by Parks, Adele
‘Who looks after him?’
‘His wife and my sister.’
‘Not you?’
‘Not so much. The two of them have it sewn up.’ Beatrice knew it was wrong of her to resent the fact that she wasn’t even needed in the role of dutiful sister, but she did feel something a lot like resentment. She felt her first inadequate attempts at nursing him had been held against her; she hadn’t been given the chance to overcome her squeamishness, her fear. Cecily and Sarah seemed to have a tacit understanding that too much ought not to be asked of the little sister; she wasn’t quite up to the job. ‘I could do it.’ The champagne swirled around her head and her thoughts made ambitious leaps; ones that sober she would never have considered articulating.
‘What?’
‘I could look after you.’
‘Are you a nurse? Were you VAD?’
‘No, but I don’t imagine that sort of nursing is still required, is it? I mean …’ She dared not hesitate or think about what she was saying, because if she did, she would never finish the sentence. She rushed on like a wave. ‘I could look after you.’ There, it was done. She had thrown the thought out for him to inspect and now she had repeated it; there was no chance of miscommunication or denial. It was what she had been thinking from the moment he’d agreed to walk around the garden on Saturday afternoon; possibly before that. Before she’d met him.
‘Are you proposing to me, Miss Polwarth?’
‘Yes, I think I am.’
‘Am I what you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know this after less than forty-eight hours?’
‘After many years. I think we could be comfortable together.’ She thought of the slackening in her stomach. ‘I really do.’
Arnie Oaksley held his head very still, his equivalent to staring off into the distance, Bea suspected. He had fallen into his own thoughts. She also sat very still, her face aflame with excitement and shame. She had just proposed to a man. She had proposed. It was unbelievable, yet she stood by it. She thought it could work. They’d both benefit.
‘Are you ever lonely?’
‘All the time.’ He sighed.
‘I might help there.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘Well, then, we’d have plenty to talk about.’
He nodded, and then fell silent for a minute. ‘Can I think about it?’
‘Yes, you should. Please do.’
‘I think I need to go to bed now.’
Their roles were the reverse of the standard. She had proposed and now he needed time to consider; he wanted to retire to his room, like a shy debutante. Beatrice felt empowered and yet terrified; she supposed this was how every young man – at least those without the benefit of title or extreme wealth – must feel. Hopeful. Terrified. She wanted to push him, ask him when exactly he might make up his mind, but she could not. She had used up all her courage and did not even dare reach out and touch his arm to steady him as he stood up. She watched him rise, wobble and step away from her; a servant swiftly moved to his aid. She was left in a quagmire of hope and regret and uncertainty.
The air shimmered with life and possibility.
22
LAWRENCE AND EDGAR, in the same room, was a cosmic cataclysm that left Lydia breathless. She was a jumble of inconsistent emotions. She was used to feeling proud of Lawrence, grateful for him, but when she thought of him here, now, a peculiar haze of embarrassment swept through her entire being. She harboured an uncharitable feeling that he didn’t seem to measure up, that he wasn’t quite all he could be, all that she wanted. She was ashamed to find that she was irritated by him, and frustrated with him. His laugh grated on her nerves; it sounded overly hearty and confident. She resented the way he walked into a room as though he owned it; what had he done – other than inherit vast wealth – to entitle him to behave with such confidence and composure? She hated herself for judging him, because she knew that after her behaviour today, society would think she was the one who needed to be censured, and that she’d be found lacking. Yet judge him and condemn him she did.
She wondered what Edgar must make of him. Perplexingly, she didn’t want Edgar to find Lawrence lacking; she hoped he’d be impressed by his impeccable conduct and his thorough, traditional education at least, but she despaired that that would be the case. How could he be? It wasn’t enough any more.
Whatever she thought about Lawrence paled into irrelevance the moment thoughts of Edgar seized her mind. She longed for him. She ached to talk to him. Or at least to stand close so she could listen to him. He was a light and she was irresistibly drawn; like a helpless moth she would bash and beat her wings up against him until she dropped with exhaustion or went up in flames. Her consciousness was tattooed with the thought of their kiss. Over and over again she imagined the feel of his bristled cheek scraping against her smooth one as she moved towards him, as he pulled away; the soft dryness of his lips as they lingered. Then left.
