Suffragette Girl (44 page)

Edgar, sitting at his desk, looked up quickly.

‘We’ve been to London,’ Florrie went on, ‘to see a specialist in chest complaints.’ She licked her lips nervously, though whether her agitation was caused by her
dreadful anxiety over Jacques or because she was facing her father, even she didn’t know. She took a deep breath, but could not prevent her voice trembling as she said, ‘This specialist
thinks Jacques might have consumption.’

Edgar continued to stare at her and for several moments neither of them moved or spoke. At last, he said stiffly, ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Florence. What can we do?’

Florrie explained all that the doctor had recommended and the choices he’d given them, ending by saying, ‘But we’re both agreed that he should remain at home – at least
to begin with. He’ll need to be kept well away from everyone. I shall nurse him myself and I’ll restrict my contact with the rest of the family and the servants too. So, I’m here
to ask your permission to use the south wing of the house.’

‘Of course,’ Edgar said at once and his voice was strangely hoarse as he added, ‘And anything you need – special food, anything at all – just say the
word.’

It was more than she’d hoped for. Her father was not a man to change overnight or ever to display his affections, but his words and his manner told her that he did, after all, have some
feelings for his grandson.

‘Thank you, Father. There is just one thing. The south end of the house is ideal because one of the rooms has a balcony, and part of the treatment is that he must lie outside in the fresh
air. He’ll need a day-bed.’

‘Of course. Order whatever you need.’ As she turned to go, he said, ‘I thought the hills were the best – treatment.’ She noticed the hesitation and his choice of
the word ‘treatment’ rather than ‘cure’. ‘High up in the mountains. Lincolnshire’s hardly the best place, is it?’

‘When I told the doctor where we lived, near the coast, he was happy that the bracing air from the North Sea would be as good.’

Edgar nodded and Florrie went out of the room, leaving him sitting motionless at his desk, lost in thought.

The following morning, she told Augusta and together they broke the news to Clara.

‘You mean – you mean I can’t see him?’ she wailed.

‘It’s best not, Mother dear,’ Florrie said. ‘Not for a while anyway.’

‘You should have left Edgar to me, Florrie,’ Augusta said.

‘There was no need, Gran. Not this time. He seems genuinely sorry about Jacques’s illness. And he’s given his blessing to do whatever we need.’

‘Oh dear, we’ll need more servants if those rooms are to be opened up,’ Clara fretted.

‘Don’t worry, Mother. Beth and I can clean the rooms, and the menservants – under Bowler’s instruction – can move the furniture.’ She stood up. ‘And now
I must take Jacques some breakfast. He should be awake by now. He’s to eat as much as he can to build up his strength, and the sooner we get started, the better.’

‘I’ll see Cook. We’ll sort out some nourishing meals. I’ll go now,’ Clara said, getting up and bustling out of the room with a vigour that they hadn’t seen
for years.

Augusta and Florrie exchanged a glance. ‘Well, well, well,’ Augusta murmured softly. ‘Who’d’ve thought it. It might give her something else to think about other
than her own ailments. Shame it has to be something like this to do it.’

‘I didn’t see it for myself, of course, but didn’t you tell me in one of your letters that she was an active member of Mrs Ponsonby’s little group in the war?’

Augusta nodded. ‘That’s right. She was. I’d forgotten that. But of course when we had the dreadful news about James, and then you coming home with – with Jacques, she
slipped back into her old ways.’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Couldn’t blame her, I suppose. It was a dreadful time.’

A fresh stab of guilt – something she hadn’t felt for a long time – struck at Florrie’s heart. She so hated being deceitful, but now was not the best time to reveal the
long-held secret. Maybe when Jacques was better . . . ?

‘Now,’ Augusta said, getting up, ‘I’ll go up and see Jacques.’

‘Oh, Gran, I don’t think—’

Augusta turned and looked down at her. ‘My dear Florence, if you think you are going to keep
me
away from the boy, you are sadly mistaken. The rest of the household, yes,
it’s the right thing to do, but I’m an old woman and what better way to use my declining years than to help care for my great-grandson.’

Without even waiting for a reply, she marched purposefully out of the room with the vigour of someone half her age. Florrie smiled as she watched her go.

