Molly

by Molly (retail) (epub)

  Later, in bed, she remembered Nancy’s news about Mr Ambler, the lawyer, but listening to Jack’s deep, even breathing beside her it did not seem necessary to disturb him. Whatever the man wanted it could wait till the morning.

  Jack stirred, moved closer to her. She snuggled to him.

  “Moll?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Downstairs, just now—”

  She smiled in the darkness. “Yes?”

  “You didn’t—” he paused, “you didn’t – do anything. Anything to—’’ he stopped.

  “I didn’t have to,” she said. “It’s the time of the month when it’s all right.”

  Something in his silence warned her. She forced herself not to stiffen, not to move away from him.

  “If we had a bigger house,” he said after a moment, “do you think that you might change your mind?”

  No! No, no, no. “Is that another condition?” her voice was very quiet.

  “Of course not, lass. I just—”

  “We agreed. Both of us. After the twins. Remember?” Remember the pain? Remember the agonizing time it took? Remember the solemn, sombre faces of midwife and doctor? Remember the exhausting struggle against death?

  “Yes, I know we did. I just wondered – well, if perhaps in a couple of years or so you might feel differently?”

  “No.”

  Silence lay between them in the dark like an iron bar. “We have two daughters,” she said at last, and then with greater emphasis, “and we have a son. Isn’t that enough?”

  He took a long breath. “Aye,” he said, “of course.” And he turned from her to settle down to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nancy sat in the small outer office that was now her own, the Daily Express spread before her, her face thunderous. When the door opened she did not immediately look up.

  “Morning, Nancy.”

  “Oh – ’morning, Moll. Have you seen this? ‘Raucous hooligans’? ‘Ill-behaved persons’? ‘Screeched’? Yelled’? How dare they? This damned thing isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on, you know that? By God, if we don’t make them eat their words one day—” For the first time Nancy noticed the expression on Molly’s face. “—Molly? Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.” Molly walked through into the main office, taking off her hat and coat as she went. Nancy followed, stood leaning at the door.

  “What is it?”

  “I had a letter from Mr Ambler, the solicitor, this morning.” Molly paused. Her voice was expressionless. “Ellen Alden’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “A street accident a couple of weeks ago. She was knocked down by a motor car.” Molly seated herself at the desk. She was very pale, her mouth a tense, unhappy line. She spread small hands on the battered leather top of the desk. “She died intestate. As Sam’s legitimate son – Ellen’s grandson! Danny is her heir.” She hit the desk suddenly with a clenched fist. “I won’t take it. I won’t! I don’t want it. I don’t want her money anywhere near my son!”

  “Is it a lot?”

  “Mr Ambler wasn’t certain. The house. A few hundred pounds in the bank. A few pieces of jewellery. About a thousand pounds, Mr Ambler said.”

  “A – thousand – pounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it all comes to Danny?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the family – Ellen’s family – won’t they fight it?”

  “Apparently not. There’s only Uncle Thomas. Mr Ambler was very careful to tell me that he had advised him that he probably had a good case if he cared to fight it, but Uncle Thomas said he wouldn’t.” For the first time she smiled, a small, grim smile. “Aunt Maude and Cousin Lucy must have thrown fits.”

  “Why did he refuse?”

  Molly shook her head. “I don’t know. I suppose he thinks he’s doing me a favour. He was the only one of them all – apart from Sam – who liked me.”

  “A thousand pounds! It’s a small fortune! Lucky Danny, eh?”

  “I tell you I won’t let him take it!” There was real violence in the words.

  “What? But why?”

  “I don’t want any part of her. I don’t want her money – and I especially don’t want it for Danny. She hated him.” The smoke-blue eyes were clouded with something close to fear. “She cursed us. Both of us. I want nothing of hers near my son.”

  “Oh, Molly, now don’t be silly. You can’t prevent Danny from taking the money because of something like that! Think of the future. His future. Think what it could mean to a young man to have a nest egg like that!”

