Cold April

  COLD APRIL

  Phyllis A. Humphrey

  Seattle, WA

  Camel Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Contact: info@camelpress.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Phyllis A. Humphrey

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-822-3 (Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-823-0 (Cloth)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-824-7 (ePub)

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to my husband Curt, who has always supported my need to write, to Dawn of Blue Ridge Literary Agency for finding the perfect publisher for my book, to Catherine Treadgold for her excellent editing and to my critique group partners, Hilary Abbott, Jim Fulcher and Gail Ryan, who encouraged me during the long year of writing this novel

  Chapter 1

  Throngs of people crowded the docks at Southampton. Passengers just disembarking from the ship and visitors who came to welcome them shared the space with automobiles and even a few horse-drawn carriages.

  Elizabeth Shallcross hurried through the crush, her eyes darting from side to side. Her hat, although not as wide-brimmed as fashionable women wore those days, covered most of her hair and made scanning the crowd a challenge. Silently, she berated herself for losing contact with Lord and Lady Wheatly. At the last moment, she’d had to go back to retrieve the gift purchased in New York for her parents.

  Suddenly an arm went around her waist from behind and pulled her violently to one side. A scream started in her throat.

  “Please don’t be frightened.” A male voice spoke close to her ear. “You were about to be run down by that careless lorry driver.”

  Elizabeth whipped around to see a four-wheeled cart in the very spot she’d occupied moments before. She could have touched the side of it.

  Her heart still pumping wildly, she looked up at the man who’d rescued her from being trampled. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet slender, and wore the unmistakable clothes of a gentleman, including hat and gloves.

  His gaze swept over her and he smiled and bowed. “I must apologize for my rather rough treatment, but it seemed necessary if you were to remain alive.”

  His accent puzzled her—not quite English or American. Having just spent three years in New York, she could distinguish between the two.

  She smiled back at him. “No apology necessary. On the contrary, it’s I who should thank you for keeping me out of harm’s way.”

  He seemed to be in his early thirties and, in her estimation, quite good-looking, especially since he wore no beard or mustache. Thankfully, fewer men were keeping up the practice of sporting facial hair. King George wore a beard, but Mr. Taft, the President of the United States, had only a mustache.

  “If I’m not being too bold, may I assist you further? You seemed to be searching for someone in this crowd. Perhaps I could find a safer place for you to wait?”

  Since he was obviously a gentleman, she had no qualms about relating the circumstances. “You’re right. I am waiting for someone—Lord and Lady Wheatly—with whom I’ve just returned from America.”

  He gave a broad grin. “What a coincidence. I came here today to meet them myself. Are you a relative of the Wheatlys?”

  “No.” She decided quickly that explaining her position would be awkward as well as unnecessary and said no more.

  “Forgive me.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I should have introduced myself at once. My name is Richard Graham.”

  “Elizabeth Shallcross.”

  He took her gloved hand in his. “What a delightful coincidence. Since you are a friend of Lady Wheatly, I expect we shall see a great deal of one another in future. I shall look forward to it.”

  His smile and the length of time he held her hand in his could mean only one thing. He was flirting with her, obviously wanting to become better acquainted. She’d had admiring glances before and suspected he might, as other men she’d met recently had done, attempt to pursue a closer relationship. His next words confirmed her opinion.

  “You say you were with the Wheatlys in America?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “I understand the Bennetts are planning a welcome-home party for them. No doubt you will be attending.” Without giving her time to answer, he went on. “If no one is escorting you to the soiree, may I offer my services in that regard?”

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm. How marvelous it would be to attend such a party, and in Graham’s company at that. However, the acceptance she framed in her mind was never spoken.

  An imposing voice—which she recognized at once as belonging to Lord Wheatly—broke the little tête-à-tête and Mr. Graham released Elizabeth’s hand.

  “Richard, my boy,” Wheatly said to her companion, “how good of you to meet us.”

  Almost at once, Lady Wheatly appeared behind her husband, both hands occupied holding onto those of her two children. Behind her, a uniformed steward pushed a heavy-duty cart laden with steamer trunks, boxes and leather bags.

  Richard Graham bowed again. “Lady Wheatly. Sir. I took the liberty of engaging a large motorcar for your return to London. The rack on top will hold your luggage. I hope that meets with your approval.”

  “Capital,” Wheatly said. “Very thoughtful of you.”

  Penelope, who was eight years old, pulled her hand out of her mother’s and rushed to Elizabeth’s side.

  “I see you have met the children’s governess,” Lady Wheatly said to Graham. “Elizabeth Shallcross, but we call her Beth. We were somehow separated after leaving the ship, but it seems you have found her for us.”

  Beth took Penelope’s hand and looked up at Lady Wheatly. “I’m so sorry if I caused you any worry. I returned to my stateroom for the gift I’d purchased for my mother.”

