Truth to Tell

by Claire Lorrimer

Genres: Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

1914: Lady Beaufort already has three boys and she certainly doesn't want another child. But her husband Aubrey has always dreamed of a daughter to fill the gap his sister left when she died tragically young. In contrast Harold and Copper Varney are expecting their first child and are over the moon about it. Their children Victoria and Leila meet when Lady Beaufort sends Victoria to the village school out of spite, jealous of her captivating daughter. Victoria's parents adore their only child Leila, though they are surprised she does not excel academically as her father did. Though Harold is an impoverished teacher, whose family have a meagre existence, he was a talented Oxford scholar. Despite the differences in their backgrounds, the two girls share a special friendship as well as a birthday; but before long both families start to fear something is wrong . . .

Release date: January 1, 1994

Publisher: Macmillan, 1994, first ed.

Print pages: 256

Sample

1914

Aubrey Beauford put down his newspaper and looked across the room to where his wife was sitting on the sofa opposite him, her tapestry work untouched beside her. His spouse of the last thirteen years was, at last, soon to produce another child. She had fallen pregnant with George, their eldest son, on their honeymoon, and, following two miscarriages, had subsequently produced two more boys, Vaughan, aged six and Robert, now four.

With only a few weeks before the birth of their fourth baby, Frances was singularly unattractive with her pasty complexion, downcast mouth and her expression even more irritable than usual. After the last boy’s birth, she had declared she would never have another child no matter how much Aubrey wanted a daughter. If he would agree to forgo his marital rights, she would be a lot happier and more agreeable to live with. It was not that she objected to sex. Whilst she didn’t enjoy it, she accepted what she called her ‘married obligations’, but she abhorred the consequences. When she discovered she was carrying their son Robert, she told him she was no longer prepared to risk another pregnancy.

‘Frances, my dear, I’m afraid I am going to have to insist you go down to the country tomorrow or the next day,’ he said now. ‘I could be wrong but it is my considered opinion that we may find ourselves at war, and I cannot allow you and the children to remain in London.’

He waited for the objections which he knew would be forthcoming. Although the boys loved the holidays spent at Farlington Hall, their large country house, Frances hated their Sussex estate. Born and brought up in London, she disliked everything about country life, more especially the winter shooting parties which were Aubrey’s greatest pleasure. It was a sport she disapproved of whilst welcoming the regular supply of game which resulted. This year, he had ignored her objections and promised their eldest son a shotgun, young Robert a puppy, and all three boys ponies.

Had she not been pregnant, Frances had stormed at him, she would have divorced him. Having her own private income, Aubrey had little doubt that she could afford an independent life, but he knew she would never willingly face the social scandal of a divorce. Nor would she readily forgo the advantages marriage to him had brought her. As the eldest surviving son, he had inherited the title when his father, a baronet, had died; his position in society was assured and this was one of the main reasons Frances had agreed to marry him.

She had been quite pretty as a debutante, with several suitors from the same nouveau-riche background as herself. She had refused to commit to any one of them, determined to elevate herself socially if the opportunity arose. Aubrey, whom she had met quite by chance in the tea room at Fortnum and Mason, had fitted her plan despite the fact that he was ten years older than herself, already a little thin on top and portly round the waist. His father, Sir George Beauford, had expired some five years previously; his mother, Lady Mary, was still alive and would become her mother-in-law.

Aubrey was far from ignorant of these facts, which Frances had openly admitted in an unguarded moment. Since he had long ago fallen out of love with her, the admission had not bothered him. Whatever was missing in their marriage in the way of affection was made up by the advent of the three sons Frances had given him, albeit unwillingly. The boys were everything a father could wish for – handsome, intelligent and engaging. However, he did still crave the possession of a daughter. His beloved sister, Victoria, had died of diphtheria at the age of fifteen, and he had never quite stopped grieving for her. A daughter would, he firmly believed, partially fill the gap his little sister had left.

Frances’ refusal to have any more children after Robert’s birth had seriously concerned him. Three long years passed before she would allow him into her bed again and he had been too much of a gentleman to force her. A few too many glasses of champagne at their neighbouring hunt ball had softened Frances’ stance and when he promised her an American Packard motor car, she was too thrilled to close her door that night. He had bought the car as he’d promised but Frances’ pregnancy, which resulted from their brief sexual rapport, prevented her driving the car herself as she grew larger. Aubrey forbade her to do so as he considered it risky in her condition, besides which his former head groom, Joseph, was well able to act as her chauffeur whenever she wished; and he allowed her first call upon the man’s time.

