To Dream Again

by To Dream Again (retail) (epub)

  From then on everything he said or did was regarded as having undertones of love. When he helped Rose to more wine he was being attentive; when he fetched her wrap he was being a true Romeo; when he suggested that the gentlemen should join the ladies his words were greeted with cries of, ‘Been apart long enough, have you? Don’t worry, my boy, we’ve all been through it. We understand.’

  There was no mistaking it, he was steadily and relentlessly being pressured into proposing to Rose. That his mother had engaged the support of her friends he did not doubt, for every now and again one or other would look towards her and catch her eye with a conspiratorial glance.

  The whole evening was assuming a nightmarish quality as far as Peter was concerned, and leaving the dining room for the drawing room did not alleviate matters. He felt the atmosphere charged with a subdued excitement which he did not fully understand but which he found irritating. His mother was plotting to marry him to Rose, but how he was not sure. He was totally unprepared, however, for her next manoeuvre.

  The coffee-cups were circulating, along with the trivial conversation, when Lady Thorpe suddenly said, ‘Agnes, dear, those are remarkably fine pearls you are wearing this evening.’ She spoke in artificial tones, as though she had rehearsed the speech. All other conversation ceased as everyone’s eyes turned towards her. Only Peter’s mother seemed unaffected. She twisted the rope of pearls she was wearing round her fingers and held it up to the light.

  ‘Surely you have seen these before, Margaret?’ she said. ‘I was given them on my wedding-day by my poor husband. They hold such happy memories!’

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief in a gesture so false that Peter felt embarrassed – and uneasy.

  ‘Such a gift must, of course, have a tremendous sentimental value. I’m sure you would never part with them,’ said Lady Thorpe in the same artificial voice.

  ‘Oh, I must part with them one day, but only to a very special person.’ Agnes Lisburne lowered her eyes demurely. ‘They are family heirlooms. They will be given to Peter’s bride on her wedding-day – if he ever chooses a wife!’

  All eyes now turned towards Peter.

  ‘Of course Peter will choose a wife, won’t you, dear boy?’ Lady Thorpe laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘And you will choose well, I am sure. How pretty your bride will look wearing those pearls. I think they are such flattering jewels for a bride, or indeed any young girl. I think it is something in the way that a delicate youthful complexion is complimented by the smooth exterior of the pearls.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Agnes Lisburne examined her necklace as if seeing it anew. ‘Shall we try it and see, Rose, my dear? Let us see how these look on you.’

  She took off the pearls and slipped them round Rose’s neck.

  Peter struggled to calm his rising panic; he could see his mother’s strategy now.

  ‘There, doesn’t she look delightful,’ Agnes beamed at the blushing Rose.

  Her smile assumed a steely quality when she looked towards her son. ‘Don’t you agree that Rose looks charming, Peter?’ she demanded. ‘Would not she look delightful wearing them as a bride?’

  The whole room waited expectantly for his answer.

  Peter felt his hands go moist with apprehension. What was he to answer? If he said no, then he would be insulting a guest. If he said yes he would be, in effect, declaring his intention to marry the girl. Desperately he searched for a diplomatic answer – but in vain. If only Rose would stop gazing at him with such hope and adoration.

  ‘You look first-class, Rose,’ he blustered at last. ‘When you eventually get some fellow to the altar make sure you get him to buy you a set of pearls, eh?’

  The silence in the room became almost tangible, the atmosphere heavy with sudden embarrassment.

  Peter cursed himself for his clumsiness. Surely he could have phrased it better? Rose’s already crimson complexion turned an even deeper hue, then her face crumpled. Peter realized with alarm that she was crying. Wrenching off the necklace she flung it down, then fled from the room.

  Major Gifford leapt to his feet and followed her, pausing at the door to glare at him and declare, ‘You— you—’ but his vocabulary proved inadequate, and he contented himself with an inarticulate snarl before hurrying in pursuit of Rose.

