Bright Hair About the Bone (3 page)

CHAPTER 2

Cambridge, 1927

A
Miss Talbot, you say?
Laetitia
Talbot? Certainly not! I won't see her! What possessed you, Claydon, to let her get as far as my door?”

The College servant, an under-porter, looked anxiously behind him and made to reply, but was cut off with what he considered unwarranted brusqueness. “Tell her to remove herself from the premises at once. Escort her from the College by the least public route. You understand me? The River Stairs, perhaps?”

“‘And, while you're at it, Mr. Claydon, why don't you just dunk the minx in the Cam?'” came the amused suggestion from the doorway. “‘If she floats, she's clearly the witch we always suspected she was.' Dr. Dalton! So good to see you again! A year? Can it
really
have been a year?”

The young woman advanced into the room, peeling off her gloves, sending the unmistakable signal that she was not to be persuaded to leave. She turned graciously to her uniformed escort who stood looking uncertainly from the don—now rising with automatic good manners—to the elegantly clad lady—who seemed to be treating the situation with a casualness amounting to levity. Behind his mask of disapproval, Claydon's shrewd eye was assessing the situation and calculating the relative strength of these two antagonists. The under-porter was skilled at this. His job depended on it. And the pecking order here was becoming clearer by the second. He noticed that young Dr. Dalton was lurking behind the protection of his desk, a formidable redoubt of polished mahogany piled high with books and papers.

With lazy assurance the intruder extended her rolled umbrella like a billiard cue, playfully, and swept a stack of books onto the floor. “That's better! Now I can see what you're doing with your hands, Felix.”

The don cringed. Claydon looked thoughtfully at the ceiling.

Miss Talbot settled into a chair. With a wave of her hand she invited Dalton to resume his seat. “Do sit down. This may take some time.”

She turned to Claydon with a dismissive smile. “Thank you. You may go.”

Claydon made his judgement. “Certainly, Miss. Thank you, Miss.” And, in a belated attempt to atone for his lapse in allegiance: “Shall I whistle up some tea, sir?”

“Thank you, no. This is not a social occasion. That will be all.”

         

Felix Dalton glowered at the girl smiling across the desk at him. Why the devil had she come? After all these months? Had she found out? Did the young madam still bear a grudge? He sighed. The ball was in her court and he would just have to hear her out. And now, of course, she had nothing to lose. Impossible to threaten her—they'd surrendered their trump card last year. Against all his advice. He decided to go on the offensive.

“You look well and happy, Miss Talbot. The disgrace of being sent down from the University does not appear to have dimmed your spirits.”

“No indeed.” The topic seemed not to disconcert her.

At such a calculated piece of rudeness any other girl would have fled the field in tears. Not this one. She even peered at him flirtatiously from under the dipping brim of her green hat. “As you observe—ejected from the gloomy groves of Academe with its lurking serpents, I've been enjoying sunshine, open spaces, wide vistas…”

Was there a literal meaning to be inferred here? She certainly did look…well,
browner
than he remembered.

“Away from the confines of the corridors of learning, I thrive. I find that, after all, the uncorsetted life is the one that suits me.” An unladylike wiggle of the shoulders accompanied the remark.

Dalton cleared his throat and fought down an urge to loosen his collar. Stung by her comment, he wondered whether he was blushing. Just as she had intended, the memory of Laetitia Talbot in decidedly uncorsetted state returned to torment him. A vision of alabaster and gold had been his first impression as she rose, steaming gently from her bath before the fire; his second that he was witnessing a very Edwardian scene. Both impressions had been abruptly dispersed when, becoming aware of his presence, she'd hurled a wet sponge at him and pushed him bodily from her room whooping like a bloody banshee. Dalton shuddered at the memory. He'd never be able to look a Botticelli maiden in the eye again.

Now he eyed warily the supple figure opposite. Her short linen walking dress was, as far as he could judge, in the height of fashion and revealing an extent of silk-clad leg as disturbing as ever. He'd been a damn fool…misinterpreted the signals…if there had been signals. He was no longer sure. And he rather thought he'd been badly informed at the time. That bloody know-it-all Wetherby! And he hadn't been the only gossipmonger to offer comment and advice: “So you're invited to Melchester for the weekend? A Talbot house party? Oh, my! The literati are to meet the celebrati, then? Guest of Sir Richard?” Asked with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Or his daughter? Miss Talbot
is
in your supervision group, I understand?”

And: “The lovely Laetitia! You want to watch out for that one! She'll have you on a cocktail stick, old boy! But surely you've heard? You cannot be unaware…? Artistic family…Bohemian, you might say. Town house in Fitzroy Square. Handy for the British Museum. As well as other conveniences less appetising. Rumour has it that little Miss Talbot…much indulged by her papa…was allowed liberties no proper young girl of eighteen should ever have been allowed. Mother long dead—no restraining influence—and a constant parade of the loucher low-life of London trailing through the house. She was getting close to some of those appalling scarecrows at…what's that school of art? The Slade. That's it. Word is she was sent up to Cambridge—strings pulled of course!—more as a place of safety than of learning, but not before…” Wetherby had finished his tale sotto voce although they were alone together in the combination room, his voice getting lower as his excitement rose, his face gleaming in the candlelight, “…not before she had arranged to lose her virginity. In an upstairs room at the Café Royal. With a
Satanist
!”

Felix thought he'd replied casually enough. “Heard that somewhere before, I think. Old story. And you've got the wrong girl.”

But below the astonishment and disapproval a trickle of excitement had begun to flow.

