Peter slowly undid the tiny pearl buttons of her nightgown and drew the garment over her head, almost making a ceremony of the act in a way which aroused her. His silk pyjamas had been discarded and now he moved over her. Eagerly Mercy drew him in, her senses burning from the feel of his caressing touch, from the sensuality of his skin on hers.
‘I’ve married such a wanton,’ murmured Peter later, as they lay content and drowsy in each other’s arms.
Mercy looked at him sharply, suddenly afraid that he found her response to him too forthright. She relaxed when he merely smiled and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead.
Secretly he was very pleased to find he could bring his bride to such emotion. It had been her frank adoration and gentle beauty which had first drawn him to love her, the depths of her unrestrained passion had been quite unexpected. He felt a sudden surge of pride that such a lovely and warmly responsive creature was his and his alone. In this blissful torpor, with her soft body still moulded to his, Peter’s eyelids began to droop and he fell asleep.
Mercy, also, succumbed to drowsiness for a while, then the unaccustomed lateness of the hour prevented her from sleeping properly. After a while she gently disentangled herself from Peter’s sleeping embrace and tiptoed to her dressing-room. At first it had astonished her to have a room entirely devoted to getting dressed, until she found what she considered adequate in the way of clothes and what Peter thought of as minimum requirements were very far apart.
Now she selected what clothes she would need, picking out a morning-gown in soft blue merino wool trimmed with a collar of white muslin; then she ran her bath. Apart from her time spent with Peter, this was her favourite part of the day. She still marvelled at the gleaming whiteness of the tiled bathroom, and the shining brass taps which not only gushed water but warm water into the bargain! No standing out in the yard in all weathers, having to work a pump-handle which liked nothing better than seizing up when you least expected it. Having lived all her life in a household where every drop of water had to be carried Mercy revelled in the luxury of warm scented suds.
As she lay there she wondered what Ma and Lizzie would think of having just to turn on a tap. She suddenly found herself assailed by a sharp attack of homesickness. She missed them all! Quarrelsome, slovenly, and difficult they might be but they were her flesh and blood and she loved them. Surely it would not be too long before she saw them again? Brushing away the tears she reached out for a bath towel. It was time to begin another day in her new life.
The dining-room was empty when she entered, and the meagre flames of the newly lit fire had not gathered strength enough to give out any warmth. Mercy shivered. What she needed was some breakfast. The sideboard was devoid of all signs of food and she decided to go in search of some. When she pushed open the baize door which led to the domestic quarters she found herself in a dark corridor. Ahead of her the smell of cooking and the sound of voices indicated the kitchen. Her only previous foray into this region had been on the day when Peter and she had moved in; there had never seemed to be the need to visit it again, for Poole had the knack of anticipating her needs. Invariably he had ushered the cook in to her for the day’s menus even before she had chance to ring the bell. She felt that now would be an excellent opportunity to look at the kitchen properly.
She opened the kitchen door and at once a stunned silence fell on the room. Three pairs of eyes glared at her indignantly.
‘Madam!’ Poole put down the mug of tea he had been drinking and leapt to his feet, putting on his jacket as he did so. ‘Madam, is there anything wrong?’
‘No,’ Mercy assured him. ‘I would just like some breakfast, if you please.’
‘Madam has only to ring.’ Poole’s expression was reproving. ‘Cook will get it immediately.’
The cook, a solid surly woman, had also leapt to her feet.
‘I’m sure I didn’t know you were up, Madam. I’m not accustomed to such early rising. Your breakfast will be ready soon. I’m sure I do my best, but it’s not easy being single-handed. I’m used to having a kitchen-maid on hand.’ Her voice carried as much whining insolence as she dared.
‘Perhaps Nelly could help you,’ suggested Mercy, because she felt something was expected of her. The look of outrage on the housemaid’s face convinced her she had made a blunder.
‘Nelly has her own duties, Madam,’ put in Poole. ‘If I might escort Madam back to the diningroom I will ensure that breakfast is served as soon as possible. There was really no need for Madam to come to the kitchen. It would have been sufficient for Madam to ring.’
