Authors: Tania Anne Crosse
‘Oh, I’ve tried so hard to be a good wife.’ Ling’s eyebrows knitted painfully as her eyes bore into Elliott’s. ‘I really tried to make it work between us. Bring us closer together again. But Barney just can’t change. He’s happy with his work and his pint of beer. After the wedding, I managed to persuade him to go to Plymouth for the day. We had a lovely time. At least,
I
thought we did. Barney wouldn’t go again. And so . . .’ She bowed her head as the colour flushed into her cheeks. ‘I had to come back to you, Elliott. To know if you still felt the same.’
‘You know I do, Ling. And not just for . . .’ He paused, waving his hand over the bed. ‘I just want to be with you always. Have you at my side whatever I’m doing. If only you were
my
wife and not Barney’s.’
His face was savage with emotion, and Ling squeezed his hand. ‘I know. But I’ll come as often as I can. But I must get back now. I told Barney I was going to visit Mistress Rose after school. I only came to find out if—’
‘Well, I think you’ve had your answer.’
Ling nodded with a rueful smile. ‘Yes. But, until school finishes for the summer, it’s going to be difficult. And that’s another two months.’
‘Tell you what. There’s a new doctor setting up in town, junior to me, someone who’d heard that William retires fully next month. If I can persuade him to hold a surgery on Saturdays then I can be free then instead of Thursdays.’
Ling’s eyes shone. ‘Yes! Then I can come here while Barney’s at work and maybe visit Agnes as well.’
‘There you are then.’
‘Oh, Elliott!’ She kissed him fleetingly on the cheek as she gathered up her clothes. ‘Oh, Elliott, I love you so much!’ And when he smiled back at her, his eyes soft and tender, her heart soared.
It somehow didn’t seem to matter any more, deceiving Barney each week. It was as if she had come alive again. And if remorse ever did creep into her thoughts, she only had to remember that Barney had betrayed
her
all those years ago. She was sure of it now. His instant recollection of Elliott at the wedding and his evident bitter resentment were proof enough.
Yes. In Ling’s mind, Barney only had himself to blame for her infidelity. His jealousy all those years before had stopped her being with the man she truly loved, for she had never felt for Barney what she felt for Elliott. Fondness, yes. And she still was fond of him. But it wasn’t that all-consuming passion that drove all else from her head. But perhaps that was how Barney had felt when he destroyed that slip of paper.
‘We could still go away together. Start a new life somewhere abroad,’ Elliott suggested with zeal. ‘Fanny has Sam now. She’d be all right without you.’
Ling was lying on her front in the bed, and Elliott ran his hand lightly down the long curve of her naked back. She was propped on her elbows and turned her head to look at him through the tangled riot of her dishevelled hair. ‘You really would give up everything you have for me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course. Oh, Ling, I beg you. We could be as husband and wife and no one would ever know.’
‘I’ll . . . think about it,’ she faltered, feeling ashamed of her own hesitation. ‘But not now. Just now I want to enjoy being with you.’ And she curled herself about him once more.
They didn’t always make love. What they felt for each other went far beyond carnal desire. They discussed every subject under the sun, read books together, planted up the flower beds and tended the vegetables in the steeply terraced back garden. As the weeks passed, they felt more confident, even risked a walk in the meadows alongside the canal. The summer sun grew stronger as they strolled along each week, arm in arm, everything falling into a glorious routine, even down to the drunken tramp who occupied the same bench by the canal path, huddled in his torn and filthy rags, battered cap rammed down over his eyes and a moth-eaten scarf swaddled about his neck so that his face was entirely hidden.
‘Always got a bottle of gin by his side,’ Elliott sighed. ‘Poor soul, to be brought to that. I’ve seen him being taken away by the constable several times. But he’s soon back again. Mind you, when autumn comes the colder weather will soon see him off.’
They walked on, silently contemplating how lucky they were to have each other, even for those few brief, stolen hours each week. Ling lived for each Saturday when she would be with Elliott again. Once, a patient stopped them in the street, but Elliott had smiled genially, introducing Ling as his cousin, and the moment elapsed without incident.
And so the summer passed with no hint of suspicion on Barney’s part. Sometimes Ling would visit Agnes as well, perhaps go swimming or do some shopping, but always seeing Elliott. It all became so perfectly normal, an accepted and legitimate weekly outing.
