Dorothy Eden (8 page)

When Mrs Evans had gone, Hetty began to shiver violently. Oh, God, what had she done? Was this the rich, pampered life Clemency had talked of so gaily? No welcome, a sad-coloured room, an unknown array of faces at luncheon, a cool, if not positively reluctant bridegroom.

She could end it all this minute by going downstairs and confessing what she had done. She could say she had been suffering from delusions after the terrible nightmare of the
Lusitania.
She could humbly ask to be sent home.

But where was home? Uncle Jonas would never forgive her for her monstrous deception, the Fifth Avenue house would be shut up empty or possibly with a caretaker, there would be no mistress in residence to need a lady’s maid or any other kind of help. She would never never go back to the misery of the Bowery.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in the quiet room, in a suspension of will, strained and bleak and unbelievably tired, Hetty had a sudden startling vision of her mother’s face on the day she had taken her daughter to the Jervis household. It had been sharp-boned, pale and lined, a skeletal face, dominated by the dark eyes that had burned with such intensity. Sick as she was, Mother would not have accepted any capitulation, any going back. “You must grasp the big opportunities in life, Hetty. Do you know what I mean?” “No, Mother.” “You will, in time. When there’s something important, seize it. Don’t run away from a challenge. Girls like you can’t afford to. I want you to be something. It’s your right.”

It was strange how clearly those words came back, as if Mother were in the room and speaking aloud. Poor pretty Mother who had loved so unwisely and paid so dearly. But had refused to harbour regrets and had never lost her courage. She would thoroughly approve of the challenge facing her daughter now. It was, she would have said, Hetty’s right. Hetty would like to think that her unknown father would also have agreed. He had been a cultured man, sensitive, romantic, unorthodox. But not unorthodox enough to do something about his bastard daughter. Would he approve of the gamble she had taken?

Hetty got slowly to her feet and went to the wardrobe.

Yes, there were some rather nice clothes, though no doubt Clemency wouldn’t have thought too much of them. A cardigan and a plaid skirt, a cream silk blouse, an afternoon dress in a soft green material, and a long dark blue taffeta, cut low and rather straight, in the new fashion. That must be for dinner. To whom had it belonged?

There was also a warm wool dressing gown, a white cotton nightdress with lace trimming, and in a drawer underclothing, stockings, handkerchiefs. They couldn’t be new clothes, Hetty surmised, so whose were they? The sizes looked fairly accurate. Someone must have sent over Clemency’s measurements. All the same, it was unfortunate having to go down to meet her new family in borrowed clothes.

She went into the cavernous bathroom and washed, then changed into the silk blouse and plaid skirt. Whoever had stocked the wardrobe had forgotten shoes. She would have to wear her sturdy Irish brogues, courtesy of the Cunard shipping line. But she could brush her hair and twist it up a bit more elegantly, and pinch some colour into her cheeks and lips. She couldn’t do anything about the look of strain and horror that lingered in her eyes.

Nevertheless, she looked passable enough. She guessed she could get through luncheon. Mustn’t let them think that an American lacked courage.

No one had told her where she would find the family assembled. In the dining room, she supposed, but where was the dining room?

It wasn’t fair. She felt like an employee, a governess perhaps, newly arrived and insufficiently briefed. In the hall, looking about for someone to guide her, she wasn’t prepared for the very clear feminine voice coming through a half-open door. She listened in shock.

“Can you possibly go through with it, Hugo?” And Hugo’s answer, “I have to. Thank God she survived.”

“Does she look like a drowned rat?”

“She’s had plenty of time to dry out. Actually, she’s behaving rather splendidly, poor girl. She lost her mother, you know.”

“We’re all losing somebody these days, aren’t we?”

Afraid of what else she might hear, something too cruel, Hetty boldly pushed open the door and walked into a room lined with books, a dark cosy room with leather-covered furniture and turkey-red rugs. And two people standing before the fireplace, the fair-haired young woman moving abruptly away from Hugo. Was it her imagination, or had they been embracing?

“I’m sorry. No one told me where to find the dining room. Or anything, really.” Her voice was firm and composed, with just a hint of reproach. I won’t let them walk over me …

Hugo began talking rather quickly, “Oh, Clem—I mean, Hetty. My fiancée prefers to be called Hetty, Julia, and I agree. The other was a damned awful name, it suggested whole colonies of Puritans. You two haven’t met. Julia, Hetty, Hetty, Julia.”

