The Birthday Present (14 page)

Rose and Marcus looked at each other.

Marcus said. ‘You did do well, Rose. I thought I’d come along and have supper and watch your first real performance.’ He peered at her face, surprised by her expression. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter,’ she told him through gritted teeth, ‘except that you’re here and you’ve ruined everything!’

As Rose marched furiously back towards Connie’s house, Marcus strode to keep up with her.

‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded, utterly confused. ‘Didn’t you want me to watch the show?’

‘Of course I did, but I didn’t want you to come to meet me. You made me look like a  . . . like a child who needed looking after.’ She threw him a sideways look which would have troubled a lesser man. ‘If you must know, Marcus, I was going to have a glass of champagne with Mr Markham.’ She turned to face him, her expression stony. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll ask me again now. I wanted him to think of me as a  . . . a sophisticated woman!’

‘But you aren’t a sophisticated woman, Rose! You’re a young, very sweet, very innocent—’

‘Oh for Lord’s sake! Even a young woman is entitled to a glass of champagne to celebrate the evening. My first professional performance.’ Her voice trembled. ‘What on earth will he think of me now?’ She was close to tears but her anger outweighed her frustration. She knew she was being unfair but she had buoyed herself up for the big romantic moment and Marcus had snatched it away.

He hesitated. ‘Rose, I don’t think you understand what might have happened. He might have given you too much to drink and tried to  . . .’

She marched on and he ran to catch up with her. She said, ‘So what if he wanted to kiss me. It’s nothing! So what if he wants to look at my legs? I might want him to. Really Marcus, you don’t know anything about me – and it isn’t up to you to tell me how to behave.’ She regarded him with irritation. ‘Mr Markham’s got friends who are agents. Don’t you understand? Connie says he might get a bit amorous. Some men are like that. They need women around them. They—’

‘You know nothing about men like him, Rose. I’m trying to  . . . to protect you from his sort.’

‘And if I don’t want you to?’

He was silent.

‘I have to grow up sometime, Marcus.’ Abruptly she came to a halt. ‘This is where I live with Connie. She’ll have a bit of supper for me. I must go in.’

‘No, wait. I’ve got the dates for the trip to France with Marie. We need to talk about—’

‘Not tonight! Come round tomorrow.’

Marcus sighed deeply. ‘I’ll bring a bottle of champagne. We’ll celebrate your—’

‘Don’t bother. It won’t be the same.’ As soon as she said the words she regretted hurting him but she was in no mood to worry about it. Eager to be rid of him, she banged on the front door and called up to Connie’s window. When it opened she relented slightly and turned to say ‘Goodnight’ but he was already disappearing into the gloom of the street lamps.

Steven went down to breakfast next morning in a very anxious frame of mind. He was wondering what exactly had happened between Rose and Markham and if whatever it was had satisfied Markham. Sitting in moody isolation, he helped himself to porridge and added honey and cream. Five minutes later Marcus appeared looking lost in thought. He chose stewed fruit and sat down without a word.

Steven said, ‘Rose’s first performance. I wonder how it went.’

His brother shrugged. ‘Nothing to cheer about. She’s very sweet but her voice was not strong enough for such a large room. I think she should restrict her work to private groups.’

‘Did they applaud?’

‘Yes but it was hardly rapturous.’ He frowned.

Steven wondered how he could best approach the subject uppermost in his mind. ‘What was Markham’s verdict? Was he pleased? It was I who recommended her, remember. I said she was very promising.’ He tried to sound casual.

‘Markham? I didn’t bother to ask him. I don’t trust the fellow. I went in to collect her and he had a bottle of champagne on the desk and two glasses. They were going to celebrate, apparently, and I interrupted the proceedings. Rose wasn’t very pleased.’

So what exactly did that mean, Steven wondered, his hopes faltering. ‘You interrupted them? How exactly? What were they doing?’ He almost held his breath.

‘Nothing. I got there first and he lost interest and I walked Rose home. She was very upset with me for interfering.’

