‘Sleep is better than food,’ she said.
Rose heard the music in her sleep, but she did not recognize it. Kier or Andrew could have told her that it was part of the first Brandenburg Concerto. She sighed, not with grief but with contentment. It was so warm and peaceful, and the faint notes of the organ caressed her wounded spirit. Mère Dolle would have said that music caressed the soul. Rose sank once more into a deep sleep and in the morning, when she did not appear as usual in the wards, it was Mère Dolle who went to find her.
At first she was not too worried. A rest, complete rest, that was surely all that was required. She hurried out, no panic, just efficient speed, and found another nun to help her lift Rose from the bed. Together they changed the sheets, but it was Mère Dolle’s loving hands that washed the damp body, replaced the soaking nightgown.
Doctor Mouton diagnosed pneumonia.
‘Thanks to the Americans we have medicine, sister,’ he said. ‘Our little Rose has exhausted herself in our service.’
‘We’ll give her round-the-clock care, doctor.’
Did Mère Dolle sleep at all for the next few days? She was there when the climax came, when Rose’s fevered body tossed and turned to try to get away from the heat that was consuming it.
‘The fever will break,’ the doctor said. In all the cases of pneumonia he had ever treated where the patient was young and well fed and well nursed, this had been the pattern.
Mère Dolle replaced the damp cloth with which she was attempting to cool the delirious woman. She held Rose’s hot hands and talked to her, sang to her, tried to keep the wandering attention firmly attached to a world which had not treated her too well.
Doctor Nesbitt talked to many people whom she seemed to see around her. Some she smiled and laughed to greet, others made her cry . . . tragic tears which further weakened her. There were Ma and Frazer and Wishy, Lucy, and Kier. Lucy calmed her, and the nun welcomed her presence as if she was indeed there in the darkened room.
Rose lay quiet and Mère Dolle rose to adjust the light. The climax had arrived: the fever was breaking.
‘Kier.’
She heard her patient say the name so clearly and the voice was light and happy. Rose was lying on the bed, her eyes were open and she was smiling, a smile of such intense love and beauty that the nun was moved almost to tears.
Rose closed her eyes with a soft sigh.
‘Robin,’ she whispered, and the voice held regret. ‘My little Robin.’
22
Dundee–London, 1921
ON THE 15TH of March 1921, an African country called Ruanda was ceded to the British by the Belgians. Lucy and Robin did not notice this latest piece of world news. Robin was too interested in the mysteries of penmanship as revealed to her at the High School of Dundee, where she sat every morning in a grey skirt that she hated but accepted as the price she had to pay for education. Lucy treasured Robin’s days at school in Dundee and she enjoyed to the full the job of surrogate mother, for early in 1919 a letter had come from France. The writer was of course unaware that Lucy was a fluent French speaker and the letter, in English, was short and rather stilted. Doctor Nesbitt had caught pneumonia in the winter and had died of endocarditis. She had asked to be buried in the convent grounds beside Allied personnel who had also died as a result of the conflict. She had been much loved by the community and would be greatly mourned.
Endocarditis, a heart disease for which there was no cure, and which had probably been lying latent, waiting to strike down Rose’s overworked body. Kier had intuitively worried about the strength of his wife. Lucy sighed and reapplied herself to caring for their child.
Robin had not grieved, as she did not grieve for her father, but Auntie Lucy worked hard to paint a picture of her parents for the little girl. At five years of age, however, all that was real to Robin was Lucy and Sarah, weekly visits to Laverock Rising, and now the world unfolded by education. Lucy watched her as she sat hunched over the table, a strand of curly hair and her pencil clenched between her teeth, and she sighed for all too soon she was going to send the little girl to the boarding school in the south of England which was to have been the scene of her own formative years. Robin accepted the news of her future departure as she accepted twice-yearly visits to the dentist or hot baths in front of the nursery fire every Wednesday and Saturday whether she was dirty or not. She was always dirty on Saturday. Saturday they went to Laverock Rising, and Robin gloried in her pony and the dogs and, in season, the lambs and the calves, for Lucy was determined that the young laird should grow up familiar with her home and known by her tenants. She knew many of them too well and was spoiled atrociously. Every baker in that beloved corner of Fife outdid herself to provide home baking, ‘in case Miss Robin should stop by’. And Miss Robin did. She rode her pony, not only over the huge estate which she had inherited from her father but over the surrounding countryside, and she stayed longest with those who had known her father or her grandparents. Unfortunately, as far as Aunt Lucy was concerned, many of these old acquaintances vied with one another for the little girl’s favour, and she had to be very strict about Robin’s diet during the week. Apart from writing and reading and a weekly piano lesson, Robin hated weekdays.
