Dangerous Decisions (19 page)

The following morning, expressing their regret that Beatrice and Helena were unable to join them, Oliver and Jacob departed for Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club.

Meanwhile Beatrice was fretting at having to remain in bed. ‘Exactly what time do you think Dr Carstairs will come? I so dislike inactivity.'

‘He didn't say.' Deciding to leave her to be querulous with Hewson, Helena went downstairs to wander restlessly around, conscious of every sonorous chime of the grandfather clock in the hall. Again and again, she went over to the casement window in the drawing room to gaze out over St James's Park, and then at last she saw him, walking along the pavement in the summer sunshine. The scene so reminded her of her debutante days in Cadogan Square – how young and innocent she had been. So much had happened since then: her engagement, her marriage, Graylings, the birth of Rosalind. And yet, the feelings that rose within her at the sight of him, the breathlessness, the anticipation, hadn't changed at all. As he grew nearer she could see once more that same intelligent, sensitive face, and remembered the rush of shock and joy she had felt last night on seeing him enter the bedroom at the side of her father. How skilled he was, how compassionate his bedside manner. She felt so much respect for the useful life he led. Helena willed him to glance up at the window, not caring that it was unseemly for her to feel like this, to act like this. She needed that reassurance, needed to know that he too remembered.

Nicholas had not slept well. When he had arrived home the previous evening, he had felt not only weary after the long day but seeing Helena's poise, her confident role as the mistress of a fine London house, had only served to emphasise the wide social gap between them. And this morning, having followed his usual policy of asking the cab driver to stop some distance before his destination – the chance of exercise was far too rare – the scene before him was a poignant reminder. The houses, tall and with casement windows, were of a similar architecture to those in Cadogan Square and as he drew nearer to the Faraday house, illogical though it was, he glanced up. And there she was, just as before, outlined against the glass. Was it vanity to think that she might have been waiting for him? Nicholas made a movement with his hand and she returned the gesture, then with a smile, she turned away.

Yet Helena's expression as the butler ushered him into the room was a mask of politeness. ‘Good morning, Dr Carstairs.'

‘Good morning, Mrs Faraday.'

‘Thank you so much for coming and I am pleased to say that my aunt is much improved. I will take you up to her.'

And so the following fifteen minutes passed with Nicholas examining his patient with his usual professional calm, after which he agreed that she might get up, but only if she took care over the rest of the day.

‘Yes I do feel tired,' she admitted, ‘but so relieved that I no longer feel numb.'

He smiled down at her and glanced at a bottle by the side of the bed. ‘I see you take ergot. Do you find it helps?'

‘Yes I do, at least to some extent. Thank you, Dr Carstairs.'

‘You are extremely welcome, Miss Standish.'

Out on the landing, Helena said, ‘Are you sure there is no need for further concern?'

Nicholas shook his head. ‘No, I can reassure you of that. I just wish we could find a way of preventing these attacks. They can be so debilitating.'

A few seconds later Nicholas followed Helena down the staircase, his gaze lingering on the softness of her honey-gold hair, wondering how it would look free and loose around her shoulders. But that was a pleasure he would never know. As they reached the hall where a footman was waiting to usher him out, Helena turned, saying, ‘May I offer you some refreshment, Dr Carstairs? Do you have time to join me for coffee?'

He didn't hesitate. ‘That would be most welcome, Mrs Faraday.'

‘We will take it in the morning room please, Perkins.'

His pulse quickening, Nicholas followed her into a spacious room, the antique furniture gleaming with the patina that only age can give. He wondered what it must be like to be accustomed from birth to such graceful and civilised surroundings. His background could never be described as deprived, in fact the reverse when compared with many, but wealth such as this could only ever be inherited.

As he sat opposite her on a velvet button-backed armchair, they embarked on a dance of restrained and trivial conversation. She told him that her husband and father were at Wimbledon, they commented on the weather, talked of London; Nicholas told her that Dr Haverstock took an annual vacation in Scotland as he had been born in Edinburgh, and all the time between them was a raw emotional tension. It was a relief when there came a tap at the door and a young parlourmaid carried in a laden tray.

‘Thank you, I will pour myself.' She was, he thought, the epitome of the perfect hostess. He watched Helena busy herself with the silver coffee pot, china, cream and biscuits, all the time aware of the slimness of her hands and wrists, the curve of her shoulder, the softness of her throat.

Helena's heart was pounding, her mouth dry. Surely, they should be safe now, away from curious eyes and ears. Had Nicholas realised why she had been so distant, so cool? As she passed over his coffee, she said quietly, ‘It is unlikely now that we will be disturbed.'

He glanced sharply up and across at her, and with relief she saw understanding dawn.

‘Nicholas, I am sorry if I have appeared …'

He gazed across at her, his eyes searching, questioning, and in her own he must have seen the answer he sought. ‘Are you as bewildered as I am?'

She nodded.

His voice was intense. ‘I have been haunted by you from the very first moment.'

‘It has been like that for me too.'

