The Lonely Wife

by Val Wood

  He turned to see two people walking down the street towards him but they passed him by without even glancing at him. Should I have stopped them? Will that lad come back?

  Then he saw the boy and two policemen coming towards him, their distinctive tall hats and shiny buttons on their tailcoats immediately recognizable. He signalled to them to hurry, and they quickened their steps.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ one of them said. ‘What is your difficulty?’

  ‘My difficulty, constable, is that my son—’ His voice broke. ‘My son is lying dead.’ He pointed a finger over his shoulder to the door. ‘Inside his house.’

  Once Alfred had established that the police would now take over, he hired a cabriolet for the day and went first to a post office where he sent a telegram to Beatrix, asking her to come to London as urgently as possible as there was disquieting news regarding Charles, and suggesting he meet her at her parents’ home the following day.

  Next he called back at the bank and put the manager in complete charge, saying he would be away for a few days but offering no further information; and finally, bracing himself, he was driven home to tell his wife the news, knowing that he would get the blame.

  The bobbies, or peelers as they were sometimes known, called on every house in the street and vicinity to ask if anyone knew the man who had lived as their neighbour. No one did, not even the old man who lived next door.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Seen him coming an’ going, but he never stopped to pass the time o’ day. Reckon he had a bob or two, though; always dressed smart. City gent, I’d say. A wife? Not as far as I know. Never seen him wiv anybody. Bit of a loner. Sorry I can’t help you further.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Beatrix opened the telegram and her fingers shook as she read the message. What disquieting news? What is Charles up to now? Has he told his father that he is going to divorce me and take the children away?

  But why would he do that? There was no love between him and his father: quite the opposite in fact. She rang the bell for Dora. ‘I have to go to London immediately, Dora, and I’m taking the children with me. Will you check the train times, and if there’s one this afternoon we’ll catch it. I also need to send a telegram to my parents to say we are coming, so will you ask Aaron to come and collect it and take it to the post office for me?’

  She wouldn’t say much, just to expect them to arrive late.

  ‘I’ll pack a suitcase, ma’am. Will you be staying long?’

  Beatrix shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, just a day or two. I’ve received an urgent message from my father-in-law.’ She looked at Dora. ‘He says to come immediately. You’d better come with me.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Dora had had every intention of packing an overnight bag of her own and travelling with her; the state of mind her mistress was in, she wouldn’t think of letting her travel without her, especially if she was taking the children. ‘I think there’s a train at about four o’clock. We should be in good time for that.’

  ‘Am I going back to school, Mama?’ Laurie asked her glumly when she told the children they were going to London; he’d hung back when Alicia and Amby scampered off to choose a toy to take with them.

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’ She dropped a kiss on the top of his head. ‘I need to speak to the headmaster first. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he mumbled, pressing his lips together. ‘I’d hoped to have a little longer at home.’

  ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘Papa and I will talk about it and come up with a solution.’

  It was late when the train pulled in. They had changed trains in Doncaster and Laurie had looked eagerly about to catch a glimpse of the stationmaster, but didn’t see him. On the next train all three children fell asleep, as it was long past their bedtime, and on arrival at King’s Cross they had stumbled unsteadily out of the carriage. A porter immediately took charge of the luggage and even carried a sleepy Amby as he headed towards the cab rank to order transport to Russell Square.

  ‘Soon be at Grandpapa and Grandmama’s house,’ Beatrix told Alicia, who put her head in her mother’s lap in the cab and clung to her hand. ‘Then a warm drink and off to bed.’

  She was glad she had brought the children with her; she had felt uneasy about letting them stay at home without her in case Charles was plotting some ruse to collect them whilst she was in London. He’s right: I am becoming paranoid and feel as if I must watch them all the time, but it’s only because of his threats.

  ‘What has happened?’ her mother asked, after they’d seen the children safely into bed, her father had retired to bed too and Dora had gone to her old room.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘I received a telegram from Charles’s father asking me to come to London immediately as there was disquieting news about Charles. He’s coming here tomorrow. Charles’s father is, not Charles. Mama, I must tell you and you must try not to be upset, even though you are bound to be. Charles says he is going to divorce me and take the children away.’ Her voice trembled, and a small sob escaped from her lips.

  Her mother stared at her, aghast. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘The most disreputable allegations, which are simply not true! I dare not even say them.’ Beatrix put her head in her hands and wept, racked with sobs. ‘Charles seems to think I’m neurotic and unstable, but I think he’s the one who is.’

  Her mother leaned towards her and patted her knee. ‘I have not the slightest notion why Charles would do this, but I will believe you above any other. You were always an honest child; I can’t think that you have changed so much. Come, come. We will get through this, whatever it is.’ She sat back in her chair and pondered. ‘All our hopes and dreams for you seem to have disappeared, and I don’t think you’ve been happy for quite some time.’

