Awaiting Her Confinement

By Laura Jane Leigh

Warning: this book contains adult scenes and is intended for adults only

MONTREAL, 1894. Rachel Mathison is a beautiful young woman who lives with her elderly father in a mansion on the slopes of Mount Royal. One day, she meets a handsome young Englishman, Andrew Cameron. He is a widower with a small son. His wife is believed to have died in childbirth or, as the Victorians would say, while 'being confined.'
Mr Cameron is charming and Rachel soon falls in love. Despite warnings from her friends, she marries him and they set off for their honeymoon in England. At first, Rachel is gloriously happy, exploring London with her new husband. Things begin to go wrong, though, as soon as Andrew's sister arrives with his son. She keeps dropping vague hints, implying, for example, that Andrew's first wife didn't die in childbirth, but in sinister conditions that no one can really explain. As Rachel struggles to find the truth, she gets caught in a situation far more terrifying, and more confining, than anything she could have imagined.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Jane Leigh
• Release date: Jul 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781498911733

Book preview

Chapter One

June, 1894

Her father and old Mr Ross were playing cribbage on the terrace. Having poured tea for them and seen to their little wants, Rachel sat down again in the leafy green shade of a lilac tree. She had a feeling of contentment as she picked up her work. She was embroidering an altar cloth for the side-chapel at the church. On the wrought-iron table beside her, books of drawings were spread out. She had been studying them all morning, finding ideas for designs. After planning and making sketches, she had finally decided on a pattern of roses and vines.

Although the sewing itself was tedious, it was pleasant to sit in the sunny garden, surrounded by beds of flowers. The well-kept lawn under her feet seemed to stretch out endlessly—level at first, then gently rolling, before sloping downhill. Despite the gardener’s efforts, it was dotted with clover and even a few dandelions. Circling it were tall elms, oaks and maples that cut off the view.

In the background, she heard her father talking about a friend who owned a department store downtown. I was telling Malcolm he ought to add a hardware section in the basement. It would cost him next to nothing.

So much space down there, said Mr Ross. Most of it wasted.

If he did expand, though, it might drive poor old Bain out of business.

Oh, yes, Henry, almost certainly. These smaller shops don’t stand a chance when the big fellows compete with them. Unfortunate, I suppose, but not much we can do about it. It’s dog eat dog . . .

Right you are, George. Survival of the fittest.

Half-listening to their talk, Rachel continued with her embroidery. She had just completed a tiny rose when Mr Ross appeared beside her. Rachel, how pretty. I’ve been meaning to tell you how much we appreciate the work you volunteers do for the church.

Thank you, Mr Ross.

You young ladies are so good at detail. And so generous with your time. All those tiny stitches. The patience it must take!

Yes, well, it’s slow work, Rachel said politely, although she felt slightly annoyed. It’s to be my own design. Roses and vines. Roses, you know, are a symbol of Mary. And vines, of course, are . . .

"Ah, yes. He smiled. I remember now. What a pretty idea. He was rather gallant in his way, and still handsome, despite his white hair and deeply lined face. By the way, Rachel, before I forget—my grandson, Reginald, will be dropping by to take me to dinner at my daughter’s. He’ll just pop in for a minute."

Oh, but no, said Rachel, guessing the purpose of the visit, he must stay and have tea.

Mr Ross beamed at her. Well, yes, if you insist.

When he was gone, she went on sewing, forcing the needle through the cloth with a delicate thimble of painted China. She was thinking in an absent-minded way about the contradictions in their lives. Every now and then, she would pause, glancing back at the house. From the outside, it looked cheerful. Sun warmed the red stone and glinted on its many small windows. Its sheer size was forbidding, but details gave it charm: carved masonry, a wrought-iron balcony, the peaked dome of the conservatory. The flagged path was inviting, meandering through beds of gladioli and irises. At the top of the steps was a recessed porch. The front door lay in shadow, half-hidden by balustrades and columns of white marble.

Turning back, Rachel saw a red bird swoop down into a bed of  roses and fly off with a worm. She shifted in her seat, feeling uncomfortable and restless. What was she really doing but waiting to get married? It was what people expected of a young woman who was almost nineteen: to busy herself with little projects until an appropriate suitor came along. Such nonsense, Jane would say. She thought women shouldn’t marry until they were twenty-eight or thirty. First, they had to educate themselves; then get out into the world and earn their own living. Jane had been to McGill University and had a degree in English literature. Next year, when she turned twenty-one, she was going to be a teacher at Miss Plimpton’s school. Afterwards, Jane and some friends were going to rent an apartment and live downtown.

How exciting, thought Rachel, feeling rather envious. She was well aware that her own education was not quite up to the mark. After her mother died nine years ago, her father had hired a governess, Miss Hodges, to bring his daughter up. Not wanting, as he put it, to pay for the same thing twice, he had withdrawn Rachel from school. Miss Hodges, as it turned out, was a good teacher, well-versed in literature, especially Shakespeare and Dickens; and an expert needlewoman, passing on her skills in sewing, knitting and embroidery. In addition, Rachel had had private tutors for piano, drawing and French.

