Dorothy Eden (7 page)

“Papa, this is a terrible situation!”

“That’s what I’m telling you. You’ve got to put it right. Go down to Bonnington’s and call a meeting and say you’re in charge until I get back. Just hold up your head and talk firmly and they’ll all be behind you.” Papa smacked his good hand on the coverlet. “Bonnington’s is yours and mine, and it’s not going to be ruined by an ambitious scoundrel. You’ve got to stop that, Bea.”

Papa was looking very tired, suddenly. He could hardly finish what he was saying. Something about her hurrying up and having a son to inherit.

“We’ve got to keep the business for him, Bea. So will you do it? Will you go and talk to them?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I’ll do that. But later—”

William would have to understand. This wasn’t going out early to look at Bon Marché. This was a real emergency.

“You know I’ve always wanted to be part of the shop. But now, when I’m just married and have a house to run, and William hasn’t been well—not ill like you, but with a very nasty chest cold—” She stopped as she noticed the dampness round his eyes. He rubbed at them furtively, grumbling, “Eyes weak, that’s all. Gad, why did this have to happen?”

“Because you’ve always worked too hard. And if I promise to go to the shop—”

“When, Bea? Tomorrow?”

She nodded, because she could see that there was no alternative. Nor, if she were to be honest, did she want one.

“But I’m not going to work eighteen hours a day, like you have. And you must promise to behave yourself, to do as you’re told, and not be rude to the nurse—”

Papa was looking perky and alert again. “Now, Bea, don’t get bossy with me. Save that for that rascal Featherstone tomorrow.”

B
LANCHE OVERTON HAD GIVEN
up her usual place at the table to her daughter-in-law.

Beatrice had eaten often enough at this table, first as a gauche schoolgirl, and later as a nervous fiancée. But never before as a wife. She was sure that when she was a wife in the full sense of the word she would feel she had more right than she had at this moment to oust Mrs Overton from her place.

Mrs Overton, wrapped in her familiar exquisite gauzy scarves, subtly patronising, reluctantly making the best of a bad bargain, was deliberately doing nothing to put Beatrice at her ease.

She’ll have to live somewhere else, ran the random thought in Beatrice’s head. It is my house now and I don’t intend to be patronised.

Shocked at her ruthlessness, she looked across at William, certain that he must read her thoughts.

But he was occupied with his meal. He looked a little flushed and weary. His cold was not better yet. A chilly Channel crossing hadn’t helped it. He had already made the observation that it had been selfish and unreasonable of Beatrice’s mother to summon her back, since her father seemed to be in no imminent danger of dying. He had travelled when he was not fit to do so, and although he remained kind and sympathetic, he had let her be aware of his mild displeasure that their honeymoon had been ruined.

But if William were disappointed that the consummation of their marriage was not to take place in a romantic city like Paris, Beatrice was still glad that it was to be in their own home and, most appropriately, in the old General’s bed.

In spite of her uneasiness at the dinner table, a strange violent joy kept ebbing and flowing through her. She thought that dinner would never end.

“Beatrice, whatever are you thinking about? I’ve spoken to you twice,” Mrs Overton said petulantly.

“I’m sorry. What did you say, Mrs Overton?”

“I was asking you if you had had time to shop in Paris.” Mrs Overton’s critical eyes rested on Beatrice’s dinner dress, another of Miss Brown’s choices, modest and perfectly correct, but definitely lacking in dash and style.

What did it matter, really what
did
it matter, since soon enough all her clothes, and those of her husband’s as well were going to be discarded, lying in an untidy heap on the floor…

“If you would like me to go on giving orders,” Mrs Overton was continuing in her high well-bred voice. “Beatrice! Are you listening to me? Just until you have time to settle down, of course, and have become accustomed to this kind of household.”

Nothing could have been more tactful.

“No, thank you,” Beatrice said uncompromisingly. “I will begin at once.”

She would have to go in to Bonnington’s tomorrow morning, and several mornings afterwards. The journey to the Edgware Road took about an hour by carriage. William must be persuaded to allow her to take the carriage.

But it was her carriage as well as his. Indeed, more hers than his, since she was now paying the wages.

