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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Manchester, 1908. Attractive, intelligent Mary Maitland is furious to learn that her pompous boss will never promote her, simply because she is a woman. Despite financial support from her family, Mary is determined to strike out on her own and earn a living. She finds work at a women's employment agency, where her talent for writing is noticed and she begins publishing articles for newspapers and magazines. But in the face of strong opinions from her well-to-do family on the role of a woman, is it possible to be a dutiful daughter at the same time as spreading her wings?
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Seitenzahl: 558
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The Poor Relation
SUSANNA BAVIN
To the memory of Freddie Shires
(née Winifred Joan Dorothy Bourke, 1924–2012)
In her first job, in the 1930s, Freddie was so adept at training new recruits to the office that her boss didn’t want to promote her … which is how Mary’s story starts in this book
And to Christina Banach, with love and admiration
Family Tree
Contents
Chapter One
Town Hall, Manchester, May 1908
Annoyance rushed through Mary, followed by a twist of surprise. It wasn’t like her to flare up, even if it was only on the inside. As Mr Treadgold left the office, she smoothed her skirt and touched the pen and pencils in the groove on her desk, as if they needed lining up. Bright sunshine poured through the windows. Earlier, this had felt like a promise of good things to come, but now golden darts lay strewn in a jagged pattern across the floor. Earlier, she had run her fingers over her desk, picturing the sit-up-and-beg desks in Accounts, imagining herself perched at one of those, writing in a ledger, imagining what she hoped would be her future.
More fool her.
Her hands clenched. She hadn’t felt this way the first time, nor the second, but this was the sixth time – the sixth! – in five years, and dismay and disappointment had long since evaporated. Heaven help her, that first time she had questioned whether it was her own fault for trying too soon. She had even worried that Mr Treadgold might think her uppity. Huh!
‘I say, Miss Maitland,’ said Spotty Ronnie, the proud beam dropping from his face. ‘Are you all right?’
No, she jolly well wasn’t. Her skin felt tight. Rising, she shook hands. Spotty Ronnie’s paw was moist; she held her smile in place. Mustn’t look like a bad sport.
The beam reappeared. ‘I thought for a moment you were about to be a sore loser, but then I thought, no, not our Miss Maitland. Far too sensible.’
Sensible. Oh yes, she was that, all right. Not one to make a fuss. A good girl. Hadn’t she always been a good girl?
‘You’re a good girl,’ Dadda had said after Mam died, when Mary was ten. ‘It’s your job to take care of baby Emma now.’
And ‘You’re a good girl,’ he said, when he married again and she didn’t kick up a fuss, unlike Granny, who had created an almighty stink.
Well, for once in her life Mary Margaret Maitland was going to kick up a fuss. Not in front of Spotty Ronnie, though.
‘Congratulations, Mr Dearden.’
‘Ta very much. The best man won, and all that.’
The best man? The only man. Not even that. A boy, a youth. Was she supposed not to mind losing out to a young shaver?
The town hall clock struck midday. How proud the sound had made her when she first worked here. The chimes had rung out to reinforce her position, first as office junior, then as a lady-clerk. She was twenty-three now and the chimes had marked ten years of her life.
The door opened to reveal the grinning face of one of Ronnie’s cronies. Ronnie snatched his bowler and scarpered. Whoops of delight floated back to her. The thought of Spotty Ronnie sharing his triumph brought heat to her face.
The moment had come.
She could get carpeted. Mr Treadgold might puff his way up to the fourth floor and complain to Dadda, and then she would get carpeted at home too. But if she didn’t speak out, she would wish she had. It was a question of self-respect.
She marched to Mr Treadgold’s office, her shoes tap-tapping along the tiled corridor. The door stood open, just as Mr Treadgold liked it. He sat bent over his work, thinning hair glistening with oil. He finished writing and applied blotting paper.
Making sure her toes hadn’t committed the cardinal sin of crossing the threshold uninvited, she knocked.
‘Please may I have a word?’
‘Can’t it wait?’
Normally she would have withdrawn at that point. ‘It’s important.’
‘Very well.’ Mr Treadgold waved her into the chair opposite his own. He added the blotted sheet to a pile of papers, touching the sides to bring everything into alignment. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Maitland?’
Folding her hands in her lap, she composed her features into a pleasant, if serious, expression. Kicking up a fuss was no reason not to be professional.
‘I’d like to know why I didn’t get the promotion.’
Mr Treadgold blinked slowly, as if, by the time he opened his eyes, she would have withdrawn the question.
‘I’ve always understood you found my work satisfactory.’
‘More than, more than.’
‘Then why haven’t I achieved promotion? I’ve applied … several times,’ she fudged, ashamed to put a number to it.
‘And jolly good applications they were, too.’
She was in no mood to be fobbed off with a compliment. ‘Then why wasn’t I successful? Was I considered less competent than other applicants?’
‘Gracious me, no. Quite the contrary. You’re an excellent member of staff.’
‘But those lads who were given the posts …’
Lads. Yes, lads, a mere sixteen or seventeen years of age.
‘You trained them perfectly. When young Mr Dearden takes up his position in Parks and Cemeteries, I’ll receive a flood of compliments on the quality of his work. I know, because it’s what happened when Mr Chatham went to Schools and Mr Dent went to Transport, and it happened with the others as well. You’re a marvel, Miss Maitland. You have our working practices down to a tee.’
Her fingers tightened. ‘But if I trained them effectively, surely that means I also am suitable for advancement.’
Mr Treadgold smiled complacently; his cheeks bunched under his eyes. ‘My dear Miss Maitland, you could run the Lord Mayor’s office with one hand tied behind your back.’ He chuckled. ‘But I could never part with you, as my colleagues are well aware.’
‘You told them not to select me?’
‘It’s a great compliment, Miss Maitland. You’re too valuable here.’
‘Training up the youngsters.’
‘Precisely. Such a weight off my shoulders.’
‘So they then get promoted.’
‘Of course. Young men have to get on.’
‘And young women don’t?’
‘Not in the same way.’ His tone dripped with kindness. Good grief, was he comforting her? ‘A young man must one day support a wife and family, whereas a young lady who works is simply saving towards being married.’
‘Suppose she doesn’t get married?’
‘There, there, my dear, you’ll meet somebody.’
Humiliation chilled her. It was bad enough having Granny waving Aunt Miriam’s single state under her nose, but to be pitied by Mr Treadgold was intolerable.
