Paper Doll (17 page)

He stood behind her, clipping them to her ears, stars dangling from the curve of a crescent moon. His eyes met hers in the mirror, he smiled and one hand slid under her chin. As he pulled back her head and kissed her throat, she thought:
Not now, Latham . . . please, not now! I don’t want to remember the day of my father’s funeral as one of being forced into having relations with you.

But even Latham wasn’t
that
insensitive. To her relief he moved away, but he picked up her pot of rouge and gently dusted her cheeks with the puff to give them some colour.

‘We’ll be staying two weeks in London. I think that will be enough time in which to explain the legalities of the financial situation, and get your signature on certain papers.’

‘I haven’t packed anything.’

‘Everything you need is right there in your wardrobe.’

So she had a London wardrobe as well.

She’d never been to his London house.
Their
London house, she corrected herself, though it was more his because she’d never lived there, while Latham spent most of his time there, and his weekends in Surrey.

Her father had always liked May because it was the month he and her mother had married. When she and Latham left the Kent house, the day had a polished glow to it. The air was a faintly humid caress against her cheek, and perfumed with hawthorn blossom. Arum lilies grew in the damp places. Campion, hyacinth and buttercups displayed their wilder beauty amongst the grasses, and crab-apple blossomed in hedgerows.

The funeral was well attended, for her father had made plenty of friends and acquaintances during his lifetime. She’d asked for red and white roses for his casket, and Latham had somehow provided them. She intended to plant a red rose bush on her father’s grave, and a white one on her mother’s now they were together.

As the reverend droned on Julia glanced up and her eyes met those of Martin. The impact in her stomach was like being hit by a train. Her breath exited her body in a great rush, leaving her feeling disconnected from anyone but him. For one long moment their eyes clung, and she saw in his, not the disdain she’d expected, but a kind of sadness.

I love Martin
, she thought with a sudden shock and experienced a sense of wonder.

Beside her, Latham gently cleared his throat.

A little later she thought: how odd to come back to a house she’d never been in before, one that was her home. It was not too large, and not too far from where she’d lived in Earls Court. Latham was discreet. Everything about him spoke of money, but he wore his wealth without ostentation. She was his wife, and she didn’t know where the bathroom was. A man couldn’t be more discreet than that.

One of the older maids took her coat and hat and directed her. ‘I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs Miller. Such a sad day for us to meet.’

So the woman knew who she was. ‘Thank you, Mrs . . .?’

‘James . . . Mary James. I’m the housekeeper here.’

‘Thank you, Mrs James; which is my bedroom?’

‘Follow me, Mrs Miller. I’ll show you.’

Her room was at the front overlooking the street. Standing open, an adjoining door led to Latham’s room. On the mantelpiece stood a silver-framed photograph of them on their wedding day. That must have been how the housekeeper had recognized her.

Doing what she had to do she tidied her hair with an initialled silver-backed brush she’d never seen before, on a dressing table she’d never seen before either. The wardrobe was full of clothing she’d never seen before. The drawers held neatly folded underwear of every description. She transferred the brooch from her coat to her dress.

At the bottom of the stairs Latham stood in wait for her. ‘You look pale, Julia; are you all right?’

‘I’m a little tired.’

‘People won’t stay long, my dear, then we’ll be alone.’

There were sandwiches and fruitcake, tea and sherry set out on a buffet. A maid stood in attendance.

‘Mrs Miller, may I express my condolences?’

It was Martin, his voice a caress against her ear.

‘I must go and talk to Hollingsworth for a moment before he leaves. I’ll leave you in Lee-Trafford’s capable hands for a minute or two.’ Kissing her cheek, Latham was gone.

Julia turned, taking his hands in hers and trying not to make her smile too wide at the sight of him, considering the occasion. ‘Martin . . . thank you . . . I’m going to miss my father dreadfully, you know. How are you? It seems ages . . .’

His eyes had never been bluer to her, his mouth never so soft. Her hands moulded into his as though they’d been designed to fit together.

‘Oh, Martin . . . When I saw you today . . .’

‘I know . . . Don’t say it . . . It’s been too long.’

