The Captain's Daughter (34 page)

For months after Roddy left, Celeste was inconsolable, unable to function, lost in her own despair. May began to wonder if she would end up in hospital, as May herself had done. Their whole world had been turned upside down and now May was in charge of running the household, making all the mundane decisions, writing lists and giving orders, while Celeste drifted along as if in a bubble, interested in nothing but news from Akron, news that had been filtered out through Roddy’s grandmother, news that was not helpful at all.

‘How can they keep my son from me? They’ve turned him against me. I have to go there right now and make him see sense,’ Celeste wailed, kneading her hands in anguish.

Selwyn tried to calm her down. ‘Not yet . . . it’s too soon.’

‘I shall go mad waiting here,’ she cried.

‘Then go out and find yourself something to get out of bed for,’ he offered, just as he had spoken those words to May all those years ago. Now he too was back in harness, back practising law in Birmingham again, fighting cases for war veterans who desperately needed homes and medical treatment. Roddy’s drama had shaken Selwyn out of the lethargy that had plagued him and May felt that for the first time in years he was back in charge of himself. Even his drinking sprees had diminished. Now he came home only to potter around in his barn. Sometimes May took out a drink and sat down on the bench watching him tinkering about. They didn’t need to talk to feel comfortable with each other. The silence was comforting.

In stark contrast, Celeste was hard work, flitting from one idea to the next. Thank goodness her friend Mr McAdam called in so often to take her for a walk, bringing her back a little more settled. May wished she had a friend like that, one who’d look out for her and cherish her. Joe had always been attentive and generous with his compliments. Sometimes she wondered if Selwyn would ever notice how she spruced herself up and made an effort around him. But if it was not metal, rusty or in need of repair, it barely received a glance.

Much as May loved her friend, she was beginning to trip over her in the house and garden. She left her stuff everywhere and then promptly forgot where it was. An untidy daughter was enough, two people making a mess everywhere was shredding her nerves. Then one morning as May was clearing away their copy
of The Times, she
noticed that Celeste had ringed round an advertisement for a domestic agency in London. It was a start. May felt a flicker of hope for the first time in months. She cut the advert out and placed it on Celeste’s writing bureau.

May seized the moment while Celeste was sitting slumped over her cocoa.

‘Here, why don’t you reply?’ she demanded, shoving the notice under her nose. ‘It can’t do any harm finding out what they do, can it? You’ve too much time to brood and that’s a highway to nowhere, as I well know.’

Celeste looked up and smiled, shaking her head. ‘I’ve seen this before. It does look interesting, in fact . . . where did I put my application . . . ? The Good Lord knew what he was doing the day he brought you into my life and no mistake.’

‘Get away with you! What are friends for but to hold each other up when the going gets rough? I’m only doing what you’ve done for me in the past. Remember what you used to say: “If I’m busy, I don’t think.” It’ll come right, I promise, but in the meantime why not try something new? It just might help.’

Akron

Roddy stood on the Portage Path trail. He’d gone to see the Indian statue, and was looking out westwards to where the old boundary between Indian country and the United States began. He paused, gazing out over the wooded ridges, trying to imagine how it must have been in the olden days, but his heart wasn’t in this hike. He was feeling homesick for the flat Trent Valley, for his old brick school and the cathedral city, for the rough and tumble of life in Red House. But most of all for his mother.

Since the letter came telling him Grandpa Forester had died on the very day he’d set sail for New York months ago, he had felt awful, wishing he could have gone back to pay his respects and comfort his mother. How she must have despaired losing her father and son on the same day.

He looked around at the tall trees leading down towards the deep ravine of the Cuyahoga River, which snaked along the edge of town. Houses now dotted the Portage Path. The country club encroached on Injun territory, pushing them ever backwards and out of sight.

This place was where he had been born but it didn’t feel it was where he belonged. It had all been a big mistake to walk away from his old family. But what was done was done, and he couldn’t see a way back.

His thoughts roamed to Ella’s accusatory letter telling him he was a traitor and an ungrateful pig. How on earth could he reply? She didn’t mince her words, she let him know exactly how distressed his mother was, how ill she’d been since he had left.

‘She blames herself for not going to London with you, and she cries when no one is looking, so come home and make her smile again
.
’

Roddy had pored over her letter, feeling wretched. He hadn’t written home much since he’d been here, just a letter of condolence to his mother and Uncle Selwyn, and a brief account of his new school. He’d added some snippets of information about Granny Harriet, but not mentioned the fact that his father had a constant companion called Miss Louella Lamont, who sometimes sat with them in St John’s Church, and came for tea. She was pretty enough in her fancy clothes but she had a voice like a foghorn.

The house was high up in the West Hill district, ornate with coloured bricks, statutes in the garden and a paddock and orchards. It was not nearly as big as the Seiberling mansion, or Elm Court, where the Marks family lived, but he’d never seen anything so big in Lichfield.

He had his own suite of rooms, as did Granny Harriet at the far end of the house. His father seemed to work day and night these days and when he came home late he was always snappy. The promises he’d made on board the
Olympic
, all those things that they would do together as father and son, were long forgotten and never discussed.

Nothing here was quite as he had expected but he’d made friends at school with a boy called Will Morgan. None of the others had lived abroad and weren’t interested in his life before coming to Akron. All they were interested in was the progress of the Akron Pros in the National Football League. They were studying hard for good grades that would lead to most of them heading to the coast to Harvard or Yale. Roddy couldn’t think that far ahead. He’d had too many changes in his young life already.

He just knew he’d done a terrible thing in trusting his father and he still couldn’t quite understand how he had got from the London theatre to the
Olympic
in Southampton. It was all a blur. But he was here now and his presence was a matter of great pride to his father, even if he wasn’t around very much to take him out.

