Chapter Eight #2
‘It is best for the separation to be immediate and complete,’ Miss Eddowes said. ‘Neither ever knows anything about the other, not even their name. The child must have the opportunity of a life without taint. And the mother must be able to put the shame of the past behind her and start afresh.’
Kitty thought of her own two boys. ‘How can they bear to be parted – never to see their child again?’
‘I assure you it’s better that way,’ said Miss Eddowes.
‘A clean cut heals more quickly.’ She looked at Kitty with understanding.
‘They cannot have what you have, Lady Stainton, or feel what you feel. They must settle for what they can have – which is a great deal more than my poor friend Nellie – and be grateful. So, will you help us?’
Kitty didn’t answer immediately. She thought of her mother-in-law; she thought of Giles.
He had said it was good for her to be known to support local charities – but with this?
If her name became associated with it, would it reflect badly on her?
He would be furious if she were looked down on and shunned.
Miss Eddowes gave her a tired smile, as though she knew her thoughts. ‘I will not press you,’ she said. ‘We must all do what our conscience bids us.’
‘I – I want to help,’ Kitty said uncertainly. ‘But I need to think about it.’
‘Of course. Our expenses are high and any donation, however small, would be welcome. It can remain anonymous. Several of our kind patrons give on that condition. But if you feel, on reflection, that you cannot help, I will understand. No blame attaches to you.’
Kitty felt a surge of relief that she could now just say no and be free of the horrid problem with its dangerous ramifications.
It was not her business to worry about the plight of those girls.
Let other people help them – people without a standing to be damaged.
There were lots of other good works she ought to be involved in, suitable to a countess.
She should say no, and forget she had ever been asked – and avoid Miss Eddowes in future.
Oddly, the more excellent reasons to refuse Kitty recited to herself, the more she found herself thinking of Nellie.
There was a famous painting she remembered from a school trip to the Tate – Ophelia by Sir John Everett Millais.
She saw the housemaid lying under the water, like Ophelia, her dead white face and her long hair trailing among the water-weeds…
Miss Eddowes was preparing to get up and leave, and would no doubt thank her for her time, and Kitty heard herself say, without at all knowing she was going to say it, ‘I would like to see High Beeches for myself.’
Miss Eddowes surveyed her face carefully. Was she afraid Kitty wanted to see the place only to make trouble? ‘There is no need. I can answer any questions you have.’
‘Still, I should like to see it.’
Miss Eddowes’s face was inscrutable. ‘Very well. If you insist. I only ask—’
‘Yes, yes, discretion. I assure you I have no wish to draw attention to myself.’
‘Then if you will let me know when you wish to come, I shall arrange it.’ She rose to her feet. Kitty rose too, and rang the bell. ‘It will be a novelty for us to receive a visitor at High Beeches,’ Miss Eddowes added, and smiled.
Just for a moment, Kitty saw in that smile the young woman she had been, orphaned and wealthy, with a strange determination to do what she thought right and everyone else thought wrong. It must have been a lonely place to be. As a smile, it was almost ethereal.
Giles did look in, but by then Miss Eddowes was long gone. ‘I’m going up to Top Heath with Adeane,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be back for luncheon. We aren’t expecting anyone, are we?’
‘For luncheon? No.’
He was withdrawing, then turned back. ‘Oh, I forgot, you had a visitor, didn’t you?
What did she want?’ Kitty hesitated on the brink of telling him – she didn’t like to have secrets from him.
But even as she drew breath, he answered his own question.
‘Money, I suppose, as always, for one of her pet schemes.’
‘Yes,’ Kitty said.
‘Well, don’t give her all your pin-money,’ he said kindly. ‘You’re too generous. Any lame dog…I’ll be back before dinner.’
And he was gone. She could have detained him, but he was not really interested, and he wouldn’t have liked to be delayed when he was about his business. She would go and see High Beeches and, if she decided she wanted to be involved, it would be time enough then to tell him.
In his house in Bolton Street, Richard received a letter from America, sent to him at the Castle and redirected.