Everything that could be done was done. They followed the advice of the doctors to the letter. Augusta spent many hours wrapped in blankets sitting on the balcony with Jacques,
quietly reading whilst he slept, or playing cards or board games when he felt up to it. Florrie helped him with his lessons, but some days the boy felt so ill, he could not concentrate.

When word filtered out amongst the estate workers and into the villages, even as far as Bixley, the family was overwhelmed by the outpourings of affection and concern for the young boy. A stream
of well-wishers bearing cards and small gifts arrived at the back door of the big house.

‘Who’d have thought it,’ Florrie joked to Gervase in private, ‘and all for the illegitimate son of a fallen woman?’ Tears shimmered in her eyes. She was deeply
touched by everyone’s kindness.

‘That’s not how they see Jacques,’ he said quietly. ‘Or you.’

Dr Miles visited weekly, and each time Edgar would be hovering in the hall to take the doctor into his study for a progress report.

‘It’s not good, I’m afraid, Edgar.’ The two men had been friends for years and were on first-name terms. ‘I’m not happy about him. Not happy at all.
We’ve tried this treatment for four months now. I thought that perhaps once spring came and the better weather, he might pick up, but I’m sorry to say there’s no real sign of
improvement.’

‘Should we get a trained nurse in?’

‘Good Heavens no, man. There’s no need for that. Florrie’s as good as any professional nurse I’ve seen. No, but I do think the boy should see Harris again in
London.’

‘I presume it would be best if he didn’t travel by train?’

Dr Miles nodded. ‘Best not. For his own sake as well as the other passengers.’

‘I’ll arrange for him to be driven there by motor car.’

‘I’ll contact Harris tonight. As soon as I have a date, I’ll let you know.’

‘Florence drove vehicles in the war, perhaps we could hire one that she could drive.’

Dr Miles eyed him. ‘Why don’t you ask Richards? I’m sure he’d be willing to take the boy.’

Gervase was more than happy to, and he and Isobel insisted they should stay at their town house as usual.

‘We shouldn’t. Think of Charlie.’

‘We’ll just have to tell him to steer clear, but Iso won’t hear of you going anywhere else,’ Gervase said firmly. ‘And neither will I.’

But Charlie had other ideas and showed a stubbornness they hadn’t seen in him before. He refused to stay away from Jacques. ‘He’s my cousin – well, nearly.’ He
grinned and winked saucily at his uncle, who had to turn away to hide his smile.

‘I suppose it’s in the blood, when you think about it,’ Isobel laughed, ‘having me as a mother and Lady Lee as a grandmother.’

‘But I don’t want him to get it,’ Florrie said anxiously.

‘Don’t worry about Charlie. He’s fit and healthy.’

‘That’s not the point, Iso. He could still contract it from Jacques.’

Isobel shrugged, surprisingly calm. ‘He’s his own man, Florrie,’ she said softly, watching her son helping the weaker boy up the stairs. ‘And that’s the way I like
it. He’s not one to desert a friend when they’re in need. None of us are.’

Florrie hugged her gratefully. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

‘Switzerland,’ Dr Harris said. ‘That’s where he should go.’

Florrie gasped and stared at him whilst her heart seemed to be doing somersaults. But the doctor, unaware of her inner turmoil, carried on blithely. ‘Davos. That’s the place.
They’re doing wonderful things there. It’s become a centre for the treatment of tuberculosis. There are some very clever doctors at the sanatoriums there—’

I don’t need to be told that, Florrie thought, but she kept silent.

‘I’ll draw up a list of names and send it to you.’

‘There’s no need, thank you, Dr Harris.’

He looked at her sharply as if he thought she was about to reject his suggestion. But he relaxed and smiled as she added, ‘I already know of one. The Schatzalp. We’ll go
there.’

‘Very well. I’ll write to the director and see when he can take you. It may be a few weeks before they have a vacancy.’

Florrie shuddered. Did that mean they had to wait for someone to die?

‘Jacques may be there for weeks, even months,’ Dr Harris went on. ‘You do realize that, don’t you? And the cost for the individual patient varies according to the
standard of the accommodation, the food, the treatments they may require, X-rays, even perhaps operations. Your family can afford it, I presume?’

‘That’s not a problem,’ she murmured, remembering her father’s words just before they’d left. ‘Whatever they recommend, Florence, you are to agree. Cost is of
no importance. You hear me?’

‘Thank you, Father,’ she’d said and, impulsively, she’d stepped forward and kissed his cheek.

