Keepsake (22 page)

‘I’m sorry about my painting,’ she told him yet again, softly. ‘It’s no excuse I’m sure but I was just so absorbed with catching Alexandra’s likeness. Of course, I’m aware it wouldn’t bear comparison with that of a true artist…’

‘No, you were right to be proud, it is a grand likeness. It’ll look great on the wall.’ For a moment he allowed his tired eyes to sweep the room, admiring the others she had done. He supposed he was partly to blame for not instructing her as to what was expected of a housewife early in their marriage. ‘It’s not that I’m asking you to stop doing your hobbies, just that, well, we all have our quota of work, Ett.’

Etta found this slightly ignorant. Her husband might voice an appreciation for beautiful things but he had no concept of the amount of hard work that went into their creation. And the children were always beautifully turned out, weren’t they? That in itself required effort, what with all the starching and ironing it involved for three of them. How could he suggest she was a stranger to work? Still, she was not totally blind to his meaning, nor was it the time to argue, so, despite her loathing of the mundane aspects of housekeeping, she forced herself to say evenly, with a hint of amusement, ‘Then if, by default, I haven’t fulfilled my own quota, I swear here and now to be more diligent, you have my solemn oath, signed in blood if you so desire.’ And with this she nuzzled him seductively. ‘Now, will you come to bed, or am I to polish the fender before you’ll succumb to my wifely charms?’

But there was little amusement in response. ‘The only thing I’ll succumb to is sleep, if I can drag meself from this sofa. Three children in less than four years of marriage, Ett…’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘We always said we didn’t want lots. And here we are…’ Impatient fingers drummed his thigh. ‘Anyway, I really am jiggered.’
Removing himself from her grasp, he went around extinguishing the gaslights, then waited with his hand upon the last one in order for his devastated wife to climb the stairs, before turning it out.

Fighting tears, nausea churning the pit of her stomach, Etta lay awake in the darkness, wondering how to prevent her marriage from descending further into worthlessness. In the beginning they had made love at every opportunity, but now Martin seemed reluctant even to be near her! There had to be something she could do, just
had
to be, for, envisioning the four or even five decades of married life stretched out ahead, she could not bear the thought of spending them in such ghastly opposition. Tentatively, she stretched her arm across the chasm in the mattress, administered a tender stroke to his thigh. He did not respond, though she knew by his breathing he was not asleep. Further wounded, she withdrew her touch.

Did she know he was pretending to sleep? Marty didn’t care. Lying there, despite his desperate need to rest still as taut as a primed crossbow from the earlier angry exchanges, he began to question his attraction for her, asked himself had he been smitten only because of her beauty and status, flattered that she could want him? When –
how
– had everything changed?

Aching from rejection, Etta was asking herself the same questions. She had always been an idealist, refusing to marry for anything other than passion: had it merely appealed to her deeply romantic streak to run away with a gypsy? She began to think of all she had given up, the beautiful house and clothes, the afternoons out riding in the countryside, the lavish Christmas parties she once attended…Her children could have had those same things had she married someone of her own class. But she hadn’t wanted someone else, she had wanted Martin…still wanted him, wanted things to be like they were…

Only through exhaustion had Marty fallen asleep that night, and on many miserable nights to come. Etta was to feel quite exhausted and miserable too, in her attempts to meet her husband’s approval, for no matter how she exerted herself it did not achieve the intimacy she craved, and, gaining no reward from all that endless polishing and cleaning, her good intentions were soon to relapse.

There was no one upon whom to unburden her heart, for one could not complain to a man’s mother. Besides, Aggie had never been sympathetic; and pleasant as Etta’s sisters-in-law were on a superficial level, she sensed that their allegiance, too, would be with their brother. As for her neighbours, she was barely on nodding terms, let alone such intimate ones. It hadn’t mattered so much before when she and Marty had had each other; now, though, Etta became acutely sensitive to her isolation. She yearned to reach out to someone, anyone, but who? Her own mother? No, if Isabella had wanted to get in touch she would have done so long ago. Besides, the longer Etta was exiled from her family the harder it had become for her to renew contact. Despite her adoration of the children, there were days when she felt completely marooned.

