The Silver Locket (2 page)

He left the sentence hanging in the air.

Rose was mortified. If she said she did, she would look either forward or pathetic, and which was worse?

‘No, Mr Denham,’ she said, crisply. ‘I’m afraid I have a headache. I shall not dance this evening.’

Alex seemed to think this meant he could make his escape. He bowed and walked away.

Glad to see the back of him, Rose became aware of the bustle and commotion of some late arrivals, but she was too annoyed to go and see who had turned up. She was sitting in the supper room, alone and irritably picking at a candied pear, when she heard a familiar, pleasant voice.

‘Miss Courtenay?’ Michael Easton smiled and bowed. ‘I looked for you among the dancers, but then Mrs Sefton said she’d seen you come in here. I hope you’re not unwell?’

‘I had a headache earlier, but I’m much better now.’ Rose looked at the vacant chair beside her, hoping Michael Easton might sit down.

He did, and then he glanced at Rose’s plate. ‘That pear looks rather good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll have one, too.’

‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you.’ Rose pushed her plate aside. ‘They’re much too sweet. In fact, they’re quite disgusting.’

‘Then I’ll resist temptation.’ Michael edged his chair a fraction closer. ‘May I stay a while and talk to you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ smiled Rose. ‘When did you get back from Cambridge?’

‘Only yesterday, and on the train I happened to meet this most amazing fellow–’

Rose liked Michael Easton, an eldest son who had great expectations, if not much ready cash – his father’s love of gambling saw to that – for Michael was always such good company.

He was handsome, too. Six feet tall, broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, he had a head of blond, leonine hair that made him look the image of a Viking warrior from a children’s story book. Nowadays, to her embarrassment, Rose found she sometimes wondered what this modern Viking looked like without clothes. She realised she was wondering now, and blushed as pink as her new gown.

‘Miss Courtenay, would you like to dance?’ asked Michael.

Rose pulled herself out of her reverie. ‘Yes, very much,’ she said, ‘but I can’t this evening.’

‘Why, because it’s Lent and you’re too holy?’

‘I told Mr Denham I didn’t intend to dance.’

‘Mr Denham?’ Michael frowned. ‘Oh, you mean
Alex
Denham. Don’t worry, he won’t notice.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw him heading for the billiard room with Henry and my father. They’ll be there all night. Come on, let’s have some fun.’

So Rose danced with Michael, who told her all about what he’d been doing at Cambridge, and made her wish she had been born a boy.

‘What’s been happening here?’ he asked.

‘Nothing very interesting,’ said Rose. ‘Daddy sacked a gamekeeper for drinking and bawling
The Red Flag
under Mummy’s window at four o’clock one morning. A maid has given notice, she’s going to work in Dorchester, she means to learn stenography, and she–’

‘My sister says you haven’t been to see her for a month or more,’ interrupted Michael suddenly.

‘I haven’t,’ Rose agreed, but then decided he wouldn’t want to hear about her progress in geometry, or her place at Oxford. ‘I’ve been rather busy.’

‘Well, you must come over soon.’ He grinned. ‘I promise you we’ll make it worth your while.’

‘How?’ Rose smiled, intrigued.

‘We’ve bought a gramophone.’ Michael’s blue eyes sparkled. ‘It’s tremendous fun! We’ve all the latest music – tango, ragtime. Of course, we have to keep the contraption in the butler’s pantry. The parents don’t approve.’

‘Mummy wouldn’t have one in the house.’ Rose sighed wistfully. ‘She hates that ragtime music. She says it’s decadent.’

‘Yes, it’s frightful stuff.’ Michael pulled her close, so she was crushed against his chest. ‘It makes your heart beat like a drum, and your pulses pound.’

In Michael’s warm embrace, inhaling the beguiling scents of shaving soap, cologne and clean, male perspiration, Rose felt fairly decadent already. The thought of being alone with Michael Easton, of dancing to that wonderful, intoxicating music, made the hot blood rush into her face.

The room grew warmer, noisier, and Rose was starting to enjoy herself, but as Michael whirled her round in yet another waltz, she suddenly had a feeling she was being watched. She turned to see Alex Denham standing by the open door.

