Chapter Nineteen

Marianne

Edinburgh— Friday 10th August 1877

‘S he's beautiful,' I said to Mrs Oliphant, looking down into her new daughter's scrunched-up little face. It wasn't exactly true, I've always thought new-born babies look like a very tiny, very stern Queen Victoria, but it was a small enough lie for me to be able to pass it off. ‘Have you chosen a name?'

‘She is merely Baby at present,' my employer said. She was sitting up in bed draped in a selection of shawls, her hair hanging limply down from her nightcap. Though it was mid-morning, the curtains were drawn over the windows and the gas sconce was lit. There were dark shadows under her eyes, testament to what she had endured giving birth, and the sleepless nights that had followed despite having a wetnurse to attend to the little one.

The poor woman looked every day of her forty years, and despite the perfect little girl she had given birth too, quite miserable. ‘My husband had decided on Simon, after his grandfather,' she told me. ‘He is too disappointed to choose a girl's name.'

‘Then why don't you name her?'

Mrs Oliphant sighed. ‘You think me very feeble, don't you?'

‘No!' I instantly regretted letting my impatience show. She had clearly endured enough of it from her husband, who had behaved exactly as I had predicted, when presented with another girl. ‘I think your ordeal has taken a great toll on you, but look at what you have achieved.'

I settled the baby into her arms, and took the liberty of perching on the bed beside mother and daughter. ‘You have brought a new, perfect life into this world. That's something your husband cannot do.

Her smile trembled. ‘I have done that, haven't I?'

You can't miss what you don't know.

I was suddenly besieged with memories of my own childhood, memories I had no idea were locked away. ‘Children sense far more than we realise,' I said, delicately touching the little baby's toes. ‘I was raised by foster parents. I will always be grateful for the home they provided for me, but I knew, I always knew, that I was not loved.' I struggled on, a lump in my throat and my cheeks burning. ‘I instinctively knew I was not wanted, Mrs Oliphant,' I said, forcing myself to meet her eyes. ‘Though they were never cruel, always did the right thing by me, I could tell it was from duty, not love.'

‘My dear Mrs Crawford, I had no idea. You are such a confident woman, so self-assured. And you are so good with the children, you always seem to know exactly how to deal with them. Even Ronnie heeds you, and the girls dote on you. To be honest, I have always been slightly in awe of you. I don't know how you do it, always knowing a step ahead what it is they want or need.'

‘What they need before anything else is to know that they are wanted. That they are loved. Each and every one of them.'

‘Including this little one, you mean?' Mrs Oliphant gazed down into her daughter's sleeping face, and gently stroked her plump cheeks. ‘You're quite right, she is lovely. I will not have her brought up thinking herself unloved or unwanted. Even if her father does not care for her, I do. Oh, dear.' She fumbled in the sheets for her lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I have become such a watering pot.'

‘It is perfectly normal,' I told her, patting her hand—another thing I never usually did. ‘Rest, peace and quiet from your very boisterous brood, will make all the difference. I take it that your husband...'

‘He is staying at his club for a few weeks. He needs his sleep, and does not wish to be disturbed in the night by the baby crying.'

Since the baby would be spending the night in the nursery on the next floor, I doubted Mr Oliphant would be disturbed. ‘Then you should make the most of this time to recuperate,' I said, ‘and to enjoy this little one while you have her to yourself.'

‘I shall call her Octavia,' Mrs Oliphant said, with a sudden smile, sitting up in bed, careful not to disturb her baby. ‘After Octavia Hill, have you heard of her? She is a philanthropist who rents housing to the poor in London. I know of her only because I heard my husband telling one of his fellow businessmen that he was relieved that no decent Edinburgh woman would follow her lead.

‘My husband owns a large portfolio of property in the Old Town. Slums, for want of a better word I am ashamed to say, and like to remain so, if he has anything to do with it. "Tenants find their level", that is what he is forever saying. His tenants don't deserve better, in other words. I can see I have shocked you.'

I couldn't deny that. ‘I had no idea.'

‘Why should you, your business is with me, and my business in domestic. The irony is that he won't for a moment guess why I have named her Octavia. It simply wouldn't occur to him that I would have taken it upon myself to find out about her namesake—for that is what I did. I went to the library.'

‘Goodness, did you?'

‘Now I have surprised you. I must say, I surprised myself. It was the day that my husband told me this was my last chance to give him a son. I had forgotten until now.' She reached over to clasp my hand in hers. ‘I am glad you came to visit. You have reminded me of how fortunate I am to have little Octavia, and her sisters, and even her brother.'

‘Perhaps your little Octavia will take inspiration from her namesake, when she grows up.'