Their doctor had attempted to cheer her, telling her that babies carried much to the fore of the abdomen were frequently girls, but Frances had simply burst into tears and reiterated that she had never been so nauseous with the boys and would readily change this baby’s sex if it were possible. She looked now at her husband’s impassive face and said tearfully: ‘You should be having this baby, not me, Aubrey. It’s not fair! Moreover, I will not go down to Farlington Hall. At least here in London, my friends can come and visit me. I’ll be even more bored in the country than I am now with this baby restricting my activities. Besides, why should it matter if there is a war? You said yourself the present trouble was all in outlandish places like Serbia and Bosnia and names I can’t even pronounce. I won’t go, Aubrey! Since I have got to have this wretched baby I’m going to have it here.’

Aubrey quelled his impatience in deference to her condition.

‘I spoke to Doctor Matthews this morning. He assured me it would be at least another three weeks before the birth. My mind is made up, Frances. You may wish to take risks but I have no intention of allowing you – or indeed the boys – to do so. You may not be aware that there are such things as Zeppelins – airships that can fly over the Channel and drop unknown horrors on our city. If in a week or two the possibility of war seems less likely, you may come back to London.’

Frances regarded her husband furiously, knowing full well that he, not she, had the power to decide her actions. Joseph would not drive her even to the Albert Hall or to Fortnum’s without his master’s authority. Her husband could order Nanny, Mrs Mount, the cook, her maid Ellen, even Edie, the parlourmaid, to depart at a moment’s notice to Sussex and they would obey him. She would be left here in London with no servants to look after her, a virtual prisoner in her present condition.

Seeing the look of resignation now replacing the defiance on his wife’s face, Aubrey’s voice softened.

‘Perhaps the country would seem less onerous, my dear, if you took a companion with you – your sister, perhaps? You so rarely see her and she is the only surviving member of your family, after all.’

‘I don’t wish to see her!’ Frances snapped. ‘You know very well Angela and I have nothing whatever in common. She can only think about two things – the theatre … and men, of course. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for taking my poor parents into His tender care where, it is to be hoped, they know nothing of the life Angela leads!’

Aubrey, too, thanked the Lord for cutting short the lives of Frances’ snobbish mother and father, who, the latter having made a phenomenal amount of money in steel, had been as determined as Frances herself to marry his two daughters into the upper classes. Frances, of course, managed to fulfil their dreams but Angela, petite, blonde, with a pretty singing voice, had had other ideas for her future. From the age of twelve, when she was taken to her first theatre, she had determined upon a future for herself as an actress – preferably a famous one acclaimed the world over.

Three years younger than her sister, Angela was engagingly pretty and flirtatious, and as ambitious as ever. The nearest she had ever come to a star part in a theatrical performance was to become, briefly, an understudy. Nevertheless, with the money her parents had left her and the small salaries she earned from minor parts on the stage, she led a completely independent life. Never short of admirers, she spent her non-working hours enjoying herself – something Frances seemed incapable of doing. On the few occasions when Angela came to stay, it was as if a bright shaft of sunlight lit up the rooms. Her charming tinkling laugh could be heard all over the house, interlaced with light-hearted chatter. Aubrey found her an attractive little thing and turned a blind eye to the faint hint of vulgarity about her clothes and speech.

The boys adored her; and George, the eldest, had announced he was going to marry her when he was old enough. Frances was furious and despite Angela’s intervention, sent him up to his room for being impertinent. Aubrey quickly recognized that his wife was jealous of her younger sister’s charm and popularity; and, not least, of her freedom. Once, when Frances had admitted to yet another infant on the way, Angela had tried to commiserate, stating ill-advisedly: ‘Poor old thing! Just imagine, Fran, counting this baby, you will have been pregnant altogether three years! Never mind,’ she added hastily when she saw Frances’ expression, ‘maybe this time you’ll have a girl.’

Two days later, as Joseph negotiated the Packard carefully out of the suburbs and onto the moderately traffic-free London to Brighton road, Frances ignored the excited chatter of her three young sons and, indeed, the ineffectual quietenings of Nanny.

She would have to employ someone more qualified to manage the boys, she thought irritably; a tutor, perhaps, who would exert some discipline over them. Their behaviour was Aubrey’s fault – he spoiled them. Heaven alone knew what would happen if they did have a girl this time. At least he would have to pay attention to the discipline required by the maternity nurse she had engaged to take care of the new baby. Nanny, who looked after the boys, had been Aubrey’s nursemaid when he was a little boy and doted on him to the extent that he could do no wrong in her eyes.

As the car passed through the village of Crawley, Frances reminded herself that in September, George would be going to Eton, Aubrey’s old school. Hopefully, Vaughan and Robert would be much more manageable without their elder brother egging them on to misbehave.

