However, the young officer was not on the stairs as she descended. Nor was he in the drawing room where her uncle and aunt, he in his tailcoat, she in a dove-grey lace gown, with a fan, were waiting for her. Her uncle stood up. ‘Thank heavens, Flora. The horses have been waiting in the cold for fifteen minutes. Are you quite ready to leave now?’
‘When my necklace is on,’ she said, holding it out to her aunt and spinning a little as she did so, so that the stiff ivory folds of her dress moved with her. Her white shoulders rose from the ivory satin bodice of the dress. So tall and slim, in her pale dress, Beth Bennet thought. She looks like a flower. And very beautiful, and very calm, for a young woman whose future might well be settled this very night. She did up the clasp of the necklace around the narrow, white throat.
‘All done,’ she said to her husband, Geoffrey.
He pressed the bell beside the fireplace. He stood beneath a portrait hanging in a recess of the room. It showed a grave-faced young man standing with his hand on the shoulder of a smiling young woman. Both were dressed in the styles of long before. Behind them was a view of trees, and a lake. The portrait was of Flora’s parents, Geoffrey’s brother and sister-in-law, who had died fourteen years earlier.
The Bennetts’ butler, a ruddy, middle-aged man, came in bearing Geoffrey Bennett’s hat, coat, gloves and stick, Beth’s cloak and gloves. Geoffrey put the cloak over his wife’s shoulders. Flora put on her own. She asked, ‘What happened to the young man?’
‘What young man?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘The young man you sent up to my room.’
‘You don’t mean Perkins, do you? Why should we have sent Perkins to your room? Bradley,’ he asked the butler, ‘what was Perkins doing in Miss Flora’s room just now?’
Bradley replied, wooden-faced, ‘I don’t know, sir. I think he has been downstairs since dinner.’
‘No, Uncle. It wasn’t Perkins. It was a young army officer,’ Flora said.
Her uncle, who was being helped into his coat by Bradley, said, ‘This is quite extraordinary. There’s been no one in the house but us. Bradley, have you let anyone in?’
‘No one, sir,’ he replied.
‘Someone must have let him in, Bradley. Good Lord – it could have been anybody! What did he do, Flora?’
‘He just came in and stood there. I thought you’d asked him to come and hurry me up.’
‘Why on earth would we do that? What did he say?’
‘Nothing. I told him I was coming down. He left the room and I snuffed out the candles and followed him. But he wasn’t on the stairs when I came down.’
‘You didn’t recognise him?’
‘I thought I did, but I couldn’t put a name to his face. I suppose I must have met him with Justin.’
‘Well, Geoffrey, he may still be in the house,’ suggested Beth. ‘Are you sure you don’t know anything about this, Bradley?’
‘Yes, madam,’ he said.
‘He could be hiding somewhere,’ she said. Flora’s heart sank. The dancing had started. Justin was waiting for her. ‘There could be a madman hiding in the house,’ her aunt went on. ‘Flora, are you absolutely sure you saw this young man? What did he look like?’
Flora described the young soldier as well as she could. She wanted to plead for immediate departure but felt she could not.
‘I really don’t understand this,’ said Geoffrey Bennett. ‘But we can’t let the horses stand outside any longer. I imagine he’s gone, whoever he was. Bradley, you’d better go for a constable and search the house. Thoroughly. Top to bottom. Is that clear? Mr Reeve is coming later. You might mention this to him.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Bradley.
The Bennetts then left the house. The carriage, lamps lit, stood in the frosty street. Beyond were the dark trees of the square.
On the way to Grosvenor Square, Flora’s uncle and aunt continued to speculate about the young intruder, but Flora leaned back, in a dream, listening to the horses’ hooves as each turn of the wheels took her closer to Justin.
Four
In the large ballroom in Grosvenor Square twenty couples were waltzing to the music of a small orchestra at one end of the room. The chandeliers above glowed as the couples circled, the men all in black, the women in ballgowns of pink, rose, yellow, saffron, white and blue. Groups set talking in chairs about the dancefloor. There were other guests all over the house, in drawing rooms, on the sweeping staircase, in the supper room on the ground floor, crossing the great hall.