‘I wasn’t referring to myself. I was speaking in general terms. But I am talking about myself when I say it’s unfair to keep me here while offering promotion to those spotty herberts simply because they’re male.’
‘Miss Maitland!’
She was into her stride now. ‘Am I to understand I’ll never be considered for advancement?’
‘That’s an impertinent question.’
‘Because if it is the case, and if I’m valuable because I teach others the ropes, shouldn’t I be paid more than they are in recognition of my expertise?’
‘Miss Maitland, you forget yourself.’
‘It seems a reasonable request.’
‘Reasonable? To demand two wage rises in one go?’
Cold enveloped her. ‘Two?’
‘One to bring you up to the young men’s salary, another to take you higher still.’
She stared. ‘You mean – I earn less than they do? Less than Ronnie Dearden? Even though I’m over twenty-one, not to mention considerably more experienced?’
‘The two of you do the same job, so of course he earns more. That’s only right and natural.’
She hardly knew which objection to express first.
‘Why was I interviewed for those other posts, if it was known you wanted to keep me here?’
‘You’re excellent in interviews and it’s good for the young men to have competition. We can’t have them thinking it’s being handed to them on a plate, can we? I suggest you return to your desk. I’m surprised and disappointed by your remarks, which suggest an unexpected tendency to the hysterical, and not at all what I expect from such a good little worker. The process of application and interview has evidently taken its toll, so you’d do better not to put yourself forward again.’ He awarded her another complacent smile. ‘After all, you’re well suited where you are.’
‘She says not, but she’s taken it pretty badly.’
Spotty Ronnie’s words carried through the half-open door. In the corridor, Mary froze, clutching the box of papers to her chest.
‘Poor old love, she’s been sighing her heart out all afternoon.’
Poor old love? Her heart beat an indignant tattoo. She felt like walloping young Mr Dearden round the ear. And she hadn’t been sighing – had she? Ah. Not sighs, but huffs of outrage. If only she could write her resignation and slap it on Mr Treadgold’s desk, right under his patronising nose. But Dadda worked upstairs, and the thought that Mr Treadgold would fetch him to drum sense into her was too humiliating for words.
Balancing the box of papers with one arm, she thrust open the door and marched in. She wanted to stick her nose in the air and not so much as glance at Spotty Ronnie and whoever he was blabbing to, but that would be tantamount to wearing a sign round her neck proclaiming, I was listening. She smiled at Ronnie and at—oh, dear heaven, not Billy Arbuckle from the post room. That young blabbermouth would scatter news of her suffering all along his route as he collected letters for the evening post, blast him.
Dumping the box on her desk, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her navy serge skirt. There it was: the precious advertisement. In her dinner hour, she had purchased the early edition of the Manchester Evening News to search the job vacancies. She had no reason to scan the column headed AGENCY WORK – FEMALE, because that was for women in service, but a boxed advertisement halfway down had caught her eye. It was headed Employment Agency for Educated Women. Underneath, it stated the opening hours and an address on Wilbraham Road, not far from where her family lived near to the recreation ground in Chorlton: an opportunity practically on her doorstep. The mere thought made her heart bump.
Today was Tuesday. If she wrote a letter this evening and posted it first thing tomorrow, the agency would receive it tomorrow afternoon, so it was reasonable to request an appointment on Thursday evening, when, according to their advertisement, they stayed open until seven. Perfect.
No, it wasn’t. Her parents would never agree. ‘You’re fine where you are,’ would be their attitude, and ‘What would the Kimbers say?’ But she couldn’t stay where she was just so as not to run the risk of being frowned upon by their grand relations.
There was nothing else for it. She would have to do this behind her parents’ backs. They would be disappointed and upset, but this was something she had to do.
As six o’clock approached, she tidied up and changed into her outdoor shoes before sitting at her desk to wait for Mr Treadgold to walk through the row of offices over which he held sway. He appeared, bowler-hatted and carrying a rolled umbrella, bade them good evening in the manner of one conferring a blessing, touched his hat to her and went on his lordly way.
Spotty Ronnie made a dive for the hatstand, but it didn’t matter how quick off the mark he was, he was obliged to do the gentlemanly thing by holding the door for her. Sometimes she made him wait, just to see the agony on his features, but not today. Today she could have flattened him in her eagerness.
As often happened, she met Dadda on the stairs and they walked together across Albert Square to the tram stop. He offered his arm and, as she took it, a couple of girls from Parks and Cemeteries passed them, chatting together. Her insides tightened with envy. Did they plan to meet up later? She always went straight home with Dadda. She loved and respected her parents and wanted to be a good daughter, she really did, but sometimes she felt … stifled.
Oh, that word. The first time it had flitted across her mind, guilt had thickened her throat, but now she recognised it as the simple truth. Now she dared wonder what it would be like not to be under the family thumb.
Was it possible to be a good daughter and also spread her wings?
‘I didn’t get the promotion.’
‘I know.’ Dadda didn’t sound even the least bit upset. ‘Mr Treadgold informed me yesterday.’
‘Yesterday!’ She bit her lip. Adopting a moderate tone, she asked, ‘Did he tell you in advance those other times too?’
‘Naturally. A courtesy to a colleague. He and I are both senior clerks.’
She felt a swell of vexation. ‘You might have told me.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ It was said mildly enough, but that was Dadda for you. She had never heard him raise his voice, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t master in his own house.
‘I’m sorry, Dadda. May I ask why you never told me?’
‘By applying and being interviewed, you performed a service – and it’s not as though you need advancement. It’s my job to support you.’
There it was again, that question. Was it possible to be a good daughter and also spread her wings? Her pace quickened, then immediately slowed as she felt the pull against Dadda’s arm.
Was it possible? She was about to find out.
Chapter Two
Blasted rain, drumming on the stained glass. Soon they would traipse outside and stand about in it while it dripped down their necks and the vicar droned his way through that ashes to ashes, dust to dust claptrap. Or did dust come first? And did he care? No, he ruddy well didn’t. The sooner Uncle Robert was six feet under, the better.
Greg Rawley sighed and felt sympathetic glances coming his way. They must think him succumbing to a grief-stricken moment when all he felt was profound boredom. The old boy was dead: so what? His only sorrow was that it hadn’t happened in time to save him from sinking up to his eyeballs in debt.
