'I believe in persistence,' he'd said once when talking about his business deals and how he persuaded one owner to sell a hotel to him. No doubt he would apply the same tactics when he wanted to acquire a wife.
Marigold believed in constancy, and she knew this would strengthen her when the pressures grew so intense that she was tempted to abandon all her dreams of business success and Richard's return.
*
Ivy spent less and less time at home. The Hagley Road hotel was still home for Marigold and her sisters. It had become a very exclusive establishment, and the sisters had taken more space for their own use. Ivy had her own studio and she was selling her drawings regularly.
She still went to have lessons with Silas Frome, but now he only taught occasionally at the art college. He was often away, going to the south of France for months at a time. Ivy had the use of his studio along with a favoured few of the art school students, and felt she was moving in truly Bohemian circles.
After the first sittings for Herbie, modelling the Tudor dress, he often persuaded her to do the same again.
'I can charge higher fees if they don't have the bore of sitting too often,' he explained. 'I'll share the difference with you.'
Although Ivy now had no motive to hoard money as she had in the old days, her instincts made her agree. Marigold was generous but she tended to want to know what any large sums of money were spent on. Ivy considered it prudent to keep a secret hoard ready for a sudden emergency.
Soon Herbie's friends began to ask her to model for them, and provided she could hide her scars with high-necked dresses and sleeves she always agreed.
This peculiarity of hers attracted the curiosity of one student, Algernon Frobisher. He was older than the others and came from a wealthy family. Many of the students regarded him as an interloper, a rich man who could please himself what he did and was not struggling to earn a meagre living with his brush. Often he smoked expensive cigars as he worked, and the rich aroma wafted through the room. Ivy enjoyed sitting for him because he had his own studio at the top of his own large house in Richmond Hill Road, and was very generous with his fees.
'Why do you always insist on high necked costumes?' he asked one afternoon when Ivy was modelling an evening dress for a portrait he was doing and had insisted on wearing her own blouse to cover up the low neck of the dress while he worked on the skirt.
'I just do,' she said curtly.
'None of the other models insist. In fact they're all anxious to take off their clothes. You could earn much more if you were willing to pose nude.'
'I'm an artist, I just do this for friends,' Ivy told him loftily.
'Pity, you have an excellent figure,' he said consideringly, 'far better than the flabby, overblown charms of Maggie. And though Elsie's figure is probably better than yours, your face is prettier.'
Ivy scowled. She did not choose to admit that anyone was her superior in anything.
Algernon did not refer to it again, but a few days later when Ivy arrived at the studio just as Elsie was leaving, she saw him give the model a sovereign.
'You don't give me nearly so much!' she accused immediately.
'Elsie poses nude,' he returned with a shrug. 'Are you going to get ready? I haven't much time, I must leave early today.'
Ivy sat and glowered. Algernon did not talk while he painted as he usually did. He appeared abstracted and after half the usual time sighed and turned away.
'It isn't going well. I'm stale on this portrait. I think I'll have a rest from portraits for a few months. You can get changed.'
'Won't you want me again?' Ivy asked, annoyed.
'You won't pose nude. Perhaps you're too young. I shouldn't ask you,' he said with a smile. 'Go on, get changed.
She flounced behind the screen and dragged off her blouse and the evening dress. She twisted her head to look at the scars on her shoulder and neck. Why couldn't she be as perfect as Elsie and the others? It wasn't fair! She was becoming even more conscious of the unfairness when she saw the new fashions with the low-necked gowns, and knew she'd never be able to wear them.
'So that's it! You poor child!'
Ivy swung round to see Algernon gazing at her. She tried desperately to pull the neck of her chemise higher to cover the scars, but he took her hand and stopped her.
'How did it happen?' he asked, and his tone was so sympathetic that before she realised it Ivy was telling him all about the childhood accident.
'I could paint them out,' he suggested. 'I've wanted to do a portrait of you for so long, but not all muffled up in the old-fashioned clothes you wear.'
'You said you were stale,' Ivy recalled gruffly.
'Of that silly thing. It would be different if I were painting you. May I?'
They spent every hour they could working on the painting, with Ivy dressed in skimpy flowing Greek costume. When Algernon allowed her to see it she was excited and amazed at this idealised view of her.
'I wish I could paint them out on my skin!' she cried, and when he put his arms round her she rested against him, sniffing the mixed aroma of cigars and the heather-scented soap he used.
'There are cosmetics which might work,' he suggested quietly. 'It would have to be a thick application, like the greasepaint used on stage, but it would be worth trying. Would you like me to get some for you?'
He did and she was gratified with the result, although she knew it would not be possible to deceive people except from a distance.
She developed a new confidence in the privacy of the studio, preening in flimsy, delicate draperies. Eventually Algernon persuaded her to pose for him in the nude, a modern version of Venus arising from the sea, and Ivy was intrigued to see that while he was painting this picture he reacted in the same way as Sam Bannister had done so long ago, his lips wet and slack, his breath rapid and shallow.
At last the painting was finished. Algernon touched it for the last time, then threw down the brush in exultation.
'It's perfect, it will be my masterpiece!' he cried. 'Come and see what you've helped me achieve!'
