May felt her face glowing, and turned to the fire. She was disconcerted by Harry Cussons’ bold gaze – yet she felt little flutters of excitement, and the room seemed dominated by his masculine presence.
The next hour flew by. May chatted and was lively, yet scarcely knew what she replied to Harry’s sallies. Then he rose to his feet.
‘I have trespassed too long already on your time together, I will leave you now. Good evening, Melicent, goodbye, Miss Winton.’ His tone was formal but his eyes danced and again his handshake was a little too protracted, yet so carefully judged that no one could say it was too long. He leaned forward, his voice low but confident. ‘Now I know where you are hiding, it will not be so long before we meet again.’ He was gone, and the drawing room seemed suddenly empty without his vibrant personality.
‘I’m so glad Harry happened to drop in while you were here, May.’ Melicent Andover’s voice was complacent.
May shook her head reprovingly at her. ‘Oh Grandmamma, don’t think I’m fooled, you know you arranged it beforehand!’
Lady Andover’s voice was tinged with amusement. ‘It didn’t take much arranging, May. Young Harry needed only the barest hint of your presence here today.’ She leant forward confidentially. ‘There is no doubt, my dear, he is seriously thinking of settling down; he needs a mistress for his house and a mother for his children. It will be a wrench for him, of course, but I am sure Harry is wise enough to realise that a man cannot play the blithe bachelor forever.’
May was not at all sure that she liked the picture which Lady Andover’s words conjured up. Was she then no more than an appetising morsel laid out for Harry Cussons’ approval, so that he could decide whether she was sufficiently delectable to be worth his sacrificing himself in marriage? As if sensing her disquiet her grandmother continued.
‘Think of the advantages to you, my dear: such an attractive man, always so amusing, so much charm. Harry knows just how to please a woman!’
May dropped her eyes and toyed with the tasselled fringe of the low lamp beside her chair.
‘Is Lady Hindlesham in Town at the moment?’ Her voice was carefully casual.
‘Don’t be silly, May. You are a child sometimes.’ The hint of irritation behind her grandmother’s indulgent tone gave May the answer she did not want.
* * *
May returned home in her grandmother’s brougham, feeling delightfully cossetted with the footwarmer under her shoes and a thick rug wrapped closely around her. Uncle Bertie had been his usual urbane self, and Archie had teased her unmercifully about her skivvying, saying in mock serious tones, ‘There are rumours that the second scullerymaid is looking for advancement – now you always got on so well with Chef, why don’t you consider it? The hours aren’t so long, the pay can’t be much worse, and you must admit the food is better!’ May could only agree with this last comment, as she ate her way from the Filets de Sole a la Bisque, through the Vol-au-vent de Foie gras à la Talleyrand to the final triumphant conclusion of the Bombes Surprises.
‘Chef insisted on sending up all his specialities tonight, May,’ Lady Andover smiled. ‘He is convinced that the East End is a gastronomic desert.’
‘As far as the hospital’s concerned he’s absolutely right.’ May carefully selected a plump purple grape with the bloom still on it. ‘But there are the jellied eels, they’re not quite like anything else I’ve ever tasted – they keep them live, you know, in big tanks, and skin them at the back of the shop.’
Archie gave a loud guffaw, while Lady Andover made a moue of distaste.
‘Really, May, don’t let yourself become coarse.’
After the meal May insisted on descending to the subterranean kitchens of Arlington Street to thank Chef in person. His round red face gleamed and his waxed moustaches quivered with pleasure at her appearance. He was fascinated to hear of her experiences in the eel and pie shops, but raised his hands in horror at her description of the food served in the hospital. ‘Tinned sardines for breakfast, and porridge in ze evening – it’s barbaric, an inzult to zee taste buds, Mees May, I feel for you, ’ow I feel for you,’ and his conker brown eyes were misty with sympathy.
As May was taking her leave Lofthouse came forward with a large basket under a snowy white cloth. ‘With Chefs compliments, Miss May,’ and he carried it out in person and bestowed it on the seat.
