by Maggie Ford
“Wear the dress I bought you.”
“But I can’t—” she began in confusion.
“I want you to come with me, Mary,” he said now. “Will you?”
Suddenly everything was all right. “Yes,” she said.
* * *
The party was intimate: eight people in all, including her and Geoffrey. Edward, as he asked to be called, was accompanied by a young woman he referred to as Lady Charlotte, who looked so debonair that Mary was awed by them both, and would have stayed in a corner out of it all had Geoffrey not held her arm most of the time. He understood her feeling a fish out of water, despite the lovely evening dress he’d bought her in Paris, shimmering calf-length citron-yellow with narrow straps that showed off her shoulders to perfection. When anyone spoke to her, she found herself stammering, putting on an unnatural accent, trying to keep a hot blush under control as she smiled and replied – rather like that first time at the Masonic do. But an hour of champagne cocktails, the smoke-filled atmosphere and the unbridled manner of the three other woman dimmed her inhibitions and before long she too became witty, laughing easily at others’ wit, Edward himself remarking on her tinkling laugh as quite captivating which made her grow hot again and avoid too much free laughter lest its “tinkling” jarred in the Prince’s ear.
He and his companion left around one in the morning, having been present for a little less than an hour and a half. The rest continued for at least another hour, quietly talking and drinking. With Prince Edward gone, it all became a little boring, people discussing things of which she had no expert knowledge. Slightly stupefied by cocktails she decided that she must educate her brain, so becoming more like them, though it seemed they were talking a lot of twaddle most of the time. She was becoming concerned about her aunt, too. Though she had told her she would be late home and her aunt would have gone to bed quite happily – the old lady was capable enough to see to herself and quite unaware of time so that she would sleep like a log, in the morning treating Mary as though she had been there the whole night – she had felt a nagging sense that she should really be home with her by this time. If her aunt had by chance become worried, aware she was alone, she had only to knock on the wall and their neighbour, Mrs Trench, a kindly chatterbox of a woman with no husband to nag her, would have come in to sit with Aunt Maud until she decided to fall asleep. She had a key, loved doing things for the old lady and with a tendency to insomnia would sometimes chatter on until the small hours, liking nothing better. She had given an eye to Aunt Maud that weekend Mary had been in Paris. Her aunt would be all right, and fretting seemed unnecessary. Yet fret she did.
“I’m going to have to go home before long,” she had said prior to Prince Edward’s departure, but with Geoffrey insisting it was still early and champagne cocktails dulling her concern, she had stayed on.
Now, with everyone gone, their host – whose name she couldn’t recall, along with all the others apart from Edward and his Lady Charlotte – having offered to have them stay overnight, she lay beside Geoffrey in the sumptuous second bedroom of the penthouse, still a little giddy but her heady laughter long since ended as she and Geoffrey made love.
She remembered their making love. Less well did she remember their host offering them his spare bedroom as she had closed her eyes and let her head fall on Geoffrey’s shoulder, her body strangely floating as words drifted to her ears as from some vast distance. “She can’t go home tonight… the spare bedroom… she’ll be all right, old chap.” Lifted lightly, she had been laid down on a large bed, one softer than any she had ever known; had felt it give to Geoffrey’s weight, then his body on hers, and she had given herself to him as willingly as on every other occasion when they made love, perhaps more so. Uninhibited by the evening she had spent, the champagne no doubt heightening it, she felt this had to be the best love-making they had ever experienced. In the soft, all-enveloping bed it felt they would never stop.
* * *
It had been difficult to keep silent about that night, so wonderful if a little hazy. What hurt was to be so devious with William. He didn’t deserve to be two-timed, and that was what she was doing, and she hated herself for it.
Being with him was comfortable, unlike with Geoffrey, when she was always on edge, her heart pumping excitedly with the fear that the next time they made love might very well be the last. Common sense told her that they were chalk and cheese, she not of his class, that what they had was tenuous.
