When Rosabelle reappeared in London without any forewarning, Rachelle tactfully avoided cross-questioning her about what happened in Eyemouth. If she wanted to talk, she would. If not, it was best to act incurious.
As before, Rosabelle took solace in work and threw herself into a creative frenzy that spread her reputation even wider than it had gone before. The salon was always crowded with fashionable women wanting to buy, and the outworkers were kept stitching all the time.
When she was so busy, Rosabelle found that days, weeks and months swept by, almost unnoticed. Sometimes she found it hard to remember what day it was, or even what season. When she looked out of her studio window and saw the street shrouded in a sulphurous London fog, she shivered and imagined that she could smell the salty scent of the sea.
But when the fog lifted to reveal a beautiful autumn with the trees in the park glowing in jewel-like autumn colours, she was confused to realize that she felt safer when her home was surrounded by blanketing fog.
The yellowish-grey light percolating feebly through her window made her feel she was enclosed in a private place where no one could see her from outside, and she could not see them.
Gradually she sank deeper and deeper into depression, wondering if she’d done the right thing by giving her son away to Effie. Since returning from Eyemouth she had been as engulfed in grief as she was in the first months of her widowhood. She felt helpless, as if her life was ebbing away with nothing happening and nobody caring for her.
Eth caught her weeping one October afternoon. ‘What’s up, ducks?’ she asked, putting a hand on the woman’s shaking shoulder.
‘I don’t know. I’m just tired,’ she said.
‘You need a holiday. Why don’t you go into the country, or back to that town you come from in Scotland? It’s a year and more since you were there, isn’t it?’ Eth suggested.
‘I haven’t time to take holidays and I wouldn’t know where to go…’
‘Go home and see your family again.’
Tears welled up in Rosabelle’s eyes. ‘No, I can’t… I’ve left my son there, you see. The last time I went back I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me either… I often wonder if I should have stayed in Eyemouth for his sake. I’m a bad mother and I feel such guilt.’ The words poured from her without premeditation, and she was desperate to talk. She wanted Eth to tell her what to do because she felt as if she was wandering alone in an unknown land.
Eth had kind eyes, more understanding than Rachelle’s. ‘Is your little boy happy? Is he being well treated?’ she asked.
‘Oh, very happy. He’s with his grandmother and he’s happier there than he would ever be with me. In fact I don’t think he likes me really.’ The tears began again.
‘He hasn’t seen much of you, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. Stan hardly ever sees his mother, but he’s fascinated by her. If she asked him to jump in the Thames, he’d do it at once. If I ask him to run an errand for me, he grumbles,’ said Eth with a laugh. She hugged Rosabelle and said, ‘Cheer up, my duck. You’re a good girl and a clever one. Me, my sisters – and that includes Sadie – and a lot of other people all depend on you. Do you want me to tell Sadie not to take so many orders? Is she working you too hard?’
‘Oh no, don’t do that. Work is the only thing that makes me happy.’
Eth hugged her again and said with feeling, ‘You poor soul. Any time you want to talk to someone, talk to me.’
Ticked off by Eth, Rachelle tried to shake her partner out of depression by inviting her to a play. ‘Come with me to see Pinero’s The Second Mrs Tanqueray, at the Savoy Theatre tonight. It’s meant to be very good,’ she said, but Rosabelle refused with an expression that showed she was terrified at the prospect. She went on working all the time, even late at night, while Rachelle was entertaining or out being entertained.
‘One day you’ll be an old woman and then you’ll be sorry you didn’t go out enjoying yourself while you could,’ Rachelle warned.
I want to enjoy myself. I want to be happy… the only problem is I don’t know how, thought Rosabelle, but the warning struck a chord of fear in her heart. Outside it was sunny, and for a moment she contemplated putting on the paisley shawl that Rachelle had given her as a birthday gift and taking a turn in the park, but she knew that by the time she walked to the other side of Piccadilly she would be so overcome with panic that she would run all the way back home.
Lying on her work table was one of Effie’s weekly letters that arrived regularly, thanking Rosabelle for the money she sent and telling her about Aaron, plus occasional snippets of Eyemouth gossip.
She frowned as she looked at the meaningless scribbles on the page, wishing she could make some sense out of them. Effie’s letters were very personal, and though there was now no fear of being charged with Anderson’s murder, she resented the fact that she needed someone else to read them to her.
‘I must learn to read and write!’ she said aloud. But who would teach her? Pride prevented her asking any of the girls in the salon and she knew that Rachelle would make an irritable teacher. What about Eth? She determined to ask her.
‘Can you read, Eth?’ Rosabelle asked the next time they met.
