The Snow Globe (29 page)

“I do, I do understand, but it's not about that, Ben. And it's not that I don't like to be touched, don't want to be touched . . . it's just that it doesn't feel right . . . with you.”

“Oh, I see, with
me
. Now I understand . . . ,” he said, nodding, continuing to smile, his mouth taut. “Doesn't feel right with me . . . ,” he said again. “Do you know what the word
frigid
means? If not, look it up in that dictionary of yours over there, because you need to know . . . You're just like your mother, but at least Howard makes up for you both, scattering his seed about London.” He leaned forward, glancing about the room, scanning the carpet with incandescent eyes. “So who do you want to be touched by, then? Is it that half-wit servant—is he the one you fancy, hmm? Is he the one, Daisy? Because I saw the way you were with him today, staring at each other with your own little private memories . . . Is that where you've set your sights?”

Daisy said nothing.

“So I'm expected to take this . . . suffer this humiliation, and all because you fancy some servant . . . What a bloody joke.” He glanced up at her. “Have you nothing else to say? Is that it?”

“This has nothing to do with Stephen.”

“
Stephen . . .
nothing to do with Stephen,” he mimicked. “You know, I did wonder . . .” He laughed, shook his head. “Such a coincidence, I thought, him being on that train, you not being there to meet me. And then, when you disappeared off from dinner
tonight . . . I thought, well, I'll just take a look, just see where she's got to, that little Daisy of mine . . . and I saw you, saw you come back from the woods with him. Romantic rendezvous, was it? Did you like him touching you then? Yes, I bet you did . . . Bit of a cliché, if you ask me.”

It was quick, over in a second. But she'd always remember the sting of his hand on her cheek.

Her Valentino.

When Mabel walked into Howard's study, he quickly removed his feet from the leather-topped desk and began to shuffle papers.

“A glorious day,” he said, smiling over at his wife. “What you've been hoping for . . .”

Mabel closed the door. “I need to talk to you. About the Gifford Situation.” She sat down opposite him. “Daisy tells me the man's invested money in the business . . .”

“That's right. When I promoted him last year he was keen to have a stake in Forbes and Sons. I told him that he'd be eligible to buy shares at a very reasonable price.”

“And . . . after he'd done this, after he'd invested his money, you gave your permission for Daisy to become engaged to him?”

Howard's eyes flashed back at her. “What are you inferring? Do you really think I'd take money from a man—
any
man—in . . . in
some sort of payment for Daisy? My God, Mabel, what do you take me for?”

“No, I don't think you've done anything of the sort,” she said quickly, “but I do wonder if the man thought he could buy Daisy and buy his way into this family.”

Howard glanced away, frowning. “I intend to pay him back on his investment, and give him a good return, too.”

“I thought the business was in trouble, especially since the fire.”

Howard turned to her. “It is, and has been for some time, but that's where I
have
been clever,” he said.

He went on to say that he knew his family business had no future and that he'd decided some time ago that there was no point throwing good money after bad, no point pouring private money—money from other investments and property—into Forbes and Sons. The business had had its day, he said.

He would inform Ben Gifford of the situation in the coming days, and he intended to write to all of the company's employees, to explain and give them as long a period of notice as he was able. But he felt guilty, he said; some of the men had worked there since his father's day. But what his father—and grandfather before—could never have foreseen, never have imagined, and what he had for some time refused to accept, was the decline of the empire. England may have once ruled the waves, but without any empire, and with the predicted expansion in air travel, the British shipbuilding industry's days were numbered.

“But is there nothing that can be done to . . . to save it?” Mabel asked.

Howard shook his head. “Even if I were to rebuild the
factory, we'll be watching the business go bust within the next year or two.”

Mabel closed her eyes for a moment. “I hadn't realized . . . You never said.”

“I knew at Christmas. And I intended to talk to you about it, but then . . . well, I didn't want to burden you or spoil your trip.”

“Oh, Howard . . . I'm so sorry.”

“I'm afraid it's the way of the world,” he said, and then he opened a drawer, pulled out a folder.

“I've reorganized our finances . . . and set up a trust. It ensures Eden Hall is protected and that, after I die, you and each of the girls will have an income and that you'll be able to continue living here.”

But Mabel had no wish to look at the documents in front of her, and no wish to think of a time after Howard.

She sighed and rose to her feet. “Not now,” she said. “Let's discuss all of this another time, not today . . .” Then, placing her hands on the desk and leaning over it toward him, she said, “I'm so sorry about the business, Howard. I know how much it means to you, and how heartbreaking it must have been for you to make these decisions.”

“It's a business. Not a wife, not a family . . . and not nearly as heartbreaking as it would be for me to lose either of those.”

Mabel smiled. “You still haven't explained to me, haven't told me why you gave your permission for Daisy to become engaged.”

Howard stared back at her. “Because I let her down . . . Because I wanted her to have the opportunity to make her own decisions . . . and perhaps make her own mistakes and learn from them. And
because if I'd said no, she'd have hated me even more . . . and been all the more determined. But it won't last. She doesn't love him.”

Locked for a moment in his gaze, Mabel felt the years slip away, and she saw the man she'd fallen in love with twenty-five years ago. Then she blinked, straightened herself and said, “I must get on, but please don't forget about Dosia . . . Please make sure you're at the station on time to meet her.”

Mrs. Jessop and Nancy were having their midmornings at the kitchen table when Daisy walked in, in search of a cup of tea. Stephen had gone to the station to collect his auntie Nellie, Mrs. Jessop said. “Nellie'll be exhausted by the time she gets here. Will have been up since the crack of dawn. She doesn't like to be late,” Mrs. Jessop added.

