Authors: Margaret Dickinson
She showed Florrie the letter she had received from the War Office. The usual, deceitful phrase was there.
Captain Smythe died instantly and suffered no pain.
‘Thank goodness he didn’t suffer,’ Isobel said. ‘I couldn’t have borne it if I thought he’d been badly injured and taken – taken a long time to
die.’ Her hand fluttered to her mouth as tears threatened again.
‘Yes, it’s a great comfort,’ Florrie said, trying to make her tone sound sincere. She hoped that, for once, the statement had been the truth, but she doubted it.
Isobel drew in a calming breath and continued. ‘Tim wrote me a last letter. He left it with Mr Ponsonby.’ The vicar of Candlethorpe now covered the parish of Bixley too, since the
young incumbent there, who’d taken over from the elderly man who’d married Tim and Isobel, had gone to the war zone as a padre.
‘It was a long letter, Florrie, full of love and his hopes for Charlie. How – how happy I’d made him and – and everything, but you see he was detailing a future in which
he had no part. He knew, Florrie, he knew he wasn’t coming back.’ And now she broke down and wept in Florrie’s arms. ‘Oh, his poor mother,’ she cried. ‘I ought
to go to her, but I can’t leave Charlie. Not just now and – and . . .’
‘Would you like me to go? I’ve been meaning to go to London ever since I came home. There’s – there’s something I have to do. I could go and see Lady Lee, if
you’d like me to.’
Isobel raised her tear-stained face. ‘But what about Jacques? You don’t want to leave him yet, surely? He’s so tiny.’
‘Beth’s lovely with him and very capable, and Grandmother will keep an eye on them both. It’s – it’s not as if I’ve been able to feed him myself, is
it?’ She hated yet another lie to this dearest of friends.
‘Well, it’d be wonderful if you could. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.’
‘Then I’ll go the day after tomorrow. Unless, of course . . .’ Florrie hesitated. ‘She won’t want to see me. I’m – I’m a fallen woman, after
all.’
Even amidst her tears, Isobel managed a smile. ‘I don’t think you need have any fears on that score, Florrie dear. Not with Lady Lee.’
Lady Lee greeted Florrie with the calm dignity that was to be expected of a woman in her position, but she couldn’t prevent the grief of her loss showing in her haunted
eyes.
‘I – wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome.’
‘You’ll always be welcome in my home, Florrie, my dear. Whatever made you think otherwise?’
Florrie stared at her. Was it possible that Lady Lee hadn’t heard that she’d arrived home from the Front in disgrace, bringing an illegitimate child with her? As if reading her
thoughts, Lady Lee smiled sadly and murmured, ‘Oh that, yes, I know all about little Jacques. I grieve for you, my dear girl. You must have loved his father very much.’
‘I did,’ Florrie said quite simply. It was the truth, though Lady Lee was thinking something entirely different.
They sat a while talking and reminiscing until Florrie rose to take her leave. ‘Lady Lee, I need the help and advice of a good solicitor and – and I don’t want to use our
family’s. Could you recommend anyone?’
‘Of course. We have used Jones and Parry for years. I’ll write down the address for you.’ She crossed the room to the desk standing in the window and wrote on a sheet of paper
for several moments. Then she placed the brief letter in an envelope and wrote an address on the front.
‘There,’ she said. ‘That’ll suffice as a letter of introduction. I’m sure they’ll help you in any way they can.’
‘Thank you. I didn’t expect you to do that, Lady Lee, especially not just now.’
Lady Lee sighed. ‘Life has to go on, my dear. It’s what Timothy would have wanted – expected – us all to do.’
She found the solicitors’ offices quite easily and was ushered into the room of the senior partner, Mr Jones. He was an elderly man, grey-haired and stooping. He regarded
her over the top of his steel-rimmed spectacles. He read Lady Lee’s note and then leaned his arms on his desk. He smiled at her. ‘How may I be of assistance to you, Miss
Maltby?’
‘It’s a very delicate and complicated matter, Mr Jones.’ Florrie bit her lip.
Sensing her hesitation, her uncertainty, Mr Jones said gently, ‘Anything you tell me, my dear, will be in the strictest confidence. Even if you are still underage, as I suspect you might
be, you need have no fear. I might have to
advise
you to tell your family whatever it is, but you are not obliged to do so and I wouldn’t compel you or dream of breaking my word to
you.’
