St Stephen’s Church was of the era, but with traditional features. It served the thriving new estates in the area, which had spread out to South Kensington where the Summers lived. The church already had a well-deserved reputation for community work among the less fortunate in the slum areas of London, and its support of missionaries overseas.
Although the wedding was on a Friday, there was a good congregation and a warm welcome for the wedding party. The bridegroom and his best man were already in place at the steps to the altar, awaiting the bride. TF and Chas were dressed in their best uniforms but had placed their helmets on a side table. Their colleagues from the fire brigade had taken the back pews in order to make a quiet exit, for they would form a guard of honour when the newlywed couple emerged from the church.
Emma endeavoured to compose herself as she waited with Mr Summers and Frances in the porch for the bells to cease ringing, and the music announcing their arrival to begin. Frances held the modest posy of flowers with a lace handkerchief round the damp stems to protect Emma’s prayer book. ‘Keep your hands in the muff until the last minute and then lend it to me,’ she whispered.
Holding tight to Mr Summers’ arm, Emma proceeded down the aisle to the stirring ‘Wedding March’ by Felix Mendelssohn, to join the bridegroom, who turned his head to watch her progress. He caught his breath at the sight of her in her jewel-bright gown. There were gasps of appreciation from those gathered to witness Emma’s marriage to the handsome young fireman.
They made their vows, knelt for the prayers, the gold band was slipped on her finger, they sang ‘Love Divine All Loves Excelling’, and the vicar delivered his homily. Then suddenly it was over and time to sign the register with their witnesses: a fellow fireman and friend to TF and Chas, and young Nan, who duly signed herself as Ann Butterworth in her best handwriting. It was thoughtful Anna who had suggested her for this important task.
The newlyweds emerged into a flurry of snow, and hurried, laughing under the arch of fire hoses, fortunately not connected to water on this happy occasion.
Back at the reception, there was another surprise, a photographer with his bulky camera, and there were several flashes before they took their seats at the dining table for the wedding breakfast.
Although Emma missed the presence of her family, and TF missed his brother Rob, she thought how very fortunate she was that her employers were also friends. She would be leaving them later today but she hoped they would always be in touch.
The bride and groom took pride of place at the top of the table. Mr Summers was on Emma’s left with Frances, while TF had Chas, for moral support, on his right. Miss Maria was at the far end with her younger sisters. Anna helped them arrange their voluminous skirts, then sat alongside. Nan, of course, had gone straight to the kitchen to help Mrs Love, who grumbled a bit that, ‘Things is not where they used to be.’ Old Joseph poured the drinks and the maids hovered by the serving hatch, waiting for the first course to be delivered after the wedding party had partaken of the sliced fresh pineapple with half a glacé cherry on top.
Tender fillets of beef with hot, onion gravy, tureens of roast potatoes, buttered parsnips and diced carrots; a basket of fresh bread rolls and a pot of horseradish sauce – a meal to warm them up on a winter day, one which Emma’s mother had often cooked for her large family back on the farm.
For dessert there was apple pie: Mrs Love had not lost her light touch with the pastry, and the side with the cloves was marked with a ‘C’. Nan had made the custard and it poured, lump-free, from a tall jug. Those in the kitchen then sat down to enjoy their own meal after a job well done.
It was decided that the wedding cake should be cut later, before the departure of the bride and groom, but champagne fizzed in the crystal goblets and Mr Summers led the toasts, followed by a few words from the best man and the bridegroom. Emma was glad she was not called upon to speak, for she suddenly felt overwhelmed and tearful. TF passed her his handkerchief to dab her eyes.
When it was time to leave, Emma exchanged the fur cape for her mother’s wedding shawl, and she and TF were at last alone in a cab, with a blanket tucked round their knees while the cabbie overhead flicked the reins and urged the horse to ‘gee-up!’ as they moved away from the big white house into the dusk.
