The third battalion of the Royal Dorsets had almost finished its short tour of duty in Belfast. After some embarkation leave, it would be going to India, where Alex meant to make his fortune.
But just now he was lying on his bed, wishing it was not so hot and he was not so bored. He screwed the letter he’d been reading into a tight ball, then lobbed it at the bin.
He didn’t intend to write to Charlotte Stokeley, who’d written in her childish schoolgirl’s hand to confess undying love for him.
Charlotte was too young to know the first thing about love, and now he wished he’d never said hello, or passed the time of day with her when he’d been in Dorset, or played those games down on the beach.
He was sure he’d never encouraged Charlotte to think of him romantically, but now it seemed she’d needed no encouragement, and that she had a major crush on him.
He watched a puzzled wasp climb up the inside of the open window. He thought about the heiress, as he always called her, mainly to remind himself that even if she’d liked him – which of course she didn’t – he wouldn’t stand a chance.
It was four months since he’d seen her last, the day after her mother’s awful party in the spring, when he had got so drunk he’d managed to ask her if she’d dance. It was just as well she had refused. She would have had to hold him up.
She’d grown so beautiful it had offended him to see her in that dress, run up by some provincial seamstress in the most hideous shade of giblet pink, and sewn all over with ridiculous glass beads.
If she married a man who had some taste, her dress sense might improve. But she’d probably marry Michael Easton and bury herself alive at Easton Hall, a decaying pile that made Henry Denham’s shabby house look like a palace.
Men off duty dozed, others drilled or marched in perfect columns across the barrack square, and Alex wondered if there’d be a civil war in Ireland. He didn’t like the thought of dying on the dirty streets of Londonderry or Belfast, just because the Ulster people didn’t want home rule for a united Ireland.
Reaching for the silver case Henry had given him when he’d joined the army, he found that he was out of cigarettes. But his servant wasn’t around, so if he wanted any he would have to go and buy his own.
He was crossing the parade ground when someone called his name, and so he stopped and turned to see who wanted him. ‘Oh – hello, Chloe,’ he began.
Chloe Jarman, the daughter of the quartermaster sergeant, looked pleased or possibly it was relieved to see him. ‘W-where are you going?’ she gasped, as she caught up with him.
‘I need some cigarettes.’
‘I’m going to buy some thread.’ Chloe fell into step beside him, hopping and jumping now and then to match his longer stride. ‘May I walk with you?’
‘Yes, of course you may.’
Alex was quite fond of Chloe Jarman, who was a gawky, colourless blonde with sallow cheeks and staring, pale blue eyes. When he had first arrived in Ireland, still grieving for his mother, in a subaltern’s uniform that was stiff and sharp and rubbed him raw, she had befriended him.
When he was not on duty, they’d gone walking, and he had found it easy to talk to Chloe Jarman. He’d never meant to let things go beyond the walking and the talking, but somehow it had happened.
They’d been out in the countryside one pleasant summer evening. Chloe had looked so pretty, she had seemed so fond of him and, although he had been very willing, she’d been willing, too. Afterwards, she’d said she’d been a virgin, but he hadn’t confessed to Chloe that the same applied to him.
At first, he’d thought he was in love. But when a fellow officer had noticed he went missing now and then, and often came back looking like the cat who had not only got the cream but all the pilchards too, Freddie had prised a somewhat wry confession out of him.
Then Alex had learned that Chloe would go with anyone, provided he had pips or crowns upon his epaulettes. ‘She’s anybody’s,’ Freddie Lomax told him. ‘Do be careful, Denham. You don’t want the pox.’
Alex had left the sergeant’s daughter to her own devices after that, and was both relieved and miffed that she had seemed quite anxious to avoid him, too.
‘What’s the matter, Chloe?’ he asked now, as she hopped and skipped along beside him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t have much to say for yourself today.’
‘I – I’m rather tired,’ she whispered. ‘It must be the heat.’ But then she gulped, and suddenly she was sobbing like a child.
Alex was astonished. ‘Chloe, don’t!’ he cried.
‘But I can’t help it!’ Chloe wailed.
‘Of course you can.’
