The Pool of St. Branok

Fanny

THE CHILDREN LIKED TO be together, and we arranged that one day Rebecca would go to the Cartwright house and on the next Pedrek should come to mine. This gave Morwenna and me time to shop and do many things which would otherwise have been difficult, for neither of us wished to leave our children entirely to servants.

It was on one of these days when I decided to take up the invitation Frances and Peterkin had given me to visit their Mission again.

When I told Helena of this she said I would find it interesting and perhaps a little heartrending for people had no idea of the suffering which was endured by others. Matthew was deeply aware of and had talked to her about it. He had discovered a great deal when he was gathering material for his books; and Frances and Peterkin could tell some very sad stories.

She said she would have me driven down there in the morning and send the carriage to pick me up.

There was no need, I told her, I would get a cab.

“You might get one to take you there, but I doubt you would pick up one to bring you back.”

So I set off in the middle of the morning and as I was driven eastwards I was struck by the change. The streets of London had always interested me; they were so full of life; in that area which I knew best the houses were large and elegant; there were many garden squares and the parks added a delightful suggestion of the countryside. The Row, the Serpentine, the Palace where the Queen had spent her childhood—they were all delightful to the eyes. But what a contrast when we came to the mean streets.

The vitality had increased. There was noise everywhere. People seemed to talk at the top of their voices. We kept to the main road but I glimpsed side streets. I saw grim-looking children, barefooted; I saw stalls onto which seemed to have been crowded every commodity one could think of … from chests of drawers to fly papers. There were women selling pins and needles, and men selling hot pies; there were men sitting on the pavements doing something with counters which I presumed was some sort of game; there were ballad singers who gave demonstrations of their goods. There was noise and bustle everywhere.

The Mission was a tall square building which had, at one time, been two houses built at a time when there had been a certain affluence in the district.

The door was open and I stepped into a large hall. It was lofty and there was no furniture apart from a table and a chair. On the table there was a bell so I rang this. Almost at once a young woman appeared. She was tall, large-boned, with untidy hair, and wearing a coat-like overall.

I thought she was a servant until she spoke.

She said: “Oh, hello. You’re Mrs. Mandeville. Frances said you would be coming. She’s in the kitchen. It will be open shortly and we are running a bit late. I’ll take you to her. By the way, I’m Jessica Carey. How do you do?”

I said How do you do and thanked her.

She smiled at me and started off, so I followed her.

I could smell something savory.

We went down a flight of stairs to a large room in which was a big fire. There were several large cauldrons on this and on a table a pile of wooden bowls.

And there was Frances herself in a coat-like overall, rather flushed giving orders in that precise way which I had come to know; when she saw me she smiled.

“Welcome,” she said. “We’re running late. They’ll be here in half an hour. We have to get these bowls up. You could help carry them.”

“Yes. Where?”

Jessica Carey picked up a handful of the bowls and said: “I’ll show you.”

I did the same and followed her.

We went up a short staircase. We were in a room with a long wooden table on which were several iron stands. I gathered they put the cauldrons on these. Beside them were laid several large ladles.

“We serve it here,” Jessica told me. “It’s convenient. The door is right on the street … and they can just come in. It’s a busy time of the morning, this. Feeding time. Frances says it is one of the most important. We have to look after their bodies as well as their souls.” She laughed. “I’m glad you’ve come. We need all the help we can get.”

We put the bowls on the table and went down to get more.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Jessica Carey. “It will be a great help. There are one or two things I have to see to. If you’ll get these bowls up and help dish out. … They’ll be here at eleven thirty. We have to be ready by then or there is chaos. There seems to be more of them every day. And we’ve had to make extra. Frances gets really upset if we run out and have to send some of them away.”

I thought this was a strange welcome. Frances had been so earnest in her desire that I should come. But I did realize that her work here was most sincere. Amaryllis had always said that she and Peterkin worked as hard as anyone she knew.

I toiled up and down with the wooden bowls and had set up quite a pile of them on the table when the door opened and a man came in from the street.

I was about to say that we were not quite ready yet when I realized he could not possibly have come for soup.

He was neatly dressed and there was an air of distinction about him. I noticed that he had a rather sad face which changed when he smiled.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” I replied.

“We haven’t met before.”

I wondered why he should think we had. Then it occurred to me that he must be a frequent visitor to the Mission and there would be quite a number of helpers doing brief spells of duty.

“I’m Timothy Ransome,” he said.

“How do you do? I’m Angelet Mandeville.”

“Oh,” he said. “Frances mentioned you. You’re related to Peterkin, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s rather a complicated relationship but it exists.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Yes. I came to visit once before.”

“And they’ve put you onto the bowls, have they?”

“They all seemed so busy, and these things had to be brought up here.”

“Oh yes, for the morning soup. I’ll give you a hand.”

He took off his coat and set to work.

When we went into the kitchen several of them called, “Hello, Tim. Running late.”

“I’m helping with the bowls,” he said.

“Good.”

Soon we had brought up all the bowls. He said: “Many hands make light work.”

“It seems so. Are you a frequent helper?”

“I come quite often. I think Frances and Peterkin are doing a wonderful job here.”

“Yes, I have always heard so.”

“And now you have come to see for yourself.”

Someone was calling. “Tim. Tim. Strong man wanted for the cauldrons.”

“Right,” he answered. “Coming.” And to me: “Excuse me.”

That was a strange morning. I stood behind the table with several others, Timothy Ransome among them—ladling out soup. It was a sobering exercise … to see those eager hands stretched out for the bowl, to watch the ravenous manner in which they devoured the soup. They were ragged, unkempt and hungry. It made me both sad and angry. It was the children who touched me most. I thought of our own children … of Pedrek who sometimes had had to be coaxed to eat. And the fisherman caught another little fish to feed his family and he popped it into the mouth of the youngest, and then the second youngest … and so on until he had eaten it all.

At last it was over. The morning’s supplies were diminished and everyone had had their share.

Timothy Ransome said to me: “You mustn’t get too upset. At least we are trying to do something about it here. It’s a grueling experience at first.”

“I suppose you have done it many times.”

“Oh yes. … There are many things that you will find upsetting here … things you didn’t dream of.”

“I know I have to be prepared.”

“After this, there is a little refreshment for us. Humble fare. Bread and cheese and a glass of cider.”

“It sounds good to me.”

“I’ll show you. If we are lucky we can help ourselves and have half an hour’s respite.”

I saw Frances then. She came hurrying towards us. “Hello, Angelet, lovely to see you. Sorry I was so busy when you came. What a morning! I thought we shouldn’t be ready in time for the hungry hordes. Tim … you’re looking after Angelet. Showing her the ropes. Good.” She grinned at me. “You soon get used to it. In the evenings we have a supper when we all get together and talk about the day. That is when you ought to be here. I’ll see you later. I’m having a little trouble with Fanny …”

“Can I do something?” asked Timothy.

“No. I’ve got someone on it. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that child. We’ll see. I’ll be with you later, Angelet … if I can.”

Then she was off again.

Timothy Ransome said: “Let’s see about that food.”

It was a strange experience sitting in a small room with a man whom I had never met before, eating hot crusty bread and cheese with a tankard of cider beside me.

“I have to admit I know something about you,” he told me. “I heard about your husband. It was in the papers at the time. That’s when I learned you were related to Peterkin. I am so sorry. It was a terrible tragedy.”

“It is over now,” I said.

“Your husband was a hero.”

“Yes,” I said. “He died saving another man’s life.”

“You must be very proud.”

I nodded.

“Forgive me,” he went on. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken of it. Do you intend to work here?”

“Oh no. I couldn’t. I have a daughter. She is four years old. I am here today because she is with friends.”

He looked disappointed.

