Break of Dawn (35 page)

Dear Dolly. Sophy smiled to herself. There were some things that never changed, and Dolly was one of them. Every time she walked into that kitchen it was like stepping back thirteen years ago, and she would never forget the old couple’s kindness to a petrified young girl who hadn’t had a friend in the world.

Patience must have been waiting at the window because as soon as the cab drew up outside the imposing semi-detached house in Barnes View, she was on the doorstep, her face alight. It was a lovely welcome. The six-bedroomed house was also lovely. The garden – what Sophy could see of it under its mantle of white – was lovely, too. But baby Peter, he was exquisite. He had been asleep when she arrived, but as they were finishing the tour of the house he began to stir and Patience took her into the beautifully decorated nursery. With little ado, she whisked the baby out of his bassinet and plonked him straight into Sophy’s arms, taking her by surprise. She stared down into the tiny face looking up at her, wonder filling her heart as she saw the minute eyelashes, the little snub nose and blue-grey eyes. A small hand, complete with the tiniest fingernails imaginable plucked at the air for a moment, and then, like a ray of sunshine which brightened the whole room, the baby gave her a big toothless smile.

‘There,’ said Patience, pretending not to notice the tears in Sophy’s eyes, ‘he knows his Aunty Sophy already. He doesn’t smile for everyone, believe me.’

‘He’s utterly adorable, Patience, and so beautiful,’ said Sophy, her voice husky.

‘I know.’ Patience smiled happily. ‘I still don’t know how we managed to have such a pretty baby. If we are fortunate enough to have more, I hope they are as bonny, especially if we have a girl. I always thought it was so unfair I had three good-looking
brothers, looking like I do.’ And then, as Sophy made to protest, Patience added, ‘It’s all right, Sophy. I don’t mind that I’m plain now, truly, because I know William doesn’t see me like that. You know, when I was a young girl and I realised for the first time what sort of a trick nature had played on me, I used to pray that my guardian angel – Father had always taught us that we each had a guardian angel who looked over us – would work a miracle and change me into a beauty while I slept. And each morning I woke up with my heart fluttering and looked in the mirror. I was so jealous of you, not just because you are so beautiful but because I knew everyone – everyone except Mother and Father, of course – preferred you to me. The boys never made a secret of it, and I knew Bridget and Kitty and our governess didn’t even like me. Looking back, I can see it wasn’t my appearance that was the problem.’ She grimaced. ‘I was a horrible little beast. And then came the day when Mother beat you half to death and I saw something of myself in her.’

‘Oh, Patience.’ Sophy didn’t know what to say.

‘It frightened me. Terrified me. And although I wouldn’t have wanted my moment of truth to come at the cost of you nearly dying, it was the lesson I needed. And then we went away to school and I discovered I liked you, but – but I didn’t know how to say it, I suppose. When you left after that last row with Mother I missed you terribly, and it was then I realised you’d become the sister I’d always wanted, but it was too late to tell you. And I didn’t think you’d have believed me anyway.’

Sophy smiled through her tears. ‘I believe you now.’

‘We were going to ask you together but I know William won’t mind; we want you to be Peter’s godmother. Will you, Sophy?’

‘Me?’ Sophy was astounded.

‘Will you? William’s best friend is going to be his godfather.’

‘But your parents? Your mother won’t stand for it.’

A hard look came over Patience’s face. ‘My mother will have no say one way or the other, but I doubt she will attend. She has already taken offence because we are not holding the christening at Father’s church, but William wanted it at the one we go to.’

Sophy’s gaze returned to the baby in her arms as Peter gave a little gurgle. He’d won her heart for ever with that first gummy smile. ‘I’d love to be his godmother.’

‘Good. That’s settled. Now bring him downstairs, as I think Tilly’s prepared tea and cakes in the drawing room. We can catch up on all the news. Oh, Sophy’ – Patience beamed at her – ‘we’re going to have such a lovely time.’

Sophy did have a lovely time. For the first few days she enjoyed herself helping Patience with the baby, bathing him and putting him to bed. At the weekend, John and Matthew and their wives came to dinner, and both of them invited her back to their respective homes the following week. On the last day before she was due to return to London – a Sunday – Peter’s christening was held at the parish church in Bishopwearmouth which Patience and William attended. A family get-together took place afterwards; this included Jeremiah, who had missed the christening, having his own church service to see to.

