The next morning found Mercy lying staring at her bedroom ceiling. She remembered so much now. How often, when her stepmother had been away helping a friend with his house, a bachelor you know, she had come back to Cordel Court with stories of how the mud in the hall had taken a team of labourers to remove it, and how there had been pigs in what had once been the rose garden and hens in the conservatory, not to mention tramps and undesirables in the music room. Her stories had always amused Mercy, and now she found herself laughing again at the memory of all Lady Violet’s tales, at the same time realizing how strange it sounded to be laughing out loud when she was all alone, by herself with the servants tucked away in another wing.
But it was also strangely cosy, like summer nights at Cordel Court sometimes spent in the old shepherd’s hut when she and her brothers were small and Nurse allowed them to gather firewood and cook their own supper, and life seemed a whole lot more exciting than it did when you were in the house, and even the simplest things such as washing up your own plate in a stream, or sleeping just in a blanket without sheets, were somehow wondrous.
Despite being alone with only the servants Mercy was not lonely, any more than she was unhappy at the idea that Lady Violet had helped John, among other bachelors of his generation, at some time in the far distant past. Far from feeling threatened she found it most amusing, especially because, from the moment she had walked into Brindells as a very young bride, time and time again she had thought how much it reminded her, and in so many, many ways, of Cordel Court.
Now, of course, all was revealed, and she knew precisely why. The same hand had guided the choosing of the fabrics, the placing of the furniture, that wretched chandelier in the library that spoke more of Italian palazzos than it did of Tudor houses and rush matting.
They had not, as yet, had a telephone installed, and so, missing John as she did, she decided to write to him. Not such a long letter as he would inevitably find tiresome, but just enough to make sure that he knew she was thinking of him.
Dearest John – how I miss you! she began, but before she could sink into pathos she went on, I realize, however, that as a sporting man you will not be missing me, and as long as there are foxes that will continue to be the case. But what I do hope is that you will come back to your adoring wife very soon, and you can hold the writer of this as closely and as firmly in your arms as she is holding this pen. Always and ever, your Mercy. PS I am now sleeping in the maid’s room, over the kitchen, but the builders are working so fast that Mr Chantry says they could build a Sphinx in half the time it took the Egyptian slaves! I do not think that you would recognize the kitchen. Perhaps you should not come home until it is ready to welcome you with a dinner fit for a king – or a huntsman! I am once more your ever loving Mercy.
After she had given Mrs Anderson her letter to post Mercy settled back into a chair in front of the maid’s fire. It was strange, and interesting too, to be living in the domestic quarters of the house, for it gave her a better idea of the lives that their servants lived. Of necessity it gave her a clearer understanding of the length of their day, the endless corridors they had to walk, the dozens of trays and wheeled trolleys that had to be taken to and from the old kitchens. It was going to be much better now that the kitchen would be near the dining room and she had the little bell under her chair that she could ring whenever she wished someone to come in. So much better than having footmen plastered all around the walls straightening their backs and clearing their throats.
Yet she could not help wondering what John would think when he came back from his weeks away hunting with all his old friends.
‘Yes, but Mr Chantry, do you think that a man will like that kind of patterning?’
Mercy looked over to Gabriel, and he sighed inwardly, thinking that if he had been given sixpence for every time she asked him such a question he could open another shop.
‘I think Mr Brancaster will understand everything we are doing here, Mrs Brancaster, I really do. After all, the only major alterations are happening in the area in which most men are least interested, namely the kitchens. And as to the rest of the house, we are merely stripping back the gilt and the brocade to make it not only more in keeping with the age of the building but more in keeping with our times. I know the Queen does not approve of motor cars or motoring, but let us face it, Mrs Brancaster, the motor car is here to stay, and the stables that we are converting to just such a use are being adapted everywhere in the bigger houses.’
‘But – Mr Chantry?’
‘Yes, Mrs Brancaster?’ Gabriel turned from holding up a piece of crewel work to the light.
‘Supposing we have use only for the motor cars, what will happen to the grooms, and the horses? What will they do?’
‘Oh, they will doubtless do as we all do, Mrs Brancaster.’
Mercy looked at him questioningly.
‘Adapt!’
But fast as the builders from the village, and the craftsmen from the Cotswolds, and everyone else worked, the alterations to the kitchens extended themselves from three weeks into four, and from four into five and from five into six, until it seemed to Mercy that they might as well be rebuilding the Sphinx as remodelling the kitchens.
And so, as each new week presented new problems, she wrote to her ‘darling husband’, often in great haste, to warn him against coming back until ‘the worst is over’.
I never thought to say so, but I am tired of hunting, so much do I miss you, Mercy my little angel. John.
Mercy kept all of John’s letters to her. Brief as they were, she found that they fitted very nicely into the top pocket of the cotton blouses that she changed sometimes three times daily, so pervasive was the dust and the dirt at Brindells.
Your letters are next to my heart, she wrote to him at the start of his sixth week away. Literally, just by where it beats.
‘There is still so much to do.’
Mercy looked around, suddenly despairing, and then at Gabriel.
‘I can not put my poor husband through such discomfort.’