“But I shall come again,” I said, “when I have the opportunity.”

“It can be very distressing,” he said. “It’s so strange and upsetting at first. One gets over that. One realizes that there is no virtue in being upset and shaking one’s head in pity and doing nothing about it. This place grows on you. Frances is one of the most wonderful women I have ever met. She never sits down and groans about inequality … she does something practical. Of course, everyone could not do it, I know. Frances has her private income … so has Peterkin. They are a good team. Theirs is a good marriage … perfect I should say … except that they have no children. Yet if they had I suppose this work would suffer. On the whole I would say theirs is one of the few perfect unions.”

“You admire them very much, don’t you?”

“I do. Everyone must. … Once they get used to Frances’ rather stringent manner they must know that beneath it lies the proverbial heart of gold.”

The very mention of the word “gold” always took me back to Golden Creek … Ben washing his hands in the stream and discovering the presence of the precious metal. But for that he might be free now.

I said: “I think she is wonderful, too.”

“You’ll come again. You’ll get caught up in it. I come two or three days during the week. I’m what Frances calls one of her casual laborers. What she likes is full-timers like the Honorable Jessica. You know her?”

“I met her when I arrived.”

“Oh yes, Jessica is the right-hand woman. She’s dedicated, and we should all like to be but for commitments.”

“Have you many commitments?”

“An estate to run. Fortunately close to London … which makes it easy for me. It is just outside Hampton. I have a son and daughter. So you see I cannot give myself entirely to the cause.”

“I understand.”

“Your daughter must be a great compensation.”

“Oh yes.”

“I find that with Alec and Fiona. I lost my wife, you see.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“It was some four years ago. A riding accident. It was so sudden. She was there in the morning … and by night time she was gone.”

“What a terrible tragedy!”

“Well, these things happen all the time. It is just that one doesn’t expect them to happen to oneself!”

“How old are the children?”

“Alec is ten, Fiona is eight.”

“So they remember.”

He nodded sadly. Then he smiled. “Well, this is gloomy talk. Would you like some more cider? I am sure I could find some.”

“No thanks,” I said.

When we took back our plates and tankards and washed them in the kitchen we saw Frances.

“There’s trouble,” she said. “Billings is up to his tricks again.” She turned to me. “We get cases like this all the time. But this kind makes me mad. It’s where young people are concerned.”

“Fanny again?” asked Timothy Ransome.

“Yes. I don’t know what we can do. I’d like to get Fanny away … but there’s the mother. She doesn’t want to leave him.” She wrinkled her brows. “Billings drinks. He’s not so bad when he’s not drinking, but he can’t resist the gin palaces. You know what they say: ‘Drunk for a penny and dead drunk for tuppence.’ Well, he’s dead drunk most of the time. Emily Billings is a silly woman. She should leave him. But she won’t. He’s the second husband and seems to have her completely under his spell. Fanny was the daughter of the first marriage,” she explained to me. “He was a builder and fell from the scaffolding. There was no compensation. That’s one of the things we’re working on. In the meantime … Emily married Billings and her troubles really started.”

“There are so many similar cases,” said Timothy Ransome.

“True. As far as Emily’s concerned I’d say, All right, if you won’t leave him take the consequences. It’s the child … Fanny. She’s a bright little thing. I could do something for her. But I can’t take a girl of fifteen away from her home. Emily would stand by him in a court of law. She’d deny anything. He could almost kill her and she’d say she had fallen down the stairs. But it is Fanny. From what I hear there is danger of sexual abuse. Emily knows it and tries to hide it. It was something Fanny said that gave me the clue. I just can’t put it on one side. I have to do something because of Fanny.”

“It’s a problem,” agreed Timothy Ransome. “If there is anything I can do …”

“I’ll call on you, never fear. Angelet, you have been thrown in at the deep end, as they say. If it hadn’t been for all this blowing up this morning, I could have shown you round properly.”

“Don’t worry about that. I want to see how everything works. I’m getting a real insight.”

“The carriage is coming for you at four, I believe.”

“Yes, they insisted.”

“Quite right, too. You’d never get a cab here.”

“Had I known I would have taken you home,” said Timothy Ransome.

Frances answered for me. “Another time, Tim. I feel sure Angelet will come again.”

“I shall,” I said. “Perhaps on Friday if Rebecca goes to Morwenna.”

Timothy Ransome said: “And on Friday I shall be here. I’ll see that you are returned safely to your home.”

Frances beamed on us both.

“Very well. I shall see you on Friday. I promise I shall find plenty for you to do.”

I had been going to Frances’ Mission twice a week—on Wednesdays and Fridays. Frances was delighted and I always found plenty to do. I learned things about other people’s lives which were so different from my own; I was appalled, shocked and at the same time exhilarated because I felt I was doing something worthwhile.

I was becoming very friendly with Tim Ransome, who also appeared on Wednesdays and Fridays. The carriage would take me there and he would bring me home.

Aunt Amaryllis said how delighted she was that I was helping Frances and Peterkin. Frances had told her all about it and how useful I was making myself.

“It’s such good work,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Uncle Peter says it is just what you are needing. He gives a lot of money to the Mission.”

I nodded, remembering Frances’ comments that he made sure that his gifts were noted, but that she was grateful for them all the same.

I heard from the servants that Ben had called on one or two occasions. “He seemed most put out, Madam, that you were not at home.”

Frances made a point of sending Timothy and me on errands of mercy. She would not let me go out alone and he was always my escort. We took clothes and food to the sick and needy, and I became fairly familiar with the neighborhood. We would be sent to shop in the markets for the stores needed in the Mission and this I greatly enjoyed. The stalls would be piled up with merchandise of all descriptions and the noisy costermongers would shout their wares in audacious cockney … often using the rhyming slang which was quite unintelligible to me without Timothy’s translation.

It was natural that our friendship grew quickly in such circumstances.

I knew him for a man who had never really recovered from the loss of his wife; he was fond of his children but they could not compensate him completely. He was fortunate he told me: his elder sister was unmarried and devoted to him and the children; she lived in his country house and looked after his home.

“I should be lost without her,” he said. “And the children are very fond of her.”

Frances must have told Amaryllis of my friendship with Timothy and as a result he was asked to dine at the house in the square.

This he did on one or two occasions and it was clear that they liked him.

Grace was a guest on one occasion. She said what a charming man he was, and smiled significantly. It was the first indication that it might seem that there was something serious and special about our relationship.

I had seen Ben once or twice—usually when others were present. There had been few opportunities of speaking together alone. I did not seek them, but I believe he did.

He said to me once: “I hear that you are devoting yourself to good works.”

“You mean the Mission.”

“Yes. They tell me you attend regularly.”

“I like to feel I am doing something.”

“I wish I could see you sometime.”

We were at a dinner party at Matthew’s and Helena’s and the men had just rejoined us after dinner. It was just a snatched conversation.

I did not answer. I looked across the room to where Lizzie was sitting trying to make conversation with the middle-aged gentleman seated beside her; and the effort was making her miserable. Grace was there, talking brightly to a young man. She looked over and saw us, and in a few moments she was making her way towards us.

She talked brightly to Ben of the constituency to which he had been elected as candidate. I was surprised how well informed she was.

I took the opportunity of slipping away.

There were a great many dinner parties—either at the house in the square or Matthew’s and Helena’s house.

Helena said, “There is a feverish expectancy in the air. I call it the electoral disease.”

“Do you really think there is going to be an election soon?”

She nodded vigorously. “I can see the signs. Disraeli can’t hold out. He’ll have to go to the country.”

“And then?”

“Who can say? We’re hoping he’ll get back. But, of course, Ben has other views.”

“It is strange to have such divergence in a family.”

