He wouldn’t ask him what he knew; he wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. By the look on his face he was going to tell him anyway.
“Ha, that’s floored you. You smarmy French git with your flattery and flowery words. You might have been able to talk her into bed. What was it, made her drunk did you? You’d have had to have given her something,” as he looked at the scruffy jeans and vintage bomber jacket. “Men like you make me sick. Screwing her brains out and then leaving without a thought for her afterwards. What did you come back for anyway? To have another go at her? Well the damage was done the first time. Just go away and leave her to those who actually love her,” he finished, slumping into the chair opposite before picking up the same copy of Country Life and burying his head amongst the pages.
“I. I,” his voice low as he struggled to retain even a semblance of calm. In truth all he wanted to do was pick him up and smash his head against the wall until he dragged the truth out of him. He glanced down at his hands curling into fists and he imagined pummelling his knuckles into all that soft flabby flesh. But hitting him wouldn’t solve anything and he was pretty sure that nurse would kick him out – and then what? He’d have no way of finding out the truth. He’d told him nothing, nothing he could fix on, he thought, his eyes riveted to his bent head. She was ill because of him. He’d made her ill.
Oh my God, his gaze flickering towards the door. She must be pregnant.
He only turned back at the sound of Rupert’s voice.
“If she’d only come and told me,” his attention seemingly focussed on the details of an Eighteenth-Century farmhouse with indoor pool. “But no, she was too proud. Instead of letting me arrange an abortion, she had to go to some backstreet centre and now..,” the catch clear in his voice. “And now she’s in there bleeding to dea…”
He’d had enough. Pushing himself up to standing he watched as Rupert turned the page and started to examine a modern take on a shaker style kitchen somewhere in the Welsh valleys.
Pregnant? Abortion? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t, would she? But then again how would he know what she’d do. He didn’t know her. In the few short hours they’d been together they’d never really talked about the future, about kids. He knew she was scared but then that was understandable given her history. As for him, he wanted them. He wanted them desperately, but only with her, and now…
The nurse was at the door, all smiles but only for Rupert.
“Your fiancée will see you now, Mr Reynolds-Smythe. She’s over the worst, but you can only have five minutes.”
There was nothing for him, not even a look in his direction, but he knew there wouldn’t be. Sarah wouldn’t want to see him now. She wouldn’t want to see him again and he couldn’t blame her. Rupert was right. If he hadn’t thrown himself at her she wouldn’t be at death’s door. He’d known she was untouched, despite that newspaper article. It had been his responsibility, and he’d let himself down, he’d let her down, and now; and now they’d both have to live with the consequences.
As soon as Rupert sauntered through the door he collected his belongings, his movements slow where before they’d been quick. He’d missed his plane, but that didn’t matter. Paris held no attraction now she wasn’t there. Walking towards the main entrance he didn’t see Rupert storming out of the room, closely followed by the twittering nurse. He didn’t see anything apart from the bleakness of the future that lay ahead.
Chapter Twelve
14th June. After weeks of lassitude I’ve finally moved on with my life. There are still decisions to be made, like what I’m going to do with the next sixty years or so but they’ll have to wait until after my birthday.
“But darling…”
“There’s no but’s Mother. I’m not having a big party. After all, what do I have to celebrate?” she said, her voice determined as she folded the selection of clothes she’d laid out across the bed. “It’s only a birthday.”
“Darling, you wouldn’t reconsider Rupert’s proposal? All that lovely money.”
“Even after he tried to destroy me with those photographs, mother? How could you?”
“Your father’s dealt with all that as you very well know. It was just a huge misunderstanding…”
“Yeah. Right! He only handed over the negatives when he realised it would affect his business dealings with daddy. He doesn’t care for me. He doesn’t love me and I absolutely hate him. For the very last time, I wouldn’t marry Rupert if he looked like…”
“Looks aren’t everything; take me and your father.”
“You’re not that bad looking, Mother,” her smile ingenuous.
“Sarah, be serious,” she interrupted, peering in the mirror at her near perfect complexion and gym toned body with a look of inquiry and then a smile. “What about that handsome French man?”
“He hasn’t been in touch.”
“I know, and that does surprise me.”
“How so?” Sarah’s hand paused, mid-fold before placing the last of her skirts on top of the case.
“He was at the hospital.”
“When? When was he at the hospital? You never said?”
“Well, we didn’t want to upset you. That sweet nurse, you know; the one with the large bottom?”
“Mary?”
“Yes, that’s right, Mary. She said something to your father.”
“But how would he have known?” She watched as her mother shrugged her shoulders.
“Beats me, I didn’t even know he was in the country,” eyeing her daughter with a knowing look.
“He visited me the day you got back.”
“The same day you…?”
“Yes Mother, that’s right. The same day I…” Slamming her case shut with a snap. “Look, do we really have to discuss all this now? It’s ancient history.”
“If you say so,” smoothing a pleat in her brand new, cream Victoria Beckham skirt. “I take it he doesn’t know about the baby?”
“No, and I’m not going to tell him.”
