Rich Girl, Poor Girl

by Eileen Ramsay

  She’s giving you all she had, Kier. You would love her; she’s very like you, in looks but in nature too. I’ll have to watch her as she gets older, make sure no one tries to take advantage of her soft heart. You should see her on her pony, fearless. Suddenly she made up her mind. ‘I wasn’t going to, but if the conference finishes early I’ll try to see Rosie for you too, Kier, and for Robin.

  That night she finished her letter to Kier’s daughter.

  The graves are very peaceful. There is an atmosphere – a feeling, a peacefulness. I gave Daddy your flowers and I have taken a photograph. (She was no expert with the unfamiliar equipment and prayed it would turn out.) There are gardeners, old soldiers, who drive around in a dreadful old car but they keep everything quite beautiful. There are flowers all year. The French are so good at flowers, and Daddy did love the gardens at Laverock Rising. I go back to Paris tomorrow and I shall buy you a new frock – and a book . . . in French!

  I may be a day or two late – I will send a telegram – but I will have lots to tell you when I meet you in London.

  Lots of love,

  Aunt Lucy

  The next morning, after a second visit to the cemetery, she went back to Paris. On the train she looked at and revised the notes she had made for her paper on community welfare and found herself drafting a letter to Colin Dryden, still a valued friend, who might just start a fund that would allow impoverished relatives to visit, at least once, the graves of their dead. She would call it the Anderson-Howard Memorial Fund. Did not both of the Anderson-Howards lie in graves in rural France marked only by small white stones? Four days later, her paper delivered and well received – the French had Madame Curie after all; they easily accepted a woman – she was on a train to Ste Antoine sur Somme. No lines of crosses here. She hoped there would be an hotel, and made enquiries.

  ‘There are fine hotels at Le Tréport, Madame, or Dieppe itself,’ she was told, ‘but the convent sometimes takes guests. At least they used to, before the war.’

  The Mother Superior welcomed her with coffee in a room that should have been gloomy but was not. The heavy oak furniture was lovingly polished and there was a glorious arrangement of roses in a silver bowl set in the middle of a round table. Reverend Mother spoke excellent English.

  ‘We have not had an English guest for some time, madame. The coming of the motor car . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders. No one needed to stop at the convent now.

  Lucy, who found her Bentley a necessary and welcome replacement for her old pony and trap at home, commiserated with her.

  ‘But we must not stand in the way of progress, Sister.’ She bit into a biscuit that dissolved like snow on a child’s tongue. ‘The new idea is to advertise. These biscuits would bring hungry guests from all over Britain.’

  Reverend Mother laughed and threw up her hands in mock horror.

  ‘What a truly terrifying thought! We are a contemplative order, madame. Our hospitality was originally a gesture of goodwill, charity if you like, to the benighted traveller. But you have come deliberately to see us, Sister Antoine says.’ Her voice rose a little, questioningly. She would never ask outright, but if madame chose to honour her with a confidence . . .

  ‘I am not Madame Graham, Sister, but Doctor Graham. I wrote to the convent in 1918 . . .’ She stopped. As soon as she had said the word doctor, a warmth had come into the old nun’s eyes. ‘Did I write to you, Sister?’

  ‘No, madame. I was not Superior then, but I was told about your letter. You have come about La Petite, the little doctor?’

  ‘Yes. Doctor Nesbitt was my partner, and I am guardian of her daughter.’

  ‘You will wish to see her grave. It is marked like the others and I tend it myself. Unfortunately, it is too dark now, but tomorrow morning . . .’

  ‘Then I may stay for a day or two?’

  ‘But of course, and now you are doubly welcome.’ Reaching behind her, she took a photograph in a silver frame from the bookshelf and handed it to Lucy. It was a group picture and the photographer had not been very skilled. The figures were blurred, but she recognized Rose. She had changed from the elegant and sophisticated woman who had gone to France. Always slight, she was almost emaciated, but even the poor quality of the photograph could not hide the happiness in the face.

