The Choice

by Valerie Mendes

  “I may take them anyway.” Eleanor looks Robin in the eye. “But I’ll be sure to let you know what I’m doing.”

  “Before you’ve done it, Miss Drummond?” Robin stands to shake her hand. “Give me a bit of warning, there’s a good girl.”

  Eleanor grins at him. “It’s a deal,” she says.

  On Wednesday evening Eleanor meets Kathleen for supper at Fishery Cottage. They eat in the kitchen, Eleanor relaxed among the familiar pots and pans, the welcoming warmth of the oven and Kathleen’s fragrant rabbit pie.

  At last Eleanor can talk frankly about St Ives, the exhausting journey, finding Pierre’s letters – and Felix. It’s as if she’s describing someone who’s exploded into her life like an unexpected, dazzling firework.

  “It was amazing. One minute I was free and single, with plans to sell The Hideaway and get back to Woodstock as fast as I could. The next, I was smitten. I felt as if I could never get enough of the man. I wanted to listen to him all day long and all night. I liked Robert Clark in a brotherly way, and I’ve enjoyed working with Jonny. But I’ve never felt such physical passion before. Leaving Felix in St Ives was so hard. I had to tear myself away.”

  “But what are you goin’ to do about him? You’ve only known him for one short week… You’ve even been to bed with him. He hasn’t written, he’s not on the phone… He’s hundreds of bloomin’ miles away, Ellie. It’s no use lovin’ the man if you don’t never see him.”

  “Oh, I’ll see him again, I’m sure of that.” Eleanor pretends to be confident. “I’m going to Brown’s Hotel in London on Saturday afternoon. Will you come? I’ll pay your train fare and everything. I really need your support.”

  “I’d love a trip to town. But what—”

  “I want to ask the manager of Brown’s whether he has an address for Pierre Tessier. Some of those letters were sent from Brown’s. The hotel may know where he lives in Juan-les-Pins. Moira might be there with him.”

  “You could try. But don’t be too disappointed—”

  “And I’ll ask Felix to the exhibition.”

  “If he comes, are you goin’ to introduce him to your mother?”

  “That’s a difficult one.” Eleanor bites her lip. “Mummy has no idea I’ve fallen in love – and with Felix Mitchell of all people!” She shrugs. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it… Now, tell me… you and Sean. Have you set a date?”

  “I fancy bein’ a June bride next year. Sean and me, we’re savin’ every brass farthin’.” Kathleen’s voice darkens. “That’s not somethin’ Edward and Wallis have to do.”

  “What news?”

  Kathleen takes a tray of custards tarts out of the oven. “Not good. Maud says Special Branch have been watchin’ Wallis for months, tryin’ to dig up the dirt.”

  “What kind of dirt?”

  “Sexual, of course. Isn’t that the worst for a woman? They’re sayin’ Wallis is havin’ an affair with a man called Guy Trundle. He’s married, in his thirties, and works for Ford motors. He’s a charmer, a real ladies’ man. Wallis has been seein’ him at her dressmaker’s. It’s the only place where Edward can’t follow!”

  “Honestly, Kath! You’d think she’d be more than satisfied with the King.”

  “Indeed. She’s askin’ for trouble.”

  “What a mess. Why can’t the royals keep their heads above such sordid waters?”

  “I suppose they’re only human—”

  “But being human doesn’t give us permission to behave like that.” Eleanor blushes. “I could never be unfaithful. Can you imagine the lies, the pretence, the cheating?”

  “Some people adore all that palaver. They’ve got time on their hands and nothin’ better to do. No jobs, no money to earn, no shame! The secrecy, the cloak-and-dagger stuff, it makes ’em feel alive. Pathetic, ain’t it? It’s how they get their kicks.”

  “I prefer the dance floor.” Eleanor remembers the swish of her red taffeta frock. “And being in the arms of the man you love.”

  Kathleen gets up to clear the table. She looks down at her best friend. “Got it real bad, haven’t you, Ellie?”

