Another Kind of Life (26 page)

Hannah sat at her dressing table now while her mother pinned up her hair. She was vain enough to like what she saw. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks naturally coloured. Her wedding-gown would be
much more modest, of course, but for now, the smooth petticoat over the boned corset exaggerated the curve of her breasts above her pinched waist. And Mama had always said she had lovely shoulders
– smooth and white. She had been right to lace her so tightly, too – the restrictions of her corset made Hannah sit tall, made her appear much more elegant and self-assured than she
felt. The older woman looked over her daughter’s shoulder now, and both faces were reflected together, warmed by the bright morning light. Her mother’s eyes were shining.

‘You look beautiful, my dear.’

Hannah was surprised at the sudden wistfulness of her tone. She said nothing. Perhaps they would speak of it later. Lily brought the wedding-gown to them then, carefully draped in soft, white
muslin. Sophia hooked all the buttons closed while Lily ran a critical eye over the set of the sleeves, the fall of the skirt, the perfect line of the intricately embroidered cuffs. At one stage
she knelt, fixing some invisible imperfection at the hemline. Her employer had just left the room.

Lily looked up. She looked shy, awkward. She held something in her hand, raising her palm towards Hannah. It was a tiny silver brooch.

‘It belonged to my mother, Miss Hannah. You know, somethin’ old, somethin’ new, somethin’ borrowed, somethin’ blue – well, have this here as your
somethin’ borrowed. I’ll pin it here, just on the hemline – no one’ll see it.’

She averted her face quickly, but Hannah could see the burn of embarrassment flush its way up her neck to the hairline. Lily turned up the end of the heavy gown and pinned the little brooch
neatly on the folded fabric of the hem. Hannah felt the tears spring to her eyes.

‘Thank you, Lily. I’ll be very careful of it.’

‘Sure I know you will, miss. And I wish you every happiness.’

That was all she had time for. Sophia returned with some small bottles and jars.

‘A little powder,’ she said, ‘and a tiny smudge of rouge on your lips. Now. You’re ready.’

I’m dressed, Hannah thought, but I don’t know if I can call myself ready. She felt suddenly assailed by the doubts and fears which had been crowding around her for the last several
weeks. She was afraid that her first romantic, tender feelings towards Charles were beginning to wither. She had tried desperately to nurture them, but it was weeks now since she and he had met
properly, and his letters recently had seemed dry, dutiful rather than affectionate. Hannah began to feel real fear. If he didn’t even try to care for her, then she had no chance. The only
hope of survival she had was if they could learn to love one another. She hadn’t wanted to marry at all; but if she must, then at least let her marriage be something other than the harsh,
arid place inhabited by her mother and father.

Hannah gathered up her heavy skirts and followed her mother’s careful footsteps down the stairs. She moved with difficulty: her heart had begun to thump and it was impossible to draw long,
clean breaths. May and Eleanor were waiting for her – everyone was waiting. She had wild, sudden notions of fleeing from her parents’ house, or hurling herself over the banisters to
make good her escape.

But she would do none of those things. She knew that. She would carry on as expected throughout the day; she would be charming and grateful, modest and gracious. And she would be married: there
was no escaping that.

Charles had left her alone in the hotel room. He had begged her permission to smoke a cigar before retiring, and had left quietly, almost discreetly. Hannah supposed she should
be grateful for his delicacy, but the truth was, she felt too nervous to be left alone. The Shelbourne suite was luxurious, certainly, but none the more inviting for that. Now that the day was
over, Hannah felt curiously stale and flat. She longed for another glass of champagne: she wanted to feel the fizz and bubble she had enjoyed after the church ceremony, once everybody was together
again at the hotel. It was a delightful feeling, drinking champagne and being the centre of attention. She knew she had looked lovely: everyone told her so. Charles’s admiring glances
throughout the afternoon had made her face colour more than once. She regretted that it had all passed her by so quickly.

She unpinned her hair and let it fall heavily around her shoulders. Her head felt sore and tired: it had become an effort to stand so upright for so long. Sitting had been no relief either: she
had eaten little, the pressure on her ribcage growing more intense as the wedding reception drew towards evening. At one stage she had felt faint, and Mama had had to rub her wrists together
surreptitiously. A discreet whiff of sal volatile made her feel alert again, capable of seeing through the final few hours.

