by M C Beaton
“Becket, you had better take her down to the motor and take her home. Do you know the address?”
“Been there once,” said Becket. “I’d better take Miss Levine with me. Need a lady along.”
“Very well. I think we should all go. You have your carriage, Lady Rose?”
“Yes, a waiter will tell the coachman to come round.”
“Then I will escort you and Miss Friendly to your home. Phil, you go with Becket and he can drive you to Chelsea after you leave Miss Bridge at her lodgings.”
Harry helped Rose down from the carriage outside the town house. “Go indoors, Miss Friendly. I wish to have a word in private with my fiancée.”
He turned to Rose and smiled into her eyes. “Are we friends again?”
“I think so.”
He shielded their faces with his silk hat and bent to kiss her. At that very moment, a steel in Rose’s corset which had gradually been working its way loose, stabbed her viciously and, as his mouth was about to meet hers, she winced.
To Harry, it looked like a wince of disgust.
He crammed his hat on his head. “Good day to you,” he said, and he turned and strode off across the square.
Harry had been celibate for a long time. As he walked angrily through the streets of London in the direction of Chelsea, he cursed himself for ever having entered into an engagement with such as Lady Rose Summer. She was beautiful, yes, but she was as cold as ice.
Halfway home, he changed his mind and set off to The Club. It was always known simply as The Club and was considered less stuffy than White’s or Brooks’s.
He entered the coffee-room and was greeted by a tall figure. “Good God, old man, is it really you? I thought you had been killed at Magersfontein!”
Harry’s face lightened as he recognized Colonel Jimmy Frent-Winston. Jimmy now looked like a rakish man-about-town. He had a high aquiline profile and bold blue eyes. “Sit down, Harry,” he said. “Let’s have a bottle of champagne.”
“Still in the army?” asked Harry.
“Home on leave. Want to kick up my heels a bit. You’re engaged, I hear.”
“Not working out,” said Harry, suddenly wanting to confide in someone.
“Ah, well, take my advice and cut and run.”
They drank champagne and swapped war stories as the day drew on towards evening.
“I say,” said Jimmy. “I know just the thing to end the day. Let’s go to The Empire and find ourselves a pair of dazzlers.”
The Empire music hall, a dream of blue and gold, was a most luxurious place. But its main attraction was the Promenade. The Promenade was where the aristocrats of prostitution paraded: blondes, brunettes and redheads, moving with a sort of feline grace and all with excellent manners. They never accosted a man; at the most he might feel the touch of a hand against his or the faint pressure of a silk-clad body as he stood at the rail watching the show below. As they moved to and fro, their jewels glittered and their silks swished and they exuded the scent of frangipani or patchouli.
In 1894, their presence had been attacked by a Mrs. Ormiston Chant, crying “white slavery.” She and her supporters battled long and hard, but the assault failed completely. All Mrs. Ormiston Chant achieved was to become the most popular guy at the next Fifth of November, where she was burnt in effigy.
Harry hesitated. His few liaisons had been with respectable women, none of them ever serious. But Rose had wounded his pride and, he felt, his manhood. Besides, he had drunk rather a lot.
They took a cab. Harry was glad of Jimmy’s company. He had been working so hard that he had had little time for friends.
The Empire declared itself a club, and Jimmy insisted on paying the entrance fee. It was full as usual, presided over by the manager, Mr. Hitchins, who ejected the rowdy with one white kid glove on the culprit’s shoulder. Most of the ejected simply went round to the side door and paid five shillings to get back in.
“We’ll go straight to the Promenade,” said Jimmy. “Oh, I do like shopping, don’t you?”
That was when Harry felt a sober jolt go through his body. At heart, he was a romantic, and the whole business of picking up a prostitute suddenly seemed unbearably sordid.
He knew better than to voice such views. Jimmy had a loud voice, the “Hyde Park drawl,” and Harry felt sure he would protest loudly enough to make them certain of attention.
He waited until Jimmy was chatting to a pretty redhead and quietly made his way down the stairs. Someone on the stage was singing “She Was Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.” Harry went on out into the street. A poster at the entrance was advertising the new attraction of The Singing Blacksmith. Harry paused for a moment. Could that possibly be Dolly’s blacksmith’s son? But the case was closed, so he went on his way.
He decided to walk home to clear his head and banish infuriating pictures of Rose which kept coming into his mind.
Then he remembered the seductive Mrs. Losse. He craved the company of a lady who would flirt with him and stir his senses.
Harry set out for Kensington. He was just approaching the pretty house in Launceston Place when he saw a very grand carriage coming down the street. He drew back into the shadows.
