Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Guilt,’ Florrie said promptly, not sparing herself.

  Jacques grinned impishly. Florrie’s heart turned over. How good it was to see the mischief back in his face. Then he sobered. ‘So, we’re going to visit my father’s grave?’

  She nodded, her throat full of tears.

  ‘And my mother’s?’

  ‘I – suppose we could try. We could go to the village near the farm. See if your grandfather or great-uncle is still there.’

  Jacques shook his head. ‘No. Let’s not disturb them. The past must be painful enough for them. Maybe we could just take a look at the farm – where I was born – if it’s still there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They found the military cemetery near Poperinghe easily, but James’s grave took them some time to locate.

  ‘I should remember exactly where it is,’ Florrie muttered, angry with herself. ‘I shouldn’t have forgotten. But it all looks so different now.’

  Jacques said nothing, but squeezed her hand sympathetically. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she must have gone through on that awful day.

  ‘Here it is.’

  A simple white marble cross marked the spot with James’s name and rank, date of birth and date of death and a simple inscription, which read: Not forgotten by those who loved him best. They stood in front of it, their arms linked together.

  ‘Who put that up?’ Jacques asked.

  ‘I arranged for it to be done through the solicitor in London who organized all the legalities over you.’

  ‘It’s – nice,’ he said and sighed. ‘How sad, though, to end like that.’

  ‘Jacques, I’ve started a campaign to try to get a pardon for all those shot at dawn. But I’m not having much success yet. I think it’s too soon. Attitudes haven’t changed. But they will – in the future – I’m sure they will. But it may take years and years.’ She bit her lip, hesitating. It was a huge burden to place on a young boy’s shoulders.

  Slowly he turned to face her. ‘Of course I will.’

  She stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Carry on the fight. That’s what you were going to ask me, wasn’t it?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, yes – it was. It is.’

  Jacques looked back at his father’s headstone, reached out and traced his fingertip over the name. ‘ ’Bye for now, Dad. We’ll come again. Some day, we’ll come again.’

  As they walked away he said, ‘There’s just one thing, Mother. You do realize you’ve set yourself a bit of a job now, don’t you?’

  She pulled a face. ‘It’s not going to be easy. There’ll be a lot of opposition to it at first.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean that.’

  ‘So, what do you mean?’

  ‘I want to know everything about my father. Every little detail you can remember. I may never get to know much about my mother, so you’re just going to have to make up for it.’

  Florrie laughed. ‘It’ll be a pleasure. You don’t know how I’ve longed to talk about him all these years and never been able to, for fear of either angering my father or upsetting my mother and grandmother. But now,’ she hugged his arm to her side, ‘I’ve a good excuse.’

  The farm was still derelict and more dilapidated than Florrie remembered it. The yard was overgrown with weeds, the house crumbling. The barn had all but fallen down completely.

  ‘The farmland round it looks used. Look, there are cattle and sheep grazing. It’s just the house and buildings that are deserted.’

  ‘Maybe someone else bought the land, but didn’t want the house.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to try to find the Mussets?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Jacques said firmly. ‘Let’s leave them in peace.’

  Fifty-Six

  Florrie and Jacques arrived home the day before Christmas Eve to a rapturous welcome. Clara wept on Florrie’s shoulder and then clasped an embarrassed Jacques to her. Augusta beamed from ear to ear, and even Edgar patted the boy on the back and submitted to Florrie’s kiss. He looked down into her upturned face and nodded. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Er, welcome home, my dear. Both of you.’

  It was all Florrie needed to hear.

  They were swept at once into Augusta’s Christmas preparations. ‘Did you have a chance to do any shopping?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘We stopped overnight in London and went shopping this morning.’ She laughed and glanced at the boy. ‘Jacques hated it.’

