Consequences

by Nancy Carson

  Anxiously, he tiptoed upstairs. First, he peered into Rose’s bedroom and saw she was still sleeping soundly in her cot, as ever an emotive picture of childhood innocence. Quietly, he closed the door and stole across the landing. More disquieting wails from Marigold. He tapped on the door and opened it a little without entering.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  Clara answered, stepped onto the landing, and closed the door behind her. ‘She’s very tired, Algie. I reckon she’s been in labour nearly 12 hours now, and although it ain’t a long time for some, I don’t think she’s making much progress.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch Dr Froggatt,’ he replied decisively.

  ‘Give it another hour or so, our Algie, and let’s see how we go.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Clara nodded. ‘Another hour. Meanwhile, you could brew us a cup of tea.’

  He clumped downstairs. There was no rush, but still he was concerned. In the kitchen the fire was catching well. He filled the kettle then stripped off. Standing at the stone sink he washed himself down in cold water, which made him shudder. Then he dressed. Waiting for the kettle to boil seemed like an eternity.

  There were more piercing cries from Marigold as he readied the teapot, the mugs and the milk. He privately thanked God that men didn’t have to go through that; it was bad enough hearing the anguish and being useless to help.

  At long last the kettle started bubbling and he made the tea. He let it steep a while; they all preferred their tea strong. While it steeped, he moved to the bottom of the stairs again and listened, apprehensive. All was quiet, but then he heard a weak cry, like a kitten in distress. His heart thumped and he bounded up the stairs, tapped on the bedroom door.

  ‘Come in.’ It was Clara’s voice, and it was sounding cheerful.

  He opened the door and entered. Marigold was beaming, clutching a little bundle of mewling pinkness wrapped in a towel.

  ‘You’ve had it,’ he exclaimed, grinning, relieved.

  ‘Another girl.’

  ‘Another girl? Is she all right? Are you all right, my flower?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right, and the baby’s beautiful,’ Marigold sighed.

  ‘We don’t need the doctor, then?’

  ‘Not so far,’ Clara said. ‘But there’s still a bit to do, our Algie.’

  ‘Well, so far you’ve done a grand job, Mother,’ Algie said, peering at his new daughter. ‘So there was nothing amiss?’ He bent over and kissed Marigold. ‘Thank you, my angel.’

  ‘I hope you appreciate the things I have to go through for you, Algie Stokes,’ she said pointedly. She was smiling. Evidently she was happy.

  ‘Thought of a name for her?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I like Frances.’

  ‘Yes,’ he mused. ‘I like Frances as well. Frances it is, then.’

  ‘So where’s that tea?’ Clara asked. ‘Me belly thinks me throat’s been cut.’

  ‘It’s steeping. It should be ready now. I’ll go and get it.’

  * * *

  Aurelia rose early from her bed. She had woken early and could not get back to sleep. Besides, she was thirsty and desperate for a drink of water. Cloaked in her dressing gown she tiptoed downstairs. The door to Benjamin’s room was still shut so she assumed he was still in bed. Jane, the maid, was already up and had laid fires in the kitchen and in the sitting room that Aurelia generally occupied during the day.

  Aurelia went to the kitchen, where Jane was slicing bread.

  ‘Good morning, Jane.’

  ‘Morning, ma’am. You’re up bright and early. Would you like your breakfast now, ma’am, or will you wait for Mr Sampson?’

  ‘Perhaps I will wait, Jane. But I’m so thirsty. I need a glass of water.’

  ‘Let me get it for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  While Jane ran the tap, Aurelia looked at the old wall clock that had marked time in the kitchen for decades. It said quarter past seven. Jane handed her a glass of water and she drank.

  ‘I’ll have a boiled egg on toast for breakfast, I think, Jane. Meanwhile, I’ll go up and get ready.’

  As she returned to the hallway, there was a clatter as half a dozen letters shot through the letterbox and fell to the floor. She bent down to pick them up. One of the envelopes was pink. With burning curiosity she drew it from the pile and scrutinised the handwriting. It was the same hand as the previous pink envelope.

