Affairs of the Heart

by Maggie Ford

  That sounded so odd to her ears that she almost laughed. Will was the last person she had once thought to grow old with. She, with her wonderful lifestyle with Geoffrey, then her oh-so-brief love affair with his brother, to find herself with William Goodridge…

  “I’m glad I didn’t take your advice to give it all back to Geoffrey. He’d only have spent it all. He did leave it to me. One of his better traits was that he was never mean.”

  It was like speaking of the dead. She saw nothing of Geoffrey these days so that he might as well have been.

  “Now I’ve found a proper use for it,” she went on. “I’ve made up my mind and I won’t allow you to talk me out of it, Will. But I am going to sell the whole lot. Every bit of it. I’ll get in touch with some high-class auction house. I don’t know how much it will fetch but it should bring in something substantial enough to help Henry pay back what he owes the bank…”

  She stopped him as he made to interrupt. “It’s not generosity, it’s business. I don’t want Henry’s thanks. What I’d like is for him to make you a shareholder in the company. I know it’s a family business but he’ll owe us that. He has to pay back what he owes the bank and banks are cold-hearted enough to see a restaurant go to the wall. They don’t care who they ruin so long as they get their pound of flesh. They won’t wait for him to pay it bit by bit out of profits. With this depression they want their money now or they’ll have the restaurant sold from under Henry’s feet, lock, stock and barrel to get it.”

  William sat silent and dumbfounded as Mary continued.

  “I’ve been thinking about things, and I’m sure you didn’t just come to see me that day out of the blue and decide to marry me. I thought so at first, but I’ve had a long time to think about it, and I believe Henry asked you to do it. How do you think I feel, Will, palmed off on to someone else so that he wouldn’t have to be embarrassed? I’ve never blamed you, my dear. But I wish…” She broke off momentarily, on the point of saying “I wish I could love you as I should”. Instead she said, “I wish I could make it up to you for what you did.”

  He came to life. “But I love you, Mary. I’ve always loved you.”

  “I know,” she replied, miserable with herself for not being able to match that love. “And I want to make that up to you as well. What I want is for you to become someone of note in this rotten world.”

  “I’m that already. I’m almost at the top of the tree in my profession.”

  “No you’re not. You could go higher. You could have a restaurant of your own one day. Until then, I want to make sure of you being given the proper promotion Henry Lett owes you. You deserve it.”

  To anyone listening it might have sounded that bitterness rang in her words, but she didn’t intend it that way. In fact, the love that she had given to Henry lingered still, often threatened to obliterate that which she had for William. It was this that perhaps made her bitter against herself. Neither man had ever made demands on her, not as Geoffrey had done. She put thoughts of Geoffrey away from her, her heart long since having hardened towards him.

  As for Henry and William, she tried to tell herself that she loved both equally, but it wasn’t true. Each had tried to do right by her, had treated her gently and with respect, each going about it in his own way. But though she honoured them both, if she had to be candid with herself, she knew which one claimed her heart and which claimed only her affection.

  “I want Henry do well out of this, as much as you,” she said.

  Eight

  Mary’s tentative phone call, supplying a description of the jewellery she hoped might attract the man from Sotheby’s enough for it to be thought saleable brought only casual interest. Her description as a mere afterthought of the Victorian brooch, however, prompted a suggestion that he come to her home to “take a look at it”.

  Taking a look at it, turning it this way and that, one would not have thought it to be of any real value but for a gleam of avarice in his eyes.

  “Hum! Yes.” Mary watched as he scratched his chin, smoothed his trim moustache with a middle finger. “This could be of interest.”

  Mary felt disappointment. If an ugly old brooch could be of interest what hope was there for what she’d imagined to be a fortune in diamonds and pearls? “What about the rest?” she asked.

  He eyed the glittering selection tastefully laid out for his scrutiny. “Modern of course. Very good quality. Yes, we can help you there. But this piece must be sold separately. If I may take this away for written appraisal…”

  “But how much do you think I’d get for it all?”

  “All? Quite a decent price. This piece… ?” He turned the ugly thing over in his fingers once more. “Hard to say what it would fetch in auction. In the region of five thousand.” Mary contained a gasp – it was not a time to show undue excitement in case the offer was lowered. “A very rough estimation, you understand. It needs to be seen by the appropriate department. It does depend on the interest of the bidders what it fetches. It might not reach its reserve figure, in which case it would be withdrawn from sale. On the other hand it may well go above, but it’s very much a matter of what is being sought, you understand. I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you. It will be printed in the catalogue for collectors of such pieces. If you have decided, I will give you a receipt for all this and you’ll hear from us shortly.”

  As he spoke, Mary noticed him studying intently two small pictures, both scenes of Florence, on the wall by the door, one above the other. She hastened to oblige, telling him that her former husband had bought them for her a few years ago, but she kept back the fact that she’d never really liked them, their colour faded and grimy.

  “My husband said they were both antiques,” she provided instead, without enthusiasm. “But they’re so dirty I can’t even see who they’re by. We were going to have them cleaned, but things went on and we never did.” She wasn’t going to go into details of her divorce.

  “Have you ever had them valued?” the man asked suddenly.

