by Irene Carr
Liza asked the housekeeper for two days off: her mother was missing her, she said. ‘She’s got nobody but me, Mrs Carey.’
‘You’ve only been here six months.’ The housekeeper peered down her nose. ‘But you’ve done very well, so, yes, you can have the two days. But you’ll lose the pay for them and you can’t expect to make a habit of this, mind.’
‘No, Mrs Carey. Thank you.’
Liza remembered the address in London and went to it. She caught an early train out of Leeds and was in the capital by noon, then found the long terrace of cramped little houses, many of which had their front doors standing open and barefoot children running in and out. At the one she sought she found a young woman sitting on the step. Her hair was wrapped in a cloth tied beneath her chin and she wore a canvas apron.
‘Excuse me, but does Miss Bailey live here, please?’ Liza asked.
The girl squinted up at her, eyes narrowed against the watery sunshine. ‘I’m Gert Bailey. What d’ye want?’
‘I’m looking for your brother, Vince.’
Gert gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’re not the only one!’ ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Liza Thornton.’ She held out her hand. Gert wiped hers on the canvas apron then shook Liza’s.
‘I know where he is but it won’t do you no good. He come back here a few weeks ago but he only looked in for an hour to say he was off to Australia.’ She saw Liza’s startled look. ‘There’s a lass lives round here, she has three brothers and they’re looking for him. Gawd help him if they find him. Why are you looking for him? Let you down, did he?’
Liza still hoped, did not want to give up. She related how Vince had wanted her to join him in running the hotel, then added, ‘He proposed to me, gave me a ring—’
‘That belonged to his gran?’ Gert broke in. ‘There was a ring. Can I see the one he gave you?’ When Liza brought it out on its thread, Gert studied it, then passed it back to her. ‘Grandma’s ring was supposed to come to me but when she died he made off with it. That isn’t it. I expect he’s sold it, knowing him. As for my ma cooking for him, she’s done that all her life, and now she’s old he never gives her a copper.’
Liza knew now that she had been seduced, used. Her dreams and plans were shattered.
Gert stood up, brushing down her canvas apron. ‘I’ve got to go into the factory for the afternoon shift.’ She jerked her head in the direction of a grim building at the end of the street. She nibbled her lip, then said, ‘Excuse me asking, but has he got you expecting?’ Liza nodded, lips pressed tight. Gert said, ‘Oh, Christ!’ She put her arms round Liza and hugged her. ‘I can’t tell you any more than I have, can’t help. All I can do is say how sorry I am. He’s my brother but he makes me ashamed.’ She let go of Liza. ‘I have to go now.’ She hurried away, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. The factory’s siren hooted and girls came out of doors all along the street and the flood of them, hurrying to work, swallowed Gert.
Liza stood still, holding the ring in the palm of her hand. She could not think what to do with it, but she would not wear it. She snapped the thread and shoved the ring into her bag. Then she set out on her way back to Leeds, blinking away the tears. She threw the ring out of the window of the speeding train.
Liza handed in her notice before her pregnancy became apparent, left with a good reference and travelled to her home in Newcastle. Dry-eyed now, she told her mother, ‘I’ve been let down by a man.’
‘Are you in trouble?’ Kitty asked, and when Liza nodded, she sighed. ‘Oh, God!’ Then: ‘Will he marry you?’
‘I wouldn’t marry him. His sister said he’s gone to Australia and he’s a bad lot. I never want to see him again.’ Liza was definite about that.
Will you look for a man?’ Kitty ventured. ‘To give the bairn a name, I mean.’
‘The bairn can have my name.’ Liza had had time to think, coldly and clearly, after the first bitterness. She did not know if she could entice a man like that but knew she did not want to. She had known of girls who had persuaded a man to wed them, not hiding their pregnancy. She had also heard of one who told her hastily acquired husband that the child she produced so soon was his but premature. That was not for Liza, either.
Kitty never censured her but when she was alone Liza knew she cried. She also knew betrayal, shame, bitterness and misery.
