The Love Knot

by Charlotte Bingham

  Dorinda could see the barefaced sense of this. It was true. After all, she would not always be beautiful, so it followed, surely, that she would not always be rich?

  ‘Do you believe in sin, Mrs Goodman?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Montgomery, but only other people’s!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Should I come out of mourning soon, do you think? Could we give a soirée, so that I would be officially out of mourning?’

  ‘If I were you, seeing that your late husband left you little to remember him by, and cared less, I should consider myself out of mourning as of this morning.’

  Mrs Goodman’s expression was sage to the point of banality. ‘Besides, apart from ourselves and Miss Lynch at the nursing home, who would remember that you are a widow, Mrs Montgomery? As few people as there are rings on my fingers. Most people in Society, and the public too, only remember you as Dorinda Blue, not as the wife of Mr Montgomery.’

  ‘In that case, I shall tackle Mr L with the idea at luncheon.’

  ‘But only, my dear, after the entrée.’

  Dorinda snorted lightly.

  ‘Mrs Goodman,’ she admonished her companion-maid, ‘are you implying that I would be so naive as to approach a member of the opposite sex with any new subject before the dessert, or the angels on horseback? I might be a poor widow, but I do know my men.’

  They both laughed at this.

  It was, after all, not only funny, but the truth.

  For luncheon that day Dorinda wore her first gown bought from Lucile, Lady Duff-Gordon. It was an elaborate silk two piece with a wide waistband which emphasized the brilliance of the cut of the full skirt beneath, a skirt made to match the yellow of the yellow and white pin-tucked, high-necked, lightly boned, long-sleeved, lace-edged blouse.

  Lady Duff-Gordon believed in extravagant underclothes. She did not consider that petticoats should be skimped. As a result of her almost messianic belief Dorinda was feeling and looking simply superb, and she knew it.

  Happily she was not alone. Her own admiration for herself, she was pleased to see, was reflected in the eyes of her dearest Mr L.

  ‘Mr L,’ she said after the entrée had been cleared, and the various dishes following, and a flunkey was offering him the cheese on a cut glass and silver dish. ‘I think that we might give a soirée, do you not? A small soirée, an intimate rout, here in Park Lane. Some friends, mutual acquaintances, perhaps Lady Finborough, and the Earl of Dorchester? Lady Londonderry, and Lady Elcho, perhaps? Music could be a feature, I thought, given that you are such a great patron of the musical world. It would be an occasion for me to show you what a good hostess I can be.’

  Lawrence Leveen paused as he took some cheese, and then, having replaced the cheese knife, he looked across at Dorinda.

  ‘I think we should discuss this later, dearest, really I do.’

  Dorinda pouted, but only lightly.

  ‘Oh, very well, if you think that is best.’

  ‘I do.’

  Later, after Dorinda had changed from her luncheon clothes to her afternoon walking dress, and from her walking dress, in which she went out in her new carriage, to her tea gown, in which she lay on her chaise longue and pretended to read a book with her long chestnut hair loosened, Mr L called on her, as he was meant to do.

  Later again he too changed, into an elaborate silk-collared quilted gentleman’s robe, before he took it upon himself to explain why it was quite impossible for Dorinda to give a soirée at the house, or expect anyone to call upon her, let alone exchange visiting cards, or any of the normal practices common to the aristocracy, new or old.

  ‘We are not married, my darling Dorinda. And that being so, you must understand, it would not be possible for people like Lady Elcho or Lady Londonderry to leave their cards.’

  Dorinda pouted again, but this time with more intent.

  ‘But you are so rich, Mr L. And Lady Cardigan entertained when she was not married to––’

  ‘Money is not an entrée to Society in London, dearest Dorinda. Besides, Lady Cardigan is that rare creature, the brilliant exception to the inevitable rule. And besides ...’

  ‘Besides?’

  ‘She hunts.’

