Spare Brides (15 page)

‘What did your husband do during the war?’

She looked away. ‘He served with the Home Office. A civil servant.’

‘I see.’

‘Yes, you probably do.’

‘You must have been relieved: no danger from bullets or gas in Whitehall.’

‘I think we should be getting back.’

‘Do you?’

Lydia bit her lip.
Yes, of course
.
No, not at all
. ‘Well at least we ought to keep walking; we’ll catch our deaths standing around like this.’

So they set off. They weaved in and out of the trees, further into the forest and away from the house, leaving a trail of footsteps behind them that showed they walked in step and ever closer.

A
VA DID NOT
resent the snow or the added inconvenience of forty guests staying a day or two longer than initially expected. She relished the idea of a lot of company, and always appreciated anything out of the ordinary; snow provided a diversion. Her mother did not share her love of distraction and became exhaustingly flustered. Lady Pondson-Callow consulted with the housekeeper, who consulted with Cook, who lost her temper with the kitchen maids before it was agreed that they had plenty for lunch and dinner today, even breakfast tomorrow might be possible, but after that who could say? Lady Pondson-Callow could say; she ferociously imparted to the staff the paramount importance of free-flowing hospitality, and instructed that extra girls be called in from the village because several batches of bread, pies and puddings would need to be baked immediately.

‘Mummy, our cellar is second to none in the country. Believe me, no one is going to care what we eat,’ commented Ava with a yawn, but she didn’t waste any more time trying to pacify her mother’s nervousness at the demands of being a hostess for a prolonged period of time. It was boring. Ava’s mother had never got over the fact that she was American and always, in Ava’s opinion, tried a little too hard. Something Ava thought unforgivably stupid because it was so obviously counterproductive; the right sort of people gave the constant impression that they hardly ever tried at all. Ava knew that traditionally daughters were supposed to share their mother’s concerns, and when a genuine common interest was absent then they were supposed to fake it. She thought it was beyond tedious how often women were meant to fake something or other to save someone or other’s feelings, and refused to ever do it on principle. She knew she did not play the part of the unmarried-daughter-at-home particularly well; she had no interest in such a passive, inert role and wondered how any woman could abide it. She disliked the fact that whenever she gave an order to the servants, they would imply that they had to defer to her mother before carrying out the instruction. ‘Just bring the damn coal,’ was a frequent cry of the twenty-eight year old. She did not like having to say where she was going when she left a room, and she thought the questions of whether she took a bath in the afternoon, slept all morning or ate off a tray in the library were entirely ones that she could decide for herself.

However, weekend parties at her family home were not without their compensations. Her father was at times an old stick, but always wonderfully generous, so her friends were guaranteed to be well fed and entertained; she was able to ride her horse vigorously for miles and miles, and the countless rooms inevitably yielded up a diverting intrigue which she could talk and think about for at least a week. It was largely for this reason that she was unperturbed about the fact that her guests would not be able to leave today. She could see that at least three ill-advised romances were bubbling up under her nose. That sort of thing took the edge off the boredom that usually lingered in the air like last night’s cigar smoke.

Ava generally spent most of her time in London, where it was considerably trickier to be weary and people tried hard not to be dull. She lived in an enormous bachelor-girl flat in Chelsea and had done so since 1915, when she’d insisted on moving up to town to join the war effort. She had not wanted to be a VAD; nursing was ghastly. Factory work was out of the question; she considered manual work mind-numbing and so had found an administrative position at the Foreign Office. Largely her duties were secretarial, although after briefly meeting her, the PM once commented that no doubt she did a fine, if unquantifiable, job of keeping up the spirits of all the chaps she worked for. He joked that they ought to send her out to the Front to remind the boys what they were fighting for. Ava had replied that she wouldn’t mind a jot, she’d like to see the war at closer range, but no one had taken her seriously.

