A Mother's Love (36 page)

Now Matthew, wonderful, gentle Matthew, was dead, and she could never ask what she had done to offend him. Her heart ached with the yearning to have him here now; with the devastation of her loss; with the emptiness he had left behind him; with the now and forever unanswered question.

‘Please, Mummy,’ she whispered like a child, just wanting love. ‘Please let me try to make amends. Let me …’

‘No! Don’t come near me. You … whore!’

The last word tore itself from Harriet’s lips as Sara leaned towards her, asking only for someone to take away the legacy of emptiness that Matthew had left behind. She wasn’t prepared for the hand that swept out as if in self-defence, the way it must have done those many years ago fending off an animal of a husband.

The blow caught Sara full on the cheek. The force, surprising for such a small person, knocked her off balance, throwing her sideways as Harriet leapt up and ran past her and out of the door and up the narrow stairs to the landing above before anyone quite realised what had happened.

‘Oh, my God! Stop her, someone! She’ll kill herself!’

Ignoring the fallen girl, an alarmed Clara leapt up after Harriet as fast as her generous proportions allowed. Her heavy steps clumping hollowly up the stairs, she called Harriet’s name frantically. Jamie just sat gawping, horror-struck, at Sara’s fast crimsoning cheek upon which the fingerprints were beginning to stand out stark and white.

Even at the graveside, no tears came to wash free the grief. She could only stand beside it, breathing in the dank smell of wet earth while Reverent Crombie intoned the prayers for the dead.

‘… Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts …’

Her own heart hugged its secrets, concealed from the world.
Dear God, you alone know my secret.

‘… Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God in His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother …’

He was taking Matthew away, the special love they’d had, leaving a hole within her as gaping as that into which she stared. Why should she pray to Him?

‘… earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection of eternal life …’

I shall see you again, dear Matthew. One day …

Until then she would keep this empty place inside her which Matthew had once filled, where only he had dwelled. No one had ever loved her but him. Now he was gone and there was no one to love her ever again. She felt lost here, lost and small and insignificant.

Lifting her eyes, Sara gazed at those gathered here, faces tight with the cold of the morning, and with sorrow. Jamie looked uncomfortable.
He shouldn’t be here
, she thought, oddly detached; then switched her gaze to her mother. Face hidden behind a heavy black veil, she seemed near to collapse, held between the steadying hands of her brothers. From behind the veil came a steady disembodied moaning. Sara tore her gaze away in disgust and looked up at the overcast sky from which a light drizzle was falling.

Listening to the damp sighs, she thought of a love snatched away, felt the deep ache it had left in its wake.
I did love you, Matthew. I shall never love anyone else.
She wanted to cry so as to cement the vow, yet still the tears did not come. Would she ever cry again? She didn’t think so. She made up her mind then that she never would, no matter what occurred to try to make her. She would give no one – no one – that satisfaction of seeing her cry … ever.

David Symonds regarded the wife of his old friend with a compassion few solicitors could afford to indulge in. One learned over the years that this was a business like any other and personal feelings should not be allowed to come into it. Some circumstances, however, made it difficult to be impersonal, and it was hard having to tell Harriet Craig exactly how she stood financially.

Long ago he’d warned Matthew about headlong overspending following the joys of success, but Matthew had laughed. ‘It’s only money.’

How could one combat that sort of sentiment? And now he was sitting here before Matthew’s stunned widow, telling her that the house, the journal, the printing works with its new and up-to-date machinery, everything, must be sold to repay Matthew’s debts; that she had inherited virtually nothing from him; that his will was not worth the parchment it was written on. When the bank was paid back, there would be hardly enough to pay off the workforce, let alone the domestic staff. In a word, Harriet had been left penniless, without a roof over her head.

She sat slumped in a chair in her fine drawing room on which her husband had only recently spent a mint of money. In the marble-tiled fireplace a fire burned brightly against the November cold; reflected in her grey eyes that were now beseeching his help.

‘All that money? All gone? Even mine?’ She bit her lip as David nodded sadly. ‘There must be some way of getting out of it?’ It was a heartbreaking cry.