Debt. It was funny what you could get used to. He hadn’t been brought up to live beyond his means. He had attended a good school before being shunted into a dreary office, doomed to a life of accountancy. Fortunately for him – yes, fortunately, though it hadn’t seemed so at first – he had lost his parents before the commercial arithmetic, balance sheets and double entries could reduce his brain to soup. It had come as a dashed shock, losing them together in that train crash, but the pain was obliterated the instant he got his hands on his father’s bank books.
The old bugger had been rich. Not rolling in it, but far better heeled than his moderate lifestyle had suggested. Mother had been just as bad. She had received an annuity from some long-dead relative, and what had she done with it? Enjoyed it? And if she hadn’t wanted to spoil herself, had she treated her son? Not a bit of it. She had saved half and given away the rest – not to her son, mark you, not to her own flesh and blood – but part of it in charitable donations and the rest as a pension to the old biddy who had been her nursemaid donkey’s years ago. And she had had the nerve to leave Greg a letter of wishes that was presented to him along with Father’s will, in which she hoped he would continue assisting the old wretch. Not that there would be any annuity to help him do so, because that had died with her, but even if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have dreamt of wasting any of it on a crone who should have made a better job of saving for her dotage.
As for the Poor Law brats, the wage-earning children and juvenile drinkers, let them sponge off someone else; and if they couldn’t find a crackpot with masses of cash, let them go to the workhouse – or the colonies – or to the devil. Who gave a bugger? Not Greg Rawley.
He had more pressing matters to attend to, like discarding the tortoiseshell cigarette case that had been his parents’ last birthday gift to him, in favour of one in solid silver. Then there was the open-face watch they had palmed him off with when he came of age, when they knew that what he wanted was a hunter with his initials engraved on the cover.
After that, it had simply been a matter of consigning his battered old canvas-covered trunk to the bonfire and indulging in a smart set of portmanteaux covered with solid leather before he embarked on his travels, like one of the nobs setting off on a Grand Tour. Entitled. That was how he had felt. Entitled. And a bloody good feeling it was, too.
It was time to follow the coffin outside and, yes, it was still pissing down. He glanced at Aunt Helen, looking like an old crow in her black. Correction: an old-fashioned crow. Puffy sleeves like that hadn’t seen the light of day since the last century. Whatever old Robert had done with his cash, it obviously hadn’t involved a magnificent dress allowance for Helen. Mean old basket.
Still, all the more for him. By Christ, he was going to enjoy this money. He could get his creditors off his back and still be quids in. That old house must be worth a pretty penny. He might flog it to some nouveau riche upstart – yes, and savour Helen’s shock. It was high time he paid her back. The old bitch had scuppered his chances with the only girl he had ever loved.
Uncle Robert would have left her something, but there was no danger of its being substantial. He hadn’t believed in putting money into women’s hands.
‘I inherited Helen,’ he had been fond of saying. ‘My father wrote it into his will that I was to be responsible for her welfare, should she remain unmarried. Of course, she’s made herself useful, keeping house for me, and she doesn’t eat much, so it’s worked out well, one way and another.’
Presumably Aunt Helen would get a cottage and a modest sum, which would revert to the estate once she popped her clogs. Old Robert would want to pass on his estate intact to the nearest male heir. Greg allowed a smile to flicker across his face. Not long now. A few minutes in the rain, then sherry and ham, accompanied by the usual tommyrot about what a fine fellow the deceased was, after which the solicitor would do his bit – and it would all belong to him.
Nathaniel glanced around the Rawley morning room. He hadn’t been in here before; the late Judge Rawley had preferred to talk business in his study. The room felt stuffy this afternoon with all these people, dampness clinging to their clothes. The old codgers: that had been Judge Rawley’s name for his former colleagues. Their wives were with them, one or two with plummy voices and an air of grandeur, others with prettily crumbling skin and a soft tremor about the hands.
His eye fell on a startlingly pretty girl across the room. Eighteen or nineteen years old, slender and fair, how fragile she looked in her black.
‘Lovely, isn’t she?’
He turned to find the judge’s sister, Helen Rawley.
‘Eleanor Kimber,’ said Miss Rawley.
‘One of the Kimbers?’
‘The very same. That’s Sir Edward over there – eyebrows like caterpillars – and the lady with her back to us is Lady Kimber. She’s the one Eleanor got her looks from, but don’t waste your time waiting for her to turn round. She’s pretty hard-faced these days.’
‘You don’t sound keen on her.’
Miss Rawley lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Starch crackled. Her gown was an extraordinary creation covered in ruffles and rosettes. ‘Actually, I think you’ll find it’s the other way round. She isn’t keen on me.’
The old girl seemed determined to be outspoken. He answered like with like. ‘Why?’
‘Something that happened a long time ago – and, for the record, she was the one at fault, though you’d never think it after the way she’s cold-shouldered me all these years.’
‘But she’s come today, though perhaps she’s here as Sir Edward’s wife, and he’s here for the legal connection. That is, I imagine he’s a magistrate?’
‘There’s a family connection too.’
‘The Rawleys are related to the Kimbers?’ asked Nathaniel.
‘Not to the Kimber family, but to Lady Kimber.’
‘She was a Rawley before she married Sir Edward?’
‘To be accurate,’ said Miss Rawley, ‘she was the widow of Henry Davenport before she married Sir Edward, but before that she was a Rawley. Henry Davenport was Eleanor’s father, but he died when she was a baby. I think of Lady Kimber as a niece, or I used to when she was still speaking to me. She’s my cousin’s daughter.’
‘So she’s … what? Your second cousin? First cousin once-removed?’
‘Distant cousin with bells on. It’s difficult to think of someone from a younger generation as a cousin. Not natural.’
He had had enough of her carping. ‘It’s a decent turnout. It’s good to know Judge Rawley was held in high regard after his retirement.’
Miss Rawley snorted. ‘I wish they’d clear off, the lot of them. Just listen to them, full of what a sterling chap he was.’
‘They’re trying to comfort you.’
‘They’ve made me hopping mad.’ Miss Rawley’s faded eyes were suddenly overbright. ‘My brother didn’t drop down dead, you know – of course you know. I had my doubts when Doctor Slater broke his leg and we had to have you instead, but my brother couldn’t possibly have had better care. Mind you, after what he did to help you with that clinic of yours, it was the least you owed him.’
Charming. Nathaniel didn’t know Miss Rawley well, couldn’t say he wanted to, but he had heard her do this before, pay a compliment, then in the next breath knock your feet from under you. Did she really not know that his regard for the judge had been genuine?
