by Joanna Rees
‘Good heavens, no. And you’re not to tell her,’ Percy said, blushing as he put Casper down on the floor.
‘She would probably be much more understanding than you think.’
Percy shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t be. Believe me. Other people aren’t like you, Vita. They don’t understand. You’re rare. And you’re also the only one who knows my secrets, and you must keep it that way.’
‘Of course. I promise.’
She turned round to face the fire, putting out her hands to warm them on the flame. And that’s when she saw the scrunched-up piece of newspaper burning in the grate and a word jumped out at her.
Darton.
She gasped as she pulled out the sheet of paper, stamping on it to put out the flames on the green tiles in front of the hearth.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Percy was on his feet.
Vita knelt down, her heart pounding as she picked up the singed paper.
A tiny part of the picture she instantly recognized as the family portrait that stood on the mantelpiece in the drawing room at Darton Hall. The only family photograph there had been of her, Clement and their parents. She felt sick as she held the charred edge.
‘What is it?’ Percy asked. ‘Vita? What’s wrong?’
49
Remembering That Night
Later, as she lay on her bed at Mrs Bell’s, Vita felt her guilty conscience like lead in her belly. She hadn’t given Mrs Bell or Percy an explanation for her behaviour, telling them that she’d seen someone she recognized in the paper. It must have been the Obituaries page, she reasoned now, still trying to calm down after the shock of it.
It had been like an omen. A rebuke. Just when she’d been feeling so excited about the future, there had been a horrible reminder of her past.
Listening to Betsy and Jane as they breathed in their sleep, she envied them their clean consciences, as fat teardrops plopped over the bridge of her nose and dripped onto the pillow.
Because now everything she’d fought so hard to forget flooded her brain. All the terrible details of that night. The night of the hunt. The irrefutable and awful truth. She gave in and let herself remember it, seeing it all in her mind’s eye, as if it were still that night.
She remembered how she’d packed a simple carpet bag, piling in the clothes she owned, trembling and unsure, expecting to be found out at any second, her face still stinging from where her father had hit her. But when she’d managed to leave the house unseen, a new kind of shock at her own daring started to rise within her. She really was leaving. She had no idea where she was heading, only that she needed to get away. Away from this terrible prison.
As she’d tiptoed across the gravel to the back lawn, the moon had cast a silvery light on the stables and she’d decided to go and see Dante to say goodbye. She wanted the poor creature to know that someone in the world cared, even if she was leaving.
The stables comprised a workshop where Mark kept the saddles and tack, and there was a narrow corridor with four stalls off it. In the workshop Anna lit a lantern, her footsteps soft on the cobbles as she crept along to the last stall where Dante was.
As she opened the heavy wooden stall door, he made a snuffling noise and she smiled, knowing it was his way of saying that he was pleased to see her, but even so, he was in a bad way. He’d always been such a placid, beautiful horse, but now he had the metallic smell of blood about him, and his breath was laboured.
‘Here, boy,’ she said, walking into the stable and hanging the lantern on the hook on the wall, but not before she noticed the shredded skin on his flank. Dark welts of blood glistened in the light from the lamp. She touched his flank tentatively and blood stained her fingers.
She’d wanted to come earlier, but Martha had stopped her, telling her that Mark wouldn’t let anyone into the stables. But now she wished she’d defied them. It pained her that her beloved horse had been all alone in the dark and in so much pain.
She moved round to stroke his nose, putting her forehead against it, fighting down the tears. Dante made a whimpering sound.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, boy,’ she said, delving into her pocket to retrieve a peppermint. How could Clement have done such a terrible thing? ‘He’s so cruel. So cruel,’ she whispered. ‘I wish I could have stopped him. I tried.’
She didn’t hear anyone coming, until she saw a shadow looming along the stone wall, and by that time it was too late to run. Clement stood in the doorway, watching her with a sneer on his face. He’d been drinking, and she backed away from him.