His jacket was unbuttoned at the collar. A lock of jet black hair had fallen forward so it lay across his forehead. He’d obviously been drinking. An empty whisky glass hung in his hand, and he seemed to lean against the doorframe for support.

Then he began to make his way across the crowded floor, weaving unsteadily between the other dancing couples, avoiding some but ploughing into others, and making everybody stare at him.

The music stopped, and Alex stood in front of Rose and Michael. ‘Your headache must have gone, Miss Courtenay,’ he said pleasantly.

Rose was so surprised she couldn’t speak.

Then Alex smiled at her, his dark eyes meeting hers, and to Rose’s great embarrassment she couldn’t look away. No, it was even worse than that – she didn’t
want
to look away.

‘When they begin to play again,’ said Alex, ‘will you dance with me?’

‘Miss Courtenay is engaged for every dance,’ said Michael, his blue eyes hard and cold.

‘Every single one?’ Alex frowned at Rose in disbelief. ‘Miss Courtenay?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Denham,’ Rose replied, more sharply than she’d meant, and horribly aware that she was blushing.

‘I see.’ Then Alex shrugged and smiled again. ‘Well, never mind, Miss Courtenay,’ he said softly, his dark brown gaze unfocused but intent. ‘Maybe some other time?’

The music started, and somehow he managed to get himself across the ballroom floor.

‘Denham can be very irritating,’ muttered Michael, and Rose felt his hand become a fist, pressing hard between her shoulder blades. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. We all know what he is and where he came from, after all. But maybe someone ought to teach the fellow courtesy.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Rose became aware her feet were aching. The straps and laces of her undergarments were digging trenches in her flesh. The vile whalebone corset crushed her ribs.

She wanted to sit down. But Michael danced on, talked on, told her more amusing stories, and she felt obliged to smile, although she wasn’t really listening to anything he said.

Michael finally noticed her abstraction. ‘You must be getting tired,’ he said, and before she could deny it he was leading her towards some chairs. ‘You sit here, and I’ll fetch you a cordial.’

As Michael walked away, Rose noticed several chaperones sitting together on a window seat, no doubt exchanging scandal. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the women were all deaf, their shrill, aristocratic voices carried, and she could hear very well what they were saying.

‘Viola never had any shame,’ rasped one. ‘So we shouldn’t be surprised if her son decides to make a foolish exhibition.’

‘But he’s such a very attractive boy.’ A second woman sighed. ‘So tall, so handsome. He has his mother’s eyes, her charming smile, and there’s a certain sort of girl who doesn’t ask for more.’

‘Well, Henry won’t allow it, I shall see to that.’ The first crone shook her head. ‘One bastard at a time is quite enough for any family. If Alex thinks he can play fast and loose with Charlotte Stokeley – that child is just fifteen.’

‘Your cordial, Miss Courtenay.’ Michael handed Rose a glass, then sat down beside her and started telling her another story.

But Rose didn’t hear Michael, didn’t see him. She didn’t know why she felt like this, she didn’t understand it – after all, she didn’t even like the man.

All she could hear right now was Alex asking her to dance with him. She could still see his smile.

Chapter Two

‘Come on, Phoebe sweetheart, that’s enough. You know old Maisie wouldn’t have wanted you to break your heart.’ Maria Gower drew back the green plush curtains with a flourish, sending the brass rings rattling down the rails and letting the dusty light of the East End flood into the dark parlour.

She sat down by her sister and put a comforting arm round Phoebe’s shoulders. ‘I must admit I’m glad the funeral’s over. I reckon they really did us proud, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, it was the business.’ Phoebe Gower sniffed and gulped and rubbed her swollen eyes. ‘People was impressed by that glass carriage an’ all them black ’orses. But it must’ve cost a fair old bit?’

‘I had some money saved, and Maisie deserved the best of everything.’ Maria gazed round the little terraced house in which their foster mother had brought them up. ‘If she hadn’t taken us from the Spike, if she hadn’t treated us like her own, God only knows how we’d have ended up.’

