A Dream of her Own (19 page)
He hurried back into the room and opened the roll-top desk in the corner. He extracted an old ledger. The pages were yellowing and the ink was fading but it was big and looked impressive.
‘Here you are,’ he said as he placed the ledger on the table next to the plate of chocolate cake. ‘Perhaps you would check the figures? It would be a big help for Mamma.’
‘Would it?’ Valentino was looking up into their mother’s face.
‘Yes, my son. I don’t know what I would do without you.’
He began to turn the pages of the ledger at the same time as biting into the cake. Rich dark crumbs scattered over the neat rows of accounts. Frank watched their mother surreptitiously dab at her eyes with her handkerchief as his brother ran a finger along and down the columns of figures. He nodded and smiled as he reached the bottom of each page.
It didn’t matter that the ledger was years old and that the figures were now meaningless. Valentino couldn’t read.
Frank stopped Jimmy just as he was about to knock on the door of the private dining room. He put a finger to his lips to indicate silence and then took the tray from him. He indicated with a turn of his head that the young waiter should go back down to the kitchen.
As he pushed the door open he heard a gasp and then stifled laughter. The heads of the two men, one fair and one dark, moved quickly away from each other. Frank glanced at the table. There was a small stain on the cloth where a wine glass lay on its side, the rim resting on the edge of a serving dish of salmon mousse moulded in the shape of a fish; very little had been taken. The plates in front of the two men contained barely touched food. And yet there were already two empty wine bottles on the serving table. And now they had ordered champagne.
‘I didn’t hear you knock, Alvini.’ Matthew Elliot stared at him coolly.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Your champagne.’
‘Well, did you knock or didn’t you? And I thought I told young Nelson to bring the wine back himself.’
While Elliot was talking, his friend, John Edington, the little shop assistant, watched with simpering admiration. Frank felt the muscles of his stomach tighten with distaste.
‘I did knock, Mr Elliot, and I thought I’d better bring the champagne myself in case you accused my young waiter of serving you cat’s piss.’
John Edington gasped softly and Matthew Elliot’s eyes widened for a moment before he decided to take it in good part. His handsome features expressed amusement. ‘I was only joshing the lad. Truth to tell, I just wanted to make sure that he came back himself.’
‘And why was that, sir?’ Frank’s usually mobile features remained impassive and his voice was level.
Elliot was disconcerted. ‘Well ... you know ... he’s quick, intelligent; we’d like to encourage him ... take an interest ...’
‘I see.’ And Frank was afraid that he did see. He would tell Patrick that young Jimmy Nelson was not to wait on the private rooms for a while. That is, not the private rooms where two gentlemen were dining alone.
He put the tray with the ice bucket down on the serving table and withdrew the bottle of champagne. ‘Veuve Clicquot, sir?’
Elliot raised one hand and pushed the white linen napkin down to reveal the label. This was natural enough but it was the way his indolent gesture managed to suggest that he suspected Frank of cheating that riled. Frank concealed his irritation. Sir Hubert Elliot’s son was a good customer who spent freely.
Matthew Elliot always dined in a private room with one friend in particular and, for some time now, that particular friend had been John Edington. The private dining rooms were opulent, too opulent for Frank’s taste, but the customers liked that style. Gold brocade draped the walls, the dark red carpet bore an oriental pattern and the ruby velvet curtains were permanently closed, ensuring that the atmosphere was intimate. There was a day bed in the corner of each room.
Frank would have thought that someone with Matthew Elliot’s education would find the decor ostentatious, even vulgar, but then he would know very well that a more discriminating establishment would not have entertained his friends. He had never before this evening been quite so supercilious, but perhaps something had upset him.
The two men watched as Frank uncorked the champagne and filled two glasses. He stood back a little. ‘Shall I send someone to clear the table?’
‘If you like,’ Elliot said. ‘I don’t think we can eat much more; we are too - excited.’
Frank looked from one to the other. He noticed now that John Edington’s colour was high and his eyes were shining. In fact they looked unnaturally bright. But he didn’t look happy. Frank was curious. ‘Excited?’
‘Yes.’ Matthew Elliot raised his glass and gestured towards his friend. ‘In fact we must congratulate Mr Edington. You see, he got married to his sweetheart, Constance, today.’
‘I see.’ Frank began to withdraw.
‘Wait a moment, Alvini. Send some fruit and cheese in, will you? My friend has hardly touched his food and I suppose he should eat and make up his strength—’
‘Matthew, no—’ It was the first time John Edington had spoken. His voice was unsteady.
‘Do you think I’m being coarse? Don’t just shake your head.’ He stared at his friend for a moment and his look was almost hostile. And then he smiled up at Frank. ‘Alvini, I’m not being coarse, am I? Isn’t that the kind of joke little shopkeepers make on their wedding day?’
‘I’ll send someone to clear the table, sir.’
‘Oh, no. I can see by your expression that even you think I’m being coarse—’
‘Matthew, stop ...’ John Edington reached across the table and took his friend’s hand but Matthew shook him off angrily and emptied his glass of champagne in one swallow.
Just as Frank reached the door he called out, ‘Send another bottle of this, whatever it is, up with the cheese, will you? I must make sure that John is fortified against the perils of the night.’
