“Did you succeed?”
“I can tell you nothing about the second half of the party.”
“Naughty girl,” said Gwen. “Which fiancé was that?”
“I was between fiancés at the time,” said Iris. “I don’t even remember who I came with. Someone rich enough to get me into the party, but too dreary for me to leave with. Oh, no! What is it?”
Tears were streaming down Gwen’s cheeks.
“I was wearing that dress when I met Ronnie,” she whispered.
“Oh, golly,” said Iris, seizing her hands. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no,” said Gwen. “It was a lovely memory. I miss him so much.”
“I know, darling,” said Iris.
They came to the northeast corner of Hyde Park, where the Marble Arch stood proudly and incongruously in what was essentially a glorified roundabout. Batteries of anti-aircraft guns still remained in place on the park grounds, their barrels pointed at the eastern skies.
“I think I’ll walk through the park while we still have the light,” said Gwen.
“Be careful, dear,” said Iris.
“I will. See you tomorrow.”
“Gwen, let me find you someone,” Iris said impulsively.
“I can’t possibly—”
“It’s been two years,” urged Iris. “You can’t keep on like this. No one will think the less of you if you begin a new chapter.”
“I can’t,” said Gwen. “Let’s keep helping others write their own books, all right?”
“All right,” said Iris. “And remember our watchword: The world must be peopled!”
“The world must be peopled,” echoed Gwen, smiling.
They went their separate ways, Gwen through the park, Iris heading north.
* * *
It was pleasant enough, Iris thought, to stroll through Marylebone with the air finally cooling down as the sun began to set. Her flat was in a brick block on Welbeck Street, just past Bentinck. She was on the third storey, which meant no balcony but some late morning sun if she chanced to be home on a late morning.
She climbed the stairs, turned her key in the lock, stepped inside, then paused, wrinkling her nose slightly.
There was an unfamiliar scent in the air. An eau de cologne, but not one she recognized.
She dropped her keys noisily into the dish on the table in the hall, the sound covering for her easing a stout cricket bat from the umbrella stand. She gripped the handle with two hands and stepped into the sitting room.
It was empty. Which, she realized uncomfortably, left only the bedroom.
She took a deep breath, then kicked the door open and sprang inside, ready to send the intruder’s head across the boundary.
The man in her bed looked up at her, then at the bat.
“I thought your game was golf, Sparks,” he said calmly, setting down the book he was reading when she came in.
“Left the mashie at Grand-Dad’s,” she returned, panting slightly. “You had better not have lost my place.”
“Traitor’s Purse,” he intoned dramatically. “Campion with amnesia. Far-fetched from the start. Where’ve you been all day?”
“Work.”
“You poor dear! Any business?”
“One new customer, one unlikely potential. How are you?”
“I am not quite certain yet. Are you going to put the bat down?”
“I haven’t entirely given up on the idea of braining you.”
“Fair enough. There is a present for you on the bureau.”
She glanced over to see a small embossed box. Still holding the bat raised with her right hand, she opened the box and peeked inside.
“Vol de Nuit!” she exclaimed.
“Guerlain’s back in production,” he said.
“Lovely. I accept your offering, Andrew, and will place my bat gently on the floor as a gesture of good faith. Is that your cologne I’ve been smelling?”
“Yes. Thought I’d go back to it now that they’re making it again. What do you think?”
She came over, sat on the bed and sniffed his neck, then rested her cheek on his bare chest and gazed up at him.
“It’s nice enough,” she pronounced. “But I like your natural scent better. When did you get in?”
“This morning.”
“You should have told me. I could have met you at the airfield.”
“First, I didn’t fly into Croydon. Second, my comings and goings are not meant to be general knowledge.”
“Your damn protocol plays havoc on a girl’s nerves. You’ve been in Cologne and Paris, based on your shopping spree. Where else?”
“Can’t tell you. Let me help you with that.”
“Thanks. Does Poppy know you’re back?”
“Rang her up. Told her I was exhausted from the flight and would be staying in town.”
“Mistress before wife. I’m honoured.”
“You’re not my mistress. You’re my lover.”
“Same thing.”
“Not at all. A mistress is in it for the money. A lover for love.”
“You pay for the flat.”
“So that there can be love.”
“Does Poppy get a bottle of Vol de Nuit?”
“Wouldn’t suit her. I got her Mitsouko.”
“How very even-handed of you.”
“I got her a smaller bottle.”
“Now, you’ve made me love you again,” she said, sliding under the covers next to him. “Are you, by the way?”
“Am I what?”
“Exhausted?”
“No,” he said, pulling her to him. “But I hope to be.”
CHAPTER 2
She opened her eyes to see him lying on his side looking at her, smiling when he saw she had come awake, that smile that still set her heart racing whenever she saw it. She started to say something, but he put a finger to her lips and she stopped. Then he opened his mouth and the blood came pouring out, pooling onto the bed, spilling over the sides, filling the room, drowning her …
Then she awoke for real, her heart pounding for all the wrong reasons, the twin bells on her alarm clock rattling away on the nightstand. She slapped at it repeatedly until it quieted.