Another important reason for Lucy – who, as the daughter of a diplomat, would have been intensely interested – to miss the Ruanda news was the announcement – with much invective – that a Doctor Marie Stopes had opened a birth control clinic in London.
‘Good heavens,’ she exclaimed as she sat at breakfast, ‘she’s only forty and she’s making such a mark. Rose would have welcomed her. I must visit.’
She wrote to Doctor Stopes and was invited down to see the clinic. Doctor Hendry agreed to give emergency care and Lucy planned her visit carefully.
‘We will go to London together soon, Robin,’ she told the little girl as she towelled her dry – on Wednesday – ‘and we will see the Tower of London . . .’
‘And Wendy’s home?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, dear.’ Robin, like every other child in Britain, knew all about Wendy Darling and her friend Peter Pan who had been delighting children since 1904.
It was not of Peter Pan or Wendy or even the Lost Boys – although probably they were nearer her heart than the very secure Wendy and Peter – that Lucy was thinking as she checked into the brand-new home of the Overseas Club, Vernon House on Park Place, just off St James’s Street. As always, when she travelled, Sir John and his terrifying but heroic death were on her mind. She had joined the Overseas Club, now the Overseas League, almost in memory of her father. Like that other more famous John, John Evelyn Wrench, who had founded the Overseas League, Lucy’s father had believed in a ‘world society’, a brotherhood of widely different men and women in every corner of the globe. She looked around the lobby on this, her first visit, and admired the Edwardian panelling which lined the lovely wooden stair-well. She did not see the man who was descending that very stair.
‘Why, as I live and breathe. Lucy?’ The voice was hesitant, doubtful of its welcome, but recognizable.
Lucy concentrated on writing her address to give herself time and then turned, nothing on her schooled face showing the unutterable consternation raging inside her. Once before he had appeared in her life after years of mutual neglect, and he had turned her carefully developed existence into glorious chaos. He would never ever know how much she had loved him, how much she had mourned him and their never-to-be-born child, how much she had suffered at his too casual rejection of her. ‘Max, good heavens, the proverbial bad penny; you do get around. I can’t say that it’s a joy to see you.’
He was older, of course he was. The hair was grey but still thick, and the eyes were as keen and full of humour as ever. He was so obviously American that she wondered why she had never noticed that about him before.
‘Because he means nothing,’ her head said, while her blood told her something very different.
‘One meets every foreign acquaintance
one has ever made at the Overseas Club, eventually,’ she said, more for the benefit of the interested clerk than to hurt Max.
He was gazing at her as if he had been struck by a vision. ‘My God, Lucy.’ He pulled her almost fiercely away from the desk. ‘Of course you must hate me, but give me a chance to explain,’ he whispered. ‘Take tea with me, Lucy, please,’ he asked pleasantly, again for the benefit of the clerk. ‘You must be ready for tea. Aren’t the British always ready to drink tea after a journey?’
‘I need to go to my room and unpack.’
After a cup of tea. Oh, take pity on . . . an old acquaintance. There’s so much I want to say, need to say.’
Lucy was in full control of herself. ‘I don’t think there’s anything for us to say, Max. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
‘Dad, would you believe, there’s a box for the . . .’ The boy stopped talking as he saw Lucy. ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ he went on. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘This is Doctor Graham, Brook, one of the very first lady doctors in Scotland and an old and dear friend. Lucy, my son, Brook.’