  ‘She was happy here, Sister. I am so glad. She had not been happy for some time.’

  ‘Ah, the death of her husband. I understand. We worked together. There are sisters here and even people in the village who remember her with gratitude; she was a good doctor.’

  The old nun’s hand was held out. Lucy was embarrassed that she had stared so long at the photograph, at Rose surrounded by recovering patients, she supposed, and one or two nuns.

  She handed it back. ‘You are not in the photograph, Sister?’

  ‘She liked music, La Petite, and so did Captain Drummond.’ She pointed at a tall, thin soldier beside Rose. ‘When we were not too busy I played the piano. The patients liked to hear it when they rested in the garden.’

  ‘It’s a lovely garden.’

  ‘Ah, tomorrow you will see. It is back to the splendour of before the war. The other doctor, Doctor Mouton, weeded when he had the chance. Not much opportunity to garden in a war and, besides, it is well known that the soil of the Somme is heavy with chalk, is it not?’

  ‘Rose stayed here on her honeymoon in 1907, Sister.’

  ‘I wondered, but I was not here until the war and we never knew her married name.’

  ‘Anderson-Howard.’

  ‘Come in, Sister.’ Lucy had not heard the soft footsteps.

  ‘Sister Antoine will show you to your room, Madame. Dinner will be served to you there. If there is anything at all that you want, please ask.’ She hesitated. ‘You speak French very well, I think.’

  ‘I studied in Rouen for a year.’

  ‘Forgive me, Madame. Usually the British . . .’

  ‘I am rusty, Sister, and will enjoy being oiled by conversation with Sister Antoine.’

  ‘And if I may continue to practise my English . . .’

  Lucy smiled. The nun’s English was stilted but very good.

  The guest room was simply furnished and reminded Lucy with a pang of her bedroom at Casata d’Aurora. In the morning she found that the view was not of mountains but of the garden, and as soon as she was ready she hurried out to see it in all its glory. She walked briskly down a path, trying to see everything as Rose had seen it, and came to a small gate. The graveyard: so unlike the serried rows in Louvencourt and Le Tréport. There were a few stones to commemorate members of the community who had died and then, against a wall of pear trees, the graves of the Allied servicemen, and of the Scottish and French doctors who had died as a result of the war.

  ‘You wish to change the inscription?’ The reverend mother had joined her from another pathway.

  Lucy shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. One day her daughter will decide, but as Rose Anderson-Howard she is commemorated on her husband’s family crypt. I like “Rose Nesbitt, Médecin”.’

  ‘We had begun to pray that she might find new happiness with the young officer. He died saving her, you know, from a German. He lies here too, the German, but in another part. His commander shot him. They were not all bad, the Germans.’

  Lucy had wondered about the serenity in Rose’s face in the photograph, and had decided to ask no questions about Captain Drummond.

  ‘Were you taken by the Germans, Sister?’

  ‘No, they were retreating and wanted only food. The Americans came after them – a day or two, no more – but one day too late to save the gallant captain.’

  ‘And Rose?’

  ‘She worked too hard and, I think – though perhaps you will say I am a romantic old woman living vicariously – I think she lost heart.’

  Perhaps she did, thought Lucy, but the photograph had told her that Rose, as she had expected, was already ill.

  ‘I nursed her myself as w
ell as I could. We had no trained medical personnel at all by that time. Our recovering patients returned to their armies and, her job done, La Petite released her hold on life.’

  ‘Did she speak about her daughter?’ She could not tell Robin that her mother had seemed to have forgotten about her completely.

  ‘She did not speak very much at all, madame. I knew she had a child – she told me, but she was a very private person. She liked birds, though; she was very fond of birds.’

  ‘Birds?’

