‘Wait until you see these, Dolly.’ He was as pleased as if he were a child himself. ‘There’s a clockwork merry-go-round for Edward. All the little figures do something and the whole thing jigs around playing a tune.’ He unwrapped the parcel in the hall and demonstrated. ‘And the doll I’ve got for Lizzie! It has a china face, real hair and a dress of red satin.’
‘Let’s get something to eat,’ Dolly said. ‘I’m starving!’
She had made a rich brown stew, which she carried to the table. There were golden roast potatoes, crisp at the edges, just as he liked them, steamed winter cabbage chopped into tiny shreds, peppered and turned in butter. Apple Charlotte with cream and apple brandy was next. She prided herself on making simple food into a feast.
‘This’ll be your last Christmas with us, won’t it? Your Florence won’t let you out of her sight when you’re married,’ she prophesied tartly as she dished out the pudding.
He glared at her over the table, as if he was not sure how she had taken the news of his marriage. ‘I’m not going to be a prisoner, Dolly. I shall come to Southport as often as I like – though I’ll be spending Christmas at Suttonford in future. And this time I have to be back for New Year. They have a big party.’
‘I know! I used to be up half the ruddy night cooking their damned breakfasts. Eeh – I wish I could see you, lording it about, giving yer orders!’ She snorted with laughter. ‘Am I getting a present from you?’
‘Yes. It’s a surprise. You’ll get it in the morning.’
‘I hope it’s what I think it is,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘You know. The deeds. The deeds to the house so I know it’s mine like you promised. You said, “Come to Southport and it’ll all be yours, Dolly.” That’s what you said.’
‘I know. I haven’t done anything about it yet. But I will,’ Oliver said. ‘Anyway, what difference does it make? It’s as good as yours now.’
‘“As good as” isn’t enough. I want it made legal,’ she replied. ‘I want it done before you marry, then the Oldfield family won’t have any say in my life again. Suppose you drop dead? Do you think Miss ruddy Mawdesley will leave us here in peace? Will she hell-as-like!’
‘Pour me a brandy and bring it into the sitting room, will you?’ He had risen from the table. Oliver was adept at changing the subject when it suited him.
She followed him, waiting to see his pleasure in the room she had decorated. But he stopped in the doorway and pulled a face. ‘What on earth’s this?’ he asked, touching the silver bells. ‘Gaudy strings of glass? God, Dolly. It looks like a blasted toyshop. Have you no taste?’
‘I like it! And so do the children. What’s up with it, anyway? I’ve spent too long with rubbish round me that’s not worth looking at. Now I’ve got this place I’m not going to have anything ugly in it.’
She was quite put out by his criticism. ‘I bet they haven’t got anything half as nice at Suttonford. They never used to do the place up much for all their damned money. I never saw a paper-chain in the house.’
‘All right. I’m sorry! I was being unkind,’ he said. ‘Forget it. Show me all the things you’ve got for the children and I’ll wrap them up.’
‘I’ve asked some people over for dinner, tomorrow. There’s four of them coming.’ She’d tell him now, while he was in an apologising mood. ‘There’s Mr and Mrs Whitehead from the wine shop and the Great Armani and Miss Ariel … they’re in the circus.’
She sat on the sofa, prinking out the folds in her bright green dress, pretending not to expect any objections from him and all the time slyly watching his face. She pushed a box of chocolates towards him in a conciliatory gesture.
‘You’ll like my friends,’ she assured him as she selected the only liqueur chocolate for herself.
‘Where did you meet these people? Circus folk and the like?’ He was annoyed with her, she saw. ‘To think you’ve asked people to spend Christmas Day with us and the children!’
‘I get talking to people in the Winter Gardens and round the bandstand,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not looking for a man, if that’s what you’re thinking! I’ve had enough of them. I’m making a few friends, that’s all!’
It was the best Christmas Oliver had ever had. Lizzie and Edward threw themselves onto his bed as soon as it was light, bringing the toys he had only hours before placed in their stockings. Lizzie sat, cross-legged in her nightgown, nursing the china doll as if it were a baby, gently lowering and raising it, enraptured by the clicking of the eyes as they opened and closed. Lizzie’s hair had never been cut and it fell around her shoulders and face in a soft tangle of bronze.
