The Runaway Women in London

by Lesley Eames

  But even if she couldn’t control it, she could certainly hide it. ‘Room for both of us,’ she said lightly, stepping away under the pretence of looking at Bryn.

  ‘I promised to take you to tea,’ Owen reminded her.

  Oh, heavens. Grace shrugged to suggest he had no need to worry about that.

  ‘I’d like to take you to tea,’ he said.

  Grace heard the throb of the approaching Silver Lady with relief. ‘Excuse me. I need to open the gates.’

  Owen came to help, then beckoned Bryn to his side so Lydia could drive in safely.

  Lydia glared at Owen as she got out of the car, but Owen showed no sign of being intimidated.

  ‘Bryn and I are here to apologise,’ he told her.

  ‘Ha! I knew you threw the paint.’

  ‘It was me,’ Bryn confessed bravely.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Grace intervened. ‘Mr Tedris and Bryn have apologised.’

  She hoped Lydia would apologise too, but Owen’s wry look showed he’d taken Lydia’s measure and knew apologies weren’t in her line.

  ‘I suppose you want to see the car,’ Lydia asked Bryn, gruff but not unkind.

  He was looking at it longingly. ‘May I?’

  ‘You can look, but you don’t touch unless invited. Understood?’

  Bryn had got Lydia’s measure too for he grinned. ‘Yes, Miss.’

  Grace was left on the cobbles with Owen. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d—’

  ‘I’m beginning to suspect I’m not forgiven after all. Do you blame me for Bryn’s offence?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘You seem eager to get away. And eager to escape my invitation to tea.’

  ‘We’re busy people. And there’s really no need to take me to tea.’

  ‘It isn’t a question of obligation. But if the idea is repugnant to you—’

  ‘Of course it isn’t.’ She was being ridiculous. Tea was just a gesture of thanks and an opportunity for neighbours to talk about their businesses. And hadn’t she been longing to talk to him about Silver Ladies? ‘Thank you. I’d like to go to tea.’

  ‘Excellent. Will tomorrow be convenient?’

  ‘I believe it will, though I can’t leave the office for long.’

  ‘I’d thought one of the London hotels might make for a pleasant treat, but if you’d prefer to stay nearby—’

  ‘A local tea shop will be perfect,’ Grace assured him. ‘I’ve no taste for grandeur.’

  ‘Then a local tea shop it shall be. I’ll call for you at four.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Grace nodded and escaped upstairs.

  ‘I’m taking tea with Mr Tedris tomorrow,’ she told the others later. ‘I hope to pick up some tips for Silver Ladies.’ She paused, then, to make it crystal clear that there was nothing romantic about the tea, added, ‘Perhaps I’ll meet Mrs Tedris.’

  Grace didn’t meet Bethan Tedris. Owen arrived alone, looking smart in a dark coat and hat, though there was nothing of the dandy about him. Instead, energy crackled around him like electricity.

  ‘I thought the Singing Kettle,’ he said.

  ‘Lovely.’

  Grace was glad to know where they were going as it meant she could walk there briskly and Owen had no need to take her arm to guide her. She broke into a run when it began to rain, so he had no need to shelter her under an umbrella either.

  They were given a table by the window. Beneath his coat Owen wore a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and dark tie.

  Grace had chosen to wear a grey skirt and jacket after Jenny had caught her considering a blue dress.

  ‘You look pretty in that,’ Jenny had said, but pretty was for girls who were meeting their sweethearts. Not for young women who were meeting married business acquaintances.

  The waitress brought menu cards.

  ‘Please choose whatever takes your fancy,’ Owen said. ‘You’re my guest.’

  ‘Tea and toast, I think.’ They felt appropriate choices being inexpensive and quick to consume. Grace didn’t want to linger long in Owen’s company.

  ‘You can do better than that,’ he said. ‘Ham? Tongue? Eggs?’

  ‘Perhaps a boiled egg,’ Grace conceded, deciding he might feel awkward eating a hearty meal while she merely nibbled.

  Owen chose ham.

  The waitress went off with their orders. Quietness descended and Grace strove for normality. ‘How’s Jenkins?’

