The Lorimer Line (12 page)

‘Is it, then, your ambition to become a general's lady, Lydia?' laughed Margaret.

Until that moment Lydia had allowed Margaret to tease her and had joined in the laughter at her own expense, recognizing the over-exuberance of her enthusiasm. But the laughter faded from her face as she looked down at the locket cradled in her hand.

‘My ambition has never been more than to find someone who would love me,' she said. ‘I shall never have any fortune, because my father's estate is entailed; and I know well enough that I am not to be admired for my beauty. I have spent many hours weeping over the length of my nose and the sallowness of my complexion. But Mr Chapman thinks these things of no importance. For all I care, he may remain a lieutenant all his life, with nothing but his pay to live on, and I shall never cease to love him for loving me.'

The sincerity of her voice affected Margaret more than she dared admit. She knew and shared Lydia's feeling, and the temptation to reveal her secret was very strong. The two girls sat in silence. Margaret was yearning for David, and it was certain that Lydia was in the grip of a similar emotion.

Their thoughts were distracted in the end by the sound of a carriage pulling to a standstill outside the house. Margaret looked from the window and saw that it was drawn by William's chestnuts, not their own piebalds. She frowned to herself in surprise as she saw Sophie waiting to be handed down. Even within the family, this was a curious time for a call of which no warning had been given. As the coachman hurried to ring the doorbell, Margaret could see that her sister-in-law was in a fury. What could have happened at The Ivies to cause Sophie's usually placid face to frown so angrily and her foot to tap with such impatience?

More powerful than any magnet is the possibility of discovering a scandal in one's own family. Margaret made her voice sound casual as she proposed to Lydia that they should move downstairs, but it was curiosity which drew her. They passed Nathaniel, one of the footmen, as they reached the gallery. He had just discovered that his master was not in the library and was now on his way to the boudoir to announce Sophie's arrival.

She had brought the nursery governess with her. Claudine was standing in a corner of the hall, shivering with cold because she wore no coat.

‘Is Matthew here?' Margaret hoped for a chance to show her young nephew off to Lydia. Claudine shook her head, as though she could not decide which language to use and would therefore attempt neither.

Sophie herself, standing in the family drawing room, was equally uncommunicative. She had something to say to her father-in-law, she told Margaret with a brevity which was a deliberate snub. Margaret heard her father's heavy steps coming down the stairs - she had noticed that he was moving more slowly in the past few months. He glanced into the drawing room, but went first into the library, no doubt because he wished to dispose of the casket of jewels he carried before receiving a visitor.

Sophie heard the sound of the closing door.

‘My conversation is private,' she told Margaret rudely, and swept into the library. Margaret waited to hear an explosion of wrath. But it seemed that the intrusion of a daughter-in-law, even without proper announcement, could be tolerated for just long enough for her to explain her business. No sound, in fact, penetrated the heavy door for
almost ten minutes. When the explosion did come, it was not directed against Sophie.

John Junius flung open the library door and strode into the hall. His face was purple with anger.

‘Ralph!' he roared. He caught sight of Ransome, the butler. ‘Inform Master Ralph that he is to attend on me in the study at the instant. And hurry.'

It was beneath Ransome's dignity to hurry, or even to run his own errands. But beneath his master's furious eye he went up the stairs with an appearance of bustle. The library door slammed as John Junius disappeared inside again.

Ralph's face was white with fear as he came running down the stairs, but the sight of Claudine standing in the corner provided a final shock. He checked his run so abruptly on the bottom step that he was forced to put out a hand to steady himself. Claudine took a step towards him. She spoke to him in French, pronouncing the words clearly and slowly so that they could be understood by a boy whose aptitude for the language was not great. This enabled Margaret also to understand her, even at a greater distance.

‘I am sorry,' Claudine said. ‘Madame's suspicions were of her own husband. It was necessary to tell the truth.'

