The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  Chapter Twenty

  Standing before her cheval looking-glass, Lady Kimber studied her expression, cheekbones high and brittle, eyes a dangerous pearl-grey. Was this what she had come to? Wishing someone dead? If Mary Maitland had been under that wall when it collapsed, the Kimbers would have been saved from catastrophe and Doctor Brewer would still have a wife.

  Her gaze swept over her reflection. Yes, it had occurred to her to trot out an old rag, but everyone knew her opinion of this wedding without the need for her to snub it with a gown that had been seen a dozen times before. Better – loftier, more worthy of her station – to have something new. Show the world what a true Lady Kimber looked like. That conscienceless chit would never look the part.

  Unlike Eleanor, who would have been perfect. A hot pain tore through her heart, though Eleanor had taken it remarkably well.

  ‘I shan’t lie to you, Mummy,’ she had confided. ‘When Charlie first came, he was attentive and I was flattered. I said things to the Rushworth girls that I wish now I hadn’t. They were every bit as excited as I was, especially Olivia. And yes, I did think of wedding bells. If this is difficult for me now, it’s my own fault for being a chump.’

  ‘This is one person’s fault: the Maitland female. She’s a social climber of the worst sort, like her grandmother before her. That boy will live to rue the day.’

  They had done everything they could, she and Sir Edward, to talk Charlie out of this match, but he was having none of it.

  ‘Cut off my allowance if you like. Throw me out of Ees House. But I have my mother’s money, which is enough to get by on until I come into my father’s.’

  Her head had filled with most unladylike language at that.

  ‘I want them to live here when they’re married,’ Sir Edward later decreed.

  ‘But that girl—’

  ‘That girl, my dear, will be the heir’s wife. This isn’t like when Uncle Martin ran off with his fancy piece. They could be set aside because Martin wasn’t in the direct line, but we can’t do that to Charlie.’

  ‘I refuse to have that creature under this roof. Put them in Brookburn House if you must, but that’s the most I will tolerate.’

  ‘Very well, my dear. You’re mistress of this house and if you wish to install them in the dower house, that’s your prerogative, but if Mary lives here, you can control the comings and goings of visitors, whereas if she has Brookburn …’

  ‘Dear heaven, the family will move in, lock, stock, and grandmother.’

  She felt a twist of anguish and bitter impotence. Her life had been punctuated by heart-rending dilemmas. Remain a heartbroken spinster or settle for an older man. Throw everything to the winds and run off with Greg or cast him aside for ever and tolerate the dull despair of marriage with Henry. How desperately she had wanted to be with Greg, and how close she had come … but then she stumbled on the truth about his way of life and his financial situation, truths he had intended keeping from her until she had committed herself to his protection.

  Thank heaven she had subsequently had Eleanor, whose birth had filled her life with joy and purpose … and whose marriage to Charlie was to have been her crowning achievement.

  Eleanor and Charlie.

  Charlie and Mary.

  Here she stood now in her brand-new best to do honour, superficially at least, to the heir and his intended. The gown was perfect, a silk-satin in greeny-gold, its skirt boasting less of a flare. Styles were changing and who better to demonstrate this to the neighbourhood? Best of all was the hat, a colossal affair smothered in ostrich feathers. She knew precisely how she would appear in public – cool and remote – but the feathers would tremble with indignation with every move she made. The hat was a triumph.

  It needed to be. The day promised to be excruciating.

  She could almost wish Charlie had eloped when she saw the crowd outside St Clement’s. The air smelt of lower-class eagerness.

  She proceeded up the aisle on her husband’s arm. Charlie sat at the front, beaming his head off, poor deluded idiot, though it was hard to have sympathy at this stage.

  All her sympathy was with Eleanor, ethereally beautiful in silk of palest yellow. How well she was carrying herself through this private humiliation. But she evidently knew her own limits, because a few days ago she had asked a favour.

  ‘The Rushworths are going to Switzerland. I didn’t hint, Mummy, honestly, but Olivia wants me to go with them. You’ll say yes, won’t you?’

