Chapter 4 #2
Ginger brought her concerns about Lucy up with her mother as they rode into the village later that afternoon.
“Mother, I wonder if Lucy isn’t getting a little too wrapped up in this idea of finishing school and being out in society.
She was in tears when father mentioned she might have a delay with the war. ”
A strand of her mother’s red hair flew into her eyes and she tucked it away behind her ear. She smiled placidly. “Ginger, she’s always admired you. And you’ve had so much success in London. I’m sure she wants to be like you.”
“Success?” The hillsides were lush and Ginger imagined the sea in the distance and the spray of salt in the breeze.
Penmore’s proximity to the seaside made it a favorite for their extended family to come and visit in the summer months.
While the rest of London was closing the Season and heading to hunts in Scotland and the North, they’d always left early to spend some time near the sea.
Not this year, though. Ginger sighed. Who knew when she could go sea-bathing next?
Her mother brought her mind back to the conversation. “Yes, you’ve had success whether you appreciate it or not.” Lady Braddock folded her hands on her lap. “I take it you don’t want to accept Stephen? Is there a reason you’re so hesitant? You may come to love him.”
“And I may never love him.” The sun beat on her through the window, and she angled toward the shaded side of the car.
“But it’s more than that—there’s something about Stephen which worries me.
As much as you may like Lord Knotley and Rufus, Stephen is neither of those men.
Even though Henry has always seen him like a brother, that’s not reason enough for me to trust him.
I can’t put my finger on it, Mother. It’s a feeling I don’t quite understand myself. ”
“Well,” her mother searched her gaze, “it’s only natural for a woman to have some nerves about the prospect of marriage. Especially these days. But marriage isn’t the prison some of those suffragettes would have you believe, either.”
The implication that she objected to marriage instead of the prospective groom was maddening.
Was it possible she’d allowed herself to become poisoned and prejudiced against Stephen without good reason?
Her family seemed to disregard her concerns too easily.
Her mind scrambled to help her explain herself better.
“No, that’s not it. I have this sense there should be something more to the whole thing.
Excitement at the very least. But when I think of marrying Stephen, all I feel is dread.
And Father seems determined I should marry him no matter what I feel. ”
Her mother’s lips bunched, revealing soft creases in the skin around her mouth. “Your father has financial considerations to keep in mind. Stephen has promised to give his financial help with Penmore. And your father has many concerns about the economy—especially now with the country at war.”
Her father had implied as much, but it didn’t help Ginger feel any more convinced about Stephen being right for her.
She resented feeling like a disposable asset in a financial transaction.
“But now that Henry’s become so besotted with Angelica Fisher, shouldn’t that match be enough for Father to feel more secure about the future of Penmore? ”
Her mother adjusted the scarf knot under her chin. “Yes, well, we all thought it would settle things when Henry asked for Charlotte Thompson’s hand also, didn’t we? Yet she threw away the chance to be a countess without thinking twice.”
Charlotte’s decision had stunned everyone—except for Ginger. The day Charlotte had met Robert, she’d practically glowed while telling Ginger about him. Her blue eyes had held a sparkle Ginger had never seen. “But won’t your parents be furious?” Ginger had asked her.
“And what of it?” Charlotte had responded.
“We’re expected to do nothing more than marry, but if that’s going to be the sum of it, at the very least I’ll marry whom I like.
And who knows, maybe there’ll be more to life besides calls, charity drives, and fashion afterward. Times are changing, after all.”
Charlotte’s scathing critique of the life had left Ginger unsettled.
Her depiction of the life of women in their circle was spot-on.
Even child-rearing belonged to nannies and governesses.
She stared at her gloved ring finger, thinking of the diamond Stephen had offered her.
Charlotte’s family had been furious, but they hadn’t disinherited her either. But Charlotte was also an heiress.
In Ginger’s case, the situation was less favorable. Henry would inherit. And even if Henry wasn’t the oldest, the entail on the family’s estate wouldn’t allow her to inherit—only the closest male heir. Her best option was to marry well.
For once, though, Ginger wished she could do whatever her heart wanted.
The only young man she’d ever been remotely interested in, Charles Wallace, had never even noticed her.
She didn’t want to remember her humiliation.
Rather than being swept away by romance, she’d watched him pursue her cousin, Meg, who had rejected him.
Was she destined to forget the childish fantasy of true love?
She blinked away the old memories. “Charlotte had the freedom offered by her inheritance to choose whomever she wanted. I don’t blame her for choosing love.”
Her mother gave her a sympathetic smile. “You shouldn’t let Charlotte’s decision influence your own, then. You don’t have the same luxuries.”
Her mother’s words weighed heavily on Ginger’s heart.
A burning feeling rose at the base of her throat.
“But what if Charlotte chose wisely? She’s happy, Mother.
The women campaigning for rights don’t have everything quite right, but they raise valid questions.
And I don’t want to feel unduly forced to marry Stephen to ease Father’s worries.