It was a relief that she was not placed near either of them at dinner; she would not have been able to fake wifely duty towards Lawrence or a suitably polite public indifference towards Edgar, yet she resented every moment that she was not with him. The only way she had reconciled herself to the dead time before dinner was by thinking that she was dressing for him. Which of her countless dresses would dazzle him most? As she slowly rubbed luxurious cream on to her elbows, neck and thighs, she knew it was for him. Picking out her scant silky underwear was for him. Putting on her scarlet lipstick was for him. It was all for him.
It took everything she had to remain in control, to remain sensible to the reality and not to scream out to Edgar, to launch herself across the dinner table. She imagined tossing the candlesticks and flowers to the side, throwing the plates to the floor and letting them crash and smash. She wanted to crawl towards him through the debris, careless of the spillages and broken crockery; she wanted to make a noise and declare herself his. It was Lawrence’s formal smiles that pinned her to her seat. It was nothing to do with a sense of duty or warmth; she was restrained by a nagging sensation of embarrassment. She did not feel embarrassed because she wanted Edgar; the embarrassment was that she was with Lawrence. Lydia knew that if she made a scene, Lawrence would be without option: he would have to extract her, own her, take her away. That was how these things worked. She didn’t want to be publicly owned by Lawrence. Never again. So she had to put her thoughts and feelings in incubation.
Besides, Edgar had pulled away from her kiss.
The thought whipped her, but rather than accepting it as a closure to a brief and ill-defined dalliance – an impossible, impossible thought – Lydia remembered the beat before he’d moved off. He’d kissed her back, she was almost sure. Desire made her almost sure.
After the meal was over, Lydia had to go with the ladies into the drawing room. The men stood up in unison as the women trailed out. She passed him, the tallest man by inches in the room, and she breathed in possibility. He stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him. She swapped her clutch bag from her right to her left hand, so that she could brush her fingers against his without anyone noticing. Flesh against flesh, just for the briefest of moments; he flinched, her knees buckled.
‘Oh, darling, do watch your step,’ whispered Ava, who somehow was at her side. ‘You might fall.’
Lydia hoped Edgar might send in a note with the butler; a suggestion as to where they might discreetly rendezvous. He did not.
She sat anxiously. It was impossible to make conversation with any of the guests; they were all insufferable. Tedious. His were the only words of value. His thoughts were the only ones she considered sharp or purposeful. Did he even know that Lawrence was her husband? He must by now. Someone would have said. Had they been introduced? Might they be at this very moment talking to one another, wrapped in cigar smoke and the bonhomie that came with downing whisky? The thought was unbearable; that Lawrence had access to Edgar’s company when she did not was an aberratio
n.
The men lingered over their spirits and cigars for longer than was acceptable. Her eyes bored into the clock, but she couldn’t get the hands to speed up. She curtly rebuffed every enquiry into her health and her occupation today, painfully aware that the women who asked really only wanted something they could gossip about. When he finally entered the room, along with all the other men, Lydia noticed that he had a new swagger to him that she hadn’t yet seen. He was drunk. Most of them were, but his inebriation somehow was wrapped in a shadow that hinted at menace or aggravation. She stood up because she couldn’t risk him failing to spot her and settling elsewhere, but then hastily sat down again. She did not want to lose her spot; she wanted him to join her on the sofa.
He did not.
He strutted in the opposite direction and plonked himself down on another sofa, one that Lady Anna Renwick was occupying. As there were already three people sitting over there, he had no alternative but to sit very close to Lady Renwick. It was noticeable. Her arm was squeezed so tightly next to his that her breast was pushed almost out and over her neckline. It was obvious and sordid. Painful.
Lawrence, by contrast, did come to find her. ‘I’m done in. I’m off to bed.’
‘Right.’
‘Are you coming too?’
‘I find I have lots of energy.’
‘Do you think you’ll be very late?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I shall ask Pondson-Callow for another room. I don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Good idea.’ He kissed her cheek; she had to force herself not to move away from his touch.
‘Good night.’
‘Good night.’