‘I wish there were.’

‘I’ve just lost my husband.’ As if that alone was sufficient to melt the hearts of creditors. ‘I’ve nothing left. We’ve got to find a way. The bank will just have to wait for its money. It’s not as if they’ll go broke waiting.’

David Symonds shook his head. ‘Your husband’s creditors must be allowed to take back what they are owed. It is, after all, their money. I’m so sorry, Mrs Craig. If I could do something, I would, believe me.’

He leaned forward, patted her hand. He still didn’t know her very well. All the years he had known Matthew, he had only visited the house a couple of times on business when it wasn’t possible for Matthew to come to the office. If not at the office, he and Matthew would meet in town, or at Matthew’s premises, David being given to understand that Harriet wasn’t a strong woman, and that her nerves did not allow her to entertain easily. Whilst he was not fully able to fathom how the wife of a businessman could allow herself not to entertain her husband’s friends and associates – himself happily married to a robust woman whose very hobby was socialising – he felt it to be Matthew’s business how his wife behaved.

He had to admit that, having met her on the odd occasion, his impression had indeed been of a small, timid person who followed her husband around, almost one step behind him as though the ground would open beneath her feet without him there, while her large, captivating grey eyes set in an extremely pretty, oval-shaped face, gazed at the world from beneath long dark lashes like a frightened dog expecting at any moment to be attacked.

He sat now looking into those grey eyes, and said again, ‘I really am truly sorry, Mrs Craig. There is absolutely nothing I can do.’

Across the room, totally ignored, Sara sat very still.

She had not yet gone back to school. Although her brother had gone rushing off to his at the first chance, she’d hardly needed to plead to be allowed to stay at home – her mother was oblivious to all else but her loss. She sat watching the two people as though watching a play, hardly able to believe what the solicitor had been saying.

Matthew had left such debts. She had never thought of him as being financially imprudent; had felt safe with him in all things. Yet even now she didn’t feel bitter, only sad and lost and missing him so. But she wouldn’t think of that at this moment. She would think instead of her mother and what they were going to do.

Forcing the longing for Matthew from her mind, Sara tried to think as the solicitor gave his condolences and made his exit.

Her first wild idea was out of the question. How could a girl, still months off her sixteenth birthday, think to manage a journal on the strength of a few Saturdays spent there? True, she knew a little stenography, and intended to study it until she had perfected it. She had proved herself a quick learner and could now type quite rapidly. She also knew a bit about editing and how to handle people. But that was when Matthew had been at her side to guide and bestow confidence. How could she handle people far older than herself without him? And what did she know about the financial side? When it came down to it, she knew nothing.

Another idea was forming in her mind, just as wild but with more promise. Matthew’s father – surely he wouldn’t let his son’s family be thrown out on the street, which was what would surely happen? It was no use taking Mother into her confidence. She was too devastated to make any sense of her present, much less face up to her future. Sara would go alone. Maybe her youth would appeal to the more sympathetic instincts of Matthew’s obscure and standoffish family. She didn’t relish the task, but she would face it, for her mother’s sake, for Jamie’s sake.

The house wasn’t half so imposing as Sara remembered. She could dimly recall it looming over her that one time she had been here. She had been, what, three years old? That must have been when she had lived in Hackney Road – a fleeting image of a tiny kitchen and cramped rooms flashed into her mind. So this house she now approached would have seemed huge to her.

She remembered too feeling very subdued by the prison-like aspect of mullioned windows, an entrance hall hushed and spacious, doors that towered over her – a sensation of being very alone. Someone had been holding tightly to her hand, but all she really remembered was a feeling of overwhelming awe, of feeling so small.

She felt no awe now, grateful only to be out of the cold December afternoon as she was shown into a chilly, somewhat uninspiring hall by a portly butler a fraction shorter than herself. Her hat and coat taken, she was shown into a living room just half as large again as that at home. Rather than awe, she experienced a small twinge of annoyance on seeing the elderly couple waiting for her. Mr Craig stood like some aging bear, his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped firmly behind him in a way that indicated little intention of extending the hand of welcome.

