by Nhys Glover
Chapter Three
Max
12 March 1912, London ENGLAND
Maxwell Ingham stared out of his office window at busy Fleet Street below. He loved the cacophony of noise that modern man in his industry could create – the mechanical hum of the automobiles, as they rumbled down the street honking their horns at horse and wagons that might delay or block their passage. Many a flighty horse took exception to this noise and would rear and buck in complaint. People of all classes hurried along the pathways and crossed the thoroughfares at random, often inadvertently walking in front of the speeding vehicles. Yelling and shaking fists would accompany those near misses. It was organised chaos, and he loved it.
His eye was drawn from the general to the specific, as he caught a glimpse of a young woman dressed fashionably in a navy skirt and jacket with a white blouse adorned with a large, floppy bow at its high neckline. A hat, a monstrous navy affair that was utterly impractical for the busy streets, shielded her face. However, when she paused to look up at the second and third stories of the buildings on his side of the road, he gained a much better impression of her appearance.
Her face was pale, milky white with huge eyes and small, upturned nose. Red lips were bowed in a delighted smile as her elegant, gloved hands crossed over heart, as if to keep the organ from jumping out of her chest. She looked to be in her mid-to-late twenties, but there was an air of child-like enthusiasm that belied that age. What little hair was visible beneath the hat was black and wavy, framing her oval face and softening the sharp lines of the outrageous creation on her head.
For the full time he stared at her, he couldn’t seem to draw breath. It wasn’t until she dropped her head, hurried across the road, dodging horse-drawn and horseless carriages alike, and disappeared somewhere beneath him that he felt his breathing return to normal.
‘Maxwell, Darling, what do you think?’ A strident voice jarred him from his strange reaction and drew his eye. Coming across the room toward him was his wife, Agnes, dressed in a sunshine yellow day-dress that quite blinded him with its brightness. It was a wrap-around affair, somewhat oriental in design, with a wide, darkly patterned border that crossed over her bird-like figure.
‘About what, my dear?’ he inquired, knowing exactly what, but wanting to give himself a moment to come up with a suitably diplomatic comment.
‘Why, my dress, silly. Do you like it? My couturier tells me it is the latest thing from the continent, and I plan to wear it to the Royal International Horticultural Exhibition in May. I am taking a risk that no one of any influence will see me in it today. Nevertheless, I just had to show you immediately.’
The small woman pivoted to display her gown and large floral hat. Her mouse-like features broke into a winsome smile.
‘You will turn many an eye, my dear. The flowers will pale into insignificance beside you.’ He spoke the truth, as was his way, but he disguised his thoughts within the effusion of his words, as only a man of the law could do. In truth, she looked hideous, but he had learned early on in their relationship that Agnes did not want to hear the truth. She wanted to mould it to suit herself, and that was what he allowed her to do with his words now.
She blushed coquettishly and giggled. ‘Oh Maxwell, I knew you would love it. Matilda Robson was not so complimentary. But then she is not up with the latest haute de couture, so I dismissed her opinion immediately. You, on the other hand, dear husband, are a man of taste and refinement. I knew you would see its value.’
‘My tastes run to more simplistic and conservative designs, but I do value the unconventional when it is aesthetically pleasing to the eye.’
Agnes smiled sweetly, bowing her head as if accepting another compliment. Then she sighed deeply and waited for him to ask what was wrong.
Obediently, he asked on cue, ‘My dear, what troubles you?’
‘It is father. He is insisting I come down to visit. He assures me I could be back for Easter and the beginning of the Season. His gout is acting up again, and he is driving everyone in the household to distraction.’
Max felt his heart lift. Agnes wanted to go away for a month. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her father; he’d learned this trick fairly quickly after their marriage two years ago. Before that time, he’d believed her to be the gentle, sweet widow she portrayed herself to be. A kind soul, she had been unable to get out from beneath the cruel and tyrannical rule of her father, no matter how hard she tried. She’d told him that her first marriage to an army officer who died in the last days of the Boer War some ten years earlier had been forced on her by that unfeeling man. She’d been only eighteen at the time, and the harsh realities of a brutish husband in her bed had turned her against marital intimacies from that point on.
‘Of course my dear, you must go to your father. I will rub along well enough in your absence.’ His answer was perfunctory and a little brisker than he was aiming for, but sometimes he tired of her games and he just wanted out.
A fleeting look of calculation crossed her features and her beady, little eyes became cold. The expression told him all too well that she suspected he knew her secrets.
