by Jess Foley
‘Well,’ Evie said, ‘at such times we don’t think at all, that’s the trouble.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be like this. I thought one day I’d meet someone and get married, the way people do, and then later children would come along. It wasn’t meant to be this way.’
They sat there without speaking for some moments, then Lydia brushed a few bits of grass from her skirt and said dully, ‘I should reckon the time’s getting on. I ought to get back home and get ready to leave. I must at least have a cup of tea with Father before I go. He’ll expect it.’
Evie put on her bonnet, and called out, ‘Come on, Hennie, let’s put on your hat.’ Then to Lydia: ‘When’ll you be down again?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll let you know.’
Evie nodded, the concern written in her face, ‘Oh, Lyddy, I wish there were something I could say. Something I could do to help you – to make things better – but – but there’s nothing.’
‘It’s all right.’ Lydia briefly closed her eyes in her anguish. ‘I must think of what to do. The best thing. But you’re right – before anything else I’ve got to write that letter.’
On the coach heading back from Capinfell to Merinville there was, apart from Lydia and an elderly grey-haired gentleman, a boisterous family of father, mother, and two young and spirited sons. The boys, and the parents who remonstrated with them, kept up a loud, noisy chatter continuously as the vehicle made its way along the road that wound between the meadows and cornfields, only slightly lessening their volume at intervals with the consumption of sandwiches and slices of cake. Although Lydia vaguely noticed that the old gentleman appeared at times to be somewhat put out by the disturbance, she herself was not. Keeping tight in her corner of the coach, she let it all go over her head; her mind was occupied with more immediate things than the non-stop chatter of the boys and their parents.
As the coach jogged along, she thought back over her meeting with Evie, and she knew now, after their talk, that it was no good to keep on hoping. Her worst fears had been realised. She was going to have a baby, and that was the fact of the matter.
And of course, as Evie had said, she must write to Guy. She must put out of her mind the fact that he had not sent her one single word since his departure, and write and tell him of the situation. It was the only thing to do. He had to know. He had a right to know. He had to know – whether he wanted the information or not.
How would he react? She could not guess. She was sure of her feelings for him, but of his feelings for her she could not speak; she could only hope.
Mrs Obdermann met Lydia in the hall when she returned to Little Marsh Street, and asked her how her weekend had gone. Lydia replied that it had been very pleasant and that she had found her father in good health apart from his lingering cold. The landlady then said that supper would be ready soon, for which Lydia thanked her, though she had no appetite.
When the time came, Lydia sat in the dining room and tried to force the food into her mouth. Cold tongue it was, with potatoes in mayonnaise and a green salad. To follow came apple pie with custard. Lydia did what she could to make an impression on it all, but felt that she was less than successful. When she had finished, Mrs Obdermann looked with slight dismay at the amount left on the plates and said Oh, dear, she hoped that Miss Halley wasn’t sickening for something. Lydia apologised for not eating very much, and made the excuse that she had eaten dinner with her father, and also that the hot weather took her appetite away.
Soon afterwards, upstairs in her little room, she drew the chair up to the small table and pulled in front of her a writing pad and pen and ink.
With the lamp lit, and her pen poised over the paper she sat trying to decide what to write.
Eventually, after several aborted efforts, she set down:
15 Little Marsh Street
Redbury
Wiltshire
Sunday, 10th August 1890
Dear Guy,
I hope you are well. Today marks three weeks to the day since we last met. The following day you were travelling to Europe to see your father, and I have wondered so often how you are, and indeed, after the state of your father’s health. For I know you were desperately concerned about him, and could not wait to be with him and your mother, and give what support and comfort you could.
I am a little reluctant to write as I fear that you might have so many responsibilities and so much work to do that a letter would be a mere nuisance. I’m afraid I have no idea whether you are still in Italy or back in Redbury, but if you are still abroad I hope this letter will be forwarded to you. In any case, wherever you are when you receive this, I would like to ask you if you would drop me a line. Of course, ideally, I would love to see you. I will not go into it in a letter, but there is a matter of some urgency – some great urgency, in fact – that I must speak to you about. So please, do write me a line, and help to put at ease the mind of
Your friend
Lydia Halley
Lydia read through the letter, and then again. It was so poor, she thought, and did not really begin to convey her thoughts or her fears, but as for the latter, they were better left unrevealed for the time being.
