No Wings to Fly (17 page)

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Miss Balfour nodded. ‘Good.’ She took a drag on her cigarette, and the grey smoke streamed out of her mouth and nostrils. ‘What you do once you’ve left my care is entirely up to you, but while you’re here you will do as you’re told.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Your parents have made a certain small allowance for you, while you’re here, to help towards your expenses, but it won’t cover them. So you’ll be expected to work. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I’m not afraid of work.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Your stepmother tells me you’re good with your needle, are you?’

‘I – I don’t know.’

‘You must know whether you are or not. Are you, or aren’t you?’

Lily nodded. ‘Y-yes, ma’am. I do consider myself to be.’

‘Fine. Because if you are, there’ll be no shortage of needlework for you.’ Here she stubbed out the end of her cigarette in an ashtray. ‘I have an arrangement with a draper in Corster, and those of my young women who have suitable talents are pleased to keep him supplied with certain items he needs. Although more and more sewing these days is done by machine, so many ladies only want
hand-stitched goods, even going as far as plain seams.’ She gave a grudging nod of satisfaction. ‘Good. So if you’re capable of doing some fine needlework you’ll do well. Otherwise it’s a matter of homework from the local button factory. That’s what my young women tend to do if they are not up to the sewing. Though some of them have been hardly capable of any kind of work at all. Born with silver spoons in their mouths and hardly fit for any kind of work at all. But they learnt. No place for indolence here. By the way, if you’re wondering if there will be any other young ladies with you, you’ll be the only one. To tell you the truth, I had decided to have no more, but then your parents got in touch with me.’ She sighed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the energy I once had. Besides,’ she waved a hand towards her cluttered painting table, ‘I do have other interests in life.’

As Lily sat there, Miss Balfour went on to tell her about what she could expect in her time at Rowanleigh. There would be no going out of the house without permission, and though it was customary for the young women to run certain necessary errands, these would be arranged. There would be no meetings with members of the opposite sex, there would be no indulgence of cigarettes or alcohol. As she finished saying this last, she took a cigarette from a small silver case on the desk and lit it with a match. After blowing out the flame she said, ‘This of course does not apply to myself, as you can see. I am neither in a certain condition, nor am I a guest in someone else’s house.’

So she continued. Meals would of course be served at set times, and strict bedtimes would also be observed, as would early risings in the mornings. ‘Until you’re well into your seventh month you’ll be expected to be up by six-thirty,’ Miss Balfour said. ‘You’ll also, in addition to your needlework, be expected to give a hand around the house. I keep a live-in maid, and a part-time cook, and of course Mr Shad. There’s enough to do about the place.’ She drew
on her cigarette. ‘Of course,’ she added, ‘once you’ve recovered from the birth you’ll be expected to leave.’

Lily nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Do you have any idea what you might do then?’

‘No.’

‘Well – you’ll have to give it some thought sooner or later. Fortunately, it’s no concern of mine.’ She tapped off the ash from her cigarette. ‘Have you given any thought to the birth of the child?’

‘I – I’m not sure I know what you mean, ma’am,’ Lily said.

‘I hope you’re not foolish enough to entertain ideas about keeping it.’

‘No. Oh, no.’ Now Lily’s response was swift. ‘No, I’d never want to do that.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it. Adoption is the only course for all concerned – the mother
and
the baby – though not every young mother is so ready to realise it. In the past I’ve had a couple of young women who, once the child was born, had a complete change of heart and decided they wanted to keep it. I’m glad to say I managed to dissuade them. They couldn’t have managed on their own. What kind of life would it have been for them? They’d have ended up on the streets or in the workhouse.’

‘No,’ Lily said again, ‘I’d never want to keep the baby. Never.’

It had rained heavily during the night and the ground was sodden. The December sky was grey through the bare branches of the rowan tree. Moving about its foot a hopeful blackbird turned over the saturated leaves in a search for food.

It was just after twelve. The house was quiet. Miss Balfour had driven out to visit one of her old friends who was ill in bed with influenza. Mrs Nessant, the cook, was occupied in the kitchen. Mary was somewhere in the house busy at her cleaning. Lily sighed and leant back in her chair, her hand unconsciously moving to the slight swell of her belly. Through the window she could see the blackbird busy beneath the tree; he was there most days.

She was seated at the small writing table in the sewing room. The room being small, it took relatively little fuel to keep it warm, so was a well-used spot in the house when the weather was cold, not only for sewing but for any task that did not require a great deal of space. Lily found it a comforting place, and for most of the morning she had sat working at the sewing that had come from the Corster draper. Now, having completed work on the lapels of a velvet jacket, she had spent some minutes writing a short letter to Tom. She had not heard from him in several weeks, and although he was not much of a one for regularly corresponding, she had been expecting to hear something from him before now.

As was her wont since arriving at the house seven weeks
ago, she spent several hours each day alone, but she did not feel her solitude adversely. For the most part she was kept well occupied, not only with the sewing for the Corster draper, but also making garments – sewn, knitted or crocheted – for the expected baby.

