by Valerie Wood
James felt such a sinking feeling that his body felt like lead. ‘Oh,’ he managed to say. ‘I trust she is well.’
Romanelli nodded his head and then tapped the cigar ash onto the wooden floor. ‘Quite well. The sea air is doing her good. Come, James, we will collect your painting and get a cab, and I will go with you to Chelsea. I wish to talk with you.’
The cabbie dropped them at James’s lodging and, after depositing his paints and canvas in his room, they returned to the river side and sat together on a wooden seat, gazing out at the river.
‘How is your father?’ Romanelli asked after a while.
James was startled; he had not thought of his father all day and yet he had been constantly on his mind until today. ‘He is dead. I was too late, he had died the morning I arrived.’
‘I am so sorry to hear that. You will miss him, James.’
‘Not so much here,’ James admitted, ‘for he was never part of the life I lead here. But I missed him terribly at home. The house seemed so empty without him.’ He remembered how he had climbed the stairs to his father’s room. The first thing he had seen were his slippers lying abandoned by the bed, and then his father’s body lying so cold and still and vacant.
‘He was a good man – a good father to me.’
‘Yes, indeed. It is hard to be a good father, but I am sure that he was one,’ Romanelli replied softly.
They watched the sun throw golden shafts of light on the water as it lapped below their feet, and listened to the shrieks of the gulls as they followed the ships up river.
‘And your mama, how is she? Is she very unhappy?’
‘She is coping very well.’ She has changed, James thought. It is as if my father’s death has made her softer, kinder, more understanding.
‘You must not blame your mama too much,’ Romanelli said suddenly. ‘Mothers have much to worry them.’
James looked curiously at Romanelli. Whatever did he mean? ‘Did you know them well?’ he asked. ‘My parents? I don’t remember them ever mentioning you.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Romanelli shifted his position and recrossed his legs. ‘But yes, I did know them well, for a short time, anyway. I stayed at your home. I – I wanted to paint the river.’
‘And did you?’ James kept his eyes on Romanelli’s face.
‘No. I was not in the mood; too restless to concentrate. But later, when I returned to Italy, then I painted. I painted what I remembered. And that is what you must do, James.’ He turned to him and gazed candidly into his eyes. ‘Do not waste any of life’s experience, be it happy or sad. Store it away, and one day you will use it.’
‘And what did you paint, Signor, when you returned home? What was it that you remembered most of all of our northern country?’
‘I painted your mama, James. I painted her so that I would never forget.’
The sun started to sink as they sat there, changing the golden river into a rippling ribbon of scarlet. Presently James broke the silence.
‘Did you love my mother?’
‘Yes. I loved only two women in my life, and she was one.’
It’s strange, James thought. I never thought of my mother in that sense. She seemed incapable of showing any emotion, except – except— From the recesses of his mind came an image of himself as a child sitting on his mother’s lap, and of her arms around him as she wept. How odd that I should remember that now. ‘And she loved you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did my father know?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’ Romanelli got up from the seat and walked to the river’s edge. He stood for a few moments contemplating its flow. Then he turned around to face James. ‘I let her down very badly; but what was I to do? We were both married to other people, and she would not have run away with me to a foreign country. And I, well, I was worse, I could not have given up my wife; she was rich, her family was influential, I would have been ostracized in my own country.’
‘Love can be a terrible thing,’ James said passionately. ‘Sometimes I think that it is unbearable. But still,’ he added quietly, ‘there is no harm done. It is over with.’
‘No, James.’ Romanelli sat beside him again. ‘It is never done with. Love and its consequences can stay for ever.’
James stared bewildered. ‘What are you saying, sir?’
‘I am saying, James, that you are my son. That your father, Isaac, who was surely a better father than I could ever be, was not your own, but that I am.’
James felt tears fill his eyes. My father! But my father – he loved me as only a father can, whereas this man—! He felt that his head would burst. He could not take it in, and yet so many things fell into place. He had always been different from Gilbert and Anne. Different even from the rest of the Rayner family.
‘You left my mother to suffer this alone?’ he stammered.