Still, with all the gaps in her knowledge, she knew she never could have qualified for McGill. And because Jane had been a student and she hadn’t, they had, over the past few years, been growing apart. Jane knew so many people now—young women who were educated and had a wide range of interests. Jane was always rushing off to one meeting or another: the Ladies’ Charitable Foundation or the Votes for Women committee.

But I have my own life, Rachel thought. It’s satisfactory in most respects, even if rather uneventful. This lull, this boredom, won’t last more than a year. Before long, I’ll be married—to Jane’s brother, Charles, if things go as everyone expects. Soon the children will come, and I’ll be busy and happy. She thought of the young women she knew who were already wives and mothers. Most of them had several babies. Not poor Sally Hudson, of course, but it was best not to dwell on that. Mary Hutchins had five children, and she was twenty-eight; Anne McGregor had four, at twenty-seven; and Lillian Scott had three, at twenty-five; Gertrude Marsden, though, had just the one, which did seem unusual, after six years of marriage. In any case, what one noticed was how attitudes were changing. Early marriage and motherhood had once been the norm; Jane had been the odd one out, with her ‘advanced’ sort of life. Now, though, when so many young women were working or attending university, it was the stay-at-home types who had begun to seem out of step.

We’re just different, she told herself, not better, or worse. About to embroider a small leaf, she took a thread of dark green floss and tried to thread her needle. She couldn’t get it through. Puzzled, she peered at it. The strand was thicker than the others, like a tiny braid: three thin plies intertwined. Picking up her scissors, she cut it on the bias and tried again to push it through. She only succeeded on the third attempt. Smiling a little, she leaned back in her chair, looking down the long expanse of lawn, past rose beds and perennial borders towards a grove of crab apple trees at the bottom of the hill. She felt safe and protected here in this sunny garden. And yet . . .

And yet painful thoughts sometimes intruded. Glancing back at the house again, she pictured its dark interior. Very little light made its way inside, despite that multitude of windows. The long corridors were gloomy, with their wood-panelled walls, their side-tables of mahogany, their huge mirrors in heavy frames. Upstairs, behind closed doors, was a row of empty bedrooms and an abandoned nursery.

Poor Papa. He  had always wanted a large family. How disappointed he must have been when his wife kept having miscarriages and giving birth to stillborn babies. After each confinement, Rachel’s mother had been ill. Once she had even contracted childbed fever. The doctors had expected her to die of it, but, to their surprise,  she had recovered, even thrived, giving birth to Rachel at the age of 42 and, just over a year later, to a boy: his father’s namesake, little Henry Robert Mathison.

Nanny McConnell, a plump, bosomy woman in her fifties, had looked after the two surviving babies. When Rachel was eight or nine, Nanny had told her all about her brother’s birth. It was a miracle. A son and heir, after all that wait. You’ve never seen such rejoicing. Cigars handed round, and wine put down in the cellars for his twenty-first birthday.

And for me, too? Rachel had asked.

"Oh, but, no. Your parents loved you, too, but you weren’t a first-born son."

Rachel couldn’t even remember her brother, who had died at eighteen months. Such a tragedy, Nanny once told her. The great grief of your father’s life. And your mother’s, too. Her eyes misted over. And very hard on me as well. Such a dear little boy. Never any trouble. No trouble at all.

There were photos of little Henry, shoved into the back of the dresser-drawer in what had once been her mother’s bedroom. Rachel herself appeared in one of them: a two-year-old girl on a sofa, with a chubby infant propped up beside her. He looked rather sweet, bundled in his blanket. The thought of him, though, had always stirred up mixed emotions. He touched your doll once, Nanny told her, on more than one occasion.  Your cloth doll with the gingham dress. You grabbed it back and slapped his hand and said he’d got jam on it.

And had he?

Yes, dear, but that’s not the point. The point is controlling our selfishness.

Rachel’s mother never used to mention little Henry or the stream of babies she had lost. Nanny, however, liked to talk about the dead ones. Perfect little angels now, with Jesus in Heaven. Rachel had felt sorry for them, but also afraid. Once, when she was seven or eight, she had overheard Nanny telling the maids: First one got strangled by the cord. Parents wanted to call her ‘Eleanor,’ but the minister wouldn’t let them. Can’t christen a stillbirth. The next one was to be called ‘Lucy,’ but she caught the fever from her mother and died. Nanny had begun whispering, frightening Rachel with talk about unbaptised babies, confined to a terrible place called Limbo.