  Mary shook her head. Whatever Geoffrey bought, it was always worth money. He never considered anything that wasn’t. But there they had sat, she trying to look pleased with them at the time, not wanting to hurt his feelings. Like the brooch.

  “May I take these with me as well?” he was asking. “Unless you intend to keep them?”

  “Not at all.”

  They would surely fetch something if they were worthy of his notice. She’d be only too happy to be rid of them. They only hung there to fill a blank place. Nor did she really want anything of Geoffrey’s if it could go to helping out with his brother’s debts.

  The same with a largeish vase on which the man’s now acclimatised glance had also descended, having got his eye in, so to speak. This vase she did like. Geoffrey had bought it years ago when he had taken her to Paris. They’d gone to the flea market and, rummaging around, he had come up with the bulbous vase with its swan neck, highly – she would have said garishly – decorated with branches and leaves, fruit and flowers. It was Chinese, quite pretty she thought. She hadn’t exactly treasured it, but it went well with her hall wallpaper as it sat in splendour on a lace doily on the small mahogany hall table.

  She watched the man pick it up almost reverently and upturn it to study the marks on the base. She heard him murmur a Chinese name and something about royal signature.

  “Would you be interested,” he asked, “in selling this as well?”

  There was a moment of wrench, then she made up her mind. “If it brings in a decent bit of money, otherwise, no.”

  She saw his lips quirk a little as though finding what she said a joke. Then he became serious. “I think, Mrs Goodridge, that between this, the paintings and the brooch, you may raise quite a decent bit of money.”

  “But what about my jewellery?”

  She could almost imagine him saying, “You can keep that!” as he gave an insignificant shrug. “Oh, yes, your jewellery. Well, it’s very good quality. I think we can
do quite well with it. So may I give you a receipt for all this, and you can make up your mind after our assessment whether you still wish to sell or not?”

  “Fine,” she agreed and saw him off the premises.

  * * *

  After the next couple of weeks spent in pounding agitation, a letter finally arrived, the reserve price for the brooch a little disappointing after what she had been given to believe, the other pieces around what she had expected. The two paintings they said had been done around 1740 by an Italian artist named Joli. This time the reserve price looked far more promising, as did that of the Chinese vase, tending to take her breath away and brighten her eyes considerably.

  “I never dreamed an old vase would be worth that much,” she told William. “Nor a couple of dirty, faded old paintings. I’ve never even heard of the artist.”

  She wrote in reply that she was willing to go ahead. There had come a point when to even glance at the stuff Geoffrey had let her keep made her bitterness rise like gall. Thank goodness that on the face of it, it promised to be not a bad haul to hand to Henry.

  William still had reservations about it all but she wasn’t listening. All she could visualise was the gratitude on Henry’s face as she handed him the cheque. A drop in the ocean maybe, she didn’t know yet, but it had to be of some help. The next problem would be whether Henry took it. She was determined he would for she was doing all this out of her love for him.

  * * *

  She and William entered the auction room to the low murmur of voices, further hushed by oak panels, plush furnishings and heavy carpet. Crystal chandeliers and wall lights glowed softly. Old paintings in over-large gilt frames frowned darkly from the walls. Spindly red and gilt chairs were placed in rows, three-quarters of them already occupied.

  They found two empty chairs at the rear. Everything smelled of old furniture, musty books and a special indefinable richness. Articles for sale were being placed on side tables. The auctioneer was bending down talking to someone. More people were coming in, the rows filled quickly and people were now standing at the back and in the wide doorway.

  “It seems lots have come,” Mary whispered, and Will nodded, amused by the simile, the other “lots” befitting auction rooms.

  There were many items before hers. With some the bidding was brisk, with others, slow, any item not reaching its reserve price withdrawn, making her feel that the same fate could await her things. Then, piece by piece, her own jewellery found homes, bringing in a tidy sum. Henry would be helped some way to paying off the bank. Now she caught her breath as the turn of the old brooch arrived. All at once she was sitting upright, excitement gripping her as the unencouraging reserve price was reached and passed. But for it being a sort of heirloom she might ignorantly have let the brooch go for a mere song ages ago.

  The bidding continued and Mary felt that her ears had begun to ring, her head to spin, her heart to pound with sickening thuds of mounting anticipation.

  Everything moved so fast she didn’t really hear the final price as the the gavel was finally brought down with a somewhat unassuming click.

  “What did it come to?” she whispered in Will’s ear. He was looking as white as a sheet. His voice was hoarse.

  “Just over eight thousand pounds.”

  “Good God,” she whispered, the whirring in her ears starting again. “For just one piece?”

  She felt as though she was no longer in her seat but floating way above it, hardly caring what went on during the rest of the afternoon. At the end of it all, managing to get herself to her feet, she went and signed her assent as requested, the cheque to be forwarded once the auction rooms had taken out their various expenses.

  Emerging on to busy New Bond Street, Mary still couldn’t believe it. “All that money for one old brooch. Geoffrey’s family would have a fit.”

  William grinned. “Best not tell them, then.” He didn’t seem in the least troubled that none of the money would benefit him or her, and she felt her respect for him grow. He was such a wonderful man. If she could only love him more than she did. He deserved so much more.