Now she needed to escape from her clothing but she didn’t know where to start. There were hundreds of buttons, it seemed, all down the back of her dress. She began to feel sorry for having
sent Lily away – what had she been thinking of? She couldn’t even begin to undress herself. Nor could she sit in any comfort: she felt as though her whole upper body was caught in a
vice. She was powerless, stupid and powerless. She thought of May and Eleanor, of their still uncomplicated lives in the safe familiarity of their own bedrooms. She started to cry; she
couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stem the tears which welled and fell without her wanting them.

‘Let me help you, my dear.’

Hannah hadn’t even heard Charles re-enter the room. She started, whirled around to face him, her cheeks streaked with tears.

‘Oh, no – you can’t – you mustn’t!’

Hannah was horrified. Mama had told her urgently, more than once, how her husband would expect, would want, a shy and modest bride: she must be led by him, must not be forward in word or deed.
If she were anything other than demure, then all could be lost.

‘Nonsense, my dear – I’m your husband.’

She could smell the cigar-smoke on his moustache, and something else, something more pungent. Whiskey. She searched his face. She wanted to ask him, but struggled against her instinct, mindful
of her mother’s advice. But then, Mama need never know, no one need ever know anything that passed between them now. If she didn’t ask, if she played her role as the shy and modest
bride, then perhaps she would never really know him. She struggled to find the words. The silence between them had become almost painful.

‘Have you – you’re older – I mean . . .’

He smiled at her.

‘Yes, my dear, I’ve done this before.’

He stood back a little from her, not touching her. His expression was grave, but the ever-present humour seemed to hover just beneath the surface.

‘Do I shock you?’

Hannah shook her head. Perhaps shock was part of the overwhelming feeling she was trying to grapple with, but much more potent was the sense of relief that flooded her, drowning out fear,
apprehension and all the exhaustions of the day. She hadn’t wanted both of them to struggle on in silent, mutual incomprehension. Despite Mama’s earlier promise that married love could
become ‘rather wonderful’, she had hinted darkly over the last few weeks about the unnamed physical difficulties, fears and embarrassments that beset many a wedding night. Hannah
hadn’t wanted to listen, felt keenly her mother’s intrusion into part of her life which she now wanted to keep private. She was no longer a child: her parents had seen to that. She
wanted to claim her adulthood, to move away from Mama’s incessant murmurings of what was right and proper, acceptable or shameful. And now here was Charles, expecting her to be shocked. She
had the feeling that a great deal depended on her answer.

‘No!’ she blurted. ‘I’m not shocked – just glad one of us knows what to do!’

The air in the room seemed to clear, and she had the sense of a bright, open space between them.

He smiled then and pulled her to him gently.

‘Hannah, Hannah, Hannah – I care about you a good deal. Do you think you will learn to care for me?’

He was still holding her, and it was easier that way, easier not to have to look at him. His voice was tender, a little mocking, but she knew he was serious.

She nodded, her eyes filling with unaccountable tears.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I should like to.’

He released her then, holding on to both her hands. His eyes were kindly.

‘Good. Then all the rest is easy. Let me help you with your dress, at least – then I’ll leave you if you wish. God’s truth, I don’t know how you can breathe in that
contraption.’

He was grinning at her now, his face reflected in the mirror in front of them. His expression was boyish again, just as it had been on that momentous, fiercely ordinary day in his mother’s
garden.

He began to unbutton her dress, swearing softly every now and again, making her laugh, letting her cover her embarrassment at being undressed by a man – even a man who, astonishingly,
seemed to be her husband.

‘Bloody end to them – who dreams up buttons like these?’

Finally, she was free. He loosened the last stay of her corset and turned her around to face him.

‘Now, my dear, you may continue in my absence, or wait for my return if you wish. It’s up to you.’

Hannah was immediately alarmed.

‘Why? Where are you going?’

His voice dropped to a whisper, mock conspiratorial.

‘To acquire us a bottle of champagne. I believe we’ve both just had a fairly trying day. You must promise never, never, to tell anyone – my reputation as a gentleman would be
ruined.’

He gazed at her sternly.

‘Go on, then. Promise.’

His expression made her giggle.

‘I promise. But where will you go?’

