Chapter Eleven
Juliette and Margot were sitting beside each other in the lounge, whilst the baby slept. Morton was almost through what had become a grand presentation on the life of Grace Emmerson. Having pulled all of his research into one file, he had unhurriedly worked through her life, starting with her time in the Brighton Union Workhouse, which was met with suitable mutterings and expressions of sympathy. He had progressed through her work as a domestic servant, where she had met her future husband, Cecil Barwise. ‘Ah, Grandad,’ Margot had said wistfully. Then Morton had reached the exciting and turbulent suffragette years. He showed every photograph and read every document. ‘Sorry, this was my quiet wouldn’t-say-boo-to-a-goose granny?’ Margot had implored. ‘Really? Are you sure you haven’t got the wrong woman?’
Juliette, not knowing her great grandmother very well, had uttered her absolute admiration throughout. ‘What an amazing woman,’ she had said, rapidly blinking to avoid showing that the information had touched her.
Morton had smiled and moved on to the arson attack on Linden Grove. He had shown images of the fire, read the accounts, then, to his wide-eyed audience, delivered the revelation that the fire had been started by none other than Grace Emmerson.
‘No!’ Margot had gasped.
‘My God, she was a vandal!’ Juliette had laughed, then felt the need to support her great grandmother’s criminality. ‘She was standing up for what she believed in; good on her. But,’ she had begun, ‘why target Linden Grove? From what you’ve said the suffragettes seemed to have targeted government or public buildings that would draw attention to the cause. Why hit a factory owner, who nobody outside of Brighton would ever have heard of?’
‘Very good, Constable Farrier,’ Morton had grinned. ‘She was born there.’
‘What?’ Margot and Juliette chimed together.
‘She was born there,’ he repeated. ‘Which is why Grace’s mother and father appear quite well-to-do in the locket portraits—because they were.’ He held aloft a print-out from the 1871 census, showing Grace’s unmarried mother, Eliza at the property. In the top left-hand corner, in tiny scribbled letters were the words that he had overlooked when he had first been researching Grace’s life: Linden Grove.
‘So why did she then destroy the home of her birth?’ Margot questioned.
‘Because it should have been hers,’ Morton answered. ‘Male primogeniture. As a woman, she wasn’t allowed to inherit the house if a male heir was to be found, and so it passed to her cousin, Francis Wild, and Grace got nothing. Wild threw her out on her ear and that’s how she ended up in the workhouse, aged four.’
‘What a horrible man,’ Margot muttered. ‘Disgraceful—he had what was coming to him.’
‘That would explain her militancy,’ Juliette said. ‘Thank goodness I don’t have to uphold such archaic laws anymore.’
‘Precisely,’ Morton agreed. ‘After the fire, things calmed down a bit for Grace. No convictions were made.’
‘She got away with it,’ Juliette said triumphantly. ‘Good woman!’
‘Should you be saying that?’ Margot muttered.
‘Damn right,’ Juliette answered.
‘Grace and Cecil married and then along came a baby.’
‘My mother,’ Margot chipped in.
‘After that—probably because of that—she gave up her militancy.’
‘Wow,’ Margot said. ‘I’m very impressed, Morton.’ She stood up and patted him on the shoulder, as she left the room. ‘I didn’t really think that genealogy was a proper job before now.’
Juliette’s mouth opened in a silent grin and Morton rolled his eyes.
‘Anyone for a cup of tea?’ Margot called from the kitchen. ‘Before Matilda wakes up?’
‘Coffee, please,’ Morton called. Then he lowered his voice: ‘Do you like Matilda?’
‘Do I like my new-born daughter?’
‘You know what I mean. Do you like the name, Matilda?’
Juliette took a moment to answer. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘That’s kind of how I feel about it. Shouldn’t we be a bit more…passionate about it? Shouldn’t we love it?’
Juliette shrugged. ‘Come up with something better,’ she challenged.
And so, Morton headed upstairs to his impossibly tidy study and searched the shelves for the copy of 60,001 Best Baby Names.
Two days later, having registered the baby’s birth at Hastings Register Office, Morton and Juliette were sprawled out on a picnic blanket, the sun beating down on the large golfing umbrella above them. Two plates contained the crummy remnants of their lunch.
‘This is a fantastically inappropriate place to have a picnic,’ Juliette said with a smile. ‘But I love it.’ She kissed Morton on the lips. ‘Thank you.’ Her gaze shifted beside them and Morton could see the awe, admiration and pride on her face.
He shrugged as his eyes fell to where she was looking. The burgundy marble headstone, which Morton had paid to be cleaned and restored, glinted in the sunlight, as though placed there only hours before. ‘In Memory of a dear husband and father Cecil W. Barwise, died 18th December 1958 aged 74. At rest. Also beloved wife and mother Grace Barwise, died 15th August 1970 aged 94. Reunited.’
Juliette bent down, picked up the baby under her armpits and held her aloft. She turned and addressed the headstone. ‘Grace Emmerson, meet your great-great-granddaughter, Grace Matilda Farrier.’
Epilogue
28th August 1914, Wye, Kent
Grace couldn’t bring herself to open the letter. It had just landed on the doormat, with a clear identification stamp on the envelope. HOME OFFICE. Those two words made her shudder with cold fear. Her mind raced, as she held the letter in her hands. Why would the Home Office be writing to her? Had something happened to Cecil already? The newspapers had been full of the British Expeditionary Force’s battles in and around Mons these last days, with many soldiers killed. Surely, she would have received a telegram, if something had happened to him. Her thoughts jumped back to Linden Grove. Perhaps they had finally caught up with her. But would the Home Office
