The Tailor's Girl (17 page)

‘Money can’t buy you that perfect chemistry, my darling. At least you’ve shown the courage not to settle for second best. I don’t mind if you cast your wild oats far and wide, Lex, but do not be a man who cheats on his wife once you make your decision. That I will not tolerate. So once you have that heart-stopping moment of falling in love and knowing it’s the right person, chase her, commit to her wholly.’

She was a formidable woman, Cecily Wynter. And she married a formidable man whom she adored; he envied them their relationship. And now that man was gone. He couldn’t imagine how she was coping and yet he knew she would be the one displaying the composure that would set the tone for the rest of the family. She would be its strength. No one could ever accuse Cecily Wynter, née Gilford, of being anything but poised in every situation.

He wished he had his watch. Where could it be? Perhaps left beneath that same mud in a field in Flanders where he’d left his mind?

Alex sighed. Whatever the time was, he had put off this moment long enough. He pushed himself off the stump in the main grounds and approached the grand hall, hearing the soft crunch of his shoes on the sweeping gravel drive, on which he remembered spinning the wheels of his Harley-Davidson motorcycle, presented to him by his father on his twenty-first birthday in 1912, and for completing his studies at Oxford.

A few years later and he’d been twenty-five, a captain leading a unit of men – many younger, most older than he . . . all of them counting on that same bravado, all prepared to follow their good-looking, fearless officer, but he’d learned a horrible lesson by then that no man was invincible, no matter how young or brave . . . or rich.

In between university and heading off to war he’d emulated his father with a keen nose for enterprise, learning everything he could about the diverse family business. Thomas Wynter had invented himself as a business magnate, taking the family fortune made from wool and textile manufacture and moving into everything from agriculture – ‘People will always need to eat, Lex,’ he remembered his father saying – to shipping, to investing in the railways. It was Lex who had urged his father to put money into what he claimed was the future – motor vehicle production – and into the burgeoning shipbuilding industry.

Wynter and Co. Ltd had its fingers reaching into most of the profitable growth areas in Britain and abroad, and even the wily old Thomas could see that his eldest son possessed an inherent talent for seeing opportunities and making money. Alex’s youth made him take risks that a more mature man might not.

‘Just learn from your poor decisions and capitalise on the good ones,’ Thomas had told Lex.

Everyone in the family accepted that Lex was the eldest and thus heir to the Wynter throne, and he had earned the right, having displayed all the appropriate talent for business and management, to keep the family empire profitable.

Alex heard dogs barking and grinned at the familiar sound. Gin and Tonic. They’d be old now. Ginny would have to be nearly fourteen. The dogs would have roused suspicion especially as Clarrie would have alerted Bramson by now. As Alex considered this he saw new lights winking on.

He let go of thoughts of the family firm, although he did wonder if Douglas still felt overshadowed. ‘It’s hard being the middle brother, darling,’ his mother would explain. ‘Easy being you – the dashing and talented eldest. To Dougie it would seem as though you got everything.’

‘But what about Rupert? I don’t see him carrying on.’

‘And it’s also very easy being Rupert. He’s third in line, with little expected of him, and, being the baby, he has never had designs on inheriting the throne. Besides, he’s spoiled, adored, has your looks in spades and he’s reckless with himself and money – plus, he’s so easy to love, isn’t he? Women adore him. What more could a rich young man want?’ She’d smiled. Alex loved his mother. She saw her three sons clearly and loved them individually; he didn’t think Dougie, no matter what private demons he wrestled with, could ever accuse their mother of treating him any differently.

The door opened and Alex was dragged into the present. Silhouetted in the doorway was the familiar shape of Bramson.

‘Mr Alex, Sir?’ He’d never heard Bramson sound so tremulous. ‘Is it really you?’ he said softly into the darkness.

‘Yes, it’s me, Bramson. I’m back.’

The tall, lean butler, who had started with the family as a houseboy and grown with it in stature, was immensely liked by every family member. He had been the Wynters’ butler since Alex had been packed off to boarding school aged eight. Now the still spry head of staff skipped down the small flight of stone stairs and uncharacteristically hugged the eldest son.