  ‘Ah, the ubiquitous little robin. Madame’s mind wandered at the end and always she said, “My robin, my lovely little robin.” ’

  25

  1923

  IT WAS RAINING when Lucy arrived in London. After the sunny skies of France that fact should have been guaranteed to dampen the spirits, but for some reason she felt happy. She would see Robin; she would tell her about her mother and about the bravery of Captain Andrew Drummond. She would not tell the child that at last her mother had been falling really in love, but she would tell her Rose’s last soft words. Looking out of the taxi windows at the sheets of rain, she became more practical. It would be very nice if the rain would go before morning. Tomorrow they were shopping.

  The Overseas League was as warm and as welcoming as ever. Lucy signed in and looked automatically for Robin’s name. She and Isa should have arrived yesterday:

  Miss Anderson-Howard

  Mrs Isa Murray

  There was another name written in large, proud letters at the top of the page, just above Robin’s. Lucy gazed at it, her heart doing remarkable, very unmedical things inside her body.

  Maximilian du Pay

  She should not be surprised. Thousands of people used the club as a home from home. He was an international statesman, and the Overseas League was more intimate than a hotel; probably he was here on Senate business, and was not even going to tell her. Well, she would dine in her room. Robin would like that. They would make it a party; she need not even see Max.

  He was alone. Ammabelle? Brook? Yes, Ammabelle was better and he had decided to see his son’s school for himself. That was all.

  He doesn’t mean to see you, Lucy, to raise hopes. Oh, stop your heart leaping, the way it leaped all those years . . . all those wasted years . . . It should be schooled by now. The fires should be dead.

  She turned to the porter. ‘Send up some tea, please, and milk for my ward.’

  ‘There’s a note, ma’am – I’d almost forgotten. Mrs Bell has taken the children to the opera.’

  How dare he? Isa would never have contemplated such a thing. He had sent them off to leave the way clear . . . for what?

  She smiled at the porter. ‘Tea for one, then, please,’ and went off up the lovely wood staircase to her room.

  There were roses in her bedroom; their scent filled the air. They were everywhere: on the table by the window, in the fireplace, on the bedside table. Lucy’s heart leaped again. No, no, it was stupid. This was the action of a romantic young man. She had been given the wrong room, a honeymooner’s room. She would complain at once . . . her hand reached for the bell to summon a chambermaid.

  It was Max who stood there when she opened the door. She could say nothing, do nothing.

  ‘I couldn’t quite match your red dress,’ he said at last, and then she was in his arms. There were tears on her face. Were they hers? Were they his? She could not see him through the haze. There was nothing and no one in the whole world but Max du Pay . . . another woman’s husband. She wrenched herself out of his arms, turned away from him and stepped back into her room.

  He stood in the corridor and waited. A thousand thoughts were rushing through Lucy’s head. She was a young girl again and she had no idea what to do or what to say.

  ‘We Southerners don’t compromise our women,’ said Max from the safety of the corridor, and she turned and saw that he was laughing at her gently, understandingly. ‘I guess the red dress is long gone?’

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ll buy a new one tomorrow. Tonight, you look just beautiful the way you are. Will you have dinner here in the restaurant with an old friend?’

  Why did she hesitate?

  ‘We have to talk, Lucy.’

  She was filled with panic. ‘I’ve ordered tea . . . I’m tired, Max . . . the conference . . . the boat-train.’

  ‘I cancelled your dratted tea.’

  He straightened his shoulders and she looked at him. He had changed, he looked like a man who had . . . suffered.

  ‘Ammabelle is gone, Lucy,’ he said quietly, ‘and I deeply regret any part I played in her death. She had cancer of the liver; too many years of too much champagne, maybe because a rich husband who didn’t really love her wasn’t enough for her. I’m fifty-five years old, Lucy. I’ve wasted half my life, more. I don’t regret it all; there’s Brook, and I think I can be proud of some of the work I’ve done . . .’

  He stopped as an interested chambermaid hurried past the open door. Lucy laughed and pulled him inside. ‘I’m too old to be compromised,’ she said and, without thinking, she put her arms around his neck.