What a thing to tell a child, thought Rachel, glancing round the bright garden, trying to lift her mood. In spite of everything, most of her childhood memories were happy. She remembered being four or five, going to the park with her mother and building castles in the sandbox; and then, at eight or nine, playing croquet with her on the lawn. On several occasions, they had driven down the hill to Ogilvy’s to pick out a birthday present for Jane.

She could also remember her mother lying in bed, ill, thumbing through a book. Sometimes her father would come and read out loud to his wife. When the weather was nice, she would sit in the garden. Once, near the end, Rachel had gone into the bedroom to see her, alone. Smiling, stroking Rachel’s hair, her mother had said, You’re the light of his life.

A week later, she died; and everything turned to black: the dresses Rachel wore, the uniforms of the servants. A wreath was nailed to the door; the mirrors were covered with crape. Her father wore a black armband and would sit for hours without speaking. Rachel remembered standing at the top of the stairs, staring into the dark hall, not knowing what to do with herself, whether to stay up or go down.

The day after the funeral, her mother’s things had been cleared away. Your poor father, Nanny said, can’t bear the sight of  them. Such painful reminders. Clothes were given to charities; other possessions were stored in the basement or attic. Rachel’s father never mentioned his wife’s name again.

One morning, searching for signs of her, ten-year-old Rachel crept into her mother’s room. She found photographs and a white envelope with a lock of blond hair. Mine, she assumed, comforted by the idea that her mother had kept something from her babyhood. And then, absent-mindedly, she turned the envelope over and saw the words in purple ink: Our little one, Henry Robert Mathison, 1876-1878. Half an hour later, Nanny found her, curled up, crying, on the sofa. You’ve got to be strong for your father’s sake, Nanny said. "Poor, dear Mr Mathison—he’s lost everything he ever cared about. You must try to make it up to him."

Things were better when Nanny went away to work for another family. Miss Hodges, the new governess, was pleasant and good-natured. Three years ago, she had left to marry Mr Ambrose, the curate at their church. She had two babies already and was expecting a third. Not long after the wedding, Rachel’s Aunt Millie—her father’s sister—had come to stay. Despite her age and uncertain health, Millie was a lively, cheerful person. When Rachel ‘came out’ at seventeen, her aunt chaperoned her to dances and arranged parties at home.

And then Millie had a stroke, and overnight became an invalid. Rachel looked after her, willingly, with the help of a nurse. There were no more parties or dances. Near the end, Millie became confused, waking in the night, talking wildly about floors to be cleaned and dinners to be cooked. Once, at midnight, she slipped past the nurse and went downstairs to light the stove. Rachel began to worry that she would burn the house down. The strain became so great that six months ago, when Millie died, Rachel’s sadness had been mixed with relief.

So many deaths, she thought, putting down her embroidery. And yet, she mustn’t dramatize: the house was beautiful, and comfortable, too, at least in part. The little parlour downstairs was cosy, with its fireplace and chintz furniture and, in summer, an open window shaded by leaves. Her father’s smoking room was a pleasant hideaway, neat, and almost perfect, except for the tobacco-laden air. Her own bedroom was elegant, too, with its rich, jewel-like tones. And, of course, there was this bright garden, with its fairytale stillness.

How drowsy it makes us feel, she thought, half-smiling: as if we were under a spell. On a hot afternoon like this, she had to fight to stay awake. Her father, when alone, often dozed off in his deck-chair. Indoors, too, he would often fall asleep—usually in his smoking-room, but sometimes even at the tea-table. The slightest noise could wake him, the click of a cabinet-door or a plate put down too quickly. Knowing he needed his rest, Rachel would tiptoe round the house, trying not to disturb him. So many things upset him now, even reports in the newspaper. He would work himself into a state, reading about an uprising in distant parts, or a strike in Montreal. Biting the hand that feeds you, he would spit out furiously. To compensate, Rachel made sure that his own home was a haven of peace. She oversaw every detail, arranging flowers and bowls of pot pourri, replacing a chipped ashtray or a worn rug before he noticed it, organizing bridge parties, and lunches, rather than dinners, because he went to bed so early.  

Sometimes it bores me, she admitted, standing up and walking across the lawn. The grass was luxuriant, soft under her feet. She passed a bed of yellow roses and a long, curving border of perennials. At the top of the hill, she paused, looking down at the crab apple trees. From a distance, the leaves looked red, but if you approached them, they turned green again. A few weeks ago, their branches had been weighed down with pink blossoms. The lilacs had been in bloom then, too; mauve, purple and white.

She walked halfway down the slope to a pond made of stone. Seating herself on the ledge, she watched sparkling water shoot up from the fountain in the middle. Nearby were sprawling hydrangeas and peonies; clematis, tumbling over a trellis; and golden flowers that moved with the sun. Further along, she noticed vines creeping through a bed of delphiniums.  Burton, the gardener, must have missed them; he was getting too old to keep up with all the work. On Monday mornings, the men from Gage’s nursery came to help him cut the grass. Nowadays he spent most of his time weeding and pruning bushes. When she sat outdoors, Rachel often saw him with his secateurs, or heard his steady ‘clip clip clip.’ Further down the drive was his masterpiece, the topiary she detested: a row of  wasp-waisted yew trees, forced into shape.