And one thing had led to another. He'd gone happily to the family home on the river Granta, south of Cambridge, impressed by the rambling and ancient manor house almost hidden from sight in a froth of apple blossom. Disconcerted at first to find he was not the only academic of the party—the Dean of his College was also present, all acerbic wit and fluent conversation—he'd settled quickly into the role which appeared to have been assigned to him: up-and-coming young poet. His appearance helped. Whilst not quite in the Rupert Brooke class, it was inevitable that comparisons would be made. He rather affected the floppy blond hair, the misty blue-eyed gaze vaguely wandering the horizon; he'd treacherously implied that his own verse could perhaps be considered—by those with an ear—more vigorously masculine, less obviously the tinkling tunes of a music box. People who'd never read a line of Dalton's verse hastened to agree. They were especially appreciative when the verses were being spoken by the handsome young poet himself as he punted them along the river with seemingly effortless ease. Would he ever forget the audible catch in the breath of one of his passengers—the wife of the Lord Lieutenant—when, without a pause in his recital, he'd ducked sinuously under the overhanging branches of a may tree? With a careless gesture, he'd shaken the almond-scented blossoms from his golden hair, enchanted with the happy timing of his next line:
And the young god, starlight-crowned, outshining Baldur
…

A precious moment, quite spoiled by Laetitia who, with breathtaking insensitivity, had chosen that moment to throw an apple core at a passing squadron of ducks. The ensuing racket had drowned out his next stanza.

He'd been flattered that he'd been chosen to take the daughter of the house in to dinner. “Felix, you'll take in Laetitia?” (All Christian names here for the duration of the party.) Surely there'd been meaning in this? And he'd been flattered, too, by the attentions of the other weekend guests, all distinguished figures. He'd affected not to hear when he'd caught the edge of murmurings behind raised hands: “Neo-pagan is what they're saying, my dear!” And he'd fostered the glamorous image, salting his talk with the odd guttural phrase of Anglo-Saxon, his speciality. His Viking warrior looks impressed the ladies; he set out to impress the gentlemen with his deep-drinking. In that unbuttoned hour after dinner when the port circulated and the conversation picked up a masculine pace, he'd showed off. He'd been unwise.

Emboldened by four glasses of port and two of brandy, he'd retired upstairs, slipped into his silk dressing gown, and watched from his doorway as her maid said good night. Then he'd crept along the corridor and entered her room.

He flushed with anger and shame at the memory of the scene that followed. He'd never even heard before some of the curses she'd directed at him along with the sponge. Of course there'd been a rumpus. Guests had inconveniently popped out of their rooms in various stages of
déshabille
prepared to repel burglars or preserve a girl's honour; the Lord Lieutenant had brandished a revolver. But, amongst the retired military, politicians, and lions of London literary society, he'd been aware of one face only: the darkening features of the Dean of his College.

The chill command had rapped out with all the authority of a school housemaster: “Dalton! See me in my room!
At once!
”

         

You can hear the closing of ranks as far off as Fen Ditton when the University decides to protect one of its own. The outcome was never in doubt. The honour of the College is paramount. There was no question that the matter would be swept under the carpet and one of the two parties removed. On the trumped-up accusation of a manufactured offence against the College—
“Just leave this in our hands, Dr. Dalton”
—Miss Talbot was required to leave a week or two before she was due to take her final examinations. He savoured some of the phrases:
“…conduct bringing the name of her college into disrepute…behaviour likely to redound to the dishonour of her sex…setback to the integration of females into the University…”

Sir Richard had stormed and threatened but had accepted the inevitable. A product of the university himself, he understood the rules.

Ah, well…in all conscience, the girl would have achieved nothing more than title to a degree at pass level, Dalton judged. Quite rightly, Cambridge had held out against the women walking away with a full degree on equal terms with the men. In any event, this woman was never about to scale any academic heights. And perhaps in the end she had been conscious of that? She had certainly accepted the decision of the authorities and departed with surprisingly little fuss, he remembered.
Suspiciously
little fuss? He tried to read the bland, friendly face across his desk. Comeuppance time? He didn't doubt it.

“I hear that congratulations are due, Felix? In my absence, I understand, you have succeeded in securing the affections of a certain Miss Esmé Leatherhead? The publishing family Leatherhead? Peregrine is her father? What a fortuitous connection for an up-and-coming young poet! You
are
still up and you are still coming, Felix? I wonder if you are aware that Esmé and I are old chums? No? She and I were at school together. A dear girl, though something of an idealist, I always thought…fastidious…exacting…she carries the burden of a Quaker upbringing, poor child! Have you not found so? I really must make a point of looking up my old friend—so much gossip to catch up on…And so far it seems you are managing to retain her affections?” There was no mistaking the menace in her sweet voice as it trailed away leaving thoughts unspoken.

“You unprincipled hussy! You wouldn't!”

“I most certainly would.”

He assessed his options. “What do you want of me?”

“A very undemanding little favour. Something you do every day as a matter of course, I expect. I want you to write a letter of recommendation on college writing paper…I'm sure you have a supply buried somewhere in a lower stratum of this rubbish heap?”

Well, the girl had always been direct.

“I'm afraid I could not recommend you to any man or to any organisation, Miss Talbot,” he answered frostily, “whatever you threaten. I am amazed that you have the temerity to ask.”

She dismissed his bluster with an understanding smile. “Just as well, then, that that is not what I am seeking. You jump the gun, Felix. It seems to be a trait of yours. I am just recently back from Egypt. Indeed, I spent the autumn and winter there. I had gone to lick my wounds, bury my anger in the sands, and see if some hard physical work would take away the sting of injustice. I've been digging. Under the direction of a friend of my father—Andrew Merriman, the archaeologist. Perhaps you've heard of him?”