A Dream of her Own Read online

  She let out her breath in a ragged sigh and found that her heart was racing. I feel like a thief, she thought. She was aware of the bitter taste of anger - having to sneak about when her intention was quite honest. Even the matron of the workhouse was not so harsh as Mrs Sowerby! Constance’s surge of resentment induced a feeling of recklessness and she no longer moved so furtively as she crossed towards the study.

  However, she sensed she was safe enough; at this time of night she had no fear that anyone would seek her out deliberately. Her notice had been given weeks ago and she doubted if any of the family would want to say goodbye or wish her well.

  Dr and Mrs Sowerby would be upstairs in the first-floor drawing room, their daughter, twelve-year-old Annabel, would be in bed, and their son, Gerald, she guessed, had just stormed off to his room in order to get ready to go out with friends. The friends that his parents so disapproved of.

  The fire in the study was burning low and the room was dark, but Constance did not waste time lighting the mantle. She went straight over to the wall opposite the door and raised her candle. There was something she wanted to see for the last time - an image she wanted to commit to memory.

  ‘Why do you always look at that photograph?’

  She spun round, her heart beating painfully against her ribs. Her hand shook and the candle sputtered and flared as melted wax fell back into the flame. Mrs Sowerby was in the act of rising from a wing-backed chair placed near the hearth. Constance steadied the candle and gazed through the smoky light at her interrogator. The dark fabric of the narrow choker collar that covered nearly all of her neck accentuated the paleness of Mrs Sowerby’s face.

  ‘Don’t just stand there dumbly, girl. I asked you a question. Why do you look at the photograph? Answer me. What possible interest can it hold for a workhouse brat like you?’

  The doctor’s wife moved towards her, the silk taffeta of her skirts rustling across the floor with fluid menace; the sweet lily of the valley perfume that she favoured preceding her. Violet Sowerby was plump and matronly but her soft little hands could grip like a vice and her ladylike voice sound as shrill as any harpy’s. She raised her hand and Constance flinched, but Mrs Sowerby simply took the candle from her and held it high to examine the photograph in question.

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied the group of men in formal clothes. The caption written in copperplate on the mount at the foot of the picture read, ‘The Infirmary Committee, Formed on the Occasion of the Royal Jubilee Exhibition in Newcastle 1887.’

  ‘I’ve seen you linger and glance up when you are dusting.’ She frowned. ‘But I cannot imagine why. This photograph must have been taken before you were born. Dr Sowerby is in the front row, of course ...’

  So he was, along with some of the most influential men in the city, and that obviously gave his wife much satisfaction. When the Royal Victoria Infirmary was finally officially opened by King Edward and Queen Alexandra in July of this very year, 1906, Mrs Sowerby had bought a dozen each of the postcards in the series that Valentines had issued to commemorate the event.

  She sent one to every single person in her address book, telling them all about the royal visit to Newcastle and being sure to add that she and Dr Sowerby had been guests at the civic banquet given for Their Majesties in the Assembly Rooms.

  Vexation hardened Violet Sowerby’s features even further. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’

  ‘No.’ Constance was composed now, and she stared back steadily. She had no intention of telling this woman, now or ever, that the tall handsome man standing in the back row of the photograph - at that time, one of the richest manufacturers on Tyneside - was Richard Bannerman, her father.

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ Violet Sowerby exclaimed, and, for a moment, Constance thought she was going to strike her. But they were interrupted.

  ‘Let the girl alone, Mother. She’s leaving us in the morning to marry the little shopkeeper and you don’t want to be the subject of malignant gossip amongst the tradespeople, now, do you?’ Gerald’s amused tones came from the doorway.

  Violet Sowerby turned towards him but he moved aside into the hall. All else forgotten, his mother swept out of the room. Constance followed her. While they were talking, she would slip away.

  ‘Gerald, I’ve been waiting to see you on your own. Are you going out?’ Mrs Sowerby’s voice had softened; she was almost pleading.

  He was standing in front of a gilt-framed mirror and he concentrated on adjusting his wing collar and his white evening tie. ‘Would I be dressed like this if I were going to endure another interminable evening at home with you and Father?’

  ‘But, Gerald, you spend so little time with us these days ...’

  ‘Do you blame me? In this house I meet with nothing but disapproval.’

  ‘Not disapproval - your father and I have been worried that you may be neglecting your studies - and perhaps that is because of the influence of some of your friends who have no need to earn a living ...’

  ‘I’ve already had to suffer one lecture from Father on that subject tonight. You both seem to forget that I am a grown man and that, thanks to Grandmother, I am financially independent. Save your breath, Mother. I’m going out.’

  All the time he had been speaking he never once looked round. Now, he stared into the mirror with self-absorbed concentration as he smoothed his thickly waving red-gold hair. When he was satisfied, he looked to one side and spoke to Constance’s retreating reflection. ‘Pass me my overcoat, there’s a good girl.’

