by Holly Green
He went into the dining room and Angelina waited, scarcely daring to breathe. A moment later he came out with a face like thunder and bawled, ‘Jane! Here, at once!’
His wife came out of the sitting room. ‘Connor! Whatever is wrong? Why are you shouting?’
‘Someone has been at my whisky.’
‘Nonsense. How could they have been? You keep it locked.’
‘But yesterday I must have dropped the key and now the decanter is half empty. Jane!’
The parlourmaid reappeared at the run. ‘Sir?’
‘When did you find this key?’
‘Just now, sir, when I set the table, like I told you.’
‘Did you notice that the decanter of whisky was half empty?’
‘No, sir. I didn’t look.’
‘Have you taken some?’
‘Me, sir? No, sir!’
‘Come here.’
She went closer and he took hold of her arm and bent his head close to hers.
‘Hmm. No smell of it on your breath. Where’s Betty?’
‘She’s in bed, sir, with an attack of the croup. She’s not moved all day. I’ve been doing her work for her.’
‘Fetch cook.’
‘Oh, really, Connor,’ his wife exclaimed. ‘Do you want us to lose our cook? If you accuse her she will give notice, I guarantee it. I’m sure she would never dream of taking your whisky.’
‘Then who has? It didn’t just vanish into thin air.’
‘You probably drank it yourself and you’ve forgotten.’
‘Do you think I’m so far gone? If I’d drunk that much I’d have been incapable of standing on my own two feet.’
Angelina decided that the moment had come for which she had been waiting.
‘Papa, if you need some more medicine, I think Miss Drake has some. She keeps it in a little bottle in her room.’
Her father went up the stairs two at a time and Angelina hurried after him, ignoring her mother’s instruction to stay where she was. Miss Drake was sitting at the table in the schoolroom, about to start her dinner. She jumped to her feet as her employer entered.
‘Mr McBride! What can I do for you?’ Then seeing Angelina behind him, said, ‘What has the child been saying? If she has been complaining …’
‘This has nothing to do with Angelina. I am told you have a flask of some alcoholic beverage in your room.’
Miss Drake’s eyes went from him to Angelina and then to the door of her room. ‘A little tonic wine, that is all, to fortify me against the rigours of my profession.’
‘Bring it to me, if you please.’
For a moment Angelina thought she was going to refuse, then she turned away and went into her room. She returned carrying the flask and looking alarmed.
‘This … this is not as it was when last I … someone has tampered with it.’
Mr McBride held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’
She handed him the flask and he removed the stopper and sniffed. ‘Tonic wine, you say?’
‘Yes, that is all.’
McBride lifted the flask to his lips and took a draft. ‘You are a liar. This is fine Scotch whisky, which was taken from my decanter sometime today.’
‘No! How can it be? I have not touched your decanter. Do you not keep it locked away?’
‘I do, but last night I must have dropped the key and you must have found it. How much of this stuff do you drink?’
‘Very little. Only when I feel the need.’
‘She has some every afternoon, after luncheon,’ Angelina said. ‘Then she goes to sleep.’
Miss Drake turned on her. ‘Why you … You are responsible for this, you little …’
Mrs McBride had made her way upstairs by this time. She pushed past her husband. ‘How dare you accuse my daughter? You have wormed your way into this household under false pretences. You are a liar and a thief. You will leave this house first thing tomorrow morning.’ She looked round at her daughter. ‘Angelina, you had better sleep in my room tonight, away from the influence of this … this woman.’
Angelina curtsied submissively. ‘Very well, Mama.’
Two
James Breckenridge stood on the quayside and strained his eyes to follow the progress of the SS Royal Standard as she stood out into the Mersey, and turned her bows towards the open sea. She was not as beautiful as the sailing clippers that thronged the harbour, with her tall funnels belching smoke instead of the graceful spread of white sails, but that was not important. What mattered to her passengers was that they would have a speedier and safer journey to Australia. What mattered to James was that she was carrying away, faster than any other ship, the person who, he had realised too late, meant more to him than anyone else in the world. To add to his distress, he had just made a promise he knew he could not keep.
He turned away with a sigh and began to plod heavily towards the solicitor’s office where he was an articled clerk. As he walked he castigated himself for a being fool and a snob. What did it matter that May had been brought up in the workhouse? It was true that she had only told him that a few days earlier, when he had asked her to marry him. Until then he had believed that she came from a respectable family, which had fallen on hard times so that, on the death of her mother, she had been forced to take a position as a milliner’s apprentice. Like a fool, he had tried to persuade her to stick to that story after they were married; but she had, quite rightly he saw now, refused to live a lie.
