Packards

by Patricia Burns

  ‘There you are, then. I may be old but I do know what I’m talking about. I shall have Carpenter do these properly and place them. Not,’ he added, forestalling her, ‘full-page spreads. We don’t need them. Just gentle reminders to our many faithful customers.’

  Amelie walked out of his office feeling that she had really achieved something. It was not until she had gone down to the sales floors that she realised she had not asked him about Tatwell Court and whether he really was retiring.

  24

  IT WAS A beautiful place, Edward had to concede. He reined in his horse to take in the view laid out before him. From where he was, on a small hill crowned with beech trees at the north-west extremity of the park, he could see almost the whole of Tatwell and its grounds. The house itself stood on a slight rise, a long building consisting of the main block with its Palladian portico, and two symmetrical wings. Behind one of these were the stables and domestic offices, all built of a pale yellow brick. The weak spring sunshine gleamed on rows of perfectly proportioned windows.

  Around the house spread the lawns, the flower gardens and the walled kitchen gardens with their glasshouses. Beyond these was the park, gently undulating grassland studded with mature trees and patches of woodland. Through it ran a stream which had been dammed to form a small lake with a little wooded island in it and a boathouse on its shore. A long drive wound through the grounds from the tall wrought-iron gates to the rectangular gravel sweep before the elegant entrance with its Doric pillars.

  It was beyond doubt the best place from which to look at Tatwell, for from this distance one could not see the evidence of neglect, the slipping tiles, the dark stains of rising damp, the creaking floorboards and musty smell of the house, the weedy gardens and empty stables and the exotic fruit trees dying from lack of heat in the glasshouses. Tatwell and its former owners had been in decline for two generations, and now finally they had accepted the inevitable, and bowed out. Edward smiled to himself. The Cunninghams, for all their long history and faultless pedigree, had been forced to sell their family home to a man who came to London at fifteen years old with three shillings in his pocket, the youngest of the six children of a Wiltshire draper. His grandfather, and the forces of commerce and ambition, had defeated the aristocracy. It was a source of fierce pleasure to Edward.

  He was stirred into action by the sight of the motor coming out of the stableyard and setting off down the drive. It was going to pick up Sylvia Forbes and her parents from the station.

  ‘Not a regular Friday-to-Monday,’ his mother had said. ‘The house is all to pieces at the moment, not fit for real entertaining. This will be just a little gathering of friends.’ In fact it was a transparent move to throw Edward and Sylvia together, and for herself and Lady Forbes to size each other up. Everybody concerned was perfectly well aware of this, yet Edward knew that none of them would give any hint that this was anything but what his mother claimed: a small informal social event.

  He cantered across the park and delivered the horse into the hands of the head groom. In the stableyard there were already signs of improvement. The smell of paint overpowered that of horses as men gave a fresh dark green coat to the flaking stable doors. The once-empty carriage house now contained a smart victoria and a governess cart as well as being home to the motor when it returned, and a couple of undergrooms were busy polishing harnesses outside the tack room. He made his way in through one of the back entrances. Although this was only his second visit to Tatwell, he had made it his business to get to know his way round the many rooms and passages and in and out of the doors so that he would not find himself lost in his own family’s home.

  In the morning room with its hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, now faded and damp-stained, he found his grandmother stabbing at a piece of needlework.

  ‘Oh, Edward, your mother was looking for you. Something about the visitors arriving.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the motor leaving.’

  His grandmother’s mouth set in pettish lines of discontent.

  ‘She had the gall to tell me to get ready. I said to her, “Invite people to my house if you must, Winifred, but don’t expect me to pander to them.” That told her. She wasn’t happy.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Edward said. Winifred would probably have preferred it if Margaret had stayed in London, safely out of the way. For his own part, he was rather glad that his grandmother was here. She served to remind his mother that she was not in fact mistress of Tatwell, however much she was behaving as if she were.