  She had almost reached the door at the end of the passage and she stopped and cursed herself silently for not having been quicker. Gerald raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you hear me?’

  Constance hurried back and reached for the overcoat, from where he had tossed it over the carved wooden post at the bottom of the stairs. After handing Gerald the coat she tried to slip away again, only to earn a rebuke from his mother.

  ‘I do not remember saying you could go.’

  She turned once more and waited, keeping her eyes down. She thought it best not to betray her impatience or Mrs Sowerby would only harangue her the longer.

  ‘Oh, let her go to bed now, Mother.’ Gerald had put on his coat and was adjusting the ends of his silk scarf. ‘No doubt she’ll want to be as refreshed as possible for her wedding to Prince Charming.’

  Constance felt her anger rising when he looked up and continued mockingly. ‘I must say I was surprised when I saw him. Such a dapper little chap, sitting there telling you of his honourable intentions just as if he were a gentleman. I’m sure he could have the pick of the daughters of the more prosperous commercial families and yet he is content to marry a servant.’

  ‘She’s never been like a servant!’ Mrs Sowerby’s outburst was so vehement that both her son and Constance turned to look at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald seemed genuinely surprised. ‘As far as I know she has always performed her duties satisfactorily.’

  ‘You are a fool, Gerald.’ His mother’s tone was scathing. ‘Always taken in by outward show. Have you never noticed her manner?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s always appeared to be quite properly modest and reserved.’

  ‘Supercilious and secretive more like! And her voice - it is not the voice of a servant!’

  ‘No ... you’re right ...’ Gerald’s murmur of agreement betrayed surprise. He looked at Constance speculatively and then, suddenly, he walked over to her and lifted up a strand of her hair. ‘And this hair...’ He let the silky curls fall and placed his knuckles under her chin to raise her face. ‘And these eyes ... are they blue or violet?’

  Constance held her breath. She was unnerved to find herself so close to him and her eyes widened with alarm as she found she couldn’t avoid his amused gaze. She tried to turn her head away but he began to stroke the line of her jaw and the soft flesh underneath with the back of his fingers. She felt a pulse throbbing in her neck as she cringed at his touch, but pride made her raise h
er chin and hold his stare.

  ‘And this soft skin,’ he said. ‘You are quite right, Mother. I wonder why I have not bothered to notice before how very unlike a servant Constance is.’ Gerald’s face mottled with sudden heat. His breath smelled of brandy.

  ‘That’s enough!’ His mother’s voice was sharp but Gerald took his time to drop his hand and step back. He was laughing but, when Constance saw the look in his eyes, she felt a frisson of fear.

  ‘Constance, I have decided that you need not wait until tomorrow.’ Mrs Sowerby’s voice was cold. ‘Go up and collect your belongings and leave now.’

  ‘Now? But, until I am married in the morning, I have nowhere to go!’

  ‘That is not my concern. You have no more duties here, there is no reason to stay.’

  She stared at the doctor’s wife, aghast. Mrs Sowerby had never been easy to work for but, as she was neither pleasant nor considerate to any of the servants, Constance had never taken it personally. Now she saw that the woman disliked her intensely and was enjoying venting her spite.

  ‘Take nothing from this house that you did not bring with you. If you do, I shall know where to find you. And be sure that you leave by the servants’ entrance. Dr Sowerby will go down to lock up at eleven o’clock; you must be gone by then.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Fancy throwing you out at this time of night - doesn’t she know that’s wicked?’

  Nella stood shivering in her nightgown, clutching a shawl around her skinny shoulders with one hand and holding a candle with the other. The light gleamed on her pale, bony face and cast a cruelly exaggerated shadow of her crooked body on the sloping wall of the eaves behind her.

  ‘If she does, she doesn’t care.’

  ‘Well, she should. All them improving texts she makes us read. What about “Do unto others as you would they should do unto you”? How would she like it if you threw her out on the street?’

  ‘You don’t think Mrs Sowerby believes in any of that, do you, Nella? That kind of thing is only to keep us in our place. “Be obedient unto your masters”, that’s all she’s interested in!’

  Constance pulled off the cheap cotton uniform dress and left it lying on the floor where it fell. Quickly, for the attic room was freezing cold, she put on one of her own blouses and a blue serge skirt. Then, she started to pull open the drawers at her side of the shared chest and toss the rest of her belongings on to her narrow iron bed.

  Nella’s small features were taut with worry. ‘But, what will you do? Where will you gan?’

  ‘Hush, Nella, not so loud. If we wake the others, Mrs Mortimer will have something to say to us in the morning.’

  They looked at each other. ‘“Noisiness is considered Bad Manners” ’ they intoned, each trying to imitate the cook-housekeeper’s attempts at refinement.

  Nella giggled. ‘Old Mortimer’ll be fast asleep by now, tucked up with her bottle of mother’s ruin. And, besides, come the morning, she’ll only hev me to scold. You won’t be here.’

  ‘Thank goodness!’

