Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Well then, for heaven’s sake. You’ve got plenty of room, surely. And it’s only one night.’

  ‘Can’t you stay at the flat?’

  ‘No, that’s why I’m here. I asked Father and he got in a terrible bait, said he was having an important meeting there. He was a bit odd, actually. He doesn’t seem himself at all at the moment.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Florence.

  ‘You don’t sound very interested.’

  Florence pulled herself together, smiled at him quickly. ‘Sorry, Charles, I’ve got a lot on my mind. Look – of course you must stay. Only – well, this sounds rude, I know, but I really won’t have much time to talk to you or anything. Robert gets very worked up about these dos, likes everything to be perfect. Well, they are all his clients—’

  ‘Yes, yes, you said. Doesn’t sound like Robert, he always seems such a relaxed sort of chap.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s been working very hard,’ said Florence. ‘He—’ There was the sound of a car pulling up outside. ‘Look, Charles, you’d better go, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Flo, are you all right? You look a bit odd.’

  ‘Of course I’m all right. Here, I’ll give you my key, then you can let yourself in. That’ll be better I think…’

  A key turned in the lock and Robert appeared. He was engrossed in some papers and didn’t even look up, just shouted, ‘Florence!’

  ‘Robert, I’m here,’ said Florence.

  He did look up then, stared at her, his face very set, his pale eyes unblinking; then he noticed Charles and he smiled instantly, warmly, held out his hand.

  ‘Charlie! Lovely to see you. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Cadging a bed for the night, if that’s OK. It’s all right, Florence explained about your dinner party, I’ll stay right out of the way.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd! Why not join us? It’ll be fun. Florence, I hope you haven’t been making Charles feel unwelcome. That would be dreadful of us. I would hate it. Got a dinner jacket with you, old boy? If not, doesn’t matter, I can—’

  ‘No, really, I can’t join you,’ said Charles. ‘But thanks all the same.’

  ‘Some wild bachelor evening I suppose,’ said Robert and laughed. ‘Lucky chap. Distant memory that sort of thing. Florence, is my tea ready? Please?’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ said Florence. ‘I’ll get it now.’

  ‘Thank you, Florence. Not a lot to ask, is it, Charles, cup of tea at the end of a long day’s work? Do you want to come upstairs to the drawing room with me, old boy? That’s what I always do when I get in, sit and read the paper, have some tea. Or it’s what I like to do.’ He smiled at Florence.

  Florence left them; as Charles went upstairs with Robert, he heard her calling to the maid to prepare Mr Grieg’s tea quickly. Her voice seemed to him to sound rather strange, shaky even.

  ‘Well done, darling,’ said Robert, kissing Florence briefly as the door closed on their last guest. ‘Marvellous evening. And old Forster was obviously very taken with you. You go on upstairs, I’m going to have a last drink, and read a couple of things.’

  Lying awake, waiting for Robert to come up to their bedroom, hugely relieved at his pleasure and the success of her dinner party, Florence heard Charles’s taxi pull up, heard the front door opening carefully, his footsteps very quiet on the stairs. It was quite late; almost two. She wondered what on earth he’d been doing. Sitting in some nightclub somewhere, getting drunk, she supposed. She was half relieved in a way he was still having nights out on the town, now that he was spending so much time with dull little Grace Marchant. Not that she wasn’t very sweet, but it was a bit hard to understand what he saw in her. Still, he did seem much happier than he had been for a long time. She was very fond of him; as brothers went, he was a pretty good sample. Not that he would have got that impression from her behaviour that evening. She felt a stab of remorse at her unfriendliness; she would have to try to make it up to him in the morning. It was just so hard to explain, without saying too much. That was all.

  Chapter 3

  Autumn 1938

  Grace’s first reaction when Charles asked her to marry him was to panic. She had no idea why she was panicking, when what was happening was what she had dreamed of for months – or perhaps had tried not to dream of, not to hope for – but nevertheless panic she did. She sat there staring at him, listening to the words, those words, ‘Will you marry me?’ in a corner of the dining room of the Bear, where he had taken her to dinner, and instead of saying yes and throwing herself into his arms, she felt a wild, hurtling terror, a bit like being on the big dipper, a sense that life had taken hold of her and pushed her totally out of control, and she felt a violent desire to get up and run away, just as she had felt she wanted to hurl herself off the big dipper, to get it over, to escape from it, whatever the consequences.

