He expected to hear saucy songs but she began with a popular sentimental ballad he’d heard Lizzie play many times. And she was spellbinding. It seemed that the audience held its breath. She bowed to the storm of clapping that broke at the last notes and flashed a smile towards Oliver. Then, it seemed to him deliberately, she gave them a song which demanded some wriggling and turning, making the men roar their approval.
Oliver was loud in his enthusiasm but he knew that it was not her looks but the power and quality of her voice that had brought her to the top of the bill. Finally she sang ‘The Londonderry Air’. The theatre was hushed: even Oliver had a lump in his throat when she ended to rapturous applause, and bowed and curtseyed for a full three minutes.
She turned towards the box and blew kisses to Oliver, Lizzie and Edward while they clapped, leaning over the padded edge of the box in their enthusiasm.
‘Mother goes backstage after the show,’ Edward said when the final curtain came down. ‘Shall we go ahead, to the house?’
‘Yes,’ Oliver replied. ‘Walk or tram?’
‘Let’s walk,’ Lizzie answered.
Oliver felt a strange elation tonight. It was a long time since he had been so relaxed. Twice his problems had surfaced briefly and twice he had easily pushed them to the back of his mind. He intended to enjoy Dolly’s party.
They had been home for half an hour when they heard the noisy arrivals at the front door.
The stage manager and the master of ceremonies were the first to enter the house, the comedian the youngsters had found so funny and who, offstage, was a rather solemn character, followed, some girls from the chorus, excited still from their performance and, lastly, now dressed in a high-necked dress of black silk, jet-beaded and buttoned, came Celia Bellman.
Whisky was being handed to the men and wine and champagne to the ladies, and the company followed Dolly to the dining room and the mountain of salads and cold dishes that had been prepared for them. In the centre of the table was a huge cake, in three tiers with, on the top tier, more candles than most would ever admit to.
Oliver sat across the wide table from Celia Bellman, a chorus girl on one side of him and the juggler at the other, hearing little of what was said, conscious as he was of the dark-haired singer. She was captivating and full of life and her interest in him was evident. Her bold, flashing eyes met his and held them, making him aware of an excitement that he had not known since his youth.
Lizzie and Edward, he noticed, slipped away from the table and the guests as soon as they could without arousing comment from Dolly, preferring each other’s company to that of the merrymaking crowd.
When supper was over and Dolly had been acclaimed a wonderful hostess she led them to the drawing room and begged Celia to sing for them.
Oliver positioned himself at the other side of the room, facing the piano. He tilted his head and leaned back in the plush armchair, long legs outstretched, pleasantly cheerful from the two glasses of whisky, watching her as she placed a hand demurely on the side of the piano and sang ‘Speed, Bonny Boat’.
When she finished she smiled at their applause, crossed her hands in front of her skirt and began to sing ‘Drink to Me Only, With Thine Eyes’.
Oliver wondered if he were deceiving himself. But, no! He was sure! The minx was singing it for him. How anyone can make ‘Drink to Me Only’ sound like an invitation, I’ll never know, he thought, but there was no mistaking her intention and now his body was charged with the current that was flowing between them. She bowed a second time, held up her hand in protest at requests for more and came to his side.
She stood by the arm of his chair, smiling meanwhile at the others of her party as she bent her head towards his.
‘Take me to my hotel, will you?’ Her voice was low and husky and she spoke softly, so that only he would hear, but she ran her fingers slowly along his arm.
In reply he took her arm and pressed it hard against his side, not looking at her. ‘When I’m sure we’ll not be missed,’ he said, almost under his breath, smiling towards Dolly who looked at him enquiringly.
‘I think I’ll get a breath of fresh air, Dolly. It’s too warm in here.’
Celia halted as soon as they rounded the corner. Her dark eyes held his and Oliver kissed her with a fierce insistence. He could see the need in her; knew immediately that her desire was as great as his. It inflamed him, drew him to her with an overwhelming force.
