Molly

by Molly (retail) (epub)

  The boy leapt to his feet “Tell me!” Slowly the pale young face, hard as bone, turned towards Jack. “Why don’t you tell me – Dad?” The cruel emphasis on the word was blindingly deliberate and left no doubt as to its meaning. Danny was standing very close to Jack, looking into the square, scarred face as if purposely goading the man to force. “Who was Harry?”

  Jack was as still as stone. “He was my brother. And your father.” Molly flinched from the pain in his voice.

  “Aah,” Danny said softly. “That explains it.” He lifted a hand to his own face. “I never could understand why I should look like you, yet you never wanted me.”

  “No!”

  “That isn’t true!” Molly and Jack spoke in unison, Jack’s voice passionate.

  “Oh yes.” Danny kept his eyes on his mother. “Oh, yes it is. I heard him say it. Heard him. Not my son, he said, but yours.” In the stunned moment of silence that followed his words he smiled, and turned to where Jack stood, his face shadowed. “What should I call you from now on? Uncle Jack?”

  Jack used a vicious and explicit word. Danny lifted a provoking chin, staring at him. Molly saw, suddenly, the hurt in the full, young, downturned mouth. She put a hand to her son, who pulled back from it as if it had been a burning brand. “Well?” he asked Jack.

  “Go to hell.” Jack stormed past them and out of the door. Mother and son were left looking at one another in the quiet room.

  “I’d like to hear the rest,” he said. “Did the money come from my father? From Harry? I thought none of the Bentons had any money until you came along?” The words were not kind.

  Molly took a breath. “The money was left to you by a woman named Ellen Alden. I married her son, Sam. He died. When Ellen was killed in an accident, the money came to you as her grandson—”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand.” He glanced at the door through which Jack had left. “I thought you married him?”

  “Afterwards.” Molly was aware of how badly it sounded, but could do nothing about it. “Sam was a good man,” she added. “He accepted you as his own. He—” she swallowed “—loved us both very much.” Not a trace of sympathetic emotion showed on the boy’s face.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he said with an exaggerated interest. “You must admit it’s a little complicated. Penniless Irish girl gets herself in the family way. Then what? Why didn’t Harry marry you?”

  “Oh, Danny, it’s all so difficult—” She stopped at the derisive expression on his face. “Harry went to South Africa,” she said, stonily. “He died there.”

  “What of?”

  “Dysentery.”

  His mouth twisted. “That sounds about right. So then you married – what was his name? – Sam. Who conveniently upped and died. That would be about the time you started the agency, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve often wondered,” he said softly, “where the capital came from to start it all.”

  “Sam left me a little.”

  He looked at her in flat admiration. “Well, well. That was a happy chance, wasn’t it? And then you were free to marry him.” Again the jerk of the head, the refusal to speak the name. “I’ll say one thing. At least we know now where I get it from, eh? I may not be his son, but I’m sure as hell yours—”

  She slapped him, open-handed, with all her strength. The heavy ring she wore caught his lip and blood sprang, bright as rubies. He did not move; only the hard face changed. The bloodied mouth trembled. After a moment the long lashes swept down as the boy squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the tears. Bright lamplight haloed his head, glinting like flame in his thick hair. The hurt of years showed suddenly in his face.

  Molly spoke his name, very softly. He shook his head fiercely, rejecting her, rejecting the love in her voice. Then, abruptly, he broke. He bowed his head into his cupped hands and sobbed like the child he was. Molly sank to her knees on the floor, drawing him gently with her. He pillowed his head on her lap and cried as if his heart would break, while her fingers moved in his hair, smoothed his damp forehead. At last the tearing sobs eased, and he lay in silence, his hot, wet face turned from her.

  “Danny, I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry that it seems that we tried to deceive you. But there’s something that you must understand.” She lifted his face with her hand. “What Jack said that day he said in anger. Anger not at you, but at me. You’ll understand when you’re older. For now you must take my word for it. He didn’t mean it. Not the way it must have sounded. He’s been a true father to you. He loves you as his own. Don’t make him suffer more than he already has. He doesn’t deserve that from you. Truly he doesn’t.”

