‘Watch your mouth, Tugman,’ he said. ‘You’re with decent people.’ He gave Josie a paternal smile. ‘The young lady here doesn’t want to have her ears sullied with your foul language, do you Miss?’
Although the expression on his round, rosy face was kind-hearted there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite match his words, but the look vanished as he turned back to Harry.
‘I think you had better move on, Tugman, and take Kiss-Kiss Lou with you,’ he said.
Harry looked as if he were about to argue but instead he contented himself with shooting Patrick a murderous look.
‘Just as you say, officer,’ he said, offering Lou his arm. ‘And I’ll be sure to give your regards to Ma.’ As he turned to leave he gave Sergeant Plant a peculiar look, which gave Josie a twinge of unease. Harry tapped his hat back on his head and then he and Lou disappeared into the crowd.
Mattie and Brian came running over.
‘Josie, are you all right?’ Mattie asked, putting a solicitous arm around her friend.
‘Your friend is fine, Miss, thanks to her beau here stepping in,’ Plant told Mattie.
‘I’ll leave you with your friends now, Miss.’ He touched the brim of his top hat. ‘Good to see you again, Nolan, and don’t forget our last little conversation.’
All four of them watched as the portly officer marched off in the same direction as Harry and Lou towards the north end of the Tunnel.
‘What conversation?’ Mattie asked, saving Josie the trouble.
‘Asked me what I knew about the Tugmans,’ Patrick replied.
‘What did you tell him?’ she asked.
Patrick’s mouth pulled into a stubborn line. ‘Nothing. A man sorts out his own problems.’
‘Meg Purdy told me the Tugmans have you in their sights and you could be in real danger,’ Josie said.
Mattie gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I’m glad you see that, Josie, because my brother’s too stubborn to admit it. Until Pat came back, most people did just as the Tugmans told them - they were too scared to do aught else. But my brother here organised the watermen and river craft captains to say no to Ma’s demands. Meg Purdy’s right - Ma would give her last few teeth for one of her boys to catch Patrick alone in a dark alley.’
Josie caught hold of Patrick’s arm. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful,’ she urged.
The sensible part of her pointed out to her panicky heart that she really shouldn’t be clinging onto the arm of a married man, but as she imagined Patrick lying with his throat cut in a stinking gutter, she found she couldn’t let him go.
‘Of course I will, Josie,’ he said in a low, vibrant voice.
They stood lost in each other’s eyes until Brian coughed and brought them back to earth.
‘Put the worry from your mind,’ Patrick said. ‘Why, I’ve fought slippery Chinamen and wild natives dressed in bones and feathers. I think I can take a basin of dripping like Harry.’ He shrugged. ‘You know how it is. There’s always been wrong ’uns snapping at our heels.’
Mattie nodded. ‘That’s a fact, Pat,’ she said, ‘but think on this - Harry’s seen Josie with you, so now they could be snapping at her heels, too.’
Chapter Eight
Mrs Munroe knocked on Robert’s study door, but entered without waiting to be asked. The room had two walls of bookshelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with books of all shapes and sizes, however, rather than being displayed in the conventional way - upright, and arranged by height and binding colour - the medical volumes sat or lay in a disorderly array above labels with subjects scrawled on them in what Mrs Munroe could only call an untidy manner.
A large oak desk at the far end of the room stood under the tall casement window to take advantage of the natural light, and a square red and gold rug with plush fringing covered polished floorboards. There were also two winged armchairs on either side of the fireplace, with a small table beside each.
Robert looked up from his desk and smiled at his visitor.
‘Mother,’ he said, his hand resting on the open book before him. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘I told the maid to bring us coffee in here, Robert. I thought we could have a few moments to ourselves,’ she said, gliding over to one of the winged chairs.
Robert chewed the end of his quill. ‘Very well - just let me finish off this letter.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, arranging her black bombazine skirt so it wouldn’t crease. She could have come out of her widow’s weeds two years ago but, as she told any who inquired, she would always be in mourning for dear Mr Munroe.
She noticed with displeasure that two of young George’s lead soldiers stood to attention on the side table at her elbow. No one could have faulted her late husband’s qualities as a father, but he would never have allowed his children to intrude on his routine the way Robert did. As was only proper, her children had had to wait until the designated hour, when the governess brought them down for the daily visit with their parents.
Mrs Munroe frowned, and wondered again at Robert’s curious approach to raising his children. She wasn’t surprised to hear that the Royal family followed such a dangerous fashion, the Queen’s husband was foreign after all - but then so was her son’s wife. Well, Irish, and that explained a great deal.
Settling back to ease the ache in her back, Mrs Munroe studied her son as his pen scratched rapidly over the paper in front of him.
He had turned forty-three the previous month and there were just the first few signs of grey at his temples but, unlike his father, his hairline was more or less where it had been when he’d left London for New York twelve years ago. He’d filled out a bit, of course, but it suited him. It added gravitas to his new position at the London Hospital.
