Gallipoli Street (23 page)

‘Tell my wife I need to see her in my office as soon as she arrives, Collins.'

‘Very good, sir,' Collins replied, taking his coat. Gregory pushed open the polished oak door and strode over to his desk, throwing his gloves down and pouring himself a drink. He gazed sightlessly out the mullioned windows, his mind racing as he replayed the meeting he'd just had over in his mind. Hiring a private investigator was a mere formality. He'd never expected her to actually dare to court danger and see another man, yet that very afternoon the report had been clear. She had been seen having lunch with no other than Clarkson, in broad daylight at the Savoy of all places. The very place he'd lunched only yesterday with some very important business associates. His hand gripped the desk at the thought of them seeing her there, alone at lunch with another man.

The front door opened and he waited for her to enter the room. She did so after a few minutes, smoothing her hair with one still-gloved hand.

‘You wanted to see me?' she asked.

He struck her hard across the face, causing her to reel backwards, slamming her left side against the desk before she collapsed to the floor.

‘I won't be made a fool of, Rose,' he told her, his voice low. ‘If I ever hear of you meeting with another man again you'll be sent home alone and Elizabeth will stay here with me, away from the influence of her slut of a mother. Do you understand?'

‘She…she's only a baby, Gregory…please. She needs to be somewhere safe. These Zeppelin raids–'

‘Elizabeth will remain in London with me. As will you, my wife, as long as you behave as a wife should.'

Rose pulled herself to her feet slowly, grunting in pain. ‘Gregory, I promise you, I was only meeting Clarkson to ask about home. I would never betray you.'

‘What about Jack Murphy, Rose? How can I ever trust a woman who was already pregnant when I married her?'

‘She's yours! Gregory, for pity's sake, look at her!' Rose pleaded with him, pointing to the photo on the mantelpiece of a white-haired child wearing christening robes.

‘Yet you would have married Murphy and fobbed her off as his. My child. It didn't even occur to me until later that you must have been lifting your skirts for him right from the start. How else did you plan to get away with it? You never would have told him the truth. Just like you never would have told me…bloody
bitch
.' He hit her again, this time grabbing her throat after he slapped her face and squeezing her chin so she faced him. Tears fell down her cheeks.

‘I know she's mine. Unfortunately my child didn't get to choose her mother, but I choose whether or not you are fit to be in her life, so you'd better start warming my bed again and doing as you're told. That includes keeping your legs together around other men and staying at home, or so help me Rose I'll make you pay before I send you away.' He shoved her backwards before walking out.

Rose made her trembling way to the nursery and picked Elizabeth up gently from her nap, cradling her close as she sat in the rocking chair beneath the window.

It was the first time he had mentioned Jack since that terrible night in the cabin on their honeymoon when he'd noticed her rounding belly in the morning light and confronted her about her pregnancy. She'd still felt hopeful enough to confess she was carrying his child until he'd smashed her head hard against the wall, accusing her of tricking him into marrying her as she carried another man's bastard. He'd kicked her until she was unconscious on the floor, the blood pouring from her head into a dark pool, causing the maid to scream when she'd arrived later with the linen. Gregory was in the bar by then, dismissing the incident as his wife being ‘clumsy' when called to the infirmary to speak with the ship's doctor. He never once came to visit her for the rest of the voyage as the older man fought to save both her and the baby, finally coming to inform Gregory that both would probably survive just days before they docked. Despite the doctor's protestations, the captain treated the whole affair as ‘an unfortunate accident', and Rose saw him a few months later driving an expensive new car about town.

She rocked Elizabeth, her tears drying as she smiled down at the serene face of her beautiful little daughter. Funny how she never cried, this child whose womb had been housed within a body wracked by worry then pain. She had arrived on a Sunday morning, a tiny child but perfectly formed, easily passed off as ‘an early baby', due in part, Rose was sure, to her own ill-health during the pregnancy.

Gregory had walked in and taken a long look at the infant before instructing Rose to name his daughter after his mother, Elizabeth. Then he left without so much as a glance in her direction. His so honoured mother, the widow Lady Chambers, was equally cold, arriving one day in her black robes to observe ‘the child' and inform Rose which schools she would be attending. She stayed all of ten minutes before leaving in a matching black coach, like a malevolent spider crawling back to her lair. It was the only time Rose had met her and she hoped fervently it would be the last.

Rose had expected him to come back to her bed after the birth but as yet he had avoided her altogether, seeing her only briefly in the mornings at breakfast, or occasionally at dinner, when her presence was required at his table. So it had been until today.

She knew he would expect it of her now.

Rose shuddered to imagine how his violence would distort their already borderline dangerous bedroom passion. What was once a game of lust-fuelled domination would surely tip into darkness. She prayed Clarkson could arrange the meeting as soon as possible. Everything depended upon it.