He took her arm, and then as good as marched her over to a small arcade where drill equipment was kept under cover.
‘Please,’ he begged, ‘don’t cry like this!’ He found his pocket handkerchief, and dabbed at Chloe’s face. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded. ‘Who’s upset you?’
‘N-nobody.’ She blew her nose, then rubbed two spots of colour into her white cheeks. ‘I’ll get this washed,’ she added, pushing his handkerchief into her pocket. ‘It’s just that I – it’s terrible! I’m going to have a baby!’
Alex stared, amazed. ‘Chloe, are you sure?’
‘I used to be so skinny, but I’m getting really fat. I’m having to let out all my clothes.’ She looked at him in anguish. ‘Alex, are you furious?’
‘Furious?’ he began and frowned, but then he understood. ‘You mean the baby’s mine?’
‘Of course it’s yours!’ She burst into another storm of weeping. ‘Whose else would it be?’
Alex was about to say it could be anybody’s, half the officers here have been through you.
But then he realised this could not be so. Chloe’s mother kept her busy with the younger children, and she was not allowed to come and go just as she pleased. She’d have had to lie about the time she’d spent with him.
As far as his fellow officers were concerned, Chloe was not a lady. She was therefore rubbish, to be slandered round the mess by the foul-mouthed likes of Freddie Lomax, whom Alex wouldn’t have actually trusted with a penny piece.
‘I’ll be disgraced,’ she sobbed. ‘My mother will throw me out, I’ll have the baby in the workhouse. They’ll shave my head, they’ll say I’m wicked, mad–’
‘Hush, Chloe, it’s all right.’ Quickly glancing round, Alex saw the parade ground was deserted. He put his arms round Chloe’s narrow shoulders and pressed her to his chest. ‘I’ll look after you.’
But Chloe’s sobbing didn’t abate, and soon he felt warm wetness seeping through his scarlet tunic.
He willed her to stop crying, wanted to tell her not to be so silly, but he didn’t want to make things any worse. He stared across the empty square, focusing on the regimental emblems carved into an architrave. Lions, thistles, banners, roses–
Rose!
He felt his heart contracting painfully. But he mustn’t think about Rose Courtenay – not here, and certainly not now. ‘Chloe,’ he said, ‘I – well, listen, Chloe. I’ll marry you.’
‘You’ll what?’ Jerking away, she gaped at him. ‘But Alex, you’re a gentleman. You can’t marry me!’
‘Of course I can.’ Alex felt as if he were being sucked down into a whirlpool. But he knew Chloe Jarman wasn’t lying. She was getting fat, and she was carrying his baby, and he was determined no child of his should be a bastard.
‘I’ll marry you,’ he said again, as much to convince himself of it as Chloe.
‘I can tell my parents?’ She stared at him in disbelieving joy. ‘I can tell my father, Alex?’
‘Yes, of course you may.’
‘Oh, Alex!’ She began to cry again, butting her small head against his shoulder.
He let her cling to him. But then he heard brisk footsteps coming closer, and prised her thin arms from round his neck. ‘I’ll come and see your father later on this evening,’ he told Chloe. ‘But now I h
ave to go.’
When he reached his quarters, he realised he still had no cigarettes. Needing to do something, he poured water from a pitcher then began to wash his hands and face.
He knew he didn’t love Chloe. He liked her well enough – there was nothing he could dislike about Chloe – but, ignorant, unworldly and provincial as she was, nowadays she bored him. He knew that if he had to live with her for any length of time, the empty chatter and mindless conversation which he had once found comforting would chafe and irritate him worse than a hair shirt or army vest.
He couldn’t believe he’d just asked her to marry him.
As he was rubbing hard with a rough towel, a fellow subaltern walked in. ‘Hello, Denham,’ he said, breezily. ‘Well, they say it will be war at last.’
‘What, here?’ muttered Alex.
‘No, in Belgium.’ The other officer grinned. ‘At any rate, the Brass is getting twitchy. We’re ordered back to Blighty right away.’
Chapter Three
‘It shouldn’t take long to teach the Kaiser a lesson he won’t forget.’ Gerard Courtenay looked up from his newspaper and gave his wife and daughter his most reassuring smile. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll need that little hospital they’ve set up in the village.’
