by M K Jones
“That’s because Esme Peach was supposed to have made her way from Weston-super-Mare, in 1883.”
“Yes. As soon as you said it I recognised the name, Peach. It’s in my letters. A prostitute named Margaret Peach. She had a daughter, called Esme.”
They stared at each other, silently, until Alice broke the silence.
“I don’t understand all of this. Mum!”
“Nor do I,” Maggie replied. She looked directly at Nick. “But, as I said this is happening so fast that I can’t even try to understand. This story is running away with itself.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.” He got up and shuffled as if about to walk away. Maggie shook her head. “Sit down, Mr Howell. Please. I’ve got something else to tell you. Something that will help the Kerr family.”
He lingered uncertainly. Maggie guessed that the look of alarm was probably just the reaction of a shy man who was being babbled at by a strange woman. Her own voice had begun to tremble a little, although she was making a great effort at control and she needed him to listen.
“As I said, I’m in the middle of a mystery, and you’ve just helped me to add what I think will be some particularly crucial pieces. But, let me begin by telling you why I know that my friend wasn’t related to your Honora Fitzgerald. I know that her husband’s family arrived much later. But my Irish ancestors arrived in the eighteen-sixties. My mother told me, when I was at school here, that her own great-grandmother worked here as a servant.”
“What kind of servant?”
She smiled at him. “A seamstress. Honora Fitzgerald was my great, great-grandmother. We still have the shawl that was presented to her when she retired.”
“Do we?” Alice asked, leaning across into their conversation. “Which one?”
“The red and blue one in your dressing up box.”
“Wow. I’ve been playing with history.”
“I did a bit of research when I got involved in my family history, but she was more of a distraction than anything. I remember that she came from Ireland, from Cork.”
He nodded and she continued.
“My mother was Kate O’Connor, her mother was a Dillon, Mary Dillon by marriage. Her mother was Margaret Collins and Margaret’s mother was Honora Fitzgerald, but sometimes she called herself Norah. It changes in the census records. Are you alright?” A wide smile had spread across his face, lighting up his eyes and, Maggie thought, making him look quite handsome.
“But the story of Esme Peach. Now, that’s something else,” Maggie continued. “I need to think this through. If I’m right, we may just have the crucial clue.”
Alice had been scribbling on the paper on the clipboard as Maggie was speaking. Now she held it up. “I wrote down the chain as you spoke, Mum. And I put you and me on the end. Is this right?”
Maggie examined the line of names. “Yes, Al, that’s it exactly. Now if we put next to it my other chain, taking me back to Ruth and John, what can you see?” She reached into her handbag and took out a copy of her family tree and put it on the table next to the clipboard. Ruth’s Alice had been highlighted as missing, with the relevant dates and some scribbled notes.
“I’m not sure,” Alice said. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“Don’t worry. It’s in the story.” She looked up into Nick face. “But if I’m right…”
“If you’re right,” he interrupted, pointing to the paper, “this Alice and that Esme Peach could be the same person?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. She put her hand on her knees to stop her feet tapping rapidly on the stone floor.
“That will be difficult to prove.”
“I know, but we can give it a go. Could you arrange a meeting with the |Kerr family?”
“Of course,” he responded. “I’ll call Alan this afternoon. How can I get hold of you?”
Maggie wrote her number on the clipboard and tore it off for him. “I’m going home now. I need to speak to my friend Zelah. I’ll wait for your call.” She stood up, then hesitated.
“Do you know why Esme Peach was almost dead when she arrived here?”
“No, but Alan has some information. May I tell him your story?”
“Of course. And tell him I’ll look forward to meeting him.”
Sixty Seven
June 1909
Several times, during the week following Richard’s visit, Ruth had seen Maud and James talking quietly in the parlour, occasionally glancing in her direction. William must have been party to the discussions, for when he and his wife had come to visit after chapel, he embarked on a discussion of the past. But Ruth politely refused to be drawn. She did, however, hint to him that she would have something to say to the family soon. William tried to encourage her, to cajole, and to fool her into explaining, but to no avail, he and Sara remained perplexed.
Ruth thought she would burst if she had to keep her thoughts to herself any longer. So she decided to visit John’s grave alone. This time she had no qualms about approaching it. Standing beside his headstone, Ruth felt peaceful. There was the instant of sadness when she first looked on his carved name, but as she ran her hand over one the marble columns, the sensation was serenity.
“I miss you so much, my dear, but I think you know that.” She bent down to place the flowers she had brought in the vase at the foot of the stone, speaking in a low voice.
“Our girl was hunted, John. She didn’t run from us. And I believe my family is hunted, by something I cannot understand but that wishes us only harm and misery. You would have been shocked, you would have been horrified at such ungodly ideas. I would myself never have thought I could believe such things. But I must, because I cannot deny them.
“My duty now is to protect our grandchildren and their children. I don’t know how yet. But I will know. It shan’t win over us.”
Hands against the headstone, she pushed herself upright, staring intently as if the power of her need might move the granite.
“Ruth, I hope you’re there.” The voice again! Inside her head and outside at the same time.
