by Holly Green
‘The nurse sent for me again,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s condition has worsened and she was very restless. I’ve given her a stronger dose of laudanum but I am afraid that is all I can do. She may rally again when that takes effect but –’ he laid a hand of James’s arm ‘– I’m afraid you must prepare yourself. It may be a matter of days or a week, but no more than that.’
James swallowed hard and blinked away tears. ‘Do not grieve yourself too much,’ the doctor continued. ‘Your mother has endured with great courage for many months. The end will come as a merciful release. Perhaps this is the time to think whether there are any relatives you should contact.’
James nodded and spoke with difficulty. ‘Yes, yes, you are right. I must think about it … but really, there is no one, no one I can call to mind at the moment. But thank you for bringing it to my attention.’
He spent the rest of the evening and late into the night sitting by his mother’s bed, holding her hand and moistening her lips from time to time with a sponge soaked in water. He tried to remember if there was anyone he should contact, but drew a blank. His grandparents were long dead. He knew that his mother had a sister – who had married against their father’s wishes and cut off all communication with the family – and a brother who had been a seaman like James’s father, but who had been offered a position as manager of a sugar plantation in the West Indies. They had received news more than five years ago that he had succumbed to some tropical disease and died without leaving any legitimate offspring.
Since his father’s death in a shipwreck three years earlier, he and his mother had been sufficient for each other. He was her only child, an unusual occurrence, which she had once explained by telling him that his birth had been difficult and she had been warned that another child might be fatal. They had always been close, and his father’s death had drawn them closer. And yet now the thought that most haunted his mind was the recognition that for almost a year he had been waiting for her to die, so that he could go to Australia to be with May.
He tried to reconcile his conscience by reflecting that he had delayed his engagement because it would have distressed his mother, and this long separation had been the price both he and May paid for her peace of mind. He had known for months that his mother could not live beyond the end of the year, but now it was upon him it was harder to bear than he had ever imagined.
Next day his pallor and heavy eyes soon drew Mr Weaver’s attention and he told him to go home, but James begged to be allowed to stay. ‘I need something else to think about,’ he said, ‘and there is nothing I can do at home except sit and wait. It might be days. I should go mad.’
‘Very well,’ Weaver said. ‘Just remember that if you wish to go you do not need to ask for permission.’
Two days passed, in which his mother drifted in and out of consciousness. James went home in his lunch hour to sit with her and spent his evenings with his law books at her bedside. On the third day, when he was at the office, he was surprised to receive a note from Peter Forsyth, Prudence’s brother.
There are matters which I need to discuss with you. I shall be grateful if you can meet with me at my club at six o’clock this evening.
It struck James that he had not given a thought to Prudence since the arrival of the ransom note that had sent him off to Ireland, and the formality of her brother’s note set alarm bells ringing in his mind.
When he presented himself, however, at the address Peter had given he was received with a friendly handshake, which came as a considerable relief.
When they were both settled with a glass of Madeira, Peter said, ‘We haven’t seen anything of you for days. Have you been ill?’
‘No, no,’ James responded. ‘I’ve … I’ve just been very busy.’
‘Too busy to remember your friends?’
‘No, of course not. I had to go to Ireland for a few days, on business …’ He trailed off, unwilling to embark on the matter of his mother’s illness.
Peter toyed with the stem of his wine glass for a moment, then he folded his hands on the table and fixed his eyes on James’s face. ‘Look, this is awkward so I’ll get straight to the point. I want to know, we all want to know, what your intentions are regarding my sister.’
‘Intentions?’ James repeated.
‘Oh, come on.’ There was an edge of irritation now to Peter’s voice. ‘You are not so naive that you don’t know what I’m talking about. You have been squiring Prue about all summer, taking her to concerts and parties and so on …’
‘But always with you and the others,’ James put in quickly. ‘Just as a group of friends.’
‘You really think that? Do you really think that no one has noticed how close you and she were? Do you think she hasn’t noticed anything?’
‘I … I like her very much, of course.’
‘Well then?’
‘I … I should be very sorry to hurt her feelings …’
‘Are you saying that you’re not serious?’
‘Serious …?’ James was completely at sea. He had got himself into a very difficult situation and had no idea how to get out of it.
‘For God’s sake stop repeating my words back to me. Do you, or do you not, intend to propose to my sister?’
James gazed into his glass. ‘No … no, that is, I don’t know.’
Peter pushed back his chair. ‘My God! I should call you out and put a bullet through your head.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ James responded sharply. ‘What century do you think we are living in?’ Peter sat down again and James went on more quietly, ‘Look, I have enjoyed going around with you all this summer and I like Prudence very much, but I wasn’t thinking of marriage. It simply didn’t cross my mind.’
‘Well, you had better think about it now,’ Peter said. ‘Because if you break her heart you will have me to reckon with.’
‘Is she … does she … is she expecting me to say something?’