Hetty shook a narrow ringless hand. She was too confused to take in the young woman’s appearance clearly. A delicate-skinned aristocratic face, pale blue eyes, blonde hair. Rather like Hugo, in a strange way. Could they be relatives?

“You’re not Hugo’s sister-in-law? He said her name was Kitty. He didn’t tell me about anyone else.”

“Well, I’m only staff. Aren’t I, Hug?”

Hug? Staff? She was mighty familiar.

“Julia is my mother’s companion. She–”

“Fell on hard times,” Julia interposed flippantly.

“Shut up, Julia, and let me explain to Hetty. Julia’s mother was one of my mother’s closest friends. When she died, Julia was left in rather straitened circumstances and Mother invited her here to live. Since then Mother has become a bit invalidish, and Kitty’s occupied with her brat. So it has all worked out very well.”

Except that Hugo and this elegant flat-bosomed creature were perhaps a little more than just good friends. Or Julia would wish them to be so. Hetty was good at recognising hostility, even so politely veiled. Julia, moneyless, and she the rich usurper.

It was too soon to work out these complications.

But Hetty saw that it would have been better if she could have arrived here as a bride.
A fait accompli,
so to speak. The sinking of the
Lusitania
had so nearly prevented the marriage. Julia must have been cherishing hopes.

The awkward conversation came to an end as Hugo took Hetty’s arm and marched her out of the room.

“The gong went ten minutes ago. Mother isn’t coming down, Hetty. She wants you to go and see her when you have rested. Although I must say you’re looking better already. More like yourself. Loburn suiting you?”

It was absurd to imagine that the house felt friendlier than its inmates. She knew already that she would fall in love with these winding passages and uneven floors and old brocades and faded carpets, and the gleam of picture frames enclosing dark pictures on dark walls. Everything was muted, like a dream. It would be something just to love the house.

“I think very well,” she answered Hugo. “I have so much to explore.”

“Which room have they put you in?”

Who were ‘they’? Julia answered for her.

“Your mother and I thought the grey one. It’s the quietest room in the house. You must admit Freddie can make quite a noise when he’s being difficult. I’m sure Miss Jervis will appreciate quiet after her ordeal.”

“Will you find it a bit lonely, Hetty?” asked Hugo. “Never mind, it isn’t for long.” He laid his arm heavily and possessively across Hetty’s shoulders. “We’ve got a lot to discuss. But food first. Ah, here’s Kitty.”

A lumpish figure in shapeless clothes was hurrying down the stairs.

“Hugo, I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here to welcome Miss Jervis. How are you, Miss Jervis? I’m Kitty, Lionel’s wife—Hugo’s sister-in-law.” A warm hand was wrapped round Hetty’s, the handshake firm and friendly. “I had to do my shift at the hospital this morning. I’m doing V.A.D. work at the military hospital in Cirencester. We’re getting busier all the time, I’m sorry to say.”

“You’ve heard from Lionel?” Hugo asked.

“Yes. He hinted heavily that they’ll be sailing in the next few days for the Dardanelles. Oh, God! I do think the First Lord has some reckless ideas. I expect he’ll pull one of them off one day. Do you know, it’s even being suggested he might have had something to do with the sinking of the
Lusitania.
To have America outraged enough to come into the war. Did you hear that rumour, Miss Jervis? After all, you were one of the innocent civilian passengers. Your mother was drowned. As a neutral American you have every right to be highly outraged with the Germans.”

“I don’t think I know who you’re talking about.”

“Winston Churchill. First Lord of the Admiralty. Too clever by half. Anyway, Lionel’s gone.”

Her outburst seemed to have been made to cover her grief at her husband’s departure. Her face was flushed and aggressive. She had bright dark eyes and a wide mouth. She wasn’t good-looking, not even pretty. But she was alive. She must look well when she was dressed up, Hetty thought. Just now she was wearing a loose sweater and a shapeless tweed skirt. Her hair was inclined to tumble down. Hetty liked her.

There were just the four of them at the long dining table, Hugo and the three women. There was an abundance of silver and crystal, and an abundance of food, too. So it wasn’t true that England was in danger of starving because of the blockade by German submarines. Certainly the inmates of Loburn were not starving. Hetty swallowed her soup, and then toyed with some fish. She found she was too tired to eat. Too tired to join in the conversation, too, although it concerned her so vitally.

