Dangerous Decisions (7 page)

Now it was Jacob's turn to speak. ‘You look absolutely splendid, Helena. I'm so proud of you.'

Beatrice's expression had changed to one of triumph as she moved forward to help to raise the train so that her niece could safely return to her bedroom.

Helena was feeling wonderful in the dress, designed to overlay several silk petticoats to retain warmth. With her shoulders and arms covered with Nottingham lace, she had no fears of January's inclement weather. Not even a top London dressmaker could have achieved more.

On the day following New Year's Day, Nicholas walked up the steps and past the gleaming engraved brass plate into the Wimpole Street consulting rooms and gave a morning greeting to the young woman behind the desk. As he saw her colour rise, Nicholas, as always, felt slightly embarrassed. During his hospital days there had been more than one nurse who had made it plain that she found him attractive. Even with her dark hair so plainly dressed, Miss Barnes was a pretty girl, but at present he had no interest in romance; he was too much involved with his patients and medical research.

There was only one marriage he was interested in and the ominous date was rapidly approaching. It was still an irritating mystery to Nicholas that after all these months he allowed his thoughts to still linger on a girl who could never have any place in his life. Yet every time he thought of those hazel eyes flecked with gold, at the softness of her mouth as she tentatively smiled at him, he was undone.

Only seconds later the door opened and Nicholas turned to greet Andrew Haverstock. The portly physician removed his top hat in a flamboyant gesture. ‘May I wish you both health and happiness in this New Year of 1906?'

‘And I extend the same wishes to you, Dr Haverstock.' Nicholas smiled at the man he now regarded as a friend.

Miss Barnes took the hat from his outstretched hand. ‘Happy New Year, Dr Haverstock. I trust you had a good Christmas?'

‘Capital, capital.' He rubbed his hands together and then guided Nicholas into his own domain. ‘Now then, let's see what this week portends.'

Nicholas settled himself opposite Andrew, who immediately opened his new 1906 desk diary. ‘Ah, I see there are already some entries.' He flicked through a few pages and then frowned. ‘Lady Trentley's name is down for Wednesday week, yet I'm sure I …' He pressed a bell beneath the rim of the polished walnut desk and within seconds the receptionist came into the room. ‘Miss Barnes, I see there is an appointment made for me on the tenth. Did I not say that I won't be available on that day?'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Dr Haverstock, I remember now. I do apologise. I'm afraid I didn't make a note of it.'

‘I have a wedding to attend.'

Disconcerted, Nicholas stared at him then dismissed the thought.

Andrew turned to Nicholas. ‘I wonder – Dr Carstairs, do you think you could deputise for me? That is of course if Lady Trentley is agreeable. I hardly wish to cause her inconvenience.'

‘May I see?' Nicholas held out his hand for the diary. The appointment was for 10.30 a.m. It was impossible. How could he carry out his plan to be at St Margaret's Church before eleven o'clock? He shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, I'm afraid I have a commitment at the time that I can't possibly break.'

Andrew gave a heavy sigh. ‘In that case, I shall just have to eat humble pie. You may go, Miss Barnes, but in future please be more careful.' After she had left he said, ‘I don't understand it, she's usually so efficient.'

Nicholas looked down at his hands. ‘A wedding, you say? Is it a relative?'

Andrew shook his head as he leafed through a case file. ‘No, it's a society wedding. When I was a young, inexperienced doctor, my first practice was in Hertfordshire. I assisted a London gynaecologist at Oliver Faraday's birth. Sadly, after a protracted labour the mother suffered a severe haemorrhage. He's marrying some young woman from Staffordshire.'

Nicholas managed to keep his voice one of quiet control. ‘Oliver Faraday?'

‘Yes, of Graylings, a fine ancestral house.' Andrew glanced up and explained, ‘Afterwards I used to attend Oliver when he had childhood ailments, and as I became more respected his father even invited me to luncheon.' With dry humour, he added, ‘Never to dinner, of course.'

Nicholas gave a sympathetic smile. ‘These social niceties, they really are nonsensical. Yet you've been sent an invitation.'

‘I have indeed. Oliver consulted me a couple of years ago – merely a minor matter – and now that I have patients among the aristocracy I believe I am considered socially acceptable.' He raised his bushy eyebrows, but Nicholas merely smiled, thinking it safer not to pursue the subject.

