A Different Kind of Love

by Jean Saunders

  That’s about all there is to say, Katie lass. I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I hope that in time you’ll see that I did the only thing possible. You’d have been doubly disgraced if it ever came out that you’d married a bigamist, so at least I’ve spared you that.

  Humbly,

  Walter Radcliffe.

  There was not a single word of love. Not even the pretence of it. And by the end of the letter Kate was so incensed by his blatant arrogance that she could only stare in disbelief at his final sentences. He’d spared her indeed!

  What he’d done was courted her and lusted after her and seduced her, made her pregnant and turned her life upside down. And now he had the almighty bloody gall to expect her to be understanding because he’d spared her from marrying a bigamist!

  Kate could almost picture him preening in the word, for all its criminal aspect. He’d think himself a real peacock of a fellow, and if she’d had any semblance of love remaining in her heart for him, he had just killed it stone dead.

  She crushed the letter in her hand just as her mother tiptoed into the room as if Kate were an invalid, her face as white as her daughter’s.

  “Donal’s told us what’s happened, and he’s gone off for the doctor. The priest’s downstairs and he wants to see you directly to offer you comfort.” She looked at Kate helplessly. “I don’t know what to say to you, girl, and that’s the truth. What does the letter tell you?”

  Kate took a deep breath, hating Walter all the more at seeing how he’d distressed her mother. Alice’s eyes were dark with tears. She had never cried in front of her daughter, and it was Walter Radcliffe who had reduced her to this.

  “Only that he’s saved me from being married to a bigamist, Mother, so we must all be thankful for that, musn’t we?” she said, her voice as brittle as glass.

  She heard Alice gasp, and closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t want to see her mother’s anguish and misplaced sympathy, but there was probably little hope of being left alone now. She didn’t need a doctor, since she wasn’t sick. She certainly didn’t want the priest with all his pious words, nor could she think what comfort he might offer at a time like this.

  Father Mulheeny would assuredly start thanking the Holy Mother that Kate Sullivan hadn’t inadvertently committed a sin. For one wild instant Kate wondered about his apoplectic reaction if she were to give in to the temptation to shock him further, by saying it was probably divine intervention that the same Kate Sullivan hadn’t been abandoned with a bastard child as well. She would never do such a thing, of course. She swallowed the lump that seemed intent on returning to her throat at every opportunity.

  “I’m all right, Mother, really I am,” she said huskily.

  “Of course you’re not all right! You expected to be married today, and the man didn’t even have the decency to tell you to your face that he was already married. He’s shamed us all, and we’ll never be able to hold up our heads in the village again.”

  “Of course you will, Mother. And it’s not your shame, nor anyone else’s in this house,” she said, more sharply.

  Dear heaven, did everyone think only of their own feelings at times like these? Even Alice Sullivan? Kate began to feel that she was learning the entire range of human frailities in one fell swoop.

  “You’re still shocked,” Alice stated, clearly refusing to believe that this young woman with the vulnerable, innocent looks of an angel – and the apparently iron-hard will – could be standing so straight and talking so calmly.

  “You’ll stay indoors for the week, Kate, and we’ll let it be known about the village that it was your decision not to marry Mr Radcliffe. We’ll say it was a bad case of nerves. It will salvage a bit of pride for us all, and anything’s better than having it known that you were left at the altar.”

  Kate listened to her rambling words, feeling suddenly sorry for Alice and the dismal picture she felt obliged to paint for neighbours and acquaintances. Alice had always been a proud woman, and this would be cutting her deeply. But there were worse things than being left at the altar, she thought, more painfully knowledgeable than her mother in certain respects.

  Kate’s first instinct was not to touch any of the money Walter had sent in the small sealed envelope which she hadn’t even opened yet. She was humiliated by his reference to the wedding ring, enclosed for her to wear should she feel the need, which, to him, would mean when her changing shape became obvious to the world, of course! She would throw it into the nearest ditch. She would certainly never travel to Bournemouth alone, nor set foot in an hotel unescorted, posing as the married woman she was not. And yet … as her mother prattled on, smothering her with plans to keep Kate coddled at all costs until she got over her humiliation, the logic of it all began to unfold in Kate’s mind as if it was her destiny, pre-arranged and unalterable.

  She hardly heard Alice’s affronted words as her own thoughts raced ahead. If she went to Bournemouth, she certainly wouldn’t demean herself by posing as a married woman whose husband had been unavoidably prevented from joining her. There were alternatives. She might be the widow of the gentleman who had booked the room. That way, no one would ask any questions and she would be left discreetly alone. In a way, she was as bereft as a widow, even if she didn’t exactly feel the same kind of bereavement as the millions of women and girls, no older than herself, whose men had never come back from France.

  Kate was well aware that only by occupying her mind in this way was she preventing the real shock from taking its effect. But remembering all those sad, lonely women made posing as a widow somehow shameful. So she could simply be a mystery woman, travelling on her own, with the added security and respectability of a wedding ring on her finger.

