across her lap, Esther said quietly, ‘I think I may get up today, Bridget, and sit by the window in the sunshine.’

  ‘Oh aye, I would, ma’am. Makes you feel better, don’t it, a bit of sun. Would you like to come downstairs to the drawing room? I’ve just lit a nice fire in there.’

  Esther smiled. She liked this cheery young soul with her warm brown eyes and curly light brown hair which always seemed to be trying to force the little lace cap off her head. ‘No, I won’t come downstairs today, but perhaps you would be good enough to move the armchair over to the window so I can see out.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am, an’ I’ll sort out a nice blanket for your legs. Always nippy round the legs in the warmest room, I find.’ Bridget bustled about, hauling the high-backed leather armchair from its place next to the bed to the window, and then delving into the oak blanket box at the foot of the brass bedstead for a thick wool blanket. That done, she came to stand by the bed when Esther murmured, ‘You may take the tray now, Bridget.’

  ‘Oh, ma’am, can’t you try an’ eat a bit more?’

  ‘I’ve had sufficient, thank you.’ And then, in case Bridget took her words as a rebuff and not wishing to hurt the girl’s feelings, Esther added, ‘Perhaps I’ll find my appetite again once I’m up and about. All I’ve done for the last week is sleep.’

  ‘Best thing, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying so, what with the long journey and your condition an’ all.’

  It was the first time her pregnancy had been mentioned and Esther nodded but didn’t comment.

  Bridget hesitated a moment, and then said tentatively but with an eagerness she couldn’t conceal, ‘I hope you don’t think I don’t know me place, ma’am, but can I ask you what France is like? Is it very different to England? Me da, he’s always had a yen to travel but he’s never bin further than over the water from Ireland to these parts, bless him.’

  It wasn’t often Esther’s conscience made itself felt but as she looked into the maid’s trusting brown eyes she found it difficult to lie. ‘I think your father would find most places in most countries differ only a little,’ she said at last. ‘France is beautiful but then so is England. Every country has its strengths and weaknesses, and people are the same the world over.’

  Bridget nodded. ‘Me mam always says that wherever you go the rich get richer an’ the poor get poorer. Oh, not that I mean anything by that, ma’am.’

  ‘I know what you mean, Bridget.’ Esther smiled. ‘And I agree with your mother. Life is rarely fair.’

  Again Bridget hesitated before saying softly, ‘We’re right sorry about what’s happened, ma’am. Me and me mam and da, I mean.’

  For a moment Esther was at a loss and then she realised Bridget was referring to her supposed French husband. ‘Thank you,’ she said just as softly.

  ‘The babbie’ll be a comfort, ma’am, when it comes.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it will.’

  ‘Would you like me to help you get dressed, ma’am, if you’re going to sit by the window?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll bother to get dressed, Bridget. The room is lovely and warm, and with the blanket you’ve provided I’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug. You get on with what you have to do and I promise I’ll ring if I need anything.’

  ‘Right you are, ma’am.’ Bridget nodded and smiled at the woman she privately termed as ‘that poor soul’, but once on the landing she stood for a moment before making her way downstairs to the kitchen with the tray.

  ‘What’s up with you, lass?’ Her mother was standing at the large range which was the heart of the vicarage kitchen. Bridget had been thirteen years old when she and her parents had been taken on as servants, and for months before that they had been tramping the roads looking for work. The memory of that time, the cold, the gnawing hunger and terror she had felt at being homeless was burned deep inside her soul, as was the sheer bliss of their first night at the vicarage when her mother had got the range going and she’d toasted her feet on the fender whilst eating girdle scones dripping with butter. She had thought she’d landed in heaven that day, and still the security and comfort the two-oven range gave was something she would have been unable to put into words.

  The kitchen itself was a fairly large room, the walls whitewashed and the floor made up of flagstones. Its ceiling was irregular and somewhat grimy, with several beams running across it. Besides the range, the rest of the furniture comprised of a long scrubbed table with a low wooden bench either side of it, a row of floor-to-ceiling cupboards the length of one wall, and two old Windsor chairs which sat on the clippy mat in front of the range. On the left wall was a doorway, without a door, leading to the scullery in which vegetables were prepared and washing-up done, and beyond this was a small walk-in larder with stone slab shelves which were an asset in summer in keeping food and milk cool. They were also dark and hard to clean, a playground for mice and beetles.

  Once daylight began to fail, the kitchen was lit by candles and oil lamps – as was the whole house. There were certain establishments in Sunderland where gasoliers had replaced chandeliers in the drawing room, and gas geysers had been installed for heating water. The vicarage could not boast such modern inventions, but Bridget and her parents did not object to this. They had heard reports from other servants that gas lighting was messy, smelly and noisy, and had no wish to use a commodity they considered intrusive and dangerous.

  ‘Bridget?’ Kitty O’Leary left the soup she was preparing for lunchtime and took the tray out of her daughter’s hands. ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve lost a penny and found a farthin’.’

  ‘I
t’s her, the master’s sister, Mrs Lemaire. She don’t look right, Mam.’

  ‘Don’t look right?’ Kitty put the tray on the table and then returned to the range where she poured her daughter a cup of strong black tea from the teapot permanently stewing on the hot plate. Handing it to her, she said comfortingly, ‘She’s all right, lass. Her time’s about due, most likely.’

  ‘I’ve seen the mistress when she had her bairns an’ I tell you, Mam, something’s wrong. Mrs Lemaire don’t look the same as she did when she first came here. She’s all puffy an’ swollen, an’ she’s eaten next to nothin’ again.’ Bridget plumped down on one of the wooden benches. ‘She’s not right,’ she said again. ‘Her lips have got a blue tinge. Like an old man’s.’

  ‘She’s tired, lass. She came a long way, after all, and in her condition. And the loss of her husband and home must have hit hard. Not only that, she finds her mam an’ da have gone and everything’s changed. It’s enough to send anyone doo-lally-tap, if you ask me.’

  Bridget stared into her mother’s round, rosy face. She couldn’t explain the feeling of unease that had grown stronger over the last day or two, but she knew Mrs Lemaire was ailing. And the master and mistress didn’t seem to care. The master hadn’t looked in on his sister once, as far as she knew, and the mistress paid a brief visit each evening before dinner but that was all. There was something queer about all this, and Mrs Lemaire never spoke about her husband or cried as you’d expect.