by Maggie Ford
William’s eyes narrowed as the significance of that word “had” became apparent. There seemed no more to be said, yet Henry had more to say.
“Apart from myself, and of course my brother, you are the only one to know about it. I tell you because I don’t want you to think Mary a gold-digger. She was never that. I think she was flattered by his attentions. Perhaps, to a girl like her, money did seem attractive. Geoffrey is a man about town for all he’s only just twenty-one. She got carried away and then found herself in a condition she would rather not have been in.
“I think at first Geoffrey wanted her to get rid of it, but when she couldn’t bring herself to do that he married her. God knows why. I must say this for him, some would have washed their hands of her, but he didn’t. The only wrong thing he did was to go off and marry her without telling anyone. He has hurt his mother and enraged his sisters. But no one except myself, and now you, knows the reason why he married her.”
“They’ll all know eventually,” William said, astonished that he could sound so calm. In reality he felt dead.
“Yes.” Henry was looking reflectively at the floor, seemed to be talking to himself, a sad ring to his tone. “Mother will never receive her. I’m sorry to say she will always blame her daughter-in-law rather than her son. To her mind he will have been entrapped by a scheming hussy. But Mary doesn’t yet know what lies in store for her. If she does imagine her life from now on to be a bed of roses, I’m sorry to say she will be in for bitter disappointment. Had she turned her eyes on me, for instance, I’d have done my damnedest to seek my mother’s approval before ever asking her to marry me. I’d have looked after her and she wouldn’t have had to get married.”
William was looking hard at him, a cold feeling in his eyes. The man was talking as though he wasn’t here, as though he didn’t feature in this matter.
“Had she married me,” he said sharply, “she’d have been on her home ground, among her own kind. People like you are ruinous to people like us.”
He expected the man to look up angrily, to tell him to watch his words, but Henry Lett didn’t. He remained staring at the floor, and when he spoke, his voice shook and his tone suggested an exact echo of what William was feeling.
“Yes. Like you, I am worried for her. I only hope my brother treats her with the consideration due to her by a husband. It’s the reason why I need you to come back, William.”
He did not say “want”, he had said “need”. Now he looked up suddenly and appeared surprised at the unyielding look on William’s face. With a visible effort, he smiled at his employee.
“If you do, I shall see that you will never be looked down upon – not by me, not by my brother, nor by Mary herself. It’s all I can do to make amends for what he has done, for what I – anyone – might have done given half the chance.” He was gazing unwaveringly at William.
William’s eyes narrowed.
“What you mean is, if she’d looked at you instead of your brother. I expect you too would’ve had no qualms about enticing her away from me if you’d got in first?”
Henry was biting at the inside of his cheek, appeared uncomfortable. “Not in the same way as he. I wouldn’t have taken advantage of her.”
“Why not?”
He seemed taken aback by the directness of the question, which almost had the form of an accusation. He made a little sound of clearing his throat. “I respect her too much to do a thing like that. I would have been decent to her, a friend to her.”
William let out an explosive grunt of derision. “Huh!”
“That’s the truth. I would never have betrayed her trust.”
He seemed uncertain of himself, as would a man who knew himself to be lying and loathing it. At first, William heard the word “friend” as pure deceit; thought that Henry would have been no friend at all to Mary, would have but helped himself to all he could get, just as his vile brother had. It came as a shock to realise that although Henry was lying, it was in a different context; that when he’d said, “I would have been a friend to her,” what he was really saying was, “I’d do her no wrong for I am in love with her far too much,” though it would have been beyond his capacity to lay his heart on his sleeve outright.
In that second realisation he knew that they were both equally in love with Mary, was suddenly aware of Henry’s feelings for her as Henry was of his. Two men equally desolate became one in their desolation, both resolving to see that she came to no harm, should harm be afoot.
Slowly and deliberately William nodded. “Yes, Mr Henry. I’ll go back.”
He felt the breath come into his lungs. Loathing Geoffrey Lett as he did, bitter as he was towards the girl who’d betrayed him, all his common sense told him he should give the job a wide berth, put it all behind him and seek work elsewhere, far away from Letts. But a stubborn reaction, a bloody-mindedness had come over him. He’d take Henry Lett’s offer. Henry Lett, being full of guilt, would do all in his power to give William promotion, but he would rise to the top by his own merits; he didn’t need Henry Lett’s help or anyone else’s in order to do so. Ultimately he would show Mary that she had chosen the wrong man.
Thirteen
In a way life couldn’t have been more wonderful. In another it couldn’t have been more dull. Wonderful because she was Geoffrey’s wife and he loved her. Dull because for months, except for a couple of times, she had hardly been anywhere or met anyone.
Five months since that wonderful honeymooon to New York and back, and she had been just once to the theatre – in a box for just the two of them – and once, on the first of April, to watch the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race from a launch owned by a friend of Geoffrey’s, with a party planned for afterwards. It was then, as they got in the car to drive off to Putney, that he noticed how even her rather loose summery dress could no longer conceal her bump when a light breeze blew the material against her form.