‘Perhaps.' Mrs Oliphant looked unconvinced. ‘All my mother ever wanted for me was a good husband and a family. It's all I ever wished for too. I am fortunate, I have a beautiful home and am well provided for, I want for nothing, materially. Until now, like my husband, I have assumed my children will follow in their parents' footsteps. Ronnie is destined to take over his father's business, though it is already clear to me that Lizzie has a far better brain. And the girls will be found good husbands. Is it wrong of me—foolish of me—to wish for more for my daughters?'

‘Neither wrong nor foolish,' I said, though I had little confidence in her wishes coming to fruition. Mrs Oliphant had been raised to bend her will to her husband. She knew nothing else. ‘Lizzie is a very independent-minded little girl,' I said, brightening.

‘Her father thinks her impertinent. I wish I had your strength of character, Mrs Crawford. You would know how to set a better example to my girls.'

‘You have more strength of character than you realise,' I said, getting to my feet. ‘Little Octavia is evidence of that already, for you have taken the naming of her into your own hands.'

‘I have! And I shall stick to it too.'

‘Excellent. Shall I put her back in her crib?'

‘No, leave her with her mama.' Mrs Oliphant kissed her daughter on the forehead, then held out her hand to me. ‘Thank you, Mrs Crawford, for the trust you have shown in me, and for giving up your own time to visit. I won't take any more of it, but if you could ask someone to send me up a tray of tea on your way out, I would be obliged.'

Rory and I had agreed to meet in Queen Street Gardens, because we could hope for some privacy there, the only other regular users of the garden, Mrs Aitken's family from Number Forty-Two, having decamped to North Berwick for the remainder of the month. When I arrived, he was already waiting on the bench where I had first encountered him, once again hiding behind a newspaper.

‘Is there something wrong with the bairn?' he asked me, seeing my scowl.

‘No, but there is something wrong with the baby's father.' I sank on to the bench, allowing my annoyance to take hold of me. ‘Poor Mrs Oliphant dared to have a daughter and not a son, and her husband has had a tantrum and taken himself off to his gentleman's club.'

‘At least while he is there, his wife will have respite from his company.'

I was obliged to smile. ‘That is more or less what I said to her. Oh, dear, now you are thinking once again that I dislike men, which is not true, Rory. I like you.'

‘That's what they call serendipity, for I very much like you.'

I could see from his face that he hadn't meant to say so, and though I knew I ought to wish he hadn't, I was very glad he had. ‘I have never met anyone like you.' The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

‘Serendipity again. I've never met anyone like you either. I think that every time I see you.'

‘So do I.'

We were quite alone in the garden. My hand rested on his shoulder of its own accord. Then my lips met his of their own accord. Since yesterday, I had been longing for another kiss. The taste of him. The melting feeling inside, and the heat spreading through my body. I leaned in to cup his chin, smoothly shaved, sliding my fingers to the back of his neck to curl into his hair. His hat tumbled off.

Our kiss deepened, became more urgent, demanding, wanting. I gave myself over to the taste of him, the sweet, aching desire that was building inside me, making me feel as if my clothes were too tight, making me feel as if I couldn't breathe. One kiss merged into the next, into the next, and I was lost in a whirl of desire, wanting, aching for him to touch me, totally forgetting where I was.

Then his arms slid around me, locking me firmly in his embrace, and I jerked back, jumping to my feet. ‘No!'

‘Marianne! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have...'

I wrapped my arms around myself, taking another step back. ‘It wasn't—I didn't mean...' I was shaking too much to continue. I turned my back to him, trying to banish the memory of those other arms roughly pinning me while the second man secured my arms behind my back. Of the reek of sweat and the stench of fear coming from the restraint jacket as they strapped me into it with ruthless efficiency. Of my helpless fall to the padded floor when they pushed me into the cell. ‘Try escaping from that,' one of them shouted as the door slammed. Then came my screams, drawn from my depths, echoing over and over until I was hoarse.

But I didn't let them break me. That's what I reminded myself when I came to my senses again. It had been my first attempt to escape. It wouldn't be my last. And I had succeeded. I was free. I was in Edinburgh, and the only bars were the railings marking out Queen Street Gardens. I could smell new-mown grass. There were birds singing. I was free.

My heartbeat slowed. The memory faded. I turned around to face Rory. He was still seated on the bench, his eyes riveted on me. I thanked the stars he had not attempted to touch me. Mortification took over from horror. What must he think of me? ‘I'm sorry.'

He said something under his breath I couldn't catch. ‘I beg of you, don't apologise. Just tell me what I should do.'

