The Promise (18 page)

Yet there was a definite chill in the air today.

She did not have a good feeling about this coming interview, and was hardly reassured when the man standing before the fireplace, with his hands clasped behind his back, turned to face her. The expression on his face was dour, the deep creases of a frown puckering his brow. Of slight build, he sported a small goatee beard, perhaps to compensate for a prematurely bald pate, circled by a rim of dark hair, although he couldn’t be much over forty. He wore half-spectacles, over which he peered censoriously at her.

Smiling brightly, she stuck out a hand. ‘Chrissie Emerson.’

Making no attempt to take it, he said, ‘I rather think that can’t be right. Perhaps you would care to try again, with your correct name this time.’

Chrissie stiffened, letting the hand drop. Though she knew she was in the wrong, she really didn’t care for this man’s superior tone. ‘That
is
my correct name actually. I don’t use my first one, which was Susan, and Emerson is my married name, although my husband was killed in the war. My maiden name was Kemp, as I believe you are aware.’

‘We are now, Mrs Emerson, but until your fiancé chose to reveal the full facts to my mother, you had very cleverly avoided mentioning this essential detail. Now why was that, I wonder? Could it be that you were afraid of spoiling the nice little friendship you were building up with her? Very clever.’

Chrissie could feel the betraying burn of guilt warm
her cheeks. ‘Peter is not my fiancé and he had no right to interfere in my private affairs. But I’m not sure what it is you’re implying by that remark.’

‘Aren’t you? You don’t think it’s obvious that you’ve been attempting to make yourself indispensable? Helping her in the garden, breakfasting at her table, a privilege none of the other guests are awarded, and apparently encouraging her to talk about the past. My mother, Mrs Emerson,
never
talks about the past, with anyone, not even her own family.’

‘Perhaps that’s because you do not show sufficient interest in it, or in her.’

The scowl darkened, if that were possible, his next words rising in pitch almost to a shout. ‘My mother is an old woman in uncertain health, and sadly an easy target for charlatans such as yourself who attempt to exploit her good nature.’

Still standing facing each other across the Persian rug, this most difficult conversation was being conducted as if the pair of them were about to commence a duel. The trouble was, Chrissie was now trembling so badly she felt her knees might give way. ‘May I sit, please? I’m sure I can explain everything to your satisfaction and put your mind at rest on that point, and any others you may have.’ When no such offer was forthcoming, her uncle’s expression remaining as frozen as ever, Chrissie steadied her nerves as best she could and battled on. ‘I have called today to offer my most sincere apologies, so if I may be allowed to see Georgia … er … Mrs Cowper.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Gorran made it clear that my mother is
not receiving visitors. In fact, I doubt she’ll wish to see you ever again.’

Chrissie was mortified. This was the last thing she wanted, to damage the delicate friendship which had been growing between them. ‘I never meant any harm by the deception. Many times I longed to tell her who I really was. I only kept quiet to avoid causing distress to
my
mother,
your
sister,’ she added pointedly. ‘Although I was hoping to talk Mum round, if I was successful in achieving the reconciliation I’d hoped for.’

‘Ah yes, of course, the reconciliation.’ Sliding his hands in his trouser pockets he rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘How very touching. And highly unlikely.’

‘I don’t see why. Difficulties between family members can surely be overcome if there is sufficient goodwill, and love, on both sides.’

‘Do we
look
like a family bursting with goodwill and love? Naturally, the presence of considerable wealth makes the effort worthwhile, whatever the circumstances, wouldn’t you say, Mrs Emerson?’

Cheeks now fired to a bright scarlet, Chrissie hotly protested her innocence. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing! Money was never my motive.’

‘Was it not? I wonder. If I know my sister, not to mention that useless fellow she married, their financial state will not be a healthy one. Do you deny that your parents are in a parlous state?’

She could not deny that, of course, but neither would Chrissie give this arrogant man the satisfaction of being proved right. All her mother’s warnings now seemed to be
coming true, alarm bells ringing loud and ominously in her head. ‘As a matter of fact my father was killed during the war, at Dunkirk. My mother and I are far from well off, that is true, but we get by.’ This didn’t seem quite the moment to mention the long-standing debt Aaran had left them with, or her mother’s fondness for the bottle.