‘He was known for weeks to be on his way out,’ said Miss Rawley. ‘But these people singing his praises today, did they say to him, “Look here, old chap, you’ve been a good friend to me”, or “I admired your handling of the So-and-So case”, or some such? No, they didn’t. But they’re queuing up to say it to me and I feel like slapping the lot of them.’ Her voice cracked and dropped to a fierce whisper. ‘It would have given him such a boost. Such a boost.’
It was the first sign of vulnerability he had seen in her. Even during her brother’s final days, she had never shirked her duty, assisting the nurse in everything from changing the sheets to emptying the bedpan, staying up around the clock, asking probing questions and not once flinching at his replies.
‘Don’t look now, but here comes Greg – my nephew. He’s the last person I want to speak to. Have you noticed how he’s been eyeing up the place?’
Sympathy vanished. ‘Sounds as though you don’t particularly care for him.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
First Lady Kimber, now Greg Rawley. How many others had Miss Rawley fallen out with – without, of course, it ever being her fault?
‘Excuse me if I slide away,’ she murmured.
Nathaniel glanced at the nephew. Maybe ten years older than himself, early forties: handsome face and good build, but carrying a few extra pounds that suggested easy living. He exuded an air of confidence and cultivation, but Nathaniel sensed something else too, something shrewd. Exquisitely turned-out, from the discreet gleam of gold collar studs down to the patent-leather toecaps – and as for the suit, well, Rawley was carrying a lot of money on his back.
‘Mr Rawley.’ An older gentleman approached. ‘You too, Doctor Brewer. I’m Harold Porter, solicitor to the deceased. It’s time for the reading of the will.’
‘You can’t need me, surely?’ said Nathaniel.
‘You’re Doctor Nathaniel Brewer, are you not? Then if you’d be so good …’
Perhaps Judge Rawley had made a bequest to the clinic. In his heart, Nathaniel gave thanks. He looked round for Alistair. ‘Should I fetch Doctor Cottrell?’
‘Ah yes, your partner at the clinic. No need, sir. It’s just your presence that is required.’
Mr Porter led them into Robert Rawley’s book-lined study. His rack of pipes still stood on the oak desk, but the air was empty of the sharp-sweet scent of tobacco. Three chairs, evidently from the dining room, stood before the desk. The household’s two middle-aged servants were already present. They bobbed curtsies.
‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Mr Porter, ‘I’ll fetch Miss Rawley.’
Nathaniel approached the staff. He knew the thin one by sight because she had always answered the door to him. He felt sorry for her, a woman her age being required to wear that silly frilled cap with the ribbons tied under her chin.
‘I know you’ve both worked here a long time. I’m sorry for your loss. I imagine Judge Rawley was a good master.’
The women gasped. He turned to see Greg Rawley had seated himself behind the desk.
‘Get out of that chair!’
Helen Rawley stood frozen in the doorway, an age-spotted hand splayed across her chest.
‘I think you’ll find it’s my chair, now, at my desk, in my study,’ Rawley said, coolly.
‘Not until the will has been read,’ his aunt retorted, but Nathaniel caught the tremor in her voice. He wished himself anywhere but here. Other people’s family squabbles weren’t for him.
‘It’s customary on these occasions,’ said Mr Porter, ‘for the solicitor to sit behind the desk.’
With a shrug, Rawley got up. He rested his hand on the first of the three dining chairs. Nathaniel stood aside for Miss Rawley, expecting her to take the middle seat, but she rustled to the other end. Nathaniel hesitated. To sit in the centre felt presumptuous, but he had no choice.
Mr Porter opened a document, which crackled as he unfolded it. ‘I have here the last will and testament of Robert Augustus Rawley. I’ll begin by summarising its contents to ensure we all know where we stand. Firstly, there are bequests to Mrs Elizabeth Burley and Miss Edith Ames in recognition of their years of service.’ He nodded dismissal at the women. ‘I’ll speak to you afterwards in the kitchen.’
With murmured thanks, they departed.
‘Everything else, including all moneys and the property known as Jackson’s House, goes to Judge Rawley’s nephew, Gregory Arthur Rawley, with the judge’s sister, Helen Amelia Rawley, retaining a life interest.’
‘Retaining a – what did you say?’ Greg Rawley demanded.
‘A life interest. That is to say, while everything belongs to you, Mr Rawley, you cannot dispose of it, because your aunt is entitled to live in Jackson’s House and have the use of the interest on all savings and investments, with which to run the household and supply her personal needs, though she may not touch the capital itself. Neither may you touch the capital, Mr Rawley.’
‘That’s preposterous!’
‘These are your uncle’s wishes. Judge Rawley’s father committed Miss Rawley to his care and he was the sort to take his responsibilities seriously. It was your uncle’s hope, Mr Rawley, that you would settle at Jackson’s House. He was aware of the … ahem … coolness between yourself and your aunt and while he was ignorant as to its cause, he was prepared to put it down to Miss Rawley’s sharpness—’
‘Hang on,’ Nathaniel interrupted. ‘You shouldn’t make personal remarks in front of me.’
‘I merely seek to explain Judge Rawley’s wishes. He wrote letters to the three of you, making this very point, among others, so I’m not speaking out of turn.’
‘Letters?’ Miss Rawley repeated. ‘Holding me to blame?’
Nathaniel would have given her a sympathetic glance if he hadn’t been so confoundedly uncomfortable.
‘Shall we move on?’ Mr Porter suggested.
‘No!’ The word exploded from Greg Rawley. ‘I want to discuss this life interest twaddle. D’you mean to say that everything is mine—’
‘Entirely and absolutely, Mr Rawley.’
‘—but I can’t have it yet?’
‘You may live in Jackson’s House, which is now yours, and the interest on the money will be more than sufficient to cover the household bills and keep you in comfort.’
‘But I can’t touch the capital.’
‘Precisely so.’
‘Can I sell the house?’
‘Gracious me, no. It’s your aunt’s home for her lifetime.’
‘What if she went elsewhere?’
‘Come now, Mr Rawley, surely you aren’t suggesting …?’
‘Answer the question, man.’
‘Were Miss Rawley to move out,’ Mr Porter replied, ‘the terms of the will would still apply. After all, she might at any point choose to return.’
‘So the house and the money are mine—’
‘Entirely and absolutely.’
‘—but I can’t have them until—’
‘Quite so,’ Mr Porter cut in.
‘I’ll contest the will,’ Rawley declared.
‘Such an action would merely leave you out of pocket.’
