Dorothy Eden (16 page)

The children, too, were present at the opening ceremony. Florence enjoyed every minute of it, especially seeing the fuss made of Papa by all sorts of smart and gushing women. Papa, however, looked as unhappy as Edwin did when too many large-hatted women cooed over him, and was clearly relieved when it was all over.

Afterwards, when they got home and were back in the nursery with Miss Medway, there was a delightful surprise. Papa came in with presents. Something for everyone. A doll for Florence, soldiers of the Gordon Highlanders for Edwin, and a length of red satin ribbon for Miss Medway.

“It’s time you wore something gay,” he said. “You can’t stay in mourning forever.”

Miss Medway flushed very becomingly and said Papa was very kind. Papa put her at her ease by saying flippantly,

“Do you realise, I’m spending the first money I ever earned in my life. It’s a remarkably satisfying feeling. Now I believe I understand why my wife enjoys working. It’s for the pleasure of hearing those sovereigns chinking. Shall I tie that ribbon in your hair?”

Miss Medway blushed harder than ever and said oh no, she could do it herself.

“You will?”

“Oh, yes. On a suitable occasion. Thank you, Mr Overton. Children, did you say thank you to your Papa?”

Edwin was highly delighted with his kilted soldiers, but Florence was reflecting that everyone gave her dolls. She already had sixteen. No one had ever asked her if she liked them. They all said that Queen Victoria had been such a great girl for her dolls, and had used to make all their own dresses. Nanny Blair had taught Florence to be a clever little needlewoman before she was five years old. Which didn’t mean to say that she must spend the rest of her life sewing.

And where was Mamma’s present?

When she asked Papa, he said, “Don’t be inquisitive.”

Florence winced inwardly. She hadn’t cared for the impatient tone of his voice, and therefore she didn’t dare pursue the subject when Mamma arrived home, pink-cheeked and happy after the success of the afternoon.

Mamma came straight to the nursery, knowing that was where she would find everybody. They were gathered round the fire, Papa, too, while Miss Medway read to them. Miss Medway hadn’t waited long to wear Papa’s gift. She had her thick dark hair tied back with the red ribbon, and she looked demure and very pretty.

Mamma never missed anything. She noticed at once Florence’s new doll, the new toy soldiers, and the ribbon in Miss Medway’s hair.

“Well,” she said. “Is it everyone’s birthday except mine?”

Papa jumped up and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ve been having fun spending my own money, Bea. That seemed the best cause for celebration. And you’re not forgotten.”

He took Mamma’s arm and led her out of the nursery, so Florence didn’t see the gift she received.

It was a choker of pearls, made fashionable since the Princess of Wales had begun wearing them in that style. It must have cost a great deal.

Beatrice was angry with herself that her total pleasure in the expensive gift was spoiled by her practical mind. In the first place, William was foolishly extravagant. In the second, the red ribbon in Miss Medway’s hair seemed to have a greater intimacy than this formal circlet of pearls that was already living up to its name. When round her neck, it gave her a slightly choking feeling.

But she thanked her husband warmly, and said that although they were only dining at home she would wear them that evening.

Before William left her—he never stayed in her room very long—she said abruptly,

“Darling, sometimes I wonder—is Miss Medway a quite suitable choice for the children?”

William paused at the door.

“Seems first rate to me.”

“Oh, I know she’s kind, but is she perhaps too gentle? I mean, for managing Edwin who is still a most difficult child. And perhaps she’s a little melancholy, which she has had reason to be, of course.”

“Then it’s our Christian duty to cheer her up.”

“With red ribbons?” Beatrice quizzed.

“That’s one way, dearest.”

Dearest… Beatrice’s heart leaped. How long since William had called her that?

But pearls and endearments… Had he possibly got a guilty conscience?

She wouldn’t ask, she couldn’t anyway, for he had gone.

And the trouble with a governess in residence was that the wretched young woman had to share the dinner table with them. Mrs Overton, critical and antagonistic, had been one thing. This quiet creature with her downcast eyes was another.

All the same, she had the good sense not to wear that ribbon down to dinner.