The sight and sound of the boy hit her like the killing blow of a sledgehammer. She felt almost faint, a mist clouded her eyes.
‘Ma’am,’ the boy said anxiously, ‘are you OK?’ There was no way of avoiding the du Pay men. Their charm, their personality, their sheer size made it impossible for Lucy, herself a tall woman, to do anything other than be guided by Max to a table in an alcove.
‘Come join us for tea, Brook. Doctor Graham needs tea after her long journey, and Mother’s . . . resting.’
‘She’a always resting,’ said the boy in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘but she’ll be thrilled about the ballet. Do you like ballet, ma’am . . . I mean . . . doctor?’
Years of discipline came to her aid. ‘Yes, I like it very much, Brook,’ Lucy said as she watched the boy’s face and listened to his voice, so like his father’s. ‘I prefer opera, though.’
‘Crikey, no way! All those Italians screaming at one another.’ He laughed and Lucy smiled at him. How assured well-brought-up American children were, friendly but not forward. She liked it.
‘You can come with us if you like, ma’am. I got the whole box, Dad; I didn’t quite understand what I was buying.’
They all laughed and Max looked at her, a question in his eyes.
‘I couldn’t, Brook. I’m sorry. I’m here on business and brought no clothes suitable for the theatre.’
‘Why, you look just fine to me. Wow, look at all these tea-cakes. Wasn’t I right, Dad? You have to try everything a country has to offer, don’t you, Doctor? Sadler’s Wells. Afternoon tea.’
There was something so infectiously likeable about the American boy – How old was he? He was tall, but oh so young, twelve, perhaps? – that Lucy found the tea-party almost enjoyable. She devoted herself to introducing Brook to the intricacies of scones with cream and jam, to crumpets – which she assured him ought really to be hot – and to the wonders of shortbread. Because he was so open she discovered that his mother was an invalid – ‘I don’t remember her ever being well, poor Mother’ – and that they were on a trip to some of the spas in Germany so that she could take the waters.
‘One day, if Mother gets a little bit stronger, Dad and I are going to tour all the art galleries in Europe. I want to study art in London, you have such fine schools here. But when I finish school I have to go to Yale first, to please Mother.’ He blushed as if he was ashamed that he might have sounded just a little disloyal. ‘I mean, I want to go. I think she’s so right. Everyone should have a really broad education, don’t you agree, doctor?’
‘Yes, of course, Brook.’ What a lovely and unusual name. He could be mine; he should be mine. She could bear no more.
‘I really must go and unpack. I have an early appointment.’
They stood up. ‘You’re still practising, Lucy?’ Max did not ask about marriage; he had seen her ringless hands.
‘Oh, I could never give up medicine, Max,’ she answered lightly. ‘You know that it always meant everything to me.’ There, she had told him he meant nothing. ‘Enjoy the ballet, Brook, and the rest of your stay in London.’
She managed to get across the foyer and into the lift, aware that they stood watching her as she walked away from them. She found her room and sat down on the edge of the bed to steady her legs. His voice, his eyes, his hands. How had she ever told herself that she had forgotten the feel of his hands, the demands of his lips?
She waited until they would have left for the theatre before she went down for dinner, and felt quite sure that she would have breakfasted and gone to her meeting before they were even awake in the morning . . .
Max was waiting in a car as she stepped out into the early spring sunshine.
‘Why call a cab when I can easily drive you, Lucy?’
‘I have ordered a taxi. Here it is now.’
‘Sorry, the lady made a mistake,’ said Max and handed the taxi driver a note which earned him a, ‘Crikey, ta very much, sir.’
‘You had no right to do that,’ Lucy said stiffly as, aware of the doorman, she allowed Max to hand her into the beautiful car.
‘We have to talk . . .’
‘There is nothing to talk about. We had, what, a passing affair fourteen years ago? You must have an incredible conceit about your charms, senator.’
‘I love you, Lucy. I have never stopped loving you, and I have thought of you with longing every day of my life.’
