The Wronged Daughter
The Wronged Daughter
Mary Wood
Contents
PART ONE: Blackburn and London, 1920–21
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
PART TWO: Blackburn, 1921
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
PART THREE: London, Blackburn and Portpatrick, 1921
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
PART FOUR: Portpatrick and Blackburn, 1924–25
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
EPILOGUE: France, 1926
Chapter Thirty-Four
Letter to Readers
Acknowledgements
To my hubby, Roy.
Without you I could not achieve all I do.
You are my strength.
PART ONE
Blackburn and London, 1920–21
Mags and Harold
Uncertainties Mar Happiness
Chapter One
Mags held on to the back of the chair and stared across at the doctor. What he was saying didn’t seem possible. Not my dear mother? No. Mother has always been strong.
‘I’m sorry, but there’s only tender loving care that can be given, to ease her passing. I can arrange for a nurse to come and stay. She will administer oxygen, when needed, and the medication that I shall prescribe. But I’m afraid Belinda’s weak heart is rapidly failing her.’
Weak heart? When did Mother ever have a weak heart?
As Mags watched her father shake the doctor’s hand, the thought rushed through her that he had changed, too. His back was no longer ramrod-straight, and his hair, which had been greying at the temples, was now almost white. Why hadn’t she ever noticed how heavily he leaned on his stick?
Suddenly the part of her world that had always felt safe was crumbling. Life here in her beloved Blackburn was lived at a slow pace, even if for the most part she was kept busy running the mill. Always she was surrounded by familiar things, and by people she’d grown up with. Now a big part of that – her family life – was being threatened.
‘Margaret, the doctor is leaving. Where are your manners?’
‘No, Herbert, don’t admonish her. Margaret has had a shock. You should have told her about her mother’s condition. I counselled both you and Belinda, many times over the years, to do so. I’m sorry, Margaret. I should have insisted that you were told and were therefore prepared for the fact that what is happening now has always been inevitable. Your mother has had a heart condition for a long time. It has been like an unexploded bomb. Anything could have triggered it to fail – and at any time. I’m sorry, truly sorry, but she only has days left to live.’
Mags shook her head. This wasn’t happening. How could she have missed the signs? Yes, Mother was frequently breathless, and her skin and lips often had a blue tinge, but she had said it was an asthmatic condition and was under control.
‘Sit down, Margaret. Let yourself absorb this terrible news. Are you feeling unwell yourself? You seem to have lost a lot of weight, when you could ill afford to lose any.’
Backing into the chair behind her, Mags tried to control the shaking of her limbs.
‘You’ve never spoken of the horrors you must have witnessed in Belgium. I thought you had recovered from them, but something has knocked you back. At the winter ball, with your nice young man by your side – Harold, that’s his name, isn’t it?’ Mags nodded. ‘You seemed your old self. But since returning from your stay at his home, I have seen a change in you each time I have visited your mother.’
Something had indeed knocked Mags back. Something that gave her nightmares. Memories flooded her mind: the war, meeting and forming a strong friendship with the lovely Flora and Ella as they set out, three young girls full of courage and yet needing each other’s support. Then learning how Flora was rejected by her family, and Ella abandoned by hers. And seeing Flora’s happiness as her brother Harold had begun to show her a little affection, and how this had led to Mags meeting Harold herself, and being swept off her feet by him. But then . . . the awful events that led to the image that haunted Mags – seeing Harold and Flora’s mother sprawled on the floor, her head smashed on the fender . . .
Without her wanting it to happen, Mags’s bottom lip quivered, and stinging tears begged to be released. She looked up into Dr Lange’s kindly face. His words had triggered the memories, and as she let in the full horror of what had happened, other wounds opened. Images of her wartime experience flashed before her – the sweating face of the German soldier as he raped her; she could still hear his triumphant grunting, and the cheering of his fellow soldiers as they egged him on; but above their chants, the screams of Flors, dear Flors, as she fought against another of the lusting soldiers. How can I ever recover from that? Or from the constant stream of faces of wounded and dying men, who seem to be drowning in a sea of blood?
‘Margaret? Margaret?’
Her father’s desperate voice penetrated the horrific memory. She looked up at him and saw an old man. A fearful, fragile old man – both her parents had been middle-aged when she, their only child, had been born twenty-four years ago, but never before had she noticed them getting old. Yes, she’d taken more and more responsibility for running the family mill over the last few months, and had enjoyed doing so, feeling grateful that, despite their age, her parents had been forward-thinking and hadn’t felt that a daughter was incapable of having a business head. But she hadn’t viewed that responsibility as Father delegating because he could no longer cope. Now she did see that, and it came as a painful realization.
‘Stand back, Herbert, give Margaret some air. The shock has been too much for her. Summon a maid to bring some tea. She needs a hot, sweet drink.’
Mags felt the doctor take her pulse. Her cheeks were wet, and yet she hadn’t known that her tears had spilled over.
‘Margaret, you need to talk to someone. I know a young woman who has taken a great interest in the trauma experienced by people returning from the war. She is trying to develop a programme that will help them cope. I’d like to refer you to her. Not only would it help you, but you could help her – guiding her as to the kind of help that is needed.’
Is that it: Am I going mad? Me? Capable Mags, am I insane? No!
‘I’m all right. I’m sorry. It was just the shock. I – I never suspected . . . well, anything this serious. I can’t take it in.’
When the maid entered, they fell silent. The sound of the tea being poured echoed around the room. Once the maid had bobbed a curtsy and left them, Mags watched the doctor spoon in a further two teaspoons of sugar, to add to the one that already laced her cup. A widower, the doctor always wore his wedding band, and the gold caught the light as he stirred the steaming liquid.
