The Promise (4 page)

Chrissie instantly suffered from an attack of nerves. What should she say? Hello, I’m your long-lost
granddaughter, the one you’ve never even been interested in seeing. No, that wouldn’t do. Far too abrupt and confrontational. Perhaps her mother had been right to insist she not reveal her true identity, as she’d no wish to give the old dear a heart attack.

Taking a breath, Chrissie stepped briskly forward. ‘What a wonderful view of the lake you have from here,’ she said, sticking out a hand. ‘Good morning, I’m so pleased to meet you. You must be Mrs Cowper?’

The eyes that turned upon her were steel grey and took her measure slowly through narrowed slitted lids. No effort was made to take the proffered hand and at length Chrissie dropped it, a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks. Perhaps she’d got it all wrong and this was just the gardener, after all. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m your new guest, Chrissie Emerson. Sorry if I’m being a bit presumptuous and pushy. Tend to act first and think later. Ever a fault of mine.’

There came a sudden bark of laughter. ‘Me too. Far too impulsive and bossy for my own good, or so Hetty keeps telling me. Unfortunately, the old peepers aren’t quite what they used to be, and I seem to have mislaid my spectacles so didn’t at once recognise you. I remember you now, in the loft over the boathouse.’ And wiping both hands on the back of the disreputable skirt, she grasped one of Chrissie’s and wrung it hard. The grip was firm and strong, very much that of a young woman and not at all what you would expect from someone in her sixties.

‘I hope everything’s tip-top?’

‘Perfect, thank you.’

‘Good, good. If there’s ever a problem I’m sure Hetty, that’s Mrs Gorran, will sort it out for you.’ She was busily patting pockets, poking the front of her jersey, peering about her in a bemused sort of way.

‘Are these what you’re looking for?’ Reaching up, Chrissie unhooked a pair of spectacles from the ribbon of the tattered straw hat.

‘So
that’s
where I put them. Goodness, how dreadful. Please don’t tell Hetty. I have no wish to appear more senile than I actually am.’

Chrissie laughed. ‘I don’t believe you’re senile at all.’

‘My dear, I am older than the century itself.’

‘And a Lakelander born and bred, no doubt,’ Chrissie teased, taking the chance some nugget might fall her way at this very first meeting.

‘Oh, I do so wish I was. How marvellous that would be, to have been born in this lovely county.’

Chrissie smiled. ‘I’m trying to identify your accent. It’s unusual. Where do you come from, then, if not Westmorland?’ She attempted to make the question sound casual, but somehow it fell rather flat.

Georgia Cowper half turned away, bending to retrieve her trowel before moving on to the next bush where she began to dig up a few weeds from around the stock. ‘Do smell these roses, aren’t they divine? I love the
old-fashioned
sort best, don’t you?’

The failure to get a response to her impertinence was not entirely unexpected but Chrissie felt disappointed all the same. Mum was right, then, it was not going to be easy to draw any information out of her. Leaning close, she
drank in the sweet heady scent of the bloom. ‘Wonderful! Who maintains this amazing garden for you? Just look at all these rhododendrons and azaleas. You must need a whole tribe of gardeners to keep it looking so perfect.’

The older woman put back her head and laughed out loud. Her face was as brown as a nut, but with scarcely a wrinkle, Chrissie noticed. A face full of wisdom and strength, and a rare loveliness. She caught a glimpse of once-black hair, silvered with grey. ‘Well, there’s Sam, Hetty’s husband, who does a marvellous job. He also drives the old Rover, should I feel the need for an outing, but he’s getting on a bit. Not quite so doddery as me, but well on the way. This is not a house of young folk, which is why we enjoy our guests.’ Dropping the secateurs into a trug standing nearby, she said, ‘The garden is my pride and joy. Let me show you.’

It was indeed enchanting, Chrissie genuinely admiring every plant and shrub as she was taken from rose to kitchen garden along winding paths, through secret glades and the shrubbery, finishing in the walled garden inspecting the tomatoes in the huge Edwardian greenhouses.

As she paused by these, she asked, ‘What about your own family, presumably they visit too?’ Chrissie regretted the question almost the moment she’d uttered it. Far too soon. And clumsy.

Her grandmother gave what might pass for a smile. ‘Those who wish to come when it suits them. Isn’t that always the way with families?’