  ‘Grace,’ he said, ‘darling, are you all right? You’re very pale.’ And the room slowly steadied, and she felt calmer, easier, and she managed to smile at him, to tell him she would really like him to say it again (thinking how appalling, how dreadful of her to have reacted thus, and that surely, if she heard the words again, she would feel quite, quite wonderfully different), which he did, laughing at her gently, taking her hand.

  ‘Darling Grace,’ he said, ‘I love you. Please will you marry me?’

  And still she didn’t say the right thing, still didn’t say yes. ‘But why?’ she said instead, realizing immediately how stupid, how inappropriate it sounded; and he looked slightly hurt and said, ‘I told you why, I love you.’

  ‘Charles, what on earth did your mother say?’ she said (more inappropriateness) ‘when you told her. Was she furious?’

  ‘Why should she be furious?’ he said, looking genuinely puzzled. ‘And anyway, I haven’t told her yet, or my father. I wanted to know what you thought first. Which I still don’t,’ he added, taking her hand to his lips and kissing it tenderly. ‘This isn’t going at all the way I imagined it. I shall have to give up in a minute and go home.’

  ‘Oh Charles, Charles,’ she said, laughing and crying at the same time, knowing, recognizing how foolish she had been, how absurd, ‘of course I’ll marry you. I’d love to marry you. I love you.’

  ‘Well, that means I can give you this,’ he said and produced a small box from his pocket and pushed it across the table at her. ‘And this—’ He waved at the waiter, who rushed across beaming with an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne which he opened with a huge flourish, and the people sitting at the next table, who mercifully they didn’t know, smiled at them indulgently, and Grace opened the little box and inside was what was unarguably a very beautiful ring, a square sapphire set in tiny diamonds on a platinum band.

  ‘It’s beautiful, really beautiful,’ she said, crushing hard, determinedly, just the shadow of a thought that it would have been nice to have chosen it with him, to have been asked what she wanted – which might not have been this, this slightly sombre-looking ring, but perhaps a graded row of diamonds set on a gold band, or a little round flower-like cluster of them like the one Florence had, and which she had very much admired.

  ‘I’m so glad you like it, I bought it in Hatton Garden. I thought it was rather special, and if it doesn’t fit you can have it sized. Put it on, darling, let me see.’

  Grace put it on; it didn’t fit, it was too big for her and actually the stone was too large for her small hand altogether, but Charles took her hand and looked at it and said ‘Perfect’ and she smiled again, her eyes filled with tears and she said, ‘Thank you, Charles, it’s lovely, really lovely’ again.

  Later the ring, chosen by him, not right for her, too big, overwhelming, seemed to her to epitomize their marriage.

  When they got home to Bridge Cottage and told her parents, Grace really thought her mother was going to faint. She went first a very dark red and then waxy pale, and she half stood up and then sat down again, breathing heavily.

  ‘Oh Grace,’ she said fina
lly, her voice odd, breathless, ‘oh Charles. Oh, my dears.’

  ‘She’s going to cry,’ said Frank, getting up, coming over to them, shaking Charles by the hand. ‘I cannot tell you how delighted I am, my boy. Absolutely delighted. Give me a kiss, Grace. Congratulations, both of you.’

  ‘Frank,’ said Betty, ‘you mustn’t call Charles that, he’s not a boy.’ And she burst into tears.

  ‘Dear oh dear,’ said Frank. ‘Look, I’ve got a bottle all ready on ice. I’ll go and get it.’

  ‘You’ve what!’ said Grace. ‘You mean you knew?’

  ‘Well yes, of course I did,’ said Frank. ‘Charles did the proper thing, came and asked me for your hand. Well brought up, you see.’

  ‘You mean you actually knew before I did!’ And suddenly she was back on the big dipper again, being propelled forward, too fast, involuntarily.