In London she preferred to believe and give the impression that she was completely independent. Indeed she did not have to consult with anyone as to how her staff ought to be managed, what time she should rise or return and whether attending a suffragette meeting really was a good idea. However, her father settled all her bills including the rent, utilities, staffing costs and groceries and, on top of that, he’d bought her a car and gave her a generous allowance for clothes, so her independence was as illusory as it was convenient. Ava no longer worked in the Foreign Office, because whilst she had been efficient, bright and committed, none of her skills could mitigate the fact that she was a woman. After the war she was obliged to give up the job that she had found surprisingly stimulating, so that a returning soldier might find employment. She and thousands of other women were told to return to concerns considered more fitting to their sex. It wasn’t law but it was seen as unpatriotic to do otherwise. Her boss – a portly, ineffectual chap who had bungled and worried his way through the war, unknowingly depending almost entirely upon Ava’s efficiency to save him and his department from certain embarrassment, if not disaster – had advised her that she ought to find a good chap to settle down with. ‘Even with these awfully scant pickings,
you’ll
have no trouble,’ he’d said jovially, allowing his eyes to meander the length and breadth of her body.

‘That’s really not my plan at all,’ she’d replied.

‘Really?’ The Old Harrovian had not been able to hide his surprise. ‘I thought that was what all you young ladies wanted. What
are
your plans, then?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ Ava had admitted with a defeated sigh.

‘I see. Well, in that case I shall look forward to receiving the invitation to your nuptials.’

Ava had bristled as she’d stepped out into the street, carrying nothing other than a desk journal, empty from the following week of any appointments other than social ones. It wasn’t the old duffer she was annoyed with – his attitude was all too familiar for a man of his class and age; she was furious with herself. She ought to have had a better answer, but what was she to do? When the war broke out, for most it was an unmatched, unimaginable catastrophe, for some a frustrating disruption to their personal plans; for Ava it was the first taste of freedom.

Ava’s problem, if it could be called such, was that everything in life had come too easily to her. She wasn’t used to being challenged and she had never felt the stinging slap of failure. Without either, it was practically impossible to clear one’s mind sufficiently to decide how it ought to be used; it was so easy to become fogged with boredom.

Her upbringing had been charmed and peaceful. The affection of her mother and father was guaranteed, as she was their only child. Universal admiration was guaranteed, because not only was she spectacularly good-looking but she combined this blessing with an attitude that suggested she really didn’t care what the world thought of her looks, or anything else come to that. Such commitment to indifference guaranteed the intensification of the universal adoration. She was astonishingly bright and found studying a breeze. Her parents were modern enough to employ the most prestigious tutors available; ones that parents normally only invested in if they had sons to educate. Besides fluently mastering French and German, Ava could read and write Latin and Greek; natural curiosity had led her to excel in her studies of the sciences and geography, she had a thorough understanding of ancient and modern history and English literature, and – because her father liked to talk business in the evenings – she was coached in mathematics, economics and commerce as well. Reading music presented no problem to her, and she played both the harp and the piano with extreme competence. Her long, strong limbs meant that she was a natural athlete and, as such, she played a decent game of tennis or golf when called upon. She could swim, ski and dance with energy and flair.

No one was more aware than Ava of the irony that with all of these talents she was the one amongst her friends who was the most easily bored and the most frequently restless. She had never gone up to Oxford, although many of her tutors had mooted the possibility. Her mother had thrown up objections – she was afraid a formal education would ruin Ava’s chances of a really good marriage – and Ava had felt no longing to attend an institution that, whilst professing to be the epicentre of brilliant minds and allowing women to attend lectures and take exams, would not permit its female students to matriculate. It was only last year that the university had finally agreed to allow women to graduate with mortar and gown, but even then Ava had not been tempted. She knew that what others revered as a place steeped in time-honoured tradition she would simply loathe as claustrophobic and limitingly sexist. The ideas of curfews, monitoring of the company of the opposite sex and deferring to the word of a chaperone were unthinkable. When the war first came along, Ava hadn’t realistically expected to be in the thick of it, but she certainly didn’t want to be a Rapunzel locked away in an ivory tower. She had been hopeful that because the country was desperate for a workforce, perhaps a girl like her might be acknowledged, one day respected. And for a brief period of time she had indeed felt the electrifying buzz of being useful.

Her love affairs provided a certain amount of distraction. The only fear that Ava had was that in the end that was all they were. A distraction. Not that she believed a fruitful love affair was her goal – she did not – but there was no dignity in frittering away time either, and after a while, the men became interchangeable. Her mother complained that Ava was anti-marriage; she was not. She simply had never met a man who was her equal and who recognised her as his. Men adored her, worshipped her and lusted after her. They thought she was beautiful, sexy, witty. They wanted to own her. They did not understand her. She doubted they valued her, at least not for the right reasons. She saw nothing to gain by committing to a man who would want to subdue and control her. She had never seen a marriage that led to more freedom for the woman. She existed in a perpetual state of rebellion, although sometimes she almost forgot exactly what she was rebelling against, exactly what her cause was.

