Paper Doll

by Janet Woods

  The day arrived.

  Robert arrived to help the porter take the luggage down, and the big man wheeled her father down to the Rolls and tucked a blanket around his knees, as gently as though he was a baby. There, a nurse waited, as grey as a dove but pleasant enough and respectful towards her father. In Surrey her father would occupy the guest quarters, which were on the ground floor. They were self-contained and separated from the main house by a pair of doors with coloured glass panels.

  His accommodation couldn’t be faulted. There were two bedrooms with a bell to summon the nurse if need be. They were on the sunny side of the house and looked out over the garden that contained a pond with plenty of bird life coming and going.

  His armchair and personal belongings were strapped on to the Morris. The Rolls would go on ahead and they’d follow in the Morris. ‘We’ll leave the Morris in Surrey so you have a car to get around in when you’re down there.’

  ‘Where else would I be when I’ll be looking after my father?’ she said.

  His dark gaze had contemplated her for a few seconds before he smiled and said quite gently, ‘You’ll be where I expect you to be, Julia, by my side. You’ll be my wife, remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She’d forgotten that small detail.

  Latham would see to everything else in that calm way he had. He’d arrange for things to be put in storage, see to the lease. She wouldn’t come back here again – wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. He’d got what he’d wanted – her. He’d waited, and had used her father’s illness to push her further than she’d really wanted to go.

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like to invite to the wedding?’ he said now.

  Her glance wandered to the figurine Martin Lee-Trafford had given her.

  Crossing to the mantelpiece she took it down and wrapped it in a piece of newspaper. But she didn’t really want Martin there at the wedding. There had been a special moment when she’d shared his tears, and she didn’t now want him to share hers. He’d know she wasn’t in love with Latham.

  The blue eyes that so clearly revealed his feelings would condemn her for what she’d done. And that couldn’t be undone. Not now.

  She turned to find Latham watching her. ‘Has anyone told Lee-Trafford about Daddy?’

  ‘Yes . . . I asked him to keep it quiet until I get back to London. I’ll address the factory staff myself.’

  ‘Did you tell him about . . . us.’

  ‘I didn’t consider it to be any of Lee-Trafford’s business. Is he important to you?’

  ‘I hadn’t had time to get to know him very well, but he would have made a good friend. I liked him and we got on well.’

  ‘Did you love him? I can see why you would, since he has the ironic air of a romantic hero about him.’

  She felt annoyance. ‘That’s a rather cynical remark to make about someone you hardly know.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I wouldn’t mind, you know. I’d expect you to have romantic feelings towards a man at your age.’

  ‘If I had romantic feelings towards Martin I certainly wouldn’t have made them obvious. It would have embarrassed him no end.’

  ‘He would have kept you at arm’s length I expect.’ Latham pounced then. ‘He wouldn’t have been much good to you as a man, anyway. The war saw to that, I’m given to understand.’

  Julia experienced a jolt of shock, and pity for Martin. No wonder he’d let his fiancée go. All the same, on behalf of Martin she felt angry that Latham would betray him by telling her.

  ‘Surely you could have afforded Martin some personal dignity by keeping that to yourself,’ she said, and she turned away from him.

  He turned her back. ‘You do care for him, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s the only person I know who has integrity.’

  ‘Well, at least I don’t have to worry that you might stray in that direction now. Shall I invite him to the wedding?’

  She felt like slapping him. ‘No . . . There’s nobody I wish to share my wedding day with . . . and to be honest, that includes you at the moment. You’re the most ruthless man I’ve ever met.’

  He laughed at her small flare of temper. ‘I wondered when the gloves were going to come off. You can’t expect to use people and not pay something in return. Your father was on the verge of bankruptcy. You and he would have lost everything, including the shirt on his back and the roof over your heads. I’ve baled him out, and bought you as part of the package.’

  ‘Thank you for being kind to my father, at least,’ she said to him, even while knowing it was a means to an end and she’d pay a heavy price for it with the loss of her freedom.

