Suffragette Girl (38 page)

Augusta stood up and Florrie, with Jacques once more in her arms, rose too. She watched Augusta’s face as the older woman reached out and tenderly touched the baby’s head.

‘Jacques is the French equivalent of James, isn’t it?’ she asked softly.

Not trusting herself to speak, Florrie nodded.

‘Thank you, Florrie, for naming my great-grandson after his—’ There was the slightest of pauses in which their eyes met and held. ‘After his uncle.’

Augusta turned away and Florrie, knowing herself forgiven, at least by her grandmother, watched her go. The elderly lady walked out of the room, determination in every step and ramrod resolution
in the straightness of her back.

Edgar Maltby was about to have the fight of his life.

What passed behind the closed door of Edgar’s study, no one ever knew. Not even the faithful Bowler, who knew everything there was to know about the family he’d
served all his working life, had dared to stand in the hallway to eavesdrop. But Augusta emerged triumphant, with sparkling eyes and cheeks flushed with success.

No more was said about Florrie and the child leaving Candlethorpe Hall, though Edgar never spoke to his daughter. He ignored her if they passed on the stairs, he refused to engage in
conversation with her at meal times and he was utterly implacable in not acknowledging the presence of the child in the house. Clara dithered between the two opposing wills that ruled Candlethorpe
Hall. Alone with Florrie or in Augusta’s presence, she cooed over the child, planned his future and cradled him lovingly. But under Edgar’s glowering eyes, she froze into silence, her
eyes downcast, her hands twisting nervously.

So it was Augusta who had the nursery redecorated and refurbished. It was Augusta who, still wearing her favourite hat with its purple feathers and green and white ribbons, walked proudly
through the lanes pushing the unwieldy perambulator. And it was Augusta who arranged for the child to be christened in the local church by Mr Ponsonby, although Florrie shuddered at the incorrect
entry in the baptismal register and determined that she would at least put right the legal side of the matter. She would see a solicitor – not the family’s, for she feared he might feel
it his duty to tell Edgar the truth – but she would have Jacques’s birth certificate tell the truth and, when the boy was old enough, she would tell him too. She owed him that much.

‘The child must have godparents,’ Augusta decreed and Florrie’s heart tilted in fear. She hung her head and murmured, ‘But who can I ask? Will anyone we know
agree?’

Augusta regarded her shrewdly. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that Gervase will forgive you. Oh, he may not want to renew his proposal of marriage now, but I think he would do
that for you. For the family, if you ask him.’

‘I – I can’t. The last time we met – we had harsh words.’

‘Harsh words? You mean, he knows about the child?’

Florrie shook her head and tears spilled over. ‘It – it was when James had been – had been charged. At James’s request, Gervase acted as what they call the
“prisoner’s friend”. He spoke up for him at the court martial. I – I accused him of not trying hard enough. It wasn’t until I saw James afterwards – when I
stayed that last night with him—’

Augusta gasped and put her hand to her throat. ‘You – you were with James when – when—’

Tears filled Florrie’s eyes as she nodded. ‘I stayed with him till dawn – walked with him and stood watching when they – when they—’

‘Oh, my dear, dear girl.’ Augusta gripped her hands. ‘My brave, wonderful girl.’

‘I attended his burial too, Gran. I know where he is and one day, I’ll go back.’

For a moment, there was silence between them until Florrie went on, ‘James told me that Gervase had even risked his own – safety, I suppose – to try to help him.’

‘What do you mean – his safety?’

‘Gervase could have been court martialled for insubordination to his superiors. He ranted and raved at Major Grant, the man who’d had James arrested. He even dared to argue with a
brigadier.’

Even amid the sadness, Augusta smiled. ‘Good old Gervase. I always knew there was a lot more to him than being just the good-natured country squire.’

‘He got a medal for bravery in the field. James told me.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me one bit.’ There was a pause whilst Augusta regarded her granddaughter thoughtfully. ‘Well, now I can understand why you’re embarrassed to write
to him – on several counts,’ she added bluntly.

Florrie smiled thinly and bowed her head.

There was another silence until Augusta said, ‘But I’ll write to him.’

Florrie raised her head, ‘Oh, Gran, would you?’