Nicholas was slowly shaking his head. ‘I can't explain it.'

‘I have thought of you so many times,' she said, ‘wondered whether you were perhaps engaged or …'

She couldn't stop looking at him, at tiny lines at the corner of his eyes, an endearing imperfection in one of his eyebrows. To be alone with him, how often had she dreamed of it?

‘I was there, you know, among the crowd outside St Margaret's Church.'

She was startled. ‘You mean you actually came to see me married?'

He nodded. ‘I had the vain hope that the bride wouldn't be you, that it would be a different Helena.'

‘Oh Nicholas, I'm so sorry.' Her voice was a whisper.

He wondered if it were true that some were born soul mates. She was so lovely – his gaze lingered on her throat, the slight swell of her breasts, her soft lips, how he longed to take her in his arms – but this was another man's wife and he was in that man's house. He also knew that a butler had the right to enter any room except bedrooms without knocking. Sadly, he sipped his coffee. The silence was poignant, disturbed by the sound of the clock softly chiming the hour, a reminder of time passing. With dismay, Nicholas knew that it would be inappropriate for him to remain very much longer. He leaned forward and asked gently, ‘Are you happy, Helena?'

Her hesitation tore at his heart before she said in a low voice, ‘Let us say that in many ways I am fortunate. Nicholas,' she raised her eyes to his, ‘I can't help wondering whether we will ever see each other again.'

His eyes must have revealed the truth because she said in a small voice, ‘You think it best not to, don't you?'

He tried not to make his tone harsh. ‘Helena, what would be the point? I think we are both too honourable to indulge in an illicit affair.'

Helena gazed at him, wondering if he knew how for her those words brought with them such a delicious image.

Feeling the colour rise in her cheeks, she said quietly, ‘You are of course right. I feel guilty even talking to you like this. But I'm still glad to have had the chance to …'

‘And so am I. I shall never forget today, Helena, never. I'm afraid I really must leave, but …' he took out his wallet and extracted a card. ‘Please promise to keep this, just in case you ever have need of me – and I don't mean as a doctor. Heaven forbid that you should ever be one of my patients.'

As they both stood up, Helena said, ‘I would have liked you to see Rosalind, but Nanny's strict routine includes a morning airing in the park.' She attempted a smile. ‘Poor child, she is taken out rain or shine.'

‘It will do her no harm. And Helena, Dr Haverstock told me about her hands. I am truly sorry, but believe me, it should not be a hindrance to her. I'm told that she is a beautiful baby.'

‘That is kind of you.' Slowly Helena walked across to the fireplace, only to turn before she reached for the silken bell pull. Nicholas knew that was how he would always remember her, gazing at him with pain and sadness, both of them aware that it could be for the last time.

When Oliver and Jacob returned from Wimbledon relieved to find Beatrice almost completely recovered, they were full of the news that the winner of the men's final had been Norman Brookes from Australia.

‘It's the first time an international player has won the tournament,' Jacob said. ‘You both missed an excellent match.'

Helena was too distracted to join in the conversation. Her thoughts were full of Nicholas and their time together in the morning room. She did sense Oliver's brooding gaze rest on her a few times, and later during dinner she gradually became aware of a heightened tension when their eyes met. Instinctively she knew that her husband had more on his mind than praising the quality of the seven-course meal. Helena's stomach twisted in knots. After all these weeks, was Oliver going to choose tonight, when her mind and heart were full of her feelings for Nicholas? Later as Jacob and Beatrice drifted out on to the terrace to enjoy the warm evening air, she wanted to flee the room as she saw Oliver stroll across to sit beside her on the deeply cushioned sofa.

‘If I may say so, my sweet,' his voice was low, his smile full of charm, ‘you look especially enchanting tonight, emerald-green suits you. Perhaps I should buy you a pendant to compliment that dress.'

‘You are too kind.' Her tone was gentle, but she found his assumption that buying her jewellery would soften her resentment towards him insulting. ‘I think Rosalind is cutting her first tooth. I do wish, Oliver, that you would pay her a little more attention.'

‘Nonsense, my dear. Babies are a female domain.' He paused, ‘And that subject brings me to … I wondered …'

Her reply was swift. ‘I am sorry, Oliver, I'm afraid I am indisposed.'

He drew slightly back. ‘That is rather unfortunate.' His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to keep me informed?'

‘But of course.' Helena had no qualms about her lie, nor did she have any fears that her husband would discover it. Her cycle was somewhat unsettled since her confinement. She stared down at her hands, twisting on her finger the beautiful engagement ring and slim gold band. Her lie may have given her a respite, but she knew it would only be short. There was no escaping the fact that within days, Oliver would come through the inter-connecting door and she would have no alternative but to submit to him. Helena really wasn't sure whether she would be able to bear it.

The following morning, Oliver was full of adrenalin. A strategy to rid Graylings of the child he regarded as the ‘cuckoo in the nest', had eluded him at first, but despite his hatred of the man, Selwyn's wedding invitation proved opportune. Not only had it brought them all to London, but Johnnie's careless chatter prior to his departure for Italy had provided Oliver with the inspiration he needed. And today he intended to embark on the first stage of his plan.

