The Care and Management of Lies by Jacqueline Winspear Read Free Book Online

the matter revealed that 1912 reported the lowest marriage rate ever? Kezia wondered if she was a statistic, perhaps a dying breed—the married woman.
    She had given up a reasonable income to be married, but more so had given up a job she loved. Would her new life sustain her? And of greater importance, would she have enough about her to hold the love of her husband? A line in another book taken from the same pile declared, “The twentieth century is discovering the woman.” Kezia was appalled. Weren’t these questions she asked of herself simply indicative of her self-interest, and at a time when her husband was working his fingers to the bone to build a life for them? She cast the book back onto the pile, but not before making a note that Hoe’s Sauce provided an excellent flavoring for soups, stews, and other dishes.
    These thoughts continued to trouble her. The grit became a stone in short order. Over Sunday tea, Kezia suggested to Tom that it might be a good idea for her to go up to London to see dear Thea, from whom they had received only one letter since the wedding—athough Kezia had sent her two long communiqués, the second with a note from Tom added at the end. Kezia informed her husband that she would go up to Charing Cross the following day—even though it was a bank holiday. She had checked, and there were some nineteen trains timetabled on the up line from Tonbridge, and she had the times noted down. She told him she had prepared plenty of food for him, which Ada had only to heat in the oven, and there was a goodly supply of extras in the larder to tide him over for a couple of days. She planned to be back on Wednesday afternoon. She was sure Ada could manage the men’s breakfast for two mornings.
    Tom offered no counter to the plans. Given that he too was worried about Thea—“dotty Dorrit,” as he referred to her, with affection, on many an occasion—he was glad that Kezia was looking out for his family. It warmed him.
     
    E dmund Hawkes watched Tom Brissenden bring the gig to a halt outside the Brooksmarsh branch-line station. The farmer stepped down from the cart, then walked around to attend his wife. With his hands about her waist, he swung her down onto the cobblestones, whereupon he took off his cap and held her to him, kissing her as if he might never see her again. Hawkes turned away as the couple came towards the ticket office, Tom carrying a small leather case. A third-class fare for one was purchased. Tom led Kezia out onto the platform and, after looking back at the clock, kissed his wife once more to mark his departure. He set the case down beside her and left the station. Hawkes could not ascertain their conversation, though he realized that he was frowning as he watched them, scrutinizing their expressions as they bid farewell. There was only one other passenger waiting, an old woman reading a book, a pince-nez held up to her eyes. She paid no attention to Tom and Kezia; indeed, Hawkes thought she might be deaf. Apart from the ticket master, he was the only person who’d seen them at the station, and they had not even noticed him. Edmund Hawkes felt an unfamiliar emotion over this event that had lasted perhaps five minutes. He was envious of Tom Brissenden.

Chapter 3
    Women, like men, have the desire to expand their realm of intelligence, to take part in the affairs of the world, which bear upon their lives, and the restraint and force of mere tradition, prejudice, or caste, have become intolerable to them.
    — THE WOMAN’S BOOK
    E dmund Hawkes was liked in the village; indeed, he was known and well thought of across the county. Not to the extent that he was feted, though his batting average for the local cricket team was talked about every year. He was simply liked. He had an easy way about him. He smiled readily, but not overly. He was gracious to shopkeepers and to the landlord of the Queen’s Head, where he occasionally stopped for a pint of ale, his Labrador dog, Millie,