  Lawrence Leveen smiled across at his blue-eyed goddess with her red gold hair, and her red Chinese patterned tea gown. Dorinda did not just look beautiful, she looked stunning.

  ‘You are a stunner, Dorinda, did you know that?’

  Dorinda smiled dreamily at him. Mr L was really very, very ... delightful.

  ‘And you are delightful, Mr L. Do you know, I like being with you more than anyone I have ever known? I was thinking this morning that when I am with you I simply do not know the time.’

  He looked at her, amazed. This was the nearest to being openly affectionate that Dorinda had ever been with him, and while he realized that only so much could be asked of a man’s mistress, particularly one as beautiful as Dorinda, it was still wondrous to him that she had said what she had to him.

  For her part Dorinda too was amazed by what she had said. Her astonishment stemmed from the fact that it was only after she had spoken that she had suddenly realized the utter truth of her words.

  She did like being with Mr L more than anyone she had ever known, even Gervaise Lowther, who, when she thought about it, could be quite dull when he was talking endlessly about horse racing and gambling, which Mr L, thank the Lord, never did.

  ‘And so how should things go, do you think? I mean, how do you think they should go?’

  ‘These things are most difficult, Mrs Montgomery,’ he said, deliberately making fun of her slack language. ‘You know the rules of Society rarely, if ever, bend. Yet we have to have rules in order to know just how to go on. If we did not, Society would become muddled, and I for one would not want that. We have to have yardsticks, if only to know when we have all departed from them, or all is lost.’

  Dorinda looked thoughtful, and then resigned.

  ‘So no-one would come here, even if we put on the most splendid display in the whole world?’

  ‘No-one whatsoever. The women rule Society. They have made the rules by which the men must abide – or be exiled. It is just a fact. The day the women stop making the rules will see the collapse of Society, the collapse of standards. Women should govern Society the way that men govern politics. Each understands their own world far better than the other.’

  ‘I know some of the rules, but not all of them, and certainly not by heart.’

  Dorinda knew them all and only too well, of course, but she always liked to hear them repeated. She was like a child in that way, wanting to hear the same story told to her over and over again.

  ‘Married women do not call on ladies living under the protection of gentlemen to whom they are not married. It is not convenable, however rich the gentleman concerned. However well connected.’

  Lawrence took a cigar from a nearby thermidor, most unusual for him at that hour, but it meant that he was thinking hard, and they both knew it. He was a good card player and often partnered Mrs Keppel. Of a sudden he had seen that his emotional hand might have more than one ace. It might even have a trio of aces.

  ‘You do not mind my cigar in your sitting-room, dearest?’

  ‘No, of course not. You know how I love to smell your cigar smoke. It is delicious.’

  She struck a match for him.

  ‘Of course,’ Lawrence said, looking carefully at the tip of his cigar before replacing it in his mouth and looking across at his beautiful mistress, ‘there is a solution to your difficulty. An easy and most effective solution, and that is – I can marry you.’

  Dorinda leaned forward.

  ‘What did you say, dearest?’

  ‘I said, dearest Dorinda, I can marry you. Or, if you like, you can marry me.’

  ‘And then what would happen?’

  Dorinda did not know how to keep a straight face. She was suddenly so delighted with the idea of marrying her Mr L that she realized she was
not smiling, but laughing.

  ‘What would happen is that we would be married, possibly at my estate in Sussex, but out of town anyway – could be Scotland. And then we would return and you could have as large a soirée as you wish. Daily if you wanted, but as Mrs Lawrence Leveen, not as Mrs Montgomery.’

  Dorinda stood up and walked over to Lawrence and sat down beside him, putting her hands up to his face. His brilliant eyes, which she found so fascinating, stared into her own beautiful blue ones.

  ‘What if I say no?’ she teased him.

  Lawrence shrugged his shoulders, his face poker straight, while his heart raced with the disappointment of the very idea of her refusing him the honour.

