The Nightingale Girls (19 page)

She went to great lengths to lay out a tea tray nicely with a pretty coloured cloth and a Christmas cracker. As she tucked a spring of holly into his saucer, she told herself that Amy Hollins was wrong. She would do the same for any patient, even Mr Boyd.

LUCY LANE SAT
at her dressing table, admiring her Christmas gift in the mirror. The pearls glowed prettily against her skin, three strings fastened together with a diamond-encrusted clasp. Her father assured her they were from the South Seas, so they were the best money could buy. They would go perfectly with the new dress her mother had had made for her, shimmering silver-grey satin and chiffon, cut on the bias so it skimmed over her slim curves before falling in delicate bead-trimmed points almost to the ground. With matching silver slippers, white satin evening gloves and her mother’s silver fox stole, she would steal the show at the Christmas Dance that night, she decided.

What a pity it was just a silly hospital do and not a really grand occasion where she might be photographed. But even if she didn’t make it into the pages of
Tatler
, at least she’d have the satisfaction of seeing the other girls sick with envy. Most of them couldn’t even afford a new pair of stockings for the occasion, let alone a dress designed by Hartnell.

Downstairs, her parents were arguing. It had been brewing like a storm since the last guest left their party on Christmas Eve. Throughout Christmas Day the dark clouds had been building, tension gathering, with long, oppressive silences punctuated by the odd sniping comment. It was almost a relief when finally the storm
broke and the heavens opened in a spite-filled rage of shouting, screaming and breaking glass that had lasted all afternoon. It had been going on for so long Lucy barely noticed it any more as she sat at her mirror, turning her head this way and that to catch the pearls’ iridescent sheen, lost in her own world of dresses and dancing.

Soon, she knew, it would all be over. The storm would blow itself out, the screaming and smashing ornaments would stop, and peace would be restored. In a couple of days her father would appease her mother with a gift, some diamonds from Asprey’s perhaps, or a new fur, and then it would be all smiles again. Until the storm clouds gathered once more.

The front door crashed, making her jump. A moment later she heard her father’s car roar away. She steeled herself, still fingering the pearls. A flicker of dread uncurled itself in the pit of her stomach.

Sure enough, a few minutes later music from the crackling gramophone drifted upstairs.
It had to be you
. Lucy knew what song it would be long before she could make out the tune. Her mother always played it when she was drunk or unhappy, or both.

Lucy stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering how long she could stay out of her way. She hated it when her father ran off, leaving her to deal with her mother. Although she didn’t blame him at all. She’d wanted to run away herself often enough.

Finally, she could avoid it no longer. With a heavy sigh, she took off her pearls and headed downstairs.

She found her mother in the drawing room, glass of wine in one hand, bottle in the other, swaying gently to the music. Still dancing, she swung around slowly and saw Lucy. ‘Darling! Come and dance with me.’

She held out her arms, long and slender as a ballerina’s. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and she was still wearing last night’s ivory satin evening gown, her feet bare. Her make-up was smudged like bruises under her eyes.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ Lucy asked.

‘How should I know? I’m only his wife.’ Her mother turned languorously in time to the music. The gown plunged deeply at the back. She was so fashionably thin Lucy could make out every bone down the length of her spine. ‘I don’t give a damn about him anyway. I just want to dance and be happy and forget everything.’ She twirled, flinging her arms wide, carelessly slopping wine.

‘Give me that.’ Lucy stepped forward and took the bottle from her, uncurling it from her long, bony fingers. ‘You’re ruining the rug.’

Clarissa Lane gave a brittle laugh. ‘You sound just like your father. Don’t do this, don’t do that, remember who I am . . . As if I could ever forget!’ She faced Lucy, her eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Look at you. So disapproving. Such a daddy’s girl. You take after him far too much,’ she accused, pulling a face.

I’m glad I don’t take after you, Lucy thought as she watched her mother sway, humming the dying bars of the music.

She couldn’t remember when it had all gone wrong. One minute she was a little girl with two loving parents who treated her like a princess. The next she was caught between a father who preferred to be anywhere but at home, and an angry, bitter mother who drank to stop herself caring.