  She had never been one to brood over things that couldn’t be changed, and for all her fragile air, she was stronger than she looked. She was already adjusting to the idea of a different future. As yet, Bournemouth wasn’t a fully-formed part of it, but she could already envisage it as a kind of haven, a breathing-space. She knew she’d have to get away from the cloying love of her family, and unwittingly, Walter had provided her with the means and the way to do so.

  But she couldn’t say any of that to her mother just yet, especially when she was meant to be grieving and mortally upset at being jilted.

  “What does my dad have to say about it all?” she managed to ask.

  “He’s gone off to get drunk,” Alice said briefly. “And I wouldn’t have stopped him, even if I could have done. He’s got to work out his anger in his own way, and getting drunk at the pub’s a sight better than breaking furniture in the cottage. Though I’ve instructed him to say what we agreed, that it was your decision not to get wed, and thank God I knew none of this other business before he went. Now, will you come downstairs to see the priest, or will I send him up to you?”

  Kate drew a long breath. It was now or never, and there was no point in putting off her own decision.

  “Neither,” she said. “I don’t need to be inspected by him or the doctor, and I won’t be staying indoors for the week either. If Father Mulheeny wants to do something for me, he can take me in his car to the train station in Bristol as soon as I’ve changed out of this finery. My clothes are all packed, and I’m going to Bournemouth for the week, just like I expected to be doing.”

  It was almost comical to see the way her mother’s mouth fell open. She was the one who was shocked now, and she blustered at once, trying to talk some sense into her daughter. But Kate was adamant. She had the means to travel, and the room was booked and paid for. She needed time to think, and she couldn’t do it here, with her family fussing over her one minute and afraid to look her in the eyes the next. She knew exactly how it would be, and she couldn’t bear to hear the blatantly innocent questions from her little sisters.

  “You can’t possibly go away on your own, Katherine,” Alice said, appalled. “What will people think?”

  “Girls younger than me went away on their own all through the war
, Mother. They went to France and saw horrible sights, and they faced death every day. If they could do that, I’m sure I’m capable of staying by myself for a week in a respectable Bournemouth hotel.”

  “Wartime is different,” Alice said.

  “I know it is, and women are more independent now because of it. A few hours ago you thought me old enough to be a married woman, so I don’t see why you don’t think me capable of managing perfectly well in an hotel where all my needs will be met. Good Lord, Mother, I’m not suggesting joining the Foreign Legion!”

  She listened to herself speaking in this crisp, brittle manner in some amazement, as if she stood apart from this newly independent female. The initial shock of Walter’s betrayal was receding a little, and now she was filled with a steely anger. As long as she held on to that anger she felt invincible, as brave as one of Mrs Pankhurst’s suffragettes, standing tall against the world.

  She was also astutue enough to guess that this was only a temporary defensive show of bravado. By this time tomorrow the reaction would have set in, and she would do all the weeping and wailing that everyone expected of her. But that was for tomorrow, and by then she intended to be quite alone to do it in private.

  Father Mulheeny glanced repeatedly at the young woman sitting beside him in his battered old car. She sat as straight and still as if carved out of marble as they drove at a steady pace through the winding Somerset roads towards Bristol’s great Temple Meads railway station.

  Inwardly, he gave a great sigh. Such an asset to the church Kate Sullivan would have been, with her sweet voice and angelic face, but with far too much fire and temper for her own good, he amended sadly. There was too much of her father in her in that respect, so the way things had turned out might be for the best after all.

  “Are you quite sure about this, Katherine?” he said for the third time, mindful of his saintly duty no matter what his own feelings on the matter were. “It’s not too late to change your mind and go home. No one in the village will think badly of you, child.”

  She turned her luminous blue eyes towards him, and priest or no priest, he reminded himself to keep his attention on the road and not on the undoubted sensual allure of Kate Sullivan. The good Lord tested men severely, Father Mulheeny thought, just by putting such ravishing creatures on earth.

  He’d been entrusted with the truth about Walter’s marital state, and had shown all the indignation the situation deserved, but he was human enough to understand how any man would be entranced by one such as this. Perhaps it was as well for the sanity of all the lusty young men in the village that she was going away at this vulnerable time.

  “Nothing you can say will make me change my mind, Father. I need to be by myself. You must see that.”

  “You may think you’ll be by yourself, but you won’t be, Katherine. God and Our Lady will be constantly by your side, and you’d do well to remember that and be comforted by it.”

  “I’ll remember it, Father,” she said stonily.

  A swift image of herself and Walter Radcliffe joyously fornicating in the back of his Rover spun into her mind, and she could only hope that God and Our Lady hadn’t been observing her then. She felt her cheeks burn at the blasphemy of the thought, and willed it away.

  “And are you sure you’ll be all right travelling on the train alone?” the priest went on, as if he thought she was on her way to damnation.

  “Of course. As I told my mother, younger girls than myself went to France during the war, so it seems a very small thing for me to be doing, travelling to Bournemouth alone after all their courageous efforts.”

