In the third week of September May received a summons to Matron’s office. As soon as she was dismissed for her morning’s off-duty she raced across to her room, put on a clean apron and set her cap firmly in position on her tidied hair. There were three other nurses already waiting on the row of hard chairs outside the main office. The first in the queue was weeping copiously, while the other two looked strained and apprehensive. May wracked her brains, but could think of no recent sins of omission or commission on her part – at least, none that Matron could possibly have discovered; but the scent of fear from her three companions began to affect her too.
She was most grateful when a stout, red-faced probationer sat down on her other side and said loudly to the corridor, ‘If that old cow thinks I’m going to grovel over a broken thermometer she can think again.’
May was sympathetic.
‘How did you come to break it?’
‘I’d just rammed it up the patient’s backside when the old fool turned over and sat on it,’ a jolly laugh rang out. ‘You should have seen Sister Barnabas, she was in a taking.’
At this point the door opened and an immaculate Office Sister beckoned in the weeping girl. Five minutes later the girl came out, still weeping. The other two went in, one after the other, and one after the other came out again, handkerchiefs to faces, sobbing piteously. May stood up, squared her shoulders and marched in.
‘You wished to see me, Matron?’ her voice was cold.
Matron glanced up from her papers. ‘Oh yes, Nurse Winton, did you not realise your fortnight’s holiday was due? You girls are so thoughtless – it takes time to arrange replacements, you know.’
May’s jaw tightened. Ada had already asked about her holiday and been told in no uncertain terms that this would be taken at Matron’s command and at Matron’s pleasure – it was no business of the probationer concerned. Matron opened her mouth to continue but May slid in smoothly, seconds before her.
‘I would not dream of presuming on my annual leave without a personal directive from you, Matron.’ Her eyes were round and innocent. Matron looked at her suspiciously, but May’s expression was guileless.
‘Your fortnight’s holiday starts on Friday.’
May, thinking of her parents’ absence overseas and her grandmother’s busy social life exclaimed, ‘But suppose that’s not convenient?’
Matron gave her a level stare. ‘It is quite convenient to me, Nurse Winton. Send in the next nurse, please.’ She bent her head over her desk.
As usual May left Matron’s office vowing that she would get the better of her next time. She was interested to see that the red-faced probationer was now sniffing dismally and trying to wipe her nose surreptitiously on the corner of her apron. May silently handed her a clean handkerchief, gestured towards the office door and passed on.
Naturally it was not convenient. A brisk exchange of telegrams elicited the information that Lady Andover was at present staying in a remote area of Scotland. May was quite welcome, of course, though the house was rather small… Marvelling at her grandmother’s ability to convey the most delicate nuances by telegram May dispatched a terse: ‘Arrive Stemhalton Friday. Await your eventual return.’ and began to pack her bags.
When she got to Stemhalton the servants were welcoming and old Nanny toddled up from the lodge where she had been pensioned off, to weep tears of joy over her nursling. For a week May roamed round the estate in the morning, alternately slept and read the afternoons away on the sunny terrace with a cup of fragrant China tea and a plate of the stillroom maid’s feather-light scones beside her, and then strolled down to a delicious dinner prepared by Chefs own hands. ‘Bettair cook for one who respects food zan for a dozen gulpers, Mees May.’ May suspected he enjoyed the excuse, and the upper servants lived royally from the surplus of her meals. She only wished she could have joined them, but knew they would have been scandalised at the suggestion.
Just as May was beginning to feel in need of a little mild distraction Lady Andover arrived with her house party. As each lady entered the drawing room May noticed the signs of a barely suppressed excitement. Conversation was strained in the presence of the gentlemen, and the longing for their absence was imperfectly concealed.
As soon as the old Duchess of Portchester had steered her bewildered and resisting husband to the doorway with a firm ‘Shut the door behind you, Cedric,’ there was a convergence into two parties. The young girls moved reluctantly to the far end of the drawing room while the married women began to regroup round the hearth. May hesitated, then firmly sat down with the latter. There was a look of surprise on one or two faces, but her presence was accepted. On the few occasions she had been in society over the Season, May had realised that, without benefit of that magic gold circlet, she had crossed the invisible barrier between girlhood and womanhood. Although obviously not having any clear idea of a nurse’s duties there was a general recognition that it constituted experience; and, May reflected, what could be more of an experience than giving eight soap and water enemas to eight recumbent males in thirty minutes flat?
There was a momentary pause while the ladies waited for one of their number to break the silence. With an innate awareness of rank they glanced expectantly at the Duchess of Portchester; daughter, sister and wife of Dukes, she did not disappoint them. Planting two large feet side by side under the dusty hem of her tweed skirt she spoke in her usual harsh croak.
‘Even I never expected Della Hindlesham to be such a fool.’
There were excited anticipatory twitters.
‘But Mr Cussons is of a good family, and very wealthy.’
‘Any woman who leaves her husband is a fool – what did she need to elope for? George would never have taken a horse whip to her, more’s the pity.’ Her Grace was trenchant.
A lady tittered. ‘Poor George would have been exhausted if he’d taken a horse whip to her every time…’ the voice trailed off. Mrs Jermyne subsided, realising she had gone too far too soon. Conventional exclamations of horror and dismay were called for before a full character assassination could begin. Murmurs of – ‘Dear Della must have had a brainstorm’ – ‘Surely she would never…’ and, in a voice tinged with regret, ‘Perhaps it is only a rumour…’
‘Nonsense.’ The Duchess soon dismissed this one. ‘The woman’s halfway to the Continent by now, with that blue-eyed Casanova.’
