‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘It’s the master. He’s gone demented.’
Magnus was sitting up in bed as she entered his room, face purple with rage, mouth a twisted black snarl. He snatched up his dinner plate and flung it at her. Charlotte ducked and it hit the wall instead. Roast pork, buttered carrots, and Cook’s special creamed potatoes hung in globules of congealed grease on the silk patterned wallpaper. He next sent the milk jug, tea pot, and cup and saucer flying from the bedside table to smash into a dozen pieces. Shards of pottery lay scattered over the Persian carpet and Charlotte gazed in disgust at the resulting mess. A posy of squashed raspberries clung to the gas mantle while Magnus began expressing his rage by ripping his pillows to shreds, sending a snowstorm of feathers flying everywhere. Dear Lord, demented was certainly the word. She felt hysteria rise in her throat; the memory of the accident hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. ‘Magnus, what the hell are you doing? Stop this at once.’
‘You should serve my supper, woman. You’re my wife! You owe me that much at least, lazy harlot that you are.’
At a loss to know how to deal with his black mood Charlotte found she was trembling, as always in response to his tantrums. Inwardly she prayed Councillor Pickering had made a safe, if undignified exit from her bedroom window over the orangery roof. It was the reason she’d chosen that room, safely tucked away at the back of the house.
She took a step closer, offered soothing, well practised phrases in an attempt to calm her husband.
Magnus continued to storm at her. ‘Look at you, half-dressed at this time of day.’
‘I was about to bathe and change for dinner,’ Charlotte lied. How dare he upbraid her in front of the servants, this woman in particular who had never liked her. It was too much. She whirled about and ordered the housekeeper to leave, closing the door on her startled face. Perversely, Magnus now countermanded his earlier demands.
‘Don’t you tell my housekeeper what to do,’ he yelled. ‘I need Mrs Pursey. She at least takes proper care of me.’
‘I thought you wanted me to feed you.’ Charlotte managed a smile, picked up the fork and offered it to him. ‘Come along now, open wide, there’s a good boy. Eat up, then you’ll get better.’
But Magnus was not in the mood for her wheedling today. A curl came to his lip, an odd frown on his flushed face. ‘I’ll have my revenge, make no mistake. But not yet, my lovely. I shall choose the time and place. Play the devoted wife and whore all you wish. You won’t know from where, or when it will come, but it will be all the sweeter for me when I take it.’
Fear flared within her. Surely he didn’t guess about her regular stream of attentive lovers? She’d been most discreet. Not even the servants guessed. At least she hoped not. Charlotte strived to tease him into a better humour. ‘What are you saying? You can’t blame me for Rude Awakening shying like that, now can you? It’s your own temper at fault. You shout at poor Mrs Pursey. Now you’re shouting at me. What can we do to please you?’
He stared at her for a long moment while a slow smile spread across the once handsome but now somewhat bloated face. He leaned forward to speak in a hissing whisper, as if not wishing anyone to overhear for all they were quite alone in the room.
‘We both of us know the truth, do we not? Just remember I am still in control. I know you tried to kill me. Pity you didn’t succeed. But perhaps one day I shall return the compliment. That will be vastly amusing. With or without the use of my bloody legs you are still my wife, and I can do with you exactly as I please.’
In the silence that followed this devastating statement, Charlotte could hear the loud ticking of the mantel clock which seemed in fierce competition with the beating of her own heart. She felt suddenly, desperately afraid, for in those few seconds he’d wiped away the false sense of security she’d wrapped about herself. Now, each swing of the pendulum reverberated in her head, ticking her life away, and outside the four walls of this stifling bedroom she was only too aware that the house buzzed with servant’s gossip like angry bees.
Charlotte realised, in that moment, that she had no choice but to escape, if only for a little while, before the suffocation of her situation drove her quite mad. To leave him entirely, she decided, would be a mistake, since she’d no wish to relinquish her rights to his vast fortune. When he did ultimately die, and she prayed each night that it would be soon, every last penny would be all hers. Might well have helped him along the road, were it not so risky.