“Oh, it is all very friendly. It is, you know, in the House. It has often struck me that members of the same party are more venomous towards each other than to those of the opposition.”

“I suppose that is because they are reaching for the same prize. With the other side … well, they are not rivals in the same way.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, it is rather exciting.”

“Yes, if it doesn’t get too serious.”

She was right about the electoral fever.

It was October. Cool winds were blowing across the parks and the ground was carpeted with red and bronze leaves. Excitement was in the air and people were saying that Disraeli’s ministry could not carry on as they were. They must go to the country.

I was often at the house in the square. Ben was there, too, so we saw each other frequently … but never alone. Timothy was often asked. Frances and Peterkin came rarely. They pleaded too much work.

I found the conversation stimulating.

There were discussions between Uncle Peter and Ben which I thought must be worthy of the House itself—Uncle Peter supporting Disraeli and Ben, Gladstone. The rest of us joined in but those two were the main speakers.

“You’ll have to get busy down at Manorleigh, Ben,” said Uncle Peter. “How is it going?”

“Very well indeed.”

“You think you’re going to manage it?”

“I know I’m going to manage it.”

“Voters are unpredictable creatures, Ben. You’re going to find it hard to convince them that Gladstone’s a better bet than Disraeli.”

“I happen to think otherwise and I shall persuade my constituents to do the same.”

Grace addressed Uncle Peter. “I think, Mr. Lansdon, that the voters of Manorleigh are beginning to like their new candidate.”

She looked at Ben with an almost proprietorial air.

“So you have inspected the territory, have you, Grace?” said Aunt Amaryllis.

“Oh yes. I went down with Ben and Lizzie last week-end. Lizzie and I went to some shops and talked to them, didn’t we, Lizzie?”

Lizzie mumbled that they had.

“It was so exciting. I think we made some impression.”

“That’s what gets the voters,” commented Uncle Peter. “Never mind the policies. Just show them that you are a good family man, your wife beside you, and they’ll put their crosses by your name.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” said Grace. “Lizzie is going to be a great help.”

“I … I … Grace helped me,” said Lizzie.

“Oh, come, Lizzie, you did your part.”

They talked about the chances of either side but I rather thought Uncle Peter was of the opinion that it would be a victory for the Liberals—which he was certainly not hoping for. But I saw him glance often at Ben with something like pride and amusement.

After dinner I had a word with Uncle Peter.

“I find all this parliamentary talk very interesting,” I told him.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Do you really want the Conservatives to win?”

“My dear Angelet, I’m a staunch supporter of the Party.”

“But there is Ben.”

He sighed. “Oh, he’s set himself on the other side of the fence.”

“Do you think he’ll get in?”

“Of course he’ll get in. They won’t be able to resist him. I wish …”

I wanted to hear what he wished. But he said: “She’s right, you know … Grace. It’s the happily married man they like. Helena’s always been an asset to Matthew … and then of course her brother marrying Frances and that Mission. Good stuff.”

“It’s good for a lot of people as well as Matthew, Uncle Peter.”

“Oh yes. You’re one of them now, aren’t you? Nice fellow … that Timothy Ransome. Seems steady … and comfortably off.”

“Have you been investigating?”

“Naturally I investigate all friends of my family.”

“Uncle Peter, you are incorrigible.”

“Yes, I am. Always was and always will be. Never mind. Put up with me, will you, my dear?”

I smiled at him. “Willingly,” I said.

It was about a week later when Fanny came into our lives.

Timothy and I had done our usual stint at the soup counter; the empty bowls and cauldrons had been taken back to the kitchen; everyone seemed to be intent on something or other. We were in the little room next to that where the soup was dispensed, and we were talking, as we usually did, about certain cases which had struck us as particularly sad or interesting, and a little about ourselves, when we heard the door being opened. We paused to listen. Then we heard stealthy footsteps.

We rose and hurried to the room from which they came and there she stood.

She was half poised for flight.

I said: “Can we help you?”

“Where’s Mrs. Frances?” she asked.

“She’s not here at the moment. What can we do?”

She hesitated. I saw how thin she was; she looked cold, too; the threadbare dress she was wearing was not adequate protection against the autumn dampness.

“I … I’ve run away,” she said.

“Come and tell us all about it,” answered Timothy. “Would you like something to eat?”

She licked her lips.

“Come along,” said Timothy.

There was no soup left but we found some bread and cheese which she devoured ravenously; we found some milk for her, too.

She said defensively: “I know Mrs. Frances.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Fanny,” she told me.

I felt excited. This was the Fanny who had caused Frances so much concern, and here she was with us!

“She will be in soon,” I said. “You must wait and see her. Tell us what it is that is bothering you. Perhaps we can help till she comes. We work here with Mrs. Frances. She tells us what to do and we do it. I know she wants to help you.”

The child, for she was little more, said: “I couldn’t ’ave stood it no more. Last night he nearly killed me Mum. And when I tried to stop him he turned on me. There won’t half be a carry-on when he knows I’ve gone.” She looked frightened. “He’ll blame me Mum. I’ve got to go back.”

“Don’t go yet,” I begged. “Wait till you have seen Mrs. Frances.”

“We know she wouldn’t want you to go back … yet,” added Timothy.

She nodded. “Mrs. Frances … she’s a good lady …”

“That’s why you should listen to her,” I said.

“It’s me Mum. It’s what he’d do to her.”

“We’ll find some way of stopping him,” promised Timothy.

She looked at him scornfully. “What, you? How? No one can’t. I’m frightened of him. See … he wants my money. … Every day he takes it off of me … all I’ve got, every penny. Then he’s off. It’s good when he goes. … He’s in the gin shop … and he stays there. I wish he’d stay all night. I wish he’d never come back.”

“Where do you get your money?” I asked.

“I works, I does. I goes to old Felberg and he gives me a tray … sometimes it’s flowers … sometimes it’s pins and needles … sometimes it’s apples. You never know with old Felberg. Then I brings back what I’ve took and he takes it and gives me tuppence back … and that’s my money, I reckon. But he don’t. He takes it off me and he’s off round the gin shop. I’m frightened of him … when he hits me … but more when …”

She faltered and I put my hand on her shoulder. I said: “We can stop this, you know. Mrs. Frances wants you to stay here. She can do something …”

“It’s me Mum,” she said piteously.

When Frances came in her face lighted up with joy.

“Fanny!” she cried. “So you’ve come. Good girl.”

“Oh, Mrs. Frances, I was so frightened of him last night. You said come.”

“Of course I did and at last you are a wise girl. Now then. This is your home for a while. We’re going to look after you. No harm can come to you here.”

“I could bring me money back from Mr. Felberg.”

“You can forget Mr. Felberg. You’re going to be here while we put our heads together and come up with something. You’re not going back, Fanny, not again.”

Frances was a wonderful woman. I have said that many times, I suppose, and will continue to say it. I imagine that Timothy and I were rather sentimental in our approach; we wanted to fuss over Fanny, to make much of her, to compensate for the terrible life she had; but Frances was different—brisk and business-like. I could see that was what Fanny needed. She would despise our attitude. To her it would seem “soft.”

Frances said: “We’ll get you out of those clothes … fast. We’ll get Mrs. Hope to put them on the fire. We’ll find something for you. And a good bath is what you need and your hair thoroughly washed. Then we’ll give you something to do, eh? What are you good at, Fanny? You’d like to help in the kitchen. There are lots of things to be done there.”

I could see that that was the way to treat her.

Timothy and I were amazed. We saw Fanny change overnight. The frightened waif became a self-important person. Fanny belonged to the streets. There was nothing soft about Fanny. Her stepfather must have been an ogre to have frightened one of her spirit. She was a cockney—shrewd, quick-witted, full of what Mrs. Penlock would have called “sauce” or “lip.”

