A Song Twice Over (44 page)

Not, of course, that he could be spoken of or even hinted at. Particularly not in this crowded, well-nigh frantic room in which the whole of the Colclough wedding party appeared to be assembled, the virginal Rachel still rather more inclined to be a bride of Christ than of a Rochdale cotton spinner; Mrs Maria Colclough with her mind still fixed firmly on the
expense
; and all eight bridesmaids including Linnet Gage who had driven over from Almsmead to be fitted for yet another supporting role she did not wish to play and who, as the thorn in the side of Uriah Colclough's self-imposed chastity, had long since fallen out of favour with his mother.

Therefore she was not pleased to see Gemma who was rich, married to the most beautiful man in the world – her own darling brother – and two years younger than herself. Nor was Gemma pleased to see Linnet, being at once too closely reminded of Tristan with whom love had never been a possibility and of her inescapable duty to Amabel, her mother.

But
. ‘Darling,' they said, ‘how lovely – what
luck
– to see you here.'

‘Will you drive back with me to Almsmead?' cooed Linnet. ‘Just as soon as this torment is over. Aunt Amabel would be
so
pleased. And we are having – well – Heaven knows who to lunch. Do come.'

Gemma smiled, already caught. Already committed. And there was little of Daniel about Miss Adeane in any case as she went rustling here and there in her famous black taffeta with its touches of scarlet, smiling and murmuring soft words to her customers, issuing crisp commands to her staff, not a hair out of place, nor a nerve anywhere in her body – by the look of her – that was less than perfectly in control.

‘You are having a busy morning, Miss Adeane.'

Cara smiled her agreement yet managed, somehow, to signify that she had
always
time to spare for Mrs Gage. ‘Yes. Very busy. But do sit down a moment, Mrs Gage.' And, in a twinkling, she had produced a small blue chair from a corner where no one could have supposed a chair to be.

‘May I show you something?'

‘No – no. I am just waiting for my sister-in-law. Please don't let me distract you from your fittings.'

Yet, a moment later, the thin, pale girl called Anna, who never spoke above a whisper, had brought her a tray of tea and Miss Adeane's special biscuits, exceedingly fragile in their appearance but flavoured most robustly with lemon or bitter chocolate or vanilla.

Highly enjoyable. As Miss Adeane intended.

And so she sat for a while, at ease, sipping her tea, turning over the pages of the
Ladies'Journal
, mildly amused by the small dramas of lace edgings and pearl beads going on around her, wondering vaguely about the possible identity of Miss Adeane's lover, completely unaware – as Miss Adeane intended
everyone
to be unaware – of the state of near emergency currently prevailing. That no matter how calmly Miss Adeane might be smiling, she had been taken considerably aback half an hour ago when, having wished to set this morning aside for the Colclough fittings, Mrs Marie Moon had wandered through the door, minutes before their arrival, and was at present – one hoped – being sobered up in the back-room by Odette.

And Cara was in no doubt that, should she escape Odette's control and wander back through the shop again in that dishevelled and distressed condition, Mrs Maria Colclough might well rise up in righteous fury and take her daughter and – rather more to the point – her custom away. To Miss Ernestine Baker, in fact, who was still spitting forth her malice about Cara's extravagance and immorality and who would still have time, if only barely, to take over the Colclough order herself by piecing together her standard but morally untainted bridal frills.

Not that Mrs Colclough could really hold Cara to blame for Marie Moon's appearance nor seriously expect her to turn so free-spending a lady away from her door. But should Mrs Colclough, who still considered Cara's charges – indeed any charges at all – to be too high, be looking for an excuse to cancel, then here, undoubtedly, she had it. Particularly if Miss Baker, as seemed highly likely, had offered her a bargain price. A ridiculous price, where the sole profit lay in taking Cara's customer away. And since Cara could not allow that to happen, she went on smiling, the very soul of patience and good humour and lightness of heart, not a cloud in her sky. Good Heavens, what cause could
she
possibly have to worry? ‘No – no, Mrs Colclough, absolutely no rush. We have all morning. All day if necessary. Please take your time.' And although she had little faith in Odette's ability to restrain Marie, should restraint be needed, she nevertheless waited, with an appearance of complete calm, until Mrs Colclough became engrossed in counting the pearl beads on her daughter's gown in case she should be paying for one less than the several hundred contracted for, before seizing her opportunity to slip away.

