A Dream of her Own

by Benita Brown

  She was glad she’d kept quiet when he said contritely, ‘I’m sorry. You’ve been marvellous. Our servants ... this house ... our daughters ... You are a good wife and mother, Constance, and you are more than I deserve.’

  He turned to look out of the window, or rather at the massed plants standing between him and the glass, but he had not been quick enough and Constance had seen the sheer misery in his eyes.

  ‘And yet you are not happy.’

  She said it so quietly that she was not sure that he had heard her. He remained staring into the waxy green foliage until Polly arrived with the tray, then he turned and smiled up at her.

  ‘Thank you, Polly. And thank you for the lovely dinner.’

  ‘It was only brisket,’ Polly said, and turned to go.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ John called her back. ‘Did Albert like the silk scarf?’

  ‘Yes he did, thank you. But I’m not sure when he’s going to wear it.’

  When she had gone, John raised his eyebrows. ‘My goodness,’ he said. ‘She’s grumpy, tonight.’

  ‘I think she’s a little jealous.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Of the fuss you make of Albert.’

  John was silent for so long that Constance wished she could recall her words. But then he said, ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Well, you know, you have been generous ... you give him gifts—’

  ‘They’re usually samples.’

  ‘That may be. But sometimes when they go out together Albert looks much smarter than she does. Perhaps Polly feels belittled.’

  She wished she’d had the courage to say what she really believed. That Polly had guessed that her master was in some way attracted to Albert. Constance saw that John was staring at her. Had he read her mind?

  ‘That’s nonsense!’ he exclaimed. But he smiled. ‘Well, if that’s what it is, I can easily put things right. You know the new shop is specializing in a line of ready-mades? When I saw all the little shop girls gawping at the display in the window - and some of them were making sketches—I realized there was another market out there! Well, anyway, it would be easy enough to bring a sample home now and then for Polly. Do you think that would put things right?’

  ‘It may do, John, and that would be kind of you.’

  ‘Good. Do you mind if I have a cigar? I’ll open the outer door and stand there. But don’t go away, will you?’

  ‘Please go ahead. I’m going to have another cup of coffee.’

  Did all husbands and wives talk to each other like this, Constance wondered. Like polite strangers? She watched John go over to the doorway, open it and begin the business of lighting his cigar.

  When they were first married, she mused, Polly would never have spoken to John like that. In the maid’s eyes, John Edington could do no wrong, and she and Polly had got off to a bad start. But she had made every effort to put that right and now she could count on Polly as an ally.

  Ally ... what was she thinking of? Did she need an ally? Was John her enemy? Were they at war? No, of course not. But neither were they loving friends as she had imagined they would be ... and she had imagined that they would be so much more.

  Although John had been making an effort lately, the atmosphere between them was entirely artificial and more than a little strained. For example, he had never questioned her about the destruction of the chair cover in the sewing room as surely a normal husband would have done.

  And he had been so pleased just now to accept her explanation of why Polly was jealous - the gifts of clothes. But Constance suspected that it was more than that. Even if Albert refused to acknowledge it, his sweetheart knew what kind of man John was, and she was worried that one day he might expect a certain kind of gratitude.

  ‘You were right, of course.’

  She looked up to find him staring out into the yard; the smoke from his cigar curling out into the dusk. ‘Right?’ she said.

  ‘About my not being happy.’

  ‘Oh, John, I—’

  ‘In fact I am most unhappy about my uncle’s latest suggestion. Suggestion! That’s what he calls it but it is more like an order. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? My cousin Esther has persuaded her parents that she should work with me.’

  ‘Would that be a bad thing?’

  He turned and glared at her. ‘How can you ask? Of course it would. I want this venture of mine to be completely separate from Barton’s. My aim is to be completely free of the family.’

  ‘Then you must say no.’

  ‘Would you support me?’

  ‘Why do you look so surprised? Of course I would.’

  ‘Well, that day they came here - Aunt Muriel and Esther - and persuaded you to show them my workroom ...’ He hesitated and Constance wondered if, at last, he was going to ask her what had happened in there that day. But then he continued, ‘I thought they had persuaded you to influence me.’

  ‘Goodness, no. Your aunt knows that I have no influence with you.’

  She was surprised by the look he gave her. It was one of consternation. ‘Oh, Constance, I’m sorry. Have I been such a bad husband?’

  ‘John ...’

  ‘My uncle told me that I had, you know. He said that I had been neglecting you shamefully - that I should spend more time with my wife and family.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve been coming home for dinner lately?’ she asked sharply. ‘To please your uncle?’

