A Time for Courage (3 page)

‘Father so wishes that you should raise yourself to the level of his cousins, and the only way to do that is through a good marriage and for that you must be brought to a peak of suitability.’ She paused. ‘Should we be thinking in terms of a governess, Hannah?’ Her eyes were half shut and her voice was still gentle but there was a real question in it.

Hannah felt her cheeks stiffen with the stirrings of panic. ‘Oh no, it’s not the school, I promise you it’s not the school.’ She sought for words that would push away the threat of separation from Miss Fletcher and her knowledge and understanding, the threat of separation from Esther. ‘It’s just that I forget sometimes what I should be aiming for and I don’t find sewing easy, Mother. I’m better at my work and … I would like to teach, you see. And many women do, ladies I mean. Look at Miss Fletcher.’

Hannah interlaced her fingers, squeezing them tightly together. ‘But I will try,’ she continued. ‘I promise I’ll try, with my sewing and my attitude.’ She must stay there at all costs and so her obedience must improve, her thoughts must stay deep down, hidden from sight, though surely deceit was a sin. She shook her head. Why did her head fill with endless questions when it should all be so simple; just needles and threads, rules and antimacassars. She smiled now at her mother. ‘I’ll try so hard, Mother,’ she said.

She saw the crease in her mother’s forehead fade and her mouth soften.

‘Yes, you must try, and as for teaching, we’ll see, Hannah, dear, but you must remember that there is no virtue in being clever. In fact, in the eyes of the society that your father adheres to it is almost a sin. Cleverness is reserved for the men of the family, for your father and Harry. I know that there are some very strange ideas coming in now with King Edward but those are not for people in our position.’ She paused. ‘Women have no position other than that within the family, Hannah. It is our pleasure, our duty to serve, nurture and to care, and you must at all times take your lead from your father who, quite rightly, dictates our standards. There is no room in our home for the attitudes which some say should sweep aside the old rules along with the old Queen; that is tantamount to sacrilege, my dear. As your father says, there is security and dignity in tradition but none in new ideas. Women do have a role and it is your duty to aspire to that role; you must always remember that.’ She paused, drawing in a deep breath gathering strength to finish. ‘I was wondering if a finishing school would help you to achieve the degree of sensibility that your father requires. It would after all groom you in all the graces, help you to meet the brothers of nice girls and you might enjoy seeing a foreign land. I do believe Esther will be going to one when she leaves Miss Fletcher.’

Hannah dug her nails into the leaves of the lavender and tried to smile. Not a finishing school, not even with Esther. It had to be a university; somewhere which would educate and broaden her mind, make some sense of the confusion which was churning inside her head. ‘But they’re so expensive, Mother. Miss Fletcher feels there might be a chance of a University Scholarship to ease the financial burden. After all, Lady St John’s daughter left Miss Fletcher’s last year and is now at Newnham in Cambridge and already engaged to Lord Scarsdale’s son.’

She had no desire to marry a Lord but her father would approve. She watched her mother’s face.

‘Well, the money would certainly have to be considered in whatever decision your father chooses to make and I agree with you that it does not appear to have spoilt dear Harriet’s chances in any way. We’ll say no more about it at the moment.’ Her mother’s lips were dry and her voice seemed faint; she was looking at the lavender so Hannah held it up, glad to move away from the discussion which was tiring this fragile woman.

‘I’ve brought some of the flowers to burn. I thought it might make you feel more comfortable.’ Her shoulders relaxed as her mother smiled; there were deep lines round her mouth as she did so which hadn’t been there before today. I love you so much, Mother, Hannah thought, and I want you to love me too. I can’t bear it when you’re like this so I’ll push this restlessness as far from me as I can and maybe it’ll stay away and I’ll forget it was ever there. Hannah traced her finger along the back of the pale hand, across the raised veins, and her mother did not pull her hand away but lifted it and held Hannah’s for just a moment, then turned her face as tears seeped on to the pillow.

