A Mother's Love (9 page)

Harriet, blissfully unaware of her sister’s venom, continued to revel in the attention her news had brought, enjoying this New Year’s Eve spent with her family. The beer and port were flowing as on the stroke of twelve the bells rang in all the churches around; and neighbours leaned from windows to call a Happy New Year to each other. Friends flooded in as the last chime struck, making sure that at least one had dark hair and a lump of coal for luck, and was the first in at the door. Despite her happiness, Harriet found herself wishing that Matthew could be here to share it with her.

Matthew’s home, Mullions, was a rambling Georgian edifice set in an acre of ground just outside Winchester. Occupied only by his parents, a staff of six, and a weight of furniture, dusted and polished daily but seldom used in most of its twelve rooms, it had a withdrawn air, which even New Year’s Eve couldn’t abolish. It hadn’t been a lively Christmas, and would be an even worse last day of the year: Mrs Craig, Matthew’s mother, was having one of her heads. In consequence, the servants – butler, lady’s maid, footman, cook, housemaid, skivvy – were creeping around on tiptoe.

Matthew sat in the sitting room, the previous day’s copy of the
Manchester Guardian
lying across his lap. He’d scanned it but hadn’t read a word so far. He thought of Harriet, wondered how she was, what she was doing. He was deeply in love and missing her.

He had planned to say nothing about his news until this evening, his last before going back to London. That way he would avoid days of strained silence and painful postmortems, especially with only himself and his parents here. Richard and Evelyn had been with their own little families this year, his brother’s wife expecting her first in February and his sister’s first only four months old.

He had planned to wait until after dinner, due in twenty minutes, but his stomach was already in turmoil as well as being empty. Coming to a decision, he thrust the
Manchester Guardian
aside and strode out of the sitting room. It was better perhaps to have Father pave the way, his way, rather than spring a surprise on Mother with one of her heads.

He found his father in the library. Accepting the offer of a brandy, he took a fortifying sip, then came out with it: ‘I suppose you should be the first to know, Father. I’ve decided to get married.’

Henry Craig regarded him at length, his square face registering relief as well as surprise.

‘Anyone I know?’ he asked finally, his tone even, and Matthew took heart.

‘I shouldn’t think so. She’s a London girl.’

London, that metropolis of varied areas from the fashionable West End to the poverty-stricken East End – all sorts of odd people lived in London. Henry Craig’s expression became a touch more severe.

‘What part of London?’

Matthew found himself hedging, dreading the moment of truth. ‘I thought it best to tell you and Mother before approaching her father.’

‘I see,’ Henry said slowly. With deliberation he swirled his brandy around in the bulbous glass, then lifted it to contemplate its pure amber colour against the light of the chandelier, apparently fascinated by the way the candle-light reflected off the facets of festooned crystal drops on to the smooth crystal bowl he held.

Matthew waited, taking mental stock of his father. A tall man, but broader than Matthew could ever hope to be, at fifty-one he was beginning to stoop, and his blue eyes were less bright than formerly. His round nose always looked at odds with lips thinned by years of property dealing. His hair was receding now, and taking on that yellowish grey that fair people acquire in middle age, but it had once been as Matthew’s now was. However, Matthew favoured his mother more, having inherited her dark eyes and her slim figure. She had been a handsome woman, still was, for all her enjoyment of poor health, with her face lined from needless fretting over insignificant matters.

Henry continued to study his brandy. ‘You’ve given me no name as yet, Matthew.’

Matthew almost jumped. ‘Harriet Porter.’ He found himself facing a frown of distaste. ‘Her maiden name was Wilson,’ he added hastily. That sounded better. But it was a mistake.

‘Wilson? Porter? You mean she has been married at some time?’

‘Widowed, tragically, some time ago.’

‘I see. How old is this … Mrs Porter?’

‘Twenty – her husband was killed in an unfortunate accident.’

‘And her parents – what does her father do?’

