Suffragette Girl (50 page)

Jacques’s eyes clouded. ‘That’s – that’s where Uncle James was – was killed, wasn’t it? D’you want to visit his grave? Is that it?’

Florrie nodded and touched his hand. ‘We’re going to Ypres.’

‘That’s where a lot of the fighting was. Is that where he was killed?’

‘Yes, but – oh, Jacques, there are things I have to tell you. So much you don’t know.’

‘What – things?’

‘Not here, Jacques. Not where we can be overheard.’

‘But there’s no one else in the compartment, Mother.’

‘Please, Jacques, not now. We’ll find a nice little hotel and then tonight, I – I promise I’ll tell you everything.’

It was the second most difficult thing she’d ever had to do. The first had been to stand and see her brother shot for desertion. Haltingly, she began to explain.
‘Jacques, you’re probably going to be very angry with me for not having told you all this before, but there’ve been reasons. Good reasons. But I should have told you.’ She
took a deep breath. ‘You know your grandfather is a hard man. For years he’s ignored your presence in the house. It’s really only because of your great-gran that we’re both
still there.’

‘Because I’m illegitimate, you mean? I’d guessed that, Mother. Or rather, some of the chaps at school taunted me about it. Calling me “the little bastard”. Saying
my sort shouldn’t be allowed in a school like ours.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Charlie was great. He always stood up for me. Told them my father had been killed in the war. He got into
a fight about it once and got a bloody nose.’

Florrie gasped. ‘I remember that. Isobel was beside herself because he stubbornly refused to say who he’d been fighting with and what it’d been about.’

‘It was about me.’

‘Well, Charlie was right about one thing. Your – your father was killed in the war. You see, your father was James.’

He stared at her horrified. ‘Your – your
brother
?’

She nodded.

There was a look of utter disgust on his face and he shrank away from her. ‘You mean, you mean – you and he . . .’

Florrie’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widened and she flushed furiously. ‘Oh no, no, Jacques. Not that. I’m not your mother – not your natural mother.’ She ran her
hand across her forehead. ‘Oh dear, I am explaining this so badly. Listen, please just listen to me.’

She told him it all, just as she’d explained it to Emmi Bergamin, who, in turn, had told Ernst.

‘Shot? For trying to get back to – to my mother? Didn’t he tell them?’

Florrie lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘No – and he wouldn’t let me. He didn’t want to bring further trouble on Colette Musset. Her family had already disowned her.
That was why he was trying to get to her. They were going to be married – your mother told me.’

‘So – so how do I come to be with you?’

She was relieved to hear there was no anger in his tone, no blame; he just wanted to understand everything. When she’d finished he sat for a while, gazing out of the window, yet seeing
none of the wonderful scenery. His young mind was trying to take in everything she’d said. Florrie, though she longed for him to say something – anything – made herself sit
quietly.

‘So, you could have left me. Put me in an orphanage. You didn’t have to ruin your own reputation for me.’

‘Yes, I did. There was no other way. If I’d taken you home – back to England and told everyone the truth, that you were James’s son – then there’s no knowing
what my father would have done. He’d disowned James and had forbidden his name to be mentioned in the house. Though he was incredibly angry with me and didn’t speak to me – or you
– for years, at least he couldn’t turn us out. Not while Grandmother is still alive, anyway.’

Jacques smiled at the thought of Augusta.

‘I haven’t always been the mother I should have been,’ Florrie went on. ‘The mother I vowed I would be.’ She rarely shed tears, but they glimmered in her eyes
now.

Jacques glanced at her and shrugged. ‘Weren’t you? You were away a lot, I suppose, but I always had Grannie and Great-Gran. When you came home it was such fun, because you spoilt me
rotten.’

‘Guilt,’ Florrie said promptly, not sparing herself.

Jacques grinned impishly. Florrie’s heart turned over. How good it was to see the mischief back in his face. Then he sobered. ‘So, we’re going to visit my father’s
grave?’

She nodded, her throat full of tears.

‘And my mother’s?’

‘I – suppose we could try. We could go to the village near the farm. See if your grandfather or great-uncle is still there.’

