A Bitter Truth Read online

  In the street below, I heard the sharp blast of a constable’s whistle. Was the hunt still on? My guest heard it as well. Crossing quickly to the window, she pulled the curtain aside just far enough to look out. Down in the street someone burst into a drunken song, breaking off as the constable ordered him to move along. Relieved, the woman let the curtain drop, then flushed as she turned to find me watching her. But she didn’t explain her anxiety, ducking her head and moving past me without a word.

  I felt a moment’s unease, but it was forgotten as she reached the door to Diana’s room and swayed, suddenly dizzy. From worry? Not eating properly? Bad as it was, I couldn’t quite believe that the blow to her face had been that severe.

  The dizziness passed, and I said nothing.

  Sitting on the bed in Diana’s room, she allowed me to bring her a fresh cloth for her face, and then gently shut the door behind me with another murmured word of gratitude. I could hear her moving about as she prepared for bed, but I had a feeling she hadn’t looked for a nightgown. Would she leave, once she was warm enough to face the cold again?

  I blew out the lamp, went into my own room, and when I had undressed, lay down on the bed to keep watch. But in spite of good intentions, I went soundly to sleep, and when I awoke, it was late morning. I sat up, wondering if my orphan of the storm had left while I slept. I hoped she hadn’t; I could hear the patter of a steady rain. I hastily threw on some clothes and went to see.

  To my surprise, I saw that her coat was still there on the tree, and I suspected she was even more tired than I had been. Emotionally as well as physically.

  It was close on ten o’clock when I heard her stir, and then she came frantically through the door, still trying to button her jumper, as if somehow believing I’d discovered her name and sent for whoever it was she’d run from. When she found me sitting there with a cup of tea in my hands, looking out the window at the rain, she stopped, suddenly shy.

  “I was dreaming,” she said. “I thought—I didn’t recognize my surroundings when I woke up.”

  A nightmare, I reckoned, rather than a dream.

  “Let me make you a fresh cup.” The bruise was darker today, and there was heavier blackness around her left eye as well. It would be a week—ten days—before it faded completely.

  “No, this will do nicely,” she told me, coming forward to pour her own tea. With her back to me, she said, “You must be wondering how I got this—this—” Not able to find the right word, she gestured in the general direction of her face. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t wish to speak of it?”

  “Someone struck you.” I let the words fall between us. “I told you, I’m a nurse. I can’t help but know that much,” I went on. “As I said, it’s your affair, of course it is. But if for a while you need sanctuary . . .” I let my voice trail away.

  She was torn. I could see that. At a guess, she’d dashed out of the house in the clothes she stood up in, too shocked or frightened to think beyond the need to get away. It would only have occurred to her later to give any thought to where she was going and what she would do when she got there. In fact, I wondered if perhaps she had very little money with her, unprepared to pay for food or hotels or other clothing.

  If she was telling the truth about living in the country, perhaps even reaching the train to London had seemed an impossible task. I wouldn’t have wanted to walk from my parents’ house in Somerset to the nearest railway station. Yet when I glanced at her shoes, I could see that they hadn’t seen hard use on a country lane in winter.

  She didn’t answer my suggestion directly. Instead she confessed, “I thought—I thought he might follow me. After leaving the railway station, I walked and walked. For hours. First this direction and then that. Until I was completely lost. And there was nowhere to turn, no one I could trust. Not even the constables I passed from time to time. But they must have seen me, because suddenly they were hunting me. He must have given them my description. And I didn’t know what they would do with me, if they caught me. I’ve heard—the suffragettes. They were treated cruelly in prison.”

  “The police last evening weren’t hunting you,” I said gently. “They were searching for a deserter. I was on an omnibus. They stopped it and told us why.”

  “A deserter?” She stared blankly at me. “I— Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. Unless, of course, the man you speak of is wanted by the police.”

  “No, of course he isn’t.” She seemed shocked that I should think such a thing.

  I realized then that a guilty conscience had led her to believe the worst.

  “He. Your husband?”

  “No. Yes.” She came to take the chair across from me, staring at the window. “I wouldn’t want you to think ill of him. That he’s brutal. It was as much my fault as it was his. I—I taunted him. I said things I shouldn’t have. When he struck me, he was as shocked as I was. But I couldn’t stay, you see. Not after that. We can’t take back our actions, can we? However much we may wish to.”