  He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was just so crowded. We couldn’t move. It – it was just – so different to – to—’

  Augusta linked her arm with his. ‘Now, now, you must try to forget all about that. We’re all so thankful that you haven’t got that terrible disease. But if you hadn’t gone,’ she added with asperity, for she knew they were all thinking, deep down, that perhaps the trip had been a complete waste of time and money, ‘you’d only have got steadily worse in our unpredictable weather. As it is, the wonderful Swiss air has quite cured you and you’re well and strong. And spring is just around the corner. Now, come along.’ She gave him a gentle push. ‘Upstairs you go and change and then, after dinner, I need your help with the tree. We waited until you were home.’

  For the first time Florrie noticed the huge tree standing in its traditional space at the side of the staircase. It was so tall that it almost reached to the landing above. But it still awaited its decorations.

  She smiled. Now she knew they were really home.

  ‘Grandmother?’

  For the first time Florrie could ever remember, she felt nervous and unsure when seeking out her grandmother. But it had to be done. She’d promised herself. She’d promised Jacques. And she had to do it now, before New Year’s Eve. Christmas was over, celebrated with just the family and with quiet thankfulness for Jacques’s return to health. But Florrie could no longer avoid telling them the truth.

  Augusta was sitting up in bed with her breakfast tray. It was the only concession she made to her eighty-eight years – breakfast in bed each morning. In every other way she was still remarkably sprightly. She raised her eyebrows in surprise as Florrie hovered uncertainly in the doorway. ‘Come in, dear.’ She held out her hand.

  Closing the door quietly, Florrie moved across the room and sat down beside the bed. Her fingers twisted nervously.

  Augusta was smiling gently. ‘You’ve something to tell me?’

  Florrie swallowed and nodded. But still, she couldn’t speak.

  ‘About – Jacques?’

  Again, she nodded, running her tongue nervously round her lips. ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’

  Augusta’s old eyes twinkled with merriment. She’d intended to tease Florrie, watch her drag out the halting explanation, but suddenly she took pity on her granddaughter. She leaned forward and touched her hand. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that Jacques is not your son. He’s – James’s, isn’t he?’

  Florrie’s eyes widened. ‘You knew?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Augusta said softly. ‘I suspected as much from the first moment. But then, when he got a little older and you started gadding off to London – leaving him for weeks on end – then I was certain.’

  Florrie felt herself redden as Augusta regarded her severely. ‘You’ve been a loving, devoted aunt, I’ll not deny. But you haven’t really acted like a mother.’ Her old eyes were suddenly sad. ‘I expect you felt you had to deceive us because of your father. But you could have told me, Florrie dear. Really you could.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gran,’ she said huskily, clutching at the wrinkled hand. ‘I – didn’t want to put you in an awkward position by involving you in the – in the lie.’

  ‘As far as I know, my dear, you’ve never actually lied. You’ve never called him your son, have you? You’ve just said he’s Edgar’s grandson and my great-grandson – which he is. You’ve told the truth, but not the whole truth.’

  They were silent a moment before Augusta asked gently, ‘Does Jacques know?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, we – we took a detour on our way home and went to – to Ypres. We saw James’s grave and I told him everything.’

  Augusta nodded, satisfied. Again, a pause before she said softly, ‘And now you have to tell your father?’

  Florrie swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  Florrie shook her head. ‘No, Gran. This is something I have to do myself.’

  If she had been nervous facing her grandmother, she was terrified as she knocked on the door of her father’s study.

  Hearing his gruff ‘Come in’, she opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind her, leaning against it for a moment to steel her nerve.

  He eyed her over the top of his spectacles as she approached his desk.

  ‘Father, I need to talk to you. May I sit down?’

  Wordlessly, he indicated a leather chair at the side of his desk and leaned back, waiting for her to begin.

  ‘I want to tell you about – about Jacques.’

  ‘I thought you said he’s well now? That it was a misdiagnosis?’

  ‘Yes – yes it was. He’s fine and actually looking forward to going back to school in January.’ She hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ Edgar said, but his tone was not encouraging.

