A Mother's Promise (23 page)

He strode across the room to grasp both her hands in his. ‘Hetty, you’re right in a way.
I wanted to take you somewhere pleasant to break the news, but it isn’t quite like that.’

She raised her eyes to his face and her lips trembled. She would not cry. She must not cry. He had never promised her anything or even spoken words of love. ‘What is it? Please tell me.’

He drew her to her feet, clasping her hands to his chest, and when she looked into his eyes she saw only a mirror image of herself. His lips were curved into a tender smile. ‘I wanted you to sit on the grass beneath the trees, with birds singing overhead and the sunlight playing on your hair. I wanted to get you away from this stinking, crime-ridden part of London to a place where decent folks take their leisure. This isn’t the proper setting for a girl like you, Hetty. I’ve wanted to tell you that for months – ever since I first set eyes on you, in fact.’

‘I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Charles. Has your editor called you back to Philadelphia? Are you leaving me?’

He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them softly, first one and then the other. He looked deeply into her eyes. ‘You must know how I feel about you, Hetty. But it’s complicated. I . . .’ He released his grip and turned away, running his hand through his hair in a gesture of desperation. ‘I can’t talk to you here. Come with me now. Let me explain things in
my own good time, in a better place than this.’ He turned back to her, holding out his hand. ‘Will you trust me this once, Hetty? Please?’

There was a slight relief from the blistering heat as they strolled by the Serpentine. A hint of a breeze ruffled the glassy surface of the lake, and the air smelt clean and fresh. The grass was baked brown by long days of uninterrupted sunshine, but there was a blissful absence of the flies and wasps that plagued the East End. The heady scent from the rose garden was so delicious that Hetty could taste the perfume. She pushed all thoughts of home and family to the back of her mind, hoping that Jane would find the hastily scribbled note of apology she had left on the kitchen table, and that the boys would not be too disappointed at missing their outing to Victoria Park. It was sheer heaven to be alone with Charles in this part of London, which was as unfamiliar to her as a foreign country, and Hetty was determined to make the most of every single minute.

She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, gazing in awe at the middle-class merchants, bank clerks and lawyers strolling with their families, all of them done up to the nines in their Sunday best. Then there were the toffee-nosed upper-class gentlemen, impeccably
suited in black with silky top hats on their heads, escorting their ladies who wore gowns straight out of the pages of fashion magazines, and such hats – hats to die for, Hetty thought, sighing enviously. Even Granny would be impressed by those creations of flowers, fruit, feathers and even a dead bird or two. Hetty knew that her simple muslin gown, bought in a dolly shop near Farringdon Station, was not in the latest mode, but her straw bonnet was one of Granny’s finest, even if it did pale into insignificance compared to those worn by the rich women. Glancing rather shyly up at Charles, she saw nothing but admiration in his smile and her heart swelled with happiness. Charles was a gentleman, even if he was an American, and he didn’t seem to think she looked too bad. ‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Charles?’

He guided her to a bench in the shade of a London plane tree. ‘Let’s sit for a while, Hetty. This isn’t easy for me to say, but I’m afraid I have a confession to make.’

She sank down onto the hard wooden bench, shivering in spite of the heat. ‘You’re – married?’

He threw back his head and laughed, sending a host of sparrows twittering up into the leafy branches. ‘No, honey. That’s not the problem.’

Honey! Hetty savoured the word as if she were tasting the real thing. Charles had never used any term of endearment before; she wanted him to repeat it again and again. ‘What is it then?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Please tell me.’

He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. ‘For a start, Hetty, I’ve misled all of you, including Nora. I’m not a reporter. At least, I did come to London to write about the Ripper, and it’s true that I sent some of the facts to a newspaper in Philadelphia, although I have no idea if they were accepted.’ He paused, staring down at their entwined fingers. ‘Hell, this is hard to explain. You’ll think I’m a real mountebank.’

‘I won’t,’ Hetty said earnestly. ‘For one thing I don’t know what that is.’

He looked up, a ready laugh springing to his lips. ‘That’s one thing I love about you, Hetty. You are so honest. You never pretend to be what you are not.’

‘I know, I’m a common girl and you are a gent. There’s no getting away from it.’