This was turning into an inquisition. Matthew braced himself. As he expected, the inquisition began stringing itself out, stopped only by the hollow buzz of the dinner gong. By that time he’d confessed to Harriet’s home being unforgivably east of St Paul’s. Even Winchester folk had heard of London’s East End, a notorious sprawl. The capital had its pockets of poor even in the finer West End: casual labour, washerwomen, chimney sweeps, crossing sweepers, hauliers, cartiers – people who made some sort of living off the wealthy. But the East End was vastly more congested by poor people and Henry Craig could imagine no respectable middle-class family voluntarily remaining at such an undesirable address unless there was something odd about them.

‘How anyone can live among all those buildings and streets,’ he said with ill humour that boded no good, ‘and remain unsullied by the squalor and dissolution, is beyond me. How our dear Queen manages to reside there is a marvel.’

Partially recovered from what he had heard so far about Harriet and her people – moderately wealthy or not – Henry Craig had reached the conclusion that this widow, already with issue from her previous marriage, was not for Matthew.

‘Your mother’s not going to like this one bit. She’s a woman of standards, and to know how you’ve been conducting yourself while in London … She is not a well woman, Matthew. A shock like this isn’t going to do her any good. I daren’t imagine what she will say.’

Matthew put down his glass and stood facing his father, his hands curled determinedly into fists at his side. But he knew better than to give way to anger and lose control.

‘With respect, I think there’s little she can say. I intend to marry Harriet, and there’s an end to it.’

‘Is that what you think, eh? I might remind you, Matthew, that I am presently helping you fund that ridiculous journal of yours. Your promise to curtail the political stuff you churn out appears to be as brittle as pie crust. Yes, I’ve been keeping an eye on it, sir, and it’s not changed – not one iota. No wonder you can’t sell the damned thing except to a handful of idiotic women with inflated ideas of their role in life. You’d be better advised to come home and turn it into a decent, respectable publication, if you must be a journalist or a publisher or whatever you think you are. There’s no hope, of course, of your taking up law, but at least you can learn to run a decent journal down here. As for this woman you’ve been hanging around with – best forgotten, my boy.’

His outburst spent, Henry Craig finished the rest of his brandy in one gulp.

‘No need to bother your mother with all this,’ he advised over his shoulder with bluff confidence as he led the way into dinner. ‘Between us, eh? In time you’ll see the wisdom of what I’ve been saying.’

Matthew had different ideas, but he said nothing.

Eleanor Craig’s face paled. ‘I can’t believe what I am hearing.’

With her tight-laced corset threatening to cut off her air supply, she was verging on a swoon. Her hand reached feebly for the chair behind her. Recognising the signs, Henry helped her sink into it. But there was still enough strength left for her to glare up at her son.

‘Do you imagine your father has spent money sending you to Oxford to have you marry a common … a common …’ Her heart had begun to palpitate. ‘And second-hand at that? How can you treat us so? How can you bring such disgrace upon your father, and upon me?’

If Matthew had felt like laughing, he would have. This was high melodrama – just like those Harriet herself adored so much. But they were talking about his future – his and hers.

‘Disgrace, Mother? Harriet comes of a respectable family. Her father is a man of means, in business. That he chooses to live where he does is because his business is there, and it’s convenient.’

Eleanor held a hand to her forehead. ‘You are besotted, trapped by this … person. I forbid you to associate with her any longer. There are perfectly respectable girls here, of good families. You could have your pick of any one of them, with your fine looks, Matthew. Such a waste. Henry, I feel most unwell. Help me up, dear.’

She held out a flaccid hand to her husband, fingers protruding from bulbous leg-of-mutton sleeves like sticks of petrified wood.

‘I need to go to my room. Matthew, ring for Lizzie – I must lie down. See what you’ve done, Matthew, with your irresponsible ways.’

Watching the melodrama being played out, all Matthew wanted to do was to get away, be with Harriet. But how could he tell her all that had transpired here?

Breakfast the next morning was eaten in huffy silence. Too much had already been said. Without the usual pleasantries, they served themselves from the dishes on the sideboard, but ate little of what small portions they’d chosen.

Matthew finally touched his moustache with his napkin as the butler, Honeyford, signalled to a thin, subdued girl named Rogers to clear away the used plates, and laid the cloth down on the table.

‘About yesterday,’ he began, paused as his parents looked up, then ploughed on. ‘I’m deeply sorry if I upset you both. But I must make it clear. I intend to marry Harriet Porter. I love her and she loves me.’ How trite it sounded. But he was merely expressing his true feelings.