  The other guests shuffled awkwardly, uncertain of what to say or do, except Lady Thorpe who sat twisting her hands in anguish.

  ‘Oh dear, Agnes, perhaps we should not have—’ she began in a voice which trembled on the edge of tears.

  Mrs Lisburne silenced her with a look.

  Peter swallowed hard, hoping the sudden nausea that had assailed him would fade; he was in trouble enough without disgracing himself further. Once more he was conscious of eyes looking at him, this time they were hostile. He had no alternative but to leave the room.

  His mother came to his room as Poole, his manservant, was packing his valise.

  ‘You are going away?’ she asked, as Poole dutifully melted from sight. ‘Yes, I suppose you have no alternative, having behaved so abominably.’ Her voice was calm and even, in a way which struck icily at Peter’s insides.

  ‘I didn’t mean to behave badly. I’m sorry I upset Rose—’

  ‘What’s the point in saying such things to me? It is Rose who should be hearing them,’ his mother cut in. ‘I suggest you go to the Giffords’ house first thing tomorrow and offer your humblest apologies and beg her forgiveness.’ It was not a suggestion, it was an order.

  Peter took a deep breath. ‘No, Mother,’ he said.

  Agnes gave no sign of having heard him. ‘There are our other friends, too, of course,’ she continued. ‘Quite how I am going to face them in the future I do not know. I just hope they are kinder and more considerate of my feelings than my own son. How someone I nurtured could have behaved so disgracefully! To raise the expectations of that poor girl! She was so sure— Everyone was sure you intended to marry her and then—’

  ‘No, Mother!’ Peter broke in again, suddenly forceful. ‘I will not accept responsibility for everyone’s expectations. That was your doing. I have never shown any preference for Rose. She is a girl I have known all my life, nothing more. I am deeply sorry I hurt her. But it was your doing.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Agnes demanded.

  ‘I can say it because it is true. You have been conniving for ages to manoeuvre me into a corner so I would have to marry Rose, dragging in all your friends to assist you in your plotting. Do you think I didn’t know?’

  ‘Conniving? Plotting? What kind of words are these for a son to fling at his mother?’ From anyone else the speech would have sounded hurt or disappointed. Agnes Lisburne’s tone was harshly reproving.

  ‘Oh, I can see you’ll never admit anything! Very well, I will apologize to Rose – by letter. I don’t suppose she wants to see me again. And I certainly don’t want to see her!’

  ‘And after that? You appear to be preparing to leave.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll go to my club for tonight. After that… I’ve no definite plans.’

  Agnes regarded her only child with near-contempt.

  ‘No doubt in your own good time you will inform me where you are hiding,’ she said.

  All at once Peter was tired of being on the defensive.

  ‘Mother, I am not going into hiding,’ he stated harshly. ‘Nor am I going to marry Rose, and that is final!’

  ‘Indeed, and—’

  ‘The subject is closed, Mother! If you have nothing else to discuss with me I will bid you good night.’

  Agnes was clearly taken aback.

  ‘Really—!’ she began again.

  ‘Good night, Mother!’ Slowly and deliberately Peter began to undo his tie.

  Finally Agnes was forced to face the unpalatable truth. Her son was defying her.

  ‘Pah!’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘Pah!’ And with that she swept from the room.

  He wanted to leave Torquay. Only one thing kept him – his meeting w
ith Mercy the next day.

  ‘I’m going away!’ He said the words bluntly and without warning.

  ‘Away? Where?’ asked Mercy.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. London at first, I think, then probably abroad, somewhere where the sun shines. I’m so tired of this cold and wet.’

  Mercy felt her world crumble about her.

  ‘And tired of me?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘Tired of you? Good heavens, no!’ Peter was appalled. ‘I adore you, you know that. You are the one bright thing in my whole world.’

  ‘Then how can you leave me?’

  This was the problem which had been gnawing at Peter all night long.

  ‘It’s not that I want to leave you,’ he said. ‘It’s just I feel I can’t live here any longer. Not in Torquay, where everyone knows me.’

