The shock of bereavement freezes the emotions and paralyses the will. How much stronger is the effect when it is tinged with guilt! Margaret had loved Charles for so long, and enjoyed his company as a husband for so short a time, that his loss would have been enough in itself to make her despair. But to her natural unhappiness was added a burden of responsibility made heavier by the fact that she dared not tell anyone what had happened. Her marriage had ended with a quarrel: the first quarrel - the only quarrel - they had ever had; and it had been all her fault. She had made Charles angry. He had died with his mind turned against her, and she could not doubt that his anger had contributed to his death. There was no one to whom she could confess her guilt, because the story would be incomplete unless the rubies were mentioned.
The rubies had caused enough trouble already. Margaret believed now that she had been wrong to accept responsibility for keeping them secretly until Alexa came of age. But having made that one wrong decision, she had been right when she decided never to tell anyone of their existence - not even Alexa herself until her twenty-first birthday. The tragedy had occurred because she broke her resolve, and she did not intend to make the same mistake again. The need for secrecy combined with her misery to make her withdraw from the world into a depression which no one at first could penetrate.
Alexa did her best. She tried to soothe her guardian by playing and singing to her; but the music, whether bright or sad, caused Margaret’s tears to flow. Nor could any comfort be provided by embraces or assurances of undying love: if Margaret could not hear Charles’s voice, she would not listen to any other. But Alexa must have taken one other step, for within two days William arrived at Elm Lodge.
His sympathy displayed itself in practical help. He arranged the funeral and visited Charles’s lawyer and banker to discuss Margaret’s financial position on her behalf. The needs of his own business meant, however, that he could not stay too long away from Bristol. Margaret was still in the throes of her first grief when he tried, before leaving, to make her consider plans for her future.
‘As soon as I arrive at Brinsley House I shall arrange for a suite of rooms to be prepared for you,’ he said. ‘You must make your home with us again, of course, and you would be wise, for the sake of your child, to come as soon as possible. The business of closing up Elm Lodge and deciding whether it should be sold or let can be postponed until after your confinement. After the shock you have had to endure, I feel sure you ought to rest and be calm.’
It was impossible for Margaret to be calm, but even more impossible for her to agree without thought to what he took for granted. There was nothing unexpected about her brother’s suggestion. Since his father’s death William had accepted without hesitation his responsibilities as head of the Lorimer family. All the hesitations now were on Margaret’s side. She had not given any thought to the future - indeed, she had hardly yet come to terms with the fact that it must be a future without Charles. But the independent streak in her nature forced itself through the listlessness of bereavement, making her reluctant to return to a way of life which she had already rejected once.
‘You are very generous, William,’ she said. ‘But I no longer have any employment in Bristol.’
‘If you come to Bristol, you will not need employment. You can devote yourself to your child. You will owe it to him to do so. And I must tell you frankly, your income is not enough to maintain you here.’
The need to think clearly and express arguments acted as a first step to lift Margaret out of her apathy.
‘Country life is less demanding than Bristol society, and has more to offer,’ she pointed out. ‘The investment you made for me when Lower Croft was sold will keep us clothed. We grow all the vegetables we need. There is fruit to come, the pigs are fattening and the hens are laying well. A good many families have to exist on a smallholding no larger than the grounds of Elm Lodge. And I am learning how to live as a farmer’s wife. Already I can bottle fruit and preserve eggs and smoke hams like a countrywoman born.’
William’s expression showed what he thought of this state of affairs, but Margaret refused to be ashamed. Her practical nature had taken pride in the speed with which she had acquired new skills at the beginning of her married life. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘if I stay here I can increase my income by taking over the practice.’
‘That is a ridiculous idea. You would never be accepted as a doctor here.’
‘I am as well qualified as Charles was.’
‘That has nothing to do with it. Do you seriously imagine that a farm labourer would allow himself to be examined by a woman, even if it were proper for you to make such an examination?’
‘He has no objection to his wife being examined by a man,’ she retorted. Then she controlled her tongue. Her arguments with William too often developed into quarrels, but she did not wish to offend him now. Even if his invitation were prompted more by a sense of duty than by affection, it was a kind one. It would be ungrateful of her to tell him how stifling she found Sophie’s cold company. During her last stay at Brinsley House she had at least been able to escape to her work at the orphanage. If she were to return now, she would be expected to stay at home and devote herself entirely to her baby, in spite of the fact that all the actual work of bringing him up would be performed by servants. The prospect was a suffocating one - and yet William might prove to be right when he claimed that she had no alternative.
