The Snow Globe

by Judith Kinghorn

  “And you do?”

  Mabel nodded. “Yes, I do . . . There are things that are not my place to tell you. But you should perhaps speak to Mrs. Jessop about Stephen and about your father.”

  “Right. I will,” said Daisy. “I will.” And then she left the room.

  Mabel sat back against her pillows and closed her eyes. Daisy was determined, and it wasn’t for her to explain. Her loyalty to Stephen was such . . . Mabel opened her eyes.

  Daisy’s loyalty to Stephen Jessop placed him at the forefront of Daisy’s mind in almost every situation. His well-being and happiness had always been of paramount concern to her, and though Mabel had known this, and had watched them together for years, she had only recently begun to acknowledge the extent and true nature of Daisy’s love. And because he needed to know and understand, too, she had told Howard only hours earlier.

  “Are you sure?” he’d asked.

  “Quite certain.”

  “And what about him?”

  “Oh, I’m even more certain of that.”

  Mabel smiled at her gown—draped over an armchair by her dressing table, where Howard had carefully placed it the night before. She smiled at the memory of that night. She had known by their last dance that they would spend all of that night together; that there could be no good night and turning in to separate rooms. And the wonderful thing about it was, there had been no question, no awkwardness, no doubt at all. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world for them to retire together, to walk hand in hand into that house, their home, and then climb the stairs and go to that room, together. To talk as they undressed, to laugh and giggle at the things they had seen; for Howard to unzip and help her out of her gown; for her to regale him with snippets of various conversations she had had as she sat at her dressing table brushing her hair, creaming her face, and then climbed into bed next to him; and for him to take her in his arms. And like arriving back at that place called home after a very long journey, there had been a new and exquisite luxury in the sense of its normality.

  They had lain in each other’s arms for an hour, at least, listening to the sounds and voices outside: the raucous laughter and music from the gramophone drifting over from inside the tent; the queer conversations and debates going on beneath their window. They heard Iris calling out for “more champagne,” and Noonie—still going strong—talking about someone called Samuel. At one point, Howard had risen, crossed the room to pull back the curtains and open the window a little more so they could better hear Reg tell Margot how magnificent her figure was, and how young she looked to him. They had placed their hands over each other’s mouths to stifle the sound of their laughter.

  “I love you, Mabel Forbes,” he’d said.

  The door to the servants’ hall was closed. Daisy could hear the murmurings of Mrs. Jessop and Mrs. Wintrip on the other side, but this was not the time to listen at doors and hope for answers; this was the time to be bold.

  “Stephen’s not here, dear,” Mrs. Jessop said, looking up with a mouthful of biscuit from her usual chair. “I’m not rightly sure where he is.”

  “It’s not Stephen I was looking for. It’s you, Mrs. Jessop . . . I wondered if I might have a word.”

  Nellie Wintrip slid Daisy a look as she rose to her feet; then she picked up her cup and saucer and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Shafts of pale morning light shone in through the open window onto the faded William Morris upholstery and ladder-back chairs, onto the brickwork fireplace and picture above it of King George. It wasn’t a small room, but it was a cozy room, and, like the kitchen, it seemed to belong to Mrs. Jessop more than to anyone else.

  Daisy sat down.

  “Well?” said Mrs. Jessop.

  Daisy wasn’t sure where or how to begin, but now there seemed no other way than to ask the woman outright. “Mrs. Jessop, I need to know something . . . about Stephen . . .”

  “Yes?” the woman replied, sucking on her teeth.

  “Is Stephen . . . is Stephen my father’s child?”

  “Your father’s?” Mrs. Jessop repeated, wrinkling up her nose and pulling a face as though whatever was left in her mouth tasted deeply unpleasant. “But how on earth . . . How could he be your father’s son?”

