Dangerous Decisions (13 page)

‘What a charming and attractive young lady she is,' Andrew said. He went over to his desk and, opening the top drawer, withdrew his pipe and pouch of St Bruno Flake. ‘As for Oliver, the Faraday estate is entailed so he will be hoping for an heir.'

‘One of the reasons he married, I expect. Isn't that the point of the whole debutante scene?'

‘Do I detect a slight note of cynicism?' Andrew gave a chuckle. ‘But of course you're right. However, this particular union would seem to be a love match, at least according to Mrs Haverstock. Have you noticed how women get fanciful at weddings?'

Nicholas managed to smile. ‘My mother always gets tearful. Now if we are to lunch together, then I should go and complete the notes on my last patient. Not that I could help him very much, apart from prescribing opiates.'

‘They will give him some comfort.' As Andrew began to fill his pipe at last Nicholas felt free to return to his consulting room.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He had seen her again – and now he knew. As soon as he opened the door and met her startled eyes, he had known. She
had
felt that sense of recognition, of connection, all those months ago in Cadogan Square. She had not forgotten him. Her voice was as light and sweet as he remembered it, and her perfume delicate and flowery like that ridiculous hat. He smiled; he would never see cream roses again without that lovely image. When she had turned before leaving, had she understood his silent message? Nicholas opened his eyes to stare blankly ahead as frustration and anger swept through him. Frustration that he could never love her in the way he longed to and anger with himself for not accepting the futility of it all.

The following week at Broadway Manor, the maids had opened all the windows to allow the cooling air in. It was, as Beatrice was saying to Jacob, going to be yet another hot day. They both turned as the door to the morning room opened and Bostock brought in a silver salver containing the early post.

Jacob smiled as he saw a large envelope bearing Helena's handwriting, and taking an ivory paperknife from a small sofa table, he slit it open. ‘How very odd, there is a letter here for you too. I can hardly think she needs to economise on postage.'

Beatrice took it from him and held out her hand for the paper knife. Moments later, they were both smiling at each other with Beatrice clasping her hands together with delight. ‘She wanted us to read her news at the same time, how clever of her.'

‘So I'm to be a grandfather.' Jacob's face creased in a proud smile.

‘And me a great-aunt. Isn't it wonderful? A baby in the family. I am so thrilled, Jacob, and so must she be. She says she is well but my note is quite short. Is there anything further in yours?'

He frowned. ‘Just that Oliver wishes us to be discreet. He can see no point in Helena's condition being general knowledge, not until she's at least six months.'

‘That's not too unusual, you know. After all, it is a matter for discretion in the early days.'

‘I suppose you're right. So we must be careful not to discuss it before the servants. Didn't you say that letters were sometimes sent to Molly?'

‘I believe so.'

‘Although how Oliver expects to keep his own staff in ignorance I don't know. If Helena were living here it would be impossible.'

‘Yes, Jacob, but I feel that our house, possibly because it is smaller, is much more of a family home, and our servants are part of that family. Whereas Graylings is so vast and grand …'

‘Impersonal, you mean. I do wonder sometimes whether Helena will ever be truly happy there.'

Beatrice's tone was one of reassurance. ‘A child will make all the difference, you'll see.'

At Graylings Helena was unable to put the meeting at Wimpole Street out of her mind. She tried to convince herself that it was pointless to dream of ‘what might have been'. Yet the expression in his eyes when his gaze met hers, the feel of his touch on her skin, the secret and silent message between them, how could she not think of it? How often did she wonder whether if they had met sooner and in different circumstances, whether their lives would now be entwined?

She was strolling in the extensive walled kitchen garden, where against the warm red bricks one of the gardeners was tending fan-trained fruit. He doffed his cap as she approached, then reached to pick a ripe peach and presented it to her. She searched for his name and with relief found it. ‘Thank you, Alf.' As she continued on her way, Helena rubbed the peach gently against her sleeve then bit thoughtfully into its downy skin and soft juicy flesh.

Was Nicholas feeling as bewildered as she was? That one glimpse, one exchanged glance, and now a few moments spent in the same room, could have such a devastating effect? Was he too trying and failing to make sense of it all? Was he married? Did he have children?

And in the late evenings when Oliver often retired to the library, Helena would feel so restless that she would meander around the drawing room, gazing out at the beautiful rose gardens and silvery lake in the distance. She was able to console herself that at least having received warm and congratulatory letters from Broadway Manor, she now felt free to confide her news in confidence to Dorothy. And this was the perfect time to invite her to Graylings. Her company would be the ideal diversion.

