The Soldier's Bride (14 page)

‘I know what yer up to,’ he’d rumbled. ‘Yer goin’ ter let ’im ’ave yer. You’re dirty. You’re disgusting. If yer go, I don’t want nothing more ter to do with yer. You ’ear?’

It was bluff. And it wasn’t going to alter a thing. She was twenty-two, a grown woman. She’d do as she pleased.

Today in fact was her twenty-second birthday, a day as hot as any she could remember. It had perhaps been a mistake to have gone for such a long walk but they’d been here for three days and, other than visit the Pavilion and wander along one of the two piers, had done little so far but sit around, engrossed in each other all day.

They’d booked separate rooms of course. It wouldn’t
have been right otherwise. She hadn’t enough face to pretend to the hotel manager that they were man and wife, though David being that much older than her would have carried it off, she didn’t doubt. But doors had never been a barrier to people in love, and for the first time Letty knew the true pleasure of being gently coaxed to responding to a man’s touch, so gently that she wondered what she had been afraid of all these years, except of course that it was supposed to be wrong, and nice girls didn’t. And what would Dad say if he knew? He knew all right – had guessed what would happen, hadn’t he? It was that which might have ruined everything made it sinful, but she couldn’t help herself, it struck her as so entirely natural to give and be loved, and David was so considerate, that she felt entirely safe with him.

At twenty-two she was a mature woman but it was he who made her feel that more than any birthday. And now she felt as good as married, could hold her head up and say ‘David loves me, he’ll never leave me’. All that was needed was the blessing of a church wedding. Perhaps not all, for what she needed most was what she most feared she’d not get – Dad’s blessings.

‘We’ve seen nothing of the town yet,’ she’d said as they emerged at last from their secluded world of the last two days. Her hand in his, they wandered through the charming maze of narrow streets, laughing when they got lost, having to ask directions of other visitors as lost as they, in the end seeking out a local with that look on her face of being sick of redirecting idiots from London.

Back on the promenade again, on the farthest outskirts
of the town, faced with a long walk back to the hotel, they’d gone down on to the beach where David had collapsed gratefully on to the heavy shingle. As Letty threw herself on top of him, he yelped in brief pain, a flint as big as a boulder digging into the small of his back.

‘That’s it – kill me!’ Grabbing her, he rolled with her, laughing, she squeaking in mock alarm; rolled until he was on top of her.

The beach here was deserted. No one had any idea of walking this far in the heat when there was more than enough fun to be had around the twin piers, the ice-cream vendors, the tea kiosks, the shops. The only figure to be seen was a fisherman bent over some lobster pots further along. Here was silence except for the surf flopping lazily on to the sloping shingle to suck the countless tiny stones hungrily back with a wet hollow rustling. Otherwise, the quiet was as near to tangible as it could possibly be, brushing Letty’s face with an amorphous touch as the air wafted the salty tang of seaweed up from the water’s edge.

She and David lay where they had come to a stop. His weight on her, he looking down into her eyes, his own a dark limpid brown, the laughter on both their lips dying simultaneously.

‘I love you, Letitia,’ she heard him say, breath hissing between his teeth.

Her hands behind his neck, she pulled him down to her, his lips pressing against hers in long gentle kisses. Suddenly lacking gentleness they began to explore her, fingers trembling as they unfastened each button of her blouse and bodice. Her breasts exposed momentarily to the hot
sun, his lips shielded them and she could feel the heat of his tongue, heard her own voice begging, urging, ‘Oh, yes, David!’

Awareness of the fisherman about his business, unsuspecting of the lovers further along the beach, any minute to stand up and observe by accident, gave a fine-edged pleasure to the risk, the danger of being seen. To be made love to in such a way on a deserted beach, to be frantically unclothed enough for David to find her, was something she had never ever dreamed of. Her body eager to be taken by him, careless of the consequences yet frightened, she welcomed him.

Some strange and wonderful tingle had leapt inside her, at once alarming and overwhelming. Yet he had not abused her trust in him, had left her safe. She knew it instinctively as, empty of thoughts, she lay gazing up in lingering contentment at the azure sky above.

Propped on one elbow, he gazed down at her. ‘Marry me, Letitia.’