  Danny sat back on his heels, sniffing.

  “Growing up is always a painful business,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry we’ve made it even more difficult for you. Tomorrow’s a new day. You start work, start your life as a man. Look forward, not back. You have your life in front of you. We’ll help you all we can.”

  He did not answer, but, resting his head again on her lap, lay like a tired child, his eyes closed, the tears still marking his cheeks. “What was my real father like?”

  She looked down into the wilful, handsome young face with something like foreboding. “You’re his living image.”

  * * *

  Adam arrived back in London in the first, sun-gilded days of June, a week or so after the clash with Danny. Molly met him, briefly, at Forrest’s offices and the sight of him, as always, aroused those conflicting emotions that any contact with him inevitably did. He looked bronzed and healthy; his limp was considerably lessened. They had no private communication beyond that they conveyed by a certain capricious gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, and she was happy to leave it so. She had long since dismissed their moments of intimacy on New Year’s Eve as being the product of too much champagne and too little self-control, an impression that was reinforced on this occasion when Etta monopolized both his attention and his conversation and he did not, as far as Molly could see, put up any great defence.

  “Well, my dear,” Joseph said expansively to Molly, “you’ll be at our little house party next weekend?”

  “Yes. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Good. Good. If the weather holds, then I think you’ll find it all quite pleasant. I’m looking forward to having you cheer us on. Adam’s crewing for me—”

  “And if anything will ensure that you lose the race, then that will—” Adam’s face was alight with laughter. Molly found herself recoiling from the physical impact of his sudden appearance at her shoulder.

  “How uncommonly modest of you.”

  He was still laughing. “I thought we agreed at least that I knew my own shortcomings?”

  “Excuse me a moment.” Joseph moved away from them.

  “I’ve a lot to tell you,” Adam said to Molly.

  “And I you. The ‘Grand’ in Regent Street has joined us, did you know? And I’ve found a firm in Scotland whose salmon is of much better quality than the people we’ve been using.” She knew her own perversity, and could not prevent herself. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Adam,” Etta called sharply from the other side of the room where he had left her. “A moment, please. The guest list for Saturday—?”

  He frowned. “You look as if you’ve lost a little weight, Molly. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m perfectly all right.”

  “Adam—” Etta moved elegantly between them, smiling brilliantly. “You really mustn’t monopolize him, Mrs Benton. Adam, Joseph is asking for you.”

  Adam eyed her coolly. Her look challenged his. Molly turned away from them both.

  “Will you be joining us at the weekend, Mrs Benton?” Etta asked smoothly.

  Molly tried to keep the pure dislike from her voice. “Yes, we will. Thank you for the invitation.”

  Etta tucked an arm through hers and steered her away from Adam. “All these awful things that are happening in Ireland, my dear. Tell me
, aren’t you absolutely worried out of your life about your people? I’ve heard talk of civil war.”

  Molly carefully extricated her arm. “There is always talk of civil war, Mrs Forrest,” she said, very clearly. “And as for Ireland, she has my heartfelt sympathy. She can ill afford to lose more blood. But my own people are well able to look after themselves. The O’Dowds always could. Now, if you will excuse me—?” Brusquely she turned away, reaching for her wrap.

  “Going already?” Joseph called from the other side of the room.

  “There’s work waiting for me at the office,” she lied. And with the thought of the coming weekend heavy in her mind, she escaped.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Molly stood with her daughters on the tiny balcony of the room that Joseph descriptively called his “Crow’s Nest”, looking out over the wide, glittering expanse of the estuary as the late evening sun turned the calm waters into molten gold and the sky to rosy splendour. The evening air still held the warmth of the day; the slightest breath of wind drifted across the water, refreshingly cool. Beneath them, grassy slopes, known in this flat locality as the cliffs, dropped to the road and the beach. Out in the estuary a stately barge, red sails glowing in the sun, cut through the lucent waters headed upriver on the flowing tide to London. Inshore, smaller craft dipped and flew like graceful water birds, or rocked on the wash of the barge’s passing. On the beach left by the rising tide children played, their happy shouts lifting to the lofty look-out above the slap of the waves.

