Holding the child in her left arm, Florrie picked up the paper. It was the notification from the records’ office concerning James’s death.
Sir, she read. With deep regret I have to inform you that a report has been received that Private James Maltby was tried by Field General Court Martial at Poperinghe on the 20th day of July, 1916, on the charge of desertion whilst on active service and was sentenced by the Court to suffer death by being shot. The sentence was duly carried out at 5.30 a.m. on the 21st day of July 1916.
‘That,’ Edgar said hollowly, ‘has broken your mother’s heart and has hardened mine. Never again will I allow his name to be spoken in this house. And now—’ His voice was heavy with disappointment and defeat, but still he was unforgiving. ‘You can pack your bags and leave. From this moment, I have no children.’ He took the letter, pushed it back into the drawer and slammed it with a gesture of finality. He turned and went to stand by the window once more, with his back to her.
‘But he’s your grandson, Father. Your heir—’ She hesitated, but she had to fight him even if it meant being cruel in return. ‘Your only heir.’
She saw a shudder run through her father’s frame, but still he did not turn round. Still he did not relent.
‘I have no children,’ he repeated. ‘I have no – heir.’
He was implacable and now there was only one person to whom Florrie could turn.
Augusta.
Florrie stood in the centre of Augusta’s sitting room, the child, now sleeping, in her arms. She returned her grandmother’s steady gaze, lifting her chin resolutely, though she was chagrined to hear the quaver in her voice as she said, ‘This is your great-grandson, Jacques Maltby.’
She waited for what seemed an age, staring at the old lady and trying to read the fate of herself and the child in the passive eyes and expressionless face. For her only hope now lay with Augusta. Her father had thrown her out and her mother would never dare stand up to him. But her grandmother . . .
The old lady held her granddaughter’s gaze and at last, slowly, she stretched out her arms. Florrie laid the baby on Augusta’s lap and watched as her grandmother bent over the little boy. With gnarled, but gentle, fingers, Augusta unwrapped the shawl and looked down upon her great-grandson.
Florrie sat down, but her gaze never left her grandmother’s face. Still there was no indication of Augusta’s thoughts. At last she raised her head and looked straight into Florrie’s eyes. ‘He’s very like James.’
Florrie caught her breath. Had her perceptive grandmother guessed the truth? Augusta was staring hard at her and the young woman felt the colour rise in her face. Her voice was husky as she stammered, ‘Well, I suppose that’s – that’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ Augusta said smoothly. She looked down at the sleeping infant. Her expression softened and she began to smile. ‘I suppose I don’t need to ask you what your father has to say about all this?’
Florrie knew a moment’s fear. Had she been wrong to risk everything? Would her father have been more lenient if he had known that the child was James’s? No, she was sure she’d been right about that. He’d disowned James entirely – forbade the very mention of his name. In those circumstances, he’d hardly be likely to accept James’s illegitimate son. No, she’d decided on her strategy and she would stick to it, whatever the cost. Even if – in the next few moments – she were to find herself cast out entirely.
‘You’ve been a very silly girl, Florence.’ The use of her full name spoke volumes of her grandmother’s disapproval. There was a long silence and Florrie held her breath until Augusta said at last, ‘But your child is – sadly – now the only male heir, albeit an illegitimate one.’
‘Grandmother—’ In a brief moment of weakness, Florrie was tempted to tell Augusta the truth. But she bit back the words. Instead, she said, ‘I’m sorry.’ The words were genuine for she was sorry – desperately sorry – for deceiving perhaps the only person who would have understood and accepted the truth. But she couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t put the burden of deceit on the old lady too. She alone must bear that.
Augusta held the baby close and bent to kiss the soft down on the infant’s head. ‘I will speak to your father,’ she murmured. ‘You have brought shame on the family, Florence, but I will not see my great-grandson turned away.’
She cradled him and held her wrinkled face close to the baby’s soft cheek. Then she held him out to Florrie. ‘Take him to the nursery. You can have Beth as his nursemaid.’ She smiled fondly. ‘She’ll like that.’
