Women of Courage (25 page)

Jonathan was undoubtedly pleased to see her. He stood with his back to the dining room fire, waiting, alone in full evening dress. The beautiful cut of the black clothes suited him, making him more distinguished than ever. He had removed the plaster from his cheek and there were two red scratches there, nearly healed.

Deborah had put on a pale green satin evening gown, one of the few she had that made the best of her colouring, even when, as today, there were dark lines of weariness under her eyes.

‘Come in, Deborah. I know, it is late by you country standards but I think we both need our strength restored. Can I offer you a drink?’

‘Yes. A small sherry, please.’ The hovering butler brought it to her and she walked up to the fire and stood near him. The long polished table with its silver and candlesticks gleamed in front of them. There were only two places laid. She glanced at it and said: ‘If you think it is all right for us to drink after what Sarah is going through now . . . And what you said in Parliament this afternoon.’

Jonathan’s dark brown eyes watched her, twinkling, as the butler lit the candles. ‘I know, it seems callous. But remember what I told you. It was done for the best, although the ways of politics are not always straightforward. My words may even help Sarah, you know.’

‘Help her? How?’

‘By making it clear to McKenna that I, at least, do not support her senseless action. That might make it possible, in time, for him to exercise clemency on her behalf.’

‘In time?’

‘Yes. I am afraid there is nothing more either of us can do unless you want to go out yourself, and throw a stone now, to join her?’

Deborah shook her head, reprovingly, irritated by his flippant manner. ‘Don’t be silly, Johnny, that’s unkind. You know I don’t approve of the militants. But . . .’

‘But you wish she were here, and so do I. But if Sarah
were
here, you know, she would either ignore me, or give us both the most monstrous lecture, I’m afraid. And you and I would look at each other, and sigh, and think, how did it ever come to this?’

‘Perhaps.’ Deborah glanced, embarrassed, at the butler, who was waiting to serve the soup. Did Jonathan always talk in front of the servants like this?

‘It’s all right,’ he said, noticing her glance. ‘Reeves knows things in this house are not — quite as they should be. Both he and I have been engaged for some time in an attempt to make things appear normal when they are not — isn’t that right, Reeves?’

‘Indeed, sir.’ The butler avoided her eyes, discreetly, and Deborah thought, oh dear, Jonathan’s been drinking before I came down.

Throughout the soup and the fish and the main course, while the servants were present, she managed to steer him away from any discussion of Sarah. They talked of the possibilities of Asquith’s sending troops against the UVF — small, in Jonathan’s view; of his duties in the House and how he managed to combine them with his flourishing legal practice; of the fogs and the difficulties of getting around London; and the threat of war from Germany.

‘No one thinks it’s a joke, I assure you,’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s not at all that long since the First Lord, Churchill, sent out a twenty-page detailed memo to all the Cabinet and Chiefs of staff detailing a German landing in East Anglia. His idea was they would put ashore a fully equipped army corps able to march south and attack London, and thus prevent any embarcation of a British Expeditionary Force to the Continent in support of the French. Shook them all up, I can tell you. Especially when no one could satisfy him that sufficient measures could be taken to prevent it.’

Deborah smiled, and her disapproval of Jonathan began to fade away. She had always liked him when he was like this. It was the sort of conversation she missed, living with Charles in Glenfee, or managing alone for long periods when he was on service abroad. Perhaps Jonathan had been drinking a little but it had only loosened his tongue, and what was revealed was an intelligent, articulate man with his finger on the pulse of most of the important issues in the capital. A man who, one day — if Sarah had not ruined it now — might be in the Cabinet. A man who, unlike Charles, actually talked to her. Who appeared to care what she thought.

She began to relax, and forgive him for this afternoon.

After the meal they went into the library. It was a large, comfortable room with a blazing fire. Books lined the walls, there was a desk in each corner, card and chess tables near the windows, and two comfortable armchairs and a sofa. Thick, brown velvet curtains were drawn against the night, and the fire and a heavy wooden standard lamp by the mantlepiece provided the only illumination. It was curiously comforting, intimate.

Jonathan lit a cigar and offered her a glass of brandy. She smiled. It was a gesture Charles would never have made.

