The Echo of Twilight Read online

  Eileen gripped my arm. “Yes, I think it was. Miss Gibson. You know, he worked with her someplace down in Hampshire. Reckoned she was a bit obsessed with him.” She paused, wrinkled her nose. “Said she kept turning up here and demanding to see him. And you know, I think I met her once . . .” She stared back at me with new curiosity, and for a moment I thought my cover had been blown. But then she shook her head. “I can’t rightly remember her.”

  I feigned a little laugh, and as I put on my gloves I said, “The last I heard, she’d married a rich artist and was living in a castle in Scotland.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. In fact, now I come to think of it, the wedding was in the newspaper . . . photographs and everything.”

  “Blimey, that’ll give him something to think about,” said Eileen, looking away again and ever so slightly dazzled. “A castle in Scotland,” she repeated. “Well, I never . . .”

  I couldn’t help myself; I had to add more. “I think there’s a baby due as well . . . Yes, I’m sure I read an announcement in the newspaper.”

  “Really? I thought they only put that in once they were born.”

  I shrugged: “Scottish custom, I suppose.”

  “My word, Scotch newspapers must be chocka!”

  I laughed. She laughed. I said, “Well, I’d better get on now. But it’s been nice to see you, Eileen . . . and do give Stanley my best, and be sure to tell him about Pearl.”

  “Pearl?”

  “Miss Gibson. I just remembered her first name. It was in the newspaper.”

  She nodded, gulped, and for a moment I thought she might cry. Her eyes glistened with tears and she grabbed hold of my hand: “It’s ever so kind of you to come and see me, Cynth.”

  And I thought, It’s not her fault; it has nothing to do with her. And I reached into my purse, took out the pound note Ottoline had given me and pushed it into her hand. “For my nephew,” I said. “For Stanley Junior.”

  I waved back at the chap on the desk as I walked across the lobby and into the revolving door. And then I headed to the A.B.C., where I found a suitable corner to watch people from and ordered the Three-Course Special.

  After four days—spent mainly in bookshops or wandering about, or sitting in cafés watching people—I returned north. Ottoline was waiting on the platform, huddled in fox fur, smoking a cigarette and breathing fumes into the frosty night air. As I stepped down from the train, she said, “I feel as though you’ve been gone for absolute months.”

  We walked to the motorcar. I wound the starter handle. Then, juddering, we turned out of the empty station and headed down the narrow lanes toward Birling. It was a particularly dark night and the headlights didn’t seem bright enough, but Ottoline was in ebullient spirits. “So,” she said, “tell me all.” Just as though I’d had a rendezvous with a real lover.

  “Well, I went to the A.B.C. . . . ,” I began.

  “No, no, no!” she said, cigarette still in hand and ash falling. “I want to know who you are now. Mrs. . . . ?”

  So I told her.

  “Mrs. Gaskell?” she said. “Isn’t that . . . a little literary?”

  Of course it was a literary name. But I couldn’t very well be Mrs. Stedman. Almost everyone at Birling knew that name, and there was one already, somewhere in France. It wasn’t until I had been on board the train and heading back to Northumberland that I’d given my newly married name any thought. And the inspiration was right there on my lap, in the form of Sylvia’s Lovers.

  “No, I’m afraid you can’t be Mrs. Gaskell,” said Ottoline, more to herself than to me.

  We turned off the road and into the driveway. Snow was beginning to fall, and as we drew to a halt and Ottoline pulled on the hand brake, she said, “We need to think fast.”

  So we remained seated inside the car, and when Rodney emerged from the house, peering at us from a distance from beneath a large black umbrella, Ottoline simply smiled and waved at him, and he returned inside. She said, “Is there no one you’ve been romantically involved with—apart from Ralph?”

  It was strange for me to hear her say the name; strange for me to hear anyone say the name. I said, “Yes, there was someone. But I really don’t wish to use his name.”

  She turned to me. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s his name?”

  “Morton. Stanley Morton. But there’s already someone posing as his wife.”

  She clapped her hands. “Perfect! That makes it all the more justifiable . . . He’s still alive, I presume?”

  I nodded.

  “A cad?”

  I nodded.

  “In France?”

  “So I believe.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll have you widowed in no time.”

  I wasn’t sure about that last comment. As much as I resented Stanley, I didn’t wish him any harm. After all, he had a son. I said, “You do mean pretend, don’t you?”

  “Good gracious, I’m capable of many things, Pearl—but not murder.” She lifted my hand: “Ah, I see you managed to find yourself a ring. Good. Now try this.” She handed me another ring, a ruby set with small diamonds. “Ah, quel dommage . . . I thought it might fit. Oh well. You can wear it on your middle finger and tell everyone it was old Mrs. Morton’s and that you haven’t had time to have it sized.”

  “I can’t take this.”

  “Yes, you can. My husband gave it to me years ago, and rubies were never me.”

  “But what if His Lordship notices it on my finger?”

  “Pearl, a man who’s had as many mistresses as my husband will have purchased enough diamonds to render one small ruby entirely forgettable . . . And now, Mrs. Morton, let’s go inside and tell everyone your news.”