Her dearest wish had been for Robert to follow her eldest brother into the army and she had been bitterly disappointed when he’d chosen to study medicine instead. Of course, the medical profession was not as respectable twenty years ago as it was now and Robert’s brilliant mind and hard work had got him to the top in his field. Well, not quite. His entanglement with Ellen twelve years ago had seen to that. While society might raise its eyebrow at a mistress or two, it would forgive a man if he were discreet. But marrying a woman who sang in a public house and took in washing was quite another matter. Robert’s insistence on marrying Ellen rather than setting her up in a little house somewhere meant that instead of rising through the English medical ranks he’d had to waste his talent in America. Who knows, if he hadn’t met Ellen he might now be Chief Medical Director.
Mrs Munroe’s eyes took in the large portrait on the wall beside the fireplace. The tight line around her mouth disappeared as she looked at the painting of her grandchildren.
Clearly, it had been done some while ago as Jack wasn’t included in the group and all the children were much younger. The children’s ages aside, she could tell that it had been painted in America as the style was primitive to say the least but, to his credit, the colonial artist had caught the likenesses exactly. Pride swelled up in her and threatened to overflow into tears.
When she’d arrived at Robert’s house, every bone in her body was screaming with discomfort from the four hundred-mile journey from Edinburgh by coach. She could have come by boat but felt the coach to be more in keeping with her dignity than being thrown about in the North Sea. As she’d mounted the steps to the four-storey terraced house that was her only son’s home, she had intended to make her excuses and seek her bed as soon as possible. But the moment she had set eyes on her grandchildren, her energies miraculously returned.
Robert had written to her regularly about his children and when he’d visited Edinburgh four years ago, just after her dear George died, he had brought her a smaller copy of the portrait she now gazed upon. She remembered then thinking his children looked well enough, but seeing them with shining eyes and happy smiles as they welcomed her she realised just how beautiful they really were.
When they came downstairs to greet h
er formally, Mrs Munroe had an almost overwhelming urge to gather the children to her. Thankfully, she suppressed it. Children were naturally emotional and that sentiment, if not forcefully curtailed, could lead to all sorts of unrestrained behaviour and ultimate disgrace, especially in girls.
Casting her eyes over the portrait again, she focused on the young woman seated to one side with baby Joseph on her lap. Irritation replaced grandmotherly pride. Miss O’Casey, as Robert insisted she was addressed, certainly had her mother’s striking looks. Her abundance of dark red hair constantly needed repinning while her green eyes flashed as she spoke.
When Robert introduced Ellen’s eldest daughter to her, Mrs Munroe had been lost for words. Why on earth hadn’t Robert left her in New York with her Irish relatives; surely she would have been more at home there, with her own people . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the maid, in her dark grey dress and workaday apron, brought in the morning coffee in a polished silver pot with matching sugar bowl and jug. The milk had a lace cover over it and silver tongs rested on the white cubes of sugar. The delicate bone-china cups and saucers jiggled slightly as the laden silver tray was set down on the table beside Mrs Munroe. Robert folded his letter and set the seal.
Mrs Munroe had mentioned to Ellen only the day before that the maid should change into her better apron before serving the master of the house, but it seemed that her daughter-in-law had yet to tackle the girl on the matter.
‘Daisy!’ Mrs Munroe said. ‘Please change into your smart apron when you serve my son his morning coffee.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Daisy replied with a brief curtsey.
‘Thank you, Daisy,’ Robert said, and took the chair opposite his mother when Daisy had left the room. Settling himself with his coffee, he said, ‘Ellen runs the house, Mother.’
‘Of course she does and I’m not interfering, but she isn’t used to running such a large household,’ Mrs Munroe said, picking her words carefully.
‘She ran a large household in New York, without help,’ Robert replied. ‘But thank you for your consideration.’
Although she doubted running a house in Brooklyn bore any resemblance to the establishment she now sat in, Mrs Munroe didn’t argue the point.
‘I must say, I am already very fond of Ellen,’ Mrs Munroe continued. ‘She is quite delightful and without affectation.’
‘I think she would appreciate it if you would invite her to call you Mother,’ Robert said after a few moments.
Of course, Mrs Munroe knew she should, but she did not want to invite that degree of familiarity. Ellen might be the mother of Robert’s children, but she would never regard Ellen as a daughter.
‘In time, Robert. These things shouldn’t be rushed,’ she told him.
His brows drew together for a brief second. ‘The children are so pleased to meet you at last, Mother.’
Mrs Munroe clasped her hands together on her substantial bosom. ‘Oh, Robert, they are utterly delightful,’ she replied. ‘And so many - Ellen has certainly done her duty by you.’
The private smile moved across Robert’s face. ‘She certainly has.’
His mother had observed, during her work with the League for the Moral Improvement of the Poor, that the lower classes seemed able to produce a child a year without the slightest problems whereas her poor daughter, Hermione, after six years of marriage and many miscarriages still struggled to become a mother at all.