She had some savings, just enough to see her through to her confinement: Kitty could not support her on the meagre wages she earned as a cleaner. Susan was born at dawn on a day of pelting rain and Kitty said, ‘Just like you!’
The child was an immediate joy to Liza. Her mother had told her, unhappily, ‘You’re a lot harder now,’ and Liza did not regret this, but Susan brought happiness into her life again, a joy in living. That only made it more difficult to leave her but Liza knew she must. Her savings were almost gone and she had to find work. She applied for two vacancies advertised in the Newcastle Journal, local jobs where she would be able to return home once a week, but she wasn’t taken on. She began to worry.
One day she was writing a letter, applying for yet another job, when there came a knock at the door. Kitty had taken Susan for a walk in the second-hand pram, so Liza covered her letter and answered the knock herself. The kitchen door opened on to the passage and Gillespie, tall and sandy-haired, the butler from the Grange, was standing there. He smiled at her. ‘Hello, Liza. How are you?’
‘Mr Gillespie! What a surprise! Come in.’
She sat him down in a chair by the fire and talked as she made him a cup of tea. ‘What brings you here?’
The butler grinned. ‘You. I kept your address in case.’
‘Me? Why?’ Liza paused, teapot in one hand, kettle in the other.
‘I might have a job for you — or are you suited already?’
A job! Liza poured carefully, put the kettle on the hob, stirred the tea and set the pot to draw for a minute. ‘I’m not working at present.’
‘Right, then. A couple of weeks back the family paid a visit to some people in Buckinghamshire and Mr Gresham took me along as his valet. I was talking to the butler there, a decent man by the name of Polkington. He told me they were looking for a maid who was good with a needle and at the dressmaking.
They were wanting a woman over twenty-five but I told him I knew somebody younger who would be just the ticket. The job sounds right up your street. You’d be working directly under the lady’s maid. I met her, Miss Jarvis, a pleasant lady but one who knows what she wants. You’d get on fine with her. And they’re offering twenty pounds a year.’
Twenty pounds a year! Liza had been writing away for jobs paying sixteen. She would be making a real advance. But then she remembered how she had thought she would be happy at the house in Leeds, and hesitated. Buckingham was a long way off. She poured the tea, added milk and sugar, then handed him the cup and saucer. She was tempted. She would love to stay at home with her mother and Susan but she needed the job. They all needed the money.
Gillespie added gently, ‘And Polkington tells me Miss Jarvis is a lady of fifty-five and her employers will give her a pension at sixty. Then you’ll be lady’s maid.’ He had remembered Liza’s ambition.
Liza was just coming up to her nineteenth birthday. If all went as Gillespie said, she would be a lady’s maid at the early age of twenty-four! It was a position always held by women of thirty or older, and it could make an enormous difference to her life — and her daughter’s. She had to take this chance for Susan’s sake.
‘I’ll take the job, Mr Gillespie. I’m grateful to you.’
‘Good!’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, produced two envelopes and a slip of paper, then passed them to her. ‘I’ve written down the name and address of your future employer, Mr Underdown. Write to him and say I’m recommending you and you want to be given a trial for the job. She — his wife, that is — will send you your train ticket and see that you are met at the station. One of
those letters is to introduce you to Miss Jarvis, written by Madame Jeanne, who sends you her best regards. The other is from me to Mr Polkington.’
They chatted for a while and then he put down his empty cup and rose from his chair. ‘I have to get back.’ As she saw him to the door, he said shyly, ‘It didn’t strike me at the time, but your leaving — tell me to mind my own business if I offend you — had it anything to do with young Toby being killed?’
Liza nodded. ‘He said he wanted to get away because I’d told him I couldn’t marry him. I felt responsible for his death.’
Gillespie sucked in a breath and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I feared it might be something like that. Don’t blame yourself. Things like this happen to people and can’t be helped. You did what was right.’
‘Thank you.’ Liza knew he was correct, but it did not heal the hurt. She still grieved for Toby. He had been part of her youth and she had lost it. She was a lot older now than just by the months since he had been killed.
