Suffragette Girl (37 page)

‘So—’ She felt betrayed, used. ‘You never intended that there should be a tomorrow for
us
?’

And now, suddenly, she knew what she had to do. Her resolve hardened, her course of action sealed by his callous words. She’d promised James she would care for Colette and their child. But
Colette was gone and only their son remained. But now he would be hers. Hers completely. It would be as if she really had given birth to him.

She lifted her head and faced Ernst squarely. ‘You can tell everyone he’s not yours,’ she said. The tremble in her voice had nothing to do with her bold resolve, but with the
heartbreak she was suffering from seeing Ernst in his true light.

‘And do you really think they’re going to believe that?’ Suddenly, his anger died. He groaned and closed his eyes. ‘When Dr Johnson came here yesterday, he told me that
there are rumours circulating about us. People are talking.’

‘And that would never do, would it?’ Her tone was laced with sarcasm.

He raised his shoulders. ‘Well, now the gossip is confirmed, isn’t it? They have the proof, haven’t they?’ There was a pause as they looked at each other, and she saw the
love in his eyes once more. The sudden change in his manner startled her as much as his anger had a few moments earlier. Now he was holding out his arms to her. ‘Forgive me,’ he said
gently. ‘It was such a shock. It’s my fault too. I’ll help you. We’ll think of something.’

‘Something to keep your reputation intact, you mean,’ she said bitterly.

‘Please, Florence darling, I’ve said I’m sorry . . .’

Now her anger died too, yet the hurt he’d inflicted would not go away. She doubted it ever would. But for the sake of the love they’d shared, there was something she could do. She
lifted her head with a new defiance. Already she felt as if little Jacques really was her child. She would defend the child, lie, cheat, even steal for him, just like any natural mother would do.
She’d been on the point of confiding the truth in the man in front of her. The man she’d believed was the one true love of her life. But now, she couldn’t trust him – not
with this secret. To carry this deception through, she must tell no one. Not her parents – especially not her parents. If she did, she knew her father would never accept James’s son.
Not after the disgrace of her brother’s execution. She wouldn’t even be able to tell her grandmother or – Gervase. But there was a chance – though perhaps it was a forlorn
one – that she’d be allowed to stay at Candlethorpe Hall. Augusta, though disappointed in her, would never see her great-grandson turned away, Florrie was sure.

But she knew now that she could not confide in Ernst Hartmann. He’d have no compunction in telling the world in order to prove his own innocence. And she dare not risk anyone here learning
the truth. They might take the child from her.

Florrie moved closer to him. ‘Ernst,’ she said on a sigh, ‘I shall tell everyone that the child isn’t yours. And you can do the same.’

‘You – you’d do that? For me?’

For a moment, her resolution wavered. She felt mean and deceitful and that was not in her nature. But the revelation a few moments ago that he had a fiancee had hurt her beyond belief.
She’d never forgive him for his deceit. Let him think that the child was his, she thought bitterly. Let him carry that burden for the rest of his life. That somewhere in the world he had a
son that he’d disowned.

She smiled bitterly at his pathetic gratitude. He took her hands in his and kissed her on the mouth. ‘Oh, Florence, you are a brave and wonderful girl,’ he murmured. ‘To lose
your reputation to save mine. To do that for me. I do love you so, Florence, but. . .’

She stared at him and, suddenly, she could feel compassion for him. Reputation was everything to him – just as it was for her father. Even if she were to tell Ernst the truth, could he
even begin to understand the power of her love for her disgraced brother? She would willingly have given her own life to save James, if it had been possible. And now she would sacrifice anything
for his son. The loss of her good name was little or nothing to her in comparison to what she would be prepared to give for this tiny, helpless baby.

When she returned to find the child, Sister Blackstock was still holding him, pacing up and down and trying to still his cries.

‘There’s nothing I can do to quieten him,’ she said, her face harassed and anxious. ‘If you take my advice, Maltby, you’ll try again to feed him yourself.
Mother’s milk is the best, you know.’

‘Sister Blackstock, please, there’s something I have to tell you, and I want you to believe me.’ Florrie’s cheeks burned with shame, but not for the reason that the
sister would think. ‘The baby is not Doctor Hartmann’s.’