  Beth watched the smile fade from Mr. Graham’s face. She knew exactly what he was thinking. No doubt an aristocrat, he’d presumed her to be one as well. Now he knew she was only an employee of the Wheatlys. So much for his offer to escort her to the party. A knot formed in her midriff. In spite of changing times, the class system was still alive and well in twentieth century England.

  A half-hearted smile reappeared on Richard Graham’s face. “Yes, Miss Shallcross and I have met.” He paused. “However, I’m not sure if there will be room in the motorcar...”

  Beth spoke again. “I won’t need a ride back to town, Mr. Graham. I expect my parents will be meeting me here very soon.”

  “Admirable,” Lord Wheatly said.

  Lady Wheatly leaned toward Beth. “This is au revoir, not goodbye. Remember, we have much to discuss, and I shall expect you to call on us in a day or so. When it is convenient and you’re rested from the crossing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. Why had she allowed herself to be enticed even for a moment when Richard Graham introduced himself earlier? She should have known nothing would come of it. She supposed her three years in New York were responsible for such optimism. Class consciousness was far less prevalent there.

  “Well, let’s be on our way,” Lord Wheatly said. “Richard, is the motorcar nearby?”

  Mr. Graham stared at the procession of automobiles threading their way through the slowly-diminishing crowd. “I believe I see it now.”

  He turned to Beth. “Miss Shallcross, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

  Detecting no warmth in his smile, she nodded her head for an instant and said nothing.

  Both Penelope and Charles, who at six was two years you
nger than his sister, shook her hand politely, just as she’d taught them to do when greeting or parting from others. She watched them enter the large silver limousine. The steward began to arrange the luggage on top of the vehicle, which she recognized from magazine pictures as a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. To her eyes almost as large as a railroad passenger car, it would easily have accommodated her, especially if Mr. Graham sat in the front seat with the chauffeur.

  But he apparently preferred not to include her. The steward placed her own steamer trunk at her feet. Although she chafed at the slight, common sense told her she didn’t want Mr. Graham to see where she lived anyway.

  She curtsied to Lord and Lady Wheatly, and they, too, climbed into the vehicle. Richard Graham had apparently entered from the other side.

  She sighed. Most likely she would never see the man again.

  * * *

  Shoving aside the few dresses her younger sister Sarah owned, Beth put her own clothes in the wardrobe of the bedroom they would share for the next three weeks. Irene, even younger, would also share the space. Her two brothers occupied a bedroom off the scullery kitchen on the first floor of the house, as did her parents, a common arrangement for a middle-class family. A far cry from the Wheatlys’ mansion, yet many families in England dwelt in poorer quarters than theirs. She’d always tried to be grateful for what amenities they possessed.

  Her unpacking complete, she went downstairs to help her mother with dinner preparations. After they’d eaten and dishes had been washed and put away, the other children took over the dining table, busy preparing their lessons for the next day of school. Beth joined her mother and father in the sitting room, taking a seat on the hassock near the fireplace.

  “Please tell us more about your life in New York,” her mother said.

  “I’m talked out.” She grinned. “Besides my weekly letters with all the news, I told you about the crossing on the way home from the dock this morning. To say nothing of monopolizing the dinner conversation.”

  “But we love to hear your stories. The rest of us have had no adventure like yours.”

  “Will you come back from New York next time or do you plan to stay over there?” Her father, settled in his favorite chair, put a match to the tobacco in his pipe.

  “Now, George,” her mother said, “you mustn’t bring up the subject of her return so soon. Beth has only returned today after her long stay in America.”

  “She told us before she left she’d like to live there. Now she’s had plenty of time to think about it. Three years. She also sent all those letters describing what she saw whilst living there.”

  “Mum, Dad, you know I want to go back. I’ve never felt I belonged in England. Even before going to America, I admired what I knew about that country.” She stood and paced the floor.

  Her mother scoffed. “People often feel that way about places they visit on holiday.”

  Her father chuckled. “They also say, ‘It’s fine for a visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.’ ”

  “But I would. I wasn’t just visiting, as if I were on holiday. Three years is a long enough time to learn if you really want to live in a place, and I would like to live there.” She shrugged. “But I know I can’t.”

  Her mother, a streak of gray in the dark hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head, put a handkerchief to her face. Her voice betrayed signs that tears might flow at any moment.

  “But we’re your family. How can you not want to live with us?”

  Beth spoke in a quiet voice. “Sometimes I think I was born into the wrong family. Oh, not that I don’t love you all! It has nothing to do with you.”

  “But we missed you terribly while you were gone,” her mother said.

  “On my next trip I’ll only be gone a few months, not years.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors.”

  “I missed you, too, but you have four other children.” She gave a little laugh. “I have six people to miss, and you have only one, so I’ll do more of the missing.”

  Her mother wiped her eyes. “Wait till you have children. Then you’ll understand.”