‘Then I will say my good-byes, dear one, for I will be gone by the time you arrive home this evening. If you need me, you know how to reach me.’
‘Of course, my dear. Safe journey. I will see you at Easter.’
With a quick peck on the cheek, Agnes bustled out, closing the door firmly behind her.
Moments later, the door opened and Phillip, his younger brother, entered.
Max sighed with impatience. Today his office was as busy as Charing Cross Station down the street.
‘What did she want?’ Phillip demanded, drawing himself up straight to make the most of his five feet five inches. Max was a good half a foot taller, but his bantam rooster brother had always been the more aggressive of the pair.
‘She wanted to show me her new dress and to tell me she is going to Kent.’
‘What? Again? Good god man, why do you put up with it? You know she is going to see that labourer your Pinkerton found out about. Why would you share her bed knowing she has been with that lout?’
‘Not that it is any of your business but I do not share my wife’s bed. We mutually agreed that such an arrangement would come to an end shortly after we were married. So, I care little who she shares intimacies with.’
‘What if she tries to foist his bastard off on you?’
‘Keep your voice down, man. I do not want the whole practice knowing my business!’
Phillip duly lowered his voice and repeated his question.
‘Agnes is forty years old. She has been involved with this labourer all her adult life and has produced no offspring. I doubt very much whether it will happen now. Be assured that I will not allow any child she might bear to influence your inheritance.’
‘Damn it, Max,’ Phillip fumed. ‘You know it is not your money I am concerned about. I just hate to see such a fine man as you made to look such a fool by that bitch!’
‘Steady on there, I may not care much for the woman but she is still my wife. I cannot allow you to call her names in my presence.’ Max spoke stiffly, keeping a tight rein on his own anger.
He knew his brother was trying to protect him, but it only served to make him feel more of a fool than he knew himself to be. His astute judgements in law, and his access to the seamier side of life because of his legal practice, meant he was rarely duped. However, Agnes had played him from the moment they met. She had heard of his gentle gallantry and of his political stand on the abuse of women, and manufactured a role for herself that could only bring out the protector in him. In his career, he had never met a more capable fraud, and it irked him to have proven to be such an easy mark.
‘Why don’t you take a mistress then? You are a man and have needs, even if our parents tried to beat them out of us. A man of your standing is well within his rights to take a mistress.’
Again, Max sighed heavily. This was an old argument be
tween them. Phillip had gone in the opposite direction to him after their shared childhood. While Max had been the fair-haired child trying his best to be everything his father required of him, even to remaining resolutely virginal until his marriage, Phillip had been a reckless philanderer from an early age. If rumour had it, Phillip already had several illegitimate children and, at thirty-five, still had no plans to marry and settle down.
For not the first time, Max wondered how their childhood had produced such opposite characters. Except that they were both dark-haired, good-looking men, a legacy of their mother’s family, they shared nothing but their career path in common.
‘You, my brother, inherited all the venal vitality for both of us. I have never required a mistress and do not mean to start now.’
‘You… your appetites do not lie in other directions?’ Phil looked uncomfortable for the first time, pulling at the collar of his pristine white shirt.
Max laughed. It was the first time that day that someone had said or done anything to inspire mirth. And he needed to laugh. It was his safety valve. It lightened the heaviness of his life. He let himself enjoy the moment.
‘You have wanted to ask that question ever since we were children. So after nearly a quarter of a century, you finally ask it. Are you sure you are ready for the answer, dear brother?’
Phillip’s face flushed red with mortification and he dug into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. The room was warm; the fire in the grate kept it that way most months of the year. However, it was not hot enough to account for the perspiration on his brother’s high forehead.
‘Yes. If you prefer to bugger boys then I can understand it given our parent’s less than gentle ways with us. I will not condemn you for that unnatural proclivity.’
For the first time in his relationship with his brother, Max felt genuine affection for the man. That he would accept him, even if he could not condone such perversion, was the height of magnanimity, and his desire to taunt his brother was instantly gone.
‘Do not worry; I have no sexual desires along those lines. In fact, I have little, if any, procreative desires at all. Whether by nature or nurture, I am for all intents and purposes a eunuch and better for it. I would not have survived being led around by my appendage, as you have been your whole life.’ He laughed at his brother’s indignant huff.
‘Led I might have been, but at least I enjoyed it.’