Rawley surged to his feet, slamming his hands on the desk and leaning towards the solicitor as if about to blast him to hell and back. Instead, he flung himself away, marched out and slammed the door, sending a vibration humming through the room.
Mr Porter sighed but didn’t appear perturbed. Were family brawls all in a day’s work?
‘Fear not, Miss Rawley. The will is watertight. About the letters …’
‘Oh yes,’ she exclaimed, ‘the letters where my brother publicly blames me. It’s insufferable. Good day.’
She bounced to her feet. Nathaniel hurried to open the door. She stalked out, head held high, but he caught the soft sound of a sniff. Oh hell.
‘With the family members gone, there’s no point in my remaining. I don’t know why I was here in the first place.’
‘You’re here because you’re named in the will, Doctor. Take a seat – please.’
Reluctantly, he complied. ‘A bequest to the clinic, I imagine.’
‘Judge Rawley mentioned your crusade to bring affordable medical provision to the slums of Moss Side.’
‘He was good enough to lend his weight to the scheme – and if he was generous enough to leave a bequest, frankly, sir, I’d rather have been informed at the outset and despatched along with the servants, so as to avoid the family row.’
Mr Porter gave him a heavily patient look. ‘There is no bequest. Judge Rawley chose you to oversee fair play, as it were, in the family situation he left behind. I’ll take care of any legal complications that arise, though none should. Your role is that of impartial friend to the parties.’
‘I have no intention of playing umpire between the Rawleys.’ Good God – between those two? ‘Couldn’t you do it?’
‘Judge Rawley chose you.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah indeed, Doctor. You could, of course, refuse to act, but that would be unwise. You wouldn’t wish to be known as the man who spurned the duty entrusted to him.’
‘I’ll consider it,’ Nathaniel said, stiffly, but he knew his arm had been well and truly twisted.
Chapter Three
The only thing that could go wrong would be if Dadda took the aisle seat on the tram, trapping her beside the window. As they boarded, Mary headed for the front, then turned and indicated an empty seat she had passed. With other passengers behind him, Dadda had to swing in before her. Good.
As they arrived in Chorlton, she waited until the last moment.
‘There’s something I need to do. Will you ask Mother to keep my tea warm?’
Jumping off before he could ask questions, she hurried along, searching for door numbers, though the shops didn’t appear to have them. At last she found it, over the road from the Lloyds Hotel: a door in between the grocer’s and the tobacconist’s. On the door frame, a small card said EMPLOYMENT AGENCY FOR EDUCATED WOMEN.
The door swung open. She jumped back as a girl appeared, wearing a long cardigan over a crisp blouse with a violet necktie knotted beneath a stiff collar. She had strawberry-blonde hair, on top of which was a colossal hat lavishly trimmed with silk forget-me-nots. As she stopped short, another girl cannoned into her from behind.
‘Oh, I say! Were you on your way up to see us?’ the first one asked in a plummy voice. Beneath the strawberry-blonde hair, her complexion was creamy, with freckles dotted roguishly across her nose.
‘I thought you were open till seven.’
‘We are, but there’s not been so much as a dicky-bird all afternoon, so we thought we’d sneak off early. Come on, Kennett, back we go.’
Beyond the flowery cartwheel of a hat, Mary glimpsed brown feathers sticking up on a brimless hat. Kennett: what sort of name was that? And what about the appointment she had requested for today?
She followed them up a narrow flight of stairs to a square of landing, with a door on the right. She entered a huge room. Pleasure rushed through her and she was about to admire the spacious office when she realised the front half of the room was set up as a sitting room of sorts. There was no time to feel surprised: she was too busy trying to catch her heart before it could plummet into her shoes as she took in the state of the office area. The desks were untidy, the waste-paper basket overflowed and on top of the filing cabinet was a pile of papers that should undoubtedly be inside it.
Disappointment clenched in her stomach. She turned away, focusing on the sitting area, as if it was of consuming interest. Large windows overlooked the wide street. Three battered sofas and an assortment of chairs made a rough square around a low table, which housed a stack of books and piles of pamphlets. Against one wall was a sideboard, the top of which did duty as a bookshelf. Why would they have an area like this in their office?
‘Welcome to our domain,’ said Kennett, removing a pearl-tipped hatpin. ‘Take a pew. I’m Josephine Kennett and this is Angela Lever.’
Dark-haired Miss Kennett sat at one of the desks, so Mary took the chair in front, only to realise that Miss Lever was seated behind her at the other desk. Feeling like piggy-in-the-middle, she turned the chair so she was sideways to them both, trying not to be put off by their untidy desks.
‘I wrote to you. I’m Mary Maitland.’
‘And we wrote back,’ said Miss Lever, ‘inviting you to pop along tomorrow after work. We were going to stay late specially.’
‘I haven’t received anything.’ She looked at Miss Lever.
‘Come straight from the office, have you?’ said Miss Kennett and Mary swung her head back again. ‘You’ll find the letter waiting when you get home.’
‘That’s why we felt free to slope off early tonight. Good thing you caught us.’
‘Will you help me? I didn’t go to high school, if that’s what you mean by educated. My parents didn’t put me in for the scholarship.’
Oh, the difficulties of being the poor relations! The Kimbers presumably wouldn’t have minded her attending high school, but the neighbours might have thought the Maitlands were getting above themselves. You trod a fine line when you were related to the neighbourhood’s most important family.
‘You sat a town hall entrance exam, though, didn’t you?’ said Miss Kennett. ‘Girls have to score eighty per cent to pass. The pass mark for boys is sixty-five.’
‘We really must think of a better name for ourselves,’ said Miss Lever. ‘That word “educated” must deter a lot of women. But finding jobs for educated women is what we do.’ She looked at Mary. ‘Calling ourselves “for ladies” or “for gentlewomen” would draw in hordes of the impoverished well-bred wanting to be companions – and “for women” is too general. We don’t want the factory fodder.’
‘We’re interested in girls like you,’ said Miss Kennett. ‘Good basic education, nicely spoken, neatly turned-out. Many girls automatically go in for shop work, never realising there are other possibilities.’
She felt an eager flutter. ‘Does this mean you’ll help me?’
‘How would you like to be one of the first female librarians?’ asked Miss Lever. ‘There are several posts. We haven’t been asked to put candidates forward, so you’ll have to apply direct to the corporation. I’ll write down the details. Let us know how you get on.’
Mary bit down on a smile so she couldn’t grin like an idiot. She was about to strike off in a new direction, she really was – and she would make the most of whatever opportunities came her way.
