Hettie of Hope Street (13 page)

But it was the manner of his parting from her that weighed most heavily on her thoughts, and the charges he had made against her. Unfair, untruthful charges, and so she intended to prove.

Her mind was made up, and nothing could change it. No matter what her Aunt Connie had
said, she was going to tell Ellie that she intended to come home permanently to be with her. Singing might be in her blood, but some things were far more important.

‘But what about the Adelphi and your morning practice?' Babs asked Hettie doubtfully as she watched Hettie count out the money for her train fare.

‘I don't care about that,' Hettie told her fiercely. ‘I'm going to tell Mam that I'm coming home.'

‘But Hettie, you love singing so much!'

‘I thought I did, but now I don't,' Hettie insisted stubbornly.

The truth was that John's disclosures and accusations about the loss of the baby Ellie had been carrying had left Hettie not just feeling guilty but determined to make amends, and to prove that she was not the naive foolish girl everyone seemed to think, but instead a responsible mature young woman.

‘What time will you be back?' Babs asked her.

‘I don't know. I may stay at home tonight and come back tomorrow.'

‘Ma Buchanan will have forty fits if you do that,' Babs warned her.

Hettie gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Then she'll just have to have forty fits. Why should I concern myself about them after the way they've treated me?'

‘By, Hettie, that's the spirit, good for you,' Babs cheered.

Once the train had pulled into Preston station Hettie got off and walked along the platform before pausing to read the newspaper headlines telling of the fifty-thousand-strong crowd that had attended the funeral in Italy of the singer Enrico Caruso. What must it be like to be so famous and so adored? She would certainly never know. In future the only audience for her singing would be the occupants of the Winckley Square house. But she didn't care, Hettie assured herself firmly. In fact, she was glad!

She was wearing a pretty dress under a lightweight coat, her legs encased in a pair of the very latest Red Seal silk hose, which had cost her the last of her carefully saved 'emergency' money. Her bobbed hair was concealed beneath the neat cloche style hat she had had retrimmed with new ribbon to match the sash on her dress, but her stylish appearance was the last thing on her mind as she hurried towards Fishergate and then turned off to walk towards Winckley Square.

Preston seemed smaller than she remembered, its air different from Liverpool's slightly salty tang. Neither of her birth parents had originated from
Preston but to her it had always been home, just as to her Ellie and Gideon had always been her family.

As she turned into Winckley Square she looked automatically across to the large elegant house Gideon had inherited from his mother, frowning at the sight of an unfamiliar and very smart car parked outside it.

Traditionally the children of the family had always used the back door into the kitchen for their comings and goings, sure of a freshly baked gingerbread man or some other treat along with a glass of fresh milk. But when Hettie turned the handle of the kitchen door and walked in the little tweeny maid stared at her as though she were a stranger, almost dropping the coal scuttle she was carrying.

‘Oh, Miss Hettie, it's you. I didn't recognise you at first. My, what a shock you gave me!'

Miss
Hettie? Since when had she been a
miss
? Hettie wondered.

‘I've come to see Mam,' she explained.

‘Oh, miss, she's been that poorly,' the tweeny said with a sigh. ‘And the poor master…You'll find the master in his study,' she said hurriedly, aware she may have said too much. ‘Dr Iris is upstairs with yer mam.'

‘Oh, is that her car outside?'

‘Yes, it is.'

Leaving the kitchen Hettie made her way through the hall and then pushed open the door to her father's study after a brief knock.

‘Hettie! What on earth…'

‘Da.' To her own chagrin Hettie burst into tears and flung herself into Gideon's arms. ‘John and Aunt Connie told me about Mam and the baby,' she told him when she had calmed down.

Before he could respond the study door opened and Iris came in looking as surprised as Gideon had to see Hettie.

‘I want to see Mam,' Hettie announced immediately.

‘Hettie, she's sleeping at the moment, and it's best that she isn't disturbed,' Iris told her in a kind but firm voice.

‘But I want to tell her that I'm going to stop singing and that I'm going to come home to be with her.'

‘Oh, Hettie, no! You mustn't do that,' Iris objected. ‘It won't help Ellie, and in fact it could even make her worse.'

Hettie looked at her in disbelief. ‘But why? Why should me being here make her worse?'

There was just the smallest, telling pause during which Hettie saw Iris and Gideon exchange glances before Iris said calmly, ‘Come and sit down, Hettie, and I'll try to explain.'

Anxiously, Hettie did so.

‘Physically, Ellie is making an excellent recovery from losing her baby,' Iris explained carefully. ‘That is to say her body is recovering well, but there is more to human beings than merely a body, as we doctors are beginning to recognise.