She let out a shaky breath. ‘How are the kittens?’

‘You know what felines are like . . . they’re damned nuisances, but they’re good company.’ His thumb brushed against her palm. ‘Are you happy, Julia?’

‘Latham is good to me.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I know, but you have my answer.’

The air quivered like a bowstring with everything that needed to be said, but it remained unspoken between them. The few inches separating them might just as well have been a mile.

‘You take my breath away,’ he murmured, almost to himself.

He’d been with her long enough to satisfy convention and he released her hands. ‘May I fetch you some refreshment, Mrs Miller . . . some tea, perhaps?’

She turned her head slightly to find Latham’s attention focused on them, and smiled at him before she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Lee-Trafford, that would be kind of you.’

Even though Latham didn’t regard Martin as a threat, he made his possession of her perfectly clear when he approached them. ‘You look tired, my dear. It’s about time you went upstairs and rested. I’ll send the maid up with your tea.’

So, she was not to have friends either, unless he’d hand-picked them. She wasn’t going to miss a second spent in the same room as Martin. She might just have something to say about that, she thought.

‘I’m perfectly all right, Latham. People are here to pay respects to my father and I need to be here for them. Please stop fussing.’

His eyes narrowed a fraction. For a moment Julia thought he might insist, in which case she’d have the choice of doing as she was told or creating a scene. He made no reaction, just gazed at Martin and said, ‘We must talk, Lee-Trafford. Now Mr Howard is no longer with us I intend to convert the factory to domestic ware.’

‘But you promised my father—’

‘Any agreement I had with your father was binding only while he lived, my dear. Please don’t comment on something you know nothing about.’ He beckoned to the housekeeper. ‘Fetch Mrs Miller some tea please, and make sure she has a bite to eat.’ He placed his hand on Martin’s back to guide him away. ‘Lee-Trafford?’

Martin nodded to her, sympathy in his eyes. ‘Mrs Miller, it was nice to see you again despite the sad circumstances. Your father was a fine man.’

A hand touched her arm as she watched them walk away. It was a woman Julia had met before at her wedding to Latham. She was the wife of a politician in opposition to the government. Her mind scrambled for a name. ‘Mrs Oliver, I’m so pleased you came.’

‘I’m sorry we had to meet again on such a sad occasion. I didn’t know your father well but he struck me as being a nice gentleman.’

‘Yes . . . he was a nice gentleman.’

Now her father was where he’d always wanted to be. But he’d done his duty first. He’d brought her up with love, made sure she received a good education and married her off to a successful man before joining her mother in eternity.

Attacked by a sudden feeling of loneliness, she thought: What more could a woman need or desire?

Her glance fell on Martin Lee-Trafford.

T
hey stayed in London for two weeks. Despite her grief over her father’s death Julia found she was expected to entertain on several occasions.

They joined a party for the theatre on the second week. Among the many gowns inside her town wardrobe was a black-beaded gown with a velvet cape.

Latham wound a long string of flawless pearls with a pear-shaped diamond drop around her neck, and he clipped pearl drops to her ears, saying, ‘I must hire a maid to look after you.’

She applied her lipstick, a startling red that made her face look pale. Latham had bought it. She stared at her image. She looked like a living parody of the doll her father had invented. Not Rosie, the wholesome child in her sailor tunic – or the teenager with her ringlets and bows. Not Rosie, the perpetual virgin with the simpering smile, who knew nothing about herself, let alone life. Her glance slid to Latham then skittered away again. She was Rosie, the battered bride in a black gown, a woman whose eyes had lost their innocence.

The paper doll looking back at her through disappointed green eyes from the mirror was in mourning for the man who’d invented her. She was a treasured possession handed over from one man to another for safekeeping – only she was learning that Latham was unpredictable, and she wasn’t always safe. She was wary of him, but she couldn’t live her life in fear, and her eyes lifted to his. ‘I’m quite capable of looking after my own appearance, Latham.’

His eyes met the reflection of hers in the mirror. ‘I want you to be perfect in every way, Julia. You’re elegant and well mannered. Men envy me and women are jealous of your looks and your style.’

