Home for Christmas (33 page)

Beattie’s grateful expression lifted her face, though did little to diminish the rigid frown.

‘Before you knock on the door, I’m going round to get Gran,’ said Agnes.

Their eyes met. Edith Allen adored her eldest son, the child of her youth and a love nobody knew much about. The telegram might indeed say he was injured or captured, but it might also say he was dead.

Ellen Proctor was a picture of calm as she came out of her front door, her eyes not glancing to left or right, her pipe clenched firmly to the corner of her mouth.

‘You girls can go on. I’ll see to it,’ said Agnes’s grandmother.

That solemn teatime on a typical English Sunday was the last time Lydia and Agnes saw each other before Lydia left for Flanders and Agnes filled her time before leaving for France. It was also the last time Ellen Proctor saw Edith Allen with a smile on her face. Her son was dead and her mind could not accept the fact.

Agnes clenched her teeth at the thought of going to see Sylvester, the man who had thought that, as a domestic servant, she should be grateful he wished to seduce her. She really did not want to see him, let alone ask him for anything.

So what if she sent it by some other means than Siggy? Lydia had told her that she’d asked other people they knew if they could take the letter. Some had looked at her sadly; those who knew she was half German had regarded her with outright suspicion. But I’m totally English, Agnes thought to herself. Perhaps I might have more luck.

Time was not on her side seeing as she too was leaving for her wartime job. Running at times, she went to many places in an effort to get Lydia’s letter received as quickly as possible. None was very hopeful.

‘There is a war on. Things will only get worse before they get better,’ said the postmaster, frowning at her as though she’d asked for a date with Lord Kitchener.

Dragging her feet, she contemplated her last resort, the person Lydia had requested she take it to in the first place: Major Dartmouth.

The very thought of the way his hands had groped her body still sickened her. Her thoughts naturally turned to Robert. What if she didn’t deliver the letter? Without Lydia around, it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Robert’s affection might be transferred to her. Was she foolish in thinking it would? Was it possible he might stop treating her like a younger sister and instead make her his sweetheart?

So many what ifs. So many possibilities.

She stopped at a bright red pillar box, the letter suddenly seeming to burn a hole in her pocket. It would be so easy to post it into the yawning mouth. The fact that it wasn’t stamped would probably be enough to get it discarded from the Royal Mail.

It didn’t matter. Either way it would give her time to write to Robert and for her letter to go through explaining about Lydia leaving England. It would give her a chance with him.

Lydia is your friend.

The voice of conscience stayed her hand. Pushing the letter back into her pocket, she soldiered on, knowing what she had to do and certainly not looking forward to it. Lydia was her friend. She couldn’t possibly let her down. Whatever it took, she would see this through. There was the possibility that Major Dartmouth might forget his previous attempts at seduction and simply remember her as the cook’s daughter whom he used to play with when they were children. He just needed reminding of it.

She took a taxi through heavy traffic to army logistics in Whitehall. A young officer sitting behind the desk in the reception area looked up and, on seeing her, a smile lit up his face.

‘Good afternoon, Miss.’

The young officer fixed his gaze on her face. He looked disappointed when she told him she wished to see Major Dartmouth. She’d heard via her mother’s old friends at Heathlands that Siggy had been promoted.

‘Lucky Major Dartmouth,’ he said.

‘It’s not like that,’ she advised him. ‘I’m just an old childhood friend who needs his assistance with something.’

Hope brightened his face, his eyes opening wide and his dark moustache stretching with his smile.

‘I’m so glad,’ he said to her.

An orderly with hair as black as spilt oil went to inform Major Dartmouth that she was waiting.

The young officer behind the desk offered her a chair so she could sit down. ‘No thank you,’ she said with a gracious smile. ‘I need to stretch my legs.’

The fact was, she was feeling nervous. Siggy Dartmouth was her least favourite person. He was unscrupulous, arrogant and selfish; that was besides being a gluttonous pig!

She paced up and down until the orderly reappeared and asked her to follow him.

He led her along a passage lined with doors, their footsteps echoing over plainly painted walls and brown lino so polished it reflected the overhead lights.