The carriage swayed gently to a halt. The footman’s face was a mask as he pulled out the steps and helped May to alight onto a pavement alive with the tapping heels of cheap boots and high-pitched Cockney voices. A group of women stopped to stare at the gleaming horses and the polished brougham with the Andover crest on its side. May recognised one of them, a tired-faced girl with a bundled baby in her arms, shivering in a threadbare shawl. She was a regular visitor to Simeon Ward, where she sat patiently twice a week, holding the hand of a young man whose leg had been crushed by a falling crate in the docks. They hardly ever spoke, but the girl was always at the head of the queue on visiting days, and one of the last to leave. Now May smiled in her direction.
‘Good evening, Mrs Jackson.’
But the girl gasped and shrank back, suspicious and wary, and May realised that she could not see the familiar nurse in the wealthy stranger, and before she could identify herself the woman had seized the arm of her companion and melted into the shadows. The little incident, so soon over that it was not even noticed by the escorting footman, was oddly disconcerting; May felt suddenly ashamed of her strong, well-fed body and warm furs. Then the hospital clock struck the half hour and she quickened her pace; her special late leave ended at ten-thirty and Home Sister was standing in the doorway, a stern, gaunt figure. May seized the basket from the bemused footman with a murmured, ‘Thank you, Robert,’ and stepped in.
‘Good evening, Sister.’
‘Good evening, Nurse Winton, you are only just in time.’
‘I’m sorry, Sister.’ May made the automatic apology, and set off up the steep stairs.
* * *
When she awoke the next morning she felt a sudden surge of excitement, and for the next few days she was careful to collect her letters after each meal. But it was the following week, as she dashed across to sweep and dust her room, that she picked up the envelope with its bold masculine scrawl dashing across it, so that there was scarcely room for the ‘E’ in the bottom corner. May smiled to herself, thinking that it must surely be the first time Harry Cussons had ever put that superscription on one of his letters. She stood with it in her hand, hesitating, but Simeon Ward was on accident take-in this week, and May knew that even an extra five minutes would put her behind until dinner time, so she thrust the letter unopened into her dress pocket where it rustled tantalisingly as she moved about her morning routine.
When she did open it in her room after dinner it was disappointingly short, yet as she swiftly scanned the lines she realised it was very much to the point. He wrote that his sister had come up ahead of her family and would be in London for several weeks, as he would be himself. Could he prevail on her to dine one evening? Although couched as a mere proposal he had clearly been in no doubt as to her response, since he stated that he would call for her at St Katharine’s on the following evening, at seven-thirty. May felt disconcerted; had the spell he cast over her been so obvious? She had thought her behaviour more discreet. But then she reflected wryly that Harry Cussons, of all men, had the experience to judge whether a woman was interested or not, and since it seemed that they mostly were he could afford to be presumptuous.
She read the letter again, and felt a sudden surge of dismay – whatever would Lady Clarence think if she heard that she had dined with Harry Cussons? Then she pulled herself together: she was an independent woman now, and entitled to lead her own life as long as it did not conflict with the duties of her profession. Besides, she had heard Lady Beddows spoken of as a woman of unimpeachable reputation: no harm could come in her company – perhaps she was hoping to see her brother safely settled?
/> May hastily thrust this thought aside, together with the letter, and began to plan how she would ask Sister Simeon to grant her off-duty for the following evening, and, even more formidable, persuade Home Sister to allow her a second late pass, so soon after the last one.
Sister Simeon had been reasonable. ‘Well, you have never asked for specific off-duty time before, Nurse Winton, so I suppose I can make a concession this time, despite the short notice. I trust you do not hope to make a habit of dining out in Town?’
She looked sharply at May who replied mendaciously, ‘No, Sister, of course not, Sister,’ her hands neatly behind her back, her spine straight. ‘Thank you so much, Sister.’