He shepherded Mercy along the corridor and back through the baize door, disapproval in every line of his stick-thin figure. Like an errant child Mercy returned to the dining-room, thoroughly chastened.
From the start she had not liked Poole. He seemed to be constantly hovering behind doors. It was because of Poole she steadfastly refused to have a lady’s maid. She reckoned there were enough servants in the house already without adding more appendages to her marriage.
While she waited in the dining-room Poole brought in a selection of silver chafing-dishes and placed them on the sideboard, his silence a further reproof to her. She felt quite relieved when Peter arrived.
‘How you can get up so early and look so lovely I really don’t know,’ he greeted her, planting a kiss on her cheek.
‘Sh! What will Poole think?’ she whispered, flushing.
‘What does it matter what Poole thinks?’ Peter demanded, cheerily examining the contents of one dish after another. ‘Ah, kippers! And scrambled eggs, too, I think.’ Piling his plate he came and sat opposite to her at the table. ‘And talking of Poole, what’s this I hear about you exploring the kitchen this morning?’
‘Has he been complaining?’ demanded Mercy.
‘Certainly not!’ Peter looked aghast at the idea. ‘He simply mentioned it as he was laying out my clothes. I’m glad he did because I don’t think it was a wise thing for you to do.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well, Cook might not like it. The kitchen is very much her domain, you know. I can’t recall my mother ever going into the kitchen.’
Mercy looked at him in utter astonishment. ‘Are you telling me I mustn’t go into the kitchen of my own home?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. But Cook might take offence or think that you are checking-up on her.’
‘But surely you pay her wages so I’m entitled to check up on her? Otherwise how do I make sure she is doing her work properly? It might be filthy in there, or full of thieves and vagabonds for all we know.’
This thought had clearly never struck Peter before and for a moment he looked puzzled, then said, with the air of one who has just had an inspiration, ‘You can safely leave it to Poole. He’ll know how to keep an eye on things. Above all, though, we don’t want to upset Cook, do we? Whatever would we do if she gave notice?’
It seemed to Mercy that cooks were a very sensitive breed, and she wondered how any employee of Mrs Hoskins would get on if they attempted such airs and graces. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out they didn’t need a cook, that she was quite capable of seeing to their meals, but just then Poole entered with the post.
Mercy watched as Peter flicked through the envelopes. Rather a lot of them were bills, and she felt a pang of conscience as she thought of all the money she had spent recently.
‘Why, there’s one for you!’ declared Peter.
‘For me?’ Although she had written several this was the first letter she had received since coming to London. She took the cheap blue envelope from him and looked at it. ‘To Mrs Peter Lisburne’ it said, and she felt incredibly proud when she saw the words.
‘Aren’t you going to open it, or are you content to admire the outside?’ teased Peter. ‘It’s got a Torquay postmark; maybe it’s from your family.’
It wasn’t. When Mercy opened it she found it was from Dolly. Dolly, who was no great hand with the p
en, had written exactly as they had been taught in the village school. ‘Dear Mercy,’ it began, ‘I hope you are well, I am in good health. Thank you for your letter. London must be an interesting place…’
As she read the stilted phrases Mercy was suddenly transported back to the dark little classroom that smelled of chalk dust and other less pleasant things. She and Dolly had sat together under the eagle eye of Miss Bowden, whose tight white curls and huge bosom had bounced energetically with every movement…
‘Not bad news, I hope. You look quite sad,’ said Peter.
‘No, it’s just from Dolly,’ replied Mercy, conscious that for a brief moment she had been perilously close to homesickness again. In truth, there had been precious little news in it, for Dolly had been too overawed by the act of putting pen to paper, but Mercy cherished it none the less.
Her letter read and re-read she looked up to see that Peter had cast his mail to one side and was helping himself to more toast and marmalade.
‘Are there no more letters from Torquay?’ she asked.
