Dorothy Eden (11 page)

“It’s a matter of priorities, Papa,” she could hear herself explaining. “William is the most important thing to me. I can even sacrifice Bonnington’s for him…”

M
ONEY WAS THE GIST
of all papa’s letters. Grumbling endlessly, he had paid for the trip to Egypt, but he had drawn the line at buying a house for that vain demanding woman, Blanche Overton. They must finance that themselves. If Bea so badly wanted to get rid of her mother-in-law, she must persuade her husband to sell one or two of the family treasures. A couple of pictures, a piece or two of furniture. Some of that Chippendale or Louis XIV stuff. It would fetch a price in a saleroom.

Although Mrs Overton protested, saying quite openly that surely William’s marriage had been to preserve the treasures, she capitulated quickly enough. The idea of her own establishment appealed to her. She had a small private income which would be enough to run it. She was not finding her daughter-in-law either sympathetic or congenial, and the Overton House was full of memories of happier days when Caroline had been alive.

So somehow the money was found for the small house in Hans Crescent in Knightsbridge. Beatrice added to the sum required by announcing equably that she intended selling the new brougham and cob. She wouldn’t be needing it any more since she had given up going to the shop.

But Papa must promise to keep to the new style of window-dressing. It was proving such a success. And Adam Cope must be given more authority. He was honest and capable, and understood Beatrice’s wishes. Miss Brown, while retaining her status, must nevertheless be gently persuaded to listen to the advice of younger women. If Bonnington’s were to be given the Royal Warrant, and that was the ultimate aim, they must take all the right steps.

Finally Papa had said exasperatedly, “For heavens sake, girl, get your trunks packed and get out of the country. Then perhaps I can prove I can keep Bonnington’s afloat without the assistance of your particular genius.”

All the same, one of his letters, reaching Luxor two days after Beatrice’s and William’s arrival there, had its note of triumph.

“Today Princess Beatrice with a lady in waiting came in unannounced and walked about for half an hour or so. I told old Brownie and Adam not to get excited, just to treat them with the same courtesy we treat all customers. In the end, the P. made only a piddling bit of a purchase, several yards of black braiding. I believe she said something about smartening up an old dress. I thought royalty never kept old clothes, but there you are. We will hardly qualify for the Royal Warrant on that performance, but it’s a beginning, and I thought you would be pleased to hear about it.”

He added as a wry afterthought, “I related this to your mother, hoping it might be an example to her, but she thought it a bit shocking. Said what would the poor do if all the gentry wore their clothes to rags. If some of your mother’s recent purchases have gone to the East End, there will be some mighty dressed-up housewives, and I daresay that will cause a riot, so who is doing good to whom?”

Sitting in her hotel room, with the shades drawn against the heat, and William stretched out on the bed dozing, Beatrice answered the letter at once.

Dear Papa,

That’s truly interesting news about Princess Beatrice. My namesake, too, don’t you think that’s significant? You were right not to make a fuss when she came in. I have always heard that the royal ladies don’t care for attention to be brought to them when they are on private shopping expeditions. What I would really like would be for the Princess of Wales to outfit her children at Bonnington’s. Because she will eventually be Queen, and then we could really apply for gracious consideration to be given to the grant of a Royal Warrant. Imagine if we were given the order for Princess May’s wedding to Prince Albert. I know this is dreaming, but all achievements begin with a dream.

I have been keeping my eyes open while here for a reliable supplier of Persian carpets. The carpets are good quality, but the suppliers less so. William and I do not find the Egyptians at all an honest people, but one has to realise that they have different standards of behaviour to us, and there are some likeable characters among them. I do not agree with William that they are all rogues.

We went on an expedition to the Pyramids by camel. Very uncomfortable. William showed far more facility in riding these ugly rocking beasts than I did. I was very thankful to arrive back at our hotel with no more damage than a sore unmentionable part of my anatomy.

William is now in splendid health, which proves our wisdom in wintering here.

