The Fortunes of Francesca Page 9

  Franny took Auntie back to her room presently, saw her onto her bed and well covered in a quilt, and then finished the unpacking before going to her own room to put away her own meagre wardrobe. That done, and Auntie peacefully asleep, she went downstairs wrapped in her old mac and let herself out of the house. There was no one about. A brisk walk in the grounds would cheer her up. Besides, she had a lot to think about. Their reception had been tepid. Aunt Editha had made it plain that they weren’t particularly welcome, and the servants, with the exception of Jenny, were polite but unfriendly. She wondered what kind of a welcome they would get from Uncle William...

  ‘I wish we hadn’t come,’ said Franny to a robin that was watching her from the hedge. ‘It’s a mistake. But what else could we do?’

  Auntie needed care and attention, she, Franny, had no job, and there was almost no money. Uncle William had arrived just at a time when to ignore his plans for their future was an impossibility.

  Franny, walking awkwardly because her ankle hurt, decided that for the present, at least, they must make the best of it. Perhaps Uncle William would give them a warmer welcome than they had received from Aunt Editha.

  * * *

  UNCLE WILLIAM’S WELCOME took the form of a speech in which he reminded them several times of his generosity in giving them a home, assuring them that they might spend the rest of their days there and that Auntie would be given every care and attention.

  ‘And as for you, Francesca,’ he finished in his overbearing way, ‘I have no doubt that we shall find something to keep you happily occupied. I have already spoken to the rector—his curate, a very pleasant man, is in need of helpers for Sunday school and the Mother’s Union.’

  Franny held her tongue; Auntie was looking bewildered and unhappy and she didn’t intend to add to her distress.

  They dined presently. There was no need to make conversation for Uncle William did the talking. He shrugged aside anything Auntie had to say about Fish Street and embarked on a long description of the work which needed to be done on one wing of the house.

  ‘An enormous expense!’ he pointed out. ‘But I must preserve our home at all costs. I have cut my pleasure to the bone in order to meet the cost,’ he added sadly. ‘And now the extra expense...’

  ‘We didn’t ask to come,’ Franny pointed out sharply. ‘It is kind of you to give us a home, Uncle, but as soon as I am able to get work again Auntie and I will relieve you of the added burden on your finances.’

  Uncle William went purple and choked, ‘Francesca—I can only suppose that your rudeness is the result of undesirable friends.’

  ‘I’m not meaning to be rude, just speaking the truth, Uncle. I should have thought that you and Aunt Editha would be glad to know that you won’t have to keep us permanently.’

  ‘I am shocked and so is your aunt. The ingratitude...’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to be shocked,’ Franny pointed out reasonably. ‘And of course we are grateful,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Although I can’t think why you didn’t help us when Mother and Father were killed. You did nothing after their accident, only washed your hands of us.’ She smiled at Auntie. ‘We’d have sunk without trace if it hadn’t been for Auntie.’

  ‘I am appalled...’ began Uncle William.

  ‘So were we,’ said Franny. ‘I dare say you had your reasons,’ she added kindly, ‘but you did treat my mother and father very badly.’ She paused because Auntie gave her such a distressed look. ‘I’ve let my tongue run away with me,’ she observed matter-of-factly. ‘I always do. But at least it clears the air, doesn’t it?’

  Uncle William maintained a stony silence after that, and it was left to Aunt Editha to make conversation with Auntie, ignoring Franny.

  They would be tired, said Aunt Editha as they rose from the table. They would like to go to their rooms. Breakfast was at half past eight. She bade them goodnight, but Uncle William still didn’t speak.

  In Auntie’s room, helping her to get ready for the night, Franny said, ‘I shouldn’t have spoken as I did; I’m sorry if it’s bothered you. I never could hold my tongue. I dare say once they’ve got used to having us here it will be quite pleasant.’