  ‘I’m happy with my beautiful children and my home,’ Beatrix took a deep breath, ‘but I believe that I have married the wrong man. I don’t think that Charles has ever loved me, which was what I wanted most of all. I was a seemly young woman, one who would be suitable to his position; perhaps that is the requirement for all rich gentlemen. Love doesn’t come into it. Never once has he said he loves me.’ She sighed. ‘Ah, well. We will see what tomorrow brings.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘If it is more bad news, we are at least safe here with you and Papa for the time being.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ her mother said softly. ‘Always.’

  In her own former bedroom and the bed she had slept in ever since she could remember, it was as if she had shed her responsibilities and become a carefree young woman again, and she slept accordingly. But she stirred early, wakened by the noise of traffic and the raucous sound of voices, and for a few seconds she wondered where she was and why she couldn’t hear the cry of gulls and wildfowl overhead.

  What will today bring, she wondered? Will Charles come with his father, and why did his father send the telegram? She sat up, suddenly struck by a thought. What was the wording again? Disquieting news! What does it mean? Is Charles ill and can’t send his own message?

  Her father couldn’t shed any light on the matter; there had been nothing in any financial paper, no run on any bank as far as he knew.

  ‘I’m assuming everything is in order with your accounts? You would probably have heard if – ah, but no, of course you wouldn’t,’ he muttered.

  And of course she wouldn’t, she railed silently; even though she had looked after the estate accounts for years, she was a woman after all and wouldn’t have the wit to understand them.

  ‘We’ll have to wait until Mr Dawley arrives and hope that he brings Charles along too,’ she said. ‘I do hope he isn’t ill.’

  Then she realized that if he were ill he wouldn’t be coming anyway, and with that the doorbell rang.

  Alfred Dawley was offered coffee, which he accepted, but then he suggested that Beatrix might like to take a small glass of brandy, for he had some bad news to impart.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I ra
rely drink spirits, especially not at this time of day, and I would rather you told me why you have asked me to come all this way. Will you please tell me where Charles is and why he isn’t here?’

  She saw him visibly pale, and his hand trembled as he put down the coffee cup.

  ‘I regret,’ he said, ‘to tell you … this isn’t at all easy …’ He wasn’t a man known for delicacy or sensitivity, and Beatrix frowned at his faltering.

  ‘To tell you that yesterday …’ He took a breath before continuing, and held his hand to his chest as if he had a pain. ‘Charles sustained a serious injury, and was found dead at his London house.’

  Beatrix clasped the chair arm. ‘No! No! What are you saying? How do you know? Who – who found him?’

  Dawley lowered his head. ‘I did. He hadn’t come in to the bank in the morning, nor the day before—’

  ‘The day before he was in Yorkshire, with us,’ Beatrix heard herself say. ‘He caught the early morning train back to London. Mama, will you ring for a jug of water?’

  Her mother rose from her seat, pressed the bell on the wall, and came to stand close behind Beatrix’s chair, putting her hand on her shoulder. Her father had also risen to his feet.

  ‘And you found him – how?’ he asked Dawley.

  ‘The door was unlocked; I’d knocked several times and realized that I could open it. I went in and called for him or Maria,’ he mumbled. Realizing what he had said, he looked up at Beatrix and added awkwardly, ‘The – the woman who cleans for him.’

  Beatrix, distressed, turned her head away. ‘I am aware that he has – had a mistress, although I didn’t know her name.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ he insisted. ‘It didn’t mean anything—’

  ‘I’m not interested in hearing about it,’ Beatrix said, her voice wavering, ‘but I would like you to accompany me to the police station and then to the place where Charles is lying.’

  She turned to her mother, her face white and her voice breaking. ‘Mama, will – will you take care of the children, please?’

  It was Dora who knocked and opened the door in answer to the bell, and Beatrix had the strangest sensation of having stepped back in time. She felt incapable of choosing the words she required. ‘Will you send in a jug of water and – and then bring my warmest shawl; the – dark one. It seems that I have to go out and – and I would like you to come with me.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ her father said, and to Dora, ‘Please bring me my coat and hat.’

  ‘Papa …’ she stumbled over her words. ‘There’s no need,’ she began again, but her father interrupted.

  ‘There is every need,’ he said firmly. ‘You must have a family member with you in case there are documents to sign.’

  Alfred Dawley opened his mouth to say something but closed it again, seeing by Fawcett’s expression that his mind was made up.

  They drove to the police station where Dawley said he had reported the death, and Beatrix and her father were taken into a small room and given details of where Charles was found and the evidence that had caused the police to conclude that his death was accidental. He had fallen, perhaps unsteady on his feet as they had found an almost empty bottle of wine; and there was blood on the mantelpiece where he had hit his head and sustained the blow that killed him. There didn’t appear to be anyone else involved, the police sergeant said, and no one had come forward with information. He appeared to live alone, according to his neighbour. Then, as the mortuary where Charles lay was only a short walk away, a constable accompanied them, and Beatrix asked to see Charles alone, for she couldn’t accept the news without seeing him for herself.

  He looked so peaceful and handsome, the only injury the fatal blow on the back of his head. ‘This is how I will try to remember you, Charles,’ she murmured. ‘How you were when we first met. You were, or appeared to be, without anger or rancour. What was it that had enraged you so? What gave you such anguish that you had to inflict it on others? I could have loved you.’ Tears began to run down her cheeks. ‘But you were not open to receive that love.’

