by Irene Carr
In the house, when she was calmer, she recalled another obligation. She sought out Doreen in the scullery where she was half-heartedly peeling potatoes — the only job the cook would entrust to her — and asked, ‘Can I have a word with you in private?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ Doreen answered sulkily. She put down the knife and followed Liza into the garden where they could not be seen.
Liza opened her purse. ‘You’re leaving us tomorrow, Doreen, so I want you to have this as a parting gift, to help you along the way.’ She pressed ten shillings into the girl’s hand.
The money was accepted readily, though not gracefully. Doreen counted the coins, five florins, and put them into the pocket of her apron. ‘Was there anything else, Miss?’
‘No, that will be all. Except I wish you well in the future.’ Doreen said no word of thanks but slouched back to her peeling. Liza sighed. She had little hope for the girl.
* * *
Jasper Barbour was in a mood of snarling bad temper all day. He had been forced back to his original plan and that had angered him. He had bought a spade, and when Flora asked him what it was for he struck her a backhanded blow that laid her on the floor. From then on she spoke only when spoken to and stepped carefully around him.
He walked abroad in the late afternoon and resorted to the pub by the coal staiths. They were empty now, although a ship was tied up alongside. There were a few men in the pub, but none from the staiths, if appearances counted for anything: not one was covered in coal dust.
Jasper called for beer and drank half of the pint straight down. He replaced his glass on the bar and listened absently to the conversation around him. Suddenly he realised that one of the voices was not speaking Geordie but Cockney. That was not unusual in a port where the accents might be those of seamen from anywhere in the world, but Jasper eased round until he could see the owner of the voice. He was in his twenties, short and stocky, in dark blue trousers and sweater. The sleeves were rolled up to show muscular, tattooed forearms. But what had caught Jasper’s attention was the man saying, ‘That’s right. She’s the Wear Trader, one o’ the Spencer ships. We brought her up and laid her alongside this afternoon. She’s all ready, hatches off. First thing tomorrow we’re loading coal and sailing for Buenos Aires, so I’m making a night of it tonight.’
‘Don’t come back singing and wake the watchman,’ another voice joked. ‘He’ll be asleep in his cabin.’ There was a roar of laughter.
Jasper grinned. He stood there, listening, while he finished that pint and then another, but the conversation turned to football and he learned no more. That did not matter.
He left the pub and walked back past the staiths. He saw the nightwatchman’s cabin, and found two holes in the wire fencing, which he could enlarge with wire cutters in five minutes. He returned to the rented house but on the way called in at the stables and told the boy, ‘I’ll be coming for the pony early tomorrow.’ He paid for Bobby to be ready. So the Wear Trader was a Spencer ship! There was evil humour in that.
* * *
Doreen, William, Liza, Vince, Jasper. Now they all waited for the night.
24
SATURDAY AND SUNDAY, 16 AND 17 FEBRUARY 1907, SUNDERLAND
Liza was waiting in the hall when William descended the stairs. He was ruggedly handsome, tall and broad in his dinner jacket and white shirtfront. She was covered almost from head to foot in a cloak of navy blue that ended just above her ankles, showing a froth of white lace under a skirt of scarlet silk. A jewelled comb was set in her upswept hair and there were scarlet satin shoes on her feet.
William glanced at his watch. ‘You’re early.’
‘Am I?’ Liza did not need to check, but she made a show of it. ‘So I am.’
‘That cloak,’ he said, ‘isn’t it—’
‘Uncle Edward’s? Yes — I found it in the wardrobe when I was clearing it out.’
He felt the material. ‘Good stuff. It’s an old naval boat cloak.’
‘Elspeth told me it had belonged to some ancestor. I found this as well.’ She pointed with a slim finger to the comb in her hair. It sparkled as the light caught it. ‘Do you mind if I wear them?’
William shook his head. ‘No. And I’m sure Edward wouldn’t, either.’
Elspeth had been a spectator until now, having fussed over Liza for some time, but she endorsed his remark: ‘I know he wouldn’t mind. And it’s time you two were away. Miss Cecily was early but you weren’t.’ She looked reproachfully at William. ‘Gibson has been outside with the carriage for the past five minutes.’
