Marcus looked helplessly at his sister who said briskly, ‘No sad thoughts today, Mrs Bray. We must all appear cheerful no matter how bad we feel inside. If Marie sees anyone crying it will spoil her day.’ She patted the housekeeper’s arm.
‘I don’t know if I can manage it!’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘That sweet young girl . . .’
Marcus said, ‘Of course you’ll manage. You’ll be fine, you’ll see. We all will. And Miss Lamore is coming. That will be great fun.’
Letitia said, ‘We’ll fetch you from the kitchen, Mrs Bray. You must be part of the audience when Miss Lamore sings. It’s going to be very exciting having our own private performance.’
Mrs Bray had brightened and the handkerchief was now returned to her apron pocket. ‘I did wonder if the cake needed a pink ribbon around the sides. The cream will only be on the top, you see, and I do have a very nice ribbon on my best hat. It would wash, afterwards.’
Letitia began to shake her head but Marcus intervened. ‘A pink ribbon would be the final touch, Mrs Bray. How clever of you.’
Letitia smiled. ‘Marcus is right. He frequently is . . . but we shall see tonight if his unusual birthday present was also an inspired idea. Did he tell you that she might have to stay the night?’
Mrs Bray smiled. ‘Oh yes, that’s all taken care of. Thank goodness it’s summer and we won’t have to worry about hot water bottles.’
Letitia left them to it and Mrs Bray said, ‘I was telling my old man about the party and everything and talking about you all. He said he saw Master Steven in The White Hart a couple of nights ago. Very excitable, he was, and what Bert calls hot-headed.’
‘I can imagine!’ Marcus knew she was being tactful. His brother frequently drank too much and became rowdy. Once he had been thrown out. ‘Don’t tell me he was—’
‘Oh no! Nothing bad, sir,’ she hurried to reassure him. ‘My old man was impressed with him. Said he would make a good soldier. The army needs men like him. That’s what he said – and he knows because look what it did for our lad. A real hot-head, he was. In all sorts of trouble – but not now.’ She smiled. ‘We’re very proud of him if you must know. The army was the making of him.’
‘The army! Good grief.’ Marcus had only been half listening, but now he stared at her. ‘What has the army done to deserve my brother?’
‘It’s his spirit, sir. Your brother. He’s high-spirited. That’s what he reckons. Bold, that was his word. Bold and . . . and forceful. They were his very words. Good in a military man, that is. A bit of training and they’d knock him into shape. Leastways, that’s what my old man reckons.’
That evening the taxi drew up outside the door of number twenty-three exactly on time. Rose glanced out of the window and gave a cry of surprise. ‘Oh Lord, Pa! Here’s Mr Bennley, come for me after all! Well, I’m blowed!’
‘But you wrote him a letter!’
‘Must have gone astray, Pa. I suppose I’ll have to go. I’ll just fetch my outfit.’ And without giving him a chance to say more, she rushed upstairs, snatched up the bag containing her stage clothes and ran from the house, her face flushed with excitement. She gave a squeal of excitement as the taxi door opened and Marcus stepped out, a stiff smile on his face.
‘I didn’t know if you would come, Mr Bennley!’ Beaming, she climbed past him into the taxi.
The taxi driver turned to smile at her, making no effort to hide his delight. ‘Nice evening, miss.’
‘Yes it is.’ She gave him a coy glance. ‘A very nice evening. I’m Miss Lamore and I’ve been engaged to sing at a private party. Did he tell you?’
‘No. He hasn’t said a word.’
Marcus climbed in beside her and slammed the door. ‘I’ve had things on my mind.’
Her father had come to the door and now Rose blew him a kiss and waved. By the time she returned, he would have forgotten all about the letter – at least she hoped so.
Rose looked at her companion as she settled in the seat. ‘Things on your mind? Such as what? Arrangements for the party?’ Before he could reply she pulled her dress from the bag. ‘Look! I added some new lace to my petticoat in honour of the occasion. It’s got gold ribbon threaded through. I wanted to look really exotic for your sister. What do you think?’
‘Er . . . Yes. Certainly.’
The taxi driver started the engine and began to weave his way through the traffic. ‘I can’t see from here but I reckon it looks very exotic, miss. Mind you, I should think an old sack would look exotic on you!’