Mrs Poole, who cooked and cleaned for him, put it down beside his plate at breakfast with a look of devouring curiosity that he forgave, seeing how few people received letters from abroad, let alone from as far away as the United States.
All the way across the Atlantic Ocean in a ship!
Though experience told him she probably had little idea exactly where America was.
To most people, geographical knowledge stopped when you got to the sea, and after that it was just Abroad.
France, India, South Africa and America, the places they would have heard of, might just as well be lined up on the other side of the Channel for all they knew.
‘Thank you, Mrs Poole,’ he said, gave her a smile, and added, ‘I’d like some more toast, if you please,’ which got her out of the room.
His heart had contracted sharply when he saw the American stamp.
He didn’t recognise the writing, smudged as it was by water-stains on the envelope, but there was only one person who would write to him from New York.
It was a thick envelope, which suggested a long letter, and a long letter, surely, could only mean that she had changed her mind.
That she was uncomfortable in her new dependency, was missing London, was writing to tell him she was coming home.
He held the envelope flat on his palm as though weighing it, savouring the anticipation.
If he wrote back straight away, and if she started off as soon as she received it, she could be here in a month, possibly three weeks.
Or perhaps – delicious thought – she had left already, she was on her way.
Why would she wait for a reply from him?
She could be in no doubt he wanted her to come back.
Perhaps she was only days away. Could he find out what ship she was on and meet it?
He could be waiting at Southampton when she came down the gangplank…
He opened it. The envelope contained a number of cuttings from American newspapers, recounting Chloe’s triumphs in New York, Philadelphia and Chicago. On the bottom of the Chicago cutting she had written Boston next!.
There was no letter, only a single sheet of paper, on which she had written, without address or salutation, ‘She is lauded everywhere. And she is now expecting a child in November. Sir T is ecstatic. So you see things have worked out for the best. Don’t be unhappy.
Let me hear one day that you have married a nice young woman and have sons of your own and have forgotten all about us. ’
That was all. He lifted the page to his nose, wondering if there would be any scent of her, but it just smelt like dusty paper.
What ‘us’ did she mean him to forget? Her, Chloe and Sir Thomas?
Or Molly and Richard? She wasn’t coming back.
She said it was for the best. In bright, shiny, exciting America, with all the money and new clothes, the travel by luxurious train and probably luxurious motor-car as well, and now a grandchild on the way, she was too busy and happy to miss him.
Well, that was good. He didn’t want her to be unhappy.
He got up abruptly, forgetting the toast he had asked for, and stomped upstairs to dress.
When he reached his room he found he still had the letter in his hand.
He tore it across and across and threw it into the fireplace.
It was a warm day and the fire had not been lit, so he didn’t have the satisfaction of seeing it catch flame, but it would next time.
By the time he reached Bedford Square his mood had improved to the point at which he was not likely to hit any unfortunate who bumped into him.
But he was still not his usual sunny self.
He tweaked his jacket and adjusted his sleeves and rang the bell, trying to fix his mind on cows and milk.
The butler seemed to be expecting him and showed him upstairs, though not to the drawing-room.
He was conducted instead to a small sitting-room and left there with the assurance that Lady Shacklock would be with him immediately.
All butlers practised being impassive but this one seemed to have an extra crust, which, contrariwise, indicated that he was experiencing some emotion, though what it could be passed Richard.
The room was done out with the asymmetrical swirls and sumptuous colours of the art-nouveau movement, and while he waited he examined the various exquisite ornaments, the drawings and paintings of varying accomplishment – which he assumed had been done by his hosts or their friends – that crowded the room.
There was enough to keep him amused for longer than he actually had to wait, and hearing the door open he put down a Lalique glass figurine he had lifted from the chimneypiece and turned to see Lady Shacklock closing the door behind her.
She was dressed in a flowing silk robe of Pre-Raphaelite splendour in peacock shades of blue, green and gold, and a turban of gold fabric with a large diamond and ruby brooch in the centre, so that she looked like a young rajah.
She gave him a smile so theatrical, so very aware of the impression she was making, that he had to bite his cheeks so as not to laugh.