Lydia watched for the next hour as Edgar chattered to Lady Renwick, leaning in ever closer, almost impossibly so, whispering into her ear. Twice he touched her upper arm, the one dangerously close to her heaving breast. Lydia felt each of his caresses like a blow. They danced. Lydia and Edgar had not danced. It was such a conventional and acceptable part of a courtship, but the opportunity had not presented itself. Would it ever? Lady Renwick was drunk too, so their dancing was chaotic and clumsy. Limbs tangled where they shouldn’t have. His arms snaked down her back, around her waist. She accidentally dug her elbow into his rib; they both thought this was hilarious and fell into one another’s arms, laughing. Delighted. Their flirtation was drawing eyes and comments. It couldn’t not; it was the brash and bold sort of flirtation that had no mystery or witty elegance to it. Lydia told herself it was inferior in every way to what she’d enjoyed with Edgar Trent last night and today.
Except they could dance in public.
Except he did not pull away from Lady Renwick’s kisses. Lydia wanted to kill her. And him. And herself.
The music got louder. The room was exhaustingly hot and overcrowded. Despite the fact that it was still snowing outside, someone opened a window; smoke and morals drifted out.
Ava sat down next to Lydia; she lit a cigarette and passed it over, then lit another for herself and inhaled deeply. ‘Having fun, darling?’
‘Not at all.’ Lydia tried to drag her eyes away from him, but failed spectacularly. Ava’s gaze followed. ‘What is Anna Renwick wearing?’ Lydia snarled. It was an inadequate cover for her thoughts, but all she could muster.
‘Good lord, it’s a trouser suit.’ Ava sounded somewhat envious, but she was clearly awed too. ‘I ought to have thought of that first. Tell me I’m not losing my touch.’ Lydia knew it killed Ava that a younger woman had stolen a march on her fashion antics, but she couldn’t bring herself to care, as it was killing her that the same younger woman was stealing Edgar from under her nose. While Lydia could not find it in herself to be graceful, Ava’s passion and respect for style meant she could. ‘A deluxe evening version of a trouser suit, shimmering with sequins. How utterly marvellous. Look, it goes all the way up to between her legs.’
‘Well, I suppose it must.’
‘It’s very daring, very revealing. I suppose she is making that her thing.’
‘What? What’s Anna Renwick’s thing?’
‘She’s a dramatic and witty dresser.’
‘Plus a bit of a slut.’
‘They make a lovely couple.’
‘Don’t.’ Lydia’s hand trembled as she held her cigarette high, the stem of ash threatening to fall on her shimmering silver frock. The jealousy slit through her being, shredded her sense of propriety, left an open gash where her common sense had been.
‘But, darling, it’s simply a fact. He’s beautiful and poor, she’s …’ Ava paused. Lady Renwick was not beautiful, but she was well put together, attractive. Lydia’s mother would describe her as a woman who made the best of herself. ‘She’s handsome and rich. They are the very epitome of the modern-day romance.’
‘Please, don’t.’ Tears bit nastily at the top of Lydia’s nose.
Ava would not indulge her. ‘Darling, what did you expect? He’s a beauty and a beast. You are a respectably married woman. The whole flirtation was doomed before it began.’
‘You normally encourage this sort of thing.’
‘It’s not right for you.’
Lydia blanched; a flicker of concern spilt across Ava’s face. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve already done the nasty. Today? Hell’s teeth, you are a fast worker.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Lydia snapped.
‘Well, thank God. That’s a relief.’ Ava sipped her champagne. Her head almost fitted into the glass. She looked out from underneath her lashes. It was clear from Lydia’s expression that she did not thank God. ‘Anna Renwick is single, Lydia. Like your sergeant major. Be reasonable. There aren’t enough chaps to go around; you can’t expect to bag two. He ought to marry, then you can both do as you please.’ Lydia loathed everything Ava was saying. She stared sulkily at the floor. ‘Lydia, my angel, you must know that he was simply having fun with you. Don’t look so serious. Surely you can’t have imagined …’ Ava either didn’t know how to finish the sentence or didn’t feel the need to finish it. ‘Not you.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ava.’
‘I always know what I’m talking about.’
‘I refuse to accept your clumsy clichés. One single man plus a single woman does not add up, in this case.’