Next to the clock was Ronnie’s photograph in its silver frame. He wore the dress uniform of the Royal Fusiliers, and he had the same smile that he had in her dream.
That uniform hung in his wardrobe by the wall. It wasn’t the one he wore when the mortar shell found him in Monte Cassino.
Two years, three months, and four days ago.
She hadn’t had that dream in a while. She had thought she was over them. Maybe she should take one of Doctor Milford’s powders.
But they interfered with her work, and she was a working woman, now.
So, up and at ’em, Gwennie, as Ronnie used to whisper when the baby started crying in the middle of the night.
The same baby, who was no longer a baby, who was running down the hallway, if footsteps were anything to go by. Towards her room.
She grabbed a tissue and quickly wiped away her tears. Then the door burst open and Little Ronnie leaped onto her bed into her embrace.
“Good morning, my darling,” she said, covering his face with rapid kisses until he nearly went into hysterics.
“Good morning, Mummy,” he chirped. “Agnes says we’re going to the museum today. Can you come?”
“It sounds wonderful,” said Gwen. “But Mummy has to go to work.”
“Oh.”
“You and Agnes will have a lovely time,” promised Gwen. “And tonight, you tell me everything you learn about dinosaurs and bears and narwhals.”
“What’s a narwhal?”
“A creature that swims in the oceans with a sword for a nose,” said Gwen.
“A nose-sword! Do they have duels?”
“Only in matters of honour,” said Gwen. “Now, you go have a proper breakfast. It’s a very big museum, and you need your strength.”
“Yes, Mummy!”
He jumped off the bed.
“Wait!” commanded Gwen.
He stopped and turned and looked at her.
Ronnie’s face. Sometimes, it was all she could do not to burst into tears when she saw him.
“Give Mummy a kiss,” said Gwen. “Then you may go.”
He jumped back onto the bed without hesitation and planted his lips on her cheek with a resounding smack. She hugged him, hugged him hard, then when he began to squirm, released him to the wild.
She washed and dressed, then went down the back steps to the breakfast room. Prudence, their cook, poked her head out of the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bainbridge,” she said. “What would you like?”
“Just tea and toast,” she said, sitting in the seat by the window. “Is Lady Carolyne up?”
“Her Ladyship was at a dinner party last night,” said Prudence. “I don’t expect she’ll be on her feet much before eleven.”
“Thank you, Prudence.”
Gwen tried to restrain her relief at not having to make polite conversation with her mother-in-law.
She picked up the Guardian and scanned the headlines. Trouble in Greece. Iranians protesting Soviet troops remaining on their soil. Agitation in Palestine. And rationing, rationing, always rationing. Stern platitudes from Atlee that left no end in sight, and labour troubles in the States threatened to slow down the vital shipments of wheat.
Prudence returned with her own personal shipment of wheat in the form of two slices of toast. Gwen picked one up.
“Prudence, how much does this weigh, do you think?” she asked.
“Loaf’s a pound,” Prudence said promptly. “We generally slice twelve to the loaf, and that’s sixteen ounces to the pound, so about an ounce and what? A third, I suppose.”
“So if they reduce the daily amount to nine ounces, as it seems they will, I may still have my toast and tea?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Maybe we should thin our slices down.”
“I will have to ask Lady Carolyne before I do that, Miss. Unless you would like to.”
“I think that Lady Carolyne will take the suggestion more seriously if coming from you than from me,” said Gwen. “This is your bailiwick, after all. Don’t tell her you spoke with me about it.”
“Very good, Ma’am. Will there be anything else?”
“No. Thank you, Prudence.”
She finished her breakfast, made some last-second adjustments to her hair, then topped it with a pale blue beret. She picked up her handbag, then walked out of their house into Kensington.
The dream bothered her. It meant something was wrong. Not in any predictive manner—she knew better than that—but something unpleasant was simmering just below the surface of her psyche, waiting to erupt.
It was the shock of Ronnie’s death, they told her when she was strapped to that gurney in the sanitorium. The shock leaves traces behind. We can calm you down, they said. In time, they said. But there may be further episodes.
She was there for four months, and when she came out, Lord and Lady Bainbridge had assumed custody of her son, and it would take a court order to reverse that. The solicitor with whom she had consulted looked at the records of her stay in the sanitorium, then folded his hands and said, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
So she lived in the Bainbridge house, a very large, very well-appointed house indeed, and watched her son as he basked in the care of a governess and a tutor, and was allowed to interact with him as much as a mother might while having absolutely no maternal authority over his existence whatsoever. And she thought if she hadn’t been driven mad before, this velvet prison might very well do the trick on its own.
Which is why, when a chance encounter with the impetuous Iris Sparks led to this preposterous idea to start a marriage bureau, she had leapt at the opportunity.
