‘What d’you mean, Father, you come in?’
‘Just what I say. Bear with me and you’ll know why shortly.
‘Well, now, first of all I’m going to go back some years, to the manor house at Wellbrook. This is how my father told it to me, exactly as Edwin told it to him. Edwin sent for his son. Apparently Edward had just come down from Oxford and had planned to go on an extensive holiday abroad to pursue his hobby of archaeology, but the old man had different plans for him. He wanted him at home to carry on the name. There were no other relatives left either on Edwin’s or his wife’s side. He told his son in plain words: “What you’ve got to do,” he said, “is get yourself married; and there’s one ready, if not waiting, for the chance. She is the best bred around here, as good as her horses, I understand, and the Spencer-Moores are at rock bottom financially. Lillian’s father’ll throw her into your lap because there’s money here. She’s three years older than you, but what’s that? You look older, always have done, like myself. And if she can breed as well as she can ride, this house soon should be filled with children.”’
Alexander stopped here and nodded at his son, who was laughing now, saying, ‘He actually told Grandfather that?’
‘Yes, word for word. Funny, but there was a kind of understanding between him and my father. It was never to be the same with Edward and me.
‘But anyway, I understand there was a helluva dust-up and Master Edward only succumbed after an ultimatum had been presented to him. What the ultimatum was Father didn’t tell me. I don’t think he knew. I should imagine it was along the lines of his allowance would be cut down to the very minimum if he didn’t do as he was told. Anyway, there was an engagement announced in The Times and six months later there was a very grand wedding. But what neither the father nor the son bargained for was Miss Lillian’s character. In a way she became a match for both of them because she showed them that horses were her priority and nobody on this earth was going to stop her riding. But young Edward did his duty as was expected of him and straight away she became pregnant, only to lose the first baby at three and a half months. Within three years she’d lost the third.
‘Edward banned horses from the stables except the two that were needed for the carriage when she became pregnant again, and he practically became her gaoler. He never left the house for months on end. My father said he had the look on him of a chained and frustrated bull. He was a big man, six foot one and broad with it. Even at that age he looked like his father, though he had a violent temper, and was prone to wild bursts of anger. He had none of his father’s understanding or, at times, kindness. And it would seem he was by now more determined than his father that he should have an heir.
‘Whether Lillian was very unhappy I couldn’t say, because she too had a temper, which showed itself in a deep irritation towards another member of the household. Her husband had engaged a nurse-companion for her, and the woman seemed never to leave her side. Her lady’s maid, a girl called Jane Dunn who had been her maid before she was married, one day unintentionally pointed out to Lillian how she could escape for an hour or so. While standing at the window, she saw Edward mount the carriage that was to take him to the station to catch a train into London for the day. After the nurse-companion had been into the bedroom to check that her charge was lying down and resting, the maid saw her, too, leave the house and make for the kitchen garden, which led to the bailiff’s cottage. She had long suspected that there was something going on between those two, and that day she remarked on it to her mistress. Lillian sprang up from the bed, pulled on her underclothes, a pair of riding breeches, and a short jacket and hat. She ran out of the room, down the back stairs and into the yard, where she demanded of a fear-filled groom that he should help her to saddle an old horse, one considered past his prime who had been put out to grass.
‘Lillian was out for two hours, and when she returned the nurse-companion was almost in hysterics at the disappearance of her charge. Lillian laughed at her. And she laughed at her husband when he returned and found her having dinner with his father and actually making him laugh. He was surprised at the bright face she turned to him, asking if he had enjoyed his temporary escape. But two days later she was no longer smiling . . . Nor was he, for he had learnt of her escapade. She was only seven months gone and the birth had begun prematurely. She was in labour for two days and the young doctor did everything in his power to ease her pain and fetch the child out alive. But he suspected it was dead before she made the last effort. Yet the midwife still did everything in her knowledge to bring life into the tiny body. But she was unsuccessful.
‘Edward was in the room, and when he looked down on the well-formed male child he let out a sound like the wail of an animal, then turned his back on it. Going to the bed where the doctor was working to staunch the blood from the patient’s womb, he looked down on his wife’s pallid face and screamed at her, “You did it again, didn’t you, and on purpose? You and your horses have killed my child. Well, I hope they gallop you into hell!” He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her like a dog shaking a rat. He let her fall back on the pillows only when the doctor’s bloodstained hand came across his face and the midwife’s arms were about him from behind.
‘The room was a shambles and now, as he was pressed towards the door, he yelled at the nurse-companion whom he had left on guard, “I’ll throttle you if you’re not out of this house . . .”
‘His words were muffled by the doctor yelling at him, “Shut up, man! Get out and calm yourself!”
‘What Edward Mortimer Baindor did next was to go down to the yard and beat the groom into a state of insensibility.
‘Lillian died the next day and it was after the funeral that he was presented with a summons on the charge of assault and battery on one Arthur Briggs.