“As you wish,” said Mrs Overton. Her good manners forbade showing any sign of offence. “But you mustn’t go on calling me Mrs Overton. Must she, William?”

“No, Bea, you goose.”

That slight upright little creature, delicately-boned, petal-cheeked, fading but still exquisite, a mother, a maternal creature? One could never imagine her having been swollen with a baby.

I’ll be broad, big-breasted, big-hipped, when I’m pregnant, Beatrice thought. Will William begin to love me then?

“Very well,” she said politely. “I’ll call you Mother if you wish. I hope you don’t mind me wanting to start giving the orders. I must learn, mustn’t I?”

“I understand perfectly,” said Mrs Overton.

There mustn’t be many more of these dinners
à trois
, Beatrice thought with her new ruthlessness. They simply wouldn’t do.

The General’s room caught the first light of the sunrise. Beatrice was awake early enough to discover this. She lay for a while watching the pencil of light at the window, then crept out of bed to draw back the curtains, but only an inch, in case she woke William. She had slept very little that night, yet felt deeply refreshed. She wanted to walk about the room looking at things, as wide-eyed as the schoolgirl who had once stood in the doorway staring at the old man in the bed.

This same bed, with the Chippendale posts, which was now hers.

It was all so incredible that she wanted to laugh, to exclaim, to talk, to genuinely communicate for the first time with William. During the whole of her courtship and then her wedding and the strange out-of-joint journey to France, she had been nervous, distrait, in a dream.

But now, in this spectacularly lovely dawn, with the early sun stroking shadows over the lawn, the doves stirring in a flurry of white petticoats in the distant dovecotes, the little pointed cypress trees still as black as night, she was wide awake. She wanted to talk, to laugh, to coo and flutter starched petticoats, like the doves.

But William was still asleep. She hung over him, thinking how peaceful but how lonely sleeping faces were. William’s was pale and remote, as if he had never belonged to anyone but himself. Who, looking at him now, could guess at his sensuality?

Or hers, she thought, glancing furtively at the mirror, her cheeks growing warm with remembered pleasure.

If William had expected a modest wife, his first touch on her bare skin had sent all chances of that to the winds. The astonishing thing was that she had never known she would have this lack of modesty, this sheer physical desire. William’s skilful hands on her breasts had done something extraordinary to her. Her wild trembling had communicated itself to him, and very shortly she had made the surprising but satisfactory discovery that the consummation of a marriage was far more exciting than the vows taken at the altar.

No one had told her this would be so, not even her mother. But Mamma, with her obsession for clothes and household affairs, and Papa utterly absorbed in business—she was certain it could never have been like this for them. If it had been, some of their tenderness would have been obvious, even to a child. How would she and William be able to disguise their tenderness for each other today?

The curtains, drawn back another six careful inches by her impatient fingers, showed blue sky, and the top of the Judas tree, and William was stirring at last, opening his eyes and looking at her.

And in a mere second Beatrice’s euphoria had gone.

But euphoria, she had always known, was not a lasting emotion. A good thing that it wasn’t for one couldn’t live permanently at that pitch of excitement.

For William’s eyes rested on her with a look of surprise, first as if he had forgotten he had spent the night with a woman, and then as if he were disappointed the woman was her. Coming fully awake, however, the revealing moment had gone and he had assumed his usual pleasant amiable expression.

She hadn’t realised how much she had hoped that that impersonal courtesy could not have survived the night. Didn’t she deserve something more now? A look of love, for instance? But he did put out his hand and take hers in a light caressing clasp.

“Morning, dearest.” He began to cough. “Sorry. I usually have a hot drink early to stop this cough.”

“I’ll ring for one,” Beatrice said at once. “What do you like? I’d suggest lemon and honey which is very soothing.”

“Is it? Then I’ll try it.” He sat up, in pleasant anticipation. “Bless you, you’re so thoughtful.”

“That’s a wife’s duty.”

He looked boyish and young and charming against the pillows.

“What a word to use. Duty.”