It was a bitterly cold day but Clarkson sat outside the hangar anyway, waiting for his flight time. He sipped on his tea for a while, holding it in his gloved hands to warm them before pulling the letter from Pattie out of his pocket and re-reading it yet again.

Clarkson held up the picture of little May wearing Buggles and grinned, wishing he could see the exact colour of her eyes beneath the fur. He guessed they were the same blue as Pattie's. Re-reading the rest of the letter with amusement, Clarkson paused, savouring the last few lines. Tracing over the ink, he ached to kiss Pattie goodbye for real as he counted her little Xs across the bottom. Eleven. He grinned again. God he missed her.

A man waved at him from the front steps of HQ and Clarkson recognised him as Major Hitchcock's secretary. He ran over and the man ushered him in.

‘The major said he'll see you now.' Clarkson had forgotten all about Rose and her request and quickly composed himself for the interview, wondering why he was bothering.

Even in London, that woman was nothing but trouble.

She stared at the back of the door, dreading the sound of his footsteps but knowing they would come. Just one more night, she reminded herself. One more night until she could hold Elizabeth again. One more night and she would never have to feel his fists upon her, his hands, his heavy form as it crushed her beneath him and ripped away whatever was left of her sensuality. What had been a beautiful part of Rose's life had become a painful, violent assault of body and mind and soul. Gone was any desire to be touched because touch now meant hate and blood and tearing. Touch had destroyed her life.

Standing up she walked over to the mirror and stared at the sorry soul who lived there. Pale, hollow and thin; a ravaged face, a battered body. Her once rounded curves had faded to the bone, her creamy complexion was now mottled in purple and green bruises. She looked about the room for something to cover herself in but found only silks and satins, lace and delicate cottons. Like a slave in a whorehouse to be dressed up for the show, she mused vaguely, shrouding herself in a blanket instead and huddling against the window.

She stared out at the world, registering that it moved on without her in bemusing normality; a world where sunshine met the skin and a woman could hold her child's hand, eat ice cream and laugh. A world she would fight to rejoin tomorrow, regardless of the enormous risk, because Rose knew that despite everything Gregory had done to her over the past weeks, locking her in her room, banning her from her own child, the violent abuse, the raping of her fragile body, he had not broken her. She was stronger than all of it because she had a secret weapon he could not destroy: her determination to be with Elizabeth. She knew that to her dying day she would fight and scheme, manipulate and claw her way back to her child and away from him, even if it truly meant that dying day came far sooner than it should.

The footsteps sounded and she braced herself as the door swung open and his shadow crossed her. She didn't speak as he ripped into her flesh, his hands cold, his body an enormous force ripping at her breasts, her thighs, inflicting as much pain as he could in between her legs as he thrust inside her in a sudden assault. Weeks earlier she would have begged, cried, reasoned, attempted to oblige him, but all of her efforts had only furthered his anger. She knew it was best to lie still and silent until it was over, squeezing her eyes shut against the blinding agony he inflicted, telling herself it would eventually end. Swallowing her cries of pain.

He finished with a grunt and rolled off her, spent. Rose vaguely registered the sound of Elizabeth's baby talk down the hall and focused on it, blocking out his heavy breathing.

‘Put something on that hides those bones tonight. I have guests for dinner,' he ordered as he sat up and began to dress. She shrugged her way into her robe, hands shaking, and nodded. ‘Answer me when I talk to you, slut,' he spat. ‘You look like a threepenny whore. Put some makeup on and hide your shame.' He stared at the swollen eye and cut lip he had given her two days earlier. ‘On second thoughts, forget it. I don't think anyone could eat looking at that.' He shoved her back and she felt her head collide with the bedhead before he strode out of the room, bolting the door.

Rose sat unsteadily, rubbing the back of her head and wondering if she would pass out. It didn't matter as long as she was able to stand and walk out of here in the morning. There was a soft knock at the door and she told Mary to enter, struggling to stand.

‘Good evening, m'lady. Oh, sweet saints, don't get up. There now.' Mary bustled in, rushing to her side as she noticed the blood on the sheets. ‘What's happened now? Oh me poor love…' Mary looked to the back of Rose's head but found more blood running down her mistress's leg. She tended to her gently, changing the bedclothes and helping her into a warm bath, laying out towels, all the while talking in hushed tones of the plans they had laid.

‘I'll come at dawn. The master won't be up after I've slipped a little something in his nightcap, and Collins is off to see his brother tonight. I've packed all the things and they're stored down at the port, so not to worry there. There's more than enough money from the sale of your fur so I've set it up that you'll have cash in the valise and the tickets are all paid. Ah no, pet, let me,' she interrupted herself, helping Rose from the bath as delicately as she tended the baby, wincing at the state of Rose's body and cursing the master under her breath.