  ‘Why, what have you done?’ demanded Mercy, alarmed yet determined to stand by him long before she knew his crime.

  ‘It was all so frightful…’ Peter told her of the events at the dinner party. ‘…So you see, I shall probably be shunned by everyone from now on. That is, if Major Gifford doesn’t take a horsewhip to me first,’ he finished.

  Mercy had a sudden urge to smile. Compared with her own situation it seemed so trivial. Then the disconsolate droop of his shoulders touched her.

  ‘It will blow over soon, you’ll see,’ she said gently. ‘As soon as some other young man comes along for Rose this will all be forgotten.’

  ‘Yes, but what do I do until then? Can’t you see, I have to get away?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. When will you come back? You will come back, won’t you?’

  There was such appeal in her expression that Peter felt himself torn. He longed to break free from his present narrow existence. But to be without Mercy…

  ‘Come with me,’ he said suddenly. Then with mounting conviction, ‘Yes! Come with me! It’s the perfect solution!’

  Mercy did not answer. She sat very still.

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like the idea?’ asked Peter.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  Again Mercy did not answer immediately. She wanted to go with him. Oh, how she wanted it! But she knew too many girls who had taken that path, and where had it led them? Without exception they finished up alone, fending for themselves, usually with a child or two in tow. That prospect did not worry her, she knew she could cope. What she would not be able to bear would be the agony of seeing love disintegrating to be replaced by distrust and disillusion, even hatred. She was not sure she could risk that. But Peter was talking to her.

  ‘We’ll go to London, get a special licence.’

  ‘What do we want a special licence for?’

  ‘To get married of course! You don’t think I was suggesting anything else, I hope.’ Peter looked both hurt and indignant at the idea.

  Mercy loved him when he was like that, half tender man, half ruffled schoolboy.

  ‘Well, did you?’ he demanded. ‘How could you think such a thing? I love you far too much to consider any other sort of relationship.’

  She drew in her breath sharply.

  ‘You love me?’ she asked, her voice unsteady. These were the words she had most wanted to hear him say. She had heard them in all her dreams, and now she was hearing them in reality.

  ‘Yes, I love you,’ he repeated. ‘I wish I could think of some more original way to express how I feel. I’ve never known anyone like you before nor experienced any emotion as powerful as this. When we are apart you are all I can think about. You are the most important thing in my entire existence, and I can’t bear to imagine the rest of my life without you. It would be empty and desolate beyond all bearing.’ He reached out and took her hands in his, drawing her close to him. ‘That’s why I’m pleading with you. Please marry me.’

  Mercy took in every word he spoke and treasured it. Peter’s love was something she would always hold to be very precious. Just for a moment she allowed herself to indulge in a dream of being Peter’s wife. The idea was so beautiful it hurt…

  ‘We cannot do it,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would cost a fortune!’

  Peter laughed and put his arms around her.

  ‘I promise I can afford a licence – and a little over. You do want to marry me, don’t you?’

  Mercy wished that he would not hold her so close. It was hard to be determined when she could feel his heart beating against hers, but she knew she had to try.

  ‘We’re too far apart. You should marry a lady,’ she protested.

  ‘In my eyes you are a lady. That’s sufficient for me. Why are you making all these objections? Don’t you love me?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ The admission tore out of her before she could stop it. ‘But I can’t marry you because I did something awful – really awful, not like you upsetting Rose. I nearly killed someone.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘I did. It was Mr Hoskins at the laundry. He – well, he got rather forward so – so I hit him with a flat-iron. It was a miracle he wasn’t killed.’

  Even as she spoke she knew that her attack on Albert Hoskins was not the real reason for her refusal. She was afraid to marry Peter, and that was the truth of it. The gulf between their worlds was too great. It could not be crossed.

  ‘You hit him with what?’ Peter stared at her.

  ‘A flat-iron.’ It occurred to her that he might not know what it was, that he had probably never seen one in his life, so she mimed the action, ironing invisible garments.