They were behaving like young eager lovers who had only the street corners. They could not wait. Every few yards they stopped, looked and embraced, their kisses growing wilder and deeper, leaving them breathless. They did not speak. They were oblivious of the warm, starlit night, the gentle sighing of the breeze through the sycamores overhead. They ran the last fifty yards to her hotel. There was no night porter; no need for courtesies before Oliver followed her light footsteps up the deeply carpeted stairs to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
She leaned against the door, her breath coming fast, her dark head lifted, eyes closed as he slid the bolt and began to undress her in the moonlit room. She helped him, running her hands with lightning speed over the jet beads of her bodice. The dress fell away. She was naked.
Oliver gave a low cry and lifted her to the bed. To think that she wore nothing beneath her dress – no slip – no stays – no drawers. His own shirt was being stripped from his back by her quick, expert hands. His clothes were dropping to the floor and her hands were skimming over his body while his mouth was upon hers, loving the movement in her own.
She was exotic and exciting and he was on fire for her. He put up his hand to pull the gas-mantle chain and fill the room with its soft light. He wanted to see her before he made love to her.
She was narrow, narrow and strong with small, hard breasts with rigid, dark nipples. She was slightly tanned, taut and smooth with a sheen that paler women do not have. He buried his face in her silken body, tasting the scented oil she used to keep her skin supple.
He ran his hands inside her thighs and found her warm and moist and she moved upwards towards him, towards his mouth as it fastened on her breast, towards his hands where they held her hips, and when he entered, thrusting deep into her, she cried out and dug her nails into his shoulders.
Harder and harder he went, not caring if he hurt her. She cried out again, but it was a cry of pleasure as she came to a crescendo at his final thrust into her deep, narrow body.
It had been so long … so long since he had felt a woman respond in this way.
He kissed her eyes, her mouth, her breasts, feeling them firm against his mouth, and, still inside her, he began to harden, feeling her writhing beneath him, bringing him into her again.
Afterwards, as he lay limp and relaxed against the sheets, she began to stroke him. Her hands moved swiftly over him, making demands he thought he was past fulfilling. He closed his eyes, enjoying her ministrations, drifting along with her. He felt a stir within him as his body began to obey her touch and she moved sinuously, giving him the exquisite, new sensation of being helpless in a woman’s hands.
Now she was doing things he had read about, had heard about, but never thought to experience. She would not allow him to take her quickly this time but made him learn delay; made him linger until he could bear it no longer and even then she held him back until she too was ready for him and at last he took her in the way she wanted him and she was unlike anyone he had known before.
And this was what he had been seeking. This was the mistress he would take, if she would consent. He knew that he would want more of her; knew that he would come back to her again and again.
She was spent. She lay face down, outstretched across the bed, her hands clasped loosely together above her head, the black shining hair strewn over the pillow.
Oliver turned her over and looked into her face. ‘And now, Celia Bellman,’ he said. ‘Shall we get to know one another?’
She smiled, cat-like, satisfied. ‘I’ve known you for a long time,’ she told him. �
��I met you once at Dolly’s, but you didn’t notice me.’
‘I can’t imagine who else could have been occupying my attention, that I didn’t notice you.’ He smiled.
Her hair lay about the pillow and Oliver played with the shining looseness of it as he looked into her dark, passionate eyes.
‘I wanted you to make love to me the first time,’ she said without a trace of coyness. ‘And tonight, when I saw you from the stage, I knew that you would.’
‘Are you always so sure of yourself?’ Oliver asked. ‘Do you always take what you want and ask afterwards?’
She smiled.
‘You make me think I’ve been seduced,’ he teased, giving the black hair a gentle tug.
‘You have,’ she said, ‘and you loved it.’
Oliver laughed quietly. ‘You talk like a scarlet woman, Celia Bellman.’ He kissed her throat. ‘And where did you learn these – these seductive wiles?’
‘In Paris.’ She laughed too, a soft inviting sound. ‘They are wise in these ways, the French.’
‘And tell me about our first meeting,’ he cajoled. ‘For I am sure I would have remembered, if I’d met you before.’