‘I shall only be a moment.'

It would have to be now.

Mrs Colclough had reached a count of only two hundred and one and could be safely left – thought Cara – to make the count again. Rachel, the bride, appeared to be praying. Three bridesmaids were in the fitting room in charge of Madge Percy and her minion. Four more were whispering and giggling around the counter, dipping greedy fingers into the ribbon boxes. Mrs Gage seemed lost in pleasant contemplation. Miss Linnet Gage seemed fully occupied in despising Mrs Colclough, the woman she was hoping to make her mother-in-law. Anna Rattrie, moving like a shadow but a surprisingly effective one, was pouring tea where it seemed appropriate, modelling, at the same time, about her thin but – there again – surprisingly effective shoulders, a silk fringed shawl of the type Cara hoped to be selling in quantity throughout the autumn season.

The scene had a settled look, she calculated, likely to last an hour or more no matter how speedy they managed to be with their needles and pins. And since the mere idea of ‘rushing'her customers offended her deeply in any case, her best hope lay in tidying Marie up and, at the most convenient moment – when Mrs Colclough should not be looking – whisking her into the street. Providing, of course, one could find her carriage and get it to the door. And her front door at that – damn the woman – her back door opening into a foul little yard which was blocked, at present, with builder's rubble.

And when all was said and done Marie Moon was a customer too, drunk or sober, who should not be asked to go scrambling over bricks and mortar to the back gate by the privy door.

Unthinkable. Especially since she would be more than likely to lose her way and end up in the shop again, with brick dust all over her.

The carriage, then, to begin with. Cara smiled, most encouragingly, at Mrs Maria Colclough and then, beckoning to Anna Rattrie, sent her out to look for a landau with blue upholstery and a pair of chestnut horses. Could there be many such in Frizingley?

‘You may have to go as far as the Fleece,' she warned her, making it sound like nothing to make a fuss about.

‘Oh, Miss Adeane …' Anna's eyes, eternally apprehensive, had grown terrified, imagining she had been asked to manage a team of horses.

‘Oh Miss Adeane
nothing
, Anna.' Cara had no time, just then, for anybody's terror but her own. ‘Just do it. There'll be a coachman, you ninny. All you have to do is tell him to come here. And if not …' because it was just possible that Marie might be driving herself, ‘then – well – ask your brother Oliver to help you.'

Marie Moon was sitting with her elbows on Cara's table, her arms and shoulders bare since she was still in evening dress, her hair coming down, her cloudy, short-sighted blue eyes somewhat out of focus but gazing, with the intensity of a woman baring her soul, at Odette who, speaking softly and swiftly and in French, was clearly offering her comfort.

Damn the woman. How could she – how could any woman – let herself down in this way, wandering around a town like Frizingley in the early morning dressed in the beautiful ball-gown Cara had once made her, an enchantment of white silk now shamefully soiled at the hem, dragged through the mud and the gutter as she seemed intent on dragging herself. And why? She was rich and extremely beautiful. She had the best proportioned figure Cara had ever measured. Poise and grace and her own carriage. And, in that case, why should it matter to her that petty-minded provincial bores like Maria Colclough and Lizzie Braithwaite would not invite her to their daughters'weddings? She had been an actress, hadn't she? Or perhaps just an artiste of the music-hall, the café-concert – accounts varied. But nevertheless it was a profession, an identity, a life of her own. Why didn't she just snap her fingers at Frizingley and go back to it? Damn the woman.

Why? The answer came to Cara very suddenly as she saw Marie's face, upturned to Odette, in a shaft of sunlight and understood this lovely woman to be far closer in age to her mother than to herself. And Odette had just turned forty-five. Not easy, one felt bound to admit, to return to the exhaustions and rivalries of the music-hall at that age unless one had been an outstanding success. A name not yet forgotten. And even then it might be unwise. Tiring, at any rate, to compete all over again – at that vulnerable time of life – for men and money in the market-place. Particularly if one tended to wilt easily. And to bruise easily. For Cara had now seen the swelling around one cloudy blue eye, the dark smear along the papery cheek, the red weals turning yellow at their edges and starting to blacken along Marie's shoulders. Old wounds that were still smouldering with new, raw wounds on top of them.

