‘There’s lots of time. Mama will be fully occupied with her own affairs for half an hour exactly,’ Bertie said, busy at Lily’s dress buttons as she searched on all fours for the means to restore order to her tousled hair. ‘You have such lovely soft skin, Lily. And you’re a real sport.’
‘I have to be wi’ the likes of you around, don’t I?’ she said, gasping as his fingers finally found the nub of her breast and slid it into his mouth. On the instant her limbs turned to liquid fire and she flung back her head, shamefully wanting more.
‘Happen I really am a wanton,’ she gasped, her own hands pushing weakly at his dressing gown, quite of their own volition.
Bertie was annoyed by this suggestion. ‘The hell you are. Anyone would think we didn’t have the right. You’re my wife, dammit.’
Lily giggled. ‘Course I am. Fancy me forgetting that.’
In seconds he had lifted her into the great bed and Lily had forgotten all about the pins, the maid or even Margot. It took less than a moment to peel off every layer of clothing, each of them keenly aware of the shortness of the time they had together. Bertie made love to her with a slow deliberation that left them both shuddering at the climax. Afterwards they lay together between the soft linen sheets, Bertie with his head on her breasts, caressing her thigh with one lazy hand.
‘I know you didn’t love me when I married you, old thing. But it ain’t been too bad between us, would you say?’
Lily kissed him on the top of his head. ‘You’re grand, as me mam would say. I’m very fond of you, Bertie. No one could have a better husband. What’s love, anyroad?’
Love was what she had felt for Dick. But she’d lost him, hadn’t she, and the pain had near sliced her in two. No, best to do without love, and Bertie was a good second best. Unexpectedly, a vision came into her head of Nathan Monroe, all smart and clean-shaven, enjoying supper at her table, smiling at her from those crystal blue eyes. A shiver rippled up her spine as she remembered again the silky smoothness of his fingers brushing against her cheek. How dare the man come unbidden into her thoughts? And when she was making love to her husband.
‘Take me again,’ she said, putting his hands to her breasts, wanting to banish the waking dream. ‘Would you believe it, me, Lily Thorpe, in bed with the toff of The Cobbles? A man who can see off a gang of louts with one hand tied behind his back.’ They were off again, Bertie tickling and caressing her most vulnerable places with those teasing hands of his, till Lily was begging for mercy even as she wriggled beneath the sheets in a pretend effort to escape him.
Neither heard the footsteps approach, nor the sound of the door opening.
Only when the bed covers were flung back and Margot’s eyes scanned every inch of their naked flesh, did either become aware they were no longer alone. Unfortunately, they were both far too involved in the heat of the moment to care.
‘Drat it, Mama,’ Bertie said, as equable as ever for all he was panting for breath between each thrust. ‘Don’t you ever think to knock? A chap must have some privacy, don’t you know?’
As the door slammed shut they both collapsed into fresh peals of laughter.
Bertie decided that he was perfectly well. There would be no further confinement to his room, no more invalid meals of milk sops, nor freezing salt baths. He was young and fit, possessed a beautiful wife, and meant to enjoy life to the full.
Lily and Amy moved out of Betty’s room and into Bertie’s. Margot might grind her teeth with fury but she knew there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Her plan, thus far, had failed. The girl even occupied a place at dinner each evening, and Bertie seemed to delight in instructing his young and undeniably common wife in the intricacies of handling cutlery and wine glasses. Thankfully she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut on these occasions.
Worse, the woman’s brat was established in the nursery suite with a nursemaid to attend her. Margot had attempted to point out to her son the error of this arrangement, but he’d only laughed.
‘She’s
my
daughter too, Mama. Know you wanted a boy, son and heir and all that, but mebbe next time, eh?’ Then he’d winked at her in a most vulgar fashion. Margot shuddered each time she recalled it.
Catching them in bed together had not surprised her in the least. Hadn’t she said all along that the girl was a harlot? But she dreaded to think of the outcome. That a son of this trollop might one day occupy Barwick House as its master was surely more than she could be expected to stomach?
