Packards

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Dear me, who is this? Hugo Rutherford? Now where have I heard that name before?’

  A blush spread right over Amelie from her head to her toes.

  ‘I – he was my partner at tennis at the garden party on Monday. I introduced him to you, if you remember.’

  ‘Ye-es, I believe I do. Tall young man. Rather handsome. Well, it seems he wishes to be known to us. Rutherford – do I know the family? Is he related to the Hampshire Rutherfords?’

  That was all her mother cared about. The fact that he was a brilliant all-round sportsman would not mean a thing to her. The fact that he had complimented Amelie on her tennis and was actually interested in the part she played in the running of Packards, instead of being contemptuous of it, meant even less. It could even count against him.

  ‘He may be. I believe his close family are from Herefordshire,’ Amelie told her, in as off-hand a manner as she could manage. Of course, she knew exactly who his family were since she had looked it up.

  ‘Oh those Rutherfords. Oh yes. Very acceptable. If he calls again, I shall be in to him.’

  Amelie sometimes wondered whether her mother knew the entire Burkes Peerage and Baronetage off by heart. But at least that was one hurdle jumped. Hugo was judged to be worthy by her mother’s standards. But would he call again? She had definitely told him Thursday, so he would have known that they would not be at home today. Did his leaving his card today mean that he had deliberately missed her, and would not be coming tomorrow, or that he was making an extra effort at courtesy and would call tomorrow as well? She hoped for the second but feared the first. In the meantime, there were still twenty-one hours to get through until she could hope to find out.

  Even the longest wait does end eventually, and the next afternoon saw Amelie and Winifred in their prettiest gowns – the blue and grey frock had arrived in time and was a credit to Packards’ dressmakers – and sitting in the drawing room to receive calls from all those whom they had called upon during the last couple of weeks. The usual pattern prevailed. First there were the formal callers, either patronising them or hoping to ingratiate themselves with them, depending on whether they were higher or lower socially, then the people with whom they were on easier terms. Amelie kept glancing at the clock. The hands that had crept so slowly now seemed to dash round. Half-past four chimed. Amelie despaired. By five, only informal calls were paid, between people who knew each other well. However much she wanted to be on that footing with Hugo, she certainly was not yet. Around her, conversations were going on, mostly about parties past and future. Amelie answered when spoken to, but had no idea what she was saying.

  Then the door opened once more. Amelie’s head jerked round and her stomach twisted up inside. It was him. She sat rigid, unable to do anything but watch his progress across the room.

  A frisson of excitement went through the females in the room. Any male visiting was a pleasant change, since they tended to leave such niceties to the womenfolk of their families. One who was young, handsome, becoming rather well known and a bachelor was a definite catch. Each woman, young or old, sat a little straighter, made a little adjustment to her dress, became that much more animated in her talk. Those who had been on the point of leaving, having sat for the regulation fifteen minutes, put off their departure.

  Amelie noticed nothing of this. Her whole being was focused on Hugo. He looked different in a formal dark jacket and grey trousers, different, but just as impressive as the cut set off his broad shoulders and the easy confidence with which he held himself. Beside him, the other men in the room looked poor specimens. He shook hands with Winifred and stood speaking to her for a minute or two. Amelie unashamedly strained to listen, but was prevented by the girl next to her, who chose to remark about him.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Hugo Rutherford,’ she said, envy mixing with surprise in her lowered voice.

  ‘He’s a friend of my brother’s,’ Amelie said, keeping her eyes on him and her mother. Winifred seemed to be acting in a particularly gracious fashion.

  ‘Lucky you. I think he’s utterly deevy, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Amelie breathed, too engrossed to even think of hiding her feelings. He was divine. There was no other word for it.

  The other girl smirked at having found her out so easily.

  Her mother finished speaking to him, looked round the room, saw the seat available on Amelie’s other side and waved him towards it before turning to bid farewell to some visitors who really could not sit it out any longer.

  Amelie was in heaven. He was here, he was sitting right next to her on the sofa, he was smiling and talking. The only problem was that the need to appear natural robbed her of all her usual ease. She laughed and chattered, and all the while she felt as if she were acting like an overwound toy.

  Visitors came and went. Before she knew it, Hugo was standing, picking up his hat and stick, taking his leave. Winifred sailed over.

  ‘We are just about to take tea, Mr Rutherford. Won’t you stay and join us?’

  Amelie could have hugged her. At that moment, she truly adored her mother.

  Hugo smiled, thanked her, but declined. Amelie’s spirits plummeted.

  ‘So kind of you, but I have to be elsewhere. I don’t know whether you ever watch polo, Mrs Amberley, but if you cared to drive down to Hurlingham tomorrow, my team will be playing. You might find it diverting for a while.’

  Amelie held her breath. Winifred said that they might possibly find time to make an appearance. Amelie could not stop a smile from spreading over her face. As he turned to leave, he paused by Amelie.