How could she reveal to the trusting William what was going on? Sometimes the dilemma solved itself in that, even after that glorious night of Prince Edward’s soiree, she still saw her lover so very infrequently that it would be stupid, and unkind, to destroy William’s happiness by blabbing all about it. Until Geoffrey finally asked her officially to marry him, she would keep quiet. But would they ever marry?
Ironically, the word never failed to diminish the happiness of being with Geoffrey, and lately it had a bitter ring to it. He had used that word when he had bought her that lovely evening dress in Paris. What was it he had said when she had refused to keep it at home in case her aunt found it and started asking questions?
Geoffrey had laughed. “I’ll keep it for you,” he had said lightly. “One day I’ll give it back to you – when we marry, perhaps.”
She had been so excited, but he had never mentioned it again. Said so long ago and just that once, she had come to wonder if she’d imagined the words, never having the courage to raise the issue in case she had. At the back of her mind was the thought that for all their love-making, marriage was the last thing on his mind, that one day he would find a girl of his own class to be his partner in life. He had given the dress back to her – that night of the Prince of Wales’s soiree. But even as he made love to her, no word of marriage had passed his lips for all she’d given herself totally to him, several times – and at the end of it some strange disembodied instinct told her that she’d conceived. Immediate reaction had been to scoff but two months later instinct proved correct.
Christmas gave her the first indication when her period failed for the second month running. The first week into 1922 brought a more definite sign as one morning, the forerunner of several, she hung over the kitchen sink feeling limp and ill and filled with suppressed terror while her aunt, looking a little mystified, said that she must have eaten something nasty when she’d been celebrating New Year’s Eve with that William of hers.
Geoffrey hadn’t asked her to the Chelsea Arts Ball, preferring to attend with a crowd of his own sort, and she had felt forgotten. William took her to meet his parents, for the first time ever. It was a quiet do, at midnight a sherry for her and his mother, whisky for the two men. She thought of Geoffrey whooping it up, champagne flowing like water, while in the street outside the Goodridges’ small flat, the only celebrations were whistles and cheers welcoming in the New Year.
They were friendly, decent people, William’s parents. She had liked them and they had made her welcome, their flat snug and warm against the biting cold outside. There was plenty to eat – leftovers from Christmas – and the conversation was lively, Will’s dad churning out a repetoire of jokes, every now and again his wife giving a warning tut should they threaten to get a bit near the knuckle, at which point he would stop, clear his throat, and say, “Sorry – well, ’ave you heard this one? It’s clean,” as if his guest were a lady of sensitive upbringing. It made Mary smile. It was a cosy evening, yet with her mind running constantly and bitterly towards the one Geoffrey must be having without her, what he would say when she told him her condition and the fear that thought brought, she was glad when the time came to go home.
Out of politeness she hung on until quarter past twelve, then whispered to William, “I ought to be going. My aunt, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” he said readily, then to his parents, “Mary has to be on her way. She doesn’t want to leave her aunt too long.”
“Oh, of course.” His mother gave her a look of appreciation.
“You should ’ave brought ’er along, dear.”
“She’s been in with our next-door neighbour,” Mary said, realising she hadn’t referred to her aunt at all, conversation having been quite full.
“That’s nice for ’er,” said Mrs Goodridge, then her light eyebrows moved up in a query. “You will come again, won’t you, dear? We’ve enjoyed ’aving you. Will tells us so much about you. We look forward ter seeing you again and I expect we will, won’t we?”
“Of course you will,” put in William. He seemed very certain. “I think you’ll be seeing a lot more of her from now on.”
It was a form of declaration that couldn’t be ignored and, more hastily than she intended, Mary said goodnight to his parents while he went out to the hallway to get their hats and coats. While he was gone Mrs Goodridge came and took her hand, holding it for a few moments longer than appeared necessary, her eyes studying Mary earnestly at the same time, their message unmistakable.
