Abbeyford Remembered by Margaret Dickinson Page B

with dust, or with Squire Trent playing cards, or here in the fashionable quarter of London, he was equally at home and – amazingly – accepted. Whilst she felt a misfit, a dirty, dishevelled gypsy with no manners and no idea of etiquette.
    She was quiet now and as they walked along she looked about her at the shops, at the grand carriages, at the coachmen and footmen in their smart liveried uniforms, and at the noblemen and fashionable ladies inside the carriages. Lloyd walked at her side, smartly dressed as ever in a well-cut suit, a brightly coloured waistcoat, his watch-chain looped across his broad chest, and swinging a cane.
    Suddenly he reached down and took her hand and drew it through his arm. She could feel the curious glances of the passers-by and the colour rose in her cheeks.
    â€œYou see, me darlin’,” Lloyd was saying in his lilting brogue. “I want to see you dressed in fine silks and satins. You’ve the beauty of a fine lady already, me darlin’, all you’re needin’ is the fine feathers. Do y’hear me now? There’s so many places I can take you. Now, wouldn’t you like to play the fine lady?”
    Carrie was silent.
    She supposed she should feel gratitude to him for his generosity, but she could not forgive him for having aided her father in tricking her into this marriage, tearing her from the arms of her lover. But as the days passed into weeks and months, she found she could not help being caught up in the excited bustle of the vast city. The shops fascinated her, the fancy carriages, the beautifully dressed ladies in the silks and velvets. She even had a maid of her very own now – a young girl who helped her dress her hair and bedeck herself in her new finery.
    Away from Abbeyford, away from all the squalor and hardship of her former life, away from the anguish of losing her brother, Luke, of seeing her mother weary and beaten, away from her brutish, obsessed father and with so much that was new to interest her, she found the pain begin to lessen and her natural vitality slowly reassert itself.
    Carrie Smithson Foster was a survivor. She was strong and blessed with a natural zest for life that could not, would not, be beaten or bowed for long.
    In the company of Lloyd Foster’s jovial spirit, she could not remain locked in her private misery for ever, so resolutely she raised her head, accepted his gifts and determined to make the best of the situation. She could not forgive him or give herself to him willingly – but between them, on the surface at least, there was an uneasy kind of truce.
    Carrie still slept alone and never troubled to enquire where, or how, her husband spent his nights.
    Lloyd was true to his promise. He introduced her to a life she had never dreamed existed. True it was not the life of aristocratic Society – those doors were closed even to Lloyd Foster. But they found their niche amongst the middle-class, well-to-do, ‘respectable’ Victorians. Carrie began to enjoy her new role, laughing secretly at the thought of the astonishment on the faces of these fine ladies if they knew of her past life – her impoverished childhood and harsh living. Now she mimicked their manner of speaking, their elegant way of walking, their affectations, yet she never lost her earthy honesty, her strength of will.
    Yet, deep in her heart, she was lonely for sight of Jamie. Gladly she would have forsaken all this luxury – and more – for one kiss from her lover.
    â€œNow, you sit here at this table, me darlin’, and I’ll be fetchin’ you some ginger beer.”
    Carrie sat down at the table in the tea-garden to which Lloyd had brought her. It was April, over four months since she had left Abbeyford – and Jamie. Amidst the hustle of the tea-garden, Carrie felt the loneliness steal over her. She looked about her at the happy families – mothers in their beribboned bonnets, their wide crinolines