  She didn’t believe that, of course, but Auntie needed a bit of cheering up. Once Auntie was in bed, Franny went to her own room and sat down to write to Finn. It was a cheerful letter and it took her quite a time to compose it. On no account must Finn doubt even for a moment that things weren’t quite what they had expected. It’s like being poor relations in a Victorian novel, thought Franny, and went to have a bath and reflect upon the day.

  Her reflections did nothing to lift her spirits, so she gave them up and thought about the professor. Where was he? she wondered. And would she ever see him again? And, if she did, would he remember who she was? She rather doubted that. He would have hosts of friends, and when his work permitted she imagined that he would have a very pleasant social life.

  The water grew cold at last, which put a stop to her fanciful thoughts, and she went to bed.

  She woke in the night, knowing that a faint noise had roused her. She had left the doors open in the bathroom which separated her room from Auntie’s and she got up now, wincing at the twinge of pain in her ankle, and padded across the cold bathroom floor—she heard the sound again. Auntie was crying.

  Franny turned on the bedside light and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s only because you are tired,’ she told her aunt. ‘Everything will be all right in the morning. It wasn’t quite what you expected, was it, dear? But I dare say Uncle William and Aunt Editha feel just as awkward as we do. We have to get to know each other, don’t we, after all these years?’

  Auntie said worriedly, ‘I’m not sure that I trust your uncle, child. He was a vindictive young man. He never liked us, and certainly he had no affection for us. I wonder why he has sought us out in this unexpected fashion? It worries me.’ And Auntie had reason to worry.

  Over the years William had brooded over his young sisters’ defiance until it had become an obsession. To make them pay had become vital to him. He had been thwarted by the death of Franny’s mother, but had then merely transferred his hatred to her children.

  It had been easy to keep track of his sister, Franny and Finn once he had had news of their mother and father’s deaths, and that they were in straitened circumstances had been obvious from the Fish Street address. He had bided his time. They were to be coaxed to return to his home and once there he would see to it that they paid for the disobedience to him when his sisters had married.

  Now everything had gone according to his plan. Fate had been on his side.

  His sister was ill, and as far as he was concerned could die as soon as possible, and Francesca—as bad or even worse than her mother had been—well, her future was settled. He and Editha were getting old; she should become their companion—unpaid, of course—and dwindle away into a dreary spinsterhood.

  He was a rich man but mean; she wouldn’t get a penny piece...

  Auntie, happily unaware of this, was still worried.

  ‘And what about my pension...?’

  Franny said soothingly, ‘Don’t worry about that, Auntie. It will be all right, I’m sure.’

  She began to talk about the things they would do—walk in the village together, perhaps do some shopping for Aunt Editha, potter in the garden, get to know people—Aunt Editha must surely have friends—there would be a game of bridge, perhaps, and television to watch.

  Auntie allowed herself to be soothed, but said worriedly, ‘Yes, dear, that’s all very well, but what about you? You need to meet people of your age, lead your own life. You can’t spend your days just sitting around with old women playing bridge and knitting.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me; I’m sure Uncle William will find me something to do.’ Franny kissed Auntie’s cheek. ‘Now go to slee
p, my dear; everything is going to be all right.’

  Only it wasn’t. It took a day or so for Franny to realise that they really were to be treated like the poor relations.

  Auntie was expected to spend a good deal of the day in her room—after all she had been gravely ill. ‘It is most important that you rest quietly,’ Uncle William had said. ‘Come downstairs to meals, by all means, but I suggest you remain in your room for the greater part of the day.’

  Franny had protested at that. ‘Auntie needs to have gentle exercise,’ she’d pointed out. ‘If you could arrange for her to have a room downstairs so that she could go into the garden without having to go up and down the stairs? And could you get your doctor to come and just check that she is well?’

  ‘Quite unnecessary...’

  ‘Then I’ll have to go and find him for myself.’