Chrissie was startled. Whatever answer she’d expected, it wasn’t this. She instantly wanted to ask who these
family members were exactly that visited. She’d always assumed her mother to be an only child as no aunts or uncles had ever come on a visit. But then they’d lived a strangely nomadic life, constantly moving, no doubt to escape debtors. Should she own up now to who she really was, and risk upsetting her mother?

But Georgia was speaking again, in firm no-nonsense tones. ‘I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning. I dare say that like all young women of your age you forget to eat properly. No, don’t bother to deny it,’ she went on, giving a soft chuckle. ‘Mrs Gorran always produces excellent meals, and she’ll never forgive you if you don’t eat them. You shall sit with me at dinner tonight and while I make sure you eat properly you shall tell me all about yourself, as I’m quite the nosiest old woman in town.’ Taking a firm grasp of her elbow, she began to lead Chrissie along the path. ‘Are you married, dear?’

Chrissie would have answered but words failed her, as they so often did, even after all this time.

Georgia jerked to a halt to gaze at her in some concern. ‘I’m sorry, that was clumsy of me. Was it the war?’

Chrissie bleakly nodded.

‘Then we will say no more on the subject, although you must have been very young.’ The older woman squeezed her hand in a warm grip. ‘Am I allowed to say that you will almost certainly learn to love again, given time?’

‘Thank you, I don’t intend the loss to make me bitter,’ Chrissie said, thinking of Vanessa.

‘Very wise.’ Georgia cast her a sideways glance. ‘There’s no one on the horizon at present, then?’

‘There is someone, yes. A very nice man who is keen to marry me, but I’m not sure he’s—’

‘The right one? Then take the advice of an old woman and do not say yes until you are absolutely certain. Marriage is for life, remember.’

‘I fully intend to take my time before making any decisions. That’s partly the reason I came here, to give myself space to think. I’m afraid my mother never quite approved of my rushing into marriage at just eighteen. I’m glad I did, though, in the circumstances. At least Tom and I had one night together as man and wife.’

Later that evening, seated in the dining room at her grandmother’s table, Mrs Gorran serving piping-hot Scotch broth and home-baked bread rolls, followed by a delicious steak-and-kidney pie, Chrissie was entranced as Georgina fussed gently over her. ‘Tuck in and eat up every scrap, you look as if you need it,’ she ordered, before continuing with their earlier conversation.

‘Mothers don’t always know what is best for their daughters, though they may fear for their happiness and sometimes be overprotective. I didn’t get it right, and my own mother certainly didn’t. But then it was a different age back then, with more rigid standards and moral codes than you youngsters of today would tolerate. My parents were very authoritarian, and I the dutiful daughter, the result of a lifetime of rigorous training. I did rebel in the end, however. Very much so.’

Chrissie felt surprisingly comfortable in her company, almost as if she had known her for years. ‘Where were you brought up, Mrs Cowper?’ She asked the question
softly, not wishing to alarm the old lady by seeming too curious, but the answer came without hesitation.

‘San Francisco, or “Frisco”, as we called it. Oh, and didn’t I just love that town: the undulating hills, the tramcars, the excitement of the wharves and waterfront, the elegance of it all, and the chatter in a dozen different languages, even back then.’ The faded grey eyes grew misty with memory.

‘You must miss it?’

She laughed. ‘I certainly miss the Californian climate, but I love the Lakes too, despite the rain.’

‘Tell me about your mother. Why was she so strict? Did she approve of your marriage with Mr Cowper?’

‘Of Ellis? Goodness, no! She was outraged at the very idea. He was a foreigner, for one thing. She also dismissed him as unhealthy, because being British he was naturally pale. In those days we lived in fear of disease, of consumption and the like. Even worse, he was not at all of the right class and upbringing. You can laugh now, looking at all of this, but my mother didn’t set any store by some ruin of a house in the backwaters of England, even if it had been in his family for generations. She saw him as a chancer, not the honest sailor that he actually was.’

‘A sailor? Oh, how romantic.’

Her grandmother’s eyes were radiating happiness now, her mind clearly picturing the handsome young man she’d fallen in love with all those years ago. ‘I suppose it was rather romantic, at least at first. Before …’

Chrissie waited, holding her breath for whatever might
come next. ‘Where did you meet him?’ she prompted after an achingly long pause, anxious for her to go on.

‘Ah, thereby hangs a tale.’