The music died away. Her mother carried on dancing. ‘Put it on again,’ she said dreamily, her eyes closed.

‘No. It gives me a headache.’

‘Well, I like it.’

Lucy watched her cross the room unsteadily. She dragged the gramophone needle across the record with an ugly screech. Then she was off dancing again, waltzing with an unseen partner, eyes closed, lips moving to the words.

‘This was our favourite song,’ she said. ‘I remember him singing it to me one night in Paris. . . . oh, God, I need more wine.’

‘No, Mummy. Please.’ Lucy rushed to stop her before she could ring for the butler. ‘It will only make it worse,’ she pleaded.

She held on to her mother’s arms, feeling the fragile slenderness of skin and bone. For a moment their eyes locked and Lucy held her breath in fear, waiting for her to react. Either she would fight and claw, or . . .

Clarissa suddenly went limp in her arms, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Her mouth drooped dejectedly.

‘Oh, God,’ she wailed. ‘Why did he stop loving me?’

Lucy caught her as she fell into her arms, comforting her like a child. ‘He does love you, Mummy.’

‘Then why does he have to treat me like this? I can’t bear it, Lucy, I can’t.’

Lucy helped her over to the chaise longue and sat with her, holding her as she wept.

She didn’t know who was to blame. All she knew was that she desperately wanted it to stop. She loved both her parents and hated seeing them both so unhappy.

‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ she pleaded. ‘It will all be all right, I promise.’

Her mother clung to her. ‘You won’t leave me, will you, Lucy? I don’t think I could bear it if you left too.’

Lucy thought of her pearls, so glowing and beautiful.
How she’d looked forward to showing them off to the other girls at the dance. Proof yet again of how much she was loved.

But tonight wasn’t the night.

‘No, Mummy,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not going to leave you.’

‘
CECILY RIDGEMONT’S FINALLY
managed to get herself engaged to Viscount Tarlington, I see.’ The Dowager Countess of Rettingham scanned the Announcements column of
The Times
with an expression Millie had come to dread. ‘I dare say her mother will be utterly insufferable now.’ She peered at Millie over the top of the newspaper. ‘You do realise that could have been you, Amelia, if only you’d tried harder?’

Millie sighed. ‘Granny, I only ever met Freddie Tarlington once, and he was completely mad.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, child.’

‘I’m not. Don’t you remember, he threw his shoes out of the window at the Grosvenor House Ball, then spent the evening sobbing behind a curtain?’

‘That was nothing more than high spirits,’ her grandmother dismissed.

‘He was taken away in a private ambulance, and not seen for the rest of the Season.’

Lady Rettingham’s mouth tightened. ‘I admit he is a rather – unfortunate young man,’ she conceded. ‘But when he stands to inherit an estate half the size of Somerset, one can surely overlook a little eccentricity. Cecily Ridgemont certainly can, it seems.’

Millie caught her father’s eye across the breakfast table and smiled.

‘I’m glad you two can find humour in the situation,’ her grandmother snapped. ‘I sometimes feel as if I’m the
only one who takes Amelia’s prospects seriously.’ She laid aside her newspaper and frowned at her granddaughter as she rose from her seat and headed for the sideboard. ‘Another helping? Really, Amelia, do you have to eat so much? It’s most unbecoming.’

‘Sorry, Granny.’ Millie served herself more scrambled eggs and devilled kidneys from the silver chafing dishes. ‘But I really am starving.’

‘Doesn’t that wretched institution feed you at all?’ Her grandmother made a face of disgust as Millie returned to the table with a laden plate.

‘Barely.’

‘Well, it’s too bad.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with having a healthy appetite.’ Millie’s father winked at her.

‘It’s not just her appetite. Look at her, Henry. Look at her hair, look at her hands. They belong to a housemaid, not a lady.’

Millie looked down at her work-roughened hands. It was difficult to keep them white and soft when they were in water and disinfectant all day.

‘That’s what comes of putting them to better use than flower arranging, I expect,’ her father said.

The Dowager Countess sighed. ‘Really, Henry, I would have thought I could count on you for your support. It’s bad enough that you’ve allowed her to stay here over the New Year, rather than insisting she goes to the house party at Lyford.’

