Ladies of Disgrace Box Set

by Vicki Hopkins

December arrived, and the war raged on. The opinion among the locals had been we would soon win the conflict and the men would return home. As the weeks wore on and fighting increased worldwide, I realized our patriotic notions had been prideful utterances.

  The holidays came and went with little pomp at Stratton Park. We decorated the tree, attended church, and exchanged presents as required by custom but did so with little joy or fanfare in Benedict’s absence. The hypocrisy of peace on earth and goodwill to men overshadowed Christmas. When the New Year arrived, we prayed 1915 would bring armistice, returning Benedict safely home.

  Olivia heard nothing from Thomas until a letter came announcing unsettling news that his regiment had received their orders that he would be sailing for Egypt. The post sent poor Olivia into a tizzy.

  “Egypt!” she wailed. “How could they send him so far away? It will take months to receive correspondence from him.”

  Once again, I had returned to consoling her troubled state of mind. Truthfully, I couldn’t understand either why they sent him so far away. The war engulfed the world like a raging, untamable fire. When reading the newspapers, it looked as if every country on the face of the globe fought against another.

  In the first few months, Benedict corresponded frequently. The letters arrived addressed to both his mother and myself, containing sparse details. Due to his rank, he could only convey general information, but we knew he was in France. Once at the front lines and engaged in battle, we knew his letters would be rare. I found it heartbreaking he did not write to me directly to express any personal thought or affection during our separation. Naturally, he mentioned how he missed Percy and then closed his letters wishing us well.

  Spring arrived, and the community continued to rally for various causes, holding recruitment activities and numerous patriotic parades. Antialcohol campaigners from the Order of the Sons of Temperance reasserted the folly of drink as more pubs overcrowded with patrons seeking to drown their worries in ale. Temperance members expressed the evils of alcohol by pulling floats through the streets depicting two types of families. On one side, the well-cared-for wife and children by a sober head of the household. On the other side, a poor family, struggling because of the husband’s overindulgence. In all honesty, I found a glass of port necessary to ease my anxieties during wartime. There were more evils in the world besides drink.

  If drinking hadn’t been one social concern, another rose with boys and girls coming before Police Court because of theft. Delinquent juveniles stole anything they could get their hands on in town. From pickpockets to shoplifters, the numbers increased in Birmingham as unsupervised youngsters roamed the streets while mothers worked to make ends meet. The resulting lack of childcare and no father figure to control the children exacerbated the problem.

  The magistrates’ answer had been to give a stern warning, but if a second offense occurred, the children received a good birching for their wrongful deeds. The newspapers reported unruly lads received up to fifty strokes with a rod! I believed the practice barbaric to beat children so cruelly, thinking they should have the minors perform restitution to their victims instead. Oddly enough, as the birching continued, the police and courts admitted to newspaper journalists the practice didn’t always meet with success.

  As more men left for war, new job opportunities opened up for women. The occasion gave ladies a platform to prove their abilities in spite of being the so-called weaker sex. Of course, men initially complained about females doing their work. With the majority of the male population gone, someone had to do the jobs left unattended. The situation, too, had given women an avenue to increase their voice for women’s rights, which I found agreeable if nothing else.

  The newspapers filled with pictures of battalions in uniform and announcements of upcoming patriotic parades as men prepared to leave for training camps. As the months passed, the sad advertisements of rolls of honor filled the columns naming the fallen in battle. There were also heroic stories of soldiers taking brave risks for king and country, who were awarded medals for their courage.

  As I thought about the lonely months that could very well turn into years, I recognized Olivia and I could not stay idle or we would lose our minds with worry. As wives, we needed to keep busy. The wounded had arrived at hospitals, which were at capacity, and the representatives from the War Office and the British Red Cross Society had commandeered schoolhouses to accommodate soldiers. However, my skills as a nurse were lacking, as well as my ability to stand the sight of blood. I had no desire to help in that stead even though the need had been great.