Sister Blackstock stared at her. ‘You – you mean you’ve – you’ve . . . ?’ The woman could say no more. She shook her head in disbelief. Then disgust came to
the fore and her mouth curled. ‘One of the soldiers helping us, I suppose. I should never have let you drive about the countryside on your own. Maltby, you’re no better than a common
–
whore.
’ She thrust the howling baby at Florrie. ‘Here, get out of my sight and take your little bastard with you.’ She turned and hurried away.

Florrie cradled the child and laid her cheek against his head. ‘There, there, little one.’

At once the cries died down to a whimper and then stopped. The baby slept. Florrie smiled as she looked down at him. ‘We’re going home,’ she whispered. ‘Home to England
and to Candlethorpe Hall.’

But the thought merely brought new fears.

Back at Base Camp she braved the disapproving looks and sought out Dr Johnson.

‘Now, my dear, what’s all this?’ His kind face was solemn, but compassion was still in his eyes.

‘Would you examine the baby for me? Please? I think the umbilical cord needs attention and – and I want to make sure he’s all right. We – we have a long way to
travel.’

‘Of course I will. But what about you, my dear? Has a doctor seen you?’

Florrie gave a wan smile. ‘I’m fine, Doctor. Honestly.’ To placate him, she added, ‘I promise I’ll see my own doctor when I get back to England.’

‘Very well. I can’t
make
you let me examine you, but I just hope you know what you’re doing. Now, let’s have a look at this little chap.’

He smiled down at the baby, who kicked and gurgled happily, blithely unaware of all the trouble his arrival was causing.

‘Oh, Florrie,’ Grace wept on her shoulder. ‘You should have told us. Me and Hetty. We’d’ve stood by you.’

Florrie hugged the girl. Touched by her understanding, she was almost tempted to confide in Grace. But her resolution held. No one must know. Only the Mussets knew, and it was very unlikely
they’d ever speak of it to anyone.

‘We’ll be fine, though I’m sorry to be leaving you all.’

Grace sobbed afresh. ‘What’ll happen to you? Will your family stand by you?’

Florrie’s answering smile was a little uncertain now. ‘I hope so.’

The journey home was not as arduous as she might have expected. Even the authorities let her pass unhindered. She travelled on a hospital ship and, despite a few strange looks
at the child in her arms, the doctor and nurses on board were soon glad to make use of her nursing skills. Some less seriously injured soldiers cared for the baby, handing him round from one to
another and acting like surrogate fathers. They didn’t judge or condemn her, but took delight in the child. No doubt many of them had children of their own whom they hadn’t seen for
many months, and now they were counting the hours to a tender reunion with their families.

On her journey by train back to Lincolnshire, she encountered similar kindness and – accepted as the mother and possibly a war widow – no one censured or questioned her.

It was only as she drew nearer and nearer Candlethorpe that her resolve began to falter.

She’d known full well what her ‘welcome’ at the Hall would be, but she was unprepared for the vitriol spewing from her father’s mouth as she stood before him in his
study, the infant in her arms. Jacques was whimpering, almost as if he felt the tension in the room and was frightened by it.

‘First James – and now this.’ He flung out his arm towards her. ‘Who’s the father? Will he marry you?’

‘No,’ Florrie said, determined to tell the truth as much as possible. ‘His father is dead.’

‘And what
nationality
was he?’ Edgar spat out the question.

Florrie chose her words carefully. ‘The baby is half-French, Father.’

Edgar glared at her with fresh rage. ‘Not – even – British?’

He turned and went to stand near the long window with his back to her, looking out over the slope of the lawn. An elderly man – Ben’s replacement – was mowing the grass.

I must go and see Mrs Atkinson, Florrie thought, irrationally at such a moment. I must tell her about Ben, and how his last thoughts were for her. But I must remember to tell her that we kept
him out of pain . . .

Edgar was silent for a long time. At last, he turned round and walked stiffly back to his desk. He pulled open a drawer and took out a piece of paper. He threw it down onto the desk in front of
her. ‘Here – you’d better read this.’

Holding the child in her left arm, Florrie picked up the paper. It was the notification from the records’ office concerning James’s death.

