the unhappy memory to the outer darkness, along with the regret, recrimination, and disappointment of the last four years.
But now, this day, a new future lay before them. The misery and unhappiness of their plight was over. When Vernon saw them standing there on his doorstep he would instantly realise the difficulty his tardiness had caused; he would embrace them and welcome them into his home—their home—and they would assume their rightful place in his affections. For there was no question that Vernon loved her. There had never been any question of that—she had letters, bundles of letters, to prove it: letters in which he vowed his undying adoration and devotion to her. She had other letters he had written promising that they would be married as soon as it became possible; and whenever he came to London on business, Vernon made time to visit her—at first in the Magdalene Home, and then at the flat he rented for them in Bethnal Green. He sent them money too.
They would have been married long since, but for the angry objection of Vernon’s father, the old Lord Archibald Ashmole, who took violent exception to what he considered his wastrel son’s illicit dalliance and threatened to disinherit Vernon if he so much as looked at Gemma again. Nothing would do for the old lord but that his son should marry a woman from an aristocratic northern tribe—especially one whose family held extensive industrial assets in mining, say, or shipping—definitely not some southern slattern from the wrong side of the Thames. Needless to say, the old lord knew nothing about the letters, the visits, or the flat.
And then, against any such expectation, the elder Ashmole had dropped dead—hustled off the world’s stage by a virulent case of the Spanish influenza that had scourged the nation last year. It had taken a few months for the dust to settle, but Vernon had come into his full inheritance and was now firmly installed as Lord Ashmole, taking his place in the family pantheon of patriarchs. Moreover, he was free to marry as he wished. There was nothing now to prevent Gemma and her son—their son—from joining him at last and becoming the family they were always meant to be.
She had waited, thinking any day that he would come for them. A month went by, and then another. The money stopped. Gemma wrote letters. They were unanswered. Two more months passed and finally, at the end of her resources, she had decided to come to him.
Stepping boldly to the door, she passed a motherly eye over the small boy beside her, licked her thumb and rubbed a smudge from his little chin. “There, that’s better. Stand up straight and tall. Be a big boy now,” she told him. Then, her hand shaking, Gemma took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
She waited a moment and knocked again. There came a click from the other side, and the great mahogany door swung open. A servant in a black coat gazed imperiously at them. “Yes?” he said, his manner implying the opposite.
“If you please, Melton,” she said. “It’s me, Gemma Burley. I’ve come to see Vernon.”
“Forgive me, madam,” intoned the servant. “I did not recognise you.” He opened the door to allow them entry. “If you don’t mind waiting here,” he said, “I will see if His Lordship is receiving.”
“We’re expected,” Gemma declared.
“Of course, madam.”
The two were left to stand in the vestibule. “Was that my papa?” asked the boy when the servant had gone.
“No, my sweet, that was one of your father’s servants. He has many servants. You’ll have to learn all their names, I expect.”
“I’m tired,” said the boy. “I want to sit down.”
“Not just yet,” said his mother. “In a little bit, we’ll all sit down together. Won’t that be fine?”
“I’m hungry.”
“We’ll have something good to eat very, very soon. I promise.”
They waited, the little boy fidgeting until they heard the sound of quick footsteps approaching. “Here he comes, Archie. Smile and shake hands as I showed you.”
“Gemma!” Vernon cried, almost bounding towards them. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“Hello, Vernon,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady as relief coursed through her like a rare tonic. They had surprised him, to be sure. He was still in his silk dressing gown with his shirt collar open. “I wrote to tell you we were coming. Didn’t you get my letter?”