‘We’ll soon be home,’ TF assured her. Emma had not yet seen their rooms in Marylebone Passage, a narrow, cobbled street between Margaret Street and Wells Street – the latter ran between Oxford Street and Mortimer Street. Tall, gloomy old buildings were crowded along the passage, some multi-tenanted, but their new abode had been built more recently and housed two fire service families. TF had been fortunate to secure the ground floor apartment, with a shared cellar area for the delivery of coal, an outside privy and a yard with separate washing lines for the tenants.
They left the comforting gas lights of the main road and turned by the Gothic church at the corner. The notorious Golden Lion Alehouse at the head of the Passage had been demolished in the 1790s to make way for the Marylebone workhouse, which became too crowded and ill-equipped and was condemned in turn. A modern, purpose-built workhouse replaced this in Northumberland Street and became the largest workhouse in the country. The old site was taken over for residential building. Although TF had mentioned the Golden Lion to Emma, he thought it wise not to say that they would be living where the original workhouse had stood.
Once inside the living room, where the stove was already lit, the shiny new kettle singing on the hob thanks to TF’s friend upstairs, Emma sank down thankfully on the nearest chair. The furniture was second-hand but adequate, and the table would soon look more inviting, she thought, with a tablecloth and crockery set out from the boxes which waited to be unpacked. Off this good-sized square room was a scullery with a deep sink and copper for boiling the linen. A cupboard housed the new brooms, mops and slop buckets. There was even a shelf for books, and a mantelpiece for the clock and ornaments. TF lit the oil lamp. At least there was no smell of gas here, Emma thought, and there was a small pantry for food storage.
‘The bedroom is across the hall,’ TF said, ‘and there is a further room which can be used as a parlour or second bedroom if . . .’ He paused as he saw Emma blush. They hadn’t discussed it, but they were both hoping for a family of their own. He busied himself with the teapot. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ she agreed. ‘Shall we have it with our share of the cake?’
Later, when a modest blaze in the small bedroom grate had taken the chill off the room, they prepared for bed. It had been a long day, a happy one, of course, but it was a moment for reflection. Emma sat on a chair by the washstand in the flickering candlelight and followed her usual ritual. She undressed to her chemise but was unable to remove the corset without his help. TF soon loosened the lacing and she gave a sigh of relief. He was already in his nightshirt and ready for bed. ‘Thank you! I shan’t wear that instrument of torture again for a while,’ she said with feeling, as he padded over the bare floorboards and dived under the covers. She brushed her hair, washed her face and hands in the warm water TF had poured into the basin and then turned her back to the bed while she slipped her new nightgown over her head.
‘Are you coming?’ his voice was muffled by the purple eiderdown, a wedding present from the Summers, under his chin.
‘I must hang my dress in the closet,’ she replied. She glanced at the old trunk in passing. ‘Oh, where did that come from?’
‘It was my mother’s. Anna was looking after it for my sister Mary, but she said she had her mementoes, as we all have, and Anna should give it to you.’
‘That was kind of her. Is it empty?’
‘No. There are a few things which Mama considered precious – reminders of her old life, I suppose. You can look at them tomorrow.’
‘I must just read a passage from my bible and say my prayers, and then I’ll join you,’ she promised.
‘Nip the candle out, when you are ready,’ he said.
He mo
ved over, so that she could slide into the warm hollow where he had lain in the bed.
‘A feather mattress – you are spoiling me, Tom,’ she whispered appreciatively when she joined him.
‘Mama always longed for a new soft mattress, like the one Aunt Nesbit provided all those years ago. She would have loved you, Emma, she had lots of spirit too before we ended up in that awful place in Newcastle.’
‘I feel I know her, from what you and Anna have told me.’ She hugged him to her breast. One of us has to make the first move, she thought, it might as well be me. I wish I could tell Isabella how much I adore her precious son – but I am about to prove that to him.
FIFTEEN
London, 1864
January 1864 had come and gone, with another birthday for Emma, followed by their first wedding anniversary, which they celebrated at home with TF’s favourite steak and kidney pudding. Emma had been unable to wear her lovely red dress for she was heavily pregnant. The baby was due in six weeks. The local midwife was booked and the family crib had already arrived by carrier from William and Sarah. Emma had been busy hemming two dozen squares of terry-towelling for the baby’s napkins. Her sisters knitted tiny vests and jackets while Anna contributed four warm flannel gowns, which would be worn for the first months, whether boy or girl.
