All I Want Is You (16 page)

‘Stay,’ he said again. He was gazing down at me, but the expression on his face was impossible to read. ‘Please stay. I want to sleep tonight with you in my arms, Sophie.’

He had the most beautiful face I had ever seen, and those were the most beautiful words I’d ever heard, but a huge lump hurt my throat. ‘I have to go,’ I whispered.

‘Go where?’ His voice was harsher now. ‘Back to Beatrice? Up to the servants’ attic?’

I shivered with dismay. He was right – I had nowhere.

‘Come with me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Come with me to London. I need you.’

I was in the arms of the man with whom I’d fallen in love before I knew what love was. I thought of my future stretching bleakly ahead of me without him, and I felt a long, deep shiver of despair run through me. But I still somehow pulled myself away from his embrace. Oh God, I can’t remember if he tried to stop me, but I do remember how cold I felt.

‘No.’ I was shaking with the force of my emotion. ‘I can’t come to London with you. I can’t
be
with you. I’m sorry.’

He said, ‘Is it because of what they say about me?’

I was confused now, and terribly distressed. I remembered what Cook had said –
Look at all the money he’s got, most of it made during the war while other men were fighting.
I thought of Beatrice saying:
Men like him have their pick of the most beautiful, most sophisticated women in the world.

‘It’s what you yourself said.’ I gazed up at him, begging him to tell me that he’d been lying – that everyone else was lying. ‘You said you’re in the habit of buying all the entertainment you need. And there are so many stories…’

My voice trailed away. His face was hard suddenly, his eyes cold. ‘I’m sure there are,’ he said.

I remember I stepped backwards away from him, the ground suddenly uncertain beneath my feet. ‘I don’t listen to them,’ I whispered. ‘I
won’t
listen to them.’

‘Then perhaps you should,’ he said.

And so my world changed again. He meant it. He
really meant it. And how long before he tired of me?A year? A couple of months?

Tonight I’d been a novelty for him – I was a virgin, an innocent. Perhaps he’d felt a vague tenderness towards me because of our meeting in Oxford, and because of my childish letters to him. But he’d still tied me up and blindfolded me, so I couldn’t see him or even touch him in those moments of intimacy.

He said again, ‘Stay.’

Something squeezed my heart till it hurt, so badly. I could hardly bear to look at him as I whispered my farewell and turned towards the door.

This man would only tear my world apart. Surely he knew it too, because he didn’t try to stop me. But I would never forget the expression on his face as I left him.

I was still wearing Beatrice’s silk kimono, but I needed clothes if I was to leave. I didn’t know what to do, but as I passed Beatrice’s rooms I saw that she had put my things outside her door, in an overnight bag – my one dress, my shoes, my few books and my old coat. I picked the bag up – silently, I’d thought, but suddenly the door opened and Beatrice was there.

‘Had enough of you already, has he?’

I didn’t know what to say. She wore some patterned satin pyjamas and she was smoking.

‘I’ve been thinking, Sophie.’ Her lip curled. ‘I’ve worked it all out. You said to me earlier that you met him four and a half years ago in Oxford. It was around then – in the spring – that Ash came from London for an appointment with the old Duke in Oxford, and the two
of them had the most tremendous row. Quite simply, Ash wanted money and the Duke refused. That must have been the day you met him.’

‘I don’t see—’ I began.

She interrupted. ‘One of the maids told me you wrote regularly to someone in London soon after you started work here, and it was him, wasn’t it? Ash was already laying his plans, and meeting you in Oxford that day must have seemed a heaven-sent opportunity for him. He would have known there was a chance he might some day inherit the dukedom – he was third in line, after all – so he got you your job here and he asked you to write to him. Didn’t he?’

Suddenly the light from the lamp in her room seemed to spin around her and I couldn’t answer; she gave her curt laugh and went on, ‘Well, well. What did Ash want? He decided he needed a spy below stairs. Someone who would have no idea, in her foolish innocence, of his interest in the estate, but would answer all his questions and babble in her letters about everything that went on – Lord Edwin’s death, the Duke’s illness, my visits, everything. You know what they say? If you want to know all the secrets of a great house, ask the servants.’

‘No,’ I said. I’d clenched my fists.
Damn you, no.