‘Robina is very like you,’ she continued. ‘The same broad forehead and dark eyes.’
Robert beamed. ‘And she is so clever. I wouldn’t be surprised if she became the first woman doctor in England.’
Anxiety fluttered through Mrs Munroe. ‘You do not want to tax the ‘girl’s intellect too much, not as she approaches that difficult age.’
Robert gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Mother, I can assure you that education has no detrimental effect on girls, even when they are on the verge of womanhood.’
Mrs Munroe winced. She supposed that Robert’s profession caused him to give voice to such matters without regard to delicacy. Although she would be the last to say that women were without natural scholarly ability, she believed their energies and talents should be channelled towards practical feminine pursuits to equip them to be wives and mothers. She failed to see how calculus and science would assist that. She dreaded to think what would become of society if young women started to look outside their God-given domestic sphere for fulfilment.
‘Now George is such a fine son, Robert. Upright and strong, confident too.’ A burst of joy rose up in her. ‘Do you know he marched right up to me yesterday and told me all about his toy soldiers? Have you seen how precisely he arranges them into regiments and battalions? I am convinced he has inherited your uncle’s love of the military.’ She took out her handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eye as she had done for the past thirty years. ‘Had he survived Waterloo, I know dear Rob would have been a field marshal, maybe even the commander in chief by now.’ She fixed Robert with an intense stare. ‘You must send George to Oxford. You will have a much better chance of securing him a commission in the cavalry if you do.’
‘There is time yet, Mother. He doesn’t start at Charterhouse until September.’ He drained the last mouthful of coffee and put his cup back on the tray. ‘Well, Mother, pleasant though this is, I do have more work to complete so, if you would excuse me . . .’ He began rising from his chair, but Mrs Munroe stayed put and continued talking.
‘I was surprised to see that Miss O’Casey came back from America with you,’ she said in what she hoped was a noncommittal voice.
Robert sighed and sat down again. ‘Why?’
‘Well, I thought that you . . . that she . . . she might be married by now.’
‘Ellen and I hoped so, too, but it wasn’t to be.’
‘I suppose she was pining for this missing Patrick creature who, now it seems, has been alive and well all this time,’ she answered with a sniff. ‘He sounds like a real scoundrel to me.’
‘I would never describe Patrick Nolan as a scoundrel. Josie and Patrick were very young sweethearts and sometimes these things fade with time. I am just thankful he and his family are well.’
Mrs Munroe shifted in her chair. ‘In view of their previous entanglement, I am surprised that you allow her to visit his family.’
‘I would hardly call a youthful crush an entanglement and I can’t see the harm in her visiting her old school friend Mattie and helping with her wedding preparations. Josie has not been without young men eager to speak to me if only she had given them the word.’ The frown left his forehead. ‘I’m sure she’ll find the right young man soon.’
‘I pray it is so. She is already losing her bloom and passing the age when most other young women are married,’ Mrs Munroe said. ‘Couldn’t you introduce her to some young man, some shopkeeper or clerk who might take her fancy? She is striking enough, which should make up for her lack of money.’
‘Josie is not without money, Mother,’ Robert said. ‘I will settle four hundred pounds on her and allow her a further two hundred per annum when she marries.’
Mrs Munroe’s mouth dropped open. ‘Two hundred pounds a year? But she is not even your daughter—’
‘I regard Josie as much my daughter as Bobby and Lottie,’ he replied coolly, ‘and I would be grateful if you would accept her as such.’
Mrs Munroe stifled her annoyance. ‘Miss O’Casey is a delightful girl,’ she answered carefully. ‘A little impetuous and high spirited, but she has many talents. I have complimented her several times on her fine needlework. It’s just that her association with this Nolan family - and in particular chasing after this Patrick - might damage your own daughters’ reputations. Think of the shame, Robert. Think of the scandal.’
Robert laughed. ‘Mother, this is 1844 not 1804. Bobby is twelve and Lottie just ten; it will be many years before young men start asking me for their hands in marriage.’
/> Mrs Munroe rose to her feet and faced her son. Although Robert was an inch over six-foot and she was fast approaching her seventy-second birthday, she could almost look him in the eye.
‘This might be 1844, Robert, but can I remind you that because of the scandal surrounding your involvement in Danny Donovan’s trial and your much publicised liaison with Ellen before you were actually wed, you have been forced to practise your profession in America these past twelve years and only now can you return. What if the whole scandal were revived? If Miss O’Casey’s feelings for this Nolan man resurface, her impetuous ways might lead her into folly. How many decades do you think you may need to spend in America next time, Robert?’
Annie watched her father take off his coat and hook it on the peg at the back of the door. He smiled at her, then lowered himself into the threadbare armchair. Mickey abandoned the toy ship he was sailing across the rug and climbed up to his father’s lap. Patrick snuggled him under his arm and Mickey stuck his thumb in his mouth.
A Glimpse at Happiness Page 11
