Anna had never spent a more miserable night. Despite her exhaustion she slept badly and woke when, at some time in the dark hours of morning, Joss climbed heavily into bed beside her. She stiffened, her heart suddenly pounding suffocatingly, though whether in fear or in relief that he had finally remembered her existence she did not herself know. She lay rigid with apprehension, but he did not touch her; instead he settled himself with his back to her and apparently slipped immediately into what she supposed to be an alcohol-induced sleep. She lay for hours then, staring into darkness, reliving every moment of what should have been – what indeed had begun as – the happiest day of her life and had ended in fiasco and misunderstanding. Lying still as death beside the sleeping man she swung back and forth upon a pendulum of emotion from anger and self-pity to self-chastisement – had she herself been in some way to blame? Had she acted childishly? Demanded too much? Perhaps so. His body was warm against her back. She let herself relax at last. Tomorrow they must make a new start. She would not think of today. Of his surly behaviour. Of the red stockings. Most of all of the red stockings. She would show him that her love was not so frail as to be daunted so easily – that at last he had someone to care just for him and against whom he need raise no defences – upon this more comforting thought, with the grey light of a rainy dawn seeping through the threadbare curtains she slept at last.
She woke to the instinctive certainty that he was already awake beside her. She moved her head upon the pillow to find him resting upon his elbow, his dark eyes fixed upon her face. Still sleep-bemused, his oddly unexpected nearness alarmed and disturbed her. Infinitesimally she drew back into the pillow, watching him, wide-eyed and silent. His skin was very dark against the white of his nightshirt. Everything about him looked suddenly unfamiliar and frightening. She had woken up beside a stranger in a room whose drabness and lack of comfort was so alien to anything she had ever known that it combined with the circumstances to make her feel lost, afraid and utterly alone. She lay tensely, fighting a surge of sheer panic. Her husband leaned to her, wordless, and his mouth sought hers. Real terror rose, choking her. She felt his hands upon her body; in her fear could neither respond nor resist. Her flesh might have been clay, so chill and unresponsive was it. His mouth and his body were still hot from sleep. She felt his tongue upon her clenched teeth and, suddenly and strongly, revulsion rose. Yet this was her husband and this was his right and she knew nothing but to submit. She lay frozen beneath the weight of his body, deaf and blind to anything but shame, discomfort and final, unbelievable pain. Her single, stifled moan was the only sound she made. He drew away from her, upon his face a bafflement that was quick to turn to a faint exasperation. He dropped abruptly on to the mattress, lay on his back staring at the ceiling. Silence stretched intolerably. Anna felt cold tears slide into her hair. The wetness between her legs shamed and frightened her: she was afraid to move. Surely – surely – it couldn’t always be like this?
Beside her, Joss took one long, deep breath, released it slowly. Neither of them, still, had said one word. He sat up abruptly and threw back the bedclothes. “I have to see someone this morning, at ten o’clock. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Mrs Avery will be in to help you.”
“I don’t want her.”
He stopped in the act of pulling on a sock, turned a sardonic eye upon her. “You think you could manage without her?”
She bit her lip. He knew as well as she did herself that she had never so much as lit a fire, let alone cooked a meal.
“She’ll be here at eleven.”
“No!” Anna was surprised herself at the flat contradiction of the word. “I tell you I won’t have her here.” She sat up, clutching the sheet to her as if it were some kind of protection, glaring at him fiercely. “I won’t.”
He shrugged, reached for his other sock. “Perhaps I should eat out tonight.”
It was calculatedly cruel. She blinked, caught her breath painfully, and rallied. “If that’s what you’d rather do.” Her head was up, her eyes suddenly blazing.
He turned and looked at her in silence for what seemed to be a long time. For a moment she was absolutely certain that he was going to apologize. “I’ll be back sometime later this afternoon,” he said, quietly. “I prefer to eat early, as you know.”