‘Mother taught me early that all sexual urges were dirty and demeaning. Even though, intellectually, I know that is untrue, on a visceral level… it has always felt wrong and most assuredly not enjoyable. And having a wife who cringed away from me on our marriage bed and cried when I entered her did nothing to change my feelings.’
‘She is a fine actress; I will give her that. After hearing about the ogre she was forced to marry, I can see how that game had to be played out. But surely, once the investigator found out the truth about her lover, a brute of a man if ever there was one, you would not have felt the need to be as gentle and understanding with her?’
‘Why do you press me on this? It is none of your affair.’ Max felt his anger rising again.
‘Because I do not like seeing you like this! God, man, I have idolised you from the moment I could walk. You were my big brother who protected me from harm – even from father’s heavy belt where you could. In the courts of law, you are powerful and intimidating, with the keenest mind of any man I have ever known. You could be Prime Minister one day! Yet, where women are concerned, you are emasculated. Do not let her do this to you. You deserve better than this faithless whore.’
‘Enough!’ Max’s voice had dropped to almost a whisper but the tone would brook no opposition.
‘All right, all right, I give in. Live your life as you will, dearest brother, I will say no more about it. However, remember one thing – a life lived without love is no life at all. You are forty years old. Soon it will be too late for you. Life is short and not designed only for work and duty.’
Before Max could reply, Phillip slipped out of the door and left him to his troubled thoughts. He knew he had plenty of time before his next appointment, but for once, the necessities of work were more dreary than pleasurable. He felt a restlessness he couldn’t identify. It had started at the sight of the girl in the street, and his brother’s words only served to inflame it further.
There was a soft knock on the oak door and his assistant poked his head around the edge, his eyes meekly turned to the carpeted floor.
‘Sorry to intrude, sir. But there is a young lady here who wishes a moment of your time. She is not a client.’
‘What does she want?’ he demanded impatiently. Would the interruptions to his day never end?
‘She says she is a journalist and wishes to interview you for a story she is writing.’
Max frowned. This was not the first request for an interview he’d received over the years. His firm represented high-profile cases and he himself was politically active in matters that were controversial. Good press could serve him, bad press… well; he could see for himself the nature of the article the woman wished to write and decide from there. There was time in his schedule and maybe she would keep his mind off his growing restlessness.
‘Send her in. I can give her a few moments I suppose,’ he said ungraciously. Jones had been his assistant for many years and knew his temperament well. There was no need for politeness in their dealings.
When the door opened again, Max felt as if the air in the room had been sucked out of it. In the doorway stood a young woman in a navy skirt and jacket and a big, outrageous hat. A pair of extraordinary blue eyes fringed with sooty black lashes stared across at him and for a moment, he could think of nothing to say. His mind was blank.
‘Mr Ingham? Your assistant said to come in?’ Her voice wobbled slightly with nerves. What was that slight lilt of an accent? Irish? Surely not.
‘Come right in, I have a few minutes to spare. How can I help you…? Miss…?’ Had Jones told him her name? He couldn’t remember. He could barely remember his own name at that moment. A slow, flustered burn started to rise up from his neck to his cheeks.
Something amused her because she smiled in delight. ‘Miss O’Toole, Eilish O’Toole. Thank you for finding time in your busy schedule for me.’
Max gestured for her to take a seat on the far side of his desk and instead of taking his position behind it, as was his usual practice, he drew up a hard backed chair and sat down next to her.
Up close, she was even more attractive than from a distance. Her face was rounded, as was her body. But it only served to make her softer and lusher.
Lush? Where had that word come from? It made him squirm in his chair like a worm on a hook.
He cleared his throat and reached for the glass of water on his desk to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. This was absurd. What kind of fool was he being now? His brother would be laughing at him had he remained in the room to witness this gauche, pubescent behaviour.
‘I am interested in writing an article on spousal abuse for our new magazine, The Woman’s Weekly, which was launched at the end of last year. You have been a divorce lawyer for most of your career and specialise in cases where such violence is the principal grounds for divorce. You were also one of the most vocal supporters of the 1907 revision to the divorce law act, which provided child support for divorced wives caring for their children.’
Max sat back and considered the woman more closely. She wasn’t just physically attractive, her passionate interest in her subject made her character attractive also. But not in a militant, suffragette fashion. He could hear no hatred for the male gender underlying her words.
‘You have done your research, Miss O’Toole. Yes, I have been vocal and active in both legal and political arenas on this issue for many years. However, I thought the content of your new magazine was not inflammatory. This subject is very provocative, even today.’