‘I’m so sorry about the baby, Mother,’ said Hannah, her own voice thick. ‘But why do you keep having them when they make you so ill?’ And this time she had spoken it because she couldn’t bear to see her mother cry. Mothers shouldn’t cry, because everything became so unsafe.

‘Just go and burn the lavender, Hannah.’ Her mother’s voice did not sound like her own.

The silk-quilted dressing-table held a candlestick and matches, and the smell of sulphur was sharp as the new wick took a while to light, but then Hannah held the lavender in its flame and slowly its smell took the place of the acrid atmosphere of the room. She would not look back at her mother’s tears but at things which were the same yesterday and would be tomorrow. She would look at her mother’s hairpin boxes, the china ring-stand with her betrothal ring glowing in the light from the candle. Her hat-pins which caught the light in their holders and the pincushions which were stabbed with bead-topped pins.

In the mirror Hannah could see that her hair had come away from the bun again, that her cheekbones were sharp in the flickering light and that her mouth was still too big; and she could also see that the reflection of her mother showed her resting quietly now with no glint on her cheeks and no destroyed composure. Only then did she feel better and able to love this room as she usually did, for it was the only one that was comfortable and seemed like her mother. But most of all she loved the mirror. She was only allowed one that would fit into a handbag in her own room since vanity was a sin. Bodily flesh might be explored, Mrs Brennan had explained, since her mother did not discuss these things with her.

She turned again to the bed. ‘Shall I open a window, Mother? It is so lovely outside.’ But there was no reply so she laid the lavender on the plate next to the candle, snuffed out the flame, and walked quietly to the window. She pulled the top sash window down, just an inch so that it would not be obvious. She wanted her mother to breathe in some of the early summer.

Edith Watson watched through heavy-lidded eyes as her daughter left the room. Her body ached and where the baby had been was yet another wrenching emptiness. The Vicar had leant from the pulpit, his eyes boring into those of his congregation, and warned of this; of warped babies born to those who lusted. Was that why John would not lay straw in the street? Did he not want the world to know that again his wife had failed in her ordained task? Or was it a punishment for the sin she had committed? She knew that it was a sin because the Vicar had called it such, though he had not known that he was talking just to her.

She picked at the sheet, wishing that she could throw off the blanket. It was too heavy, too hot, but a mere sheet was not decent. She felt the slight breeze and was grateful to Hannah and remembered the feel of her daughter’s hand in hers, warm and strong. It was good to have had someone’s strength, even if it was only for a moment. The room was dark now that the candle had been snuffed but the scent of lavender still lingered.

Would Hannah cry when John told her she would never go to university? Because that is what he intended to do of course when he was ready. It was as though he enjoyed playing these cruel games but that could not be the case; she could not let herself believe that this was the case for that would be a further disloyalty, a further fall from grace. She brushed her hair from her face.

It would seem hard for the child but perhaps John was right when he said that suffering cleansed the soul; that is what so many seemed to think and who was she to argue? It was certainly correct that Hannah worked better feeling that there might be a chance of her dream and he did so want her to compete with Esther and triumph over her and therefore Thomas. And that was his dream; but did he really think it would make him appear the equal of that side of the family? How sad for him, for Hannah.

She stirred. Could it be cruelty? But no, it was John’s attempt to save his daughter. Yes, that was what it was. To save her from the sin of selfishness, but I do hope she doesn’t cry, Edith thought, and the words seemed to have a rhythm of their own as she mouthed them through dry, parched lips. The sheet was starched and rubbed her neck where it was folded over so she pushed it down, and the breeze which swept across her shoulders soothed the panic which was gathering in her body and calmed her, although she thought of the spirit she could see growing in Hannah and which John might also see. A spirit which would cause the child pain, as it had done with her, unless it was suppressed.

There was a wilfulness which had all too clearly passed from mother to daughter and she wanted to weep with the pain of guilt. My beloved Hannah has too much of me in her. She must be led down the proper path so that John does not realise that in his daughter is the likeness of her mother. For then there would be no redemption. Not for Hannah in the future or for herself, because now her own survival was at stake. Would he cast her out without her children, without his name? Without her money, because he had it all?

