May knew that her distress over the scene in the Vicarage had assumed ridiculous proportions. After all, Walter Lisle’s parish was well to the north of St Katharine’s. She was unlikely to come face to face with him again. And unpleasant though the confrontation with the Bishop’s widow had been May felt that her behaviour, though unmaidenly in appearance had not been so in intent – surely Mr Lisle had realised this? In any case, what of his own comment, hadn’t she been entitled to be angry at that? But reason alone did not calm her. She felt bruised by what had happened, and did not even tell Ellen, although she knew her friend’s good sense would have helped her to regain her sense of proportion.
Fortunately for May the Staff Nurse on Elizabeth Ward chose this moment to go down with measles, and a severe attack at that. The only other available Staff Nurse with experience of nursing children announced that she was breaking her contract to marry a wealthy undertaker, and the pool of private nurses was fully engaged – the spring seemed a particularly sickly one. In consequence May found herself in Matron’s office being informed that she, Nurse Winton, was, as a great concession, to be appointed temporary Acting Staff Nurse; not, of course, on Staff Nurses’ pay, Matron added hastily. She was to stay on Elizabeth Ward until Jameson was fit for duty again. May was well aware of the chain of circumstances which had forced Matron’s hand, but she was grateful. She liked Elizabeth, and knew the temporary promotion would delay the onset of nights – besides, she was flattered that she had been chosen. With this new interest, St Barnabas’ Vicarage, together with its occupant, began to fade from the forefront of her thoughts.
On her second day on Elizabeth an anguished mother arrived, panting in the wake of a Receiving Room porter who was carrying her badly burned child.
The mother moaned, ‘I’ll never fergive meself – I fell asleep, I were so tired.’ May glanced at her swollen belly heavy with pregnancy. ‘She wanted ter cook the dinner, as a surprise, an’ she fell in the fire. She’s only seven, Sister, she were tryin’ to ’elp. Oh, my Louie!’
Sister Elizabeth was soon busy with the child. May gently led the mother to a chair and whispered, ‘Try to stay calm, Mrs Brown, We’ll do all we can for Louie.’
The other children were hushed and round-eyed as Sister wrapped the little girl in a warmed blanket, and placed her near the fire, carefully dropping brandy and water into the small mouth twisted up on the left where the flames had licked up. May prepared a warm bath of boracic and behind the screens they floated off the charred remnants of clothing. Then May and the probationers attended to the other children while Sister and Dr Rawlings applied zinc-smeared lint and followed with fomentations.
They had little hope, since the area of the burn was extensive for such a young child, but Louie hung onto life with a desperate intensity. After three days the routine of daily changes of dressings had to begin, and however careful May and Sister were these had to be excruciatingly painful. But the child gritted her teeth and only whimpered, though her eyes were round and staring. May’s respect for Sister Elizabeth went up by leaps and bounds. Her skill was such that the offensive smell so often met with in these cases was kept at bay, while by a judicious mixture of coaxing, pleading and nagging she persuaded Louie to take food into her distorted mouth.
As a prevention against contraction the little girl’s arm was splinted, and they made her lie with her head overhanging the bed to stop the burns on her neck pulling her jaw down onto her shoulder. Yet somehow Louie survived, and unbelievably soon was showing a keen interest in the doings of the ward: whispering question after question of the nurses and holding furious hissing arguments with the other children from her upsidedown position.
Louie’s mother staggered up the stairs every visiting day, ‘Me man’s good with the kids, Nurse, I’m very lucky,’ and Louie confided in May one day that two babies were soon expected, not just one. May had long ceased to be surprised at the precocious knowledge of East End children. She was relieved that Louie appeared to be looking forward to this event – far more so, May suspected, than her mother was.
