Candles in the Storm (31 page)

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Authors: Rita Bradshaw

Tags: #Romance, #Sagas, #Historical, #Fiction

BOOK: Candles in the Storm
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‘Refused outright to consider Priscilla McKenzie or the Routledge girl, and wouldn’t even attend Gwendoline’s last dinner party,’ he had grumbled darkly. ‘Damn it, but the young cur needs a good horse whipping! I tell you, Wilhelmina, I was glad to see him leave for Paris. The boy is a disappointment, and his poor mother is beside herself at his refusal to take Priscilla after all our efforts to arrange the match.’
 
But William would be all right once he was with his cousins. He would be able to sow as many wild oats as he liked in their company without eyebrows being raised. Paris was like that, or so she’d heard. It was only in inferior novels a soul pined for unrequited love, and William was too handsome and too much of a catch to remain lonely for long.
 
Her nephew thus dealt with, Wilhelmina turned her mind to Daisy. She would suggest the child be driven into town to purchase a new hat - that was the very thing. The acquisition of a new bonnet was the cure for any indisposition in a young gel, and perhaps Daisy might wear it for church on Sunday if the weather remained clement?
 
 
It was a few days later, on a morning following a visit to Evenley House by Josiah and his master during which the valet had sat and conversed with Gladys and Harold at some length, that Hector Lyndon received a letter which disturbed him greatly.
 
The parson was already more than a little distracted - an uncommon occurrence - having been notified a day or two earlier that his only living relative, an elderly uncle who lived in Manchester, had succumbed to an outbreak of arsenic poisoning. This same outbreak had killed at least four people and left 2,000 more suffering from nervous illnesses in Liverpool and his uncle’s home town. It hadn’t helped Hector’s state of mind that the cause of the outbreak had been traced to sulphuric acid supplied by a Liverpool company and used to treat brewing sugar. This had necessitated thousands of gallons of beer being poured into the sewers of both cities. His uncle, like Hector himself, had been a man of the cloth and regularly used his pulpit to preach against the demon drink and the need for abstinence by all good Christian souls, so the manner and cause of his death had left the parson unable to share word of his loss with anyone and feeling deeply ashamed of his own flesh and blood.
 
It was doubly unfortunate, therefore, that the letter should arrive on his doorstep at a time when Hector was feeling awkward and out of countenance with the world in general, and distinctly vulnerable regarding the integrity of his position.
 
Dear Parson Lyndon,
 
I feel it is my duty, as a good Christian, to acquaint you with some disturbing information I am sure you are not aware of. It is not right that a fine upstanding man of the cloth such as yourself should have the wool pulled over his eyes by a slip of a girl who is no better than she should be.
 
When Daisy Appleby was taken into Miss Fraser’s employ some months ago she left a life which, sadly, was not respectable. It is even more sad that she now uses the wage of a good honest employer to run a house of ill repute in her home village. At the present time there are two women living in this property, overseen by the girl’s own grandmother, and no man. Need I say more? One of the girls, unmarried of course, is due to give birth to a child in the near future.
 
I felt you would want to be advised of the above, and not least Miss Appleby’s duplicity, in view of the fact that your reputation, up to the present time, has been one of high standing.
 
I am, sir, your obedient servant.
 
 
It was not signed.
 
Hector read the letter through twice and then a third time before sitting back in his seat at his desk and glancing round his study. Without even looking at them he was still seeing the lines of neat careful writing.
 
After a moment or two he rose, walking through to the kitchen where his housekeeper was busy preparing a meat roll for his dinner that evening. Mrs Finnigan looked up from wrapping the roll in a cloth preparatory to steaming it for three hours as the parson entered. It was not usual for him to visit the kitchen, normally he rang the bell and summoned her to whatever room he was in, and her apprehension was reflected in her soft Irish burr when she said, ‘Is anything wrong, sir?’
 
