the claustrophobia of being cloistered with the baby day in, day out, she had flung herself at the offer, begging half an hour of Mrs Hardy’s time to keep an eye on the child on the pretext of having to post a letter.
She prayed as she walked beside him that he wouldn’t misconstrue her ready acceptance, and see her as common as a picked-up woman of the streets. But he was a perfect gentleman. Keeping a foot of space between them, he told her something of himself, his life at Oxford, his ambitions for his journal, pleasant everyday things.
He told her his father was in property: ‘A sort of estate agent. He’s always yearned to be on a par with the professional people he touches elbows with, but I think he thinks they still regard him as a common tradesman, even now. That’s why he wanted me to take up a profession. Law, he had in mind; It might have made him feel on the same footing as them. But I’m afraid I’ve been a disappointment to him, becoming a tuppenny publisher instead. That’s what he calls it.’
Matthew chuckled with mild self-deprecation, a full, deep-sounding chuckle. He had a deep voice for a thin person and was so well spoken that at first she had felt obliged to put on what she termed her best voice, but as they swapped life stories and she grew more at ease, the flattened vowels crept in again. He didn’t seem to notice at all. In fact he confessed with a tinge of amusement that his mother had spent her entire married life living down the fact that she was the daughter of an ironmonger.
‘No one dare risk life and limb mentioning it. Mother is very much part of Winchester society, well up in her Lit. App. Society … Literary Appreciation,’ he expanded to Harriet’s puzzled look. ‘She would like to see me marry well. Last year she played matchmaker with a certain Victoria Elliot-Cobbdon, but I shied well away from that.’
It was good to laugh with him. With Will truly laid to rest, and the baby forgotten for the while, Harriet thought she had never felt so free.
The following Sunday he had asked if she’d care to go with him to watch the official opening of the new Tower Bridge. It was such a wonderful day, watching it from the river, sharing the excitement of the occasion, mingling with other people and no baby to drag on her, for she had once again left Sara with a surprisingly willing Mrs Hardy.
But it made the rest of the week all the more dreary. Trying to cope with Sara, she counted the days to the next Sunday, when Matthew had offered to take her to see Crystal Palace, her first ever visit. They watched the Brock’s firework display afterwards and on the tram coming home he gently threaded her arm through his, saying he hoped she didn’t object. Object? How could she when she was overcome with gratitude?
That night, for the first time, she didn’t dream of Will trying to drag her down to only he knew where. They still hovered, the dreams, like bats in the dark ready to flap at her at any moment when shallow or disturbed sleep made her vulnerable. But Matthew was becoming her saviour. None of this did Aunt Sarah know. As far as anyone in the family was concerned, she was still the grieving widow – and it was just as well for her and Matthew that it stayed that way for the time being.
Matthew watched Harriet at the compositor’s bench, the tall stool half-hidden by the folds of her black skirt. Head bent on its slender high-collared neck, auburn hair smoothly coiled but for a curl of fringe, she was totally absorbed inserting type from the wooden case into the narrow metal sticks and then into a galley. Her fingertips stained by ink of previous printings, she tied the lines of type together into a block, to be proved for errors.
Matthew smiled tenderly. ‘You do that very well, my love.’
The previous night, strolling arm in arm through the October dusk, he had kissed her on the cheek. Her hand touching the place, she had smiled up at him, grey eyes reflecting the
She prayed as she walked beside him that he wouldn’t misconstrue her ready acceptance, and see her as common as a picked-up woman of the streets. But he was a perfect gentleman. Keeping a foot of space between them, he told her something of himself, his life at Oxford, his ambitions for his journal, pleasant everyday things.
He told her his father was in property: ‘A sort of estate agent. He’s always yearned to be on a par with the professional people he touches elbows with, but I think he thinks they still regard him as a common tradesman, even now. That’s why he wanted me to take up a profession. Law, he had in mind; It might have made him feel on the same footing as them. But I’m afraid I’ve been a disappointment to him, becoming a tuppenny publisher instead. That’s what he calls it.’
Matthew chuckled with mild self-deprecation, a full, deep-sounding chuckle. He had a deep voice for a thin person and was so well spoken that at first she had felt obliged to put on what she termed her best voice, but as they swapped life stories and she grew more at ease, the flattened vowels crept in again. He didn’t seem to notice at all. In fact he confessed with a tinge of amusement that his mother had spent her entire married life living down the fact that she was the daughter of an ironmonger.
‘No one dare risk life and limb mentioning it. Mother is very much part of Winchester society, well up in her Lit. App. Society … Literary Appreciation,’ he expanded to Harriet’s puzzled look. ‘She would like to see me marry well. Last year she played matchmaker with a certain Victoria Elliot-Cobbdon, but I shied well away from that.’
It was good to laugh with him. With Will truly laid to rest, and the baby forgotten for the while, Harriet thought she had never felt so free.
The following Sunday he had asked if she’d care to go with him to watch the official opening of the new Tower Bridge. It was such a wonderful day, watching it from the river, sharing the excitement of the occasion, mingling with other people and no baby to drag on her, for she had once again left Sara with a surprisingly willing Mrs Hardy.
But it made the rest of the week all the more dreary. Trying to cope with Sara, she counted the days to the next Sunday, when Matthew had offered to take her to see Crystal Palace, her first ever visit. They watched the Brock’s firework display afterwards and on the tram coming home he gently threaded her arm through his, saying he hoped she didn’t object. Object? How could she when she was overcome with gratitude?
That night, for the first time, she didn’t dream of Will trying to drag her down to only he knew where. They still hovered, the dreams, like bats in the dark ready to flap at her at any moment when shallow or disturbed sleep made her vulnerable. But Matthew was becoming her saviour. None of this did Aunt Sarah know. As far as anyone in the family was concerned, she was still the grieving widow – and it was just as well for her and Matthew that it stayed that way for the time being.
Matthew watched Harriet at the compositor’s bench, the tall stool half-hidden by the folds of her black skirt. Head bent on its slender high-collared neck, auburn hair smoothly coiled but for a curl of fringe, she was totally absorbed inserting type from the wooden case into the narrow metal sticks and then into a galley. Her fingertips stained by ink of previous printings, she tied the lines of type together into a block, to be proved for errors.
Matthew smiled tenderly. ‘You do that very well, my love.’
The previous night, strolling arm in arm through the October dusk, he had kissed her on the cheek. Her hand touching the place, she had smiled up at him, grey eyes reflecting the
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