Rachel dipped her hand into the water. Most of it was piped in, although a spout let in run-off from the stream that trickled downhill. She was enjoying the coolness, and watching the goldfish swim past, when a noise startled her and she glanced up. Norah and Annie, the housemaids, were coming down the drive. From this distance, she could only just see them; engrossed in their own conversation, they didn’t notice her. Laughing and joking, they elbowed each other in the ribs. It was Norah and Annie now, but before, it had been Norah and Rosie.

Rosie. Marie-Rose was her real name, but no one called her that. With her pink cheeks and dark, shining eyes, Rosie had always seemed like a symbol of vitality. When working, she wore braids pinned to the back of her head, but, on her day off, she let her hair down. Jet-black and thick, it fell in lustrous curls to her waist. When she and Norah set off down the drive, Rosie always used to look so joyous, so excited. Everyone knew where those girls went, of course—to the park to meet young men. Rachel had been jealous of their freedom. Her father didn’t care what the maids did on their afternoons off; as long, that is, as they didn’t bring their followers home.  Rosie with her carelessness, her exuberance, must have forgotten the rules or begun to think they didn’t matter. They did, though, unfortunately. Rachel’s father was very strict on certain points, and now Rosie was gone.

Standing up, Rachel walked back towards the terrace. Through the front gates, she saw a horse and carriage pull up. A moment later, Mr Ross’s grandson, Reginald Patterson, came strolling down the flagged path. Rachel went to greet him. Soon they were all seated at a round ironwork table on the terrace. A maid brought more tea. Milk or lemon? Rachel asked, smiling at the new arrival, whom she addressed as Mr Patterson, although, years ago, when they were nine or ten, she had always called him Reggie. Back then, he had been a bundle of energy, climbing trees, chasing after her with toads he had found in the garden.

Lemon, please. His admiring glance made Rachel feel pretty.  He was handsome, in a severe way, with a square jaw and bony features. A heavy ridge over his brows cast a shadow under his eyes. He was a junior executive at a bank and always wore a dark suit with a stiff, white collar.

Rachel’s father was beaming, glancing back and forth from his daughter to Mr Patterson. Although she knew he assumed, like everyone else, that she would eventually marry Jane’s brother, he liked to see his daughter sought after by eligible young men. How lovely you look today, Rachel, he said.

That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing, Mr Ross threw in.

Very pretty, said his grandson.

Thank you. Blushing a little, Rachel passed round a plate of shortbread. Try one of these. Cook made them. They’re delicious.

You see to everything, said Mr Ross.

Oh, yes, she’s perfect, her father said, glowing. A perfect angel. She has this house running like clockwork.

Well, said Rachel, looking away.

The conversation moved on. I saw the editorial in this morning’s paper, her father was saying. Sheer disaster for us—this  idea of free trade with the States.

Mr Ross nodded. Cheap goods will come flooding in.

And they’ll keep ours out, said Mr Patterson.

How do you mean? Rachel asked.

Turning, Mr Patterson began to lecture her, telling her about tariffs and import duties, defining terms, explaining points she didn’t understand—so obligingly, and in so much detail, that Rachel thought she would die of boredom.

And then, unexpectedly, his speech was interrupted by a hoot of laughter. Mr Ross was gesturing towards the wrought-iron gates that led to the street. Well, I never!

Would you believe it! her father laughed.

Rachel laughed, too, as she stared through the grating at the spectacle outside: two young women cycling down the hill, looking ridiculous in bloomers, each leg bloated out like a hot-air balloon. They must think they’re quite the thing, said Mr Ross. It’s the fashion now, apparently.

For silly girls, said her father.

With more money than sense, said Mr Patterson.

They’ll be air-borne any minute, said Mr Mathison. They need strings to tie them down. He glanced at his daughter and smiled, his eyes filled with love. Then he turned towards the other men, as if inviting them to admire her, too—so pretty, so sensible in her flowery tea gown, trimmed with lace.

Rachel felt flattered, but also annoyed. Standing up, she said, We need more hot water. Excuse me for a moment. She went up the front steps, stopping by a marble column, looking out over the vast expanse of lawn towards a gap in the trees, searching for the young women on their bicycles, and thought she saw them—two specks, moving rapidly downhill—and in her imagination, she moved with them, towards the floating clouds on the horizon, the dark river and the fluttering sails.

Chapter Two

Having bought flowers, a small carpet, and curtains for the little parlour downstairs, Rachel walked with Martha, her lady’s maid, to Bain’s Hardware on Mackay Street. It was Mr Bain himself who served them. We have some fence-posts that need replacing, Rachel said, handing him a slip of paper. My father has written down the information.