Sophy was shocked at how old and frail her uncle looked when she saw him. He was approaching seventy, but could easily have been mistaken for a man of eighty years or more. She had been secretly dreading meeting him again, but he simply kissed her cheek and politely asked after her health before retreating to a comfy chair in one of the alcoves bordering the large drawing-room windows. There he sat, surveying the assembled company through the steel pince-nez perched on the end of his nose and saying little to anyone.

It was later in the day after the buffet tea Tilly and Sadie had prepared that Jeremiah approached Sophy. John’s twin boys were asleep on her lap, and sitting down beside her on the sofa he said, ‘You’ve a way with children. Those two are little imps usually.’

Sophy’s heart was thudding and her mouth dry, but her voice was remarkably steady when she said, ‘They’re high-spirited, that’s all, and very bright, but then their father and uncles are above average intelligence so I suppose it’s to be expected.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He didn’t look at her as he said, ‘You have
no children, I understand? I’m sorry about that. They would have been a comfort to you after the death of your husband.’

Sophy had agreed with Patience and William at the time of Toby’s death that they would merely tell the family her husband had met with an unfortunate accident and leave it at that. Now her voice didn’t falter: ‘I would have liked children, of course, but my husband’s death was not the blow it would have been if we had been happily married. We were separated at the time of his accident.’

She had evidently surprised him as his quick glance at her showed. ‘Again, I’m sorry.’

Sophy shrugged. ‘In hindsight I made bad choices. The evidence of what he was really like was always there but I ignored it to my cost.’

‘Ah, hindsight. I know all about hindsight.’ He sighed deeply. ‘And bad choices. My life is littered with them. I thought I knew it all when I was a young man, what I wanted to achieve in my life and how to achieve it. Looking back, it was all dross of course – worldly acclaim and so on. This’ – he waved his hand at his children and grandchildren – ‘is what is important, and it is only by the grace of God I can have a measure of it now. The mysteries of human nature are manifold, and considering our Creator knows exactly what we are like, I find it more amazing as I get closer to meeting Him that He bothers with us at all.’

Now it was Sophy’s turn to be surprised. Her uncle had changed and she hadn’t expected that.

‘I am glad I have seen you again before He calls me home.’ For the first time that evening Jeremiah looked her full in the face. ‘I want you to know that your mother – my sister –
wasn’t
a bad woman at heart. I thought so once, but as I have reflected on it, I realise our parents unwittingly instigated much of her rebellion. I was an easy child to handle – put up the line of least resistance, you know? But Esther was spirited from a baby. My parents were frightened by this, they didn’t understand her and so, thinking they were doing the best for their daughter, they imposed so many restrictions that I believe she felt like a caged animal. When she
escaped the cage . . .’ He sighed again. ‘She was a beautiful young girl but innocent when she left the vicarage, ill-prepared for the outside world.’

It was the first time she had been able to talk about her mother. Painfully, she swallowed. ‘She . . . she had lovers.’

‘Yes, my dear, she did. And I cannot condone that. But let us face facts here. There are women, supposedly happily married, respectable women with a place in society who make a habit of illict relationships. I’m sure you know of one or two. I certainly do. Perhaps your mother was more honest than such as they and this was her downfall.’

‘I think you are being kind.’

‘If that were so, it’s not before time, is it?’ His eyes, deep in his sockets, held hers.

She had to ask. ‘Did she want me? Was – was she looking forward to having a baby in spite of the circumstances, or – or was she looking at it as a burden?’

Hoping his God would make allowances, Jeremiah put one parchment-dry hand over that of his niece’s for a brief moment. ‘She wanted you so much she had returned home to make a different life for herself and her child,’ he lied softly. ‘It wasn’t to be, of course, but thankfully Esther didn’t know this.’

Sophy had shut her eyes but as a tear seeped from under her closed lids, she whispered, ‘Thank you.’