‘Over my dead body,’ she kept telling Edward.
Yet Margot knew that if she objected too strongly, or too soon, as she had already attempted to do, Bertie could turn exceeding stubborn. Might even take it into his silly head to return to The Cobbles. He’d said as much, quite bluntly. Really, he was the most vexatious boy imaginable.
She even found herself being forced to supply Lily Thorpe, as she still thought of her daughter-in-law, with a wardrobe of respectable clothes to wear, at Bertie’s insistence.
‘Dashed well deserves it, poor thing. Can’t have my wife looking like a damned servant, now can I?’
With a strength of will Margot hadn’t thought she possessed, she ordered the carriage and sent Lily off with a protesting Selene to the mantle-maker. It was the most humiliating defeat to date, but in her eyes a mere skirmish. The battle may have been lost, but not the war.
The residents of The Cobbles were not so fortunate as those of Barwick House. Diphtheria raged through the overcrowded streets like an inferno, and it soon became clear to Lily that Margot’s advice to cease calling there had been entirely correct. The last thing she wanted was to spread the disease still further, perhaps even endanger the life of her own child. She watched Amy with anxious eyes but the child seemed as healthy as ever, baby cheeks glowing with health, hair already showing signs of her father’s sandy curls. Lily smiled to see her. Margot wouldn’t be able to deny her parentage for much longer.
A letter arrived in her father’s careful handwriting, saying the family was quite well, considering, and he was keeping them within doors as much as possible. Hadn’t she known they would be? Never ailed a thing, Hannah’s merry band. Not long afterwards a second letter came, brought by a boy whom nobody wished to touch. He left the note under a stone and ran off. By the time it had been thoroughly wiped with disinfectant Lily’s heart was pounding. She knew it must be bad news, else why would her father write again so soon? The ink had run and was hard to read, even so the words jumped out at her, blunt and stark.
‘Our little Emma died last night,’ Lily read, and felt the life drain from her own body.
‘We’re burying her tomorrow. But don’t you come home, lass. The sickness is everywhere.’
Not attend her own sister’s funeral? Somehow it seemed obscene. But she knew Arnie was right. Lily shut herself in her room and gave herself up to helpless grief. How could her lovely Emma be dead? She was a child still, ten years old and full of fun. Why, only a few Sundays back they’d taken a picnic out into the words, playing hunt the acorn, Emma skipping and giggling as any child should. How could she be gone? It wasn’t possible.
What of the others? Kitty and Liza? Were they safe? And Arnie himself? At least Hannah was out of that dreadful place now, slowly recovering in the sanatorium.
In the days following Lily felt as if she would go mad in the isolation of her grief. But much as she ached to run to Arnie’s side, she followed his advice and stayed away.
When finally the quarantine period was over, the first thing the Clermont-Reads wished to do was give thanks, along with the rest of the community. Once again they attended St Margaret’s Parish Church, glad to meet up with old friends. Lily breathed a sigh of relief to be out in the late April sunshine, to hear a cuckoo deep in the woods, see the green spears of daffodil shoots turning yellow in the sun, smell the wild hyacinth and garlic flowers. She felt as if she’d been down a long dark tunnel, and had at last been let out into the light. Even so, watching a swan take off across the lake, wide wings beating in the warm air currents, again brought Emma to mind and how she’d used to save her jammy crusts for the birds. A lump came to her throat and the ache in her heart swelled to a greater pain. How could the family go on without Emma’s cheerful face about the place?
It didn’t feel right to be sitting with Bertie in the front pews when her own family were in their usual places at the back. By rights she should be with them, helping them nurse their grief if nothing else.
Lily could see her father sitting stiff-backed, looking as if he’d shrunk, cheeks hollow and gaunt. He was no longer the brawny well-set up chap he had once been. The loss of a beloved daughter so soon after his wife’s sickness had clearly taken its toll.