Ryall let out a sharp disbelieving snort of laughter. ‘I can’t pretend to grieve for the loss of that man, although I’ll admit Vanessa was besotted with the fellow. She always did have poor taste in men and quickly fell pregnant. With you, I presume. The silly chit allowed a few moments of carnal passion to ruin her entire life. But it was her choice, and to stay away all these years was another unwise decision. It devastated my mother. You have my absolute assurance, Mrs Emerson, that there is not the slightest hope of a reconciliation, nor of you inheriting a penny from my mother’s estate when the time comes.’

All of Chrissie’s nervousness had quite vanished during the course of this bitter homily, replaced by a very real sense of aggrieved anger. Nevertheless she kept those feelings firmly in check, if only out of loyalty and love for her mother. But she most certainly had no intention of standing silently by while being falsely accused of what amounted to fraud and extortion by this arrogant man. She took a step towards him, which instantly brought a flash of alarm into his blue-grey eyes.

‘My mother may have made many mistakes in her life, but marrying my father was not one of them. They fell in love. What was so wrong in that?’ Chrissie arched a brow at him as if challenging him to deny it, yet didn’t
wait for his answer. ‘I’m sorry if Georgia was distressed by this family feud, but so was my mother. Where was your support when she needed it? Where was that of her other siblings? And if you think that ignoring your own sister – for what, sixteen years? – isn’t cruel, then I pity you. You are clearly a man with no heart. My mother, unfortunately, is a woman with too much of one. But I tell you,
Uncle
Ryall, I’d rather have that flaw any day than be the frozen, selfish, unfeeling person you clearly are. You’re welcome to Grandmother’s fortune. Large or small, I wouldn’t accept a penny of it, even if it were offered.’

A round of applause greeted this remark, although not from her uncle. ‘Bravo! Well said, and clearly spoken from the heart.’

The woman’s voice came from behind, and spinning on her heels, Chrissie came face to face with her grandmother.

Chrissie’s heart soared with new hope. Might she be forgiven? Perhaps it wasn’t too late after all. She took a quick step forward. ‘May I have the chance to explain?’

‘I rather think this isn’t the time for a protracted discussion,’ Ryall intervened. ‘Thanks to you, my mother is unwell.’

‘I’m perfectly willing to listen to what the girl has to say,’ Georgia quietly objected, ensconcing herself comfortably in her favourite chair. ‘Even if I won’t necessarily believe a word of it.’

‘Mother, I don’t think …’

‘You can leave us, Ryall. I’ll deal with this.’

‘But …’

‘Leave us, please.’

There was no doubt that Georgina Cowper was a formidable woman, one not even her own son could entirely control, and giving Chrissie one last fierce glare he strode in fury from the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound reverberated in the silence for a long time before, drawing a shuddering breath, Chrissie found the courage to speak.

‘I don’t want to put all the blame on to Mum, but I’m afraid she was very much against my coming to see you, hence her insistence I remain incognito.’

‘I can imagine.’ The tone was sardonic, the steel grey eyes riveted upon Chrissie with a coolness that chilled.

‘I-I’m most dreadfully sorry. And truly, deeply regret that you should find out in this way. Unfortunately, the longer I left it, the harder it was to own up to the deception. I do hope you can forgive me. It was a stupid thing to do, a foolish misjudgement.’

‘Is that what you call it, a misjudgement? Not a deliberate lie then?’

Chrissie found her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment beneath the direct scrutiny. ‘I always hoped it wouldn’t be viewed as such, although the last time you shared your reminiscences with me, in the garden, I itched to confess, but felt I needed to speak to Mum first.’

‘And did you succeed in persuading her?’

Chrissie shook her head, dropping her chin so as to
avoid the gimlet gaze. ‘I can’t think why I ever made such a promise.’

‘Ah, promises are always easier to make than to keep.’ Georgia let out a small sigh. ‘I should have guessed who you were. You were certainly asking a great many questions. And I’m not usually so forthcoming in talking to strangers.’

Reading hope in this remark, Chrissie met her grandmother’s eyes with frankness in her own. ‘May I tell you the reason?’

‘If you wish.’ There was a weary resignation to the tone that was not particularly encouraging, nevertheless Chrissie valiantly explained, as best she could, about her honest desire to bring about a reconciliation between mother and daughter. She took far longer over the explanation than was strictly necessary, repeating herself somewhat as her grandmother sat silent, never interrupting, nor in any way making it easy for her. When Chrissie finally ran out of steam the silence in the room lasted for several long moments, as her grandmother seemed lost in some distant time, some place far from here.