  “No.” Eleanor smiles up at her. “I’ve got it real good.”

  At Brown’s Hotel

  London, 1936

  That Saturday afternoon, Eleanor and Kathleen take the train to London.

  They walk from Paddington to Mayfair, relishing the chance to window-shop in the milky spring sunshine, to check the latest fashions, to imagine leading affluent, leisured lives. In Albemarle Street, they find Brown’s Hotel, and settle in its soft leather armchairs. After they’ve ordered tea, Eleanor asks their waiter whether she might have a private word with the manager.

  A portly man with flat grey hair and a fussy manner bustles up to her.

  “Mademoiselle… Good afternoon.” He has a charming French accent. “Everything it is to your liking, non?”

  “Thank you, our tea’s delicious. I need to ask you a favour.”

  “But of course… How can I help? We can talk here for a few moments.”

  “It’s a family matter. I’m trying to find my father’s friend who disappeared twenty years ago. My father died in January. Just before his death, he asked me to find her. I’ve been reading some letters written to her by a Monsieur Pierre Tessier. He was a guest here at Brown’s in April 1914. I wondered… ” Eleanor pauses, her heart thumping. “Do you by any chance have an address for Monsieur Tessier?”

  The manager’s face tightens imperceptibly.

  “Ah, je suis désolé, Mademoiselle, but I’m forbidden to give you information. We have the very strict rules here. Details about our clients, they would be confidential.”

  “But surely not for more than twenty years ago?” Eleanor gives him a smile she hopes will melt his heart. “Please, Monsieur? There’s nobody else I can ask. I believe Pierre Tessier is living in Juan-les-Pins. All I need is confirmation, and the name of his villa. I made my dying father a promise. I’d like to keep it.”

  The manager pats her hand. “D’accord, Mademoiselle. I understand. April 1914, you say? I’ll see what I can find.”

  He returns ten minutes later, brushing dust from his white gloves. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but our records, they do not go back that far.”

  “I see.” Eleanor sits back, crushed by disappointment.

  “If you really wish to find him, I’d visit Juan-les-Pins. It’s not a big place. Monsieur Tessier, he might be well-known, non? And at this time of the year, the Côte d’Azur, it’s beautiful.” The gloved hands circle the air in ecstasy. “You could take Le Train Bleu from Calais. It’s expensive but you’ll have a first-class sleeper and the food on board will be magnifique.”

  “That’s a very good idea.” The colour returns to Eleanor’s cheeks. “Thank you for your help.”

  “My pleasure, Mademoiselle… And may I wish you bon voyage!”

  “Well!” Kathleen says as they stand outside the hotel. “That wasn’t exactly a success!”

  “I’m not so sure. The manager was right. I’ll have to go to the French Riviera.”

  “Even without an address?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “And how will you explain the trip to your mother?”

  Eleanor watches a horse pulling a heavy cart down Albemarle Street as if it were a straw basket. “I can do better than that: I’ll take her with me. She deserves a break. And when she’s on the beach or at the bridge table, I’ll search for Moira. Worrying about the woman is getting me nowhere. If I do something positive, I’ll feel so much better.” She pulls on her gloves. “Let’s find a travel agent. I’ll collect some journey times and prices. I’m sure there’ll be a decent hotel in Juan-les-Pins.”

  “And if it’s a wild-goose chase?” Kathleen looks at Eleanor. “If
you don’t find either Moira or Pierre, what then?”

  Eleanor stares down the dusty road, at the lumbering traffic and the cloudy sky. She longs for the scent of Cornish air, the roar of the waves, the joy of standing in Felix’s arms.

  “I’ll send Felix the letters, explain how I found them. Tell him I’ve done my best but I’ve reached a dead end.” She grimaces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” She takes Kathleen’s arm. “You’ll think I’m daft as a brush, but something in the back of my mind keeps telling me that Moira’s still alive… All I need do is prove it!”