  ‘And another thing,’ his grandmother said. ‘She’s talking now of turning that nice blue room on the first floor into a boudoir for herself. Well, she shall do no such thing. I want that room for a sitting room for myself. Somewhere to get away from all these snobs she’s so set on inviting down here. It’s a very pretty room, with a view over the rose garden. I’m putting my foot down.’

  Edward suspected that she had not even thought of claiming that particular room until she heard that Winifred wanted it, and was taking pleasure in thwarting her on this issue.

  ‘You do that, Grandmother. It’s your house,’ he told her.

  ‘And what about these visitors, these Forbeses? Winifred seems to be setting great store by them. Are you going to oblige her by marrying the girl?’

  Surprised, Edward gave her a sharp look. He hadn’t realised that she knew so much.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you do what you want, not what your mother wants. Like your sister. She stood up for herself and refused to marry that whatshisname.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Grandmother,’ Edward assured her. ‘I think I can make my own mind up over these things.’

  He went off to get changed into a tweed suit, running the conversation over in his mind. Did he want to marry Sylvia Forbes? He truly did not know. She was very suitable. She would run his household with admirable efficiency, be a gracious hostess, a careful mother. His grandfather would approve of her as the sort of wife who would be an asset to a man. And yet – he shrugged into the jacket that his valet held ready for him – and yet those very qualities that fitted her for the post of Mrs Edward Amberley Packard faintly repelled him. When he thought of what he wanted in a woman, as opposed to a wife, something quite different slid into his mind. Someone remarkably like Isobel Brand. He stood by the window, knotting his tie, his fingers working automatically while his imagination got Isobel alone in a subtly lit room, saw her full lips tremble, her eyes cloud with dawning fear. She would be reluctant, unwilling even, but she would submit to him, weeping as she offered up all her delicious softness to him. The thought of his power to possess her beauty brought such a surge of desire that he had to dismiss the valet. Isobel Brand. He stared unseeing at the waters of the lake, playing with what was becoming a recurrent fantasy, trying to decide whether to change it to reality. He could have her if he chose. It was just a question of whether he really wanted to take the risk. If his grandfather found out, there would be serious trouble.

  A movement in the park caught his eye, waking him to the present. The motor was coming back up the drive. He must go down and greet the Forbeses.

  The family, minus his grandfather who had not yet come down from London, had gathered in the red drawing room, a room of splendid proportions with long windows overlooking the lake. A huge fire was burning in the black marble fireplace, dispelling the damp, and two large arrangements of hothouse flowers bought in by Winifred added freshness and exotic luxury, but nothing could disguise the fact that the sparse furniture was very much the worse for wear and the red silk wallcovering was rotting under the windows and had brighter rectangles at intervals where pictures had been sold off.

  ‘This must be the first room to be refurbished,’ Winifred declared. ‘It really is a disgrace. If only the men would hurry up with the wiring work. I can’t think why Father is so keen on having electricity put in. Candles are so much more suitable for these old places. And as for bathrooms, what are servants for, if not t
o carry hot-water cans?’

  It was a source of constant frustration to her that Thomas insisted on having the roof repaired, the damp cured and modern improvements done to the house before any redecoration could start.

  ‘What do you think about this room, Edward?’ she asked. ‘Do you think I should have this furniture regilded and reupholstered, or should we buy new?’

  Edward banished the last shreds of Isobel Brand from his mind and attended to what his mother was saying. She was forever doing this, he had noticed, canvassing his opinion on everything from the horses to the carpets. It was transparently obvious what she was doing: trying to seduce him away from Packards and into playing the country gentleman.

  ‘I think you should ask Grandmother,’ he said, to annoy her.

  If she thought he was going to fall in with her social ambitions, she had grossly mistaken him. She had Perry to play the young man about town, and she was doing her best to squeeze Amelie into her mould. He had better things to do than to kowtow to Society. He didn’t mind coming down here for a weekend every now and again. This weekend was especially useful, since it was going to give him a chance to form a better judgement on Sylvia Forbes, but he was not going to pretend to be anything other than what he was.