“Ruth, I met Louisa, your granddaughter. She told me what you told her, how much you loved her, and how much you tried to protect her and the others. How you wanted to protect us all.”
Ruth looked around but saw only darkness, as if her eyes were closed, although she knew they were open. She didn’t have a granddaughter called Louisa!
“You succeeded, Ruth. If you hadn’t told Louisa, we would never have known. You saved us all.”
Ruth took a step backwards, catching her foot and stumbling. A man and woman standing at a memorial across the path saw her and got to her as she fell to her hands and knees.
“Why, Mrs Jones! Let me assist you!”
But she pushed away the helping arm and struggled to her feet, turning back to the grave, moving her head wildly from side to side, straining to hear. The man and his wife gaped at her wide eyed. After a few seconds, as if acknowledging defeat, she put her head down and hunched her shoulders.
“I apologise, Mr Llewelyn. I was overcome. I shall go home now.” She turned her back on their protests and walked down the path towards the house, pressing her hands to her head to try to bring back the words that she thought she had heard as she fell.
“You will see her again, Ruth. Just wait.”
Sixty Eight
June 2015
As it turned out, Alan Kerr was very keen to meet Maggie. The phone rang as soon as Maggie got home. Nick told her that Alan was delighted to hear about Maggie and her research and had suggested that they meet for a pub lunch at a place on the road past Knyghton House, the following day.
“I know where that is,” Maggie said. “I’ll see you there, then.”
“Me?” He sounded surprised.
“Of course. You brought this about. Don’t you want to be there?”
“Do you want me to come?”
“I just said so. I’ll see you there tomorrow.” Sh
e put the phone down. “Strange man,” she muttered as she walked into the kitchen on her way to the garden for lunch. She left a message for Zelah but by the end of lunch had no reply, which was strange as they had agreed to meet up to discuss Zelah’s news. Maggie hadn’t wanted to discuss it on the telephone.
By early evening there was still nothing, so she rang again and left a longer message, giving Zelah the time and date of the rendezvous in the pub.
To her surprise, the following morning both children wanted to go with her to meet the Kerrs. The phone rang as they were about to leave the house.
“Sorry, been away. To do with Martin. See you there.”
“Hang on,” Maggie shouted. “Don’t you want to hear any more?”
“No time. Don’t want to be late. See you there.” The phone went dead.
The pub was a pink-washed, low, square building at the end of a long country lane, behind a high retaining wall that held back the high tides of the Bristol Channel. As they got out of the car, the wind blew them sideways.
“This is not good,” Alice shouted as she fought her way towards the pub door, hanging onto Jack’s arm. “What’s the matter with the weather?”
“It’s often like this here,” Maggie yelled back. “It’s because of the Channel, I think. We’ll go up the steps and take a look after lunch.”
Alice yelled back something that sounded like “you must be joking”, as Zelah roared into the car park. Maggie signalled to the pub entrance and followed Jack.
The entrance led straight into a carpeted lounge bar with groups of armchairs and settees. At the far side, seated against a picture window, Nick Howell was sitting with a small group around a low coffee table. He acknowledged Maggie’s wave with a quickly raised, leather-gloved hand. The Kerr family looked up in her direction. There were three of them, mother, father, and a girl about Alice’s age who had her back to Maggie. She turned round with a prompt from her mother. The result was startling. Glancing from Alice at her side to the Kerr’s daughter, Maggie knew that she was looking at related children.
Alan stood up as they approached. He was about her height and Maggie guessed that he was fortyish, his blonde wife probably younger. He held out his hand, smiling openly.
“Mrs Gilbert, this is very exciting. We’re thrilled to meet you. This is my wife, Lucy, and our daughter, Esme.”
Lucy stood and prompted her daughter to stand at her side. The two young girls stared at each other.
“Are you my cousin?” Alice asked.
“I don’t think so,” Esme replied, with a grin as wide as Alice’s. “But my dad says we may be related, from ages back. Come and sit with us.”
Lucy and Esme moved along the settee. Alice sat next to Esme and they began to chat.
Maggie waited as Zelah came through the door, both hands clutching her head. Her appearance – today she was in a bright red suit with black accessories – had the usual effect. Maggie watched Alan and Nick stare as she approached them at her usual brusque pace.
“This is my friend, Zelah Trevear. She’s the person who’s helped me with my research. I wouldn’t be here today without Zelah’s help.” Zelah nodded curtly and shook the hands held out towards her.
When they had got over the fuss of buying drinks and settling themselves, a silence descended, except for the two girls who were sitting back in the settee and keeping up a non-stop conversation, oblivious to the adults.
“Well, where should we begin?” Maggie waded in.
“How about you tell your story?” Alan suggested. “Nick’s told us the basic details, but I’d appreciate hearing it again from you.”
“OK,” Maggie replied. “Then I’d like to understand how you came to be searching. Let’s see if we can establish that my Alice Jones and your Esme Peach are the same person.”
Alan nodded and Maggie began her story. She put in as much detail as she could, checking with Zelah who nodded occasionally but didn’t add anything. She left out any reference to her less explainable connection to Ruth.
