A Dream of her Own (26 page)
Constance shook her head. ‘But how can he come to see you? I thought ... I thought he—’
‘You thought he was dead.’ Frances laughed bitterly, and Constance held her breath, terrified that the laughter would bring on a coughing fit. But then John’s mother said, ‘He might as well be dead. He’s never mentioned here; in fact my family would prefer it if he were dead.’
That was the only time that Constance saw her mother-in-law cry. For a moment her dark eyes glittered and then tears welled up and began to stream down her cheeks. ‘He couldn’t help it. He loved me, I believe that, but he loved his ... the other one more ...’
‘Mother, please don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you so unhappy.’
John was standing in the doorway. Constance did not know how long he had been there. He came over to the bed, took one of the clean rags from the bedside table and began to dry his mother’s tears. ‘Go downstairs, my love,’ he said to Constance. ‘I’ll sit with her until she is calmer.’
The next day John hired a nurse and Constance was banished from the sick room. She told John that she wanted to help, that she loved his mother, that she wanted to be with her, but John would not be moved.
‘Constance, we have to face the fact that her life is drawing to a close.’
‘All the more reason why—’
‘No, my love. You’re not being reasonable. My mother’s life is ending but a new life is beginning. You are carrying my child. I must protect you.’
She had not been able to argue with that ...
‘Mrs Edington, drink this.’ Mrs Green had brought a cup of tea from the kitchen and was holding it towards her.
‘Thank you - and thank you for helping like this.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. I’m your neighbour, aren’t I? I was always pleased to help your ma-in-law and, now that she’s gone, I’ll be here to help you. I promised her.’
‘Did you? When?’
‘One afternoon when I was sitting with her. She asked me to come and help you when your - when your time comes.’
Constance’s eyes widened. ‘She knew?’
‘Master John told her. He wanted her to die happy, I suppose. But don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone - not until you want me to.’ Mrs Green returned to her self-imposed duties of serving the guests.
Die happy, Constance thought. That’s a strange phrase. Mrs Green knew better than most that Frances Edington’s death had not been easy. She had not faded away and passed on peacefully in her sleep. The final coughing fit had torn her lungs apart. Constance, crouching by the fire in the room below and trying to block her ears to the hideous sounds, had suffered agonies of distress and helplessness.
But she supposed she knew what their neighbour meant. Frances Edington had loved her son and it was only natural that she should want him to marry and have a family of his own. Poor lady, she would never see her grandchild but hopefully it had given her some joy to know that one was on the way.
‘This is all very tasteful, Constance.’ Muriel Barton interrupted her train of thought. John’s aunt sipped the red wine that John had served to his guests and surveyed the cold entrées. With the help of
Mrs Beeton
and Mrs Green, Constance had provided game pie, beef galantine, chicken medallions and a selection of savouries including eggs in mayonnaise, anchovy croutes and angels on horseback.
Mrs Beeton
and Mrs Green, Constance had provided game pie, beef galantine, chicken medallions and a selection of savouries including eggs in mayonnaise, anchovy croutes and angels on horseback.
‘Thank you.’
‘Where did you learn how to prepare food like this? At the house where you were a servant?’
‘Of course not, Mother,’ Esther said. ‘She was just a skivvy in Dr Sowerby’s household, weren’t you, Constance?’
How does Esther know that I worked at the Sowerbys’? Constance saw the way the girl and her mother were looking at her, their mouths twisted into smug little smiles, and knew instinctively that they had made it their business to find out about her. They must have been waiting for the opportunity to gloat. She felt her gorge rising but she controlled her anger and glanced towards John, hoping for support, but he was deep in conversation with his uncle. He had not heard his cousin’s insulting remarks.
That was just as well, Constance realized. After all, this was the day of his mother’s funeral. She breathed deeply and smiled across the table at mother and daughter. ‘Actually, these are recipes that I remember from my childhood. I used to love going down into the kitchen and watching cook, especially if my parents were giving a grand dinner party.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Muriel Barton’s puzzled expression was comical and, for a moment, Esther was completely taken aback. Then she laughed.
‘She’s playacting, Mother. Pretending that she comes from some sort of grand family when we know for a fact that the Sowerbys got her from the workhouse.’
‘I know but, Esther,’ Muriel Barton was frowning as she turned to her daughter and said quietly, ‘that doesn’t mean that she was born there. All kinds of people end up in the workhouse and, remember, she doesn’t speak like a skivvy.’
Esther frowned and glanced at Constance before shrugging and replying, ‘It’s playacting, no more than that. I’m sure of it.’
After that they left her alone and Constance was grimly amused to see that, no matter if they despised her, they wolfed down the food greedily. Esther will be as stout as her mother one day, Constance realized, and was not ashamed to admit that that gave her some satisfaction.
But then she remembered that even though John’s family had taken the trouble to find out something about her, John had never questioned her about her past. But that’s because he loves me, she thought. He fell in love with the person I am, not my family or my background. She had accepted that at first but increasingly lately she thought it strange that John had not wanted to know more about her former life. Surely if you loved someone you should want to find out all about them.
She sighed and looked down at her plate. When Mrs Green had filled it she had looked at the amount of food in despair. But now she was surprised to find that she was hungry. She was pleased that her appetite was returning. For a while she had been sickly and delicate, as she knew that many women were in the early stages of pregnancy. She had had no one to advise her and nothing to go on except her memories of women in the workhouse.