Lucy looked down at her clenched hands where the knuckles strove to push themselves up through the soft kid of her gloves. ‘Stop this car and let me out. How dare you! If you think for one moment that you can come back into my life after abandoning me . . .’ She turned to look at him, her face showing for the first time in years the despair that had tortured her. ‘I thought, I prayed, that I might be pregnant. I waited for letters . . . and nothing, nothing. Let me out or I shall start screaming . . .’
‘Please, Lucy. I apologize if I have insulted and embarrassed you, but you can’t get out in the middle of the street. I’ll say no more but I’ll drop you off . . . where?’
‘The Marie Stopes Clinic. It’s on . . .’
‘I know. I helped . . . family money helped . . . fund it. What a wonderful woman she is. You know of the pioneering work on birth control by . . .’
The awkwardness over, he drove surely and safely to the clinic and let her out. ‘I won’t offer to come in with you; I was here yesterday. You know how we Americans like to know we’re getting value for money. I can’t offer to come back either; I’m taking Brook to the Tate.’
‘He’s a nice boy, Max.’
He smiled, that remembered smile that lit up his face from the inside. ‘He’s about the only thing in my . . .’ he began. ‘We must talk again before I leave, Lucy. Please?’
‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said and walked into the clinic. Her heart was pounding and she doubted that she could speak rationally to the doctors. His wife was an invalid. No doubt an ailing woman found that side of marriage tiring. Lucy could name a dozen such invalids, real or imagined, from her own practice. He could not still love her. Had he ever loved her? He was a virile man and the intimate side of marriage would be important to him. For years she had told herself that in those, to her, idyllic days in Italy, he had wanted only sexual release. She had taught herself to dislike him, to forget – no, never to forget, to ignore the memories, the longings, and here he was overturning her carefully nurtured life as easily as easily as he had done all those years ago. No, no, senator, no willing frustrated woman to toy with as an extra on your London jaunt. Was there one in Paris, in Rome? Why had they not visited Venice? What had the boy said? ‘Dad says the lagoon waters would be bad for Mother’s health.’ She was talking to Doctor Stopes; was she herself making any sense? Would she remember one word of this conversation? Lucy took herself firmly in hand and thrust
Maximilian du Pay back into her subconscious.
He was not so easy to dispose of physically however. Having spent the day in the clinic, Lucy returned late to the Overseas Club. She could see his long legs stretched out in the foyer as she came through the entrance. He was not alone; a woman like a decaying flower sat across from him in a pink chair that could just have been chosen to suit her soft fragility.
‘Doctor Graham, if you’re not too tired, my wife would love the honour of meeting you.’
He had no right to do this. He should get out of her life. He had his wife and the boy. She had Robin; it was enough. But she could not ignore him without being deliberately rude.
She avoided his outstretched hand and went over to his wife.
‘How do you do, Mrs du Pay.’
‘Doctor,’ Ammabelle du Pay raised a languid hand, ‘I am honoured to meet you. Had I had a tenth of your strength’ – immediately Lucy felt like a veritable Amazon – ‘I should have liked to do something for my fellow man. As it is, I give of my money and my time, I do admit, to many charitable causes, and none dearer to me than birth control. Max, the champagne. You British have your afternoon tea, but I have one glass of champagne; it refreshes me and gives me strength for my evening duties. You will join us, Doctor Graham, or may I too call you Lucy? Such a charming name.’
She stopped for a second while Lucy murmured all the polite things and wondered why Max and Brook were not the exhausted ones. Surely that clinging voice would suck the very life-blood from anyone on whom it fastened? She looked with trained eyes at the woman in front of her. ‘One glass in public,’ she thought. ‘How much in private?’ She looked at Max, who seemed unable to meet her eyes, and sadness for all the wasted lives overwhelmed her. ‘Poor Max,’ she thought.
The champagne came and Max himself opened it expertly. He would be an expert, supposed Lucy, if he had opened a bottle every single afternoon for the last fourteen years.
Rich Girl, Poor Girl Page 27