Jacques shook his head. ‘No. Let’s not disturb them. The past must be painful enough for them. Maybe we could just take a look at the farm – where I was born – if
it’s still there.’

‘Of course.’

They found the military cemetery near Poperinghe easily, but James’s grave took them some time to locate.

‘I should remember exactly where it is,’ Florrie muttered, angry with herself. ‘I shouldn’t have forgotten. But it all looks so different now.’

Jacques said nothing, but squeezed her hand sympathetically. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she must have gone through on that awful day.

‘Here it is.’

A simple white marble cross marked the spot with James’s name and rank, date of birth and date of death and a simple inscription, which read:
Not forgotten by those who loved him
best.
They stood in front of it, their arms linked together.

‘Who put that up?’ Jacques asked.

‘I arranged for it to be done through the solicitor in London who organized all the legalities over you.’

‘It’s – nice,’ he said and sighed. ‘How sad, though, to end like that.’

‘Jacques, I’ve started a campaign to try to get a pardon for all those shot at dawn. But I’m not having much success yet. I think it’s too soon. Attitudes haven’t
changed. But they will – in the future – I’m sure they will. But it may take years and years.’ She bit her lip, hesitating. It was a huge burden to place on a young
boy’s shoulders.

Slowly he turned to face her. ‘Of course I will.’

She stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Carry on the fight. That’s what you were going to ask me, wasn’t it?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, yes – it was. It
is.
’

Jacques looked back at his father’s headstone, reached out and traced his fingertip over the name. ‘ ’Bye for now, Dad. We’ll come again. Some day, we’ll come
again.’

As they walked away he said, ‘There’s just one thing, Mother. You do realize you’ve set yourself a bit of a job now, don’t you?’

She pulled a face. ‘It’s not going to be easy. There’ll be a lot of opposition to it at first.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean that.’

‘So, what
do
you mean?’

‘I want to know everything about my father. Every little detail you can remember. I may never get to know much about my mother, so you’re just going to have to make up for
it.’

Florrie laughed. ‘It’ll be a pleasure. You don’t know how I’ve longed to talk about him all these years and never been able to, for fear of either angering my father or
upsetting my mother and grandmother. But now,’ she hugged his arm to her side, ‘I’ve a good excuse.’

The farm was still derelict and more dilapidated than Florrie remembered it. The yard was overgrown with weeds, the house crumbling. The barn had all but fallen down completely.

‘The farmland round it looks used. Look, there are cattle and sheep grazing. It’s just the house and buildings that are deserted.’

‘Maybe someone else bought the land, but didn’t want the house.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want us to try to find the Mussets?’

‘Quite sure,’ Jacques said firmly. ‘Let’s leave them in peace.’

Florrie and Jacques arrived home the day before Christmas Eve to a rapturous welcome. Clara wept on Florrie’s shoulder and then clasped an embarrassed Jacques to her.
Augusta beamed from ear to ear, and even Edgar patted the boy on the back and submitted to Florrie’s kiss. He looked down into her upturned face and nodded. Then he cleared his throat.
‘Er, welcome home, my dear. Both of you.’

It was all Florrie needed to hear.

They were swept at once into Augusta’s Christmas preparations. ‘Did you have a chance to do any shopping?’

Florrie nodded. ‘We stopped overnight in London and went shopping this morning.’ She laughed and glanced at the boy. ‘Jacques hated it.’

He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was just so crowded. We couldn’t move. It – it was just – so different to – to—’

Augusta linked her arm with his. ‘Now, now, you must try to forget all about that. We’re all so thankful that you haven’t got that terrible disease. But if you hadn’t
gone,’ she added with asperity, for she knew they were all thinking, deep down, that perhaps the trip had been a complete waste of time and money, ‘you’d only have got steadily
worse in our unpredictable weather. As it is, the wonderful Swiss air has quite cured you and you’re well and strong. And spring is just around the corner. Now, come along.’ She gave
him a gentle push. ‘Upstairs you go and change and then, after dinner, I need your help with the tree. We waited until you were home.’

For the first time Florrie noticed the huge tree standing in its traditional space at the side of the staircase. It was so tall that it almost reached to the landing above. But it still awaited
its decorations.

She smiled. Now she knew they were really home.

‘Grandmother?’