  Kate Stokes again.

  She heard movement from above and glanced up the stairs. Benjamin was on his way down, also wearing a dressing gown.

  ‘I’ll have the mail,’ he said impatiently.

  Aurelia stood still, holding the sheaf of envelopes ready to hand to him. ‘I was just looking to see if there was one for me. It’s time I got a letter from my sister in India.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as he snatched them from her. ‘I take it there isn’t one.’

  ‘There isn’t. But that pink one, postmarked London…I would’ve thought you’d have had enough gumption to get your lady friends to address letters to you at the works. I would’ve.’

  ‘Yes, you very likely would’ve, Aurelia. But then I’m not half as crafty as you.’

  ‘Oh, well. At least you’ve had the decency not to deny it’s a young woman. I suppose this means another trip to London very soon?’

  ‘So what if it does?’ he answered brusquely.

  ‘What you get up to in London is your own business, Benjamin. Just so long as it has no impact on the well-being of my son when you have custody of him.’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘I don’t know…but you’re stupid enough for anything.’

  ‘And you’re not?’ he retorted as she hurried upstairs out of his reach.

  * * *

  Benjamin took the letters to his study, which overlooked the front garden. He closed the door behind him. There was only one item of correspondence that interested him, a reply to his own letter sent a few days ago, which he had written when his emotions had finally got the better of his judgement. In it, he had hopefully suggested Kate might be free for a dalliance over Easter. The others were most likely threats of court action if he didn’t pay. Well, they could wait, if he bothered to open them at all. The pink one he opened at once. It read:

  Dear Ben,

  I am pleased to have got a letter from you at last. I was afraid you hadn’t forgiven me for having to call things off last time. Unfortunately, Lionel had decided at the last minute that he wanted to show me the house he has bought in Kensington, so I had no alternative but to spend the whole weekend there with him. At least it will have saved you the cost of a stay in London.

  It is a lovely house in a very respectable area, and I think he will better prefer to use it rather than the one in Belgravia when he comes to London. It has one of those new-fangled telephones installed. As a matter of fact, I think the telephone is the only reason he bought it. It’s a pity you haven’t got a telephone as we could speak to one another instead of writing. I am not the best letter writer in the world, as you will have guessed.

  Anyway, I am pleased you are coming to London again. I can arrange to see you over Easter. There will still be shows to do of course, and rehearsals, but the nights afterwards will be our own. Lionel is in France for the next few weeks.

  Fondest,

  K

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  On a windy Easter Monday morning, Priss Meese became the wife of the Reverend Cuthbert Delacroix. They were married at the church of St Michael in Brierley Hill. Because Priss was more pragmatic than her sister, she intended the occasion would be neither as lavish nor as heavily peopled as Harriet’s wedding, so only immediate families and other close relations were invited.

  Priss walked into the cool tranquillity of the old red-brick church to meet Cuthbert on her father’s arm. Following her was Harriet, six months pregnant and showing it, but happy to be the bride’s sole attendant. Cuthbert stood waiting for P
riss, looking reasonably pleased with himself. He greeted his bride with a broad smile as she reached his side, and she gazed at him through her veil with utter devotion in her eyes. She could scarcely believe that today was her wedding day. Only six months ago she was convinced she would never have the good fortune to be a married lady. Yet here she was, ready to pledge the vows that were to transmute her into the wife of Cuthbert Delacroix.

  The ceremony seemed to pass quickly. One minute she was declaring her vows in front of the vicar, the gold ring was firmly on her third finger. Then next minute – or so it seemed – she was in the vestry signing the register and aware of a perpetual smile on her face.

  Before she knew it, she was back down the aisle again, but this time a married woman, and on Cuthbert’s arm. The ‘Wedding March’ thundered appropriately from the church organ and through the nave like a fanfare. Next, they were out in the porch, greeted by the blustery wind. Out in the open, with a view that encompassed Staffordshire and Worcestershire, the same photographer who had officiated at Harriet’s wedding, organised them into suitable poses. Priss’s mother and father wore contented expressions – a second daughter successfully matched – only five more to go…Rice rained down onto the happy couple, prompting more joy and laughter, then there was the short walk to the Bell Hotel across the street, with Priss holding on to her veil for dear life lest the vigorous wind snatch it.