‘You need not wait up,’ William replied, and offered his arm to Liza.
As they walked down the steps Elspeth called after them, ‘It will be gone midnight when you come home. I’ll be seeking my bed long before that.’ And as they climbed into the carriage: ‘Mind you have a grand time.’
* * *
She watched, smiling, until the carriage had disappeared down the drive. The lassie seemed cool and collected, she thought, but there was a shine in her eyes. I hope she stays on.
* * *
Elspeth had been deceived. Liza was far from calm: this was her last performance and she was reckless. After tonight it didn’t matter what the town worthies thought of her. She sat close to William in the darkness of the carriage and smiled to herself.
At the Palace Hotel she let him take the cloak from her. For a moment he was dumb. Then he said softly, ‘You are — lovely. That dress — marvellous.’ It was scarlet silk, unfashionably short enough to show her ankles and without a train. It left her shoulders bare and slid smoothly on her body as she moved.
She stood with William as he greeted their guests and saw their eyes widen. In her wild mood she did not care how they viewed her: she had a single aim and it was not to win them over. But it must be said that she enjoyed the jealousy and pique on Daphne Outhwaite’s narrow face. The girl had treated her so badly when she had first come to this place. Liza smiled at her. ‘Good evening. I’m so glad you could come.’ That was true enough.
The rest all caught their breath. They had read of her exploits at sea, were taken aback by the dress, but she had not worn it for them.
Liza danced throughout the evening with a succession of young men and several not so young. Between dances she talked with elderly matrons and a girl of fourteen who had come with her father, doing duty for her mother who was ill. She gossiped with spinsters and young wives in between. William did not claim her until near the end of the evening. As she whirled around the floor in his arms he congratulated her: ‘You’re a success.’
Liza laughed. ‘Thank you.’ She was pleased, but it did not really matter.
* * *
At the house Elspeth walked around the ground floor making sure all the windows were closed, the doors locked. She hung the front-door key on its hook by the front door. She left a gas-light burning in the hall and on the upstairs landing — for William and Liza. The kitchen was empty, the staff all gone to bed, the stove banked up to stay on overnight. She went to the garden door, turned the key in the lock and shot the bolt. That done, she climbed the back stairs to her room at the top of the house, undressed, put on her nightgown, put out the gas-light and climbed into bed. She was pleasantly tired after the day. Random thoughts flickered through her mind, how William had looked at the girl and she at him. Looking back, she should have noticed weeks ago ...
* * *
Doreen tiptoed from her room and saw that the light was out in the housekeeper’s. She descended the back stairs and felt her way along the passage to the garden door. The key was in the lock, as always, and she turned it, then drew back the bolt. To be sure she opened the door a crack, then closed it again. She hurried away, up the stairs and back into her bed. That Spencer lass would get a mauling and a shaming tonight, and nitpicking Mrs Taggart would take the blame. She had done down both of them and tomorrow she would savour her revenge.
* * *
The party was over, except for an embarra
ssing minute or two when Mrs Summers, who had hosted the supper at the Palace two weeks ago, led the singing of ‘For She’s A Jolly Good Fellow’, and Liza stood with her face burning. But then it really was over and she and William had wished their guests goodnight. Liza thanked the band and the chef who had served the buffet, and they went out to where Gibson waited with the carriage. Inside it, she sat close to William and sighed happily. ‘That was the most wonderful party ever.’ She had seen many, mostly when she had waited on, but some in the servants’ hall, and she was sure that this one had been the best.
William put his arm round her. ‘I think you’re right.’
At the house he used his key to open the door. ‘Goodnight, Gibson. Thank you.’
‘Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Miss.’ The carriage wheeled off down the side of the house on its way to the stables, and Gibson to his room over them.