‘Let’s hope not, Daddy.’ Rose was afraid they would, and very soon. But she thought it wisest not to argue. She was in enough trouble with her mother, and didn’t want to annoy her father, too.
‘When is Michael coming, Rose?’ demanded Lady Courtenay.
‘After luncheon, Mummy,’ Rose replied.
‘I hope you will be civil to him today.’
‘When have I been anything else?’
‘Please don’t be impertinent, my dear. It’s very vulgar.’ Frances Courtenay sighed and shook her elegant blonde head. ‘I never thought my daughter would turn out to be a flirt.’
This remark was laughably unjust, but Rose thought it best not to reply.
When Michael had proposed, she’d said she needed time to think about it, and to her relief he’d said there wasn’t any hurry. But it seemed their mothers had assumed they’d get engaged without delay. Three months later, Rose was still being silly, as her mother chose to put it. Lady Courtenay’s temper grew more and more uncertain day by day.
‘I shall be staying in my room this morning,’ she announced, as she got up and dropped her napkin by her plate. ‘Rose, I hope you don’t mean to be difficult for ever. What if Michael has to go and fight? Sir Thomas seems to think it’s very likely. After all, the poor boy’s in the Dorset Yeomanry.’
‘I’m sure he won’t be leaving yet. I know they’re all on standby, but they haven’t been called up for service overseas.’ Rose met her mother’s irritated gaze. ‘I’m going to see Celia this morning.’
‘I can’t think why,’ said Lady Courtenay. ‘After all, you have no interest in the Easton family.’
‘Mummy, that’s unfair–’
‘I don’t think so.’ Lady Courtenay shook her head again. ‘You’re such a disappointment to me, Rose.’
‘I’m so sorry!’ Rose’s grey eyes flashed, her colour deepened. ‘Of course, some people can’t or won’t accept that others might not wish to fall in with their schemes–’
‘Rose!’ Sir Gerard stared at her, amazed. ‘I will not have you speaking to your mother in that fashion! Apologise at once!’
But Rose threw down her napkin, pushed her chair back, got up and left the room.
When she reached Easton Hall, she found that Michael had gone into Dorchester to see about a gun. But Celia was full of the latest gossip. ‘Michael says it’s just what he’d expect of Alex Denham,’ she told Rose, as she unpacked the contents of a huge wooden crate.
Celia had joined the VAD and, as Mrs Sefton had observed to anyone who would listen, was doing vital war work while Rose Courtenay shirked. This morning, Celia announced, she was going to roll a thousand bandages and make up first aid kits for the Red Cross.
‘You were telling me about this Denham business,’ prompted Rose.
‘Oh, yes.’ Celia grimaced. ‘It’s disgusting. Alex and this woman seem to be engaged. Mrs Sefton told us Mr Denham is frightfully upset. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he decides to make another will, leaving Alex out of it completely.’
‘If the girl’s respectable, I really can’t see why.’
‘Oh, but she’s nothing of the sort! She’s a sergeant’s daughter, and she led him on quite shamelessly. Now it appears she’s going to have a child.’ Celia blushed pink. ‘But as Mrs Sefton said to Mummy, whose is anybody’s guess.’
Rose suddenly felt light-headed. As Michael’s sister babbled on, she told herself that Alex wasn’t anything to her, and his philandering was none of her concern. But she was still upset, and didn’t know why.
She stared at Celia’s busy hands, neatly wrapping dressings and swabs in oilskin packaging. ‘I could help with that,’ she offered.
‘I don’t think so, Rose.’ Celia looked important. ‘I have to initial every one I pack, so if it turns out anything is missing, I shall be in very serious trouble. I say, your face is awfully red.’
‘It’s quite warm in here.’ Rose stood up. ‘Well, if you don’t want my help, I shall be on my way.’
Rose walked straight home again, and by the time she was back at Charton Minster she had come to a decision.
‘I’ll be out for the rest of the morning, Polly,’ she told her maid, who was busy sorting out some linen.
‘Very good, Miss Courtenay.’ Polly Jackson pulled open a drawer. ‘What shall I say to Lady Courtenay, if she asks for you?’