Nevertheless she had no wish to be carted off to a police cell while she waited for this much-longed for demise. The servants had never liked her, had always resented a woman of their own class setting herself above them. They would lose no opportunity to place the blame on her, if they got the slightest whiff of scandal. And if her presence so infuriated Magnus, what might he not utter in his next rage, or the one after that? Once the truth was out, that his fall was the result of a deliberate act on her part, who would save her? Mrs Pursey for one would be the first to call in the police.
It was Charlotte herself who called the doctor, on the telephone Magnus had had installed for his business dealings. He came, young and earnest, eager to make headway in his chosen profession to find poor Mrs Gilpin utterly distraught. She sobbed out her concerns for her poor demented husband, begging he be given some draught to cool his blood, to help him sleep and come to terms with his disability, before managing to faint at the doctor’s feet, quite spectacularly on cue.
When she came round, it was to find herself ensconced in her own bed, the concerned young doctor holding sal volatile to her nose. She spluttered and choked, then smiled weakly at him, all her senses on alert.
‘I really do not feel able to cope, Doctor.’ Her voice trembled with fatigue. ‘Magnus is so demanding, I fear I shall go mad if I don’t get some rest soon.’ She looked appealingly up at him from beneath silken lashes.
The doctor not only agreed with this self-diagnosis, he ordered the agitated young wife to take a complete rest, some sea air, for a month at least; expressing his fears that he could very well have two patients on his hands if a nurse were not engaged to relieve her.
And so it was arranged.
Unusually, Charlotte insisted on doing the packing herself, carefully folding several of her most valued gowns and shawls, not forgetting numerous pairs of her finest Italian leather shoes, for she meant to travel the continent, not for one month but two, three if she could possibly afford it and had no wish to be ill-dressed. All of these prized possessions were placed between layers of tissue paper in two large leather valises, brought down from the attics.
Lastly, she emptied her trinket box, carefully stowing these carefully preserved gifts into her vanity case. They could be sold, if necessary, though she’d no intention of staying away too long. Magnus was a rich man and she needed to maintain access to that wealth. Her heart was hammering in her breast as she worked swiftly and quietly. She gave careful instructions to the household not to mention her imminent departure, warning them of the risks of upsetting their master further.
Finally she collected the leather purse which hung on a nail at the back of her wardrobe. The weight of it in her hand made her feel better, for the money would ensure she had no reason to return to this claustrophobic prison until it suited her to do so. Charlotte had funds, beauty, youth and an agile brain. All she needed now was her freedom.
Magnus’s own chauffeur drove Charlotte to the station and loaded her luggage on to the train already waiting in the station. She had no idea where it was bound, nor did Charlotte care as she wanted only to get away, to escape, to taste some unknown adventure. She thanked him with a generous tip, and apologised for deserting the household at this difficult time.
Mortimer, who had always carried something of a torch for his attractive young mistress and had no time at all for the master, was sympathetic, assuring her that he understood her plight. He’d risked his job by asking Cook to make up a small hamper. Th
e request had been met with sulky protest that she’d ‘do nowt for a young madam who deserted her husband,’ so he’d made it up himself. He stowed this on board beside her, then returned to the platform, carefully closing the carriage door. ‘Just to keep you going ma’am, should you feel peckish like.’
Charlotte, moved by his thoughtfulness, dropped her cool charade for a second. ‘Bless you.’
Privately, young Mortimer hoped that the rumours circulating in the servants hall that she’d deliberately made the master fall from that horse, weren’t true. How could she do such a thing? Little scrap of a thing like her. It was an accident, plain as plain. Anyroad, he was still alive and well, if not exactly hale and hearty. No wonder she needed a rest, for he’d never been an easy man. ‘If you want ‘owt doin, I’m your man. Just give me a shout.’
‘I will. Thank you again. You’re a dear sweet boy, Jeffrey.’ And reaching down through the carriage window, planted a kiss on his cheek.