Now she had to confess at home where she had been and try to talk her parents round. Dadda wouldn’t be pleased. Neither would Lilian, not to start with, but if she could get Lilian on her side, that would go a long way towards smoothing things with Dadda.
That evening, she waited until Emma went to bed. She washed up the cocoa mugs while Lilian was upstairs, kissing Emma goodnight, then she returned to the parlour. They lived in the back room, keeping the front room for best. They even had their drop-leaf dining table in the back room.
She settled in her usual chair. The basketwork chair was hers, and Dadda and Lilian had the armchairs.
‘Dadda, Mother, I’ve got something to tell you.’
Lilian uttered a tiny gasp. Mary explained quickly before she could blurt out something hopeful about having met a young man.
‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ Dadda declared. ‘A women’s employment agency, indeed!’
‘It isn’t for women in service.’
‘Suppose it gets out that you’ve been to an agency – no one will question what kind. You realise you’re in danger of bringing the Kimber name into disrepute? And why would you do such a thing? You’re suited where you are.’
She said, in her most reasonable voice, ‘Mr Treadgold won’t let me move on.’
‘You should be flattered. He’s a splendid fellow. A female working at the town hall – that says something about you, Mary.’
‘She knows that.’ Lilian leant forward. ‘From what you’ve said of him, John, I’m sure Mr Treadgold is a fine man, but Mary would rather be guided by you. What do you think, love? Is she capable of more?’
‘No doubt she is.’
Mary watched in admiration as Lilian twinkled – there was no other word for it – at Dadda. ‘Imagine our Mary as one of the first lady-librarians. She’d be a pioneer.’
‘A pioneer! I don’t want any daughter of mine setting tongues wagging.’
‘I only meant it would be a responsibility. Not just being among the first, but working with dignity and quiet confidence. Who better than our Mary?’
‘Aye, there is that. So long as she wouldn’t lose respectability.’
He sounded gruff. Not vexed-gruff, but you’ve-talked-me-round gruff. Mary knew it was safe to laugh.
‘Oh, Dadda! Can you think of anywhere more respectable than a library?’
‘Let me see your application when you’ve written it,’ said Dadda. ‘I’ll see if it’s up to snuff.’
The words were mildly spoken, but that was how he issued his commands. As if she couldn’t produce a decent letter unaided!
Mary planted a smile on her lips before entering the room. Three gentlemen were crowded behind a desk. They rose, inadvertently nudging one another. When she sat, they resumed their places, with more nudging. Swallowing a desire to laugh, she placed her bag at her feet and folded her hands in her lap. Demureness was important. No decent girl wanted to be dismissed as unrefined.
The questions were easy at first. They asked about her background, her reading habits and her present position, all questions for which she had prepared her answers. She handed over the sealed character reference Mr Treadgold had provided and watched as they passed it round. Something in their glances made a qualm twitch to life in her tummy.
‘Mr Treadgold says he’s shocked and disappointed by your wish to leave. He says he’d placed his trust in you to remain in his department. We don’t want a fly-by-night.’
Beast! He had dropped her right in it.
‘I’m hardly that, sir.’ She forced her features to remain impassive. ‘The town hall is the only place I’ve ever worked and I’ve been in Mr Treadgold’s office for seven years.’
‘Why have you applied for this post?’
‘I’d like the challenge of being one of the first women to hold such a position.’
‘Challenge, eh? Not very feminine.’ He scribbled something.
‘I’d like to work with the public. I believe …’ She stopped, as three pairs of eyes widened.
‘We shan’t let our lady-librarians work with the public. It wouldn’t be tolerated.’
‘Fancy a female librarian asking a new gentleman member for his name and address. We couldn’t sanction such boldness.’
‘Of course, that isn’t to say we’d never consider permitting women to work behind the counters … eventually … just to see the books in and out.’
‘Then I’ll have to prove myself, won’t I?’ She said it in a pleasant voice, so she didn’t appear pushy. Being demure all the time could be a right nuisance.
‘Thank you, Miss Maitland,’ the man in the middle said, with what she took to be an insincere smile. ‘You’ll hear from us.’
It was unseasonably hot that Sunday as they trooped down Sandy Lane to have tea in Candle Cottage with Granny and Aunt Miriam. Candle Cottage was a pretty little house and going there ought to have been a pleasure, but Mary’s toes had screwed up in embarrassment too many times whenever Granny told someone that it was her ‘grace-and-favour residence, courtesy of my Kimber in-laws’. Honestly, didn’t she have any shame? Well, no, frankly not. The rest of the Maitlands might spend their lives tiptoeing on social eggshells, but not Granny.
Mary drew an extra breath before stepping over the threshold, for all the good it would do. The atmosphere closed around them, thick as soup. Granny didn’t believe in fresh air. She didn’t have windows open and, with the sun beating down, she wouldn’t open the curtains either, for fear of fading the carpet.
They all crammed into Granny’s parlour for dainty sandwiches and cake.
‘So, our Mary is going to be a lady-librarian,’ said Granny.
Mary turned to Aunt Miriam, eager to share her success. ‘Why don’t you apply? You might prefer it to teaching piano.’
‘You’ll do nowt of the sort, our Miriam,’ Granny snapped.
‘You know I’ve never liked teaching the piano, Mother.’
‘It’s ladylike.’
‘But if it’s acceptable for Mary …’
‘Aye, well, happen she’s got a brain in her head. Not like you. If you apply, I’ll write a letter meself and tell them library people that you’re man-mad and hoping for a spot of slap and tickle behind the bookshelves, and I wouldn’t be far wrong, would I? So you can stop thinking it right this minute, lady. I’m not having you doing owt but teaching piano, us with our Kimber connections.’
‘Now then, Mother,’ said Dadda. ‘Related to the Kimbers we may be, but we have our livings to earn.’
‘And whose fault is that? If you’d gone back to using the Kimber name when they wanted you to, who knows where we’d all be now?’ Granny looked at Mary. ‘I expect them library people wanted you because you’re a Kimber.’
‘They have no idea.’
‘You never told them?’
‘Of course not.’
‘More fool you. You should write and tell them, our John, let them know what’s what.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the kind.’
‘Then more fool you, an’ all. You do realise that if Sir Edward and that there Charlie-boy drop down dead, you’ll be Sir John.’
‘That’s most unlikely, Mother.’
‘You never know. Sir John Maitland: that’s my dream, that is. You’d have to change your name back to Kimber. That’s your real name, the name you were born to.’
