by Nancy Carson
He squeezed her hand. ‘It seems like it. I’d better give you a kiss to set a seal on it, hadn’t I?’
‘I reckon so.’
As he kissed her, he pressed her backwards so that she was semi-reclining on the sofa. Her lips on his were so agonisingly familiar, but the way she kissed him was not. She kissed him with a delicious zeal that he had not known from her previously. It was far too pleasant to stop, so they lingered, wringing maximum pleasure out it.
‘Did Dickie teach you to kiss like that?’ he commented with a smile of approval.
‘Did Isabel teach you to kiss like that?’ she countered. ‘Or was it Dorinda?’
‘A bit of both, I reckon. As long as you approve.’
‘Oh, I do. Kiss me again.’
They kissed again.
A weak voice could be heard from upstairs. ‘Arthur, Arthur, where’s that drop o’ beer yo’ promised me? I’m dying o’ thirst up here.’
‘Oh, bugger!’ he exclaimed.
Chapter 28
When Lucy and Arthur resumed their gentle courtship it had been barely seven months since she had lost Dickie Dempster, and little more than one month since Julia had been born. Without discussing it, both were mindful of the relatively short time that had elapsed between the monumental episodes and events, in Lucy’s life especially, and the impact they had had on her. Lucy had had time to get over Dickie and he was now consigned to history. Because of that relationship her eyes had been opened to the realities of life, and she was all the happier and the wiser for it. Julia was the focus of her existence; then suddenly so was Arthur. Having Arthur’s love again was the one prize she had yearned for but least expected, for she had believed that neither was there the remotest chance of it, nor did she deserve him. Now, she had a great deal to look forward to, and she relished the prospect. Her renewed zest for life became obvious to everybody around her.
Because it had been little more than a month since Julia’s birth, Arthur was anxious not to press Lucy to consummate their new-found love. He had no idea what childbirth did physically to a woman’s body, or whether Lucy was even emotionally ready for such intimacy. To him that level of intimacy was an important facet of life since he had been alerted to its pleasures, but he had no wish to rush things and spoil what promised to be an easy and undemanding relationship. He was beginning to realise that Dorinda had been merely a diversion, who had managed to overwhelm the grief he would otherwise have suffered over losing Lucy in the first place. He had never loved Dorinda with the same intensity as he loved Lucy. He rarely ever thought of Dorinda now.
Isabel, however, was still very much on his mind. It would not be easy to bid her farewell. He liked Isabel, and would always hold her in fond regard. He could easily have allowed her to become a part of his life on a permanent basis, but for her children and her unconventionality. He did not like her children, and he saw no reason to suffer them since they were not his. Neither did he have any moral or social obligation to keep them. Isabel’s children were Isabel’s responsibility.
Nevertheless, it behoved him, as a man of honour – which, disregarding the occasional lapse in gentlemanly conduct, was how he liked to regard himself – to let Isabel know that their affair must end. It should not be too difficult; no undying love and devotion had been declared on either side, no promises made. The affair had existed only for their mutual pleasure, and both were sufficiently mature to understand that. All things, pleasurable affairs included, eventually arrived at a finality. In any case, Isabel still believed that he was engaged to be married. He had never told her otherwise. Now he perceived it as his means of escape, and he needed it. He would tell her that he and his intended – whom she still believed to be Lucy, since he had never revealed the truth of it – had finally named the day and were shortly to be wed. All right, it was exaggerating the truth a little, but in essence it was nearer truth than falsehood.
So, only three days into their rekindled love affair, Arthur told Lucy that he had a loose end to clear up.
‘I feel obliged to see Isabel Dempster,’ he said as they stood together outside the Piddocks’ cottage when he’d walked her home after helping him with his mother. ‘It’s only fair that I should.’
‘Why do you need to tell her anything?’ Lucy queried, with some anxiety that the woman might tempt him away.
‘Because it’s only fair.’
‘But you never made her any promises, you said.’
