Affairs of the Heart

by Maggie Ford

  Affairs of the Heart

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Next in Series

  About the Author

  Also by Maggie Ford

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For my daughter, Clare, who suggested the idea for this series

  One

  In the crowded pub, William Goodridge let his thoughts wander. Several days since his friend Henry Lett had passed peacefully away in his sleep. For a man who had achieved so much in life, perhaps a good way to go.

  Now Goodridge sat across the pub table from the man’s nephew, Edwin. He had been so engrossed telling the young man the history of Letts, once one of the best restaurants in London, that he wasn’t quite sure what had been said aloud and what had been merely in his mind.

  At the moment he was thinking of Mary, who’d married Geoffrey, the younger of the two Lett brothers. Everyone had loved her. He too. Over the years he’d come to admire her resilience despite all that the brothers had done to her – perhaps unwittingly, he gave them that much.

  Geoffrey, the more wayward, had never stopped to think what his natural selfishness had done to her. As for Henry, he’d harboured the best of intentions towards her, yet in his way he had harmed her too – something of which to his dying day, Goodridge suspected, he also had not been aware. He couldn’t condemn Henry any more than blame Geoffrey for his thoughtlessness.

  But Mary had always reminded him of a butterfly at the mercy of the elements. When summer fades and autumn takes over, some butterflies will succumb to the cold. But others who can hibernate can rise again for all their apparent frailty. Mary had been one of those. He’d tried to protect her through the cold times, though he now wondered if that protection had been of any use, for it occurred to him in this pub, talking to Henry Lett’s nephew, that she’d proved herself to be made of stronger stuff than he’d first believed – even though it had taken her years to recover from the death of Marianne.

  He remembered Henry telling him of his grief when Mary’s baby had died of diphtheria. Boxing Day 1924 – a long time ago. It was now 1953 and Henry himself was dead, heart attack, a few days back.

  “Henry and your father Geoffrey were good men in their way,” he said to young Edwin above the din of the lunchtime pub. “Over the years your uncle and I grew to be the best of friends. And Letts was his whole life. Even more so after your father was killed in that air raid.”

  He took a swig of his drink. It was going to be hard explaining how deep their association had really gone. Without it how could he get Edwin, with his considerable inheritance, to consider buying out his uncle’s second wife? The restaurant had been in the Lett family for generations, yet Henry’s widow, now holder of the majority share though with little interest in it other than what it would fetch by being sold to an interested restaurant chain, was busily persuading the family to sell their shares too, leaving her free to take her money and run, proving herself the grasping woman she was.

  If he could entice Edwin to take on the restaurant, all that Henry Lett had worked for would remain. The man deserved that. Despite all that had happened between them in the past, Henry’s death had hit Will hard.

  “I’d like to see Letts continue, Edwin,” he said, gazing into his half-empty glass on the polished pub table. “Your uncle and I were very close.”

  More than close. Indeed, Henry had taken him into his confidence far more than anyone. Not normally one to confide in people, he had shared his troubles openly with Will. And of course he would, there being so much more between them than mere friendship. Will’s recollection of all Henry had entrusted to him was as clear today as if it had been yesterday. And he knew that the information Henry had shared with him was so confidential that he could never pass on much of it to the man’s nephew, even to save Letts.

  He remembered the way he would listen quietly as Henry let slip so many small personal details of his and the family’s private lives, quite often without realising. Often it would be something deep and disturbing, other times little and ludicrous, such as his dislike of his family home. William’s memory, as ever unimpaired, gauged that to have been told him around 1925…

  * * *

  To Henry, having spent so much of his time in London, Halstead Green was the Gobi Desert. So when his mother, having been alone for so long at Swift House since his father’s death, entreated he make that his home after his marriage to Grace Chamberlain, his argument that he should remain in London to be near the business was a little desperate.

  “And you’re not alone, Mother. Victoria and Maud aren’t all that far away.” One sister lived within six miles of her, the other something like twenty miles away, and both then-husbands had cars.

  “London’s not Timbuktu,” he went on. “I shall visit as I have always done – me and Grace together.”

  After all, she had plenty of local friends, church friends, her vicar, and Grace’s parents still took her to church on Sundays. The church took up a large part of her time so she couldn’t be that lonely. But she had a ready argument.

  “There is no need for you to be so near the restaurant, Henry. Your brother is nearer to London and, wilful and thoughtless though he is, he is quite capable of keeping an eye on it and will merely have to toe the line a little more.”

  She would no longer mention Geoffrey by name if it could be helped, still disapproving of his marriage, behaving as if it had never been. She never spoke of Mary or referred to her in any way, vigorously turning her back if that name was spoken. She’d never forgiven Geoffrey his marriage to a “mere kitchen skivvy” who had eventually got herself promoted to the office, having proved herself good at figures.

  Henry could see how the proud and stalwart matriarch, still full of old Victorian beliefs in good habits and respect for parents, felt. She had not been consulted or even pleaded with to be generous-hearted towards the woman with whom her son had fallen in love. As far as she was concerned he had married below himself and without her leave. That to Mother was near to sacrilege.