As Frank closed the door behind him he thought he heard the sound of muffled sobs.
Chapter Ten
In any other circumstance I should be enjoying sitting alone here by the fire, Constance thought. She had found an embroidered footstool and had put her feet up and settled back into the cushions. She’d tried to cheer herself up by imagining what Nella would think if she could see her now, but she frowned when she realized that Nella would immediately ask her where her new husband was. And what he was thinking about, leaving her alone like this on their wedding night!
Constance supposed that, in spite of his promise, John’s uncle, Walter Barton, was keeping him late discussing business. It may even be something to do with the inheritance that Muriel Barton had mentioned. What had she said? That John would come into his full inheritance when he became a father? Constance had not known what Mrs Barton was talking about, but she remembered how angry she had been at the woman’s hints that she might have married John just for his money.
So perhaps John’s uncle had kept him to discuss family matters once the shop takings had been dealt with. But surely he would have warned her that this was going to happen instead of telling her not to be upset and that John would be home in time for them to have an intimate supper together. She glanced at the mahogany mantel clock; its brass face showed ten past nine. It would be a late supper.
But, even though John’s continued absence was both worrying and hurtful, the soft hiss of the single gaslight and the crackle of the fire were comforting. Constance remembered other fires, other hearths ...
The nursery fire at her father’s house and the floor strewn with toys and picture books, the gleaming little hearth in her mother’s sitting room where Constance would lie on the soft-piled rug and listen entranced to her mother’s tales of her childhood in Le Touquet. The imposing fireplace in the library where her father would sit with the newspapers, the dogs stretched out at his feet, gazing up at him with half-open trusting eyes.
Then, last night she had dried her hair in front of the fire in Rosemary Elliot’s room in the grand house in Fenham. The house that John had seemingly never set foot in.
Last night ... Constance shuddered when she remembered what had happened after Mrs Sowerby had so cruelly thrown her out of the town house on Rye Hill.
Suddenly she sat up straight and dug her fingers into the soft plush on the arms of the chair. Is that why John had not come home? Had he discovered what had happened to her the night before? That Gerald Sowerby had raped her, had taken from her the only thing she had to offer John: her innocence.
No, it was impossible, wasn’t it? Surely even Gerald Sowerby would not seek John out to tell him what he had done.
Constance hunched forward and stared miserably into the flames. If only John would come home!
A sudden gust of wind sent the smoke back down the chimney and a small cloud billowed out into the room. Constance turned her face away until it dissipated and then kneeled down to sweep the soot and ash up from the hearth.
As she settled back into her chair she half smiled to think how instinctive her action had been. Mrs Sowerby would have rung the bell and called for one of the maids to do that. Should she have rung for Polly? Uneasily she examined something that had been nagging at her conscience. The Edingtons’ maid had looked pinched and exhausted; Constance realized that she had probably been doing the work of three maids and yet she had not hesitated to add to her burden by giving her fresh duties.
And yet I am not a servant here, Constance thought. John has not married me to turn me into a household drudge. I am the mistress of this house, or at least I will be when ... when...
Constance did not allow herself to continue that train of thought. John had told her that his mother was an invalid but it was not until today, when Constance had met Mrs Edington for the first time, that she had realized how gravely ill she was.
So what did I imagine life would be like as John’s wife? she wondered. What did Nella say only last night?
‘You’re
so
lucky. You’ll be mistress of yer own house!’
‘You’re
so
lucky. You’ll be mistress of yer own house!’
‘I hope you don’t think that’s why I’m marrying him—for a house,’
she had replied.
she had replied.
And she had tried to tell Nella how much she loved John, how, ever since she’d first met him, she had dreamed of being his wife. At first the dream had seemed to be an impossible fantasy and then, when he had proposed to her, she had hardly been able to believe that it was really happening - that she was going to spend the rest of her days with John who was so handsome and so kind.
But had Nella instinctively touched on another truth? Nella had known that Constance was used to a much better life than that of a servant. She had surely guessed that Constance dreamed of returning to that life. Of dressing in velvets and silks just like her mother had done, of wearing jewellery and being driven in a carriage or a motorcar.
Well, she had driven to her wedding in a motorcar but it had not been John’s. If it were only the desire for worldly goods that Constance craved, she should have married her husband’s friend, Matthew Elliot. And then she reminded herself how unlikely a match that would have been. No one like Matthew Elliot, from the upper reaches of society, would consider marrying an orphaned servant girl.
No, she was lucky that she and John had found each other. He had fallen in love with her and married her, and taken her away from a life of backbreaking drudgery. But surely she had learned something during those miserable years? She must never allow herself to behave like Violet Sowerby. Constance rose from her chair and walked to the other side of the hearth. She seized the tasselled bell pull and rang for Polly.
‘Yes, Mrs John?’
The girl had forgotten to knock but Constance did not reprimand her. Polly stood just inside the door, wearily unaware of the sooty smudge trailing down her cheek, and her hair escaping from her mobcap, untidier than ever. Her sleeves were pushed up above her bony wrists almost to her elbows and her hands were red raw.
‘My - Master John is not home yet,’ Constance began.
Polly blinked. ‘I can see that. I mean, yes, Mrs John?’
‘You must be tired.’
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