‘Would you mind if I took off my hat. It i
s driving me mad,’ she said, suddenly tipping her head to one side and shaking her head slightly.
It was such a natural and ingenuous action that he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Of course, feel free to be comfortable.’
With that, the Irish woman withdrew two long hatpins and removed her ridiculous hat. Suddenly, a wealth of soft, black waves artfully arranged on the top of her head were revealed. His fingers itched to touch them, and once again, he was flabbergasted by his reaction.
She put the hat on the desk, breathing a long sigh of relief. ‘I am so sorry. That was very unprofessional of me. But that thing was giving me a headache.’
‘Think nothing of it. Why you women insist on wearing such outlandish headwear, I have no idea. You look far prettier without.’ He stopped short, as he realised how close that came to a flirtatious compliment. Hopefully, she would take it as a general statement about all women looking prettier without such hats.
Her cheeks bloomed pinkly and she looked away with a shy smile. So, she had taken it personally. And instead of being annoyed or embarrassed, he was pleased.
‘Miss O’Toole, might I offer you some tea and crumpets? It is usually what I require midmorning, as I have no time to break my fast before I leave for the office.’
‘Thank you. That would be delightful.’
Flustered, and yet oddly excited by the turn of events, Max went to the door and put his order in to Jones. It was true; he did take morning tea about this time, but he rarely had the appetite for crumpets. Today it was different. Today he felt hungry.
‘Now, back to our subject,’ Max said, as he sat down across from her edging his chair subtly closer, yet still remaining at a socially acceptable distance.
‘Yes, my hat did cause me to digress. You asked me about the content of The Women’s Weekly. You are right, of course; we are not a suffragette magazine. In fact, we cater to the ordinary woman. However, these women are the ones most often affected by the inequalities in the law. So, where possible, in the gentlest fashion, we try to educate our readers about their rights. Too many of them still consider a heavy hand on the part of their husband an acceptable part of married life.’
‘Yes, you are absolutely right. And, unfortunately, the women who are most at risk are those who have few choices. They cannot support themselves, as they are caring for children and so must rely on their husbands for the roof over their heads. We are making some moves to provide for these women, but we still have a long way to go on the issue.’
‘Why have you been willing to take such a controversial stand? As a Conservative, it is rather risky for your political aspirations, would you not say?’
He smiled broadly and gave a little chuckle. ‘Not all Conservatives are conservative, Miss O’Toole.’
‘Please, I know this is also inappropriate, but could you perhaps call me Eilish? Miss O’Toole seems so formal and stuffy, don’t you think?’
Surprised by her suggestion, he nevertheless nodded and gracefully agreed. ‘Certainly, if it suits you better Mi… er, Eilish. It is an unusual name. Please feel free to call me Max.’
‘Thank you, Max. My name is rare. It is derived from Elizabeth, so I am led to believe. In my case, it was a family name. It was my grandmother’s.’
‘It is lovely, and suits you well.’ Again, he caught himself uttering flirtatious compliments. What on earth was wrong with him? The young woman was here to interview him, not to be romanced by an older, married man.
‘Thank you again. Could I ask, do you know William Thomas Stead by any chance?’
‘Stead, the publisher? I have met the man on occasion. He was a strong advocate of female rights for many years.’
‘Indeed. I hear he is travelling to New York for a peace conference at Carnegie Hall next month on the maiden voyage of the Titanic.’ Eilish spoke as if the information was of little importance, and yet there was something in her tone that warned him that this was more than just an idle statement.
‘Really? I have heard that the voyage had been postponed because of the damage to her sister ship the Olympic.’
‘Yes, but she will be ready to sail by the tenth of next month. I have it on good authority.’
‘It will be an historic occasion; I am sure.’ He felt as if they were feeling their way down a dark corridor, each of them tentative and uncertain where to go next.
‘Have you considered such a journey?’ she asked.
‘Ah, my wife is determined to throw us both into the social whirl that is the Season, which, as you probably know, starts directly after Easter. So, even if I wanted to take such a journey and my calendar gave me space for time off, I doubt she would forgive me for leaving her at such an important time.’
He felt reluctant to talk about Agnes to this woman. Absurdly, he wanted her to think him single and available. And yet, she would already know of his marital status. It would be in his background information along with his political interests.
‘The Season does not interest you?’ she asked curiously.
‘No,’ he replied with a little laugh. ‘But it is good for my career so I suffer through it. What about you, Mi… Eilish, do you have an interest in the Season?’