  “I know. I know. That’s what Jack says. He thinks I’m being stupid. Perhaps I am.” Molly stood and walked restlessly to the window, stood rubbing her hands nervously on her skirt. “Why in God’s name didn’t the woman make a will? She must have known what might happen if—” She stopped, her eyes blurred. Behind her stretched an Irish childhood filled with superstition, with haunts and hobgoblins, ill-wishing and mischief.

  “Oh, don’t be daft, love. You’re getting quite overwrought Anyone’d think you were frightened of the money! I’m damned if I’d say no to a thousand pounds – not if the devil himself left it to me!” She checked herself as she turned to leave. “Oh, by the way, John Marsden’s been in looking for you this morning. Something to do with a letter.”

  “Oh Lord. I’ve had one letter too many this morning already. I can’t believe that anything good could possibly come from another—”

  “Well, you’d be wrong, young lady. Not for the first time, I daresay.” Neither of them had heard John Marsden’s approach. He stood behind Nancy, his habitual scowl on his face, an opened letter in his hand. “Are you running a business here or a pesky female gossip-shop?”

  “Don’t be so crotchety. We both know you don’t mean it.” Molly went back to her desk. “Thanks, Nancy, I’ll see you in a minute.”

  Nancy returned to her own office, grimacing at John Marsden’s back before she slammed the door behind her.

  Molly regarded her senior partner composedly. “What is it? An offer to take over the staffing of Buckingham Palace?”

  “Not far off it.” He handed her the letter, watched with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as she read it.

  “But – this is marvellous! Expansion – new offices – completely new staff and organization – and they’re hoping that you’ll do it all for them!” She looked up. “Stowe, Jefferson and Partners. I think I recognize the name. Have we dealt with them before?”

  “I’ve had some dealings with them in the past, yes. They’re a good, reputable, go-ahead firm. They’ve done very well this year past. Import, export, that sort of thing. Young Jefferson has big ideas. Spends a lot of time in the United States, I believe.”

  “But this is exactly the kind of thing we’ve been hoping for!” Molly glanced at the swirling, picturesque signature. “Adam Jefferson. We must get Nancy to write back straight away and confirm the appointment. Next Thursday is all right for you, isn’t it?”

  “No,” John Marsden said peaceably, “as a matter of fact it isn’t.”

  “Oh – well, when would be? We don’t want to keep them waiting too long.”

  He produced a wheeze that might have been a chuckle. “If they wait for me, my lass, then they’ll wait for ever. I’m not going.” He paused, for effect. “You are.”

  “But they specifically ask for you.”

  “So they do. Well, you aren’t going to let a little thing like that put you off, are you? Not when they’re offering those kind of terms? I’m retiring, remember? Didn’t you once tell me, full of fire, that one day they’d come to you?”

  “But they haven’t,” Molly pointed out, not unreasonably. “They’ve come to you.”

  John Marsden limped to the door, smiling wickedly. “You’d better go to Mr Jefferson and point out his mistake, then, hadn’t you?” He left without waiting for her reply. “Well, young Nancy,” she heard him say, “still rioting in the streets with those to
mfool hysterical friends of yours, I hear?” This was the recurring theme of acrimonious argument between them. To each of them the beliefs of the other were anathema. John Marsden was and always had been a true-blue, full-blooded Tory. The overwhelming Liberal victory in the elections earlier in the year had been, to him, just another sure sign that the country was going to the dogs. That more Labour MPs than ever before had also been elected simply reinforced this conviction. The reforms that the Liberals and their allies were embarking upon appalled him; but it was the growing agitation for votes for women that was the red rag to the bull. And Nancy – never one to ignore a challenge – was, as he well knew, ready to argue with him every time he opened his mouth. Molly, Adam Jefferson’s letter in her band, heard the inevitable wrangling begin and marched to the door.

  “Some of us,” she said, “have work to do.”

  John Marsden waved a testy hand. “Just trying to sort out young Nancy’s muddled thinking for her, that’s all. Oh – got a bit of advice for you, too if you want it.”