“Have it your own way darling, but he does have a right to know,” she said, standing up and tweaking her daughter’s ponytail before changing the subject. “Are you sure you’ll be able to manage on the salary, £200 a week isn’t very much?”
“Mother, I’ll manage, after all I’ve nothing to spend it on. I’ll be living in.”
“The thought of my daughter working as a nanny.” She shook her head in dismay.
“They do have a peerage, and it is only for a couple of weeks until they return to Canada.”
“It’s the only thing that made your father agree to your silly scheme.”
“I am twenty-two…”
“And soon to be a very poor twenty-three-year old; don’t remind me!” she said, smoothing back Sarah’s hair from her face.
Hopper dropped her off outside the impressive, six story property in Belgravia with a sigh.
“You will keep in touch, Sarah? You know how we worry.”
“Of course I will, Arnie,” she said, hugging him briefly before ringing the bell on the highly polished black door with a nervous hand.
The advert in The Lady for a short term French speaking nanny had her reaching for the phone and, on hearing of her impeccable credentials, they agreed to hire her on the spot. Sarah still wasn’t quite sure whether it was her time at the Sorbonne or her title that swung it, probably the latter, but whatever the reason, from tomorrow she was taking sole charge of the daughter of the house.
The terraced house along Eaton Square was impressive with a winding central staircase to rival that of Cosgrave Manor, but where the manor had its feet firmly stuck in the past, Lord and Lady Clivveley’s London residence was straight out of Vogue. Everything from the stainless steel staircase with French mezzanine internal balconies around the central auditorium to the bleached white woods screamed modern and money; lots and lots of money.
A French maid, dressed in something you’d normally find in a fancy dress shop opened the door and led her direct
ly into the drawing room where, presumably, the lady of the house languished on an ornate chaise longue.
“There you are at last,” she said, offering a limp hand. “Meg will have your luggage sent up to your room directly. We’ve given you the room next to the nursery. Lady Kylie gets terribly nervous in the dark, and I do so like not being disturbed.”
So much for a good night’s sleep, but Sarah just smiled. She was here to work after all, to work and forget if that was possible. So be it if she was up half the night, it didn’t really matter.
“I’ll send tea up. We eat at eight, but I’ll get Meg to have something sent up on a tray,” Lady Clivveley said, ringing the little brass hand bell by her side.
“Ah Meg, if you can show Lady Sarah to her room, and...” she paused, her cool grey eyes staring at her. “A reminder that this is a French speaking household.”
The first week flew by. The nursery was everything she’d expected, filled to the brim with an assortment of toys presumably ordered in from Hamley’s. All the books were in French and even the TV could only get French channels, not that she had much time to watch it.
Her day started early with a cup of tea brought up at 6 am. Her wake-up alarm, she called it as it just gave her enough time to shower and scrabble into her clothes before Lady Kylie bounced into her room with a mouthful of chatter that needed her undivided attention. She’d sort of lied about the fluent in French part but talking to the little girl was a delight and she’d soon expanded her vocabulary to include keywords like hairbands, scrunchies and teddy bears.
As it was now June she spent most mornings exploring the parks with pockets-full of seeds for the ducks and her blonde-haired, blue-eyed companion proved an ideal distraction from her troubles. She had an hour free after lunch when Kylie rested on her little, pink, canopied princess bed, but she didn’t leave the house. Instead she stole away with a book to sit in a quiet spot in the handkerchief sized garden pretending to read, all her thoughts on Pascal and what they’d lost.
Her time here was like a dream, a dream where she’d been whisked away from everything and everybody she knew to live a very different kind of life. She’d got used to being ignored by everyone in the house except for Kylie and the other servants, because in this household that’s exactly what she was.
After that first day she wasn’t allowed to use the main entrance and had to keep her presence in the front hall to a minimum lest any of the frequent guests found themselves mingling amongst the wall-to-wall marble with one of the lower classes.
Closing her eyes against the glare of the sun, she couldn’t prevent a giant smirk for, of course, Lord Clivveley’s title was only bestowed and not inherited like her father’s. She’d Googled them earlier in the week, her eyes dancing when she’d learnt he’d earned his title because he was something big in soap and as for his wife, her giggle turning into a snort. He’d met her on a photo shoot in Quebec where she’d dared to bare all in a bath full of his deluxe bath crystals. But, of course, that was a long time ago. Now they consorted with minor royalty in addition to expanding their range to include toothpaste and toilet rolls.
As long as they didn’t come up to the nursery and pong the place out with heavy handed perfume, she didn’t really care that she had to speak French. Tomorrow was her birthday, which made today her last day and then - she hadn’t thought about “and then,” but she didn’t really have to. Tomorrow, instead of being heiress to a fortune, she’d be the girl who’d just thrown away eighty million because she could. Tomorrow a huge weight would be lifted, and she’d be just like any other working woman trying to earn a crust. Her hand dropped her book to the ground as she allowed her palm to rest on the gentle swell of her stomach, a silent tear finding its way down her cheek.
With her hour’s rest long since past, she was now curled up beside her charge for wind down time and she just knew which cartoon Lady Kylie would choose.
“Sarah, Sarah, Peppa Pig. Je veux Peppa Pig.”