‘You’d ’ave done all right, Maria,’ said Phoebe. ‘You got brains.’

‘But you have looks. A lovely figure, pretty face and beautiful black hair.’

‘The blokes all goes for blondes an’ redheads these days,’ muttered Phoebe, and Maria reflected that her own fair hair and clear grey eyes were such a striking contrast to Phoebe’s gipsy colouring no one would have guessed they might be sisters.

‘I got something to tell you,’ added Phoebe. ‘You ain’t goin’ to like it. But I’ve thought about it for a while an’ now I’ve decided, so you won’t change my mind. I’m goin’ on the stage.’

‘The stage?’ Maria stared. ‘But you’ve just started work at Mrs Rosenheim’s, round at the corner shop.’

‘I don’t work there no more. I give me notice Monday.’ Phoebe grimaced. ‘I’ve ’ad enough of flippin’ Nathan bumpin’ up against me. I’m sick of Mrs R, always givin’ me ’er dirty looks as if to say, don’t you think you’re goin’ to catch my Nathan, you schemin’ little
shiksa
. God, Maria – as if I’d want to go to bed with him!’

‘But you had a place to live, a job–’

‘I’ll soon get another place, don’t worry. As for a job, that Mr Harris down the Royalty says ’e’ll find me somethin’, maybe in the chorus line.’

‘But you can’t sing – or dance.’

‘Maria, I could bloody learn!’ Phoebe’s full, red lips were pressed together, in fierce determination. ‘It’s all right for you,’ she muttered, angrily. ‘Anythin’ you wanted – a scholarship to that fancy school, where you learned to talk like Lady Muck. Then you got the Board to let you train to be a nurse. You just ’ave to whistle, an’ it all comes along.

‘But it’s never been like that for me. In any case, now Maisie’s dead, you know we can’t stay ’ere in Bethnal Green. It’s not where we belong.’

‘Where else could we go? Phoebe, we must–’

‘Anybody ’ome?’ The front door opened, and their next door neighbour poked her head into the parlour.

‘Come in, Mrs Taylor,’ said Maria, wearily.

‘I ain’t stoppin’.’ Still resplendent in her funeral finery, Mrs Taylor dabbed her red-rimmed eyes. ‘I just popped round to tell you some of us is goin’ down the George, an’ we’d like you girls to come along. We wants to see old Maisie off in style.’

Lady Courtenay’s party had evidently been a huge success. The great pile of bread and butter letters lying on her breakfast table seemed to prove it. As she opened them and read, she smiled with satisfaction.

Even Alex Denham had sent her a short note, which she passed across the toast and coffee and invited Rose to read.

‘Good God, his handwriting’s atrocious,’ muttered Rose, who didn’t actually want to read the letter, or even touch the letter, come to that, because she wanted to forget him, or at any rate forget the strange, uncomfortable emotions he’d aroused.

‘You’re a fine one to talk, my dear,’ said Lady Courtenay, tartly. ‘All you young people scrawl. But he writes a very charming letter, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, if you say so,’ murmured Rose. ‘I’m taking Boris for a walk.’

‘Be home by twelve,’ called Lady Courtenay, after her departing back. ‘Mrs Sefton is coming here for luncheon. You have a fitting with your dressmaker at two.’

Rose walked moodily along the headland, throwing sticks for Boris who was much too fat and lazy to chase them very far, and wondering if she might meet Michael Easton – he often rode this way.

If she did get married, should she marry Michael Easton? She liked him, she supposed. But marriage meant having babies, running households, having dismal, boring parties like the one last night.

Boris eventually caught a stick then sat down panting heavily. So Rose slumped down beside him. She could hear shouts and cries of laughter coming from the beach. So now she inched her way towards the cliff top, intending to look down and find out who was making all the noise.

Alex and Charlotte Stokeley, the eldest daughter of Henry Denham’s bailiff, were running up and down the beach with Charlotte’s dog, a much more energetic beast than Boris.

The dog was barking like a lunatic and going berserk with joy as Alex threw sticks into the surf for it to find and fetch, and Alex himself was laughing as the dog came charging up the beach, and shook itself all over him and Charlotte.