  “Because,” Daisy said and then paused. “Well, you see, I happen to know that Stephen was born at Clanricarde Gardens . . . and I’m not sure how much you know but . . . it was my father who arranged for him to come here.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Jessop, nodding, “but how does that make him your father’s son?”

  “I think it’s fairly obvious . . . My father doesn’t exactly have the best track—” Daisy stopped. “You know . . . You know he was born there?”

  “Yes. I know he was born there.”

  “And do you know who is parents are—were?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “His father?”

  Mrs. Jessop nodded.

  “And he’s not my father’s son?” Daisy asked, her heart beating so loudly she thought the woman might hear it.

  “Really, dear . . . I’m not sure how all this has come about, and for the life of me I don’t know how you thought Stephen was—”

  “I just need someone to tell me the truth,” Daisy interrupted. “I need to know if Stephen’s my brother,” Daisy said, louder, her eyes burning. Then, in a whisper, she added, “Please, if you know, please tell me . . .”

  Mrs. Jessop closed her eyes, and in a new, softer, younger-sounding voice, she said, “Michael . . . Stephen’s father was Michael Hughes.”

  Daisy repeated the name. It meant nothing to her. She said, “Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Oh yes, that’s one thing I am certain about,” the woman said, opening her eyes.

  Daisy heard herself whimper.

  “Oh, come now, don’t go getting yourself upset . . . He might not be your brother, but he’s always been like one to you, hasn’t he? And that won’t change. No, that won’t change.”

  Daisy shook her head. “But I still don’t understand . . . how did Stephen come to be born at Clanricarde Gardens? Was he . . . is he Mrs. Wintrip’s son?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Jessop, stretching out the short word. “He’s not Nellie’s.”

  “But how do you know? And how do you know about Stephen’s father? Did Mrs. Wintrip tell you about him? Did she tell you about Michael Hughes?”

  Mrs. Jessop glanced away, frowning, as though trying to remember something.

  “And Mrs. Wintrip must know who his mother was,” Daisy went on, “because she was there, Mrs. Jessop . . . She delivered Stephen into the world, she told me.”

  “Yes, she was there. She’d never delivered a baby before—nor had one of her own—but she knew exactly what to do.”

  “You were there? You were there, too?”

  Mrs. Jessop nodded. “It’s a night I’ll never forget.”

  “But who was Stephen’s mother?”

  And as soon as Daisy asked the question, she knew.

  “I am,” Mrs. Jessop said, staring back at Daisy. “I’m Stephen’s mother.”

  Over the next half hour or so, Mrs. Jessop told Daisy all about Stephen’s father, Michael. He had been her sweetheart, she said, her childhood sweetheart. They’d grown up together in a village in Berkshire.

  “I was no spring chicken, but I was ignorant . . . We all were, back then. I had no idea how to stop a baby being made. But we were engaged, and I had put him off for long enough and we would be married anyway in a matter of weeks, I thought.” She shook her head vaguely. “Stephen’s so like him, not just in his looks, but that same kind, quiet manner . . . so like Michael.” She paused. “I didn’t have a clue, no idea at all that I was expecting when it happened.”

  “What happened?” asked Daisy.

  “Michael . .
. He’d been to visit his mother out near Slough, where we grew up, and was on his way back to Windsor, where he was working at the time. He was a carpenter, and ever so good, could turn his hand to anything, a proper craftsman. It was him that did all the shelves and cabinets in your father’s study at Clanricarde,” she said. “Oh yes, he used to work in a lot of the big houses.”

  “But what happened?” Daisy asked again.

  Mrs. Jessop stared down at her hands in her lap. “It was June . . . and I didn’t know I was expecting, not until the August after my birthday, and the very month we’d intended on getting married.” She closed her eyes. “It was an express train . . . it ran through two sets of signals and collided head-on with Michael’s train. They said he’d have died instantly, not known anything about it. And that was some small shred of comfort to me,” she added, glancing up at Daisy, “because he’d been my world, you see, my whole life, and my future.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “When I learned I was expecting, it was as though God had given me back something of Michael . . . I was bereft and happy and terrified all at the same time. And that’s when your father stepped in. I’d worked for him before, you see, been the one to recommend Nellie, and had only given up my position so I could be nearer to Michael,” she quickly added. “So, when your father heard about my circumstances, and knowing the family I worked for would turn me out, he insisted I go back to Clanricarde Gardens.”