Flushed and flattered by her use of his Christian name, not to mention the kiss, the young chauffeur remained on the platform until her train was no more than a puff of steam in the distance.
When Charlotte opened the hamper an hour or so later, just as they were crossing the Pennines, she found he had also included that morning’s paper. Glancing through it as she ate the cucumber sandwiches and tiny egg rolls, she discovered in the personal column, an advertisement which at once caught her attention. It announced that a newly formed company of travelling players were seeking actors and actresses who may be interested in joining such an enterprise for the coming winter season. An address followed, one which she realised could be found along the very same line upon which this train was coincidentally bound. It seemed that fate, at last, was smiling upon her.
The need for sea air and even the pleasures of the continent paled into insignificance beside a sudden, piquant desire for fame. Actresses were generally adored, their admirers crowding the stage door for a mere glimpse of their idol. Charlotte decided there and then that it was long past time she had some fun. There was no better way to use her skills than as an actress? Hadn’t she been one all her life?
The girl standing before them with her mid-calf hemline hobble skirt, and huge astrakhan fur collar and cuffs trimming the high-waisted three-quarter coat, made them all feel dowdy in the extreme. Kitty and Archie were both festooned in cobwebs as a result of having spent the afternoon delving through the many attics searching for anything suitable to use for costumes or props. Esme had been helping Mrs Pips to cook and despite being enveloped in a large wrap-over apron, had managed to get dough in her hair and flour all over her face.
Now here they were confronted by this wondrous creature, dressed to the nines, groomed to perfection, and very nearly interviewing them simply by the probing nature of her cornflower blue gaze. Even her hat was of the very latest fashion, tall crowned and wide brimmed, shading what was undoubtedly one of the loveliest faces they had yet seen amongst all of the would-be actors they’d interviewed thus far.
Kitty cleared her throat. ‘Would you care to take off your coat and make yourself more comfortable?’
It unnerved Kitty to see the stack of luggage which the cab driver had set in the hall, almost as if the young woman assumed the job to be hers already and she was moving in, lock, stock and barrel. When she noticed Kitty’s interest, she merely smiled, offering no explanation whatsoever.
Tea and crumpets were served in the sitting room beside a bright, roaring fire. Archie had been adamant that any auditions be conducted in a civilised fashion. They were, after all, choosing people who would be living with them day in and day out, so it was equally important that they be the sort one could get along with, and not simply be able to recite Shakespeare.
Miss Gilpin drank her tea without any pretensions of lifting her little finger but declined a hot buttered crumpet in favour of a thin slice of bread and butter. Esme concluded this to be wise, in view of the fineness of the blue wool costume the removal of the fur trimmed coat had revealed. Were such an outfit hers, she’d be dripping butter and jam all over it in no time.
‘What is it exactly that you wish me to perform for you?’ Miss Gilpin asked, from her perch on the edge of the sofa. ‘I confess that I’ve boundless enthusiasm, a love of poetry, but very little actual acting experience.’
Her vowels were most carefully enunciated with the trace of an accent Esme recognised as Yorkshire but to Kitty, being a Londoner, signified nothing more than northern.
Kitty heard Archie’s almost inaudible sigh and cast a quick glance across at him. It was clear, from the rapt expression upon his face that he was utterly enchanted and although she did not wonder at it, her heart seemed to turn a slow somersault down into the pit of her stomach.
Her dreams had grown ever more disturbing of late, for whatever their relationship had once been it had changed irrevocably on that fateful night. All she wanted was for him to come to her, as she had once gone to him, except this time with love in his heart. Yet he offered nothing more than friendship, sometimes not even that when he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her completely.
Kitty dare not risk a glance in Esme’s direction, knowing she too would be feeling alarm at the prospect of Archie seeing this exquisite creature each and every day. What a pair of heartsick fools they were.