‘What’s this?’ he said, picking up her carpet bag and throwing it out of the stall. It landed with a thud on the cobbles in the corridor.
‘I’m leaving,’ Anna said, too furious with him to back down.
‘Leaving? Is that your grand plan?’ He sounded so condescending – so scornful – that she felt hot indignation sweep over her.
‘I just came to check on Dante—’
‘After what he did today! I’m sending him to the knacker’s yard tomorrow.’
He didn’t look at Dante, only at her, and Anna felt tears stinging her eyes, but she was determined not to let Clement see them. She bit her lips together.
‘Oh?’ he sneered, his face now leering terrifyingly close to hers. ‘You don’t approve? What’s the matter? You’re perfectly happy to sneak around and tell Father your opinions.’
He knew what she’d said to their father? About how he always took Clement’s side? About how Clement should be punished for what he’d done to Dante? Had he been spying, or had Papa told Clement all about it? Either way, she felt the force of the pair of them ganging up on her. Nothing in this household could ever be private or sacred.
Anna summoned all her courage to hold her ground. Clement had to be stopped, and if her parents weren’t going to, she was going to damned well try. ‘You shouldn’t have whipped him. Look what you’ve done.’
Clement took two long steps into the stall and grabbed her by the collar of her coat, yanking her almost off her feet. Her breath constricted as his fist pressed against her windpipe. Dante stamped and snorted next to them.
‘I’ll whip you for your insolence, you little bitch. As God is my witness, it’s what you need, to knock a bit of damned obedience into you.’
He threw her away and she hit her head on the wooden struts of the stable wall. She covered her face, but through her fingers she saw Clement now rolling up his sleeves.
‘I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.’
He was going to beat her. That’s what he meant. She watched him grab a whip from the rack. He thwacked it into his hand, enjoying the sting of it.
‘Please don’t, Clement,’ she said. ‘No . . . no . . . don’t.’
‘You think you can run away from here?’ he said, his voice rising and laden with scorn. ‘You think you can defy Father and me and leave? And go where?’ His eyes bored into hers, as she backed along the wooden slats to the far wall. Dante’s nostrils flared. She caught sight of her terrified face reflected in the black of his eyeball. ‘You think you can go running off, telling tales? Is that it? You’d smear our good family name?’
‘No, Clement, no.’
‘No, Clement, no,’ he impersonated her nastily. ‘Listen to you. You’re pathetic. Father’s right. You’ve always been a disappointment. Well, let me tell you – you’re not going anywhere. Come here!’
He raised the whip and took aim, bringing it down hard, but she ducked out of the way, jumping in the hay and tripping, edging further away around Dante.
Her eyes darted towards the door. She had to make a run for it. Before it was too late. She knew there would be no stopping Clement. Not when he was like this.
‘I said: come here!’ Clement growled, lunging for her.
Dante reared between them and made a terrified whinnying sound.
Anna rushed for the stall door. She got through it, then pushed it shut, sliding the heavy bolt across as Clement yelled her name.
Safe now for a second, she pressed her eye up against an empty wood-knot.
She watched as Clement charged at the door, his face a mask of fury. ‘Come back here!’ he screamed, dropping the whip and yanking at the door.
Dante reared up on his front legs and kicked Clement hard in the back of the head. And then her brother was down, sprawled on the hay, his head at an angle so that Anna couldn’t see his face.
She stayed by the door as Dante thrashed; her heart was in her mouth as he kicked Clement hard once more, but her brother’s body was limp and turned over in the hay. A trickle of blood came out of his nose. And she knew, in that instant, that he was dead.
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking all over. What should she do? Go in? Try and save him? No . . . no – it was too late.
Instead, she grabbed her carpet bag and ran.
It was only as she was leaving the stables that she nearly bumped straight into Mark, the stablehand, who had no doubt been woken by Dante’s terrible screams. She yelped, hastily backing away from him. Then she was off. She didn’t stop. She didn’t turn back. She ran for her life.