  Daisy smiled. Of course . . . of course he did, she thought.

  “Your father sent the carriage to collect me,” Mrs. Jessop went on, almost laughing now. “Oh my, if you could’ve seen the other servants’ faces . . . And right from the start your father understood, he knew I couldn’t give up my baby . . . but neither could I keep it. No one would employ an unmarried woman with an illegitimate baby. And I couldn’t stay on at Clanricarde forever because there would’ve been talk . . . A maid with a baby living under the same roof as a married gentleman—with a wife tucked away in the country?” She glanced over at Daisy and shuddered. “So we agreed—your father, Nellie and me—that after my baby was born, after a month or two, Nellie would take him and care for him until such time as my own circumstances changed—and your father would kindly provide for his upkeep. Nellie was married and it all made sense.”

  “You were with Stephen for some months then?”

  Mrs. Jessop smiled. “You know how your father loves babies . . . In the end, Stephen was almost six months old when Nellie took him, weaned and on solids and everything. Oh yes, we muddled along happily together for six months at Clanricarde, me, Nellie, your father and Stephen.”

  “He has no idea . . .”

  “No, well, he was just a baby . . . and such a beautiful baby,” she said, suddenly full of maternal pride.

  “And my mother? My mother knew all of this?”

  “Well, of course. She came up to town a few times. She was the one who told me about feeding, establishing a routine and all that. Because she had experience; she had had your sisters by then.”

  “And then you came here,” said Daisy, piecing it all together.

  “Yes, and that’s when I met Isaac—Old Jessop—and after we were married, just as your father had promised, Nellie brought Stephen down to me.”

  “There was no need for any adoption . . .”

  Mrs. Jessop smiled and shook her head.

  “But why have you never told Stephen any of this?” Daisy asked.

  Mrs. Jessop lowered her eyes. “I’ve never told anyone. Only your parents and Nellie know . . . No, I didn’t tell anyone, certainly not Isaac, because . . . well, I was so ashamed, you see. And I’m not sure he or anyone else would’ve married me—and I desperately wanted to be married so I could have my Stephen back with me.” She paused for a moment, then continued: “My husband had so little memory left when he came back from the war, he thought Stephen was his. Thinks he’s his,” she corrected. “But I’d always planned to tell Stephen when he reached twenty-one . . .” She raised her eyes to Daisy. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

  Mabel lay in Howard’s arms, her head on his chest as his hand moved over her hair. She had spent the entire morning in bed. Howard had told her to stay there, said that he would see to everything. And so she had. After Daisy had gone in search of Mrs. Jessop, Mabel had stretched out on her bed reading Howard’s book, devouring words she had so long yearned for, beautiful words that from time to time made her gasp, or tremble, or close her eyes.

  When Howard returned to the room, he’d climbed onto the bed and lain alongside her, staring up at the sunlit ceiling as she read, until she closed the book, put it down and kissed him.

  “But why did you turn to her?” she asked now. “Why did you not come to me—talk to me?”

  “I told you. I turned to her as an old friend, to ask her advice—about you, about us, about what I should do . . . You didn’t want to talk to me . . . and I thought you’d stopped loving me.”

  Amidst his words about Theo, words about so many things, Howard had also written about the time he had been banished from Mabel’s bed; how he had learned—first heard—that his wife wanted him nowhere near her; that she wanted no more babies, and that she could not bear to be touched by him. Mabel recalled that time, too: the one and only time she had confided in her then maid. That her private words of anguish had been repeated, that Nancy had taken it upon herself to tell Howard was almost unforgiveable; and a greater act of betrayal had the sentiments not been true.