Alan and his wife listened intently throughout, asking no questions. But Lucy’s pursed lips and cocked head told Maggie that the woman was sceptical. When Maggie had finished, Alan sat thoughtfully, nodding to himself for a few seconds before he began to speak.
“My great-grandmother, Esme, was housekeeper at Knyghton House, but you know that already.” He nodded in Nick’s direction. “She married the nephew of the butler who was at the house when Esme appeared. He was called Alan, too. Alan Hughes. They had three children, Esme, Alan, and Joyce.”
“It’s a tradition in my family that the first girl is always called Esme. Lucy wanted to name our little girl after her mother, but I insisted. It’s beyond tradition.” He smiled ruefully at his wife and Maggie got the impression that if Lucy had deferred to her husband in this matter, she hadn’t in much else.
“Do you know why?” she interrupted.
“No, just that my great-grandmother insisted. She never said why.” He paused, looking hopefully at the expression on Maggie’s face. “Do you know?”
“I have a theory. But please, go on.”
“Well, when I began to trace my family history, I got back to Esme. I found out by talking to my grandmother about how Esme appeared quite suddenly one day. She told me the story of Esme’s mother dying in Weston-super-Mare and Esme somehow making her way to Wales to find her aunt, Moira Davies. Moira was housekeeper at Knyghton at the time and she was apparently thrilled to find her niece. The story was that she was just about to set off to look for her, when the girl just turned up on the doorstep, but in a terrible state. She had a cut on her head that had turned septic, a twisted ankle and a dangerous fever, possibly pneumonia. She would have died if it hadn’t been for the ministrations of Honora Fitzgerald.”
“What else to you know about Esme?” Zelah chipped in.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” He looked quizzically at her.
“Yes, you do. Ignore what your wife thinks, just tell us.” Alan blushed and gave his wife the same look that Maggie had seen earlier. Lucy spoke for the first time.
“It’s all conjecture. Stuff and nonsense about what might have happened in the past. They’re all dead and gone. Why disturb everything?”
Maggie caught hold of Zelah’s elbow in time to stop her rising out of her chair.
“Lucy isn’t interested in family history.” Alan paused. “But I am, in mine.” There was a determination in his voice, which seemed to surprise his wife, who bit back a further comment. “The past affects the present and the future. We are who we are because of people who went before us and sometimes what happened to them can affect us.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Maggie replied. She ignored the derisive sniff from Lucy as Alan carried on.
“It’s just… Look, I know this sounds strange, but I feel that there’s things about Esme’s story that I need to know, because it’s strange and, and… unfinished. Maybe I’m wrong, but it’s a gut feeling.” He rested his hands on his knees and sat upright. “From what I learned about Esme, she didn’t seem to fit with what you’d expect from the daughter of a prostitute deliberately drowned in a horse trough in Weston.”
“What kind of things?” Maggie asked.
“Well, she played the piano, for a start. And she was educated, she could already read and write, but she hated school and wouldn’t go, not even when she recovered. Moira Davies paid for private tutors, with help from Lady Mary Knyghton, the Countess of Monmouth, who had apparently taken a shine to her.”
“And?” Zelah asked with even more emphasis.
“I believe that Moira Davies came to doubt Esme’s identity.”
“What led you to think that?” Maggie asked.
He paused to gather his thoughts, then began slowly. “I said that Esme married Alan Hughes, the nephew of the butler at the time of her arrival. Well, it seems that Alan’s uncle, Mervyn Hughes, always had doubts, but kept them to himself until he died. Just before he die
d, he spoke to Alan and Moira, who was retired by that time, and told them both. Moira didn’t contradict him, just said that it had all worked out for the best.
“Alan was upset, but didn’t share his uncle’s information with Esme until years later. My grandmother told me that Alan told her all this before he died, and that Esme had been reconciled with her mother. I couldn’t understand that at all. Moira was her aunt, not her mother, and if her mother was murdered, how could she have been reconciled with her? I wondered if my grandmother was embellishing the story, but I don’t think she was. She didn’t understand it either.”
“Can I talk to your grandmother?” Maggie asked quickly.
“She died six months ago,” Alan replied. “When I asked her what her mother’s reaction to hearing the news had been, Nana said Esme just went quiet, for weeks apparently. Then she told Alan that she had been having flashbacks for years. None of them made sense to her and she still didn’t understand why she was afraid of water, but that perhaps the time had come to find out.”
“Do you know when all this happened?”
“Yes, it was around 1936. Nana remembered that. But that was all she could tell me. Whatever Esme found out, never got passed on.”
“But your grandmother did say that Esme had been reconciled with her mother?”
“Yes,” he replied eagerly. “Can you make anything from it?”
The atmosphere round the table was hushed now, all eyes on Maggie. “Not directly, not as proof, but again, there’s a coincidence in the dates. Ruth died in November 1936. She was eighty-two and had been very ill for some time. Louisa Jenkins told me that Ruth hung on at the point of death – none of them understood how or why. At the very end, she had a visitor, unknown to any of them except the local minister, a man called Richard Robinson. Later that day, she died. I think now, from what you’ve just said, that her visitor may have been Alice.”