She adored Edward, treating him as if he were her own real, live baby, anticipating his every wish, ever at his side. Edward had the brown eyes he had inherited from Rosie and a mop of dark curls, uncut like Lizzie’s. He looked a little like a girl, until he moved or spoke when there was no mistaking his boyishness.
He climbed onto Oliver’s chest, a wooden soldier doll in one hand, a toy drum in the other and, evidently delighting in the noise he could make, he beat the soldier against the tight skin of the drum, screeching with pleasure when Oliver stuffed his fingers into his ears in mock distress.
Oliver took them back to the nursery, dressed them in long woollen gowns and took them to the sitting room where the tree candles had been lit and more parcels awaited their eager little hands.
‘Did you ever see so many toys?’ Oliver asked Dolly. He was as pleased as the children were, winding up the clockwork merry-go-round for Edward, pretending amazement when Lizzie’s jack-in-a-box popped out with a squeak for the umpteenth time.
‘Do you think we’re spoiling them?’ he asked anxiously ‘I don’t want them to grow up like some we’ve known.’ He knew Dolly would remember the petulant little monsters, accompanied by a retinue of servants, who had, all unaware, been the laughing stock of the village when they had come to Suttonford with their aristocratic parents.
‘No. I keep them in order when you’re not here. They don’t get all their own way with me,’ Dolly assured him. She clapped her hands smartly together, to demonstrate. ‘Come along now! Upstairs with Iris! Washed and dressed in five minutes! Don’t keep Mammy waiting!’
They scuttled off obediently and Oliver grinned. ‘That takes me back, Dolly. You never went in for gentle persuasion, did you?’ He handed her a bulky parcel, which had been concealed behind the curtains, and watched as she carefully untied the string before removing the paper, smoothing out its creases as she did so.
It was a cape. A cape of grey squirrel with braided silk fastenings and a black grosgrain lining. She draped it around her shoulders, turning this way and that, admiring it in the big mirror. Her fingers ran over the silky fur, stroking it against her arm. She pouted her lips, half-closed her eyes, stood on a chair the better to see its length and finally she pronounced. ‘It must be the best fur cape in the whole of bloody Southport! Wait till I walk round the bandstand in this.’
Her present to Oliver was large and flat. He tore at the paper with hasty fingers. It was a picture; he could feel the frame … but what a strange thing for her to buy for him!
It was a framed photograph of his father. Where had she found this? ‘I never knew there was a photograph of Dad. Where did you get it?’ he asked.
‘There’s a photographer’s shop in town. I got him to do it from a negative I had. Joe had it taken before we got married. There’s one of me an’ all,’ she told him.
She didn’t tell him that she had also bought a photograph of Oliver and a woman in a silk shawl … a photograph that a ‘Mr and Mrs Wainwright’ had never collected, the man told her, more than a year ago. She had hidden that one in the attic.
‘Thanks, Dolly. I think I’ll keep it here, if you don’t mind. If Dad’s portrait ever hangs on the wall at Suttonford Manor it will be painted in oils.’ He held the picture at arm’s length. ‘We’re a good-looking lot, aren’t we?’ he said proudly. ‘Dad, me
, Tommy and Edward.’
Florence dated Mama’s decline from Oliver’s brush with death. Mama had taken to her room for longer and longer spells; sometimes only appearing in the afternoons or before dinner. She stopped visiting. They did no more calling. Nobody came to the house.
She was not as steady on her legs, not as alert as she used to be. Instead of improving, on hearing of Florence’s betrothal – for Oliver first asked Grandfather and received his blessing – Mama had taken a worse turn and physicians had been summoned.
They said that it was a temporary decline, due to Mama’s age and prescribed iron tonic for anaemia and brandy for her tremors.
It was time, Florence decided, that Mama regained an interest in life and today, to that end, she would ask Mama to help her choose patterns and fabrics for her trousseau. There were catalogues from silversmiths and designs for upholstery to be considered. Mama would insist on being consulted if she were in the best of health. She should be encouraged to do so now. She went upstairs and tapped on Mama’s door.