Home Sister proved a more redoubtable obstacle, as May had feared, but she eventually yielded to the justice of May’s argument that Matron had said they could have one late pass a month and she had been here three months and had had only a single late pass so far. ‘But remember, Nurse, that late passes are not intended to be banked, like money. In future if you don’t use one during the month then you have lost it for good.’ May privately resolved that from now on she certainly would use it, even if she had to spend the last evening of every month lurking in Harris’ Eel and Pie Restaurant consuming mounds of mash and gravy. But she merely nodded her head in agreement.
‘Yes, Sister, certainly not, Sister. Thank you, Sister, no, not a minute after ten-thirty by the hospital clock, Sister. Good afternoon, Sister.’
* * *
Tuesday was one of Simeon ward’s operation days. May usually enjoyed these, and found the extra work more than compensated for by the flurry and excitement, but now she just wanted to get the day over and done with, so that she could relax in a hot bath and linger over her preparations for the evening.
She rushed along beside the trolley carrying her patient, a teenage boy who was determined to show he was grown up, and cracked stupid tasteless jokes until May spoke sharply to him, whereupon he relapsed into silence and she saw the naked fear in his eyes and was ashamed; but there was no time for a reassuring word before the anaesthetist pounced. As she watched the surgeon cut and cut again so that the blood gushed up before the forceps could be applied, and she prayed that the boy would not die there, on the table, with the last voice in his ears that of an impatient nurse. Her calves ached as she fetched and carried, and the sickly-sweet smell of ether was over-powering amidst the persistent humming sound of the theatre.
The boy did not die, of course. May had seen the surgeons pause, and shake their heads over a prone form, but they always managed to sew things up somehow and get the patient back to the ward. Ada Farrar, in the equivalent women’s surgical, had once had to gallop all the way back with a dying patient – ‘I thought the lift would never come, May’ – but she had got there in time and the grim-faced Sister had stood by the bed with her finger on the fading pulse saying to Ada, ‘At St Katharine’s nobody dies in the theatre, remember that, Nurse Farrar. Surgeons’ reputations are more precious than ours.’ But this boy was breathing normally, and the healthy pink returned to his cheeks as May trotted beside him with a firm hand clutching his jaw, and she was able to assuage her guilt by settling him comfortably in bed before she sped off with the next patient.
The day dragged on and the long awaited six o’clock found May beside an appendectomy who was vomiting helplessly into the bowl she held for him. Staff Nurse appeared at her elbow. ‘Sister says you may go now, Winton, you’ll have to leave a clean bowl wedged by his pillow, everyone else is busy.’
May looked down at the shivering, whey-faced man on the bed, wiped his lips gently with a piece of flannel and said, ‘Tell Sister I can stay a little longer if she wishes, I’m not in any hurry.’ Staff Nurse nodded and vanished.
It was beyond the half hour before the patient stopped retching and sagged back on the pillows. May washed his face and hands, took her bowl into the sluice for emptying and cleaning, and reported to Sister. Sister Simeon nodded her dismissal.
‘Enjoy your evening, Nurse Winton.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’ And May left the ward.
Chapter Fourteen
The cold air outside was blessedly reviving. May took several deep breaths, sniffing the tang of salt from beyond the dock walls. Refreshed, she dashed across the courtyards and into the Nurses’ Home. Reaching the bathroom she turned on the taps on her way to her room; and was back, and in and out of her bath in minutes – regretfully remembering her plans for a long, hot soak. She dressed with care. Her most elaborate gowns had been left at Allingham, but she selected a dinner dress of the palest green miroir velvet, with a delicate froth of creamy lace around the low neckline, and hooked herself into it. Her hair took longer: she wanted to show it off to its best advantage, and was struggling with it when Minnie Emms, back from her half-day off, looked in and lent a helping hand. Minnie slid in the final pin.
‘My, May, you do look swish, where are you going?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ May felt the beginnings of a blush. Minnie raised a pair of questioning eyebrows.
‘I’m dining with a family friend,’ May added quickly.
‘When is he picking you up?’ Minnie asked slyly.
‘At half-past seven – oh, you wretch, Minnie!’