In the hall, William locked the door and hung up his coat. Liza let the cloak slip into his hands and he put it with his coat. When he turned back to her she was mounting the stairs, taking the jewelled comb from her hair. He extinguished the hall light and followed her, the red silk like a flame against the lamp on the landing. He caught up with her at the head of the stairs. ‘You promised to give me some answers.’ He wanted them now, and one to a question he had not yet asked.
She glanced sideways at him. ‘On Sunday.’
‘Aye, and it’s here.’
They were at her door. Liza opened it and entered. The windows were curtained but there was light from the glow of the fire in the grate. She set the jewelled comb on the dressing-table and turned to face him where he filled the doorway. Her hair falling down her back, her hands hanging by her side, he saw his answer in her face. He closed the door and took her in his arms. She stood still, save for a shiver, as he clumsily stripped from her the scarlet silk and the thin white shift beneath. Then she reached out to him.
Now she knew the strength of him, the tenderness and force. There was no denying him, nor did she wish to. This was the only man she would ever want. She knew desire such as she had never known, her body cried out for him and she held him far into the night until he said, ‘Oh, Cecily!’ And they slept, Liza with tears on her cheeks.
* * *
Vince Bailey woke in the seamen’s boarding-house. He lay on his straw-filled mattress and stared up at the cracked ceiling. He had asked the man who ran it to call him, and he had grumbled but agreed. Vince knew that the time had not come, but also that he would not sleep again. He was eager to be away. He dressed, stole out and made for the Spencer house.
Jasper Barbour woke at the sound of the alarm, groped his way out of bed and lit the gas-light. Flora blinked at him sleepily. ‘Get up and put your clothes on, then make us a cup o’ tea. My mouth’s as dry as a bone,’ he ordered her. He washed and dressed in a suit and overcoat. In the Gladstone bag he put a length of rope, some strips of rag and a blackjack — a fearsome little truncheon fashioned from a rubber tube packed with lead. It had a leather loop at one end that slipped over the wrist.
They drank the tea. Then he put on a bowler hat, Flora picked up the suitcase she had packed the night before and they left the house. The spade he had bought lay on the strip of back garden and he left that, too. It was no longer needed. They walked up the back lane, then through the empty streets to the stables. The boy was there, sleepily harnessing the pony in the trap. Jasper gave him some coppers and he watched as Jasper and Flora loaded the suitcase and Gladstone bag into the trap. He scratched his head and yawned, shivered in the chill of the night, then went back to bed. That’s right, Jasper thought. Whatever they were up to, it was none of the lad’s business.
They crossed the bridge without meeting a soul, the ships in the river darkened. In Fawcett Street a policeman was patrolling his beat and stepped into the path of the trap, his hand upraised. Jasper reined in. ‘Where d’ye think you’re going?’ the constable challenged.
‘Good morning, Officer.’ Jasper held up the Gladstone bag. ‘I’m on my way to a confinement. This young woman’s neighbour is having a bad time and she’s come for my help.’
‘Ah! Sorry, sir, but we catch some villains out at this time o’ the morning.’ He stepped aside and waved them on. Jasper shook the reins and waved his whip in salute as they trotted on.
He hid the trap in the copse outside Spencer Hall, told Flora curtly, ‘Wait here,’ and walked up the drive.
Liza woke as she needed to, with the facility that had resulted from years of practice. William lay beside her with one long arm thrown over her. The fire was now only glowing embers and she stared into the gloom of this once strange room, now so familiar, summoning her courage.
William was the only man she would ever want but she had lost him. He had cried out, ‘Oh, Cecily!’ When he found that she was not Cecily Spencer but only a disgraced, out-of-work servant, and how she had deceived him, he would hate her. She remembered his hostile look when they had first met. He would wear it again and she could not face that. Her heart ached.
She slid out of bed and stood beside it for a moment. Then she pulled on her clothes. She wore the brown dress and apron she had bought for working. She had no right to the fine clothes in the wardrobe now: they had been bought for her as Cecily. Among the shoes she found her old button boots, which she had told William she had borrowed from a servant girl, just one of the lies she had told him. She was ready, taking nothing with her that was not hers. Cecily was due to pay her five pounds because she had carried out her side of the bargain. She would write to her and tell her where to send it.