‘Just a fortnight more, Mrs Brancaster, and we can hang out the bunting for him.’
Mercy smiled. Gabriel Chantry was always referring to villagey things like that. It was really very sweet. It was always a question of ‘hanging out the bunting’ or ‘not the kind of thing that we could say in front of the rector’ or ‘looks like harvest supper without the supper’. Sometimes Mercy found herself envying him his cottage and his shop, his bicycle which he used to come up to Brindells, often twice a day. His life seemed to be lived on an easier scale than her own. His surroundings did not dwarf him, and not much was expected of him, except by himself. Most of all, and sometimes this made Mercy more envious than anything, he was not a woman. He did not have a duty to produce an heir.
John’s next letter to Mercy was from a different address.
Dearest Mercy, I have come to Cordel Court because you force me to be homeless! I am sleeping in your bedroom, hunting a little with Lady Violet, and trying not to find your step-uncle Lord Marcus tarsome! Please, please have me back soon. Your John.
At last the alterations to the kitchens were finished, and although there was still a long way to go with the furnishings and the placing of the new furniture, Brindells was once more, after two long months, at least habitable.
‘I know it seems a long time, Mrs Brancaster, but really, considering the amount of alteration necessary, it has been very, very speedy. The builders have had innumerable problems.’
‘Oh, Mr Chantry, who cares? Speedy or not speedy, my husband is coming home!’
The look of longing on Mercy’s face gave Gabriel such a jolt that it brought him into a new emotional enclosure. He had never seen such – love was too over-used a word – such adoration for a husband in any wife’s eyes. It filled him with envy, and silent amazement. For what kind of man was Brancaster, that he could inspire such adoration in his young wife? To Gabriel, unused as he was to such people, he had seemed too much the
sportsman to be a loving husband. He now realized he must have been wrong, for otherwise such a lovely young woman as Mrs Brancaster surely would not feel as she did?
John was proudly returned to her, finally, by one of his new motor cars, carefully preceding the second, following in case of breakdown, both of
them driven by newly hired chauffeurs from London.
When Mercy saw him she could not believe her eyes. It seemed as if she had not seen him for a century, and she found herself running into his arms and being wrapped around by his motoring cape, which smelt strangely and strongly of dust and petrol.
‘Oh, John, how I have missed you!’
But as she stepped back and looked up into his eyes she realized that her John was gone. For some reason that she simply could not understand, the dark haired rider with the grim expression whom she had glimpsed riding in the Park when she first came to London, before the start of her ill-starred Season, was back.
Nine
The weather was fine and warm for October and there was much outside that could be appreciated, Dorinda found, despite the views being from the window of a nursing home. She tried to think of cheerful things. She thought about how pretty her dress was, and how much she liked it, and she thought about how kind the nurse, Miss Lynch, had been. She thought about all these things to take her mind off the fact that Harry was dead, and she was, to her great astonishment, missing him.
Of course she had paid a terrible price for her dreadful treatment of him. She had run away from him because he had been weak and silly and gambled, or collected butterflies – she had really no idea which had been the more tedious in its way. But finally she had helped to nurse him in his last weeks, as a result of which she had lost her lovely house in St John’s Wood, and even her carriage with her beautiful coat of arms painted upon it.
Gervaise had thrown her out. Not physically, of course – that would not have been his way. But he had terminated her lease, or whatever it was that the lawyer had said she had been given – she had not really cared – and as a result she had been homeless for weeks now. And of course, having paid for the funeral and the burial, and the headstone, by the sale of her Indian sapphire necklace, her stomacher and even, yes, her pocket watch, she was now in that most unhappy of positions – she had nothing more to sell.
Only a few months before she had been on top of the world. She had had a lover whom she adored, clothes, jewellery, a house, a maid, and a beautiful blue leather lined carriage. But now, because of her really rather worthless husband, not to mention her wretched maid, she had nothing but her clothes, and a very little money.
Still, being of a philosophical nature, which she undoubtedly was, she could never bring herself to regret having helped to nurse Harry. Whatever his faults, he had taken her away from her mother and her dreadful boarding house. To live with her mother, who had been so unkind and cruel, had been far worse than living with Harry, for all his gambling and his butterflies.
If only Harry had not been so hopeless, Dorinda would never have allowed herself to be seduced by Gervaise on the boat. But Harry had only to have money in his pockets for it to find its way through them in a matter, not of minutes, but of seconds. So, all in all, there was really very little point in crying over spilt milk, lost carriages and horses, or any other little detail of her short but glorious life with Gervaise.
Miss Lynch came into the room.
‘Here it is, Mrs Montgomery, your husband’s watch.’ Leonie leaned forward and placed the timepiece in its leather box reverentially in Dorinda’s gloved hand. ‘And – forgive me, but knowing how much you have need of the wherewithal upon which we all depend, I have to tell you that Lady Angela has just commented, as she took it out of the safe, that it is very rare, and she imagines really very very valuable.’
They both stared at it, and then at each other. They had become such friends over the last weeks, it seemed hardly possible that they had not always known each other.
Dorinda had come to respect Leonie Lynch in a way that she had never imagined being able to respect another young woman of her own age. She knew that all the time Leonie had nursed Harry she had made him feel as if he was in heaven. Because of her he had died truly at peace, even happy.