  At this point the Forbeses were announced. Edward observed them as his parents went forward to greet them. Sir Alfred was square and ruddy-faced, a countryman to his bones, coming to Town only as a great concession to his wife and daughter. Lady Ann was tall and formidable with fixed ideas. Sylvia was tall like her mother, with very English looks, long face, blue eyes, fair hair and lovely complexion. Nobody could call her a beauty, but neither was she plain. When Edward shook her hand, she gave a smile that reminded him why he had lit upon her in the first place, for it lifted her patrician features into something approaching prettiness.

  Refreshments were served, the Forbeses’ journey down enquired into, amusements for the day suggested. The weekend was under way.

  By the evening it looked like shaping into a success for Winifred. The Forbeses appeared to be enjoying themselves, the cook had produced a tour de force of a meal, the dining room looked beautiful, its perfect proportions enhanced and its decay softened by kindly candlelight. Bertie chatted amiably to Lady Ann about mutual acquaintances, Winifred and Sir Alfred agreed to disagree over whether carriages would ever be altogether superseded by motors, Amelie and Perry kept their grandmother amused and Edward, seated by Sylvia, was pleasantly surprised to find that she seemed genuinely interested in the store.

  ‘Mother and I have always been attached to Packards,’ she said. ‘It was truly remarkable how one can find absolutely anything one might want there. Tell me, how do you manage to anticipate so many hundreds of different needs?’

  Edward explained the buying system to her, and she nodded, impressed.

  ‘I never realised there was so much to it. But when one comes to think of it, a store cannot run itself any more than a large house can.’

  Edward knew very little about the running of a large house, but his brief introduction to Tatwell had shown him that it needed an army of servants.

  ‘Quite so. They both require a large number of people who all know their own jobs well, and someone to oversee it all. And then there are those who make the large decisions about direction and policy.’

  Unspoken between them was the knowledge that this was to be his role. Sylvia asked more questions, Edward explained. She listened and commented, politely interested.

  All the time, Edward could feel the covert attention of everyone else around the table. They might appear to be engaged in their own conversations, but he knew that invisible antennae were following the progress of his evening. They might not be aware of exactly what was being said, but they knew whether things were going well or not. Sitting outside of himself and looking on, he wondered whether he was going to fulfil all their expectations.

  The next morning Edward was up early, and was surprised to find Amelie already down before him.

  ‘I’ve been looking at that lawn beyond the cedar trees. I’ve paced it out and there is definitely room for two tennis courts and a croquet lawn, and we could build a little pavilion by those overgrown rhododendrons.’

  ‘Two tennis courts?’ Edward questioned.

  ‘Well, why not? Everything else round here seems to be planned on the grand scale. Laying out a couple of tennis courts is nothing to replacing the leading on the roof.’

  ‘Don’t you like the house, then?’

  ‘Oh, I like it well enough. But what a white elephant. Edward! What on earth does Grandfather want with it? The money would have been far better invested in expanding Packards. We ought to be opening branches in the provinces. Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham – we should make Packards known throughout the country.’

  Behind a mildly amused expression, Edward was distinctly shaken. He had had no inkling before now of just how bold his sister’s ideas were. Expanding into the provinces was one of his pet plans, which he was saving until he had control. His grandfather would then be known as the man who had founded Packards, while he was not merely his successor, but the one who took the firm into the twentieth century and made it a countrywide name. But Amelie had been foolish. She had let him know what she was thinking. He had no intention of doing the same.

  ‘You’ll never get Grandfather to agree to that,’ he said.

  Amelie sighed. ‘No, more’s the pity. It’s going to cost a fortune to do this place up the way Mother wants it.’

  ‘He’ll keep her under control once he comes to live out here. It is his house, after all. His and Grandmother’s.’