Chrissie knelt before her, took the old woman’s cold hands between her own. ‘Whatever it was that went wrong between you, you are still my grandmother, and I – I care about you. I thought we were friends, you and I, but I’d like us to be more than that. Family is important, isn’t it? Or perhaps you only think that when you don’t have one.’ There was a tight feeling in her chest, a blockage of tears bursting to be shed that was burning into the heart of her.

The faded grey eyes focused upon Chrissie more kindly now. ‘Happy families, in my experience, are entirely dependant upon a woman marrying the right man in the first place.’

‘And you didn’t,’ Chrissie softly finished for her.

‘No, I didn’t. And that’s where all this trouble for poor Vanessa began.’

Following my initiation in the rites of the marriage bed, repeated with only marginally less trauma the following morning, Maura tenderly bathed me and dried up my tears, consoling me as a mother might, although she was but a few years older than myself. She changed the bloodied sheets, counselled and advised me on how to protect myself better next time, even what position to adopt so that it wouldn’t hurt quite so badly. I listened carefully, taking in every word. I had little hope that any such futile efforts on my part would save me. This was a man, I realised, who took pleasure in the pain of others.

‘How will I endure it?’ I begged her.

‘It will get easier, and I will always be here to help you.’

The physical pain did ease in time but my loathing for my husband increased. The few precious hours of
freedom when he was out and about on business became increasingly important to me. Dressed in our best we would don our bonnets and stroll in the park, remembering the good times now lost, a time when I’d still possessed hope for the future, when I’d still believed in Santa Claus.

I was warming to my Irish maid more and more, not simply as a servant, but as a friend. One I greatly needed in the life I was living. We’d make a great fuss of getting ready, doing our ‘fixings’ as we called them, just as I had once done with Prue when we were girls together, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. I so welcomed Maura’s friendship that I readily encouraged her to borrow any of my gowns that took her fancy. She was slightly taller than me, but otherwise they fitted her well. But then I lent them to dear Prudence too, whose social life was far more exciting than mine.

‘I do like the blue, ma’am. Ooh, but then it’s your favourite, seeing as how it sets off your grey eyes.’

‘It really doesn’t matter, Maura. You are welcome to wear it if you wish. I shall wear the yellow.’

And off we would go, while I would be instinctively keeping an eye out for the swaggering walk of a certain young sailor.

My afternoon calls twice a week to Geary Boulevard to see Mama and Prue, and even Papa, also became like a lifeline to me. But not once, not for a single moment, did I let slip any hint concerning the depth of my unhappiness. I feared the disaster that might befall them, were I to be so reckless.

And on Saturdays I still met with dearest Prudence for
our regular trips to the theatre. She was always full of chatter about her latest beau, although the outing did not hold quite the same appeal for me as it once had. All I could hope for now was that my dear sister be granted greater happiness than I. Certainly I did my best to help, lending her money as well as gowns, to buy her fripperies in order to attract the attention of the young man currently in favour.

‘Didn’t I lend you fifty dollars last week, which you’ve not yet repaid?’ I might gently remind her, and she’d pout in that delightful way she had and talk of her allowance being late this month.

‘Thirty would do, Georgia, or twenty, but I really must have a new outfit to meet his parents, and a darling new hat I saw, or I shall look an absolute frump.’

Where my silly younger sister was concerned, I was putty in her hands, just like her adoring admirers.

I, meanwhile, was the plaything of a heartless husband. On a whim he would order me upstairs. This could happen while I was quietly reading a book by the fire, sewing, or seated at table halfway through a meal. It mattered not what I was doing, or what time of day it was, and there was never any warning. Nor did he care if the servants witnessed my humiliation. He would remove the book or piece of needlework that occupied me, or order me to leave my food half eaten. Then he’d jerk his head, the curl of his upper lip almost a snarl of gleeful anticipation, his mocking eyes willing me to resist.

‘Upstairs, wife, I have need of a different sort of sustenance.’

I always meekly obeyed, nervous of upsetting him and making things worse for myself. But then I became unwell, and was actually sick some mornings. I couldn’t work out what was wrong with me, soon feeling faint and sickly for most of the day.

Maura said, ‘You’ve fallen.’