If he had been a stronger man, a better man, Jeremiah would have asked for her forgiveness at this point, but as he himself had said, it was his nature to take the line of least resistance, and in case she should refuse, he didn’t obey the prompting of his heart. Instead he described Esther as a little girl and the escapades she had got up to, painting a picture of her until the time she had run away. Sophy drank it in, asking questions about her mother she had never thought she would be able to ask.

At the end of the evening Sophy found she was able to kiss her uncle goodnight with genuine warmth as she again whispered, ‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, my dear.’ Jeremiah shook his head. ‘Too little, too late.’ He
had half-turned away but then swung back on the icy doorstep. ‘She would have been proud of you, your mother. Very proud of the fine young woman you have become.’

She watched him as he tramped through the snow to where his horse and trap were waiting under the lean-to at the side of the building. The impression she’d had earlier, of a man far older than his years, intensified as he climbed stiffly into the seat and sat hunched over the reins, his black hat and coat making him appear like an ancient crow as the trap disappeared into the night.

Jeremiah wasn’t surprised to find the vicarage in almost complete darkness when he drove the horse and trap through the open gates and on to the drive. It was another of the subtle ways in which Mary delighted in showing her contempt for him – instructing Mrs Hogarth and Molly not to wait up for him. He had often thought their housekeeper was so like his wife they could have been sisters, both being without any natural human warmth or womanly softness.

After settling the horse in his stable, Jeremiah had to walk round to the front of the house again rather than entering by the immediate route, the kitchen door. He knew this would be locked and bolted. He didn’t doubt Mary would have relished bolting the front door against him too, if she had dared, but to date she had not gone this far on any of the evenings he visited their children’s homes. As he did each time he accepted an invitation from one of them, he had asked his wife if she wished to accompany him today. He told himself this was in an effort to bring about some sort of a reconciliation between Mary and her daughter and sons; not even to himself did he admit that he enjoyed letting her know where he was going, knowing it incensed her more than anything else could do. He had left the house shortly after lunch and it was now ten o’clock, and he was quite aware that Mary would have been seething all that time.

The familiar smell of beeswax and lavender oil greeted him as he stepped into the hall after scraping his boots against the thick cork mat at the entrance. At one time, so many years ago now it
was difficult to remember, he had enjoyed coming home after leaving the vicarage even for an hour or two. He had been the master of an orderly and well-run ship then. The house was still orderly and well-run, he supposed, but he knew, and so did the servants, that he was no longer the master of it. Mary had emasculated him more effectively than any bullock.

Why had he put up with her behaviour? He knew men who had half-killed their wives for far less than Mary subjected him to, every day of his life. He had been made to feel a usurper in his own home, degraded, humiliated. Her every action, every look held him up as weak and spineless, and that’s what he was. He had always been afraid of her, he knew that. And although his children might have some affection for him, they did not respect him. Why would they? Yes, indeed, why would they?

Climbing the first flight of stairs, he did not continue to the second which led to the bedrooms. Instead, he entered his study and poured himself a glass of whisky from the decanter he kept on his desk. There was no fire burning in the grate despite the bitterly cold night, although he didn’t doubt that in Mary’s private sitting room – which had been the children’s schoolroom at one time – the fire would be banked up high for the night and the room as warm as toast. Mary had decided some years before that the household budget couldn’t run to a fire in his study any more, along with his bedroom, of course.

He threw back his head and downed the whisky in one swallow before pouring another. He was cold, inside and out, and weary, but overall bitterly ashamed. Seeing Sophy again had brought the past to life, stirring the canker of guilt and remorse that had grown in his latter years. She was his sister’s child, his own flesh and blood, and yet he had stood by from when she was a baby and seen her ill-treated and abused without lifting a finger. His knuckles white as he gripped the heavy crystal glass, he stared at his hand before suddenly throwing the glass at the empty fireplace where it shattered into a hundred pieces.

Shivering – the room was like an ice-box – he stood up. At least in bed he could get warm eventually. He mounted the narrower,
steeper stairs which led to the bedrooms with his head down, and so it was he didn’t see Mary standing on the landing until he reached the top step, whereupon he started and nearly fell backwards. Her bedroom door was open and a shaft of light was coming from it.