“I do think Lady Flora might have made an effort and come down,” Kitty said. “Doesn’t she want to hear about the wedding plans? What are they, anyway, Hugo? Now that the grand affair in St. Margaret’s is off. Do you mind that, Hetty?”

“Not now that I’ve lost my trousseau.” Some animation was expected from her. Some regret too. “I had a lovely wedding dress. And my grandmother’s wedding veil. I haven’t anything of my own now. Everything’s borrowed. Thank you for leaving some things in my room.”

“That’s a small thing,” said Kitty. “But we’ll have to get you outfitted. There’s quite a decent shop in Cirencester that I could take you to. If you don’t insist on something grand from Fortnum and Mason’s or Harrods.”

“I don’t want anything grand. Oh, unless Hugo insists.”

“Under the circumstances,” said Hugo, who was eating heartily, “the less fuss the better. I thought next week in the village church. Just a quiet ceremony. I have a medical board in a couple of weeks, and then I’ll be off back to France. So the sooner the better. What do you say, Hetty?”

“Yes,” said Hetty, in a strained voice. “Yes, of course.”

“Must say you’re taking it well, darling. You’d set a lot of store on a grand wedding, hadn’t you? I know your mother had.”

“It’s different now. There’s nothing I want less. After all, I’m in mourning. But I suppose I won’t be the first bride ever to be in that position.”

She made herself look up and meet the three pairs of eyes, Kitty’s interested and sympathetic, Hugo’s excited—was he thinking of being in bed with her, or of the money?—Julia’s blank, surely refusing to believe what she was hearing.

“I’ve got to get my affairs straightened out before I go to France,” Hugo said, proving that her guess about the money was the correct one. “Got a lot of debts to settle, and I do want a couple of hunters. Thought you might have a look around, Julia. Julia’s a magnificent horsewoman, Hetty. She keeps my horses exercised when I’m away.”

That Hetty could have guessed, too. That flat upright disciplined body, the long narrow hands.

“Where shall I look, Hug?”

Don’t call him Hug in that familiar way. You’re only his mother’s companion.

“You might get Pimm to drive you over to Newmarket. But I don’t want any cavalry rejects, mind.”

“Would you like to come up to the nursery and see Freddie after luncheon?” Kitty asked.

“He’s a spoiled brat,” grumbled Hugo.

“He isn’t spoiled. He’s just an original. An eccentric. I adore him. But he’s rather delicate, and at the present time—” Kitty’s voice was tinged with apprehension—“he’s the only heir Loburn has. What with you and Lionel in the thick of the fray, Hugo, he may remain the only one.”

“I’d like very much to see him,” said Hetty. “But could it be later? I’m so tired—”

The table, the floor, seemed to be rising and falling dizzily, almost as if she were back on board ship. She had to prop up her eyelids with her fingers. She had a terrible desire to weep. It was the calculated way these old English families talked of heirs as if they were some special privilege created only for them, and all she could see were those helpless babies, strapped into their wicker baskets, ready to be flung into the hungry sea, heirs to nothing but the fishes. She had a scared feeling that the nightmare of the
Lusitania
would come over her at unguarded moments for the rest of her life.

Kitty sprang up. “Come upstairs, Hetty. Excuse us, everybody. You should have seen this poor girl wasn’t ready for social life yet, Hugo. Honestly—men! I believe all Hugo truly cares about are his horses, and Lionel his books. Well, we women must survive. We always have.”

Helped by Kitty, Hetty was out of the room and it was safe to let her lip tremble, her eyes go blind with tears.

“Go on,” said Kitty kindly. “Cry. Have hysterics if you want to. Most women would. You’ve been holding yourself in too long, haven’t you?”

“I had to. One does.”

“I know. I see the boys in hospital, letting go when there’s no one to shout orders at them. I’m going to put you to bed and give you a couple of pills to make you sleep. Tomorrow we’ll pretend we’re meeting for the first time.”

“Hugo’s mother—”

“Lady Flora can wait. Selfish old thing. Julia pampers her too much. And Hugo’s just as selfish. You’ll have to keep him in check.”

“I thought—was he pleased? …” The words stumbled on her tongue.

“That you’d survived? Oh yes. He was terribly pleased and grateful.”

“Because of the money? The marriage settlement?”