Nothing else her grandmother could have said would have indicated more than those few simple words. That she was prepared to take them in, Florrie had never really doubted, deep down, but the giving up of her own maid to become the child’s nursemaid was the gesture that told Florrie all she needed to know.
Augusta stood up and Florrie, with Jacques once more in her arms, rose too. She watched Augusta’s face as the older woman reached out and tenderly touched the baby’s head.
‘Jacques is the French equivalent of James, isn’t it?’ she asked softly.
Not trusting herself to speak, Florrie nodded.
‘Thank you, Florrie, for naming my great-grandson after his—’ There was the slightest of pauses in which their eyes met and held. ‘After his uncle.’
Augusta turned away and Florrie, knowing herself forgiven, at least by her grandmother, watched her go. The elderly lady walked out of the room, determination in every step and ramrod resolution in the straightness of her back.
Edgar Maltby was about to have the fight of his life.
What passed behind the closed door of Edgar’s study, no one ever knew. Not even the faithful Bowler, who knew everything there was to know about the family he’d served all his working life, had dared to stand in the hallway to eavesdrop. But Augusta emerged triumphant, with sparkling eyes and cheeks flushed with success.
No more was said about Florrie and the child leaving Candlethorpe Hall, though Edgar never spoke to his daughter. He ignored her if they passed on the stairs, he refused to engage in conversation with her at meal times and he was utterly implacable in not acknowledging the presence of the child in the house. Clara dithered between the two opposing wills that ruled Candlethorpe Hall. Alone with Florrie or in Augusta’s presence, she cooed over the child, planned his future and cradled him lovingly. But under Edgar’s glowering eyes, she froze into silence, her eyes downcast, her hands twisting nervously.
So it was Augusta who had the nursery redecorated and refurbished. It was Augusta who, still wearing her favourite hat with its purple feathers and green and white ribbons, walked proudly through the lanes pushing the unwieldy perambulator. And it was Augusta who arranged for the child to be christened in the local church by Mr Ponsonby, although Florrie shuddered at the incorrect entry in the baptismal register and determined that she would at least put right the legal side of the matter. She would see a solicitor – not the family’s, for she feared he might feel it his duty to tell Edgar the truth – but she would have Jacques’s birth certificate tell the truth and, when the boy was old enough, she would tell him too. She owed him that much.
‘The child must have godparents,’ Augusta decreed and Florrie’s heart tilted in fear. She hung her head and murmured, ‘But who can I ask? Will anyone we know agree?’
Augusta regarded her shrewdly. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that Gervase will forgive you. Oh, he may not want to renew his proposal of marriage now, but I think he would do that for you. For the family, if you ask him.’
‘I – I can’t. The last time we met – we had harsh words.’
‘Harsh words? You mean, he knows about the child?’
Florrie shook her head and tears spilled over. ‘It – it was when James had been – had been charged. At James’s request, Gervase acted as what they call the “prisoner’s friend”. He spoke up for him at the court martial. I – I accused him of not trying hard enough. It wasn’t until I saw James af
terwards – when I stayed that last night with him—’
Augusta gasped and put her hand to her throat. ‘You – you were with James when – when—’
Tears filled Florrie’s eyes as she nodded. ‘I stayed with him till dawn – walked with him and stood watching when they – when they—’
‘Oh, my dear, dear girl.’ Augusta gripped her hands. ‘My brave, wonderful girl.’
‘I attended his burial too, Gran. I know where he is and one day, I’ll go back.’
For a moment, there was silence between them until Florrie went on, ‘James told me that Gervase had even risked his own – safety, I suppose – to try to help him.’
‘What do you mean – his safety?’
‘Gervase could have been court martialled for insubordination to his superiors. He ranted and raved at Major Grant, the man who’d had James arrested. He even dared to argue with a brigadier.’
Even amid the sadness, Augusta smiled. ‘Good old Gervase. I always knew there was a lot more to him than being just the good-natured country squire.’