  ‘Don’t forget, Miss Amberley, we must make a team at tennis again one day soon.’

  ‘I shan’t forget,’ Amelie promised.

  And then he was gone, leaving her floating in a world of enchantment.

  28

  THE WORLD WAS a bleak and comfortless place. Worse, the people in it were not to be trusted. Or so it seemed to Isobel. She got out of bed each morning because she had to, walked to work along streets that mocked her with their green leafy trees and colour-filled gardens, and spent the day in a haze of exhaustion doing a job which she disliked and was only just competent at.

  Her only confidante was Daisy, who listened endlessly and supported her through the dreadful time.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ Isobel repeated time and again. ‘I just can’t understand it. Why did he drop me like that, without a word, without a sign?’

  ‘I dunno, lovey, honest I don’t. He’s a bastard. They all are.’

  Isobel was so low that she was not even very shocked by her friend’s language. It only confirmed the opinion she had held of men before Perry came along to make a large enough chink in her defences to find a way to her heart.

  ‘Yes I know, I know, but – I thought he was different. He seemed so kind, so thoughtful –’

  ‘They can all be thoughtful when they’re after you. Knights in blooming shining armour, they are, till they got what they want.’

  ‘But he didn’t – I didn’t –’

  Daisy sighed. ‘P’raps you held out too long, love. Comes a time when they get fed up of waiting.’

  ‘But to go off like that without saying anything –’

  That was what hurt most of all. She had thought that as a gentleman, he had been treating her like a lady. It seemed that he had not. He did not regard her as a lady, simply as one more shopgirl to take up or put down as he wished.

  ‘Well, it’s easier for them that way, isn’t it? If there’s one thing they don’t like, it’s scenes.’

  ‘But it’s so discourteous –’

  Daisy hooted. ‘Discourteous! I like that. Discourteous is the least of my worries when it comes to men.’

  Which only went to show up the huge gap between the world Isobel had once inhabited and the one she lived in now. Courtesy, her mother had always insisted, was the rock upon which society was built. Thank goodness that in this brutal place she now found herself, she had one
friend. Daisy was wonderful. There were no sudden changes of attitude now, she was a well of sympathy and understanding. But some things she could not even reveal to Daisy, for she was too ashamed. Daisy did not know what a bad person she was. She must be for men to pursue her the way they did, not with respectable intentions, not even with love, but just wanting to defile her body. Worse than that, she knew she was a wicked woman by the way in which her body was reacting. Since she had started her outings with Perry, she had experienced the renewal of the strange longings that her brother-in-law had kindled, the odd visions of heat and flesh that she knew could only be the promptings of lust. With nobody to tell her that this was quite normal for a young woman, especially one who was in love for the first time, she could only believe that she deserved to be outcast from respectable society. She was lost for ever.

  ‘I don’t know why you bother with me. I’m no use for anything,’ she said to Daisy.

  Her friend told her not to be so daft.

  ‘Come out for a night on the town. Let your hair down a bit, forget about the sod,’ she suggested.

  But Isobel recoiled. ‘No, no – I’m too tired. I’d spoil it for you.’

  ‘’Course you wouldn’t. Come on, it’d do you good. You don’t never enjoy y’self, you don’t.’

  It was true. But she didn’t want Daisy’s rough brand of enjoyment. She yearned for the visiting and provincial parties of her past life, even more for the genteel outings and pretty teas with Perry, and most of all, for Perry himself Despite everything, if he had come back with anything like a plausible excuse, she would have believed him. But he did not, and now she wanted only to burrow into the safety of her hard little bed. If she could have done, she would have stayed there for good.

  She went in to work each day fit for nothing. With the coming of summer, Ladies’ Sportswear was busy and a larger proportion of the customers were genuine buyers rather than time-wasters, which was fortunate for Isobel as it meant she did have some sales to her name by the end of each day. But she had never been a good saleswoman and now the apathy brought on by depression made her even less effective. Where Daisy could persuade a willing customer to buy twice as much as she had come in for, and even get a sightseer to purchase a small item, Isobel sold only what was asked for. The effort it cost her to smile was enormous. The muscles of her face felt heavy and dead. Her politeness did not desert her, for that had been drummed into her so successfully in childhood that she was unable to be otherwise, and it kept her plodding onward. She would look at girls her own age shopping with their mothers, and know that she would never return to that golden way of life. She was one of the poor now, and everyone knew that poverty was the fault of the poor themselves. They were either idle, or drunken, or – worse. She knew she was neither idle nor drunken, so she must be that other, unspoken, wicked thing. That was why she had had to run away in the first place, for her brother-in-law had seen that thing in her. All her troubles stemmed from it.

  Miss Higgs was a further trial.

  ‘You should have shown her the calf gloves as well,’ she would say, when a customer went away empty-handed.