They stopped at one of the many doors. Major Sylvester Travis Dartmouth said a label in yellow letters, recently painted by the look of it.

The orderly knocked on the door.

‘Enter.’

‘Miss Stacey, Sir.’

On seeing her, a tight smile twitched at his lips. His eyes devoured her like a man who hadn’t eaten for a month.

She felt a cold draught as the door closed behind her. Her legs turned to water.

He half rose, waving a hand at the red leather chair facing his.

Agnes sat down, glad that the desk was between them.

‘Well, well, well! If it isn’t the cook’s daughter. Agnes isn’t it? If you’re looking for a job, I can’t help you. The army provides and all that! As far as cooking is concerned that is. Not women, for the use of …’

He laughed as though he had made a huge joke. He had, and at her expense. Her first inclination was to swear at him and make a sharp exit. She reminded herself that she was doing this for Lydia. Smiling wasn’t easy, but she did it.

‘I’m here on family business. It’s regarding your cousin, Robert. I understand that you can get letters to the front line more quickly than anyone else.’

Resting his elbows on the desk, he regarded her over his entwined fingers. His knuckles were hairy. She couldn’t remember noticing that before.

‘And you have a letter for Robert?’

His eyes roved over her, pausing on those bits of her body he liked best. The urge to reach out and tip the open ink well over his head was immensely strong. She might have done so if it had not been for her continual fingering of the letter in her pocket. She had to brave this out for Lydia’s sake. In addition, for Robert’s. He was their only chance to get a message to him – wherever he was.

Gathering up her courage, she sat up straight and nodded. ‘Yes, though it’s not for me, it’s on behalf of his fiancée, Lydia Miller. She’s joined the Red Cross and has been sent to Flanders. There wasn’t time for her to send it so she left the letter with me. I promised I would get it to Robert as quickly as I could. As you know, he’s an aviator with the Royal Flying Corps. I understand it’s not easy keeping up with the flying battalions. If you could get it to him, both she and I would be extremely grateful.’

She hated sounding so fawning, and squirmed at the predatory expression that came to his face.

‘Ah yes. The flyboys precede the army, scouting out enemy positions. That’s about all aeroplanes are good for, that and being lost or shot down.’

He stated all this as though in hope rather than warning. He hasn’t changed a bit, thought Agnes, and bit back her bile at the thought of what was yet to come.

The Siggy Dartmouth she knew would want something in exchange from her and she could guess what it was likely to be.

‘I can indeed pull a few strings – if I choose to.’

‘I would be grateful. So would Lydia. You are aware that she and Robert are engaged.’

‘There was a rumour, although … Unofficially of course.’

He reached for a silver cigarette case, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Sorry. I forgot my manners, crass, hairy baboon that I am. Would you like one?’

He pushed the cigarette case towards her.

She shook her head. ‘I prefer cheroots.’

‘Doctor Miller’s real name is Eric Muller. He’s German, though I suppose you already know that.’

Agnes felt a fluttering of fear in her stomach, but held on to her air of confidence. She wondered if the news of Lady Julieta’s opposition to the match had reached him. He gave no sign that it had.

‘Yes. I know. He’s lived in this country a long time. His wife, Lydia’s mother, was English.’

Sylvester grunted and sneered all at the same time. ‘Well, he’s certainly shown where his true allegiance lies. I hear tell he’s gone off to Germany with his tail between his legs. Another cowardly Hun! Well, the German army will be running all the way back to Germany with him once we’ve finished. The sooner we get started the quicker this whole sorry mess will be over.’

She didn’t tell him that Lydia’s father was still in London. Somehow, she thought it best he didn’t know.

‘By Christmas? Isn’t that the consensus of opinion?’ she said.

‘Of course.’ He frowned. ‘You sound sceptical, my dear. Then, you are only a woman. What do women know about such matters? It’s men that fight wars …’

‘And women who keep the home front going and patch up their wounds. Nothing is ever certain is it? But still,’ she said, laughing lightly, wishing she hadn’t spoken her mind quite so strongly, ‘as you say, what do I know, a weak and feeble woman?’