  ‘Darling, don’t make it sound like a crime,’ said Charles. ‘It was only this afternoon and I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking you without getting your father’s permission.’ He came over to her, put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Surely you don’t mind?’

  ‘No,’ said Grace. ‘No, of course not.’ She smiled at him carefully. ‘I’m just a bit – overwhelmed, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course you are, darling, of course you are,’ said Betty, blowing her nose, advancing rather nervously towards Charles. ‘We all are. Er – may I kiss you, Charles? Now that you’re going to be’ – she hesitated, clearly almost unable to say it – ‘to be part of the family.’

  ‘You certainly may,’ he said, bending down to her, ‘and may I say what an extremely nice family to join. I feel very fortunate.’

  Betty’s eyes closed and an expression of almost beatific rapture came over her face; looking at her, Grace had the irreverent thought that she looked as if she was at the altar rails about to take Communion. She crushed the image hastily and took the glass of champagne her father had handed her. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Frank again, ‘to you both. It’s really wonderful news.’

  ‘Do let us see the ring,’ said Betty, and then her voice became just slightly careful. ‘Oh, how very beautiful. Isn’t it lovely, Grace?’

  She doesn’t like it either, thought Grace.

  Later, much later, when Charles had gone, she sat with her mother in the sitting room.

  ‘We must start making plans,’ said Betty. Her face was flushed with the excitement and the champagne, her powder streaky on her cheeks where she had cried. ‘When did you think the wedding might be, dear?’

  ‘I don’t think we did,’ said Grace. ‘Not properly. Charles said he thought quite soon, because of the situation in Europe and so on, but—’

  ‘Well, it can’t be before the spring,’ said Betty determinedly.

  ‘Why ever not? It’s only October.’

  ‘Well, dear, for one thing because I can’t get everything organized, there’s a great deal to be done, and anyway, short engagements aren’t very – well, suitable.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’ said Grace, amused.

  ‘Because – well, people think – might think that you – well, that you had to get married,’ said Betty and blushed furiously.

  ‘Oh Mother, really,’ said Grace. She giggled. ‘Goodness, what a thought. It would be worth doing just to get everyone talking.’

  ‘Grace, really!’

  ‘Sorry. But seriously, I don’t know if we want to wait six months. Supposing the war actually came. We could have a small quiet wedding surely.’

  ‘A small wedding!’ said Betty and her voice rose at least an octave. ‘Of course you can’t have a small wedding. What an idea! Marrying into that family…’

  ‘Mother, they’re not royalty,’ said Grace.

  Lying wide awake in bed, far into the night, she lived and relived the evening, carefully crushing the memory of her panic, cherishing that of Charles telling her he loved her (for the very first time it had been); dreaming of the wedding; shrinking from the thought of the meeting next day with Muriel (Charles had arranged lunch, had said he would tell them over breakfast); thinking how lovely it would be to be Clifford’s daughter-in-law; remembering with a stab of near panic Florence, what on earth would Florence be like about it? She fantasized about having a baby, becoming a mother; wondered where they would live; and over and over again she marvelled that Charles could have spoken to her father before he asked her, that it had been in some strange way an arrangement between them, scarcely involving her, and that her mother who had not been told about it either should have so totally accepted the fact (‘Grace dear, he said if he had told me I wouldn’t have been able to keep it to myself for one moment and he’s quite right’). It was that last thought that occupied her more than any other until she finally fell asleep at four o’clock.

  Charles came to collect her at midday to take her over to the Priory. He looked, she thought, slightly pale and heavy-eyed, but then he probably hadn’t slept terribly well either.

  ‘What – what did they say?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, they were delighted of course,’ he said quickly, smiling at her. ‘My father has plans for a weekly gardening session with you.’

  ‘And your mother?’ Grace’s heart felt very tight in her chest.

  ‘Well, she’s very happy of course,’ he said. ‘She likes you very much, you really mustn’t worry so much about her. She’s looking forward to seeing you today.’

  ‘Good,’ said Grace.