  With a heavy heart, she had done just that. A heavy heart – and an angry one.

  The organ sounded and the congregation rose. She fixed her eyes to the fore, though she delivered a sharp scrutiny when Mary reached the altar. Would the sight of her bring Charlie to his senses? Would he look from Mary to Eleanor and—?

  Evidently not.

  The service began. She could have sworn waves of complacent glee came her way from the bride’s side of the church. They were making their vows now. Charlie went first, thus sealing his doom.

  When her turn came, the Maitland girl’s voice was quiet and trembly, as well it might be, considering the scale of her victory.

  ‘… love, honour and cherish …’

  Lady Kimber’s head jerked up. Cherish! What sort of modern claptrap was that? And to hear it from the lips of a steerage-class upstart was appalling.

  Charlie slipped his mother’s ring onto Mary’s finger. Poor Dulcie must be turning in her grave. Then it was over, except for signing the register. After that, the Maitland girl hooked her hand through Charlie’s arm for him to escort her down the aisle.

  It should be her beautiful daughter she was following out of church. That was what she had planned. Oh, Eleanor.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Greg murmured, watching over the top of his brandy. ‘I come to France and who’s the first person I see? Dear old Moira, dear old desperate-for-it Moira. Where’s the lapdog? Not trotting to heel?’

  ‘Off the leash, old boy.’

  ‘Surprised she permits it.’

  ‘Off the leash permanently, I mean. Not sure which one tired of t’other. Either way, he won’t be on his own for long: can’t afford it. Watch out – here she comes.’

  Greg gained his feet in a fluid movement, though his companion made a hash of it, but that was Batty Lombard for you. Drank less, but stumbled more, poor dolt.

  Moira bustled over, smelling like an exotic hothouse bloom and dressed in hideous salmon-pink that put years on her, arms encased in long evening gloves, though that hadn’t prevented her from wearing rings. She stretched out her hand, affording Greg an eyeful of jewellery before he raised her fingers to his lips. One of the rings was a socking great sapphire and he dropped his kiss on that, feeling more respect for the gleaming stone than he did for its owner.

  ‘Greg, darling, what a treat to see you. You too, Batty.’ Moira thrust her rings at Batty. ‘I’m getting up a house party.’

  ‘Aren’t you always?’ Greg remarked.

  ‘Darling, too cruel. Can I help it if I like to be surrounded by friends? Lucky me, having the dibs to fund it.’

  ‘Lucky for your friends too,’ beamed Batty.

  ‘Sweet of you, darling. Consider yourselves invited. Don’t disappoint me.’

  She moved on, leaving behind a fug of intensely sweet perfume.

  ‘Will you go?’ Greg asked as he and Batty resumed their seats.

  ‘Cripes, yes. A few free dinners never go amiss. I’m not as handy with the cards as you. Will I see you there?’

  ‘Probably not.’ By which he meant definitely not, but he had an aversion to laying out his intentions for all to see.

  He wasn’t playing cards tonight, urgently as he needed to. Things hadn’t been going well – deuced badly, in fact – and his funds had taken a clobbering. That was why he had given himself the night off, tomorrow night too. When you were known to be on a duff streak, carrying on playing made you look desperate. By stopping, he could make a joke of his bad luck, while holding u
p his head in public suggested he could afford his losses. Impressions were half the battle.

  It was a bugger, though. He needed a decent win, preferably a run of wins, and soon. No other moneylender would give him the time of day now that Jonas had bought up his debts. If his luck didn’t turn pretty smartish, he might be reduced to touching an acquaintance for money. His stomach clenched. He had never done that, had never sunk so low.

  Looking round the room with its fine furnishings, two vast chandeliers twinkling above the expensively dressed ladies and gentlemen, liars and scoundrels every single one of them, he felt a burst of fury. Christ, he had had enough of play-acting for one night, and there was the whole bally charade to repeat tomorrow, worse luck. But he was done with it for today, that was certain.

  The following night, he again sat out, waving aside offers to cut him in.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he joshed. ‘Only fair to give others a chance.’

  ‘Letting your virginity grow back as well, are you?’

