Paper Doll (25 page)

Julia no longer found herself shocked by Irene’s outrageous statements, though she knew her friend well enough to suspect that her observations were based on truth. She’d heard that some men could be rather effeminate in nature. Rupert was one of them. But Charles? No, surely he was just amused by the notion.

‘Why did you marry this Jacques?’

Irene shrugged. ‘Because Latham finished with me when he learned he’d fathered a child on you. I wanted to make him jealous.’

‘And was he?’

‘No . . . He didn’t care about how I felt. He never has. All he cares about is you and the coming baby. You know, Julia, while we’re being truthful, I might just as well ask you why you married Latham, when you knew how much I cared for him.’

‘My father pushed me into it when he was dying. He panicked and wanted me to be secure. Latham is a good man in many ways and I thought I’d learn to care for him.’

‘But you didn’t, did you?’

‘Not as much as I hoped I would.’ Irene’s skin had a papery yellow look to it, and her hair was stringy. ‘Have you been ill?’

‘Do I look frightful?’ She hung out her tongue and crossed her eyes trying to focus on it.

Laughter huffed from Julia. ‘Actually, you do have a slightly yellow tinge. You should look after yourself, otherwise your baby will be sickly.’

‘I had a bout of jaundice a few months ago. It was inconvenient, but now it’s cleared up. The doctor has given me a blood tonic to take. It’s frightfully constipating. I’m given to understand that Ellen is working for you now.’

‘She is, but you’ve known that for some time, so why ask?’

‘Oh, good, you won’t mind if she does my hair for me while I’m here, will you? She always gets it exactly right and I’m going to dinner with the Oliver family tonight. It will be such a drag. She disapproves of me, you know . . . everyone does.’

‘They don’t, and I don’t. You always make me laugh. Sometimes I wish I was more outgoing like you.’

‘Good old Julia, you’re always so sweet and nice. You don’t know how much I envy you that. You’d better ring for Ellen because I can’t stay much longer.’

‘You can use the bathroom attached to my bedroom.’ Julia rang the bell and gave instructions to Mrs Finnigan to pass on to Ellen.

‘Oh, good. I’ll have a rummage through your wardrobe to see if you’ve got something decent I can borrow while I’m here. How are you getting on with the maid?’

‘Ellen is very good at her job, and she suits me perfectly. I apologize for stealing her away from you, Irene, but I heard she was looking for another position, anyway.’

‘Don’t fret about it. She was one of mummy’s maids really. I only borrowed her now and again. I thought you hiring her was a master stroke, especially after that letter she sent. Now she’ll have to keep her mouth shut about your little escapade.’

‘What letter? What are you talking about?’

‘Oops . . . forget I said anything. I expect Latham got to it first, anyway. Be careful of Ellen, Julia. She’s a frightful liar. I bet she’s told you all sorts of tales about me and my family.’

‘Well, no . . . actually, Ellen’s been extremely discreet. You’re showing an inordinate amount of interest in her. Don’t think of trying to win her back. I won’t allow it.’

‘I expect my mother gave the girl the standard royal lecture on loyalty to former employers before she left.’ Rising to her feet, Irene stretched. ‘Come upstairs and we’ll have a good old chat while my hair’s being done.’

‘I will in a minute or two. I’m just going to see Fiona Robertson. She likes me to have a drink of orange juice about now. It’s full of vitamins apparently, and good for the baby. Would you like one?’

‘Only if it’s got a measure of gin in it.’

Julia grinned. ‘They say that gin is a mother’s ruin.’

‘Exactly.’

The juice gave Julia the urge to relieve herself. She used the downstairs cloakroom, then went up the stairs slowly, her hand on the banister. She stopped when the baby quivered, placing her palm against the movement. There were only three weeks left to go, and a flicker of excitement filled her. It seemed so near, yet so far.

Whispered voices came to her ears as she neared the top.

‘I warn you, Ellen . . . say one word and you’ll be in trouble.’

‘Agnes Finnigan said that someone who worked for the old gentleman told Robert that Mr Howard had a severe angina attack just after the letter was delivered.’

Julia’s eyes sharpened. The letter again –
what letter?

‘Just remember it’s in your handwriting, Ellen.’

‘Only because you made me write it, Miss.’