  Perhaps she had uttered those words, Mabel conceded. Perhaps she had uttered those words the night Nancy found her on the bathroom floor, lonely, in pain and sobbing. But whatever she had said had come from the very depths of despair, after she had suffered yet another miscarriage and had only Nancy to comfort her.

  “I thought you didn’t want me here, anywhere near you. I thought you didn’t want me,” said Howard.

  “And Margot did . . .”

  Howard said nothing. He had been unfaithful, and nothing could alter that fact. Just as nothing could alter the fact that Mabel loved him.

  “What about Giancarlo?” Howard eventually asked.

  Mabel took her time. An affair with Giancarlo would have been an easy revenge. Yet when the moment had come, when she had had the opportunity to pay Howard back in kind, it had seemed too easy. But it was perhaps just, she thought now, for Howard to experience doubt and her to know certainty. And so she allowed the question of her fidelity to hang over her husband for a few minutes longer before she said, “There’s only ever been you.”

  And just as though he’d been holding his breath for every one of those minutes, as though they had, for him, been as long as her six years, Howard exhaled in a long sigh.

  “You know, I did wonder where my perfume had gone,” she said after a while, smiling.

  She knew from the book that Howard had taken to sleeping in her bed in her absence, spraying the pillows with her perfume or onto one of her handkerchiefs—to carry about in his pocket. She knew he had taken comfort from each trace of her. He had written that being there, in that bed, in that room, without her but surrounded by everything to do with her, had been one of the most intimate experiences of his life. He had had many lonely nights and lonely days, wandering about the house from room to room, or about the gardens, working back and forth through forgotten days, the bright and dim seasons of years. And yet, throughout it all, throughout that journey backward, he’d felt himself somehow moving forward, and nearing Mabel. It was, he had written one day in early spring, sitting in his wife’s beloved Japanese garden, “almost a spiritual thing.”

  Unlike his father, Howard wasn’t a particularly religious man, but Mabel knew that something had happened to him during her long absence. Howard had called it “a reawakening”: a powerful recognition of love, accompanied by a feeling of immense gratitude. It was something he’d felt often a
s a young man, he’d said, but had lost.

  “Do you remember when my hair was so long and you used to help me plait it each night?” Mabel asked now, her head on his chest, his hand upon it.

  “I remember.”

  “Do you wish I was still like that, young and beautiful, and with long, long hair to plait each night?”

  “I loved you then, and I love you even more now . . . the way you are now.”

  Mabel lifted her head and glanced up at him. “Well, you said the right thing, but I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “It’s the truth. I don’t see your age; I see you. You’ve always been beautiful to me, and perhaps more so now than ever.”

  “Daisy has no idea of her beauty. None whatsoever.”

  “A good thing, too.”

  “She’s never been concerned about how she looks, how anyone looks . . . so different from Iris. Peculiar, really,” Mabel added. They lay in silence for a minute or two; then she said, “And she’s finally got all of her pieces . . . got them all lined up and ready to place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You . . . Clara, Nellie . . . and Stephen.”

  “Ah yes, Stephen,” he said, laying his head back down.

  “Are you still worried about her?”

  “A little, but I’m also rather proud of her.”

  “She was always going to be the one to find any skeletons.”

  Howard smiled. “Is that what they are?”

  “No, she’ll find only angels in your closet,” said Mabel, glancing up at him again, stroking his cheek with her finger.

  The gurgling of a wood pigeon drifted in through the open window. The sounds of activity and people, and murmurings of conversation, although mere yards away, felt like another world to Mabel. A world she had no desire to be part of at that moment.

  “She’s not too upset about Gifford, is she?” Howard asked.

  “No, rather relieved, I think . . . like the rest of us.”

  “I hope so. I can’t stand the thought of her suffering over it.”