‘No. Were you expecting one?’
‘Well, I thought that perhaps your mother…’
Peter’s face darkened a little. ‘There’ll be no letter from my mother for quite a while: for one thing, she doesn’t know my address, and for another she doesn’t know about our marriage.’
‘You don’t think you should let her know? You are her only son.’
‘A fact she has never let me forget.’ Peter’s expression softened, and he stretched across the table to cover Mercy’s hand with his own. ‘Don’t worry, my love. I’ll let her know all in good time. As I have tried to explain to you, she is not an easy woman, especially when I do something of which she disapproves. All I’m asking for is for us to have a few blissful weeks together undisturbed, just you and I.’
‘Do you think she will disapprove very much?’
‘I’m afraid she will.’
Mercy gave a sigh. ‘I don’t like the idea of causing trouble between you and your mother,’ she said.
Peter just laughed. ‘Once you have met her you’ll realize there has always been trouble between us. Though you are the most adorable, most beautiful cause of contention there’s ever been.’
He leaned forward towards her and Mercy half closed her eyes in blissful anticipation of a kiss. At that moment Poole entered with fresh coffee, and the pair of them sat bolt upright.
‘What are we going to do today?’ Mercy asked to cover her confusion.
‘How about a stroll in Hyde Park? It promises to be a nice bright day. Then a little luncheon at home?’
The trees in Hyde Park were stripped bare of their leaves and the grass had been seared by the icy winds. Nevertheless, it was one of Mercy’s favourite parts of London. Peter had taken her on innumerable sightseeing trips round the city which she had enjoyed enormously: there was so much to interest and impress her. Sometimes, though, she found the ceaseless hustle and bustle overwhelming and she longed for the sight of a familiar face or something peaceful. The park was the closest thing she could find to the woods and fields she was used to, and she and Peter walked there frequently.
It seemed inevitable that any outing with Peter would eventually turn into a shopping expedition. Somehow, she did not quite know how, their stroll had taken them out of the park and along Piccadilly. The shops of the Burlington Arcade drew Peter like a magnet.
Already she had noticed how adept her husband was at spending money. It was an occupation still new to her, one which made her uneasy. With difficulty she managed to dissuade Peter from buying her a very expensive fan. Instead she steered him towards a bookshop, and they spent an enjoyable half-hour browsing among the shelves. Of all the things which Peter wanted to buy for her it was for books that she was greedy. There was so much she didn’t know, so many subjects of which she was ignorant… A small publication caught her eye.
‘This is the one I would like you to buy for me, please,’ she said, handing it to Peter straight-faced.
‘Etiquette for Ladies’. Are you sure?’ he asked in mock horror.
‘Yes, very sure. Even though I’m not a lady I would like to learn to behave like one, for your sake.’
‘Well, I suppose I would be a cad not to buy it for you, despite its exorbitant price of sixpence. I trust you have no objections if I choose some other books on more flippant subjects? A decadent novel or two, perhaps, and some frivolous poetry?’
Smiling, Mercy shook her head; she knew that he would choose titles he thought she would enjoy. Watching him make his selection from the packed shelves she wondered at his unceasing kindness and generosity to her, and decided that she must be the luckiest woman alive.
That afternoon Peter went to spend an hour or two at his club. Mercy felt lost without him. She was reluctant to ask him not to go, knowing how much pleasure meeting his friends gave him. She regretted that she had no such acquaintances of her own, and she wondered how you got to know people in London. True, they did occasionally meet people known to Peter during their expeditions, but the outcome of these encounters was distressingly similar: the men would eye her appreciatively while at the same time throwing knowing glances in Peter’s direction, and the women would treat the pair of them with icy politeness and frosty stares.
‘Is it that they don’t believe we are married?’ Mercy had cried in desperation. ‘Does everyone take me for your fancy woman?’
‘Of course not! The trouble is you are too pretty, and no other woman dare let her husband near you. They can’t stand the competition,’ Peter had consoled her.