She was relentless. ‘How does it feel to be used, Sophie? Oh, dear – I can see from your face that you actually thought he
cared
.’

I whirled to pick up my things, hurrying away down the corridor, away from her, but I could still hear her mocking laugh. Downstairs in the darkness I pulled my drab maid’s dress over the silky lingerie she’d bestowed
on me. I curled up on a couch in the kitchen and tried to sleep, my thoughts whirling. But well before the young scullery maid arrived to scrub out the range, I was up and knocking at the door of Mrs Burdett’s rooms to tell her I was leaving. I knew she always rose early, but it took her a moment to register what I was saying, though then she nodded, her lips tight. ‘Well, you’ve worked hard, I’ll say that for you, Sophie. It’s customary to give notice – I don’t suppose you can give me a reason for this sudden departure?’

‘I can’t,’ I said steadily. ‘I’m sorry.’

She asked me to let her know my new address, because some wages would be due to me, she said. After that I picked up my bag and went out into the near dark of the courtyard. Then I set off down the drive to the main road, where I would catch the early bus into Oxford.

I was going to London. My new life was about to begin. But oh, God, I felt I’d left all my dreams and my hopes behind me that day.

London, February 1921

‘Girls, girls, you must remember to move with grace and elegance. Light as a feather. Light as a feather…’ Rupert Calladine rapped his cane on the stage for emphasis, then gestured to the pianist to play ‘Ragtime Blues’ again.

His sharp ears must have caught some muffled complaints, because he stepped closer to us all and raised his voice. ‘Why do I ask you to do this over and over, you ask? I’ll tell you why, my darling girls. It’s because at the moment, you dance like a
herd of giraffes.
Have none of you any sense of rhythm? Who the hell hired you? Ah, now I remember,
I
did – fool that I am.’

We all exchanged wary glances; he was often like this. For more than four hours we’d been rehearsing. For more than four hours this inspired little man with the brilliantined black hair, whom I’d seen from afar at Belfield Hall last autumn, had made us practise our routines till our feet and bodies ached. ‘He’s a slave driver,’ the girl at my side, Cora, muttered. But we smiled too, because his incredible energy made his theatre what it was – a success. I was on the London stage, which had been my dream for so long.

That morning I’d received a letter from Nell at the Hall – she’d written to me regularly, ever since I’d sent Mrs Burdett my address as she’d asked.
The new Duke is sweeping round here like a whirlwind
, Nell wrote. Her handwriting was plain but clear – they taught them well at the workhouse, she’d once told me, so they could be of use to their betters as soon as they were old enough.
He put old Peters firmly in his place, hoorah! He went to London just after you left but he was back before Christmas, and he let us hold a servants’ party. Harriet is for ever mooning around because she’s so, so in love with him. He’s going to pull the whole Belfield estate into the modern age, he says. The old Duchess keeps flying into a towering temper at all this and would move to the Dower House – except, of course, she knows he’d count the hours to her departure…

‘You! The new girl, Sophie – come to the front!’ Mr Calladine was curtly beckoning to me.

I was in my practice costume, a pink dress with a short flared skirt – we all wore them. My dancing shoes were of kid, with ankle-straps and one-inch heels. Nervously I took a few steps forward, while Mr Calladine watched me and barked, ‘How long have you been here?’

Had I done something wrong?
‘About… about two months, Mr Calladine.’

Rupert Calladine nodded at me then turned to the others. ‘This girl isn’t eighteen yet,’ he pronounced. ‘And already she puts the rest of you to shame. Cut out your late nights and boyfriends, you slappers, and put some effort in – we’ve a new show opening in a week!’

His praise gained me a few dark looks from Pauline
Moran and her friends – they were experienced dancers several years older than me and saw any newcomers, especially young ones, as a threat. But Cora next to me squeezed my hand and murmured, ‘Oh, well done! Pauline and her crew are livid – hoorah!’

And afterwards, when we were back in the changing rooms, Cora came to me again. ‘Sophie, there’s a spare room where I live. The house is a bit small, but – well, would you be interested in sharing it with me?’ My face must have lit up. ‘You
would!
’ she cried. ‘Oh, bliss!’

I’d come to London in November on the train, having never been further than Oxford in my life. At first I was overwhelmed. But by looking at the signs in the windows of the lodging houses near Paddington, I’d found a tiny room to rent and then I’d set off the next morning to buy some clothes in Oxford Street, with the money Margaret had given me.