‘Don’t ever say that.’ He raised her hand to his lips, kissing each of her fingers in turn. ‘You are a wonderful girl, and I love you just as you are.’

Her breath hitched in her throat and she gazed into his eyes, trying to decide whether or not he was teasing her. ‘Y-you love me?’

‘From the first moment I saw you, Hetty. That’s what makes this so hard for me to do. You see, honey, I’ve been living a lie all these months. I’m not a journalist but I am a writer, or maybe I should say an aspiring one. I have been writing about the Ripper, that is true, and I’ve been following up the idea that he might be an American quack doctor named Francis J. Tumblety.’

‘I still don’t understand. You’re writing about the Ripper, so I don’t see the difference.’ Hetty felt a shiver run down her spine. Charles was not laughing now, in fact he looked deadly serious and she knew that there was worse to come.

‘I’m not a published author, honey. I’m the no-good son of a wealthy Philadelphia banker. My father sends me an allowance every month, hoping that I will “find myself” as he calls it while I am here in London. He sent me to the best schools and on to Harvard, where I failed to shine at anything except having a good time. Now he’s grown impatient with me and he’s threatened to cut off my allowance unless I return home straight away and take a job in his bank.’

‘Oh, Charles. How dreadful! Couldn’t you explain that you really are working hard on your book? You might get it published after all.’

‘Honey, I’ve just got pages and pages of
scribbled notes. I’ve no more idea of putting a story together than I have of flying. I’ve just been procrastinating all this time, pretending to work so that I could stay close to you. There never will be a book by Charles James Wyndham the third: he’s a phoney and a fraud.’

Hetty snatched her hand free and she jumped to her feet. ‘I don’t care about any of that, Charles. I love you with all my heart. I wouldn’t care if you was a costermonger or a chimney sweep, I’d still think you was the best of men and the most dear to me.’

‘Oh, my darling girl.’ Charles rose to his feet, taking her in his arms in one fluid movement.

His kiss robbed her of what little breath was left in her body, and she slid her arms around his neck, responding with all the emotion that she had suppressed for so many months. When they finally drew apart she laid her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of the man she adored. ‘Don’t leave me, Charles. Don’t go back to America.’

Her bonnet had fallen off and her hair had tumbled free of its pins during their passionate embrace. Charles smoothed it back from her forehead, smiling tenderly. ‘This is why I couldn’t break the news to you in Princelet Street, honey. I had to get you away from there,
if only for an hour or two. I have to return to Philadelphia, and I can’t put it off any longer. I wasn’t raised to earn a living. I wouldn’t know where to begin, let alone how to keep a wife and family.’

Hetty drew away from him as anger replaced despair. ‘I ain’t asking you to keep me, Charles. I never thought of marriage, not to a toff like you.’

‘And I never thought of anything else, my darling. I’m going home, but only in order to do what my father has wanted me to do all along. I’ll take a junior position in his bank, and I’ll work my way up as quickly as the devil knows how, so that I can send for you. Will you wait for me, Hetty? Will you promise to come to me when I am able to do the honourable thing and ask you to be my wife?’

‘I will,’ Hetty breathed. ‘I’ll swim across the ocean if I have to.’

Charles brushed her lips with a tender kiss. ‘I guess that won’t be necessary, sugar. I think we can scrape the fare together – first class, of course.’

‘Now you’re teasing me.’

‘No, my darling, I’ve never been more serious in my life. Will you trust me, Hetty? I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to make myself worthy of you.’

She rubbed his hand against her cheek,
barely able to speak. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. She was so happy she could burst, but at the same time she was distraught at the thought of being separated from her love. Smiling up at him, she nodded her head. ‘I trust you, Charles.’

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it again, and then he frowned. ‘Could you – I mean, would you consider being unofficially engaged to me, honey? Just until I can square things with my father, and propose to you properly with champagne and roses and a symphony orchestra playing in the background?’ His eyes pleaded with her, and, for the first time since she had met him, Hetty saw Charles looking humble and unsure of himself.

‘You want a secret engagement?’ Hetty could hardly believe her ears. Such things never happened in Autumn Road or Dye House Lane. This was the stuff of penny novelettes.