It was not until she had wasted almost an hour in panic and near desperation that the simple answer to her self-inflicted problem occurred to her. Of course: Aunt Hermione. Since Grace’s death Hermione Smithson had often taken on a mother’s guiding role. She would help – of course she would. Anna flew to the cupboard for her coat and hat. She’d show him. She’d shown him that she was no child, that she did not need him and the odious Mrs Avery to manage her life for her – the bitterness and anger that she had been fighting all morning welled again, and stubbornly again she stamped it down. She loved him. No matter what he did, no matter how difficult he might be – and in honesty she could only admit that she had always known him not to be the easiest of men – she loved him. The shock of their lovemaking, if it could be truly termed that, had worn off a little. She could live with that, she told herself determinedly, if that was what he wanted of her. The unkindness that she felt that he had shown was another matter, but one that would have to wait until she discovered the means to counter it. Her father’s words, the night before her wedding, echoed in her head: Take care that the things that you want are worth what you will have to pay for them. She would make it work. She would. And meanwhile there was enough in her of her mother to make her first determined to solve the practical problems and to prove to him – and to herself – that he had married no weak and whimpering female fit for nothing but faints and defeated by the first obstacle.
“Of course, my dear. Nothing simpler.” Hermione Smithson poured another cup of tea, handed the delicate china cup to her young guest, her kindly eyes upon the pale, peaky face and reddened eyes. “I’ll send Thomas round to the agency I use. They’re really excellent people. I can recommend them. What would you be looking for? A live-in maid and a cook, to start with?”
Anna fidgeted with her teaspoon. “The apartment isn’t really big enough for a live-in maid. I was thinking more of a – a kind of general housekeeper – who might come in each day.”
“Of course. I’m sure they’ll fix you up.” Hermione reached for the bell pull, “You’ll be ready to interview – when? – tomorrow? The next day?”
“As soon as possible, please.”
“Nothing easier, my dear. Ah – Thomas,” she bustled to a small writing desk, scribbled a quick note, “I want you to take this round to Mullins’, please. At once. Tell them that the matter is urgent.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The serving man took the note and left. Hermione looked back at Anna. “Now, is there anything else I can do?” If she found it in the least strange that a wife of only a day’s standing should be visiting alone and in the throes of such an early domestic crisis she gave no sign, except for perhaps the gleam of sympathy in her eye. Yet despite that sympathy – which was perfectly genuine – there was still a certain satisfaction in being proved right. Hermione Smithson had never believed this poor child to be capable of coping with such a man as Joss Anatov, moody and ungentlemanly foreigner that he was. Anna and Christopher would have been so much better matched, though to be sure she had always suspected a headstrong streak in the girl – a streak that had indeed been confirmed by this sudden and unsuitable marriage.
“I – well, yes—”
“What is it?”
Anna spread helpless hands. “Today – and tomorrow – until I find someone suitable—”
“Tch, tch. Don’t worry about that. You shall borrow our Harriet for a few days. She’s a passable cook, and there really isn’t enough for her to do nowadays, with the boys grown up—”
“Oh, Aunt Hermione! Are you sure?” Anna’s relief was so great that she almost leapt up and hugged the other woman. The awful tears that seemed to have been dogging her for the past twenty-four hours were close again, but this time through sheer thankfulness. She stood up and moved to Hermione, bent and dropped a kiss on her plump cheek. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Hermione, when all was said and done, was very fond indeed of Anna. She trapped her small hand, held it lightly. “Anna? Are you sure you’re all right?”
The girl stood for a moment, fighting the urge to let her unhappiness flood out to a sympathetic ear. “Quite all right,” she said brightly. “Of course.”
“Of course.” Hermione patted her hand. At least she had tried. And Anna, the older woman thought with a kindly cynicism that was more part of her nature than most people knew, was not the first romantic-minded young woman to find the reality of marriage a little more than she had bargained for. Still, she thought, with a totally unexpected touch of something close to envy, life with Joss Anatov, beastly man that he quite obviously was, would never be dull, whatever else it was. She stood up briskly. “Now, I’ve something to show you. You’ve saved me a journey by coming to see me. You know I’ve found this wonderful little dressmaker – I’m sure I told you?” Chattering lightly, she sailed from the room towing Anna behind her like a small dinghy behind a man o’ war. In the sewing room she began to rummage in a drawer, still talking.
Anna was only barely listening. If Harriet could come back with her now, between them they could surely make something of that horrible apartment before Joss came home? She’d give him the surprise of his life, just see if she wouldn’t. Scrubbed and cleaned, and with the furniture rearranged.
“Ah. Here it is.”
“Sorry?”
“What I wanted to show you. I thought of you at once. See. Isn’t it marvellous? So tiny – so perfect – one would have to look with a magnifying glass to see the stitches.”
Anna took the scrap of material she was offered and all thoughts of homemaking fled her mind. “It’s exquisite!”
