Authors: Benita Brown

Tags: #Newcastle Saga

A Dream of her Own (11 page)

BOOK: A Dream of her Own

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Constance focused on the backs of two men waiting before the altar. One she had never seen before but she knew him to be Albert Green, a young man who lived next door to John and his mother. The other was John. His bright blond hair shone, somehow, through the gloom.

Suddenly, he turned and smiled at her and her love for him rose up and overwhelmed her. In that moment she managed to contain her anxiety and push it down into the hidden well of strength that had sustained her in all the miserable years since her father had died.

Her doubts faded. She would never reveal what Gerald had done to her. She knew that she ought to have trusted John, ought to have given him the chance to prove his love for her. But she also knew that she would rather die than run the smallest risk of losing him.

Chapter Six

‘Well, at least you won’t be losing your son, Frances. They’ll be living here with you, and no doubt the girl will be only too pleased to look after you.’

‘The girl?’

‘Don’t be difficult, you know who I mean. John’s wife - Constance.’

Frances Edington, propped up amongst the cushions on a chaise longue set well back from the hearth, watched as Muriel Barton stared into the mirror above the mantelpiece and attempted to secure errant wisps of hair with tortoiseshell combs.

She must have overheated her tongs, as usual, for the curls fluffed over her forehead were frizzed and lifeless. I suppose she imagines that that dated style she adopts gives added height and character to her plain round face, Frances thought.

Muriel was small and she had grown stout over the years. The effort of holding her head back and raising her arms was making her breathe heavily. For a moment, as Frances watched her brother’s wife, an expression of sheer dislike animated her pale features; but then she dropped her head and began to cough gently into a large white handkerchief. The coughing fit was not too serious but, when it passed, Frances examined the handkerchief anxiously for spots of blood. There were none.

At the hearth, Muriel was swaying slightly. Even though the fire was kept banked down because of Frances’ lung condition, it was warm enough to make her overweight sister-in-law more uncomfortable the longer she stood there. At last Muriel seemed to have arranged her hair to her satisfaction and she stepped back and turned round. Still breathing heavily, she tucked her blouse into the waistband of her skirt and pulled down the jacket of her emerald green woollen suit. It was trimmed with black braid, and the frogging on the front gave comical emphasis to her great rounded bosom.

No amount of money could compensate for taste, Frances thought, but that did not stop Muriel adopting an air of superiority. Frances averted her eyes and looked down at the handkerchief she clasped in her hands.

‘You need not have stayed here with me, Muriel. You should have gone to the church,’ she said.

‘And watch my daughter’s heart break in two? No, let her father comfort her; he is as sorry as she is about your son’s choice of bride.’

‘Are you sure about Esther’s feelings? She could hardly have married John: they are first cousins.’

‘Oh, cousins do marry, you know, especially when family interests are concerned.’

‘You mean money?’

‘Yes, and why not? Walter has worked hard since your father died; he has made Barton’s even more prosperous. Since Grandfather Barton willed that John should inherit only when he married, why should my husband not have hoped to keep the money in the family?’

‘And yet I sense that you have never been so keen that John and Esther should marry?’

‘No.’

Frances looked at her coolly and Muriel pursed her lips and raised her chin like a stubborn child. Then, in the continuing silence, she flounced over to the window. Even although it was mid-morning, little light filtered through the cream lace curtains. Muriel twitched them aside and gazed out. Her expression of amused contempt was reflected in the glass.

She has chosen to forget that she once lived in a house like this, Frances thought. Once, her brother, Walter, and his wife also looked out into a tiny yard where brick walls enclosed a coalhouse and an outside privy, but now they lived in a gracious villa in a prosperous suburb.

At her home in Jesmond, Muriel looked out with proud satisfaction on to a landscaped garden surrounded by luxuriant shrubs and mature trees. That was obviously where her thoughts had taken her for she murmured, half to herself, ‘I’m thinking of putting in a pond,’ before she let the curtain fall and turned to face the room again.

Frances felt her coughing fit returning. She raised the handkerchief to her lips and began to cough gently at first, but then the spasm grew in intensity until her whole body was shaking. She saw Muriel make a
moue
of distaste before hurrying over and snatching up a carafe from a small table. She poured a tumblerful of water and held it out to Frances.

The coughing subsided a little and Frances took the water. ‘Thank you.’

‘You know, Frances, it need never have come to this. Grandfather Barton was prepared to send you to Switzerland for a cure when this trouble of yours was first suspected.’

‘That was years ago. I was young, and thought myself immortal.’

‘You mean you wouldn’t leave Duncan.’

‘The price my father expected me to pay was too high. I loved Duncan. How could I take his son and abandon him?’

‘Huh! He didn’t hesitate to abandon you - and the way he did it!’

‘Muriel, this is pointless.’ Frances began to cough again and the handkerchief she was holding to her mouth spotted with blood.

Muriel looked frightened but when the spasm receded she said, ‘I can’t understand why you’ve never engaged a properly trained nurse.’

‘You know very well that we cannot afford it. As you would be the first to point out, my husband left me almost penniless and my father had washed his hands of me.’

‘Walter has always been prepared to pay for whatever care you needed.’