‘I’d heard of you before I even met Dolly or was invited to the house,’ she said.
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ll have to tell you the background story first,’ Celia said. ‘Do you want to hear it all?’
‘Yes. I want to know all about you,’ Oliver told her. ‘I’m not in the habit of making love to total strangers.’ He smiled and began to run his fingers over her smooth, shiny skin.
‘I was brought up in Bradford by my granny. I never knew my parents – and my granny was a very devout chapelgoer,’ Celia began.
Funny how, even now, he could not hear the name of Bradford without remembering Rosie. Oliver pulled himself up and leaned against the pillows. ‘Religious fervour’s very common over there,’ he said. ‘Did you share your granny’s faith?’
‘When I was very young, I did.’ Celia’s dark eyes were serious. ‘You aren’t laughing at me, are you?’
‘No.’ Oliver put an arm out and she lay against him, running her fingers along the line of his jaw. ‘Carry on.’
‘I was friendly with a girl called Annie Hadfield. She and her sisters lived with their grandparents.’ Celia stopped speaking for a moment. ‘Does the name of Hadfield mean anything to you?’
Oliver sat, stock-still, his face no longer relaxed and amused.
‘Did you know her mother?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Their mother lived with them only until their father died. She didn’t like the grandparents; they treated her badly.’ Celia hesitated again, as if she were reluctant to tell him more. ‘They used to call her the fallen woman and say she was mad.’
‘And …?’ Oliver’s mouth was set in a grim line.
‘She was mad,’ Celia said quietly. ‘She used to talk to herself all the time. She was very beautiful . . . but she was mad.’ She pulled herself into a sitting position beside him and added, ‘The grandfather used to sneer at her and say she was the Mrs Wainwright of Suttonford, in a patronising way, and she’d walk away, muttering.’
‘What happened to her when her husband died?’ Oliver asked in a voice that had turned to ice.
‘She left the girls with their grandparents. They were happier with them than with their mother. I believe she remarried and went to live in London.’ She smiled at Oliver. ‘So that’s how I knew of you.’
‘Is this why you sought me out? To satisfy your curiosity?’ he asked coldly.
‘No. I knew that a man called Wainwright must have had a love affair with Mrs Hadfield. Years later I met Dolly in Southport but I never connected the two Wainwrights until she spoke of her stepson who lives at Suttonford. Then I realised that it was the same family.’
‘What else do you know?’ Oliver demanded.
Celia pulled a dressing gown around herself and stood up. ‘You’d better leave,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you’d be so angry, so long after your affair with her.’
Oliver looked at her steadily. ‘I want to know whether you asked me here tonight to satisfy some perverse kind of curiosity about me and Rosie Hadfield.’
It was her turn to be cold.
‘No,’ she said. ‘In fact I thought, until a few moments ago, that your father was the man Mrs Hadfield knew. You look too young to have been her lover twenty years ago.’ She drew the cord tight around her waist, picked up his clothes from the floor and held them out to him.
‘I actually believed,’ she said as she looked at him with a direct gaze, ‘that it was love at first sight for me and at second sight for you. How silly of me. Please dress yourself and go.’
Oliver’s face relaxed. There was no subterfuge about this girl. She was completely open and truthful. He dropped his clothes at the side of the bed and held out his arms to her.
‘Come back to bed with me, Celia Bellman. Please … I need you.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Oliver stayed with her until late the following afternoon when she left for the theatre. He made his way to the house with some trepidation. He knew that Dolly would have much to say about his disappearance and wondered what her attitude would be now that it was he, and not she, who was the transgressor.
He was childishly glad to find that Edward and Lizzie were in their sitting room and unaware of his arrival.
There was a man sitting in the kitchen with Dolly. A little fellow, beaming at her, hanging on to every word she uttered. He was seated in the rocking chair, rolled cloth cap in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. His legs, swinging like a child’s, did not reach the floor.
‘Hello, Oliver,’ Dolly greeted him as he opened the back door. ‘This is Bert. He’s come to give me a price for some work I want done.’