The morning of the tenth of January dawned without a hint of rain, and Helena, although nervous, was enjoying all the attention. She breakfasted in bed, the tray before her daintily laid with a soft-boiled egg, toast and honey, and a fluted china cup of hot chocolate. Then the hip-bath before the lively coal fire began to be filled by a procession of maids carrying cans of hot water. As one tipped in rose-scented bath salts, Enid Hewson busied herself laying out a camisole, a ribbon corset, knickers with lace frills at the knee and white silk stockings. The myriad of petticoats lay fanned out over the back of a velvet chair, while complexion creams, silver-backed hairbrush, comb and mirror were in readiness on the dressing table.

Helena was leaning against the pillows, trying to close her mind to the activity around her. She loved Oliver's London house. It was not only tall and elegant but exquisitely furnished. She heard faint laughter overhead from her bridesmaids, Dorothy, and three debutantes Helena had remained friendly with, and took a deep breath, trying to calm her chaotic feelings. It was normal to feel panicky, it was just wedding nerves – every bride was supposed to have them. Yet despite the day before her, into her mind came the young doctor's image again and mortification swept over her, guilt that she could think of another man on the morning she was to marry Oliver. It must be because she was back in London.

With determination she drew a curtain over the memory and instead gazed at the ivory dress with its guipure lace and gossamer veil hanging in splendour outside the bow-fronted satinwood wardrobe.

Oliver had been so sweet, so attentive in these weeks leading up to the ceremony. She hadn't felt any of that disturbing uneasiness about him for ages. Leaning forward, Helena flung aside the blue silk eiderdown with resolve, swung out her legs and put on her peignoir and swansdown trimmed slippers.

The maid turned to bob a curtsey. ‘Your bath is ready, Miss.'

Helena, whose hair had been shampooed the previous day, waited until it was pinned up, then once the ornate Japanese screen was in place, undressed. She would have preferred to bathe alone, but instead lowered herself into the fragrant water to submit to the ministrations of the excited pale-faced maid.

Hewson's voice, imperious and establishing her seniority, called, ‘Miss Helena, I shall go now to attend to Miss Beatrice, but I'll be back in time to arrange your hair and help you to dress.'

Later that morning when he arrived in Westminster, Nicholas was surprised to see St Margaret's Church already surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, but then focused on finding a vantage point that would give him both an unobstructed view and a measure of anonymity. Eventually, his hat by his side, he decided to stand bareheaded amongst a cluster of people who were unlikely to attract attention and contained at least two other men of a similar height.

When the carriages and motor cars began to arrive nearby he saw Andrew Haverstock almost immediately, distinguished in morning dress and accompanied by his wife who was in pale grey and wearing an ostrich-plumed hat. Nicholas tensed slightly as the couple followed a stream of guests to the entrance of the ancient church, but soon realised that the crowd outside held little interest for the elite, who scarcely gave them a second's glance. The procession of expensively dressed people seemed endless and he waited with increasing impatience until the last trickle disappeared.

‘Here come the bridesmaids!' someone said. There were three young women, meeting with a murmur of approval as they walked demurely past with fresh flowers in their hair to match their lace-circled posies.

‘Peach velvet,' said a tiny bird-like woman in front of him. ‘That must 'ave cost a pretty penny.'

‘No little ones or pageboys?' her friend was derisive. ‘I don't call that much of a display.'

Minutes later the carriage everyone had been waiting for arrived. Beribboned and gleaming, it was drawn by a perfectly matched set of greys. As the coachman brought the snorting horses to a halt and the ushers moved forward with the step, Nicholas felt his throat become dry, his breathing shallow. A middle-aged man descended and, turning, held out his hand first to another bridesmaid and then the bride was in view, stepping down in her long shimmering gown, waiting while her attendant adjusted and then lifted the extensive train. On her father's arm, she began the short walk to the entrance to the church while Nicholas stared with every ounce of concentration to try to penetrate the veil that obscured her face. Was it Helena? She was the same height, he could even detect that her hair was fair, but from this distance …

‘Lovely dress,' the bird-like woman said. ‘And look at the size of that bouquet! Just fancy – red roses at this time of year, they must 'ave cost a fortune! Are yer stoppin' until she comes out, Floss?'

‘Nah. I usually do cos I like to 'ear the bells. But it's too flaming cold.'