The answer was cautious. ‘Well enough.’
‘I can’t read at all, or write anything except my name.’
Eth raised her eyebrows and said, ‘There’s lots of people in the same boat. In fact I’m not much good at the reading either, really.’
Rosabelle’s face fell. ‘I want to learn. I hoped you might teach me.’
‘Not me, love. You need a real tutor,’ said Eth.
‘Were can I find one?’
‘You can find anything if you have the money. D’ye want a man or a woman?’
‘A woman, of course,’ Rosabelle said and Eth laughed.
‘That’s a pity. It’s a man you need really, but I’ll ask around and find someone for you.’
Two days later a sweet-faced, middle-aged woman presented herself at the salon and asked for Miss Rosabelle Scott. She did not look like the type who bought clothes from their establishment, so the assistants told her to wait in the hall while Rosabelle was called.
The stranger’s smile transformed her plainness and made her look like an aging cherub. ‘My name is Daisy Ashe,’ she said, holding out her hand.
Rosabelle smiled back, wondering what this was about, but Daisy took the initiative. ‘The cook in the house where I am employed as a governess tells me she heard from a friend of hers that you’re looking for a tutor in penmanship. Am I right?’
‘Not only penmanship exactly,’ said Rosabelle, and to prevent the salon girls from hearing the discussion, she took the stranger up to her work room, and then said, ‘I need someone to teach reading and writing.’
‘For your children?’
‘No, for myself.’ Rosabelle’s cheeks were flushed but Daisy Ashe was unfazed. ‘I would like to do that, and I’ll be able to supply references, of course,’ she said, pulling a letter out of her shabby reticule. They both looked at it, then at each other, and burst out laughing because, of course, Rosabelle couldn’t read it. It was the first time she’d laughed for ages and it made her feel miraculously better.
Daisy said, ‘I’m a silly goose, amn’t I?’ She looked around the room with keen interest and admiration. ‘What a lovely room! Are you an artist?’
‘No, I design gowns.’
Daisy looked at one of Rosabelle’s latest creations draped over a full-busted dressmaker’s dummy, and said in admiration, ‘If you designed that, I’d say that you’re an artist.’
Rosabelle smiled and asked, ‘How long do you think it will take to teach me to read and write?’
‘I can see that you’re intelligent, so not very long. If I come to see you for two hours a week, I’d guess by the end of six months you’d be completely literate. I’m governess to two young ladies in Belgrave Square, which isn’t far from here, and I have an afternoon off once a week. I’d come to you then,’ said Daisy.
‘What do you teach them?’ Rosabelle asked.
‘French and German mainly. They’re finished with ordinary schoolroom subjects and they have other tutors for music and painting.’
‘You must be very clever… and they are lucky girls.’
‘They might not agree with you about that. They can hardly wait to get married and escape from me. The eldest, Felicity, comes out this year and her sister will not be far behind her.’ The governess looked sad at that thought.
‘What will you do then?’
‘I’ll have to find another position, or go to live with my brother. He’s a parson in Dorset with a family of daughters to educate on a small stipend so he’ll be glad of a live-in tutor,’ She did not sound happy at the prospect.
Though normally reticent with strangers, Rosabelle was surprised at how comfortable she felt with this dumpy little woman who reminded her so much of Effie. She liked the twinkly brown eyes that made the round face look like that of a kitten; she liked her motherly shape; she liked the interested way she looked at everything, and especially she liked the calm and unsurprised way Daisy took the revelation that her would-be employer was illiterate.
‘Please take me as a pupil,’ she said and the governess laughed.
‘More to the point, will you accept me as your teacher?’
‘Of course I will. Can you start tomorrow?’ was Rosabelle’s next question.
‘My day off is Monday. I’ll come at half past two if that suits.’
Rosabelle nodded. ‘Till Monday then… Is it Miss or Mrs Ashe?’
‘It’s Miss Daisy Ashe. Unfortunately the only gentleman who ever wanted to marry me had no money either.’
‘I’ll call you Daisy and please call me Rosabelle.’
The lessons went well, but Daisy did not only concentrate on books. She quickly realized how sad and confused her pupil was and made it her business to brighten Rosabelle and try to change her outlook on life.
She started by coaxing her out, suggesting they take the air in Green Park where she calmed the girl’s obvious panic by picking up fallen autumn leaves and diverting her by pointing out the trees they came from and telling about their types and differences. In a notebook she carried, she wrote down their names and Rosabelle drew them and copied out the names when she returned home.