Emma sighed. She had a pile of washing to do, but it would freeze if hung outside, she thought. All summer she had taken a daily walk, although she found the surroundings depressing, for the grim buildings and narrow road occluded sunshine and light. But at least she got to talk to the shopkeepers and meet up with other fire service wives. Bess, who lived upstairs, told her these acquaintances had dubbed Emma ‘the duchess’. ‘They say you look and sound like a lady!’
TF had been called out in the night and returned to work after a brief visit just after dawn to eat a hastily prepared breakfast. Emma hadn’t gone back to bed and had been restless all day.
‘Don’t wait up for me,’ TF had advised earlier. So Emma wrote a note telling him what there was for his supper. Chicken soup in saucepan and plate of ham sandwiches and pickle in pantry . . .
She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten minutes past nine. As she folded her work and put it in the sewing basket, she felt a twinge in her back. Best get into bed and rest, she thought.
Just after midnight she threw back the bedclothes and, gasping with pain, managed to swing her legs out of bed. She gripped the bed rail, thinking she must be mistaken – it couldn’t possibly be the baby on its way – could it? Despite the chill, for TF hadn’t returned to light the fire in the bedroom so she guessed he was still tackling that big blaze at the docks, she felt sweat trickling from her forehead and running down her face. When the contraction subsided, she made her way on wobbly legs to the door. She went into the hall and reached for the walking stick in the stand. ‘Bang on the ceiling with it, and I’ll come,’ Bess had said the morning before when she called in to see Emma. She must have observed I was restless and put two and two together, Emma thought.
It took a few knocks to rouse Bess, but she came down as promised, to find the door on the latch. She took one look at Emma and decided to run around for the midwife. ‘I’ll borrow your shawl!’
She turned at the door, ‘Get back into bed, I should. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
It seemed an eternity to Emma as she struggled to cover the mattress with the newspapers they had saved for weeks, and heaved the precious purple eiderdown on to Isabella’s trunk, as she was determined it should not be spoiled. Then she subsided onto the bed and pulled the sheet over her and prayed help would come shortly. Surely TF would be home soon?
The midwife was a local woman who had followed her grandmother and mother into this age-old profession. Her qualifications were experience, patience and strength. She was a large woman with a reassuring manner. She gave brisk instructions to Bess, whose own two small children were being looked after by their grandmother, who lived with the family. Her husband was out firefighting with TF. Bess soon had the bedroom fire crackling and fetched hot water and towels. She made the crib ready, though she interpreted the midwife’s warning glance that the baby might be too small to survive.
It was mercifully a short labour and within three hours, still before dawn, a tiny baby girl gave her first feeble cry. She was swiftly wrapped in a soft flannel sheet and given immediately to her mother. ‘Is she . . .?’ Emma managed. The midwife nodded.
‘She is best in your arms, my dear. Keep her warm and secure. We cannot expect too much – but you must give her a name. Have you one in mind?’
Emma had been sure the baby would be a boy, she couldn’t say why. ‘The baby was to be called Thomas if it was a boy . . . Emma, I suppose, after me – and Augusta, which was my husband’s mother’s second name – we both like that.’ She looked at the baby, ‘Oh, she has her Irish grandfather’s red hair! Augusta is too regal a name for one so small, we’ll call her Gussie!’
TF, with his face blackened by smoke, knelt by the bed some two hours later. He gently stroked the tuft of red hair, which was all that was visible of the baby and asked, ‘Has she blue eyes?’
‘I haven’t seen them open yet . . .’ Emma said. ‘She hasn’t even been washed or dressed, but – she’s here, and breathing, thank God, and her name is Gussie. I hope you approve?’
‘Dearest Emma, I do,’ he said tenderly.
*
Anna was the first to hear the news. She arrived with presents from the Summers family, including some rather comical oversized bootees knitted by Frances. The new cook made up bottles of beef tea and Nan sent two big oranges with a home-made card of congratulations, From your friend (sic) Miss Ann Butterworth. The postman made daily deliveries from Emma’s family, too. Jerusha wrote, I hope to see you soon!