‘Er . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, Sir. I am overcome to see you alive.’

‘Nothing to forgive, Bramson.’

‘You’re going to make your mother so happy. Her spirits . . . well, I’m sure you understand. I wish . . .’

Alex saved him. ‘Does my mother know I’m returned yet?’

‘No, Sir. I had to come and check for myself. I couldn’t believe what Clarrie was telling me.’

He nodded. ‘That was wise of you. Let’s go see her, then, and cheer her.’

‘I’m so sorry about Mr Thomas.’ Alex swallowed the pain as Bramson spoke. ‘Mr Wynter was – well, almost a second father to me, and as his former valet . . .’ He didn’t continue the thought. Instead he brightened his voice. ‘Your return is going to help ease the pall that’s shrouding this house.’

‘Thank you, Bramson.’ Alex was glad his voice was steady. But although he wanted to say more the words clogged in his throat as he began to imagine a world without the towering strength and knowledge – and that booming laugh – of Thomas Wynter.

‘I’ll wake the family, Sir.’

‘Er, no . . .’ He grabbed Bramson’s elbow. ‘Best not, old chap.’

‘Sir?’

‘Bramson, this is all very difficult for me. I regained consciousness this morning after falling over and hitting my head. Apart from the splitting headache it delivered, it also returned my memory. You can’t imagine how odd this all feels. I’ve lost years somewhere, no idea where. I am trying to piece it all together but it’s not coming easily. Not coming at all, in fact.’

‘Oh, Master Alex. It never occurred —’

‘How could you know? Please don’t feel bad. But to wake everyone and have to field their questions tonight, well . . .’ He blew out a breath he felt he’d been holding in since London. ‘I can wait a few more hours for that. I need to . . . um . . . acclimatise again. They’ll all still be here in the morning.’

‘Yes, Sir. Your father’s will is being read tomorrow afternoon.’

‘I see. What ghastly timing I’m showing.’

In the darkness, they paused and Alex was sure they were both thinking the same thing about how his return now changed everything that the family thought was likely to occur, particularly for Douglas.

It was Bramson’s turn to clear his throat. ‘I believe your mother is still awake, Sir; Effie took up a small tray of cocoa and biscuits just half an hour ago.’

‘Let me go up. I haven’t forgotten the way.’

‘Of course, Sir. Can I get you anything?’

‘I’m famished, now you mention it. I can’t remember when I last ate.’

‘Leave it to me. Um, your old room will be a bit musty, Sir.’

Alex paused on the steps and grinned. Dim light leaked out from the reception hall to illuminate the men. ‘I could sleep on the floor, I’m so weary.’ And he saw that Bramson looked hardly a day older than he recalled, save the gentle silvering around his hairline, and in that moment felt reassured.

It was as though everything familiar was pulling him into a collective embrace – from the soft smile of Larksfell’s butler to the waft of beeswax polish that drifted out through the open doors from its grand reception hall. It reached around him affectionately and clutched Alex to its intangible bosom and told him he was safe now . . . He was home.

He took a slow, deep breath and entered his house. Only small low-lit wall lamps were on so the reception felt uncharacteristically gloomy, but it was appropriate for the grieving household. The house was also unnervingly silent, save the massive grandfather clock that had been chiming away the hours of the family’s life since before Alex was born. He walked up to it now, running his fingers over the magnificent inlaid pattern, and facts filtered into his mind: rare George III, made by Christopher Goddard of London, in the mid-eighteenth century, with Roman hours and Arabic five minutes. The mechanism was made by clockmaker Jennens & Son, also of London, with nine bells for the quarter hour and a beautifully deep and mellow gong that struck the hour. Alex shook his head. How could he remember all of this detail about a piece of furniture and not know where his life had been spent since the end of the war?

‘Master Alex?’

‘The clock prompted happy memories.’

‘I can imagine, Sir. I took over your role of winding it when you left. You always took the chore seriously.’

Alex smiled. ‘I begged Grandfather for years, but he said only when I was tall enough to turn the key without a stepladder to reach the winding mechanism.’ He shrugged.