‘Ellie blames herself for the fact that she lost her baby. She feels that if she had consulted me originally when she had wanted to, things might have been different. Of course, I have told her that she has nothing to blame herself for, and even if I had seen her it would not have made any difference, but she cannot let go of this belief that she is to blame. The fact that this baby would have been the daughter she longed so much to have has, I think, added to her suffering. We know that sometimes, even after a healthy baby has been delivered, a woman can suffer deep melancholy, and it is this melancholy that has taken a hold of Ellie.'

Hettie sat stiffly, feeling her heart pounding heavily and bitterly inside her chest. Why should her mother want another daughter when she already had her? Didn't she love her any more? Had she ever really loved her or had she just pretended to?

‘What you want to do is very praiseworthy, Hettie. I know you want to help, but what Ellie needs is to be allowed to grieve for her lost child. At the moment she is all Ellie can think of or talk about. I know this is hard for you to hear, and I hope you will understand. I don't think that Ellie would want to see you – she has refused to see her aunt and her cousins, and has even requested that Connie does not come to visit.'

‘They are not as close to her as me,' Hettie wanted to protest, but she knew she could not.

Gideon came over to her and took hold of her hand. ‘Hettie, Ellie will not even share her grief with me.'

Hettie fought to control her desire to cry. ‘But she will get better, won't she?' she appealed to Iris.

‘I hope so, Hettie,' Iris told her quietly. ‘But these things take time.' She looked across at Gideon. ‘I have recommended to your father that, if things do not improve soon, he should take her away, perhaps to the Lakes again, for the air is very pure and strengthening there. Now I have to go back upstairs in a few minutes in case Ellie has woken up. She does not like me to leave her for very long, and she only sleeps fitfully, so I must say goodbye to you.'

‘You will tell her…'

‘I shall tell her that you are thinking of her and that you have sent your love,' Iris stopped her firmly. ‘Please excuse me, I must go back to Ellie.'

‘Iris has been wonderful. I don't know how we would have managed without her,' Gideon declared as the door closed behind her.

‘Da, please let me stay,' Hettie begged.

Sorrowfully, Gideon shook his head. ‘You heard what Iris said, Hettie. Are you all right for money, by the way? I had intended to make arrangements for you to receive an allowance. I must speak to Harry about it.'

‘I bought a return train ticket,' Hettie told him quietly.

Gideon smiled at her, ‘You are a good child,
Hettie. Here is your five pounds now. If I am to take your mother to the Lakes there are arrangements I shall need to make…'

He could think of nothing and no one other than Ellie, Hettie recognised bleakly as he pressed five pounds on her as though already anxious for her to be gone.

‘Thank goodness, that is the last one gone. I can't remember when we last had such a busy night,' Sarah puffed as she hurried into the chop house kitchen with more dirty plates and put them down beside the sink. ‘Could you go and clear the rest of the plates for me please, Hettie, only I have to go upstairs and check on Granddad.'

Hettie nodded and then lifted a wet hand to push her hair out of her eyes before walking towards the dining room.

Tomorrow she would have to face the Buchanans who would want to know why she had not gone to the Adelphi this afternoon. She would lose her job there anyway just as soon as they found a replacement for her, which would only be a matter of time as they had already placed another advert, she reminded herself as she started to hum and then sing the first notes of a sad lament. Somehow it was easier for her to sing how she felt than to think about it.

The door to the street was still open and Hettie left it so, welcoming the cool evening air after the steamy heat of the kitchen. Still softly singing she
cleared the plates and then began to wipe the tables. The song was one of her favourites, the lament of a young girl for the man she had loved and lost, from one of her favourite operettas.

‘Bravo. You have a good voice.'

Hettie nearly dropped the plates she was carrying as a man rose from the dark shadows of one of the banquettes where he had obviously been sitting.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,' the stranger apologised. ‘I didn't mean to scare you. I was just finishing my drink before leaving. You obviously sing professionally. Which show are you in?'

‘I'm not. I mean, yes I do sing. At the Adelphi in the afternoon for the ladies who take tea. Or at least I did…But I am not in any show.'

‘The Adelphi? The devil you do,' he said sharply coming towards her so that she could see him properly for the first time.

Hettie's eyes widened. ‘You were at the Adelphi,' she told him.

‘Yes. And you did not answer the note I sent you,' he agreed.

‘I do not accept invitations from hotel guests,' Hettie told him primly.