‘He got a medal for bravery in the field. James told me.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me one bit.’ There was a pause whilst Augusta regarded her granddaughter thoughtfully. ‘Well, now I can understand why you’re embarrassed to write to him – on several counts,’ she added bluntly.
Florrie smiled thinly and bowed her head.
There was another silence until Augusta said, ‘But I’ll write to him.’
Florrie raised her head, ‘Oh, Gran, would you?’
The old lady nodded. ‘I’ve written to him several times whilst he’s been away and now I have two special reasons. One, to thank him for his efforts on James’s behalf and to reassure him that we know he did everything possible; and two, to tell him that—’ She hesitated for a moment, searching for the wording she intended to use. ‘And to tell him that you have returned home with a child.’
Florrie stared at her grandmother and wondered afresh, but her thoughts were interrupted as Augusta asked, ‘Have you anyone else in mind for godparents? The boy needs two godfathers and one godmother.’
‘I – I’d like to ask Isobel and the Hon. Tim, but I don’t know . . .’ Her voice trailed away in uncertainty.
‘Then I’ll write to them both too. Though you could go over and see Isobel yourself. And take the child with you. I’m sure Isobel will not turn her back on you.’
‘Thank you, Grandmother,’ Florrie said softly. She doubted any of them – even Gervase – would refuse the indomitable Augusta.
As she turned to leave the old lady’s room, Augusta, with infinite sadness, said gently, ‘And Florrie, when you feel able to talk about it, I want to hear all that James said that – that last night.’
Forty-Two
Florrie longed to see Isobel and when, a few days later, a letter arrived addressed to Augusta full of love and support and understanding for Florrie, she wrapped the baby warmly in a shawl and had Bowler drive her in the pony and trap to Bixley Manor.
Isobel greeted her with open arms, enfolding her in a bear hug and then turning her attention to the child.
‘Oh, Florrie, he’s beautiful. Oh, do let me hold him. Come, we’ll take him up to the nursery. You must meet Charlie. Your godson.’ She squeezed Florrie’s hand. ‘If only we could get Tim and Gervase home on leave, we could have both boys christened together.’
As they entered the room, a fair, curly-haired little boy came tottering towards them, beaming and holding out his chubby arms.
‘Oh, Iso, he’s walking.’ She knelt and held out her arms and the little chap came to her and rested his head against her.
‘Ah, that’s right, give your Auntie Florrie a love,’ Iso crooned. ‘He’s such a friendly little soul. He’s been walking about four weeks. He’s still a bit unsteady.’
Florrie played with Charlie whilst Isobel nursed Jacques.
‘Well, I don’t know who he takes after. I can’t see a likeness to either you or Tim – apart from his fair hair, like yours.’
‘I think he’s a bit like Gervase, but then children often take after their uncles, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ Florrie murmured, feeling the colour rising in her neck. ‘They do.’
They talked about anything and everything apart from what was really uppermost in their minds. Gervase, Tim and the war. Isobel told her what had been happening on the estate, but each topic seemed to bring them round to the very one they were trying to avoid.
‘Of course, we didn’t have a proper New Year’s Eve celebration this last year. With – with all of you being away.’
‘Have you heard how Lady Lee is?’ Florrie changed the subject. She couldn’t even bring herself to tell Isobel that Gervase had found her – as he’d always said he would – on New Year’s Eve. Even that led back to thoughts of the war.
‘She’s fine and doing sterling work for the Red Cross. She’s sure that the attitude towards the suffrage movement is going to change. So many women are doing men’s work while – while they’re away, and doing a grand job too. Lady Lee thinks that by the time it’s all over, women will have earned their right to vote.’
Florrie smiled. ‘She may well be right. So, there’ll be nothing left for us to do.’
Isobel smiled. ‘Well, I’m just looking forward to having the Hon. Tim back safe and sound and starting a proper family life.’
‘Has he – has he ever got home on leave to see Charlie?’