  She was taking the blame for what had happened. But I kept an open mind on that issue, having been accustomed to hearing battered women in hospital claim that their drunken husbands hadn’t meant to strike them, that it was their own fault. Their excuses were infinite. Dinner was late, or their husband’s trousers hadn’t been pressed properly, or the children were noisy. I had been a junior sister on a women’s ward where broken bones and bruised bodies were common, and the husband, once sober, came to beg forgiveness. I knew, as the women in the ward had known, that the words were hollow, the promises too. But almost invariably, the wife returned to her home, because she had nowhere else to go.

  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.

  “Not here,” I replied and stepped out into the raw, cold morning air. The rain had become a damp drizzle, but the clouds were still dark enough to promise a downpour sooner rather than later. He took off his coat and settled it around my shoulders.

  I huddled gratefully into its warmth, and when we were out of hearing of the woman up in my flat, I said quickly, “There was someone in the doorway last night, when I came home. A woman. She had nowhere to go, and her face was badly bruised. I took her in, and she’s still upstairs, very frightened. I can’t leave London until I’ve sorted out what brought her here last night. ”

  “And her husband will come looking for her, mark my words,” he warned. “This is not a very good idea, Bess.”

  “Even if he does, he can’t have any idea where to begin. You see, she took a train to London and then just walked aimlessly for hours. It’s a wonder she hasn’t made herself ill. She wasn’t dressed for the weather.” I sighed. “What was I to do, Simon, leave her standing there in the cold wind? And what should I have done this morning, let her walk out into that pelting rain, and consider myself well out of it? Even Mother would agree I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Your mother is as tenderhearted as you are. Yes, all right, I take your point. What is this woman’s name? Where does she come from?”

  “She hasn’t told me yet,” I admitted. “At the moment she’s trying to convince herself that she made a mistake, leaving. She feels her husband is just as unhappy that this happened.”

  “Men who take their own fury out on women always repent what was done. Until the next time.”

  “Oddly enough, I’m beginning to think this isn’t the usual case. I think it may be true that Lydia was shocked by the blow.”

  “I thought you didn’t know her name.”

  “Well, no, it’s her mother’s name. I told her I had to call her something.”

  He took a deep breath. “Very well. If she decides to leave in the next few hours, we’ll drive Lydia to the railway station and put her on the next train going in her direction. Will that do?”

  “Simon, she has nowhere else to go. I can’t walk away, knowing that, and I can’t rush her into making a decision that could be wrong. What’s more, I have a feeling she left in such a rush that she has little or no money with her. And she doesn’t even have a change of clothing. For all intents and purposes, she’s destitute.”

  Simon had to agree with me, however reluctantly. But he reminded me, “It’s also possible her husband keeps her deliberately short of money. All right, shall I take the two of you out to a restaurant? I’d like to form my own opinion of your Lydia.”

  “It’s very kind of you to suggest that, but I don’t believe she’ll want to be seen in public. She’s terribly embarrassed
by her appearance. The bruising really is quite stark. There’s no way to hide it with a little powder.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t choose a restaurant where she might be recognized. Tell her that.”

  I wanted to look up at the window, to see if Lydia was watching us. But that would have given away the fact that we were discussing her. “There’s one other thing.” I hesitated. “The police were searching for a deserter last night. Not on this street, but still, it was just east of here. She thought her husband had sent them to find her. This morning she’s afraid that her husband is going to appear before she’s prepared to face him again. But what if that’s just wishful thinking on her part? What if Lydia’s husband doesn’t want her to come back? For instance, there’s someone called Juliana who is involved.”

  “My dear girl, you can’t fight her battles for her.”

  “No, I understand that. But since I can’t abandon her, it may be necessary to take her to Somerset with me until this is sorted out.”

  “See if you can discover her true name, and I’ll find out what I can about her background. Meanwhile, persuade her if you can to join us.”

  I could tell that Simon was afraid I might have been led down the primrose path, that Lydia was lying to me or taking advantage of my sympathy for her own ends.

  The best way to prove him wrong was to do as he asked.

  “I’ll try, I promise you.”

  I handed Simon his coat and went back into the house. Mrs. Hennessey came out to greet me, asking about France, and I told her that I was fortunate enough to have Christmas leave.

  “How lovely for your mother and father,” she said. “Did I see Sergeant-Major Brandon pass my window just now?”

  “Yes, I came down to speak to him. I thought you might be resting.”

  She nodded. Simon was quite her favorite, and had been since the summer when he’d all but saved her life. And mine. She asked about my family, and about Somerset, and finally after telling me that she would be happy to bring up anything I needed, she went back into her own flat.