  Without wasting any time, Ottoline gathered together her depleted staff and announced my new status. Rodney smiled a little too knowingly for my liking, and I could tell Mrs. Lister was suspicious, for as soon as Ottoline disappeared, she said, “Well I never, that was a quick courtship.”

  But Rodney stepped in. “Not all that quick, Mrs. Lister. You’ve known your husband some time, haven’t you, Pearl? You were engaged to be married when you came here, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was. That’s right. It was a little bit on and off for a while, and I kept it all quiet because . . . because of the war . . . and everything,” I said, petering out.

  “Must have cost your fella a bob or two,” said Mrs. Lister, examining the ruby ring.

  “Actually it was his mother’s. We didn’t have time to get it sized.”

  “No, I bet you didn’t,” she said, nudging me with her elbow and winking.

  The next evening, they threw a little party for me in the servants’ hall. An iced cake and sherry, and three white balloons hanging from the gilt-framed picture of the King. Rodney made a toast, “To Pearl and Stanley.” And though I felt like a fraud—and was one—I went with it, because I had no choice. Married was respectable; married was the only way for a woman in my condition.

  Because of my ever-thickening waist and changing shape, my other Happy News was announced only a month after my “wedding.” And if Rodney Watts suspected anything, he didn’t say. Though Mrs. Lister did. “I had a funny feeling about it all—what with it being that quick,” she said as soon as she got me on my own. And then, eyeing my belly and computing something further, she whispered, “But when—when did you see him, your Stanley? When did you get the chance?” Luckily, she helped me out: “Aha, it was when you stayed at Newcastle before Christmas, wasn’t it?”

  I winked an eye at her.

  But it didn’t matter what anyone thought. I was—to all intents and purposes—respectably married, and by that time it had already been decided where my baby would be born. Once again, Ottoline had thought it all through and taken control.

  She’d said to me, “By my calculation and yours, this baby is
due in June. And babies don’t wait to fit in with lies . . .”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, we have a slight problem with a baby that is due in September—or even later—arriving in June.”

  “I’ll say it’s come early.”

  “Really? . . . Two months early?”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  Ottoline fluttered her eyes and sighed. Then she spoke to me very slowly. “Pearl, a baby born two months prematurely looks quite different to a full-term baby. A baby born two months prematurely will be tiny, weak and frail, and very likely require medical care. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “If your baby arrives when it’s due, in June—and regardless of anything you say or claim—people will see and know that it is not a premature baby. Calculations will be made, conclusions drawn. Your reputation will be more than a little tarnished—and I’ll be incriminated,” she added quietly. “But they’re going to suspect anyway if they see you get too much bigger. Added to that, there’s the complication of the doctor . . .” She paused and muttered something to herself. “No, he can’t be involved. And you’re still neat—very neat,” she added, reaching out and running her hand over my small rounded belly. “But just you wait. It’s always in the last couple of months one goes . . .” And as she blew out her cheeks and extended her hands out over her own stomach, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Ottoline continued. “Easter’s early this year. I’ve always adored Scotland at that time. So we shall have a trip—you and I, at Easter. Then, because it’s so glorious, and because there’s nothing to rush back for, and because you’re blooming with all that Highland air and your baby is not due for another few months, we’ll extend our stay. By the time we return here, our little darling will have gained weight and be positively thriving.”

  So that was that. My baby would be born early, but not there. It would be born in the Highlands.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ottoline informed the couple who lived in the gatehouse that we were on a religious retreat, and that we required complete solitude for our prayers. It wasn’t implausible; everyone was praying.

  It was early April and the blue-iced mountains had begun their thaw. The river was in spate, the greening woods filled with birdsong and the sound of a hundred streams gushing down into the valley where sheep and lambs and languid cows grazed. And I was grateful that my child would be born in a place of such vibrant life.

  And yet, it was all so strange. Strange to witness the indestructible beauty of Mother Nature—going on regardless, delivering another season, one associated with hope and promise into a world so dark and troubled—and strange to be back there; strange to see that whitewashed cottage. For despite all my efforts, Ralph’s features had faded and become indistinct, and my memories of that time—and of him—now had a dreamlike quality to them. More than anything else, it was strange to be carrying new life amidst the incessant news of death. For the war raged on, insatiable in its appetite, and another three million men were needed.

  We had been at Delnasay for only a few weeks when we heard that the Lusitania had been sunk with a great loss of life. Shortly after this, we learned that German airships had raided the south coast of England, dropping bombs on Southend, Leigh-on-Sea and Westcliff; and that a German zeppelin had attacked Ramsgate. In the middle of May, we read about the effects of asphyxiating gases, and that Italy had declared war on Austria. There were zeppelin raids on London and the east coast. British casualties were estimated to be a quarter of a million.

  Ottoline had predicted—told me on board the train north—that going back would stir things up for me. And it did. For so many months I had been strong. For so many months I had avoided self-pity. There were people suffering far, far worse than I was, I knew. But returning to Delnasay plunged me back into memory, and into my unquestionable love for one person. And so, despite the bright skies and unfolding leaves, my heart was heavy, and that landscape—no matter how sweet or fresh—served only to remind me of Ralph, and his absence.