  Owen’s eyes gleamed wryly. ‘He’s developed an aversion to tin cans.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘He can be a moody old reprobate. One minute he’s giving affection and the next he’s giving the cold shoulder. But I’m fond of him. I’m glad you saved him.’

  ‘You climbed the tree,’ Grace pointed out.

  ‘I enjoyed it. I climbed a lot of trees as a boy.’ There was a touch of nostalgia in his expression.

  ‘Do you miss Wales?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful country. But there are more opportunities for me here. For you too, I assume?’

  Grace hesitated, but there was something decent and trustworthy about Owen. Confident that he wouldn’t judge her, she told him about Ruston and Mrs Arleigh’s necklace.

  ‘She blamed you?’ He was outraged on Grace’s behalf. ‘She was a woman of widespread influence, I suppose.’

  ‘Indeed. But being dismissed without references spurred us on to start again down here,’ Grace said. She didn’t mention that Lydia, Jenny and Ruth had other reasons for leaving Ruston, because that was their business.

  The waitress brought their meals and for a few minutes they were occupied with eating.

  ‘Are your families proud of what you’ve achieved?’ Owen asked then.

  ‘My grandmother’s proud. She brought me up after my parents died.’

  ‘She’s still in Ruston?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘You’d like to bring her to London,’ Owen guessed. ‘You miss her.’

  ‘I do. Gran has become frail and her accommodation… It’s a damp flat above a closed-up shop in Cutler’s End, the very worst part of Ruston. But she never complains.’

  ‘She sounds wonderful.’

  ‘She is.’ Wind threw rain against the tea shop window and Grace watched it slide down the glass in wobbly tears. To her horror, matching tears prickled in her eyes at the thought of Gran sitting the winter out alone.

  Owen put his knife down. Guessing he intended to squeeze her fingers in sympathy, Grace moved her hands out of reach by picking up her tea cup, rapidly blinking the tears away and moving the subject onto safer ground.

  ‘Do you still have family in Wales?’

  ‘A widowed father. Luckily, I come from a big family so there’s always someone calling on him. I have two brothers and three sisters, all married.’

  ‘You’re one of six? That must have been lively.’

  ‘Bedlam,’ he grinned.

  But fun too, Grace imagined. ‘How many grandchildren are there?’

  ‘Eighteen so far.’

  Poor Gran only had Grace. ‘What was it like growing up in Wales?’

  Owen told her about it with affection and wry humour. Taking tea with him would have been a pleasure had Grace’s heart not ached at his closeness. But at least she got through the hour without talking about his wife and children.

  She peered out of the window once they’d finished eating. ‘The rain’s eased off, though I suspect there’s more to come.’

  Owen took the hint that this was a good time to walk home. Grace walked briskly again, and was glad when the rain resumed as it gave her a reason for rushing inside.

  ‘Thank you for tea,’ she said, shivering by the office door.

  ‘It was my pleasure, Grace.’

  Grace. The intimacy was the last thing she needed. She waved him off, closed the door and groaned. Discipline had been Grace’s friend all her life, but it seemed powerless to help with her attraction to Owen. She tingled with awareness of him. She longed
to be with him. And she couldn’t imagine her feelings were likely to change soon.

  The knowledge crystallised Grace’s thoughts. The day Harry Dellamore tossed her penny into the air, she’d been thinking long and hard about returning to Ruston permanently. She’d called out, ‘Heads!’ to see what The Fates thought and they’d decided on tails to suggest she should stay. But Grace didn’t believe in The Fates. She believed in practical good sense.

  Practical good sense was telling her she was mad to torture herself with worry by staying away from Gran, and equally mad to torture herself with longing by staying close to Owen. Grace needed to return to Ruston.

  There. The decision was made, though it wasn’t going to be easy to put into practice. Even seven months on from the scandal of the necklace, Grace suspected it would handicap her chances of finding work. As well, she needed to extract herself from Silver Ladies with minimal damage to the others. It might take longer than she’d like but the planning would begin immediately. Today, in fact.

  Thirty-six

  Jenny was wearing her favourite lemon dress with matching three-quarter length coat and cloche hat, but she still sighed when she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Grace said, but Jenny suspected appearances would count for little with Johnnie’s parents. ‘You also make Johnnie happy,’ Grace added. ‘If that isn’t the most important consideration to his family, they aren’t the sort of people you should bother about.’

