Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

I thought it best to change the subject before she had talked herself into a deeper sense of guilt. I said, “We weren’t properly introduced last evening. My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Crawford. Most of my friends call me Bess. What would you like me to call you?”

Startled, she said quickly, “I’d rather not-”

I smiled. “It’s rather awkward not to know what to call you. I don’t mind if it’s not your true name.”

At that she gave me a faint smile in return. “Yes, all right. My mother’s name was Lydia.”

I went about clearing away the tea things, my back to her, giving her a little privacy. After a few minutes I said, “I must leave to do a little marketing. You must be as ravenous as I am. But you’ll be safe enough here. No one will come, I promise you. And the shops are just a few streets away. I shan’t be long.”

She made no comment. But after a little time had passed, she said, regret in her voice, “I was terribly foolish. I can’t think what came over me. But he’d never struck me before. I was mortified. And angry. And frightened. And so I ran away.”

I could see that in the light of day she was beginning to have very cold feet indeed. I wondered where that would lead her. At the moment she appeared to be convincing herself that the best course open to her was to return to her home. But that could change. I wondered if it was true, that he’d never struck her before this, or if she was concealing other occasions of lashing out in anger. And I still wasn’t convinced that her husband wasn’t in some trouble or other. She wouldn’t betray him. Whatever he had done, whatever they had quarreled about.

I put on my coat and took an umbrella from the stand. “You’ll be here when I return?” I asked. “It’s only that I need to know what to buy.”

She looked at the window, listening to the cold rain pelting down. “I haven’t the courage to leave,” she said in a very small voice.

And so I went out to do my marketing, finding the shops dismally short of everything, but in the end I managed to find half a roast chicken for our dinner, a loaf of bread, and some dried apples as well as a little poppy seed cake for our tea. Walking back to the flat, I wondered if I would find it empty, after all. Without an umbrella, she would be wet to the skin in ten minutes. Even with one, I was hard-pressed to keep my skirts dry.

I came through the door, calling her name softly, but our kitchen cum sitting room was empty. Then the door to Diana’s room opened, and she came out to meet me, looking a little sheepish.

“I heard someone on the stairs,” she said, “and took fright.”

“You needn’t worry. No man-not even my father-escapes the sharp eye of Mrs. Hennessey, who lives on the ground floor.” I hung up my damp coat to dry, returned the umbrella to its stand, then began putting away my purchases. “Even if by some incredible bit of luck your husband discovered you were here, she wouldn’t let him trouble you if you didn’t wish it.”

I could see she didn’t quite believe me, and I wondered just how persuasive her husband might be. Not that it would matter to Mrs. Hennessey, who took pride in protecting the young women she’d accepted as lodgers. Neither cajoling nor bribes would get him anywhere.

A few minutes later, Lydia said out of the blue, as if it had been on her mind all morning and she couldn’t hold it in any longer, “I shouldn’t have brought up Juliana. It was wrong of me.”

Who was Juliana? A member of the family? Her husband’s former sweetheart? His mother? It could be anyone, of course, and yet I could tell from the way she spoke the name that this was someone who mattered a great deal.

I brought out my mending to repair a tear in one of my stockings, giving Lydia an opening to go on talking to me if that eased her mind a little, because it was clear she was wrestling now with whatever was troubling her. A silence fell. As I finished my work, I glanced in her direction. Her thoughts were far away, and I realized that she had herself under control again and was unlikely to blurt out anything more. After putting away my needle and the spool of black thread, I paused by the window, opening the curtains as I tried to think of a way to persuade Lydia to confide in me without seeming to press her. If I could help her to look clearly at whatever had caused the quarrel with her husband, she might be better prepared to consider the future.

“Oh, no,” I said involuntarily, glancing down at the street below.

Instantly she was on her feet, the bruises garish against her pale face, as she all but ran across the room to peer over my shoulder. I could see that she was trembling. “Who is it? Is it Roger?” She was searching the street below, panic in her eyes. “So soon? I’m not ready to face him yet.”

“It’s-a member of my family,” I said, watching Simon Brandon stride toward the door of the house, his motorcar standing just under our window. “My mother must have got the telegram about my Christmas leave.”

“I must go-” Lydia said, hardly listening to me as she turned to look for her coat and hat. “I’ve stayed too long as it is. I couldn’t bear to have anyone else see me now. Not looking like this.”

“He won’t come up,” I told her. “Mrs. Hennessey’s rules? Remember? She’ll inform me that he’s here. And I’ll go down. You needn’t worry.”

“She’ll want to know who I am-why I’m here in your flat. I can’t blame her-this is her house. I’ll leave. It’s best.”

“And where will you go then?”

She stopped in midstride, staring at me. “I-I don’t know.”

“Then stay here. I’ll hurry down and speak to Simon before Mrs. Hennessey comes to our door. Will that be all right? There’s nothing to fear from him, by the way. He’s traveled here from Somerset, and he’ll want to ask what my plans are.”

That seemed to reassure her. She dropped her headlong dash for her coat and hat, sitting down in the nearest chair as if her limbs suddenly refused to hold her upright any longer. I could see that touch of dizziness returning as she closed her eyes against it.

“You’re very kind. I don’t like to take advantage…” Her voice trailed away.

I went to the door, smiled at her, and then closed it behind me.

Simon was standing in the entry, a tall, handsome man with that air of confidence about him that had always marked him and my father, the Colonel. My mother told me once when I was young that it was the badge of command. Simon had served with my father, rising through the ranks to Regimental Sergeant-Major, and leaving the Army when the Colonel Sahib, as my mother and I called him behind his back, retired. He’d been a part of our lives since I could remember, and I trusted him implicitly. But how to explain that to my nervous guest? It was better to leave it that he was a member of my family.

He greeted me and then said apologetically, “We only received your telegram early this morning. Or I’d have met you at Victoria Station. Your mother has sent me to collect you. The Colonel is away.”

My father, though retired, was often summoned to give his opinion and offer his experience to the War Office. As was Simon. I never knew what they did, nor did my mother, but they would sometimes leave rather abruptly and return looking as if they hadn’t slept in days, telling us nothing about where they’d been or why. I did know that my father had once been sent to Scotland for a week, because he brought my mother a lovely brooch to make up for missing her birthday.

“Simon-” I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I can’t come with you just now. Let me walk with you to the motorcar.”

He was used to my ways. He said, “Bess,” in that tone of voice I’d heard so many times.