Mrs Craig sat on the edge of a most uncomfortable-looking leather button-backed sofa. In mourning, as was Sara, she seemed swathed in it: black silk bombazine, high-necked and old-fashioned, festooned with jet beads and black lace; a large marcasite and amethyst mourning brooch clasped at the throat.

The pallid face narrow and stiff, the brown eyes hostile and bitter, she gazed past rather than regarded her visitor, as though she wasn’t there. There was a strong resemblance between mother and son, but the generosity was missing. No glimmer of welcome in that face either. Great-Aunt Sarah was right, these people were ignorant snobs. How had Matthew, dear, generous, gentle Matthew, come to spring from such people?

‘How do you do?’ Sara began, as politely as she could.

She was already beginning to feel nettled. Having written prior to embarking on this venture, she had received no reply but had assumed that the lack of one at least did not indicate a refusal.

Mr Craig nodded curtly but didn’t move. His wife did not even acknowledge her, but continued to stare through her. She looked ill, the withered skin stretched parchment-like across her cheekbones. It was a fine-boned face. The woman must have been a beauty in her youth – no doubt it was from her that Matthew had derived his looks. Sara’s heart became a small lonely thing inside her breast, thinking of those handsome looks gone forever, and she took in a deep breath to control it.

No one had invited her to sit down and she realised that her visit was expected to be as brief as possible. In that case, she would not inconvenience them by prolonging it. She lifted her head proudly.

‘I assume you received my letter, Mr Craig, and I apologise for my intrusion …’ The apology was veined with sarcasm. She was glad her high school education had managed to erase any hint of the London East End accent she’d grown up with.

‘I shan’t impose upon you any longer than need be,’ she ended.

‘I trust not.’ Mrs Craig speaking unexpectedly, her voice remote and rasping, took Sara by surprise. ‘I marvel that one of such tender years thought it necessary to travel so far alone on a matter that needed only a letter.’

‘You did receive my letter, Mrs Craig?’

‘We did. But as it contained mention of a financial matter, there seemed little need for it to be followed up by your coming here …’

‘Leave this to me, my dear.’ Henry Craig’s tone was low and gruff, imparting every intention of giving this audacious young woman short shrift. ‘I wonder at your mother allowing you to travel all this way on your own, Miss Craig. But then, I have always thought she had few …’

‘I said nothing to my mother about my coming,’ Sara interrupted hotly but was ignored.

‘If she imagines to appeal to our sympathies,’ continued Mr Craig, ‘sending a child to beg for her, she’s mistaken. I shall not prolong this “visit”, young lady. I’m well aware of the purpose behind it but I can tell you, here and now, that the ploy won’t work. I’ve no intention of handing out charity to her. She is nothing to do with me. My only concern was my son’s welfare. Now he has gone.’

He reached out and laid a large hand on his wife’s shoulder as she drew in a tremulous breath, although her taut features did not change.

‘I am sorry, my dear, these things have to be said.’ His pale eyes returned to settle coldly upon Sara.

‘The fact is, young lady, that I grieve not only my son’s untimely death, but also the way he handled his affairs. Time and again I beseeched him to listen to me, but he would take no advice. He continued to squander his money and I strongly suspect that woman he married, your mother, had a hand in his foolishness with money – the woman we were so against his marrying saw our son only as an easy means to an end.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘Kindly allow me to finish, young lady. As I see it, it’s only too true. My son’s mother and I have been devastated by his death, and we have been aggrieved by the debts he left. But if your mother expects me to pay them for her as your, may I say, impudent letter appears to imply, then she is barking up the wrong tree. With our dear son taken from us, your family has ceased to exist in my eyes. You have family of your own. I suggest you look to them for charity.’

Charity! What an ugly word it could be on some lips. Sara stood her ground. She hadn’t advanced one inch from where she had entered the room, had not been invited to, and anger now seethed within her, not so much at this cold-hearted attitude as at being looked upon as a precocious child. She was fighting for her mother, as Matthew had once fought his parents for her. She was fighting for Jamie too.