“That’s true, but only up to a point. She couldn’t stay in England living the way she wanted, so she decided on New York where she could melt into the background.”
She blinked as she worked out what he was trying to tell her, everything finally falling into place. The reason the will had been worded in such a way. The way her mother would be carefully polite but no more. The awkwardness of her father. The friend, Margot something or other, who was always there in the background.
“So what you’re trying to tell me, but not in so many words, is that if I was in a serious relationship with, let’s say for arguments sake, another woman, I’d still be able to inherit?”
“Er, exactly.”
Was that a slight reddening of his cheeks she saw? Surely not. She kept her smile to herself. Well, well, well and her parents had never so much as dropped a hint, but then again they wouldn’t. In those days it would have caused such a scandal.
“But that’s not going to affect you now is it?” His eyes finally meeting hers again. “Not now you’re engaged to Rupert. Your parents will be delighted considering he owns the land bordering theirs.”
“Mr Pidgeon, we’re not formally engaged as I said and my life isn’t some Jane Austen parody,” she added, trying to stem the sudden surge of anger that threatened to overtake what was in effect, a mellow conversation. “The fact Rupert bought that derelict castle is of little interest as I’ll never be living there.”
“But surely if you’re married?”
“There’s a big IF in that question.” She stared at him across the desk, He was a kind man, she could see that. A kind and honourable man who could have no idea what the likes of Rupert would engineer to lay his hands on her inheritance. If she continued in this vein, she’d only upset him. Picking up her bag and clutching it to her lap she stood up from the chair. “So just to reiterate, I need to be engaged before or on my twenty-third birthday, and if I am…?”
“And if you are, you’ll inherit quite a sizeable amount, in cash. There are some shares and properties included, like her New York apartment and a cottage somewhere in Martha’s Vineyard too, although…”
“Although?” she questioned softly, her eyes pinned to the unaccustomed stillness in the face opposite.
“Although the Martha’s Vineyard cottage does have a condition attached.” He pulled out a handkerchief, unfolding it before blowing his nose. “Your aunt’s friend has a life enjoyment,” his eyes finally meeting hers.
“Oh, is that all?” She laughed. “I thought you were going to tell me it was haunted or the scene of a murder or something. They both sound delightful. And my er… and Rupert knows all this?” Her eyes focussing again as he arched his hands in front of him. She’d been hoping for so much from this meeting. Some wriggle out clause that would mean marrying Rupert wasn’t the only option open to her but there was nothing apart from the knowledge that Mr Pidgeon was on her side. That would have to do for now.
“Mr Reynolds–Smythe, of course, knows the contents of the will as it is public knowledge but that’s all.” He paused and met her gaze with a serious expression stamped across his features. “He was keen to know how much you’d be worth, all the nitty gritty valuations and bank accounts now you’re an item, shall we say. I had to ring for my secretary to help me get rid of him in the end; no one gets past Miss Short.”
“That I can well believe.”
As soon as Sarah had left the office, he buzzed for Maud.
“If Mr Reynolds-Smythe calls again, tell him I’m not available, would you? It’s a clear conflict of interest as I’m not representing him.”
“I hear congratulations are in order…?”
“Well, you hear wrong, Maud.” He peered at his secretary over the top of his glasses. “I’ve known that girl since she was a baby and if she ends up marrying him, I’ll eat my hat.” His gaze now on his old fashioned trilby perched on top of the coat-stand.
“Yes, Mr Pidgeon; lovely girl, apart from her strange taste in clothes.”
“What are you babbling on about clothes for, I hadn’t noticed! Now back to work with you or we’ll never get home.”
“Ah there you are, Lady Sarah. Mr Reynolds–Smythe phoned. He’d like to take you out for supper and a show this evening.” Her lips pursed.
So she was back to being Lady Sarah now was she? Her eyes followed Beverley’s movements as she pummelled dough as if she was in the boxing ring.
She knew she was upset. She had no idea what Rupert had told her but presumably it was enough to distress her. Walking over she gave her a quick hug even as she whispered in her ear.
“Bev, don’t believe everything you hear.”
“He called you his fiancée.” She gave up on the dough, throwing it in the prepared loaf tin before slamming it in the oven. “If that rises I’ll be a Dutch uncle.”
“I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” And if it wasn’t, she’d eat it all the same.
Sarah turned towards the kettle and, flicking the switch, spooned out Nescafe into a couple of the earthenware mugs her parents so despised. “Where’s Arnie, will I make him a mug?”
“He can sort himself out.”
“You haven’t had a row have you?” she said, throwing her a suspicious glance as she poured hot water into the mugs.
“No luv, me and Hopper never row, just the occasional misunderstanding.”
“And?”
“And,” her face turned away. “And he says I was to mind me own business about you and…”
“I wouldn’t want to be the cause of an argument between you two.”
“You’d never be that, my luv.” She threw her a smile. “Hopper and me are just fine…”
“I never did find out which rose bush you met under?”
“Rose bush is it? Is that what he told you?”
“Well, as I remember, he went away for his usual two week holiday and came back married?”