‘Oh! You dear man! Thank you!’ Rose hadn’t expected the evening to get off to such a flying start and felt a rush of confidence. She decided that although the taxi driver was almost bald he had a nice warm voice and she was sure he was happily married. Turning back to Marcus she asked again, ‘Things on your mind such as what?’
Marcus lowered his voice and said, ‘Such as my younger brother went out last night and stayed out all night! Fortunately he finally came back just before lunch with a sore head but in a foul temper.’
Rose rolled her eyes knowingly. ‘Got a young lady, has he?’
‘He didn’t say. He’s sleeping it off – whatever it was!’
Her eyes darkened abruptly. ‘Do you remember the constable that night outside The White Horse? PC Stump? His wife’s died and so has the baby. Isn’t that dreadful? Poor man. He must be so unhappy!’
‘Very sad. Yes.’ He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then changed the subject. ‘Marie is very excited. She came downstairs for an hour this morning to see everything – the decorations, the cake, the presents. Mother sent her a gold bracelet . . .’
‘Will your mother be at the party?’
‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘She lives near Boulogne with her second husband. She visits us from time to time but her husband is a farmer so he can’t just leave it. And he doesn’t like England. He’s not too keen on the English, either, especially the men.’
‘But your mother could come, couldn’t she?’
He hesitated. ‘Mother and my sister . . . don’t see eye to eye. Family business. I can’t explain. Mother wants Marie to visit them in France while she still can but I’m not sure about the sea crossing. She’s very frail but . . . We shall see.’
Privately Rose thought them a rather odd family but, changing the subject, she said, ‘So what do you think of my stage costume, Mr Bennley?’
‘Very nice.’
She persevered, hoping for a better compliment. ‘The parasol is part of my act and my pink satin shoes are in this bag. I shall be singing one song unaccompanied because there’s no written music because I wrote the song and made up the tune.’ She put her head on one side and gave him an upward glance. Surely he was impressed.
‘Yes. Very nice.’
The taxi driver negotiated a horse bus that had collided with an army wagon and said, ‘Sounds very pretty, miss. I’m sure you’ll look a real treat!’
‘Oh thank you! What a lovely compliment!’ Rose hoped Mr Bennley would take the hint. To make sure he did, she whispered, ‘What a nice man!’
Instead of the desired result, Marcus Bennley looked put out and muttered ‘Nosy old devil!’
They sat in silence for a while until Rose said, ‘So what presents did your sister have – apart from me, of course?’
It seemed that Marie had been generously supplied with gifts. ‘She’ll want to show them to you herself, I expect,’ he told her. ‘But – look here, Miss Lamore – could we use our Christian names? It would be less formal and it is a party after all. What do you think?’
Rose leaped at the idea. ‘Of course we can. I’ll be Rose and you can be Marcus – or is it Michael? My pa has got me all muddled.’
‘It’s Marcus.’
‘Right. Marcus.’ She gave him a beaming smile. ‘Oh, this is grand, isn’t it? I feel I know you all already.’
When they drew up outside Victoria House Rose hid her surprise at the size of it and instead offered to give the driver her autograph but they
had nothing to write on so the idea had to be abandoned.
He said, ‘Never mind, Miss Lamore. I shall never forget you. Maybe when you’re famous you can give it to me then.’
Minutes later Marcus had led Rose into the family home and a suitably bedazzled Marie was showing her the birthday presents which were arranged on a nearby table.
‘Look at these beautiful slippers, Miss Lamore!’
‘Please call me Rose.’
‘Rose? Thank you, I will.’
‘The slippers are delightful, Marie.’
‘Letitia, my sister, chose them for me because she knows I like fur and these have rabbit fur linings. They’ll be wonderfully warm in the winter . . . and Steven, my lunatic brother, has given me a bottle of very, very expensive perfume and he said I am so sweet he wanted me to smell sweet! Wasn’t that romantic of him, Miss Lamore – I mean Rose? He’s not usually romantic – I mean, he’s just my brother – but I think it suits him.’
Rose felt a tug at her heart strings. Would this lovely young woman live long enough to need warm slippers, she wondered, and how much perfume would she use before she died?