‘It’s not my style; it’s yours. I can’t live up to such perfection, and I don’t give a damn about other people’s jealousies.’

‘You can be perfect, and you will be. These people we mix with, you’re every bit as good as them . . . better.’

‘I never imagined I was any different. It’s you who seems to feel inferior, Latham.’

He reached out for her, and even though she’d half expected it, she jumped.

‘Latham, please don’t. I’m dressed ready to go out.’

‘I know,’ he said, and he pushed her down on the bed and ripped the gown down the middle. Beads scattered everywhere and he used his thumb to smear streaks of red lipstick across her face. Pulling her upright his arms came round her from behind and he turned her to face the mirror. She looked like a clown.

His thumbs caressed her bared breasts and she shivered.

Julia wore a dark-blue silk gown with sleeves to the theatre. It had sleeves to hide her bruises. She smiled until her jaw ached, when really she felt like crying. She could smell Latham’s possession on her as she sat next to him, her mind in a ferment of hatred.

On the other nights of their stay in London he went out by himself. A couple of times he returned in the early hours of the morning with the faint scent of perfume about him. It was an exquisite fragrance, one she’d smelled before, in the guest room she’d used on New Year’s Eve.

Surely Latham didn’t wear perfume, though she’d heard that some men did. It was an interesting development, but no – it was Irene’s perfume. He’d been seeing her. Either way, Julia found she didn’t care all that much.

They went back to Surrey together in the Rolls. Julia liked Latham better there. He was more relaxed.

There were answers to the condolence letters to write – even the ones from Charles and Irene Curruthers. It was unexpected hearing from them after all this time. She missed seeing Irene, who’d always had an air of craziness that had made Julia laugh. Julia didn’t laugh much now, and she had an odd thought that marrying Latham might have aged her – suddenly turned her into a forty-year-old matron.

The dogs greeted her with the same enthusiasm they offered everyone, but they obeyed Latham. When he made a fuss of them they responded with delight.

She went to visit her father’s quarters. Julia had expected it to be exactly the same as she’d left it, but the bed by the window, photographs of her mother and herself on the mantelpiece, the little pieces of memorabilia special to him were all gone. His favourite chair was gone too. The place had been wiped clean of her father’s presence and the guest quarters were as neat and comfortable as a hotel. The bed and mattress that had supported the weight of her father’s laboured last breaths had been discarded and replaced with a new one. Even the nurse had departed. It was as if nurse and patient had never existed.

She went to see Latham in his study. He was seated behind a blond-wood desk, reading a letter. He turned the paper against the blotting paper, looked up at her and smiled. ‘Julia, I must teach you to knock at doors. What can I do for you?’

‘I wondered where my father’s things had gone?’

‘I left instructions for them to be stored in the attic while we were away; I didn’t think you’d be up to doing it yourself. If there’s anything you particularly want Mrs Finnigan will find it for you.’

‘Thank you.’

He rose and held a chair out for her. ‘Stay and talk to me, Julia?’

‘About what?’

‘Anything.’

She shrugged, knowing she had nothing much to say. She searched her mind. ‘I’m bored, Latham. Would it disturb you if I learned to type?’

‘Probably. Why do you want to learn to type?’

‘It might come in useful one day.’

‘And it might not.’

‘I wouldn’t practise it when you were here, only when you’re in London.’

‘I can understand why you’re bored. You must please yourself about the hobbies you adopt when I’m away. I’m much too busy to get bored myself.’

She’d not given his working life much thought. He was wealthy, yes, but he had to earn that wealth. Suddenly she was curious. ‘What do you actually do for a living? Tell me about it.’

He gave a faint smile. ‘It’s nothing that would be of interest to you. I have five factories, including the one I’ve just bought. During the war my factories mostly produced weapon parts. Now I’m making domestic appliances.’

‘China and stuff?’

‘No, I don’t run a pottery. Three of them produce gas appliances such as cookers and water heaters. There’s a big demand for such items now. One produces a range of goods such as baking tins, copper pans, jelly moulds, biscuit tins, scales, etcetera.’

‘And the factory you bought from my father? What domestic goods will you make there?’