  Sheltered inside the Bell’s portal, Priss and Cuthbert stood waiting to receive their guests. It was the first time Priss had met any of the Delacroix family. Everybody was amiable, conversation was bright, and the atmosphere was jolly. Eli Meese, acutely conscious of the Delacroix family’s elevated social status, was unflagging in his efforts to make Cuthbert’s ageing parents feel welcome and at home, and his own family less inferior. All seemed to be going well.

  Before they sat down to eat, the vicar said grace. After the meal came the speeches, and the traditional toasts, including the one when everybody stood, raised their glasses, and called in joyous unison, ‘The Reverend and Mrs Delacroix.’

  The other members of the two families began to mingle, happily swapping introductions. Harriet shifted her place to sit next to her sister at her sister’s behest. Priss wanted to talk, and kicked off her shoes under her dress; her feet were aching in her new tight shoes.

  ‘I thought I’d never get married,’ she remarked, ‘especially to a man like Cuthbert.’

  ‘Well, I must say, our Priss, until recently I too was convinced you were destined to be a spinster all your life, as I told you often enough.’

  ‘I know – stuck with mother and father till the last trump.’

  ‘But this trump came first, and quite unexpectedly, dear.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ smiled Priss. ‘How quickly one’s life and expectations can change…and I do think Priscilla Delacroix has such a distinguished ring to it.’ She sighed blissfully.

  ‘Babies will be next on the agenda,’ Harriet affirmed. ‘Count on it.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Priss said pensively. ‘Maybe…I take it you are feeling all right. You’re what? Six months?’

  Harriet nodded.

  ‘Do you still expect the new house to be ready for your confinement?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ Harriet responded. ‘Clarence is set on it. He’s pushing the builder hard. He reckons it should easily be finished and fully furnished by that time.’

  ‘You’re very fortunate, our Harriet. I hope you realise just how fortunate you are.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do.’

  ‘But you mustn’t think I’m jealous, dear. Far from it. I’m just happy for you.’

  Harriet placed her hand on Priss’s. ‘Thank you, our Priss. I’m happy for you too. It’s the end of an era, don’t you think? I mean, we’ve always been inseparable. Now we’re going our separate ways, setting off to lead new lives that are really poles apart.’

  ‘Good God, Harriet, you’re sounding ridiculously nostalgic. I’m assuming this change is for the better. Neither shall we be poles apart. You and Clarence – and the new baby of course – will come and visit Cuthbert and me at the vicarage regularly, just as often as you like. Indeed, please bring your cook along so she can do Sunday dinner while we are all at church listening to Cuthbert’s words of wisdom, spouted from his new pulpit. Likewise, we shall have the brass neck to deposit ourselves on you – quite regularly. I look forward to seeing you in the regal splendour of your new home, attended by all your impeccably presented servants.’

  ‘And a gardener. And a footman,’ Harriet added proudly, her bottom lip protruding and turning down at the corners. ‘We shall send the footman to collect you from the railway station in our new carriage.’

  ‘Oh, but of course, a new carriage.’ Priss spoke as if she expected nothing less from her devoted sister with the new-found wealth.

  ‘Clarence would have one now, but we have nowhere to keep it – nor horses either – until we move. He will order one, though, from Preece and Sons in Dudley. Just as soon as we move in. Clarence reckons they’re the best carriage builders for miles.’

  ‘And we can rest assured that he would desire nothing but the best for you, our Harriet.’

  Harriet smiled contentedly. ‘I like to think so.’

  * * *

  Benjamin Sampson’s Easter was less joyous. The affair with Kate Stokes resumed, and he was relieved by his conviction that what he had witnessed that miserable night when he followed her to Kensington was all above board. She had been with her husband after all. He had misjudged her. So, reassured, the affair looked set to continue, with visits to London every couple of weeks, sometimes midweek, sometimes at a weekend, depending on Kate’s availability and disposition.