‘It is too soon for me to make decisions of this sort, William,’ she said. ‘Please believe that I am grateful to you for your generous invitation. Whether I accept it or not, I do most sincerely appreciate the knowledge that I can rely on your support and turn to you in an emergency. But the whole pattern of my future life will be affected by this choice, and I must think about it carefully.’
‘You have no choice,’ said William bluntly. ‘For the child’s sake, you must come to Brinsley House. But I can see that I have spoken too soon. You are not yet able to think clearly enough to come to any sensible conclusion. My invitation will remain open until you are ready to accept it. You may write to me at any time.’
After he had left, Margaret paced up and down her drawing room, trying to resolve her own uncertainties. She knew that a good deal of what William had said was true. The birth of the baby would increase the regular expenses of the household right from the beginning - for before Margaret could undertake to work, she must employ a nursemaid - whereas her income would always be irregular.
It was also true that the villagers would not easily accept a female doctor. And yet, thought Margaret, they would have no choice. The area was too poor to support two doctors. If she announced that she was continuing Charles’s practice, it would not seem worthwhile for any other practitioner to put up his plate in the area. Nor would Charles’s patients want to see their years of club payments wasted. They would be forced to come to Margaret as long as they were in credit; and if she did her work well, they would surely be prepared to continue the payments.
It might be possible, she thought, and allowed herself to contrast in her mind the stiff formality of life at Brinsley House with a softer picture of Alexa singing to a baby as she rocked its cradle, while Margaret herself sewed peacefully by the fire. With economy and hard work, it could be done.
But what if she were to fall ill? Suppose - with Alexa and a baby both dependent solely on herself - something should happen to make her unable to support them. Was it fair to expose a child to the risk of insecurity when he had been offered the sort of comfortable upbringing that she herself had enjoyed?
But then, even her own childhood security had collapsed. Nothing in life could be relied upon to last for ever. The speed of her pacing increased as she put to herself first one side of each argument and then the other. Only two hours earlier she had been listless and tearful. William had at least succeeded in jolting her out of that state and into a consideration of her new position. But now she found herself driven to distraction in a new way. To return to Brinsley House would be cowardly: to refuse the invitation would be rash. The two conclusions were instinctive, not logical, and she was unable to reconcile them. A single course of action could be regarded as either sensible or weak, depending only on the viewpoint. Looking from each side in turn, Margaret found herself reduced once again to tears, although this time their cause was not loss but mental strain.
From this stress she was rescued by the arrival of Ralph and Lydia and the two children, Kate and Brinsley, who had been born in Jamaica. Margaret had known that they would be arriving in England for a three-month home furlough at about this time, but was expecting a visit only after they had rested for some days in Bristol. Instead they came at once, without warning, explaining after the first embraces and cries of surprise and sympathy were over that they had been anxious not to put Margaret to the trouble of preparing for them. Charles’s death had occurred while they were still at sea, on their way home from Jamaica, but Sophie had told them the news as soon as they arrived at Bristol.
‘You will hardly find me a cheerful hostess,’ said Margaret, aware that Ralph was looking anxiously at her swollen eyes, reddened with weeping. Indeed, he turned almost at once to his wife to suggest that they ought not to inflict themselves for more than an hour on a household in mourning, but Lydia brushed the suggestion aside.
‘With Betty’s help, I shall do everything that is needed,’ she declared. ‘I make no apologies, Margaret, for bursting into your home in such a way. My years in Jamaica have taught me that it is a waste of time there to make tactful suggestions or ask permission to take liberties. I have become a managing busy-body, and I cannot shake off the habit so soon after leaving the mission. I hope you are a good enough friend to forgive me.’
Margaret was far too pleased to see Lydia and Ralph to make any objection. She stood up, intending to accompany her friend upstairs, but at once was forced to sit down again.
‘How useless I am!’ she exclaimed, angry at her own weakness. ‘Just within these last few days I seem to have become so heavy. And without energy to do anything at all.’
‘Are you eating properly?’ asked Lydia.
‘I have no appetite.’
‘And sleeping?’
‘How can I sleep when I am so unhappy?’ Margaret found herself yet again on the brink of tears. She saw Lydia signal to Ralph, who without hesitation picked up his sister and carried her up to her bedroom. Lydia followed, shooing him out of the room as soon as he had laid Margaret down on her bed.
‘How far are you?’ she asked.
‘Seven months.’