“That he did.” Her eyes misty. “It was one of them romances that are only meant to happen in books. Our eyes met across the dance floor and…”
“Oh, you met in a club then?”
“Not quite a club, a dance studio: the Rose Bush dance studio in Blackpool. We go back there every year even though we’re a bit past it now. We were both practicing for the IBDC. My partner…well, let’s just say my partner had a roving eye, not to mention a roving hand so I dumped him.”
This conversation was going from surreal to just downright confusing. She’d never in a million years have put Hopper as a dancer and as for Beverley, as much as she loved her, she couldn’t imagine her wearing one of those glamorous Strictly costumes.
“What on earth is the IBDC, apart from sounding like some horrible disease?”
“The International Ballroom Dancing Competition at the Royal Albert Hall. We won with our tango that year, our greatest triumph considering we’d only just met,” she continued. “I have some photo’s somewhere if you’re interested, as well as an old costume or two?”
“I’d love that, Beverley.” Reaching out she took her hands within hers. “You know, as a child, I often wished you and Arnie were my parents instead of…”
“Ah, you shouldn’t say that, child. Your parents mean well as you know. They’re just a bit too…”
“Full of their own importance?”
“You could say that, but they’re good people. They’ve been good to us. Nothing’s ever too much trouble and the little flat they created when the National Trust moved in - money was no object.”
“I know. It’s just you were always there for me when my parents were off gallivanting. If it wasn’t for Arnie doing the school run and you mothering me with cake and kisses I’m not sure where I’d have ended up. Certainly not in France or indeed the Sorbonne, so in a way what’s happened is all your fault…” She paused, hesitant now if she should confide any further or wait until her parents return. But before she could make up her mind Hopper burst through the door with a basket full of fresh eggs in
one hand and a clothes brush in the other.
“Bloody Nora! The mac you use for the chickens. I’ve just remembered where I’ve left it,” she said with barely contained laughter. “Oh well, they’ll probably find it eventually.”
“That reminds me, did you remember those kippers for Hopper’s tea?”
“Mmm. They’re in the same place as the mac!”
Walking over to her father’s drinks table, she lifted up the cut-glass Waterford crystal decanter before pouring herself a thick measure.
“If you want one, help yourself,” she said, perching on the arm of the sofa, one slim ankle all there was to see under her floor length black dress.
Rupert had called for her a little after six, not taking no for an answer. He’d found her still in her jeans lying in the middle of the floor with a book.
“Really Sarah, aren’t you ready yet? If you don’t get a move on they may not even let us in. You know how sniffy the Opera House is at interrupting performances for latecomers.”
Well that’s no loss, she thought, slowly getting to her feet. Having to sit beside Rupert for more than five minutes as he talked his way through Madame Butterfly, her favourite of all Puccini’s operas was more than she could bear.
She’d first heard the music snuggled up beside her grandmother while her grandfather ran over the notes from memory, music so special she couldn’t abide to have it spoilt by the store of smarmy comments Rupert was famed for.
“I’m ready,” she said, placing the priceless David Wolff goblet on the table with care.
“One of these days you’re going to break that and then where will you be; ten grand poorer!”
“But with very happy memories of my grandparents who insisted that it was to be used…”
“When we’re married that will be residing in the bank along with those diamonds,” his eyes focussing on the star brooch and matching earrings. “I’ll get you paste ones to wear instead.”
“What, along with a paste engagement ring?” Her voice challenging.
“Patience, princess,” he murmured, lowering his head to her ear before aiming a sudden kiss against her lips, only to get her cheek as she turned just in time. “You’ll get your ring. Come along now or we really will miss that first act and I hear the Royal Box will be in use tonight.”
He left the rest unsaid, but she was easily able to fill in the gaps. The only reason he’d chosen tonight was presumably because he’d been given a tip off. He was still determined to crawl his way to the top of the ladder, and her title in addition to her fortune added more than a few rungs.
Arriving at Covent Garden, the sight of all those My Fair Lady pillars always had her heart leaping about in her throat, despite the fact her grandparents and then her parents had been bringing her here ever since she could remember. At first for the matinee and then, when she was twelve, for her first taste of an evening performance followed by late supper, always at Café Murano. When she was a student she’d attended with friends and even once or twice by herself, but never in a box.
Rupert followed her up the narrow stairs, through the little curtained-off door and into a private room, private except for Rupert huffing and puffing behind her. But she ignored him, her hand already reaching out to feel the plush, red velvet curtains running through her fingers before taking her seat on one of the matching velvet covered chairs. She heard him dragging his chair nearer, stage whispering into the side of her neck.
“Don’t look now but the Royal Box is full.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I won’t look now,” she added before turning away, her eyes trained on the stage as the curtain lifted.
In turning away, she forgot where she was or indeed who she was with as Puccini’s poignant story of unrequited love poured over and across her, capturing her within the folds of the story. With each successive note, with each successive word, she wasn’t Sarah Cosgrave with her cocked up love life and impending marriage that was doomed from the moment he’d coerced her into accepting his hand. No, she was the hauntingly beautiful Cio Cio San awaiting the return of her lover and the father of her child, her heart breaking with every empty tide.