  Molly could not help laughing. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Doll yourself up a bit for Mr Jefferson. He’s got something of a reputation with the ladies, or so I believe. And you don’t look half-bad, sometimes, when you try.” Nancy snorted. John Marsden ignored her. “Might as well take every advantage that you can, eh? All’s fair, as they say—”

  “Why John Marsden!” Molly said severely, “I’m surprised at you! And you not one for the ladies, either. Or so you’re always trying to tell us.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t greatly care for horses either. But I never walk when I can take a cab.”

  The girls looked at each other in exasperation as the door closed behind him and they heard his irregular steps, punctuated by his breathless laughter, take him across the hall and into his parlour.

  “I swear he gets worse every day,” Nancy said.

  “He does it deliberately.” Molly laid the letter she held on Nancy’s desk. “Would you answer this for me? Agree the date they suggest. By the way,” she said, pausing at the office door, “someone was here looking for you last night, after you’d left. Lad with an accent straight out of Berkeley Square. He had a message.”

  “Yes, he found me. Mrs Edmonton’s son.” Nancy smiled suddenly. “The Honourable Mrs Edmonton’s son, actually. There’s a meeting tonight She wants me to go along and help with the teas.” She looked up, slyly. “Care to join us?”

  “Lord, Nancy, what do you think I am? A miracle worker? I’ve enough work, one way and another, to keep me going for a month! I’ve no time for tea parties!”

  Nancy’s good-natured laughter followed her into the large, shabby office that no matter what she did to it still bore indelibly the print of John Marsden.

  She looked around. Soon it would be entirely hers. New wallpaper, she thought. New curtains. And a smaller chair. I’ll have a telephone installed – John thought them new-fangled contraptions and would not have one in the house. The filing system needs reorganizing. She thought of the opportunities that might be opened up by the Stowe, Jefferson letter. Her first big job, and her most important to date. If she were going to make a success of it she had a lot of hard groundwork to do before she met Mr Jefferson. And she was going to make a success of it. Of that she had no doubt.

  She did not, however, feel quite so confident on the following Thursday, the day set for her meeting with Adam Jefferson. The appointment was for eleven o’clock. Molly, determinedly businesslike, and with her nerves, she hoped, well buried beneath a cool exterior, took a hansom, which ploughed through the November streets in losing competition with electric trams and trolleys, with motor cars and buses that roared and clattered and jammed the muddy streets, creating chaos. Molly watched the new machines through the window with an odd mixture of awe, admiration and irritation. Despite young Edward’s frequent attempts to explain the workings of the internal combustion engine – his main passion in life since he had packed away his wooden soldiers – it remained a total mystery to her. These bright, mechanical monsters might as well be worked by magic. Yet she could not deny a certain fascination, despite the noise and smell, and it was exasperatingly true that they moved faster than the horse-drawn traffic.

  She was going to be late.

  She fidgeted with the wide collar of her smart, grey wool coat, pulled off her gloves, patted her straying, November-damp curls, checked the long pins that secured her feathered hat with its flattering upswept brim. She knew from experience that if this interview were to be a long one those vicious skewers, and the tight-pulled hair in which they were anchored, might give her a headache that could last for hours. She wriggled in a corset too new to be comfortable. “No one’s that shape,” Jack had roared, laughing, when she had shown him the picture of the “celebrated straight-fronted corset”. Well, he knew differently now. She was that shape – with the help of whalebone, an iron will and grim determination. She just hoped that she would be able to breathe, and prayed that no one would offer her anything to eat or drink. She pulled her gloves back on, picked up her long umbrella – an extravagance of grey silk to match the coat – and tried to cultivate patience in the stony soil of nervous apprehension and near-panic as the minutes slipped by. She had, after all, followed John Marsden’s advice, and taken great care with her appearance. The smart coat, the matching umbrella and the flattering hat were new.

  Unfortunately, the shabby skirt and flounced cotton blouse she wore beneath it were not. With the move to The Larches imminent she had not felt it wise to spend too much money. She just hoped fervently that Mr Jefferson did not believe in the luxury of an overheated office. She straightened her back, tucked her well-polished but about equally well-worn shoes beneath the hem of her skirt, rehearsed in her mind all the details that were set out neatly and efficiently in the documents she carried in her small, businesslike case. Not that she needed such written reminders – every name, every qualification, every penny was as clear in her mind as her own name.