‘Wrong?’ Hector forced a smile before he said, ‘Not at all, Mrs Finnigan. I was just wondering if you saw who delivered the unstamped envelope this morning?’
 
Teresa Finnigan stared at the parson. She hadn’t worked for him for the last few years without knowing when he had something on his mind. She glanced at the piece of paper he was holding against his leg, written side down, and then shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t, sir. It was on the mat when I opened the door before getting your breakfast, so whoever left it must have been up bright and early.’
 
Hector inclined his head without commenting and turned on his heel. Once back in his study he sat down at his desk with the letter in front of him, his head in his hands. How did he deal with this, and how much truth was there in the accusations? Wilhelmina had told him Daisy was supporting her grandmother and two sisters-in-law after the young women’s husbands had been drowned, or he had thought that was what she had said. Of course he didn’t believe Daisy was of easy virtue, not for a minute, but nevertheless . . . Dear, dear. He stood up, beginning to pace the floor. A parson and his wife had to be above reproach in every way.
 
At half-past one on the dot Mrs Finnigan served lunch in the Vicarage’s small brown-painted dining room. She had informed Hector at the time he had taken over from the retiring Parson Tollett that she was quite happy to provide him with a tray in front of the fire in the sitting room any time he wished - ‘Parson Tollett often liked to relax in his slippers come lunchtime, sir, so I’m used to it’ - but Hector had looked askance at the very idea. Standards had to be maintained and propriety upheld, particularly in the home. Dignity bred respect, and in Hector’s view this couldn’t be earned by someone who was so slack in their personal habits as to eat from a tray in front of the fire.
 
Having said a solitary grace for the steaming bowl of mutton broth and three shives of stottie cake, Hector began to eat his meal. He would pay a visit to Wilhelmina next Sunday afternoon while Daisy was visiting the village and ascertain the truth about her relatives, but discreetly. He did not wish to give Wilhelmina the impression anything was amiss and had no intention of telling her about the letter. At the moment, however, he was grateful he had not spoken directly of his feelings for Daisy but had followed a prudent line. He had not compromised his own position and that was the most important thing. If there were members of Daisy’s family - people who lived in her home at her expense - who were intent on a ruinous life, then he had to distance himself from her forthwith, however reluctantly.
 
The soup and bread gone, Hector carefully wiped his mouth on the linen napkin and left it, neatly folded, to one side of the empty soup bowl as he rose to his feet.
 
The person who had written the letter struck him as an educated individual which therefore rendered the contents worthy of consideration. This was not the missive of a fisherman or girl from Daisy’s village who had a grievance against one of their own making good, he was sure of it. But for now he had a number of calls to make on the needy inhabitants of his parish, and his private affairs were of no account compared to his divine calling.
 
He brushed a few crumbs from his jacket, settled his clerical collar around his neck and walked swiftly from the room.
 
 
Margery’s baby was coming and the delivery was not going well. Nellie had sent Alf to Evenley House to fetch Daisy when Margery’s labour pains had gone on for a whole day and night, and once Daisy had reached the cottage she asked him to go into Whitburn for the doctor. Then she set about relieving Tilly who was looking exhausted herself, wiping Margery’s forehead and trying to comfort the girl.
 
On the last day of November 1900 Margery gave birth to Tom’s son. The baby took after its father and was healthy and vigorous but his arrival into the world cost his mother her life.
 
Although the doctor was very careful about the amount of chloroform he administered to his exhausted patient, Margery never regained consciousness from the operation he was forced to perform when it became plain the child would not be born naturally.
 
It was Daisy who first held the child after the umbilical cord had been cut. She gazed into the tiny face, at the miniature arms and hands clutching the air. This was Tom’s bairn, the son her brother would never see, she thought, grief and wonder fusing together. And the baby was bonny, so bonny. Oh, Tom, he looks like you. I can actually see you in him.
 