  He felt like throwing a punch in reply to that, but he forced himself to laugh along with the others. The group broke up, most heading for the card tables, while he was condemned to another night of looking affluent doing bugger all. Throwing himself into an armchair, he prepared to sit it out.

  The exotic smell enveloped him before a pair of gloved hands covered his eyes from behind.

  ‘Guess who?’

  ‘Moira, my sweet.’ He came to his feet. If the silly bitch knew how it infuriated him to be crept up on, she wouldn’t pout like that.

  ‘Darling,’ she purred. ‘How did you guess?’

  The stench. ‘The feather-light touch of your lovely hands.’ He seized her gloved fingers and sized up tonight’s rings. Maybe, when you lived as she did, luring in a succession of lapdogs, you had to put your goods in the shop window to entice the customers.

  Moira sank into the chair opposite. He resumed his seat.

  ‘Are you going to accept my invitation? I’ll be in residence at least a fortnight, longer if everyone is having too good a time to leave. Do say you’ll come.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I must remain here.’

  ‘Oh, darling, such a bore.’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘If by business, you mean cards, there’ll be plenty at my place. I’ll even invite some dud players for you to fleece. If you were to tear yourself away from here, I’d take it as … a personal favour.’

  She rose and leant over him, affording him a close-up view of her ample bosom. It was the real thing, too – no modest monobosom for Moira. Her necklace hung away from her, the showy pendant – sapphire? or aquamarine masquerading as sapphire? – waiting to nestle once more in the top of the luscious cleavage.

  ‘I can be generous, you know.’

  The words were soft, for his ears alone, then she moved on, leaving him in no doubt that he had been offered first dibs on the goods in that particular shop.

  The golden glow of October sunshine cast a mellow pool on the library floor. Mary had spent yesterday afternoon skimming her fingertips along the tooled spines, ignoring the sets of worthy volumes and lingering on Jerome K Jerome, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and – delight of delights – ten or so Beatrix Potters.

  ‘The library might become a favourite haunt of mine,’ she had said to Charlie. Something quivered inside her. Excitement? Unease? ‘Imagine Mary Maitland saying that about the library at Ees House.’

  ‘You aren’t Mary Maitland any more. You’re Mrs Charlie Kimber.’

  Mrs Charlie Kimber. The quiver this time was one of pure pleasure.

  Now she was back in the library, this time with Charlie. Sir Edward had sent for them. He looked grave, but that was nothing to worry about. He always looked grave. Mary folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. He was on his feet, hands behind his back.

  ‘Now you’re home from honeymoon, it’s time for a talk. You’ve had your fun, you two. You formed a relationship on the sly—’

  ‘I say.’ Charlie sat up straighter.

  Sir Edward raised a hand. ‘Now it’s time to take things seriously. I don’t wish to give offence, Mary, but I must speak bluntly if we are to understand one another. My boy, you should be setting off on your Grand Tour and seeing a bit of the world. Instead you’ve married young. In my book, marriage means responsibility, so you’ll knuckle down and help run the estate. Mary, all eyes are upon you, but with your common sense and refinement, I’m confident you’ll adapt once Her Ladyship takes you under her wing. Not only has this marriage reawakened unfortunate memories, but your own past is also a source of interest. You’re the lower-class relation who was sent to prison, went on hunger strike, then saved a child’s life and topped it all off by marrying the Kimber heir. It won’t do. The two of you must lie low while everyone adjusts to the situation.’

  While I show what I’m made of, you mean. Her momentary chill of doubt was replaced by resolve. If Imogen’s death had taught her anything, it was to make the most of the good things. Her heart pitter-pattered. It might so easily have been she who had passed under that cracked wall. She felt as if she had been given a second chance. That it should coincide with the beginning of her new life as Mrs Charlie Kimber was a good thing, surely?

  There was a lot to learn. Lady Kimber gave her a book on the social niceties and she read with wonderment about the correct way to draw on or peel off a pair of gloves. She wanted to laugh, only there was no one to share the joke.

  Not even Charlie.