Now, since her visits to the doctor, visits upon which John had insisted, she realized that she must have become pregnant straight away, probably on her wedding night. John had been overjoyed. He had taken it as an excuse to treat her like Dresden china and, although he was happy to hold her in his arms and soothe her if she felt unwell, they had not behaved like husband and wife since the moment the pregnancy was confirmed.
The meal came to an end and Constance was pleased that the Barton family did not want to linger. Before they left, John’s aunt took her aside and said, ‘I see that you will soon have need of the christening cake, Constance.’
Constance brought her hands to cover her belly instinctively. Her dress was made of black taffeta and, although it was fitted, the full bodice pouched over the belt, concealing her thickening waistline.
Muriel gave a thin smile. ‘Oh, the pins and tucks are artful but did you think it didn’t show?’ She continued, ‘Well, I probably wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t filled out at the top as well. John must be delighted.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘How far gone are you?’
‘Really, I—’
‘No matter. So long as you produce a healthy bairn - or at least a live one - that’s all he needs to come into his full inheritance.’
Constance glanced at John as he came back into the dining room after seeing his relatives to the door. She said, ‘The table, it must be cleared. Polly has been working since early this morning.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll take advantage of the excellent Mrs Green and you shall come into the sitting room.’ John walked over to the mantelpiece and was just about to pull the bell rope when Constance stopped him.
‘No, don’t do that, John. Mrs Green is our neighbour, not a servant. I’ll go to the kitchen and get her.’
John looked at her askance. ‘I was about to ring for Polly, whose place it is to answer the bell. I intended to instruct her to tell Mrs Green politely that I should like to speak to her.’
Constance saw that he was smiling, and of course he was right, she had no idea why she was being so sensitive. Perhaps it was part and parcel of being pregnant. She allowed John to lead her into the sitting room at the front of the house. The gaslights were burning and the curtains had remained closed since the day Frances Edington had died; the atmosphere in the room was stuffy.
John settled her in an armchair, brought her a footstool. ‘Would you like a rug?’
‘No, thank you.’
John glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘What is it, John?’
‘Constance, my love, I have to go out.’
‘Out?
Today?
But where are you going?’
Today?
But where are you going?’
John dropped to one knee beside her and took her free hand. ‘I have some business to attend to.’
‘Business? Surely not! Surely your uncle wouldn’t expect you to go to work on the day of your mother’s funeral?’
‘Sweetheart, I don’t mind. And you mustn’t. I’ll tell Mrs Green to warm the bed for you and when she’s finished helping Polly to clear up, I’ll ask her to help you settle for the night.’
‘John, I’m not an invalid!’
‘I know that. But you’re precious to me and you must allow me to look after you.’
He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. The action was gentle, tender, and Constance realized that neither his kiss nor her response to it had been passionate. She remembered the early days of her marriage and how her senses had been roused by his nearness, by the gentleness of his caresses. And yet, those feelings had come to nothing. John’s lovemaking had hinted at a rapture, a fulfilment that each time she had felt must surely be about to consume her. But it never had. And, once he had learned that she was expecting a baby, the lovemaking had ceased altogether.
In fact some nights, when he had come home particularly late, he had gone to his old room to sleep. He said that she needed her sleep and he didn’t want to disturb her. And now he was about to go out and leave her alone on the day of his mother’s funeral - just as he had on their wedding day.
As John paused in the doorway to smile at her, Constance was surprised to feel a spurt of anger. She gripped the arms of the chair and, instead of returning his smile, she bit into her lips and turned her head to stare into the fire.
‘Constance?’ he murmured softly, but she didn’t reply.
She went on staring into the flames until the door had closed behind him.
After he had gone Constance sipped the wine without enthusiasm. When Prudence Green brought her a cup of tea and a tray of sweet pastries she thanked her and told her that she must go home to her husband and Albert. She was, Constance maintained, perfectly capable of getting herself off to bed. But her neighbour hovered by the door, seemingly reluctant to leave.
‘You will drink that tea up now, won’t you? Don’t let it go cold.’
Constance sipped the tea obligingly and found it a little too sweet but she smiled her thanks.
‘Mrs Edington,’ her neighbour said, ‘would it be all right if Polly came next door to us for an hour or so? The girl needs a break - a bit of company. I’m worried that she might just brood sitting in the kitchen all by herself.’
‘Polly? But of course, if she would like to.’
‘Thank you. I’ll make sure she doesn’t stay too late.’
Constance didn’t know whether she ought to feel rebuked. Surely she couldn’t have been expected to feel responsible for Polly sitting alone in the kitchen? Suddenly she had an image of the house as a doll’s house with the maid doll in the kitchen and the mistress doll in the parlour. One sitting on a wooden chair by the range with her feet on the fender and the other sitting in a plush chair with her feet supported by an embroidered footstool.
That was how it should be, shouldn’t it? But her neighbours, the Greens, where did they fit into the doll’s house? They were neither masters nor servants. Even though Mrs Green paid a woman to help her scrub through every week and do the washing, they would never aspire to be called middle class. They were respectable working people who could afford to live in a decent house, that was all.
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