He frowned, and Hettie guessed that she had annoyed him. To her relief Sarah came bustling down the stairs, obviously surprised to see a diner still in the restaurant. Leaving her to deal with him, Hettie whisked herself and her plates into the kitchen, firmly closing the door between the two rooms.

Was it a bad omen to see the handsome American again tonight – the one who had sent her the note that provoked Mr Buchanan into his attack on her? Did it spell further doom to come? She was not sure she could take much more at the moment. She'd never felt so alone, so unloved by those she thought of as her family. She couldn't even bring herself to go and see Connie now after what she had told John about her preferring new friends over her family.

Tiredly, she started to wash the last of the dishes. Somehow today her home had not felt like her home any longer. No matter how much she wished things were different, Iris's words had made it plain to her that Ellie did not think of her as her daughter. Because of that her pride had not allowed her to tell Gideon that she was likely to lose her job. She could not and would not go back to Winckley Square if she were not truly wanted there.

But what was she to do? The money she earned here at the chop house would not be enough for her to live on and pay rent to her landlady – if she even let her stay on after the business with the Buchanans, that was. She felt so very afraid of what the future held.

‘Sommat wrong, 'Ettie?' Babs asked sympathetically when she saw Hettie sitting silently on her bed later that evening.

‘Course there's sommat wrong,' Mary answered
for her scornfully. ‘The poor kid's just lost her bleedin' job.'

‘Never mind, Hettie, with those looks of yours you'll soon get work,' Sukey tried to comfort her. ‘That Chinky look as you've got makes fellas think as how you'd be a real fast piece, even if we know you ain't,' she added giving Hettie a saucy wink.

‘My mother was
Japanese
, not Chinese,' Hettie protested sharply, tears stinging her eyes as she saw the look the other girls exchanged and suddenly felt very alone and excluded. She
was
different, even if she herself did not want to admit it. And she had seen, too, the way that men looked at her in a different way than they looked at the other girls.

It was the same way the man at the restaurant had looked at her. What was she to do? What was to become of her?

‘'Ere, 'Ettie, there's going to be some new auditions for the musical. Seems like a couple o' the girls they took on 'aven't turned out to be right. Why don't you give it a go?'

Hettie heaved a small sigh and shook her head. ‘They won't take me on now, not after they've already turned me down.'

‘'Oo says? By golly, 'Ettie Walker, I never thought you was the kind that was a quitter,' Babs told her sturdily.

A quitter? Angry colour burned in Hettie's pale face. ‘I'll have you know, Babs Cheetham, that I am no such thing.'

‘Good, cos I've already said as 'ow you'll be coming to the audition,' Babs announced smugly.

Hettie knew that her friends were trying to help her, but Ellie's rejection of her had left a deep and painful wound that was hurting very badly, and for once her singing was not providing her with any solace for her pain. It hurt so much that the
two people dearest to her in the entire world, Ellie and John, should both have turned their backs on her.

She was feeling so low that she could not in all honesty see the point of even attending the audition, but Babs cajoled and bullied her into getting ready for it, insisting optimistically that Hettie had as much chance as anyone else of getting one of the three vacant parts. ‘And more than most if'n you was to ask me to speak out honestly,' she assured Hettie. ‘For none of 'em could sing as well as you do, 'Ettie.'

Hettie sighed. They had been through all this before. ‘But I'm not tall enough for the chorus,' she reminded Babs again.

‘You 'aven't bin listenin' to me proper, 'ave you? These parts aren't for the bleedin' chorus, 'Ettie. There's a trio of girls who 'ave to come on and sing a coupla songs, and one of them will 'ave to be the understudy for the second female lead, on account of one of the girls who left was the second female lead so her understudy has 'ad to take her place.'

Over thirty girls had been invited to auditions, and as she stood in the wings listening to them Hettie's heart sank lower and lower. Her voice might be as good if not better than theirs but they were all obviously well-seasoned performers, with most of them having chorus line experience.

At last, when there were only four girls left,
Hettie heard her name called out. But instead of walking calmly out on to the stage, she panicked and froze. She had to be pushed by the girl standing next to her, so that she half stumbled on to the bare boards.

They had all been told to hand in their music for their audition piece to the accompanist. But to Hettie's horror, as she tried to compose herself and ignore the blinding dazzle of the footlights, which were making it impossible for her to see the men she knew would be assessing and judging her, the notes the pianist was playing were not the opening notes for her own piece. Instead, she recognised a popular and cheeky vaudeville song that called for the singer to perform a series of naughty poses as she sang.