And surely Beatrice’s suspicions were merely the creation of her starved emotions. William’s taste had always been for the gay, the light-hearted, the effervescent. Someone as quiet as Miss Medway must depress him. The gift had been simply an act of kindness, as he had said, to try to cheer her up.

One couldn’t dismiss her, for one had no reason, and the children, especially Florence, were devoted to her.

Things must go on as they were. And one very happy thing was that William had announced his intention of spending Christmas at home. He was remarkably well, he hadn’t had a cough or a cold since he had returned from South America, and he intended to prove that he could withstand the perils of an English winter.

So Christmas, for once, would be as gay as it was intended to be.

Except for Beatrice’s deep secret unhappiness. William had settled himself so comfortably in the blue room that he rarely came to her bed. After the doctor’s warning, he was simply afraid of making her pregnant again. That was all.

T
HERE WAS AN INFLUENZA
epidemic just before Christmas. Half the staff at Bonnington’s were away ill. Miss Brown had just recovered when Adam Cope went down, then Miss Perkins and two other buyers. Those who were left were frantically busy. Beatrice had ordered that Christmas decorations were to be as lavish as usual, indeed more lavish, to combat the gloom of a fog-bound December and all the coughs and colds. The match-sellers and other ragged beggars at the door were invited inside for a cup of hot soup and a few minutes of warmth. Beatrice had created a small curtained alcove for them for privacy. She didn’t want any of her customers to misinterpret her kindness as a sales promotion idea.

However, word got round the East End, and the daily influx of shivering, ragged people, some of them mere children, became something of a problem.

“You can’t run a shop as a charity,” Adam Cope said gloomily.

“I won’t have anyone turned away,” Beatrice answered, and engaged a pleasant middle-aged woman solely to deal with the hungry supplicants. It was understood, however, that this generosity ended at Christmas.

Inevitably the newspapers did get hold of the story, and to Beatrice’s chagrin there was an article about “the irrepressible Queen Bea with her alms to the poor. Does she think the child beggars of today will be the affluent of tomorrow? Or has she a canny eye on royal favours? Whatever her motives, one must applaud this Christian act, this thought for the needy, in a season when a few have too much, and a great many too little.”

“You’re mad, Bea,” said Mamma, settling her bulk on to one of the slim gilt chairs, the faithful Miss Finch standing dutifully behind her. “What would your father have said?”

“He would have approved,” said Beatrice, knowing indeed that he would not have. Gad, Bea, turning the shop into an almshouse, he would have roared.

“That’s as may be. I imagine you’re inviting me for Christmas.”

Mamma had become much less genteel in her old age. Some hitherto concealed coarseness had found its way to the surface.

“Of course, Mamma. Surely you know that’s taken for granted.”

“I suppose you intend that Miss Medway to sit at table with us.”

“Certainly. Mamma, talk to me on Sunday. I’m busy just now.”

“You’re mad,” said Mamma again, and this time Beatrice didn’t know whether she was referring to the queue of beggars, or to Miss Medway, an orphan who had no family, being naturally invited to eat dinner with her small charges. She didn’t enquire. One never knew what bee Mamma had got in her bonnet nowadays. She and that broomstick who followed her about, they invented things to relieve the dullness of their lives.

Actually, it was a fortunate thing that Miss Medway was there, for on Christmas Day, Beatrice was feeling feverish and headachey, and knew that she was sickening for the influenza. How infuriating. One could only be thankful that she had survived the last hectic week at the shop, and that in her quiet way Miss Medway was most efficient at organising the day’s festivities. She and William and the children had decorated the Christmas tree very cleverly, and had been for a long walk on the Heath to gather holly branches which now adorned the hall and stair rail. Overton House had not looked so gay for a long time. It should have been the happiest of Christmases. Even Mamma, drugged with turkey and plum pudding and brandy, was in the most amiable of moods. And Miss Medway had finally laid aside her mourning, and wore a charming dress that made her look remarkably pretty. Even Florence was happy enough not to be stricken with one of her bilious attacks.

But Bea surveyed it all through the haze of her headache. After dinner, which she had made only a pretence of eating, she said apologetically that she would have to retire to bed. No one was to worry about her. The children were to be allowed to stay up to play with their presents and make as much noise as they liked.