She adored Frances, looking upon her as some superior being. For Timothy and me she had a certain affectionate contempt, but she thought we were “soft.” “Nobs,” she called us, which meant that we spoke differently and acted in a manner unlike that of the people she had known before she came to the Mission. For some reason we had been born into soft living and we lacked the knowledge of how to protect ourselves. We had got by because we had never had to face up to what to her was real life. I am sure she felt we were in need of her protection rather than she was of ours.

But our special place in her affections was due to the fact that when she had decided to come to the Mission we were the first ones she had seen and I do believe that we had somehow persuaded her to wait for Frances and that was at the root of her affection.

Frances was a special person. Born a “nob” she was for all her fancy voice and high-class ways one of them.

Fanny changed the Mission for us. She was the first one we looked for when we arrived. She would give us that rather casual greeting and smile secretly as though we amused her.

Timothy and I talked of her a great deal when we were alone and wondered what Frances would decide about her future. Frances had said that, so far, she was unprepared to make a decision.

“The girl’s still frightened of that terrible man,” she said. “She’s aggressive, isn’t she? I know what that means. She’s telling herself she’s strong. She’s got to be because somewhere in her mind she is afraid she is not finished with him yet. She is trying to tell herself she can stand up to him. She must never go back.”

“Good Heavens, no,” said Timothy.

“It’s risky. I suppose he’s legally in the place of father. He will know where she is. He’d guess. I’ve tried to get her away from them before. … We’ll have to watch for him. I expected to hear from the mother. Strange I haven’t.”

“Do you mean she will try to get her back?” I asked.

“She wouldn’t want to. She knows it’s best for the girl to get away. But he wants the pennies she earns. He can get drunk at the gin shop on Fanny’s few pennies. There is something else. The mother hinted. … You know what I mean.”

“You did mention it,” said Timothy quietly.

“I’ve got to stop that. These people are capable of descending to the very depths of depravity. Their lives are so empty. They go to the bottle and then they lose all sense of decency. You get someone like Billings … no sense … no morals … nothing. I’m sorry for him in a way. I don’t know what his life has been. How can one judge? But I know, I’ve got to keep Fanny here. I’ll find something for her soon. I’d like to get her into a nice home. She’d make a good parlormaid … with training. But just now she isn’t ready. I want her to stay here for a while.”

“She’ll stay. She adores you,” I said.

“I hope she will. I can’t hold her against her will … yet I want to fight for her.”

“Why should she want to go?”

“Who knows what Fanny thinks? She has this feeling that she has to protect her mother. That’s what has kept her in this wretched hovel so long. I should have had her here weeks ago. Well, at the moment I’m holding everything as it is … It all depends on what happens. You two have done a good job with her. She’s quite fond of you.”

“I think she despises us sometimes. She thinks we’re soft.”

“That’s her way. She’s fond of you all right. And she trusts you. That means a lot with Fanny.”

As the weeks passed the change in Fanny was miraculous. She did odd jobs about the Mission. Frances gave her a small wage which she hoarded with delight. I believe she felt she was rich. Her hair, now that it was washed, was glossy and fell in soft curls about her face; her small dark eyes were clear and alert; they darted everywhere as though she were afraid she was going to miss something; her skin had lost that pasty look and although she was still pale she looked far from unhealthy. I gave her a ribbon for her hair. She treasured it and said she would save it for Sundays.

Timothy and I looked upon her as our protégée. We talked of her constantly; we watched her progress, marveling. One day we went out and bought a dress for her. When we brought it back to the Mission she stared at us in amazement.

“It’s not for me,” she said. “It can’t be.”

We assured her it was.

“I ain’t never had nothing like that in my life before,” she said.

“Well, it’s time you did,” Timothy told her.

She looked at us and said, “Well, I dunno. … You two … I reckon you are a pair of old softies.”

That was thanks enough.

One of the jobs which gave her most pleasure was to go to the market and buy provisions for the Mission. This had been one of the tasks allotted to Timothy and me and we had always enjoyed it. She accompanied us once or twice and was scornful of our achievement.

“Tell you what,” she said when we returned to the Mission. “They see you two coming and up goes the price.”

“Surely not,” I said.

She looked at me derisively. “You don’t know nothing,” she said.

She told Frances that she could shop cheaper than we could and Frances, who was always eager to help Fanny prove herself, immediately complied with her request that she should do the shopping herself; and from that moment Fanny brought in the bargains. It was a great game to her.

“I got him to knock three farthings off that for you,” she would announce proudly. We always marveled at her bargaining skills.

“You’re saving us pounds, Fanny,” Frances told her.

This state of affairs went on for three weeks and during that time Fanny emerged as herself.

Then one day, she disappeared.

She had dressed herself in her blue merino and tied the red ribbon in her hair, and gone off to the market as she did every morning.

At first we thought the shopping had taken her a little longer than usual and we were not unduly concerned; but as the time began to pass we grew anxious. Then we found the shopping bag which she usually took with her and with it the money she had been given to shop with; so we knew her departure was intentional.

Frances was bitterly disappointed.

“What did we do?” I cried.

“I think it must be her mother,” said Frances. “She’s gone back to her.”

“But the stepfather …”

“Fanny is a girl who has a strong sense of right and wrong. She may have got that from her own father. You see, she takes the dress and the ribbon—they are hers. She has taken the wages she has earned; but she leaves the shopping money. How many girls in her position would have done that?”

“But what are we going to do?” asked Timothy.

“There is nothing we can do. I can’t storm her home and take her away. She’s gone back to them of her own accord. I’m sorry. It’s disheartening, but there is nothing we can do. It is just another of those cases which didn’t work out the way we wanted it to. There are many of them.”

I realized how much our concern for Fanny had drawn Timothy and me together. We had shared our delight in her progress and now our sorrow and disappointment at her departure.

I was trying not to think of Ben, working hard in Manorleigh for the coming election.

Timothy came again to dine at the house in the square. He was about as different from Uncle Peter as a man could be, but they liked each other. I knew what Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis were thinking. They were fond of me, concerned for me, and they were weighing up Timothy as a possible husband for me. Aunt Amaryllis in particular believed that the married state was ideal for every woman. Uncle Peter took a more practical view. He would like to see me settled and he had obviously decided that Timothy’s background, financial standing and character fitted him for the role of husband.

I saw through them, of course. But I did not want to think beyond the present which Timothy was making tolerable for me. Yet again and again my thoughts went back to Ben.

I heard from the family that his campaign was being successful and he was making a very good impression on the voters.

One evening when I was having a talk with Uncle Peter, Ben was mentioned.

“I feel sure he is going to win,” he said. “It’ll be an achievement. It’s been a Tory stronghold for a hundred years. I don’t think it will be a big majority … but comfortable enough. It will be a feather in his cap.”

“Do you really think he’ll win?”

Uncle Peter looked at me and smiled. “I have reason to say that I think his opponent is getting rather rattled.”

“How is he doing it?”

“Oh, you know Ben. It’s that vitality. A certain power. A determination. He believes he’s going to win and he gets everyone else believing it too. I flatter myself that he gets that from me. His grandmother was a fighter too. She was a milliner.” He smiled, looking back. “I came near to marrying her. I couldn’t though. It wouldn’t have done.”

“You mean …”

“Just not quite right …”

“Yet you were in love with her.”

“I have always been able to regulate my emotions.”

“They didn’t stop your having an illegitimate son.”

“That’s not what I mean. I set her up in her own shop in Sydney. I sent her money. She got on very well. We were in a way two of a kind. She understood how it was. What I am telling you is that Ben gets his fighting spirit on both sides.”

“You must have had a very eventful life, Uncle Peter.”