‘I’m twenty-two,’ Florrie said, and hearing herself say it was a surprise. Where had all the years gone?
Seeing him nod, she relaxed a little. She took a deep breath and began her story, starting with her own love affair with a Swiss doctor, then about the circumstances of James’s death and
her shock at finding out about Colette and the baby. She told him everything and ended by producing the note signed by the Musset brothers.
Mr Jones was very thoughtful for a long time and Florrie grew agitated. ‘All I want, Mr Jones, is for Jacques to have British citizenship – to be here legally. And that his birth
certificate be truthful. I don’t want him to have trouble when he’s grown up.’
‘Well, my dear, it
is
complicated and I shall have to take further advice . . .’ He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to protest. ‘It’ll all be in the
strictest confidence, I promise, but you’ve certainly set me a puzzler. However, I will do my best for you. How can I communicate with you?’
Florrie hadn’t thought of that. She didn’t want letters from a London solicitor arriving at Candlethorpe Hall where her father might demand to know what it was all about. He might
even open her letters; she wouldn’t put anything past him.
‘If you write to me care of Bixley Manor – that would be best.’ She knew that Isobel would respect her privacy and not ask questions.
Minutes later, Florrie stepped into the London street with a lighter step.
It took several months for the legalities to be sorted out, but at last, taking Mr Jones’s advice, Florrie became Jacques Maltby’s legal guardian.
It would be difficult to effect
an adoption, since you are an unmarried lady,
the solicitor wrote.
But I have found a way for you to be the child’s guardian in view of the fact that you are one of the boy’s
closest relatives and since his French grandfather has foregone any rights . . .
So Jacques became legally Florrie’s ward and, over the months and years, at times she almost forgot that she hadn’t given birth to the little boy herself.
Florrie’s only news of the war now came from the papers or in letters from friends. Grace and Hetty wrote to her, but her only news from Gervase came via Isobel.
The battle on the Somme had been long and bloody, and both sides had lost thousands of men. It dragged on until November and, though the allies had gained some ground, it had been at tremendous
cost. By March 1917 the enemy had withdrawn to a position that became known as the Hindenburg Line, a defensive stronghold with barbed wire and concrete pillboxes. The area they left behind was
devastated, villages destroyed and the land laid waste.
In April, Florrie received a letter from Grace.
We’re near Arras. The attack the allies launched has been a success, they say, but the number of dead and injured is terrible. We so
wish you were still with us – we miss our courageous VAD.
At home the newspapers rejoiced at America’s entry into the war in April, but Grace’s next letter brought mixed emotions to Florrie’s heart.
You’ll never believe
this. We’re back near Ypres – at Base Camp and the Chateau. But now the front line has gained ground. We’re moving forward . . .
For several weeks Florrie heard nothing from her colleagues. But Augusta’s London newspapers told frightening tales of terrible summer rainstorms that turned the Flanders battleground into
a quagmire.
Then came a letter from Hetty headed
Passchendaele, August 1917, Dear Florrie, I can hardly write this letter, we’re all so heartbroken. Two of our team have perished. As you might
guess we’ve moved nearer the Front yet again – on Dr Hartmann’s orders, of course. We’re existing – and that’s the only word you can call it – in tents.
With the rain and the mud and the appalling losses, we were already at our lowest ebb. Then, dear Florrie . . .
Florrie felt a jolt. Oh, not Ernst, please don’t say Ernst is dead. However much he had hurt her, there was a corner of her heart that loved him still. She didn’t wish him harm. At
Hetty’s next words, she breathed again, yet now her heart was filled with an overwhelming sadness.
Poor Dr Johnson – that lovely man – was killed in a shell blast with two of the stretcher-bearers and the wounded man they were carrying. And then – oh, Florrie, I can
hardly bear to tell you. Poor Grace is missing, and all we can think of is that she must have slipped from the duckboards whilst crossing the mud and been sucked down. What a terrible way for her
to die, Florrie. We’re devastated and the morale of the team is the lowest I’ve ever known it. We miss you – even Sister Blackstock said the other day, ‘I wish Maltby was
still here.’