‘Nothing.' I studied him, clasping my hands together for they were still shaking. All I could sense from him was concern. He met my gaze frankly, allowing me to read him—at least that is what I felt. No disgust. No contempt. Just warmth and concern. ‘You must think I am m—' I bit back the word.

‘No!' He jumped to his feet and took a few steps towards me, then stopped. ‘I don't think—you are not—I didn't mean to, but I frightened you.'

I don't think you're mad. You are not mad.

Was that really what he was going to say? ‘It wasn't the kiss,' I said.

‘I shouldn't have put my arms around you, is that it?'

He asked the question so gently, so carefully, yet still I had no sense of him judging or condemning, and though there was anger there, it was directed at himself. I wanted, suddenly, to tell him the truth. I wanted desperately to tell him, because I couldn't bear him to take the blame for what others had done to me. But even in my vulnerable state, I knew that would be a huge mistake. Knowledge was power. I did not think that Rory would abuse my trust, but I hadn't thought Francis would either. I had too much to lose. The life I had made for myself here. My sanity, if I was ever taken back to that place again.

‘I'm perfectly fine now,' I said, returning to sit beside him. I had myself completely under control again. ‘I don't like to be held, as you said.'

Why not?

I waited for him to ask the question, hoping he would not for I had no explanation I could give him. ‘I'll remember that,' he said.

I was completely at a loss. Didn't he want an explanation?

‘When you want to talk, I'll listen,' he said, ‘I've told you, Marianne, you can trust me.'

His gentle tone and his understanding made my eyes smart with tears. This time I hadn't spoken aloud, yet he had still intuited what I was thinking. I wanted to trust him, I wanted to pour out the sad, sorry, horrific tale of my suffering. To what end? To label myself an escaped lunatic? To have Rory tactfully, but completely, withdraw from me? I wanted to help him. I wanted to be with him, though I knew I ought not to.

Totally conflicted, I changed the subject. ‘Mrs Oliphant has named her baby Octavia, after a woman called Octavia Hill.' I recounted the tale, hands folded in my lap but not too tightly clasped, though I could not quite meet his gaze. ‘I don't doubt her desire to give her daughters a different life, but nor do I hold out much hope that she will succeed. Do you want children, Rory? At some point in the future, I mean?'

He blinked, taken by surprise at my turning the subject, but as ever he took my question seriously, taking his time to answer. ‘Like you, I think there are already too many children in need in this world.'

‘Did I say that?'

‘You implied it when you were talking about setting up your own school.'

‘But when you were engaged to be married, it must have been in anticipation of having a family?'

‘It's what Moira wanted, and my da was desperate for grand-weans. I wanted to please them, but I'm ashamed to say that I didn't think about it too deeply.'

‘Did you love her?'

I thought he would tell me it was none of my business, which it wasn't. It didn't matter, I told myself, but I knew it did.

Rory looked troubled, picking up his hat and turning it around in his hands. ‘I hadn't thought of her in a long time. Only since I got back to Edinburgh, and then last night, after I told you about her, I was going over that night when she broke it off. She said to me that if I loved her I would put her first. I'd forgotten that.' He put his hat back on. ‘Truth is, she was right. I put my work first, always, and I couldn't see that changing. It was when I told her that, she gave me the ring back, and she was in the right of it. It seems I'm not the marrying kind. I didn't know myself as well as you did.'

‘I'm not sure I know what you mean.'

‘You told me you'd never wanted to marry. If I'd taken the time to think about it, I'd have reached the same conclusion but I didn't, I was too caught up with my work. And you know what's worse, Marianne? When I left Edinburgh, I was still too caught up with my own concerns, the injustice that was done to me, the injustice that was done to the woman we've named Lillian, that I barely gave the injustice I'd imposed on my da and Moira and her family a thought.

‘They had expectations of me. They looked to me to make them happy, and I let them down.' He stopped, looking quite taken aback. ‘I don't know where that came from. I didn't even know it was lurking there.'

‘That's exactly what happens to me when I'm with you. I say things aloud that I mean to keep to myself, and I find myself thinking of things that...' Now it was my turn to fall silent.

‘Thinking of things that you thought long buried? Is that it?'

‘I didn't say that I had never wished to marry,' I told him, proving his point. ‘I said that I am now certain I never want to marry.'

‘Meaning you did once?'

I was already heartily regretting saying anything, I certainly wasn't going to say any more. I didn't want to talk about Francis to Rory. I didn't want Rory to know about the needy, naive person who had been so desperate for love. I could tell myself that Rory's opinion didn't matter, but it would be a lie.

‘Time is getting on. The clock is ticking,' I said. ‘Tell me what progress you made this morning.'