‘I love romantic stories. Please don’t stop now. Tell me how you met.’

Georgia folded her hands in her lap, the meal forgotten as her memory slid back to that distant time. ‘It was a lovely warm day in June. A Saturday, which was always special as my sister Prudence and I would don our best fixings and promenade into town with Mama and Papa to see a matinee. Except this particular Saturday was to turn out rather more special, and decidedly more exciting, than usual.’

‘Let me rub some cocoa butter on your cheeks,’ Prudence offered. ‘It’ll make them soft. Not that you really need beautifying, but you know how Mama fusses if we don’t take proper care of our skin. There, now I’ll wipe it off with the Magnolia Balm.’ She took up a pad of swansdown and began to pat my face till it was smooth and dry. ‘Lovely, all fixed up pretty as a picture, and your skin as fine as porcelain.’

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ I asked, trying to decide if I liked this new paler version of myself. I was more used to a healthy glow on my cheeks. ‘Don’t you think I look a bit sickly? Mama so distrusts the pale washed-out look.’

‘You don’t look in the least washed out.’ Prudence critically studied my face in the oval dressing mirror. ‘Your lashes are so long and dark, Georgia. I envy you. Don’t
you, Maura?’ she asked, turning to our maid who was lolling by the window, gazing out on to the street below in case she should see any handsome gentlemen go by in their carriages.

Startled out of her daydreaming, the Irish girl hastily agreed. What a silly question. I was well aware the maid envied me, and my pretty, little, spoilt sister. Why would she not, since she had nothing in the whole world, and we had everything our hearts desired? Poor Maura was plain and stick-thin, a result of the hard life she had suffered back in Ireland as a child, and on Ellis Island when she first came to America. I glanced through the window and saw she was watching a footman in livery hand a lady into a barouche. The whip snapped and the horses sprang forward. Thrilling! I expect she was dreaming that one day she would like to travel in a carriage just like that.

‘Mine are so short and brown,’ Prudence was complaining. ‘As boring as my hair.’

Maura offered a bland smile. ‘Why don’t you black them, then?’

Prudence was all attention. ‘Can you do that? How?’

‘With a hot hairpin. Would you like me to fetch one? Though I doubt your mama would approve. Mrs Briscoe might think it too daring, miss.’

‘Oh stuff, what if she does, I don’t care. Hurry, Maura, do run and fetch one. We don’t have all day.’

Now Maura would have to run down three flights of stairs to the poky little room in the basement where she slept, in order to find a hairpin. But then she did ‘borrow’
the odd scarf, pair of gloves, or ear bobs, whenever she’d a mind, so it seemed only fair she help us in return. Not that we ever let on that we noticed. Why would we, with so many clothes to choose from?

Besides, she had no wish to lose this job, bless her, and was becoming a valued friend to us both.

Prudence started brushing my hair, which hung halfway down my back. ‘It’s like a glossy cloud, such a lovely dark colour. And your lips are naturally red, I’m so envious. I do have other attributes, I suppose,’ she said, turning to preen herself in the long mirror and admire her own shapely figure set off by a lovely pale-pink satin gown. ‘I’d just love to give my hair a touch of henna. Do you think Mama would notice? I could say it had turned red all by itself overnight, couldn’t I?’

I laughed at her nonsense. ‘I doubt she’d believe you, Prue.’

‘I shall at least put some rouge on my lips … There, much better.’

As Prudence tugged down the neckline of her gown to further reveal the enticing swell of her young breasts, I watched with amusement mingled with open admiration. Ever more daring than myself, I envied Prudence her spark of rebellion. Even now she was decking herself out in cheap jewellery which our mother wouldn’t approve of either. But then Mama’s jewellery was special, an inheritance from her own mother who was said to be European royalty, and therefore extremely valuable. It was kept safely locked away. Whenever I was asked to run and fetch a necklace or brooch from the closet, I
always went in fear and trembling in case I should lose the key or bring the wrong piece by mistake.

Now I tweaked my own blue satin gown, checking I hadn’t trodden on the hem and torn it, as I so often did. Or spilt fruit juice down the front, as I did at a recent soirée we attended. I’ve never seen Mother quite so angry, marching me off home and accusing me of being a ragbag and bringing shame and disgrace upon the entire family. For a
spill of fruit juice
? Heaven knows how she would react if I ever did something really bad.