He took out of his pocket the letter he had received that morning. It had arrived just in time for him to rush to the dockside to see the ship sail, but not soon enough to persuade May to disembark. Could the extraordinary story she had told there be true? According to the letter, the father she had always assumed to have drowned at sea had in fact been transported to Australia for some trivial offence, had served his sentence and had then turned prospector and struck gold. Her brother, Gus, was already in Melbourne and the two had met by pure chance. Now, her father had sent money to pay her passage out to join them. It all seemed to be too much of a coincidence. Was it possible that May had made up the story, to give her a reason for leaving him? He would never have thought her capable of such a deception. On the other hand, she had maintained a false story about her upbringing for years, until she had confessed the truth a few days earlier. But, he reminded himself, he had seen her on the deck reserved for First Class passengers as the ship left. There was no way she could have afforded that if her father had not sent money for the ticket. So perhaps it was true.
He thought about the girl he had known for two years and fallen in love with. Circumstances had forced her to hide the shame of her childhood in the workhouse, but in everything else he knew her to be honest and without guile, in total contrast to the artificiality of so many of the young women of his own class. It was that openness which had first drawn him to her. She was brave and self-reliant and he appreciated that more than ever, now that he knew what her life had been like until they met. Educated just sufficiently in the workhouse to fit her for a life in service, she had been subjected to the deprivations of a job as a maid-of-all-work, at the beck and call of a cruel housekeeper. She had been lifted out of that servitude by her talent as an artist and designer, and had made use of every opportunity of improving herself until, finally, her true nature was revealed as an intelligent, lively, affectionate person, open to every new experience that was offered to her. It was that very openness which had drawn him to her. He knew his life had been easy in comparison. The son of a sea captain, who had, it was true, gone down with his ship when James was fifteen; but who had left him and his mother comfortably off and enabled him to receive a good education and then to acquire a position that would, once he had passed his final examinations, open up a respectable career as a solicitor.
That brought him to the nub of the matter. A solicitor was expected to have an equally respectable wife, from a respectable family: a wife who would be acceptable to the sort of society in which he moved. A g
irl brought up in the workhouse, however charming, would not meet with approval. That she had once worked as a milliner’s apprentice was bad enough, without that additional shame. His mother knew that, which was why she had made her disapproval of their relationship clear. May knew it too, and that was why she had fled to Australia.
There was something that stabbed at his conscience beneath all this, and he forced himself to face it. He had made a promise which he knew he could not keep. Standing on the dockside, shouting across the widening expanse of water, he had begged May to come back. It was impossible, of course. She had shouted back, ‘If you love me, get the next boat!’, and he had responded, ‘I will! I will!’
From James Breckenridge to May Lavender
Liverpool
October 27th 1867
My dearest May,
I hardly know how to begin this letter. This morning, as your ship was drawing away from the quay, you shouted to me that if I loved you I should get the next boat, and I, desperate at the thought of losing you, promised that I would. The receipt of this letter will be sufficient evidence that I have not kept my promise, since it will be carried on the ship I should have taken. If this comes as a blow to you, I can only offer my deepest and most heartfelt apologies; but I believe you will have realised by now that it was a promise I could not keep. We both know that my mother has only months, possibly weeks, to live. How could I leave her to suffer alone? I must stay at her side until the end, whenever that may come.
There is another consideration: my solicitor’s articles. I am bound to Mr Weaver until the end of next year. He might, possibly, let me go before that time, but then I should have wasted four years’ hard work. If I stay here until I have passed my final examination I shall be a qualified solicitor and able to set up in business anywhere. I am sure there must be openings for me in Melbourne, or wherever in Australia you have decided to settle. That way I shall be in a position to support a wife and family and offer them a respectable place in society. I know that now your father is, by all accounts, a wealthy man, you may feel that this is an irrelevant consideration; but to me it is not. If I were to come and ask for your hand in marriage as a penniless man with no qualifications, I might well be regarded as a ‘gold digger’, and with some justification. It is vital for me to be able to stand on my own feet, and not to depend on the support of my father-in-law, however freely offered. I am sure that, knowing me as you do, you will understand that.
Dearest May, a year is a long time and I cannot ask you to promise to wait for me. I am sure there are a great many young men who will be eager to court you, who may have talents and attributes that I lack. If you should fall in love with such a one, then it would be unfair and cruel of me to put you in a position of having to choose between breaking a promise to me and following your heart. I can only hope that the memory of the time we have spent together is as dear and as potent for you as it is for me, and that you will still be free when I arrive. I shall come, that I swear. Nothing will keep me here once my obligations have been discharged.
My darling, I think of you every day and dream of you every night. I shall miss our expeditions together and our long talks. I shall miss the way you look at me, with those beautiful eyes, and the touch of your hand in mine. The months ahead seem very lonely and dull. I wish letters did not take so long to travel across the oceans. I long to hear from you that you have arrived safely and found everything to your satisfaction. Write as soon as you can.
Remember me to your brother. I hope he is well and prospering.