  ‘Certainly not. I will attend to it. It is obvious that you have nothing better to do than find fault with the arrangements which have been made for you both. You are more like your father than your mother, I regret to say.’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak of my father in that manner. He was worth half a dozen of you, Uncle William!’

  He had walked out of the room then, and although he’d been polite enough when they sat down to lunch later she’d sensed his displeasure. She had dared to remind him about the doctor and wanting the rooms changed, and she had been abominably rude. He wouldn’t forgive her in a hurry.

  Two days later Rose the housemaid went on holiday, and Aunt Editha suggested that Franny might help with one or two small chores around the house. ‘I’m sure you will be glad to have something to do,’ she pointed out. ‘Just small jobs around the place—the flowers, laying the table, and little errands for Mrs Beck...’

  It didn’t stop at ‘little errands’, however. She did the flowers and then within a few days Franny found herself answering the door when Cox was in the cellars or had an afternoon off, making beds because Mrs Beck needed Jenny to help her in the kitchen, loading the washing machine, hanging the wash to dry in one of the outhouses bordering the yard at the back and, since there seemed no one else to do it, ironing it.

  ‘When is Rose coming back?’ she asked her aunt as she cleared the breakfast table one morning.

  ‘I have had a letter from her. Her mother is poorly; she won’t be returning for some time, I’m afraid. Fortunately you are here, so there is no need for me to engage help until she returns.’

  ‘I am your niece, Aunt Editha, not the housemaid.’

  ‘I must remind you, Francesca, that you and your aunt are here owing to the kindness and generosity of your uncle. If you are dissatisfied then go, by all means, and take your aunt with you.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  They had nowhere to go and almost no money. No house, no furniture and no friends. And it was February and cold. On her own, Franny would have walked out of the house as fast as she could pack her bags, but Auntie needed warmth and food and a bed to sleep in. She had no choice but to stay.

  She said nothing to Auntie. There was a half-formed plan in her head, though. Auntie was due for another check-up in a week or so. She would go with her, explain matters to the doctor who saw her and ask if she could be given a bed in a long-stay hospital. That would leave Franny free to find work and somewhere to live, and as quickly as possible have Auntie back with her. It was a plan full of holes, but the best she could think of at the moment.

  Cautiously she sounded out Auntie the next day, whilst sitting with her for an hour after lunch. ‘You’re due to go back to St Giles’ in just over a week. I’m not sure how we shall get there, but I should think Uncle William will let us have the car. Auntie, have you any money? Has your pension been paid? Were they going to send it to you here?’

  ‘William saw to it for me. He told me that I must sign a paper allowing him to deal with it.’

  ‘And you did sign?’

  ‘Well, yes, dear. You know how forceful your uncle is. He said something about opening an account...’

  She looked so worried that Franny said quickly, ‘What a good idea. I’m sure he’ll remember to let you have it. I must go; it’s almost tea time.’

  ‘I don’t see you very much,’ said Auntie. ‘I do hope you are getting out a bit and meeting people.’

  ‘Once the weather gets better, we’ll go out in the garden,’ promised Franny. ‘The housemaid has had to stay home for a few more days, so I do the flowers and make the beds to help out. But I’m coming to have tea with you in a little while.’

  Auntie looked worried. ‘I’m sure William means to be kind, but he is so strict. I have no wish to spend the rest of my days cooped up here in this room, and as for you, Franny, I believe you are being made use of. If only I could talk to William or Editha, but I see them so seldom, and then only for a few minutes. Of course, Editha has a busy life with her committees and charities and the church...’

  Franny replied suitably; Auntie was slow to think ill of anyone and to keep her content was important. But she would have to ask Uncle William about Auntie’s check-up at St Giles’, and she would ask yet again if her aunt might have a room on the ground floor.

  Auntie had always been a busy, bustling person, and even though she hadn’t liked living in Fish Street she had cheerfully made the best of it. But it seemed to Franny that now she had become listless and apathetic, ripe ground for Uncle William’s overbearing ways. A dozen times a day Franny told herself that something must be done, and a dozen times a day she longed for the professor who would know what to do and do it.