Flora, glowing, came up to Geoffrey and Beth as they sat at a small table in the supper room. A long buffet ran the length of the room. There was a small white book attached to Flora’s wrist, with a tiny pencil beside it. ‘You’re supping early,’ she smiled.
‘Unless we’re to spin round waltzing,’ Geoffrey said a little wearily.
Beth interrupted him firmly, ‘Your uncle was famished,’ she said. ‘Do let me see your card.’ Flora held out her arm, in a long white glove, to allow her aunt to study her dance card.
‘I see you’re to dance every other dance with Justin Kilmoyne. Except that, at the end of the ball, it will be the last two dances.’
‘Especially the very last,’ Flora said.
‘Oh, my dear,’ warned Beth in a low voice. ‘Do be careful. Do not build up too many hopes …’
‘All is well – all is for the best,’ Flora declared and almost danced away. Both watched the tall, slim figure in swirling satin going lightly through the room, eyes following her as she went.
‘It is what they call a brilliant match,’ Geoffrey Bennett said cautiously when she had gone.
‘In every way,’ his wife replied. ‘He is handsome, and his character is good. The family is very distinguished. I believe his parents like her. Flora loves him, I think. And he is an excellent young man. But, oh, if he does not propose tonight, what will she do?’
‘Be miserable for a time, then recover,’ Geoffrey said, attempting robust, male common sense. But his face was grave and Beth was not deceived. He paused, then added, ‘Well, we could not keep her at home as the daughter of the house forever.’ After another pause he said, ‘I worry a little about this matter of the soldier.’
‘So do I,’ Beth said. ‘Let us hope they found him.’
‘Let us hope they did,’ he said heavily.
The couple looked into each other’s eyes. Then Geoffrey, in an easier tone, said, ‘Luckily, Henry Reeve should be there by now. If they find anyone he will know what to do. Come, dear, we must go and play our part.’ They both stood up. ‘I was speaking to Edward Roche earlier,’ he said as they left the room. ‘He asked me to represent the owners in the matter of the sinking of the SS Wallgrave in the Caribbean.’
‘Will you like that?’ she asked. Geoffrey Bennett was a lawyer specialising in marine insurance.
‘Oh, very much so. It will be interesting in its ramifications.’
‘I hope you will not find it necessary to spend three months in the West Indies without me.’
He laughed.
In the ballroom Flora waltzed in Justin’s arms. He looked down at her. ‘Dizzy?’ he enquired, spinning her skilfully through the whirling dancers. The chandeliers swam over Flora’s head, the music sang in her ears. But she shook her head. ‘It’s wonderful.’ She felt like another person – not the Flora from the sober house in Bedford Square but someone else altogether, someone happier, lighter, exultant, carefree.
He bent his head to her, ‘Say you’re dizzy, Flora.’ Again she shook her head, laughing. ‘I insist,’ he said. ‘Say you’re dizzy. You must sit out a little.’
‘Very well,’ she smiled. ‘Oh, Justin. I feel so dizzy.’
‘So I must take you from the dancefloor.’ And with that he steered her, still turning, through the dancing couples. At the edge of the floor he stopped and appealed. ‘Flora – dear Flora. Do let us find somewhere quiet to sit and talk.’
‘Is there anywhere quiet in this house?’
&nbs
p; ‘The library,’ he decided and took her hand.
The library was on the ground floor, a small room, overlooking the garden. The lamps were low. A large fire burned in the grate, though the air in the room was chilly. Justin led Flora to the window embrasure, where a semicircular padded seat was built below the bow of the window. He drew her down. ‘I must speak to you,’ he said.
Flora, gazing into his face, allowed him to pull her down beside him. He put his arm round her bare shoulder. ‘You’re cold,’ he said.
Through the windows she saw the lifeless outlines of trees in the darkness. Nothing moved in the still, cold air. There was no sound but that of the distant music from the ballroom. Then she again fixed her eyes on Justin’s face. He took her cold hand in his warmer one.