‘A lady must never ask.’

He leaned towards her and his lips brushed the top of her shoulder. And then he was gone. Whether it was the relief of being able to breathe again, or the sensation of a sudden and affectionate
ease between them, Hannah couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she felt absurdly light and free. Perhaps the beginnings of the tenderness she had felt towards him were not such delicate
plants, after all. She would not scurry into her nightgown, waiting for him passively under cover of darkness. Her shoulder tingled where he had kissed her. She would wait, she would be daring and
allow her husband to finish undressing her. His kindness, his humour had made her feel warm and expansive – she wanted to be light-hearted, to laugh with him, to wash away the strain of Mama,
of Papa, of the last few weeks. She would trust him.

I
T
DIDN’T TAKE
the children long to get used to her. They had been shy that first morning, not looking at her directly,
keeping their eyes on their books. She’d liked the way they said her name: ‘Mamzelle May’ sounded much more exotic than she felt.

The previous night had been almost sleepless: she’d been too tired and strained after the long journey, her head full of restless dreams. When May had first learned of the country home
where she would spend her first four months in France, her imagination had supplied a house something like the one to which Grandfather Delaney had taken them all, years ago – near Rosses
Point in Sligo. She remembered an early Victorian two-storey house, with four bedrooms, draughty windows and a vast range in the kitchen, beside which all the neighbourhood cats made themselves
welcome. Although it was summer, they’d kept the range lit all through the grey, rain-filled fortnight: the tiles on the kitchen floor were the only warm place in the whole, chilly house.

Nothing could have prepared May for the sight of the carved, vaulted front door which brought the carriage to a sudden halt. She kept waiting for the journey to continue – surely
they’d just stopped for a moment outside a church, or a castle; this couldn’t possibly be someone’s
home
. Then the carriage door was opened for her, and unseen hands
flipped down the two small steps and helped her on to the shining gravel. In the moonlight, the building before her looked austere, somewhat forbidding. She adopted her mother’s no-nonsense
tone inside her head as she chided herself for her silly notions, exhorting herself to be her age.

A tall, dark-haired woman was standing just inside the portico. Her stance reminded May of Mama, the way she used to clasp her hands before singing one of her favourite arias. The gold
jewellery, the arrangement of her hair, the fall of her elegant silk gown, all proclaimed her identity. This had to be Madame Ondart. She seemed to shimmer in the light and shade cast by the gas
lamp. May felt very plain and gauche by comparison and stumbled in her nervousness as she made her way up the steps to the main door. The woman did not move towards her, nor did she extend a hand
in greeting. She simply waited until May reached her.

‘
Bonsoir, Madame
,’ May managed. ‘
Je suis May O’Connor.
’

‘
Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes bienvenue.
’

The woman’s tentative smile seemed to fade as May came fully into view under the pale, single light. May was conscious that she was being scrutinized, measured up. She began to feel very
uncomfortable. Wasn’t this woman behaving very rudely?

‘I’m sure you are tired after your long journey. Isabelle will show you to your room. I shall see you at breakfast. Goodnight, Mademoiselle.’

‘Goodnight, Madame.’

And that was it. Madame swept off down the corridor, perhaps hurrying back to more interesting company. May could hear voices and laughter in the distance, a sudden burst of conversation as a
door was opened; then silence. Isabelle, middle-aged and smart, led May to a room at the top of a long flight of stairs, and then left her at once, inclining her head finally as a silent
acknowledgement of May’s existence.

Numbly, May undressed and lay down on the bed, too exhausted even to take in her surroundings. She blew out the candle that had been left on a small, solid-looking table, and closed her eyes
gratefully. But sleep eluded her; she felt uneasy, alert to all the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the house settling around her. Finally, she fell into an exhausted doze just as dawn was
breaking, the sky streaked with pink and grey brushstrokes, just visible outside her window. The knock on her door at seven startled her: it took her a moment to remember where she was. A maid
entered, bringing hot water. She curtsied hurriedly and left. The silence of her departure filled May with sudden misgiving. A great wave of homesickness left her breathless in its wake. It was all
beginning to feel like too much. She already missed the warmth of Hannah’s embrace, the quiet seriousness of Ellie’s blue gaze. And she certainly did not feel that anyone had made any
particular effort to make her feel welcome last night.