  ‘It wasn’t kindness; it was business. Now, come here. Let’s kiss and make up so you’ll know what you’re made of.’

  Now she shook her head and she turned away from his kiss, feeling nothing for him but revulsion by his attempt at possession. And Latham, perfectly aware of her reluctance, threw her belongings on to the couch and bore her down to the floor.

  There a silent skirmish took place, with him using his knowledge of her to make her feel what she didn’t want to feel, and her fists thumping at him at first, then her fingers digging into him because she couldn’t stop herself from wanting what he was doing to her.

  Finished with his assault on her, Latham rose and buttoned his trousers. He held out his hand to her. ‘Get up, it’s time to go.’

  She did as she was told, ignoring his hand, and stepping into the illusive protection of the underwear he’d pulled from her and abandoned. He had ripped a length of lace from one of the legs. She straightened her skirt and took her handbag from him.

  ‘You have long, shapely legs,’ he said, and grinned.

  He closed the door behind them and they went down to where the Morris waited. She said goodbye to the porter as though nothing had happened.

  She didn’t speak a word to Latham, not even when she remembered she’d left Lee-Trafford’s Christmas gift to her lying on the sofa.

  Damn Latham! she thought, and hoped the removalists would find it and pack it safely.

  Three days later she and Latham were wed in the small village church. Julia dressed in a creamy silk gown with lace-trimmed georgette panels. She wore a cream hat with pale-pink roses and carried a floral spray. Latham and Robert were in formal grey suits with top hats – they looked almost like brothers. Apart from her father, who was similarly garbed for his duty of walking her down the short aisle to the altar, his nurse and Mrs Finnigan were the only people she knew. The fact that several strangers were in attendance to celebrate Latham’s marriage to her, came as a surprise. They were business friends of Latham’s, she supposed.

  She wished she’d paid a little more attention to her appearance. But no, she hadn’t had to, for she couldn’t have looked more perfect according to Latham, who had provided this wedding finery for her. Not only was Latham’s taste impeccable, his organizational skills were too.

  She wished now that she’d invited some of her old friends, and Martin Lee-Trafford. It seemed wrong now, not inviting him and she felt a sick panic rise inside her as she made her responses. She shouldn’t be doing this. She should turn and run, find somewhere safe to hide.

  ‘Who gives this woman . . .?’

  ‘I do.’ Her father was smiling at her, reassuring her with love in his eyes and a proud smile on his face. He needed to know she was safe. The smile defeated her, grounded her so her feet were too leaden to move, let alone run.

  Latham looked into her eyes when he slid the ring on her finger, and there was amusement in them when he whispered, ‘There you are, Mrs Miller, all nice and legal now. Try and look a bit happier.’

  She smiled at him then. ‘Believe it or not, Latham, I am happy.’ But he wouldn’t know that it was because he was going to France in two days, and would be gone for the entire fortnight.

  They posed on the porch steps for a photographer and she offered the man she’d married her best smile. When they went home the conservatory
had been transformed. A buffet had been set out and there was champagne. Latham introduced her as his wife and made an amusing speech. There were congratulations all round. Even the dogs wore bows in their collars. Gifts of silver and crystal had been set out. Everything that glisters . . .

  Julia was pleased to be introduced to everyone, especially those from the immediate area, who she was duty bound to entertain from time to time. She had a naturally gregarious nature, made even more so by two glasses of champagne. By the time she’d got around to everyone she’d made several friends. As none of Irene’s family had turned up for the event, she wondered if they’d been invited.

  Finding her father missing she went in search of him.

  ‘It’s been a long day for him,’ the nurse whispered. ‘He’s taking a rest.’

  Julia went back to her husband’s side, picking up a third glass of champagne on the way. He looked down at her as if surprised to see her there, and she giggled.

  He took the full glass from her and handed it to a maid. ‘Bring Mrs Miller a glass of lemonade, would you.’ Threading her arm through his he kissed her ear and whispered, ‘I love you, Mrs Miller.’