‘Flora,’ he said, then hesitated.
‘Yes, Justin,’ she said in a low voice. Her earlier vision rose before her – the gold and silver, the, tapestries, the torchlight, men in armour, women in gilt and brocade. Her tawny eyes gazed, blindly, into Justin’s blue ones.
Gravely he said, ‘Flora, I think you know that I love you. I wish to make my life with you. Darling, my love – let us make our lives together. Will you, Flora, will you marry me?’
She drew in a shaking breath. ‘Yes, Justin – oh, yes.’
‘My dear,’ he said. ‘My own dear.’
He tightened his arm round her shoulders and leaned forward to kiss her. His lips met hers and remained there.
Flora did not move. Her head swam as, half fainting, she grasped the stiff material of his sleeve.
Five
12 Mermaid Street
Strand
December 21st, 1913
My dear Mrs Grose,
It was good of you to reply so quickly to Elaine and even kinder, perhaps, to write to me, suggesting we enter into a small, benevolent conspiracy whereby I would send you my own views of her health and well-being, on the sensible grounds, that perhaps, out of a wish not to upset, she would tell you all was well, even if it were not. I suspect this may have been what she did while at her post in Scotland. As I understand, she would write to you cheerfully, perhaps only mentioning she was not in perfect health and spirits. You would interpret what she said and then, by a mixture of detective work and questioning in your next letter, slowly come to the truth. You would suggest she take matters more seriously; she would respond that there was nothing to worry about and plead with you not to be anxious on her behalf and so on and so forth. Then would come another episode, a cough, a cold, a small disagreement with her employers – and the same process would begin again, you expressing your concern, she denying there was aught to worry about and, alas, we know the consequences, we know now what happened at the end.
So, yes, let us correspond. Moreover, it will be most delightful for me to have a correspondent. For picture us here, two single ladies, sisters, one not in the best of health, knowing no one in the neighbourhood and precious few people in the world. It is many years since either of us had a settled home where we might become part of any society, other than that of our employers, and that, as you will imagine, is a strange society indeed. Alas, a governess is neither fish nor fowl, not part of her employer’s family, not a friend, nor a servant. And I, of course, have been out of the country for so long in a place which in so many ways is as different from England as the moon. So, though perfectly happy, we are also alone, and, for my part, I shall be delighted to have someone to write to and a cause for a little flurry of excitement when the postman calls.
You tell me how quietly you live at Bly and of how little news you have to impart. But please believe me, Mrs Grose, when I tell you how very often Elaine has told me with what delight she received your communications over the years and how stimulating and comforting was what you wrote. I think the delights of a letter do not always come from the relating of great events or the confiding of serious and important thoughts. No, the pleasure lies in hearing from the writer about all the little details of life, from the sensation of ‘meeting’ someone in a letter as one might meet them in actuality.
And now I will attempt to follow my own prescriptions and tell you something of how we live. You ask me if our landlady, Mrs Constantine, is agreeable, and indeed she is. She is small and dark, perhaps a little plump (perhaps, if one were honest, more than a little plump!) and some forty-five years old, though she is not lined. I think I may have said she is the widow of a merchant captain but from the wedding photograph in her parlour I see the marriage must have been a late one and I do not know what her life was before she married Captain Constantine. She told me they both came from families which have lived in this county, on this coast, for generations. I conclude this house was the matrimonial home but Captain Constantine’s comparatively early death left the widow in easy, but not ample, circumstances, so that in order to go on living in the house as she used to she takes in lodgers from time to time. But only from time to time, for at our first interview she told me frankly that if she can find no suitable tenant for her top rooms she prefers not to let them at all. So Elaine and I are to be congratulated on passing the test!