‘Oh yes, he came just after he was born. Two weeks we had together. It was wonderful.’ Her face clouded as she added softly, ‘But I don’t know when he’ll get home again. I take Charlie to the photographers in Lincoln once a month and send pictures of him out to Tim, so he doesn’t miss seeing him grow up. I have to say, Florrie, I never saw myself as the maternal type, but I love being a mother and, with running the estate for Gervase too, well, I’m kept busy.’
There, his name had been mentioned at last.
‘How – how is Gervase?’ Florrie asked.
She felt Isobel’s gaze on her, but she couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes. ‘He’s well,’ Isobel said softly, ‘but he’s very sad about what happened to poor James. He – he blames himself and—’
Florrie’s head snapped up. ‘That’s my fault,’ she admitted in a rush. ‘But I know now that it wasn’t true. I’m so desperately sorry. But I was out of my mind and the thought of – of . . .’
Isobel touched her hand. ‘I know, I know,’ she whispered. ‘It must have been the most dreadful time for you. Gervase will come to understand, I’m sure. Just give him time. Have you written to him?’
Florrie shook her head. ‘I – I can’t,’ she said huskily. ‘I wouldn’t blame him if he never forgives me. And now that I’ve come home with – with Jacques, I don’t know what he must be thinking.’
‘Gervase is a very forgiving man. When all this is over and he comes home, I’m sure everything will be all right again between you.’
Florrie said nothing. She couldn’t say to Isobel the thought that was uppermost in her mind.
If he comes home again.
Only a handful of people attended Jacques’s baptism, for two of the godparents’ promises had to be made by proxy. Gervase and the Hon. Tim were still in France and whilst Augusta had obtained their agreement by letter, their physical presence was impossible. Only Isobel was there in person and cradled the infant in her arms as she made her promises. Charlie was not to be christened until his father could be there too.
Augusta stood staunchly at Florrie’s side at the font, defying the world and its biased opinions. Edgar, as expected, was not present and Clara had not dared to defy him to attend. But, to Florrie’s surprise, Mrs Ponsonby asked to be allowed to make the promises on behalf of the absent godfathers. Beth stood in the background, ready to take the baby back home after the service whilst Florrie and her grandmother took tea at the vicarage.
‘My dear girl,’ Mrs Ponsonby linked her arm through Flor
rie’s as they emerged from the church. ‘These are difficult times we live in. I’m not prying, my dear, but just tell me this. Is the father of your child dead?’
Tears sprang to Florrie’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Then I’m sorry – very sorry. But you know, my dear, there’s always Captain Richards . . .’
Now Florrie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Oh, Gran – Gran!’
Florrie flew up the stairs and burst into her grandmother’s sitting room.
‘Goodness me, child. Is the house on fire?’ One glance at the stricken look on Florrie’s face and Augusta knew at once that the letter in the young woman’s hand had brought terrible news.
She rose and held out her arms to her granddaughter. ‘Oh, my dear girl, what is it?’
‘It’s – it’s Tim. He’s – he’s been killed.’ Florrie crumpled to the floor and Augusta knelt at her side and wrapped her arms around her, rocking her to and fro. She stroked Florrie’s hair. ‘There, there, my dear,’ she soothed, but she could think of no words of comfort. There were none to give.
‘Oh, poor Iso – and Lady Lee.’ Florrie buried her head against Augusta’s shoulder. ‘Whatever are they going to do without him?’
‘What everyone else who’s lost sons and husbands – and,’ she added quietly, ‘brothers and grandsons – has to do. Carry on.’
‘But Iso and he had so little time together. And poor Charlie – he’ll never know his father.’
‘Neither will – your child, Florrie,’ Augusta said softly.
They were silent for a few moments before Florrie whispered, ‘And he was Lady Lee’s only son – her only child.’
‘I know, my dear, I know. It’s a cruel war. It’s robbing us of a whole generation of young men.’
‘Oh, Gran.’ Florrie looked up at Augusta. ‘What if Gervase doesn’t come back and – and we parted the – the way we did? What if I never get the chance to tell him how sorry I am?’
Suffragette Girl Page 30
