His heart was pounding like a sledgehammer, the force of it creating a physical pain in his chest and a dryness in his throat that no amount of liquid could assuage. She was gone from him; she was gone from them all - Betty and the bairns, Vera and Horace, all of them. She had been like one of those vibrantly beautiful butterflies that fluttered to rest on dank soil before flying off to lush pasture.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her face even as the truth hit home. She wasn’t the little urchin bairn Betty and his da had taken in because of her hellish situation at home any more; she was a wealthy, successful, beautiful and intoxicating woman. He hadn’t been thinking clearly the last few weeks since he had come back from Scotland to Sunderland; just the thought that there might have been a chance for him had addled his brain. But his mind was now clear and working normally, and it was telling him he was the biggest clot out. He hadn’t moved down to Sunderland because of Betty, at least that wasn’t the main reason. Why hadn’t he had the gumption to admit it to himself before? He had wanted to move into the perimeter of Josie’s life again, or at least be with people she cared about so there was a likelihood of seeing her. Which made him what? He didn’t like to think about what it made him.
Josie had known from the moment she’d walked on to the stage that the only way she was going to get through her performance was to look no further than the footlights. If he was with someone she wouldn’t be able to bear it. It was illogical and unreasonable and a hundred other things besides, but she couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t be able to sing a note if her worst fears were confirmed. It was as simple as that.
Amazingly she found her voice didn’t reflect her turbulent emotions. Claudette Belloc had done her job well, and all the little Frenchwoman’s tuition came to the fore as Josie let her voice soar into the instinctual routine of the songs she knew so well.
Amuse and relax them a little first; then a song which would tug at the heartstrings followed by an even more poignant ballad to bring the silk handkerchiefs into play. It was the first time she had sung mechanically but no one seemed to notice.
After finishing with ‘After the Ball is Over’, Josie curtsied again and again to the applause before she rose finally, and it was only then, as she smiled and waved to the audience before walking from the stage, that she allowed herself to glance in the direction of the seat in the second row. It was empty.
Chapter Twenty
Contrary to her original plan Josie said very little to her husband during the ride to Squire Conway’s estate in Berkshire, and Oliver, still smarting under what he saw as his wife’s incredible proposition that she would seek a solicitor’s advice with a view to taking control of her earnings, said even less.
It wasn’t the first time they had been invited to spend the weekend at this particular house, and as the carriage scrunched on to the gravel drive which was lit by many lanterns hanging from the massive oak trees bordering the drive, Josie’s heart sank at the number of empty coaches it contained. A smartly dressed footman was waiting to help them dismount, and two stable-boys were hovering in the background ready to release the horses from their shafts and take them to the Squire’s stables.
They descended into a large forecourt which again was lit by many lanterns as well as lights from the many windows of the huge house in front of them, and Oliver took her arm as they climbed the massive horseshoe-shaped steps to where another footman was holding open the door for them.
Steven Conway met them in the hall, two liveried servants standing behind their master ready to take the guests’ coats and hats, and the blaze of lights, the buzz of voices and the sound of genteel laughter was all too familiar. A small maid dressed in black alpaca with a stiffly starched apron and cap was waiting to escort Josie to the ladies’ room where she could freshen up after the journey, the Hogarths’ portmanteaux and bags already having been whisked up to their room.
The name or names of each guest would be neatly written on a card slipped into a tiny brass frame on the bedroom doors, and Josie had come to realise a little night movement between the rooms of these rambling country houses was not unusual. However, it was unthinkable that appearances wouldn’t be kept up and everything was done with the utmost discretion. The hostess would always arrange things for the convenience of her guests; some married couples preferred separate rooms and there was nothing at all wrong with that - gentlemen could snore so dreadfully, after all, and some ladies liked to retire earlier than their husbands and didn’t appreciate being woken in the early hours after their spouse had indulged in a bout of gambling and drinking.
Then there were the recognised lovers to be considered; individuals could get very annoyed if they had gone to the same house-party only to find themselves at the other end of the building from their current amour, especially if the hostess had made the unforgivable faux pas of putting them in the same room as their husband or wife. The professional Lothario would be furious if he found himself in a room surrounded by ladies who were all accompanied by their husbands.
This question of the disposition of bedrooms always gave the current hostess cause for anxious thought; it was so necessary to be up to date with the current gossip on who was sleeping with whom. It was part of a good hostess’s duty to see to such things, and an essential part of the fevered weekend activity.
Josie had come to understand these finer points of upper-class behaviour slowly. Oliver had always arranged that they share a room, and although she invariably retired long before he did, he was always careful not to wake her and to behave with consideration. She had been shocked at what she deemed to be unprincipled and dissolute conduct by educated folk who should have known better, the more so because she perceived it was considered absolutely acceptable as long as certain unspoken rules of propriety were observed. When she’d first expressed her disquiet to Oliver he had hugged her tightly, telling her she was a rare find and that he loved her all the more for her aversion to such behaviour, but he hadn’t said that he agreed with her. He had always been used to this kind of social intermingling, he’d explained when she had objected to his acceptance of what she considered blatant adultery. She had to remember he had grown up with this kind of thing, and although, of course, it was different now that they were married, it wasn’t a surprise to him. Most of these people had little else to do, after all.