  Knowing Grace was right didn’t calm the flutters in Jenny’s stomach. Perhaps she should change into something plainer. Prettiness might count against her if the Fitzpatricks wished to believe their son was merely infatuated with a comely face and figure. But she’d left it too late. A rap on the office door told her Johnnie had arrived to collect her.

  ‘Divine,’ Johnnie declared, sweeping his gaze over her, but there was a light of battle in his eyes that worried her. It suggested he knew he’d have to fight to have his choice of girl accepted.

  They were meeting the Fitzpatricks in the lounge of their hotel, the Gryphon near Piccadilly. Johnnie spotted them immediately and waved. Then he startled Jenny by taking her hand as he led her towards them. He meant to demonstrate his commitment, but Jenny wished he hadn’t done it. His parents might consider public intimacy to be vulgar and blame her for dragging Johnnie into the gutter. They might also have noticed the small jump she’d made at the touch of his hand.

  It wasn’t the best beginning.

  The Fitzpatricks were good-looking people but lacked their son’s vitality. Mrs Fitzpatrick was pale, thin and fragile, though there was nothing wrong with her powers of observation. She’d spotted the hand-holding and frowned. ‘Darling, boy!’ she said, presenting a cheek for him to kiss. Her voice was reedy with an underlying whine. It didn’t bode well.

  ‘Mama.’ Johnnie kissed her, then shook his father’s hand. ‘Pater. I’d like to present Miss Jenny Mallory.’

  She smiled with as much poise as she could muster but didn’t miss the look that passed between the Fitzpatricks as she shook their hands. They really did believe their son’s head had been turned by a pretty face.

  Which meant they also believed Johnnie to be shallow. The urge to prove them wrong gave Jenny a small surge of strength. ‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ she said, glad to hear her voice emerge calmly.

  ‘A pleasure,’ Mr Fitzpatrick returned, and his wife uttered a faint echo.

  Determined to give Johnnie no reason to blush for her, Jenny sat upright, willing herself to look quietly comfortable. Modest too. The Fitzpatricks should have no cause to think her insolent or pert.

  ‘It’s always pleasant to meet Johnnie’s friends,’ Mrs Fitzpatrick began, as though warning Jenny not to get uppity ideas about being special. ‘You’re from Northamptonshire, I believe?’

  ‘From Ruston,’ Jenny confirmed.

  ‘The Cantrells come from Northamptonshire. Do you know the family?’

  No Cantrells had stayed with the Arleighs during Jenny’s time there and she hadn’t moved in grand circles outside of her work. It didn’t feel the right time to tell the Fitzpatricks that her circle had included only fellow servants and other working people so she settled for saying, ‘The name isn’t familiar.’

  ‘Northamptonshire is a big place,’ Johnnie pointed out.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ his mother agreed faintly. ‘Is your family still in Ruston, Miss Mallory?’

  ‘My mother lives there. My father died some years ago. Both of my brothers were killed in the war.’

  ‘How sad. Officers, were they?’

  ‘Privates, though my elder brother was promoted to Corporal.’

  ‘I see.’

  Mrs Fitzpatrick played with the lace on her cuff. Jenny imagined she was the sort of person who’d also fuss with her food and enjoy being urged to eat for the sake of her health.

  The food arrived and sure enough Mrs Fitzpatrick said, ‘Oh, dear,’ as though she’d been asked to climb Mount Everest instead of eat a tiny sandwich.

  ‘You’ll enjoy the cucumber, my dear,’ her husband recommended.

  ‘I suppose I must have something.’ Mrs Fitzpatrick took a sandwich and nibbled a crumb from it.

  Used to the spartan fare of Shepherds Mews, Jenny’s mouth had watered at the sight of succulent ham and salmon, but she had no intention of incurring her hostess’s disgust by overindulging. She took a ham sandwich and bit into it daintily.

  ‘Your mother lives alone?’ Mrs Fitzpatrick continued.

  It was natural for the Fitzpatricks to want to know about her when she was walking out with their son but this was turning into an inquisition. Jenny had hoped to avoid any mention of Jonas but she wasn’t going to lie about him. ‘Actually, she married for a second time.’

  ‘What manner of man did she marry?’