“Isn’t it?” Hermione Smithson smiled, pleased.
Anna studied the tiny embroidered flower – a rose upon a delicately thorned stem, with a dainty spray of leaves. “It’s perfect! The stitches are almost invisible.”
“Look at this one.” She handed Anna another scrap, upon which was embroidered on a pale background a miniature spray of dark, spiky holly, the leaves subtly coloured, the berries a sumptuous red.
“But – they’re absolutely marvellous!”
“I thought you’d like them. I knew you cared for such things.”
Anna’s eyes were bright with the delight of a new discovery. “Aunt Hermione – you’re an absolute godsend!”
“Thank you, dear.” Hermione said, equably, “I just wish the rest of the world would recognize that!”
This time Anna did hug her. The colour had returned to her cheeks and her voice, until now subdued, was firm and excited. “Can’t you just see how perfectly I could use these? In boxes – brooches – lockets – they’re so fine, so perfect! There’s no end to the possibilities. Aunt Hermione – I must meet this wonder. At once!”
Hermione’s face dropped a little. “Ah, now that, I’m afraid, will be a little difficult for a while. She’s visiting her mother in the north somewhere.”
“When will she be back?”
“Now that I don’t know. A month or so she said.”
“There’s no way I can get in touch with her?” Reluctantly, Anna offered the sprig of holly to the other woman.
“Oh, keep it, dear, if you like. And, no, I’m afraid you can’t. But she’ll certainly let me know the minute she gets back.” She leaned a little closer, her voice confidential. “Such a nice young woman – good breeding, you know. Though what she’s doing mixed up with arts and crafts and students and such I can’t imagine. But she’ll certainly be in touch. She needs the money, you see. The money that the dressmaking brings in—”
“Is dressmaking, then, not all she does?”
“Dear me, no. She teaches a little, I believe. And—” she waved a vague hand “—and exhibits things.”
“Exhibits things?” Something Aunt Hermione had said earlier now made sense to Anna. “Arts and crafts you said. You mean the Society? The Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society?” “Oh – something of that sort, yes.”
Anna’s eyes were thoughtful. “Will you promise to tell me the minute you hear she’s back?”
“Why, of course, dear.” Hermione was amused and more than a little relieved to find that something so trivial had raised the girl’s spirits so. The problem then can’t have been too bad. “I promise. The minute she comes back.”
By the time that moment came, however, Anna had other things to think about, for she was at the difficult start of what was to prove a difficult pregnancy, and her mind as well as her body was fully occupied with that.
Anna always thought – or perhaps simply hoped – that she could pinpoint exactly the moment of the child’s conception. Those first few weeks of married life were perhaps the most difficult that she had ever lived through, as she struggled to adjust to living with a man who had, it seemed, as many moods as there were shadows in woodland. Unaware of the underlying emotional struggle that influenced his attitude to her she battled on, learning as she went, confused as much by his occasional gentleness as his more frequent uncaring lack of kindness. Conditioned by the age, she sincerely believed it to be her duty to love, honour and obey her husband whatever his temper, whatever the temptation to rebel, as had her mother her father. Such social mores, however, ran absolutely counter to a fiercely independent temperament. For a kindly word she would do anything; antagonized, the desire to strike back, to wound as she had been wounded, was not easily controlled. That Joss was as unhappy in his way as she was in hers never once occurred to her. Why should it? She had no inkling of the oft-regretted impulse upon which her strange marriage was founded, could therefore have no idea of the warring emotions within her husband that made a normally difficult temperament next to impossible. There were times when he saw in her the child he had loved, times which could soften his heart to tears, but when he could no more have made love to her or spoken the love words that she so needed to hear, than he could have violated that same child. Equally, there were times when he saw her simply as her father’s daughter, spawn of the man who had traded his sister’s sanity and finally her life for worldly gain – and at those times he could use her like a whore, knowing she hated it, and think no regret. Confusingly, however, more and more often as time wore on, he came to see her in moments of clarity simply as herself – an individual, stubborn, infuriating, talented, intelligent – if to his analytical mind often hopelessly illogical. And it was this individual that, disturbingly, he discovered to be a threat to his peace of mind and to his implacable determination to break and ruin her father. She loved him. They both knew it, for she did not attempt to hide it. That he loved her was a secret from them both.