When Josie came out of the ladies’ room she had the wives of two of Oliver’s old friends either side of her. Of all Oliver’s friends she liked these two women best; they happened to be twin sisters who had married two brothers, and both Victoria and Winifred had taken a shine to Josie from the first time they’d met. Both sisters had what Josie had heard referred to disparagingly as ‘spirit’ by some of their contemporaries, and this was frequently expressed in their involvement with the growing Suffragette Movement. The fact that the King had publicly expressed his lack of sympathy with the movement, and stated that he considered it a danger to the established order of society had not deterred Victoria and Winifred an iota.
As the three of them walked through the open doors of the drawing room from the hall, it was Victoria who gave a smothered groan and said under cover of her hand, ‘Stella’s holding court again. Why does that woman think she has to be seen to monopolise every male in sight?’
‘Because she was spoilt from the cradle,’ Winifred answered darkly. Winifred’s husband was the nearest of the little cluster of men grouped round the other woman, and Stella’s hand was resting on his arm. ‘And she is so indiscreet. She virtually publicises each new affair. I don’t know why Godfrey puts up with it.’
‘Because he’s besotted, my dear. Absolutely besotted.’
Josie said nothing, but she was looking at Stella and as always happened when she saw the other woman a sickness rose up in her chest. The cold beautiful face, the large round blue eyes which always took on a steely hue whenever they met hers, the perfect creamy skin with its touch of peach . . . Stella Stratton was stunning and she knew it, but it w
asn’t that which bothered Josie so much. It was the hostility with which the other woman always greeted her - when she did greet her, that was. Most of the time Stella went to great pains to ignore her.
They had been late arriving and within a few moments of entering the drawing room, supper was announced by one of the servants, and the requisite devilled chicken and accompanying dishes were served in the dining room.
Whether it was because Josie’s senses were heightened after the events of the day involving Ada and Dora, and not least that evening when she had seen Barney again she didn’t know, but as she sat down with her plate of food, Victoria and Winifred still either side of her, she noticed that Stella and Oliver had seated themselves on the opposite side of the room and their heads were close together. Oliver was smiling at first, and then after a moment or two he threw back his head and laughed out loud, and ridiculously Josie felt the impact in her stomach like a physical act of betrayal.
She forced herself to act as though she was enjoying both the food and the company, which normally would have been the case because Victoria and Winifred were sharp-witted and interesting, especially when they were relating the latest happenings within the Suffrage Movement like now, but she was painfully conscious of the pair sitting on the chaise-longue.
At half-past twelve a number of the ladies present began to retire, Josie included. Her mind had been in too much turmoil for any discussion about Ada and Dora on the carriage-ride to the Conway estate; she had felt she needed a quiet hour or so to compose her thoughts before she related the events of the day to Oliver. She walked across to her husband now, nodding unsmilingly at Stella before she concentrated her gaze on Oliver, saying quietly, ‘I’m going to our room; it has been a tiring day.’
‘Of course, my dear.’ Oliver stood to his feet, kissing her lightly on the cheek as he added, ‘You don’t mind if I take a little port before I come up?’
She was so tired of the hypocrisy. Oliver was going to do what he always did; stay up until three or four in the morning gambling and drinking with his cronies, and he didn’t care if she minded or not! Nevertheless she smiled and said, ‘Not at all. I’ll see you a little later.’
On reaching the room which had been designated for herself and Oliver, Josie turned the big ebony handle and pushed the engraved oak door open with a feeling of thankfulness. She needed to be quiet and think, she told herself as she walked across to the long cheval mirror to one side of the four-poster bed and stared at her reflection. These big houses were an absolute maze at the best of times, and this one had endless large guest rooms with dressing rooms attached besides the Conways’ private quarters and the staff accommodation. The big drawing room, the morning room, the breakfast room, the library, the billiard room, the gentlemen’s smoking room, the grand ballroom, the large dining room and small dining room . . . The list was endless. And there were people everywhere, all the time. She had got lost the first time she and Oliver had come here and it had been all of ten minutes before she had found her way.
Josie glanced at the four-poster bed with its heavy tapestry cover, and saw that one of the Conways’ maids had laid out her white lawn nightdress and negligée and Oliver’s linen nightshirt and velvet dressing gown. She remained standing looking at these for some moments without really knowing why, but conscious that her stomach was churning and that Stella Stratton was at the forefront of her mind for some reason. Not Ada and Dora, not even Barney, but Stella.
And then she mentally shook her mind clear, seating herself on the satin chaise-longue at the end of the bed and shutting her eyes. Why hadn’t Barney tried to see her? How could he come all this way and not even try to talk to her? And then she answered this with the same argument she’d been putting forth ever since she had first seen him in the audience that evening. The only argument she would allow herself to consider. Because he was not in London because of her. No doubt he had seen her name and thought he’d take in the performance for old times’ sake, but perhaps his reason for being in the capital - business, a woman - was pressing? And it might well be a woman . . .