The infant nestled further into the blanket wrapped snugly round him, yawning widely and showing small pink gums, and a rush of love so strong it was painful gripped Daisy’s heart. This tiny scrap was so helpless and vulnerable and he wasn’t going to have a father to protect and watch over him.
 
Tears were trickling down her cheeks as Daisy stood cradling the child, and she was so wrapped up in the wonder of this new life that she was unaware of the doctor’s increasingly desperate ministrations to its mother. The miracle of the perfectly formed little person in her arms left her speechless as she walked across the room and knelt down by the settle where Nellie was lying, the old woman having given up her bed to Margery when the labour had first begun. Tilly had been helping the doctor and Daisy but now stood up silently, her hands clasped together and held tightly against her waist and her eyes glued on Margery’s still form.
 
‘Eeh, look at that, he’s Tom all over, lass.’ Nellie was dry-eyed as she stared at her great-grandson but her lined face was softer than usual. Then she and Daisy heard Tilly give a little whimper deep in her throat from her vantage point at the doctor’s side.
 
They both looked across at her, but it was the doctor who said, ‘Miss Appleby? I’m sorry, there is nothing more I can do for your sister-in-law.’
 
‘What?’ Daisy rose slowly to her feet still holding the baby, ignoring Nellie’s arms which had reached out for the child after the doctor had spoken.
 
‘She . . . well, she’s gone, I’m afraid. Her heart has simply given out. Did she have any problems in that way that you know of before she became pregnant?’
 
‘Problems?’ Daisy stared at the doctor blankly. She was unable to take in the fact that the fragile young girl lying on the soiled pallet bed wasn’t breathing anymore. Margery would wake up in a minute, she had to. She had her baby to live for now, Tom’s son.
 
It was Nellie who broke the silence, saying, ‘I think her problems were more in the mind than the body, doctor. Folk, even the best of ’em, can be cruel when someone makes a mistake, an’ the lass made a very visible mistake.’
 
Doctor Hogarth nodded his grey head slowly. He was a kind man which was why he had referred to his patient as being a married woman in spite of knowing the true circumstances within this family. Shame was a terrible millstone, he had known it break the necks of more than one patient in his time.
 
‘The lass felt it more than she let on,’ Nellie continued soberly, ‘an’ it got so she wouldn’t budge from within these four walls. ’Course, the lad might have bin a comfort to her had she lived.’
 
Daisy’s glance flashed between them before she lowered her eyes to Tom’s son. Was she mad or were they? How could they calmly discuss the whys and wherefores when Margery . . .
 
‘The parents will have to be informed,’ the doctor said.
 
‘Why?’
 
‘Why?’ He looked startled by the harsh tone of Daisy’s voice.
 
‘Why should they be informed? They were nothing to Margery, treated her like nothing. Right from the moment she was born she was supposed to live out her life in serving them. They made her feel she had to be the best at everything, and when that didn’t happen they made her feel worthless, unloved. My brother saw that, I know he did, and loved her like she was supposed to be loved.’
 
Doctor Hogarth ran his hand under the stiffly starched collar of his shirt. He’d told his wife a hundred times to inform the maid not to put so much starch in the tub but still the collars came back so glassy his neck was constantly chafed red. ‘They are nevertheless her parents, and the child’s grandparents,’ he said gently. ‘They have the right to take the infant if they so wish.’
 
‘They have no rights over my brother’s son.’
 
Nellie shut her eyes for a moment. To answer back to Doctor Hogarth like that!
 
‘Miss Appleby, it is clear you are upset--’
 
‘Doctor Hogarth, those . . . people told Margery they never wanted to see her again,’ Daisy said, her voice passionate in her desire to make him understand. ‘If they said they wanted my brother’s son it would only be so they could hide him away in the workhouse or something similar. My brother . . . well, he was an embarrassment to them. He wasn’t good enough in their eyes and neither would his son be. Please, just leave things as they are. We’ll look after the bairn and he
will
be loved. Surely that is more important than anything else? And it’s what my brother and Margery would have wanted.’

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