She must instruct Mrs Brennan not to divulge Hannah’s lack of endeavour, her selfishness of today which was so reminiscent of her own and might renew his shock and repugnance at the lapse in her morality seven months ago which had never again been mentioned in words, only in looks full of distaste and hatred. Deservedly so because she had broken the rules by which they lived.

He had not come to see her last night or today. Would he come up this evening? She glanced at the empty cot. She knew the answer and that he was correct to blame her. She was tossing and turning now.

The door opened and the nurse came to the bed. ‘You must sleep now, Mrs Watson. You need to regain your strength.’ Her hands pulled the bedclothes straight and the breeze from the window ruffled the curtains; Edith willed the nurse to look at her, not at the gently lifting drapes. It was so hot, so very hot. But the stocky woman in her purple dress straightened, her lips pursed. She looked down but Edith closed her eyes and she walked to the window and heaved it shut before leaving the room.

Breathing in the heat was difficult, she could feel the dampness where her head touched the pillow, she was wet all over her body. She moved her legs slightly apart, stretched her arms out to the side. The noise of the carriages and the raucous call of the muffin boys as they passed the front of the house jabbed through her head.

Had it been this hot for poor Simon, out there in that country and had he remembered Cornwall before he died? Had he remembered her and Eliza and the days when the three of them walked the cliffs as children and could see, in the distance, the tin mine which their father owned? She would never know, but Eliza swore that he would have remembered and perhaps she was right. It was such a distant war, not even one that protected England.

She turned her head. The water jug was covered with a beaded net and small bubbles clung to the sides. It would not be cool. She would ask John if they could go down to Cornwall, to Eliza, to go walking along that cliff, looking down at the harbour, feeling the wind cooling them, pressing them away from the edge. If Harry came too he would agree to the visit. He would take his son fishing, and smile, and perhaps forgive her for this dead baby and for that October night seven months ago when she had writhed beneath him, laying aside restraint and clutching him to her, moving herself to his rhythm, groaning. She flushed as she remembered how he had frozen and lifted himself from her and looked with repugnance on her face.

You forget yourself, my dear, he had said, and now she passed her hands over her eyes as she remembered how she had cried and clung to him because she wanted him to come back into her, not to leave her while she was swollen and full of need for love, for his body. She groaned now. The sexual act, which she had known nothing of before the night of their marriage, had touched something in her and she knew she enjoyed what no decent woman should, though, until that dreadful night, she had always taken such care to hide her lust.

She still did not know what had possessed her to allow heedless words to come, as, appalled, he had torn her hands away. Please, she had said, we can just have each other to love and to hold and to feel tonight; does there have to be a baby? Her hair had been loose and had caught in her mouth as she clung to him, her night-dress, which he would never remove, clinging and hampering her. He had struck her face and called her a whore, a Godless whore, and had left her room and not visited it since. But there had been a baby anyway, from his visit to her bed the month before.

Her hands were throbbing now, and her legs. Her head was hurting even more. Yes, lust was wicked. The Vicar was right. Another baby dead and the guilt was hers. Yes, she must control Hannah, must make her understand that to submit is a virtue and leads to less pain, less guilt, for she couldn’t bear that her daughter should go through all that she had suffered.

Procreation, John had said as he left the room that night, is your reason to live. To desire anything else is to assume the nature of a harlot, an animal. Have you taken leave of your senses?

Yes, she must go to Cornwall again, go home, and perhaps he would come and fish in the trout stream with Harry, the son she had given him, and perhaps he would visit her room again and if she was good perhaps the baby would live. But Hannah must not be there, must not produce a tension that could affect a reconciliation. She must stay in the marriage at all costs to remain near to Hannah, to keep her position as a married woman.

The nurse came back into the room, walked to the bed and lifted the net cover from the water. ‘A little sip then, Mrs Watson.’ Edith pushed herself up, just a few inches and the water was warm as she had known it would be.