‘The gold bracelet is from Mother and I hope to go over and see her soon . . . Mrs Bray, our housekeeper, knitted me a bed jacket in pale blue because she knows that I love blue. Here it is!’ She seized it from the table and held it up against herself. ‘What do you think, Rose?’
‘It’s perfect for you. I wish we had a clever housekeeper.’ Now a terrible thought struck Rose. She had not thought to bring a present. How could she have been so thoughtless! Stricken, she wondered frantically if she had anything about her that would make a suitable gift . . . There was only one possibility and she hesitated. The parasol. Parting with it would be a wrench but she could buy herself another one with the money Marcus was going to pay her. Before she could change her mind she said, ‘My present to you is a secret at the moment but I shall give it to you later on.’
‘A secret?’ Marie’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh how exciting! I’ve always loved mysteries.’
Just then a woman came into the large drawing room holding on to the arm of a handsome man and Rose guessed that this was probably Letitia and her fiancé.
She was right. Letitia wore a slim dress of dark lace with a string of pearls at her neck and she bestowed a gracious look in all directions before greeting Rose. ‘I’m Marie’s older sister, Letitia,’ she told Rose, ‘and this is Bernard da Silva, my husband-to-be.’ Turning to him she said, ‘This is Miss Rosie Lamore, who will sing for us later. Her performance is Marcus’s birthday present to Marie. Wasn’t it clever of him, darling?’
‘Very clever, what!’ He took Rose’s hand and, smiling, kissed it gingerly.
As though she might be infectious, thought Rose, with a sudden inexplicable resentment. He seemed too cool and calculated – but then he was obviously a very superior person and she, Rose, was just a singer. Letitia, her hands clasped, was looking at him adoringly and Rose had to admit he was almost perfect – expensive clothes, gleaming shoes with laces tied in perfect bows, a handkerchief sticking out from the breast pocket of his jacket, a fancy embroidered waistcoat. The perfect fiancé.
And he had said ‘what!’ and in Rose’s experience only rich people said that.
She smiled at him politely and said, ‘Nice to meet you, Mr da Silva.’
Letitia said, ‘I’m sure he won’t mind if you call him Bernard just for tonight. You won’t will you, darling?’
‘Not at all.’
At once Letitia slipped her arm through his. Rose tried to imagine their wedding which would be very grand.
Mrs Bray came in and whispered something to Letitia and everyone made their way into a large dining room which had been tastefully decorated with flowers and ribbons for the occasion. There were other people who all seemed to know each other and when they sat down Rose counted thirteen. Unlucky thirteen! Had anyone else noticed, she wondered anxiously.
Marcus looked at Steven. ‘Isn’t your girlfriend coming?’
Steven frowned as though it was an effort to think. ‘I may have said Friday,’ he confessed.
Letitia said, ‘Oh God, Steven! What an idiot you are!’
Accusing faces turned his way and he said, ‘Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe she’s ill or something. How do I know?’
There was a fraught silence while everyone tried not to recognize the significance of the missing guest. Marie’s eyes had widened fearfully and she covered her mouth with two fingers as she turned to Marcus for help. For some reason he glanced in Rose’s direction and she sensed a growing panic. She jumped to her feet and pretended to do a recount. Then she smiled. ‘No! It’s only twelve. I’m not a guest, remember. I’m a present! I’m Marie’s birthday present from Marcus!’
Within seconds everyone was laughing and the atmosphere relaxed and the threatened disaster was averted. Rose sat down feeling pleased with herself and Marcus sat down beside her. He leaned across and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘That was very clever, Rose,’ he whispered. ‘What would we do without you?’
‘More to the point, Marcus – what will you do if Steven’s friend turns up?’
‘We’ll worry about that if she turns up.’
Mrs Bray, flushed with excitement, came in and out with various trays and platters – cold ham, prawns in aspic and smoked salmon. Various bowls of salad and butter were already on the table and warm bread rolls were brought round. The wine flowed and so did the conversation. Rose could hardly believe that she was sitting there in such exalted company and at such a table. The cloth was white damask, the glasses glittered in the light from the candelabras and flowers floated in low glass bowls along the centre of the table. She reminded herself that she, too, was to marry a rich man as soon as she was famous.