It struck May at this point that one or two of the younger ladies looked almost wistful as they contemplated the vision of Della Hindlesham setting off on a life of sin with Harry Cussons. May herself was shocked, but not, she knew, as shocked as she would have been a year ago. She was well aware now of the casual exchange of partners which was customary in certain areas of the East End – why should the denizens of Mayfair be any different? And yet it was surprising: she had had a higher opinion of Della’s hypocrisy. Since she had clearly been enjoying all the benefits of her position in Society while indulging in the pleasures of a lover – why should she have taken this irrevocable step? And it was irrevocable, May knew that. The erring husband or wife of Dockland might have some chance of being reinstated, but Della’s only hope lay in eventual marriage to Harry Cussons, and even then she would be excluded from much of Society as the guilty party in a divorce. But the gossip continued.
‘Of course, George Hindlesham is such a chivalrous fool he’ll probably do the decent thing and give her grounds himself.’ The Duchess spoke with regret.
‘No, no, Your Grace,’ young Mrs Dalbany was blushing at her own temerity in daring to correct a Duchess, but she ploughed on. ‘That would not do; she is already compromised. If both parties have, have…’ she faltered.
‘Committed adultery, you mean,’ her Grace said helpfully. Mrs Dalbany was crimson; she knew full well that only her elderly husband’s status as a High Court Judge had secured her inclusion in this house party and she was aware of being rather too genteel for the company. ‘Yes, your Grace, well in that situation there can be no divorce – perhaps you remember the Allison case.’ Several ladies nodded, they did indeed.
‘So poor Della’s affairs will be splashed all over the newspapers – how shocking!’ Lady Canning sounded as if she could scarcely wait. May was sickened by her tone, but determined to keep her place and hear any further details. After all, she of all people had a right to be interested in the affairs of Harry Cussons.
But there was little more to be added. With the best will the ladies had exhausted their information, and only the bare bones were known. Della Hindlesham had left her home, and so had Harry Cussons. A sharp-eyed acquaintance returning from the Riviera had seen them both at Dover, boarding the cross channel steamer. The whys, the wherefores and all the explanations beyond the simple facts remained a matter for speculation. However, before they dispersed Lady Canning cheered the party by reminding them of the expected arrival the following day of Mrs Anstruther – ‘Connie Anstruther’s maid comes from the same village as Della’s, she will know more.’
Connie Anstruther arrived on the two o’clock train. If she was surprised at the reception committee awaiting her in the drawing room she showed no sign of it. May, slightly ashamed of herself but burning with curiosity was there with them. One glance at Connie Anstruther’s smug face as she sat down was enough to indicate that she could end their suspense. The conventions were dealt with with almost indecent haste, then the Duchess set the ball rolling. Mrs Anstruther began.
‘My dear, never was I so surprised as when Barnes told me’ – a significant pause – ‘but I had noticed that dear Della was becoming just a fraction “embonpoint” – I thought it was middle age, how easily one can be deceived!’
A glimmering of understanding could be seen on several faces. May tried to wrestle with the idea, what a terrible mess! Connie Anstruther continued.
‘Barnes tells me Easton had found her mistress unwell on several occasions recently, in the morning.’ The last word was underlined.
‘You mean, Della’s in foal!’ The Duchess’ voice was astounded.
Connie Anstruther smiled. ‘It would appear so, Your Grace. Yes, she is enceinte.’
There was a stunned silence. May noticed one or two of the ladies surreptitiously counting on their fingers; two months on a gynae ward had given her the answer already.
‘But George Hindlesham was away for the whole Season, in Italy.’ Lady Canning put into words what the others were thinking. ‘How could Della have been so careless!’
Connie Anstruther still held the stage. ‘Oh, whether he had been away or not he would have known. Barnes says it’s common knowledge among the servants that he’s not been inside her bedroom door for years.’
‘I suppose there was hardly room for him as well,’ said Mrs Jermyne.
There was a chorus of half-hearted reproof. ‘Come now, Maud, she has been quite faithful to Harry, more so than he to her, I suspect. And then there was that young fair-haired boy, Alton’s heir, just the same. Della was always faithful to her lovers.’ There were approving murmurs.
May felt like shouting, ‘And what of her husband? Did he not deserve her fidelity?’ With an effort she held her tongue. But she had misjudged the ladies. A voice spoke out.
‘Suppose the child is a boy? Della and George only had the two daughters.’
There was an appalled silence; the affair became suddenly serious now property and titles were seen to be at risk. The Duchess was the first to recover.
‘Typical of Della, she should have done her duty earlier. No proper wife gives up after two girls.’
‘No indeed,’ Lady Langdale, mother of five daughters, spoke with feeling. ‘Poor, poor George. Do let us hope the child is female.’
With that sentiment at least May found herself in wholehearted agreement, but she could stand no more. She got up and walked out into the fresh air of the terrace. How shocked middle-class Ellen would be when she told her. It was clear that Lord Hindlesham would have to take divorce proceedings for Della’s sake. May had no doubts that he would eschew revenge and set his erring wife free. How would he endure the publicity? And then, would Harry Cussons actually marry Della? May supposed he would. After all, he was a gentleman, and it was his child she was carrying. Despite herself May felt a stirring of sympathy for the absconding Della: an acknowledged beauty who craved adulation and flattery, yet was no longer young. Had she feared to lose her handsome, charming lover and so hazarded all in this last, dangerous throw? And suppose May had given another answer to Harry Cussons in December, as she so nearly had, what difference would it have made? Probably there would have been no elopement, but perhaps the rest of the sorry story would have been little changed. She winced at her own cynicism, yet took a sombre satisfaction in recognising that she was no Lord Hindlesham, to play the complaisant husband; she would have acted, whatever the cost.