Lily tried to catch his eye, but he stubbornly refused to meet her gaze or heed her frantic signals. It was as if he wished to make a point of not fraternising with those in the best pews. He had never fully understood Lily’s marriage, nor quite approved of her ‘getting above herself’, as he called it. Much as he might have believed the alliance with Bertie to be a mistake, moving into Barwick House was worse in his eyes. So, smothering her distress, she waved instead to Liza and Kitty, and the two girls waved eagerly back, small faces bright with happiness to see her.
She’d go round to the side entrance when the service was over and talk to her dad, no matter what Margot said. Lily needed that even if he didn’t, as well as to offer comfort to her sisters.
But by the time she had escaped from the Clermont-Reads and pushed her way through the crowd, there was no sign of her family anywhere. Lily very nearly ran after them but Margot called to her, insisting they were due for coffee at the Dunstons’ before going on home for lunch at one. Bertie too urged her to hurry. Only Edward seemed to understand how she felt.
‘Are you all right, Lily?’ he asked as she fell silently into step beside the Clermont-Read party.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I saw you waving to your father, and him turning away.’
‘He’s a proud man, suffering more than he can rightly cope with at present.’
‘You too, I shouldn’t wonder, losing your young sister in that dreadful way.’
Unable to respond to the unexpected kindness in his voice, Lily looked up into Edward’s face and saw it to be genuine. She’d always imagined her father-in-law to be hard and merciless, caring only for profits and bank accounts. And his own family, of course. It shook her deeply to see his concern for her, and made her wonder if she knew him at all.
Lily remained thoughtful throughout the ensuing visit, and as they walked home an idea started to form in the back of her mind.
After a lengthy Sunday lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by a substantial apple pie, eaten in a silence broken only by the ticking of the clock, Edward was the first to leave the table.
‘I’m off down to the jetty. See how
Faith
has weathered the winter. Got to get her ready for the Easter cruise.’
‘Tea at four, dear,’ Margot said as he strode out of the door, as if civilisation would cease if this tradition were not adhered to. Lily was on her feet. ‘May I be excused too?’
‘With pleasure.’ Spoken in the sweetly acerbic tone Margot usually adopted when addressing Lily in front of her son.
Bertie departed with her, wanting to know if she was all right. Out in the hall Lily turned to him with a smile, anxious to put his mind at rest. ‘Of course. I have to be for you and Amy, don’t I? Now you go and have your afternoon nap. I want a quiet word with your father.’
‘What about?’ Bertie put his arms round her waist, pulling her close. ‘I’d enjoy my nap much more if you came with me.’ Laughing, she tapped him playfully on the nose. ‘You still need your rest. Run along now and be a good boy.’
‘What secrets have you got with Pa?’
‘No secrets. I’ll tell you after I’ve seen him.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘All right, Lily. Adore you, don’t you know?’ And off he went, whistling, as blithely happy as always.
‘Dear God, you do an’ all,’ she said, and wondered why it made her feel so bleak.
May was the start of the cruising season, though a preliminary cruise at Easter had become a tradition. In readiness, all about the lake, steam-launch owners were checking their craft. They’d spent the winter scraping and varnishing, cleaning and oiling tubes and boilers and pistons. No coal or wood could be left in over winter so these had to be replenished, and the engine fired to make sure it hadn’t seized up. The bilge pumps were set working and lastly all the brasses cleaned and polished till every part shone like gold.
This was the job Edward loved best. With his sleeves rolled up and his hands a mess of grease and dirt, he was a happy man. There were times he wondered why he’d ever bothered moving from blue overalls to white collar. Yet as he stood up to ease his aching back and run his eye over his beloved boat and elegant home, he couldn’t help but feel a tug of pride. Aye, he’d done all right. He had that. Who’d have thought a simple, hard-working Lancashire lad could do so well for himself’ But then Lancashire folk had never been afraid of hard graft. Not in his experience.