  “A big day, this,” John Marsden had said, as cheerfully as he ever said anything. “Don’t go making a mess of it, now. Large, modern company is Stowe, Jefferson. And getting bigger all the time. Expanding.”

  Which was, she reflected, more than could be said for this godforsaken corset.

  “’Ere we are, Miss.” The cab had rocked to a final standstill. The driver watched her climb out into the bitterly cold, dirty street. “Number sixteen. That’ll be ninepence.”

  “Thank you.” After she had paid him, he touched his tall hat, pulled his heavy muffler up round his mouth and chin, and clucked to the old horse.

  “Oh, wait!” She almost screamed it.

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “My case! I’ve left my case in the cab!” Stupid. Stupid!

  The man spat into the road, reined in the horse. With barely concealed impatience he waited while she scrambled inelegantly back up the muddy step and retrieved her case, catching the snap lock on the shabby upholstery of the seat as she did so, nearly spilling the contents upon the dirty floor. Stepping down from the cab she banged her head on the swinging door, knocking her hat askew and nearly tearing her hair out by the roots in the process. She slammed the door in a spurt of temper that nearly tore it off its hinges. The cabby muttered something, then pulled away, leaving her alone on the draughty pavement before the shining, brass-trimmed entrance to the offices of Stowe, Jefferson and Partners.

  She gathered together the shreds of her self-possession, straightened her hat as best as she could, took as deep a breath as the wretched corset would allow and marched in.

  Mocking her fears, she found she was early, and the office into which an elderly, sour-faced man showed her was empty. She stood just inside the door, where the man had abandoned her, clutching her case and umbrella and taking stock of her surroundings. Mr Jefferson, she saw with mild surprise, lived – or at least worked – in some style. The room was large and – she noticed with sinking heart – extremely warm. I
t was also very comfortable indeed. With its big desk and the well-stocked bookshelves that filled almost the whole of one wall it seemed to Molly more like a gentleman’s private study than a place of business. At one end of the room several large armchairs were grouped around a blazing fire and nearby was a small round table upon which stood a decanter and two slender-stemmed crystal glasses. Upon the floor was spread a rug whose glowing colours echoed the exotic Orient, and that, for its beauty, might as well have hung upon the wall.

  She stood looking about her for some minutes, collecting her wits and her thoughts before she carefully set down her case and umbrella and advanced into the room, warily skirting the lovely rug, mindful of her muddy shoes. At the bookcase she stopped, intrigued by the rows of leather-bound, gold-leafed volumes. She ran a small finger along the shelf closest to her. Business Methods in the United States, Cold Storage, Its Principles and Applications, The Export of Fruit, A Guide to Shipping and a slim, slightly battered volume entitled Success in Business. Daringly, she slipped it from its place, but before she could open it she heard light, brisk footsteps coming along the corridor towards the door. Flustered, she tried unsuccessfully to push the book back. Behind her, the door opened.

  “My goodness,” said a voice – light, distinctive, a little husky. “What have we here?”

  Book in hand she turned to face a slight, elegantly dressed gentleman. His dark eyebrows were curved expressively in surprise, his bright eyes were undisguisedly appreciative. He tilted a smooth dark head in question, waiting for her to speak.

  Molly felt like a guest caught in some unspeakably ill-mannered act. “I have an appointment with a Mr Adam Jefferson,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “I’m Adam Jefferson. But—” he gestured gracefully, “—I’m afraid that there seems to have been some mistake. I don’t recall having an appointment with you. And I’m absolutely certain that I should have remembered if I had.” He smiled, suddenly and startlingly. “Shall I relieve you of that?”

  For a second she could not think what he meant. She had been clutching the book so tightly that it seemed to have become welded to her fingers. “Oh – I – yes. Thank you. I’m sorry – I—” her own mortifying incoherence infuriated her. She felt her cheeks grow hot.