“I’m glad William’s picked you, dear. You’re a very nice girl. He’s a very nice chap, if I do say it myself. You seem so well suited.”
Mary smiled wordlessly.
It was Will’s father’s turn to come forward. He took her lightly by the shoulders and dropped a kiss on her cheek, his bushy moustache pricking her skin. “Look after yourself, Mary. Come to see us soon. Happy New Year, dear.”
Again she smiled, wished him one as well.
Will, now in his hat and coat, came back with hers. Putting them on and picking up her handbag, she was asked by his mother if she had everything, and the two of them were seen to the door and out on to the stone landing.
“Take care of her, Will.” His mother’s voice floated along the landing and down the building’s two enclosed flights of stone stairs to the street.
“I certainly will,” he called back cheerfully, confidently.
In the street, still full of people continuing to celebrate the new-born 1922, voices above them called down. “Bye-ee! Happy New Year!”
Simultaneously they waved back in reply. “Happy New Year!”
All the way home on the bus William chatted, he doing most of the talking, his arm linked through hers as they sat on a double seat recently vacated by a couple reaching their stop. They, like everyone else getting off at different stops, called out, “Happy New Year!” and received an immediate and hearty response.
William’s arm tightened on hers. “Let’s hope it brings us a bit of good luck, eh?”
“Yes,” she said automatically, her mind elsewhere.
“Did you have a nice time tonight?”
“Yes,” she said again.
“They’re nice people, don’t you think? You did like them?”
“Yes,” she said once more.
“I’m glad. I know they liked you. Pity I left it so long before taking you to meet them.”
At her door, he kissed her cheek, then tried her lips until she drew away and he stood back, getting the customary message that until a decent girl had a ring on her finger, kisses shouldn’t be too passionate in case they led to things for which she might be sorry later.
“Goodnight, Mary. I hope you enjoyed yourself tonght.”
“Oh, I did.”
“It wouldn’t have been much fun for you all on your own with just you and your aunt.”
She thought again of Geoffrey and wondered if he might have asked her to go with him to the Arts Ball if Will had not asked her to spend it with him. But then, he wouldn’t have been aware of Will’s offer, would he? So she would have been on her own. Again came the bitter knowledge that she was being a fool, kidding herself, jumping at Geoffrey’s every request to go to bed with him, knowing it could come to nothing despite all her dreams. And now she was probably pregnant. How could she have let it happen? She dared not think what his reaction would be though she already suspected.
She leaned forward suddenly and kissed William on the lips, taking him by surprise.
“What was that for?”
“For taking me to see your parents,” she said. “For making it a lovely evening. And just… for being there for me.”
She wanted to say “I love you”, but that had the quality of burning her bridges behind her. Besides, in the way she thought of Geoffrey, it wasn’t true. She did love Will, could be happy to marry him, might enjoy being made love to by him, but Geoffrey took precedence every time over her feelings for Will.
They stood for a while in a close embrace, she the first to break away as it promised to become more serious. Later she was angry for taking advantage of him in that way; her head had even been playing with the idea of letting him seduce her so he would think himself responsible for this pregnancy.
Her next thought as she lay sleeplessly staring up at the ceiling, across which light from a street lamp cast a thin shaft of washed-out yellow through curtains she had forgotten to draw properly, was that there was no alternative but to seriously consider her condition before it was too late, a thought that brought an instant reaction, a shudder of horror, fear and disbelief. But there was no other way out of what would be seen as disgrace.
Ten
Henry’s face was thunderous. He spoke slowly, disparagingly. “You bloody fool, Geoffrey.”
“How was I to know it would happen?” His brother’s face bore a hangdog expression, one that implored he be let off the leash in any way possible, but Henry had no sympathy for him.