Unable to get out of the arrangements he had made several weeks before, he had got her to put on an all-enveloping winter coat despite the day, forbidding her to take it off. There had been a cool breeze on the river so that she had needed the coat, but his attitude had hurt and annoyed her and, sulking, she hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the day. They had come home before the party, not because they weren’t speaking but because he knew she would have had to take her coat off.
That night he had suggested it would be best they stay out of the limelight until the baby was born. Still furious with him, she had to admit he was right. No one knew of her condition; no one could count on their fingers and come to the obvious conclusion; so far no newspaper had got wind of it – and although it wouldn’t have made blazing headlines, people that mattered could read even a two-inch column stuck in some comer of page eight or nine of the society pages, and neither of them wanted that. It would be as they had planned. As soon as she recovered from having the baby they would go out and about, giving people to believe that she had not been well for some time. After a year or two, hopefully, no one would query a small child’s presence. In fact, who ever needed to see a small child? Children not only should not be heard, there was little cause for them to be seen either. Few of their society friends ever showed any interest in small children; if any of them had offspring, they too kept them in the background.
Life, nevertheless, was good, even if she didn’t see Geoffrey every day of the week. The spacious luxury flat he’d chosen in West London as far away from his mother’s home as he could possibly get without deserting the capital altogether, overlooked Kew Gardens. She had been able to take walks there as summer approached, with Geoffrey when he was there, or alone when he wasn’t. Sometimes her personal maid, Sarah, who had become more like a friend than an employee, would go with her.
Geoffrey had engaged her the day he’d installed Mary in the flat, together with a cook, Mrs Divers, and a woman who came in three times a week to do the heavier cleaning, a Mrs Hutchings, one of the many thousands of war widows who now needed to earn a li
ving. She was a pathetic soul, giving to bemoaning her own lot, the ever growing dole queues, and how her “poor Albert” had given his life for nothing. “War fit for heroes?” she would query acrimoniously. “Some hopes!”
Mrs Divers, a plump woman of about fifty, was also a war widow but kept herself to herself – Mary didn’t even know her deceased husband’s name or where he had been killed. Luckily for Mary, she had no wish to know anything about her employer’s wife, was of the old school of domestics and looked askance at the bond which had developed between mistress and maid. She would drop a prim curtsy whenever Mary entered the kitchen tucked away at the end of a passage, would accept the menu she insisted Mary compose, and go briefly over the accounts with her. Otherwise Mary never set eyes on her.
Today Mary sat alone in the rather large sitting-room. It was a little too large for her taste so that she always felt lost in it when she was on her own. She felt despondent. Probably the imminent birth, she thought; there was just under a week to go, with an expensive nurse due to come in tomorrow and an equally costly doctor on call.
This sense of waiting wasn’t particularly thrilling; she merely wished it was all over and done with. For all she wasn’t as huge as she’d imagined she would be, it was as though a tight football lay inside her, pushing out her navel until it looked like an appendage – a football incessantly on the move and changing shape as unseen limbs pushed and kicked at her body. Her abdomen appeared to have a life of its own, causing her to suffer endless bouts of heartburn and stretching the skin, threatening her with those silvery stretch marks Sarah told her some women retained after a pregnancy. So far she could see none when she looked at herself in the minor, but that didn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be any.
She prayed not as she sat on her own – it being Sarah’s day off – with nothing to do but read, and she was sick of reading. She hadn’t knitted, for why bother when Geoffrey gave her money enough to buy everything the baby would need? Nor did she feel particular excitement about the coming birth; more fear, and this wish for everything to be over with and back to normal. Perhaps once it was bom, when she saw it as a person and not as a squirming lump, she would want to cuddle it and think of it as her own.
It had been a long wait. August almost over, summer almost gone, there had been little to do except go for walks. It was Thursday. Tomorrow Geoffrey would be home. He was planning to stay until the birth before showing himself in the restaurant – a mere formality, for apparently Henry was there most of the time, dedicated to the place as he was. It was doing famously, she’d been told, both brothers in with all the distinguished names: illustrious stage stars, well-known film stars, prominent theatre owners, imminent bankers, Members of Parliament, titled heads, and also, Geoffrey told her darkly, a good few shady characters. “Henry knows them better than I,” he told her after he’d made her laugh about some of their doings. “But he’s always been hand in glove with most of the clients.”
In some ways she missed the place, the office, the old excitement of the restaurant. Maybe it was because she was lacking excitement herself. When the baby arrived, a nurse hired for it, after a suitable lapse of time, Geoffrey would take her back to see the place. Then she would be wife of one of the owners, a totally different role.
Out of the blue the face of William flashed before her and she wondered did he still work there. Geoffrey had never said. Why should he? She’d never asked. A tiny surge of regret went through her like low fleeting pain, gone in a flash. There was no reason for regret. They’d not been engaged, not officially. He’d probably found another girl, even become engaged to her. Again a small stab, this time akin to jealousy, though why she should be envious she didn’t knew; it was pointless, when she had everything. Everything, she thought, with the dull ache returning, but recognition in society – she still hidden away here – and acceptance by Geoffrey’s mother, refusing to acknowlege her still. That more than anything caused her pain.