The problem could only worsen, both husband and wife growing more discontented by the day. Even an unusually warm spring did nothing to alleviate matters between them, for Marty had no time for Sunday afternoon strolls in the sunshine as he used to enjoy with Etta, and on the rare occasions that he was not catching up on sleep his attention must also be shared with the children – and others, came Etta’s grim thought, as the former resentment of her mother-in-law began to resurface.

Summer came, and with it a rash of marriage announcements in the press, reminding Etta that her own wedding anniversary was imminent. She wondered miserably, as she broke off reading the morning newspaper to tend the baby, what this might bring. Did Marty even consider it still to
be a cause for celebration? Not if one was to judge by his eagerness to leave their bed on a morning. How could such a turnabout occur in four short years? Pensive all the while, she fed, washed and dressed Alexandra, tied the bow on her frilly bonnet and, with a kiss, sat her in the pram outside in the front garden where, through the iron bars of the gate, the other two were eagerly watching a herd of cattle being driven along the main highway from the outlying fields to market. The air was thick with the scent of cow dung, the shouts of the rough-looking drovers and the panting and yapping of their dogs.

‘See, cows!’ shouted an excited Edward, pointing at the jostling multitude of black, brown and piebald creatures with their muck-caked hides and wary eyes and drooling wet muzzles, lowing and clattering to meet their fate; and Etta stayed to watch for a while, hoping the childlike enjoyment might rub off on her.

But before long, re-absorbed by her tribulations, she went back indoors to a half-hearted tidying of the breakfast pots, a deft concealment of crumbs under the rug, then a return to her wistful perusal of the engagement and marriage announcements.

After a while, though, she chided herself – this was no way to forget one’s troubles – and was about to put the newspaper aside when her eyes rested on a familiar name. A Mr Gerald Fenton and his bride, formerly Miss Victoria Netherwood, had just returned from their month-long honeymoon in Venice. Why, it was an old friend, one she had known since childhood. Too wrapped up in Marty she had never bothered to communicate with Victoria since her elopement, had consigned her to the past along with all the other acquaintances of her previously wealthy existence. But now…now in desperate need of a familiar face, Etta decided there and then to reach out, to write via the family address and congratulate this old friend on her marriage, eagerly awaiting the reply.

With the postman rarely visiting this abode, it was such a grand occasion some days later to receive Victoria’s letter and, with Marty at work and therefore sparing her any interrogation or interruption, Etta was able to savour the thickness of the envelope for some while before ripping it open. Whilst the infants played around her feet, she read it at leisure, a lovely long epistle informing Etta how delighted Victoria had been to hear from her after all these years. She devoured every word, the most exciting of them saved for the last paragraph. Victoria would be coming to York next week, they must take tea together! Perversely Etta’s heart sank then. How could she possibly entertain Victoria here without a maid? But in the next line her friend suggested a time and a meeting place at one of the best cafés in town, stating it as her treat.

The wave of exhilaration carried her to its crest, only to be followed by another trough of despair. How could Etta go on such an important outing accompanied by three children? Desperate to go, she thought about it all morning, pondered telling Marty, who would always have understood, at least in the old days…But that was the whole point, these were not the idyllic days of old, and he was in such a bad mood when he got in that she thought better of mentioning it.

A week later with the rendezvous looming she had still not divulged it, nor even told Marty of the letter. Why? She could not say. Perhaps it was born of fear that he would not understand, would feel threatened in the assumption that she had tired of him and was aching to get back to her own kind. This was untrue, of course. Had Etta possessed a friend nearby she would have had no need for such subterfuge, but she did not. So, equipped with the suitable excuse of not wanting to be encumbered by the children whilst she went to find a treat for Martin to mark their anniversary, she took them round to her mother-in-law’s house, informing Aggie that the baby had just been
fed and was asleep in her pram outside and she herself would be back in an hour or so.

‘If that would not be too much of an imposition?’ Her enquiring glance took in Uncle Mal too.

Aggie was obliging as ever. ‘Sure, they’re no trouble at all – hello me little darlins.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and bent to welcome Celia and Edward.

‘How do you do, Grandmamma?’ Clad in a white lace bonnet with an ostentation of frills, the three-year-old peered up as if through a froth of bubbles and extended her hand as she had been taught by her mother.

