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It only took a little while to adapt to the new surroundings, settling into what would be my residence for the next six months. When I thought about how far away I would be from England, not an ounce of homesickness ruined my attitude. For me, this affair would be a new beginning although it would not be without its inherent griefs that would ensue.
The following day, I spent wandering around the house and grounds. Mr. and Mrs. Spencer continued to be the perfect hosts. In their conversations with me, I felt no judgment over my fallen state but rather a sympathetic understanding.
On the eve before the morning of my mother’s departure, she came to my room for a private chat. It had crossed my mind that she might leave and not speak a word to me, deciding instead to slip silently away. Naturally, I was pleased that she had chosen to, at least, say good-bye.
“Though the trip was long, I am satisfied that I will be leaving you in good hands,” she began.
“Yes, I feel quite safe here.” My voice answered in a respectful tone. “Thank Father for making this arrangement. Do you know how it came about?”
“Frankly, that’s none of your concern, young lady. Needless to say, he is kinder than I would have been had it been my choice.”
Her unaffectionate words cut my heart. It had been foolish of me to think she would offer an ounce of mercy.
“Obviously, I have become a great embarrassment to you,” I tersely replied. “I don’t know how many more times I can apologize before you give me your blessing.”
“Blessing?” she cried, cringing at the thought. “I’m ashamed to call you my daughter.”
After hearing her punishing words, something snapped in my soul as I finally accepted the fact she didn’t love me.
“You know what? I’m ashamed that you are my mother!” My festering wounds voiced angrily. “You have been nothing to me but a coldhearted stranger all my life who has shown little affection or regard.” As my chest heaved in anger, her jaw set in defiance against me. “Frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever come home.”
“And what do you think you will do?” Her eyes cast a withering glare. “Find someone of your rank to marry you? You’ve ruined yourself and any possibility of a happy marriage.” Mother took a step toward the door and placed her hand on the doorknob. “I told your father sending you to finishing school would be a waste of money. You will never be a lady worthy of respect.”
After she had breathed her venomous words, I inhaled a deep breath for courage. I could not allow her to know how expertly she had degraded my self-worth.
“Then go,” I entreated, my voice trembling. As my anger burned, she did as I ordered. The door opened and closed, and my mother left without a backward glance. At that moment, I knew that I hated her with every fiber of my being. While I stood staring at the closed door, I expected my tumult to well into tears, but it did not.
The next morning, Mother left early, taking a cab to the train station. She never returned to impart another good-bye. When I watched from the window of my bedroom the motorcar drive away, her abandonment broke my spirit. Not once did her head turn around to glance at where she had left her only child.
Despondent, I walked over to my bed and sat down on the edge, feeling numb inside. A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Spencer poked her head inside and looked at me sympathetically. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
The gentle sound of her voice stirred my pent-up emotions, unleashing the floodgates of hurt I had kept locked inside. Sobbing uncontrollably, I blubbered my pain.
“My mother hates me,” I cried. “I have made such a mess of my life.”
No sooner had I expelled my sorrow than Mrs. Spencer gathered me up in her arms.
“Have a good cry, dearest,” she said. “You’ve been through quite a lot, and you’ll need your strength for what lies ahead.”
I clung to her tightly, receiving warmth and understanding from a complete stranger.
“Give your mother time, Isabella. She will come around.”
After a few moments, I pulled my hankie from my pocket and sniffled my tears into the cloth, attempting to control myself.
“You are very sweet, Mrs. Spencer.”
“We all make mistakes in life,” she began. Her hand brushed away a wet curl from my cheek. “It’s how you grow and learn from your errors that will one day make you the woman you should be.”
Grow. Yes, my entire body was growing, and my clothes were becoming tighter. I had no maternity outfits. Rather than deal with my emotional pain, my thoughts flitted to frivolous pursuits. Father had given me a small allowance for expenses.
“Yes, I am growing.” I giggled, putting my hand upon my belly bump. “I’m afraid that I will need new clothes soon.”
“Well, we can go shopping after your first visit to the physician. Your father has provided for you to see a doctor during your term.”
At least Father cared about my health when Mother no doubt wished I would die. Of course, I could die in childbirth. The thought sent a tingle of fear through my body. A month ago, I wanted to die. Now I wanted to live to give birth. Clearly, I had become a jumble of twisted emotions.
“Come down for a cup of tea, and we can talk about what lies ahead for the months that you will be with us.”
“All right,” I acquiesced, hoping for more French pastries to enjoy. Mrs. Spencer had been more of a mother to me in the past ten minutes than mine had been in a lifetime.
****
AFTER FIVE MONTHS OF pastries and gaining weight, the bump had turned into an enormous watermelon. Now in my eighth month, I couldn’t imagine what another month of growth would do to my body. I already walked like a waddling duck.
My days at the Spencers had been filled with good company and small tasks to keep me busy. Mrs. Spencer, whose first name I learned to be Catherine, had become a dear friend. Mr. Spencer always treated me with consideration, conveying to me in albeit fatherly tones whenever he had something to say.
During the months that passed, my health remained good. A physician in Lyon kept a close watch on me, giving me assurance that all proceeded toward giving birth as it should. Delivery had been arranged to occur at the local medical facility.
As the time drew nearer, Mrs. Spencer warned me of what would transpire. In my heart, I knew that more good-byes were ahead. Good-bye to my baby, and good-bye to my refuge at the Spencers. Attending finishing school had not been my choice, but I knew that it would be a respite from life with my parents that I desperately needed. There would be time to heal my emotional wounds while attempting to turn myself into a lady of title as my father suggested. I refused to believe my mother’s prophetic declaration that I had been doomed to a loveless existence. After all, what did she know of love?
I felt prepared for what lay ahead until my body went into labor pains. If the time had come to suffer for my transgression, God had rightfully given agony to women as penitence whether we be saint or sinner. The baby decided to burst from my body, and nothing could save me from that occasion.
Catherine sat by my side, holding my hand, dabbing sweat from my forehead. After all the months we had been together, I could not comprehend her kindness that never waned in spite of my failings. Had I been Catholic, I would have nominated her for sainthood.
On August 12, 1935, two months after my seventeenth birthday, I gave birth to a little girl. When she left my womb, I screamed bloody murder. As soon as she slipped into the world, the doctor cut the cord, and the nurse wrapped and carried her away.
“It’s a baby girl,” Catherine announced joyously.
“I want to hold her,” I begged, stretching out my arms. The nurse ignored my plea while the doctor finished whatever doctors do after babies are born.
“I’m sorry, dearest,” Catherine consoled. “It’s for the best.” She squeezed my hand in consolation.
The painful physical birth had ended only to be replaced with the tragic reality that I would never know my daughter nor would she know me. She wailed in the arms of another as she disappeared through the doorway. Perhaps she knew in her little heart that our ties had been permanently severed beyond the mere cutting of an umbilical cord.
Whatever provisions for her adoption had been made, I would never be told. I possessed no recourse but to agree since my parents forbade me to raise her. Nevertheless, I clung tenaciously to the hope that one day we would reunite. I secretly named her Mary Jane and whispered my good-byes through the hot tears of regret. Catherine heard my cries and hugged me in my sorrow.