  While making tea for the ladies who had come to play bridge with Aunt Editha, Franny wondered where he was and what he was doing...

  * * *

  HE WAS IN Sister’s office at his out-patients clinic, looking through the patients’ notes for the following week. He had been back from Belgium for quite a while, working long hours, but now at least he could take things more easily. And since Auntie was due for a check-up, he would see Franny again soon.

  He went through the notes with his usual care and then he turned to Sister, who was sitting at the other side of the desk.

  ‘I don’t see Mrs Blake’s notes—she’s due in next week, is she not?’

  Sister looked surprised. ‘You haven’t been told? We had a phone call saying that she was leaving London and would be in the care of another doctor. It was a man who called; he said he was family and said he would give us an address and the doctor’s name so that we could forward her notes and send a letter to the doctor. We’ve not heard a word since.’

  She saw his quick frown. ‘We wanted to telephone to Fish Street but they’re not on the phone, and the three letters we have sent haven’t been answered.’

  ‘You have no idea where Mrs Blake might be?’

  ‘Absolutely none, sir.’

  ‘She had a niece working at a nursing home in Pimlico—The Haven...’

  He picked up the phone, asked for the home’s number and presently dialled. Miss Bowen no longer worked there, he was told. She had sprained her ankle and there had been no question of her job being kept open for her. He put down the phone, wished Sister a pleasant good afternoon, went to his car and drove to Fish Street.

  How like Franny to do something silly like spraining her ankle, he thought angrily. And where was she? Unlikely to be at Fish Street, but the neighbours might know.

  The house was empty and forlorn and there was no one in either of the neighbouring houses. He got back into his car and picked up the phone.

  * * *

  FINN WAS IN his room studying. His three room-mates were getting ready to go out for a meal, but he had a paper to finish. Besides, he couldn’t afford it. They got on well together, and he wasn’t surprised when Josh banged on his door, no doubt trying to tempt him to joi
n them.

  ‘Go away, Josh, I must get this finished before I go to bed. I’ll boil an egg later. Have a good time...’

  The door opened and he turned round. The professor strolled in, nodded to Josh, and then shut the door behind him.

  Finn got to his feet. ‘Professor—sir—how did you know where I was?’

  The professor smiled. ‘I made a few enquiries. Tell me, where are your aunt and sister and why are you not at Fish Street?’

  Finn cleared some books off the one easy chair. ‘It’s quite a long story, sir!’

  The professor made himself comfortable. ‘I have all evening,’ he observed mildly. ‘Don’t leave anything out. I’m anxious about your aunt...’

  ‘But Uncle William said—’

  ‘Begin at the beginning, Finn.’

  ‘Well,’ said Finn. ‘Franny sprained her ankle quite badly, and Auntie wasn’t well...’

  He began to talk and the professor didn’t interrupt. Only when Finn fell silent did he say, ‘Do you suppose they’re happy with your uncle?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Franny writes to me once a week, but her letters don’t say anything, if you know what I mean, and they’re so cheerful. I mean, she’s a cheerful girl, but she writes as though someone’s looking over her shoulder.’

  The professor got out of his chair. ‘I think that something must be done about that. Come back with me now—never mind that—’ he nodded at the sheets of paper on the table ‘—I’ll put in a word. We will have a meal and see what is to be done.’

  Finn, always hungry, brightened. ‘I say, sir, really?’

  ‘Really. Better leave a note for your friends.’

  ‘I’m not very tidy,’ Finn pointed out.

  ‘You’ll do. Come along.’

  They drove to Wimpole Street and the professor ushered Finn into his elegant hall to be met by Crisp, who, taking Finn in his stride, wished them good evening.

  ‘Evening, Crisp. Finn, Crisp runs this place for me. Mr Bowen is a medical student, Crisp.’