The carriage stopped outside Mrs. Losse’s door. Harry heard a voice say, “I won’t be needing you any more tonight,” and the carriage moved on. A portly figure moved up the front steps and then turned as if aware of being watched.
There was a lamp over the door. Harry recognized the heavy-lidded protruding eyes, the sensual mouth and the thick beard. He was smoking a cigar.
As Harry watched, the door opened. Mrs. Losse stood there.
King Edward turned back and entered the house.
Harry began to walk towards Chelsea. It struck him that he had been unkind to Becket. Just because he, Harry Cathcart, had been unlucky in love, there was no need to make Becket suffer. He would miss him, but Becket should have his chance to marry.
He would set Becket and Daisy up in some business and Phil could take over as manservant.
Rose did not hear anything from Harry and fretted, wondering what to do. She and her parents had been invited down to Mrs. Barrington-Bruce’s country home at the weekend. An invitation had been issued to Harry as well, but he had not telephoned to say he would be joining them or to make any apology.
As they travelled to Mrs. Barrington-Bruce’s, Rose was aware that Daisy was in a state of suppressed excitement. She kept taking out a letter and reading it over and over again.
“What’s in the letter?” asked Rose.
“Later,” said Daisy, flashing a warning look in the direction of Lady Polly.
Brum was the one who collected and delivered the servants’ mail. Daisy, although she had been elevated to the rank of companion, still qualified as a servant in Brum’s eyes, and so she received a letter from Becket unopened. Had it gone to the earl, he would most certainly have opened it and read it.
When they finally reached their destination and were shown to their rooms, Daisy waited until the maids had unpacked their clothes until she said to Rose, “I have the most wonderful news!”
“What’s that?”
“Becket has received permission from the captain to marry me. He is going to set us up in business.”
Rose looked at her in dismay. “You will be leaving me?”
“Yes, but you’ve got Turner,” said Daisy, made cheerfully selfish by the good news. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
“Of course, Daisy. I am sad because I do not want to lose you.”
“I’ll be around. Oh, I did so hope the captain would come this weekend and bring Becket. What’s up with the man?”
“It’s my fault. He… he tried to kiss me and at that very moment a steel came loose in my corset and dug into me and I made a face and he stormed off in a temper.”
“Then write to him and tell him what happened!”
“I cannot. Ladies do not talk about stays.”
“Oh, for heaven
’s sakes, tell him you had a bad twinge of indigestion.”
“He shouldn’t have tried to kiss me anyway. It is an engagement in name only.”
Daisy looked at her with concern. “If you go on the way you’re going, you’ll soon have no engagement at all. Off to India and without me. Don’t be so stubborn. Write to him. Tomorrow’s Saturday. You could catch the Saturday post.”
Rose smiled. “I’ll do it.”
Before dinner, she sat down and wrote a simple apology, making it as light-hearted as she could.
Then she called Turner and the long slow process of getting changed and dressed for dinner began.
There were various other guests at dinner and Rose was seated next to a Major Guy Alexander, who rattled away pleasantly about all sorts of society gossip. He turned out to know Harry but did not comment on his absence.
After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing-room to leave the gentlemen to their port.
The drawing-room was overheated and Rose quietly opened the French windows and let herself out onto the terrace. The dining-room was next to the drawing-room and she could hear the sound of laughter. Then she thought she heard Harry’s name and moved along the terrace and stood listening. Major Alexander was talking.
“You were asking about Cathcart? I know why the sly dog isn’t here.”
“Why?” someone asked.
“Ran into Jimmy Frent-Winston this morning. Told me he and Cathcart had gone to The Empire to pick up some lovelies at the Promenade. He said when he turned round, Cathcart had obviously got himself a lady and cleared off. Fast worker, hey?”
Rose turned away and walked down the steps to the garden, her breathing shallow. She knew about the Promenade because the campaign to get it closed down had been in all the newspapers.
It struck her with more force than ever before that ladies such as herself were merely the toys of society and expected to behave as such and turn a blind eye when the men went philandering. They had to dress up in clothes as stiff, elaborate and formal as any Japanese geisha and sit around and look decorative. They were not supposed to have any strong views on anything. They certainly would never be allowed to vote.
And Harry Cathcart was just like other men. We read romances and dream of our knights in shining armour, she thought, and they don’t exist. She knew her own father would not be outraged to hear of Harry’s visit to the Promenade. It was something gentlemen did.
She went sadly back to the drawing-room and out and down to the hall, where her letter to Harry lay on a silver tray with others, waiting for the morning post. She had hidden it under the others in case her father saw it and decided to read it. She took it out and tore it into little pieces and put the pieces in her gold mesh reticule.
Rose felt very alone. Daisy would leave and all she would have was a fiancé who consorted with tarts.