At that moment, the door opened and Jones entered carrying a large silver tray containing a silver tea service and two plates of hot crumpets. He distributed the crumpets and then poured the tea. During the minutes he was busy, Max made the most of the opportunity to study the girl more closely. He kept thinking of her as a girl rather than a woman, even though it was apparent she was closer to thirty than twenty. Even so, it was her bright-eyed enthusiasm that made her appear younger than her years. Next to her, he felt like a very tired and dusty, old reprobate.
As she nibbled on her crumpet and sipped on her milky tea, she looked around his office with interest. It was a room that pleased his aesthetic as well as his business sense. On one wall was a bookshelf that extended from ceiling to floor and contained his legal tomes. On the far wall was a pair of landscapes by a little-known French artist he’d discovered when in Paris several years earlier. They looked colourful and bright against the dark panelled wood behind them.
Many of the fixtures in the room were elegant and natural in the Art Nouveau style, and the flowing lines soothed him and contrasted with the sharp angles of the bookshelf and desk. It was a statement of his nature: straight thinking, softened by a gentle heart.
Suddenly Eilish put down her plate and stood up. With utter astonishment, she hurried over to the paintings and studied them more closely.
‘Heavens, these are… they cannot possibly be. Monet? Claude Monet?’ She turned back to stare at him in wonder. ‘You own two Monet’s? Originals?’
‘Yes, I think that is the artist’s name. I bought them at a small gallery in Paris some years ago. You seem to know the artist. Is he a family friend, acquaintance?’
Eilish laughed loudly, and then covered her mouth to curtail the unladylike volume. ‘I am sorry, that must seem very rude to you. No, no I do not know the artist myself. I only know his work. To see his paintings outside of a Knowledge… um, an Art Gallery, is extraordinary. Do you admire his work?’
‘Very much. I would have bought more but my budget for such luxuries is limited. I am pleased you are impressed. I am told I have an eye…’
‘Oh yes, most definitely. The Impressionist movement revolutionised how we perceive the world and Monet was one of its most accomplished leaders.’
Max studied her vibrant face more closely. This was not just interest in his artwork; this was fascination, and he was transfixed by it.
‘I have heard the term, but I am not well versed in the new movements.’
‘And yet you possess two such beautiful examples. I am impressed!’
He grinned at her enthusiasm and suddenly felt like a teenager again. He wanted to put on a boater, take a punt and drift languidly down a river with her, much as he’d done at Cambridge so long ago.
He shook himself and tried to get his
thoughts back in order. He looked at his pocket watch and realised, with disappointment, that time was no longer on his side. His next appointment would arrive shortly.
Impetuously he made a decision. ‘Mis… Eilish… I have no more time today and I know you cannot have gained the material you require for this story of yours. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight at my club? It will allow us plenty of time to explore all areas of interest.’
For a moment, Eilish looked rather taken back by the idea. Then, as if flattered, she nodded her head and smiled. ‘I would enjoy that very much. May I meet you there?’
‘Certainly, if you like. I will give you the address.’ He scrambled for a piece of paper and pen and wrote hastily. ‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’
‘Eight it is. Thank you for being so generous with your time. I will look forward to tonight.’
‘So will I, Eilish, so will I.’
After the door closed behind her, Max let out a soft whoop of joy. It had happened. For the first and only time in his life, he was passionately and ridiculously attracted to a woman. The desire pulsed through his body like a drug and it scared him a little. However, beyond the fear, was a euphoric sense of destiny, of connection.
This vibrant, bright flame of womanhood was everything he had ever looked for in a woman, even though he had never been aware of it before today. Instead of being some bloodless, asexual being as he had always seen himself to be, he was now something else entirely. He felt like a hot-blooded male.
Thank heavens his brother did not meet her. He would have spoiled everything with his salacious comments. What Phillip would make of Max’s thoughts of her lushness was anyone’s guess. He would probably turn it into something dirty, as his parents would have done.
Huh! How interesting. His brother had not escaped the influence of that parental imprinting after all. No, he simply embraced what he saw as filth, delighting in its indecency, where Max had always been repelled by it. But what he felt for Eilish O’Toole was not indecent or dirty. It was warm, vibrant and beautiful in the way that his Monet’s were warm, vibrant and beautiful.
And now that he had met her, there was nothing that would stand in the way of him claiming her as his own. He would divorce Agnes; he would throw away his political aspiration; he would cripple himself financially, if that were what it took. But he would be free to claim her, because nothing in his life had ever felt so right.