It may have been the choice you had to make, but why should I have to do the same? ”
Her mother’s mouth dipped into a frown, displeasure shadowing her eyes. “If I had chosen differently, you wouldn’t be here.” She cleared her throat, clearly more annoyed by Ginger’s comment than she wanted to verbalize.
Ginger forced her gaze on the passing blur of the landscape.
Maybe she wasn’t being fair to her mother, but she couldn’t help it, either.
Her mother had obviously been interested in the title and comfort her father had offered her in her youth.
Neither of those things would tempt her to marry a man like Stephen.
After a few moments of tense silence, her mother said, “Your father also offered me something you seem to have overlooked. For all his flaws, your father has always treated me with respect. I could have done far worse than him.”
“But what about better?” Ginger’s voice was tight. “What about love? Didn’t you ever dream of romance?”
“I didn’t read as many novels as you do.
Romance is often exaggerated in fiction.
You’ll find all romance fades in time. Looks fade, attraction disappears, and if you’re lucky to be left with respect and comfort, you’ve done well.
Yes, I may have had a few suitors who would have provided the excitement you seem to look for.
But sacrificing that was a small price to pay for the life I have now.
I’d trade nothing for my current life.” Her mother reached over and patted her hand.
“Let’s not quarrel, darling. I trust in the end you’ll make the best decision, not only for yourself but for the family. ”
Her mother’s words didn’t comfort Ginger.
Thankfully, the car drew to a stop in front of the Martins’ shop.
As Bosworth helped them step out, her mother turned toward Ginger.
“Ginger, why don’t you go down the road and buy a few loaves of bread from the bakery?
” She lifted the basket the cook had packed from the seat of the car.
“With as many children as Mrs. Martin has, she might need more than the cook sent. I’ll go ahead in. ”
Ginger nodded, clasping her handbag. The conversation with her mother had left her feeling spent.
She was grateful for the escape. As she approached the bakery, the sweet scent of yeast and baking bread filled the air.
Ginger paused at the window of the shop.
Baked goods enticed from the window, from sticky buns to long baguettes.
The bakery had the same thatched cottage style as so many of the buildings in town. Penmore offered an idyllic look into a world long-since passed. Though it wouldn’t compare to the ancient feeling of a place like Cairo.
High-pitched shouts caught her attention. Across the street, in one of the open squares, a group of boys appeared to be playing. Ginger watched them, then her brow furrowed.
Not playing. Fighting.
She dashed across the street, drawing closer to the sound of their boisterous shouts. A group of children encircled two boys, no older than ten, who wrestled on the grass. “Get ’im,” one boy in the circle whooped.
Of the two boys fighting, one was larger, with dark, tousled hair and broad shoulders.
Dirt streaked his hands and forehead as he attempted to stuff grass in the mouth of the other child, a smaller boy with white-blond hair Ginger recognized from when he’d come with his father for deliveries. One of the Martin boys.
Her heart lurched. This had to be about Mr. Martin.
The Martin boy was bleeding from a cut on his temple, above his eye, his face as red as a strawberry. Ginger pushed through the circle of boys. “Stop!” She reached for the Martin boy, but the boy beating him knocked his elbow into her stomach by mistake.
Dropping back with a flash of pain, Ginger’s anger rose as her hat tumbled onto the grass. “Stop this at once!” She searched the perimeter for any other adult face. A woman across the street pushing a pram had stopped and stared at them but didn’t come forward.
The bully realized who he had hit and stood straight. He wiped his bleeding nose with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowed and menacing. “His father’s a dirty Hun, my lady.”
“And so you beat him?” Ginger caught her breath, her diaphragm aching from where the child had struck her. “What’s your name? I have half a mind to drag you before the constable myself.” She snatched her hat from the grass and dusted it off before replacing it.
“Archie Winser.” The boy continued to glare at the Martin boy.
Ginger leveled her chin at him. He was the son of a local pig farmer who rented land from them.
“Winser? Is that what you’re calling yourselves these days?
I’m quite sure I know of a Thomas Wissner who anglicized his name some years ago so it wouldn’t sound too German.
I’ll let my father know what a beast his son is. ”
Archie’s eyes widened, his cheeks and neck flushing as the other boys in the group exchanged suspicious looks. From the boy’s reaction, he may not have known about his own background. She sucked in a quick, guilty breath between her teeth.
Ginger pulled the Martin boy up straight as the other boys dispersed, mumbling amongst themselves. “Let’s take you home,” she said.
They hurried across the street. “I’m sorry.” The boy hiccupped, holding back quiet sobs.
Was he embarrassed?
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Ginger dug through her handbag for a handkerchief. “Hold this to your cut. What’s your name?”
“Charlie.” The boy took in a shattered breath. He kept his gaze low.
As they hurried down the pavement, the recruitment posters posted to the sides of buildings seemed to shout.
Kitchener’s face, with its bold moustache and narrowed eyes, issued the command to join the war effort.
But there were other posters—stirring fear, propaganda, accusations.
Posters with watching eyes, condemnations of extravagant lifestyles.
She shivered and placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. People spoke of changes. Her country seemed to have changed already. But what were they all becoming?