‘Do you normally do business at six o’clock at night, Bert?’ he asked pointedly. ‘And what sort of work is it, pray?’
Bert scrambled out of the chair, leaving it swinging loud and vigorously behind him. He placed the empty wine glass on the table and unrolled his cap. He was tiny, only about two inches taller than Dolly, Oliver guessed, and he grinned at Dolly with a great deal of affection in his smile.
‘Eeh. I’m a builder, Mr Wainwright. Dolly here wants me to put a new fireplace in for her.’ He made a move towards the back door as Dolly opened it for him. ‘Ta-ra, then, Doll. I’ll see yer soon.’
Dolly saw him out before turning to speak. ‘What do you have to go upsetting folk for?’ she asked in an exasperated voice. ‘Poor Bert!’
‘Never mind “Poor Bert” – take a look at this.’ Oliver pushed the letter into her hand and poured himself a glass of her tonic wine.
She reached for a pair of spectacles from the mantelshelf and stretched the wires over her ears before smoothing the paper flat on the kitchen table and reading slowly.
‘My God!’ she said, when she took the glasses off. ‘Who is A. King? Have you ever met him?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Dolly. That’s not the real name. Whoever is blackmailing me his name’s certainly not King.’ He would have to spell it out to her. ‘Somebody has taken the photograph and the writings out of this house, and is using them to get money from me.’ He waited for the effect of his words to sink in. ‘Somebody you have invited to the house. One of your friends!’
‘It must be that Celia Bellman,’ Dolly declared triumphantly. ‘I thought she had something on her mind. She asked when you’d be coming to Southport again.’
She had not taken last night’s goings-on lightly, Oliver could see. ‘I hope this isn’t the start of you and her carrying on,’ she added. ‘I’ll not put up with it.’
‘It’s not Celia.’
‘She’ll want to marry you now. She’ll want Florence to divorce you. Mark my words!’ Dolly squinted up at him, looking shrewd, waiting for his reaction. ‘You don’t know much about women, do you?’
‘I don’t think you’re right. If I pay blackmail
money then it proves that I’m going to protect my wife, not desert her,’ Oliver replied.
‘You’re not going to pay?’ Dolly was aghast. ‘You’ll never pay that kind of money will you?’
‘I’ll have to pay.’
‘Oh, Oliver!’ She sat down quickly. ‘I am sorry. I should have thrown the damned books out. I don’t know why I kept them. Edward or Lizzie could have got hold of them.’
‘I’ll get a man to watch the house in London, to find out who this Mr King is. But what do I do when I know? I still have to get hold of the things. Have you no idea who took them? How long they’ve been missing? Try to remember when you last saw them.’ Oliver lifted lids over dishes on the side-table. He was hungry. He could do justice to one of his stepmother’s suppers.
‘We’ll have something to eat in a minute. It’s the maids’ night off so we’ll eat in here if that’s all right.’ Dolly pushed his hands away from the dishes. ‘Stop poking about, will yer? Help me lay the table.’
She still treated him like a child at times. He smiled at her as she busied herself, pulling a cloth from the dresser drawer and flapping it smartly to release the folds. ‘You’re doing your “second cook at Suttonford” act now, Dolly,’ he told her.
‘I haven’t seen those things from the attic for ages. I remember putting them away under the spare blankets in the big chest and after that I never saw them again. They could have been missing for years.’ She spoke furiously, as if annoyed with herself for her carelessness, banging down the mats, knives and forks. ‘I’ve made a Lancashire hotpot. It’s in the oven. Will that do?’
‘Yes. I haven’t had one for years.’ Oliver said. ‘I don’t think the things have been missing all that long or they’d have been trying to get money before now.’
‘Well, let’s hope your investigator finds out who it is for you.’ Dolly took plates from the steel rack above the oven and carried them to the table, holding them in a thick cloth. ‘There’s red cabbage pickle to go with it and apricot snow for pudding. I was going to ask Bert to stay for some supper,’ she said. ‘His wife died last year and I think he’s lonely.’
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