Such thoughts concerning her young sons disappeared abruptly as she felt a twinge of pain in her lower abdomen. She recognized its similarity to an early labour pain and for a moment, she panicked. She couldn’t possibly have the baby in the country! Farlington Hall was miles from anywhere and for all she knew, the nearest village, Elmsfield, might not have a midwife, let alone a competent one. The woman who had delivered all her other babies in London was highly efficient and booked to attend her with this birth. Aubrey must have been mad to even think of sending her thirty miles out of London when she was so near her delivery date.

But the pain quickly subsided and did not return. Relieved that she had probably suffered little worse than wind, Frances reminded herself that she had another three tedious weeks to wait before she could be relieved of the uncomfortable bulk which was making every movement, even sitting, so uncomfortable.

The boys had started squabbling. They knew that their parents were getting another baby and that their father was praying for a girl. George, who worshipped his father, felt threatened that his place as favourite was in jeopardy. Vaughan, the quiet, artistic one of the three, had announced that he had chosen a name for the girl baby. To her intense irritation and refusal, he had chosen Angela, after the aunt they all loved.

‘Who wants a stupid girl? I don’t!’ George was saying, his cheeks pink with irritation. ‘Anyway, Papa said we can’t be sure what it’ll be.’

‘I don’t care what it is!’ four-year-old Robert announced. ‘I’m bored of always being the youngest. I just want it to arrive!’

And so do I, Frances thought as Nanny made further fruitless attempts to quieten the boys. I, too, want this wretched baby to be born, and then I’ll be free to do what I want – like Angela. Things are going to change in future. I’ll run Aubrey’s house for him and entertain his friends, but that’s all I’ll do. Never, ever, ever again will I let him give me another child. Never, never …

She was still muttering the word as Joseph turned the car into the drive and the big mansion house that was Farlington Hall came into view.

Harold Varney looked anxiously at his wife as she lowered herself on to the sofa beside him. ‘Are you very uncomfortable, my love?’ he enquired solicitously.

Copper swept back the tendrils of red hair that had come loose from her blue velvet snood and were clinging to her damp forehead. Harold maintained her hair was one of the many beautiful things about her, but as a child, she had been endlessly teased by her brother, Bertie, who was fair-haired. She must be a foundling, he told her, left by the gypsies; she would never find a husband when she grew up, not with flame-red hair like hers. No matter how often their father insisted it wasn’t flame-red but a burnished coppery colour like chestnuts when they first emerged from their shells, Bertie continued teasing her and by the time she was five, he had stopped calling her by her proper name, Caroline, and called her Copper-head. Although her parents tried to insist on the use of her real name, much to her distress the nickname had stuck. She didn’t mind it now because Harold loved her hair and the name!

‘I’m fine, darling,’ she replied untruthfully. Her beloved husband worried quite enough about her without her complaining to him every time her back ached or the baby kicked. As the doctor had told her on her last visit, at her age a little discomfort in these last weeks before the birth was only to be expected. Thirty-four was, after all, old for a first baby.

It was not as if they hadn’t wanted a child years ago when they were first married, Copper had told the doctor when they had moved into Foxhole Cottage in the village of Elmsfield. She and Harold had agreed she should ask the doctor’s advice as to what could be wrong with her. After a careful examination, he’d been unable to give her an explanation for her failure to conceive. He had called Harold in for an examination and even questioned him as to their method of love-making, but could still not explain why there was no pregnancy. When, many years later at the age of thirty-four, Copper had visited the doctor because of several weeks of continuous nausea, he had told her with a broad grin that she was not ill, as she supposed, but pregnant. She and Harold were ecstatic. Boy or girl, they didn’t mind – only that the baby should be born healthy. To that end, Dr Campbell said, he would feel happier if, in the light of her age, she went into their cottage hospital for the birth. Then, if there were any last-minute complications, he and the nurses would be there to safeguard both her and her longed-for baby.

Harold was the headmaster of the small local school where there was only one other teacher – an unqualified middle-aged lady who taught the very young pupils. Harold had been educated at a grammar school, where he’d achieved such excellent results in his exams he’d been deemed well qualified to train for the profession of teacher. He loved his work and took great pride in the school upon which he had lavished all his time and attention until he’d met and fallen passionately in love with one of the newly arrived young nurses at the local cottage hospital.

His courtship of the pretty twenty-year-old girl was approved by both sets of parents and within an unusually short space of time, a year after their first meeting, the couple were married. Harold’s takeover from the retiring headmaster of Elmsfield village school had enabled them to move into the schoolhouse, Foxhole Cottage.