Sir,
she read.
With deep regret I have to inform you that a report has been received that Private James Maltby was tried by Field General Court Martial at Poperinghe on the 20th day
of July, 1916, on the charge of desertion whilst on active service and was sentenced by the Court to suffer death by being shot. The sentence was duly carried out at 5.30 a.m. on the 21st day of
July 1916.

‘That,’ Edgar said hollowly, ‘has broken your mother’s heart and has hardened mine. Never again will I allow his name to be spoken in this house. And now—’
His voice was heavy with disappointment and defeat, but still he was unforgiving. ‘You can pack your bags and leave. From this moment, I have no children.’ He took the letter, pushed it
back into the drawer and slammed it with a gesture of finality. He turned and went to stand by the window once more, with his back to her.

‘But he’s your grandson, Father. Your heir—’ She hesitated, but she had to fight him even if it meant being cruel in return. ‘Your
only
heir.’

She saw a shudder run through her father’s frame, but still he did not turn round. Still he did not relent.

‘I have no children,’ he repeated. ‘I have no – heir.’

He was implacable and now there was only one person to whom Florrie could turn.

Augusta.

Florrie stood in the centre of Augusta’s sitting room, the child, now sleeping, in her arms. She returned her grandmother’s steady gaze, lifting her chin
resolutely, though she was chagrined to hear the quaver in her voice as she said, ‘This is your great-grandson, Jacques Maltby.’

She waited for what seemed an age, staring at the old lady and trying to read the fate of herself and the child in the passive eyes and expressionless face. For her only hope now lay with
Augusta. Her father had thrown her out and her mother would never dare stand up to him. But her grandmother . . .

The old lady held her granddaughter’s gaze and at last, slowly, she stretched out her arms. Florrie laid the baby on Augusta’s lap and watched as her grandmother bent over the little
boy. With gnarled, but gentle, fingers, Augusta unwrapped the shawl and looked down upon her great-grandson.

Florrie sat down, but her gaze never left her grandmother’s face. Still there was no indication of Augusta’s thoughts. At last she raised her head and looked straight into
Florrie’s eyes. ‘He’s very like James.’

Florrie caught her breath. Had her perceptive grandmother guessed the truth? Augusta was staring hard at her and the young woman felt the colour rise in her face. Her voice was husky as she
stammered, ‘Well, I suppose that’s – that’s possible, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ Augusta said smoothly. She looked down at the sleeping infant. Her expression softened and she began to smile. ‘I suppose I don’t need to ask you what your
father has to say about all this?’

Florrie knew a moment’s fear. Had she been wrong to risk everything? Would her father have been more lenient if he
had
known that the child was James’s? No, she was sure
she’d been right about that. He’d disowned James entirely – forbade the very mention of his name. In those circumstances, he’d hardly be likely to accept James’s
illegitimate son. No, she’d decided on her strategy and she would stick to it, whatever the cost. Even if – in the next few moments – she were to find herself cast out
entirely.

‘You’ve been a very silly girl, Florence.’ The use of her full name spoke volumes of her grandmother’s disapproval. There was a long silence and Florrie held her breath
until Augusta said at last, ‘But your child is – sadly – now the only male heir, albeit an illegitimate one.’

‘Grandmother—’ In a brief moment of weakness, Florrie was tempted to tell Augusta the truth. But she bit back the words. Instead, she said, ‘I’m sorry.’ The
words were genuine for she was sorry – desperately sorry – for deceiving perhaps the only person who would have understood and accepted the truth. But she couldn’t risk it. She
couldn’t put the burden of deceit on the old lady too. She alone must bear that.

Augusta held the baby close and bent to kiss the soft down on the infant’s head. ‘I will speak to your father,’ she murmured. ‘You have brought shame on the family,
Florence, but I will not see my great-grandson turned away.’

She cradled him and held her wrinkled face close to the baby’s soft cheek. Then she held him out to Florrie. ‘Take him to the nursery. You can have Beth as his nursemaid.’ She
smiled fondly. ‘She’ll like that.’

Nothing else her grandmother could have said would have indicated more than those few simple words. That she was prepared to take them in, Florrie had never really doubted, deep down, but the
giving up of her own maid to become the child’s nursemaid was the gesture that told Florrie all she needed to know.