Hettie knew the song, but there was no way she could sing it. But the pianist was waiting for her. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. Helplessly, she looked at him and shook her head, explaining, ‘That isn't my music…'

‘Come along, what's the hold up?' a sharp male voice called out from the stalls.

The pianist shrugged his shoulders and looked bored.

Hettie bit her lip.

The safety of the wings was just feet away, but if she gave in and ran to them she would be the quitter she had so proudly told Babs she wasn't.

She took a deep breath and then announced into the darkness: ‘The accompanist hasn't got my
music, so I shall have to sing without it.' She could hear the impatient rustle and movement of her unseen audience.

Before she could lose her courage she inhaled sharply and began to sing. Perfect pitch, that was what Miss Brown had always praised her for…Perfect pitch. She sang at home on her own without music, so why should this be any different?

Determinedly, Hettie tried to ignore that she was singing for the unseen judges in the darkness beyond the footlights, and to pretend instead that she was singing at home in Winckley Square.

Her nervousness faded as her delight in singing took over. The pure true sound of her voice rose and fell in a cascade of liquid harmony that had Babs, who had sneaked into the wings to listen, clasping her hands together and marvelling aloud.

Hettie had almost finished when she heard someone calling out from the stalls. ‘That's enough, that's enough. Next.'

She had been so engrossed in making herself believe she was at home that for a few seconds Hettie couldn't register what was happening, and then suddenly and sickeningly she realised that her audition was over and she was being dismissed.

Hettie was vaguely aware of the sound of angry, raised male voices coming from the stalls, but the next girl was already coming out of the wings, giving a loud sniff of contempt as she hurried past her, and the pianist began to play her music.

She should never have allowed Babs to persuade
her to come here today, Hettie told herself miserably. She should have known she would be turned down. She
had
known all along that she wouldn't be good enough.

Babs was waiting for her in the wings, ready to give her hand a comforting squeeze and to whisper, ‘Gawd, 'Ettie, just listen to 'er.' Grimacing and nodding her head in the direction of the stage, she added scornfully, ‘What a screech she's making.'

‘Huh, well it don't matter where she's concerned how badly she sings,' another girl commented overhearing Babs, ‘cos 'er cousin knows someone 'oo knows the director, and I overheard her saying in the dressin' room as 'ow she's already been promised a part.'

‘It's not your fault if you 'aven't been chosen, 'Ettie love,' Babs tried to comfort Hettie. ‘That's the way it is sometimes in this business. It's a cryin' shame an all cos you have ever such a pretty voice, and I'm really going to miss you when we tek off for London, like. Oh 'eck, is that the time? I've got ter go. We're supposed to be rehearsing. We've got the bloody angel coming, and the director's acting as nervous as a virgin on her weddin' night. I suppose he's worryin' that this American chap is going to want to know what 'is money is being spent on.'

She'd gone before Hettie could say anything, leaving Hettie to make her way past the chattering groups of chorus girls hurrying from the dressing room, leaving the smell of chalk, scent and
greasepaint hanging on the air. Dispiritedly Hettie watched the other girls. She couldn't help feeling envious of them and wishing that her own audition had been successful.

She had almost reached the stage door when a good-looking, fair-haired young man hurried up to her, exclaiming, ‘Hey, you, Hettie Walker. You're to come with me immediately.'

‘What? Why?' Hettie asked apprehensively. ‘I…'

The young man shook his head and pulled a face. ‘Come along, we've got to hurry. It took me ages to find you, and he isn't exactly in the best of moods, even if you have been lucky enough to catch his eye.'

‘I'm sorry,' Hettie began uncertainly, ‘but I don't think…'

‘My dear, of course you don't think; none of us ever admit to thinking. How could we when we have to dedicate ourselves to the muse?'

His languid manner of speaking bemused Hettie. She wasn't sure if he was serious or trying to make fun of her. Whilst she was still debating what to do, he took hold of her hand and insisted, ‘Come along. I've been told to get you up to his office immediately. Quick,' he instructed her, ‘let's take these stairs here. They go right up to the office. Fair taken his nibs' fancy, you have, Hettie Walker,' he told her pointedly. ‘And no two ways about it. Here we are.'

He was knocking on a door before opening it
and virtually pushing her inside the room before Hettie could even speak.

She could hear the door closing, shutting her inside the room with the man perched on the edge of the heavy mahogany partners desk that dominated the whole room.

‘You,' she gasped, her eyes widening in recognition as she stared at the man who had sent her the note at the Adelphi and then commented on her singing at the chop house.

‘They say third time lucky, don't they? I certainly hope they're right, and that this time you don't disappear on me.'