She read the page through one more time, then wrote out an envelope and sealed the letter inside. Tomorrow in her dinner break from the store she would go out to the post office and send it off.
The following day, as planned, she posted the letter to Guy, and for the time being it was as much as she could do. She did briefly consider getting in touch with the newspaper office where he worked, and trying to find out whether he was back there, but she decided against it. He might object, she thought, to such prying, and she would not wish to cause him any embarrassment. He would surely respond to her letter soon, and then they could arrange to meet. She could tell him then of her situation.
A response to her letter came on Thursday. The envelope bore a Redbury postmark, but the writing on it made it clear it was not from the hand of Guy. Lydia had his previous letter still, and nothing could have made her mistake his hand for the one on the envelope. Who else could be writing to her?
She tore open the envelope and took out the letter. A single sheet of pale cream vellum, it said:
Datchet House
Renshaw Way
Redbury
12th August 1890
Dear Miss Halley,
Your letter addressed to my son arrived this morning. It is not my custom to open his post, but the situation we are in at present is a somewhat unusual one, and unusual situations sometimes call for unusual measures. I have to tell you that my son is out of the country, in Italy, and is not expected back for some time.
However, after having read your letter, I would like to ask if you would do me the kindness of coming round to see me. Would this Saturday at four o’clock be convenient? I shall expect you at that time unless you let me know to the contrary. In the meantime I am
Yours faithfully,
Anne Anderson
(Mrs Jarvis Anderson)
Lydia read the letter over several times. At least one of her prime questions, that of Guy’s whereabouts, had been answered. Mrs Anderson had returned to England, but Guy had remained in Italy. Now, however, other questions were raised in Lydia’s mind: apart from her feeling that it was somewhat surprising that Mrs Anderson should open and read her son’s private correspondence, she could only wonder at the purpose of the proposed meeting on the coming Saturday. Was it possible that Mrs Anderson somehow intuited the reason behind Lydia’s letter? What construction had she put upon Lydia’s words concerning that ‘matter of some urgency’? She had no answer, and she was afraid to dwell upon it. One thing she was sure of, however – her letter to Guy would not be forwarded to him.
Saturday came, and nothing had changed. Her morning sickness was continuing, and she was also touched with it whilst at work on a couple of occasions. At those times she had gritted her teeth and clenched her hands, and waited for the moments of nausea to pass. Whe
n she finished work on Saturday at two o’clock she left the store and made her way to her lodgings.
Back in her room she sat in her little easy chair and tried to read a novel that Mrs Obdermann or the previous occupant had left in the room, but even the sensational talents of Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s Only a Woman could not hold her interest and she gave it up after ten minutes as a lost cause; she was quite unable to concentrate and was taking nothing in. She had not written back to Mrs Anderson to say that she would not be at Datchet House at four o’clock, though at the same time she was still not sure that she would be keeping the appointment.
The time dragged on, and then all of a sudden she stirred herself. After washing, she dressed as neatly as she could and left the house at just after a quarter past three.
Outside the Victoria Gardens she caught an omnibus which took her through the town and deposited her at the library. From there she was able to take a cab the rest of the way. It turned out to be quite a long distance, and she was glad that she had not attempted to get there by walking. Alighting from the carriage, she took her watch from her bag and saw that it was ten minutes to four.
The street known as Renshaw Way was one of the most attractive that Lydia had seen in Redbury. It was situated on the northern-most edge of the town, and there were only a few houses in the whole street, not more than six or seven altogether. Nearly all of them were large, with spacious front gardens and carriage drives, and wide areas between one dwelling and the next.
As Lydia stood there on the corner she became aware that the light had changed, and looking up she saw that the sun had gone in behind gathering clouds. It looked as if rain might come before too long. But not yet, Lydia silently prayed, for she had brought no umbrella. She set off along the street.