50
The Grand National
Clement leant heavily on his stick as he watched the horses being paraded around the paddock at Aintree. This was his first trip away from the mill since the accident, but he’d never missed a Grand National and he didn’t intend to miss one on account of his sister. When a note had come a few days ago from Malcolm Arkwright, inviting Clement to join him at the race, he didn’t hesitate. A day out at the races was exactly what he needed, although his legs were still causing him excruciating pain. He adjusted his position and cursed as his stick sank into the soft turf.
He scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for Arkwright, but all he could see was a sea of hats and overcoats. It was a misty, grey day and there was a chill in the air, but it was perfect running weather and there was an air of anticipation around the paddock. Each horse was being led on a rope, and most of them had blankets strapped over them and headgear, but they were all fine beasts. He could hear the chatter in the dense crowd behind him about who might win. But with thirty obstacles over four miles, it was anyone’s guess who might pick up the £500 prize money for the winning jockey.
‘I heard you ordered that horse of yours to be sent to the yard,’ a familiar voice said, and Clement turned to see Malcolm Arkwright. He was wearing a top hat, his long wool coat open to reveal a jewel-coloured waistcoat stretched across his belly. He put his thumb into the pocket of it and pulled out a thick gold pocket watch.
‘It was lame. I had to,’ Clement said, although this wasn’t true.
Arkwright didn’t look convinced. ‘That’s not the story I heard.’
How had Arkwright even heard about Dante? Clement wondered. He felt a moment of shame. Maybe the horse hadn’t deserved its fate. But no, there was no point in being sentimental. It was just a horse. A horse that had all but paralysed him.
They watched the parade for a while, until the horses were led away to be saddled up.
‘So . . . are you a betting man, Mr Darton?’ Arkwright asked.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Clement said, looking up at the stands of the racecourse, which were filling up.
‘Then I wouldn’t mind betting that you have mislaid your sister.’
‘Mislaid?’
‘I saw the notice in the paper,’ Arkwright said, his bushy eyebrows rising. ‘But I take it she hasn’t come home. She’s a spirited girl,’ he went on, breathing in, as if Anna was a horse and he was relishing the prospect of riding her. ‘Got the better of you, I see.’
‘She’ll be back,’ Clement said, with a dismissive wave as if he were just humouring Anna and would find her at a time of his choosing.
Arkwright made a satisfied grunt. ‘Good. I’m fed up with these young women thinking they can do what they want.’
‘I quite agree,’ Clement said.
‘Votes, indeed,’ Arkwright said, laughing and clasping Clement on the shoulder. ‘What is the world coming to? String the bitches up, I say.’
Despite Clement’s hatred for his sister, after what she’d done, he still felt a sliver of guilt. He knew what a man like Arkwright might do in order to tame her. But she deserved what was coming to her, now that she’d put them all through so much. No, his sister would come back and pay for what she’d done.
‘If you are a betting man, then I’d put your money on Jack Horner. Number twenty-one,’ he said, leaning in close, as if divulging secret information.
‘But that’s not your horse,’ Clement said, confused.
‘Well, I happen to know things. Come this way, Mr Darton. I have a good view from our stand.’
Clement followed Arkwright to the front of the stands where there was a spectacular view of the course, and took a nip of whisky from Arkwright’s hip-flask when it was offered. He looked through his binoculars to the starting line, surprised to see a perfect start for once. And then the horses were off.
The crowd gasped as Grecian Wave and Silvo, both favourites, fell at the first fence. Clement watched a man throw down his form card and stamp on it, and a woman in a fur stole laugh at his childishness.
Knight of the Wilderness fell at the third. Clement caught that through his binoculars, too. He rather enjoyed the way the horses’ legs buckled, the jockeys tumbling into the throng of hooves. It was thrilling.
‘We’ve still got Becher’s Brook to go,’ Arkwright said. ‘Someone will fall there. They always do.’
Clement watched some young boys chasing behind the crowd, jumping up to get a better look.