It was her birthday and she was twenty-two. She’d passed her twenty-first birthday as she’d passed all her others since Mum had died, with hardly anyone noticing it, except David who had taken her up West to a dinner and flowers and even a bottle of champagne, something she’d never tasted before and had found not as exciting as it was made out to be, apart from making her feel very expensive.

Had Mum been alive, she’d have organised a birthday party for Letty’s twenty-first somehow. But Dad had been too wrapped up in himself to think about things like that, and Letty felt she could hardly organise it for herself. Twenty-first birthday parties were always arranged by
someone else or it wouldn’t be the same, and she had rather let it go unsung than draw it to others’ attention that she’d had to do the whole thing herself.

David, however, had made it memorable. He had bought her a most beautiful gold locket and a tortoiseshell jewellery box inlaid with mother of pearl. They had gone to a studio to have their photos taken to put inside the locket. This year he had taken her away on holiday, brooking no refusal from her and no argument from Dad, had treated her like a lady, the Grand Hotel and everything. And he had loved her.

Four years he’d been with her. Sometimes she wondered where those years had gone to. All through it he had remained loyal and patient. And now as he reclined beside her, propping himself up on an elbow to gaze down at her, he asked suddenly: ‘Marry me, Letitia.’

It had been so long since he’d spoken to her of marriage, resigned to the state of things, that it startled her. Her spirits plunged instantly, knowing how it would end, as it always ended when he spoke of marriage, knowing what she would say. She said it now, hating it.

‘David … I don’t know. I know I should be saying yes, but …’

‘But there’s your father to think about,’ he finished for her, she thought caustically, but he kissed her lightly before getting to his feet to brush bits of dried sea-weed from his trousers. Squinting against its reflection off the sea, he glanced toward the sun.

‘Time’s getting on. We’ve got quite a step to go back to town.’

It was as though nothing at all had been said; that this automatic acceptance of what her answer would be was more of a ritual. They might not have made love for all the difference it had made.

Letty said nothing, got up from the shingle, copied his actions in brushing herself down, replied simply, ‘Yes, we must get going.’

They didn’t talk much on the way back to the hotel, ate lunch in virtual silence, a few staccato observations perhaps; spent the afternoon quietly in the sun lounge, dined, took a stroll before retiring. David did not come to her room that evening, nor the next.

The remainder of the holiday was spent as friends might spend it: casually. When they returned home, he kissed her goodbye, casually, said how he had enjoyed their time together. There was a sense of hearing it as from a mere acquaintance.

Strangely fearful, she asked, ‘I’ll see you on Sunday?’

‘Not this Sunday,’ she was told. ‘I’ll be a bit busy stocktaking.’

She was disappointed. No, not disappointed – alarmed. ‘I’ll see you the Sunday after, David?’ she questioned.

‘Of course.’ His tone was brightly brittle, unconvincing, and she wasn’t at all surprised to receive a note saying he couldn’t make it. He did visit from time to time, of course. But something had changed.

The last day of 1912 Lucy had her second baby, a girl, and Jack got his first automobile, a Ford Model T.

Lucy was thrilled with the Model T, but not quite so
much with having produced another daughter. After a miscarriage the previous year, she had been doubly hoping for a boy.

‘I really thought we’d have one this time,’ she lamented, as she recovered finally from the trauma of the birth enough to comment on the sex of her new baby. ‘All the suffering I’ve been through and all.’

‘Well, I’m pleased.’ Jack’s bony face was rapturous as he beheld his second daughter, after Lucy, worn out from the twenty-eight hour ordeal, had been propped up by his mother and grandmother in order to make her appear as though she’d merely suffered a minor headache.

‘I think she’s perfectly beautiful,’ he cooed. ‘Worth all the trouble you’ve had. Don’t you think, sweetheart?’

‘If you’d gone through what I have, you wouldn’t be saying that so happily, Jack Morecross. If you only knew what it’s like to be a woman.’

Her face still dreadfully drawn, she lay in their big double bed, gazing dull-eyed and lethargic around the spacious master bedroom. Winter sunlight filtered weakly in through the large bay window that looked down on to the tree-lined avenue of similar bay-windowed, terraced houses. Beyond could be seen fields rising to Chingford Mount, all clean and bare until the new shoots of corn clothed them green again in the spring.