* * *
Having kissed Mary goodbye on Wednesday, saying he’d be home again by Friday night, Geoffrey went to the restaurant to show willing. But there was little for him to do. Henry was well in charge, chatting with customers who mattered for all the restaurant manager was there too, and had already gone through the kitchen accounts with Samson while keeping an eye on the staff to be sure all was going smoothly.
He greeted Geoffrey off-handedly almost, hardly making time to speak to him except to mention that so far this year banqueting bookings were up again, to around 11,221, which, he remarked, was excellent. He then carried on enquiring after various diners’ welfare and whether they were satisfied with the service, which they invariably were.
Geoffrey felt insignificant. True, he too had been warmly greeted by several he knew as he made his appearance: Lord Birkenhead with around twenty guests, Lord Thomson with a party of fifteen; Arnold Reeves, one of the great English hoteliers, on whose launch Geoffrey and Mary had been guests in April, now sitting with friends and bellowing at Geoffrey, “How’s the wife, old boy? Ain’t seen her around lately,” which put Geoffrey in a stew so that he was forced to make a prudent but hasty retreat.
He went and visited his mother again to beg her to recognise Mary after all this time. She refused flatly, saying that as she hadn’t been consulted about his choice of a wife, it was a little too late – wasn’t it? – to expect her to be gracious to the woman.
“My advice is for you to free yourself of this unsavoury marriage and seek a divorce,” was all she’d say. “Find yourself a wife of your own kind and go through the proper protocol of introduction for my inspection, and I shall then feel better inclined towards the new one.”
As she still knew nothing of the imminent birth of his child, he bit his tongue and refrained from saying that as he loved Mary he would hardly consider divorcing her, not even on the wish of the king of England. It did cross his mind that he ought to tell her of the situation. Maybe she’d feel differently, knowing she was about to become a grandmother. He wondered how on earth he could break the news, as he would have to do one day. He should have told her at the outset. Then he wondered why he should even care. He and Mother were worlds apart, had never been close, she a cold fish. It wasn’t a close family. He hardly saw his sisters, both married. His father had been unloving… well, loving enough with female servants – though Mother had put a stop to that – but towards his children, not at all.
So Geoffrey did not tell her of the baby but returned to London, again feeling aimless and as though he were in Henry’s way. He no longer felt part of the business, merely received a share of the profits when they fell due. The honeymoon and the subsequent renting of the flat had been a drain on his pocket. He’d gone to Henry for help but had received only the curt remark, “Who’s fault’s that?” So he was still having to make ends meet, though entertainment expenses were hardly at a premium with Mary unable to go out anywhere and that had helped a little. He was slowly building up again and thanked God the business was doing well. More than well, judging by this Friday evening: the place packed, several private banquets being held with wealthy customers spending as though money was going out of fashion. Not bad at all. By the time Mary came out of confinement, there’d be money enough and more to go out and about again.
“Mr Lett, sir, a telephone call for you.”
The receptionist, a middle-aged woman – the only woman on the restaurant staff, a thin, plain figure made more presentable by a dash of powder and rouge and a smart grey-and-blue uniform dress – stood before him with an expectant expression on her face.
“Thank you,” he replied absently and followed her, still thinking of the business and Henry and the cool reception his brother had given him on both visits.
Picking up the receiver, he said, “Hullo?” and heard a man’s deep, authoritative voice.
“Mr Geoffrey Lett?”
“Yes?”
“I hoped to catch you there, Mr Lett. This is Dr Aloysius Posford.”
; Having secured the man to attend Mary when her moment came, Geoffrey felt a small prickle of excitement following the initial shock. His stomach knotting, he heard Posford continue, “Your wife went into labour earlier than expected. She is asking for you.”
“I’ll come home at once,” Geoffrey shouted down the phone, hanging it up in panic, missing the hook and having to make two more attempts before finding it. He went to find Henry who was taking a few moments away from the clamour of diners, leaving the entertainment to his restaurant manager.
“Oh, God!” Henry responded, immediately at one with his brother. “Is she all right? Is there anything I can do?”
“No, it seems she’s fine. The doctor’s with her. That was him on the telephone and he didn’t sound worried. The nurse I engaged is with her too. She’s in good hands, but I must go home straight away to be with her.”
“Of course. If there’s anything – anything at all – you will let me know.”
“Thanks, Henry, but it’ll be all right. I’ll telephone you, let you know the moment it arrives and if it’s a boy or girl.”
He had never seen Henry so concerned, never felt him so close in spirit. Maybe it would bring his mother closer too, needing to see this first child of her youngest son. She had other grandchildren – his oldest sister had produced two, though his other sister had been married only six months. But he was Mother’s youngest son. Surely she would relent now.
* * *
Mary lay propped up in bed, her daughter in her arms. It had been so quick that she could hardly believe it herself. There had been no need at all for Dr Posford – although having been paid an exorbitant fee for his services, it was right he be present.
It seemed such a short time ago that the nurse had been telling her that she’d forget her pain once her baby lay in her arms. There had been pain; she had cried out for relief.