‘Fallen?’ I tried to think what she meant, as I rarely left the house, save for our afternoon walks in the park. ‘Did I stumble over a tree root or something? I can’t recall having done so. And why would that make me sick, if I had?’

She put her hand to her mouth and started giggling. ‘I mean you’re expecting. You’re going to have a baby, ma’am.’

I stared at her, eyes wide. ‘Oh, my goodness, I never considered … never thought of a child.’

‘That’s what happens when you … well … when you do what Mr Kemp does to you all the time. You’ll have to take things a bit easier now.’

I brightened as a thought struck me. ‘Could I perhaps refuse him access to my bed for a while?’

An odd sort of calculating look came into her eyes. ‘Aye,’ she agreed. ‘You might well do that, although I doubt he’s a man to take kindly to abstinence.’

‘Then he must learn,’ I primly responded.

But in the weeks following I never quite managed to pluck up the courage to tell him of my condition, let alone issue any rules regarding it. Until the day I was seated at dinner, forking a piece of crab cake around my plate.

My appetite was small these days; even so, I was anxious
to eat something for the sake of the baby. I really hadn’t quite worked out how I felt about becoming a mother, of holding Kemp’s child in my arms, but instinct told me I must do right by it. It was important that I remain healthy, and not damage it in any way. So on this occasion when he ordered me upstairs, I refused, absolutely, to leave the table. ‘I have not finished my meal. Your needs must wait until I am done.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ The way his face darkened was terrifying to see. ‘I wait for no man, and certainly not a woman. Upstairs, wife,
now
!’

Blithely ignoring him, I cut a portion of the crab cake, speared the piece with my fork, and put it in my mouth.

Flicking out a hand, he swept the plate from the table. It fell with a crash to the floor, splintering into a dozen pieces. Not a servant in the room moved a muscle to clear up the mess, nor blinked an eyelid. This in itself should have warned me they had witnessed similar tantrums in the past, and I should have followed their patient example. Instead, I was incensed, and taking up my glass of water, flung it in his face.

‘Don’t you ever dare do that to me again,’ I screamed at him.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard Maura’s small gasp of horror, but only when I saw what my husband was holding in his hand did I appreciate the true reason for her dismay. He’d snatched up the poker from the fire irons, and, pulling me across his knee, he beat my backside till it was black and blue. Then dragging me upstairs he took his fill of me, as he’d first intended,
only with far greater brutality. No one came to my rescue. Every maid had slipped silently and swiftly away to hide in the kitchen, just in case he should turn on them instead. Only Maura remained close by, hovering outside the door throughout my ordeal, then she held me sobbing in her arms when finally he stormed off, no doubt to get drunk in some hellhole.

Later that night I began to bleed heavily and it soon became obvious to us both that I had suffered a miscarriage.

It was never wise to defy him. I’d learnt that lesson the hard way.

I grieved for this child I could hardly visualise as a reality. How tragic that its precious life should end so prematurely, and I took some pleasure in telling my husband the catastrophic result of his temper. ‘Your brutality cost the life of what might well have been your son.’

I saw by the flicker in his eyes that he was startled by the news, but as always he twisted things around to blame me. ‘It’s entirely your own fault. You should have told me you were pregnant, you stupid woman.’

‘Would it have made a difference?’

Grabbing me by the throat he pulled me to him, flecks of his spittle spattering my face. ‘I want to know
everything
you do,
everything
that happens in this house. Do you understand? You are my
wife
!’

‘God save me.’

He hit me then, slapped me back and forth about the head until I cowered in a corner of the bedroom and
begged for mercy. ‘Perhaps you’ll manage to hang on to my son next time,’ he shouted, before striding away and leaving me sobbing on the floor.

I was grief-stricken, terrorised by what had happened. But however sympathetic Maura might be, she was still only a maid, with no influence or ability to help. Desperate to talk to someone about the tragedy that had befallen me, the very next afternoon that I visited Mama and Prudence, an opportunity presented itself when my mother remarked on how peaky I looked. ‘You look in dire need of a square meal – are you eating properly, girl?’

I took a breath. ‘My appetite has been down lately, that’s true.’

She looked suddenly hopeful as she cut me a large slice of coffee cake. ‘You aren’t expecting, are you?’