  At last she had found the means to silence him, knowing that memories of the war to end all wars were still vivid to older people, even though it had been over for more than six years now. Its aftermath was still strong in people’s thoughts and actions. It was as if the war had become a focal point for whatever had happened in their lives, before, during and afterwards. Kate had been too young to take in the full horror of it at the time, but she knew well enough that everything changed after the war. Women found a new independence, working side by side with men, and taking over jobs that had been unthinkable for them to do. Even though the final glory of votes for women under the age of thirty hadn’t yet been achieved, the war had emancipated them as much as all of Mrs Pankhurst’s efforts. Kate had never considered herself an out and out feminist, but she believed in fair play for all.

  She stirred herself out of her gloomy thoughts as the priest stopped the car at the entrance of the Gothic splendour of Brunel’s Bristol railway station.

  Kate was overawed by its cathedral-like magnificence. She had never gone farther than a radius of ten miles from home in her life before. This was an adventure she had expected to be sharing with her new husband, who would have taken care of her and pampered her, and now she was undertaking it alone. She swallowed dryly as they got out of the car, and Father Mulheeny handed her her small suitcase. He looked at her dubiously.

  “You’re quite sure now…”

  “I’m sure, and thank you for everything, Father,” Kate said swiftly before her nerve failed her completely, and she climbed straight back into the car again. “But I’d be glad if you’d call in on my mother when you have the time, as she’ll be needing comfort.”

  He assured her that he would, though Alice Sullivan had never been one for inviting Catholic comforts, and had merely done her duty by her husband in seeing that his children attended the mother church in their early years. He knew it, and Kate knew it.

  She turned away quickly, her knees shaking as she sought out a porter to enquire which was the right platform for the Bournemouth train.

  Some hours later, having extravagantly taken a taxi from the railway station to the Charlton Hotel overlooking the cliffs at Bournemouth, Kate Sullivan let out her breath in an explosive little sound. She’d done it! She’d actually bloody well done it! She was here, in a room with a view, just as Walter had promised, with a little iron-railed balcony where she could lean out and breathe in the refreshing salt air.

  Nobody had even raised an eyebrow when she’d explained in a dignified manner at the reception desk that she would be staying here alone for the week. It wasn’t some seedy little hotel where they questioned guests’ actions. At least Walter had booked them into a hotel of some standing, and she had already seen guests of all types. If she hadn’t been made of stronger stuff, she would probably have turned turtle when she saw some of the toffs who’d obviously come down from London to take the sea air. She hadn’t even had to explain about being a widow. She’d merely said her husband wasn’t able to join her after all. The strain in her eyes, and the unconscious twisting of the unfamiliar wedding ring she’d remembered to wear at the last minute, had probably supplied the rest.

  All that was behind her now, and she had taken the first steps back to normality – whatever that was. She had a week to be simply herself – whoever Kate Sullivan was. No, she was Mrs Kate Radcliffe, she reminded herself hastily.

  That was the name she’d remembered just in time to sign on the hotel registration form. It would have been disastrous if she’d overlooked that – and at least it gave her dignity and status to be staying here by herself.

  But once she was in the seclusion of her room, she wilted, and the sense of loneliness threatened to overwhelm her. Whatever Walter had done, however much of a rat he had turned out to be, she had loved him with a passion that she knew could never come again. Walter had spoiled her in more ways than one, she thought with a huge sense of loss and bitterness. He had taken her innocence and her trust, and she doubted that she could ever trust any man again.

  She felt the tears on her cheeks without even knowing that they had fallen, and she wiped them away angrily. He wasn’t worth it, she told herself furiously. He wasn’t bloody well worth it, and she’d be cussed if she was going to spend the rest of her life mooning over him.

  She opened the long French windows in her room and breathed in the fresh se
a air. It was already early evening, and she wondered how late she could leave it before she went down for her evening meal to the splendid dining room she had been shown. She leaned out of her little balcony, trying to summon up that courage. At least she had clothes to wear that wouldn’t mark her out as a country girl. Her skill with her needle had seen to that, and she would wear one of her new frocks this very night to give her confidence. It was clear that in the Charlton Hotel only the best would do. If she waited until the last minute of the allotted dinner time before leaving her room, maybe most of the other guests would have gone – because she wasn’t all that brave yet.

  “Hello,” said a masculine voice right beside her. “Marvellous view, isn’t it?”

  Kate turned her head slowly, and looked straight into the eyes of a tall man on the adjoining balcony. She guessed that he was about thirty years old. He was immaculately dressed for dinner. His dark hair was sleeked down, à la Rudolph Valentino, which didn’t disguise the fact that it was thick and naturally wavy. His smile was wide and friendly, and it made Kate freeze instantly, because Walter’s smile had been wide and friendly too. Two adjoining balconies were far too intimate for her liking.

  “It’s very nice, I’m sure,” she said, keeping her voice distant, and turning back to admire the view rather than the handsome, assured man in the next room.

  “You’re not from London like most of the guests here, are you?” he said, his voice suddenly interested. “I love that accent. West Country, isn’t it?”

  She turned to face him again, ridiculously on the defensive and unable to stop her sharp reply.

  “Where I come from, we think it’s the folk who live in London who have the accents. Come to that, yours isn’t exactly cut-glass, either.”

  She was immediately appalled that she had been so rude, and felt even more embarrassed at his indulgent smile.