“I think life should be eventful. Ben will make his so and I am pretty certain that before long he’ll have a place in the House.” He was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said: “It’s a pity he married Lizzie. She’s not the wife a politician needs.”

“I think she appears with him, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but there is more to it than that. Grace is with them. Now she knows it all. I believe she is quite an asset. But it is not the same. It should be the wife who is there.”

“I know Grace helps Lizzie quite a lot. Lizzie herself said so.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Lizzie should be doing all this. She shouldn’t need prompting. It doesn’t go down so well. No, I’m afraid Lizzie is a bit of a handicap for a man like Ben.”

“A handicap!” I cried. “Where would he be without her? She brought him the gold mine, didn’t she? Without her help he would still be scrabbling for gold in Golden Creek.”

“You are very vehement, my dear.”

“Well, it is true. I hate all this talk about Lizzie’s being a handicap when it is only because of her that he has become in a position to do all he is doing.”

Then he said a strange thing. He put his arm about me. “I, too, wish it had been otherwise.”

“What do you mean?” I stammered.

But he just smiled rather sadly at me and I knew that Uncle Peter was aware of my feelings for Ben … and his for me.

We had betrayed ourselves in some way.

There was a letter from my mother.

My darling Angelet,

Amaryllis tells me how hard you are working at Frances’ Mission and finding it so rewarding. I am glad. I told your father that you needed something like that. It must be interesting and harrowing too, but Amaryllis tells me that Frances is delighted to have you there and what a great help you are to her.

We miss you very much and I have written to Amaryllis telling her that I should love to come up … just for a few weeks. Your father can’t leave the place at this time, nor can Jack. But I feel I want to see you. I want to hear all about the work you are doing and see for myself that you are well and getting happier.

Everything here goes on much as usual. And how is darling Rebecca? It is wonderful for her to have Pedrek to play with. And Morwenna is so close and you help each other with the children, so giving you those opportunities to go to the Mission.

Josiah Pencarron tells me that Justin is doing a fine job in London and he wonders why he did not think of opening the office up there years ago.

So everything seems to be going well.

I shall see you soon.

Much love,

Mother

I knew what this meant. Aunt Amaryllis had reported my growing friendship with Timothy Ransome, and my mother wanted to know how far it had progressed.

I wished that they were not so interested in my affairs. Of course, it was all for my benefit. There was a hint of seriousness in my friendship with Timothy. I was aware of that in Timothy’s manner.

But I did not want to think of it. I liked him. I enjoyed his company; but I did not want to go farther than that. My heart was in Manorleigh. There was nothing I should have liked better than to take part in that campaign and everything else seemed only a makeshift and a poor consolation.

Now that Fanny had gone, Timothy and I returned to our old task of shopping in the markets for the provisions. We did so in a somewhat disenchanted mood having been told by Fanny that we were not much good at it.

We had lost the excitement we used to have in the project, perhaps because it reminded us of Fanny.

One day we set out. I was telling him that my mother was coming to London for a short stay and he was saying how pleased he would be to meet her.

“I am sure you will be invited to,” I told him.

He pressed my arm and said: “I’m glad of that.”

We stopped at one of the stalls to buy fruit. I chose it and while Timothy was paying for it, I turned suddenly and stared. There among the crowd was Fanny.

“Fanny!” I called and started after her.

She must have heard me but she began to run.

“Fanny! Fanny!” I called.

But she ran on pushing her way through the crowds.

Perhaps I should have let her go, but some impulse would not allow me to. I had to talk to her. I had to ask her why she had run away.

We had left the market behind. But she was still ahead of me.

“Fanny!” I shouted. “Come back. I want to talk to you.”

She did not glance back but sped on. I followed without thinking where I was. On she went. We were in a maze of little streets where I had never been before and still Fanny was running. She darted round a corner and I nearly lost sight of her. I rushed on.

I was only vaguely aware of my surroundings. The houses were nothing more than hovels and I noticed an unpleasant odor of old clothes and unwashed bodies. There was a gin shop on the corner of the street into which Fanny had turned; and as I dashed past, I caught a glimpse of people in there. Outside one man sprawled on the pavement.

Someone called out: “ ’Ello, Missus,” as I passed. I went on blindly. I saw Fanny turn into one of the hovels and disappear from sight.

Suddenly the folly of what I had done dawned on me. I was lost. Timothy would wonder what had happened. He had been paying for the goods we had bought and suddenly I had darted away. And here I was … in this place alone …

Children were squatting on the pavement playing some game; they stopped to stare at me. There was a woman on a doorstep. She pushed the greasy hair back from her face and laughed at me.

Two men … little more than boys … were coming towards me.

“Can we ’elp yer, Miss?”

As I stepped back and they came forward, one slipped behind me, the other faced me.

I was filled with terror.

“Fanny!” I called.

But what was the use? She had disappeared. She could not hear me and she had taken no heed of me when she had.

One of the men seized my arm. He was leering at me.

“Good-looking gal,” he said meaningfully.

I shouted: “Go away. How dare you!”

And then I heard a voice.

“Angelet!”

It was Timothy. He took hold of the young man who was touching me and threw him to the ground. The other came at him but Timothy was too quick for him. They were spindly youths, ill-nourished, I could see. They were no match for Timothy.

“Angelet … what on Earth …” he began.

I pointed to the house. “Fanny,” I said. “She has gone in there.”

Timothy hesitated for only a second. Then he said: “Come on. We’ll go in.”

His face was grim. He took a firm hold of my arm and we went towards the hovel which I presumed was Fanny’s home.

We were in a dark passage which smelt of damp and decay. A door opened and a woman with a baby in her arms came out and said: “What do you want?”

“Fanny …”

She jerked her head. “Upstairs.”

We mounted the rickety staircase. The banister was broken and water was dripping through the ceiling.

There was a door at the top of the stairs. We opened it and were in a room. A piece of torn cloth had been put up across the window to serve as a curtain. There was a couch from which the springs protruded and which I presumed was used as a bed. But I hardly noticed the room because there was Fanny and with her the woman I judged to be her mother.

Fanny was wearing the blue merino which had lost its pristine freshness. She wore the ribbon in her hair. She looked ashamed and very unhappy.

“Fanny,” I said. “Why didn’t you speak to me?”

“You didn’t ought to have come,” she snapped.

“Of course I had to come.”

“Likes of you shouldn’t be here.” It was the old aggression.

“We had to come,” said Timothy gently.

“Fan,” said her mother. “You ought to go with ’em. You oughtn’t to of run away. I told yer.”

“I had to, didn’t I? ’Cause of ’im.”

Poor Mrs. Billings. I could see the wretchedness in her face.

I realized with a rush of gratitude to fate that he was not here and that raised my hopes.

Timothy said, “We want to take you back, Fanny. You were getting on so well.”

“That’s what I tole her,” said her mother.

But Fanny looked at us and scowled. I knew instinctively that it was because she was afraid she would cry and that would be the ultimate weakness.

“I tole her,” said Mrs. Billings. “Time after time I tole her. I said, ‘You go back to that Mrs. Frances, Fan. It’s best for you. You gotter get away.’ But she won’t. She’s always hoping he’ll kill hisself … fall down stairs or something. He did once.”

“Mrs. Billings,” said Timothy. “We want to take Fanny back. We were getting on so well. You can always come and see her at the Mission … or wherever she is. Mrs. Frances would like you to come with her, too.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t leave ’im,” she said. “Not that.”

“And what of Fanny?”

“Fanny should go. I tole her … time after time …”

“There you are, Fanny,” I said. “Your mother wants you to come with us.”

“What about him?” said Fanny.

“Leave him to me,” said her mother.