The old lady nodded. ‘I’ve written to him several times whilst he’s been away and now I have two special reasons. One, to thank him for his efforts on James’s behalf and
to reassure him that we know he did everything possible; and two, to tell him that—’ She hesitated for a moment, searching for the wording she intended to use. ‘And to tell him
that you have returned home with a child.’

Florrie stared at her grandmother and wondered afresh, but her thoughts were interrupted as Augusta asked, ‘Have you anyone else in mind for godparents? The boy needs two godfathers and
one godmother.’

‘I – I’d like to ask Isobel and the Hon. Tim, but I don’t know . . .’ Her voice trailed away in uncertainty.

‘Then I’ll write to them both too. Though you could go over and see Isobel yourself. And take the child with you. I’m sure Isobel will not turn her back on you.’

‘Thank you, Grandmother,’ Florrie said softly. She doubted any of them – even Gervase – would refuse the indomitable Augusta.

As she turned to leave the old lady’s room, Augusta, with infinite sadness, said gently, ‘And Florrie, when you feel able to talk about it, I want to hear all that James said that
– that last night.’

Florrie longed to see Isobel and when, a few days later, a letter arrived addressed to Augusta full of love and support and understanding for Florrie, she wrapped the baby
warmly in a shawl and had Bowler drive her in the pony and trap to Bixley Manor.

Isobel greeted her with open arms, enfolding her in a bear hug and then turning her attention to the child.

‘Oh, Florrie, he’s beautiful. Oh, do let me hold him. Come, we’ll take him up to the nursery. You must meet Charlie.
Your
godson.’ She squeezed Florrie’s
hand. ‘If only we could get Tim and Gervase home on leave, we could have both boys christened together.’

As they entered the room, a fair, curly-haired little boy came tottering towards them, beaming and holding out his chubby arms.

‘Oh, Iso, he’s
walking.
’ She knelt and held out her arms and the little chap came to her and rested his head against her.

‘Ah, that’s right, give your Auntie Florrie a love,’ Iso crooned. ‘He’s such a friendly little soul. He’s been walking about four weeks. He’s still a
bit unsteady.’

Florrie played with Charlie whilst Isobel nursed Jacques.

‘Well, I don’t know who he takes after. I can’t see a likeness to either you or Tim – apart from his fair hair, like yours.’

‘I think he’s a bit like Gervase, but then children often take after their uncles, don’t they?’

‘Yes,’ Florrie murmured, feeling the colour rising in her neck. ‘They do.’

They talked about anything and everything apart from what was really uppermost in their minds. Gervase, Tim and the war. Isobel told her what had been happening on the estate, but each topic
seemed to bring them round to the very one they were trying to avoid.

‘Of course, we didn’t have a proper New Year’s Eve celebration this last year. With – with all of you being away.’

‘Have you heard how Lady Lee is?’ Florrie changed the subject. She couldn’t even bring herself to tell Isobel that Gervase had found her – as he’d always said he
would – on New Year’s Eve. Even that led back to thoughts of the war.

‘She’s fine and doing sterling work for the Red Cross. She’s sure that the attitude towards the suffrage movement is going to change. So many women are doing men’s work
while – while they’re away, and doing a grand job too. Lady Lee thinks that by the time it’s all over, women will have
earned
their right to vote.’

Florrie smiled. ‘She may well be right. So, there’ll be nothing left for us to do.’

Isobel smiled. ‘Well, I’m just looking forward to having the Hon. Tim back safe and sound and starting a proper family life.’

‘Has he – has he ever got home on leave to see Charlie?’

‘Oh yes, he came just after he was born. Two weeks we had together. It was wonderful.’ Her face clouded as she added softly, ‘But I don’t know when he’ll get home
again. I take Charlie to the photographers in Lincoln once a month and send pictures of him out to Tim, so he doesn’t miss seeing him grow up. I have to say, Florrie, I never saw myself as
the maternal type, but I love being a mother and, with running the estate for Gervase too, well, I’m kept busy.’

There, his name had been mentioned at last.

‘How – how is Gervase?’ Florrie asked.

She felt Isobel’s gaze on her, but she couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes. ‘He’s well,’ Isobel said softly, ‘but he’s very sad about what happened to
poor James. He – he blames himself and—’

Florrie’s head snapped up. ‘That’s my fault,’ she admitted in a rush. ‘But I know now that it wasn’t true. I’m so desperately sorry. But I was out of my
mind and the thought of – of . . .’