Her words made Florrie restless. How she wished she could catch the next ship back to France, but her place was here now, caring for Jacques. Eyebrows would certainly be raised and questions
asked if she left her ‘son’.
The war dragged on. News of a massive British attack with tanks gave cause for hope, but only weeks later a German counter-offensive gained back the ground they’d lost. At the end of the
year the new Bolshevik regime in Russia began peace talks with the German government. But it was an uneasy truce and the wrangling over terms between the two countries continued. Early in 1918,
fortified by the release of divisions from the Eastern Front, the enemy delivered shattering blows to the allies, but then the tide began to turn against them and by the summer it was they who were
pushed back. It was the beginning of the end. In October, the allies broke through the Hindenburg Line and by November, to great rejoicing, the war was over.
The armistice was signed and every day now the soldiers were returning. But so many would never come home. And for thousands of single women, there would never be the hope of a husband and
children. Not only had one generation been obliterated, but their offspring would never now be born.
Isobel vowed she’d never marry again. She’d remain a widow and devote herself to bringing up the son and heir of the Smythe family. One day, Charlie would be Lord Smythe, inheriting
the title and the Dorset estate directly from his grandfather. Isobel vowed that he would be a worthy successor.
‘The Hon. Tim would be so proud of him,’ Florrie told her gently. ‘And isn’t he just the apple of Lady Lee’s eye?’
Isobel nodded. ‘Yes, his future’s secure, but what about you, Florrie? What are you going to do?’
The fight for the emancipation of women was virtually over too. In February 1918 the Representation of the People Act had received the royal assent, giving the vote to certain classes of
women.
‘But I
still
can’t vote,’ Florrie railed. ‘I don’t own land or buildings—’ She ticked off the requirements on her fingers. ‘I’m not
married to a man who’s a landowner and I haven’t got a university degree. And even then, I need to be over thirty.’
‘You could always get one or the other – certainly by the time you’re thirty,’ Isobel teased. ‘But, you know, I don’t think I qualify either. And I
don’t think I ever will now. I don’t think brothers as landowners count.’
Florrie hadn’t thought of that. She’d assumed the Hon. Tim had left something to his wife, but of course he hadn’t inherited the family estates before his death. His father was
still alive.
Florrie pondered Isobel’s question. She’d no idea where her future lay. In the sight of her family and friends, she too had a child to rear. But an illegitimate child. It was only
occasionally, however, that she felt the disgrace. Except for her father’s continued silent disapproval, everyone else treated her with kindness and understanding.
But how, she wondered, would Gervase greet her when he came home? She’d not seen him since that dreadful day, her last sight of him standing in the shadow of the tree in the cemetery at
Poperinghe.
He’d never written to her, not once, during the final two years of the war. He’d never acknowledged the apology she’d written, though he’d replied to Augusta’s
letter. Even two New Year’s Eves had passed without a word.
Nevertheless, Florrie was waiting on the platform when the train bringing him home drew into Lincoln station two days before Christmas Eve 1918. She saw him step down, leaning heavily on a
stick. She gasped. Gervase had been injured and she hadn’t known. He hadn’t told her. Perhaps he hadn’t told anyone, for Isobel had never mentioned it and she and Florrie were
often together, watching over their boys and planning their future.
Florrie moved towards him, uncharacteristically nervous. Her heart was beating faster. Lines of weariness and disillusionment were etched deeply into his face. She was almost up to him before he
noticed her and, in that brief moment before he recognized her, she saw the deep sadness in his eyes. She stood gazing at him, not moving towards him, unsure of her welcome.
And then he was holding out his arms and she was flying into them. ‘Gervase, Gervase, oh, thank God you’re safe.’ She drew back and looked up into his face, tears flooding down
her cheeks.
‘Oh, my dear girl, don’t cry. You never cry, Florrie. Whatever is it?’
‘Can you ever forgive me for the dreadful things I said to you?’
He frowned and seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘I don’t understand—’
‘When you came to help with – with James?’
For a moment his face was bleak as he relived that gruesome time. ‘Oh yes, that.’
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘That.’
He put his arm about her shoulders and they began to walk out of the station. ‘You were under the most appalling strain, my dear. Please don’t think any more about it.’