"Poor woman. How can she? She should have come with Fanny. Why does she stay with the brute?" said Timothy.
"The answer to that," replied Frances, "is involved with the complexity of human nature. Some people call it love. I've seen it happen again and again. They come to us almost battered to death. They ask for refuge. We give it to them. We nurse them back to health. We set them on the road to a decent life ... and then ... they go back to be battered all over again. It's disheartening. But it is something in a certain type of female. While that exists we shall always be the weaker sex ... because somewhere inside these women ... they want to be dominated. It maddens me. Well, I can do nothing for Mrs. Billings. What we have to concentrate on is Fanny ... and that, my dear, is what you are going to do. Bless you for bringing her back. I've vowed to myself that I am going to give Fanny a chance of a good life ... and you have helped me more than I can say." She did a rare thing. She kissed us both and we kissed each other, Timothy and I. He took my hands and looked earnestly into my eyes. I believed then that he loved me.
There was a dramatic sequence to that adventure.
The next day the papers were full of it.
"Horrible Murder in Swan Street."
I read it over breakfast and as I did so the significance of what had happened dawned on me. "Jack Billings returned home after a drunken spree and battered his wife, Emily, to death in their home. Mrs. Billings' daughter by her first marriage, was by good fortune staying at the Mission run by Peter and Frances Lansdon, son and daughter-in-law of the well-known philanthropist Peter Lansdon."
That was all.
I went at once to see Frances. She had heard the news.
"Thank God you brought Fanny here," she said.
"I think Mrs. Billings' death is probably due to the fact that Fanny left," I said.
"It might have been, but there was bound to be something like this sooner or later."
"What of Fanny? Does she know?"
"Not yet. I'm wondering what's best to be done."
Timothy arrived, having heard the news.
His first words were: "What of Fanny?"
"She doesn't know yet," said Frances. "I am considering what to do."
"Would it be a good idea to get her away?"
"I think it might."
"I could take her down to Hampton."
"Oh, Tim ... would you?"
"I don't see why not. I've told my sister and the children about her. They'd be pleased."
"I think that is an exciting idea. There will be lots in the paper. Fanny can't read ... but there'll be talk. She's very sharp. I want the shock to be cushioned when it comes."
"Do you think Fanny would agree to come?" asked Timothy.
"I think she would with you. We'll ask her. She is fond of you and you have won her confidence ... particularly after the way you two went down there and brought her away."
It was a new Fanny we saw—washed and shining. Her dress was a little too big for her but it was the best Frances could find among the clothes which had been donated to the Mission from time to time.
"Fanny," said Frances, "Mr. Ransome wants to take you to his house in the country. Would you like to go?"
"I ain't never been to the country."
"Well, now is your chance to see it."
"With 'im?" she said, pointing to Timothy.
"That's right. It's his home. He's got two children ... a girl and a boy. They've heard of you. You could help look after them."
I could see that she liked the idea of looking after children.
"What about 'er?" she said nodding in my direction.
"I don't live there, you see, Fanny."
"Oh." I felt flattered that she looked disappointed.
"Perhaps we could persuade Mrs. Mandeville to come and stay with us," said Timothy.
"All right," she said.
"I'll tell you what we'll do," I said. "We'll go out today and buy another merino dress ... a blue one as like the other as we can find."
"And a red hair ribbon?" she said.
"That too," I promised.
And that was settled.
The next day Timothy took Fanny down to Hampton. I missed them very much and was surprised that some savor seemed to have gone out of my life.
But there was a letter from my mother. She was coming to London immediately and would be with us in two days' time.
My mother was eager to know all that had been happening in London. I noticed how she kept studying me intently. I knew what she meant. She wanted to know how far my friendship with Timothy had progressed and whether I was happy.
I could not tell her because I did not know myself.
I thought increasingly of Ben and wished more than ever that I were at Manorleigh helping with the campaign.
I had enjoyed working at the Mission and little could be as worthwhile as that, but how I should have enjoyed doing all the things which Lizzie hated so much and which, presumably, Grace was helping her to do.
I thought it must be a most exciting life—but perhaps that was because it was Ben's.
One of the first things Amaryllis did when my mother arrived was to invite Timothy to dinner.
"I know," said Aunt Amaryllis, "that your mother is eager to hear how you helped that young girl."
Then my mother had to hear the story of Fanny.
"You went into that dreadful place alone!" was her first comment.
"I didn't think of it. I just followed Fanny."
My mother shivered. "It was foolish of you."
"But if I hadn't what would have happened? It was all for the best. And Timothy was not far behind."
"What a terrible thing! That poor woman ... murdered."
"It will, at least, be the end of that ... monster," said Aunt Amaryllis. "He's guilty and everyone knows it. He admits it himself. He'll hang."
"And that poor child?"
"She's with Timothy's family at the moment."
"Oh yes ..."
It was clear that my mother had had a full report on Timothy's family from Aunt Amaryllis.
"It was good of him to take her in," said my mother. "I must say he seems to me to be a very kind person ... working for the Mission and all that."
"Oh, you know Frances. She insists that people come and then she makes them work."
"Frances is wonderful."
"Peterkin is a great help to all those people, too."
"They are a wonderful pair."
"I am so glad Timothy's coming to dine. I do look forward to meeting him."
When Timothy came it was obvious from the first that they took an instant liking to each other.
"I've heard so much about you," said my mother, "and all that you have been doing at the Mission. There is so much I want to know about the poor child you rescued. I do think it was wonderful."
We were at the dinner table with, as usual, Uncle Peter at one end and Aunt Amaryllis at the other. They were beaming like two benign gods who have settled the troubles of the world. I could see that they had decided that I should marry Timothy Ransome and live happily ever after. Why is it that other people's problems are so easy to solve? It is only one's own which are fraught with difficulty.
They talked of little but politics. It would not have been a dinner party at that house without that. My mother wanted to know how Ben was getting on and I noticed the pride with which Uncle Peter told her that he had a fair chance of beating his opponent.
"It is rather amusing," said my mother. "You and Matthew on one side and Ben on the other."
"It adds spice to the contest," agreed Uncle Peter.
"Grace is being so useful," said Aunt Amaryllis.
"She is a clever woman," replied my mother. "I always thought that ... from the day she came to us. Do you remember that day, Angelet?"
I said I did.
"And I gather she is looking after Lizzie ... which is good of her. Poor Lizzie!"
"She ought to have married someone not quite so demanding," said Aunt Amaryllis. "Well, at least she has Grace."