  Geoffrey never came near the house these days, he in turn unable to forgive her, for even the death of his child hadn’t dented the barrier she had put up between herself and him, making his loss all the more cruel and painful.

  Henry too had almost broken with her over it and it had taken him a year to bring himself to speak to her with any filial love. Even now a small bitterness against her attitude would rise from time to time. He felt he would never truly forgive her her treatment of the grieving parents at a time they, especially her son, had most needed her comfort and understanding.

  There had only been him to give Mary a shoulder to cry on, other than her husband, and Geoffrey had been too close to their shared loss to afford much comfort for anyone but himself, which was natural, Henry imagined. As for himself, he’d had to hide the love he felt for Mary and behave as a mere uncle, just far enough removed from the tragedy to see a little more clearly. That fact had maybe intensified his pain on their behalf, whereas they’d been in blessed shock, blessed in that the loss of a loved one will numb brain and body and for a while the more poignant sting of grief, that coming later as one is more able to cope – nature’s way, he supposed. It had broken his heart hearing the way Mary had cried: long-drawn-out, shivering mo
ans that drained her whole body as though crying had not been enough to fill the empty senselessness of Marianne’s death. Yet in life, she had spent so much time away from her. Maybe it had been that awareness that had made her weeping so distraught.

  Yes, there had been only him to put an arm about her and draw her to him, Geoffrey slumped in chairs, gazing at nothing, leaning forward at times to put his head in his hands, seldom an arm spared to put around her. Her old aunt had been no good. He had seen her at the funeral, chattering away as though it were a celebration of some sort, gone rather soft in the head – healthy enough but not seeing the world about her any more, still cared for by her neighbour who, needing to have someone to look after, he suspected, apparently found her no trouble. Everyone needed to have someone to care for and someone to care for them. Mother should have seen that but had closed her eyes to it. And now she wanted someone to care for her and Henry did not feel inclined to be that someone. He felt the old bitterness again, his heart going out to Mary every time he thought about her.

  “It’s often the done thing in good families,” she had said, “to have a son and his bride taking up residence in a wing of the family mansion.”

  “This isn’t a mansion, Mother,” he’d pointed out as patiently as he could. “We don’t have a separate wing.” But he was talking to a brick wall.

  “My dear, Swift House may not quite be a mansion but it is a sizeable home. If you’re concerned that we might get under each other’s feet, half the upper floor is totally self-contained. Your father had his offices there as you know. The attic has a perfectly spacious set of bright and airy rooms for a small family. I am rattling round in this place and not getting any younger. It would be nice to know you were at hand should I need you.”

  He hadn’t really had an argument. His mother was a strong-willed woman, her stiff composure persuasive as any flood of tears from a weaker character, and he had finally given in with a heavy heart.

  The problem with Swift House was that it lacked character, inspired him with no wish to live there. The grounds had once been lovely, but when Henry’s father had died and the head gardener retired, his mother had lost all interest. An indifferent gardener now presided, and though he and his two assistants kept it tidy enough, they had no imagination.

  The village was equally dull and uninspiring, the Norman church its only redeeming feature, the countryside drab, not even a low hill to break the flatness of the horizon, no babbling brooks to lose oneself by. The people were insular, unadventurous; a couple of fetes held each year, one by the tiny school and one by the church, a weekly social at the village hall to which the older generation went, the young taking the short bus ride into Halstead itself or the slightly longer one into Braintree for their enjoyment, dancing, swimming, sports. That was it.

  Only two reasons had made him spend more time here than usual this last year, and the first was his mother’s wish that he get to know Grace Chamberlain better – her father was a wealthy landowner and gentleman farmer who owned Dendle Hall, the other side of Halstead Green. The other was that he’d had to get Mary out of his mind and settle down. Marrying Grace was easier than being nagged by Mother, simpler than looking around for someone else.

  Grace was beautiful, quiet, sedate, a fitting girl for a man of his type who’d never had any real longing for the endless round of pleasure Geoffrey enjoyed. She was suitable in every way. Very well, his heart didn’t go pit-a-pat, but it was said that love built slowly out of respect for a person was far stronger and longer lasting than any of the wildly beating heart and pulsing blood kind of stuff. He hoped so and at least he felt comfortable with Grace.

  Thus in the June of 1925 they became engaged, and in the autumn married in Halstead Green Church where his father lay, a huge reception following at Dendle Hall. Geoffrey and Mary didn’t come, but sent a wedding present, a grandfather clock, assuming Henry and Grace would settle down to life in the country.

  Henry had not settled. After honeymooning in Tuscany, he and Grace returned to Swift House. But he longed for London, felt stifled here. Though his mother didn’t interfere, her presence cast an artificial light upon their married state, acted as a restriction to a free rein to run about should they fancy to, to laugh and play and act the fool - though Grace was a little too sedate to do much of that, taking what she saw as her wifely role rather too seriously. Even arguing (which they didn’t, she being a placid soul) would mean being overheard by his mother and judged or even frowned upon.