  ‘She asked for knitted, Miss Higgs, green knitted. I showed her what we have, but they didn’t suit,’ Isobel would explain, knowing all along that she was in the wrong again.

  An exaggerated sigh from Miss Higgs, and a casting of the eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘For pity’s sake, girl, how many times do I have to tell you? You always show them something else. Nine times out of ten it’s what they want anyway and if it isn’t they’ll soon think it is if you tell them how much better it is than what they first asked for.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Higgs.’

  ‘“Yes Miss Higgs”,’ the head saleswoman mimicked savagely. ‘That’s all you can say, isn’t it? But you never seem to learn.’

  ‘No, Miss Higgs. I’ll try harder, Miss Higgs.’

  ‘You had better. You let down my sales figures, you do. You’d’ve been out on your ear months ago if you weren’t Miss Packard’s little favourite.’

  And even Miss Packard was a doubtful ally now. They only saw her briefly once a week or so in Ladies’ Sportswear, and she wasn’t doing half so much in Advertising either. Rumour about the store had it that she had an admirer. Bets were being laid as to whether or not she would marry him.

  When a messenger came into the department one morning, Isobel did not take any special notice. Orders from on high were Miss Higgs’s responsibility. But then the head saleswoman beckoned her over. The expression on her face was enough to give Isobel a sinking sensation.

  ‘You’re wanted in Mr Edward’s office,’ she announced.

  For a moment Isobel felt something close to relief. If it had been dismissal, it would have been Mr Mason asking to see her. The next second, relief was replaced by fear. What did Mr Edward want with her? It could not be anything good. Her mind leapt from him to his brother. Was it Perry? Was he ill? Had he had an accident and was asking for her? Was he dead? A small moan escaped her.

  Miss Higgs’s lips stretched into a malicious smile. ‘Yes – Mr Edward. You’d best hurry, hadn’t you?’

  Wordlessly, Isobel nodded and followed the boy mesenger, the questions churning round her distressed head.

  She was shown into a large office by a secretary who was told to go and take her tea break. The door closed behind her. And there was Mr Edward, sitting back in his big chair, regarding her with an appraising look that ran slowly from her face down the length of her body. Fear congealed in her. She stared down at the mahogany desk, at the military precision of the papers stacked in their baskets, the pens in their tray.

  ‘Miss Brand – or should I say Miss Norton? The time has come for us to have a little talk.’

  Isobel gasped. Her eyes flicked up to his face to find that he was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile.

  ‘Oh yes – I know. I only had to look at your file. But it is not your past that I wish to discuss. It is your future.’

  So it was dismissal. Isobel’s legs felt weak. She longed to sit down, but there was no chair on her side of the desk. She stood as she had been taught, with her hands clasped in front of her. She studied the desk again. There was a faint rustle of paper as a page in a book of figures in front of him turned.

  ‘You cannot be described as our most successful shopgirl, can you? Rather the opposite, in fact.’

  Isobel said nothing. There was nothing she could say. It was true.

  ‘I cannot think why you have been kept on. Anyone else would have been dismissed long since.’ He paused a second, then went on. ‘I would imagine that you are not qualified for any other form of employment?’

  Isobel shook her head.

  ‘No, I thought not.’

  He paused again, and in the gap Isobel saw regular meals, her wage packet and worst of all, the attic room disappearing into the abyss. Standing all day in Ladies’ Sportswear, failing to sell enough to satisfy Miss Higgs, seemed the most desirable fate in the world now that it was being taken from her.

  ‘However –’

  The word brought a painful surge of hope. She looked up from the desk to find that he was still watching her with that speculative expression. This time she found she could not look away.

  ‘I have heard that you do have talents in a far more interesting direction.’

  She could not pretend to misunderstand him. Through a black whirl of confusion she tried to think how he had found out. Not Daisy. Surely not Daisy. But who else had known? Who else would have told? Betrayed. She was betrayed on all sides.

  ‘Yes –’ Her tormentor was following the expressions that crossed her face. ‘My brother speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘Perry?’

  Shock tore his name from her. Perry had not only deserted her, he had discussed her with his brother. She felt sick.

  ‘The same. Whatever his failings might be, he does have an interesting taste in women. You realise, of course, that I could also have you dismi
ssed for that.’ This was pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone that almost but not quite masked the implicit threat.

  ‘Come here.’

  Isobel started at the unexpected order. She stared at him, hardly able to take it in.

  ‘I said, come here,’ he repeated, quite quietly, but with a deadly insistence.

  Isobel could only obey.

  ‘That’s better. Come closer.’

  Mr Edward was still leaning back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, fingers laced. Trembling, Isobel took a tiny step nearer. Her skirt touched his leg. An inarticulate sob of fear gathered in her throat, threatening to break out with each shallow breath.

  He reached out and ran his hand over her hip, into her waist, up to her breast. She shuddered, cried out, shrunk way, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.