Their everyday life, as is the way of such things, soon settled into a workable routine. Joss was out most of the day – where and doing what Anna did not always know. For herself, she set up a small desk in the bow window of the sitting room, having with some pleasure removed the grimy lace curtains, and there she worked for happy, self-forgetful hours with paper, pencil and paint. The daily help obtained with Hermione Smithson’s help turned out to be a true ‘treasure’ – Mrs Lacey was a motherly person of ample physical proportions and a heart to match. Left free to pursue her own interest, Anna found herself spending more and more time at galleries, museums and exhibitions, her eager mind open to the welcoming artistic stimulation of others’ work, past and present. Together with her father’s craftsmen she produced a few pieces with which even she was tolerably pleased – a nephrite box of delicate hue upon which the huntress Diana discarded her bow and fed from her outstretched hands birds of fable and legend; the combs she had once as a child dreamed of creating, leaves of the lily in jade adorned with crystallized dewdrops of diamond. She began to study the designs of the Egyptians, the Romans, the Celts, designs of the East and of the West. Her sketchbook went everywhere with her and her passion for the flowing line, the precision of pattern and the translation into precious stone and metal of the beauty of living things grew and flowered.
She was intent, late one October afternoon at her desk, upon trying to capture on paper the veined, skeletal structure of a decayed leaf when she heard the click of Joss’s key in the lock. She had been studying with her father’s goldsmith at the workshops and was keen to try her hand at producing this, the lovely cobweb structure of autumn in precious metal. A moment later she sensed movement as Joss came up behind her and stood looking over her shoulder.
She neither paused nor looked up. He watched the moving pencil in silence for a while.
She straightened, narrowing her eyes.
“It’s excellent,” he said.
“No. It’s too heavy. Not – fragile enough.” She stood surveying her work, her bottom lip sucked between her teeth. The sky, having been bright all day, had become overcast and the light was fading. The fire was unlit and the air a little chill.
He leaned across her and pointed with a sharp brown finger. “Perhaps there? A little less strong?”
“Yes.” She rubbed at the pencil marks with the heel of her hand. “Yes. That’s better, isn’t it?” She turned her head, smiling, and finding her face just inches from his stopped, the smile gradually fading. He straightened. They stood so for a moment, looking at each other in total silence. Then, shyly and very slowly, she lifted a hand, loosely curled, and placed the backs of her fingers and her knuckles upon the uncompromising line of his cheek. It was an odd little gesture, of love and sorrow. After a single second’s stillness almost imperceptibly he turned his head, pressing his cheek against her hand. The movement generated within her an unexpected, almost unbearable excitement. She caught her breath, seeing that same excitement, half-puzzled, reflected in his eyes. Then slowly, slowly he lifted a hand to cup her breast. As she often did when she was working, she was wearing a loose smock over her blue serge skirt. Never taking her eyes from his she unbuttoned it, slipped it from her shoulders. Her movements were somnolent, strangely dreamlike in the quiet half-darkness. For the first time since that far-off day on the verandah of her father’s house true desire stirred and she wanted him; simply, fiercely, wanted him.
He caught her to him. She lifted her face to the leaden skies above his bowed dark head, arched her back to offer her breasts. Pain and pleasure were inseparable. He bore her to the floor, took her as she lay, with urgency and an oddly gentle strength. They lay afterwards together in silence, their clothing in disarray, arms and legs still entangled, neither quite certain of the cause of the unexpected storm that had swept them. Anna came slowly to herself. He moved away from her. She became suddenly aware of her bared skin, of her shameful posture. She sat up quickly, ducking her head, rearranging her clothes. The room had darkened further; she could hardly see him.
Say it. Please say it. Tell me you love me.
“I’ll light the lamp,” he said, and his voice was soft but the words were wrong.