  She wished she could say the same to him – she really did.

  Her father died in his sleep the day after Latham arrived back home from France. Julia was almost inconsolable with grief. Latham made the arrangements.

  ‘I reserved a place for him to be buried next to your mother. He expressed a wish . . . well, I thought it would please you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Latham, that was thoughtful of you.’ It was also cold-blooded, and she wondered if her father had known that Latham had planned his funeral in advance.

  ‘You don’t look too happy about it?’

  ‘It’s not exactly a happy occasion. May I ask you something . . . Have you planned my funeral in advance?’

  ‘Now you’re being childish, but I know you’re grieving and upset so will ignore it. I’ve called the undertaker and he’s on his way down for the body. We can go through the arrangements with him together if you like. I’m doing this because I don’t want the arrangements to be a burden you must bear alone.’

  Julia felt guilty as well as numb, and she agreed to everything Latham suggested; after all, he was paying for it.

  ‘He looks peaceful,’ she said when it was time to say goodbye to her father, who was lying on his bed still dressed in his nightwear.

  ‘Yes . . . he does.’

  She touched Latham’s black tie with a fingertip. ‘How very odd. I’ve got nothing black in my wardrobe, while you seem to always be prepared for every eventuality.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll get something suitable sent down.’

  She kissed her father’s cheek, her lips warm and alive against his cold, unmoving face. ‘Goodbye, my darling man; give Mummy my love.’

  Her father was placed in the plain casket by the reverential undertakers, and carried out to the hearse, his best suit of clothes, clean shirt and newly polished shoes wrapped in tissue paper and placed carefully on top. Her father would not be allowed to go into the hereafter looking shabby.

  There was a faint smell of tobacco smoke lingering about the hearse, and she had visions of the two men loosening their black ties and lighting up their gaspers as soon at they got out of sight of the house. She tried not to smile at the thought.

  A black dress, a coat with fur-trimmed hem and a wide-brimmed hat with a draped hatband appeared in her wardrobe two days later. The clothing was a perfect fit. Julia felt pale inside it, as if the black had drained her of colour.

  Latham pinned the brooch he’d given her to her lapel. ‘Diamonds always look perfect against black; they relieve the severity of it. ’

  ‘You told me they were crystals.’

  ‘Did I? I must have lied. It doesn’t seem an appropriate time, but I brought you some matching earrings from Cartier while I was in France. I’d like you to wear them.’

  He stood behind her, clipping them to her ears, stars dangling from the curve of a crescent moon. His eyes met hers in the mirror, he smiled and one hand slid under her chin. As he pulled back her head and kissed her throat, she thought: Not now, Latham . . . please, not now! I don’t want to remember the day of my father’s funeral as one of being forced into having relations with you.

  But even Latham wasn’t that insensitive. To her relief he moved away, but he picked up her pot of rouge and gently dusted her cheeks with the puff to give them some colour.

  ‘We’ll be staying two weeks in London. I think that will be enough time in which to explain the legalities of the financial situation, and get your signature on certain papers.’

  ‘I haven’t packed anything.’

  ‘Everything you need is right there in your wardrobe.’

  So she had a London wardrobe as well.

  She’d never been to his London house. Their London house, she corrected herself, though it was more his because she’d never lived there, while Latham spent most of his time there, and his weekends in Surrey.

  Her father had always liked May because it was the month he and her mother had married. When she and Latham left the Kent house, the day had a polished glow to it. The air was a faintly humid caress against her cheek, and perfumed with hawthorn blossom. Arum lilies grew in the damp places. Campion, hyacinth and buttercups displayed their wilder beauty amongst the grasses, and crab-apple blossomed in hedgerows.

  The funeral was well attended, for her father had made plenty of friends and acquaintances during his lifetime. She’d asked for red and white roses for his casket, and Latham had somehow provided them. She intended to plant a red rose bush on her father’s grave, and a white one on her mother’s now they were together.