  “Yes, I know. You love us all and each in a different way. I realize that, but eventually all children leave the nest and build their own lives and have their own families, so that will happen in any case.”

  “But you think you belong over there?”

  “Not in every way. After all, I’ve been living with the Wheatlys and haven’t experienced life there as an ordinary American. Still, on my days off, I wandered all over the city, talked to the people, looked at everything I could, went to see motion pictures, even took a train to other places not too far away.”

  “And you could afford to do that?”

  “The Wheatlys were very generous, and I saved a lot of money out of my salary.”

  “Surely you’ve sent most of it home,” her dad said.

  “Not really, and Lady Wheatly is going to pay my way back and forth again.”

  Her mother looked puzzled. “Why on earth would she want to do so when you’re not going to be her governess any longer?”

  “That’s true, because they’re going to stay in England. However, Lord Wheatly has set up a branch of his business in New York, so they would like to keep their home there. Lady Wheatly wants me to help find renters.”

  Her father set down his pipe in the ashtray next to his chair. “But they must have leasing companies which do that sort of thing, as we have here in London.”

  “Of course, but they want me to arrange for some of their possessions to go into storage, and I’m to live there until the house is rented.”

  “And they’ll continue to pay your salary during those weeks or months?”

  “Yes, but when I come back here, I shall have to find a new position. I’m afraid it won’t pay half so well.”

  Her mother rose from her chair and poured tea for them from the pot on the hearth. “But what will you do? Can you find a position as a governess to another family?”

  “That’s a possibility, but I’m tired of being restricted to only women’s occupations: nursing, teaching, cooking. I don’t want to go into a factory either.”

  “So, what will you do?”

  “I’m thinking of taking a course in typewriting. The typewriting machines have improved a great deal, and I’m told many businesses hire young women to use them in their offices.”

  “Well, it never hurts to have another skill to fall back on,” her father said.

  A short silence followed his last remark, but then her mother spoke up again. “All well and good if you work at typewriting here in England, but you still want to live so far away. We’re not just talking about Cornwall or the Lake District. America is a different country. The language may be similar—”

  Beth interrupted her. “American English is no more different than that of some parts of London. The Cockneys practically have a language all their own.”

  Her mother sipped her tea. “The Americans have borrowed many of their customs and laws from us anyway.”

  “What I like most about the country is they don’t have our outdated monarchy system.”

  “Elizabeth!”

  “There’s no king and no lords and ladies. Everyone is equal.”

  Her father guffawed. “You can’t tell me there’s no class system. They may not have lords, but they have rich people like the Astors and the Vanderbilts. I’ll wager the lower classes, the poor people, don’t hobnob with them or get invited to their homes or parties.”

  “That’s true, but everyone has a chance to get rich like the Astors. Here we can’t rise above the station in life we were born into. There, if you invent something which provides you with a fortune, or you become famous for some other reason, you can hobnob with anyone you like. There are no centuries-old barriers.”

  She realized her teacup rattled in its saucer, no doubt the result of her increased emotion. She’d been remembering Richard Graham. In America, if he liked her—as he seem
ed to do for a moment on the dock that morning—he could call on her and take her to dinner or the theater, even marry her with no one raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, I daresay you will find the right position when you return in a few more months,” her father said.

  Beth smiled at him. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “You always were a spunky girl. Smart. Quick to learn things. Look how you learned how to be a governess. You can do typewriting too, if you set your mind to it. I, for one, will not worry about you.” He paused. “You may be assured we’ll support you in whatever you do.”

  Beth set her cup down, ran over to her father and hugged him. “I will. Please understand I don’t hate my family. Or even my country. But a monarchy seems so terribly old-fashioned in the twentieth century. I think our Parliament is wonderful, and the people are civilized and orderly. I love the cities and the countryside, and I love our history of art and literature.”

  A sly smile lit her father’s face. “Shakespeare gets high marks in your estimation, does he?”

  Beth laughed before becoming serious again. “I wish you could come to New York while I’m there so I could show you around. You might grow to like America yourselves. The ships are very fast now. The Mauretania made the crossing in a mere four and a half days.”

  “Your mother won’t get on a ship. She’s afraid of them.”

  Beth turned to her. “Oh, you’d be perfectly safe.”

  “I’m not afraid for myself,” her mother said. “I worry about you. I have nightmares that something will happen to you.”

  “I’ve made the crossing twice now and nothing happened. Actually, I found it quite dull.” She shrugged.

  “Nevertheless, I pray every time and shall pray when you go again.” Handkerchief to her face once more, she left the room.

  Beth smiled, but she knew, from a voracious reading habit which began at the age of five, that disasters at sea had occurred in the past, although not lately. Ships were built of steel these days. News of the construction of larger, and stronger, ships took up a great deal of space in the daily papers. It was, after all, 1912.