‘And to find it’s another girl, after all that effort. Oh, Jack, after all that suffering. It’s not fair! And Vinny with them two boys she’s always cooing over. And I bet all the tea in China that third one she’s carrying will be a boy too.’

‘We won’t know until it’s born, sweetheart.’ Jack looked
to his mother for support against Lucy’s lamentations. She tilted her head in gentle sympathy while his grandmother clucked her tongue and looked at the wan thing lying in bed with the child in her arms. The old woman’s tone was sharp when she spoke.

‘You ought at least be thankful for the good fortune you have. A successful delivery, two healthy children now, a good husband, a nice and secure home.’ Only with obvious effort did she refrain from remarking further on how that nice and secure home had been given to the couple by herself and her husband, and Lucy ought at least sometimes show gratitude for her generosity.

All she achieved was to produce fresh tears from the new mother, weakened by the birth, especially when Jack, without thinking as deeply as he should what he was saying, added: ‘Perhaps next time it’ll be a boy.’

The worst thing to have said to any woman just gone through the pangs of giving birth! Even worse with Lucy.

‘Next time?’ she echoed, wide blue-grey eyes swimming. ‘Is that all you can think about? Don’t you care about
me
? Don’t you care one bit what I’ve gone through to bring your children into the world? As far as I’m concerned, I don’t want any next time, going through all this again.’

There was another stern outburst of tutting from the most senior Mrs Morecross. ‘Enough of that, Lucilla. That’s what we women are here for. To bring forth children as the Good Book decrees. We must grit our teeth and do our duty.’

Chastened, Lucy tightened her lips. ‘I’ve
done
my duty.’

‘Two daughters? No, my lady, I don’t think you have. I brought thirteen children into this world, eight of them boys. I am proud of my achievement, and after you’ve had a few sons so will you be. Now sit up and try to make yourself look cheerful for your husband’s sake.’

Lucy felt anything but cheerful. Relieved that it was all over perhaps. But cheerful … There was Vinny with two boys to her credit and another on the way. If that did turn out to be a girl, she’d still have nothing to squawk about. But herself, she hadn’t even got off the starting line yet.

‘My mum had three girls on the trot,’ she said in a small voice, as if half afraid her grandmother-in-law would hear.

Jack was feasting his earnest blue eyes on his newest daughter. ‘She’s perfectly lovely,’ he repeated, yet again. ‘What shall we call her?’

‘Makes me sick,’ Lucy mumbled against the tightly swaddled baby, deaf to Jack. ‘The way Vinny purrs over them two boys of hers. As if she’s the only one ever to have had boys. I’ll be like my mum and have all girls, no matter how many I have.’

‘What foolish talk!’ admonished Mrs Morecross the elder. ‘Jack told me that your mother had several boys.’

‘Three,’ Lucy dared to correct her. ‘One stillborn. The other two died when they were little.’

‘But she had them. Jack’s mother had four sons. Two still living. So rest assured, you will have
some
sons out of those children you will bring into the world.’

Lucy felt it prudent to say no more, but it didn’t stop thoughts running through her head. And those thoughts
decreed that it would be a long while before she allowed herself to be subjected to the pain she had experienced in these last twenty-eight hours.

In such low spirits, her health took its time returning. It wasn’t until April she found enough strength to take her first ride in Jack’s pride and joy, his Model T.

With the children, they came in it to see Letty and Dad.

‘Must be doin’ well,’ was Arthur Bancroft’s first comment when he and Letty went down to view it.

Letty could share his sour sentiment, uncharitably suspecting that the visit was as much to show off the new motorcar and how well they were doing, as to show off their new baby.

‘It was a snip, really,’ Jack said proudly.

Driving coat and cap swamping his spare frame, he stood beside the vehicle, one gauntleted hand smoothing the shiny brown paintwork.

‘Chap buying it changed his mind so the showroom let it go cheaper than I expected. Been thinking about getting one for a long time. It wasn’t hard to learn to drive it. Just good co-ordination really.’

In the passenger seat, her hat well secured by a muslin veil, Lucy hugged baby Emmeline. She’d named her after Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst who also had two daughters and whom Lucy admired greatly. But if she admired from afar, being too taken up by matrimony and motherhood to be more active in women’s suffrage, she could at least practise it on Jack. A perfect lamp, he hadn’t touched her in bed at all since the birth of Emmeline.