‘I’m going to the village. I need to buy some – stamps.’
‘Stamps, Miss Courtenay?’ Polly frowned. ‘I’m sure I saw plenty in your box.’
‘One can never have too many stamps.’ Rose picked up her bag. ‘Polly, when you’ve finished that, I’d like you to look through my clothes. The mauve silk dress needs ironing, and the green skirt has buttons coming loose.’
It was agony waiting for the train. But to Rose’s huge relief, nobody from Charton seemed to be going anywhere today.
She didn’t want to arouse the suspicions of the booking clerk, so she bought a ticket to Stratton Lacey, the next stop down the line. When the inspector came along, she would apologise profusely. She’d say she’d had her mind on other things, and pay him the right fare.
At almost every station after Charton, men in khaki uniforms and carrying huge haversacks piled into the train. They crammed into the third-class carriages, waving from the windows to their wives and families, most of whom were trying to look brave, though some were weeping.
Five minutes after they left Wareham, a sergeant major of the Royal Dorsets came to ask if he could put some men in her compartment. ‘Second and third are full,’ he added, looking at her steadily as if daring her to say that yes, she did object. ‘So the guard says if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Rose.
So half a dozen shy, embarrassed Tommies shuffled into the first-class compartment. Straw-haired, raw-boned farm lads, they all wore stiff, new uniforms and had sore, red patches on their necks where their collars chafed.
They nudged each other, whispering and giggling like children on an outing, which Rose supposed they were, for most of them had probably never been any further afield than Dorchester, and now they were going on a great adventure.
The day dragged on and on. Rose’s stomach frequently reminded her she hadn’t eaten since morning. But it also promised her that if she tried to fill it, she’d be sick.
When she got to Paddington, it was dark. The blackened vaults and arches loomed threateningly overhead, and soot-stained pigeons flying home to roost flapped their dirty wings against her veil. The whole place stank of coal, hot iron and grease, and smuts danced everywhere, settling like black snow.
She didn’t know where to go or what to do. She knew some parts of London very well, because when L
ady Courtenay came up to go shopping, she and Rose always stayed at smart hotels. But now, her money had to last, and she dared not fritter it away. She pushed her way through the vast crowd of people on the concourse, and went to find a cab.
‘Where to, miss?’ the driver asked, as he released the hand brake.
‘Chelsea,’ Rose replied. She had a vague idea that poets and artists lived in Chelsea, so she hoped it might be cheap. ‘I forget the name of the street. But if you drive around, I’m sure we’ll find it.’
The glow from the gas lamps cast soft, golden pools along the dirty pavements, but everything else was sunk in foggy gloom.
‘Miss,’ began the cabman, as he drove back up a one way street, ‘I dunno what you think you’re playing at, but my old lady will be wonderin’ where–’
‘It’s that house on your left!’ interrupted Rose, in desperation. ‘The one next to the dairy, that’s the place!’
Rose signed the register of the small hotel in Hartland Row. It had looked respectable from the cab, and had a spruce new board outside that offered rooms to ladies.
‘Where’s your luggage, miss?’ enquired the woman at the desk, as Rose gazed round the gloomy lobby.
‘It – it’s coming later.’ Sick with nerves and faint from lack of food, Rose was sure that any minute Sir Gerard would burst out of a hidden cupboard, then drag her back to Dorset in disgrace. ‘M-may I see my room?’
‘This is a clean, respectable establishment, Miss – Jackson.’ Eyeing Rose suspiciously, the woman pursed her lips. ‘I don’t make no assumptions, miss, so please don’t be offended. But people without luggage–’
‘I was in a hurry.’ Rose prayed for inspiration and it came. ‘My fiancé had to join his unit with hardly any notice. I’d like to see him off.’
‘My dear, of course you would.’ The woman looked ashamed. ‘But you understand we must be careful.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Rose didn’t know what she meant, but on that cold October evening she was far too tired and too appalled by what she’d done to think of anything but sleep. She took her key, then followed a grinning boot boy up the dark and dusty stairs.
The Silver Locket (Choc Lit) Page 3