  By June of 1915, my calling had arrived. The country, now inundated by refugees from Belgium fleeing Germany’s invasion, flooded the city. Olivia had been the first to show an ounce of empathy for their plight. The aldermen set up temporary housing for the influx of families, but the eventual goal was to find permanent homes during the war. A Belgian Relief Fund had been established, which aided in the expenses of their accommodations.

  Olivia, in her sweetness, found a single mother with a toddler and immediately took them into her home. It filled the lonely void in her life, keeping her mind occupied with another task. With pride, I watched her give unselfishly to help another and simultaneously felt guilty I had done nothing of the sort when I possessed far better and larger accommodations to share. Benedict’s mother had done nothing further regarding his parting words to use the house either. Guilty over our inaction, I felt compelled to change the situation.

  After mustering enough courage to introduce the subject, I approached Florence with the suggestion we open our home to the needy. One particular afternoon, after finding her in a more than usual congenial mood, I made the proposal.

  “My friend Olivia has performed a very kind and selfless gesture,” I started, hoping it would open the door to the conversation.

  “And what is that?” She lifted her head from the book she was reading, looking slightly miffed at my interruption.

  “She has taken into her household a widowed mother and her daughter who are Belgium refugees.” As I kept my gaze on her, looking for a reaction, I could not tell what she thought of my announcement. Florence said nothing, glanced down at her book, and shut it.

  “I sense this introduction is about to lead us down another path,” she replied. Florence folded her hands and waited for me to speak.

  After shifting slightly in my seat to get comfortable, I continued. “There are many needs in the community, Florence, and I feel we have the capacity to help, but we are not.”

  Her lips pursed together as if she were silently pondering how to reply. Anxious to continue, I opened my mouth to speak, but she interjected her thoughts beforehand.

  “Well, I suppose we could bring in a few soldiers for convalescing. Lady Beecham mentioned to me they opened their manor house to ten men.”

  Surprised at the suggestion, I hadn’t thought she would care for the wounded to fill our rooms. Unfortunately, I hated to admit I still found an aversion to that scenario and wanted something more amenable. The mere thought of the wounded increased my anxiety regarding Benedict that he, too, could become injured or even killed.

  “That may be noble, but I understand the critical need at the moment happens to be the Belgium refugees. Some of the lodgings have been taken away because of the arrival of wounded who need medical care.”

  Her facial expression turned sour. “You’re not suggesting we fill our home with refugees? We have no idea who those foreigners are.”

  Her nostrils rose as if she thought it repulsive. Anticipating her objection, I already formed my response.

  “There are many individuals from different classes, Florence, that need housing. I’ve already made some inquiries in that regard.” As I watched her glare at me in defiance, I held my own, maintaining a firm but calm voice. “They are not all poor vagabonds who want to intrude upon English hospitality. Some upstanding families were displaced as well.”

  Florence, apparently surprised at my
insistence, raised her brow. Her demeanor tempered somewhat as she inquired further.

  “And do you know of any families in particular?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have found two whom I think will be most agreeable to offer refuge at our home. I’ve already made inquiries with the Belgium Relief Council regarding their background and character.”

  “And who would they be?”

  “A surgeon is working at the hospital. He is a widower and has a young daughter ten years of age. I understand he has a son too, but he’s been wounded in battle and is recuperating locally.”

  “A surgeon, you say?” Florence stared at me while she continued to ponder the possibilities. “And the other family?”

  “They are an elderly couple who have no other family to care for their needs. The husband is a retired schoolmaster.” Purposely I lowered the tone of my voice to one of sympathy, hoping to influence her further.

  “And have you met these people?”

  “Not yet, but if it is agreeable to you, I will make an appointment for us to do so together. With only two families, we should be more than able to do our share, and it won’t be a strain on the finances since we will receive a small stipend from the Relief Fund for their care.”