Ralph's answer was also in French, but his face was turned away from the drawing room and he mumbled the words, so that Margaret was unable to hear what he said. She noticed only that Claudine's face, which had been unhappy at first and then compassionate at the sight of Ralph, brightened briefly.

Margaret looked steadily at Claudine. She had always been a sturdy girl, and very often had Matthew clasped in her arms, so it was perhaps not surprising that an occasional visitor should not have become aware of her condition until this moment.

Margaret was tempted to remain as an audience, watching at least the comings and goings of the protagonists in the drama, but she could see that it should be kept private even from her best friend. She closed the drawing-room doors and proposed a game of backgammon.

Later that evening Margaret was summoned to the library. Ralph had not appeared for supper, but his mother - who had clearly not yet been informed of the day's later events - was in such high good humour on the subject of balls and rubies that she not only took her meal in her husband's company but after it showed herself delighted to chat with Lydia. Margaret could see that her own absence would make it possible for the virtues of Mr Chapman to be rehearsed yet again to a new audience, so she did not feel that she was being inhospitable in abandoning her guest.

John Junius, having ordered her presence, appeared not to know what to say. He turned his hand in the direction of a chair and she sat down. The silence extended itself for some time.

‘Did you wish to speak to me about the events of this afternoon, Papa?' Margaret ventured at last. It had occurred to her that he might be wondering whether an unmarried girl could be expected to understand the situation; and this thought might not have struck him until after he had sent for her. ‘I could hardly help observing something of what was happening. I believe I understand what the position may be.'

‘Are you trying to tell me that you knew what was going on and said nothing?' he thundered, revealing that his anger still lay near the surface. Margaret hastened to reassure him.

‘Not at all, Papa. I knew nothing until today. If I had discovered anything, I would have told you, for Ralph's own sake. It is merely that I had the opportunity to observe Claudine. The rest is all a guess.'

It seemed to come as a relief to him that he could share the secret without needing to put it into words. But he was still angry. There were mutterings about French hussies, which made Margaret wonder whether Claudine's nationality was in his eyes her most grievous sin. Slowly he came to what appeared to be the focus of his wrath.

‘I refused to promise you a settlement on the occasion of your marriage,' he said abruptly. ‘Yet although in the past you may have been headstrong and disobedient, you have at least done nothing to shame your family. And now I have to give money to this slut. You have been honest, even when your wishes have not matched mine. But this money has been forced from me by deceit and depravity. I pay it only in order that my family shall not be disgraced and that my grandchild may not starve. A French grandchild!' He considered the prospect as though it were the unkindest cut of all. ‘At least I shall never see it. The girl will return to France tomorrow. It is a condition of what I give her that she shall never return to England or make contact with any member of the family.'

There was another long silence.

‘I cannot give less to my daughter than I have given to a stranger,' he continued at last. ‘I happened recently to discuss with Mr Trinder the affairs of your fund.' Mr Trinder was the new accountant at Lorimer's, who had taken over David Gregson's role as the charity's treasurer in addition to his bank duties. ‘He showed me the particulars of the property you have just acquired.'

‘Yes, Papa.' Margaret found it difficult to follow the connection between the subjects they were discussing.

‘There is a dower house on the estate, I understand.'

‘Lower Croft. Yes. It is small, but conveniently arranged. Mr Gregson and I considered …'

‘Would you like it?' interrupted her father.

‘I?'

‘It appears to me that the other buildings on the estate
are quite sufficient for the women and children you wish to help. They may profit from the good air of the parkland without requiring to exercise themselves in more than a small portion of it. It occurred to me that you might care to live in the dower house. I assume that there will be a housekeeper or other responsible person in Croft House to take responsibility for the care of the inmates. But I have had the opportunity to observe that your interest in the project is a serious one. Although you are very young, I think it likely that you could prove yourself as competent to oversee the general running of the establishment as any paid supervisor. If this proposal is of interest to you, I will buy Lower Croft from the fund, with some acres around to preserve its privacy.'