The ring reminded her that soon she would be married, and doubts crowded in upon Mags once more. Taking a gulp of her tea, she grimaced at the sweetness of it, but the second sip began to steady her, and she drank the rest as quickly as the scorching heat of it would permit. While drinking, she didn’t have to talk. But it didn’t stop her mind working. And right now it was nagging her with the truth about her fiancé, Harold – now estranged from Flora.
‘Margaret, you’re shaking again. Have you drunk your tea?’
‘Yes, but I could do with another.’
‘Ah, you’re showing signs of recovery now. What do you think of my suggestion?’
‘I – I don’t think so. Thank you. I’m all right; it’s just the stress of arranging my wedding, being away from my fiancé and taking responsibility for the mill. I will be fine.’
‘Well, you do seem overloaded. And to hear such terrible news now about your mother was probably just too much for you. Let’s see how you go over the next few weeks, which won’t be easy ones for you. You will need to call on all the inner strength that I know you possess, in order to come to terms with your mother’s condition and to help her, too. Maybe – though I hate to suggest it – you might think about postponing your wedding? I was pleased to learn that your future husband is also in the cotton trade, as it always helps if you have the same interests. He’s part owner of the Roford mill, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. He is in partnership with his uncle. He intends to take more of an interest – as he did during the war – once he has all his affairs at home sorted out and he moves up from London to live here.’
‘That will be a good solution for you, because obviously he will take over the running of your family mill, too, and then you can be the lady of this house.’
This touched a nerve with Mags. ‘Dr Lange, for one thing, my mother isn’t dead yet and is still the lady of this house; and for another, I will continue to run the mill once I am married. I am not the kind of woman who will leave everything of a business nature to my husband.’
A cough from her father made Mags realize that she’d spoken too harshly.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘No, no. It was good to see your old spirit back in you. Ha, you’ve always been independent-minded. Your father tells me that you have an excellent business head on your shoulders. Let’s hope your husband is just as forward-thinking as your parents are.’
Would Harold consent to her carrying on at the mill? Mags knew one of the fears she harboured was that he wouldn’t; but she hadn’t let that fear take root, as she felt she could manage the situation, if that was the case. She knew Harold well; and yes, she knew that part of his motive for marrying her was to get a foot on her father’s mill. So why, then, was she going through with it?
Love, that’s why. For some inexplicable reason – and despite all she knew about him – she loved Harold. Needed him. And wanted to be his wife.
‘Well, I’ll get off.’ The doctor walked towards the door. ‘Belinda will sleep for at least another two hours. I will have a nurse here by then. Have you a room near Belinda’s that you can make available for the nurse? She will need to sleep here and be on call twenty-four hours a day.’
‘We have, Doctor. But I can help. I am a competent nurse, and I want to care for my mother when I come home from the mill.’
‘An excellent idea. You are a good daughter, Margaret.’
Mags felt a blush spreading over her face. The doctor always made her feel like a little girl who needed praise, but then he could also be cutting, with a remark like her needing to take on a woman’s role – almost as if he hated anyone stepping away from the norm. Even when he’d spoken of the woman psychiatrist that he’d wanted to refer Mags to, he had been derogatory in saying she might need guidance in how to approach those suffering from the effects of war.
As her father closed the door on the doctor, leaving the maid to see him out, he turned to her. ‘That was a big sigh, Margaret.’
‘Oh, Daddy, it’s just, well . . . you know. I want to be taken seriously.’ She went into the embrace of his free arm.
‘Well, I take you seriously. I rely on you a lot. But maybe I have been wrong to do so. Not having a son, I naturally let you take an interest in my work. Your dear mother didn’t object, as she has the same nature as you – being free-spirited and not of a mind that there are different roles for men and for women. Oh, Margaret, how am I going to live without her?’
At this, Mags felt her father slump. She helped him to a chair. ‘I’ll be here for you, darling Daddy. We’ll manage. Don’t give up.’
But as she said the words, she had a sinking feeling he was doing just that.
Shutting out her own thoughts of doom and despair, she was determined to be strong. She would be the rock for her parents that they had always been for her.
And part of that role would be to curb the doubts, block out the nightmare images and try to forget the horrors of the war, and especially what had happened after it, when it was discovered that dear Flors and her adored husband, Cyrus, were half-brother and sister. That Cyrus had been fathered by Flors’s and Harold’s father during an affair.
But can I ever blot out the consequences of that coming to light, – the disgust and fear when I overheard Harold and his mother planning to kill Cyrus? And how am I ever going to live with the awful knowledge that, by foiling that plan, I accidentally caused the death of Harold’s and Flors’s mother?
Chapter Two
‘My dear, I have things I – I want to s – say.’
‘Mummy, please don’t try to talk, it takes so much out of you.’
‘Darling, I – I know I haven’t long to be with you. And I want to tell you to be very careful. D – Daddy is failing, too. You will be on your own.’
‘Don’t, don’t! Oh, Mummy, I can’t bear to think of you both leaving me. But you mustn’t worry, as I won’t be on my own. I will have Harold.’
‘Take care. Daddy is good in many ways. I – I have brought him round to thinking that he can leave the mill to you, but he – he can so easily be persuaded otherwise.’
Mags knew what her mother was trying to say. Knew that she had reservations about Harold and his motives in wanting to marry her.
‘Try not to worry, Mummy. I can take care of myself. You have taught me never to accept that I am a lesser being than a man; and to stand up for my rights. Harold loves me. And I love him, Mummy – I do.’
Mags hoped this sounded convincing. Her heart was heavy with sadness as she noted how blue her mother’s lips were, and how her porcelain-like skin looked almost transparent – signs that told the end was near.