  Peter let out a yell of laughter and clasped her even tighter to him.

  ‘Mercy, you’re wonderful, do you know that? This Hoskins person, he deserved what he got. I refuse to let a flat-iron come between us ever! Now will you say yes to my proposal of marriage and have done with it?’

  How could she continue to deny him? She loved him too much.

  ‘Yes! Oh yes!’ she cried. And deliberately closed her mind to the difficulties she knew lay ahead.

  Chapter Four

  The rumble of a cart woke Mercy. There were footsteps, too, and the clank of a milkman’s churn, and she wondered if she would ever get used to the constant activity of city life. The winter’s morning was still dark; she could scarcely make out Peter’s outline, but she could feel his warmth as he lay beside her. Beneath the comfort of the counterpane she twisted her wedding-ring round and round, finding reassurance in its presence; even after being married for a whole month she was sometimes afraid that this was all a dream and at any moment she would wake up and find Blanche beside her instead of her husband.

  It had been harder than she had expected, saying goodbye to her family. Lizzie had been openly envious, Blanche contemptuous, and Joey had feigned total indifference, but beneath their varied reactions she had sensed a tide of family affection that had taken her unawares. Then Ma had cried and Dolly, who had come to see her off, had joined in so lustily that, before she knew it, she was making a tearful third.

  She had never travelled by train before so the journey to Paddington enthralled her with its speed and comfort. Nestling in the cushions of a first-class compartment, from time to time she allowed her gaze to creep up to the luggage rack to her brand new suitcases. Peter’s manservant, Poole, had wanted to take them to the luggage van, but Mercy had refused to allow them out of her sight. For once Peter had put his foot down about her accepting gifts from him and insisted upon giving her the money to buy what she needed.

  ‘Circumstances are different now we are to be married. Surely you would like something nice for your wedding, wouldn’t you?’ he had pointed out.

  It was an argument against which Mercy had little defence. It was obvious she could not accompany Peter to London wearing her old black skirt and the jacket with the much-mended seams.

  ‘Just get enough to tide you over for a few days,’ Peter had advised. ‘The rest you can buy in London, where you’ll have far gre
ater choice.’

  Looking at the case she knew to be packed with cambrics, silks, and cashmeres, she could not imagine what else she could possibly want.

  Their wedding had taken place early one frosty December morning in a chilly London church, with the verger as one witness, and a postman, dragged in none too reluctantly from his rounds, as the other. From there Mercy began her new life as Mrs Peter Lisburne, in a furnished apartment off Sloane Street.

  Pale edges of light were beginning to steal round the curtains; Mercy judged it was getting late. Carefully, so as not to disturb Peter, she began to worm her way to the edge of the bed.

  In spite of her precautions he stirred. ‘Getting up already?’ he mumbled. ‘It’s still dark.’

  ‘Not quite. It’s late.’

  ‘Why, what time is it?’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  Peter gave a groan. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘Not to me. Normally I would have been up a couple of hours by now.’

  ‘Quite uncivilized. Only sparrows get up at this hour.’ He turned towards her, putting his arm about her, pulling her gently back into bed.

  Unresisting Mercy moved towards him until her body was shaped against his and her lips rested against his cheek, brushing the unshaven stubble on his chin. His free hand moved to her breast and she could feel the warmth of his fingers caressing her through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

  ‘There, isn’t this better than getting up on a dark morning,’ he whispered.

  In reply she moved even closer to him, arousing his body with hers. This side of marriage had come as a pleasant surprise. Country born and bred, she had come to her marriage-bed more well-informed than most of her town-dwelling contemporaries – at home it had been well drilled into her that ‘men get the pleasure, the women get the pain’. Doubtless the pain would come later, but in the meantime she was experiencing much more of the pleasure than she had expected. Sometimes her reaction to Peter’s love-making troubled her: she had been quite unprepared for its passion and its energy, but she could not help herself.