“Unlike some of us,” said Daisy. “I overslept.”

“Well, there's nothing like a good long lie-in to perk you up,” Mrs. Jessop said, smiling at Daisy as she placed the kettle back on top of the range. “London takes it all out of a person.”

Daisy sat down at the table.

“I hear congratulations are in order, miss. My Stephen tells me you're engaged,” said Mrs. Jessop.

“No, I'm not, actually,” said Daisy.

“Oh, he got that wrong, then . . . Just like a man,” Mrs. Jessop said. “You do wonder what goes on in their heads sometimes, don't you? Different species, I suppose, and will ever be thus,” she went on. “Yes, it is what it is and will never change—no matter what they
say about equality . . . I imagine you hear a lot about all that up there?”

“Sorry?”

“Equality? What the feminists call
the cause
? Though it seems to be dying out now, doesn't it?”

“Oh yes,” said Daisy absently, “yes, we're all for that.”

“All for that?

“The cause . . . equality.”

“Really? You surprise me, miss. I didn't have you down as one of them.”

“I'm not one of anything much, really, but I think it's important for women to have a voice, for all women to have a voice and the chance to vote on things. It's a basic human right, after all . . . and only fair.”

“Well, I've never voted in my life and I'm not sure I want to start on any of that now. What about you, Nancy?”

“I quite like Mr. Baldwin,” Nancy said dreamily.

The kettle began to whistle. Mrs. Jessop filled the teapot with hot water, then went into the scullery and took the jug of milk from the refrigerator. “Yes, he's a very nice-looking man,” she said, returning to the kitchen

“Who's that, Mrs. Jessop?” Daisy asked.

“Mr. Baldwin,” Mrs. Jessop replied, moving over to the table, clutching the large tin teapot. “Yes, a nice-looking man and with such kindly eyes and a nice smile. But I don't much care for that other one, that Scotch man. Do you, Nancy? Mr. Lang the butcher says he's a communist and we don't want them in. He should go
back up there if he wants to be one of that lot,” she said, sitting down.

How she'd missed this, Daisy thought, the kitchen banter and Mrs. Jessop's unique view of the world, where politics, humanity and the future of civilization boiled down to a nice smile and nothing changing. Seasons would turn, years would pass and all Mrs. Jessop wished for was for things to remain as they were, or had been. Change, Daisy thought, not listening but watching Mrs. Jessop and nodding, would pass her by, and perhaps Nancy, too. Nancy, who had been one of those women left short of a husband. One of those women who had had to accept that there weren't enough men to go round. Starved of opportunity, starved of a future, taking nourishment from another family, hers.

“Is it funny being up in London?” Mrs. Jessop asked, wrinkling her nose, folding her arms and leaning them on the table.

“It's different from here; that's for sure . . . I like it, for the moment, but I'm not sure it's where I want to spend my life.”

“Ah, a country girl at heart, eh? So am I . . . and so is Nancy, aren't you, Nancy?”

“I like the coast,” said Nancy, her kind face devoid of any expectation.

“I'd love to see Brighton,” said Mrs. Jessop. “If I could go anywhere in the world, it'd be Brighton.”

“Anywhere in the world?” Daisy repeated. “But what about . . . Paris, Rome, Venice . . . Africa or even New Zealand?”

Mrs. Jessop's eyes widened; she sat back in her chair. “Don't mention New Zealand to me. That's where my Stephen thought he was headed a while back.”

“Last Christmas,” said Nancy.

“Last Christmas,” echoed Mrs. Jessop, arms refolded and tucking in her chin.

“But he didn't go . . . and he isn't going, is he?” said Daisy.

“No!” the two yelled out in unison, and then looked at each other and laughed.

“I say, what are we like?” said Mrs. Jessop, gasping and turning to Nancy, and they both continued to laugh, their hysteria building and building until it seemed as though they could barely breathe, and they rocked and tears rolled down their cheeks. Daisy wasn't sure what was so funny about Stephen and New Zealand, but she smiled, tried to laugh too, and pretended that she understood the joke. It would be the precursor to the day, she thought.

“You have,” Reg said again, twirling the end of his mustache in a way that had come to irritate her. “You've changed, Mabel.”

Mabel shook her head, pretending.

They were standing together in the middle of the marquee, which, Mabel had to admit, really did look splendid. The gilt balloon-back chairs, the tables shrouded in starched white linen, the tall candelabras, table arrangements and hanging baskets—overflowing with purple lobelia and pink geraniums, the magnificent chandelier and polished wood dance floor: It was everything she could have imagined and hoped for.

She said, “You've been such an enormous help, Reg. I don't know how we'd have done it all without you.”

“Think nothing of it. It's the least I can do after everything you've done for me.”

As they turned and walked out of the marquee, she felt his hand on the small of her back and moved away from him.

“Well, all our prayers have been answered, Reg. There's not a cloud in the sky and the weather forecast in the newspapers this morning is good; more fine weather promised and, more importantly, no rain.” They stopped on the terrace where the French doors to her boudoir stood open. “I don't think there's anything else to do,” she said, “other than for us all to be here and ready for a party at seven thirty . . .”

He was twirling his mustache again, one hand in his pocket. He said, “Are you sure? I can stay, you know.”

“No, really. You've done more than enough, Reg. Too much!” She laughed and immediately realized that it sounded as forced as it felt.

“You do seem a little . . . well, tense, if you don't mind me saying.”

She did. But she smiled. “I plan to put my feet up for a short while—until Dosia and the others arrive—and then later, I shall take a long bath, get myself ready and look forward to seeing you here.”