Babies came in – ill, emaciated, wounded. Some of them died, one with his thin chest still bearing the clear marks of his father’s hob-nailed boots. ‘’E was drunk, Nurse, didn’t know what ’e were doin’ – ’e luvs the kids when ’e’s sober, ’e’s just not often sober.’ May watched other parents slowly drag themselves away from small bedsides, and walk, defeated, from the ward; but Louie confounded the experts and set out on the road to an uneventful recovery. Somehow she avoided septicaemia and pneumonia, and even that common complication of children’s burns, scarlet fever. Her body would be scarred for life, and the disfigurement of her face and neck could not be hidden, but she had an indomitable will, and May felt she would cope. Meanwhile, she was their living miracle, and May knew they needed her as much as she needed them.
In the West End the Season unrolled its luxurious carpet of balls and receptions, operas and concerts, dinners and theatres; but May’s chances of stepping onto this carpet were few and far between. Many functions did not even start until after the time that Home Sister locked the doors of the Nurses’ Home, and though she managed to get back from the odd short play, or miss the ending of the longer ones, her only opportunity of staying to the end of an event was on the evening before her monthly day off, when a sleeping-out pass could be obtained. Otherwise, as Archie pointed out, she did considerably less well than Cinderella.
But May did not waste much time in repining: the nurses had their own amusements, there was always somebody around, or something going on, even if it were only a lively piano-playing session in the Nurses’ Sitting Room. May found she was becoming more and more detached from the life of High Society – she felt it was like caviar – delightful in small quantities, but too much soon produced a surfeit.
Lady Clarence seemed to understand May’s feelings, but Lady Andover bewailed her unavailability, ‘My only unmarried granddaughter, an heiress, and your looks, incredibly, unaffected by all the awful people you mix with – yet I’m not able to show you off! You disappoint me, May, you really do.’ But she laughed as she spoke, and May felt little compunction, as she knew her grandmother revelled in Society for its own sake; May would only have been the icing on the cake.
However, Lady Andover was well aware of May’s Achilles’ heel: her luncheon and dinner parties drew like a magnet. The hospital food, though more sustaining these days, was often dull. The promise of one of Chefs masterpieces made May reach for her diary. So on the Thursday of the last week in June May hurried off-duty and jumped into a cab with a quick, ‘Arlington Street, please, Andover House.’ Friday was her day off that month. She would be able to spend a leisured evening at Lady Andover’s dinner party, followed by a night in feather-bedded luxury, with perhaps a session at the Bath Club, or a stroll in the dazzling mélée of the Park to follow.
Her grandmother greeted May in her boudoir, already dressed.
‘I’ve changed early, so that Collins can spend the time with you.’ May was touched by her thoughtfulness.
Collins, plump and cheerful, ran May’s bath for her and sent her along to it while she laid out the dress for the evening. May lay back and soaked the cares of the day away in the scented bath water. She stretched out and raised her feet in the air, and as she did so the memory came to her of lying in the bath at her parents’ house, before another of Lady Andover’s dinner parties. Then she had been anticipating the Hindlesham Ball, where she had met Harry Cussons. She remembered him slipping her shoe back on, and smiled indulgently at her younger self. It was only three years ago, yet how much she had seen and learnt since then! And what other changes had there been? Lord Hindlesham was alone in his splendid house, while beautiful Della languished in the country, still not re-married, though Harry Cussons was about Town again – typical of a man, they always get the best of a bargain, May thought. Emily was still in India, but her new daughter was a sturdy baby, and though not forgetting her son, she had come to terms with her loss, and seemed to be enjoying the compensations of life in the East. Louise Dumer was Lady Canfield now, and Bertie, so rumour had it, had packed her mother off back to America on an extended visit. May suspected this was Louise’s doing – Bertie was too easygoing to be bothered. Still, Archie remained footloose and fancy free, and would be at the dinner tonight, so May would be able to enjoy his good-humoured banter, and try to cap his teasing jokes.
Three years! Did she look three years older? May pushed herself up out of the bath and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. She gazed critically at her body, pink from the heat of the water. Her legs were long and supple, her waist as narrow as ever, her breasts firm and shapely. She bent closer and peered at her face. There were tiny lines of laughter and care around her eyes, but they were too fine to be noticed except on close inspection; her irises were as blue as ever, and her lashes long and thick. The glass steamed up, but May was satisfied. She stepped out onto the thick rug and wrapped herself in a host of fluffy towels, clean and warm.