  To my shock, she released a puff of air noting her disapproval over my comment.

  “Nonsense. The Relief Fund can keep the money and use it for other deserving families. Benedict would wish it as such for he has never shown himself to be anything but a generous man.” Florence hesitated for one moment and continued. “As long as the refugees speak English—that is all I ask.”

  Her requirement was reasonable. Overwhelmed at her offering, I could not help myself and acted out of character. I rose to my feet, bent down, and gave her a quick hug of approval, which apparently shocked her.

  “Now, now, that’s enough.” Florence gave me a gentle push away. “Make the appointment to meet these displaced individuals so we can work with the staff to accommodate their needs.”

  “Thank you, Florence.” As I stood up, her eyes glistened with tears. I should not have judged her by her motives. Nevertheless, I surmised she conceded to the arrangement for her son’s sake. Though she never spoke of his safety or the possibility that he might never return, like any other mother, Florence worried. She buried those fears as I had hidden mine, under the shield of good manners to show oneself strong in times of testing.

  None of us had any idea if the months might stretch into years. On the other hand, constant anxiety would rob us of other fruitful endeavors while our loved ones fought the terrible war.

  Chapter Five

  Welcome to Our Homeland

  Doctor Martin Reyer and his daughter Celia were the first to arrive at Stratton Park. A few days later, Mr. and Mrs. Smit, a sweet, elderly couple who knew some English added to the assortment of boarders. Suddenly the house filled with individuals from the Continent, whose languages and culture were new to me.

  The Reyers were from the southern French-speaking area of Belgium, while the Smits were from the north where the official language was Dutch. Educated and able to speak English, both Doctor Reyer and his daughter communicated well, albeit with an accent I found pleasant. Their son, Stefan, who recovered from severe injuries sustained in battle, would join us in another week to recuperate in our home. We had not the opportunity to meet him beforehand.

  Florence instantly formed a rapport with Gretta. Her husband, Hugo, appeared less engaging and cautious in our midst. Surely having lost their homes and familiar surroundings had been a painful adjustment to life in England. All the same, they did their best to communicate and settle into the household.

  Gretta, who was in her early seventies and spry in her step, loved to bake. She immediately immersed herself into our kitchen staff, refusing to keep idle and helping with baked goods. Our cook, Ethel, had been patient in spite of Gretta’s intrusion, allowing her ample freedom to indulge the household in scrumptious pastries.

  Hugo, an avid gardener, was tall and skinny as a scarecrow. He admired our beautiful landscape, insisting on helping out of doors. I held some concern they were trying to earn our hospitality but later realized they needed busy occupations to keep their minds engaged.

  Doctor Reyer portrayed a somber attitude toward everyone at Stratton Park. Early in our introduction, I discovered him to be a man of few words. He possessed a full head of silver-colored hair that matched his mustache. Instead of being plump like other men his age, he had kept himself in shape and carried an air of intelligence about his personality. He routinely spent ten to twelve hours a day away from the estate, working at the hospital. With surgeons in shortage, the local health facility eagerly utilized his skills to help with the incoming wounded. Most evenings he did not take dinner with us but returned late at night and leaving at daybreak. Our driver made sure he had adequate transportation to and from the hospital at all hours of the day. It reminded me our staff had made many concessions to accommodate our new guests, and I expressed my gratefulness to each of them.

  Celia, ten years of age, presented herself as a shy young lady undoubtedly affected by the uprooting from her home in the midst of turmoil. The majority of the time, her father gave her glancing kisses as he came and went, but little other interaction occurred between the two. Honestly, I felt sorry for the young girl, and being a mother myself, we swiftly bonded. After the first few days, she had attached herself to me like a lost puppy in need of reassurance and love, which I gladly gave her in return.