Marcus rose to his feet and made a toast to his sister and everyone drank to her health and happiness. At the head of the table Marie positively glowed with pleasure.
Looking round at the rest of the smiling faces, Rose found it easy to pretend that their joy was not tinged with sadness.
Next morning Rose woke early and for a few seconds wondered where she was before the events of the previous night returned to put a broad smile on her face. An evening to be remembered, she thought happily. Her performance had been received with rapturous applause and later Rose had felt a great rush of pride when she saw tears of joy in Marie’s eyes as she presented her with the parasol. Altogether, the birthday party had been a wild success. Letitia was delighted and even Bernard had unbent sufficiently to join in with one of Rose’s songs although he looked rather uncomfortable, Rose thought. Probably not used to being engaged in anything like that – she imagined him at the opera or the ballet. Maybe an orchestral concert where he could sit po-faced and look superior.
She stared at the ceiling, discovering a few slight cracks in the plasterwork. ‘I didn’t like him,’ she said aloud. ‘Sorry, Letitia. You obviously love him but I think he’s stuffy.’ Her gaze came down a little and she took in the large, ornate picture above the mantelpiece. It showed a bull-like creature with fancy horns and she thought it might be a stag. ‘Bernard drank a bit too much,’ she told the absent Letitia, ‘and then he tried to wheedle me on to his lap!’ Unsuccessfully, however. Rose smiled faintly. She was certain that a girl could lose her women friends by allowing their husbands to take liberties.
Climbing from the bed she padded across the bare polished floorboards and pulled the curtains open and found herself peering down into a small courtyard which was beautifully decorated with pots of flowering shrubs on to which the sun shone. The romantic picture thus revealed was rather spoiled by the sight of Mrs Bray pegging out serviettes and tea towels on a clothes line. Either the housekeeper was up very early or Rose had overslept. There was no clock in the room and Rose was undecided about what to do. Was it bad manners to go wandering about in other people’s houses? Maybe the housekeeper would bring her a tray of tea and toast! Now that would be real luxury.
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Opening the large wardrobe she found nothing but a smell of mothballs. The drawer below contained a selection of toys, mostly showing signs of loving attention over many years. Crumpled books, a box of ludo, a top but no whip, a wooden sailing boat with a damaged mast and a few skittles minus the box. She picked out an ancient pixie, handmade in green felt, and gave it a hug to prove it had not been forgotten. There was a blue knitted rabbit, a doll with yellow wool for hair and a small velvet mouse with button eyes. Rose loved them all on sight and wondered which toy had belonged to which member of the family. Naturally, the doll belonged either to Marie or Letitia, the rabbit might have been Steven’s but the teddy bear definitely belonged to Marcus. Arms and legs ramrod straight, it appeared to be standing at attention. It gave no sign that it had ever been cuddled, its fur was fresh and unfaded and its brown glass eyes seemed to stare at her with cool disinterest.
‘You’re a dear, sweet thing,’ she told it, rearranging the legs so that it could sit up on top of the chest of drawers. ‘There! That’s more comfortable, isn’t it?’
Turning away, she examined the large, almost empty room. Velvet curtains, polished wooden floorboards with a patterned carpet – a far cry from her own room at home with its cracked linoleum and a rag rug made years ago by her mother. There was a washstand in one corner of the room with a jug of cold water and a basin, a folded towel and a soap and flannel. Rose made use of them and then dressed in her everyday clothes.
While she did this, she tried to recall the last few hours of the party when she had definitely drunk too much wine and hoped she hadn’t made a fool of herself and let Marcus down. She remembered Steven proposing to her, going down on one knee and everyone laughing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she had told him, smiling down into those beautiful but cold blue eyes, ‘but I’ve decided not to marry until I’ve made a name for myself in the music halls – but thanks ever so for the proposal. It’s my first ever!’ Which was a small white lie because a boy at school had asked her to marry him and she’d said ‘yes’ because at that time they were both six years old and she hadn’t decided on her career path. Last night everyone had cheered Steven’s proposal and her rejection and he had pretended to be heartbroken. Only Marcus had seemed unimpressed and she felt that, in his eyes, she had let herself down although she was unable to work out how or why. But she had seen the look on his face and it troubled her.
The Birthday Present Page 4