Millie rolled her eyes. Her grandmother hadn’t stopped talking about the fact that Millie had turned down an invitation to a country house party given by the Duke and Duchess of Claremont. ‘Granny, I didn’t want to go. I’d rather stay at home than spend three days shooting.’

‘That’s as may be, but one doesn’t turn down an
invitation from the Claremonts. Especially not when there will be so many eligible young men in attendance.’

‘Perhaps you should have gone in my place, then?’ Millie suggested crossly. ‘You could have picked one out for me.’

‘I have already selected several. Much good it has done me, since you continue to show a wilful lack of interest in your future.’

‘I’ve already decided what my future is going to be, Granny,’ Millie reminded her. ‘I’m going to be a nurse.’

‘Pshh!’ Her grandmother curled her lip.

‘Please, can we stop arguing?’ Henry Rettingham intervened. ‘Amelia has agreed to go to the Claremonts’ New Year’s Eve Ball with us, Mother. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunity for her to find her Prince Charming there.’

Or another chance to be paraded around in front of potential suitors like a prize cow at a meat market, Millie thought, spearing a mushroom in disgust.

At least her friend Sophia, the Claremonts’ daughter, would be there. They had been at boarding school together, and jointly endured the London Season – although with more success for Sophia, who had managed to fall in love with the Duke of Cleveland’s son and heir.

Millie was also looking forward to seeing Sophia’s brother Sebastian. He had initially escorted his sister to many of the Season’s endless events. But since Sophia had proved so immediately popular, he had gallantly offered to squire Millie instead.

They had had so much fun, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all as they stumbled and blundered their way around the dance floors of Mayfair and Belgravia. As a mere second son, Seb had been spared much unwelcome attention from ambitious debutantes and their mothers.
And he had done a good job of protecting Millie from the few unwelcome suitors who came her way, too.

But the idea of a ball was simply too exhausting. It was the first time she had been home to Billinghurst in months, and she had been looking forward to exploring the estate and getting to know her old home again.

‘We shall have to prepare,’ her grandmother said briskly. ‘We must decide on a suitable dress this morning, and then we shall have to try to do something with your hair . . .’

‘Actually, Mother, I was planning to take Amelia out with me,’ her father said. ‘I have to see a few of the tenants, and I know she will benefit from some fresh air after being in London for so long. That is, if you can bear to spend a couple of hours with your dull old father?’ He smiled questioningly at her.

‘Oh, yes, please!’ Relief flooded through her at the chance to escape.

‘As long as it is only a couple of hours.’ Lady Rettingham looked askance at her granddaughter’s hair. ‘I can see already we have a great deal to do.’

‘In other words, she wants to dress me up like a doll in a shop window,’ Millie said as she and her father rode out of the stableyard together, she on her favourite roan Mischief, and her father on Samson, his hunter.

‘You are her hobby, Amelia. Everyone must have an interest,’ he pointed out mildly.

Out of the stableyard, she dug her heels into Mischief’s plump flanks and took off down the lane, her blonde curls flying. Samson thundered behind her, easily keeping pace.

Further down the lane she turned off and galloped up the ridge of hill that looked over Billinghurst.

Millie took a deep breath of clean, fresh country air. How she’d missed it in the sooty grime of London.

She loved the hustle and bustle of the city, and the freedom from her grandmother’s watchful eye. But sometimes the narrow streets and dirty buildings seemed to close in on her. Then she longed to be back here, where the sky was so vast above them, like a great cloudless blue canopy, with fields and trees stretching as far as she could see.

From the top of the ridge, she had a wonderful view down over Billinghurst. It sat square and solid, straight out of an Arthurian fantasy with its crenellations and mullioned windows, its thick stone walls burnished golden by the wintry sunshine.

Her father sent her a sidelong glance as they sat side by side, looking down on the magnificent house. ‘Do you miss it?’ he asked.

‘Very much,’ Millie admitted with a sigh.

‘You don’t have to go back, you know.’

Just for a moment, she was desperately tempted. It would be so easy to sink back into her old life. No more rising at dawn to queue up in freezing bathrooms, no more being shouted at or coming home to find Sister Sutton had upended her bed again.