‘My husband beats me, madame – from time to time,' said Marie Moon simply, ‘because he is impotent. Beating me is all he
can
do, you understand. It is the alcohol.'

Odette understood. So too, with a tug of pity she did not really wish to feel, did Cara.

‘How long, madame?' murmured Odette with some tenderness.

‘Since we were married. He believes it to have been caused by the scandal. Therefore it is I – he says – who have castrated him. After all, who was it who inflamed him to the point of carrying me away from my lawful husband? Who tarnished his reputation so that his own sister named him unfit for the care of his children? I did. And in those flames, which
I
created, perished his manhood. So he tells me. Therefore, when his frustrations overcome him and incline him to violence, who am I to complain …?'

‘I suppose he tells you that too.' There was no tenderness in Cara.

‘He does.'

‘Why do you put up with it?'

‘My dear.' Marie spread her arms in a comedienne's wide gesture of regret, assuming, for a moment, the mask of a sad, terribly endearing clown. ‘One does the best one can, as
you
– my little one – should know. And after these dozen years without debts and all that weary business of finding work and keeping it,
this
– I fear – seems little enough to pay. Have you any idea how much a dancer's legs can ache – and her back – at this “certain age” we have reached, your mother and I? Do you know how many exceedingly tired dancers there are, offering themselves from the passageways of Montmartre. Or Mayfair? Or anywhere? And one grows tired, mademoiselle. Your mother understands.'

Yes. Cara was in no doubt of it. Just as she knew that Mrs Colclough, whose narrow virtue inclined far more to punishment than pity, would not choose to understand at all.

‘I am sorry, Mrs Moon,' she said stiffly.

‘Sorry? Are you really, Miss Adeane? Or do you feel that I should simply pack my jewels and anything else I can carry and run? At your age perhaps I would. Oh yes. Even at mine. Last night – or perhaps it was this morning – that is what I tried to do. Or so I seem to remember. We had been – oh –
somewhere
– no matter – Adolphus and I. Drinking. His children are with us just now which makes him agitated. And then sentimental. It gives him a tendency to weep for his lost wife and his lost virtue. So
vivid
, you see, is his imagination. Last night I wept too, I think, and was chastised as being unworthy to shed tears for such a noble lady. I seem to remember that as being the reason. Although I confess that I am easily muddled these days. It is the champagne. What else? A blow to the head? Ah well – one grows accustomed. Then I found myself in Frizingley in full daylight, with no jewels, of course, in my carriage, no money in my pockets, nothing but these very unsuitable clothes I am wearing. I went to the tavern we both frequent occasionally, Miss Adeane, but the landlord was not sympathetic. I took a stroll to clear my mind. Your door was open. Have I greatly inconvenienced you?'

‘Oh no,' murmured Odette.

‘Yes,' rapped out Cara.

Marie smiled, very sweetly.

‘Then I must leave at once.'

‘Where will you go?'

‘Why – home to my husband, of course, my dear – where else? As I always have. As a penitent, to beg his pardon. He so enjoys that, and since his remaining pleasures are few … Do you have a back way?'

Cara shook her head.

‘I see. And your shop is full of pious wolves? Then throw me to them, dearest. Don't hesitate. They will be so happy naming me slut and slattern and asking each other if they noticed the terrible state of my hair and my gown that no blame will attach to you at all. Nor to my husband. Poor man – they will say – tied to a woman like me. And so they will all fall over themselves in the rush to invite him to dinner. I am speaking seriously, Cara. He needs pity. So join with them and save yourself.'

Shakily, she got to her feet, perfectly willing to trail her disgraceful gown, her dishevelled head, her black eye and bruised shoulders at once past the scandalized wedding-party who most certainly would not keep silent about it, their outraged twitterings unlikely to escape the notice of Marie's husband. Thus giving him another reason to punish her.