‘Mama,’ she called.
‘Come in, Florence.’
Mama’s speech was slurred but Florence saw, with relief, that her eyes were bright and her cheeks had a healthy colour. She was dressed, too, and it was only two-thirty.
‘You’re better?’ Florence said, crossing to the desk and taking Mama’s hands. They were cool; a good sign, surely. ‘Are you able to help choose my trousseau? I have no idea what to order without your help.’
Mama took a sip of brandy and stood up. ‘I shall enjoy it, dear,’ she said. She took Florence’s arm and held on tight in a painful grip as they descended the wide stair to the drawing room.
A fire had been lit since early morning and the room was warm and inviting. A Christmas tree had been brought in for Florence to dress. Dozens of cards adorned the mantelshelf. They would be taken to Suttonford tomorrow, Christmas Eve.
Mama sent down for brandy and gave her full attention to the catalogues. Florence was pleased that she seemed to be her old self again, dismissing some – no, most of the designs with a high-handed ‘Hideous’, ‘Ugh’, ‘Ghastly’, as she turned pages quickly. Now and again she’d stop, scrutinise a drawing and ask Florence to pass a bookmark.
Florence beamed. Mama loved the limelight. She behaved like a dowager duchess when she was being deferred to. Her eyebrows were raised high above the droopy eyelids, her lips were pursed, nostrils drawn in. Only her shaking hands betrayed the fact that all was not well.
And this was Florence’s chance to ask Mama about marriage. The subject had not been broached. It was a mother’s duty to share her knowledge with a daughter whose own wedding date was near.
‘There is much I don’t know …’ she began shyly. ‘What shall I expect, Mama?’ Mama had not understood. She merely lifted her eyes from the catalogue, sipped the brandy and said, ‘What?’
‘Of marriage. I know so little …’ Florence began to twist the engagement ring round her finger in embarrassment. The pairs of diamonds, set between oval cut rubies, caught the light prettily and she concentrated on them so as not to see if Mama, too, was uncomfortable.
‘You must lie still, Florence, and let him take his pleasure,’ came the drawled reply. Florence was shocked. ‘Is it no pleasure for us then, Mama?’ she asked quietly.
‘It cannot be. Not with a man of that type.’
Florence watched Mama’s face for a sign that she was trying to wound, but saw only pity. What must Mama think of Oliver?
‘Mama, Oliver is not a type. He is dear and considerate. I cannot tell you how good he is for that would betray a confidence but I promise you Mama that his concern is only for my happiness. I so want to please him.’
Her need to share with Mama the joy that Oliver had brought into her life made her add, ‘You and Father were happy. You said so, often. You loved one another. Marriage must have been a pleasure to you.’
‘Your father was a gentleman. He understood …’
Mama’s eyes had gone bleary. Florence did not want to hear again the reminiscences of Mama’s youth, the masked balls, the endless flirtations; she had heard them too often.
‘Understood what?’ she asked quickly.
‘That love is a sport. A game of skill. That it is not a need.’
‘Is that what you believe, Mama? That love is a game? That once the rules are learned there’s no more than that?’
Mama’s eyes were cold again. ‘For the lower classes it is a crude appetite. They are the beasts of the field. And the middle class is sprung from below, Florence.’ She sipped her brandy lazily. ‘The middle classes are furtive and full of shame. They believe that they are being base. They cannot know the delights we know.’
‘Oliver is different,’ Florence interrupted her.
‘Oliver will already be versed in the ways of his class. He will have had women of no refinement. He will continue to use them.’ Mama put up her hand to signal that she was not to be stopped. ‘You will be disappointed if you expect married love to come from this misalliance.’
Hurt and rage fought in Florence but she would not let Mama see that her words were wounding her to her very soul. ‘I won’t be disappointed,’ she said. ‘Look at Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucy. They were happy. They loved one another.’
‘Theirs was a true love match,’ Mama answered in a weary tone.
Mama was the worse for drink now. Florence hated it when she began to stumble over her words. She was on her feet, groping for the decanter with one hand, her eyes dull as she tried to focus on Florence’s face.