“Mum, you come too. It’s ever so nice. They’re kind. Mrs. Frances and these two …”

“I can’t leave ’im, Fan, you know that.”

“But what he does! He’s a beast.”

“I know … but I can’t leave him.”

“But Fanny is coming with us,” said Timothy. “We won’t go without Fanny.”

“He mustn’t come back and find you two here,” said Fanny aghast.

“So, let’s go now,” I said. “Come on. Mrs. Billings, you understand. We want to help. Fanny was so happy with us. Please … it is important for her. Come and see for yourself. Mrs. Frances would find work for you. Come with us … both of you.”

Fanny was looking pleadingly at her mother.

There were tears in the woman’s eyes. She shook her head. “I’d never leave him. He’s me ’usband when all’s said and done.”

“Then we will take Fanny,” said Timothy firmly.

“Yes, Fan, you go,” begged her mother. “Go, girl. It’s what I want. It’s better you’re not ’ere. It’s better then. Strike me pink if it ain’t. I fret over you, I do. I’m all right on me own. Go, Fan. It’s what I want. It’s best for you.”

“Oh, Mum …”

“Come on,” said Timothy. “Mrs. Billings, thank you. Do remember. There will always be a welcome for you at the Mission.”

She nodded. “Take Fanny. It’s what I want for her. It’s a blessed relief to me … if she goes.”

“He’ll knock you about, Mum,” said Fanny hesitantly.

“You go. It’s what I want. It’s best for you … best for us all.”

Fanny was still wavering.

“It’s all right, Fanny,” I said. “You can do no good here. Your mother will come and see you and perhaps one day you can be together.”

I held her hand firmly and drew her to the door.

“I dunno,” she began.

“Oh yes, your mother is right. Mrs. Frances is right. She is always right, isn’t she? Come on.”

At last we took her away.

The journey back was horrifying. I had not realized how far I had come. I saw the old clothes shop with the second-hand clothes hanging outside the door, the under-nourished children, the cursed gin shops. People called after us. At one stage Fanny turned and stuck her tongue out at them. They laughed at us jeeringly. I think it might have been difficult if they had not known that we came from the Mission; and they had a certain respect for that place.

I wondered where the beast was drinking. … In the gin shop on the corner? What if we came across him? But we were safely past the shop now.

After a long walk we came to the Mission.

Frances’ joy at seeing us was great. But at first she gave her attention to Fanny, who went through the same washing process as before. The merino dress and ribbon were sacrificed to the flames and I promised that I would find another exactly like it. The red ribbon could be easily replaced.

While this was in progress we told Frances what had happened.

Timothy said: “I was paying the woman at the stall when I realized that Angelet had gone. I saw her running off. I left everything and hurried after her. I was just in time to see where she was going. I had no idea what it was all about at first because I didn’t see Fanny. Unfortunately Angelet had a fair start of me.”

“You should never have gone into those streets alone,” said Frances, “but I’m glad you did. God knows what might have happened to you.”

“Something might if Timothy hadn’t come up in time.”

“I arrived panting, to see her being accosted by two very unsavory-looking youths.”

“Just in time,” I said smiling at him. “He played the gallant knight and saved me. Then together we went into the house … if you can call it a house.”

“The living conditions are appalling. I hope we shall be able to do something about that in time. And you saw Mrs. Billings?”

“Poor woman. How can she? She should have come with Fanny. Why does she stay with the brute?” said Timothy.

“The answer to that,” replied Frances, “is involved with the complexity of human nature. Some people call it love. I’ve seen it happen again and again. They come to us almost battered to death. They ask for refuge. We give it to them. We nurse them back to health. We set them on the road to a decent life … and then … they go back to be battered all over again. It’s disheartening. But it is something in a certain type of female. While that exists we shall always be the weaker sex … because somewhere inside these women … they want to be dominated. It maddens me. Well, I can do nothing for Mrs. Billings. What we have to concentrate on is Fanny … and that, my dear, is what you are going to do. Bless you for bringing her back. I’ve vowed to myself that I am going to give Fanny a chance of a good life … and you have helped me more than I can say.”

She did a rare thing. She kissed us both and we kissed each other, Timothy and I. He took my hands and looked earnestly into my eyes. I believed then that he loved me.

There was a dramatic sequence to that adventure.

The next day the papers were full of it.

“Horrible Murder in Swan Street.”

I read it over breakfast and as I did so the significance of what had happened dawned on me. “Jack Billings returned home after a drunken spree and battered his wife, Emily, to death in their home. Mrs. Billings’ daughter by her first marriage, was by good fortune staying at the Mission run by Peter and Frances Lansdon, son and daughter-in-law of the well-known philanthropist Peter Lansdon.”

That was all.

I went at once to see Frances. She had heard the news.

“Thank God you brought Fanny here,” she said.

“I think Mrs. Billings’ death is probably due to the fact that Fanny left,” I said.

“It might have been, but there was bound to be something like this sooner or later.”

“What of Fanny? Does she know?”

“Not yet. I’m wondering what’s best to be done.”

Timothy arrived, having heard the news.

His first words were: “What of Fanny?”

“She doesn’t know yet,” said Frances. “I am considering what to do.”

“Would it be a good idea to get her away?”

“I think it might.”

“I could take her down to Hampton.”

“Oh, Tim … would you?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ve told my sister and the children about her. They’d be pleased.”

“I think that is an exciting idea. There will be lots in the paper. Fanny can’t read … but there’ll be talk. She’s very sharp. I want the shock to be cushioned when it comes.”

“Do you think Fanny would agree to come?” asked Timothy.

“I think she would with you. We’ll ask her. She is fond of you and you have won her confidence … particularly after the way you two went down there and brought her away.”

It was a new Fanny we saw—washed and shining. Her dress was a little too big for her but it was the best Frances could find among the clothes which had been donated to the Mission from time to time.

“Fanny,” said Frances, “Mr. Ransome wants to take you to his house in the country. Would you like to go?”

“I ain’t never been to the country.”

“Well, now is your chance to see it.”

“With ’im?” she said, pointing to Timothy.

“That’s right. It’s his home. He’s got two children … a girl and a boy. They’ve heard of you. You could help look after them.”

I could see that she liked the idea of looking after children.

“What about ’er?” she said nodding in my direction.

“I don’t live there, you see, Fanny.”

“Oh.” I felt flattered that she looked disappointed.

“Perhaps we could persuade Mrs. Mandeville to come and stay with us,” said Timothy.

“All right,” she said.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” I said. “We’ll go out today and buy another merino dress … a blue one as like the other as we can find.”

“And a red hair ribbon?” she said.

“That too,” I promised.

And that was settled.

The next day Timothy took Fanny down to Hampton. I missed them very much and was surprised that some savor seemed to have gone out of my life.

But there was a letter from my mother. She was coming to London immediately and would be with us in two days’ time.

My mother was eager to know all that had been happening in London. I noticed how she kept studying me intently. I knew what she meant. She wanted to know how far my friendship with Timothy had progressed and whether I was happy.

I could not tell her because I did not know myself.

I thought increasingly of Ben and wished more than ever that I were at Manorleigh helping with the campaign.

I had enjoyed working at the Mission and little could be as worthwhile as that, but how I should have enjoyed doing all the things which Lizzie hated so much and which, presumably, Grace was helping her to do.

I thought it must be a most exciting life—but perhaps that was because it was Ben’s.

One of the first things Amaryllis did when my mother arrived was to invite Timothy to dinner.

“I know,” said Aunt Amaryllis, “that your mother is eager to hear how you helped that young girl.”

Then my mother had to hear the story of Fanny.

“You went into that dreadful place alone!” was her first comment.

“I didn’t think of it. I just followed Fanny.”