With all my love,
James
Three
Aboard the SS Royal Standard
October 27th 1867
My dear James,
This is the second letter I have written to you within the space of twenty-four hours. In the first I told you that I could see no future for us as a married couple and begged you to forget me. I had every intention of doing the same and making a new beginning in Australia. But then I saw you on the dockside, swearing your love to me and offering to marry me without any conditions, and I felt as if my heart was being torn out of my body. I was almost tempted to throw myself overboard in the hope that I might somehow get back to the shore and feel your arms around me again.
I have had time to think more sensibly now. What I said in my first letter is right. Marriage between us could never have worked in England. For you to wed an orphan girl, brought up in the workhouse, would have caused a scandal and broken your poor mother’s heart. You would have found yourself banned from polite society and your only clients would have been criminals and down-and-outs.
And the alternative would have been worse. If we had tried to hide my background and persist with the fiction that I am the daughter of a sea captain with a respectable family, we should have been afraid all the time that someone would recognise me and give the game away. And I should always have had that sneaking fear that you might end up regretting having married me. But Gus writes that in Australia no one cares about who your parents were or where you were brought up. Perhaps there, we could marry without fear of scandal.
As the ship drew away I shouted to you that if you loved me you should get the next boat, and I heard you say ‘I will.’ I know that that is not possible and I should never have asked it. You could never leave your mother, in her poor state of health. She needs you beside her for as long as she lives.
Quite apart from that, you have to finish your solicitor’s qualification. You cannot throw away all the work you have already done. You must stay in England until that is complete. I pray that you have realised this as well and have not been impetuous enough to take the ship before you receive this letter.
That means it will be more than a year before you can even think of joining me and in that time many things may change. It is very likely that you will meet another young lady who would make you a far more suitable bride. I know your mother has already introduced you to several in the hope that you might fall in love with one. It would certainly set her mind at rest. I know she has never regarded me as a suitable prospect. If that should happen, you must not feel bound by that promise you shouted across the water in a moment of great emotion. You might well feel you would prefer to marry this other girl and settle in England, where you are almost guaranteed a successful career and a recognised position in society, rather than embarking on an unknown future in a strange land.
But if, in the end, you still feel about me as you did this morning, I shall be waiting for you. I know that I shall never love anyone else as I love you. I shall keep the memory of the times we have spent together close to my heart and dream that one day I shall feel your arms around me again.
Take care of yourself, dear James, and write to me as soon as you can. I know the letter cannot reach me until another ship arrives in Melbourne, so it will be nearly Christmas before I receive it. I shall post this letter at our first port of call, which I believe will be Cape Town, so you will not have to wait quite so long.
I shall go to bed now, and dream that you are kissing me. I long for the day when that dream may become reality.
With all my love,
May
Four
On the evening of Miss Drake’s departure, Connor McBride and his wife sat facing each other in his smoking room.
‘So, what do we do now?’ he asked.
‘Look for another governess, I suppose, though where we shall find anyone suitable at this short notice heaven only knows.’
‘I am wondering if a governess is the answer. The two we have had so far do not seem to have made much progress.’
‘Because she is a wilful, disobedient child. She has to be taught discipline.’
‘Perhaps we are going the wrong way about it. She is kept so much in seclusion. I do not see how she is ever going to learn how to conduct herself in society if she never sees anyone except a crabbed old governess and the servants.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Perhap
s we should send her to school.’
‘And remove her entirely from my supervision, to mix with lord knows who? It’s too much of a risk.’
‘Then perhaps there is a halfway house. She needs to learn some of the accomplishments of a young lady. We could employ tutors to teach her music, drawing, that sort of thing. And then she might be able to meet people … carefully selected people. What do you think? We cannot keep her shut up in this house for ever.’ Mrs McBride chewed her bottom lip in indecision. ‘Come,’ her husband went on, ‘she’s a pretty little thing and she can be charming when she puts her mind to it. She may yet be a credit to us.’
‘Well, perhaps it might be possible now. Now that that chit of a girl is no longer around to spread her gossip.’
‘To whom do you refer?’
‘That little milliner’s apprentice, the workhouse girl. May something or other. The one who remembered … who thought she remembered Angelina.’
‘What has happened to her?’
‘Gone off to Australia, by all accounts. She’ll fit in well there, among the felons and barbarians.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I happened to meet Laura Pearson the other day and remark upon her new bonnet. She tells me there is a new milliner at Freeman’s now. The old woman has retired and the girl has left.’
‘Are they the only ones who … who guessed?’
‘So far as I know. I made it pretty clear at the time that if the story spread I should know who to blame.’
‘Well, then. Shall we try my idea?’
Angelina’s first emotion as the door closed behind Miss Drake was one of triumph. She was the victor and her foe had been removed from the field. This was rapidly replaced by apprehension. She had succeeded in getting rid of one tyrant, but who might follow? She woke up the next morning with a sense of dread.
It seemed at first that there was to be a return to the short interregnum which had occurred between Miss Garvey leaving and the arrival of Miss Drake: Jane brought up her breakfast, she was left to dress herself and then her mother appeared with a large, leather-bound book. She dumped it on the schoolroom table.