Now she stood by the bed again and stooped over it to kiss William for the last time. He stirred but did not wake. She left the room, closed the door behind her quietly and turned to the stairs, carrying her boots. At the head of the flight she transferred them from her left to her right hand so that she could grip the banister. One slipped out of her grasp and bounced down two steps, bumping softly. Liza paused, breath held, but all was silent. She picked up the boot and started down the stairs.
Elspeth had woken suddenly from a dream in which Cecily had skipped lightly through the crowded kitchen. She cried out to her, ‘You’ve done that before!’ She sat bolt upright in the bed with images crowding her mind, of Cecily washing the front steps and performing a host of other household duties. She recalled her surprise at how the girl had behaved, her willingness and humour, so different from what she had expected of Cecily Spencer, a spoilt child educated to be a lady. There was her cool acceptance that Edward had left her only the funds to train for a job, then her volunteering to learn to be a housekeeper, and at the hands of Elspeth Taggart. Then there had been her befriending of Iris Cruikshank. None of these would be expected of Cecily Spencer — if that was who she was.
Surely she had to be. But now other memories came back to Elspeth: How the girl had bought shoes in size five to replace those lent her — by a servant girl? But the shoe Elspeth had found among the heavy luggage — Cecily’s shoe — had been size six. And the clothes! A wardrobe full had come with the heavy luggage, but the girl had never worn them, only those she had bought here. And those household tasks, carried out with dexterity — born of practice? She recalled William saying, ‘She’s a different girl from the one I knew.’ Yet they had never doubted her.
But if she was not Cecily Spencer, then who ... ?
Elspeth swung her legs out of bed and pulled on her dressing-gown. She fumbled, fingers shaking, as she picked up an electric torch, a flashlight, that she kept by the bed. It was still a novelty, a Christmas gift from William. He had paid eighteen shillings for it. She descended the stairs, following the cone of light from the torch, and entered the drawing room. She took down the photograph from the mantelpiece, and shone the torch beam on the picture. Was she the same girl? She could not tell. Then she heard — just — the soft double thump out on the stairs.
Elspeth switched off the torch and listened. Who was about? The door was open to the hall and now
she saw a slight figure flit like a ghost across the doorway. She switched on the torch and directed the beam. It lit Liza, her boots in her hand. She was reaching for her coat where it hung on the hall-stand. She peered, blinded, into the glare and turned away her head. She seemed vulnerable. Elspeth shifted the beam from her face and took in the brown dress. Confused, she asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m just — going.’
Now the old housekeeper asked the question that had brought her downstairs in the night: ‘Who are you?’
Liza could answer that now: there was no need to pretend any more. ‘Liza Thornton. I met Cecily Spencer on the ship and she saved my life, pulled me out of the sea when I was going to be crushed. I was grateful and felt I couldn’t refuse when she asked me to take her place for a few weeks because she wanted to go to London.’ Tactfully, Liza did not say why — that Cecily had gone to see her lover. ‘I’m a lady’s maid.’ That was said with pride, which Elspeth could understand: she respected the achievement. ‘When I was younger I made a fool of myself over a man and I have a little girl, Susan. I was out of work and needed the money Cecily promised me, to tide me over for a bit until I could find another position, and so my mam and Susan wouldn’t want for a meal. I didn’t realise I might hurt others, like William and yourself.’
Elspeth could understand about Susan, too: it was a story she had heard before and more than once, the girl abandoned to care for her child alone. For the rest ... She switched off the torch and sank down on the chesterfield, patted the place beside her. ‘You’d better tell me from the beginning.’
Liza told her most of it, as the glow from the fire cast shadows leaping on the walls. When she was done, Elspeth asked, ‘And what are you going to do now? You’re dressed to go out.’
‘Cecily will be here on Monday and everybody will know I’m a fake so I must get away.’ Liza rose, but stooped to kiss Elspeth. ‘Don’t think too badly of me, please.’ She left her staring into the red coals and shaking her head in disbelief or wonder.