Ava had always been interested in Lydia’s more simplistic view of the world, her less demanding expectations. Lydia had only ever articulated one ambition: to marry well. She had never expressed any sense that there might be more to life than finding a decent, reasonable man to earn for her. Lawrence was distinguished rather than handsome, intelligently thorough rather than a genius, but add to these attributes his family, and he was in Lydia’s mind quite indisputably ideal. At least he had been. His sensibleness about the lack of heir might for many confirm that opinion, but apparently it was not so for Lydia. She had not confided as much to Ava, but she had hinted that his deficiency of passion about the lack of a baby infuriated her. His cold self-preservation during the Great War repelled her.

Ava watched Lydia run across the clean sheet of snow in the direction of the dangerously attractive officer. He was certainly wonderful to look at. If it wasn’t for the promise Lydia had extracted, Ava might have been tempted herself. He was very much her type for a dalliance. Angry, damaged, beautiful. She wondered whether he could be trained, enslaved to anything other than fury; she felt a pinch of regret that she’d never find out. Ava adored her friend, but doubted that Lydia’s girlish, flirty ways would be weapon enough to slay or soothe this ferocious man’s will, but then that probably wasn’t Lydia’s aim. What could her aim be? Did she even know? Lydia had always been so faithful and dutiful, it seemed oddly out of character for her to be dashing across the snow, towards trouble, with such determination.

Ava turned from the impending calamity and slipped back between the sheets, sucking up the remnants of warmth that her friend’s body had left. She reached for the newspaper and decided to turn her mind to bigger concerns. Unemployment was on the up again: two million. Seventeen per cent of the workforce. It was unbelievable. And what was this? Some brave woman was planning to lecture about constructive birth control. Marie Stopes. Ava made a note of her name; she’d make an interesting dinner guest. Lady Pondson-Callow would be distraught.

B
EATRICE FELT VIVID
with excitement. Her fingers trembled a little as she fastened her corset, and she hadn’t been able to eat a full breakfast, something that had only ever happened once before and that was when she’d had laryngitis. She saw the extra time the snow-in had provided as a blessing. An actual gift from God.

Last night she and Arnie Oaksley had chatted fluently throughout dinner,
and
he’d sat with her after he returned from the smoking room; they’d both agreed that the habit of the chaps going off to smoke and the women going off to gossip was horribly dated, that nowadays all the best hostesses gave up the segregation and allowed the sexes to mingle when the effects of the delicious food and the copious amounts of alcohol were at their highest. They had stayed together until after eleven. The situation was … Bea hesitated as she searched for the most accurate word; in the end she settled on
promising.
The situation was promising. A delightful, hopeful word.

Arnie Oaksley was about five foot eight or nine; Beatrice generally wore two-inch heels, so if she threw her shoulders back, she was a fraction taller than him. It didn’t matter. Not to her and, for once, not to him either. He was a neat man, slight and inexcessive. His ears were smaller than most men’s but his chin was impressively angular, which compensated. He had a thin moustache that was struggling to take up residency above his lip, suggesting it was a relatively new addition; perhaps to mask the small scarring that remained around his mouth. Beatrice wondered who had made the decision to allow a moustache to grow. Did he have a manservant to help him to shave and trim; could he have suggested it? She wondered what colour his eyes had been. She couldn’t remember whether she’d ever met him before the war. It was possible; during her debutante days she’d briefly met so many young men. She planned to check her old dance cards when she returned home, cards she’d sentimentally kept, tied together with a length of cream lace, suggesting a level of romance in her life that simply did not exist. Irrationally, she hoped they might have danced together back then, an irrelevant fact since evidently he’d been too slight and she too plain for either one to have remembered the other. Yet if they
had
danced, she’d be able to make something of that. She might force a memory; try to decide if his eyes had been light or dark. She’d certainly be able to make something out of the fact that they had known one another before. People longed for that in particular, relationships that had endured; they desperately sought them where they really were not.