Later, from her bedroom, she heard shrieks of laughter. The children must be putting on their paper hats. Then, after an interval, there came the sound of carols being sung round the Christmas tree, the pure soprano of Miss Medway rising above the children’s piping, and Mamma’s grumbling tones.

She fell asleep to the melody of ‘Silent Night’, and awoke in the night, hot and uncomfortable, to wonder if anyone had been in to see her. Or had they forgotten all about her?

She reached for the little porcelain bell at her bedside, and Hawkins came hurrying to answer her ring.

“How are you feeling now, ma’am?”

“Poorly. Would you build up the fire, Hawkins. And get Annie to make me a hot toddy. She knows the one my husband likes when he has a bad chest.”

“It’s midnight, ma’am. Everyone’s in bed. I’ll go down and make your hot drink myself. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“No, thank you, Hawkins. Fancy it being midnight.”

Has anyone been in to see me? she wanted to ask. Has my husband been?

But he must be kept away from her, he caught germs all too easily.

Anyway, Hawkins had gone down to the kitchen, and the house was silent. No. Not quite. A board creaked in the passage outside her door.

Her heart quickened. William was coming to see her. She must tell him to come no further than the door. She sat up to do so, but the door remained closed, and there was no more sound.

Hawkins had made a mistake when she had said everyone was in bed. Unless it was just the house creaking in the night, as old houses did.

The modest but satisfying success of his book had given William an attractive maturity. The charming boyishness, that had always delighted Beatrice, had gone, except at times when he romped with the children. He didn’t even do that very much now. He had grown strangely quiet, even with a hint of sadness.

What was the sadness for? A marriage that still went against the grain? But they were happy. Or as happy as most couples. He hadn’t wanted to go away at all this winter. He had seemed quite content at home, as if the roving were out of his system. Sometimes, however, Beatrice caught him looking at her reflectively, and that was when she imagined a certain lonely thoughtfulness in his eyes.

If only they could talk, she thought longingly. But any attempt on her part to begin a more intimate conversation was almost always thwarted by his adroit slightly flippant wit. She didn’t care for that flippancy, which was also a recently acquired habit.

Her constant possessive love made her unduly sensitive about small things. Such as feeling a usurper when she went into the nursery and found William there, contentedly listening to the children’s story read by Miss Medway in her soft clear voice, or to Miss Medway playing Chopin ballades on the piano that had been bought for Florence to have music lessons.

Apart from five finger exercises, Florence must learn an appreciation of the best composers, William said, when it was plain that it was he who enjoyed Miss Medway’s playing. She seemed to be quite an accomplished pianist. Beatrice was no judge since her own knowledge of music was meagre. Which was another barrier between her and her husband, she thought regretfully.

As the tender light of spring lingered in the sky, and she wandered in the garden to breathe fresh air after the stuffiness of the long day in the shop, it seemed that the slightly melancholy echo of Chopin ballades always haunted the air, mingling with the evening bird cries. The early crocuses and snowdrops were over already, the Japanese cherry tree was a froth of blossom, the air was sweet, free at last of the horrible sulphurous winter fogs.

She loved Overton House and its quiet walled garden more and more. Sometimes she rose half an hour earlier in the morning to walk on the dewy lawn and listen to the cooing of the doves and the starched-skirts crackle of their wings. She was never lonely then. But she was frankly lonely in the evenings when William seemed to prefer the company of the children and Miss Medway’s storytelling or piano-playing to walking in the garden with her.

It was so wonderful, she told herself stoutly, that William had been contented to stay at home for so long. She wanted his happiness above all. So she deliberately shut her mind to her occasional unworthy suspicions. Anyway, they just weren’t possible. For Miss Medway was no flirtatious vivacious Laura Prendergast. She was really extremely dull. She seldom opened her mouth at the dinner table. It made them an awkward trio, and conversation difficult and tedious.

As soon as the children were old enough Beatrice resolved to send them to boarding schools. Then one would be happily free of the inhibiting presence of a governess. And perhaps William would talk to her again.