Eleanor pushed her plate from her with a gesture as though the food lying untouched on it would choke her if she attempted to eat.

‘I don’t wish to hear any more, Matthew. Not another word.’

‘It makes no difference, Mother.’

His father’s fist came down on the table. Not heavily – this was a breakfast table, not a company board meeting – but forcefully enough to convey his profound displeasure.

‘I’ll thank you, Matthew, to address your mother with more courtesy. She isn’t a servant to be spoken to as you please. She is your mother. Kindly speak to her as such.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Matthew hissed under his breath, Aloud, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I was merely stating a fact. The fact is, whether either of you listen to me or not, whether either of you approve or not, it will make no difference. I told you I wished to marry Harriet, not to ask your permission, but so that you know what I intend to do.’

Henry Craig got to his feet. ‘And I remember telling you, Matthew, that if you go ahead with this idiotic notion, there’ll be no more support from me for your journal. You’ll have to make do with what’s in your trust – which I should imagine is a little slimmer than it once was. You’ll find it a pinch trying to support yourself, a wife and …’

‘If you’d just meet her.’

‘I think not.’

‘You can’t prevent me bringing her down here.’

‘I can prevent the both of you crossing my threshold.’

Matthew couldn’t believe what he had just heard. ‘You mean you’d disown me?’

‘I would. And I will, if you persist in this charade.’

‘Henry, dearest!’ Eleanor had her hands to her mouth.

He looked down the table to her, his square face grim but concerned for her. ‘It has to be done, Lean.’ He only ever called her Lean in moments of stress. ‘He needs to be brought to his senses. If he can’t find a decent girl around here, if he prefers to let this family down and to upset you, then he’d best not come here to upset you further.’

‘But he can’t be left penniless. He’ll need money.’

‘Let him learn to earn it. As I did.’

Matthew was seething. ‘As you did?’ he burst out. ‘You inherited from Grandfather. The business, the house, everything. And Mother wasted no time snapping you up. It didn’t bother you then that her father was no more than an ironmonger … To use her own words, a common …’

‘That’s enough!’ The words exploded from his father’s lips. He slammed down his table napkin, knocking over his long-stemmed wineglass in the process, and spilling its contents like thin blood across the polished rosewood.

From the corner of his eye, Matthew saw Honeyford ushering young Rogers before him towards the door, discreetly guiding her out and following close behind, his long standing as a butler affording him the ability to appear not to hurry at all.

‘I feel faint.’ His mother had risen to her feet, was swaying.

Quickly, Henry strode to the door, bellowing, ‘Honeyford – send Lizzie to Mrs Craig’s room. Immediately.’

Immediately, sir,’ came the stentorian voice, muffled by distance.

Matthew had hurried forward instinctively to offer support to his mother, but Henry was there before him and thrust him aside.

‘I’ll attend to her. I think you’d better go. If and when you come to your senses, I shall welcome you. But I warn you, Matthew – if you bring this … this widow with you, Honeyford will have orders to refuse you entry. Is that clear?’

Matthew gave no reply, but his father did not wait for one, engaged in conducting his distraught wife from the room.

He stood for a long time staring at the door. Only Honeyford and Rogers coming to clear away prompted him to shift himself. Slowly he climbed the wide central staircase. Passing his parents’ room on the left in the upper passage he could hear weeping, but he hesitated only fractionally. What point was there in making any further issue out of this?

Slowly he packed, then went back the way he’d come. He paused at his mother’s door, listening to her distressed sobbing. His father was with her, he could hear his deep voice droning comfort. Matthew tapped gently, calling a cautious goodbye. There was no answer; only the uninterrupted sobbing.

As Matthew anticipated, the wedding, planned for early June, promised to see none of his own people attending. On the other hand, Harriet’s relations looked set to flock en masse to see their widowed relative marry her intended, restored to wifely status, her daughter no longer orphaned.

By April he was already keenly feeling the absence of his family. He tried to cloak it by suggesting that the wedding be a quiet one. ‘No need for anything too grand. Just your immediate family perhaps.’