… but I have the heart and stomach of a King …

Those words spoken by Queen Elizabeth I at the advent of the Spanish Armada stayed in her head. It was doubtful Siggy would have known she’d led her army into battle anyway. He would probably envisage her safely sewing with her ladies in a fortified tower somewhere.

‘I would hardly say you were weak and feeble,’ he responded, the lascivious look in his eyes matching the smile that closely resembled a smirk. ‘I like feisty women, as long as they don’t overstep the mark, and you’re most certainly that. I learned that last Christmas. Still, we can let bygones be bygones. We can start afresh. I suggest a night at the music hall. Tonight, shall we say?’

Agnes sucked in her bottom lip. Judging by the look on his face, he was daring her to refuse, in which case the letter to Robert wouldn’t be going anywhere.

‘Tonight is too short notice.’

Too arrogant to see that his interest had been rejected, he tried again.

‘I’m free tomorrow night and Wednesday. Even Thursday at a push.’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘Aren’t you?’

Her thoughts darted all over the place in pursuit of a suitable excuse. None would suffice if that letter were to get to Robert.

‘I think Thursday would suit, though it would mean rearranging a few things.’

She smiled sweetly as she’d seen other, more easily impressed women do. She would not tell him that she too was going to war, whilst he sat here in his comfortable office in Whitehall; nothing would be gained by offending him.

Anything might happen by then. Siggy might get posted or even run over by a tram. Anything. However, she did her best to look pleased about the arrangement though she was feeling anything but.

‘Good. Very good. I’ll pick you up. I have a car. And my own driver.’

Pity him, she thought, knowing Siggy could be insufferably overbearing.

‘Oh! Very good. I’d better give you the address. I live with my mother and grandmother in Myrtle Street.’

She gave him the full address and he wrote it down.

‘Not a part of the city I know at all. I dare say my driver will know where it is.’

He got to his feet and made as if to come out from behind the desk.

‘Now, how about a kiss to seal our promise to meet?’

She shook her head so that her mane of fiery hair floated around her head, her catlike eyes tilting upwards at the corners. ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she said with a smile. ‘My kisses are worth waiting for. Once I kiss you, you’ll never want to kiss any other women. I guarantee it,’ she said, her lips parted, the tip of her tongue sliding along her bottom lip.

She hated doing it, but he had to believe he had a chance with her. The letter had to get to France.

He seemed to think about it before jerking his chin in a curt, military style nod. ‘Very well. I shall look forward to it.’

She placed the letter on the desktop, her long, slim fingers fanned over it.

‘You will get it sent today?’ she asked, her question teamed with a pleading smile.

His smile was terse, his eyes as hard as the brass buttons on his tunic. ‘Of course I will. Without fail.’

‘Thank you.’

Major Sylvester Dartmouth sank back into his chair, staring through blue smoke at the door Agnes Stacey had shut behind her. All pretence of being convivial had fallen from his features. His thoughts were dark and centred on himself and what he wanted, not what she wanted.

To think she had refused him at Heathlands and now had the temerity to present herself here, asking for favours.

The little tramp! He’d show her a thing or two. She needed bringing back into line, needed to know who was boss.

The letter lay where she’d left it. He eyed it thoughtfully before reaching across. The handwriting was handsome, his cousin’s name beautifully formed by the feminine hand of Nurse Lydia Miller – Muller, he corrected himself.

She too had refused his advances. With gleeful aplomb, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and thought of that time he had locked Lydia in the grotto on his uncle’s estate. He’d thoroughly enjoyed doing that. He’d frightened her and he’d enjoyed frightening her. There was something immensely gratifying about frightening women. The professional women he hired put up with his violence, and why shouldn’t they? He paid them well to have his way.

Lydia! She’d threatened to hit him with a large book. Agnes had actually done so. Who did they think they were? One was half German and the other was the illegitimate daughter of a lowly cook! They’d rejected him. Treated him with disdain and now they were asking favours. Hell would freeze over before he ever did anything for them.

Revenge, he’d read somewhere, was best served cold. Well, Lydia Miller and Agnes Stacey. You both refused my advances, now I will refuse to do you a favour.