It was towards the end of August that she began to realize. The seed of uncertainty germinated in her chest, and she became more convinced with each day that passed without event. She had been so totally swept up in the joyous elation of being with Elliott again that she had not really noticed. But, looking back, there had been nothing since a few weeks after the wedding, shortly before she had gone back to Elliott. And there were other signs too. She ought to know. Four times she had been pregnant before, and each one had ended in tragedy. Would this one . . .? She felt drained, empty, not daring to think, but yearning for the long days to pass so that she could be with Elliott again.
‘What’s the matter, Ling?’ he asked anxiously, soon after she arrived at the house in Chapel Street the following Saturday. ‘You seem . . . distant. And you don’t look terribly well.’
Ling blinked at him, and the lump rose in her gullet. She had been with Elliott a matter of ten minutes. She had been with Barney all week and he had noticed nothing. She bowed her head. ‘I think I’m pregnant,’ she murmured, keeping her eyes lowered, not wanting to see his reaction.
Silence. Interminable. Or so it seemed to Ling. In fact, it lasted but a few seconds while Elliott recovered from the shock.
‘Are you sure?’ His voice was low but steady, the lover tempered by the physician.
Ling’s heart was thrumming, and she looked up at him, her pale skin drawn across her cheekbones. ‘Three months,’ she whispered back. ‘Or at least . . . I’m always so irregular. But I feel sick all the time and so tired.’
He took her hands that she was unconsciously wringing in her lap. ‘You’d better come through to the consulting room.’
He stood back, politely opening the door, and helped her to climb on to the examination couch. His hands were so gentle as he examined her swollen, tender breasts and then moved down over her stomach, his eyes trained on the wall as he concentrated on what he was feeling. The same hands, Ling thought, that had caressed and loved every inch of her.
‘Congratulations,’ he said with a professional smile. But she could tell his voice was flat. ‘We must make sure you hold on to this one. Plenty of rest and—’
‘I don’t know that I want to hold on to it.’
The words were blurted out, astounding her since she had not thought them previously. But perhaps being with Elliott had released what had been tamped down at the back of her mind ever since realization had dawned.
She heard Elliott draw in a breath. ‘But I thought this was what you’ve wanted for years.’
‘It was. Until I met you again. I’d hoped it would bring Barney and me back together. But . . . it’s too late for that now.’ Her voice trailed off in a wisp of sadness before she slid on to her feet and stared into Elliott’s taut face. ‘I love
you
, Elliott. If I have this child, I won’t be able to see you again. I won’t be able to get away. And I can’t face that. But . . . on the other hand, what if it’s yours?’
‘Mine?’ Elliott’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. ‘It’s pretty unlikely. I’ve always been so careful—’
‘Not that first time after the wedding.’ She took his arm, shook it earnestly. ‘Don’t you remember?’
She saw his mouth drop open and then close again, the lips pursed. ‘Yes. I suppose so,’ he muttered. ‘But I doubt it. We’d be very unlucky—’
‘So you see I don’t know what to think! One minute I want this child desperately, and the next I hate it! It’ll ruin what we have, whether it’s yours or Barney’s. If it’s yours, then . . . But if it’s Barney’s . . .’ She gazed at him in an agony of frustration, wanting to creep away and hide from this nightmare, close her mind to the appalling dilemma. If only Elliott had the answer, but he didn’t.
‘And what does Barney say?’ he asked quietly.
Ling lowered her eyes. ‘I haven’t told him.’
‘Ah. And he won’t have guessed?’
‘Oh, no,’ Ling snorted. ‘He won’t have noticed. As long as he can have his pleasure whenever—’
‘You should stop that for a while. Three months is a dangerous period—’
‘Then perhaps it would be a good thing—’
‘Ling, you mustn’t say that. Life is a precious gift. No matter how we are to blame, what we are to suffer, the child must come first.’
Ling’s eyes opened wide, while at the same time Elliott’s words tore at her heart. Yes. He was right. Good, kind, upright Elliott. It wasn’t what her confused, whirling brain wanted to hear, but he was right.
‘Of course,’ he said hesitantly, ‘we could do what I’ve wanted all along. Run away together. If Barney doesn’t know about the child . . . And I don’t care whose child it is. It would be
ours
. Only, you need to think about it soon, Ling. Don’t leave the decision too long.’
It was the second Saturday in September, and Elliott had invited her to walk with him, enjoying the last of the summer sunshine. They strolled along beside the canal, warm and peaceful. Everything as it always was. Even the tramp in his usual place.