  At the Exhibition

  Woodstock, 1936

  By the end of that week, Anne has arranged for a decorator to start on the ground-floor living rooms. She relishes the challenge of rearranging furniture. The house is in chaos as they eat meals in the kitchen, and then move upstairs to Anne’s bedroom to read, talk and sew. Now the séances have stopped, the Woodstock house breathes more freely. The smell of fresh paint fills the rooms and lingers in corners.

  “After the exhibition,” Anne says to Eleanor one evening, “I think we should get the rest of the house decorated. It’ll do me good.” She steadies the tremor in her voice. “It’s time I disposed of your father’s clothes. I’ll ask Vera to spring-clean my bedroom. We’ll parcel up the suits and jackets, give them to charity… What do you think, dutiful daughter of mine?”

  Eleanor sighs with relief. “That’s the best idea you’ve had for a very long time.”

  “I’ve been away for a fortnight,” Jonny says. “You’ve coped magnificently, you and Darren. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I stopped worrying about the shop. There were several afternoons while I was in the Cambrian Mountains when I almost forgot about Mum. I feel like a new man.” He pushes a velvet box into Eleanor’s hands. “This is for you.”

  Embarrassed, Eleanor murmurs, “You shouldn’t have.”

  She flicks the box open, staring at an exquisite necklace. “Jonny! It’s beautiful!”

  “Stunning, isn’t it? Late Victorian, stylish, elegant. I love those turquoise stones in the pendant. Put it on.”

  Eleanor fumbles with the delicate clasp, unable to understand why she feels so uncomfortable.

  “Here, let me help.” Jonny stands behind her. For a moment his fingers brush the nape of her neck. He turns her to face him. “It suits you wonderfully.”

  She tries to hide her blushes. “I’ve got something for you.” She ferrets in her bag, pulling out the leaflet and the invitation. “The printers in Oxford rushed these through for me. I’ll send them out tomorrow.”

  Jonny scans the list of paintings. “Very impressive. Was this your idea?”

  “Yes.” The necklace feels cold against her skin. “I hope you’ll come to the Friday opening?”

  “I can’t really leave the shop.” Jonny bends to unpack some ornaments he’d brought from Aberystwyth. “But I’ll be free on Saturday afternoon.” He looks up at her. “By the way, I met someone last week who’s interested in helping in the shop. His name’s Stephen. Turns out he’s a distant cousin… He should be here tomorrow. You can meet him then.”

  That night, sitting at her desk, Eleanor hastily writes a letter, letting her words tumble out, raw and honest.

  My darling Felix

  Leaving you in St Ives was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You’ve been in my thoughts every minute since. I’ve organised this exhibition partly for you, so you can see more of Walter’s work – and me at the same time.

  I hope you’ll be able to come.

  All my love

  Eleanor

  She pushes the note inside the leaflet along with the invitation, addresses and stamps the envelope, throws a cardigan over her shoulders and slips out of the house. At the post-box she whispers, “How I wish I could go with you.”

  The envelope rustles into its dark tunnel. She stares after it, hoping against hope she’ll receive the answer she passionately desires.

  The ground-floor rooms of the Woodstock house are soon transformed. The pale cream walls become an ideal showcase for Walter’s people and places. Each painting has a name and price. Small piles of leaflets lie on low tables in the hall and the two living rooms.

  On the morning of the exhibition, Eleanor pulls on a new dress in dark blue silk. With some reluctance, she adds Jonny’s necklace. She has nothing else to wear at her throat, and the plain scooped neckline needs the touch of jewellery. She longs for her single strand of pearls, wishing she hadn’t sold it.

  She races downstairs to check everything one last time. She holds a piece of paper with a multitude of red dots. On an impulse, she uses two of them. The two self-portraits of her father with Felix are too dear to her heart to sell.

  She’s been hoping against hope that Felix will come, but there has still been no word. She imagines him in their Woodstock doorway, his Cornish burr filling the hall; introducing him to Kathleen and Sean. To Vera. To Jonny. And to her mother. Eleanor has decided what she’ll tell Anne. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  ***

  Except Eleanor’s plans come to nothing because Felix doesn’t appear, either on the Friday or the Saturday. By three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, she realises he has no intention of being with her. She starts to worry; tiny stabbing thoughts pierce her mind. Perhaps he’s ill? Maybe he’s had an accident? She imagines him lying crumpled on his attic floor, unable to move or breathe.