The necessity of visiting a public market had not been an appealing one. However, the reality appalled him. Forcing himself to stare into pockmarked faces and jostled by rough shoulders, to inhale stale sweat and rank breath, Oliver immersed himself in the throng of common people. The noise was raucous, from laughter to the stallholders yelling their wares and quarrels, shouting and cursing around him. Conscious of curious and calculating glances, he guarded his wallet and resisted the temptation to put a silk handkerchief to his nostrils. At first he had difficulty locating the type of stall he sought; there were many fruit and vegetable ones, others stinking of fish or displaying odorous-looking meat, but eventually he found some that sold second-hand clothes and one that seemed suitable. Thankful of the protection of his kid gloves, he began with wariness and distaste to rummage through the garments until he found what he needed in a reasonably clean condition.

The bulbous-nosed stallholder grinned through fag-hung lips. ‘Fancy dress is it, guv?'

Oliver nodded, paid for his purchases and after threading his way brusquely through other shoppers, within minutes was instructing a cab driver to take him to Smythson's in Bond Street. What the shop assistants would think of his crumpled brown paper parcel he neither knew nor cared, but he was confident that his arrival at Carlton House Terrace with an expensive leather weekend bag would cause no comment at all.

That same evening, having studied in detail a map of London, Oliver was ostensibly dining at his club but in reality only partaking of an early cold supper before leaving for the area he had chosen. And it didn't disappoint. After walking along the streets for several minutes he found a short back street where one of the seedy early-Victorian houses had misnamed itself as a private hotel; its air of general decay and flaking paint no doubt the reason for the sign declaring ‘Vacancies'. Oliver stood outside for a moment, the only movement nearby from a mongrel relieving itself against a lamp-post. This, he decided, would suit him perfectly.

In the cramped reception area, the stubble-bearded man slumped behind the desk didn't even bother to glance up.

‘I need a room, my man.'

In shirtsleeves and braces, he straightened up, his beetle-browed eyes narrowing at the tone, and then widening as he took in Oliver's immaculate appearance. ‘Did yer say a room?'

‘Yes, a room. Not to sleep in, you understand. One I can use when needed.' Oliver put a hand inside his jacket where he had secreted money in an inside pocket and flung down a guinea.

There came a knowing look in the man's eyes. ‘'Ow long do yer want it for?'

‘Possibly a few days.' Oliver set down another. ‘And no questions asked.'

The money disappeared swiftly into nicotine-stained fingers and he gave a shrug before turning to a board behind him to take a key off its hook. ‘No problem to me, guv! Here – number three, top of the stairs and third left.'

It was worse than Oliver could have imagined; its squalor compounded by an unpleasant fusty smell, the cheap flocked wallpaper spotted with damp. A single bed with its sagging mattress and none too clean eiderdown stood on grimy linoleum; the only furniture a scuffed chest of drawers while a limp curtain across one corner of the room served as a wardrobe. Lifting the weekend bag on to the bed and taking out the brown paper parcel, he untied its string and began to change his clothes. The material of the shirt was coarse but at least it seemed to have been recently laundered. The rough textured jacket held a slight odour and was tight across his shoulders, but he doubted that a working man would be familiar with a tailor. He examined the trousers for lice, trying not to think that the material had previously touched another man's skin, and tried them on. They were slightly short and the brown well-worn shoes felt heavy, but at least they didn't pinch. He peered into a cracked mirror on the wall, but then shrugged and began to put his own clothes into the bag before locking and placing it behind the curtain. The cheap cap he kept in his hand.

With the room key safely in his pocket he went downstairs and out of the now deserted lobby to find a cab, and was at last dropped at a point a little distance from his destination. Slowly he walked along the pavements until he came to the familiar road, the one where the apartment was situated and now leased by Johnnie, and where previously Oliver had enjoyed many decadent hours in the company of the sensual Sybil. He stared up at the window for a moment, wondering for the first time what had become of her, and then after one or two abortive attempts, he managed to find a little further away and on the opposite side, an inconspicuous vantage point.

Fortunately there were few people about, but even so he was forced to employ at times such subterfuges as bending to tie a shoelace, turning to gaze at doors as if searching for an address, or walking on only to later retrace his steps. But as far as he could ascertain, and his attention was acute, the only person to emerge from the apartment building had been an elderly woman wearing widow's weeds. He checked his pocket watch, the glint of the gold making him curse his mistake in not having bought a cheap one.

Then after an hour, his patience was rewarded. When the glass-fronted entrance door opened and a flame-haired young woman came out and began to walk along the pavement, Oliver narrowed his eyes. She was the right age and her curvaceous figure and hennaed hair certainly fitted Johnnie's description. He smiled with satisfaction. It was all in the swing of the hips; one could always tell a whore.

Oliver waited in his shadowy position until she was a short distance away. Then putting the cap on, he followed her.