‘I know that, Muriel, it’s just ... it’s just that John didn’t think we should be too beholden to his uncle. He—’

‘Rubbish! Your son was frightened that anyone Walter appointed might carry tales back—’

‘Muriel!’

‘Well, then, it is just as well that John is marrying a girl who’s used to hard work. She’ll be able to look after you as well as taking over the running of the house.’

‘And that would not have suited Esther, would it?’

‘Of course not. We’ve brought her up to expect more ...’

‘More than you had as a girl. Is that what you were about to say?’

Muriel Barton’s small brown eyes filled with annoyance but then she shrugged and turned to survey the table placed slightly to the back of the dining room. It was set with ham, cold roast beef and salmon, all in beds of salad. There were two cut-glass bowls containing trifles and, in the centre, there was a three-tier wedding cake decorated with royal icing.

‘Very clever, Frances.’

‘Clever?’

‘Generous but not exactly
à la mode.
You would hardly want to intimidate your new daughter-in-law, would you, by making her wedding breakfast too genteel?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘No? Well, you never have moved in quite the same social circles as we have, have you?’

‘Perhaps I haven’t cared to.’

‘Of course not, my dear. Quite apart from the fact that you have had to look to Walter for any little extras, even this wedding breakfast, it must have been a great strain for you, carrying the burden of such a scandal all these years. No wonder you have preferred a quiet life at home.’

‘Mrs Edington?’ The door had opened and a young housemaid came into the room.

‘Yes, Polly?’

Frances turned her head and smiled at the girl, glad to be spared more of Muriel’s venom. She knew that she should try not to rise to any of her sister-in-law’s taunts but she was becoming increasingly weary of the woman’s airs and graces. However, sometimes her brother’s wife managed to sail too close to the truth. The wedding breakfast, for example.

She could have made the refreshments more ‘refined’, as Muriel would have put it, especially as Walter had been good enough to help out with the expenses. Why hadn’t she? Perhaps she, too, had hardly thought it appropriate for some little servant girl.

‘Mrs Edington,’ Polly’s face was flushed and her hair was escaping from her cap. Her white pinafore was creased and stained; she had not stopped since rising before dawn that morning, ‘shall I light the gaslamps? It’s already as dark as night out there.’

‘Yes, thank you, Polly, here and in the hall. And then you’d better tidy your hair and put on a clean apron. It won’t be long before the guests arrive.’

Constance walked out of the church on John’s arm and looked up at the heavy black clouds and darkening sky. She hoped it wasn’t an omen. John squeezed her hand and whispered, ‘There, it’s all over, and it wasn’t such an ordeal, was it?’

It’s almost as if he’s reassuring himself, she thought wonderingly. As he leaned towards her, she imagined that he was going to kiss her. She half-closed her eyes but he pulled away when he heard the others begin to emerge from the doorway behind them. They waited whilst their guests walked to each side of them and began to make their way down the steps. John’s eyes followed Matthew and his party until they reached the pavement.

Rosemary and Hannah Beattie had their heads together. Rosemary had a white paper packet in her hands. She opened it. Constance could hear her laughing. Matthew stood a little apart as if trying to detach himself from his sister’s gaiety. The other guests, hesitant at first, began to gather round the little group.

Constance turned her head as a gust of wind blew stinging drops of moisture into their faces. They looked like tears. John brushed his cheek with his fingers before turning to say, ‘We’d better go, it’s starting to rain again.’

‘No, it’s not rain, it’s sleet. Oh, John, on our wedding day!’

They clung on to each other as they hurried down the now treacherous stone steps. When they reached the bottom, Rosemary, her face flushed with excitement, raised a hand and showered them with rice.

‘Hurrah!’ Albert Green, John’s best man, roared approval.

Hannah Beattie applauded but the other guests seemed to be unsure what to do. It’s no wonder they’re so quiet, Constance thought. The church was as cold as the grave and now the wind is freezing.

But Rosemary was irrepressible. She caught at Constance’s hands and blurted out, ‘I’ve asked my brother to take you and John home in his motorcar.’

‘No, that doesn’t matter,’ John said. ‘You’ve already been too kind.’

‘No, Matthew has agreed to my plan. The rest of us can walk, but this is your special day!’

‘I don’t mind, John.’ Matthew stepped forward. ‘I’ll take you home, unload Constance’s box, and then take Rosemary and Miss Beattie back to Fenham.’

‘Oh ...’ Rosemary’s smile vanished. ‘I thought we would be going to the wedding breakfast. I mean ...’ She flushed as, behind her, Hannah Beattie cleared her throat. ‘Of course, how rude of me, we have not been invited.’

‘Then let me invite you now.’

They all turned as Uncle Walter spoke. He was standing with a tall dark-haired girl dressed in crimson, whom Constance took to be John’s cousin, Esther. Esther was staring moodily ahead. She had strong features and bold dark eyes, and the biting wind had given her a high but not unattractive colour. She would be beautiful if she allowed herself to smile, Constance thought. I wonder why she looks so out of humour?

‘No, really, sir,’ Matthew said. ‘Mrs Edington is not expecting us.’

‘Nonsense, my sister will be only too pleased to welcome three more guests. Now, I suggest we hurry before this sleet turns into a snowstorm.’

BOOK: A Dream of her Own

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