‘What I’d really like, if you don’t mind, is a cup of hot cocoa.’

‘But of course.’ He rang the bell for Reeves and shortly afterwards it came, in a bone china cup on a silver tray. Reeves bowed himself out and left them in peace.

‘That’s what I like about having my sister-in-law to stay,’ Jonathan said. ‘No need to be concerned with appearances.’

He drew on his cigar and looked at her, and she thought, this is what it might have been like if I’d married him, instead of Charles. What it was like for a short time with Rankin. Just a man and a woman in companionable friendship, either side of the fire. None of that awful tension, that loneliness I sense in Charles.

But I’m deceiving myself. Remember what Jonathan did to Sarah in the Commons this afternoon. Because she had broken the code, done what a woman should not. Would Jonathan talk to me at all, if I dared tell him what I have done?

I would be the lonely one then.

Jonathan blew a smoke ring and smiled. ‘Penny for them.’

‘What?’

‘Your thoughts. I’ve been sitting here watching you all withdrawn into yourself. Do you know you get a little crinkle in your brow just here when you think?’ He gestured to his forehead with his thumb. ‘What were you thinking?’

She sipped her cocoa thoughtfully, gazing into the rosy firelight. ‘Just memory. Wondering if we can bring back the past.’

‘Explain.’

She sighed. ‘Just that — what you wrote in your letters about Sarah doing something wild. Well, now she has done it. I heard what you said in the Commons, and I understand what you said about trying to please the Home Secretary, but . . . you’re angry with Sarah, aren’t you?’

‘Always the deep questions. Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Will you forgive her?’

There was a silence. Abruptly, he jabbed the cigar down into the ashtray, and stood up. He tapped his fist nervously against the mantelpiece. She waited.

‘I don’t know, Deborah. Truly I don’t. Of course it is the Christian thing to do, and I don’t want her in that damn prison, but . . . when I get her out, I don’t know. Things can go so far, sometimes, between a man and a wife, and then they reach a point — where it is very painful, Deborah.’

She sighed, and said: ‘I know, Johnny. I know that only too well.’

He looked down at her. ‘You too, then? I had guessed something of the sort from what you say in your letters. And what you don’t say. Things are not so well between you and Charles, either, are they?’

‘No.’

He sat down on a stool beside her and took her hand.

It was the comfort she wanted, that she had come all this way to get. She put down the cocoa and took his hand in hers, silently, and she thought, it is so sad, to marry with all that ceremony and commit your lives together and have it all go wrong. But, if there is no love, it is all wasted. Perhaps I should tell Jonathan what I have done now, and ask his advice.

But she dared not. Her dream had brought into her mind what she knew she had to do. Rankin was here in London somewhere; she had to find him. He is the only man I love, she thought, no matter what the law says, and it is his baby. When I find him and tell him I have come all this way, and why, he will take me in. Then I will write to Charles and explain. If I am very lucky, he’ll let me see Tom sometimes, and try to understand.

Jonathan said: ‘Sometimes I think I chose the wrong sister.’

‘What?’ It had been a thought that she had had too, long ago, but it was irrelevant now. Anyway, it was one thing to think such thoughts and entirely another to hear them said. She looked into Jonathan’s eyes and saw something she did not entirely like. She tried to withdraw her hand but he was stroking it, gently.

‘I don’t understand you, Jonathan.’

‘Don’t you? Oh come, my dear, I’m sure you do. When I married Sarah I was in love with her but I always knew . . . that you and I could be, well . . . friends, too. As has been proved over the years, in our correspondence. And things do not always work out as one expects, over the years. There are things that should be in every marriage which Sarah — does not like any more. And I am a man like other men, just as you are a beautiful woman . . .’

‘Jonathan, don’t!’ She snatched her hand away quite forcefully now, and stood up, not knowing quite where to go. She turned to face him. ‘Please, don’t talk to me like that. It’s not decent . . .’

‘No, of course it’s not. But we are grown people, you and I. I doubt if Charles values you as he should, and anyway he will never know.’ He took a step towards her, put his arms on her shoulders, with that charming, insincere smile.