  ‘You say no and I will ask you again tomorrow. And whenever the subject of a soirée or a formal dinner party, or a box at Ascot, or anything else, comes up, I will remind you of the rewards of marriage to me.’

  ‘You are so suave, Mr L. That is what I love about you, that and the fact that you know things that I do not. You know so much, it makes me love being with you. Then there is the fact that we like the same things. And the fact that you are so awfully rich. And the fact that you put diamonds in my breakfast napkin. I like all those things. In fact, I like them so much that I think, I think – I would love to marry you.’

  Lawrence looked at her and smiled.

  ‘Good. I think that you will, eventually, find that is a good decision. We are so alike, Dorinda, you and I. You like to keep your cards close to your chest, and so do I. And we are both adventurers. You as much as myself, my dearest. Now, tell me, what sort of ring would you like for your engagement?’

  ‘Oh, Mr L, not another ring!’

  ‘Oh, very well. If jewels have grown so boring I will have Tarleton make up this morning’s diamond into a showpiece setting as an engagement ring for you. Is that what you would wish?’

  Dorinda smiled mischievously.

  ‘If you like, but you choose the setting with him. You have far better taste than I.’

  She sighed, and her eyes grew suddenly dreamy.

  ‘Oh, Mr L, just think of all those women who will now have to call on me, right down to – or up to – Lady Londonderry.’

  ‘Do not put that particular cart before the horse Dorinda my dearest. Lady Londonderry will be the hardest nut you have to crack, as far as true Society is concerned.’

  ‘She will call. You wait. I will wager you anything that she does.’

  ‘Lady Londonderry is – Lady Londonderry, Dorinda.’

  ‘Yes, but you have something of which she is envious.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Even more money than she has!’

  She had not said that she loved him. Lawrence realized that. He even appreciated it. On the other hand, she had not said that she did not love him. She had been honest, and he loved that in her more than anything. Indeed, Lawrence Leveen knew that honesty was the rarest of all qualities in the opposite sex. Like the pearl in the oyster, he had thought it was something you only ever heard about.

  The Queen had died by the time Lord Freddie Melsetter’s bequest came to Leonie. The nation was in mourning and the state funeral that followed was going to be one that no-one would forget. The Empire must be represented by all its members, every little South Sea island, every state within a state. Everyone had to walk behind the small white coffin, dressed in state regalia, or their uniforms, or, simply, in deepest black.

  And so to one small island known as Britain came every kind of representative from all over the world, and as the capital bent double under the burden of putting up so many hundreds of foreign dignitaries and their massive entourages, it seemed as if the influx might become too much.

  Lady Angela was now summoned to the palace a great deal, for it seemed that the King needed her even more than ever. Alas, it was no longer possible for him to take a hansom cab or the wobbly mahogany lift to Lady Angela’s private rooms for tea at the nursing home. She must go to him, for the intolerable honour of kingship was already taking its toll of a man in his very late middle age.

  ‘Such is your dedication to duty, such your serious outlook, that I feel you are quite able to take my place in those hours when I expect to be ever more absent, Miss Lynch. And of course, as always, I must count on your discretion in this matter.’

  Being taken into Lady Angela’s confidence in this way was immensely worrying to Leonie. She had not expected to be singled out for such a great responsibility so soon in her life, but, as Lady Angela went on to tell her, she had chosen Leonie most particularly for this purpose since she would not seek to exploit, or even enjoy the power of her position.

  ‘Anyone else here given a position of power, albeit for only a few hours, would take some sort of advantage from the situation. I feel I can trust you to be both efficient and discreet.’

  As the days went by, Leonie found it easier and easier to make herself busier and busier. It was as if she felt doubly responsible for the nursing home in Lady Angela’s frequent if short absences.

  ‘He is becoming so caught up with the coronation arrangements I fear for his health,’ Lady Angela confided more than once to the young woman upon whom she now seemed to lean more and more. ‘I fear as with all excess that these arrangements will end in tears.’