‘It was only Father’s work with Briggs’s solicitor, and the offer of a substantial sum to the man made by old Edwin in order to stop any further scandal, that saved Baindor from facing the charge in court.
‘Edwin, being aware of the feeling against his son in the community, willingly agreed now to his going abroad to pursue his hobby because he knew it was partly his own doing that had brought about the unhappy marriage between Edward and his dead wife.’
James rose and went to the cupboard. He handed his father a small measure of brandy. They both sat in silence sipping their drinks for a moment until James said, ‘Well, I’m waiting. Go on. There’s much more to come, and worse, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Well, young Edward was about twentyseven when this happened. He would come home for short periods, then go off again, and my father said the old man never pressed him to stay. Then it was eight years later when, on one of his short stays, his father had a seizure and died, which left Master Edward in sole charge of the extensive business his father had built up. As my father said, Edward also inherited a great deal else from the old man, and that was business acumen, for now he was in control he dived into it with enthusiasm. Nothing escaped him. From the beginning Father didn’t like him, nor did I, but he was a client and an important one. And what Father soon found was that the man disliked advice. He gave plenty of it himself, but by way of orders.
‘Then came the night of the show I was telling you about. I was in the stalls and, happening to look up at the boxes, I saw him there. Well, that must have been when he spotted Irene and apparently fell for her, hook, line and sinker. I don’t know how he arranged to meet her, I only know that from then on his whole attitude seemed to change. Not that he was any less businesslike, but he was pleasanter. Yes, that is the word, he was pleasanter.
‘Then one day I had an unexpected visit from her. She said the show was closing, and I said I was sorry to hear that, but she smiled and said that wasn’t what she had come about. She wanted my advice. She knew that I was Edward’s . . . Here she stopped herself, then went on, Mr Baindor’s solicitor, and she recalled the happy times of my visits to her father. But did I know, she asked me, that
she was ... well, what was the word she should use? Being courted. And I repeated, “Being courted? Do you mean to say that you are being courted by my client?”
‘She blushed slightly and nodded and said, “Yes, that is what I mean to say.”
‘“Well, well.” I recall sitting back in my chair and smiling at her as I spoke. “So that is the reason for the change.” At which she asked, “What change?”
‘I said, “Well, you have altered his character already. He’s lost most of his abruptness.”
‘“Well, I’ve known him less than three months, and now what d’you think? He has asked me to marry him.”
‘“Really?”
‘“Yes,” she answered, “just as you say, really. He has been very attentive and has been taking me here and there in his free time and mine. I told him about my family because he asked about them, but I didn’t mention how my father died,” and to this I remember replying, “No, of course not. There’s no need for him to know.” Then she said, “What d’you think I should do?”
‘She might have been asking this question of her father, and I hesitated for a long moment before I said, “Do you like him?”
‘Her answer came quite swiftly. “Oh, yes, I like him. He’s so very – well, so nice and kind.”
‘Then I said, “Well, you like him but may I ask if you love him?” Now it was she who hesitated before she replied, “I loved Timothy first as a brother and then as a parent, both father and mother, but he didn’t love me in the way I came to love him. I haven’t heard from him for nearly two years now, so what feeling I had has naturally died. But do I love Edward?” The pause was longer before she said, “I don’t know, but I think I could come to love him dearly.”
‘“Well, go ahead, my dear,” I said.
‘Her smile widened then vanished as she said, “But he has that great manor house and the estate, and I understand he is a very rich man.”
‘“In all three you are right,” I said to her, “and by the sound of it you are being offered the three, and wholeheartedly, I should say, because you have already made a change in him. I have seen him happy, and for the first time in his life, I should imagine.”
‘“You think so?”
‘“Yes. And my father would confirm this and will, though he and my mother are away at the moment.”
‘She now said, “Yes, I know; but I came to you purposely because, well, you’re younger and . . . and I thought you would understand my feelings. You see I am only twenty-three, but he is thirty-seven.”
‘“All the better,” I said. “He’ll know how to look after you, and probably much better than a younger man would. In a way I think you are a very lucky girl.”
‘At this she smiled at me and said, “I would too, if I could only realise what’s happening to me. It’s too much of a fairytale to take in, really.”
‘“Well,” I said, “you continue to make it a fairy-tale, my dear ...”
‘Six months later they were married and our whole family was invited to the wedding. She had no relatives except an aunt who lived in Eastbourne. She looked the most beautiful of brides, but in a way very childlike. She didn’t look her twenty-three years. I recall they were sent off in a glorious fashion at five in the afternoon to start their honeymoon, first stop Venice. There was a ball for the staff and their friends that night at the manor and any of the guests who had a mind to stay. This was all arranged by the butler, Mr Trip, and the housekeeper, Mrs Atkins. I remember recalling that I had been to that house a number of times with my father and never seen the staff so happy.
‘But that wedding was nothing to when Irene gave him a son. Talk about a doting father! He really did lose years, and Irene adored the child from the moment she first held him. So said my mother, for she was allowed to visit her the day after the birth.’