Emma sighed. She wasn’t experiencing the euphoria expected of a new mother. In fact, she was anxious and tearful. She carried the tiny baby about with her all day, tucked inside her bodice, to keep her warm. At night, the crib was drawn up to the bed and Emma remained vigilant, turning her back on her husband. She wasn’t aware that he was longing to comfort her and was worried about her as well as Gussie. When he tentatively stroked her shoulder, she stiffened, and he moved away.
Gussie at three months old weighed only as much as a normal full-term baby; she was like a doll, with her big blue eyes and curly bright hair. But her development was spasmodic due to recurrent chest infections and she had a chronic cough. Each month was a milestone. Feeding times were a nightmare for poor Emma, for the baby would only suckle feebly for a few minutes at a time. There was no time to cook substantial meals for TF as Emma had done in the first year of their marriage, and he returned, uncomplaining, to the Newcastle routine of bread and cheese.
As summer gave way to autumn, Gussie’s health seemed to improve a little. Enough to give them hope that she might grow stronger. Emma was still very protective of her precious firstborn, and Gussie was sitting up and attempting to crawl by the time they celebrated her first birthday. She could say a few words, including Dada and Mama, and she smiled a lot. Emma still carried her about, now on her hip, but she dare not take her out in the perambulator, for fear she would suffer another bout of bronchitis in the cold weather.
TF had been very patient, but he missed the intimacy of the marriage bed. Finally Emma turned back to him, finding comfort in his arms, and the following March she realised she was pregnant again.
*
In June, Jerusha was leaving Norfolk for a post in Sydenham. She wrote to Emma, ‘My new employers expect their first baby in September, so I will be needed to prepare the nursery a few weeks before this. May I spend the time between with you, Emma? It is so long since we were together! I can’t wait to meet TF and young Gussie as well!’
Chas Holmes offered to meet Jerusha from the station and to escort her to Marylebone Passage. He had thought that no other young woman could equal Emma in beauty and intelligence, but he kept these fee
lings to himself, because her husband was his best friend. When the carriage door opened and Jerusha stepped out onto the platform, he caught his breath. She was small like her sister, with dark hair and eyes, but slighter in build. A porter followed with her luggage on a trolley.
‘Charles Holmes?’ her voice was husky, her smile dazzling. She was wearing a navy-blue jacket and skirt, hardly the outfit for a warm day, which her grateful employer had presented her with as a reward for her faithful service, saying, ‘You must look the part in London! I can’t get into these since I had the children . . .’ Jerusha expressed gratitude, despite the candid admission.
‘Oh, call me Chas – everyone does! You, of course, are Jerusha!’ They shook hands. ‘This way, I have a cab waiting,’ he said. He looked at the loaded trolley.
‘I’ll foller you up,’ the porter said, hoping for a tip. He was not disappointed.
Jerusha’s reaction to Marylebone Passage, being a country girl, was quickly disguised dismay. The door opened immediately they arrived, and Emma stood there, with little Gussie in her arms. ‘Ru – here you are at last! Come in. You too, Chas – the tea is brewing and I have made some muffins!’
As Jerusha kissed her sister and then the top of Gussie’s head, she whispered, ‘You kept your secret well! It seems I have come at the right time to help you. You mustn’t overdo things.’
‘I can’t stay long, I am due back on duty at five,’ Chas said, adding shyly, ‘I hope we will meet again soon!’ to Jerusha.
‘I hope so, too,’ she replied, and she meant it.
‘This is your room.’ Emma ushered her sister inside. ‘I’m sure you will find the bed comfortable – it’s the one I slept in at Kensington! My successor, so my friend Anna tells me, is a stout person, and needed a larger bed! Anna suggested to Miss Maria that we might be glad of this one, and it was delivered to us only last week, together with the washstand, as Anna also mentioned that I missed the tulips – just in time for your visit!’
The Forget-Me-Not Girl Page 13