Gillespie left her with words of encouragement: ‘You’ve got a grand opportunity now. You must look forward.’
Liza watched him stride away. She had not told him about Susan, and that was not because she was ashamed: she felt that if she told him he would deserve an explanation. She did not want to go over it all again.
* * *
Gillespie had seen some of Susan’s clothes drying on a line, had glimpsed the cot in the bedroom next door to the kitchen where he had drunk his tea. He had wondered if the child was Liza and Toby’s. But he told himself steadfastly that it was none of his business. He had already guessed at the story Liza had told him, but had come to help her if he could because she deserved it. Now he was even more glad that he had done so and went on his way, whistling.
9
APRIL 1905, HAMPSHIRE
Cecily emerged from the orchard and strolled slowly, hips swinging, across the yard to the house. Her eyes were narrowed, cat-like, against the spring sunshine. There was real heat in it and she had put on a thin cotton dress that showed off the lines of her young body; she was now a lissom nineteen. Simmie, the coachman and groom, was harnessing the horse to the carriage. He was a stocky young man, no taller than Cecily, and he watched her furtively. She knew it, and what he was thinking, and revelled in it. She greeted him: ‘Good morning.’
‘Morning, Miss Cecily,’ he replied huskily.
She went on slowly towards the house, sure that he was gazing after her and wanting her. Cecily had learned a lot at the Swiss school that had not been on the syllabus, but she had been unable to put it into practice — so far. She had paid visits to the homes of schoolfriends and danced with boys, but always heavily chaperoned. Now she thought she might start with Simmie. She had to spend a vacation of two weeks here; this was only the third day and she was bored already.
Cecily entered the house by the back door and glanced into the kitchen. ‘Good morning.’
The cook, Mrs Bagley, was kneading dough. ‘Good morning, Miss Cecily.’
Mary Ann, the fifty-year-old, round-faced maid, said reprovingly, ‘Mrs Higgins is waiting for you.’
‘Thank you.’ Let her wait, Cecily thought.
She ran up the stairs to her room but descended again a few minutes later and entered the drawing room where her relative sat, foot tapping. ‘Here I am, Aunt Alex.’
Alexandra Higgins, Edward Spencer’s cousin, was a widow attempting to keep a carriage, cook and maid on a modest annuity by a thousand small economies. She did not economise on the sherry she drank daily. The money Edward paid her for looking after Cecily in her vacations was a blessing. She let the girl do as she pleased, afraid if she told Edward that she could not control the girl he would end the arrangement.
Now Alexandra stared and shrieked, ‘What have you done?’
Cecily had taken part in amateur dramatics at the Swiss school — they were popular at the time. Now she wore a blonde wig, its tresses piled high, and had daubed paint on her face, which was spotted with patches. ‘I’m practising my part. I have the role of Marie Antoinette in the village pageant. It’s quite an honour.’
‘You look ...’ Alexandra was lost for words. Then she wailed, ‘What will Edward think?’
‘He will be pleased, of course. It will show him I’m making good use of my education.’ And then, firmly, ‘I’m not taking it off until I feel I’m right into the part. That might take me some days.’
Alexandra accepted defeat and shifted her ground: ‘I’ve been expecting you this past ten minutes and more. You know we have to meet our guests off their train—’
‘It doesn’t arrive for another twenty minutes.’ Cecily pointed at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Alexandra was on her feet. ‘One should always be early for an appointment.’
‘But not too early,’ Cecily corrected her. ‘And the carriage isn’t ready yet. Simmie is just harnessing the horse.’
‘What?’ Alexandra scurried to the window to peer out at the empty drive. ‘Oh dear! That young man! I told him to be ready at twenty to the hour—’
‘You told him you wanted the carriage for fifteen minutes to,’ Cecily interrupted again. ‘I heard you tell him. And here he comes now, a little early, as you prefer.’ The wheels of the carriage crunched on the gravel as it came into view.
‘Oh. Well, come along now,’ Alexandra said, deflated, and led the way outside. Simmie goggled at Cecily’s appearance but held open the door. They climbed in and set out.