Josie lay further back on the sofa and let out a long sigh. If it was a woman, that would be perfectly understandable, of course. Barney was a young man in the prime of life and it had been four years since Pearl had died; time enough to get over what had clearly been an unhappy marriage and for him to consider settling down with someone else. She dug one fist into the valley between her breasts where an ache was affecting her breathing, but she did not open her eyes, not even when hot burning tears ran down her cheeks in a flood.
She shouldn’t be crying on the day she had found her two sisters again against all the odds in the world. This thought did nothing to check her sobs, and after a minute or two Josie turned over on to her stomach and buried her face in a cushion and let the regret and disappointment and confusion have free rein.
She hadn’t been aware of falling asleep, so when she awoke, cramped and with her neck twisted in an unnatural position against the back of the sofa, it took a moment or two to realise where she was. She pulled herself upright, wincing at the pain which lanced from her neck into her head, and looked vaguely about the bedroom which was dimly lit by two amber glass-shaded lamps. The bed was empty.
What time was it? She rose to her feet, walking across to the small fireplace which had a marble surround and an elaborate basket of fresh flowers in place of a fire, and glanced at the large decorative gold clock which took up most of the mantelpiece. Nearly four o’clock. Surely Oliver would be here soon? He must have lost enough for one night by now. This thought carried with it a strong element of bitterness, and now she began to pace restlessly about the room.
She would tell him what had transpired concerning Ada and Dora as soon as he made an appearance, whether he was intoxicated or not. And then she would go on to disclose her decision to work in the north-east for a spell. She wouldn’t mention her brothers. She bit hard on her lip here. It would do no good and she was already giving him enough to take in. Hubert might not contact her again anyway, and unless he did Mr Webb had made it plain she had no hope of tracing him. But he would contact her. He had to.
After washing her hands and face in the big china bowl with its matching jug in the adjoining dressing room, Josie smoothed her ruffled hair into the neat chignon at the back of her head and reseated herself on the chaise-longue in the bedroom.
She waited for a full half an hour before jumping to her feet. Dare she go downstairs and ask him to accompany her to their room? He wouldn’t like it and normally she wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing, but it was half-past four in the morning. This was absolutely ridiculous. The maid would be bringing tea in another four hours and she needed to talk to Oliver properly before the rigid itinerary of so-called enjoyment of the day began.
Her mind made up, and without waiting to change her rumpled evening dress for one of the day dresses she had brought with her, Josie cautiously opened the outer bedroom door and stepped on to the silent landing outside. The corridor was faintly lit by a lamp placed halfway down the passage, but it was still difficult to see clearly. Josie groped her way through the flickering shadows to the end of the landing which opened up on to a wide gallery. Some distance to her left were more stairs leading upwards to the next two floors, and to her right the ones which would take her to the ground floor, their room being on the first floor of the east wing.
She descended the stairs slowly. The ground floor looked to be in darkness but already the first signs of dawn were streaking the sky outside the two massive leaded windows either side of the front door. The shining suits of armour lining the walls of the hall at various intervals stared at her impassively as her feet click-clicked on the marble tiles, and after opening the heavy oak door of the drawing room and finding it empty, Josie moved on to the billiard room which was some distance - and a couple of winding passageways - away. Again, the room was silent and deserted.
The gentlemen’s smoking room. There were small
tables and chairs in there; no doubt that was where the last few night owls were still playing cards or just lying back in their chairs talking and drinking. It took Josie a minute or two to reach the smoking room which was not situated close to the billard room as one might have expected, but on the other side of the ground floor and next to the large and opulent dining room. A strong smell of brandy and cigars assailed her nose when she stood on the threshold of this room, her feet sinking into the thick piled claret carpet as she took a few steps inside. Where was Oliver? Everyone was in bed, even the staff; she should have realised it before.
Her heart was thudding fit to burst now, but as she quietly retraced her footsteps along the passageways to the main hall she was aware of another, stronger emotion coming into play. She knew where Oliver was. She should want to cry, shouldn’t she? Cry and moan and shout and scream? Wasn’t that what women usually did when they had been betrayed? But the white heat of her anger had burned up everything but the need to confront him and tell him she knew what he was about. And with whom. Oh yes, and with whom.
How dare he! How dare he do that to her with that dreadful woman. Oliver was no fool and whatever he said to the contrary he knew how much Stella disliked her. To humiliate her by consorting with Stella Stratton . . .
She was hardly aware of her feet skimming the floor as they took her swiftly up the stairs to the first floor of the east wing. She checked the name on each little brass plate, opening the door to their own rooms and ascertaining that Oliver was not back before she transferred her search to the floors above. Oliver had told her the Conway family occupied the three upper floors of the main house, so when she couldn’t find the name she wanted she made her way to the west wing.
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