‘She hasn’t said as much, and I have too much affection for her to press her to expose her feelings to me. I just know that all summer we – that is her friends and family – have been waiting for you to make up your mind. So now is the time for you to do that.’
James bent his head. Too many thoughts were swirling through his mind for him to make sense of them. An excuse came to him.
‘Look, Peter, I am sorry if I’ve upset you or her and I can see you need to have an answer, but the fact is I’m in no state of mind to decide anything at the moment. My mother is dying. The doctor says it is a matter of days. So you see, I can’t really think about the future in any constructive way right now.’
‘Oh, great heavens! I had no idea.’ Peter reached across the table and laid a hand on James’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry. I knew she was unwell, but I didn’t realise it was so serious. Please forgive me for badgering you at such a difficult time.’
‘No, no, it’s all right. There’s no need to apologise,’ James said, sensing a rush of relief. ‘I can quite understand your position and I realise I may have been … a little too casual. Give me a week or two to get my head clear and then I’ll let you have an answer. And please explain to Prue why I haven’t been in touch lately.’
‘I will, of course,’ Peter agreed. ‘And I hope … well, what can I say? Our thoughts will be with you in this difficult time.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No hard feelings?’
‘Of course not.’
They parted with a handshake and James made his way home with his mind in turmoil. For almost a year his plans for the future had been focussed on one point, the prospect of joining May in Australia; a new life in a new country. Now another possibility presented itself. His friends were expecting him to marry Prudence. It seemed likely that she was expecting it herself. And why not? She was a very attractive young woman. He had several times had to resist the impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her. They had so much in common, too – a love of music and poetry and the beauties of natur
e and he could talk to her as he could not talk to anyone else he knew. If he stayed in Liverpool he could continue to enjoy the civilised pleasures of a great city, which he suspected would be lacking in Melbourne, or wherever else he ended up.
Then, there was the offer of a partnership in Weaver and Woolley. He had every prospect of a prosperous and respectable career. Prue’s father was well connected in the business community and would be able to put work his way. It was exactly the future his mother had envisaged for him.
On the reverse of the coin there was the thought of marriage to May. He tried to call up the image of her face but found he could no longer picture her clearly. He recalled what it was that had made him fall in love with her in the first place, and realised that it was the mirror image of what he saw in Prudence. Where Prue was sophisticated, May was a stranger to the mores of middle class society; where Prue was self-confident, May was afraid of causing offence or behaving improperly. Where Prue was well educated and had all the accomplishments expected of a young lady of her background, May had struggled to teach herself the things she felt she should know if she was to be his wife.
On the other hand, while Prue took all her advantages for granted and expected all the pleasures enjoyed by someone of her class to be readily available, for May those pleasures were a source of wonder and intense delight. Whereas Prue met him on equal terms in their discussions of music and literature, and was probably indeed better informed about such matters than he was, he had had the joy of introducing them to May and watching her grow in her appreciation and understanding. But in Australia, he would be the tyro, having to make his way in an unfamiliar society – and May was now the daughter of a wealthy man with an established position. In short, marriage to Prudence meant a life of comfortable familiarity; marriage to May was an adventure into unknown territory.
All these thoughts haunted his mind over the following days, while he divided his time between his work during the day and evenings spent at his mother’s bedside, trying in vain to concentrate on studying for his exams. Most of the time his mother lay in a drugged sleep, but one night, just as he was about to hand over his watch to the nurse, she opened her eyes and focussed on his face.
‘Oh, it’s you, James.’
‘Yes, Mama. I’ve been here all the time.’ He leaned over and stroked her hair. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘A sip of water, please.’
He poured water from a jug on the table and raised her head on his arm to hold the glass to her lips. When he laid her back she said, ‘I’m glad you are here. I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘The little milliner’s apprentice.’
‘May? What about her?’
‘You told me that you have been writing to each other. Do you still write?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were in love with her, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Was it because of me that you let her go off to Australia?’
‘Partly, yes.’
His mother closed her eyes and sighed. He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t talk if it tires you.’
‘No, there is something I want to say. It has been on my conscience. I did wrong to discourage you. She was a sweet girl, very talented and very well behaved, considering her terrible childhood. Did you know she grew up in the workhouse?’
‘Yes, I did. But I thought you didn’t.’
‘Oh, yes. Nan, the old milliner she was apprenticed to, told me years ago. That was why I felt she wasn’t a suitable wife for you. I realise I was wrong. I was looking at her through the eyes of other people, who didn’t know her, instead of seeing her for herself. And now she has gone away and you have been left alone. Can you forgive me?’
James swallowed. He could not suppress the thought that if his mother had said all this a year ago, May would have been at his side now. But at the same time, the fact that she had been struggling with her conscience ever since was a revelation that touched him deeply. ‘Of course I can. I know you only wanted what was best for me.’ It crossed his mind that if he were to tell her now about the offer of the partnership and that he intended to marry Prudence Forsyth, she would die happy. But even as the thought came to him, his mother spoke again.
‘Do you still love her?’