  ‘No! Not to please my uncle. It’s because I saw the truth of his words. I have been neglecting you and I felt ashamed.’

  ‘But not ashamed enough to stop bringing—’

  ‘Go on, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Nothing, John. I’m glad that you have been coming home to dinner with me.’

  ‘But you are still unhappy?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Constance, my uncle said that you might want another baby. Is that true?’

  ‘I think that idea came from your aunt.’

  ‘But is it true?’

  ‘I ... I don’t know, John.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ he looked relieved, ‘it’s something to think about, isn’t it?’

  He smiled at her and her heart ached to see how handsome he still was - in spite of the dark shadows under his eyes. He always looked tired these days and Constance had no way of knowing how much sleep he got. Her husband may have returned to the family table but he still had not returned to her bed.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think it’s time to go out and check the gate, see that we are locked up securely for the night.’ He stepped out into the yard and then half turned and said, ‘I won’t be long.’

  Constance put her coffee cup on the table and rose from her chair. In spite of John’s good intentions he had probably just lied to her. He checked the gate that led into the park every night but she had known for some time that he wasn’t always locking it. On the contrary, some nights her husband would be making sure that the gate remained unlocked.

  That way the visitors that he imagined nobody knew about, the new friends who came when everybody else was in bed, did not have to walk down the terrace past the houses of all their respectable neighbours. They could come unseen across the park and John would no doubt meet them at the conservatory door before taking them surreptitiously up to his room at the top of the house.

  Constance had sometimes heard the whispers and the stifled laughter as they mounted the stairs and she burned with shame to think that Polly and Florence might hear them too.

  She had no idea who these men were, for of course, the visitors were men. Sometimes there was only one visitor; now and then she heard two. But none of them spoke in the cultured tones of Matthew Elliot.

  She didn’t wait for John because she knew that she wouldn’t be able to face him and pretend that nothing was wrong. With a last regretful look into the musky night, she turned and hurried up to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘Go on - eat some. It’s g
ood.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Goose liver pate.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Declan pulled a disgusted face.

  John smiled. ‘Just try it,’ he said. ‘It’s made from goose, bacon, wine, brandy. Here, take this knife and put a little on this biscuit ... let me ... there you are, open your mouth.’

  Declan took a bite gingerly and then looked up and grinned. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Have some more. Help yourself—and try the cheese ... and the pigeon pie. I’ll pour you some wine.’

  ‘I’d rather have a glass of stout.’

  ‘No doubt you would, but I haven’t got any.’

  ‘Gin?’ Declan raised his dark brows hopefully.

  John laughed. ‘No. You’re going to have wine, and a good one at that, although I doubt if your uneducated palate will appreciate it.’

  Declan scowled. ‘What’s readin’ and writin’ got to do with wine?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve just said I’m uneducated. It’s never bothered you up to now.’

  He put down the knife he’d been holding and hunched forward on the chair, clenching his huge fists on his knees. John noticed how the firelight glinted on the signet ring he wore and how it highlighted his swarthy features, making him look sinister, menacing almost. But that was part of the attraction, he supposed, the hint of danger was exciting ... stimulating. Nevertheless he decided to tread carefully.

  ‘I didn’t say that you were uneducated. What I meant was that, as you are not used to drinking wine, it may take some time - and several bottles’ - he grinned, hoping to coax a response - ‘before you begin to appreciate the difference between one wine and another. That’s what I meant. Really.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Declan relaxed and unclenched his hands. He reached for a large slice of cold pie and put it on his plate. ‘You know, John,’ he picked up the plate and sat back, ‘sometimes you talk a load of horse manure. I wouldn’t put up with it if I didn’t love you, would I?’

  John shook his head faintly and sat down on the other chair. He leaned back into the cushions until his face was in shadow and watched as Declan wolfed down the pie and then reached for another slice. At one point he paused and, with a scattering of flaky crumbs, he said, ‘Aren’t you going to have anything?’

  ‘I might ... later. But go on. I like to watch you enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Right. Suit yourself.’

  John closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the little feasts that he and Matthew had shared together. Matthew had always provided them, bringing the delicious titbits from Moorside Towers. Sometimes there were things in his hamper that John had never seen, never tasted before. Had Matthew been trying to educate him just as he was trying to educate Declan now? He supposed he must have been but it had been done so subtly that John had never felt as though he were being patronized.