Once inside the church, Helena felt a momentary sense of panic as through the mistiness of her veil she gazed at the beautiful and emotive scene before her. Its congregation a sea of wide-brimmed hats and ostrich plumes interspersed with the stiff backs of aristocrats and prominent public figures.
Ahead she could see Oliver, the winter sun shining through the stained glass window, glinting on his fair head. Then at a nod from the Rector he moved with his best man, Johnnie Horton, to stand before the altar. Immediately there came a rustle of movement as the remainder of the congregation rose, with Beatrice in the left front pew, resplendent in peacock-blue.

Then the opening bars of Handel's the
Arrival of the Queen of
Sheba
began and Helena quelled her quivering nerves. Placing a hand on her father's firm arm, ever conscious of the weight of her long train and being followed by her bridesmaids, she walked at a sedate pace along the flower-bedecked aisle. A few heads turned, there were gasps of subdued admiration and then as she joined Oliver, her father withdrew and the dignified Rector began to intone the immortal words, ‘
We are gathered here today in the sight of God …
'

Outside, as a chill breeze sprang up, Nicholas drew closer the astrakhan collar on his new overcoat and replaced his hat. Oblivious of movements within the crowd as people drifted away and then eventually other curious onlookers took their place, he waited for what seemed the longest hour of his life. His logic was cold comfort – telling him that he had only the flimsiest of reasons for being there at all.

Then at last, there came the almost deafening peal of bells, the doors of the church opened and to the sound of rousing cheers the bride and groom emerged. Now, Nicholas could see her clearly. Framed in the flowing veil, there was the same lovely face, the same honey-gold hair. Helena, beautiful and graceful, smiled for the press photographer as he came forward with his tripod, and with laughter and high spirits a few of the guests clustered around the newly married couple. Then all too soon, among a shower of rice she was leaving, giving a smiling wave to the onlookers before being handed into the carriage by the same tall man who Nicholas had seen that night in Cadogan Square. The scene brought with it such an evocative memory that even before the horses began to move Nicholas was turning, shouldering his way through the crowd and, as he told himself with bitter finality, out of their lives.

Faraday House occupied one of the most fashionable positions in London. Tall, elegant and situated in Carlton House Terrace overlooking St James's Park, it had been designed for Sir Vernon Faraday, one of Oliver's more astute and wealthy ancestors. Its staff, although small compared with that of Graylings, were efficient enough to provide not only the comfort, but also the measure of privacy he considered vital for these first days and weeks following the wedding.

The rooms chosen by Oliver for their personal use were on the second floor and had been completely refurbished. There were two spacious double bedrooms inner-connected by his dressing room and a graceful parlour with tall sash windows. His own room was decorated in burgundy and cream, the curtains plain damask, as was the coverlet on his bed. There were no fringes, ornaments or what he thought of as fripperies. It was a comfortable, masculine room. Helena's bedroom had been furnished in accordance with her own wishes in soft pastel shades, the pale blue velvet carpet complemented by blue and gold silk drapes and quilted coverlet. There were plans to convert two further small rooms into bathrooms.

On the evening of their wedding day he had arranged for a light supper to be served in the intimacy of their small parlour, and he listened with amusement mixed with ill-concealed impatience as Helena chattered on about the glittering social gathering at the Ritz Hotel that afternoon.

‘It was wonderful, wasn't it?' she said eventually, sipping at her champagne, aware that she was talking too much. ‘In fact the whole day has been just perfect.'

‘Indeed, and you my darling were the perfect bride, feted and admired.' Oliver smiled across at her. ‘As I think I may have mentioned before.'

Helena held out her hand to admire the slim gold band. ‘I still can't believe that I'm actually Mrs Oliver Faraday, and not Helena Standish.'

‘You are only my wife in name, my sweet, at least yet.' Oliver's quizzical gaze met her own startled one, and Helena felt her cheeks stain with colour. ‘In fact,' he said, reaching over to remove Helena's half-empty flute, ‘I'm beginning to think that perhaps it is time we should retire?'

Helena felt her throat suddenly become dry. Her knowledge of married intimacy was sketchy; the mysteries of the marriage bed were considered too delicate a topic to be discussed with or before innocent young women. Yet remembering how she had felt when held in Oliver's arms and the delicious sensations his kisses had aroused, the night to come beckoned her as one of adventure and pleasure, rather than one to fear. Helena had no intention of being the ‘shrinking virgin' so often and irritatingly portrayed in romantic novels. She intended to live life to the full. So now she merely smiled her assent to her new and handsome husband, and when he came round to her rose-upholstered mahogany chair she eased herself gracefully out of it.