‘Such wonderful manners!’ Even having witnessed this a dozen times, Aggie’s face creased in fond laughter as she shook the little hand. ‘And the conversations she can hold for one so young! Take as long as ye like, Ett, we’d gladly be entertained by these three all day long, wouldn’t we, Uncle Mal?’

The old man nodded and patted his knee as encouragement.

Thanking them, Etta rushed home to prepare for her outing, unwinding her hair from its usual chignon and paying a great deal of care in its re-arrangement, dabbing rosewater on her face and inducing some colour to her cheeks with a brisk rub of her palms. The outfit was a harder problem to solve. Even reserved for special occasions the lilac dress was past its heyday, the cream lace grubby and frayed, but it would have to do. Excitement and apprehension churning her stomach, she donned her gold locket, hat and gloves and set out to meet her old friend.

They arrived simultaneously, one on foot, the other alighting from a highly polished carriage with liveried footman to assist. But if Victoria was horrified by the obvious deterioration in Etta’s circumstances then she did not mention it, only the merest hesitation giving it away before she hurried forth to meet her friend.

‘My dear, how wonderful to see you after all these years!’ She gripped Etta’s hands and beamed into her face. ‘Still as lovely as ever!’ The recipient gave a self-deprecating laugh and thanked her as Victoria went on, ‘I attempted to send you an invitation to my coming-of-age ball last year but no one appeared to know where we might find you. I gather your family have cut you off.’

Etta gave a soulful nod, and, being given the reminder that her own twenty-first birthday was nigh, knew better than to expect similar celebration and felt worse than ever.

Victoria sympathised, then added, ‘Mother asked me to say how much she misses you.’

‘Do apologise to her for not letting any of you kno—’

‘Oh, my dear, there’s no need, it was so romantic!’ Her friend adopted a highly envious expression. ‘You caused such a scandal – it was doing the rounds for months! Come, let’s acquire a table and you can tell me all about him.’ She hooked her arm through Etta’s and steered her into the café. ‘Then I shall bore you with accounts of
my
beloved!’

Infected by the other’s happy enthusiasm, Etta felt her own spirits raised as she sat down to enjoy an assortment of delicacies. The only trouble was that the afternoon was passing much too swiftly, an hour being wasted on eating and small talk when what she really wanted to tell Victoria was how miserable was the reality of her existence.

However, Victoria was an intuitive sort, and during a lull she detected an air of wistfulness in her friend. ‘So…’ she posed a leading question ‘…has life with Martin been as you imagined?’

Sensing an invitation to come clean, Etta looked her in the eye. ‘In general, yes…though I didn’t imagine we’d be joined by children quite so early on.’

Victoria arched her eyebrows and took a sip of tea. ‘Children?’ There had been no mention of them until now. ‘How many do you have?’

‘Three.’

Victoria was stunned. ‘Goodness! But you’ve barely been married that amount of years.’

Etta nodded ruefully, blinking away a tear of embarrassment and despair.

Realising her faux pas, Victoria said kindly, ‘I should love to meet them. Where are they – with their nurse, I expect?’

All of a sudden Etta felt like slapping her friend. ‘Victoria, how do you suppose I could afford a nurse?’

Startled, the other blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I –’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Etta did not sound too repentant. ‘I didn’t mean to snap, especially after you’ve so generously treated me to tea, but really, have you so little understanding of anything I’ve told you? Martin is a labouring man, can you not imagine how tiny a budget we have on which to live?’

Victoria winced and apologised again. ‘How dreadful…I saw only the romantic side.’

‘And that’s the awful part of it,’ mourned Etta. ‘I’m as passionate about Martin as ever. I adore him, but he no longer –’ She broke off as a waitress passed the table, then continued, ‘he won’t come near me. I hope it’s only out of fear of starting another child. I don’t know what I’d do if he –’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is, dear,’ Victoria patted her friend’s hand comfortingly, then after a sidelong glance, murmured, ‘I can at least empathise there. I know what it is to be so in love one cannot keep one’s hands off one another. Gerald is quite a bit older than I and was divorced. Father didn’t regard him as suitable and took an age before permitting us to marr—’