‘Nobody will believe your word over mine. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut . . . now be quiet about it, will you. Confessing won’t bring the old boy back, and how was I to know he had a weak heart. Look what you’re doing girl . . . you’ve missed that bit.’

They’d been talking about her father!

Heart thumping, Julia turned and went downstairs, feeling slightly sick and trying to put two and two together. She gathered that a letter sent to her father – one that had informed him of her own foolishness – had caused the collapse that had put him in hospital. Irene had dictated it. Ellen had written it. Latham had possibly intercepted it. Now her father was dead.

She sat in the armchair and took a deep breath. She must stay calm, and until she found out the truth she must act as though she knew nothing.

The telephone rang. Latham, no doubt. He was checking up on her welfare more often, so her own home had begun to feel more and more like a prison.

She was tempted not to answer it, but if she didn’t, Agnes would. ‘Latham,’ she said with a sigh.

‘How did you know it was me?’

‘The telephone has a more authoritative ring to it when it’s you.’

‘Stop it, Julia. Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,’

‘Then why does it feel so good?’

‘Don’t upset yourself; it’s bad for the baby. How are you, my dear?’

‘If only you knew how sick I am of hearing what’s good for the baby and what isn’t. I’m quite all right. I’m perfectly healthy, my baby is perfectly healthy, and I have a visitor.’

‘It’s
our
baby, Julia. Who is your visitor?’

‘Mrs Argette.’

‘Argette . . . Argette . . . Have I met her?’

As an answer it was a let-down. She didn’t want to play his games, and impatience nearly choked her. However, she found great satisfaction in saying,

‘Yes, of course you’ve met her, Latham,’ and a bitter laugh squeezed out from inside herself. She sent it down the wire to him. ‘It’s Irene Curruthers, who married a French artist called Jacques and you were the best man . . . all of which you forgot to tell me about.’

‘Probably because I didn’t think it was important. He was one of Irene’s whims to get her parents off her back. No wonder you’re feeling fractious.’

‘Because Irene’s married a French artist? Why should I be upset by that?’

‘It’s obvious that you’re spoiling for a fight and using any excuse.’

‘You’re trying to make me feel like a bitch. I’m perfectly calm.’

‘No, you’re not calm at all. I’ll be home tomorrow evening and we’ll talk things over rationally.’

‘By all means. You must excuse me now, Latham; Irene came over so Ellen would do her hair, and now she’s going through my wardrobe. It will be my jewellery box next.’

‘Give her that green dress with the poppies on. I don’t like it on you.’

Julia had worn it when she and Martin had become lovers. ‘It’s my favourite and I’ve only worn it twice. Besides, she’ll need something with a bit more room in it to accommodate the baby she’s carrying.’

There was a sudden silence from the end of the line. That was a better reaction to her goading. ‘Are you still there, Latham?’ she cooed.

‘Irene’s in the family way?’ he spluttered.

‘That’s rather a quaint way of putting it, Latham. Irene is expecting a child in November. Goodness, didn’t she tell you? Her memory seems to be as bad as yours.’

‘I must go, Julia . . . I’ll see you later and we’ll talk.’

‘Yes . . . I do rather think we need to talk.’ She took a shot in the dark. ‘Especially about the letter.’

‘What letter?’

‘The one my father received just before he had his collapse . . . the one concerning me. My, my, you do have a bad memory . . . I marvel that you’re so successful at business.’

Voice guarded, he muttered, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Sick at heart that he could lie about something so important, she couldn’t keep the accusation from her voice. ‘Yes you do.’

‘Have you been going through my desk drawers?’

‘Not yet. What was in the letter?’

‘Believe me, my love, you don’t want to know. Stay out of my study, there’s a good girl. There are files I don’t want disturbed.’

‘I do want to know, Latham. I’ve got a right to know.’

‘I’ll deal with it when I get home, and I won’t hold anything back.’

She didn’t believe him.

‘How did you learn about the letter? Servants’ gossip, I suppose. Now look, I don’t want you to mention a word about this letter to anyone.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m trying to find out who wrote it.’

She could have told him how she’d already found out, and she could tell
him
who’d written it. But something stopped her. She’d rather tell him that face to face, and when the timing was right.

Irene shouted from the top of the stairs, ‘Yoo-hoo darling . . . what’s keeping you. Where’s my gin and orange?’