She saw Miss Balfour usually only at breakfast and then at dinner in the evening. Sometimes she would also take tea with her in the drawing room. At all their meetings, Miss Balfour kept her distance, volunteering little about herself, and showing little curiosity about Lily beyond her health and her sewing work. While Lily would have liked their conversations to have been a little less reserved and cool, she was relieved that the woman did not ask too many questions. Not once had she asked Lily about the father of the child she was carrying, and how Lily would have responded had such questions come, she did not know.

There were times in the quiet of her room when she lay unable to sleep, feeling hatred for Haskin and what he had done to her. His assault had changed her life. Not only had it caused her to give up the man she loved, but it had left her expecting a child. She thought again of Miss Balfour speaking of the one or two young women who had expressed a wish to keep their newborn babes. There was no chance of that happening where Lily was concerned. She did not want the child she carried or anything to do with its upbringing. She had no feelings of love for it and could not for a moment dream that any would manifest themselves.

Many times, too, she thought of Joel. Did he ever think of her? If so, did he think of her with bitterness? She tried to picture him at his studies, imagining him as she had never seen him in actuality, leaning over his desk, frowning over the work before him, long legs bent under him, mouth set in concentration. Perhaps he had forgotten her and never gave her a thought. But she could not truly believe that to
be the case. After all, he had said he loved her, and even a love that had not lasted must leave a few scars.

‘The second post just arrived, miss. This came for you.’

Disturbed out of her reverie, Lily turned as Mary came into the room with a letter in her hand. When the maid had gone again, Lily looked at the handwriting on the envelope and saw that it was from her father. She regarded it with mixed feelings. Whilst she was so glad to hear from him, she did not want any of the coldness that often accompanied his letters, a coldness that came with a lingering, unspoken blame.

She opened the envelope, took out the two folded sheets of notepaper, and read:

Compton Wells
11th December 1866

Lily gave a sigh. Nothing had changed where her father and stepmother were concerned, though in truth she had not expected it to, and in addition it had now been made clear to her that she was no longer welcome in the family home. How hurtful were her father’s words. But so be it, she said to herself, she would make her own way; and her future was never in Compton in the first place.

Saddening as the letter was, what was more disturbing was the news of Tom’s disappearance. She would wait. She would wait and he would write to her, she was sure of that.

The days of winter dragged on. Christmas and New Year’s day had come and gone, causing little more than a ripple in the routine at Rowanleigh. The annual scourge of influenza
had come early and severely this winter, and many were becoming affected.

Lily seemed to be cocooned in the house, not only by the snow that had lately fallen, but by the lack of contact with the outside world. She had heard again sparingly from her father at Christmas, but of her brother Tom there had been no word.

Sitting at the table in the sewing room, she sighed. Her back ached slightly, and she put a hand to it and stretched. She was in her fifth month now. Beyond the window the garden was bleak and colourless. Touches of the snow still lingered on the iron-hard earth around the lawn’s borders. The sun hung low in the sky, pale and watery, giving no hint or promise of warmth. The blackbird had not been in evidence for several days. How long and drawn-out the winter seemed, and spring still so far away.

The house was very quiet. She had worked for hours at the sewing that had come from the draper, but had put it aside for a while in order to read a little. From Miss Balfour’s well-stocked library she had taken a history of the American War of Independence. Fascinating as the story was, though, she found it hard to concentrate, and eventually put it aside too. That morning had seen a visit from the local midwife, Mrs Toomley, a jolly, sharp-faced little woman in her fifties who, under the watchful eye of Miss Balfour, had come in and bustled around, feeling and prodding Lily and asking her questions in connection with her condition. She had gone away declaring herself well satisfied with Lily’s progress, adding that she would be visiting again soon.

Into the quiet of the room came the faint sound of activity from the hall where Mary was brushing down the stair-carpet, singing as she worked. She alone had come in today. Mrs Nessant had not put in an appearance as her elderly mother had come down with the influenza and the cook
had remained at home to care for her. Lily looked at the clock on the mantel and saw that the time was just coming up to four o’clock. Miss Balfour was out of the house, having gone into Corster to collect the rent on two small houses she owned there. She was expected back soon.

Lily remained in the sewing room for a while longer, then rose from her seat and went down to the kitchen. There she took up the basket of vegetables that Mr Shad had left and began to prepare them at the old pine table. With Mrs Nessant absent, Lily was expected to help with the cooking, When she had finished she set the table in the dining room. That done, she went back to the sewing room where she worked with her needle until the light was gone. Shortly afterwards she heard the closing of the front door, marking the fact that Miss Balfour was back.

Dinner that evening was an even quieter affair than usual. Miss Balfour seemed subdued and ate very little, in the end pushing her unfinished plate aside. When Lily asked politely if she was well, the woman frowned and put a hand up to her head. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache,’ she said. ‘I hope I’m not coming down with the flu. We don’t need
that
in the house – especially with you in your condition.’ A few minutes later she had laid down her napkin, made her excuses and gone up to her room.

As Mary was so busy the next morning, Lily prepared breakfast for herself and Miss Balfour, but Miss Balfour did not appear. Lily ate alone, and when she had finished she went to Miss Balfour’s room and knocked on the door. After a moment there came a call to come in and she turned the handle and entered. Miss Balfour lay in bed, the gloom of the room only lightened by the pale light that crept in beside the edge of the curtain.