‘Would you like me to read to you for a little while?’ Harold asked.

Copper declined her husband’s offer although she loved to hear his voice relaying stories by the popular author Rudyard Kipling or plays by the notorious playwright Oscar Wilde whilst she busied herself with her sewing. In the early months of her pregnancy, she had stitched an enchanting layette for the coming child.

‘It’s far too pretty for a boy!’ Harold had teased her when she had shown him the soft flannel nightdresses with their delicately embroidered yokes. Copper was convinced the baby would be a girl even though Harold’s family had produced only boys – Harold, and his two brothers, both of whom had died, one in infancy and the other, a missionary in Africa, of malaria.

‘Let’s just talk, dearest,’ Copper said as she tried to ease herself into a more comfortable position. ‘With the baby due so soon, we really ought to decide upon a name.’

‘I know, I know!’ Harold said sighing. ‘But no sooner do we decide upon a name than we discard it.’ He drew another sigh and then added: ‘We haven’t yet considered Georgina for a girl – in honour of our king.’

Copper shook her head.

‘I think it’s too masculine, as it would surely be shortened to Georgie.’

‘I agree,’ Harold said. ‘I suppose we could consider Victoria, for the old queen?’

At the age of forty, Harold still had thick dark brown hair which, being naturally curly, tended to fall across his forehead no matter how short it was cut. But for his trim moustache and small pointed beard, he wouldn’t look in the least like a schoolmaster, Copper teased him. She looked at him lovingly as she replied now to his suggestion.

‘Victoria sounds too elderly for a baby girl, don’t you think?’

‘Well then, my dear, what do you think of Leila? Byron used it in one of his poems – The Giaour, I think it was.’

‘I quite like it,’ Copper said with a smile. ‘I tell you what, Harold, I will settle for Leila if you agree to Harry should we have a boy.’ She gave a deep sigh as she looked at her husband. ‘If it is, I do so hope he will be just like you!’ she said.

Harold was about to tell her he hoped fervently that a girl would be just like her, but Copper suddenly hunched forward, clutching her stomach as she gasped. He saw at once that she was in pain.

‘Is it the baby?’ he asked.

‘I think so!’ Copper gasped again and then, to Harold’s relief, she let out her breath and straightened her back. ‘Doctor Campbell said first babies were usually late.’ But her instinct told her their baby was almost certainly on its way.

She struggled to her feet with Harold’s arm protectively round her. He looked deeply worried so she smiled reassuringly at him.

‘Don’t look as if the world is coming to an end!’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Thousands of babies are born every day – every minute probably if you include the whole world—’ She broke off as a second pain engulfed her. ‘Maybe you should take me to the hospital now!’ she conceded. ‘I think our baby is in quite a hurry to be born. You’ll see my suitcase in the cupboard in the baby’s room if you will be kind enough to fetch it. There’s everything I need in there.’

Copper was quite calm as Harold helped her into the tiny Ford car they had purchased second-hand the year before. Not only was she prepared for the birth, but the little room adjoining their bedroom was ready too, the bassinet prettily covered with white muslin, the walls freshly wallpapered with a pattern of roses and violets. Crisp cretonne curtains hung either side of the latticed window. She felt almost breathless with excitement and would have been without a worry but for the knowledge that Harold was a bundle of anxiety beside her. She was pleased when they drove up to the hospital, where he helped her inside.

Neither expected the confusion that seemed to reign in the reception hall. There were porters with stretchers and nurses with bundles of fresh sheets hurrying by. Both doctors, including her own Dr Campbell, were by the desk, one of them on the telephone.

‘Oh dear, Mrs Varney!’ Dr Campbell exclaimed as he put down the receiver and caught sight of Copper. ‘This really is unfortunate.’ He regarded her anxiously. ‘Maybe you won’t birth the child until later tomorrow. How often are your pains?’

‘They were every ten minutes or so, Doctor! But they have eased a little now.’

‘Possibly it’s just a warning, my dear,’ he said hopefully. ‘Anyway, you had better stay now you are here. We’ll try to find a room for you and I’ll see you as soon as I can.’ He turned to the receptionist who was about to take yet another telephone call. ‘Can you get one of the nurses to find Mrs Varney a room, please?’ Turning back once more to Copper, he said apologetically: ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you. I have to scrub up before the first casualties arrive.’

To both the receptionists’ and Harold’s consternation, all the nurses seemed frantically busy. Meanwhile, Copper had doubled over once more with pain. The look of excitement had gone and her face was white and tense with the effort not to cry out. Dr Campbell did not reappear, and growing ever more anxious, Harold managed to catch hold of the arm of one of the nurses hurrying past.