The music swelled to embrace her soul as tears started their weary journey across her cheeks. An echo of something had invaded her consciousness; a crossover of something almost tangible that had been peering up from the depths of her subconscious for days now only to be pushed back down with an indifferent hand. But now the horror of her discovery made her catch her breath in alarm as she tried to count back just when she’d last had her period, certainly not since returning to England.
Unlike Cara who could mark it down on a calendar and plan her life accordingly she had never been the most regular or indeed the most interested: there was little point. She didn’t have a lover to prepare herself for, and if she had she’d go on the pill. It’s not as if she was stupid or anything. But with Pascal it hadn’t mattered, and it should have. By God it should have mattered, her eyes filling again with tears. Blinking them away she struggled to remember just when her last cycle had been. She still had that pack of Tampax in the bottom of her wash bag and she’d bought that from the supermarket next to her old apartment six weeks ago or more.
“For goodness sake clean yourself up a bit,” Rupert interrupted her thoughts, stuffing a tissue into her hand. “You’ve managed to smear mascara everywhere. I really don’t see what you’re crying at. You must have seen it a million times.”
She scrubbed under her eyes before gathering her evening bag and wrap, unable to do more than follow him back down the stairs and out into the waiting car. She had too much to think about and, having to pause every couple of seconds beside Rupert as he schmoosed his way out of the building, was tantamount to torture by a thousand stares. Of course he had to introduce Lady Sarah, his fiancée, to anyone and everyone that caught his eye. Why else had he brought her? She wondered what he’d say if she introduced herself as his pregnant fiancée; his pregnant with another man’s child fiancée. She wondered what he’d say then. She wondered what he’d do. Would he still want to marry her? Of course he would. She was his new cash point.
Finally, sinking her head back against the seat, she allowed her hands to rest nonchalantly across her lap, her thumbs gently massaging the slight mound of her belly.
She had some choices. Women in her predicament always had choices, but they weren’t choices she was going to make. The only choice for her was to have the baby they’d made. She’d bring it up in a cherished happy home but that’s as far as her dream would take her at the moment. She really should think about passing it off as Rupert’s, her eyes peering at his smug self-satisfied face. That would mean she’d have to sleep with him soon, probably even tonight and her gag reflex just wasn’t that strong. Perhaps if she puked up all over him he might change his mind about the wedding, something worth considering.
She heard him tap on the window that separated them from the liveried driver. “To the Savoy and snap on it, I’ve champagne on ice.”
Oh God, that’s all she needed, but one look at his set face and she knew she wouldn’t win and was it worth it anyway? At least she’d be in a public place so the opportunity for him to maul her would be minimal if the waiters at the Savoy were the same as the ones at the Ritz. She’d known he’d try it on, but one word in his ear about them being in direct sight of the now heaving Royal Box and he’d jerked his hand back on to his lap where it had remained for the length of the performance.
Working on autopilot she allowed him to escort her to a central table before agreeing to his suggestion of caviar followed by lobster, even as she wondered why the only food men seemed to want to serve her were foul tasting fish eggs and what amounted to overgrown prawns. Her fingers lifted to her lips as she remembered the one man who’d dared to be different; the one man, the only man brave enough to serve her buffalo wings. She liked buffalo wings.
“You’re very quiet. Cat got yo
ur tongue?” he said, laughing at his joke. “Although I must say, I do like the new acquiescent Lady Sarah. What about staying over tonight, hmm.” His eyes peering into hers. “We can have a trial run before the honeymoon.”
“And what if my parents arrive and find me absent, or even worse, I could fall pregnant?” Her voice quiet, her mind a quandary of thoughts.
Would it be such a bad thing? She should just do it with him. That would be the easy option and the one she was sure many women had chosen in the past. Although he’d said he didn’t want any more children, he wouldn’t be a bad father, just an absent one which suited her down to the ground. But with bile pooling in the back of her mouth she knew she couldn’t, she’d grab a sword just like Cio Cio San. Although a kitchen knife might be easier to obtain in this day and age. Hysterical laughter, just like the bile before it, had to be swallowed back down her throat. No, she wouldn’t do anything drastic, but she’d have to do something and pretty quick if her maths was correct. Just how long would it be before she started to show? There was so much she didn’t know and no one to ask.
“That’s not going to happen anytime soon.” His fat fingers running themselves up and down her arm, pummelling her flesh like a trainee masseuse destined to fail their finals.
“Why’s it not going to happen, it’s not like I’m on the pill or anything?”
“As if I’d trust you to remember to take it,” his eyes narrowing, his fingers starting to hurt. “How do you think I ended up with four kids; by trusting my beautiful, scheming wife that’s how. As soon as she’d popped out that last brat she shacked up with her hairdresser and took me to the cleaners.” Dropping her arm back against the table with a clatter he picked up his glass and drained it before slopping in more so it slipped over the sides. “No, I won’t be having more kids. If I do I’ll be suing my urologist.” He looked up at her across the top of his glass. “Don’t look so worried my dear. You’ll be safe with me and I’ll treat you like a princess as long as…”
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 12