Ah, yes, he said, reading it. I put that fence in myself—years ago. I’ll have my assistant get to work. We’ll deliver them tomorrow morning.

Excellent. Thank you, Mr Bain. Glancing round, she noticed a pretty brass-lamp on display. "If you could add that to the order."

She and Martha headed back towards Ogilvy’s. They were at a counter, looking over samples of material, when someone exclaimed, Rachel! what a coincidence! It was Maisie, the daughter of Rachel’s neighbours, the Hendersons. Maisie’s mother was leafing through a pattern book and talking to the sales-clerk. Sitting down beside Rachel, Maisie smiled. Mama and I have been out all day, shopping for my trousseau. Her face was aglow as she opened her bag. Look at these tea towels. And these pillowcases with their lace trim. Aren’t they just darling?

They’re lovely. She had never seen Maisie look so happy, or so thrilled. Rachel was reminded of the maids, Norah and Rosie, sauntering down the drive on their afternoon off.

Of course, Herbert will joke as he always does. ‘Oh, darling, try not to buy out the store. Leave something for the other young ladies.’ Such a cut up, isn’t he? A real card.

In his way, Rachel said, trying to put the two pictures together: Maisie’s fiancé and the idea of humour. Herbert worked for his father, Mr Chapman, of whom he was the spitting image.  They were both tall, slim, and straight as pokers in tight frock-coats buttoned to the neck. Like his father, the son had a reddish, clean-shaven chin, half-hidden by a handlebar moustache. Chapman senior, who owned a construction company, was an old friend of Mr Mathison. They often got together to talk about business while enjoying a glass of whisky. Passing by the smoking-room, Rachel would pick up scraps of conversation. Her father’s favourite topic was lazy workmen; Mr Chapman’s, the proper procedure for mixing cement.

It’s going to be heavenly, Maisie whispered. "Rachel, don’t you wish you were getting married?"

Yes, I suppose. I’d certainly like to be as happy as you are right now.

Maisie smiled at her benevolently. It’ll be your turn next. 

* * *

When Rachel got home, her father was outdoors, having lunch with his friends, Mr Williams and Mr Hardie. They greeted her warmly and invited her to join them. Handing her parcels to Martha, Rachel sat down and poured herself a cup of tea. What a morning I’ve had!

Find everything you wanted? her father asked.

Yes, Papa.  I bought a pretty rug for your smoking room. At a very good price.

Excellent. He never cared how much she spent, as long as she didn’t pay more than she had to. And did you order the posts from Bain’s?

Yes. He said he’d see to them right away. Such a nice man. He’s always given us such good service, don’t you think?

Ah, yes. A fine fellow.

Rachel picked up a sandwich. I bought a brass-lamp. I felt we owed it to him.

Her father looked puzzled, but let the remark pass. Where did you plan to put it?

On the coach-house. The gardener said the drive could do with a bit more light.

Mr Hardie smiled at her. We used to play football there, years ago.

Rugby football, said her father. We’d practise throwing a ball back and forth.

"They wouldn’t let me play, said Mr Williams. They told me I was too young. They were nine. I was six. They’d let me bring the ball back if it landed in the bushes. And that was that."

Mr Hardie winked at her. We used to call him, ‘baby face.’

Or ‘chubby cheeks,’ said her father.

Rachel smiled, but she had a strange feeling, looking at these white-haired men with their drooping eyelids, trying to imagine they had ever been young. Spending so much time with elderly people, she was beginning to feel rather old herself. She wished she could find some new interest—some useful activity—to take her out of this closed circle.

Anyway, her father said. Thank you, dear. Couldn’t manage without you.

One day you’ll have to, Mr Williams said. Some young chap is bound to snap her up.

Lucky fellow, said Mr Hardie. He’ll have found the perfect little wife.

Well, said Rachel, feeling uncomfortable. Standing up, she excused herself and went in to arrange the flowers. As she was walking up the steps, she heard her father say, "Did you see the high-school-leaving results in the paper this morning? Girls in first and second place. Again."

Have they started giving marks for penmanship? Mr Williams asked, in a bemused tone of voice.

Mr Hardie also sounded puzzled. Perhaps neatness of person counts for something now. Or keeping a tidy desk.

* * *

In the afternoon, Rachel walked by herself to the Grays. In her handbag she was carrying her embroidery, neatly folded and wrapped in tissue paper. Jane had said she would help her with it, once the children had gone home. Jane and her mother were hosting the annual Boys’ Luncheon for pupils at St Alfred’s School and orphans from St Mark’s Home. Come at three o’clock sharp, Jane had said. That way you’ll be sure to miss them.

As Rachel turned the corner, she realized her friend had been wrong. She could hear childish shouting and laughter, and Mr Gray bellowing, Calm down. Pushing open the gate, she saw boys, dozens of them, running past beds of roses down the long sweep of lawn. Under the trees was a linen-covered table, weighed down with soup tureens, fruit bowls, pots of flowers, and littered with dirty plates that the maids were clearing away.