I confess it was with trepidation that I took these lodgings after meeting Mrs Constantine. I was conscious that here in a strange place and with Elaine sometimes unwell we would be very dependent on the good will and good nature of our landlady. An unsympathetic person in that relationship to us might make a very great difference to our happiness and well-being. I had come straight from London, having seen Mrs Constantine’s advertisement in The Times (the doctor in London having told me that Strand was precisely the kind of place he thought would suit Elaine best), I visited the house, saw the rooms, and after a short encounter with Mrs Constantine, I agreed to take the accommodation. But it was all done so very quickly. At the time I did not recognise she was just as anxious that I should be right for her as I was that she would be for us!
Once I had agreed to move to Mermaid Street I became anxious in case I had made a mistake. But – how lucky I was! – as soon as we arrived my confidence increased. Fires had been lit in both our grates. Hot bottles had been placed in the beds in each bedroom so that whichever Elaine elected to take would be ready for her immediately! Then came the intelligent suggestion, made by Mrs Constantine, that if we needed a little more domestic help than her own household, consisting of a cook and one maid, could provide, we might care – she almost put it as a favour to herself – to take on a small maid, the younger sister of her own maid. Since she would effectively be receiving training on the premises, from her own sister, Mrs Constantine said, she would expect only a small wage. And thus we obtained the services of Polly Bullen, aged 14, a clean, energetic and sensible girl under the supervision of her older sister, Mrs Jenny Draper. We are so happy here. You will see why I feel fortunate to have found lodgings with Mrs Constantine.
As for the rest of our lives, there is little to report. Elaine’s cough is better, though we still remain indoors. Dr Prothero tells me the next few cold, damp and therefore dangerous months are crucial to her. If all goes well and her health maintains into the Spring then we will have grounds for beginning to think all may finally be well. Meanwhile, we talk, we read, we sew.
Occasionally I take a little constitutional through the town. There is a post office, two tea shops and a butcher, a baker, a candlestick-maker. Dull enough, perhaps, but I am fascinated by all I see – a lady wheeling her bicycle over the cobbles, a basket in front full of vegetables, a man in tweeds striding along with two obedient retrievers at his heels, a fisherman coming up from the harbour with a creel of fish, children playing under the old arch. I love the many churches, whose bells gently toll the hours, the mist rolling gently in from the sea, the narrow streets, the groups of women gossiping – all these things are of such interest to me, for it is so long since I have been in England.
For the last twelve years I have been used to extremes – the vast streets of St Petersburg and great palaces of its nobles, the huge river,
frozen for so many months of the year, the hovels of the poor, the deep snow of Russia’s long winters, the heat and dust of its summers.
Why, on Prince Kleber’s estates the old peasants drop to their knees and kiss his hands when he appears! He rules an area the size of an English county containing thousands of souls, illiterate, ignorant of all, accustomed to inconceivable hardship, barely out of serfdom. Many of the old people, indeed, scarcely understand they are not still serfs.
The whole progress of Russia has indeed been the reverse of our own. They were free men and women when we English were serfs but their own country gradually sank into greater and greater repression while we slowly developed a more democratic state of society. Because of this there has always been much violence in Russia and there still is. I gather that here we are shocked because ladies throw stones through windows to get the vote. Russia expects bombs and attacks on the mighty, guns turned on the protesting population, exile and imprisonment without trial. There are riots, terrifying disturbances, assassinations and threats of war. If in England women do not vote (and I believe that perhaps they should) in Russia no one votes, or ever will. The secret service is everywhere and punishments are unbelievably severe. But, enough of this! I write merely to tell you how fascinating and endearing I find the streets and surroundings of Strand after living amid such extremities – how soothing its quiet, untouched by alarm, I imagine, since the days of Napoleon. It is in this calm mood that I end my letter, conveying to you the best wishes in the world,
Marguerite Selsden
Six
The morning after the ball, only three days before Christmas, Justin Kilmoyne came by appointment to Bedford Square.
On the previous evening Flora, still faint and leaning on Justin’s arm, had found her uncle and aunt in a small quiet room not far from the ballroom. Justin had been smiling as he supported his new fiancée. The room was occupied only by two elderly ladies, talking in a corner.
Miles and Flora Page 2