‘Then you are being very foolish,’ said Lydia. She spoke sternly, but held Margaret’s hand as she did so. ‘You know the risk to a baby at precisely this time. I’ve no doubt all your friends have advised you to rest, and you have brushed aside their advice. But I am speaking as your doctor, and I am ordering you to rest. You are to stay in bed for the next two weeks and you are to eat whatever I send up. For the sake of the baby’s health, if you have no regard for your own. Who is looking after the practice?’
‘No one,’ said Margaret.
‘Then who is going to deliver your child?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’
‘You deserve to have your face slapped for speaking in such a way,’ said Lydia briskly. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. For the next three months I am the village doctor. And yours.’
‘You can’t spend your holiday working.’
‘I’m only happy when I’m working,’ said Lydia. ‘Ralph may travel round and visit his bachelor friends if he wishes. I shall be content to stay here, and no place could be healthier for the children. May I ask Betty to find me a girl from the village who will care for them?’
‘Of course.’ Margaret managed to smile, in spite of her swimming head. ‘You are very good to me, Lydia.’
Lydia kissed her affectionately. ‘I know you would do the same for me,’ she said. ‘I am going to produce the most beautiful baby for you, and I shall be so proud of him that you will hardly be allowed to remember that you arc his mother. I shall expect you to obey my orders. There is nothing I can do to console you in your distress at Charles’s death, I know, but you have made yourself ill, and your body must be restored to strength before you can hope to regain your full courage.’
Courage. It was a curious word for Lydia to choose, Margaret thought as, later that evening, warmed by a fire in her bedroom and a drink of hot milk, she began at last to drift towards sleep. Perhaps her friend had been referring only to the pains of childbirth. But it was equally true that courage was needed simply to accept the prospect of a future in which Charles could play no part, to take charge of her own life. The choice which William had presented to her earlier that day would have to be made sooner or later, but for the moment she was content to relax in her friend’s care. Earlier, she had been frightened by the feeling that her distracted mind was causing the collapse of her body. It came as a wonderful relief to be told that it was the weakness of the body which was more probably causing the confusion of her mind. She pushed away the decisions which must soon be made, and slept.
The days and weeks passed gently, uneventfully. As soon as Lydia allowed her to come down from her bed to a sofa, Margaret found herself able to enjoy Alexa’s playing and singing without any of the anguish it had caused her earlier. Lydia’s reports of her reception in the village were amusing; but could not all be regarded as a joke. Margaret pressed for more details as time passed, and gradually came to satisfy herself that Lydia’s brisk efficiency was having an effect. By the time Margaret herself was ready to take over, the first shock of seeing a woman doctor would have faded; it might not yet seem a normal thing to the villagers, but at least it could no longer be regarded as an impossibility.
In the early hours of the first day of June Margaret was awakened by the sudden onset of her labour pains. She lay for a little while without moving, knowing from her experience as a doctor that there was plenty of time. But between the contractions she felt the need to move about, changing her position; and soon, restless, she got out of bed and wrapped herself warmly. Lydia would not mind being awakened too soon, and the time would pass more easily if they could talk.
On the way, she paused to open each door in turn, illuminating the rooms briefly with her candle. Alexa was asleep in the first room, her beautiful hair covering the white pillow with reddish gold. Behind the next door, the nursery was waiting for its future occupant. What sort of life would he have, this new person who was now demanding to be born?
As she asked herself the question, she knew that she was ready to find the answer. The very violence of the pains that jerked her into rigidity at steady intervals carried a curious reassurance. They told her that her body had recovered, and so her mind could once again be expected to perform rationally. In a few hours she would no doubt be tired again, needing to rest and recover for a second time. This was the moment when she should consider again the choice which William had put to her.
Her instincts had not changed. To return to Brinsley House would be an act of cowardice. But was the alternative realistic? Would she be able, alone, to launch Alexa into the world and bring up a child from babyhood?
Any father must sometimes ask himself the same question, she supposed, although with less choice in the answer. Were men ever frightened at the thought of the responsibilities to which they were committed? The question reminded her of her own father. She closed the door of the nursery which would not be empty for very much longer, and went into the little room where the quarrel with Charles had begun.
The portrait of John Junius Lorimer was still propped with its face to the wall. She bent down to lift and turn it, but it was heavier than she had expected. As she strained at the weight, her body was gripped by a pain so much greater than any which had come before that for a moment she could not move. When at last her muscles relaxed, allowing her to straighten herself, she knew that there was no more time to be wasted. ‘Lydia!’ she called. ‘Lydia!’