He held her to him and she leaned her head on his chest, filled with foreboding that she might lose him again almost as soon as she’d got him back. But it was only fair that he should be straight with Isabel. Arthur was not like Dickie Dempster; he had to play by the rules. It was not in his nature to be ungentlemanly. Well, she must be thankful for that. She’d seen enough of ungentlemanly ways.
‘I trust you to behave like a gentleman with her, Arthur,’ she said quietly.
‘Then your trust is well-placed, Luce. What do you suppose I’m going to do? Jump into bed with her?’
‘I don’t want to know about it if you do …’
‘There’s no fear of it anyway.’ He lifted her chin and he saw the troubled look in her eyes, so beautiful in the half light. ‘It’s you I want. Not her. I’ve only ever wanted you.’
‘When will you go?’
‘Tomorrow. Whether morning or afternoon, I don’t know yet. It depends on what there is to do in the workshop. I have to go to Dickie’s grave anyway. Isabel wrote to say there are some chips in the stonework that need repairing. I’ll have a look at that first, then go and see her. In any case, she wants to pay me. I’ll be back in decent time, whether or no.’
Lucy acquiesced with a nod and held him tight around his waist, snuggling into him. Arthur was touched by this new depth of her affection, so much more intense, more caring than ever she had been with him before. She was so much more willing to show it too. How things had changed. He found her lips and they kissed.
‘You don’t have to do those things with her, Arthur,’ she breathed when they broke off.’
‘What things?’ he asked, unsure of her meaning.
‘Oh, you know what things … Those things you do in her bed … You don’t need to go to her for that …’
‘What do you mean?’
She avoided his eyes, uncertain of how she should say what she wanted to say. But she had to say something to offer herself as a greater enticement than Isabel. ‘Doesn’t it occur to you that I have desires as well, Arthur?’
‘You? Are you serious?’
‘Course I’m serious.’ She looked into his eyes now with such an appealing look of frankness, yet feeling sheepish lest he thought her too fast.
‘But it’s not been that long since you had Julia. Are you ready for such things?’
‘Course I am. And you want to, don’t you?’
‘What do you think?’ He held her tight. He had not expected this. But then, nothing Lucy ever did had he expected.
They stood in each other’s arms for some minutes, content just to be together, silently contemplating this new understanding, the tenderness of the moment. Then, from inside the cottage, Lucy heard Julia’s cry and realised that her child was hungry and had to be fed.
‘I’d better go in, Arthur. I can hear Julia.’
‘Your mother’s got her, hasn’t she?’
‘But Mother can’t feed her.’ She smiled up at him. ‘And you have to go back to see to your mother.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
‘Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow … And don’t forget what I just said.’
He gave her another squeeze, they kissed goodnight, and he went.
The weather next day was fair and the early spring sun was eager to impart some warmth to a landscape that for so many months had lacked it. Random daffodils lifted their yellow trumpets at the command of a breeze that was gentle now, compared to the chilly blasts of the previous week. Arthur embarked on the train for Wolverhampton in the afternoon, armed with a ba
g of tools with which he could effect a creditable repair to Dickie’s grave. His mind was full of all that had befallen him these last few days, the wonderful change in Lucy, and in his fortune, and the journey seemed over before it had begun.
He arrived at the grave and inspected it. The damage was superficial, and he wondered whether Isabel had exaggerated it just to get him over there. No fresh flowers adorned the grave, just a posy of limp and decrepit anemones that looked forlorn and pitiful in the grave vase. It had been a while since anybody had visited Dickie, according to that. He took a sheet of emery cloth and stretched it over a wooden block. As he sat on the grave and began rubbing away the tiny chips, he pondered what he should say to Isabel, how he should couch his words … Until he was conscious of somebody standing behind him. He stopped what he was doing and turned round to see who it was, half expecting to see Isabel herself.