Had it been a duty he had performed last night? Then how clever he was, to do it so well. She hoped he didn’t notice that she was trembling now, and hastily pulled on a robe over her nightgown. The one Hawkins had put out for her, white lawn threaded with blue ribbons to match her nightgown. Her honeymoon nightwear which was really only suited to candlelight.

Surely she had always known that civilised people didn’t talk of what happened in the night. Such conversation belonged to the darkness.

Looking at her husband’s boyish face, concerned only with the anticipated comfort of the hot drink, she found that she had plenty of courage to tell him about her promise to go in to Bonnington’s that day. She hoped he would allow her to take the carriage, she said. Indeed, she would be very happy if he felt inclined to accompany her.

He was astonished, more offended than amused.

“Are you proposing I learn how to be a shopwalker? No, no—” seeing her expression “—I was only joking. But is that why that crafty old devil, your father, brought us home? To make us earn our living?”

“Me. Not you, William.” She found she could be coolly astringent. Love hadn’t made her too soft and silly, thank goodness. “You know very well that Papa has had a stroke and it’s most important that he shouldn’t worry, otherwise he may have another. He wants me to clear up an unfortunate situation and I have promised to do so. That’s all it is.”

“What is this unfortunate situation?”

“It would take too long to tell you.” She had no intention of risking his boredom. “It’s merely that, being Papa’s daughter, people will listen to me. I’ll put matters in order and be home in time for luncheon. You must have a lie in. Rest. Get over your cold.”

He lay back on his pillows, enjoying her solicitude.

“Yes, perhaps I’ll do that. But this won’t become too much of a habit, will it, dearest?”

“Going to the shop? Oh, I shouldn’t think so. To tell the truth all Papa wants is for us to have a son who could learn—”

She stopped as she saw William’s face, momentarily as set and stuffy as his mother’s.

“Darling, Papa’s sick. You must let him have his dreams.”

“Our son,” said William, “will be expected to be a soldier, I’m afraid.”

“But you don’t like soldiering. Would you really inflict a career that you personally hate on him rather than let him be in trade?”

Her voice was aggressive. She couldn’t stand him having that stiff snobbish look of his mother’s.

“Dearest, stop bouncing about like that. You make my head ache.” He was smiling again, obviously not caring enough for even this small seed of a quarrel to develop. “Are we going to argue about an imaginary person who may never exist? Come and kiss me.”

She went, after the smallest hesitation, not wanting to be less spontaneous in her forgiveness than he was. Besides, she had wanted him to kiss her ever since he had opened his eyes.

“But he will exist,” she murmured.

“Who?”

“Our son.”

“I hope so.” He kissed her again. “My little shopkeeper.” Her body ached with love. But he had slipped back on the pillows again and was saying in a matter of fact voice, “Of course you may take the carriage. I seldom want it in the mornings. I’ll stay at home and inform callers that I have sent my wife out to work.”

“William!”

“Dearest, just to please me, develop an appreciation of my jokes.”

“Is that what that remark was meant to be?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, William, you’re an awful tease. I’ll be home at one sharp. I’ll give Cook orders before I leave. Promise to drink your hot lemon and honey, and have a lazy morning in bed.” She wanted to add, “I love you very much,” but refrained. She sensed that the night was not to be mentioned. Anyway, William was already looking drowsy, and anxious to be rid of her too energetic company.

Beatrice was very well aware of the looks of surprise when she walked into Bonnington’s. She purposely had not sent word of her intended visit. She didn’t exactly expect to find Mr Featherstone with his hands in the cash-box, but he was where she had thought he would be, in the gilt cage of the cash desk, perched on Papa’s stool, surveying the shop as if he already owned it.

Her blood began to boil. This was Papa’s shop, her shop, and this impertinent man was an intruder. He had come with excellent references and one could easily have been taken in by his ability.

Her feminine intuition, however, would have warned her of the danger signals immediately. She had known for some time that she was a better judge of character than Papa who was apt to think that hard work must go hand in hand with honesty. He had been fortunate in his staff in the past.

“Yes, madam?” Mr Featherstone said, mistaking her for a customer. Then he recognised Beatrice and hastily slid off his stool. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Overton. I wasn’t expecting the honour of a visit from you.”