  Meghan leaned dangerously far out over the wooden rails.

  “Do be careful, Meg,” Kitty said nervously.

  Meghan ignored her. “Where’s this Yacht Club place that were going to tomorrow?”

  Molly pointed. “Down there. See? The building halfway up the cliff, just before the pier. The one with the flag flying. And we aren’t actually going in it, you know.” She pulled a mock-severe face and added in a deep voice, “Ladies isn’t allowed.”

  “Oh, what rot. Still, a garden party should be fun.” Meghan’s restless eyes darted back and forth across the colourful scene. “What are they?” she said raising a pointing arm. “The big ships, out there beyond the pier?”

  “That’s the Royal Navy. The Third Battle Squadron, Joseph said. The gentlemen of the Yacht Club have been invited aboard one of them, so I believe.” Molly suppressed firmly the feelings of misgivings that the sight of those great grey battleships, so incongruous amongst the bright sails, stirred within her. All too well she remembered John Marsden’s grim prediction about the German Navy. “Yet another function that we ladies don’t get invited to,” she added, keeping her voice bright.

  Meghan grinned cheekily. “I’ll bet I could get myself invited aboard if I really tried.”

  Molly did not rise to the bait. Her attention had been attracted by a big, green, open-topped car that was nosing its way through the crowded street towards the house.

  “Oh, look!” Meghan had caught sight of the approaching car. “That’s Adam, isn’t it?” She leaned out above the street, waving.

  “Meghan, be careful!” Molly’s voice was sharp.

  The car rolled to a halt beneath them. “It is Adam, look! Oh, why doesn’t he look up?”

  “Meghan, will you come back here? Not even Mr Jefferson, with all his talents, would be able to catch you if you fell.”

  “It might be worth a try,” her daughter grinned irrepressibly. She watched as Adam’s foreshortened figure reached into the back of the car for a small case and then ran swiftly up the wide steps to the front door, four floors beneath them. “I do believe he’s quite the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met.”

  “Meghan!” Molly said, turning to stare at her daughter. But Meghan took no notice. With her elbows on the rail she leaned her lovely chin on her spread hands and gazed out across the glittering sea, an exaggeratedly dreamy expression on her face.

  “He’s so handsome, and so – so arrogant, too.”

  “You’re remarkably perceptive,” Molly said tartly.

  “Oh, but that’s the way he should be. The way any man should be. They aren’t worth having, are they, if they don’t put up a fight? There’s no fun in a man who lies down and lets you walk all over him.”

  “There is such a thing as a happy medium,” Molly said, drily, “and honestly, Meg, I hardly think this a suitable subject for—”

  “Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Mum dear, I was only pulling your leg. It was a joke, that’s all.”

  “If your father hears you joking like that, you’ll be back home before your feet can touch the floor.”

  “Oh, poof,” Meg said, and turned back to the rail.

  Molly eyed her repressively but said no more.

  “What are we doing tonight?” Kitty asked.

  “Dinner’s at seven thirty. And then, I believe, Joseph has invited some friends in to play whist.”

  “Oh, may we play?” Meg, her good humour immediately restored, moved in her swift, restless fashion back to them. “And may I wear my pale blue tonight? I’ve been dying to wear it. It looks so pretty, and I haven’t had a chance to wear it yet. And, oh please, Mum, may I put my hair up?”

  “Yes you may, and yes you may, and certainly not. In that order.”

  “Oh, but—” Meg took note of her mother’s expression and shrugged. “Oh, all right.”

  In the street below the car door slammed. Meg leaned over to look. “That’s Mr Forrest’s chauffeur garaging Adam’s car. What a marvellous house this is! How stupid of Danny not to want to come. What on earth’s the matter with him lately?” She did not wait for an answer. “There are almost more people here to wait on you than there are people to be waited on, have you noticed? Wonderful. Kit and I have a marvellous room. We’ve our own wash-basin, with running water! And a maid runs round behind us clearing up.” She grinned engagingly at her mother’s laughter. “Come on, Kit. Let’s go and say hello to Adam.” Fair curls flew as Meg danced through the open door, followed, more staidly, by Kitty.