‘May I remind you, Mother, that you were the one who changed my name to Maitland after my father died and you remarried?’
Granny ignored that. ‘Sir John Kimber, and we could all live at Ees House. Let Lady Snooty-Nose Kimber put that in her pipe and smoke it.’
Chapter Four
‘Have you invited the Maitlands to Sunday lunch yet, my dear?’ Sir Edward asked.
Lady Kimber dropped her gaze. No, she hadn’t sent the dratted invitation yet, and if she had her way, it wouldn’t go at all. It wouldn’t be so bad, playing host to her husband’s lower-class relations once a year, if it weren’t for that frightful harpy of a grandmother, drooling over the Sheraton and asking impertinent questions.
She composed her features to meet her husband’s dark eyes across the snowy linen and Rockingham china adorning the breakfast table.
‘Not yet.’
‘Maitland’s a decent chap. I know his mother’s a trial, but don’t forget his father was a Kimber – my Uncle Martin.’
‘Your Uncle Martin must have been the biggest fool ever to walk the earth. Fancy being taken in by a common shop girl.’
‘Poor fellow. I know he lived to rue the day.’
‘At least he died young. That must have made it easier to ignore the widow he left.’
‘But there was still his son, d’you see? John was a Kimber by blood – and by name in those days. He and I were lads when Martin died, and my father said we must do the right thing by John, so long as we kept the mother at bay, of course. Then she remarried and changed his name to Maitland to spite us. If she hadn’t done that, he would have the family name to this day, and so would his daughters.’
Lady Kimber shuddered. Profound as her loathing was of Mrs Maitland senior, at least the old hag had, albeit in a fit of pique, removed the ancient name of Kimber from her descendants.
‘At any rate, we must have them,’ said Sir Edward. ‘See to it, will you, my dear?’
She gave a tight smile. Lifting the tea-kettle off the stand beneath which the little heater burnt, she topped up her cup.
‘More tea?’
She reached for his mug. The Kimber breakfast china was one of the joys of her life, but Sir Edward insisted upon a gaudy mug with A Present from Colwyn Bay painted on it. Men!
He glanced through the post. ‘Here’s one from Charlie.’
Dear Charlie. ‘Does he say when he’s coming?’
‘Indeed, he does. He’ll be here after midsummer.’
‘After the Maitlands’ visit, then. That’s good. We wouldn’t want Maitland skeletons clanking out of the family cupboard in front of visitors.’
‘Charlie isn’t a visitor. He’s our nephew – well, he’s my cousin’s son, whatever that makes him.’
‘Nephew.’ Their marriage might not have been blessed, but Sir Edward had drawn children to him, claiming the closest possible connection to them. So Charlie was his nephew and Eleanor his beloved daughter.
‘Charlie’s father was the same relation to me that John Maitland is, except that Charlie’s father married a suitable girl. Most important of all, Charlie’s my heir. Why not invite your Aunt Helen while he’s here? Bury the hatchet once and for all, eh? It’ll be lonely for her without Judge Rawley. Or perhaps just call on her – that might be easier, less of an occasion. It’s a pity Eleanor had that invitation to go away with the Rushworths. I’m sure she’d have liked to go with you to see Miss Rawley.’
Of course she would, which was precisely why Lady Kimber had sent her away. Taking Eleanor to the funeral had been a mistake. Not that she could have been left behind, not at her age. Naturally, she had been intrigued to see her unknown great-aunt. Lady Kimber had seen, too, the longing in Helen’s face when she looked at Eleanor.
You needn’t think you’re getting your claws into her. Not after what you did to me.
The evening after the funeral, the Kimbers had dined with the Rushworths, who were about to set off for the Lakes. Lady Kimber had deftly wangled an invitation for Eleanor, to remove her just when she might want to see her great-aunt. When Eleanor returned, there would be another matter to occupy her.
‘What are you smiling at, my dear?’ Sir Edward asked.
‘I was thinking of Eleanor.’
‘I’ll be glad to have her back. No one butters my toast as well as she does. I hope she doesn’t meet anyone on this jaunt.’
‘Goodness! What put that in your head?’ Had he somehow picked up her thoughts?
‘She’s that sort of age. Call me a foolish old papa, but I’m not ready to part with her.’
How tempting to show her hand, but she hugged her hopes close. Yes, Eleanor was precisely that age. And Charlie, who hadn’t seen her in two or three years and undoubtedly still thought of her as a timid little miss barely out of the schoolroom, was going to get his socks knocked off.
Nathaniel changed into his professional clobber as if he were dressing for battle. Damn Barnaby Clough. It had been yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir, while Judge Rawley was alive, but now Clough wanted to drop the project like a hot potato. For two pins, Nathaniel would have returned the favour by dropping Clough, but he and Alistair needed Clough’s godforsaken building in Moss Side.
‘You won’t get anything out of Clough without my help,’ Judge Rawley had warned them. ‘He doesn’t give two hoots for the poor, but he’d sell his own mother to be an alderman. I shall, in one breath, discreetly give him to understand that I’ll support him in his ambition and, in the next, remark upon my interest in your proposed clinic.’
Sure enough, when Nathaniel and Alistair had approached Clough, he had been only too willing to grant them free rein with his building. Furthermore, in his anxiety to fawn all over Judge Rawley, he had agreed to meet the cost of refurbishment.
But no sooner had Judge Rawley passed away than Clough changed his mind.
Nathaniel lifted his chin to attach his collar. Fresh starch chafed his neck as he slotted modest mother-of-pearl studs into place. Fastening his bow tie, he caught his expression in the mirror. His mouth, with no waxed moustache to soften it, was set in an uncompromising line. He ought to smooth his expression before meeting Clough, though it wouldn’t be easy. The man was a toady and a social climber of the first water. Hence his doctor’s garb today. Nathaniel was certain his professional regalia would create an impression. So, here he was in his frock coat with silk-faced lapels, grey-and-black striped trousers, waistcoat of white pique and black bow tie. His black silk topper was downstairs on the hallstand, though he drew the line at carrying a cane.
Downstairs, Imogen appeared, clothes brush at the ready. She kept his clothes in tip-top condition, so why she needed to brush his shoulders every time he was about to set foot outside, he didn’t know, but he submitted without a murmur. She was a good little woman.
‘I’m not sure how long this will take,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry. I’m making a stew that will bubble away nicely.’
She presented her cheek for a kiss. He caught a whiff of the lavender water she always requested for her birthday.