‘You were fifteen, Sir.’

Alex turned to regard the gently sweeping staircase. ‘I presume my mother has not vacated the Lapsang Souchong rooms?’

Bramson chuckled quietly at the childhood jest. ‘No, Sir, she has not. The Oriental Rooms are still her private suite.’

Alex cut him a grin. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘You shan’t need it.’

He nodded, and began climbing the stairs, but then took them two at a time, recalling how he used to race up the flight. On the first landing were his and his parents’ rooms. He glanced to the right, where his suite had been located, looking out over the walled garden of his childhood. Upstairs were his brothers’ rooms and a host of guest rooms. Servants lived above those in the garrets, reached by a second series of stairs that the family never used.

He glanced to his left, steeling himself to ignore his father’s suite and the haunting aroma of pipe tobacco that clung to this part of the hallway and perhaps always would. He pushed past the memories and walked to the end of the corridor, where an arrangement of funereal lilies stood on a marble plinth before the grand mullioned window. He knew tomorrow morning that window would permit this corridor to be flooded with soft morning light, which had nonetheless faded the exquisite Chinese silk carpet upon which he now stood.

He took a deep breath and, facing the door of his mother’s suite, knocked gently. From behind it he heard muted voices, recognised his mother’s and felt his heart leap.

The door was pulled back and there stood Effie, now in her early forties but still cutting a much younger figure, with narrow hips and blonde hair. She did not know him in that instant but he didn’t blame her. The light was low, and like the rest of the family she had long presumed him dead.

He could see his mother’s straight back. She was seated before her dressing table and it was as if time stood still for Alex for several heartbeats. She had been massaging cream onto her hands as she did each evening before bed and Alex was glad to see that routines were keeping his mother composed. The reflection in the mirror that regarded him across the distance of the room looked sunken and haunted – far too thin and as though the entire grief of the Wynter family had been borne by Cecily. He hoped it was the very low lamplight playing tricks, because his mother looked as though the years of his absence had been cruel.

He heard her soft gasp as she swung around on her stool. A mother recognised her child in all of his incarnations. There was no doubting that Cecily Gilford Wynter knew him now.

With wide, disbelieving eyes, she struggled to stand. ‘Lex?’

Now Effie turned back to gape at him. ‘Master Alex!’ she whispered, echoing his mother’s shock.

And then he was crossing the room, oblivious to his surrounds or the lack of manners in barging into a woman’s boudoir at this hour.

‘Yes, it’s me, Mother,’ he choked out and swept her into his arms. She felt like a bird, fragile and light enough that he was sure he could lift her up into his embrace in a single movement. Beneath that hug he heard a wrenching sob.

‘Lex,’ she repeated, her voice trilling with alarm. ‘Is it really you?’

He pulled back, trying to effect a roguish grin for her but he knew it must look lopsided as he tried to keep a lid on his emotion. Years of memories crowded in, from the first glance of the mainly blue Chinoiserie of the room’s decor to the perfume of violets that drifted around him.

He watched her face, bared of any make-up, crumple as she gave way to tears that his mother was not known for.

‘How? How? How?’ she kept repeating.

Alex held her, nodded behind his mother at an equally emotional Effie, and made soothing sounds.

‘I shall explain everything that I can. But tell me about Father.’

She pulled away to look at him, tried to say something but choked on it. ‘I’m so sorry he missed you,’ he thought she said.

Edie hadn’t slept. Her father had tried to keep her company, as had Madeleine, who refused to leave. When Edie periodically emerged from her own frightened thoughts and the tense stupor she had slipped into, she realised that Madeleine was moving around her home like a silent angel, taking care of everything from answering the door – sympathetic visitors held at bay – to ensuring her father was fed. Here was a true friend at last, and definitely when she most needed one.

Police Constable Ball had been as good as his word, making the near six-mile round trip twice through the evening to reassure her that enquiries were ‘in motion’. The night had closed in and Edie’s eyes were wide open and her demeanour one of someone in shock by the time the larks first began to sing their elaborate mating song on the wing, high above Epping.