‘I’ll just be a jiffy, Irene,’ she shouted back.

‘You’re not drinking gin are you?’

She allowed her edginess to show with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Please don’t take me for a fool, Latham. Goodbye, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She hung up.

T
ired of being kept in the dark, Julia burned with frustration and curiosity over the mentioned letter.

The issue itself made her feel tense, and angry, although she knew she might be reading more into it than there was, and could have questioned Ellen about it. But Latham had told her not to mention it to anybody. She supposed there was some sense in that, considering what she’d overheard.

Julia felt fatigued and heavy after Irene’s visit. The strain of being nice to her unwelcome guest in the face of her hypocrisy had been an endurance feat. She’d been nearly at screaming point when Irene left, carrying two of Julia’s outfits in a paper carrying bag.

Now the baby pressed against her bladder and its feet pushed against her diaphragm in a quivering stretch. It was hard to believe there was another human being inside her, small, warm, alive and perfect – an infant who would love her and be nurtured by her. Girl or boy, she didn’t have a preference. Latham wanted a boy, and what Latham wanted he usually got.

She placed her hand against the knobbly bits. Elbow or knee, she wasn’t sure which. ‘I’m sorry, but there isn’t any room left for you to do your stretching exercises in,’ Julia told it, wincing.

She tried hard not to think about the letter, but nevertheless curiosity got the better of her, and her feet carried her into Latham’s study. She closed the door behind her, feeling like an intruder. His modern taste had infiltrated through to his workspace. His files were in a cupboard and she threw the doors wide. Where to start?

But no, the letter wouldn’t be in a file, since Latham had indicated that it was in a desk drawer – why else would he have asked her if she’d been through his desk?

The pale wooden desk had three drawers to one side, and a silver inkstand with crystal inkwells on top. There was an ashtray and lighter, and a box of Cuban cigars, which struck her as odd because she’d never seen Latham smoke. Perhaps they were for guests. The blotter was clean. A set of bookshelves housed leather-bound books. On a side table stood a silver tantalus, the crystal decanters wearing silver necklaces with brandy, whisky and gin etched on them. The study was white with a navy-blue carpet – rather nautical with a model of a clipper on a shelf.

There was a photograph of them taken on their wedding day in an enamelled frame and another of Latham standing between Irene and Charles on a patio covered in grapevines. Irene was looking up at him, openly adoring and Latham looked amused by it. It couldn’t have been taken more than two years ago, but Irene looked as though she’d aged about ten since then. How cruel Latham had been in his treatment of her.

Julia opened the top drawer in the desk. Several writing pads resided there with packets of matching envelopes, erasers, pencils and boxes of pen nibs. He carried a black fountain pen with gold trim and his name etched on the clip – a gift she’d bought him for his birthday.

The middle drawer was stuck – or locked!

The bottom drawer held the type of oddments that such drawers collected: half a pair of cufflinks, a golf ball, a box of matches, a key! She snatched the key up, inserted it in the lock of the middle drawer and cried out in frustration. It didn’t fit the drawer.

She wouldn’t be beaten, since she could almost smell the letter now.

Going to the fireplace she picked up the poker and tried to insert the end into the gap between the drawer and the body of the desk. It wouldn’t budge. No amount of shaking the drawer handle would dislodge the drawer. It was stubborn, like Latham.

She intended to be more stubborn. There had to be a key somewhere. Going to the cupboard she pulled out all his files and emptied them on the floor. Nothing! She looked in all the vases and possible hiding places.

What if the drawer was simply stuck? Taking a grip on the handle she put her foot against the desk and began to pull. Something moved! She pulled harder. There was the sound of screws splintering wood and the handle came off. Staggering backwards with it Julia tripped over the edge of a rug and fell flat on her back.

She lay there, looking up at the ceiling, then turned over on all fours and managed to get to her feet. What if she’d done some damage, hurt the baby?

Her hands went over her stomach. ‘I’m so sorry, my little one,’ she whispered. Nothing drastic happened in the time she took to recover.

She looked around her. The room was a mess and she didn’t have the energy to put it to rights. Latham would be cross with her when he saw what she’d done. Let him be cross, she thought. She didn’t care. It served him right for not showing her the letter that had caused her father to have that attack.