  ‘Don’t make light of it. We’ll both be judged by what you do. Mustn’t let the side down.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Had he just put her in her place? Charlie? He had had nothing but admiration for her before. But he was right. It was up to her to show the world he had made a good choice.

  She observed Lady Kimber, boggling at how she filled her days. She was an energetic correspondent, though Mary had no idea to whom she wrote. She had daily conferences with her housekeeper and weekly meetings with the cook, to none of which Mary was invited.

  And there were the calls.

  ‘There will be the bridal visits to start with,’ Lady Kimber informed her. ‘Ladies will wish to pay their respects. After that you may accompany me on my calls. But first – dresses, and quickly. This sort of thing,’ and a wave of her hand dismissed Mary’s skirt and blouse, ‘won’t do.’

  ‘I could have something made at Constance and Clara.’

  ‘Where your sister works? Certainly not. We’ll see what Mademoiselle Antoinette in St Ann’s Square can do with you.’

  Once she was appropriately decked out with a quantity of clothes she found embarrassing, she was put on display. Ladies visited and everyone was politeness itself, but she wondered what was said behind her back. Her spine stiffened. She would make these grand ladies respect her if it was the last thing she did.

  She entertained great hopes of charity work. With years of clerical and administrative experience under her belt, plus the knowledge she had gleaned at agency meetings, she had plenty to offer, but when she put herself forward, Lady Kimber refused.

  ‘You couldn’t possibly attempt committee work. We can’t have people saying how appropriate it is, because you come from a family of clerks or, worse, that someone who was employed at a slum clinic must know all about the poor.’

  Her family would sympathise – or would they? Letters home were surprisingly tricky to write. When she described items from her new wardrobe, Lilian’s reply asked why she hadn’t gone to Constance and Clara, and she could hardly say Lady Kimber had forbidden it. The last thing she wanted was a barrier between her and her family, so maybe it was time to visit.

  But she was warned off.

  ‘Best to put distance between you,’ said Sir Edward. ‘Things are different now.’

  Charlie thought so too.

  ‘But you came to our house for tea,’ she protested.

  ‘What matters now is getting your corners rubbed off
and turning you into one of us. Then we can start living our lives properly.’

  ‘Properly?’

  ‘Getting out and about on our own, enjoying ourselves, instead of being confined to barracks. Best steer clear of your folks until then, eh? When they next see you, you’ll be a fully-fledged Kimber and you’ll all know where you stand.’

  ‘I don’t want to be above them.’

  ‘That happened the moment you said “I do”. Are you worried about not coming up to scratch?’ He chuckled. ‘If all else fails, you’ll see them next summer.’

  She went cold. ‘The annual visit.’

  ‘You wait. Aunt Christina will have you dreading it as much as she does.’

  ‘She will not. And I don’t appreciate your talking about my family this way.’

  ‘We’re your family now.’

  She slipped her hand into his. ‘I know, but it would mean so much to me if you …’ Please let him take up the cue.

  He pressed a kiss on her temple. ‘I’ve nothing against your old man. Uncle Edward thinks highly of him and that’s good enough for me. To be blunt, it’s your grandmother who sours the milk. Wait until she pops her clogs and then we’ll see, eh?’

  ‘Our esteemed hostess has her eye on you,’ said Mungo Waller, glancing up from his cards.

  ‘As long as she keeps her hands off me.’ Greg sounded casual, but inside he was seething. Bloody Waller, making a remark like that in public.

  ‘You’re older than her usual fodder. Likes ’em young and tender, does our Moira. But you’re younger than she is, and that’s what counts.’

  That was it. No one got away with speaking to him like that. He opened his mouth to deliver a put-down so devastating that Waller would never again raise his thick head in public – At least Moira enjoys men, which I’ve heard is more than can be said for Mrs Waller – when another voice chipped in.

  ‘I say, Waller, put a sock in it, won’t you? Join the ladies if you want to gossip.’

  Gruff as Algy Prescott sounded, Greg’s sharp ears homed in on a note of anxiety. Algy was in trouble. The cards were against him and he was sinking.