Now, as they stared at the watch, there was no need for either of them to say what they both knew, that if the timepiece really was valuable, it might be the end to Dorinda’s problems. If she could sell it she could perhaps buy herself a lease on a small house, or at any rate a great deal more security than she had at present. The money obtained for her Indian sapphires and various other items was not so great that it would last her more than a few months, and they both knew it.
As soon as she knew of her predicament, Leonie would have liked to ask Dorinda to stay with Mrs Dodd, but it was impossible. Unfortunately Mrs Dodd already knew all too much about Dorinda Blue. Along with the rest of the world she knew that her carriage, in happier times, had been painted with a coat of arms made up of cherubs and a heart, of the sapphires that matched her eyes, of her outstanding beauty that had ensnared a well-known aristocrat. Dorinda’s allure had already been widely publicized, and it followed that it was quite out of the question for anyone from a respectable background to entertain this member of the demi-monde.
At present Dorinda was lodging round the corner from Leonie Lynch and Mrs Dodd, in a clean enough place with large rooms. It was poorly furnished, with factory made pieces and cheap paintings, but clean enough to satisfy her needs, if not to inspire her to improve it with anything but the bare necessities.
‘To whom should I go to have it valued, do you think?’
‘Not to Tarleton. He is not the kind of person to place it in the right hands.’
‘I only know Tarleton. I do not know any other fellow who sells jewellery privately.’
Dorinda sighed, but Leonie was, as always, there to reassure her.
‘Mrs Dodd will know. She knows everyone in that way. She will find someone of quality who will take it for a much better price than Tarleton will give you.’
There. It was out. The word had been said. Price. Money. They all depended on it, and just because it was so important, because everyone did depend upon it, it was never, ever, ever, mentioned in good society.
Although, Dorinda thought wryly, this rule did not really apply to her, for she no longer counted as ‘good society’. She was neither a woman of good reputation, nor in a position to pretend to be. Gervaise had ruined the chances of all that for her for ever. And now, what was worse, she was not just a member of the demi-monde, she was also that worst of all possible worsts for a young woman, she was – and might always be from now on, for all she knew – a widow.
She sighed again, but this time only inwardly.
There was something about a widow that put off the whole world. To begin with, her own sex did not like to become friends with a widow, in case widowhood was in some way catching. Or they were afraid that their husbands might be attracted to the luckless woman. The men on the other hand had quite another reason for their dislike of the state of widowhood. They did not like the freedom of it. They abhorred the feeling that where love might be given, marriage might have to follow, a situation which would never come about if they conducted an affair with a wife.
‘I think we need to snare someone like Sir Joseph or even the matchless Lawrence Leveen with a timepiece as beautiful as this is. Do you know that?’ Mrs Dodd said as soon as she saw the watch. It was not just a gentleman’s watch, it was perfectly, outrageously, beautiful. It was the
timepiece of a tsar or a king, or someone who had thought of himself as such, and had been made by a great artist, judging by the delicacy of the mechanisms, and the enamel work. It was a Rembrandt of timepieces.
‘Yes, there are two people who would pay any amount for this, I would say. I mean, dear, the enamelling alone is out of this world, is it not? Yes. It should be offered privately to someone like Leveen the art dealer,’ Mrs Dodd went on in her
briskest fashion, ‘or Sir Joseph Porter, who is said to have done so much for Mrs Keppel’s fortune that she has more stocks and shares than the Prince of Wales himself. Tell your poor dear widowed friend that I will find the right buyer for this. Lady Angela is right, it is quite outstanding. The workmanship so delicate, the movement so light...’ She held the pocket watch to her ear for a few seconds. ‘It is as if angels made it, so clear and light is its sound, and its little bells and chimes are exquisite. It is a delight. Invaluable, I should have thought, Leonie dear, quite invaluable. I have met Lawrence Leveen, my late husband knew him. He is a great collector, a great character. He will be more than interested. Like all widowers, he has time on his hands, time enough to appreciate a timepiece of this kind.’
For the interview with Mr Leveen it was necessary for Dorinda to look more than respectable. She must look inspiringly respectable. To this end she dressed in her most beautiful widow’s weeds, all silk skirts and rustling petticoats, and a lace jabot at the throat. In fact so dramatically dark was she that she knew her eyes looked more blue than ever against the black.
Dorinda knew from Gervaise Lowther that, as far as the aristocracy was concerned, Lawrence Leveen was a character around whom people circled with circumspection. He had been married young, and his wife had been tragically killed. Generally, though, he was considered to be a man of great taste who nevertheless had earned himself a reputation, among some of the upper echelons, for being a little too sharp in business.
Dorinda remembered Gervaise’s opinion. ‘He pays too little for paintings and then sells them for too much to fools whom he has already seen fit to help in business. But there. The Prince of Wales loves him. Mrs Keppel loves him. He is fabulously rich, and very much part of the new order of things. People are moving their money away from land and the countryside, looking towards railways and roads, motor cars and flying machines. Away from horses and carriages and towards the combustion engine.’
The Love Knot Page 21