“D’accord, ma petite.” Anything for a quiet life, she added silently as she switched on the wall mounted TV and pressed play.
It didn’t matter just how many times Lady Kylie watched the antics of Peppa Pig, that’s still all she wanted to watch; over and over again. So instead of having to watch Grandpa Pig trundling up the hill she picked up her phone and scrolled through until she found the one new message, an early birthday congratulations from Cara. They were just about back on their usual easy footing after falling out briefly over the baby and, with her friend flying back for her birthday, there’d be lots of catching up to do.
There was no news apart from the happiness of others so she snapped her phone closed and turned back to her thoughts with a sigh. She’d been hoping against hope he’d at least text her, although why she should expect anything after the way she’d spoken to him? She deserved nothing, and that’s what she was getting: nothing.
She felt Kylie’s hand weave through hers and she gave it a little squeeze.
“You shouldn’t be sad on your birthday, Sarah.”
“Ah, but it’s not my birthday until tomorrow, petite.”
“I’ve got you a present, Meg helped me to wrap it but it’s a secret,” she added, holding up a chubby finger to her lips.
“A secret between you and me, poppet.” She drew her into a brief hug. “I’ll open it tomorrow before I leave. Now, time for bath and bed, and if you’re really good, I’ll read you two stories.”
“Can I choose them?” Her china-blue eyes wide.
“Certainement.”
After two Peppa Pig stories, snugged up under the duvet, she gave her a brief kiss on her forehead before switching on the little Peppa Pig bedside light.
Tonight wasn’t one of the nights her parents deigned to walk up that final flight to the top floor to give their beloved daughter a goodnight kiss, something Kylie never referred to but it hurt her all the same. It was there in the half shut gaze staring relentlessly at the door. It was there in the hug that was more of a stranglehold. It was there in the whispered good night and the way she turned her back. It was there and, other than racing down the stairs to drag them up by the scruff of their stinky necks, there was nothing she could do about it apart from love her a little bit more.
Heading back to the nursery she noticed Meg had left her supper on the little table under the window. She wasn’t hungry but, picking up the fork she started working her way through the prettily presented mushroom omelette.
There was no enjoyment. She ate because she had to, just like she had to drink and just like she had to breathe to live. Pleasure was primarily a thing of the past. It only lingered at the edges, glimmering like a fragile sunset only to fade and then die into the perpetual blackness that was becoming as familiar as a friend.
Ignoring the sherry trifle, she picked up her coffee before heading back to the sofa. The room, silent apart from the gentle ticking of the clock was a sharp reminder that apart from the company of a precocious five year old, she was primarily alone; alone and lonely.
She missed home, she missed Paris but most of all she missed him. She didn’t know how or even why but there it was. She couldn’t even list what exactly it was that made him so special; special to her. It didn’t matter. Whatever he may have felt, and it was probably very little, there was no way he’d ever try to see her after the way she’d treated him. So, instead of having to put up with her thoughts she flicked on the television in an effort to forget.
She didn’t know what she wanted to watch, in truth as long as it didn’t contain any pigs, real or imaginary, she’d be happy. With her cup perched on her lap she scrolled through the channels, finally pausing on the news in some kind of desperation. There were too many programmes to choose from, too many programmes about things she wasn’t interested in. It was a toss-up between the news or cricket and the news won.
The news couldn’t hold her attention but she watched all the same while waiting for the weather report. With her luck, the glorious
flaming June sunshine would be obliterated by black cloud and thunderstorms. At the moment she wouldn’t be surprised if Belgravia was struck by an unseasonal snowstorm or even a tornado.
The grim smile pulling at her lips froze as the tornado struck but not the one she’d been waiting for. She hadn’t been listening, not really. She had little interest in French politics and the last item was a small one, slipped in presumably as a stopgap between the news and the weather.
And finally the police are increasingly concerned for the whereabouts of the Marquis de Sauvarin. The acclaimed architect is still missing despite concerted efforts by both the French and English police. The six foot three, dark-haired businessman failed to return to Paris following a trip to London four weeks ago.
Her eyes glazed as she tried to focus on the switchover to their reporter in Paris and she missed almost all of the thirty second interview with Rexi, now dressed up in a dark grey suit instead of his regulation denim cut-offs and black beanie.
Missing, how the hell could he be missing? She fumbled with the end of her ponytail as she tried to puzzle it out. The last sighting was when he’d checked out of his hotel on the first of June, the morning after she’d arrived in hospital. A frown pierced her brow. There’d been something wrong with the report, something she couldn’t quite work out. But her phone rang, interrupting her musings and scattering her thoughts like leaves on a windy day.
“Darling, I’ve just been watching the news with your father.”
“So have I, Mother. Well, not with Father, but you know what I mean.”
“I’m most disappointed in you darling…”
“What?” She held the phone away briefly before returning it to her ear. “What the hell have I done to disappoint you? My...” She stuttered to a halt. She’d been about to call him her boyfriend but he wasn’t that, he wasn’t really a friend, certainly not after the way she’d treated him. “He’s missing, Mother. He might even be dead.”
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 15