“It usually does when you’ve not been careful,” he said grittily, stubbing out his cigarette in the drawing-room’s only ashtray. Mother discouraged smoking in her drawing-room, forbade it altogether in the morning-room where she was wont to sit alone for long hours since the loss of their father. The slightest trace of cigarette – let alone cigar – smoke would have her wrinkling her nose, ordering a maid to push up every one of the tall sash windows that faced east over the extensive grounds, be it August or freezing February as now. But for all her complaining Henry never thought to extinguish a cigarette before entering the room, by now so addicted that most of the time he hardly knew he had one between his fingers.
Geoffrey was pouting. “Perhaps it’s not mine. How do I know?”
“Of course it’s yours. She’s not a girl to sleep with every Tom, Dick and Harry.” This he said with conviction, then, in case Geoffrey read more into it than he would have cared to admit, he quickly added, “Anyone looking at her can see that. She’s in love with you. She trusted you.”
A heaviness had settled in his breast. Why Geoffrey? Why not he? Had Mary Owen cast her lovely hazel eyes at him instead of his brother, he would have taken such care of her that the dilemma that was now occurring would never have been allowed to happen. He would have proposed to her, married her, made her the queen of all he surveyed. They would have had such a life together. But she had looked in Geoffrey’s direction, hadn’t given himself so much as a glance. And then again, would he, as Geoffrey had so lightly done, have lured her away from that William chap, that waiter who, if he had heard correctly, still took her out occasionally? He didn’t think so. He had more scruples than Geoffrey.
Did William know about Geoffrey? Somehow he didn’t think so, but rather than see Mary Owen as deceitful – all being fair in love – he saw only Geoffrey as wanting. And now he was fathering the child she was carrying, had been carrying for four months now, leaving very little time left to get rid of it as Geoffrey intimated he would like to have happen.
He took another cigarette from an ornate box, lit it and drew deeply of the smoke, sucking any that escaped back through his nostrils in twin thin streams. His brother, who had been desparately pacing the floor, paused to gaze at him before he too came to help himself to a cigarette.
“What do I do? I can’t possibly marry her. I couldn’t face Mother with it. God knows what she’ll say when she finds out. I don’t think I could face anyone right now. What do I say to her… to Mary?”
“When did she tell you?”
“Last night.”
&
nbsp; “When you were in bed with her, no doubt.”
Geoffrey didn’t answer. Henry swung away from him in exasperation. What Geoffrey really wanted was his approval of having Mary visit someone who specialised in getting rid of such unwanted problems. The only logical solution, but one Henry couldn’t bring himself to endorse, not even with a mere shrug. The idea of her going through that just to appease the finer senses of society, no one even considering her suffering, her loss, was as painful to him as if he were personally involved. He wondered, if Geoffrey asked that of her, would she do it – for him. Obviously she loved him. But so did dozens of young women that he knew of, all clamouring to soothe away that wide-eyed vulnerable look, very much like that of the Prince of Wales who also had women falling at his feet while basking in his charming, lively, self-assured, devil-may-care qualities – all the ones Henry wished he possessed.
People said he was equally as good looking as his brother; they also said he was thoughtful, sober-minded, dependable, but that didn’t draw the ladies. He knew he was thought of as one to be trusted. He knew he had a natural aptitude for making people bare their souls before they were even aware of it, he was the ear to many secrets, some quite innocent, some embarrassing, some naughty, some downright evil; the clientele knew nothing would go beyond him. Maybe that was why Geoffrey was telling him all this now in a need to ease his conscience. So would he rather be like Geoffrey? He didn’t think so. Compared to some people he’d heard about since taking over Letts, Geoffrey was saintly, but at this moment all Henry saw was an uncaring devil.
“So you don’t really love her? She was just a bit of pleasure for the time being, is that it? Now she’s in trouble you need to be rid of her, and this child, your child, that she’s carrying.”
“No, that’s not it,” Geoffrey countered hotly. “I do love her. That’s the problem. But I can’t marry her. Mother will have a fit. So will everyone else we know. And think of the publicity when it gets out – bad news always does. ‘Letts Owner Has To Marry Pregnant Employee.’ What’s that going to do to our reputation?”