Oliver smiled to himself. His gentle courtship, so carefully planned, was obviously going to bear fruit. He smiled again at the unintended pun – could it be a lucky omen? But his lovemaking that first night, and indeed for many nights to come, must be of the utmost care. While he hoped – if he had been a religious man he would have prayed – that his bride's body would be free of blemish, bitter experience had taught him that he could not, must not take the risk of an adverse discovery. To have reached this point only to fail – he could not bear even the thought – and so he had made his decision. Only when Helena was safely delivered of a son would Oliver permit himself to see her naked.

Helena, in a white nightdress trimmed with exquisite lace, lay in the silken-covered four-poster bed listening for any sound of movement behind the inter-communicating door. The head parlourmaid who had been attending to her needs had left some moments ago and now with her hair brushed and loose around her shoulders and her body delicately scented, Helena's anticipation was almost exquisite. There was a cosy coal fire and the two fringed bedside lamps gave a soft glow that made the room look both inviting and romantic. It was, she thought, the perfect setting for a night of love, and then as she was gazing again at the gold wedding band the door opened and Oliver came in.

Looking handsome in a maroon silk dressing gown and matching pyjamas, he returned her smile and then crossed to the far side of the bed to switch off first the lamp on Helena's side and then the one on his own. She turned in the shadowy room with its flickering fire, and watched as he removed his dressing gown before sliding beneath the linen sheets to lie beside her.

Feeling suddenly rather shy, Helena felt the familiar bristle of his moustache as his lips immediately came down to hers in a kiss that was hard, even impatient. Then immediately Oliver lifted himself on one elbow and moved to lean over her, almost roughly parting her thighs. Appalled, she felt almost crushed by the weight of his body as, with a contorted face, his eyes blazing in intensity, he achieved a silent, swift and for her, agonising consummation. As he rolled off her, Helena, conscious of stickiness between her legs, closed them defensively only to find with bewilderment that Oliver was already flinging back the sheets. She heard the words, ‘Thank you my dear,' as he bent to retrieve his dressing gown and then without even a backward glance left the room. It was then that slowly, almost painfully, heavy tears began to course down her face. She felt degraded, used, her body invaded. Her disappointment was so bitter that it hurt. Was this what married love was like – a cold and impersonal coupling?

On the morning following his marriage, Oliver, after a refreshing cup of Earl Grey tea followed by his usual dressing routine, felt in good spirits as he went down the curving staircase with its black balustrade to the breakfast room. When he went over to the silver dishes on the sideboard, he heard a slight cough behind him and turned to see the butler hovering. ‘Mrs Faraday has expressed a wish to breakfast in her room, Sir.'

‘Thank you, Gray.' Oliver, finding that he had an excellent appetite, enjoyed the bacon, sausages, kidneys and scrambled eggs he had chosen, and then lingered with his coffee over
The Times
. He suspected that Helena had chosen to have a lazy morning because she felt embarrassed after her deflowering. Oliver had a few qualms about that, knowing that his overriding urge to procreate had clouded his judgement. The actual act had been too swift – although surely the first time for a virgin could never be enjoyable. Next time would need to be different. Not only had he little desire for an unwilling wife, if the marriage bed was to be a fertile one then it was essential that Helena should welcome their lovemaking.

Eventually, after glancing at the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, he decided it would now be appropriate for him to go upstairs – he had no desire to see his wife in a state of disarray.

Helena, who had slept very little, was sitting before her elaborate walnut dressing table as she half-heartedly tried to choose which earrings to wear. Aware that ladies of quality never wore diamonds during the day, she pushed one pair aside and stared into the mirror at her shadowed eyes.

Then came the half-expected tap at her door. ‘Come in.'

‘Did you sleep well, my love?'

Helena's voice was quiet. ‘Yes, thank you.'

‘And what would you like to do today? The weather seems reasonable, would you enjoy a stroll?'

‘I would love some fresh air, Oliver.' She was trying to keep her voice even.

‘Then later we shall take lunch at the Savoy Grill. How does that appeal?'

‘Perfect.' Helena rose from her velvet stool to receive Oliver's morning kiss and straightened her back. She could hardly bear him to touch her, but she had to be adult about this. She had taken her vows before God and this man was her husband. During the long hours of the previous night, her only consolation had been a desperate hope that next time Oliver would be more tender, would show more consideration. How soon that would be, Helena was unsure, but until then this was a new day, the first of her married life and all she could do was to make the best of it.