As she walked slowly back up to the drawing-room, she felt she was moving alone in a world where there was no love.
In Nice, Peter Petrey lounged on the terrace of the Palace Hotel and looked dreamily out at the moon sending a silver path across the Mediterranean. He glanced fondly at Jonathan. He felt he had never been so happy and contented in all his life.
In his dressing-room at The Empire, Roger Dallow read the report of the arrest of Jeremy Tremaine over and over again. At last he put down the paper with a sigh, remembering running across the summer fields with Dolly. He was now married to a little chorus girl and he had put on weight.
Ailsa Bridge sat in an empty church and prayed. She had been beset by the horrors the night before where large spiders had come crawling out of the woodwork. She prayed and prayed and then rose stiffly to her knees and went back to her lodgings. She picked up two bottles of gin from the kitchen counter, opened them and poured them down the sink.
After the weekend, Harry received a curt summons to call on the earl. When he arrived, the wrathful earl demanded to know the reason for his behaviour. To fail to turn up at the weekend without an apology was a snub of the first order.
Harry pleaded sickness and apologized as best he could. The earl privately hoped the sickness was not caused by something nasty he had picked up at The Empire.
“You’d better see Rose and make your apologies to her as well.”
Rose reluctantly entered the drawing-room and the earl left them alone together.
Rose was wearing a tea-gown made by the Italian dress designer Fortuny. It was a long straight garment of artfully pleated satin held at the neck and wrist and waist by strings of small iridescent shells.
“You asked to see me?” she said coldly. “Please sit down.”
“I have come to offer my sincere apologies. I was not well.”
Rose suddenly felt rage burning up inside her. She forgot all the rules about what ladies were not supposed to know or say and remarked coldly, “I trust your complaint was not syphilis.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. If you consort with whores at The Empire, it could be dangerous to your health.”
“Who told you that!”
“Does it matter?”
“For your information, I had drunk a lot and met an old army friend. He suggested we go to The Empire. I was furious at your coldness. I tried to kiss you and you wrinkled up your face in disgust. No, I left almost as soon as we had arrived. I do not go with prostitutes and never have. I know, it makes me unusual, but that is the truth.”
Rose sat in silence. The clock ticked in the corner. The apple-wood fire crackled on the hearth and a rush of wind went round the house like a great sigh.
“I was going to write to you and explain,” she said at last. “I was going to explain that my expression was caused by indigestion. Then I overheard the men talking in the dining-room about you going to the Promenade. I tore up the letter. I may as well tell you the truth. When you bent to kiss me, one of the steels in my corset had worked loose and jabbed into me.”
Harry’s harsh face broke into a smile. “Oh, my Rose, you are indeed an original.”
He stood up and went over to her, took her hands in his and kissed them, one after the other. Then he raised her up and folded her in his arms.
Brum’s voice came from the doorway. “My lord wishes to know if you would like some refreshment.”
Harry released Rose. “Nothing, thank you.” He whispered to Rose, “Later.” Then he took his leave.
Rose felt like singing. It was all going to be all right after all.
The Shufflebottom family was in Scarborough that summer on their annual holiday. They sat in chairs on the beach and watched the children.
“I was thinking,” said Sally, “Rose should have been around to see Frankie take his first steps.”
“They’ve gone back to their grand life and Rose has nothing to fear any more. Why should she bother with the likes of us?”
Sally looked down the beach. “That do look like Rose and Daisy walking along.”
“Can’t be!”
Sally stood up and screwed up her eyes against the sun. “It is,” she cried. “It’s them!”
Rose ran forward and hugged Sally. “I thought you’d forgotten us,” said Sally as Bert stood up and the children gathered around.”
“We couldn’t do that,” said Rose. “My parents are visiting friends in Yorkshire and they agreed to let us travel to Scarborough for the day.”
“Is the captain with you?” asked Bert.
“No, he had to go abroad on business.”
“And took Becket with him,” said Daisy.
They spent a happy afternoon with the family and then climbed back into the earl’s coach.
“I wish they would come back,” said Daisy.
Rose nodded, thinking of how much she had looked forward to seeing Harry again, only to receive a visit from Brigadier Bill Handy to inform her that Harry had been sent abroad on government business.
“I don’t think Becket and I will ever get married,” mourned Daisy.
&n
bsp; If anything happens to Harry, thought Rose, I will definitely never marry. He makes every other man seem dull.
The carriage climbed up out of Scarborough onto the bleakness of the moors. The day grew darker.
Rose shivered. She had a superstitious feeling that there was trouble ahead.
FB2 document info
Document ID: da088350-f5b2-4c05-8356-e1b38f5b15d7
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 31.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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