At least the blue of my gown warmed the cool grey of my eyes a little. How I wished they were blue, almost as much as Prue ached to be a brunette. Why are we never satisfied with what we have? I was taller than my younger sister, whose figure was neat and trim, making me feel gangling and gawky, and far more plain than her sweet prettiness.

‘If we don’t hurry, the matinee will be over before we ever get there. Where is that girl?’ Prudence complained. ‘I declare she grows more mulish by the day.’

I giggled. ‘You sound just like Mama.’

‘Goodness, do I? Heaven forfend,’ and we both fell into fits of laughter.

Maura burst in, not a moment too soon, gasping for breath and hot hairpin in hand. The next half hour was spent in frantic preparation as Prue’s eyelashes were blacked, hair was pinned up, shoes and purses found before, at last, accompanied by our exhausted sulky maid, we presented ourselves for inspection.

Unsurprisingly we did not pass muster. One glance at
her younger daughter and Mama almost had the vapours. ‘Is that rouge on your lips, Prudence? Remove it at once. And you are showing a vast amount of flesh. Pray run upstairs and change that dress this minute.’

Prue’s face fell. ‘Oh, Mama, that would take an age and we’d miss the matinee. Anyway, I think I look rather handsome.’

‘You look like a shameless hussy. What your dear father will say, I cannot imagine. Maura, fetch me one of my lace handkerchiefs. Quickly! The largest you can find.’

Maura ran up and down two flights of stairs this time, and the handkerchief was tucked firmly into the bosom of the gown, quite spoiling the effect but certainly sparing Prue’s modesty, or at least our mother’s blushes.

There then followed the usual lecture about where we may and may not go after the matinee. ‘You can take a short stroll but speak to no one with whom you are not already acquainted, is that clear?’ she sternly warned.

‘Yes, Mama,’ we dutifully agreed, bobbing a curtsey, although I could tell that Prudence hadn’t the least intention of keeping such a silly rule.

‘How on earth would we ever meet anyone new and exciting if we never spoke to people?’ she would say, and there was a certain logic to this argument. Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite acquired my younger sister’s knack for disobedience.

Father finally emerged from the library, carefully locking the door behind him, and that of the best parlour, to make sure the servants didn’t rob us blind while we were out. In his silk top hat, frock coat and white silk cravat, he cut
a fine figure as he walked straight-backed, head held high with his usual air of authority. Mama quickly gathered up her purse and wrap and the entire family set forth in our finest, to catch the tramcar for the short ride into town.

We walked arm in arm out of the theatre on to Bush Street, talking nineteen to the dozen as we recalled amusing little incidents from the plays we’d just seen. The matinee had been wonderful. The crimson curtains had swished back to gasps of excitement and enthusiastic applause from the audience, then we’d settled in our seats to enjoy an extract from
As You Like It
, and a short farce called
Her Sinful Secret
about a young society miss who pretends to be a maid and gets caught up in an
affaire
. Really quite shocking in its way, but very funny. All five of us had laughed till we cried.

The only disappointment was that few young gentlemen ever attended, Papa being rare in that he enjoyed theatre, as largely the auditorium was filled with women and children, all nibbling peanuts and chattering loudly. Fortunately, the performance rarely lasted beyond an hour, as the actors were anxious for a rest before the start of the longer evening performance, so there was still time for us to socialise elsewhere.

Papa had taken Mama off for tea and cakes, and we girls were now free to enjoy a short stroll up the street before returning home. Oh, and how we loved to browse in the smart shops and peer in curiosity as saloon doors swung open to reveal a brawl within, or some other sign of depravity. It was all very thrilling.

But first we had to negotiate the crowd of ‘mashers’ who milled about the entrance to the theatre. These considered themselves to be very much the fashionable men about town, but their object was to seek any opportunity to waylay some silly young girl and proposition her. As Mama had been at pains to impress upon us, it was quite wrong to speak to anyone unless you had previously been introduced. But the ‘mashers’ had their own way of getting around this rule.

I braced myself as one approached Prudence. ‘How do you do, miss … er … um … oh dear, I am so dreadful with names. I believe we met at the Spinney’s Social last fall, how lovely to see you again.’

Prudence, to her credit, sniffed with disdain. ‘I very much doubt it, sir. I recall no such event.’ But then spoilt the effect by falling into a fit of giggles which she quickly stifled with her handkerchief.