Steven lost his appetite and pushed the plate away. So Markham had lost his promised sweetener! Hell! A shiver ran through him. Markham was an impatient man. He would hate being thwarted and he would take his revenge. He would now want his money and, without it, he, Steven, could now expect the beating. If he could fight Markham fair and square, one to one, he might well win because he was younger and quicker. At the moment he would willingly have had it out with him, but that wasn’t Markham’s way. He never laid himself open to physical harm but would send two of his thug friends and it would be an unequal fight which Steven would lose. It was now or never, he decided.

‘Look Marcus, could you lend me some money? I’ll pay it back.’

Marcus rolled his eyes ‘You never have done before. Why should this time be any different?’

‘Because  . . . I’ve got the chance of a job  . . . Marcus! You’re not listening.’

‘I’m not listening because I’ve got things to think about that are more important than your debts! And don’t pretend you’ve got job prospects because I’ve heard that before, too.’ He leaned forward, his expression grim. ‘We’ve all lent you money over the years and you’ve never repaid a penny so the answer’s “No”! Now for heaven’s sake, leave me in peace. I’ve got worries of my own.’

There were times when Steven hated his brother. Times when he hated the whole family – except Marie and Mother. Letitia was a smug little madam with her wonderful Bernard, and Marcus was too wrapped up in his own little world to care about anyone else. They all had money from Grandmother’s trust fund but Marcus earned money from his stage designs and must surely have money to lend. Marcus was just selfish. Perhaps when Markham’s bully boys had broken every bone in his brother’s body, he would be sorry.

Marcus glanced up suddenly. ‘What’s the matter with Letitia, do you know? She’s in a funny mood lately. Yesterday I thought she’d been crying but she—’

Steven banged his fist on the table so hard that the crockery rattled. ‘Why should I care what’s the matter with her? She doesn’t give a damn about me or anybody else. She won’t acknowledge her own father! She won’t take Marie to France. She’s a cold and selfish bi—’ He stopped just in time. ‘God help poor old Bernard! That’s what I say.’

He went out of the dining room, slamming the door behind him, and almost cannoned into a small, mousy woman. This was Miss Evans who stood in for Mrs Bray on her days off.

‘Oh Master Steven, I was wondering if Miss Letitia was feeling unwell. She hasn’t come down to breakfast. It’s not wise to miss a meal. Should I take her something up?’

He hesitated then shook his head. ‘No. Let her sleep. If she needs any help she’ll ring her bell. We all have one for emergencies.’ And I have my own emergency to deal with, he told himself, though God only knows how I shall do it. Ringing a bell won’t save me.

Upstairs in her room, Letitia sat up in bed, her knees drawn up, her hands clasped around them as though for protection. Her face was drawn in misery and her complexion was pale. She had gone up to bed the previous evening without waiting for the evening meal, pleading a headache, but she was actually suffering from extreme fear. She had parted from Bernard on Thursday and had spent the days since then wondering how much she could trust his repeated assurances that he did really love her more than Carlotta. She desperately wanted to believe him and had decided to send him a letter asking for forgiveness for her lack of trust; she had written three but, on reflection, each one had been torn up. It might be better never to refer to the incident again. That way he would not be able to change his mind and confess that he
did
prefer Carlotta.

‘Don’t leave me, Bernard!’ she whispered again and again like a mantra. ‘I can’t live without you. You said you
adored
me. You swore it on your honour.’

She sat up a little straighter. Suppose she asked him to swear on the Holy Bible  . . . but he might refuse. He might repeat that she did not trust him and use that to wriggle out of the marriage. And if he did agree to swear on the Holy Bible? Would it suffice or would doubts linger?

She put a hand to her head which ached abominably; her stomach rumbled with hunger. If only Mother had stayed with them instead of going off with that dreadful Gerard. She would have understood Letitia’s plight and would almost certainly have sympathized. She might have brought up a dish of warm bread and milk sprinkled with sugar, the way she did when they were children, in need of sympathy or otherwise out of sorts.

Letitia smiled faintly, then slid slowly beneath the blankets. She was so tired from the awful confusion she was feeling, and sleepless nights had left her a prey to depression. Was it possible to die of grief, she wondered, twisting on to her right side, and pulling the pillow further under her neck in an effort to find a comfortable position. Was it possible, in extreme circumstances, to lose your mind from an excess of anxiety? Suppose Bernard were suddenly to arrive to speak with her – that could only mean one thing. That he wanted to cancel the wedding. Unless it was to reassure her of his love. Either way she would have to refuse to see him. She felt and looked so terribly exhausted. Miserable and worthless.

