“No thanks,” I said.
When we took back our plates and tankards and washed them in the kitchen we saw Frances.
“There’s trouble,” she said. “Billings is up to his tricks again.” She turned to me. “We get cases like this all the time. But this kind makes me mad. It’s where young people are concerned.”
“Fanny again?” asked Timothy Ransome.
“Yes. I don’t know what we can do. I’d like to get Fanny away … but there’s the mother. She doesn’t want to leave him.” She wrinkled her brows. “Billings drinks. He’s not so bad when he’s not drinking, but he can’t resist the gin palaces. You know what they say: ‘Drunk for a penny and dead drunk for tuppence.’ Well, he’s dead drunk most of the time. Emily Billings is a silly woman. She should leave him. But she won’t. He’s the second husband and seems to have her completely under his spell. Fanny was the daughter of the first marriage,” she explained to me. “He was a builder and fell from the scaffolding. There was no compensation. That’s one of the things we’re working on. In the meantime … Emily married Billings and her troubles really started.”
“There are so many similar cases,” said Timothy Ransome.
“True. As far as Emily’s concerned I’d say, All right, if you won’t leave him take the consequences. It’s the child … Fanny. She’s a bright little thing. I could do something for her. But I can’t take a girl of fifteen away from her home. Emily would stand by him in a court of law. She’d deny anything. He could almost kill her and she’d say she had fallen down the stairs. But it is Fanny. From what I hear there is danger of sexual abuse. Emily knows it and tries to hide it. It was something Fanny said that gave me the clue. I just can’t put it on one side. I have to do something because of Fanny.”
“It’s a problem,” agreed Timothy Ransome. “If there is anything I can do …”
“I’ll call on you, never fear. Angelet, you have been thrown in at the deep end, as they say. If it hadn’t been for all this blowing up this morning, I could have shown you round properly.”
“Don’t worry about that. I want to see how everything works. I’m getting a real insight.”
“The carriage is coming for you at four, I believe.”
“Yes, they insisted.”
“Quite right, too. You’d never get a cab here.”
“Had I known I would have taken you home,” said Timothy Ransome.
Frances answered for me. “Another time, Tim. I feel sure Angelet will come again.”
“I shall,” I said. “Perhaps on Friday if Rebecca goes to Morwenna.”
Timothy Ransome said: “And on Friday I shall be here. I’ll see that you are returned safely to your home.”
Frances beamed on us both.
“Very well. I shall see you on Friday. I promise I shall find plenty for you to do.”
I had been going to Frances’ Mission twice a week—on Wednesdays and Fridays. Frances was delighted and I always found plenty to do. I learned things about other people’s lives which were so different from my own; I was appalled, shocked and at the same time exhilarated because I felt I was doing something worthwhile.
I was becoming very friendly with Tim Ransome, who also appeared on Wednesdays and Fridays. The carriage would take me there and he would bring me home.
Aunt Amaryllis said how delighted she was that I was helping Frances and Peterkin. Frances had told her all about it and how useful I was making myself.
“It’s such good work,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Uncle Peter says it is just what you are needing. He gives a lot of money to the Mission.”
I nodded, remembering Frances’ comments that he made sure that his gifts were noted, but that she was grateful for them all the same.
I heard from the servants that Ben had called on one or two occasions. “He seemed most put out, Madam, that you were not at home.”
Frances made a point of sending Timothy and me on errands of mercy. She would not let me go out alone and he was always my escort. We took clothes and food to the sick and needy, and I became fairly familiar with the neighborhood. We would be sent to shop in the markets for the stores needed in the Mission and this I greatly enjoyed. The stalls would be piled up with merchandise of all descriptions and the noisy costermongers would shout their wares in audacious cockney … often using the rhyming slang which was quite unintelligible to me without Timothy’s translation.
It was natural that our friendship grew quickly in such circumstances.
I knew him for a man who had never really recovered from the loss of his wife; he was fond of his children but they could not compensate him completely. He was fortunate he told me: his elder sister was unmarried and devoted to him and the children; she lived in his country house and looked after his home.
“I should be lost without her,” he said. “And the children are very fond of her.”
Frances must have told Amaryllis of my friendship with Timothy and as a result he was asked to dine at the house in the square.
This he did on one or two occasions and it was clear that they liked him.
Grace was a guest on one occasion. She said what a charming man he was, and smiled significantly. It was the first indication that it might seem that there was something serious and special about our relationship.
I had seen Ben once or twice—usually when others were present. There had been few opportunities of speaking together alone. I did not seek them, but I believe he did.
He said to me once: “I hear that you are devoting yourself to good works.”
“You mean the Mission.”
“Yes. They tell me you attend regularly.”
“I like to feel I am doing something.”
“I wish I could see you sometime.”
We were at a dinner party at Matthew’s and Helena’s and the men had just rejoined us after dinner. It was just a snatched conversation.
I did not answer. I looked across the room to where Lizzie was sitting trying to make conversation with the middle-aged gentleman seated beside her; and the effort was making her miserable. Grace was there, talking brightly to a young man. She looked over and saw us, and in a few moments she was making her way towards us.
She talked brightly to Ben of the constituency to which he had been elected as candidate. I was surprised how well informed she was.
I took the opportunity of slipping away.
There were a great many dinner parties—either at the house in the square or Matthew’s and Helena’s house.
Helena said, “There is a feverish expectancy in the air. I call it the electoral disease.”
“Do you really think there is going to be an election soon?”
She nodded vigorously. “I can see the signs. Disraeli can’t hold out. He’ll have to go to the country.”
“And then?”
“Who can say? We’re hoping he’ll get back. But, of course, Ben has other views.”
“It is strange to have such divergence in a family.”
“Oh, it is all very friendly. It is, you know, in the House. It has often struck me that members of the same party are more venomous towards each other than to those of the opposition.”
“I suppose that is because they are reaching for the same prize. With the other side … well, they are not rivals in the same way.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, it is rather exciting.”
“Yes, if it doesn’t get too serious.”
She was right about the electoral fever.
It was October. Cool winds were blowing across the parks and the ground was carpeted with red and bronze leaves. Excitement was in the air and people were saying that Disraeli’s ministry could not carry on as they were. They must go to the country.
I was often at the house in the square. Ben was there, too, so we saw each other frequently … but never alone. Timothy was often asked. Frances and Peterkin came rarely. They pleaded too much work.