  Declan was smart enough to know that he was. But he had obviously decided not to be offended. Why should he be? He’d done well out of John ever since the night they’d met in Pink Lane. John had been drawn to him immediately. Declan was tall and dark, just like Matthew, but there the resemblance ended. Matthew had been slim and elegant; Declan was burly and flashily dressed.

  John was trying to do something about that too, and, if the truth were known, that was probably the reason that Declan was so compliant. Why should he argue if acquiescence not only meant fine food and wines but a whole new wardrobe?

  And of course he was well paid for his services.

  John felt the emotion well up and burn at the back of his throat: a mixture of grief and shame. Why had Matthew deserted him like that? If they had still been together he would not have had to go searching for relief and comfort from the kind of men who hung around the more questionable establishments. Men who were waiting for men like John, with plenty of money in their pockets.

  He had been seen. There had been talk and it had got back to his uncle. He still burned with anger when he remembered the day that Walter Barton had called him into his office.

  ‘I always feared this day would come,’ he’d said sorrowfully, as if John had brought a plague of biblical proportions down on the family. ‘But I hoped that your marriage to Constance might have kept you on the straight and narrow. But now I see that it was all a sham. Poor Constance.’ His uncle had looked genuinely sad. ‘John, I do not hope for miracles but I can only urge you to be more discreet... to spend more time with your family. Would you not like a son to inherit your part of the business one day?’

  How dare he talk to him like that? How dare he make him feel guilty because of what he had done to Constance? It hadn’t been a sham, had it? He had been attracted to her beauty; he had been genuinely fond of her, hadn’t he?

  He had taken her from a life of poverty and hardship and given her a comfortable home, an allowance of her own, beautiful clothes, designed especially for her. And she had the girls, their daughters, to look after. Wasn’t that what women wanted? Babies to love and care for? Some wives were grateful if their husbands left them alone - why did Constance have to be one of those women who wanted more?

  John heard a slight sound and he opened his eyes and looked up to find Declan standing over him, his right hand reaching out towards the watch chain looped across his waistcoat. He shivered. ‘What do you want?’

  Declan straightened up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Did I frighten you, darlin’?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You nearly jumped out of your skin. I thought you’d gone to sleep. Thought you was too tired for any fun. I was just going to check your watch. I was wondering whether I ought to scarper.’

  John glanced quickly at the clock on the mantelpiece and away again. ‘No, don’t go.’ He was aware that he was gripping the arms of the chair ... the chair that had recently acquired a new loose cover.

  Declan stepped back. ‘Go on then. I’ll sit down and have another glass of that wine while you get ready ... put your bonny frock on. That’s what you want to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which one will it be tonight? The blue velvet or the green taffeta?’

  ‘I don’t know. Will you help me choose?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Declan grinned salaciously and sipped his wine.

  John stood up and took off his watch. He put the watch and the chain along with his pocket book on the mantelpiece next to the antique carriage clock that had been his father’s only gift to his mother. He was aware that Declan was watching him, slanting his gaze up over his wine glass. But that was part of the game, wasn’t it? The game he was playing with fate. He had not yet discovered how far he could go.

  For a while Constance wasn’t sure whether the sobbing was part of her dream. What had she been dreaming about? She tried to hang on to the sounds, the images, but they curled away like snaking ribbons back into the shadows and they were gone. When she opened her eyes and sat up she could only remember that she had been frightened.

  Now, with the morning sun streaming across her bed, she ought to have felt reassured. But she didn’t. Polly was standing over her with a face as white as paper - and she could still hear the sobbing although it had softened into a kind of stifled whimper.

  ‘The twins are still asleep, thank God,’ Polly told her before she could ask, ‘and so is Florence, although I don’t know how after the commotion Jane made.’

  ‘Jane?’

  ‘My sister. She works in this madhouse, remember?’

  ‘Polly, what is it? What on earth is the matter?’ Constance began to push the bedclothes aside.

  Instead of answering, the maid went over to the door, which Constance noticed had been left ajar, and reached out to pull her younger sister, who was crying, into the room. She shut the door behind her and took hold of Jane’s shoulders. ‘Try to stop that,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve had a shock, but it isn’t over yet.’

  By the time Constance had go
t out of bed and pulled on her robe, the girl was quiet.

  ‘Now be brave,’ her sister told her, ‘and tell Mrs Edington what you saw.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell her?’ the girl whimpered.

  ‘Because you were the first one to go into the sewing room and I want to be absolutely sure that we get it right.’

  Jane turned to look at Constance but she still didn’t say anything.