  “Best that the family never do find out,” Will cautioned again, this time with more seriousness, as they walked on.

  The brooch, given a date of somewhere around 1830, had turned out to be of Russian origin, possibly once owned by a noble family. How it had come to the Lett family, Mary didn’t know, nor care. She’d got rid of it and that was that. She had money instead which would do far more good.

  “Henry will ask questions,” she debated, sobering, watching fleets of buses passing by.

  “Just don’t tell him the whole truth then,” William said. But she was not convinced.

  “He’s bound to be curious as to how I came by so much money. And he must know that Geoffrey gave the things to me. He might wonder where they went to.”

  “Another thing, Mary,” Will said now as they skirted a knot of people about to board a bus. “You ought to hang on to just a little of that money.”

  “No, I want to give it all to him.”

  “I’ll be surprised if he takes it. He’s a proud man.”

  Mary looked at him sharply. “He’s in trouble, Will. He has to take it, for the sake of Letts.”

  “We might need some of that money one day,” Will persisted.

  “No.” Disappointed in him, she put on an angry spurt, weaving in and out of the crowds ahead of him. “The brooch was his mother’s in the first place,” she said as he caught her up. “He has a right to benefit from it, Will. I know he’ll always look after us. Out of gratitude.”

  But she didn’t want Henry’s gratitude. What she wanted was his love.

  * * *

  There was still the auction for ceramics and paintings to come. A few days later found her and Will in a similar auction room, heart in her mouth as she followed the bidding, this time a little more astutely. Here, too, both the pictures and the vase passed their reserve price and continued upward so far and so fast that she felt sick each time the gavel came, finally reaping an astounding eighteen thousand pounds for one picture, twenty for the other. As if that wasn’t enough to give her a heart attack, the final bid for the Ch’ing vase was forty-nine thousand. She’d had no inkling of the fortune she’d been sitting on after Geoffrey left her. Neither had he, probably, or he’d have long ago frittered it away.

  Walking home on Will’s arm she remained speechless with disbelief at it all. Back at the flat, Jenny, Helen’s nurse, brought the baby to greet her mother, and Mary let herself collapse into a chair while William hurried off to make her a cup of very sweet tea. All she could do was ask Jenny to take Helen off with her until she could pull herself together, then they would cuddle and play.

  Helen was nearly a year old now, a beautiful child – Henry’s child. She loved her so much that her heart began suddenly to ache for him. It should have been all so very different to this. Sipping the tea Will handed to her, she found herself caught up with the thought of how wonderful it would have been if Henry and not Will had been there with her at the auction. Handing back the emptied cup, nodding to his enquiry whether she was feeling better, it struck her how ungrateful she was being in even wishing it.

  “I’m glad it’s all gone, all that stuff,” she said defiantly.

  After all the excitement she felt drained, as though something had been taken out of her. She contemplated how Henry was going to take being given all that money. Over a hundred thousand pounds; it would go a long way to settling his debt with the bank. The bank, made happy, would probably let him pay off the balance in easy stages. She just hoped now that he would realise that she had done all this solely out of love and would accept it.

  * * *

  Tanned from an Italian holiday, Geoffrey paced the library of Swift House, his face contorted with anger as he now rounded on his brother.

  “You must be stark raving bloody mad to have gone through with it! What bloody got into you, Henry, giving away part of your shares to someone o
utside the family? It’s a family business, a private company.”

  Henry drew in a lungful of cigarette smoke. “I told you at the meeting. You, Maud and Victoria. I had to do something after what Mary did for us. Anyway, all three of you finally agreed to it.”

  “I was a fool to agree.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because you caught me on the hop. I’d hardly got home before the meeting was called. No one told me about it.”

  “We wired you and waited until you got home.”

  “Just about,” raged Geoffrey. “Maud and Victoria were outraged by what you were asking.”

  “They agreed in the end,” Henry pointed out in a level tone. Geoffrey wasn’t going to get him riled.

  “Because you practically bent their arms. I wasn’t happy about it.”

  “But you went along with it,” Henry reminded him. “You know I had no option but to eat humble pie. The bank was at our throats. We’d have lost everything but for Mary. I had to do something in return.”

  “You didn’t have to go offering shares in the firm to that man she’s married to. A thank-you would have sufficed.”

  “I don’t think so.” Henry’s tone hardened. Geoffrey had no idea of the real reason behind it all. Mary, the mother of his child. His illegimate child needed to be kept a secret for all time. As far as everyone was concerned it was William’s child. Only he, William and Mary knew the truth.

  “I’m indebted to them both. We should all be. I believe in honouring a debt such as that with whatever means I feel are needed.”

  “Then you’re a bloody fool! You’ve always been a bloody fool, Henry.”

  Henry held his glare with his own steady gaze. It was still painful having to accept Mary’s money. He felt sick every time he thought about the humiliation of having to accept what could only be described as a hand-out from the very woman who’d given birth to his child, but there’d been no other option. Without her, the family business would have gone under due to his own puffed-up stupidity in trying to expand the restaurant in times like these.