  When the King contracted appendicitis and the world prayed for his life, Lady Angela’s absence was necessarily prolonged, and it was many weeks before the administration of the nursing home returned to normal and Leonie could finally think of taking a day off to see her longed for family.

  ‘You away tomorrow?’ one of the younger nurses asked, seeing Leonie suddenly turning away to hide her face.

  Leonie nodded, suppressing a yawn. Although Sister Angela’s Nursing Home had become a second home to her, and she prided herself that she put duty before everything, the fact was that at that moment she could not wait to go home to Eastgate Street and be spoiled by her foster mother and father, whom she had not seen for months.

  Naturally enough, Leonie had said nothing to Aisleen Lynch about Lord Freddie Melsetter’s generous bequest. It seemed quite wrong to mention such a thing, and most certainly before it became a fact. But once a bank account had been opened for her by Mrs Dodd, and the money lodged, it also seemed more than delightful to surprise them all.

  Of course Leonie knew that her first duty to such a sizeable bequest was to be sensible. She would never, she thought, be left money again, and that being so she had to think of the future. She had no idea of property values, but every now and then, when she was on night duty, she found herself dreaming of the possibility of buying herself a little cottage in the country.

  But first she delighted in picturing the faces of her foster parents and brothers and sisters when she showered them with the presents she was intent on buying for all eleven of them.

  Once Leonie had written a list of the names of those to whom she wished to give presents, Mrs Dodd took it upon herself to shop for her. She shopped wisely, and was able to do so at trade, for she had been more than happy to help out many of the traders in her area when their daughters or nieces, cousins or wives landed themselves in the kind of trouble that Leonie’s mother had so regrettably found herself in some nineteen years before. Everything she bought was in the best taste, and the two of them wrapped the gifts together in the finest of tissue papers, tied with fine gold string which glittered in the gaslight as they worked, both of them feeling that particular kind of excited interest that goes with generosity.

  The last of Leonie’s real extravagances was to take a hackney out to Eastgate Street. Snuggling in the back of the carriage, hearing the clip clop of the pony’s hooves, putting her new pretty muff up to her cheek and feeling the matching hat on her head, watching the buildings and the houses and their occupants becoming poorer and poorer, brought back the reality of Leonie’s present position ever more forcibly to her.

  She had been given a chance to become a nurse in a place where all the aristocracy came, where
the King himself had used to come, and yet here she was revisiting those back streets from which she actually sprang.

  This was her home, this was where she had grown up, among these narrow streets with their shabby brick fronts. And she had grown up with the men and women who hurried through them, men and women so different from the raffinés patients whom she had already become so used to nursing at the nursing home with their doncher knows and their rahly how too toos – people so different from the Lynches that they might as well be not only from a different world, but from a different planet. Yet somehow, now that she was back among them, these streets and these people meant more to her now that she was free of them than they had ever done when she was living amongst them.

  And when she pushed open the front door and saw the small rounded figure of her foster mother, she realized that she meant more to her than Mrs Dodd or Lady Angela or anyone else who had come into her life over the last long months.

  Of course the moment Mrs Lynch saw her youngest foster child she started to cry, using the corner of her best, lace-bordered apron as a handkerchief to dab at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘I thought we would never see you again! I said as much to Ned. We’ve seen the last of her, I said, when you followed Mrs Dodd into the carriage. That’s it, I said, we’ll never see our darling pretty Leonie again.’

  Leonie looked over to Ned Lynch, standing in the background. The top of his head seemed, to his foster daughter, to have flattened even more, what with the weight of the wide heavy trays that he had spent most of his life carrying on its top. He had grown more stout and with the added girth looked older, but even so she would have known him anywhere, and ran to embrace him for all that he was looking at her so shyly that you would have thought he did not know his own foster daughter.

  ‘How well you look!’

  ‘More food now you lot’s gone, and that’s for certain,’ he said, gruffly, but he kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes as he did so, as if Leonie was a rose that he was smelling.