For the first time Florrie could ever remember, she felt nervous and unsure when seeking out her grandmother. But it had to be done. She’d promised herself. She’d promised Jacques.
And she had to do it now, before New Year’s Eve. Christmas was over, celebrated with just the family and with quiet thankfulness for Jacques’s return to health. But Florrie could no
longer avoid telling them the truth.

Augusta was sitting up in bed with her breakfast tray. It was the only concession she made to her eighty-eight years – breakfast in bed each morning. In every other way she was still
remarkably sprightly. She raised her eyebrows in surprise as Florrie hovered uncertainly in the doorway. ‘Come in, dear.’ She held out her hand.

Closing the door quietly, Florrie moved across the room and sat down beside the bed. Her fingers twisted nervously.

Augusta was smiling gently. ‘You’ve something to tell me?’

Florrie swallowed and nodded. But still, she couldn’t speak.

‘About – Jacques?’

Again, she nodded, running her tongue nervously round her lips. ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’

Augusta’s old eyes twinkled with merriment. She’d intended to tease Florrie, watch her drag out the halting explanation, but suddenly she took pity on her granddaughter. She leaned
forward and touched her hand. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that Jacques is not your son. He’s – James’s, isn’t he?’

Florrie’s eyes widened. ‘You knew?’

‘Oh yes,’ Augusta said softly. ‘I suspected as much from the first moment. But then, when he got a little older and you started gadding off to London – leaving him for
weeks on end – then I was certain.’

Florrie felt herself redden as Augusta regarded her severely. ‘You’ve been a loving, devoted
aunt,
I’ll not deny. But you haven’t really acted like a
mother.
’ Her old eyes were suddenly sad. ‘I expect you felt you had to deceive us because of your father. But you could have told me, Florrie dear. Really you could.’

‘I’m sorry, Gran,’ she said huskily, clutching at the wrinkled hand. ‘I – didn’t want to put you in an awkward position by involving you in the – in the
lie.’

‘As far as I know, my dear, you’ve never actually lied. You’ve never called him your son, have you? You’ve just said he’s Edgar’s grandson and my
great-grandson – which he is. You’ve told the truth, but not the whole truth.’

They were silent a moment before Augusta asked gently, ‘Does Jacques know?’

‘Yes, we – we took a detour on our way home and went to – to Ypres. We saw James’s grave and I told him everything.’

Augusta nodded, satisfied. Again, a pause before she said softly, ‘And now you have to tell your father?’

Florrie swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely.

‘Want me to come with you?’

Florrie shook her head. ‘No, Gran. This is something I have to do myself.’

If she had been nervous facing her grandmother, she was terrified as she knocked on the door of her father’s study.

Hearing his gruff ‘Come in’, she opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind her, leaning against it for a moment to steel her nerve.

He eyed her over the top of his spectacles as she approached his desk.

‘Father, I need to talk to you. May I sit down?’

Wordlessly, he indicated a leather chair at the side of his desk and leaned back, waiting for her to begin.

‘I want to tell you about – about Jacques.’

‘I thought you said he’s well now? That it was a misdiagnosis?’

‘Yes – yes it was. He’s fine and actually looking forward to going back to school in January.’ She hesitated.

‘Go on,’ Edgar said, but his tone was not encouraging.

‘I – haven’t been entirely truthful about – about Jacques.’

Edgar’s perpetual frown deepened.

‘He – he is your grandson and he is half-French, but – but I’m not his mother. Not his natural mother. Jacques is – is James’s son.’

Edgar stiffened and stared at her. At last, almost against his will, he muttered, ‘Explain yourself.’

So she did. She began by telling him all about James and his arrest and the unfair charge brought against him. The farcical court martial and how Gervase had tried in vain to save James’s
life. She spared him nothing now, telling him – in every heartbreaking detail – of the last night she’d spent with her brother, of his execution and unceremonious burial. And then
she told him about how she’d found Colette, the birth of the baby boy, the girl’s death and how she had tracked down the child’s French grandfather, who’d turned them
away.

‘I got them to sign a paper and when I got back home I had a solicitor in London arrange everything legally. I am Jacques’s aunt, his legal guardian but – I’m not his
mother.’