As time passed she began to realize the truth: no matter how bright and shiny her wedding-ring, nor how elegant her clothes, she still could not be taken for a lady. It was something she was determined to rectify, so she settled herself in front of the drawing room fire with Etiquette for Ladies and addressed herself to the knotty problems involved in receiving calls and leaving visiting cards until it was time to dress for dinner and then the theatre.
Mercy never expected a chance meeting with Freddie Parkham to mark the depth of the gulf between her old life and her new. They were leaving the theatre when they encountered him in the crush. He was accompanied by a young woman whose incredible blonde hair could not possibly have been real but whose equally incredible bosom undoubtedly was.
‘Lisburne! Of all people,’ he cried, clapping Peter on the back heartily.
‘Freddie Parkham! I’d no idea you were in town!’
‘Just come up to visit my tailor. But what about you? You’re certainly keeping good company, you old dog!’ Freddie’s bold searching eyes swept over Mercy.
At that moment his companion piped up stridently, ‘When do we eat, Freddie? Me belly thinks me throat’s cut.’
‘Presently, Vi my sweet,’ he replied calmly. ‘Why don’t the four of us go on somewhere for a bite of supper? Just as soon as we’ve finished the introductions – though we’ve met before, haven’t we, my dear?’ His over-bold eyes rested on Mercy once more. ‘I confess I can’t remember your name. Millie, is it? Or May?’
‘It is Mercy,’ said Peter. ‘Mercy Lisburne.’
‘Lisburne?’ Freddie stared at them.
‘We were married last month. Aren’t you going to congratulate us?’
The expression on Freddie’s face changed immediately. His once appreciative eyes glittered coldly.
‘My best wishes, Mrs Lisburne,’ he said in a haughty voice. ‘Normally one congratulates the husband on these occasions. However, I think in this case it would be more appropriate to offer my congratulations to you. Now, if you will excuse us…’
‘’Ere, aint we ’avin’ supper wiv yer friends?’ demanded Vi.
‘Unfortunately I had forgotten we have a prior engagement. Perhaps another time.’
With a last contemptuous look in Mercy’s direction Freddie turned and strode away through the thinning crowd.
His insolence had completely taken Mercy’s breath away. It was a re
action she had seen in women but not one she would expect from a man, especially one who claimed to be a friend.
Peter, too, seemed stunned. ‘How dare he! Talking to you like that!’ he declared at last. ‘He’ll take back every word if I have to give him the thrashing of his life!’
He would have followed his erstwhile friend if Mercy had not clung to him. She had never seen him so angry.
‘No, don’t!’ she cried urgently. ‘He’s not worth it. Let’s just go home and forget him.’
Peter was reluctant to give up so easily. Then he caught sight of the distress on his wife’s face. ‘You’re right, he isn’t worth thinking about. Look, there’s our cab.’
At first it was sheer anger which kept Mercy awake that night. The duplicity of Freddie Parkham! It was all right while he thought she was Peter’s mistress, his floosie. According to him it was quite acceptable for a gentleman to bed a working-class girl – but to marry one, that was a very different matter! The injustice of it tormented Mercy hour after hour. Gradually she reached a different, more painful, conclusion. Freddie Parkham’s double standards were hard and unjust – but they were the standards of society. It was the Freddie Parkhams of this world who made the rules, not the Peter Lisburnes, nor the Mercy Seatons. Now she and Peter were going to have to suffer for having flouted the rules. For herself, she knew she could stand it, but the thought that she might have ruined Peter’s life distressed her terribly.
By dawn her pillow was soaked with tears, and she was convinced that Blanche had been right. She should never have married Peter.
* * *
‘That’s it! I dun’t want no more!’ Sam Prout shut the farmyard gate with a resounding thud as if to emphasize the finality of his words.
Joey gave a sigh and turned back the way he had come, his hands tucked under his armpits for warmth. One day’s employment in the last three weeks, that’s all he had managed to get! Much as he hated farmwork at least it provided some money.
To Dream Again Page 9