Florence could not help it. She was overcome with the injustice of Mama’s words. She snatched the brandy from Mama’s hand and held it high, out of reach of Mama’s grasping hand. ‘And mine is a love match, Mama,’ she found herself saying, anger and triumph in her voice. ‘Oliver has wanted to marry me since I was fourteen.’
Mama’s face turned to stone, as Grandmother’s did when she was at her most cutting. ‘Grandfather has asked Oliver to marry you, Florence. It is a financial arrangement that suits them both. Love has nothing to do with it.’
It was as if Mama had struck her. Florence felt the blood drain from her face. Her limbs had turned to water. It wasn’t true …? Mama was lying. She put down the decanter slowly and sank into the chair.
She put her arms upon the desk and hid her face from Mama. ‘Say it isn’t true, Mama,’ she whispered. ‘Please say it isn’t true.’
There was silence. Florence lifted her eyes and looked at Mama’s face for the truth. And it was there. Mama had not lied.
Mama gave her a look of pity and began to walk towards the door. ‘Mama …’ Florence beseeched the retreating figure. ‘Please …’
Mama turned. ‘Will you break the engagement, Florence? If I say it is true?’ she asked evenly.
A cold, hard little place began to form in Florence’s heart. She felt it. She must nurture it. She would not be used in this way, as if she were a malleable piece of clay. She would marry Oliver, even if he had deceived her. She could live without love. She could not live without him.
‘No, Mama,’ she said firmly. ‘I will not give him up.’
Oliver left for Suttonford on New Year’s Eve and found a carriage waiting at the station. Florence was waiting for him in the hall, dressed in violet velvet, her hair a bright torch against the sombre colour of her dress.
They were all present; Lucy and Lady Oldfield, Laura and Sir Philip and Godfrey, the dissipated son. They greeted him warmly, asked if he had eaten and then continued to talk amongst themselves.
Florence took his arm. ‘I’m going to show Oliver the house,’ she announced. ‘It’s dreadful that he’s not seen over it yet.’
They went from room to room with Florence pointing out family treasures; the Japanese vase presented by an emperor to her great-grandfather; an Egyptian stool from an expedition to the tombs of pharaohs; books handwritten by monks in medieval times; and portraits and tapestries in a never-ending seque
nce.
After the fourth such splendid apartment Oliver had seen enough to satisfy an avid historian. ‘Is anyone about?’ he asked, then before she could either reply or protest, took her in his arms in a passionate embrace.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you,’ he told her. ‘The house can wait!’ Guests were arriving for the party and Oliver knew that he was going to be assessed by the ‘county’ set and the relatives who came to Suttonford for the festivities. He had learned a lot about the family and their way of life. He had conceded nothing to the snobbish hangers-on who invaded the great house from time to time, looking down their long noses at the ‘upstart’ Florence was to marry.
He knew they hoped that the engagement would soon be broken, that Florence would come to her senses and choose someone from their ranks; someone more used to their ways. Once he was in control of the house he’d see that they never crossed the threshold again.
The ballroom was splendid. The fine maplewood floor gleamed from repeated polishing and buffing. At its centre stood the Christmas tree, reaching almost to the ceiling, lit by hundreds of candles in silver holders, heavy with fine crystal ornaments, blown glass swans and tear-drop decorations in jewel colours.
Gold curtains were pulled across the tall windows, making one wall a draped background to the elegance of the guests. Six chandeliers, each holding a hundred long candles, lit the room and giant candelabra lit the platform where the family stood. Around three walls of the ballroom slender columns supported the gallery, where tonight, the orchestra played.
Guests were announced and brought to the platform by liveried footmen, to be welcomed by Sir Philip, from his chair, and Lady Oldfield who stood at his side. Laura, Florence and Oliver were next in the receiving line and for an hour or longer the handshaking, bowing and kissing of soft, rouged cheeks took all their attention.
At last Oliver held Florence in his arms. They took to the floor first, to polite applause from the guests.
‘You were wonderful, Oliver,’ Florence whispered. ‘I thought you might find the introductions a trial. Oh, I’m so happy!’
The Runaway Page 28