Her pregnancy was a discomfort from the start. She lost weight, was constantly sick, her energy seemed to desert her. She struggled through the winter months cossetted by Mrs Lacey, lectured to and organized by Hermione Smithson, counselled upon every subject under the sun by her grandmother who, though physically frail, had lost none of her strength of mind. Indeed, a distracted Anna discovered, the whole world seemed to have at its fingertips advice for a pregnant woman, and the whole world insisted upon giving it. Nobody but Anna seemed to regard it as an invasion of her privacy for near-strangers to be kept informed of her slightest physical problem or discomfort. She did not bloom, as some women do: on the contrary she found the whole business little to her liking, from the bulky, cumbersome body that seemed no longer to be entirely her own, to the feelings of resentment that she discovered herself to harbour for the small intruder who now shared that body and her life at considerable cost to herself in pain and discomfort. A large part of this resentment undoubtedly stemmed from the fact that the unborn child, she felt, came between herself and Joss just as they were beginning to find some kind of understanding. From that October afternoon when they had first truly made love to the time when her pregnancy began physically to affect her was the happiest time of her life; everything she had hoped for seemed to be almost within her grasp. Then the sickness began and the debilitation, and the time had been too brief, and nothing had been established between them. She knew herself to be short-tempered and mortifyingly and constantly tearful. She could not bear Joss to touch her swollen and painful breasts: from there it was a simple step for him not to touch her at all. She was permanently exhausted. The idyll – such as it was – had passed. Her irritability, which she seemed incapable of controlling, caused quarrels about the most insignificant things. In February she caught influenza. Hermione Smithson, contacted by an anxious Mrs Lacey, made short work of packing Anna, her small case and her medicine into a cab.
“But – Aunt Hermione – what about Joss? He’ll—”
“He’s more than capable of taking care of himself. Besides, he has Mrs Lacey, doesn’t he? It’s you we have to look after, my dear – you and the baby. Just look at you! Skin and bone!”
Anna felt too wretched to argue. With some relief she allowed herself to be put to bed with a warming pan and a cup of comforting lemon and honey, and drifted into a feverish sleep. It was not until her illness was over and her head finally cleared that she realized that in ten days Joss had visited her only twice and seemed in no great hurry to persuade her home. She tried, unsuccessfully, not to think of a pair of red stockings.
Yet it could not be said that Joss was not pleased about the baby. Indeed, on occasion he would fuss about Anna almost as much as Mrs Lacey did – yet even this could not please her, for she felt strongly that his attentions were not those she desired from him – the attentions of a man for the woman he loved – but those of a conscientious doctor for a valued patient. His thoughts were always for the coming child, and her resentment grew. She knew she was being perverse, disliked herself for her own moodiness and quarrelsome touchiness. She began to look forward to June and the birth of the child with a passionate intensity that had nothing to do with a longing for motherhood. She wanted the business over and done with. She wanted her body to herself again. She wanted to be normal, to get back to her own life. Her work suffered badly during those months – she could not concentrate, her drawings and designs seemed to her to be as heavy and as dull as her own body felt. When Hermione, thinking to distract her, offered to introduce her to the needlewoman she had been so keen to meet she made an excuse and refused. Her mind seemed incapable of its normal enthusiasms. Even the stirrings and rumours of more trouble in South Africa hardly seemed to pierce the self-centred and peevish veil with which pregnancy had invested her. The Boers wouldn’t take on the might of the British Army; they wouldn’t dare. Crossly, she dismissed the war talk. April. May. The months dragged on. Her distended belly was sore and uncomfortable. She could neither sit nor lie comfortably. She cried when James came to see her to tell her that his regiment was posted to South Africa, but her tears were more of self-pity than for him. Nothing would happen to James. But she – she was beginning to be very frightened indeed. In the last weeks she was haunted by the memory of her mother’s ordeal when Margaret Jane was born.
Oh, God – would it never happen? Would she never be free?
The birth, on a warm June night with thunder rumbling in the distance and the heaviness of storm in the air was slow, painful, and utterly exhausting. Anna never herself knew where she acquired the strength to fight the fight of all mothers to bring a new life into the world. At last, after inconceivable effort, it was done and the bawling scrap was laid in the crook of her tired mother’s arm.
A daughter. Blue-eyed, fair-skinned, the downy hair already thick, curly and glinting silver-gold.
Joss stared at his daughter, his eyes sombre, lifted his gaze to Josef who stood on the other side of the bed.
“She’ll be beautiful,” Josef said, painfully, his eyes tormented.
“Yes. She’ll be beautiful.” Joss’s voice was even.
Josef bent to the child, offered a slightly unsteady finger. He looked old. There was an unhealthy tinge of grey to his skin. Anna smiled, sleepily. “A little granddaughter, Papa.”
“Yes.”
“She looks like—” she stopped suddenly, frowned a little, “—like Boris,” she finished.
Joss bent and scooped his daughter from her mother’s side. Above the small, vulnerable fair head his eyes upon the older man were totally unforgiving.