‘Just for the time being, but, damn it, I can’t afford to buy you a ring.’ His brow lightened and he pulled a heavy gold signet ring from his little finger. ‘This will have to do until I can buy you a diamond as big as a rock. Hold out your hand, honey.’

In a daze of happiness, Hetty held out her left hand and Charles slipped the ring on her finger. ‘I plight you my troth, or whatever they say on
these occasions, Hetty. And I promise to send for you as soon as ever I can. Will you come to me, my love? Will you be mine?’

‘I will, Charles,’ Hetty said with feeling. ‘Oh, yes. I will.’

He slipped her hand through his arm. ‘This calls for a glass of champagne. I think my pocket will run to that, but it’s just as well Papa sent me the ticket home, otherwise I would have been tempted to spend the whole lot on you.’

The sun had gone behind a large grey cloud, and Hetty’s heart missed a beat. ‘He’s sent you the ticket? When are you leaving?’

‘I’m sorry, honey. That is the worst of my bad news. I’m sailing from Liverpool tomorrow. I have to catch the boat train tonight.’

It had all happened so quickly. One moment she was deliriously happy, secretly engaged and drinking champagne in a private room at the Café Royal, and within hours she was standing alone and totally bereft on Euston Station, watching the last carriage of the train disappearing into the distance. Charles had begged her not to accompany him to the station, but every last second they spent together was precious to her and Hetty had insisted. Now she wished that she had listened to him.
She had never felt so alone or so miserable. Until she met Charles, she had been a girl with no heart. Or, at least, that was what she had always thought. She had never been able to empathise with Jane’s emotional involvement with Nat and then Tom, until now. Blinded by tears, Hetty made her way towards the bus stop and the long trek back to Princelet Street. She barely knew what she was doing or where she was going, but somehow she managed to get home. She went straight to her room and locked herself in.

Next morning, Hetty was up and out of the house before anyone else had risen. She had taken off the ring that Charles had given her and now it hung on a ribbon round her neck. It nestled in the warm valley between her breasts and close to her heart, where it would stay until she was reunited with her love. She set off for the market, walking quickly with a determined out thrust of her chin, and she was one of the first to set up her stall. George arrived a bit later and he came straight over to her, his brow furrowed into lines of concern. ‘What’s up, Hetty? You look as though you lost a tanner and found a farthing.’

‘Not now, George.’ Hetty turned away to butter the bread that she had sliced ready to make the sandwiches.

‘Have I done something to upset you, ducks?’

The genuine concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes and Hetty sniffed, shaking her head, quite unable to speak. He hooked his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, love. You can tell old George anything, you know that.’

Suddenly she had to tell someone. She couldn’t talk about it to Jane or Nora, but George was somehow different. She leaned her head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar smell of leafy green vegetables, apples and damp earth that always hung about him in an aura, bringing a breath of the country to the stinking heat of the city. ‘H-he’s gone, G-George.’

He did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘I’m sorry, love. That’s a bugger and no mistake. But then it was bound to happen sooner or later. I suppose he’s scarpered back to America?’

Hetty wiped her eyes on his coarse hessian apron, nodding her head.

‘Still, it seems odd him sloping off like that when there’s been another murder,’ George continued thoughtfully. ‘You’d think he’d want to send the story back to his editor in Philadelphia or wherever it was he comes from.’

‘He isn’t a reporter, George. Charles said he was writing a book about the Ripper, but now his father has threatened to cut off his allowance if he doesn’t go home straight away.’ It all came out in a rush, followed by a gulping sob.

‘His old man must be a wealthy geezer, but Charlie’s a big boy. Surely he could tell his dad where to get off?’

‘His pa owns a bank and Charles was raised like a gent. He’s never had to earn his living.’

George frowned. ‘Well, in my opinion, it’s time he got down to it like the rest of us.’

‘That’s just it, though. Charles isn’t like us. He’s sensitive and artistic, and working in his pa’s bank will kill him.’

‘I don’t think so, Hetty. Maybe his old man is right and young Charlie needs to buckle down and work. But, if you ask me, I think you’re better off without him. You stick to your own kind.’