You omitted to give me the January figures when you wrote. I expect they are not anything to get excited about. January, following on all the spending at Christmas, must always be a poor month. But by the time we are home, by the end of March I hope, things will be in full swing for an excellent spring season.

Have you taken my advice about commemorating historical events in our window display? We are quite cut off from news here, but I am sure various important things are happening in the Empire. What about that development in Africa? Or India always provides some drama, and is popular with the Queen.

They returned home at the beginning of April, Beatrice very gladly, she had been homesick for some time, William less willingly as he was an addicted traveller.

There was no question, however, of Beatrice going back to Bonnington’s, except as a visitor. She was expecting a baby.

She was delighted, and so, she said, was William. They had had pleasant and amicable travels. The constant change of scene had prevented William from boredom. As far as Beatrice was concerned, there was never any question of her being bored with William’s company. It was only the hot dusty towns, the endless sand, and the squalor outside their comfortable hotels that had wearied her. Also, towards the end of their stay, she had been pregnant, and feeling decidedly queasy. She found the food nauseous, and failed to appreciate William’s comment that she would never make a successful traveller if she couldn’t eat the food of the country.

However, he was considerate and kind, and made no objection when she suggested returning home. He certainly would not risk harming the baby by having its mother under any physical strain.

“We’ll go home and cosset you, dearest,” he said, and she loved his tender concerned look. She loved him more than ever. It was hopeless, almost. No, it wasn’t. Because no two people who were not true friends and companions could have got on so well, under various trying circumstances of heat and sandstorms and frequently wretchedly uncomfortable beds. Surely this amounted to some sort of love on William’s part. On her part, it was simply complete love.

The baby, William said, would be a boy, a splendid strong little fellow destined for a great future. Different from his father.

“I’d be happy if he’s like you,” Beatrice said. She seldom allowed herself statements like that. If she were now more sure about her marriage, she was still afraid of wearying her volatile husband with her devotion.

The baby was born early on a summer morning in the big bed with its slender Chippendale posts. It was small but healthy and well-formed. It should thrive,

The only trouble was that it was a girl.

When she was strong enough to face the disappointment, Beatrice said that now she understood how Papa had felt about her. The important difference, however, was that she had been an only child, whereas this daughter would have brothers.

The birth had not been easy, in fact it had been hellish, and the baby had had a painful journey into the world. When Beatrice saw the bruised head she had asked that William not be shown his daughter until her looks had improved. She knew William’s almost pathological dislike of ugliness and pain. He would really prefer to believe the childhood story that a stork brought babies, beautifully pink and white and unblemished.

He looked very young and endearing himself when he bent over her, assuring her he was delighted that they had a daughter.

“It’s your father who’s going to read you the riot act, dearest. He thinks there’s some sort of curse on the Bonningtons that they can’t beget sons.”

“Not on the Overtons, I hope,” Bea said, putting up fingers to trace the loved face.

“Well—until you and I can prove otherwise—” William gave his merry laugh and kissed her fingers. He had kissed her forehead, too. Not her lips. Hardly surprising, since they were still dry and cracked and bitten. Darling sensitive William didn’t care for either bitten lips or screams.

“When can I see the little puss?”

“In a day or two. I’d really prefer you to wait until she’s beautiful.”

“Just as you say. I’m sorry it was so bad, poor Bea.”

“Not that bad. I’ve forgotten it already.”

“Nurse tells me you were splendid. My capable girl.”

Capable? Of course. She was always that. Who wanted flowery phrases?

“William, go and get some rest. You look much too tired.”

“Been up all night with you, dearest.”

Not flowery phrases, just that matter-of-fact statement. It was more than enough to set the warmth flowing in her heart.

The baby was called Florence Alexandra, Alexandra after the Princess of Wales, because that, Beatrice thought privately and with more than a touch of superstition, would bring them luck. (Bonnington’s had not yet achieved the distinction of having the Princess as a customer.) The christening ceremony became quite an affair, because William insisted on it.