Pain showed in Romanelli’s eyes. ‘I suffered too,’ he defended himself. ‘And your mother had the love of a good man to sustain her.’
‘But you had the love of your wife,’ James declared defiantly. ‘You said that you loved her.’
‘No!’ Romanelli looked away. ‘I did not say that! I said that I had loved only two women in my life, but perhaps I should have said three. One was your mother. The other was Mariabella’s mother. Mariabella is my daughter.’
James mentally reeled as the significance of Romanelli’s words struck him. Mariabella! Not Mariabella! But I love her – have loved her. What shall I do? Does she know?
‘When I met your mother, Mariabella was eight years old. Her mother and I had been lovers when we were very young, and she was the consequence. Our families disapproved of our relationship and she was forced to marry an older man. She was very unhappy, and she died of a fever within a year.’ Romanelli gazed into the distance, lost in the past. ‘Mariabella was looked after by a relation until I was able to support her. She was the reason that I married my wife; with her money I was able to bring up Mariabella in a proper way.’
‘But Mariabella said that you were a friend of her father’s!’ James struggled to comprehend.
Romanelli nodded. ‘Her uncle; she always referred to him as her padre – her papa. We did become friends over the years. Mariabella did not know then that I was her father.’
‘And now?’ said James, his voice breaking. ‘Does she know now?’
‘Si, James. Now she does. That is why she has gone away.’
After Romanelli had left, and James returned to his lodgings, he let his emotions rise to the surface and wept. ‘I must never see her again. Never hold her in my arms. How shall I ever bear it?’ He blew his nose and rinsed his swollen eyes and paced the floor. I will kill myself. There is nothing left for me. I have no life without her. My sister! Mariabella is my sister! He broke into a fresh spasm of weeping. I have no-one. No-one that I can turn to. I cannot speak to my mother of this, and my father, the only one who would understand, is dead.
His thoughts stopped him short in his pacing. But thank God that he didn’t know. How I would have hated him to know that my mother had been unfaithful and that I wasn’t his son. My poor father; it would have killed him! But my mother, how she, too, must have suffered. For the first time in his life, he felt empathy with his mother. I know now how she must have felt – to have loved in vain.
He contemplated how he would die: should it be by poison, or should he throw himself under a train as he had once told Mariabella that he would? But he didn’t know about poisons and he might buy the wrong one and suffer a lingering death. No. It must be quick. The train is the thing. But how? Should I throw myself from the platform under the wheels, or buy a ticket and leap from a moving train?
His stomach rumbled while he was considering, and he cut himself a slice of bread and poured a glass of wine. He had a headache with all the weeping, and, after he had eaten and drunk his wine, he lay down on the horsehair sofa and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, his neck was stiff and
his legs cramped, the morning sunlight was creeping in through his basement window and someone was hammering on the door.
It was Romanelli, bearing a warm crusty loaf, a hunk of cheese and some ham. ‘I remember that I never had any food in the house when I was a young artist,’ he said as he bundled in at the door, ‘so I bought all of this. I will make you a proper breakfast and then we can talk. Today you can think better, yes?’
James gazed at him through bleary eyes. He had nothing to say to the man – the man who had ruined his life and Mariabella’s.
‘You will feel better after eating, you cannot think on an empty stomach.’
James watched him sullenly as he busied himself. He put the bread in the middle of the table and sliced the cheese and ham and laid it out in a concentric circle on a plate. ‘We have good food in Italy, you know. We have delicious fish, delectable fruit – oranges, the sweetest melons which drip juice down your chin, tomatoes, olives.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers in an extravagant gesture. ‘And of course the juice of the grape. You will love it, James.’
‘I have no plans to go there,’ he answered bitterly. ‘I have no plans at all.’
‘No? That is because you have suffered a shock. But you must consider, you have had only a short life so far; you have been comfortable and had a stable existence.’ Romanelli pointed with a knife. ‘Your parents have supported you. Now is the time for you to think for yourself what you will do with the rest of your life.’ He pulled out a chair and invited James to sit down and eat. James smelled the warm bread and realized that he was hungry.