This was the moment I’d so longed for: to tell my mother the truth at last. But for some reason I couldn’t quite find the words to describe how my husband liked to rape and beat me on an almost daily basis. Or that as a consequence he’d caused me to miscarry. Mama had a severely restricted view of life, nurtured by my father, who never told her the truth about anything. Not least their financial situation. I chickened out, and said instead, ‘I’m not finding it easy adjusting to my new life. My husband is very … demanding.’

Mama gave me one of her long looks. ‘Marriage is all about give and take, about facing your responsibilities, not pining for what you can’t have. Now eat every crumb of this delicious cake. It’s your favourite.’ And she took a
large bite of her own, as if the matter were settled, before quickly changing the subject. ‘Did you know that Prudence is now walking out with Bronson Wade? He’s a fine young man, I have to say, and with excellent prospects.’

I turned to my sister, who was blushing furiously. ‘Do you like him, Prue?’

‘He seems pleasant enough,’ she said, casting a
half-glance
at our mother.

‘Because if you don’t, do not allow yourself to be persuaded into marrying him. Not at any price.’

Mama spluttered crumbs everywhere as she clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘Do not say such a thing! Dear Prudence has more sense than you, and will gladly do what’s good for her without complaint, will you not, child?’

‘Well—’ Prue began, but our mother was too busy lecturing me to allow her to finish whatever she’d been about to say.

‘No wonder you aren’t settling if you’re still harbouring resentment about what might have been. But all of that romantic nonsense is in the past now, and you’d do well to leave it there. It is far better to marry a man whose stocks are booming than a two-bit homeless sailor with no future.’

‘Ellis did have a home, and a future, as a matter of fact, in England, but you’re right, it is all in the past now,’ I said, unable to quell the sadness in my tone. ‘But does a wife have no say at all in what … what happens between a man and a woman?’ I could feel myself blushing even as I said these words. My mother and I had never been
prone to open discussion on personal matters, and I could almost feel her discomfort, as this question was far too delicate.

‘A wife’s duty is to please her husband,’ she snapped. ‘And I hardly think this is the time or place to discuss matters of such intimacy with your young unmarried sister present.’

‘Put your hands over your ears a moment, Prue dear, if you wish, but I have to ask this question, Mama. Should not a husband ask permission of a wife before he—’

‘That is enough!’ she cried, almost dropping her teacup in shock. ‘What goes on in the bedroom is not for public discussion. This desire of yours to wallow in foolish nostalgia won’t do you a lick of good. My advice is to pull yourself together, child, and grow up!’

So much for maternal sympathy and support.

My father’s explanation for procuring this marriage for me had already alerted me to the fact that my new husband’s air of charm was entirely superficial. Within months, if not weeks, of my marriage, the truth of that warning became all too apparent. He was not only a brute and a bully, but also a compulsive gambler, a cheat and a charlatan. Most evenings, after we had dined, he would go out, to the casino or one of the many gaming houses – for all I knew to the filthy dives and hash houses on the Barbary Coast. In addition, men would often come to the house and be closeted in his study for hours on end. If it were not for the parade of servants carrying whisky or food on a platter to the room at regular intervals, you
might not even realise they were in the house at all.

‘What do they talk of, I wonder?’ I whispered to Maura as we hid on the landing one afternoon, watching them arrive.

‘They say in the kitchen that he lost out at being mayor in the last election.’ Maura was good at picking up
tittle-tattle,
and I loved her for that as gossip was one of the few ways to brighten my days. ‘Kemp talks fairly openly before the servants, thinking them dumb, if not exactly deaf, but they understand enough to know that he’s furious and is determined to do better next time. He means to win in 1905 and wants every businessman, every railway magnate, every brothel keeper and wharf rat to support his bid to be the next mayor of Frisco. He’s formed some sort of alliance and his cohorts are offering protection to shops and businesses across the city, even to the boarding house keepers on the Barbary Coast, if they will persuade the seamen to vote for him. Otherwise …’

I frowned. ‘Otherwise what?’

Maura’s shrewd eyes met mine. ‘They would no doubt live to regret it if they didn’t do as he asked.’

I fell silent, understanding fully the kind of man I had married. ‘Yes, I can see that they might.’

Later, after I’d done my duty by him, as per usual, I asked him about the purpose of these meetings. ‘Is it true that you are using bribes to win votes at the next election?’ I never baulked at challenging him, determined to hang on to my self-esteem and pride at least, even though he was generally only amused by my ‘quarrelsome ways’, as he termed them.