My mother shivered. “It was foolish of you.”

“But if I hadn’t what would have happened? It was all for the best. And Timothy was not far behind.”

“What a terrible thing! That poor woman … murdered.”

“It will, at least, be the end of that … monster,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “He’s guilty and everyone knows it. He admits it himself. He’ll hang.”

“And that poor child?”

“She’s with Timothy’s family at the moment.”

“Oh yes …”

It was clear that my mother had had a full report on Timothy’s family from Aunt Amaryllis.

“It was good of him to take her in,” said my mother. “I must say he seems to me to be a very kind person … working for the Mission and all that.”

“Oh, you know Frances. She insists that people come and then she makes them work.”

“Frances is wonderful.”

“Peterkin is a great help to all those people, too.”

“They are a wonderful pair.”

“I am so glad Timothy’s coming to dine. I do look forward to meeting him.”

When Timothy came it was obvious from the first that they took an instant liking to each other.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” said my mother, “and all that you have been doing at the Mission. There is so much I want to know about the poor child you rescued. I do think it was wonderful.”

We were at the dinner table with, as usual, Uncle Peter at one end and Aunt Amaryllis at the other. They were beaming like two benign gods who have settled the troubles of the world. I could see that they had decided that I should marry Timothy Ransome and live happily ever after. Why is it that other people’s problems are so easy to solve? It is only one’s own which are fraught with difficulty.

They talked of little but politics. It would not have been a dinner party at that house without that. My mother wanted to know how Ben was getting on and I noticed the pride with which Uncle Peter told her that he had a fair chance of beating his opponent.

“It is rather amusing,” said my mother. “You and Matthew on one side and Ben on the other.”

“It adds spice to the contest,” agreed Uncle Peter.

“Grace is being so useful,” said Aunt Amaryllis.

“She is a clever woman,” replied my mother. “I always thought that … from the day she came to us. Do you remember that day, Angelet?”

I said I did.

“And I gather she is looking after Lizzie … which is good of her. Poor Lizzie!”

“She ought to have married someone not quite so demanding,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Well, at least she has Grace.”

“What about this poor child you rescued? Isn’t it dreadful about her mother and stepfather? What will happen do you think?”

“He will get his deserts,” replied Uncle Peter. “It’s a plain case of murder. It’s good publicity for the Mission, though, because the young girl was there when it happened. She might have shared her mother’s fate if she had been in her home.”

“How is she taking it, poor child?” said my mother.

“We haven’t told her yet,” explained Timothy. “She’s settling in quite happily. I don’t know what will happen when she does. She was devoted to her mother.”

“Poor, poor girl,” said my mother.

“We didn’t want her to think that her mother died because she, Fanny, left home.”

“She didn’t, did she?”

“Well, the stepfather didn’t want Fanny to go. He wanted the few pence she earned as a salesgirl to buy himself gin. Coming home drunk and finding Fanny gone he apparently attacked his wife and killed her.”

“We can’t be sure it was quite like that,” I said.

“In any case,” went on Timothy, “it would have happened sooner or later. He had ill-treated the poor woman often enough before. Fanny is liking the country.” He turned to me and smiled. “She looks quite different. The children like her. They think she is quaint. She was with their governess when I left them to come to town. I think she is a little put out because Fiona, who is so much younger than she is, can read and write. Fanny herself would like to do that.”

“So you will have her taught?” asked my mother.

“If she wants to. I am not quite sure what we should do for her. My sister Janet would train her as a parlormaid or something. I want to do the best for Fanny. She is unusually bright and intelligent. I was hoping to ask your advice.” He looked at me. “You understand her … you always did. I wish you would come down to Hampton and see her there.” He glanced at my mother. “Perhaps you would come with Angelet, Mrs. Hanson. My sister Janet would enjoy that.”

“I don’t see why not,” answered my mother. “I think it is an excellent idea.”

“It is not very far out of London.”

“We should enjoy it so much, shouldn’t we, Angelet?” said my mother.

I smiled and said we should.

Everyone was satisfied. The evening was going according to plan.

And so my mother, Rebecca and I went to Hampton, Timothy escorting us there. Rebecca was very excited. She already knew Timothy well and in her usual affectionate manner accepted him as a friend. She was elated at the prospect of visiting him, but a little sad because Pedrek was not one of the party.

Riverside Manor was a beautiful old Tudor house and, as its name implied, close to the river. It was the black and white type of building so typical of the period, with black beams and whitewashed plaster panels in between. The upper floors projected over the ground floor and in front of the house was a garden now full of chrysanthemums and dahlias. It must have been very colorful in the spring.

We stepped right into a typical Tudor hall with high vaulted ceiling, thick oak beams and paneled walls, where Janet Ransome was waiting to receive us. She was a tall woman with a spare figure and a certain severity of countenance. Crisp, neat and rather taciturn, I thought; but I was to discover that this exterior hid a kind and sentimental heart.

She looked at me keenly and I think very soon decided to like me; and I was very pleased that she did.

My mother was effusively complimentary about the house, said that houses fascinated her and that our own had been in the family for generations.

While we were introducing ourselves, there was a patter of feet overhead and the children came down—Fanny hovering in the background.

“Fanny,” I cried.

She came hurriedly to me and then stopped. “ ’Ello,” she said. “So you’ve come.”

“Fanny likes Hampton, don’t you, Fanny?” said Timothy.

“It’s all right,” said Fanny grudgingly.

“Oh, and this is Fiona.”

The bright-eyed little girl gave me a smile of welcome.

“And here’s Alec.”

Alec, a rather tall and gangling youth, shook hands rather awkwardly; and I felt I was going to like Timothy’s family. This was quickly confirmed.

Fiona immediately decided that it was her place to look after Rebecca. This greatly pleased her father, and Janet Ransome looked on approvingly.

Janet and Timothy showed us the house from top to bottom: the buttery, the laundry house, the great kitchens with their stone floors, big ovens and roasting spits.

“We don’t use these much now,” said Janet. “Thank goodness we don’t eat the gigantic meals our forefathers did.”

We went on our tour of inspection; the hall, the dining room with the delightful linen fold paneling, the long gallery with the portraits of the family, the tapestries on the dining room walls and the chair seats of needlepoint in rich shades of blue worked by some ancestress who had lived more than a hundred years before. There was the crown post room, the attics, and all the bedrooms, many with their four-poster beds which had been in the family for generations.

From the windows were views of the river and the gardens running down to it. There were a few stone steps leading to the water which they called the privy stairs: there were two boats, attached to posts there, in which one could row oneself up and down the river.

From the topmost rooms one could see Hampton Court, the famous palace which had once been Wolsey’s before he was compelled to make a present of it to his king.

It was a delightful place.

“I wonder you can bear to leave it,” I said to Timothy.

He looked a little sad. I supposed the place was full of memories. This was where he had lived with his wife. From these stables she had gone out one morning and had been carried back to this house on a stretcher—gone forever.

There was a portrait of her in the gallery—a pretty woman with a pleasant smile. I had guessed who she was before I was told.

My mother was delighted with our visit. She thought the place enchanting and the family delightful. I could see that she had decided that I could do far worse than settle down here.

In a few days I was feeling that I knew the house and its inhabitants very well indeed. Rebecca had settled in and her new playmates compensated for the loss of Pedrek. She was delighted with Fiona but I think she was especially fascinated by Fanny.

Fanny was obviously pleased by Rebecca’s preference; and when I saw Fanny with my daughter I believed she looked happier than I had ever seen her before.

“I like it here,” said Rebecca. “Are we going to live here?”