He’d looked startled for a moment, then patted her shoulder before turning away abruptly, but not before she’d seen tears glistening in his eyes.

Dr Harris’s voice pulled her back to the present. ‘I’ll find out the name of the director there and—’

‘I think you’ll find,’ Florrie said, ‘that the doctor in charge is a Dr Ernst Hartmann.’ Even after all these years, she was sure he’d still be there.

Dr Harris glanced at her, his voice tight as he asked, ‘Have you been making your own enquiries?’

Florrie smiled and reassured him. ‘No, but I met Dr Hartmann during the war. I worked with him. That was the name of the sanatorium where he’d worked, and where—’ The
heartache was still there, though not so sharp, when she remembered his words. ‘Where he planned to return.’

Dr Harris’s voice relaxed and he smiled again. ‘Then you must have great faith in his abilities.’

Oh yes, she thought, I have. The only problem is: will he see us? Will he be willing to treat the boy he still thinks is his own son?

Switzerland – September, 1932

Florrie took a deep breath as she faced Emmi Bergamin. So, after all this time, she was being forced into doing what she should have done years ago. She was going to have to
tell the truth.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Jacques does not know the truth about his birth. I – I know I should have told him before, but – well, I’ve been very cowardly.
Does he need to know now? I really don’t think this is a good time.’

The woman stared at her, a small, puzzled frown drawing her fine eyebrows together. The nurse was a pretty young woman and Florrie couldn’t help feeling a flash of jealousy. Emmi Bergamin
worked with Ernst every day. It was this young woman who was now his ‘right hand’.

Slowly, the nurse shook her head. ‘No. These papers are confidential. Only Dr Hartmann and his colleagues will see them, I promise.’

So, at last, Ernst would have to know the truth too. She would face his anger, she knew, but she was sure that he would not punish her by refusing to help her, by refusing to treat the boy who
– at the moment – he believed to be his.

Florrie let out her breath and glanced towards the balcony. Jacques’s head was lolling to one side. He appeared to be asleep. ‘I will tell him,’ she murmured. ‘He has a
right to know. But – not now. Not until . . .’ She couldn’t complete the sentence. She didn’t want to face the fact that she might be forced to tell a dying boy a truth that
he might not want to hear.

‘I – am not – Jacques’s natural mother,’ she began in halting German, struggling now and then to find the right words. It had been sixteen years since she’d
used the language, but as she explained she found that the words – and the explanation – came more readily. She could only hope and pray that when she had to tell Jacques, it would be
as easy. But she doubted it.

Florrie went on, telling the sympathetic nurse about how her young brother had volunteered underage. How he’d fallen in love with a French girl and how, when he’d heard she was
carrying his child, he’d tried to reach her.

‘He arranged for a pal to do his sentry duty, but the man was killed and James was accused of desertion and – and court-martialled.’

Emmi’s eyes widened.

Florrie went on, relating the rest of the tragic tale and how, eventually, she’d taken Jacques to England. The only thing she omitted to tell the girl was about her own love affair with
Ernst Hartmann, though she did reveal that she’d worked alongside him during the war.

‘So,’ she said at last, ‘there you have it. It was all done legally. Somewhere in a solicitor’s vault in London there are the papers to prove it – and to prove what
a coward I’ve been.’

Emmi finished writing her brief notes, looked up and smiled. ‘I don’t think you’ve been cowardly at all. I think what you did was wonderful. What sort of life would the boy
have had if you’d left him? He would never have survived – or if he had, he would have had a miserable existence.’ She leaned forward a little and touched Florrie’s hand.
‘You saved his life and secured your family name. He is a Maltby, after all.’

Florrie nodded, tears of gratitude in her eyes for this young woman’s understanding. But perhaps she was used to hearing all sorts of tales as she took down patients’ family
histories.

‘And, I promise you, Jacques will not learn any of this until you are ready to tell him yourself.’

‘Thank you.’ Florrie’s words were heartfelt.

‘And now,’ Emmi said briskly, standing up. ‘I should take you to meet Dr Hartmann.’ She smiled. ‘He will be so pleased to see you again after all this
time.’

Will he? Florrie was suddenly unsure and unusually nervous. For sixteen years she’d longed to see him again and, now that she was about to do so, her courage almost failed her. She was
hoping for so much and didn’t know if she could face disappointment.