  She bent and kissed his forehead. ‘God bless you,’ she said. ‘Rest in peace; your travails are over.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Beatrix went back to her parents’ house to plan. She felt shaky and incredibly shocked, but realized that she must keep her wits about her. The time for weeping would come later. She decided that she would stay in London until the next day and then take the children home; she would return the following day and stay quietly at her parents’ house until Charles’s funeral. Her father-in-law had said he would attend to the organizing of it and send the letters of invitation. Beatrix would not be expected to attend in person, but, she thought, I might. It will be the last duty I will carry out for him.

  She asked her mother if she had a black gown that she might wear for the next few days, until she could order garments from Peter Robinson’s General Mourning House for herself, and Mrs Fawcett suggested a black bombazine wool and silk gown and a veil that she had bought following her own father’s death. She was a little plumper than her daughter but they were a similar height, and though the gown hung a little loosely on Beatrix she thought that if she bought a black wool cape to wear over it it would be quite appropriate.

  But her mother produced a black cape too, one that Beatrix had never seen before. ‘You don’t have to attend the funeral, Beatrix,’ she told her. ‘Widows are not expected to.’

  ‘But I want to, Mama. I consider it fitting. Charles was my husband, even though we had some difficulties in our marriage. I care not a jot for society’s conventions on who should do what and when.’

  The children had not yet been told; Beatrix said that she would wait until the next morning when she would begin wearing her widow’s weeds. Today she would borrow her mother’s cape and visit Charles’s mother in Hampstead, and then make two more calls.

  Charles’s mother was wearing full mourning dress when Beatrix and Dora arrived unannounced just after luncheon. When the maid answered the door she was wearing a black armband, and told them that Mrs Dawley was not at home because of bereavement.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Beatrix said, stepping inside. ‘Please tell her that Mrs Charles Dawley is here to see her.’

  Dora waited outside the parlour door when Beatrix was shown in. Mrs Dawley was reclining on a sofa, but sat up immediately and exclaimed at Beatrix’s normal dress. ‘Did your mother not explain to you how things should be done? You must not be seen in public as you are dressed now or you will be disgraced!’

  ‘Mrs Dawley!’ Beatrix sat down without waiting to be invited. ‘I have just come from my husband’s side after his sudden death. I do not need to be told by my mother or you or anyone what I must or must not do. I am a grown woman, mother of Charles’s three children. They are my full concern, and I do not wish to upset or alarm them, so I will not wear mourning until I have explained to them, in words suitable for their young ears, what has happened to their father. I have come to give you my deepest condolences on the loss of your son – my husband.’ She stood up. ‘I bid you good day.’

  She spoke to the driver of the waiting cabriolet, gave him details of their next destination, and took a huge breath as she climbed aboard. ‘Well, that went very well, Dora,’ she muttered as they sat down. ‘I rather think that Mrs Alfred Dawley will welcome this interlude in her boring life, when she can write to her friends on black-edged notepaper telling them of the sad sudden death of her only son – as if she had cared for him,’ she said bitterly, ‘when she surely had not.’

  Dora gazed at her. It wasn’t her place to comment; her mistress, however, turned to her. ‘You think I’m being unkind, Dora?’

  ‘No, miss – erm, sorry, ma’am.’ She put a gloved hand to her lips. ‘A slip of the tongue, ma’am. It’s because we’re back in London and staying in Russell Square.’

  Beatrix nodded. ‘I know; I feel strange too. Even though I’ve been to stay with my parents often, this time seems di
fferent, as if I’m a different person.’

  ‘Which you are, ma’am,’ Dora answered. ‘And ready to stand up for what you believe in.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘You’re very astute, Dora. I am ready, but I’ve been thrown out of kilter by Charles’s death.’ She paused; in a weak moment she had shown Dora the letter that Charles had left for her on his last visit to Yorkshire. Then she added, ‘But by his death he has in some aspects saved my life. A life without my children I could not in the least have contemplated.’

  They were up on the heath, passing ponds and clumps of woodland, and the driver pulled into the drive of a mansion, a building surrounded by trees and a lush green lawn, and drew up outside an imposing front door. Beatrix made a humph in her throat. It looked fine from the outside, and not at all as grim as she had expected. ‘Have you been up here before, Dora?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t think so, ma’am. I’ve been up on the heath, but not this bit. It’s massive, isn’t it? Miles of it.’ She looked back and sighed. ‘What a lovely place to live. The Lungs of London, we were taught at school. It’s where Londoners came to escape from the plague in days gone by.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Beatrix was about to pull the bell rope when the great door opened and two schoolboys appeared. Both immediately gave a short bow and one of them asked if they could be of service.

  ‘I haven’t an appointment,’ she said, ‘but if possible I would like to speak to the headmaster. It is rather important.’

  A matronly woman bustled along the hall behind them and the boys moved back to allow Beatrix and Dora inside. Beatrix gave her name to the housekeeper, who asked her to be seated whilst she discovered if Mr Robinson-Gough could see her.