‘I had thought, Oliver,' she said, ‘that during her visit we might host a few intimate suppers after which I could give a short recital. The music room is too beautiful not to share with others. I especially love those French gilt chairs. Do you know who acquired them?'

‘My father did.'

‘You so rarely talk about him. I don't feel as if I know him at all.' She glanced up at the ornate framed portrait of a stiff-collared fair-haired man who bore a strong resemblance to his son.

‘Then your feelings are the same as my own.' Oliver's voice was tight. ‘I'm afraid he had little time for me, even as a child.'

Helena stared at him in growing dismay. ‘But that's awful. You were his only son and heir …'

Oliver gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘I never understood it either. I can only think that he held me responsible for my mother's death.'

‘And there was no relative, no aunt? I can't imagine what my childhood would have been like without Aunt Beatrice.'

‘No, no one. I wasn't neglected in any other way.' Oliver's normally confident tone became defensive. ‘There was a nanny and later a governess. Of course I was away at school much of the time. One learns to be self-sufficient.'

Helena was thinking of a lonely little boy in this great house, starved of affection. This could be the reason for what she sensed was his lack of interest in others, his underlying coldness. What had Dorothy called him, an enigma?

‘Shall we decide who to invite to entertain your friend?' Oliver asked. ‘For instance, I'm sure Johnnie would welcome the chance of a weekend at Graylings.'

Helena laughed. ‘I hope you aren't matchmaking. I know you said he was looking for a wife, but I can hardly imagine a more ill-matched pair!'

Oliver went on to suggest other guests and as soon as the list was complete, rose to return to his study.

Helena watched him leave and thought again how unlike Nicholas he was. They were both tall, but Oliver was broader in the shoulders and there was always that air of arrogance.

Even if she
had
met Nicholas first, she doubted whether her father would have approved of him as a suitor. Helena had always known of Jacob's ambition for her to marry well, of his political ambitions, and her marriage had brought with it an entrée into the influential circles he needed. Only yesterday, he had written that he had been adopted as the Liberal Candidate in a forthcoming by-election. Glancing around the drawing room at the plum-coloured silk damask wall covering, the Georgian satinwood tables and Chippendale armchairs, Helena thought how comfortable life was for those who inherited wealth. Yet how would they fare if, like Nicholas, they had to depend on their skill for their livelihood?

Sitting at her escritoire and taking an embossed, cream sheet of vellum, she began to write to Dorothy. She would be pleased to hear that her often-expressed views on politics were beginning to bear fruit. Helena had spent many hours curled up in an armchair in the drawing room at Broadway Manor listening to her friend, and lately much of their conversations seemed to be occupying her mind.

In London, although it was autumn, some days were still warm. Belle refused to let the girls open the windows during working hours, so Cora, exasperated, flung aside the thin cotton sheet.

‘Hang on.' Johnnie swiftly covered himself. ‘Spare a fellow's blushes.'

‘It's a bit late for that.' Cora turned on her side and studied him. ‘Did you really mean it, what you said a couple of weeks ago?'

‘You mean about setting you up? Of course I did.'

‘I'd need to know all the details, Johnnie. Financial, I mean. I've got ter think of me future.'

He leaned over and ran his forefinger over her hip. ‘But you like me enough? We get on well, don't we, Cora?'

She smiled at him. ‘Yes, I like you more than enough, Johnnie.' She kept her tone easy and intimate, but beneath her outward calm, Cora's brain was feverish. Fond as she was of him, she would match her wits against his any day, and if she couldn't turn his offer to her best advantage then her name wasn't Cora Bates. ‘So how would it work – this arrangement?'

‘Well, you'd live there all the time, of course, but no other men! I mean if I'm keeping you, then … ‘

She nudged him in the ribs. ‘Don't be daft. Even a dog doesn't crap on its own doorstep.'

Johnnie hooted. ‘Now that's what I call a ladylike expression.'

‘Well, if you'd wanted a lady, you've come to the wrong place.'

He leaned over and kissed her plump breast. ‘I want a real woman, someone to have some fun with, not some prim and proper miss.'

Until you need a wife, Cora thought. But it was without bitterness; she had long accepted her place in the social order – not exactly at the bottom, but there were a hell of a lot of rungs above her. ‘So you'd pay the rent, then? And me food and everything?'

‘I'd provide all that. I don't know how much you earn here?'

With some trepidation, Cora doubled the sum.

Johnnie didn't even flinch. Instead, he lay back and linked his hands behind his head. ‘How about if I add another couple of guineas?'

She stared at him in growing exhilaration. Could she extract anything further? She trailed her fingers through his chest hair. ‘I'd 'ave to keep the place clean and such.'