Madeleine was pressing something into her hands. Edie blinked, once again torn from her beautiful, reassuring memories of being held by Tom, teased by Tom, kissed by Tom, only to return to the present and the disturbing realisation that it had no Tom in it. Her father dozed in Tom’s armchair, whistling softly as he snored by the hearth.

‘You kept the fire going, thank you,’ she murmured, her tone polite but disinterested. ‘You’ve been very good to me, Madeleine,’ she added, only now comprehending that yet another steaming mug of tea was in her hands.

‘Don’t spill it,’ her friend warned. ‘I couldn’t leave you,’ she admitted.

‘We hardly know each other.’

Madeleine regarded her after a brief glance at Abe’s bent head. ‘We know each other,’ she assured. ‘Drink up.’ Madeleine cut a glance back at Abe. ‘He doesn’t look so well.’

‘What?’ Edie replied. She’d been drifting again.

‘Should we get your father into a bed?’

Edie shrugged. ‘He won’t want to leave me.’

‘Then perhaps you should also —’

‘He’s not coming home.’

‘You don’t know that, Eden. He may have —’

‘I do know it. I know Tom.’

‘Something may have happened. An accident or something.’

‘Yes, but whatever’s happened, Tom’s not coming home. I feel it.’

‘Stop talking like this.’ Madeleine was crouched by Edie’s knees as Edie began to leak silent tears and shake her head gently. ‘Don’t give up hope,’ her new friend pleaded.

‘I won’t. Not ever. But I can feel it.’ She shrugged. ‘Instinct, sixth sense. I don’t know what to call it but I know Tom’s left me.’ She watched Madeleine’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘Not intentionally, perhaps. But he’s gone. I knew we were too happy. This is my punishment.’

‘You are
not
being punished.’

‘Yes, I am. I know I am. And my punishment is just beginning. First Tom.’ Madeleine stared at her, frowning. ‘And I can’t feel the baby. He hasn’t moved since last night.’

‘Shock can do that to you.’

Edie nodded, distracted, bored by the placations. She stood. ‘I suppose I’d better tidy myself for Constable Ball.’

As if an invisible stage director had pointed a finger, there was a knock on the door. Both women jumped and Abe was startled from his sleep. Madeleine moved first.

‘Hello, Constable Ball. Come in, please.’

The policeman walked in with his helmet removed, bicycle clips keeping his trouser ends from flapping and his buttons shiny enough that Edie was sure she might see her own reflection in them. She turned away from the policeman’s sombre expression and watched her father straighten his clothes and wipe dried spittle from the corner of his lips. His normally immaculately groomed hair was tousled and she felt her breath catch with sadness for all of them.

Constable Ball cleared his throat.

‘Anything?’ Edie asked, already knowing the answer.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid. It’s as if your husband didn’t exist, Mrs Valentine. My colleagues at Golders Green have spoken to Solomon Bergman, who saw him last, but Mr Bergman dropped Mr Valentine off at Green Park in the city.’

Edie frowned. ‘Why Green Park?’

Ball shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Valentine. I thought it may mean something more to you.’

Abe spoke up. ‘I might be able to help there, Constable.’ He turned to Edie. ‘As I told you before, Tom wanted to test his new-found confidence. He decided not to head home immediately but to go on a little with Sol.’

She nodded. ‘Did Sol say whether Tom was nervous?’

Ball glanced at his notepad. ‘No, I don’t believe so.’

Madeleine brought a mug of tea and some biscuits for the policeman, who looked profoundly grateful. It occurred to Edie that Constable Ball might not have had any sleep either and now that the notion arrived, she could see the telltale whiskers poking through his jaw, and his eyes, though alert, looked red.

‘Pardon me?’ Ball said.

Edie hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud. ‘Er, I said that Tom wouldn’t do this knowingly.’

‘Knowingly?’ He gulped his tea.

Until this moment she hadn’t put Tom and the word ‘disappeared’ together in her mind. And the truth of her worst fears fell into her mind like a door closing with a slam.

