The Lorimer Line (50 page)

‘Are you eating properly?' asked Lydia.

‘I have no appetite.'

‘And sleeping?'

‘How can I sleep when I am so unhappy?' Margaret
found herself yet again on the brink of tears. She saw Lydia signal to Ralph, who without hesitation picked up his sister and carried her up to her bedroom. Lydia followed, shooing him out of the room as soon as he had laid Margaret down on her bed.

‘How far are you?' she asked.

‘Seven months.'

‘Then you are being very foolish,' said Lydia. She spoke sternly, but held Margaret's hand as she did so. ‘You know the risk to a baby at precisely this time. I've no doubt all your friends have advised you to rest, and you have brushed aside their advice. But I am speaking as your doctor, and I am
ordering
you to rest. You are to stay in bed for the next two weeks and you are to eat whatever I send up. For the sake of the baby's health, if you have no regard for your own. Who is looking after the practice?'

‘No one,' said Margaret.

‘Then who is going to deliver your child?'

‘I don't know. I don't care.'

‘You deserve to have your face slapped for speaking in such a way,' said Lydia briskly. ‘Well, it doesn't matter. For the next three months I am the village doctor. And yours.'

‘You can't spend your holiday working.'

‘I'm only happy when I'm working,' said Lydia. ‘Ralph may travel round and visit his bachelor friends if he wishes. I shall be content to stay here, and no place could be healthier for the children. May I ask Betty to find me a girl from the village who will care for them?'

‘Of course.' Margaret managed to smile, in spite of her swimming head. ‘You are very good to me, Lydia.'

Lydia kissed her affectionately. ‘I know you would do the same for me,' she said. ‘I am going to produce the most beautiful baby for you, and I shall be so proud of him that you will hardly be allowed to remember that you arc his mother. I shall expect you to obey my orders. There is nothing I can do to console you in your distress at Charles's
death, I know, but you have made yourself ill, and your body must be restored to strength before you can hope to regain your full courage.'

Courage. It was a curious word for Lydia to choose, Margaret thought as, later that evening, warmed by a fire in her bedroom and a drink of hot milk, she began at last to drift towards sleep. Perhaps her friend had been referring only to the pains of childbirth. But it was equally true that courage was needed simply to accept the prospect of a future in which Charles could play no part, to take charge of her own life. The choice which William had presented to her earlier that day would have to be made sooner or later, but for the moment she was content to relax in her friend's care. Earlier, she had been frightened by the feeling that her distracted mind was causing the collapse of her body. It came as a wonderful relief to be told that it was the weakness of the body which was more probably causing the confusion of her mind. She pushed away the decisions which must soon be made, and slept.

The days and weeks passed gently, uneventfully. As soon as Lydia allowed her to come down from her bed to a sofa, Margaret found herself able to enjoy Alexa's playing and singing without any of the anguish it had caused her earlier. Lydia's reports of her reception in the village were amusing; but could not all be regarded as a joke. Margaret pressed for more details as time passed, and gradually came to satisfy herself that Lydia's brisk efficiency was having an effect. By the time Margaret herself was ready to take over, the first shock of seeing a woman doctor would have faded; it might not yet seem a normal thing to the villagers, but at least it could no longer be regarded as an impossibility.

In the early hours of the first day of June Margaret was awakened by the sudden onset of her labour pains. She lay for a little while without moving, knowing from her experience as a doctor that there was plenty of time. But between the contractions she felt the need to move about,
changing her position; and soon, restless, she got out of bed and wrapped herself warmly. Lydia would not mind being awakened too soon, and the time would pass more easily if they could talk.

On the way, she paused to open each door in turn, illuminating the rooms briefly with her candle. Alexa was asleep in the first room, her beautiful hair covering the white pillow with reddish gold. Behind the next door, the nursery was waiting for its future occupant. What sort of life would he have, this new person who was now demanding to be born?

As she asked herself the question, she knew that she was ready to find the answer. The very violence of the pains that jerked her into rigidity at steady intervals carried a curious reassurance. They told her that her body had recovered, and so her mind could once again be expected to perform rationally. In a few hours she would no doubt be tired again, needing to rest and recover for a second time. This was the moment when she should consider again the choice which William had put to her.

Her instincts had not changed. To return to Brinsley House would be an act of cowardice. But was the alternative realistic? Would she be able, alone, to launch Alexa into the world and bring up a child from babyhood?

Any father must sometimes ask himself the same question, she supposed, although with less choice in the answer. Were men ever frightened at the thought of the responsibilities to which they were committed? The question reminded her of her own father. She closed the door of the nursery which would not be empty for very much longer, and went into the little room where the quarrel with Charles had begun.

The portrait of John Junius Lorimer was still propped with its face to the wall. She bent down to lift and turn it, but it was heavier than she had expected. As she strained at the weight, her body was gripped by a pain so much greater than any which had come before that for a moment
she could not move. When at last her muscles relaxed, allowing her to straighten herself, she knew that there was no more time to be wasted. ‘Lydia!' she called. ‘Lydia!'