Ivy stepped down from the dais and stretched her aching arms. By now she had lost all self-consciousness, knowing that with the heavy greasepaint her scars were hidden. She walked to look at the painting and Algernon threw his arm across her shoulder.
'It's beautiful, and so are you!' he exclaimed, turning her towards him and kissing her soundly on the lips.
Ivy reflected with interest that he really did behave remarkably like Sam Bannister. He was breathing heavily, stroking her back, her hips, her belly. Then his hands found their way towards her breasts, and she wriggled slightly at the unaccustomed touch. It was very different from Sam Bannister's rough stroking.
'Ivy, my darling, let me love you!' he gasped, bending to bury his face in her soft flesh. Before she could reply he was sucking greedily at one breast and kneading the other with trembling fingers.
If this was what people in love got up to it was a most peculiar business, Ivy thought dispassionately. In love? Why not, he'd said he loved her. She wondered whether her prim Marigold had been mauled and sucked in such a fashion and decided the man would have to be decidedly rich to make it worth while.
Marigold had married a rich man, an inner voice whispered. Algernon was rich, probably even more so than Richard Endersby. If she could persuade him to marry her she would be independent, she would have as much money of her own as she wished. And Algernon, despite his decidedly odd way of showing it, said he loved her.
Ivy had always craved love. She had demanded that her entire family loved her best, and sulked if it appeared she was not the centre of their attention.
First Johnny had left, then Marigold, finally Poppy. Although her sisters had returned and she now lived with them, the shocking and sudden deaths of her parents, when they might have lived for many years yet, had had a profound effect on her.
Algernon might provide a substitute, and if she had to endure this slobbering, sweaty creature so be i
t. She would demand her own idea of love in return.
*
The same epidemic of influenza which killed John and Mary Smith also carried off Friedrich Müller two months earlier. Inge had been panicstricken.
Richard decided she really mourned her uncle, but her main concern had been for her own posiition.
'What shall I do?' she asked time and time again. There were no other relatives, she was completely alone.
'You own the farm now, could you not sell it and use the money to buy a small house in a town, where you could get a job?' he suggested.
'I would be afraid to live in a town on my own,' she answered, and he knew she was quite unfitted to take care of herself.
'It is not right we should live together in the same house, and be snowed in for months on end during the winter,' he said firmly.
'I don't mind being snowed in, I am used to it,' she replied.
'What could you do if I fell and broke my leg?'
'Oh. I don't know,' she said in a small voice.
'You see?'
He concentrated on the practical difficulties for he could see she would not comprehend the other aspects. When Dieter's father offered her a very good price for the farm Richard advised her to accept.
'What shall I do then? Where can I go?'
'I've been thinking about that. The war will be over within weeks, and then people will wish to travel all over Europe again. It's popular to visit Switzerland, winter sports are growing. Why not buy a large house in St Moritz and turn it into an hotel?'
'I couldn't possibly run an hotel all on my own,' Inge exclaimed.
'No, and it would not be fitting for a young girl to do so, but you could employ a manager.'
'Would you manage it for me?' she asked at once.
'I know nothing about the business,' he reminded her.
'You could learn, Richard, you are very clever,' she pleaded with him.
He would not go home, to unyielding parents who had spurned his wife and possibly contributed to his beloved Marigold's death. Let them continue to believe he was dead, he thought bitterly. Therefore he would have to find a job, being penniless without his share in the firm. Why not start helping Inge with her hotel? When it was running smoothly he could find another manager for her and move to something more congenial himself. Exactly what, he didn't know.
So they moved into the pretty town of St Moritz, and by spring of 1919 were welcoming the first guests to their modest hotel.
Inge found, after the first few weeks of strangeness, that she was happy supervising the marketing and cooking. She left all other details to Richard who threw himself into the task with such energy that by the following Christmas they were able to buy the house next door and expand.
Summer and winter, visitors flocked to the town, and more than once Richard saw familiar faces. He avoided contacts with old friends, however. He would not risk news of him getting to his unnatural parents, in however roundabout a way.
There was no chance of them recognising him, he thought wryly. He was tanned with the open air life, had grown a beard, and in summer wore the Tyrolean lederhosen, for the benefit of the visitors as well as because they were practical garments.
In summer he walked miles along the mountain trails, or followed the valley of the River Inn. In winter he learned to ski properly and found an aptitude for it. It was in some ways akin to flying. He would go for long expeditions on his own, his sole relaxation.
Away from the hotel he had leisure to think of Marigold and dream of what life could have been like had she lived. By now they might have had another child.
He had vaguely expected the pain of her loss to diminish with time. That was what he had always been told. Time heals, makes the raw pain of wounds into a dull ache. One can even forget at times. It was all false. After the years in Germany when he'd had to force himself to put all thoughts of Marigold to the furthest recesses of his mind for fear of betraying himself, he was now free to think of her as much as he wished.
Their time together had been so brief, but he recalled every minute, and relived over and over again every step forward in their getting to know one another. He dreamed of what might have been, and reality became swamped and lost in desires.
*
Poppy insisted on a summer wedding.