‘I m–mean,’ she stammered, blinking through the tide of emotions that threatened to drown her. ‘Tom is lost.’ Everyone waited in a frigid silence. Edie blinked again and found a fresh strength. ‘Tom was lost when I found him.’

‘What are you saying, Mrs Valentine?’

Madeleine was at her side, a soothing hand on her arm. ‘She’s saying something’s obviously happened again to Tom.’

Abe looked back at Edie as if he was in pain. ‘You mean, he’s lost his memory again?’

Edie began to tremble uncontrollably. ‘No, Abba. I think he may have found it this time.’ She let out a sob of anguish and with it came a terrible, chilling feeling of release. A needle of pain shot through her body, beginning low in the hip. Another rode hard in on it.

Madeleine was helping her to sit down. Edie could hear her father’s concern and was aware of the dark uniform of the policeman hovering on the rim of her vision, which was rapidly clouding. What was happening? The needles of pain had changed into cramps. She thought she was imagining it; wanted to believe this was not her baby beginning its labour.
Not without Tom!
Please, no . . .

‘Eden . . . Eden?’

Edie squeezed Madeleine’s hand.

‘How can I help you?’

‘It’s happening.’ She blinked, tried to clear her view of the world. Madeleine’s angular features became more focused. Her grey-green eyes searched Edie’s face with a question. ‘The baby,’ Edie whispered and let the pain carry her. It seemed so appropriate to ride agony when loss was her companion.

Tom will break your heart
. She heard her father’s words echo in her mind now as she galloped away from the cottage’s sitting room into the darkness of despair. Abba’s words followed her, though, chasing her through the mist of hurt.

I imagine sooner or later Tom will discover the truth about himself
.

Edie was vaguely aware of leakage and the cramps intensifying. Hands were pulling at her, shocked voices were filtering through on the fringe of her mind, and not only had her father’s words been prophetic – that she would lose Tom to his memories – but she was suddenly certain that divine punishment was taking place and his child was being ripped from her too.

_______________

It had been a long, strange night for Alex. He had sat in his mother’s rooms, held her hand and told her everything he could remember about his life since he’d last seen her. Effie had quietly come back into the chamber, where they sat and laid out a supper for him that he had greedily enjoyed, the hot cocoa especially, with a slug of brandy in it.

‘To help you sleep, Master Lex.’ She grinned and he could still see the amazement in her eyes that he’d returned.

After the door closed his mother had raised an eyebrow.

‘I know. The servants’ quarters will be abuzz with gossip before the main house wakes,’ he admitted.

‘My darling, that’s nothing to what your arrival is going to do to poor Dougie.’

‘Am I an ill wind, Mother?’ he’d said, winking.

‘Far worse in his mind, I suspect.’

‘Surely he’ll be pleased I’m alive?’ he sighed.

‘Lex, Dougie loves you. There’s no question that you were a trio of brothers who were close; it was something your father and I were quietly proud of . . . our finest achievement. But before the war each of you had his place in the family’s structure. Dougie, though he often whined about it as a child, understood he was the middle son and would always have a slightly tougher path.’

‘I know that’s why you always took his side.’

She smiled sadly. ‘I tried to stand back but it’s hard not to sympathise. Your father insisted he work it out for himself.’ She stroked her son’s cheek, still in shock that he was sitting before her, needing to touch him so the mirage didn’t disappear. ‘And then suddenly your disappearance changed everything. Dougie became a “firstborn”, for want of a better term. And unfortunately, darling, this revelation coincided with his marriage to someone who perhaps doesn’t offer him the counterbalance that most marriages require.’

‘Dougie’s married?’ Alex said in wonder.

‘Oh, yes! Huge society wedding – everything your father and I privately loathed. But we performed spectacularly on the day for Dougie’s sake.’

‘Who’s the lucky lady?’

‘Guess,’ she demanded with a wicked giggle.

‘Helena James?’

‘Oh, come on. You can do better than that.’

‘Not Daphne Kirkham-Jones.’