An hour ago he could not have given her an answer; now, quite suddenly, there was no doubt in his mind. ‘Yes, Mama. I do.’
‘Then go to her, my darling, or tell her to come home. I can go in peace if I know you are going to be happy, in spite of my foolishness. Will you promise me to do that?’
‘I will, Mama. I swear it.’
‘That’s good.’ She sank back into the pillows. ‘I think I can sleep now.’
He bent and kissed her on the brow. ‘Goodnight, dear mama. Sleep well.’
‘And you, my darling boy. Goodnight.’
Next morning, as he was dressing to go to the office, the nurse tapped on his door. As soon as he opened it he knew what she was going to say.
‘Your mama passed away peacefully just before dawn. I didn’t see any point in waking you. She was ready to go and now she is where there is no more pain.’
He nodded and drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you. Yes, I believe she was. Can I see her?’
‘Yes, of course.’
He knelt beside the bed for some time and tried to pray, but religion had been a matter of form for him rather than faith for many years, and although he repeated the wellknown words he found little comfort in them. What did bring comfort was his mother’s last words. ‘I can go in peace if I know you are going to be happy.’
The following days were occupied with notifying her friends and making arrangements for the funeral. It was gratifying to see how many people were there; women she had known since childhood, old shipmates of his father’s and their wives, widows of others who had been lost at sea. Richard came and gripped his hand warmly. Laura Pearson came and offered what seemed to be sincere condolences. The Forsyths came and Prudence kissed his cheek and murmured that she was sorry for his loss. Ned was there, and the rest of the group he had spent time with during the summer, but he felt a reserve that was more than simple respect to the solemnity of the occasion.
When it was over he sat down and wrote a note.
Dear Prudence,
I am sure you will understand that I must observe a period of mourning for my mother. So I shall not able to attend the concerts which we so greatly enjoyed together during the summer, or accept invitations of any sort. I want to thank you for your company and for the great pleasure it gave me to spend time with you. I am sure that you will not lack for escorts for future occasions and I wish you every happiness.
Yours sincerely,
James
She replied with a note saying that she understood and was sorry that they would not be able to enjoy the winter festivities together. Three weeks later he learned that she had accepted Ned’s invitation to go riding with him.
Twenty One
Liverpool
August 3rd 1868
Dearest May,
I am writing to tell you that my mother passed away peacefully in her sleep two nights ago. Her pain had become very much worse in the last few days and she was relying on very large doses of laudanum, with the result that she slept most of the time. When the end came it was a merciful release.
I find it hard to describe my feelings at this moment. There is grief, of course. The house seems very empty without her, although Flossie and Cook are still here, of course, and do their best to make sure that my every need is catered for. There is also relief, that her long suffering is over. But underneath all that, there is a kind of guilty rejoicing, in that I am now free to come and join you.
My guilt is lessened by a remarkable incident that occurred just before my mother died. I was sitting by her bed and she suddenly regained consciousness and wanted to talk. She asked me if I was still in touch with you, and, when I said I was, she told
me that she knew I was in love with you and it was weighing on her conscience that she had kept us apart. She also said that she had been mistaken in judging you through the eyes of society and not for yourself. Finally, she made me promise that after she was gone I would come and find you and marry you. So you see, when all is said and done, we have her blessing.
Now I must tell you something else, which will sadden you I am afraid. I told you in my last letter about Richard Kean and his search for his missing daughter, whom we believe to be the child you called Angel. Matters have progressed since then. We managed to discover that she had been sent away to school, to a convent in Ireland, but that she had run away. That happened nearly three months ago and in spite of police searches no one has seen or heard from her since. Poor Richard went to Ireland and hunted for weeks for clues about what might have happened to her but without success. Our only comfort is that no body has been found, so we have hopes that she may have been taken in by someone, though by whom and for what purpose we shall probably never know.
I am sorry to give you this news, because I know it will grieve you. Of course, there has not been time for me to receive your answer to my last letter, in which I asked if you could think of any way we could prove that Richard’s lost Amy and the McBride’s Angelina are one and the same; but even if you can suggest something it appears it will be too late. She is lost to us, and lost it seems to the McBrides, and we can only hope that wherever she is now she is being treated better than she was by them. I feel very sorry for Richard. He may have acted badly in abandoning her in the first place, though it is hard to see what else he could have done. It is clear to me that he regrets his actions deeply and is desperate to find her again. He is a good man, a really nice fellow, and we have become great friends. I wish you could meet him.
So, that is my news for now. There is one more hurdle to leap before I can book my passage to Australia – I mean my examination, of course – but I am fairly confident of passing and I hope to leave Liverpool before Christmas. I have been reading in the papers that work is progressing at last on this canal project in Egypt and there is talk of it being finished by next year. If only it was sooner! It would make it possible for me to be with you weeks earlier. But we have been apart for almost a year now and my love for you has not diminished by one iota. I pray that you still feel the same. If that is the case, then a few more months will make no difference.