'It's so much more cheerful,' she declared, 'and I want lots of flowers.'
Marigold wept a little as she stood where her mother had once stood at her own wedding. It was a year and nine months since Mary and John had died. Their daughters would all have someone else give them away. But Johnny looked very smart in his morning coat and topper, behaving as though he wore them every day.
Ivy stood beside her, aloof and elegant in her perfectly straight, ankle length gown of grey satin, with the only touch of colour a vivid lilac ribbon on her wide-brimmed grey hat.
'You look as though you're still in half mourning,' Poppy had said crossly before they'd set out for the church. 'And your hat is years out of date, so wide.'
She looked radiant herself, in a slender gown of shimmering ivory silk. The gown was low-necked, long-sleeved, with a scalloped, ankle-length skirt and long silk train embroidered along the hems. She wore matching gloves and shoes, the double strand of pearls Marigold had given her, and on her crimped hair had a pearl-beaded lacy cap.
'It's less than two years since Mom and Pa died,' Ivy said with what Marigold considered an unjustifiably smug air. She hadn't worn mourning clothes for above six months. 'And you can wear hats absolutely any shape this year, they say in London.'
Poppy turned away angrily. Ivy had raged and fumed when she and George had announced their engagement two months earlier, saying Poppy was doing it to leave her, to spite her, and she utterly refused to be a bridesmaid.
She had then taken herself off to London, leaving a note to say she was going to see the summer exhibition and at the same time visiting Silas Frome. Poppy was so angry at the outburst she had hurried to ask two of her friends to be bridesmaids, and ignored Marigold's pleas to wait until Ivy, her temper restored, came back and agreed.
'No, she's a selfish little cat and always was. She won't spoil my wedding!'
Ivy came home a week later, full of satisfaction at the number of museums and galleries she had managed to visit, and the wonderful paintings she had seen.
'Silas says they'll hang me at the Royal Academy one day,' she boasted, but Poppy was unimpressed.
'Hanging would be too good for you,' she muttered, but under her breath. She didn't wish to incur Marigold's displeasure by spoiling Ivy's miraculously restored sunny mood.
It was for the same reason she didn't mention George's report that he had seen Ivy dining at the Savoy with a young man. He hadn't spoken to her, being there with his own parents, and just possibly could have been mistaken. And if it had been Ivy, possibly she was with Silas and his friends.
Marigold had worried when Ivy disappeared, but not unduly. They'd known Silas for a long time and Ivy would be safe with him. She looked older than fifteen and was very competent when it was a matter of securing her own comfort.
Ivy had shrugged when Poppy rather defensively told her she had arranged her bridesmaids, and never again mentioned the wedding. Poppy even wondered if she meant to attend, especially as Ivy vanished somewhere the previous day and did not return until almost midnight.
The reception was to be at the hotel. Poppy didn't want a big affair and it seemed more like a reception at a family house, more impressive for George's family than a bigger, impersonal hotel, even if the hotel did belong to Marigold and she had opened yet another in Stafford just a month earlier.
To Marigold's secret relief, for she had feared sulks, Ivy behaved charmingly, even helping to hand round the food.
Everything went well. Until it was time for Poppy and George to leave. Poppy went up to her room for the last time to change, and while Marigold was helping her the best man came to knock on the door, a worried look on his face.
>
'It's George, feeling rather under the weather, poor chap.'
Marigold had slipped outside to see what he wanted.
'What do you mean? He isn't drunk, is he?' she demanded incredulously. George always appeared to be a perfectly well-behaved young man and she'd been thankful Poppy had chosen so sensibly.
'No, no, nothing like that. But he – it's rather delicate – he – ' the young man stopped and wiped his brow. 'He seems to have eaten something – well, poisoned, which has disagreed with him.'
'I'll come and see,' Marigold said, unsure whether to be sorry for George or angry at the imputation that her staff would serve tainted food.
Whatever the reason George was very ill, and clearly it was impossible for them to travel to London that day. Marigold had him put to bed, summoned a doctor, then went to break the news to Poppy.
Poppy behaved very well, being calm and sensible. She insisted on sitting in George's room during the night, saying she could nap in an easy chair but would be there if he needed her.
She was far from composed at five the next morning when she ran precipitously into Marigold's room and shook her sister awake.
'George! He's been dreadfully sick and I'm afraid! I think he's dead! Oh, Marigold, come quickly!' she cried, and Marigold was still pulling on her dressing gown as Poppy dragged her, her feet still bare, along the corridor.
It was true. George had been violently ill but it was too late for anyone to save him. Poisoned, the doctor reluctantly opined, by mushrooms.
Aghast, trying to calm her distraught sister, Marigold wondered how it could possibly have happened. The kitchen staff were always especially careful when using mushrooms, and they had anyway only used a few in vol-au-vents. Perhaps the new kitchen maid hadn't thrown out one which had gone bad.
In between all her other worries she waited to hear whether any more of the guests had been stricken, but none had. Only George. Poor innocent George, and poor, lost Poppy, widowed before she was truly married.
Was the whole family cursed? Marigold began to think the unusually large number of calamities which had befallen them owed something to a malignant deity.
The Cobweb Cage Page 37