‘Well, you’d better get a move on, it’s gone twenty-five past already.’
‘Oh, my cloak, my gloves – Minnie, do help me with the buttons.’
Minnie attacked May’s long white kid gloves, managing to fasten a piece of the skin of May’s wrist along with one of the tiny pearl buttons – but there was no time to put it right. May threw her cloak around her, checked her hat in the mirror and was off down the stairs, pursued by Minnie’s cries of, ‘Enjoy yourself, and don’t be late back!’
A smart carriage was parked outside the main entrance, looking out of place in the Dock Road; the glossy-coated horse tossed its head disdainfully. The liveried attendant jumped down and held the door open, and May tumbled in. The soft darkness of the interior was redolent of the upper class male: she caught the mingled aroma of shaving soap and good cigars, and the underlying tang of sweat. For a panicky moment May wondered whether she had jumped into the wrong carriage, then the deep tones of Harry Cussons’ voice broke the silence. He sounded amused.
‘You are always in such a rush, Miss Winton. What can you possibly have been doing all day to be in this flurry now?’
For a brief moment the vision of the surgeon’s knife poised above the blood-beaded incision flashed before her eyes, and the face of the shaking, vomiting wretch on the bed. She opened her mouth to tell him, then common sense reasserted itself. Lord Hindlesham might be interested in the details of a nurse’s daily life, but she knew Harry Cussons would not be – he expected entertainment from his companions.
‘Oh, we keep busy,’ her tone was light. ‘But I’m off duty now. Tell me, how is the Little Season?’
Harry Cussons’ gossip was lively, amusing, and tinged with a spice of malice. May was soon relaxed and laughing in the warm intimacy of the carriage. As they talked she tugged at her left glove, trying to ease the pinch, though she knew from past experience how difficult it was to put this right. Why did long gloves have to be so tight? But they always were; fashion and Lady Clarence decreed it so. As they passed under a street lamp her companion noticed her fidgeting. He reached across and picked up her hand.
‘What’s the matter? Ah, you have trapped your skin – how well I remember my younger sister doing the same thing when she first Came Out. You are a careless nymph, you know!’ He inspected her wrist in another passing light. ‘I’m afraid you won’t get this right without taking your glove off and starting again.’
‘I’ve got out of the habit of wearing these,’ May replied. ‘Bella, my maid, always used to put them on for me.’
‘Then let me be your lady’s maid for this evening.’
There was amusement in his voice, and an elusive him of something May could not recognise. His grasp on her wrist was firm, a
nd she could not have broken free without a sharp tug; besides, she knew she did not want to break free.
Harry Cussons’ hand glided lightly up to her elbow, and with strong yet gentle fingers he began to undo the small loops, one by one. He lingered over each tiny button in turn, his touch caressing and intimate. May sat unprotesting, as though mesmerised. She gazed at his bony profile, a dark outline in the light of the passing lamps, and felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and delicately touch his face and gently push back the rebellious lock of hair which flopped forward over his forehead. But she did not.
Then the glove was drawn slowly off her hand, and the small red patch of skin disclosed. Harry Cussons touched it tenderly with his fingertip.
‘There is the cause of the mischief. Now I must do as my old Nanny always did when I fell and hurt myself.’ And before May could move he had bent his head and kissed her wrist, not once, but twice. With an effort May removed her hand from his grasp and recovering herself said, ‘But I have not yet fallen, Mr Cussons.’
At this he threw back his head and roared with laughter, and May felt uncertain and ill-at-ease; her companion, as if sensing this, picked up the glove, said, ‘Hold your hand out, we’re nearly there,’ and refastened the buttons swiftly and deftly.
‘There, now you are ready to face the world.’
May wondered where he had learnt to handle tiny buttons so skilfully, and could not resist saying as he finished, ‘Clearly you are an experienced lady’s maid, Mr Cussons’, and he looked at her sharply for a moment so that she felt she had scored a hit.
Mayfair Rebel Page 13