  However, Benjamin began to suffer from a niggling feeling that she was becoming less enthusiastic, as if their familiarity was triggering indifference. She was still cooperative with his bedtime endeavours and the potential for sexual fulfilment, but her responses did not seem as wholehearted as they were in the beginning. Was there another man in her life? Did he still have some strong competition? This began to engender some anxiety and doubt in his ability to fulfil her coital expectations, with the result that he sometimes failed to, especially at the first hurdle. In his anxiety he was unable to last the course, climaxing too quickly.

  This state of affairs lasted for some weeks.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she complained, the first time they coupled one such weekend. ‘You’ve spent too quick – again. Can’t you wait for me?’

  ‘It’ll be better next time,’ he promised, feeling like a virgin lad on his initiation.

  ‘’Tis to be hoped,’ she replied tellingly.

  Next visit, the same thing happened.

  ‘Ben, you’re useless,’ she protested.

  ‘Sorry,’ he replied, mortified. ‘I’ll do better. Give me half an hour.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Knit?’ She rolled over and turned her back on him.

  And the more he perceived that she disdained his performance, the more his performance suffered. She had such an overwhelming effect on him, he tried to explain; he desired her so much that sometimes he could not contain himself.

  In this respect, he was reassured when he returned to Maude and discovered that his execution with her was still exemplary. The problem had to be with Kate. Her attitude towards him was all wrong, making him doubt his own prowess and virility. She should be more loving, more considerate. She should offer him encouragement, not disdain. She should make it plain how much she enjoyed his lovemaking. It would be nice too if, just once, she would tell him that she loved him.

  But she never did.

  All this angst made him more anxious to win her totally, and prompted him to go ahead and arrange the start of the renovations to Holly Hall House. Commencement would coincide with receipt of his decree absolute, based on the recommendations and drawings of Charles Voysey, who submitted a hefty bill for his services.
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  * * *

  Marigold received a letter on the 15th of June, a Thursday. It was a request from Aurelia to accompany her to view a furnished terraced house that was available to rent, which she had seen offered in the Brierley Hill Advertiser. She valued her sister’s opinion, she said. Marigold duly handed the letter to Algie to read when they were in their bedroom.

  ‘I could go on Tuesday,’ she said. ‘But I’d have to take the children. I could hardly expect your mother to cope, especially with our Frances.’ Her concern for Frances was not because the child was ailing – she was not – but Clara could hardly feed the child if she were away longer than the routine intervals between feeding times. And Frances grew decidedly unhappy when she was hungry.

  ‘I expect she wants you to go ’cause she’s got nobody else to turn to,’ Algie answered. ‘But she can’t afford to rent a house and keep herself and Christina. If only Benjamin was about to cough up.’

  ‘But he won’t cough up, Algie. He ain’t going to cough up to keep Christina either, is he?’

  ‘Christina is my responsibility,’ Algie asserted. ‘I wouldn’t want him to pay for Christina’s keep. I shall pay. But I feel responsible for Aurelia as well, because I was the cause of her divorce. I’m inclined to pay her rent, and pay towards their keep. Do you think I should?’

  Marigold pondered the issue in all seriousness for a moment and, typically, arrived at a logical response. ‘If I put myself in Aurelia’s shoes, I’d be grateful for whatever help I could get, but she ain’t the sort to accept charity.’

  ‘It’s hardly charity, is it, my flower? How else is she to live if somebody doesn’t support her? That child is mine, my responsibility, the same as our Rose and our Frances are my responsibility. I couldn’t live with myself…’

  ‘Yes, I know, Algie,’ Marigold conceded, privately approving of his sense of responsibility, yet feeling that it meant she was having to share him with Aurelia. ‘And I reckon it’s all very decent of you. If only that blasted Benjamin was half as decent. Can we afford it, though, the way things are?’