  Mother got on well with Grace. Two of a kind, apart from Grace being far more pliable, they shared an insistence on old-fashioned protocol and spent hours talking together, and though he knew Grace was in good hands – her own family were a mere step away so that she was never bored when he went to London once a week – he felt out of it, his longing for the bustling vitality of the place growing steadily deeper.

  “I hate this travelling back and forth,” he said to Grace as they lay side by side in the four-poster bed.

  They’d made love, a restrained sort of love with Grace submitting herself quietly to his penetration of her – if that was what it could be called. She did not complain, merely submitted, not understanding that it was quite in order to participate in the joy of the thing even though he had told her she could let herself go if she wanted to. She had looked at him in bewilderment that first time.

  “I don’t know what you mean, darling.”

  “Well…” It had been awkward to describe. “The getting excited bit.”

  She had shaken her head, confused. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just – did you like it? Or did it upset you? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No.” She had lain there afterwards, blinking at him. “Why should you have hurt me?”

  He’d realised then that she hadn’t brought her legs up to clasp him to her in order for him to go in deep; hadn’t understood what was required of her, even that she should get the maximum enjoyment from it. With her legs flat on the bed, how could he have penetrated far enough to hurt her? He’d been gentle, resisted the temptation to take his fill of her, and she’d remained virtually virginal, her hymen broken only by degrees as he made love to her gradually over the following couple of weeks. No longer a virgin, the impression was nevertheless as if she remained untouched. To her this was a wifely duty to be given to the husband, his conjugal rights, and so long as she did that, she was fulfilling her duties, was content. She knew nothing, utterly innocent.

  Had she been Mary… He could imagine Mary giving herself to him in ecstasy and abandonment—

  Alarmed and ashamed by an uncontrollable hardening between his legs, he thrust the vision aside.

  “Do you find it enjoyable?” he had asked. Grace’s reply: “Well, it’s what married couples are meant to do, isn’t it – so that they can start a family?”

  He’d given up. At least she didn’t abandon herself for cries of joy to filter through the floor below to the disturbance of his mother. That was the trouble; Mother’s presence curbed all that ought to come naturally.

  “I detest leaving you to go into London,” he said now, bringing his mind back to the matter in hand. “I’ve been wondering; if you came with me we could stay a few nights in the flat over the restaurant. Just us two.”

  “I’ve never lived in London,” she mused, raising his hopes only to put them down again by adding, “I don’t really think I would like it for too long. I prefer the country, the peace. London can be so noisy. I didn’t enjoy it much when I was there two years ago as a débutante. I was presented at Buckingham Palace to Their Majesties, but the parties given for us were noisy and went on too late. The people all talked at once and no one listened. No one had any time for anyone but themselves, and I didn’t understand half of what they said. Such absurd colloquialisms - ‘utterly maddening, darling’, or ‘how too too divine’, and ‘simply marvellous’, even stupid contradictions of speech – ‘awfully delightful’ or ‘awfully nice’. It was s
o silly. I couldn’t even begin to speak that way, Henry. I even heard some of the débutantes swearing out loud. Their behaviour was quite brittle. After seeing them so demure in their white gowns, curtsying to Their Majesties in that beautiful blue and gold Throne Room at Buckingham Palace, I can remember being quite shocked to see the way they behaved afterwards, at the parties held for them, and they supposedly hoping to attract a suitor.”

  Perhaps, Henry thought as he listened, her own attitude had been why she hadn’t attracted a suitor, too prim and proper, frightening off any who approached her. There was a limit to demureness. But his purpose was to attract her to London. He needed so desperately to return there and never take up residence at Swift House ever again. Once he had Grace on his side it wouldn’t be so hard to face Mother with his wish.

  “If you come to London with me just for a day or two, my sweet?” he cajoled gently. “I miss you so much when I’m there alone. To please me?”

  Pleasing him and making this a good marriage was her sole aim, and to his delight, he saw by the moonlight streaming in through the window her head move up and down on the pillow beside him in a nod of assent.

  * * *

  “Geoffrey, when can we start thinking of another baby?”

  Geoffrey Lett threw Mary a peeved glance as he dressed for the party they were giving in honour of Mr Alan Cobham’s spectacular first flight to and from the Cape in his seaplane. Any excuse for a party! But Alan Cobham had already been feted by several social climbers and Geoffrey Lett wasn’t going to be missed out. It was important he kept in the swing of things, important socially and for business. The last thing he wanted at this moment was another fight with Mary over this baby question.

  Lately all she ever did was mope and nag. Outside the flat none could be more lively. The “giddy flapper”, the press were lately calling the young 1926 socialites, a term that had stuck. Mary’s dresses were as short as any could be, revealing rouged knees and rolled-down stockings as she kicked up her heels. She seemed inexhaustible, the life and soul, drank cocktails until they came out of her ears, came home finally exhausted and tipsy to fall into bed. If he’d wanted to make love it would have been useless. In private she had became a bore, constantly crying, constantly nagging, pleading.