  Her features were adorable with mounds of curly, light brown hair that cascaded down her back in an unruly mass. My first order of business was to brush through her thick locks, gather her hair together, and tie it with a large pink ribbon at the back. Celia made it clear she despised her hair because it frizzed whenever it rained. In spite of the abundance of tresses swirling around her head, she had adorable dimples in both her cheeks when she smiled. Often I had the urge to kiss her like a doting mother but refrained from being too familiar. Florence, on the other hand, thought the girl a bit too rambunctious in her movements, noting Celia needed training on ladylike behavior.

  A week later, Doctor Reyer returned home early, bringing his son Stefan for further recuperation from his injuries. Before his arrival, I had not thought much about his presence in our household. Martin had told us how fortunate he had been that his regimental officer agreed to let him oversee his care at the hospital and approve his relocation to the estate. Apparently, many Belgian soldiers arrived in England for care after a terrible battle defending their homeland.

  When I first beheld him walking through the front entrance, he wore a tattered uniform and leaned heavily on a wooden cane to steady his limping gait. His tall and slender frame made him look malnourished. He bowed his head to watch his step, so I did not initially get a good look at his facial features. After halting a few feet away, he removed his military hat and glanced warily at his surroundings with a crinkled brow.

  Our eyes met one another. To my surprise and without forethought, I inhaled a sharp breath. Surprised at my reaction, I pulled my gaze away and looked at his father instead. Florence arrived at my side, and for her sake, I wrestled my unexplainable manner into one of respectability. My hands folded in front of my waist stood firmly in place, but I remained unable to speak an intelligible word. Florence must have sensed my tongue-tied state of mind and swiftly turned the awkward moment around.

  “You must be Stefan.” She greeted him in a compassionate tone. “Welcome to our home.”

  “May I introduce you to Lieutenant Reyer, my son,” his father responded with a proud glint in his eyes.

  “Thank you for your kind... kind hospitality,” Stefan replied with shy hesitation. He glanced at my mother and then turned his head and nodded at me. “Lady Grace, my father has mentioned to me that your husband, Major Russell, is serving in France.”

  His thick Belgian accent and deep voice had an uncanny soothing effect upon my ears. Poised with
a direct question, I opened my mouth and spoke in a composed tone.

  “Yes, that is correct. He often writes to his mother and me whenever he can, but I’m afraid his letters are less frequent than I would like.” Unsure what else I should convey on the matter, I felt the need to add a positive accolade for Benedict. “We are both very proud of him.”

  “Well, you must be tired,” remarked Florence. A concerned glance crossed her face as her eyes met his cane. “Oh dear, Lieutenant, we had planned on giving you one of the rooms on the second floor, but will you be able to navigate the staircase with your injuries?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Doctor Reyer replied in his stead. “At least another few weeks he should not extend his wounded limb to stair climbing.” He shook his head and grimaced. “I do apologize for not taking the time to speak of it beforehand. It’s been so busy at the hospital that my mind completely forgot he needed other accommodations.”

  “Already I am a bother.” Stefan sighed and shifted in his stance, grimacing as he did so. “Father is quite right; the stairs are a challenge.”

  Neither Florence nor I had thought about the inconvenience either. The home had no bedroom on the first floor. Even the servants’ quarters downstairs were out of the question. Then an idea much more agreeable came to mind though he might think it to be a bit isolated.

  “What about the cottage?” I suggested to Florence, thinking it would be a perfect location. “It’s on the boundary of Stratton Park and is usually used for our hunting guests.” Florence raised her eyebrow in surprise, and I feared she would balk at the idea.

  “You know, Grace is correct. It’s a comfortable one-story cabin. The quiet location gives a commanding view of the landscape.”

  “Is it far?” Doctor Reyer inquired. His brow crumpled as if he were nervous about the arrangement.

  “No, not at all,” I assured him in a kindly voice. “Less than a mile and we can certainly make sure that Lieutenant Reyer has everything he needs during his stay. We will send our driver to pick you up for dinner every night and bring your other meals as needed.”