‘Ling, you’ve got to decide,’ Elliott said suddenly. ‘You can’t keep denying it. Pretending the problem doesn’t exist. If you wait much longer, it’ll start to show and you won’t be up to travelling. I can’t just slip away overnight and leave my colleagues in the lurch. I’ll need to find a replacement. That’ll take a couple of weeks. And I’ll need to organize my finances, put the house up for sale. I’ve got enough money to pay for our passage to New York or Boston or wherever we decide. Not first class, but comfortable enough. There are ships leaving Plymouth quite regularly. I can imagine my parents would want to see me off, so you’ll have to get to Plymouth on your own. But you can manage that, can’t you?’
Ling shuddered with dread as she walked beside him, her feet dragging and placing themselves in front of each other mechanically. Elliott’s words were marching through her head, crushing her, and she reared away from them. But Elliott was right. She must find the courage to face up to facts. Somehow she must untangle the twisted thread of her life, but she had no idea how. She wanted to weep, but there was no point in crying. Tears would solve nothing.
‘I’ll give you my answer next week,’ she croaked. ‘I promise. No matter what.’
Elliott dipped his head at her, frowning fiercely. ‘I’ll hold you to that. You know what I want. But, if you decide otherwise,’ he faltered, ‘I’ll understand. You have far more to sacrifice than I do. And . . . maybe we’ll be able to see each other once in a while. As friends,’ he added wryly. And smiled, his hurt eyes deep with compassion.
She couldn’t smile back, her vision misting with tears. Elliott dropped a kiss on her forehead and, putting his arm protectively about her, led her towards his home.
They didn’t notice the tramp open his narrowed eyes, check no one was watching, and follow them to Chapel Street.
‘I’ve seen them, I tells you. And not just once. And, t’other day, he kisses her. Bold as brass.’
Barney twisted his head away. He couldn’t believe it. This was just Harry Spence being characteristically vicious and malevolent. He would hardly have recognized him: filthy, dressed like a pauper, his face so lined and craggy that he looked more like fifty-six than twenty-six. But glinting from the blotchy, red-veined face were the same artful, devious eyes. Oh, yes. This was Harry Spence all right. Harry Spence, who had been the bane of all their lives, Ling’s in particular, and who would be capable of any wicked lie to cause trouble between them.
‘Evil varmint,’ Barney hissed back, for the tramp had accosted him as he’d crossed from the quarry to the manager’s house. It was a working day and, though no one was likely to recognize Harry if
he
hadn’t, Barney didn’t want to be seen conversing with such a vile-looking vagrant. ‘Get out of my sight, you lying bugger.’
He spun on his heel and went to stride away, but Harry caught him by the arm. ‘I tells you, ’tis true,’ he insisted, his voice low and crackling. ‘Always on a Saturday. And you’ll be so surprised as I were to know who ’tis. But then again, maybies you won’t. I followed them back to his house. And there ’twas. A bloody brass plate screwed on the wall.
Dr Elliott Franfield
. You remembers ’en, I be certain.’ The malice in his words was almost palpable.
At any other news, Barney might have landed him a blow to the jaw and left him on the ground where he fell. But . . . Elliott Franfield. Barney froze as the blood drained from his head. He staggered slightly, and glowered at Harry until his head stopped spinning. ‘You’m certain ’twas him?’ he croaked, not wanting to believe this disgusting apparition.
‘I thought as I recognized ’en,’ Harry chortled, his face creasing with triumph. ‘I knows ’twere back along, but he’s not changed much. I sees them going into the house more than once, but ’twere only t’other day I read the plate. I doesn’t read all that well, but I can read
that
.’
Barney lowered his eyes to watch himself grind the toe of his boot into the hard earth. Could it possibly be true? If Harry Spence had given him any other name, but . . . Elliott Franfield! The shuddering resentment raged inside him and exploded in a flash of red anger. The bastard had been at the wedding, hadn’t he? And had Ling been so infatuated by him, just as she had all those years ago, that she had taken up with him on the side?
Lying
to him, her
husband
, every time she had gone into Tavistock? It was mighty queer that she had taken up the habit of going into town again just afterwards when she hadn’t been there, not even to visit her friend Agnes Penrith, all winter. Dear God, what Harry was telling him, vindictive as it might be, was true!