‘Who are you? Why have you had me brought here?' Hettie demanded worriedly as she looked from his face to the closed door and then back again.

‘My name is Jay Dalhousie,' he told her with a smile, ‘and I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me, Hettie Walker, and that there is no need for you to look so longingly at the door – you can go any time you please, although I sincerely hope you won't want to.'

‘I wasn't…' Hettie fibbed, and then, feeling bolder despite herself, said, ‘Your name is very unusual. I have never heard one like it before.' And then she blushed when he laughed.

‘No? Well, it's the one my Daddy gave me, and what was good enough for him is good enough for me.'

‘You're an American.' Hettie blushed again as
she realised that her comment sounded almost like an accusation.

‘Creole,' he corrected her, watching her confused frown before explaining laconically, ‘Way, way back when, my pa's folks came from France to settle in New Orleans, and we like to think of ourselves as Americans with a dash of something extra – something hot and spicy, a bit like our Cajun cooking.'

Something about the way he was looking at her whilst he talked was making Hettie feel both alarmed and excited. Instinctively, she knew that he was the kind of man who would entice a woman to make dangerous and reckless decisions. Her heart started to beat far too fast, and the colour burning her face now had nothing to do with any embarrassment.

‘And your mother?' she asked him, trying to make polite conversation.

Instead of answering her immediately, he removed a cigar from the box on the desk, clipping it neatly and then striking and lighting a match against the leather sole of his shoe. ‘These are the best cigars a man can buy. They say in Havana that their special richness comes from the fact that the women who make them roll the tobacco leaves between their thighs.'

The bright red burn across her cheekbones betrayed Hettie's shock.

‘My mother's grandmother grew up in one of Mississippi's big plantation houses,' he continued,
amused and touched by Hettie's sweet innocence. ‘“Belle Visage” was what they named it. My mother used to tell me about how
her
mother had told her stories of my great-grandmamma wearing gowns that were made in France, and jewels worth a prince's ransom.'

‘You mean she was the mistress of a slave plantation?' Hettie asked him, unable to conceal her disapproval. At school she had learned about William Wilberforce and his determination to put an end to the slave trade.

‘No,' Jay told her laconically. ‘What I mean is that she was the mistress of the plantation owner. My great-grandmamma was an octoroon; that is to say she had “slave” blood, and was one-eighth black. In New Orleans they have a name for every degree of “black blood” a person can have.'

Hettie looked at him a little uncertainly. His skin was very much the same shade of warm olive as Liverpool's Italian immigrants, rather than the shiny, almost blue-black of the West Africans she had seen around the docks.

‘
My
mother was Japanese,' she heard herself telling him without knowing why.

‘So, already our mixed-blood heritage is something we have in common. In fact, I think that you and I could get along very well with one another, Hettie. Very well.'

He got off the desk and started to walk towards her, causing Hettie to back away from him in panic and anger.

‘I'm not interested in that sort of thing,' she told him fiercely. She had backed up as far as the door now and had nowhere else to go. ‘I'll have you know I'm not that sort of person. I'm a decent, respectable girl…'

Jay Dalhousie had folded his arms across his admirably broad chest and now he was actually laughing at her. She could see the white flash of his big strong teeth, his eyes crinkling up in amusement as the sound of his mirth filled the small room.

‘I am sure you are, Hettie,' he told her more soberly when he had stopped laughing. ‘But I think you may have misunderstood me. The role I wish you to take on is not that of my mistress, but that of the second lead in
Princess Geisha
. I thought when I heard you singing at the Adelphi that you would be perfect for the role, as much for your appearance as for your voice. However, when you did not respond to my note, I bowed to the wishes of our director and allowed him to choose his own artistes. I am, after all, merely the financial backer of the show and know very little of the intricacies of putting on a stage show, even if I do know what I like to look at and listen to.

‘When I heard you singing in that restaurant, I thought again how perfect you would be for the part of Princess Mimi, the younger cousin of the female lead, and the go-between who helps her in her secret love affair with Prince Hoi-hand. But by then the part had been cast.

‘However, since our second female lead has changed her mind and abandoned us, it seems almost a divine intervention that you should have attended today's audition.'

‘But that was only for a very small minor part, and I didn't even get it,' Hettie protested. ‘I was told that the understudy would be taking over the vacant role…'

‘Certainly that was what Lucius Carlyle, our director, felt we should do, but having heard you singing again today I have insisted that the part should go to you,' he informed her.

Was she dreaming? Could this really be happening? Was she really being offered the
second female lead
in an operetta the other girls had already told her was to be one of the most expensive extravaganzas the London stage had ever seen?