  Max bent his head, but he did not kiss her. He held her gently as if she was a butterfly that must not be crushed, and buried his face in her hair. As they stood together without speaking, in a silence that said more than a thousand conversations, Lucy felt all the doubts and worries and regrets of thirty-four years grow lighter and lighter and eventually fly away.

  ‘We’ll have dinner,’ he said at last, his mouth still against her hair, ‘and we’ll talk. Come with me now, because if I leave you here you’ll start thinking about age and your patients and Robin . . .’

  ‘And the fact that you live on one continent and I on another . . .’

  ‘Little things, little things,’ he said. ‘Come on, before I change my mind.’

  She laughed and they went downstairs hand-in-hand, but said nothing until they were at a table in the dining room. Words did not seem to be necessary. The waiters came and Max ordered for them both.

  When the wine steward had poured the glasses of champagne, Max lifted his glass and toasted her silently. Then he spoke.

  ‘I wish I could say I loved you from the moment I first saw you, Lucy. I sure . . . fell in like with you . . . that evening in Washington . . . you flitted like a butterfly among all those old iron-clad people.’ He stopped for a moment, remembering. ‘And then, when I was drifting so aimlessly, I found you again . . . in Venice. Venice and the Casata d’Aurora . . .’

  He stopped and they looked at one another, and the lost years of pain melted away.

  She blushed. ‘It must be changed,’ she said to hide her confusion.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing’s changed. I bought it that winter, you see – for us, Lucy. One of Mauro’s sons looks after it for me. His kids play in the orchard where I still see you . . . the blossoms in your hair . . . on your breast. I’ve carried that picture in my head all these years . . . He stopped and Lucy smiled at the look on his face. ‘You’re wearing my brooch.’

  ‘Every day,’ she told him.

  He stretched out his hand and lightly touched the brooch and then her mouth.

  ‘I’ve got it all worked out,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve resigned my Senate seat. The businesses have good managers. You want to keep on working, I’ll . . .’

  ‘One day you’ll meet a man and you’ll know. Nothing else will be important.’

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘You’ve never asked, Max, but I do. I love you, and nothing else is important.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, that’s not quite true. I can’t leave Robin. Otherwise I would go with you tonight, anywhere, to Washington, to Georgia, to Italy . . .’

  ‘You’ll go nowhere until you’re married, you hussy,’ he said and his voice was low with suppressed passion.

  Married? Married? How? There was Robin, and there was Brook, and there were patients – always, always
her patients.

  ‘You will marry me?’ he asked anxiously. The obstacles disappeared. How could he doubt?

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply and her hand reached for his across the table, and all the years fell away and they were young again.

  ‘I’ll establish residency,’ he said, his voice choked with emotion. ‘December?’ he suggested.

  ‘December,’ she said.

  ‘Women like you are rare, Lucy, like butterflies in December.’

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to: Fiona Scharlau, archivist; Ian Flett, archivist; L. Ball of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission; Robert F. Newell, director general of the Royal Overseas League; Dr Gary Colner; Dr Jim Inglis; Dundee and Angus librarians; Mrs Jo Currie, Special Collections, Edinburgh University Library.

  Welcome to the world of Eileen Ramsay!

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  About the Author

  Eileen Ramsay grew up in Dumfriesshire. After graduation she went to Washington D.C. where she taught in private schools for some years before moving to California with her Scottish husband. There, she raised two sons, finished her Masters Degree, fell in love with Mexico, and published her first short stories and a Regency novel. The family returned to Scotland, where Eileen continued to teach and write and to serve – at different times – on the committees of the Society of Authors in Scotland, the Scottish Association of Writers and the Romantic Novelists’ Association. In 2004, her novel Someday, Somewhere was shortlisted for the Romantic Novel of the Year award. Eileen is currently Chair of the Romantic Novelists’ Association.