  A repulsive, lascivious one. ‘A builder.’

  Mrs Fitzpatrick’s shudder was visible. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t remained under her protection. Johnnie said you live in London, but I didn’t understand the arrangement. Are you with relations?’

  ‘With friends. There are four of us.’

  ‘All young women like yourself? Unsupervised? How extraordinary.’ She shook her head, clearly imagining that all sorts of improper behaviour must go on at Shepherds Mews.

  ‘Times have changed, Mama,’ Johnnie said. ‘Besides, Jenny’s friends are sensible.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘You’re involved in some sort of business, I believe,’ Mr Fitzpatrick asked.

  ‘Chauffeur-driven car hire,’ Jenny told him.

  ‘You employ drivers?’

  ‘We drive ourselves.’

  Mrs Fitzpatrick’s head only shook some more. Her husband gave her hand a soothing pat.

  ‘We wouldn’t have won the war without women drivers,’ Johnnie pointed out. ‘Ambulance drivers, van drivers, omnibus drivers…’

  His mother was unimpressed. ‘Some of us managed to support the war effort in a more seemly manner by knitting and organising Christmas parcels for the troops.’

  ‘Lady Dorothie Fielding drove an ambulance at the front and even won a medal for it.’ Johnnie was becoming irritated, but it wouldn’t help.

  Jenny changed the subject. ‘Johnnie tells me you live on the south coast. I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.’

  ‘It is,’ Mrs Fitzpatrick agreed. ‘We live in Hove, though my husband’s legal practice also has offices in Brighton and Tunbridge Wells.’

  She went on to describe their way of life. Garden parties, dinners with the Lord Lieutenant, bridge evenings… A way of life into which a working-class girl from Ruston would never fit. Especially not a girl of doubtful morals who lived unsupervised.

  When they’d finished eating, Jenny excused herself to visit the cloakroom, where she leaned against a wall and sighed. How could two such snobbish, narrow-minded people have produced darling Johnnie? It was a mystery, but for Johnnie’s sake Jenny had to keep trying to
win them round.

  She returned to the lounge. No one noticed her until she was almost at the table. By then she’d overheard much of the Fitzpatricks’ conversation.

  ‘But who is she, Johnnie?’ Mrs Fitzpatrick had asked. ‘Who are her people? Workmen! It would be cruel to marry a girl like that. She’d never fit into our world.’

  ‘She fits into my world perfectly,’ Johnnie defended.

  ‘She’s a looker,’ his father conceded. ‘But looks fade and a chap needs a girl who’ll be an asset to him. You’re not the first young fellow to fall for a pretty face and you won’t be the last. The trick is to ride out the infatuation without doing anything foolish.’

  ‘Like getting married?’ Johnnie asked.

  ‘Quite. Have fun, but then come to your senses.’

  Johnnie looked up and saw her. ‘Jenny!’

  Not for anything would she betray the fact that she’d heard them talking. She sat down with a gracious comment about the hotel, noting their embarrassment with a stab of satisfaction, though it didn’t compensate for the turmoil she was feeling inside. How hateful they were.

  Tears threatened, but she blinked them away. ‘It’s been a lovely afternoon, but I’m afraid I must be leaving.’

  ‘I expect you have other things to do,’ Mrs Fitzpatrick said, pleased to be getting rid of her. ‘You’ll stay longer, Johnnie?’

  ‘I’m taking Jenny home.’ His mouth was tight.

  Jenny rose to her feet, knowing that, working-class girl or not, no one could fault her elegance. ‘Thank you for tea.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ Mr Fitzpatrick said, and his wife gave another faint echo.

  Neither expressed a hope of seeing her again.

  ‘Jenny, I’m sorry,’ Johnnie said, as they walked away.

  ‘You must have guessed what they’d be like.’

  ‘Crashing snobs? I suppose I did,’ he conceded. ‘But I hoped… I should have warned you. Prepared you.’

  ‘I prepared myself.’

  They reached Johnnie’s ancient Ford. He saw her into the passenger seat, then walked round to the driver’s side to get in beside her.

  ‘I’d have liked their blessing, but I’ll live without it,’ he said. ‘I love you, Jenny. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’ As though to prove it, he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Not lightly, but passionately, nudging her lips apart.