Isobel touched her hand. ‘I know, I know,’ she whispered. ‘It must have been the most dreadful time for you. Gervase will come to understand, I’m sure. Just give him
time. Have you written to him?’

Florrie shook her head. ‘I – I can’t,’ she said huskily. ‘I wouldn’t blame him if he never forgives me. And now that I’ve come home with – with
Jacques, I don’t know what he must be thinking.’

‘Gervase is a very forgiving man. When all this is over and he comes home, I’m sure everything will be all right again between you.’

Florrie said nothing. She couldn’t say to Isobel the thought that was uppermost in her mind.

If he
comes home again.

Only a handful of people attended Jacques’s baptism, for two of the godparents’ promises had to be made by proxy. Gervase and the Hon. Tim were still in France and
whilst Augusta had obtained their agreement by letter, their physical presence was impossible. Only Isobel was there in person and cradled the infant in her arms as she made her promises. Charlie
was not to be christened until his father could be there too.

Augusta stood staunchly at Florrie’s side at the font, defying the world and its biased opinions. Edgar, as expected, was not present and Clara had not dared to defy him to attend. But, to
Florrie’s surprise, Mrs Ponsonby asked to be allowed to make the promises on behalf of the absent godfathers. Beth stood in the background, ready to take the baby back home after the service
whilst Florrie and her grandmother took tea at the vicarage.

‘My dear girl,’ Mrs Ponsonby linked her arm through Florrie’s as they emerged from the church. ‘These are difficult times we live in. I’m not prying, my dear, but
just tell me this. Is the father of your child dead?’

Tears sprang to Florrie’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Then I’m sorry – very sorry. But you know, my dear, there’s always Captain Richards . . .’

Now Florrie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

‘Oh, Gran – Gran!’

Florrie flew up the stairs and burst into her grandmother’s sitting room.

‘Goodness me, child. Is the house on fire?’ One glance at the stricken look on Florrie’s face and Augusta knew at once that the letter in the young woman’s hand had
brought terrible news.

She rose and held out her arms to her granddaughter. ‘Oh, my dear girl, what is it?’

‘It’s – it’s Tim. He’s – he’s been killed.’ Florrie crumpled to the floor and Augusta knelt at her side and wrapped her arms around her, rocking
her to and fro. She stroked Florrie’s hair. ‘There, there, my dear,’ she soothed, but she could think of no words of comfort. There were none to give.

‘Oh, poor Iso – and Lady Lee.’ Florrie buried her head against Augusta’s shoulder. ‘Whatever are they going to do without him?’

‘What everyone else who’s lost sons and husbands – and,’ she added quietly, ‘brothers and grandsons – has to do. Carry on.’

‘But Iso and he had so little time together. And poor Charlie – he’ll never know his father.’

‘Neither will – your child, Florrie,’ Augusta said softly.

They were silent for a few moments before Florrie whispered, ‘And he was Lady Lee’s only son – her only child.’

‘I know, my dear, I know. It’s a cruel war. It’s robbing us of a whole generation of young men.’

‘Oh, Gran.’ Florrie looked up at Augusta. ‘What if Gervase doesn’t come back and – and we parted the – the way we did? What if I never get the chance to tell
him how sorry I am?’

Augusta took hold of her shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Then write to him,’ she said firmly. ‘Write to him at once – before it’s too late – and tell him how
sorry you are for the things you said to him.’

‘I will. I’ll do it now.’ Florrie kissed the wrinkled cheek. ‘Thanks, Gran. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know what this whole family would do without me,’ Augusta remarked, half-joking.

As Florrie stood up, she was wholly serious as she said, ‘No, Gran, and I don’t either.’

As she turned to leave, Augusta said softly, ‘And don’t forget to tell him about poor Timothy. Word might not have reached him. And we should write to Lady Lee too. You’ll be
going to see Isobel, I suppose?’

Florrie nodded, unable to speak for the lump of sorrow in her throat.

Isobel was amazingly calm. Though her eyes were red from weeping and her mouth trembled when she spoke, she held her head proudly and forced a smile onto her lips.

‘I’d half-expected it, Florrie, if I’m truthful. When he – when he came home after Charlie’s birth, I could see the horror of it all in his eyes. He didn’t
talk about it – none of them do, so they say – but I could tell, he didn’t expect to survive.’