Her words startled me. I knew my family thought that marriage with Timothy would be the best possible solution for me, and now that I had met Timothy’s sister, I was sure that she too was not averse to the idea. Her home was in this house and she had been mistress of it, but I could see that kind of authority did not mean a great deal to her. She was absolutely devoted to Timothy and she firmly believed that he needed to marry again to enable him to recover from that devastating blow which the death of his wife had obviously dealt him.

I had not realized until I came to the house how deeply he had suffered and still was suffering, I believed. In my heart I guessed that no one could ever take the place of his first love, the mother of his children. But it would not surprise me if he asked me to marry him.

We went riding together. It was the only way to be by ourselves without interruption from some member of the family. I was not exactly taken aback when he pulled up his horse and suggested that we walk a little. He took my arm and we went down to the brink of the river.

It was November, but warm for the time of the year, and the bluish mist gave an air of mystery to the river and the big houses on the other side.

He said: “I expect you know what I am going to say, Angelet? It has been in my mind some time. Will you marry me?”

I hesitated.

He went on: “I love you, you know. I felt drawn to you from the moment we met and when you went chasing Fanny I was in such a state of panic and I saw how lonely I should be if I lost you.”

“Marriage is too serious a step to rush into,” I said.

“I agree. I have thought a lot about this. Have you?”

“I haven’t thought of marriage. I am not sure that I want to … yet.”

“Of course, we have not known each other very long, but we have been through some adventures together. When I saw how you cared about Fanny …”

“You cared very much, too. You have brought her here.”

“Yes, I do care about her. I think we could have a good life together.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“I can see no reason why not. We know each other well. I admire you so much. The children are already fond of you. So is Janet. Rebecca has settled in. Your mother feels friendly towards me. It seems to me that it would be ideal.”

“Yes, it would be ideal from their point of view. But there is more to it than that, Tim. I think you are still in love with your wife.”

“She has been dead a long time.”

“She is the one … she will always be the one.”

“I can care for you, too. And you? You remember your husband. He must have been a wonderful character … just as my wife was. We were both lucky in our marriages … until we lost them, and both violently. That in itself draws us together. We can’t go on mourning all our lives, Angelet.”

“No,” I said. “But I am not sure yet, Tim.”

“That means you want more time to think.”

“Perhaps I do. You haven’t forgotten her … and I …”

“You mean we both really love someone else more …”

I nodded.

“It is hard to live up to the hero Gervaise was.”

I did not answer. When I had agreed that we each loved someone more I was not thinking of Gervaise, but of Ben which was absurd. I had an obsession with the man. He was continually cropping up in my thoughts. I was a fool to go on thinking of him. I should take this offer. It was second best for both of us. Surely it was a unique situation. I could wean him from his regrets for the loss of his wife; he would show me that there was no hope of a happy future for me while I thought of Ben.

It was sensible. It was reasonable. I contemplated the life we should have together in this gracious house. We could make a happy future for Fanny and the children. He would be a good and kind father for Rebecca. Our families approved. We would continue with our work at the Mission. I was a fool to turn away from it.

But I had not turned away. I knew that I would be foolish to. I saw so clearly that Timothy and I could make a good life together. But I wanted time to think … time to come face to face with myself and this obsession with Ben. How could I be so foolish? There was a man who had married for the sake of gold, who was ruthless, determined to succeed. How could such a man be capable of the love and devotion I could expect from Timothy? Besides, Ben was married.

I knew them both well enough to know that I could find a quiet and peaceful happiness with Timothy and nothing but storm and stress from Ben. Ben’s passion would be fierce. I did believe that he loved me, but he loved gold … and power more. Timothy loved me, too, but he loved his first wife more. In time, Timothy and I could grow close together; I was sure of that; we could lay the ghosts of the past to rest … perhaps. But can one ever compete with the dead?

I was in a quandary.

I fell back on the excuse. “I need time to think.”

He understood perfectly. He always would.

“We’ll wait,” he said. “Let things ride for a while and then I think you will come to see, Angelet, that we have much to offer each other.”

We rode thoughtfully home.

I sensed my mother’s disappointment because she had been expecting an announcement.

The very next day I said to Timothy: “I think we should speak to Fanny. There was something in the papers about the murder. Her stepfather is going on trial. The result is a foregone conclusion. I know she can’t read, but someone might say something to her.”

So we decided to tell her … together.

My mother and Janet knew what we intended and promised to make sure that we were not interrupted.

“We want to speak to you, Fanny,” I said seriously.

She looked from one of us to the other and I saw panic in her eyes. “You’re going to send me away,” she said.

“We’ll never do that,” said Timothy. “This is your home for as long as you want it to be.”

“Then what is it?” she asked.

“Your mother,” I told her. “She’s … dead.”

She stared at us. “When?” she said. “ ’E done it. It was ’im, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I told her.

Her face was contorted with grief. I went to her and put my arms round her.

“I’ll kill ’im,” she cried. “I will, I’ll kill ’im.”

“There will be no need for that, Fanny. The law will do it.”

She smiled. “Then they’ve got ’im.”

“They’ve got him,” I repeated.

“I wasn’t there,” she murmured. “If I had of been …”

I held her head against me. “No, Fanny. It was as well you weren’t there. She should have come to us.”

“She would stay with ’im.”

“It was what she wanted.”

“She shouldn’t ’ave.”

“People have to make their own choices in life. She knew this could happen and she stayed with him.”

Timothy had moved closer to us. He put his arms round us both.

“It’ll be all right, Fanny,” he said. “You’ll be here. Ours … completely now.”

“You won’t want me.”

“Oh yes we shall.”

“You got yer own … both of you.”

“We can always do with more,” I told her. “We’re greedy, Fanny, and we want you.”

“Do you reely?”

“We do indeed,” said Timothy fervently. “We want you to stay with us … we want that very much.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because we love you,” I said.

“Garn,” she said. “Nobody never said that to me before.”

“We’re saying it now.”

Then suddenly she was crying—the first tears I had ever seen her shed. She clung to me … and then she reached out and included Timothy in the embrace.

At length she withdrew herself and dabbed angrily at her face. “Look at me. You’ll think I’m daft.”

“We think you are a very nice girl,” said Timothy.

Then I could see the tears coming again.

“It’s all right, Fanny,” I said. “We all cry sometimes, you know. They say it’s good for you.”

She just lay against me while the tears rolled down her cheeks. I wiped them gently away.

“I love her,” she said. “She was good to me. She was me mum.”

“I know.”

“I ’ate ’im. I always ’ated ’im. Why did she ’ave to? My dad was all right, he was.”

“Life is like that sometimes,” I said. “We have to take it and make what we can of it.”

“I like it ’ere,” she said. “I never thought you’d keep me. You’re funny, you two. I ought to be scrubbing floors or something. I wouldn’t mind. But I like being with the little ’uns. I like that Rebecca. She going to live here?”

Timothy pressed my hand.

“No, we live in London,” I said. “We’re just visiting.”

“But you will live here, won’t you? The two of you …”

She was almost pleading.

“You together … both of you. You’re all right. I like you … better even than Mrs. Frances. She’s some sort of angel, ain’t she … but you two … well you’re just … people. That’s what I like, see? I want to be with you both … and the children … and that little Rebecca.”

“It may well turn out that way,” said Timothy, looking at me.

She said slowly: “I’ll never see me Mum again. I can’t believe it.”

“It is terribly sad,” I said. “If only she had come away …”

“Will they hang him?” she asked.

“It seems likely.”

“I’m glad of that,” she said vehemently. “It makes me feel a lot better. He won’t be able to ’urt nobody no more.”

Then suddenly she turned to us and hugged us, first me and then Timothy.

He said: “We’ll work it out, Fanny. Don’t worry. I think we are all going to be very happy together.”

He took her hand and then mine; he held them in his own.

I felt then that, in time, I should be here with them both.