Four hours later, Margaret looked at her son for the first time and wept. She wept for the baby who would never have a father; and for Charles, who would have loved this little boy. Lydia, understanding, made no attempt either to tease or console her, but took the newly-born child away again to be washed and wrapped. By the time she came back with the tiny white bundle, Margaret had sobbed her grief under control and was waiting, exhausted but calm, to take the baby into her arms.

He was a Lorimer, not a Scott. Though he would be christened Robert Charles Scott, there was no sign of Charles's grave solidity in the mobile face and the tiny, threshing fists which seemed already to be exploring the new world in which he found himself. He was a small baby, as Margaret had been, and his downy hair was bright red.

Margaret lay for a little while without moving, happy in her exhaustion. Beside her, Robert whimpered, and his lips sucked at the air. As she put him to her breast for the first time, she was amazed at the sudden flood of love which filled her heart. Although her body was so tired that she hardly had the strength to lift an arm, she felt strong and protective - and, at the same time, serious. She was responsible for Robert, and it was time to make the decision which would determine the course of his life. She asked Lydia if the portrait of John Junius could be brought into the room, and within a few moments it had been propped up on a chair so that she could see it without lifting her head. She stared across the room at her father's face as the baby sucked for a little while and then fell asleep with his head pillowed on her breast.

As though it were yesterday, she remembered when she had first seen the portrait, because it was the day on which she first met David Gregson - a day which had seemed to
bring her happiness but which had proved to be the start of a chapter of disasters. How much of what was to happen had John Junius anticipated? she wondered. His greenish eyes seemed to pierce their way out of the portrait from beneath an untroubled brow: his mouth was firm with confidence. If his anxieties had already begun at the time of the sittings, he had taken care to give the artist no hint of them.

His memory offered no guidance to his daughter, who had loved him so deeply while he lived and had suffered so much from his actions since he died. As far as women were concerned, he had been a man of his time. Women, in his eyes, were intended by nature to be dependent creatures. He cherished his wife as a possession even when he no longer cared for her in any other way; and he would have taken it for granted that his daughter should stay at home until she married - for the whole of her life if no husband could be found. There could be no doubt that he would wholly have approved the way in which William assumed that a widowed sister should return to Brinsley House.

It seemed that there was no help to be found there - and yet, as she gazed at the likeness, Margaret felt her blood stir: it was, after all, Lorimer blood. Brinsley Lorimer had set sail across the ocean with no fear of the storms he would face when he was far from land. John Junius Lorimer had faced the even stormier seas of finance and industry with an equal courage. He had been defeated in the end, but the earlier years of his career had been full of risk and resolution. All the Lorimers had been adventurers at heart, and Margaret herself had shown the same spirit of adventure fifteen years earlier when she broke away from the conventions of her society and resolved to make herself independent. What was independence worth if she could relinquish it whenever a difficulty arose? Of what value was a burst of initiative if it faded at the first setback? If Brinsley Lorimer's first ship had sunk beneath him he
would have built himself another, and she could do the same. All that she needed was courage.

‘Have I enough?' she asked aloud, still staring at the portrait, and found her answer in the solid, autocratic face of a man who had always claimed the right to control his own life, even to choosing the moment of his death. He had brought her up in the prosperous and comfortable style which he thought that a Lorimer deserved, and that style had been snatched away from her even before his death. He had left her a legacy of deceit and confusion, robbing her in turn of the only two men she had ever loved and bringing this part of her life to as final a conclusion as the other. One thing remained, something which could never be taken away. She was a Lorimer, and from this man she had inherited the Lorimer spirit, a compound of intelligence and application and flair with, above all, the willingness to take a risk. Yes, she had enough courage.

Newly awake, Alexa appeared in the doorway, still wearing her white nightgown. Her long hair, a more golden shade of red than the baby's, streamed unbrushed over her shoulders; her eyes were bright with excitement.

‘May I hold him?'

‘Of course.'

They made a pretty picture: the beautiful young girl looking down at the sleeping child. In a gesture copied from John Junius himself, Margaret gave a quick nod towards the portrait. It signified that a decision had been taken, the matter under consideration was settled. William had given her the strength that came from opposition, and Lydia the strength of example; but from Robert she took the even greater strength of love. In the past she had accepted support from a father, brother, husband. That period was over. This was not the first time in her life that she had resolved to be independent, but it was the most important, because there were more lives than her own at stake. Exhausted though she was, she felt her body flooding with joy and excitement. By her own efforts she would
provide support for Alexa and baby Robert, the daughter and grandson of John Junius Lorimer. As her eyes at last closed in weariness, she made herself a promise. She would not fail them.

To
Jeremy,
Jocelyn,
and Jonathan

This electronic edition published in July 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

Copyright © William Heinemann Ltd 1977

The Moral rights of this author have been asserted.

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ISBN: 9781448203284
eISBN: 9781448202959

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