She recognized many of the St Alfred’s boys, who came from families in the neighbourhood. It was the first day of the summer holidays, and she knew that, like other Quebec children, they had been to school in the morning to get their results. Despite the heat, they were wearing grey flannel trousers and white shirts. They had discarded their dark blue blazers, which were slung over the backs of chairs. Rachel didn’t recognize the other boys, but seeing their shabby grey coveralls, she realized they were the orphans.

Mr Ambrose, the curate—the husband of Rachel’s former governess—was in the middle of things, trying to maintain discipline. He was the vice-principal of the boys’ school and also a director of the Home. He  looked like a businessman in his black suit, although he was wearing a clerical collar. Climbing up on a chair, he clapped his hands. Order now! Snap to it! I’m warning you, boys!

Jane stood nearby in a white muslin dress sprigged with violets. The blue sash round the middle emphasized the smallness of her waist. She was gripping a wooden handle attached to a long rope. At the end of the rope was a diamond-shaped kite, lying in a cock-eyed heap on the ground. With an air of authority, Jane announced, I will now begin the demonstration.

Mrs Gray greeted Rachel and offered her a chair. Sitting in the shade, Rachel watched the proceedings with enjoyment. By now the boys seemed calmer, still murmuring and jostling one another, but standing more or less in one place. Jane raised her arm and began to run across a level stretch of lawn. The rope tightened, jerking the massive kite, which bumped and jolted across the grass. Jane quickened her pace and the kite lifted a few inches. As she raced on, her skirts, with their lovely soft folds, clung to her legs. She tripped and fell to the ground, bringing the kite and its streamers down with her. The boys laughed. The smaller ones giggled behind their hands; the older boys chortled and pointed. Rachel was amused, too, although she tried not to show it. Red in the face, Jane stood up and began running again. With her free hand, she held her grass-stained skirts and lifted them up round her knees. Then, raising her other arm higher, she dashed down the steep hill. The kite lifted, soaring above their heads. There was a round of applause. Well done, Jane, said Mr Gray.

Good show, said Rachel.

We will now form queues, said Mr Ambrose. Maisie Henderson’s eleven-year-old brother, Randolph, was at the head of the line. Jane passed him the handle. Easy does it, said the curate as Randolph ran down the hill, shouting in triumph.

"Rather a long wait for the rest of you, said Mr Gray. He went away and returned with sticks and hoops, which he handed to the boys at the end of the line. When it’s your turn, we’ll call you." The boys ran off, heading for a stone path between beds of hydrangeas. Jimmy Melville, the son of Rachel’s neighbours, was first to play. Lifting his stick, he whacked his hoop, sending it skimming over the rough surface. Bouncing, it slowed and fell over into the dark blue flowers.

A boy in grey coveralls stepped forward. Is that the best you can do?

Bunch of cream puffs at that school, a fellow orphan muttered.

Jimmy Melville shoved the second boy half-heartedly, but kept his eyes on the first one, who was bragging, Watch me. I’ll show you how’s it’s done. Deftly the orphan manoeuvred the hoop round each curve and twist of the path. Then, grinning from ear to ear, he came back.

Hats off, Jimmy said, with a graciousness that surprised Rachel. Looking studious, he copied the moves of the expert. Overhead  the kite was still flying high, guided by one boy after the next. Rachel saw its streamers waving hypnotically, drifting with the clouds. The sky was a bright blue, but paler than the hydrangeas, whose rich dark colour, according to Jane, was the result of acidic soil.

Daydreaming a little, Rachel watched the orphans. It must be quite a treat for them, she thought, to be here in this beautiful garden, enjoying games and a magnificent lunch. It was only for one afternoon, of course, which did seem unfortunate. She wondered what life was like for them inside St Mark’s Home. Rather Spartan, she supposed, picturing dormitories lined with iron cots, and hard wooden benches in a refectory. Their clothes were certainly plain, even a bit shabby. She didn’t quite understand why they were dressed in coveralls, like street-sweepers or masons.

Not, of course, that the St Mark’s boys were orphans, in the strict sense of the term. Years ago, Jane had explained that most of them had living, unmarried parents. What a shock that had been, but then, Jane was always making these revelations. She was a bit of a know-it-all, but the information she gave was often helpful. When Rachel was twelve, her friend had informed her about certain changes that would soon be occurring in her body. Miss Hodges hadn’t said a word. Without Jane’s warning, Rachel would have woken up one morning and thought she was bleeding to death.

As she watched the boys, Rachel wondered if their strange clothing had something to do with their shameful origins. It almost looked as if the uniforms had been designed to set them apart. The idea troubled her, but, after a moment’s thought, she decided that it was a thin line to tread: helping the orphans, without excusing their parents. Not that anyone would want to punish a child, but . . .