Datchet House was the second house along on the left, separated from its first neighbour by a paddock where a pair of brown horses roamed. Coming to the entrance gates, which were open, she stood where the sweeping crescent drive began and looked across the wide expanse of immaculate lawn. The house was a tall Victorian building of sandy-coloured brick, with a white stucco façade. A white portico with pillars sheltered wide steps that led to the front door. Lydia stepped onto the gravel drive and moved to the steps and stopped, wondering briefly whether she should perhaps go round to the side entrance. No. She was here. Her heart starting to thump, she climbed the steps and pulled at the bell ring.
The door was opened after a short while by a tall, slim maid in a white cap and apron. She smiled at Lydia, and said, ‘Yes, miss?’ and Lydia told her that she had come to see Mrs Anderson.
‘You’d be Miss Halley, miss, is that right?’ the girl asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Right, miss. If you’d please to come in, I’ll tell the missis that you’re here.’
Lydia wiped the soles of her boots on the doormat and stepped across the threshold. She found herself in a spacious hall, with a staircase leading up from the left. The walls were hung with paintings in oils and water colours, while one huge mirror with a gold baroque frame sporting cherubs and vine leaves reflected the luxury and made the space seem enormous. She could feel the soft depth of the carpet under her feet.
‘I’m to show you into the drawing room, miss,’ the maid said, and walked straight ahead to a panelled door leading off. She opened it and stood aside. ‘If you’d please care to go in, miss. . .?’
Lydia murmured a thank you and nervously walked past the maid into the room. The maid followed her and said, indicating the sofa, ‘Would you like to sit down, miss, and I’ll go and tell Mrs Anderson. . .’
‘Thank you.’ Lydia moved forward and sat down on the green velvet sofa. The maid nodded, saying, ‘Right, miss,’ and then, ‘Excuse me. . .’ and turned and left the room, leaving the door open.
Left alone, Lydia set her bag down beside her on the sofa and looked about. The ceiling was very high, with a deep chandelier hanging from its centre. The room was very spacious, with a grand, imposing fireplace at one end, and an open grand piano at the other. A large oriental carpet covered most of the floor, the remainder showing gleaming parquet tiles. There was another sofa, apart from the one she sat upon, and easy chairs and elegant tables on which stood bowls of flowers and china ornaments. Three tall French windows reached from floor to ceiling, leading out on to a walkway with steps leading down to a formal garden of lawns and herbaceous plots. Lydia had never in her life been in a room like it, and the sight of it alone was enough to illustrate for her the width of the gulf that separated Guy’s lifestyle from her own.
She was still trying to take it all in when she heard a sound, and the next moment Mrs Anderson was entering the room and closing the door behind her.
Lydia tensed as the woman came across the carpet and, her heart thumping more strongly than ever, apprehensively got to her feet.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Halley,’ the older woman said, and held out her hand to Lydia. Lydia shook it weakly and murmured a ‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ in reply. Before her, she saw an elderly woman dressed all in black.
‘Please – do sit down.’ Mrs Anderson gestured back to the sofa and, when Lydia was seated again, took a brocaded easy chair beside the fireplace. ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I must thank you for your kindness in coming here today.’ Her voice was low, and for all its softness had the sound of strength. From a pocket in her skirt she took a pair of spectacles and put them on her nose. For a moment she studied Lydia as she sat before her, then lifted a slim hand and absently touched at the little black lace cap that lay on her grey hair. ‘Yes, I’m very grateful for that. Although I could perhaps have met you at a more convenient spot in the town – convenient for you, that is – we could not have had a private conversation. A public place would not have been appropriate.’ She paused. ‘I hope it was no trouble for you – coming here today?’
‘No, ma’am,’ Lydia murmured, and then, almost as an afterthought: ‘It was no trouble at all.’
‘Thank you; I’m glad to hear you say that. Do you know this part of the city?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘No, ma’am. I don’t know a lot of Redbury yet. I haven’t been here very long.’