Not that his days were empty. There were riding lessons, driving lessons from the chauffeur in the new automobile that sat on the drive, extra tuition in science and chemistry so that he might join the Diamond Rubber Company in due course. It was as if his whole life was being mapped out for him and he was just sleepwalking through it.

Standing by the lone statue of the Indian with a canoe on his back, he thought of their lonely treks on foot from the Cuyahoga to the Tuscarawas River, when all around them were woods. He felt sometimes as if he too were tracking with a big weight on his back, bending him low.

His grandma kept telling him to straighten up and stop slouching or he’d grow a hunchback. She was a stickler for what people thought. The Parkes family were society. They mixed with the wealthy rubber barons and their families, and he had been absurdly glad of Mom’s old refinement classes when they were entertaining and he had to talk politely to a line of old biddies. ‘Remember, always ask a question. Show interest in your guest, put them at their ease.’ His mom’s words rang in his ears, words from his Washington days, which made him sad. At least on these occasions he wouldn’t let her down. He tried to hold on to his English accent but that annoyed his father no end. ‘You’re a Yankie boy, get rid of those vowels!’

But others loved his accent, especially the girls at church and old ladies. They asked him to repeat phrases over and over until he felt like a performing monkey.

Everything he could possibly want was spread out before him: a beautiful home, a horse and buggy, a fine education, beautiful scenery to explore. So why was he so miserable? There was something missing amongst all these trappings of wealth and success, something important, and Roddy couldn’t quite work out what it was.

Whatever the answer, it sure was leaving a big hole inside.

‘Mrs Forester, can you take on the Stratford clients?’ enquired Safara Fort on the telephone.

‘Of course, I’d be delighted,’ Celeste replied to the doyenne of the Universal Aunts Agency. ‘These Americans are from where?’ she added, hoping that they might be from Ohio. Celeste sat at the foot of the stairs, clutching the earpiece and smiling. Applying to be a ‘Universal Aunt’ had been a lifesaver. It was a new organization based in London, which offered chaperonage, home furnishing services, care of children, research work and responding to all sorts of unusual queries. It was a haphazard sort of career. Sometimes the task was mundane, taking a wealthy lady’s pet to the veterinary surgeon to have its claws clipped, for instance, or helping a newly married wife choose furnishings from Rackhams or Beatties stores. Escorting tourists to Stratford and Anne Hathaway’s cottage was a regular feature of the season. There were splendid Tudor coaching inns with four-poster beds and oak beams that the American visitors loved, along with the hearty English fare.

‘They’re from the Great Lakes somewhere . . . Ann Arbor . . . very keen on Mr Shakespeare so they want the full tour, a good hotel, a tour guide – the usual – but only for two or three days. They also want to do Edinburgh and York Minster. Then Paris, of course, and what with your living in America in the past . . .’

‘Leave it all to me, Miss Fort,’ Celeste replied. ‘I’ll book everything ahead by wire and plan an itinerary to suit their budgets.’

‘There’s no budget; only the best for the Stimpsons. He is big in cereals, I gather. I’m so glad we have you up north to see to things, Celestine. You’re proving to be quite a find. When I interviewed you, I sensed you’d be versatile. You’re a gem. Many are called but few are chosen, my dear. You’ve no idea how many applications for Universal Aunts are so unsuitable. We are very particular about who we take on, but so far your assignments have been impeccable and reports say the children are now asking especially for you.’

‘Thank you, Miss Fort,’ Celeste beamed. She loved the work. It kept her busy and prevented her from wondering too much how Roddy was faring with his father. Not that her son was ever far from her thoughts.

‘Mustn’t keep you from your planning. I look forward to your report.’

Celeste had turned up at the Universal Aunts offices near Sloane Square in her best tweed suit. They’d asked her questions about her life and professional experience, but when she told them she was a survivor of
Titanic
, a friend of Margaret Brown, and on the Women’s Relief Committee, the interview had come to an abrupt halt.

‘We’d be honoured to have someone like you work for us.’

So far she’d escorted dozens of nervous children from Birmingham, Wolverhampton or Stafford to their new boarding schools in the country, and vice versa. She’d done it all before with Roddy, making sure their tuck boxes were full, that they had plenty of travelling games and snacks, comics and magazines handy for the journey, which she hoped would take their minds off their final destinations.

She had had to pay a quarterly booking fee of half a crown to have her name on the Universal register, but it was money well spent. It got her out of the house and mixing with strangers who didn’t know her circumstances. In every child she met, though, she saw something of her own son.

She couldn’t believe it was nearly a year since that terrible day when Roddy had left, a year of stilted correspondence, of polite, careful enquiry to Harriet. She would never write directly to Grover again, not after what he had done. She couldn’t trust herself not to let rip in a way that might make things even worse.

Roddy’s letters were short and muted. She sensed he was struggling to readjust to American life, but the photographs he enclosed showed her how fast he was growing up. He was now out of short trousers and his legs were sprouting. She ached to visit him but knew that would only unsettle the uneasy truce she’d made with Grover. She must tread carefully, bide her time and keep Grover sweet. She felt such a failure as a mother. Her son must have found her wanting indeed to choose the very person she’d shielded him from all those years ago, or did he have any choice in the matter once he was in his father’s clutches? If only she’d not let him go unescorted.

Through all these months, May was there, quietly standing by, a shoulder to cry on. And so was Archie, but their relationship must remain a secret.

Archie was a single man in a theological college, where standards were high, and she was still a married woman, if separated. He was presented as Selwyn’s friend, not hers, so his continued presence at Red House would not be commented upon, but everyone knew he was in love with her. There was always that look of admiration in his eyes that gave her the courage to keep going when the pain of Roddy’s absence stung too deep.