Collins was waiting for her in the bedroom.
‘This corset is very light for evening wear, Miss May.’
May laughed. ‘I know, I had them specially made – I hate feeling trussed up like a chicken.’
Collins sniffed, but soon forgot her disapproval in the pleasure of dressing May’s tall figure. ‘Your grandmother is a wonderful woman for her age, Miss May, but it’s nice to turn a young lady out for the evening.’
May was startled when she saw herself, dressed, in the mirror. She had chosen the gown almost on impulse, drawn by the glowing apricot which had been described as ‘one of the colours of the Season’, and the elegant lines so different from those dresses designated as suitable for a débutante. But now she was slightly shaken by the effect. The heavy crepe mastic silk fell by its own weight into folds which draped themselves round her body and clung sinuously to the curve of her hips. The line of the bodice was simple yet perfect, accentuating the fullness of her breasts with soft draped chiffon of the exact matching shade. A narrow lace tucker emphasised the depth of her neckline rather than veiling it. The wide corselet band was almost barbaric, with its dull gold and silver bullion studded with stones, but it showed off dramatically May’s slender waist.
Collins gave a soft ‘Ah’ of satisfaction and pride, then said briskly, ‘Sit down, please, Miss May, so I can attend to your hair.’
In the mirror May watched the swift, sure fingers twisting and shaping, until the flowing waves and soft curls had appeared. Ada had been right – the shade of the dress subtly altered and changed the colour of her hair, so that it glowed almost pink, like a ripe peach, in the light of the dressing table lamp. Collins pushed home the last invisible pin, and she was ready. Lady Andover had offered her the run of her own jewel box, but May had decided this dress would need no adornment; now she knew she was right.
As she came down the wide staircase Archie was crossing the hall. She called down to him; he looked up and stood frozen, watching her descend. Then he came across, took her hand and raised it to his lips. May laughed, but Archie said, seriously, ‘May, you look magnificent, you really do – you’ll knock their eyeballs out tonight!’
‘Well, tell me who’s taking me in. Have I made all this effort for Sir Robert, or old Lord Oulton?’
Archie clapped his hand to his head in an exaggerated gesture of despair.
‘No, worse than that!’
‘Worse than Sir Robert – I don’t believe it!’
‘In a way, yes, because he’s young and good-looking, but he is rather a prig. I’ve got to admit that, even though he’s a friend of mine. And he altogether disapproves of wealthy young ladies of fashion.’
May protested, ‘But I’m not a fashionable young lady.’
‘You’re certainly rich, though. I saw him at the Club earlier today and told him I’d done my best for him, and that he’d be escorting in the Frears heiress. He just looked down his nose and said, “Really?” – and he’s got an awfully long nose,’ Archie added thoughtfully.
‘Come on, Archie, now you’ve told me the worst, perhaps there’s still time to do a swap.’
Archie shook his head. ‘Not a hope. He’s old Pennington’s son, and you know how Grandmamma’s still trying to marry you off – plenty of money there, too, on his mother’s side. You must have heard me mention Tate, May, we were at Oxford together. Decent chap, old Tate, straight as a die, not that we had much in common – he used to read books, you know – still, no one’s perfect, and I don’t suppose he meant to get a First.’
‘You’re just jealous, because you only scraped a Pass degree, and everybody gets one of those.’
‘That’s right, May, everyone does – so why did Tate have to be different? A good rider, though – you should see him follow the hounds.’
May had decided by now that the rich, studious, priggish son of the Earl of Pennington was not going to provide the high spot of the evening’s entertainment – after all, he could hardly demonstrate his prowess in the hunting field by vaulting over the epergne halfway through the meal.
She turned to Archie and asked briskly. ‘What is Chef preparing for us tonight?’