‘If you mean will I employ a maid, then the answer's no, Cora. It's too risky. And you're not to tell
anyone
, either about me, or where you'll be living. I can't afford even a whiff of scandal.'

She was quick to reassure him. ‘I'll be quiet as the grave, honest. But I'll 'ave to see me friends, Johnnie. I'm not the sort to be a hermit!'

He laughed. ‘I'm not keeping you a prisoner, you daft thing. But meet them away from the area and don't tell them where you live. I'm sure they'll understand.' He nuzzled his head into her neck. ‘So what do you think? Shall I sign the lease?'

Cora glanced around the sparse room, and didn't hesitate.

‘Yes please, Johnnie. I'll just 'ave to give Belle time to get another girl in.'

‘That's what I like about you, Cora. You're pure gold, through and through.'

She smiled up at him and felt a surge of affection. ‘In that case you won't mind spending a bit more to stay longer?' Cora drew him down to her and her expert hand found its target. ‘Every bargain deserves sealing with something special.'

Sybil's expression was one of dismay, swiftly followed by envy. ‘Well I can't say I won't miss you, but you make the most of it, Cora. What's he like, this Johnnie? I know he's quite young and not bad looking either cos I caught a glimpse of 'im once when he was waitin' downstairs.' She frowned. ‘Mind you, I'd bet a pound to a penny that's not his real name.'

Cora glanced down at her hands, which were smothered in the cold cream she'd bought off the market. It smelt funny and what with the misspelt cheap label, she suspected it had been made in someone's scullery. Then she thought of the handkerchief behind the brick with the initials J.F.H. Would Johnnie be stupid enough to use his real name when visiting the brothel? Cora wasn't sure.

‘Probably not,' she said, ‘but I don't give a toss whether it is or not. I like him, he makes me laugh. And he's a decent bloke. He'll look after me.'

‘Then I wish you good luck. And where is it – the apartment I mean?'

Cora had been taken aback for a moment when Johnnie had mentioned St John's Wood. She knew that was where Sybil had lived before her chap dumped her. But there was little chance of it being in the same building or even the same street – that would be too much of a coincidence.

‘I can't breathe a word, that's one of his rules.'

‘But if I want to see you …?'

‘We'll 'ave to meet at a cafe or something.'

‘What, by the market?'

Cora nodded. ‘I'm sure we'll sort something out. But how does it work, Syb? I mean, how do you know when he's coming?'

‘You don't. But it's nearly always in the evening, so you just 'ave to stay in at nights. It's not so bad, a bit lonely sometimes, but at least you'll be warm and well fed.'

‘So I'll 'ave a bit of time on me hands,' Cora said. ‘I used to fancy learning to draw, yer know – flowers and things.'

‘Ask this Johnnie to get the stuff you need, you know pencils, paper and such like. It's best to make the most of the early days, Cora, while he's keen. Believe me, nothing good lasts in this life.'

And for Cora, the dark-haired girl with her miserable eyes was a constant reminder of the fact.

Molly had already begun to suspect Helena's condition. The old saying was that in the early stages of pregnancy a woman had a ‘pinched look'. And without doubt Miss Helena had been looking a bit peaky since she returned from her honeymoon. I bet Miss Forrester knows, Molly thought; no mistress could hide such a thing from her personal maid. She supposed that the master, with his phobia about privacy, would want it kept secret for as long as possible. All this secrecy, Molly thought. I don't know whether he realises it, but servants are human beings too. Although the butler kept a strict rule in the Servants' Hall, there was always some whispering in corners.

At least Molly had her refuge, her solitary bedroom. She had persuaded the housekeeper to let her have a discarded silk bedspread for the flock mattress; it might be a bit faded but its ruby colour gave a feeling of warmth and cosiness. She shuddered at the thought that she might have had to share with spiteful Susan, who was a born troublemaker.

Late that same evening, Helena, knowing that Oliver was unlikely to come through the inter-connecting door, was absorbed in her current novel, one that described a deep and abiding love against a background of abject poverty. The details of cruelty and deprivation were shocking and the story so gripping that it was with some reluctance that she extinguished her bedside light.

Her thoughts drifted to Dorothy who was due to arrive the following day. She was so looking forward to seeing her. Helena might be the mistress of Graylings, but it was a lonely role with only the servants for company. With Jane, a certain relaxation of authority was possible, but there was still a distance, an unspoken barrier between them. Molly was the only one with whom Helena could laugh and joke without restraint, but their time together was of necessity spasmodic, and even then limited. However, even though Dorothy was her closest friend, Helena was still unsure whether to confide in her about Nicholas. If she was mystified herself about her feelings, how could she possibly explain them to someone else?