  As the reverend droned on Julia glanced up and her eyes met those of Martin. The impact in her stomach was like being hit by a train. Her breath exited her body in a great rush, leaving her feeling disconnected from anyone but him. For one long moment their eyes clung, and she saw in his, not the disdain she’d expected, but a kind of sadness.

  I love Martin, she thought with a sudden shock and experienced a sense of wonder.

  Beside her, Latham gently cleared his throat.

  A little later she thought: how odd to come back to a house she’d never been in before, one that was her home. It was not too large, and not too far from where she’d lived in Earls Court. Latham was discreet. Everything about him spoke of money, but he wore his wealth without ostentation. She was his wife, and she didn’t know where the bathroom was. A man couldn’t be more discreet than that.

  One of the older maids took her coat and hat and directed her. ‘I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs Miller. Such a sad day for us to meet.’

  So the woman knew who she was. ‘Thank you, Mrs . . .?’

  ‘James . . . Mary James. I’m the housekeeper here.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs James; which is my bedroom?’

  ‘Follow me, Mrs Miller. I’ll show you.’

  Her room was at the front overlooking the street. Standing open, an adjoining door led to Latham’s room. On the mantelpiece stood a silver-framed photograph of them on their wedding day. That must have been how the housekeeper had recognized her.

  Doing what she had to do she tidied her hair with an initialled silver-backed brush she’d never seen before, on a dressing table she’d never seen before either. The wardrobe was full of clothing she’d never seen before. The drawers held neatly folded underwear of every description. She transferred the brooch from her coat to her dress.

  At the bottom of the stairs Latham stood in wait for her. ‘You look pale, Julia; are you all right?’

  ‘I’m a little tired.’

  ‘People won’t stay long, my dear, then we’ll be alone.’

  There were sandwiches and fruitcake, tea and sherry set out on a buffet. A maid stood in attendance.

  ‘Mrs Miller, may I express my condolences?’

  It was Martin, his voice a caress against her ear.
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br />   ‘I must go and talk to Hollingsworth for a moment before he leaves. I’ll leave you in Lee-Trafford’s capable hands for a minute or two.’ Kissing her cheek, Latham was gone.

  Julia turned, taking his hands in hers and trying not to make her smile too wide at the sight of him, considering the occasion. ‘Martin . . . thank you . . . I’m going to miss my father dreadfully, you know. How are you? It seems ages . . .’

  His eyes had never been bluer to her, his mouth never so soft. Her hands moulded into his as though they’d been designed to fit together.

  ‘Oh, Martin . . . When I saw you today . . .’

  ‘I know . . . Don’t say it . . . It’s been too long.’

  She let out a shaky breath. ‘How are the kittens?’

  ‘You know what felines are like . . . they’re damned nuisances, but they’re good company.’ His thumb brushed against her palm. ‘Are you happy, Julia?’

  ‘Latham is good to me.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘I know, but you have my answer.’

  The air quivered like a bowstring with everything that needed to be said, but it remained unspoken between them. The few inches separating them might just as well have been a mile.

  ‘You take my breath away,’ he murmured, almost to himself.

  He’d been with her long enough to satisfy convention and he released her hands. ‘May I fetch you some refreshment, Mrs Miller . . . some tea, perhaps?’

  She turned her head slightly to find Latham’s attention focused on them, and smiled at him before she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Lee-Trafford, that would be kind of you.’

  Even though Latham didn’t regard Martin as a threat, he made his possession of her perfectly clear when he approached them. ‘You look tired, my dear. It’s about time you went upstairs and rested. I’ll send the maid up with your tea.’

  So, she was not to have friends either, unless he’d hand-picked them. She wasn’t going to miss a second spent in the same room as Martin. She might just have something to say about that, she thought.

  ‘I’m perfectly all right, Latham. People are here to pay respects to my father and I need to be here for them. Please stop fussing.’