By the time Archie had reached the confiture of nectarines May had decided that Archie’s friend Tate could look down his elongated nose as much as he liked, as long as he left her free to enjoy her dinner.
‘Chef is wonderful,’ she said fervently to Archie. ‘I don’t know how he thinks of his dishes – I can’t understand why no woman has ever snapped him up.’
Archie rolled his eyes in mock excitement. ‘That’s it May, that’s the man for you, right on the premises. Why ever hasn’t Grandmamma thought of that?’
May reached up and pinched his earlobe. ‘I could do worse – you, for example!’ Archie went into mock squeals of pain until Lady Andover appeared.
‘Children! Will you never grow up?’ But May saw her eyes were smiling, and she complimented May on her appearance. ‘How right you are to leave those fussy frills behind.’
The guests began to arrive and the drawing room became a mass of vivid colours, intermingled with black and white.
‘Good evening, Miss Winton.’
May spun round and there was Lord Hindlesham, his brown eyes alight with affection and pleasure. As she took his hand she noticed the new dusting of silver in the sleek dark hair at his temples, but otherwise he seemed unchanged by his ordeal. He had always looked older than his years, May suspected, and now others had caught up with him while he stood still.
‘You look very well, May – nursing obviously suits you. We missed you last Season.’
May smiled at him. ‘I was on nights, and just starting work when you idle denizens of the West End began to play.’
His eyes crinkled up. ‘You sound very like your friend, Miss Carter. And how is Miss Carter? I saw her last winter, you know.’
May said, ‘Yes, she told me. She claims you restore her faith in the aristocracy!’
He gave a smile, but there was sadness in it. He spoke softly, ‘I think she restores my faith, too – you know she has the happy knack of being both serious and light-hearted.’ Then his voice rose back to its normal level. ‘But May, she seems so frail – can she really cope with the heavy work I know you do?’
May laughed outright. ‘Don’t be misled by Ellen’s fragile appearance – she’s as strong as a little Shetland pony. She’s only had two weeks’ sick leave in all the time we’ve been at St Katharine’s, and that was just a poisoned finger, which everyone gets. As soon as they’d opened it up she was as right as rain.’
Lord Hindlesham winced and May remembered where she was. She must watch her choice of words – people were squeamish outside of hospital.
He asked, ‘So she is set on making a career of nursing?’
May hesitated, then spoke slowly. ‘I don’t know. Ellen is so good with the patients, they think the world of her, especially the children.’ May was conscious of Lord Hindlesham listening intently – what a kind man he was, so concerned about everybody, even a chance acquaintance like Ellen. She continued, ‘But in nursing you get to a stage where you have to tell other people what they should do – order them about – and Ellen doesn’t like doing that: she believes too much in people’s freedom, or perhaps she’s just too gentle. She was engaged once, you know, before she came to St Katharine’s. Her fiancé died very suddenly of pneumonia. Sometimes, for all she seems to enjoy nursing, I wonder if she wouldn’t have been happier married, and with children – though I would have missed her had she never come.’ May ended confusedly.
Lord Hindlesham said in an odd tone, ‘I’m sure you would, May, I’m sure you would.’ His face had become withdrawn and distant, and May berated herself for talking of marriage and children to a man in his position.
She said quickly, ‘But have you heard what Chef has in store for us tonight? Archie has told me all.’
At once Lord Hindlesham shed his introspective mood. ‘No, tell me. I have heard that Chef’s contributions to the diet at St Katharine’s have been discussed in Very High Places!’
May began to laugh, and to tell him about the Royal Visit.
She was still chatting to Lord Hindlesham when she saw her grandmother begin to move amongst her guests, discreetly sorting them into pairs. Wherever had this dull Tate of Archie’s got to? Then she caught a glimpse of her cousin edging through the throng towards her, before she turned back to her companion.
Then Archie was beside her. ‘Ah, run you to earth at last. May, may I present my friend Tate?’ May turned with her hand extended, and found herself looking straight into the dark eyes of Walter Lisle. Archie’s friend Tate was the young vicar of St Barnabas’.