Feeling confused, Rachel thought of Jane’s brother, and how sometimes young men got into scrapes. Although she couldn’t say why, she suspected that Charles was as pure as she was, fresh as the driven snow. Yet, if he had done something wrong—well, naturally, the matter would have to be hushed up. It was unthinkable that he should bring the baby home. She nearly laughed out loud, picturing Charles’s illegitimate child, loved and cosseted by its grandparents, running free in this garden. Except, of course . . . and here she stopped, seeing two young boys in grey serge, fighting over a bag of marbles. Except, of course, illegitimate children were here, only under a different name. It might seem hypocritical, but really . . .

Disturbed by her train of thought, Rachel turned her attention to more cheerful subjects. Surely the orphanage needed volunteers? She knew there were ladies in the parish who helped out at lunchtime. Later she would ask Mr Ambrose. It was exactly the sort of thing she had been looking for: a chance to meet new people and learn new skills. She could already picture herself handing bowls of soup to bright-faced, eager orphans. Later, when she had more experience, she might even get herself appointed to a committee.

The idea was pleasing. She would be an active, busy person—rather like Jane, only in a different line of work. They would be on an equal footing, as they had been as children. It was only when Jane turned sixteen and enrolled at McGill that their relationship had changed for the worse. Immediately Jane had begun to act very adult and superior, lengthening her skirts and putting up her hair. She showed off the books she was reading: weighty texts on economics, or long Russian novels. At seventeen, she was studying Plato and went round telling other people that the worst sin was not knowing that you did not know. Rachel often wondered why Jane couldn’t—at least, occasionally—hide her light under a bushel.

Not, of course, that jealousy blinded Rachel to her friend’s good qualities. Jane was like a sister: caring, thoughtful, loyal to a fault. And the superiority was not all on one side. Rachel was mistress of her own home. Poor Jane was still dominated by her mother, bending to her wishes—even turning up for Guild work, when she barely knew how to sew. Mrs Gray was certainly not a woman to be trifled with. There she was, at this very moment, standing in the middle of the lawn: a sturdy, grey-haired woman of fifty. The sack race! Get ready. Prizes to be won.

Soon the boys, in pairs, were hopping along in burlap bags. Half-veiled by the rough material, they were almost indistinguishable. Jane stood on the sidelines, cheering them on. At one point, a sack collapsed; two small boys tumbled out and banged their heads together. They stood up, wailing and pointing, accusing the other of clumsiness. Jane rushed over and guided them off the field. Rachel could see the two little ones clearly now: one in serge, the other in flannel trousers. Mrs Gray was handing them toffees wrapped in coloured paper. There you go, she said, all’s well that ends well.

By now, the race was over. Sack after boy-filled sack had collapsed at the finish-line. The first-place winners were given footballs and whistles; the losers, whistles only. The two little lads that Jane had helped saw the other boys’ prizes and scowled, complaining through sticky teeth, It isn’t fair. We’d have made it to the end, but you pulled us away.

Right you are, said Mrs Gray, handing each of them a whistle. Prizes for everyone. Everyone must have a prize.

The real winners—two great big schoolboys of twelve—began tossing a football back and forth, while the others ran round, tooting and shouting. A few of the orphans picked up sticks again and smacked their hoops lackadaisically down the path. Randolph Henderson was standing near Rachel, skimming stones across the grass. A little boy of about seven sat down beside her and began to flip through a book. Did you pick that out yourself? she asked doubtfully, noticing the picture of Little Lord Fauntleroy on the cover.

Nope. It’s a prize for spelling.

I won a spelling prize, too, when I was your age.

He seemed amazed. When was that?

Many, many years ago.

Did we have a queen, back then? My father said that, in the olden days, we used to have a king.

No, we had the same queen we’ve got now: Victoria. She did a quick mental calculation. It’s fifty-seven years since we last had a king. My goodness, she thought. Looking grave, she informed him, In my youth, I was known as ‘chubby cheeks.’

Don’t see why. You’re not fat.

No, I’m not. Thank goodness. Smiling to herself, Rachel glanced down the lawn. Two orphans were in the hydrangea bed, smashing at the flowers with their sticks. Blue petals were flying everywhere. She was wondering whether she should warn Mrs Gray, when she noticed another St Mark’s boy—a brawny, self-assured lad of twelve or thirteen—swaggering towards them.

That your picture? he asked Randolph, pointing at the prize-winner’s book. Randolph punched the orphan, and the orphan hit him back.  A few good blows were exchanged before the St Mark’s boy managed to get his opponent in a neck-hold, squeezing so hard that Randolph’s cheeks were turning purple. Rachel watched in consternation. This ferocious pugilist with the angry face hardly fitted her image of the deserving poor. She was about to yell at him to let go of Randolph, when the curate came racing across the lawn. 