  In the peaceful silence left by their going, Molly leaned on the rail and looked out to sea, breathing the clear air, narrowing her eyes against the glitter of sun off water. Beyond the long pier and the small, swooping sails, the great battleships moved with the suck and swell of the turning tide, while above them gulls wheeled, giving voice to their empty, mourning cries.

  * * *

  The next day dawned with sparkling promise. Breakfast at Cliff End was served in a large and airy room overlooking the sunlit sea. Molly and Jack came downstairs to discover that the girls were already halfway through a hearty breakfast. “We’re all going for a walk,” Meg announced with no ceremony as her mother and father sat down. “To Leigh. Etta says that there are sheds there where you can watch the fishermen boil cockles and things. Oh, it’s all right,” she added ingenuously, catching her mother’s eye, “she said we could call her Etta. Didn’t you?” she appealed to Etta.

  Etta nodded, laughing. “I couldn’t possibly have two such grown-up young ladies call me ‘Aunt Etta’.” Her mildly malicious glance flicked to Molly and away. “It would make me feel positively ancient!”

  So later that morning, at Meg’s insistence, the whole party but Joseph – who had to ready his cutter Water Baby for the afternoon’s race – set off to walk along the coast of the small village of Leigh-on-Sea.

  They strolled through the holiday crowds, past beaches on which children and young people played, making sandcastles, or playing ball in the sun. Gentlemen in resplendently striped swimsuits that covered their persons, as was proper, from neck to knee, showed their prowess in the water, whilst their young ladies, the most daring clad in bloomered suits of every hue, paddled, shrieking, in the shallows. The party stopped for a moment to watch the feckless violence of a Punch and Judy show, and then from a gaily painted ice-cream cart Adam bought huge ice creams for the twins, and it seemed to Molly, presented Meg’s to her with an especial flourish. Nor did she miss her daughter’s prett
y blush and fluttering lashes.

  Afterwards, as Adam and Etta sauntered on ahead of the Bentons, Molly, despite herself, found herself watching them. They made a striking pair. Etta carried herself well, very straight and gracefully. One of her hands rested lightly on Adam’s arm, while in the other she carried a small parasol, coloured to match her dress of palest green, trimmed with cream. It outlined to perfection her smoothly curving hips and breasts. She walked easily, her long legs matching Adam’s still slightly uneven stride step for step. She was talking animatedly, and Adam appeared utterly absorbed in her.

  Molly averted her eyes. Nearby a paperboy bawled, “Crisis in Ireland”. His placard proclaimed, “IS IT CIVIL WAR?”. She stared at the scrawled words for a moment before turning away. The warships still rode at anchor off the coast.

  At Leigh they found a spot on the grassy cliff-top slopes to eat the fresh-cooked cockles and mussels they had bought. The tide was right out now, and the great stretches of mud glistened in the sunshine. Flocks of birds fed in the shallows; small boats lay on their sides, stranded, waiting for the next lift of the tide to refloat them. Adam, by accident or design, had seated himself beside Molly and lay back on his elbows, his eyes on the heat-hazed distance. Molly followed the direction of his gaze. Two of the navy ships were sailing majestically up the deep channel that led into the heart of London. He stirred, and caught her eyes upon him.

  “We’re going to install some more ice-making plant,” he said unexpectedly.

  Molly could see Etta watching them, and resented it fiercely. Perversely she found herself taking it out on Adam. “Whatever for? We don’t need any more. We’ve spare capacity as it is.”

  His face changed subtly at the shortness of her tone, and he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “We may not need it now, but I’ve a feeling that we may soon.” His narrowed eyes were still on the battleships. “If war comes and they stop the North Sea convoys—”

  “War? What nonsense!” Etta dismissed the word with a wave of her hand. “The closest you’ll get to war, Adam darling, is the race this afternoon. Joseph is quite appallingly determined to win. And the closest we ladies will come to it,” she added, irony in her voice, “will be, I daresay, at the Commodore’s garden party—”