  Constance stopped what she was doing and they smiled at each other. The prospect of freedom was marvellous and Constance knew that Nella was pleased for her, even though she was going to be left behind.

  The moment was short-lived. ‘But you heven’t told me what you’re gannin’ to do - or where you’re gannin’. Will you gan to John’s?’

  ‘No. His mother would be shocked if I turned up there without an explanation the night before the wedding.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell her what has happened?’

  ‘Nella, you know I’ve never met her, but John has told me that, in spite of my circumstances, he’s convinced her that I will make the perfect wife for him.’

  ‘Of course you will. I knew the minute that I set eyes on yer ma that she was a real lady!’

  ‘And me? Surely I’m just another workhouse brat?’

  ‘Like me, you mean? The difference is that I was born there.’

  ‘Oh, Nella, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Nivver mind. Anyone can see that you were born to better things. What happened wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘That’s just what John said! He told me that when we first met he would never have guessed that I was in service and, when I told him, oh, Nella, it made no difference to him!’

  ‘He fell in love with you!’

  ‘When I tried to tell him about what had happened he said it didn’t matter. He said it was obvious that my family had fallen on hard times - like many another - and that he thought all the more of me for keeping my standards.’

  ‘Spoken like a true gent!’

  ‘But now, if I tell John’s mother that my mistress has thrown me out, she might begin to question her son’s judgement.’

  ‘I suppose so ...’

  ‘I’m sure of it. And, besides, her health is not good. I wouldn’t want to start my married life by upsetting my mother-in-law.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t do, especially as you’re all gannin’ to live together. Ee, Constance—’

  ‘Hush, don’t fret. I’ll go to John’s friend’s house in Fenham; his parents are away but his sister, Rosemary, should be there.’

  John’s friend Matthew Elliot had agreed to collect Constance from the Sowerbys’ in the morning and take her to the church in his motorcar, but she had never been invited inside the grand house overlooking the Town Moor and she had no idea whether she would be welcome there now in such strange circumstances. Nor would she tell Nella that Rosemary Elliot was three years younger than she was and, at fifteen, was hardly old enough to be a proper chaperone. She did not want her friend to worry.

  ‘Now, please help me to pack my things. And hold that candle steady; you don’t want to set light to the place.’

  ‘Divven’t I just!’

  Nella set the candlestick down on top of the chest of drawers next to the one Constance had brought up, which was almost spent. She took another from their precious hoard and lit it, dribbling wax into an old saucer and then securing the candle.

  ‘Let’s hev plenty of light for a change!’ She grinned.

  There was no gaslighting on the top floor of the Sowerbys’ house, and Mrs Mortimer doled out candles to the maids’ rooms parsimoniously, but tonight Nella didn’t care about saving her ration.

  Nella and Constance’s friendship had begun when both were children in the old workhouse on Arthur’s Hill. Nella had been born there and couldn’t remember her mother, who had died when she was very young. When Agnes Bannerman and her daughter had arrived, obviously used to a better way of life, Nella had watched them with envious fascination. Constance and her mother had been aware of their silent little shadow and one day Agnes had invited Nella to sit with them at table.

  After that she had attached herself to them like a stray kitten. But she was tough and wise beyond her years. She taught them the tricks they needed to survive in such a place and, in return, received the affection she craved. She would have died for them. Nella had told Constance time and time again how lucky she was that the Sowerby family had taken them on together.

  She had tried to hide her dismay when Constance told her that John had proposed to her, and now she was doing her best to be cheerful as she helped her friend pack her clothes into a large flat cardboard box.

  Constance smiled at her. ‘If that’s the last of my petticoats, you can help me fold my wedding outfit.’ She held up the dove-grey grosgrain dress and examined it critically.

  Nella clasped her hands together. ‘Ee, Constance, it’s lovely!’

  ‘It was when my mother first wore it and, even then, it wasn’t one of her best.’

  She sighed. John’s Uncle Walter owned a chain of gentleman’s outfitting shops, and John worked in the main branch in Grey Street, in the heart of Newcastle’s smart commercial district. He was always smart and well groomed. Constance didn’t want him to be ashamed of her tomorrow, especially as his uncle would be giving her away.

  ‘Y
es, well,’ Nella said, ‘yer ma was a lady and she had good taste. You’ve altered it to suit the fashion of today and that bit of lace you’ve added makes all the difference.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘You’ll look more elegant in that old dress than Mrs Sowerby could ever look, for all the money she spends on herself!’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  A moment later, Constance put the lid on the box and secured it with string. She had not had much to pack. The clothes she had worn when she came here six years ago at the age of twelve were long outgrown.

  For the past year or two she had been altering and updating those of her mother’s clothes that she had managed to beg. Just before Constance’s twelfth birthday, Agnes Bannerman had died, worn down and made ill by nearly two years of the harsh workhouse regime. She had been small and slight just like her daughter. If she had been a larger woman, the matron would probably have kept her clothes for herself.