‘And I can help you. If you will allow me. I would like to.’ Romanelli tore off a crust of bread with his hands and began to eat. Then he looked at James with an appeal in his dark eyes. ‘You must remember, James, that I, too, have been deprived all these years. Your father, Isaac, has had the love of my son, and I have had nothing.’ He slowly wiped the crumbs from about his beard and mouth. ‘I beg of you, James, to let me make up for the loss of those years. Come back with me to Italy.’
32
‘Sammi! You’re not content with bringing one child here, but must bring another! What on earth am I supposed to do with her?’
‘We thought, Billy and I—’ Sammi knew very well that her mother had an extra soft spot for her brother, ‘that she could be trained as a kitchen maid. She hasn’t a chance of employment in Hull, Mama. No-one would take her, and she is so vulnerable.’
‘Yes, yes. So you told me. But we don’t need another kitchen maid. Cook will not be pleased.’ She tapped her fingers together. ‘How old is she?’
‘About thirteen, I think.’ Sammi felt hope rising. ‘She’s so very bright, and quick-witted.’
‘The right age,’ her mother agreed, then frowned. ‘But is she honest? If she’s been begging for food, then the chances are that she has also stolen in order to exist. It’s a risk for us to take.’
‘Possibly so, Mama. But if you saw those children for yourself perhaps you would understand, if indeed they do steal. When I saw them for the first time,’ she implored, ‘I thought of Adam. If we hadn’t rescued him he might have shared the same fate.’
‘Yes, yes,’ her mother repeated testily. ‘But we cannot be expected to rescue the entire destitute population of Hull. Someone in authority should be attending to the situation!’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Sammi smiled. ‘We knew you would agree. At least, Billy said that you would.’
‘What?’
‘He’s waiting for an interview with a benefactor. Gilbert is arranging it,’ she added. ‘Billy wants to get something organized to help these children.’
Her mother groaned. ‘Oh, goodness. Whatever am I to do with the pair of you? I don’t know what your father is going to say!’
‘If you approve, Mama,’ Sammi said slyly, ‘he won’t say a word. You know he won’t.’
Martha knocked on the door. ‘Beg pardon, ma-am. May I speak to you for a moment?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Beg pardon, Mrs Rayner, it’s just—’ She glanced at Sammi out of her eye corner. ‘Well, what am I to do about ’young maid?’ She indicated somewhat disparagingly over her shoulder toward the kitchens. ‘She’s filthy! Full o’ fleas!’
‘Oh heavens! Could she have a bath?’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask, ma-am. If she’s staying she’s not going between my clean sheets in ’state she’s in now.’ The housekeeper gave a snort. ‘And ’other maids won’t want her in ’same bedroom as them.’
‘Then give her a bath and some clean clothes, and she looks half-starved from what I saw of her, so give her something to eat.’
‘Oh, she’s had that already, ma-am. Cook gave her some chicken broth and she sat and ate it on ’kitchen doorstep. She said she didn’t want to come in ’house and was there a shed or somewhere she could sleep.’
‘Oh we can’t have that.’ Her mistress was definite. ‘Is there somewhere we can put her until we decide what’s to be done?’
‘There’s ’small box-room on ’top landing, ma-am. I could put a truckle in there.’
‘Very well, and when she’s cleaned up, send her in to see me.’
Sammi said not a word as her mother rose from her chair and paced the floor. Then she stood by the window and gazed out. ‘I won’t promise anything, Sammi, but we’ll see how she turns out. If she thieves but once, she goes straight back where she came from.’ She turned towards her daughter. ‘But if she’s suitable, honest and hard-working, and if Martha is willing to train her, then perhaps she can go to the mill house. She might be the answer to Betsy’s problem.’
Sammi gave her a quick hug. ‘Thank you so much. She’ll be good, I know she will. She was so eager to come. I hadn’t the heart to turn her away.’