  Ottoline said, “You must not go to the cottage. You must put yourself in a happy place . . . Think happy thoughts for your baby.”

  And I tried. I sat in the blue-walled drawing room, sometimes with my feet up—as instructed—and instead of scanning lists and searching for surnames beginning with S, I flicked through old copies of Punch, The Field, Bystander, and The Lady and Country Life magazines from before the war. I listened to Ottoline as she read to me and recited poetry, often Robbie Burns, and usually with what even I knew to be quite appalling pronunciation.

  We fended for ourselves. Or rather, Ottoline fended for us both. And I was more than surprised; I was astounded by her knowledge and ingenuity and resourcefulness. For where and when had she learned to lay and light fires or fill oil lamps? Who had taught her how to manage a range and to cook? And what must it be like, I wondered, to be able but not allowed?

  And so, one afternoon, as she crouched down by the fire, snapping the twigs she had gathered outside, I asked her, “Who taught you all of this?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled. “My mother, of course.”

  “Ah yes,” I said, as though it had been a stupid question.

  But still it made no sense. I’d seen the portrait of Ottoline’s mother at Birling, and she did not strike me as a woman whose hands had ever been blackened with coal. And though I wanted to ask more, I wasn’t sure how, or indeed if I should. But then Ottoline put down the kindling, knelt back and went on.

  “My mother was not of the same stock as my father . . . had not grown up with an army of servants. She was from a rather bohemian family—artistic and talented, but invariably penniless and with absolutely no idea about money, or how to manage it. Fortunes wavered, came and went with the seasons. She spent most of her childhood moving from house to house, witnessing celebratory spending one minute and feverish selling the next. It was by all accounts a precarious existence. But one that undoubtedly taught her, made her resourceful and fiercely independent . . . She used to tell me never to take anything for granted. Never to assume that just because things are, they will remain so . . .”

  “She sounds very wise.”

  “She was,” said Ottoline, her back to me, facing the half-made-up fire. “She was wise and wonderful, and a tad rebellious and not quite of her time. Unconventional, I suppose.” She paused and turned to me. “She refused to employ a governess, insisted on teaching me herself. So in addition to some history, a little geography, English and French, as well as learning the piano and how to draw, I also learned how to light fires and how to cook. And while rolling out pastry or . . . or poaching fish, she spoke to me about life—about art and philosophy, or hats and shoes, or men!” She shook her head and smiled. “Yes, she was unconventional.”

  I felt for the gold band on my finger. I said, “And your mother’s sister, was she the same?”

  “Aunt Connie? I never knew her. But Mother always said that where Constance had inherited the talent, she had learned from its waste.”

  “Constance,” I repeated, clinging to the notion of her and her ring. “She went to India . . .”

  Ottoline nodded. “Yes, and my poor mother was heartbroken—to lose her only sister. She never saw Connie again . . . And she loathed him, her brother-in-law, Major Stedman. Said he was a tyrant and a bully and that his neglect of Ra—” She stopped. She looked away from me. “This wood won’t do,” she said after a moment. “It’s still damp.”

  She rose to her feet, brushed down her skirt. “I shall have to go and fetch some more. And then I’ll make us tea. Yes, that’s what I’ll do,” she murmured, and left the room.

  Almost every morning Ottoline bicycled to the village for newspapers, bread, milk and other provisions, and returned pink cheeked and full of gossip about people I did not know. And I could only ima
gine what they thought of her—Lady Ottoline Campbell, as she flew down the main street in her tam-o’-shanter and long tartan socks, ringing the bell of that familiar rusting bicycle. Each afternoon, we walked along the valley, following the path of the river, and each evening, she busied herself in the kitchen, rattling pans and sometimes swearing loudly. We both agreed that if Ottoline had been in service, she’d have been a far better lady’s maid than cook.

  One evening, as we sat quietly, each of us pretending to read, she said, “You know the reason I don’t mention him is because it’s better for you that way. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Not really,” I said, without raising my eyes to her.

  I heard her sigh. “I blame myself.”

  I looked up. “Blame yourself? But for what?”

  She closed her book. “You and him . . . this situation. I brought you here, and I had a duty of care. But I was too caught up in . . . in my own affairs, I suppose, and the war. This wretched, bloody war. I’m sorry, forgive me. It’s just that I’m angry. And not just with Kitchener and Asquith and this useless coalition, but with myself—and with Ralph.”

  “But I don’t want you to be angry. Not with Ralph, and particularly not with yourself. I knew what I was doing.”

  She shook her head. “No, you didn’t. You were already in love with him by the time you learned he was married. And now you’re to have a child, a child without a father, and I must share that responsibility. I wish to,” she quickly added.

  “You’ve been more than kind to me.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to kill off poor Stanley after we return to Birling, otherwise it’ll all get too tricky. You’ll be a widow—but you’ll be able to marry, hopefully, one day. In the meantime, you and your child will be provided for, so I don’t want you to worry about that. But you must try to forget about Ralph. Put him behind you. Look forward.”