A young woman stood watching him, bearing a child of twelve months or more in her arms, and a bunch of irises.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely and smiled. ‘The weather’s picked up a bit, thank goodness.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded and returned his smile tentatively. ‘It’s warmer today. As you say, thank goodness.’
She showed no inclination to move on.
‘Am I in your way?’ he enquired. ‘Do you intend to put those flowers on this grave?’
She nodded, and Arthur stood up so as to get out of her way.
‘It’s all right. I don’t want to stop you working,’ she said apologetically.
‘No, I can wait,’ he affirmed. ‘I’m in no particular rush. There are some tiny chips out of a couple of the corners. I received a letter asking me to come along and repair them.’
‘Oh.’
She sat the child, a girl, on the flat part of the grave’s construction in the centre, where she was content to flap her arms and gurgle, smiling pleasantly.
‘I can watch her,’ Arthur offered. ‘Save her falling over and hurting herself on the hard stone.’
‘That’s very kind. If you don’t mind …’ She bent down and took the dead anemones from the grave vase, then sniffed the water in it. ‘I think I’d better go to the butt and fetch some fresh water.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Arthur said, and held his hand out to receive the vase.
‘There’s no need to go to all that trouble on my account.’
‘It’s no trouble, I assure you.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’ She handed him the vase with a grateful smile. ‘Would you mind throwing these into the bin as well while you’re there? They haven’t lasted as well as I thought they would.’
‘You brought them, did you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘A fortnight ago.’
Arthur made his way to the water butt. He dropped the dead flowers in the bin and replenished the vase with fresh water, wondering who this pleasant girl could be who regularly brought flowers to Dickie’s grave. Maybe one of his former women. But she seemed such a demure, refined young lady. Yet weren’t all Dickie’s women a cut above the average in refinement, and a little more reserved in demeanour? You only had to look at Isabel. You only had to look at Lucy. This girl was a similar type. Very appealing. Arthur’s curiosity was aroused.
‘Here you are,’ he said, handing her the vase when he returned to the graveside.
‘Thank you ever so much.’
‘You’re quite welcome … Are you a relative of Mr Dempster?’ he asked experimentally, for the girl evidently had no idea he was connected with the family.
‘No, not I,’ she answered, and took the paper wrapping off her irises.
‘A friend, then?’ He turned his attention to the child, still sitting untroubled on the grave.
‘Yes. I was a friend of Mr Dempster.’
‘I take it the baby is yours? I mean, you’re not looking after her for somebody else?’
‘No, she’s mine.’
‘She’s lovely.’
The girl smiled graciously, looking up from her flower arranging. ‘She is, isn’t she?’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Julia.’
‘Julia,’ Arthur repeated, trying to hide his astonishment. Three daughters of Dickie Dempster all with the same name! Isabel’s, Lucy’s, and now this young woman’s. ‘It’s a pretty name. I imagine her father’s very proud of her.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ the young woman replied. ‘Perhaps he might have been.’
‘Oh.’ Arthur was stumped for words. He could hardly ask her outright if Dickie Dempster was the father, although it seemed certain.
‘To tell you the truth, Mr Dempster was her father,’ she offered with no prompting whatsoever.
‘So you are Mrs Dempster?’ he asked, feigning a lack of any knowledge about his erstwhile lover.
She smiled. ‘No. My name is Myrtle Collins. Mr Dempster and me were never married.’
‘Oh … I see …’
‘I’m not ashamed of it, Mr …’
‘Goodrich …’
‘I’m not ashamed of it, Mr Goodrich. I could have been Mrs Dempster. I was to have been.’
‘But how?’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘I understand there is already a Mrs Dempster?’
‘Ah, that’s what everybody thinks. But there isn’t.’
‘There isn’t?’ Arthur looked at her, trying to hide his scepticism. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, there’s a woman who calls herself Mrs Dempster. Mrs Isabel Dempster. But she wasn’t married to Dickie.’
‘She wasn’t? I’m … I’m confounded, Miss Collins. But I fail to see how you can say that.’