She winced. ‘Over my corpse,’ she muttered. ‘But you’re getting warmer, darling. Go back to Dreadful Daphne’s circle and think of the hardest-working socialite of them all.’

‘You jest,’ he said, his voice ringed with disbelief as dawning hit. ‘He married Frantic Fashionable Fern?’

Cecily Gilford Wynter dissolved into helpless giggles. ‘I shouldn’t be laughing when I’m supposed to be grieving,’ she said, looking desperately guilty. She began to weep softly. ‘Your father was gravely ill for a long time. It really wasn’t a surprise. Forgive me.’

‘Mother, if there was one aspect of you that Father loved more than any other, it was to hear you laugh. Laugh and hope he can hear you. So, Frantic Fern is now a Wynter, eh?’

‘Stop it, Lex. You’re going to see her in a few hours.’

‘She’s here?’

‘Of course! Nothing could keep her from the reading of your father’s will – which reminds me, I have to phone Gerald.’ Alex was once again faced with a woman of sorrow. ‘I do miss him.’

‘Gerald?’ he offered, reaching for that lightness. He recalled the family lawyer and close friend of his father.

She admonished him with a glance. ‘What will we all do now without Thomas?’

He took his mother’s hands again. ‘You know, I missed him bitterly when I left but as the war years drew on, I realised he’d equipped me to be alone. All the important building blocks were in place and I didn’t panic. I knew others were depending on me just as he’d always said one day they would.’

She looked at him with affection. ‘Your father was deeply proud of you, son. Or should I say Captain Wynter?’

‘You should not. My point is, Father will have equipped you to live life without him too. The age gap was always —’

‘Don’t, darling. The inevitability of his death doesn’t stop the sense of loss or make the mourning any easier.’ She gave a sad shrug.

‘I knew about his death before I walked in. I was outside for several hours just getting used to the idea that he wasn’t going to be here. I began my grieving out there on the stump where he and I used to sit and talk about the estate, the family . . . my responsibilities.’

‘And you’re just like him,’ she said.

‘Am I?’

Cecily nodded. ‘Your father never dwelled on anything he couldn’t control. I can tell you’ve already set your grief aside, realising that you had no control over his passing.’

‘Not aside, Mother; it’s just private now. I can’t turn time back and —’

‘You’re doing it again, darling.’

‘What?’

‘Disappearing . . . or at least drifting from me. I refuse to lose you again. It makes my insides twist like coils to realise you’ve been likely lying around in hospitals for years. The army assured us they had looked for you.’

He blew out an audible breath of frustration. ‘Sorry. It’s just something about that subject of not being able to turn back time.’

She gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, I think we’d all do that if we could.’

He covered her hand with his.

She sighed. ‘I must call Gerald.’

‘Really? At this time?’

‘You did hear what I said, didn’t you, darling . . . I mean about reading the will? You’re back. Everything changes.’

His expression dropped.

‘I thought you weren’t cottoning on fast enough. Dougie is not going to enjoy waking up to this news. He’s no longer the senior Wynter male, with all the prestige that affords him, and he’s no longer inheriting what he’d planned.’

Alex gave a nod of understanding and his spirits deflated. ‘I feel like a leper.’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t you dare. This is your rightful place.’

‘And Frantic Fern is going to like my presence even less!’

‘It’s not your problem.’

‘You know, Mother. I could just walk away.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said, sounding deeply offended.

‘No, think about it. Right now everyone’s settled. Even you said Dougie had become accustomed to his new role in the family as senior son. Why disrupt everyone? The family is grieving . . .’

‘All the more reason to celebrate your return.’

‘Are you sure it’s something to celebrate?’

‘Well, I am! You saw Effie’s face. I can only guess at Bramson’s delight – and Clarrie must be hugging himself. Charlotte will be over the moon – your sister loves you more than that new motorcar of hers!’

‘Dear Charlie. Still a tomboy?’

‘I’m afraid so. Her mother’s girl she is not,’ she said, but with a twinkle in her eye. ‘She’s fearless, Lex. She lied about her age, got away to Europe as fast as she could to be part of the nursing corps. I can’t imagine what she’s seen.’