‘I’ve heard that before, Sammi,’ her mother rebuked her. ‘But please don’t let me hear it again.’ She gave an impatient gesture. ‘What a pretty kettle of fish you have brought about, Sammi. First Adam—’
‘Not me, Mama,’ Sammi said bluntly, ‘or James. It’s Gilbert, isn’t it? He is Adam’s father!’
‘You know?’ A frown crossed her mother’s forehead. ‘Did Gilbert …?’
‘Oh, no!’ Sammi’s lips tightened as her mother’s words confirmed her suspicions. ‘Gilbert did not say! He was hardly likely to, was he?’ she mocked. ‘He let James take the blame and let me take charge of Adam without saying a word. He certainly didn’t tell! I don’t know why I didn’t realize before,’ she raged. ‘It is so obvious now that we do know.’
‘He told me,’ her mother said softly. ‘He knows he has made a terrible mistake.’
‘But will he admit it to anyone else?’
Her mother sighed and shook her head. ‘Only James. I insisted on that. He’s afraid of Harriet finding out. He’s a foolish young man,’ she said, ‘but he has agreed to give an allowance for Adam, and he says he will find someone to take him.’ She gazed candidly at Sammi. ‘It’s up to us whether or not we tell, Sammi. Do we ruin his marriage before it has begun? Or do we wait for Gilbert’s own conscience to dictate?’ As Sammi remained silent, she added, ‘He will be a better man for his own admission of guilt.’
‘So everyone else must suffer? We keep his secret, James is banished to London, and my marriage chances are apparently lessened.’ Sammi gave a small sob. ‘Perhaps I, too, made a mistake, Mama. Perhaps I should have left Adam to the tender mercies of the workhouse guardians. It would have been so much better for everyone, wouldn’t it?’
‘Sammi!’ her mother reproached her.
Sammi went towards the door. ‘Excuse me, Mama. I am going to my room.’ She put her hand on the door-knob. ‘But Gilbert will answer for this. Sooner or later he will repay his debt.’
‘Nothing much is happening, I’m afraid,’ Billy wrote to Sammi three weeks later. ‘Gilbert hasn’t been able to see Mr Pearson yet, which is very disappointing, so in the meantime I have been calling on traders to ask for their support.’
Not that that had been very successful either, he thought as he walked down Whitefriargate to post the letter. He had approached various tradesmen to enquire if they would be willing to contribute to a scheme to help the destitute children of the town. Some of them gave their names willingly, prompted, he felt sure, by their desire to appear philanthropic; others stated flatly that they wouldn’t give so much as a button, because in their opinion the children were nothing more than ruffians and thieves in the making. He courteously thanked even the most impolite and made a note of their names in a separate list from those who were willing, and vowed to himself that he would return and ask again, once a scheme was under way.
Three days later, in immediate response to his letter, Sammi arrived in Hull with a clean, well-scrubbed Jenny, who dipped her knee when she saw him.
‘Martha said Jenny needed some shoes and other things. She’s been wearing old clothes belonging to one of the other maids, but they’re all too big for her, so I volunteered to bring her in,’ she explained. ‘But really I thought that I would speak to Gilbert and ask how he’s getting on with Mr Pearson.’
Billy shook his head. ‘But I told you in my letter, he hasn’t seen him yet. Gilbert just hasn’t had the time.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Poor Gilbert. So busy! Is he in now?’
‘Yes. Shall I tell him you’re here?’
‘No.’ She smiled sweetly at her brother. ‘I’ll surprise him.’
Gilbert had his back to her when she opened the door after perfunctorily knocking. He turned from the filing cabinet and started on seeing her. ‘Sammi! Why – what brings you here? Nothing wrong at home, I trust?’
‘Nothing more than usual, Gilbert. Just the daily traumas of life. The usual ups and downs of family life: quarrels, misunderstandings, retribution and so on, you know how it is.’
She stared him in the face, then burst out, ‘How could you? How could you let James take the blame? How could you let your father go to his grave thinking that it was James who had fathered Adam?’ She hadn’t intended to confront him, merely insinuate that she knew, in order to persuade him to help Billy. But her resentment, which had been simmering for the last weeks over the injustice of the situation, suddenly boiled over.