Stop it! he bellowed. The two opponents were locked together, stumbling, by the time he reached them. He pulled the two lads apart. Muttering something about charity, he made them march off in different directions. A moment later, Rachel noticed the tough orphan-boy, talking with a gang of friends. She watched him with curiosity, even a certain uneasiness. Once or twice, he looked back at her with cold, resentful eyes. Of course, she thought, he must compare things, so it’s not entirely without . . .

Ice cream! Mrs Gray called out. A man-servant trailed behind her, carrying a huge silver bowl. Strawberry ice cream! Everyone come to the table! The boys, including the hydrangea beaters, all ran in her direction.

For a moment, everything seemed peaceful, except for the occasional toot of a whistle. Rachel was beginning to wonder if it would be safe to get out her embroidery, when she happened to glance round. Randolph and his friend, Jimmy, were standing behind a rose bed at the end of the Grays’ drive. In their grey flannel trousers, they looked like responsible, if undersized, adults.

Trouble there, Rachel thought, as a cart from Gage’s nursery pulled up. A young man jumped out. She knew his name—Bill—because he sometimes delivered flowers to their house or helped with the mowing. He bent over the cart, lifting out rose bushes. He was just straightening up again, when Randolph and Jimmy raised their arms and began pummelling him with what appeared to be fruit. Apple-like objects flew through the air, shattering into dust as they hit him. White powder was everywhere, scattered over the pavement and lawn. Marzipan, Rachel realized.

Bill turned, waving his fist. You little bastards!

Mr Gray came running over and grabbed Randolph and Jimmy by the ears, escorting them away. Sorry, he called to Bill. To the boys, he said, Your fathers will hear about this.

Chairs were placed in the middle of the lawn, and the two young offenders were made to sit by themselves, away from the others at the table. As bowls were filled with ice cream, the younger children whiled away the time by blowing their whistles. Stop that racket! yelled Mr Gray. He was already heading for the front stairs. Helen, I’ve had enough. If you need me, I’ll be in my study.

As soon as he was gone, Randolph and Jimmy, who had been looking sulky and defiant, put on a show of remorse. Hanging his head, Randolph said, It was wrong of us.

Very wrong, said Jimmy. But I think we’ve learnt our lesson.

Rachel burst out laughing. What slimy little hypocrites. She couldn’t believe her eyes when, a moment later, Mrs Gray came over to them. "Now, boys, it is your party and I hate to see you miss out. If you’re truly sorry, and if you promise me . . ."

"Oh, yes."

Well, then, she said. And, just like that, Randolph and Jimmy were with the others at the table, wolfing down ice cream.

The children were still eating when a painted omnibus pulled up.  The orphans were collected to be driven back to the Home. A few of the schoolboys were picked up by their parents; those who lived nearby began to wander off on their own.

As she approached Rachel, Jane crowed,  At last! I thought it would never end! She deposited a tray on a nearby table. I’ve brought us some ice cream. I think we deserve a treat.

"I don’t see what merit has to do with it, Rachel said, accepting a bowl. She nodded towards Randolph, who was still at the table, enjoying a second helping. Why do the wicked prosper? Can you tell me that, Jane?"

Laughing, she sat down. "Because women indulge them."

They watched a group of boys go out the garden-gate. A moment later, Randolph followed, smirking as he passed, his face smeared with pink.

Come again, dear! Jane called out, adding in an undertone, I never thought I’d see the back of him. Looking relaxed, she ate a few spoonfuls of ice cream. "What a relief: le dernier des petits paniers est parti."

Rachel looked at her. That doesn’t make any sense. You just said: ‘the last of the little baskets has left.’

Exactly.

Oh, said Rachel, blushing, as she caught her friend’s meaning. "Well, I suppose it’s fair. If I was going to call anyone by a rude name, it would be Randolph."

Yes, said Jane, adding thoughtfully, "Although, you know, I was not entirely displeased by that little escapade with the marzipan fruit. That Bill—he deserves to have a  few things thrown at him."

Why do you say that?

Because of Rosie. He’s the one who got her pregnant.

Rachel was stunned. What do you mean? Rosie had to leave because she had a follower.

Not just that. She was expecting a baby.

Rachel stared at her. No, not really! Why didn’t you tell me?

"I thought you already knew. Your father told my father. I assumed you’d been told."

Oh, dear, said Rachel, as the information sank in. She was shocked beyond belief. How could a decent young woman like Marie-Rose have forgotten all her principles? It was horrifying to think she had once connected herself in imagination with the girl.

He should have married her, Jane said. "He could have. He’s single. He has a job. Instead, he chose to abandon her."

Rachel’s heart was beating rapidly. What happened to her?

She ended up in La Miséricorde, a hospital that takes in fallen women. A hellish place, apparently. Our new maid, Lise, was there herself and told us all about it.

"Oh, yes, Lise,"