‘Prudence, have a care,’ I chided, but then as I tried to steer my sister through the pressing crowd, urging Maura not to fall behind, I found our way blocked by a rather large young man. Stout and broad-shouldered, he stood four-square before us.

‘Ah, three beautiful girls, surely sisters. Indeed, did I not have the pleasure of meeting you all at Mrs Delaney’s ball?’

I rolled my eyes in disgust at the same old line, and it was Maura’s turn to fall into giggles at being taken for one of the Briscoe sisters. I decided to be kind and laughed good-naturedly. ‘Nice try, but I fear you are mistaken, sir. Pray excuse us.’

Prudence tossed her brown curls and gave him an enchanting sidelong glance. ‘I do declare we seem to be the talk of the town today. I wonder why that can be?’ she said, hitching up her satin skirts as she pretended to twirl away from him so that he caught a tantalising glimpse of trim ankles.

I stifled a sigh. My young sister had an uncanny knack for choosing entirely the wrong moment to flirt, and at sixteen was as luscious and ripe as a fresh peach. As Prudence fluttered a hand to her breast, for one dreadful moment I feared she might be about to rip off the offending handkerchief, and quickly captured her hand with my own, just in case. Giving it a little squeeze I hissed fiercely in Prue’s ear. ‘
Behave!
What are you thinking of?’

My silly sister had certainly caught his attention, for the arrogant fellow refused to budge, maintaining his stance blocking our path, so that in order to continue our walk we would need to physically push him to one side. Quite impossible.

We exchanged anxious glances while Maura cowered behind. Only a year or two older than myself at twenty, she was no match for this obnoxious bully.

‘Why don’t I walk you fine ladies home? We can stop off for a little drink along the way. My carriage awaits.’ He reached out, as if to take my hand, but I flinched away, pulling Prue closer so that he couldn’t grab her instead.

‘I would prefer it, sir, if you stepped aside and allowed us to pass. We are in no need of an escort. We have our maid, and we will be meeting up with our parents again
shortly.’ This last was a lie, as we’d arranged to take the tramcar home and not wait for Papa and Mama, but he wasn’t to know that.

Far from standing aside, he took a further step towards us, so close that I could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘If three gels of such inestimable beauty are unescorted, and in such a flippant mood,’ he added, giving Prudence a broad wink, ‘they clearly wish to invite attention.’

‘How dare you! We are doing no such thing. Pray get out of our way this instant.’ I brandished my parasol at him, wishing it was raining, then I would have had my umbrella which was far larger. I had no other weapon at my disposal, and the crowd behind us had thinned by this time, with not even the door commissioner visible at the theatre entrance. I could see Maura desperately looking about for assistance, but there didn’t seem to be any available. ‘Come, Prue, Maura, we’ll go this way instead,’ and turning smartly on my heels I began to walk briskly in the opposite direction.

It was Maura’s scream which brought me up short.

‘Oh, the saints preserve us, he’s grabbed Miss Prudence and is shoving her into that brougham!’

I whirled about in horror just in time to see the door slam shut, my beloved sister having been bundled inside. Before I had time to move a muscle, or even cry out, the horse set off at a brisk trot and the vehicle departed, soon vanishing into the crowd.

I wasted no time on debating what should be done but set off in hot pursuit, running as fast as my legs could carry
me. I kept bumping into people, screaming at them to get out of the way, went sprawling at one point when I tripped over a kerb, and Maura hauled me unceremoniously to my feet.

‘Are you hurt, miss?’

‘No, I’m fine. What colour was it?’

‘What?’

‘The
brougham
. What colour?’

‘Yellow, no, green and black.’

And we were off again, the pair of us darting in and out of bewildered pedestrians, checking every vehicle that bore even a vague resemblance to the one that had carried off darling Prudence. A tramcar drew up alongside but I didn’t even pause long enough to climb aboard, quite certain I could run faster than a car straining uphill on its cable.

We crossed Pine Street and California, heading north on Kearny. No time now to enjoy the shops or pause to peep through open doors. Fortunately the streets were near-deserted as most people were still enjoying a matinee at one or other of the many theatres. So with our eyes fixed on a carriage some distance ahead which we hoped was the right one, we ran as if our lives depended on it, which Prudence’s surely did. Eventually, we were forced to stop as we were both gasping for breath and needing to nurse the stitch in our aching sides. We were almost in despair.