‘Papa!' At first it was astonishment which robbed Margaret of speech. Afterward, it was the need to control the tears which ridiculously threatened to flood her eyes.

‘You've had presents before without crying over them,' said her father gruffly.

Margaret gave an unladylike sniff.

‘It's not only the gift, Papa, though indeed I am grateful for that. It's just that – oh, Papa, I thought that no one would ever understand!'

Even as she flung herself into his arms it occurred to her that such a confused statement was not itself much help to understanding. But that was of no importance for the moment. What mattered more was that for the first time for years her father was allowing her to embrace him, accepting the affection which she had never been encouraged to show. The moment was a brief one, and she was careful not to prolong her gesture past his tolerance of it. Returning to her own chair, she dabbed at her eyes.

‘I understand that you are my daughter,' said John Junius. ‘And a worthier representative of the Lorimer Line than your younger brother. I understand also that you see yourself as a member of a family which has received many
privileges from society. It is natural that you should wish to give something in return to those less privileged. In the past I have found some of your proposals unsuitable for a woman. But though I may have refused your requests, I am able to appreciate your motives.'

It was the end of a softness not normal to his voice. When he spoke again, it was in a more businesslike manner.

‘When I have purchased Lower Croft I shall make it over to you directly, as a gift for your twenty-first birthday,' he said. ‘There is nothing to be gained by putting it into a settlement, for Mr Gregson has nothing with which he can match it. If you marry Mr Gregson, he will have the advantage of it. If you do not marry him, it will still be yours.'

Not since the moment when they declared their love had Margaret considered the possibility that she would not marry David Gregson. She looked up at her father in sudden alarm. He seemed to read her anxiety.

‘I am not bribing you to withdraw from your understanding with Mr Gregson,' he said. ‘Nor am I insinuating any suspicion that he may wish to do so. Indeed, I am sure he will continue to see the marriage as greatly to his advantage.' His eyelids hooded his eyes briefly, in a movement which Margaret had learned to recognize as signifying the end of an interview. ‘I shall retire directly to bed now. Give my apologies to Miss Morton.'

‘Good night, Papa. And thank you.'

John Junius nodded. On this occasion he accepted her kiss in his usual manner, without any hint of the emotion which he had briefly allowed to show.

Later that evening, after she had assured herself that Lydia was provided with everything she could want for the night, Margaret went along the corridor to her brother's room. Her relationship with Ralph had been a loving one ever since he had been placed, as a baby, in her three-year-old arms. William had quarrelled incessantly with his
sister, but she had always felt a protective affection for her younger brother and could guess the misery he was enduring now. She found him on his knees beside his bed. From the stiffness with which he rose to his feet as she entered, she realized that he had been in this position for a considerable time.

‘I know what has happened,' she told him. ‘And I know that Papa is deeply grieved. But his anger will not last for ever, Ralph. I have angered him myself many times, but he has shown himself generous in forgiveness.'

‘I am unworthy of forgiveness,' said Ralph. ‘Father is right to be angry. I have been wicked, and I deserve more punishment than he can give me.'

‘You ought not to blame yourself entirely. I hardly imagine that you pressed your attention on Claudine by force.' Margaret offered this consolation out of kindness, for she knew in her heart that even when there was no physical compulsion it was difficult for a servant to evade the attentions of the son or master of the household. Claudine's situation was not a unique one. Most of the well-brought-up young ladies of Bristol society could have produced a memory of some young maid who had left their family's service in a hurry.

‘Oh, no!' Ralph was horrified at the suggestion. ‘It was an accident. You remember that Sophie sent Claudine here with Matthew, just before Beatrice was born. I had started French lessons at school, and found them difficult. I asked Claudine to help me. I meant only help with the French language, but she misunderstood me. She said she would give me a lesson after Matthew was asleep, and when I went …'