Winter came, stripping the branches and chilling the air, so Daisy redirected their walks to Piccadilly, into shops that glittered with decorations for the approach of Christmas. They lingered in the scented warmth, admiring glorious displays by retailers of jewellery, flowers, wine, cigars, hats, furs and leather work.
When she saw Rosabelle’s obvious delight at this way of passing the afternoon, Daisy asked, ‘I’m surprised you’ve never done this before. How long have you lived in London?’
‘Nine years – no, nearly ten…’
‘And you’ve never gone shopping in Bond Street before?’
Rosabelle shook her head. ‘No. My partner Rachelle has often asked me to go out with her but I’ve always refused. If we go out on business, we ride in a cab – Rachelle never walks anywhere and I don’t like crowds. I’m scared to go out on my own…’
In fact, she was as afraid in the city streets as she would have been in a tiger-infested jungle, and though she knew her fears were irrational that did not make them any less crippling.
There was no official word for the terrors that gripped her, but Daisy was sufficiently sensitive to recognize them and know how to help with gentleness rather than scorn. Also she knew better than to give common sense advice like ‘Don’t be stupid’ or ‘Pull yourself together’. Instead she gradually built up her pupil’s confidence.
Little by little, Rosabelle literally pulled herself together, mending many of her mental wounds and almost her broken heart, but there was still a long way to go.
After her lessons had been going on for three months, she could read a letter from Effie on her own. It was lying on her plate at the breakfast table, and with careful fingers, she opened the envelope to look at the words.
Her heart leapt. Today they made sense! They made words! Without thinking, or whispering the words to herself, she knew what Effie had written. It was like being shown a new and wonderful world.
‘I can read! I can read this letter,’ she cried out in delight to Rachelle who was moodily drinking coffee beside her.
‘Just as well after all the time you’ve been taking lessons. Tell me what it says. Read it to me,’ was the reply.
Rosabelle read the words out, slowly but surely… Unfortunately the news it contained was sad.
‘Dear Rosabelle… Today I have to tell you that my friend Euphen is dying… She has a can-ker in her breast… I am heartbroken… She is my dearest friend and I will miss her. Aaron and I are well. Love, Effie.’
The next time Daisy came, Rosabelle showed her the letter and a reply she had drafted. ‘Is it right? Have I made any mistakes?’ she asked.
Daisy read it. ‘Dear Effie, I am very sad to hear about Euphen and know how much you will miss her. She is a good woman. Please give her a kiss from me because I remember how kind she was when I was having Aaron. I am thinking of you all and crying for Euphen…’ When she had finished reading, Daisy said, ‘It is a lovely letter, but I think you should say that you have written it by yourself.’
A sentence was added and the letter was folded, put into its envelope and sent on its way. Daisy was with Rosabelle when Effie’s reply came.
You are a clever girl. I showed Aaron your letter and he admired your penmanship. I thought I’d write a longer letter this time to tell you some of the town gossip now that you can read. Jessie is very thick with Mr Cochrane the minister. They are writing a book but he’s the one doing the writing and she’s the one that’s doing the talking. I think his book will be a good thing because she says he wants to tell the truth about the fishing disaster and what happened afterwards. He is very angry about the meanness of the fund managers – how they let people go hungry when they had all that money in the bank. He says Anderson was a thief but can’t say so in the book, though he can hint it. Jessie says he has written a chapter about the boats breaking up on the Hurkars and she told him about you and me watching from the pierhead. He was moved to tears…
When she read that last sentence, Rosabelle began to shake and tears cascaded down her cheeks.
‘Oh no, oh no,’ she sobbed and threw down the letter, covering her eyes with her hands.
Daisy sat appalled, unsure for once how to behave. She lifted up the letter and put a gentle hand on Rosabelle’s shaking shoulder as she said, ‘What’s wrong? Do you want to talk about it?’
The story came tumbling out. Her short, sweet happiness with Dan; the terrible day when he drowned. She told how she watched his death struggles on the cruel rocks and felt herself dying with him.
Daisy wept with her. ‘I remember reading about the fishing disaster, but I had no idea you were involved in it,’ she said at last.
‘Yes, oh yes, me and my mother-in-law Effie who wrote this letter. She lost her husband and three sons all on the same day. My best friend Jessie was going to marry my husband’s brother and he died too. We all lost our men,’ Rosabelle told her. It was a relief to let it all out.
‘That’s dreadful, too terrible. And what does she mean about the fund? My brother and I both sent money to help the widows and orphans. It wasn’t much, but it was all we could afford at the time,’ Daisy told her.
Rosabelle shook her head. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered brokenly.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t thank me. I was very moved by what I read in the newspapers. So many men dying like that…’
‘Yes. Over a hundred and eighty of them.’