‘But then when has two men and one woman ever been the correct maths?’
Lydia felt the air thicken, choking her. She glanced at Edgar again. He was practically wrapped around Anna Renwick. It was agony. She couldn’t stand to watch him demean himself, slurring drunkenly over his words and another woman’s body. She couldn’t stay in this room. She rushed out, grateful that Ava’s level of concern and judgement meant that she neither called after her nor followed her.
23
EDGAR SENSED HER dash from the room. Although he had been trying to ignore her all night, her beauty and intensity was such that he couldn’t quite discount her. She had crawled up under his skin. It was inconvenient. It was exhilarating. He extracted himself from some woman’s hot embrace by promising, insincerely, that he would be back soon, and left the drawing room by another door.
A flash of silver around the corner in front of him. He trailed her. A boy with a net chasing a butterfly. She slipped into a room he had yet to explore. He followed. Inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The room was lit only by the blue moonlight flooding through the window; the drapes had not been drawn. A stately leather-topped desk revealed that it was Sir Peter’s study; Edgar took in huge gulps of dust and the smell of old paper.
Hearing the door open, she turned and glared at him. She stood behind the desk, haughty. Her dress fell in cascades, like a waterfall. She moved in a flash; he didn’t notice her lithe fingers scrambling desperately around the desk. She found a heavy glass paperweight, one that Lady Pondson-Callow had commissioned; it housed a small ammonite shell, something she’d picked up off the beach the day Sir Peter proposed to her, at Lyme Regis. The paperweight was a rare testament to Lady Po
ndson-Callow’s sentimentality. Lydia hurled it at Edgar. He instinctively ducked, although her throw was inadequate and the paperweight did not land anywhere near the target, if he was such. It didn’t even hit the wall and smash satisfyingly; it fell against the leather chaise longue in the middle of the room and then bounced on the floor. It may have left a dent on the wooden floorboards.
Lydia let loose a cry of frustration and humiliation. He moved swiftly across the room and grabbed both her wrists, in case she intended to attempt any more hooliganism. She struggled against his grip, but the protest was as token as it was futile; he was infinitely stronger than she was.
‘Think what you are doing. You can’t behave like this,’ he told her sternly. She stared at him, fury and passion pouring like a gushing wound.
‘Why are you behaving like this?’ she demanded. ‘That girl is a frothy nothing.’
Her jealousy was mesmerising, her imperious dismissal of the young debutante magnificent. ‘You could have had me!’ Her pathetic admission was heartbreaking.
Lydia quivered in the darkness. They were both breathing heavily. Desperate, Edgar looked away from her and towards the window; he spotted a fox, at a distance, autographing the freshly laid snow with its tail and paws. It was impossible to ignore what was between them. He’d been enthralled by her exquisite looks and seemingly impervious, haughty demeanour; still, he might have been able to let that go. Pass it by. But her angry, uncontainable jealousy was irresistible. It was not to be discussed or debated any more. They both knew what they would do, and how.
Not even caring enough to take the time to lock or barricade the door, not considering anything as pedestrian as being discovered, he let go of her wrists and clasped one hand behind her head. The silky feel of her hair caressed his fingers for just a moment as he pulled her face towards his and clamped his lips down on hers. His other hand slid over her body: her breasts, her waist, her arse. He felt the muscled hardness of her through her thin dress, he felt the small mounds and curves, he felt her nipples harden. She was not wearing any sort of corset or girdle, not even a bandeau brassiere. Her audacity caused his cock to shudder. This woman wanted him to know her body. She had counted on it. She bent towards him, melted into him. He broke away, but only to pick her up and land her on the desk, a move he accomplished as though she weighed little more than a toy. She sat facing him, lips and legs slightly open. Invitingly. His fingers slipped up under her skirt, hers weaved into his hair and pulled him towards her again; their mouths banged heavily on one another, almost painful, totally delicious. With a swift, practised confidence that should have worried her, he undid his trousers, pushed her dress roughly up her thighs and pulled her knickers away. He was inside her. It was awkward for a moment; she tilted her hips, lay down on the desk, and then her hot flesh accepted him completely. He put his hands on her small but perfect tits and went at it. Lost himself in her. Deep in her.