London was a new world to me, with its tall, crowded buildings and thronged pavements, and traffic passing by relentlessly. But within a week I’d had my long fair hair cut fashionably short, and the hairdresser told me where Mr Calladine’s theatre was, just off Leicester Square; so the next day I called there and a young woman with painted lips and fingernails like Lady Beatrice’s looked me up and down then said sharply, ‘Have you danced before? Had lessons?’

‘Yes,’ I lied.

She’d already picked up the internal telephone. ‘New girl here, Mr Calladine. Yes, she’s young – oh, eighteen
or so. She’s pretty, yes. Says she’s had lessons…’ She nodded at me. ‘He’ll see you now.’

Mr Calladine’s office was almost filled by an enormous desk, and the walls were covered with bright posters that proclaimed,
You’ve not seen London until you’ve seen Calladine’s Chorus Girls!
After taking a swift look at me, Mr Calladine went over to a gramophone cabinet and put on a record.

‘Right, let’s see you dance,’ he instructed. ‘Doesn’t matter what steps – just go with the music.’

The tune was… ‘Jazz Baby, Be Mine’. Raw emotion poured through me as I remembered dancing to it in Ash’s arms.
Jazz baby, the things you do to me…
I’d closed my eyes for a moment, feeling helpless and vulnerable, but then the rhythm of the music swept through my veins and I began to dance. I thought I danced well, but when the music stopped I wasn’t sure, for Mr Calladine sat silently, his finger pressed to his lips.

‘Which theatres have you worked at?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I haven’t,’ I whispered.

He gazed at me a while longer, his bright eyes narrowed. He said at last, ‘So no one’s even seen you on stage before. That’s good. It means you’ll make all the more impact when you start working for me.’

My breath hitched in my throat. ‘When I…’

‘When you start appearing in my shows,’ he said, getting to his feet and shaking my hand briskly. ‘I think you’ve rather exaggerated your experience, young lady, but you’ve got a good sense of rhythm and you move
well. It should only take a few weeks for you to pick up all our basic routines.’ He was already sitting again at his desk, drawing out some paperwork. ‘You can start tomorrow – I’ll get my secretary to draw up a contract. Your name is…?’

At Belfield Hall, I had always been known as Sophie Smith. One of the first things I’d been told there was that I must on no account use my correct surname – Davis – because my poor mother had been one of Lord Charlwood’s many conquests so long ago. But now I was free of the Hall and its rules. ‘It’s Davis,’ I said clearly to Mr Calladine. ‘Miss Sophie Davis.’

There were twenty of us in Mr Calladine’s Chorus Line, and though I was too late to perform in the December show, I was allowed to take a small part in the rehearsals. I spent Christmas Day on my own in my lodgings, but rehearsals started the morning after and Mr Calladine worked us harder than ever.

Each morning I hurried to the theatre off Leicester Square, marvelling anew at all the people filling the streets, but once inside my mind was focused on one thing: the dancing. Precision was vital, and we needed energy as well, because even between our numbers, while solo singers or comic turns diverted the audience, we had no time to rest; we had to rush to get changed for the next act.

But I was eager to learn, and it was a turning point when Cora asked me to share her house. Cora had black curly hair and her hazel eyes were always merry; she was four years older than me, and was one of Mr Calladine’s
most experienced dancers. After the show, many of the older girls, like Pauline Moran, would meet up with rich men then drive off in their cars to restaurants and clubs. But I’d noticed that Cora always seemed to go straight home.

‘It’ll be such fun to have you here!’ she’d beamed when she first showed me round the terraced house she rented in Bayswater. It was small, as she’d warned me, and noisy too; the milkman’s cart went by at five in the morning, and often at night a musician next door would practise his saxophone till the early hours. A ginger tomcat yowled regularly on the doorstep to be let in, and Cora, who had a soft heart, called him Fred and gave him tinned sardines.

I didn’t mind any of this at all. After my years at Belfield Hall I had a sense of the most incredible freedom. No longer did I have to get up in the pre-dawn darkness to put on my maid’s gown. I was free not only from the long hours of drudgery, but also from the sense of not even being allowed to use my own name.