  ‘I – haven’t been entirely truthful about – about Jacques.’

  Edgar’s perpetual frown deepened.

  ‘He – he is your grandson and he is half-French, but – but I’m not his mother. Not his natural mother. Jacques is – is James’s son.’

  Edgar stiffened and stared at her. At last, almost against his will, he muttered, ‘Explain yourself.’

  So she did. She began by telling him all about James and his arrest and the unfair charge brought against him. The farcical court martial and how Gervase had tried in vain to save James’s life. She spared him nothing now, telling him – in every heartbreaking detail – of the last night she’d spent with her brother, of his execution and unceremonious burial. And then she told him about how she’d found Colette, the birth of the baby boy, the girl’s death and how she had tracked down the child’s French grandfather, who’d turned them away.

  ‘I got them to sign a paper and when I got back home I had a solicitor in London arrange everything legally. I am Jacques’s aunt, his legal guardian but – I’m not his mother.’

  Edgar was silent for a long time and Florrie couldn’t read his expression. It was stern – angry almost – but then it always was.

  ‘I’m sorry I deceived you, Father, but I thought that if I told you he was James’s son, you – you wouldn’t have let him stay.’

  Edgar allowed himself a wry smile. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t.’ He paused, whilst Florrie’s heart plummeted, but then he added slowly, ‘Not then.’

  There was another long silence. Florrie said nothing, biting her lip to stop herself pleading with him. It wouldn’t do any good. Even Augusta would not be able to sway him if . . .

  He looked up, regarding her steadily. ‘I’m glad you’ve told me, Florence, even though it’s sixteen years late. But—’ He paused, glanced away and fiddled with a pen lying on his desk. ‘I can – understand,’ the word, not one that Edgar Maltby used very often, came haltingly, ‘why you didn’t tell me at first.’

  ‘So, may we stay?’

  Slowly, he nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He gave no explanation, made no comment about having become fond of the boy. That would have been totally out of character and Florrie didn’t expect it. But the fact that he hadn’t lost his temper and thrown them out onto the street told her all she needed to know.

  She rose, went to stand beside his chair and bent to kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you, Father.’ Then she hurried from the room without looking back at him.

  If she had, she’d have seen him staring after her, a pensive expression in his eyes. And she’d have been shocked if she’d heard the softly spoken words to the empty room.

  ‘I must see my solicitor. Change my will. It seems, after all, I have an heir from the male line. Someone who truly bears the name of Maltby.’

  The illegitimate bit, Edgar decided, he would ignore.

  ‘Of course, we should be at Bixley for New Year, but under the circumstances, we’re having it here,’ Augusta told them. ‘We’ve such a lot to celebrate.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Florrie murmured and meant it, for this year her answer to Gervase’s question would be different. She hugged the secret to herself, revelling in the anticipated pleasure it would bring everyone. Even poor Iso, who’d had so much tragedy to bear, would be delighted. They’d always felt like sisters and now they really would be. Well, the next best thing: sisters-in-law.

  Gervase, Isobel and Charlie arrived in Gervase’s latest motor car, coming to a shuddering halt outside the front door. Florrie ran out, her arms open wide. ‘My dears, how wonderful to see you – and looking so well.’ She kissed them all and ushered them inside, chattering nervously. But neither Isobel nor Gervase seemed to notice; they took her gaiety for the heady relief that Jacques did not, after all, have tuberculosis.

  Isobel linked her arm through Florrie’s. ‘My dear, we’re all so glad to hear the wonderful news. I’ve written to Lady Lee and she sends you both her love.’

  ‘How kind of her,’ Florrie said. ‘Now, come along in. Grandmother is holding court in the drawing room.’

  ‘And your mother?’ Gervase enquired gently.

  ‘Much better,’ Florrie said. ‘She was so busy organizing meals and such when we were nursing Jacques here. It gave her something to focus on other than herself. And Gran says she’s been all right whilst we’ve been away. Worried, of course, but she didn’t take to her bed.’