‘Somebody’s got to help us!’ he said, his voice as authoritative as when he was administering discipline at school. ‘My wife’s been in pain for the past hour. She’s going to have a baby!’

The nurse paused and unexpectedly smiled as she recognized him. She had been one of Harold’s first pupils and thanks to his excellent teaching, had, like him, won a place at grammar school.

‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr Varney!’ she said. ‘I’ll attend to your wife the moment I can. There’s an emergency, you see – a dreadful train crash at Burgess Halt and an awful lot of people have been injured – too many for Burgess General to take. So we’re getting the overflow as soon as they’ve managed to get the injured out of the wreckage. We’re moving some of the convalescent patients into the day room and getting their ward ready for the casualties.’

She looked at Copper’s white face and said gently: ‘Just sit down over there in that chair. You’ll be quite all right. Babies can take hours to come, you know. Yours may not come until tomorrow morning!’ Seeing Copper gasp as yet another pain took hold of her, she added: ‘I’ll try and find a porter to take this load of sheets up to the ward and I’ll come back and help you to a room where you will have some privacy. The labour ward is being used for additional casualties. So you’ll have a nice double room all to yourself … at least, unless, heaven forbid, we get even more mothers deciding to have their babies tonight!’ She turned back to Harold. ‘You’ll look after your wife until I get back, Mr Varney, won’t you? I’ll be as quick as I can.’ With which she disappeared.

Copper tried to smile as she removed Harold’s hand where he was gripping her arm. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right now I’m here, dearest. You heard what the nurse said – I’m to have a room all to myself. So you go home now.’ As he started to protest she said gently: ‘Really, Harry, you can’t do anything to help me, and,’ she added with an attempted smile, ‘I won’t have to worry about you worrying about me!’

Harold still looked concerned. ‘I can’t possibly leave you here on your own. Suppose …’

He got no further before his former pupil returned and helped Copper out of her chair. ‘You can kiss her goodbye, Mr Varney!’ she said smiling. ‘I promise to telephone you as soon as you become a proud parent. Your wife will be in Room 12.’

No sooner had a reluctant Harold left the building than the nurse said: ‘They are nearly all the same – fathers-to-be. By the look on their faces, you’d think they were the ones having the baby! By the way, my name’s Hope, which reminds me, are you hoping for a boy or a girl, Mrs Varney?’

With her cheerful chatter, Copper was able to forget a little of her growing apprehension whilst the nurse undressed her. The pains were now coming at regular intervals and were much stronger. She was not the least surprised when the nurse told her she was already in the second stage of labour and would quite likely have her baby within the next hour or two.

‘We have waited ten years for this baby!’ Copper confided between the painful waves of pain. ‘So we don’t mind whether we have a son or a daughter.’

But the nurse was not listening. ‘I’m going to see if I can get hold of the midwife,’ she said, but with little hope of success she thought. When she had last seen her, she was in attendance upon another woman about to give birth – a Lady Beauford, who was a lot more demanding than Mr Varney’s wife. Admittedly she was having a bad time – the baby was in the breech position and Sister Joan, the midwife, was so far unable to turn it into the correct birth position. If she did not succeed, the doctor would almost certainly have to perform a Caesarean and that was the last thing they needed with so many of the train casualties to be seen to.

Looking extremely tired and not a little exasperated by her patient’s constant demands, Sister Joan had left the room for a brief respite during which she informed Copper’s nurse that she had ‘a real pain in the neck’ in Room 13! Lady Beauford was to have had her baby in London she related but her husband had thought she would be safer in the country if there was a war, and now the doctor at Burgess General who had seen her at her home, Farlington Hall, had told her she could not undertake the drive back to town as her waters had broken and of course that meant she had started labour. Burgess General had been too busy to admit her and had sent her on to Elmsfield Cottage Hospital, where it had fallen to the midwife to look after her.

‘You’d think she was the Queen!’ Sister Joan confided to her younger colleague. ‘The bed’s too hard; the sheets are cotton, not linen as her ladyship is accustomed to; she has not been given anything to ease the pain and she will never, ever have another baby. It wasn’t even as if she had wanted this one!’

‘My patient is just the opposite!’ Nurse Hope said. ‘It’s her first baby and she’s quite old, which is why Dr Campbell wanted her in hospital where he can keep an eye on her. I know her husband, Mr Varney – he was my headmaster years ago. His wife is called Copper – she’s red-headed, you see. What’s your patient called?’

‘Lady Beauford, Frances Beauford,’ the older woman told her, adding with a sigh: ‘I suppose I shouldn’t stand here telling tales about her, but she really is a pain in the neck. She refuses . . .