Beatrice suspected that William only wanted an excuse for a party, but that was understandable. He was far more addicted to parties than Beatrice was.

Now she no longer had the excuse of the shop, or of pregnancy, she must begin giving dinner parties and musical evenings. Privately she winced at the thought. Her idea of a thoroughly congenial evening was a leisurely dinner alone with her husband, then preferably a bundle of reports from Bonnington’s to study while William worked at his book.

Couldn’t they always spend their evenings like that?

No, of course not. She had got her figure back and William had bought her some elegant new clothes. So now they must be gay. It was the prerogative of their class.

From the beginning little Florence was put in the care of a nurse, a sensible middle-aged person recommended by Hawkins. Beatrice visited the nursery several times a day, but found she did not want to linger long. Small babies were uninteresting creatures, and William, whose chest was troubling him again, absorbed so much of her emotions. Not that the baby wasn’t an engaging little thing, even though she hadn’t inherited the Overton good looks.

She looked just like her grandfather Bonnington, Mrs Overton said. The little face with the too-long chin was old Bonnington over again. It was ludicrous and very unfortunate that one’s first grandchild looked like a tradesman.

Sometimes it seemed to Beatrice that even Hans Place was not far enough away. Mrs Overton gave elegant little soirées in her charming drawing room—“only big enough for a mouse,” she said gaily, and although Beatrice was expected to attend, William was too kind to insist that she do so. By Christmas he was even making things easy for her by saying, “I know you’d prefer to stay at home with the baby. I’ll make your excuses.” Or he was telling her not to order an elaborate dinner because he did like to dine at his club now and then. A husband and wife in each other’s pocket constantly were not a wise thing. There was a publisher, a member of his club, as it happened, who was interested in the book he was writing, which showed the importance of regularly attending one’s club.

Beatrice, repressing the thought that sometimes William protested a little too much, tried to occupy herself with household affairs. The servants were too well-trained, however. There was remarkably little for her to do. She didn’t sew, she didn’t play the piano, she didn’t execute clever little water colours. She could nurse the baby when she woke, but even that was with Nanny’s jealous eyes on her. Nanny Blair was beginning to show the failing of most dedicated nurses, she was growing too possessive of her charge.

So who in the world really needed her? Beatrice wondered.

Laura Prendergast was married. Someone had told her that. Anyway, she wasn’t in the least suspicious of William’s absences. Only a little grieved by them, and so over-anxious not to look reproachful, that she often retired and pretended to be asleep when he returned. It was just possible that he took advantage of this, for his arrivals grew later, and this was disturbing, since his health would suffer. But what could she do? She couldn’t turn into a Nanny Blair and cosset him too obviously. But she certainly must do more to keep him entertained at home. How?

As it happened, the problem was more or less solved by her becoming pregnant again. She stopped fretting for the shop, and worrying about William’s absences, since now it was plain that she couldn’t accompany him everywhere. She simply made herself accept facts as they were, and waited for her son.

The baby wouldn’t dare to be another girl.

Edwin William Overton was born at the end of November, in the middle of a particularly vile fog that had blotted out the Heath, and the street gate and even the steps up to the front door, and had laid his father low with a nasty bronchial attack. No escape to a sunnier climate had been possible this year because of Beatrice’s condition, so in a way William’s serious illness could be laid at his son’s door.

Who could tell whether even a creature as innocent as a newborn baby were affected by anxiety, or whether the poor child had simply inherited his father’s delicacy? Whatever it was, Edwin’s first six weeks were a struggle for survival, and when it did seem more certain that he had arrived on the earth to stay, his grandfather, that inconsiderate old man, had a second stroke.

There was nothing for it but that Beatrice must go back to the shop.

She had never been away from it, if one were to speak the truth, William said. Not angrily, but with a little more tetchiness than was usual for him. He was still a semi-invalid, from that nasty attack of bronchitis, and could be forgiven his irascibility.