Soon he was running up the front steps of Clough’s house. A maid showed him into the sitting room. ‘Overstuffed’ was the word that sprang to mind – just like its owner. Plump upholstery was buttoned as if to stop horsehair bursting forth and the cushions were padded so thickly they looked ready to pop. Even the antimacassars were crocheted from something closer to wool than fine cotton.
Clough lumbered to his feet, thrusting out fingers like sausages. He was one of those buffoons who thought it manly to squeeze hard.
‘Good of you to see me,’ said Nathaniel.
‘Pleasure, m’dear fellow,’ said Clough: Nathaniel hadn’t been a dear fellow without his frock coat. ‘Take a seat.’
He placed his topper on a table beside an armchair, taking a malicious pleasure in flicking out the skirts of his frock coat as he sat down.
Clough sat opposite, flabby thighs squashing into the arms of his chair. He wore a colossal handlebar moustache, possibly to compensate for the scarcity of oiled strands plastered across his bald pate.
‘What can I do for you, Doctor Brewer?’ Clough chuckled. ‘As if I didn’t know.’
‘I’m here concerning the property in Moss Side. You assured Judge Rawley of your cooperation.’
‘But he has passed into the great hereafter and my circumstances have altered accordingly. One has to have one’s own interests at heart.’
‘What about the interests of the less fortunate?’
‘The poor are feckless and work-shy.’ Clough puffed out his paunch, increasing the strain on his waistcoat. ‘Well-known fact, sir, well-known fact.’
Oh, the temptation to say: You’re a pompous, self-serving idiot and I’d like to boot you up the backside.
He said, ‘I’ve no intention of wasting my time or yours. I know Judge Rawley was prepared to put in a word for you in the right places, but wouldn’t you rather earn your place in society?’ No, obviously not. ‘Look here, Clough, I can’t propose you for membership of a smart club and I don’t have the mayor’s ear, but I have access to certain charitable committees. What d’you suppose their reaction will be when they hear you’ve dropped out?’
‘Are you threatening me, Brewer?’
‘Not at all, but you’ll put me in a dashed awkward corner if I have to explain your change of heart. Think of it this way. I’m in a position to sing your praises to the Lady Chairmen of half a dozen committees. You know the stratum of society these charitable ladies inhabit.’
He could practically see the cogs turning in Clough’s head. The full lips pursed thoughtfully beneath the monstrous moustache.
‘The day the clinic opens,’ Nathaniel declared, ‘I’ll pin a ribbon across the doorway and Mrs Clough can cut it for the camera. How’s that?’
‘Yes … yes …’ Clough murmured to himself and Nathaniel knew he had won. He ought to feel pleased, but he was sick of the sight of this complacent buffoon. He glanced about, noticing the glossy wax fruit beneath glass domes and the brown Lincrusta wallpaper that looked like panelling. Good grief. The room was as false as its owner.
He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
The Ees House visit was going to be on Sunday. Due to leave school soon, Emma had been included in the invitation for the first time. She couldn’t stop talking about it.
‘Word of warning,’ Mary cautioned, as they took their shoes upstairs after Dadda had given them their evening polishing. ‘Don’t say too much downstairs or Dadda will think you’re getting ideas above your station.’
Emma looked aghast and Mary’s heart beat faster for her. She had promised Mam in her coffin to take care of her new sister. She was sure that was what Mam had wanted. Why else would she, in her dying moments, have named the baby Emma? That had always been Mary’s pet-name – Emmie or Emms, because of her initials. Even after Dadda married Lilian, Mary kept a special eye on Emma, feeling she was fulfilling her promise to Mam.
‘But you and I can talk about it,’ she said. ‘It’s best to be prepared.’
She drew Emma into her bedroom and onto the bed. The mattress dipped, tipping them towards one another. Ozymandias, King of Kings appeared from nowhere and sprang between them. For a cat who wasn’t allowed upstairs, he left an inordinate amount of marmalade fluff on their eiderdowns.
Emma scratched the back of his neck and his purr cranked into operation. ‘Go on.’ Her eyes sparkled.
‘The Kimbers won’t meet us at the door. The butler will let us in, only when a butler does it, it’s called admitting you, and he’ll show us to where they are. If it’s like the other times, they’ll be seated at the far end of a long room called the saloon and we’ll have to walk all the way down it to reach them and you don’t know when to start smiling.’
‘Oh.’ Emma’s face fell.
‘Don’t worry. They’ll be politeness itself. Manners maketh man and all that. It’s only Granny we have to worry about. Everyone’s on edge, dreading her saying something excruciating, and then you can see the Kimbers’ faces freeze before they start being gracious again. Sir Edward thinks highly of Dadda; that’s what you must remember.’
‘It doesn’t sound at all agreeable. Certainly not worth getting ragged for at school.’
‘That used to happen to me. And if it wasn’t ragging, it was being sucked up to.’
‘Or being called stuck-up.’
‘We’ve nothing to be stuck-up about. It isn’t as though the Kimbers have anything to do with us beyond a card at Christmas and dinner once a year. We don’t even rent one of their houses, because we don’t want folk thinking we’re taking advantage.’
‘But it is special having grand relations, isn’t it?’ Emma said wistfully.
Mary gave her a hug and stroked her hair. It was smooth and dark, as unlike her own fair waves as it was possible to be.
‘Do the family tree for me, like you used to when I was little,’ Emma begged.
‘Don’t be daft. You know it inside out.’
‘Please.’
Mary couldn’t resist. She had always loved playing the big sister. She spaced the names across a sheet of paper: John Kimber – Charles Kimber – Martin Kimber.
‘Martin was our grandfather. John and Charles were his brothers. John was the oldest, so that made him Sir John.’
Below the names, she wrote: Edward Kimber – Charles Kimber – John Maitland.
‘They each had a son.’ She drew lines, connecting them. ‘Sir Edward is the son of Sir John. This is Uncle Charles, who was killed in the gales when you were little. He wasn’t our real uncle, but it’s polite to call him that. And this is Dadda. Grandfather Martin died when he was a baby and then Granny married Grandpa Maitland and changed Dadda’s name.’ She glanced at Emma, amused to see her concentrating. ‘Here are Eleanor … Charlie … and you and me. Eleanor and Charlie are our second cousins, and one another’s second cousins, because of our fathers being first cousins. Strictly speaking, Eleanor is a step-cousin, because she’s from Lady Kimber’s first marriage.’