The train chugged into the little station on time. Only two passengers stepped out on to the platform where Alexandra and Cecily waited. Edward Spencer was familiar: he had come to see Cecily several times over the years, but it had not brought them any closer. She kept him at arm’s length, still remembering the bitter quarrel between him and her father, just as the memory of the mad old woman still haunted her. She had never told him the reason for her antipathy to him: he was her guardian, she had been saddled with him and that was all there was to it. She would put up with him until she inherited and then she would go her own way. It would not be long now.
The man who accompanied him was a stranger. In his early twenties, he was tall and broad, dressed sombrely in a navy blue uniform with brass buttons. Cecily had not met him before but she had known he was coming: Edward had written that he was bringing one of his captains, whose ship was lying in the Pool of London.
‘You’re looking well, Alex,’ Edward said, then paused. ‘Cecily, isn’t it? What have you done to yourself?’
‘It’s for the pageant ...’ Alexandra explained timidly. Cecily smiled innocently. ‘They taught me at the school you sent me to. I assure you, sir, as soon as I have mastered and played my part I will revert to my true self.’
Edward sighed inwardly. He knew he would never understand this girl, and that she was ready to regard him as the cruel guardian if he disciplined her. But she was his brother’s daughter and he had given his word to Charles. ‘It’s certainly a striking performance,’ he said drily.
‘Thank you, Uncle.’ Cecily’s reply was cool.
‘This is the gentleman I told you about, Alex,’ Edward went on, ‘Captain William Morgan.’
William carried his cap in his hand and ducked his head in a polite little bow. He was well aware that his uniform was shabby but he had not expected a visit of this sort so had brought no other aboard his ship. It had been good enough for the passage from the Mediterranean. In truth he did not see why Edward had asked for, or ordered, his company on this visit. But it was enough for him that Edward wished it.
‘So you only work for Mr Spencer,’ Cecily remarked.
William caught the nuance in her tone and thought, As if I swept out the stables. He retorted, ‘I captain one of his ships, Miss.’
Now it was Cecily’s turn to think. Miss! As if I was a servant girl! She smiled sweetly. ‘That is what I meant.’
Edward had not detected her jibe and now spoke up for William: ‘He’s an important man.’
Cecily noted the pride in his voice, and wondered how she could use it to hurt him.
On the drive back to the house, over lunch and during the stroll through the lanes that followed, she tried to charm William and Edward, and succeeded with the latter. For dinner she wore a dress that buttoned up to the neck but was still bewigged and painted. She played up to the two men again, conversing intelligently and minding her manners. Edward was delighted and decided to ignore the outrageous disguise. He thought with relief that the girl was growing out of the difficult phase. At last he felt he could grow to like her. ‘I’ve brought you a present,’ he told her, ‘from Switzerland.’
‘Oh?’ said Cecily warily. Was this some disapproving report from her school? ‘How kind of you.’
Edward took a small box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a tiny gold wristwatch set with jewels. ‘For your nineteenth birthday.’
‘Thank you.’ Cecily was amazed and delighted with the present and almost kissed him — but habit held her back. Still, her feelings showed in her tone and Edward was pleased. William hoped the girl was worth it.
Alexandra retired early: ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen to your talk.’ She took Cecily with her — and a bottle of sherry for a nightcap. She had hidden that in the capacious bag in which she kept her embroidery.
* * *
The two men sat in armchairs before the fire and talked of ships and shipping, drank some whisky and went up to bed. Edward led the way and William said, ‘I’ll just settle this fire for the night.’ He checked that the coals would not fall out then put a guard round it to be sure. When he was satisfied, he climbed the stairs. Edward’s door was shut and he put out the oil lamp on the landing. Oil lamps were the only illumination here, an economy forced on Alexandra because the house was too remote for gas or electricity to be connected.
When William opened his door he found a lamp burning on the table by the bed. Cecily reclined there, still in her wig, face painted, but her dress was discarded on a chair. Her body was outlined under her thin shift. She gave him a sultry smile and said huskily, ‘Close the door, Captain. I’ve been waiting for you.’