At this point Alexander leant forward, picked up the glass from the table and drained the remainder of the brandy. Then his tone changed as he said, ‘When was it I first noticed a change in her? In a way it showed first in her voice and attitude. On her wedding day, as I said, she was like a very young girl, but she was now a woman. Moreover, she was a mother who never wanted to leave her child’s side, but apparently – I was given to understand much later – she had to, once her husband was in the house. It wasn’t that he wanted desperately to be with her, although he did, oh, yes, he really did, but he also wanted to monopolise the boy. Wherever he was so must the boy be.
‘After their honeymoon abroad, they had attended dinners and, to my knowledge, went to two balls. One was a charity affair. Your mother and I were also there, and we remarked how he danced with her, yet when she was dancing with anyone else he just sat watching her. I think the dancing must have ended when she informed him she was going to have the child, for he would have remembered what had happened to his first wife. But nevertheless they entertained and we were many times invited to dinner. It was on these occasions that I detected another change in her. She had become very quiet, her natural gaiety had disappeared. Although she laughed and chatted to her guests, there was no spontaneity in her as there had been before. There was no sign of any other babies coming, and although his manner was still cordial then, there were also glimpses of his domineering side. When my father wasn’t available and he had to deal with me, there was in his manner the unspoken words, “Why isn’t he available? Doesn’t he know who I am and what I mean to this firm? See that he makes himself available next time, young man.” At least, that’s how I interpreted his attitude, and in the end I found I wasn’t far wrong.
‘He rarely left home, and, I was told, when he wasn’t visiting his companies and agents abroad, he spent his time with the boy. Rarely did she come to town, and when she did he accompanied her. She seemed to have very few friends of her own to visit, only us. He would leave the boy for a few hours, and a few hours only, for they never stayed in town to go to a theatre or to dine with friends. Twice they went on holiday, and the child was taken with them.
‘It was about a fortnight before the boy’s fourth birthday when Edward was forced to take a trip to Germany. There was to be a big takeover concerning the Flux firm, and it was imperative that he should be there. At the time I was running a charity for children’s holiday camps. It had succeeded in getting a lot of poor boys off the streets or out of the gutters. It showed them a different way of life, and your mother and I were so interested in it that we had gathered together some quite big names for a charity concert. It was she who suggested we should ask Irene to come and sing. I recall her words: “Her gaoler is away, so what’s to stop her? She still keeps up her singing when she can. I know because she told me. She probably sings to the boy when his papa is absent. One thing I’m certain of,” she added, “she misses the stage and the company. That girl’s lonely; I know she is.”
‘I felt I had to say to her, “I don’t suppose she would dare do it without his permission.”
‘“Well, we can but try,” was her response.
‘During the past two or three weeks I had noticed that when we happened to be together Irene used to become rather agitated. It was as if she wanted to talk to me about something, to tell me something, but seemed afraid to. But this time she seemed to jump at the chance to get out on her own. The concert was to be held on a Sunday evening in one of the big theatres, and the stars would be giving their services free. It was a wonderful do – the concert, I mean. We had gone to the manor and picked Irene up, and both your mother and I were in the nursery and were never to forget when she kissed her son and hugged him close, saying, “Mummy won’t be long, she’s just going out to sing for her supper.” And he laughed at her and cried, “Well, Cook could give you some, Mummy.” She threw her arms about him and kissed him, not once but three times. She didn’t know it was the last time she would ever kiss her child.’
Alexander paused again. And then he put his hand on the table and brought his fingers into a fist and thumped the table with it three or four times before he aga
in spoke to his son, who was now staring wide-eyed at him. He went on, ‘It was a costume do and your mother had got her the most elaborate-looking Edwardian gown. It had a rather low neck, and apparently when your mother and the dresser went to help her on with it they saw there was an obstacle because Irene was wearing a kind of woollen shift affair that was, as your mother said, more like a fine woollen dress because it came to her knees. The dresser said she hadn’t seen one for years and certainly not such a finely knitted one. Ladies used to sleep in them at one time, she said. Anyway, without it the costume fitted Irene perfectly, and when she put on the huge straw and feathered hat she looked the part, and for the first time in many a long day she looked happy . . . And she sang the “Barcarolle” beautifully. It was as if she had never stopped singing. In fact, it seemed that her voice had improved: it had become stronger. Anyway, she brought the house down. It was arranged that the main performers of the evening and their guests were to have a supper at the Carlton. So your mother took your grandmother out to the car that was waiting, leaving me behind to accompany Irene in a cab and join them at the supper as soon as she had finished changing. I recall the hall was soon cleared.
‘As I waited, a young man who looked vaguely familiar came rushing in, wound his way between the chairs and made for a door that led to the dressing rooms. Then a few minutes later, I could not believe my eyes: Irene’s husband came into the theatre. He wasn’t running like the young fellow, but he was hurrying, and I recognised the look on his face. Oh, dear me, I thought.
The Silent Lady Page 3