He shared the binoculars with Arkwright as the horses continued, and then Bright’s Boy was leading Old Tay Bridge and Jack Horner at the last jump. Clement pressed forward to the front of the stand as they roared down the flat towards where they were standing. Old Tay Bridge was leading, but then Jack Horner edged in front.
Clement and Arkwright roared at their success and turned to each other and, for one second, Clement thought they might embrace.
‘It’s a good omen,’ Arkwright said. ‘Stick with me, my boy, and you’ll go far. You’ll see.’
Clement smiled, pleased that Arkwright thought he had the upper hand – for now. Arkwright didn’t realize it yet, but Clement’s part of the bargain – swapping Anna’s hand in marriage for a stake in Arkwright’s mills – would give Clement and his father an overall monopoly. And, with it, they would not only be able to pay back the debts they owed, but would secure plenty of contracts in the future. Yes, very soon the Darton name would be the only one that mattered.
51
Nancy’s Endorsement
Nancy wasn’t miffed with Vita for long, especially as they both had invitations from Edward to join him and Percy for lunch, and then for drinks at The Kit Cat Club after the show. Then, the following Monday, Nancy suggested a shopping trip, followed by an appointment with Mystic Alice.
Nancy had said that her clairvoyant had agreed to see Vita, who had to pretend to be excited about it, when in truth she would rather be working with Percy. Besides, she found the whole thing a little terrifying. Mystic Alice had somehow managed to convince Nancy that she really did have mystical powers. And what if she did? What if she could see into Vita’s past?
Seeing Clement’s image in the paper had been a terrible shock and a reminder that her family might still be looking for her. But Clement was gone for good, she reminded herself. London was the last place they would think to look, she was sure of it. She was safe. Wasn’t she? She’d got away with it. She’d rid herself of Clement and her family ties and had started a completely new and wonderful life. Nothing could derail her now, could it?
She decided to try her best to stop worrying about the future and to concentrate on the present. And it wasn’t hard. It was fun walking around the streets and soaking up all the sights of the city and, even though she couldn’t afford to buy anything herself, Vita loved window-shopping. Nancy had no qualms about tryin
g on the most expensive fashions she could find; and in a new boutique on Regent Street, she made Vita try on a very smart pinstripe suit.
‘Won’t I look a bit like Lolly and Ra?’ Vita asked, remembering how the infamous female companions at the club dressed.
‘It’s fun. I want to see what you look like. I’m coming in, too,’ Nancy said, sweeping aside the pink satin curtain.
In the changing room, Vita took off her jacket and then plucked up the courage to show Nancy her new brassiere. This was the seventh one she’d made, but she and Percy were convinced they’d worked out the best pattern, and Vita was pleased with the result. This was the one, she was sure of it. She adjusted it, looking down at her cleavage.
‘I know it’s a bit unusual – the colour, I mean.’
‘The colour is the best bit,’ Nancy declared. ‘I love it. Can you make me one?’ she asked, her fingers on the thin straps. She moved her hand down towards Vita’s breast, and Vita ducked away, embarrassed by the intimacy of her touch. There was something proprietorial about the way Nancy was looking at her.
‘Well, I can now,’ she said, slipping on the pinstripe jacket and doing it up. ‘It’s been so difficult to get it right, but I think I’m there. I should be able to make them in other sizes. Do you really think it looks professional?’
‘Absolutely! And you know who would love it, too?’
‘No?’
‘Lulu,’ Nancy said, as if hatching a plan. ‘You know, Mrs Clifford-Meade.’
‘Your dressmaker?’ Vita checked, flattered that Nancy saw such potential in her creation.
‘Yes, I’m sure she would. And if she did, she could sell them in her shop.’ Nancy’s eyes were shining.
‘You think she would? Just like that?’
‘People need to be told what they want. And you British are so timid,’ Nancy quipped. ‘So the way I see it: you’ve had a good idea, so carpe diem. Seize the day. That’s all it takes.’