‘Did the money people sent help?’
‘A little. The widows were given five shillings a week – if they behaved themselves.’
Daisy shook her head in shocked disbelief. ‘I’m sure the outside world had no idea what was done with their money. Five shillings a week is so little. What became of the rest?’
Rosabelle shrugged. ‘I don’t know. People think a lot of it was stolen or frittered away. I don’t know the truth.’
Daisy sat stricken, not knowing what to say. ‘All you poor women,’ she whispered.
Now that she’d started to talk, Rosabelle had to go on. It was the first time she’d told the story right through and coherently, not bit by bit. With her voice cracking she described again watching Dan drown, about giving birth to Aaron and being unable to feel love for him, about being stalked and attacked by Anderson, about hitting him and then seeing his drowned body lying on the paving stones of the harbourside, about running away from Eyemouth because of the terror of discovery, and staying away because of the agony the memory of the place aroused in her. Finally she told Daisy about giving her son away to his grandmother.
Daisy listened, nodding and giving encouragement when Rosabelle showed signs of holding things back. She realized that the girl was undergoing some sort of catharsis, and that it would be best for it all to come out.
‘I’ve never told anyone this before,’ Rosabelle said eventually, wiping her eyes. ‘Talking about it makes it clearer somehow. I’m beginning to understand. I think I was too close to it before.’
‘What do you miss most about your home?’ asked Daisy softly.
‘Miss about Eyemouth? Nothing really. I hate seeing and hearing the sea. There’s more of it than land there and it rules people’s lives, sucking them under and then throwing them up again. It’s very cruel.’
‘But you are from seagoing people, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes, on both sides, as far back as anyone knows. Effie keeps telling me that the sea is in our blood. She says my son must go to sea as well because it’s his heritage…’
‘You’re afraid of that.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you do love your son?’
‘Do I? I don’t know him. He says he wants to go to sea. He loves Effie more than me, he always has. But he’s Dan’s son and it’s my duty to look after him. And he looks so like his father! When I went back, I kept seeing resemblances, the way he moved his head, or pursed his lips. Even the way he walked. How can a child who never saw his father know to walk like that?’
Daisy shook her head. She had her theories about why Rosabelle was staying away from her son, but kept them to herself and hoped that time would solve the problem.
Seeing how very distressed she still was, Daisy took her hand and asked gently, as if she was afraid of a rebuff, ‘Do you ever go to church, my dear?’
The answer was a shake of the head.
‘Neither of my parents went and neither did Dan. I chose to be married in church, but haven’t been in one since. I don’t want to go now because if there really is a God, how could he allow something as terrible as the disaster to happen?’ said Rosabelle.
‘Were you baptized?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Would you go to church with me?’ asked Daisy.
Rosabelle shook her head doubtfully. ‘Why? What good would it do?’
‘Let me take you to a service next Sunday,’ Daisy suggested and, because Rosabelle did not want to rebuff her too sharply or hurt her feelings, an appointment was made for the following week.
Daisy deliberately chose a church that was only a short walk away from Half Moon Street – St James in Piccadilly, an attractively proportioned red-brick building set behind a tree-filled burying ground with a pointed steeple that had four large clocks set around its base.
When they went inside, Rosabelle was overwhelmed by the size and dignity of the building because it seemed much smaller from outside. To her surprise, a feeling of tranquillity filled her as she stared up at the multi-coloured light streaming in through windows high up above her head.
As they sat waiting for the service to begin, Daisy whispered, ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Sir Christopher Wren designed it, the same man as built St Paul’s.’
Not wishing to appear ignorant, Rosabelle asked, ‘In what year?’
‘The 1680s, but the steeple didn’t go up till 1700.’ She indicated dozens of elaborate plaques lining the walls. ‘These memorials celebrate famous people – there’s one to Lord Palmerston, the old Prime Minister, and another to Emperor Napoleon the Third.’
Rosabelle gazed around, awed and suitably impressed, though neither of those names meant anything to her.
Daisy was still talking softly beside her. ‘The choir is magnificent too. Wait till you hear it. It’s one of the best in London.’
At that moment, the organ began pealing and an immense feeling of peace filled Rosabelle, taking her out of herself, away from her nervousness and worries. Till then she’d had no idea that music could have such a profound effect on her.
Her whole attitude was different when they emerged from the church into Piccadilly.
‘Thank you, Daisy, thank you very much. Will you bring me here again?’ she asked.
‘Not only will I come back here with you, but I’ll take you to other places as well. Next time we could go to St Paul’s or even Westminster Abbey,’ said Daisy gaily, pleased that her cure seemed to be helping.