And it was all Mother’s fault for falling in love with a stupid French farmer and bearing him a child. An oddity. A dark-haired child in a family of fair heads. She had grown to dread the jokes about the milkman which unaware friends innocently made. She had seen herself as a cuckoo in the Bennley nest! She had never expected any man to want to marry such a person and Bernard had never been told the truth. Bernard, she felt, was her only chance of respectability. Bernard and the da Silvas. Whatever happened she must never lose them.

Marcus sat in the study behind the desk which had once been his father’s, leaning back in his chair and surveying his half finished sketch through narrowed eyes. He was designing a backdrop for a stage production of
Swan Lake
which was destined for the local theatre later in the year. It was the second commission he had received since he finished his art training and, determined to make a career for himself in theatre design, he told himself it was a promising start. That way he need not immerse himself in the hustle of business but would hopefully be able to work from home where he felt at ease.

Nearby, propped on a small easel, was the finished painting he had produced for his first commission – the scene from
Macbeth
where the three witches meet on the heath – a dark design full of lowering clouds and wild and rugged heathland. He was looking forward to producing a very different mood and had initially sketched in three graceful trees set against a clear blue sky with sunshine filtering through the branches.

‘A little bland, maybe,’ he wondered anxiously. ‘A little predictable?’ But a scene with a lake and trees was required for the backdrop to the dancers who represented swans, and for the moment he could not see how to give it a fresh and original slant.

Success was very important to Marcus. As a child his father had mocked his early artistic talent, declaring that he lacked the necessary imagination, and only his mother had supported him. Although his father was long gone from his life, the need for Marcus to prove him wrong remained.

‘Suppose I include the far edge of the lake and edge it with clumps of rushes  . . .’ he muttered, ‘or better still bulrushes. And maybe a heron?’ Or would the heron be at odds with the swans?

There was a tap at the door and before he could say ‘Come in!’ it was opened to admit Letitia. He stared at her in dismay. She was still in her nightwear, her hair dishevelled and her feet bare.

‘Marcus, I must talk to you. I have to ask a favour of you.’

He thought her voice trembled. ‘Are you ill?’ he asked, adding, with his usual lack of tact, ‘You look dreadful.’

It told him something about her state of mind that she did not protest at the last comment. She sat down in the seat nearest to him and wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around her. ‘I’m not ill yet but I soon will be.’

Smothering a sigh at the interruption to his work, Marcus waited for her to explain.

In faltering tones she told him what had happened between her, Bernard and his mother, and he listened intently. He was surprised and flattered that she needed his help and he pushed thoughts of his design work to the back of his mind and concentrated on her plight.

‘The thing is, Marcus, that although he promised me there was nothing for me to worry about, I sensed that he was hiding something; that perhaps they both were. This Carlotta is besotted with him. I know it in my bones.’

Her anguish was very real and Marcus hesitated. It was pointless for him to try and convince her that all was well while he had no way of judging the situation. Looking into her troubled eyes, he searched for something reassuring to say but she rushed on.

‘I’m sorry to burden you with my problems but Mother is miles away and I can’t upset Marie when her health is so precarious. Steven has his own problems and—’

‘Has he asked you for money?’

She nodded. ‘And not for the first time. But forget about Steven. He must sort out his own problems. I have to know, Marcus, before I walk up the aisle, whether or not Bernard has put this other woman out of his life. If I knew that I could rest easy but until then  . . . I shall be a bundle of nerves!’ She wiped away the first tears with the back of her hand and blinked furiously.

Marcus looked at her with growing compassion. ‘Suppose you write to him? Tell him how you—’

‘No, Marcus. If I put my fears into writing and then it turns out I’m right and he marries her  . . . she might read my letter. I know you’ll think that pathetic but I’d hate her to know my desperation. She’ll gloat, Marcus. Don’t you see? I would be utterly humiliated. No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I want you to go to the da Silvas and talk to him, man to man.’