‘No!’
She took two steps back, banged her knees against the arm of a chair, sat down, stood up again immediately, and walked towards the door like a flustered girl. ‘Please, Jonathan, stop it at once!’

‘I’m sorry.’ He hurried after her so that she had to turn and face him before she could reach the door. ‘I see I have frightened you and that is unforgiveable. Please . . .’ He stood before her, just blocking the easy way to the door, serious, polite, making no attempt to touch her any more. Again the charming smile ‘. . . forgive me, if you can. It is only that I have admired you for so long, and sometimes the life we are given can be so disappointing. I really did not mean to offend you. Take it as a compliment, if you can.’ He reached out a hand, tentatively, to touch her face. ‘Debbie? Are we friends?’

She put the hand away, softly, with her own. ‘I am very tired, Jonathan, and I have come a long way. Please let me go to bed now. In the morning I will try to forget everything that was said — and you would be wise to forget it too, if you can.’

‘If I can.’

He made no effort to prevent her going but instead stood by the door, watching her, as she climbed the stairs. When she got to her room she hunted about for a key to the door but there was none, so she thought about jamming a chair against the door then told herself she was being absurd. Hysterical. After all, the house was full of servants and there was a thick, blue bell-pull hanging next to the bedhead if she needed to summon anyone.

Which of course she would not.

He’s just a little drunk and upset because of what happened to Sarah and what he had to do in the Commons today. No gentleman would dare to break into my room in the night, surely? After all, I have stayed in this house dozens of times.

When Sarah was here . . .

Oh, poor Sarah! You tried to tell me that men could not be trusted when father died and I wouldn’t listen, I didn’t want to believe you. And now when you’re starving in prison your charming, handsome husband does this!

To me, your pregnant little sister.

Why did he choose me? Perhaps it is because I wanted more satisfaction from a man than any woman has a right to have, and actually dared to have it, too, with Rankin. Perhaps that’s changed me too, and this is what I’ll inspire in men from now on.

Or perhaps it’s something I inherited from Papa.

A while later she heard Jonathan’s footsteps go upstairs to his own room, with only the slightest pause outside her door. But long after that she lay awake, listening to the unfamiliar night sounds of the city, and thinking about Rankin, and his baby growing inside her.

And her sister, alone and starving in her cold stone cell.

13

F
OOTSTEPS IN the corridor. The jangle of keys. Sarah shrank back into the furthest corner of her cell, her knees hunched up to her chin. Was there the sound of wheels, the rattle of the trolley? Surely it wasn’t the right time! They weren’t varying the time, were they?

Perhaps the young doctor had to go off duty early to visit the theatre. So he would force-feed his patients earlier,
oh please God let it not be that not now it’s too early in the day I’m not ready I . . .

The door crashed open. A wardress came in and a man. Not the young doctor. An older man not in a white coat. This man was big, burly, in a respectable suit. His bulk filled the doorway. A heavy, fleshy man, with a solid, portentous face, heavy jowls, slightly receding brown wavy hair, cold grey piercing eyes.

There was no trolley behind him.
Thank God!

The man watched her, mocking, eyebrows raised. Thick sensual lips slightly redder than most men’s, smiling. Look at me, woman, I am important, his pose said. He stood just inside the doorway, posed, pompous, watching for the effect of his presence.

She looked and thought,
oh my God I know him!

Martin Armstrong.

The man she had last seen striding briskly away from his consulting rooms in Kensington. Her husband’s pimp.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice a whisper, faint, like an old lady’s. His flesh, all that pompous self-assured bulk of it, made her squirm. The smile, his teeth between the thick lips, was worse. As though she could not fail to be delighted to see him.

He said: ‘I should ask
you
that, perhaps, if it were not in all the newspapers. But I have an appointment as Assistant Medical Officer to this prison, and when the Senior Medical Officer is away on holiday as he is now I replace him entirely. Didn’t you know?’

‘Know? Of course not, how should I?’

‘I thought perhaps your husband might have said.’ The smile was still there, enjoying her discomfiture. A hand — thick spatulate fingers — strayed to his waistcoat pocket, unconsciously patting his belly.