  Then she tells herself to stop being an idiot. The contract for the sale of The Hideaway has been signed and sealed. The money will soon be in her account. The fact that she’d rather see Felix again than have any amount of money is irrelevant. She must be strong, practical, realistic.

  She refuses to contemplate the fact that Felix has decided to forget her. The time they spent together… their night of love… They’d meant something important, hadn’t they? It had hardly been a casual dalliance.

  So as the exhibition opens and proceeds, Eleanor disguises her disappointment. She concentrates on their visitors, helping them to coffee or wine. She talks vivaciously about the paintings, hiding the pain of missing Felix beneath a façade of enthusiasm.

  By four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, red dots litter the walls. All her father’s paintings have been sold.

  Eleanor pauses over a cup of tea, standing in silence, looking at the people around her. Anne, sprightly and glamorous in a tight oyster-satin frock, talking to Michael, her quarrel forgotten. Vera sharing a joke with Jonny and Stephen. Robin reaching for his chequebook. Sylvia and her gaggle of friends sipping wine. Kathleen and Sean admiring a Blenheim landscape Eleanor has given them for their new home.

  And it’s then, as Eleanor stands there, looking and listening, that she has another clever idea. She must do something with her life to prove she can survive without Felix.

  At The Trout

  Wolvercote, North Oxford, 1936

  That Saturday afternoon, Jonny asks Eleanor to dinner.

  “You’ve worked so hard,” he tells her. “It’s been a triumph of courage, good taste, excellent work and inventive marketing. I’ve bought Walter’s last remaining landscape… And you look stunning in that frock. The necklace has really come into its own. I’m so delighted you’re wearing it.”

  Eleanor stands by the open front door. Her feet ache, her head throbs. All she wants is a bath and an early night, but she’s desperate to discuss her idea. So she says, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  “Excellent… I’ll pick you up at eight. Let’s go to The Trout in Wolvercote. It’s a magical place. After we’ve eaten, we can sit by the river and listen to the weir.”

  They settle at a corner table by the window.

  Outside, candles flicker on the low stone walls. Peacocks strut and preen along the terrace, settling for the night in their favourite tree. Jonny orders
parsnip soup and roast rack of lamb for them both.

  Eleanor lays the menu aside. “I need your advice, Jonny… I had an idea this afternoon. I wanted to air it with you first.”

  “Sounds interesting, Eleanor… Fire away.”

  “You’ve had masses of experience of running a shop.” Eleanor fidgets with her serviette, smoothing it over her knees. “I’m thinking of doing the same.”

  “Good heavens, Eleanor! I hope you won’t be competing with me!”

  “Of course not. I don’t know enough about antiques and I could never afford to buy stock… But I do want to make use of our house. Next week, the money from the cottage will be mine. I want to invest some of it in my own business.”

  “How, exactly?”

  Out-of-doors, the peacocks scream by the river. Inside The Trout, the aroma of cigars drifts across the room. Spoons clatter against bowls. Somebody laughs.

  “I want to turn our two ground-floor rooms into a tea-room.” Eleanor sits back. “What do you think?”

  “Crikey!” Jonny flutters his eyelashes. “It’s one hell of a commitment! You’ll have to work terribly hard.”

  “That’s exactly what I need. Something I can build from scratch and call my own… mine and Anne’s.”

  “The trouble is, that house is your home. Those two ground-floor rooms are its heart… Where will you live?”

  “On the first floor. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Now Daddy has gone, we rattle around in a ridiculous amount of space. We hardly ever eat in the dining room: it’s the kitchen for breakfast, and plates on our knees in the drawing room for lunch or supper. None of us can bear to look at Daddy’s empty chair.” Eleanor flushes. “Missing him gets easier – but the pain’s always there.”