  Gervase touched her arm. ‘I’m glad.’

  There was an extra merriment to the evening and it was not only amongst the two families. Word of Jacques’s return to health had spread amongst the estate workers and, taking it for granted that he was Edgar Maltby’s heir who’d one day be their young master, they rejoiced.

  ‘Illegitimate he might be,’ they whispered, ‘but there’s no one else, now is there?’

  Whilst refreshments for the household staff and estate workers were in the barn, the family dined together and then gathered in the hall. As the grandfather clock struck midnight, they raised their glasses. And this year the toast of ‘Good health’ had an extra meaning. They trooped back into the drawing room to watch the customary fireworks in the field beyond the lawn from the long windows, for the night was cold, a biting east wind whipping in from the sea.

  Florrie stood beside Gervase, glancing up at him every now and then. Excitement churned in her stomach. She could hardly wait until he drew her aside, took her hands in his, looked into her bright eyes and posed the question that he always asked on New Year’s Eve.

  With a jolt, she realized that the moment had passed. Already it was the 1st January 1933 and he hadn’t asked her. He’d never left it so late before. He’d always made sure that he proposed before midnight, just in case she said yes and the toast could be ‘the happy couple’.

  But this year – of all years – he hadn’t asked her!

  They were preparing to go. Isobel had called for her wrap. Gervase slipped his arms into the warm coat Bowler held ready for him, then pulled on his driving gloves, wrapped the long scarf around his neck and perched his cap on his head. And still he said nothing.

  ‘Gervase?’ Florrie put her hand on his arm. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and questioning. ‘Haven’t you – forgotten something?’ she whispered.

  He smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling. He glanced at his hands. ‘Gloves?’ He clapped his hand to his head. ‘Cap? Coat? Scarf? No, all in place. I don’t think so, my dear.’

  ‘You know very well what I mean,’ she snapped, her agitation, held in check all evening, now bubbling up. She pulled him to the side of the hall, away from the others bidding each other ‘Goodnight’ and ‘Happy New Year’. ‘Do you really m
ean to tell me that this year, of all years, you’re not going to ask me?’

  He began to laugh. ‘My darling girl, every year for twenty years – well, apart from a couple of years I missed during the war – I’ve asked you to marry me, and every year it’s been the same answer. Now why—?’ Suddenly, he stopped and looked down at her, his laughter subsiding as he realized what she’d just said. Softly, he asked, ‘What – what d’you mean by “this year of all years”?’

  She put her head on one side and the delighted chuckle began deep inside her and gurgled up, until she was clutching at him to stop herself collapsing with laughter. ‘Because,’ she spluttered, ‘because this year it was going to be different.’ She wiped away the tears of laughter at the astounded look on his face. Aware now that the sound of her mirth had caught the attention of the rest, she took his hand in hers and dropped to one knee.

  ‘Gervase Richards, will you marry me?’ Her voice echoed round the vast hall, surprising and delighting them all. They were all holding their breath. She could feel it.

  But there was no joy in Gervase’s face. His eyes clouded and his mouth tightened. ‘Don’t tease me, Florrie,’ he said softly, so that no one but her could hear him. ‘Not about that.’

  She rose and stepped close to him, her gaze holding his. ‘I’m not teasing you. I mean it.’ She laughed nervously, suddenly unsure. ‘The very year I mean to say “yes”, you don’t ask me. So – I’m asking you.’

  ‘But – but why? Why – now?’

  Dimly, she heard Augusta say, ‘I think we’d all better go back into the drawing room for a little while. Come along, my dears. Let’s leave them to sort it out. Bowler, bring some cocoa will you? We could be some time.’

  There was a murmuring, a door closed and they were alone.

  ‘What’s changed, Florrie?’ he persisted. Now there was no one else to overhear them, he added, ‘Was it – was it when you went abroad? Did – did you see Jacques’s father?’