‘Oh, no, you come from some small village to the north, don’t you?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Capinfell.’
‘Capinfell. No, I don’t know it, I’m afraid.’ Then, as if she regretted the momentary lapse into something that might have approached a conversation, the woman added quickly, ‘Anyway, that isn’t what we’re here to talk about.’ She pursed her lips and looked at Lydia as if studying her again. ‘I had to see you, Miss Halley,’ she said. ‘As I told you, your letter arrived for my son – and I opened it.’
She paused here as if waiting for Lydia to say something. Lydia remained silent. After a moment Mrs Anderson went on:
‘I think I said in my letter to you that I don’t make a habit of opening my son’s correspondence, but there are times in life when, of necessity, rules are broken. I did tell you, anyway, that my son is not here at the moment. He’s still in Florence.’ She fell silent, lowered her gaze from Lydia and looked out towards the nearest French window at the darkening sky. Then, still with her glance averted, she said, ‘I’m very sorry to say that my husband, Guy’s father, died in Italy soon after my son’s arrival there.’
‘Oh, ma’am,’ Lydia murmured, ‘I – I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes, quite. Thank you.’ The older woman’s voice was suddenly almost brisk, as if Lydia’s tone of sympathy were somehow inappropriate. ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate,’ she went on, ‘that my husband’s death has given us a great deal to do.’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am.’
‘Indeed it has. I myself have only recently returned from Europe. I only arrived back on Monday. After my husband’s burial there I came back alone, leaving my son to continue in the management of the family’s affairs. That’s what he’s doing now. Anyway,’ she smoothed down the skirt of her black dress, ‘ju
st after I got back, your letter came for him, and I read it. When I left him there in Florence I agreed with him that I wouldn’t bother him unnecessarily – he had enough on his plate as it was – so I opened your letter, as I’ve been doing with the other few items of post that have come for him.’ She looked at Lydia and added almost sharply, ‘I don’t apologise for this, you understand.’
Lydia could think of nothing to say, but nodded and looked down at her hands. When she looked up again after a few moments she saw that Mrs Anderson was taking from her pocket a piece of paper. A second later she realised, to her dismay, that it was her own letter that she had written to Guy.
‘I have your letter here,’ Mrs Anderson said, and Lydia felt her heart thudding in her chest. She watched as Mrs Anderson pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose, straightened the letter and then ran her eyes down the page. Lydia dreaded that she might read aloud from its text, but the woman did not. Her eyes moved over the letter again, then she lowered it and said to Lydia:
‘Well, you were certainly right when you say you fear that my son might have so many responsibilities and so much work that a letter would be a nuisance. You’re quite right – and that’s what I’m here for – to save him from such. I don’t wish to appear cruel, but that’s the truth of it.’ She raised the letter again, glancing over its contents. ‘You point out to him that he hasn’t written to you – and of course you know the reason for that now – and go on to tell him that on a matter of some “great urgency” you would like to see him and speak to him.’
As Lydia’s heart thumped in her breast, Mrs Anderson gave a deep sigh and looked off towards the windows again. ‘This is not an easy task I have before me, Miss Halley,’ she said after a moment, and turned back to look directly at Lydia, ‘and I possibly run the risk of appearing somewhat cruel and heartless, but you must understand that I am first and foremost a mother. My son is twenty-five years old, and he has most of his life before him. I want what is the best for him. I want him to make the most of his life. I’m like any other mother in this respect.’ She reached up and took off her spectacles, studied them as she folded them, and went on, ‘Guy is my only son, and I bore him late in my life. We had always wanted a child, a son, Mr Anderson and I, and after a long time it happened. Guy came to us when we had just about given up all hope of ever having a child. We had the son we wanted, and, as you can imagine, he meant all the world to us.’ She set the spectacles down on a small table at her side. ‘And now that my husband is gone, Guy is all I have. He is the most important thing in my life, and I cannot jeopardise any part of his future. It is everything to me, Miss Halley. I’m sure you understand that.’