For a moment her brain cleared and centred upon that admission of no experience. Ignoring the fact that she herself, who certainly intended to tread the boards, was no better placed in this respect, Kitty decided that lack of experience was surely an excellent reason to turn the girl down. Archie was even now assuring Miss Gilpin that it was of no account at all, beside that of boundless enthusiasm and a love of poetry. Kitty half expected him to add - and incredible beauty - but noted how he prudently restrained himself.
Kitty drew in a deep breath, holding it far too long in order to steady her nerves, before bestowing a sympathetic smile upon the aspiring actress. ‘Experience of some kind would naturally be beneficial. Perhaps, after tea, you could recite one of your favourite poems to us, so that we might judge.’
‘Oh indeed, you can easily do that, can you not Miss Gilpin?’ Archie agreed, nodding vigorously, as if she were his protégé and he her proud mentor. ‘What a splendid notion.’
‘We do have many other people to see,’ Esme put in, speaking for the first time.
‘I’m sure you must have.’
Ever since they’d placed the advertisement in The Times, of all newspapers, they’d been inundated with requests; largely from out of work actors. It had amazed and alarmed them to see just how many of these there were, making the last two weeks an absolute frenzy of interviews. The best of the bunch had been Jacob Warburton who wore a pair of eyeglasses which rattled annoyingly against a silver fob watch as each dangled from a pocket of a yellow check waistcoat that strained over a rotund stomach. He claimed still to get regular parts, though they suspected it was chiefly in pantomime. Nevertheless he clearly had both talent and experience and Kitty could see him as a wonderful villain, so he was duly engaged.
Then there came Suzannah (call me Suzy) Grant, who’d once possessed a superb singing voice, now sadly marred by the eternal cigarette which she held in a long tortoiseshell holder to her scarlet lips. She assured them that it would pass muster for the provinces, and gave them a rendition of Sweet and Low to prove it.
They’d also engaged a young female pianist who wore droopy cardigans, was troubled with her adenoids and had scattered her music in haphazard untidiness all over the carpet. Once seated at Archie’s grand piano, however, she’d captivated them with her Chopin, thrilled them with her Liszt, and best of all, had them out of their seats and jazzing when she changed to Darktown Strutters Ball. She was instantly hired.
Next had come Felicity Fanshaw. Felicity described herself as a suffragette, dangerously close to forty and the onset of despair but ruthlessly good humoured about it. She arrived on a bicycle wearing long corduroy shorts,
a skinny jersey clinging to her flat chest and a battered felt hat rammed down over short, cropped black hair. She’d delighted them all with the way she could parody herself let alone others; an actress in every sense.
Apart from this motley crew, there’d trooped forth a remarkable number of arrogant young men seeking acquaintance with pretty girls, only two of whom were actually taken up; one with foppish curly hair worn rather long as a protest, he claimed, though against what exactly, he didn’t make clear; and another very serious and plain young man who had a wonderfully deep voice which carried to the far end of the library with ease.
Of pretty girls themselves there had been a paucity of applicants, probably because their respective mama’s thought joining a theatre company one short step from entering a brothel. Now here was Miss Charlotte Gilpin, breathtakingly beautiful and engagingly frank. Perhaps, Kitty thought, she did not have a mama.
‘Tell us something of your family, Miss Gilpin.’
‘All dead I’m afraid. I was raised in an orphanage, since when I’ve had all manner of jobs, both in and out of service.’
‘How very sad, Miss Gilpin,’ Archie put in, his face mournful.
‘Call me Charlotte, please. I hate formality.’
Kitty, determined to be businesslike, persisted with her questioning. ‘Your last position must have been with a fine house, since you look quite unlike any maid I’ve ever seen and clearly have already left their employ,’ making a pointed reference both to her modish attire and the stack of luggage in the hall. ‘Why was your position exactly?’ She was interested to note a slight flush form upon the velvet cheeks. The young woman turned her eyes downward to fix them upon her clasped hands before meeting Kitty’s gaze with her own, as clear and frank as you please and with the faintest glimmer of tears.
Kitty Little Page 11