They had met at a wedding, of course. One of Ronnie’s unit, and the groom and the best man, as well as many of the guests, wore the dress uniform of the Royal Fusiliers. A pavilion had been set up on the sward next to the church, and waiters stood with trays carrying glasses of champagne—real champagne, carried up from who knows what secret hoards. It was all she could do not to gulp hers down on the spot. She summoned her willpower, always tenuous in moments like these, and held the glass decorously in one gloved hand while the rest of the guests sauntered in. Tom Parkinson, the best man, stepped forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I have been with George through Dunkirk, Tunisia, and Italy. I have seen him charging through heavy machine-gun fire to take one hilltop after another from the Eye-Ties, and never have I seen him so nervous as I did this morning prior to walking down that aisle.”
There was an appreciative chuckle from the assemblage. He turned to the bride.
“And never have I seen him conquer anything more worth conquering,” he said. “Emily, whatever miracle brought the two of you together makes me believe that hope has been restored from the horrors we have been through. I wish you all the happiness that you deserve. Ladies and gentlemen—I give you Captain and Mrs. George Bascombe. To the bride and groom!”
“To the bride and groom!” echoed the crowd.
“To the bride and groom!” Gwen whispered softly.
She noticed a short, intense brunette woman looking at her. She was wearing a royal blue dress with padded shoulders, cut just above the knee. She saw Gwen returning her gaze, and walked over.
“Apologies,” said the woman. “I was admiring your gown. Absolutely smashing.”
“Thanks,” said Gwen. “Haven’t worn it in years. Slipped right into it without a struggle.”
“Lucky you,” said the woman. “I’ve been waiting for them to get on with the toast so we can start drinking properly. I’m trying to remember how many glasses of champagne I can have before I start speaking honestly.”
“Ah,” said Gwen. “I should stop at two, then. Three glasses usually do me in, and I have a few inches on you.”
“Pity,” said the woman. “I’m on the second now.”
“Still safely in the throes of mendacity?”
“I think so. I’m Iris, by the way. Iris Sparks.”
“Gwendolyn Bainbridge. Call me Gwen.”
“Nice to meet you. Bride or groom?”
“A bit of both, really,” said Gwen. “I’m the miracle.”
“Excuse me?”
“What Tom said—a miracle brought them together. It was I.”
“Well done, then,” said Iris, tapping her glass against Gwen’s in tribute. “I must ask, how did you see them as right for each other? Don’t get me wrong, I love Em, but she’s always been the horsey sort, riding to hounds in the country and all that. George is a brave lad, certainly, but he’s never been part of that world. His people are factory folks. Pots of money, but still, not the horsey sort at all. And the height difference—did you think she needed a jockey?”
“Are you sure that’s not your third?” asked Gwen.
“Yes, that was catty, wasn’t it? It’s been a while since I’ve had any decent champagne. I shouldn’t be behaving badly just yet. All right then. Why him for her and her for him?”
“I knew George before the war,” said Gwen. “He wanted to be an artist. Did you know that?”
“I never knew him before they got engaged.”
“Well, George has an eye for the beauty that lies underneath. Emily never saw herself as beautiful. She’s always been taller than everyone, and it made her feel awkward about herself. I thought George would see her, really see her, and that she had never been seen like that and would completely blossom under his gaze. Look at her now. Would you ever have said that she was a beauty before today?”
They turned and looked at the newlyweds who were feeding each other cake. Emily was laughing, and seemed to take in the sunlight and turn it into something even more golden.
“You’re right,” said Iris. “Never saw her like this. I don’t think anyone did. Beside
s you.”
“And now George,” said Gwen, starting to sniffle.
She grabbed at her handbag and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Damn,” she said, as the tears ran down her cheeks. “Weddings. Always get me.”
“Here, let me,” said Iris.
She took over the dabbing and effected some quick repairs to the makeup.
“Thanks,” said Gwen. “I must look a horror.”
“Your horror is better than most of my good days,” said Iris. “Do you know, I was at your wedding?”
“Were you? I don’t recognize your name.”
“June of ’39, wasn’t it? I was a guest of the official invitee. My first fiancé was some second cousin once removed of your husband. Ronnie Bainbridge is your—oh, no!”
She had set off the waterworks again.
“Oh, golly, I didn’t mean—damn, I’ve put my foot into it, haven’t I? When?”
“March, ’44,” said Gwen shortly, wiping her eyes. “Monte Cassino. He was in the Fusiliers with Tom and George.”
“I am so sorry,” said Iris. “I didn’t know. There have been so many.”
“It’s all right. His cousin didn’t tell you?”
“I lost track of him after we broke the engagement.”
“Yes, you did say ‘first fiancé,’ didn’t you?” said Gwen, the tears subsiding at last. She gave her eyes one last wipe, then tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve for quicker access.
“Right, the fiancé once removed,” said Iris.
“There was another?”
“One or two more,” said Iris. “Yet here I am, going stag. Or doe, I suppose.”
“No one in your life currently?” asked Gwen.
“No.”
Gwen looked at her keenly. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think that’s true. Are you a prevaricator by nature, or is it a hobby?”
“Still on my second glass,” said Iris lightly. “Shall I have another and tell you the whole sordid tale?”
Gwen shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business,” she said. “I was sizing you up to see if I knew anyone suitable. I have this compulsion to match people up.”
The Right Sort of Man Page 3