Four hours later, Margaret looked at her son for the first time and wept. She wept for the baby who would never have a father; and for Charles, who would have loved this little boy. Lydia, understanding, made no attempt either to tease or console her, but took the newly-born child away again to be washed and wrapped. By the time she came back with the tiny white bundle, Margaret had sobbed her grief under control and was waiting, exhausted but calm, to take the baby into her arms.
He was a Lorimer, not a Scott. Though he would be christened Robert Charles Scott, there was no sign of Charles’s grave solidity in the mobile face and the tiny, threshing fists which seemed already to be exploring the new world in which he found himself. He was a small baby, as Margaret had been, and his downy hair was bright red.
Margaret lay for a little while without moving, happy in her exhaustion. Beside her, Robert whimpered, and his lips sucked at the air. As she put him to her breast for the first time, she was amazed at the sudden flood of love which filled her heart. Although her body was so tired that she hardly had the strength to lift an arm, she felt strong and protective - and, at the same time, serious. She was responsible for Robert, and it was time to make the decision which would determine the course of his life. She asked Lydia if the portrait of John Junius could be brought into the room, and within a few moments it had been propped up on a chair so that she could see it without lifting her head. She stared across the room at her father’s face as the baby sucked for a little while and then fell asleep with his head pillowed on her breast.
As though it were yesterday, she remembered when she had first seen the portrait, because it was the day on which she first met David Gregson - a day which had seemed to bring her happiness but which had proved to be the start of a chapter of disasters. How much of what was to happen had John Junius anticipated? she wondered. His greenish eyes seemed to pierce their way out of the portrait from beneath an untroubled brow: his mouth was firm with confidence. If his anxieties had already begun at the time of the sittings, he had taken care to give the artist no hint of them.
His memory offered no guidance to his daughter, who had loved him so deeply while he lived and had suffered so much from his actions since he died. As far as women were concerned, he had been a man of his time. Women, in his eyes, were intended by nature to be dependent creatures. He cherished his wife as a possession even when he no longer cared for her in any other way; and he would have taken it for granted that his daughter should stay at home until she married - for the whole of her life if no husband could be found. There could be no doubt that he would wholly have approved the way in which William assumed that a widowed sister should return to Brinsley House.
It seemed that there was no help to be found there - and yet, as she gazed at the likeness, Margaret felt her blood stir: it was, after all, Lorimer blood. Brinsley Lorimer had set sail across the ocean with no fear of the storms he would face when he was far from land. John Junius Lorimer had faced the even stormier seas of finance and industry with an equal courage. He had been defeated in the end, but the earlier years of his career had been full of risk and resolution. All the Lorimers had been adventurers at heart, and Margaret herself had shown the same spirit of adventure fifteen years earlier when she broke away from the conventions of her society and resolved to make herself independent. What was independence worth if she could relinquish it whenever a difficulty arose? Of what value was a burst of initiative if it faded at the first setback? If Brinsley Lorimer’s first ship had sunk beneath him he would have built himself another, and she could do the same. All that she needed was courage.
‘Have I enough?’ she asked aloud, still staring at the portrait, and found her answer in the solid, autocratic face of a man who had always claimed the right to control his own life, even to choosing the moment of his death. He had brought her up in the prosperous and comfortable style which he thought that a Lorimer deserved, and that style had been snatched away from her even before his death. He had left her a legacy of deceit and confusion, robbing her in turn of the only two men she had ever loved and bringing this part of her life to as final a conclusion as the other. One thing remained, something which could never be taken away. She was a Lorimer, and from this man she had inherited the Lorimer spirit, a compound of intelligence and application and flair with, above all, the willingness to take a risk. Yes, she had enough courage.
Newly awake, Alexa appeared in the doorway, still wearing her white nightgown. Her long hair, a more golden shade of red than the baby’s, streamed unbrushed over her shoulders; her eyes were bright with excitement.
‘May I hold him?’
‘Of course.’
They made a pretty picture: the beautiful young girl looking down at the sleeping child. In a gesture copied from John Junius himself, Margaret gave a quick nod towards the portrait. It signified that a decision had been taken, the matter under consideration was settled. William had given her the strength that came from opposition, and Lydia the strength of example; but from Robert she took the even greater strength of love. In the past she had accepted support from a father, brother, husband. That period was over. This was not the first time in her life that she had resolved to be independent, but it was the most important, because there were more lives than her own at stake. Exhausted though she was, she felt her body flooding with joy and excitement. By her own efforts she would provide support for Alexa and baby Robert, the daughter and grandson of John Junius Lorimer. As her eyes at last closed in weariness, she made herself a promise. She would not fail them.