‘I can say it because it’s true. Isabel Grosvenor defied her father and ran away with Mr Dempster within a year of their meeting. It was commonly supposed they had eloped, but I have a second cousin who used to work in service at the Grosvenors’ house in Chapel Ash, and she was privy to everything that went on. Since Dickie’s death Isabel and the Grosvenor family have become reconciled, by the way. Anyway, she was content to be his common-law wife, living in sin with Dickie in a house they rented – the house she still lives in now. It turned out to be an imperfect arrangement – for both of them. I understand their romance soon ran out of steam and they lost interest in each other. But while Isabel didn’t want Dickie for herself any longer, she certainly didn’t want anybody else to have him either. She had some sort of hold over him. The likelihood of inheriting her father’s money, I suspect. She forbade him to have anything further to do with me when she found out he and I were in love. When she found out I was carrying Dickie’s child she cited her children as having priority. I suppose she told him she was the cheaper alternative.’
‘Isabel Dempster did all that?’ he queried, astounded.
‘Oh, on the outside she’s very charming, is Isabel Grosvenor. I knew her when we were younger. She always disliked me, but I never knew why. She’s very clever, you know, Mr Goodrich. Clever enough to know how to trap poor Dickie when he wanted to break free of her and marry me.’
‘Well, fancy, Miss Collins. I would never have guessed. And you are sure the two of them never married?’
‘You may take it as gospel, Mr Goodrich. You’ll find no marriage certificate in that house. No church records of such a marriage exist anywhere.’
‘But her children are his, I presume?’
‘It’s reasonable to presume so, but who can be sure?’
‘It’s a fascinating story, Miss Collins. I’m only sorry Mr Dempster was unable to make you his wife. Things might have turned out differently.’
‘Perhaps it was for the best, Mr Goodrich. We shall never know. I’m a believer in Fate – that things happen for a reason. Our marriage was evidently not to be. Who am I to question the wisdom of Fate?’ Myrtle held her arms out to the child, who looked at her mother with eager expectation and chuckled. ‘Come on, little Julia,’ she cooed. ‘It’s time we left Mr Goodrich to finish his
work.’ She collected the baby from the grave top. ‘I hope I haven’t detained you too long, Mr Goodrich.’
‘You haven’t at all. It’s been very interesting talking to you. I’m so glad our paths crossed.’
Arthur did not call on Isabel Dempster after all. Instead, he went home to see how his mother was, and then to the workshop where he plied his craft deep in thought for what remained of the afternoon. That evening, before Lucy called, he wrote a letter to Isabel.
Dear Isabel,
I visited Dickie’s grave today to assess and repair the damage you reckoned had been done. I must inform you that it was of a trivial nature and was quickly and easily rectified. Unfortunately time was short and I could not see my way clear to call on you.
Having given the matter due consideration, I feel it best that I no longer call on you. My own personal circumstances have changed since last we met, which renders it impossible and inadvisable to carry on seeing you. I trust that you will understand my situation and forgive this very impersonal means of letting you know.
As regards payment for the grave, I have already settled the account, so there is no need to trouble yourself further on the matter. The compensation you have received for Dickie’s injuries will be needed in its entirety, I have no doubt. It is best spent on yourself and your children and not on a cold tombstone.
It has been a pleasure and a privilege knowing you, and you may be sure that I shall never forget you.
Yours very sincerely,
Arthur Goodrich.
That night, Lucy called again, as they had arranged. They went through the motions of preparing his mother for a night’s rest, getting her on and off the commode, giving her a tipple of whisky to help her sleep, laced of course with a drop or two of laudanum for good measure. Afterwards, they drifted into his bedroom and stood at the window in the darkness watching the same twinkling lights and the same glowing sky Arthur had seen so many times before from that vantage point. But having Lucy at his side made it all the more pleasurable. He felt for her hand and gave it a squeeze, and she looked up at him.
‘I went to Dickie’s grave today,’ he said quietly so as not to disturb Dinah.