  ‘Do you think he will live out here permanently? I don’t. I don’t believe he has any intention of doing so. Look at this weekend. He’s not coming down till late this morning, and he’ll be going back this evening. I think he bought this particular estate because it’s so near to London. And as for retiring – Grandfather will no more retire than fly.’

  ‘He’s more interested in Tatwell than you might think,’ Edward said. He paused a moment, then decided to try to squash any ideas she might have. ‘If he hadn’t bought this place, and committed the vast amount of money it’s going to take to put it to rights, he could have bought into Selfridges.’

  He had the satisfaction of seeing Amelie look absolutely flabbergasted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, hadn’t you heard? Well, I suppose you’re too busy with all your social events. Yes, Gordon Selfridge is in serious trouble. You have to hand it to Grandfather, he forecast it all along. Selfridge has sold £350,000 of debentures to Sir John Musker.’

  ‘Of Home and Colonial?’

  ‘The very same. In the old days, Grandfather would have snatched those up.’

  He was saying it to convince himself as well. For Amelie had put her finger on a niggling fear of his. Thomas had not so far shown any signs of relinquishing his absolute authority over the store.

  Amelie threw him a sharp look. ‘So you really think he is about to retire? I wish you luck, Edward, but I think you’re on a losing wicket. Packards is Grandfather’s life.’

  She walked off. Edward let her go, allowing her the pleasure of having had the last word. She wouldn’t have taken that tone if she hadn’t been sure that he would very soon take over from Grandfather. All the same, she was a good deal shrewder than he had realised and she had Grandfather round her little finger. She needed to be put out of harm’s way, and soon. In the meantime, he needed to convince his grandfather that he was more than capable of taking over. He had been given a clear enough hint nearly eight months ago as to one way of doing that. He would wait to see whether the old man approved of Sylvia, and if he did, then he would ask her to marry him.

  25

  DAISY’S NEW RELATIONSHIP with Johnny had fallen into a pattern. Once a fortnight they would go out for a drink, chew over Packards’ gossip for a while, and then discuss Isobel. Every time, Daisy hoped that he might be beginning to get
over her. She tried introducing other topics of conversation, news of a juicy murder maybe or some titbit about the lives of those in Society, but though he would answer her and put in an opinion of his own, she never succeeded in deflecting him. She had better success when she asked him about his dream of owning a carpet shop. Then he would open up and confide his latest ideas, listen to her replies and even agree with some of the suggestions she made.

  ‘You’re right there, Daise,’ he said one evening, when she said that somewhere like Leytonstone might be a good place to set up, because a lot of new building was going on there. ‘Yeah, if folk’ve just moved into a new house, they’re going to want new stuff to go in it, ain’t they?’

  ‘They will in their front parlours, ‘cause they’re like for show, aren’t they? And that’s the only place they’re going to have a carpet. Nobody has them anywhere else, not ordinary people, anyway.’

  She did not add that where she came from people counted themselves rich if they had a bit of oilcloth on the floor.

  ‘You’ve got a good business head on your shoulders, y’know,’ Johnny said.

  Daisy’s heart ached. Why couldn’t he see that she was just the girl for him? She was an excellent saleswoman, the best in Baby Linens, and she wasn’t afraid of hard work. She would be able to keep the flat above the carpet shop as clean as a whistle, cook him all the dinners he liked best and keep the kids in order. Not like Isobel. What good would she be to him? She would never be able to cope. She wouldn’t know where to start. She was looking increasingly ill these days, just about getting through each long day on her feet, and going to bed straight after supper. Except, of course, on the evenings when she went out with Mr Perry.

  It always came back to Isobel. That was the real reason Johnny wanted to see Daisy. To find out how Isobel was and simply to talk about her. His memory where she was concerned was amazing. Everything she had said to him, and every scrap of information that Daisy had let drop was stored up inside his head. And just as Daisy kept hoping that he would forget Isobel, so he kept hoping that Isobel would drop Mr Perry.