  The Bennetts were waiting in the drawing room, standing on either side of the fireplace: like a stage play, thought Grace. They looked rather carefully styled altogether: Muriel was wearing a beige jersey dress, with diamanté clips at the neckline, and high-heeled shoes; Clifford was in a tweed jacket and flannels rather than his shapeless, shaggy gardening clothes. He came forward and gave her a bear hug. ‘Delighted, my dear,’ he said, ‘couldn’t be more pleased. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grace, returning the hug, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

  ‘Grace, my dear—’ Muriel’s voice, determinedly sweet, cut into the warmth. ‘My congratulations. We are so very pleased.’

  Grace withdrew reluctantly from Clifford’s arms, turned to Muriel, who was smiling at her, holding out her hand; Grace went forward and took it. It was icy cold, and so, as she proffered it, was her cheek. Her hair, brushing against Grace’s face, felt stiff, almost starched. It also, Grace noticed, the fact giving her some pleasure, smelt slightly stale.

  ‘Clifford has some champagne ready, we must mark this happy occasion. Clifford, would you—’

  Clifford rang the bell by the fireplace; the maid came in with a tray and glasses. She smiled cautiously at Grace.

  ‘Right,’ said Clifford, popping the cork, pouring the champagne, passing first Grace, then Muriel a glass, ‘to you both. Grace, Charles, dear boy, much happiness.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ said Charles. He still looked strained, smiled at Grace, then rather uncertainly at his mother. She smiled back at him, but Grace looking at her was shocked at the total blankness in her eyes.

  Lunch was a strain. They sat in the dining room, which was terribly cold, despite a roaring fire, and had a lengthy meal, soup, poached salmon, raspberry mousse and then cheese and biscuits. Grace had her back to the fire and began to feel sick; she found it very hard to eat, and harder to talk. Muriel asked a few gracious questions about whether they had settled on a date yet, if Charles had prepared the announcements for the column in the Telegraph and The Times, how soon Grace might be giving up her job.

  ‘I – don’t know,’ said Grace to this last. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. It’s been a bit of a surprise,’ she added, smiling, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘For us also,’ said Muriel, and then after an almost imperceptible pause, ‘however delightful. But of course you will be giving it up? Your job I mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought.’

  ‘My
dear, of course you must. There will be so much to do, the wedding to plan, a house to find and get ready – now on that subject, Charles, the Mill House at Thorpe St Andrews is coming on the market. Very suitable I would have thought, you remember it well, I expect. You went to Geraldine’s wedding, of course, I remember you saying you liked it, and you could keep a horse there, even start hunting again—’

  What about me? thought Grace. What about me? ‘Tell me about it,’ she said to Muriel. ‘This house – what is it like?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Muriel, turning briefly to her, as if to imply she was hardly worthy of consideration in the matter, ‘it’s a charming house, I thought you would have known it. Seventeenth-century, beautiful garden, and’ – turning back to Charles – ‘room for a tennis court. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Charles, I’ll have a word with George Wetherby for you, say you might be interested.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Grace determinedly, ‘we could go over and have a look at it this afternoon, Charles. After lunch. And see if we do both like it. Before your mother speaks to anyone—’

  ‘Yes of course,’ said Muriel coldly. ‘What a good idea.’

  Lunch finished finally; even Clifford Bennett looked relieved as they stood up.

  ‘Got to get outside if you’ll excuse me,’ he said. ‘Days are getting shorter, lot to do.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Muriel, ‘if you must. Maureen, we’ll have coffee in the drawing room. And please tell Cook that lunch was delicious.’

  ‘Yes, it was, really lovely,’ said Grace, smiling at Maureen. ‘I’m looking forward to doing some cooking,’ she said to Muriel as they sat down by the fire. ‘I really enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh do you?’ said Muriel. ‘Well, of course, good cooks are very hard to find these days, so you may have to manage for a while without, but I do warn you, Charles does like good food and—’

  ‘My mother’, said Grace firmly, tiring of this, ‘has always done her own cooking. She enjoys it too.’

  ‘Really?’ said Muriel, ‘How very interesting.’ She made it clear that doing your own cooking was tantamount to taking in washing. ‘Which reminds me, Grace dear. You must bring your parents over here very soon. I am so looking forward to meeting them.’