Agnes was about to refuse this request too when she realized that there was no point – Blanche had not even been addressing her. She had been talking to the girl, and now the three of them, Mercy, Peter, and the appalling Mrs Seaton, were leaving the room and heading for the stairs. Agnes felt as though she was living through a nightmare; time and again she had felt the ground shift from beneath her feet, cut away by a gaunt scarecrow of an old woman dressed in someone’s cheap hand-me- downs. Worst of all was the knowledge that she herself had been made to lose her temper. She, whose iron will and rigid control were a by-word in Torquay society! This was the final blow, and she longed to plead the onset of a migraine and retire to her room. Only the desperate need to score at least once over this Seaton woman drove her to follow in the wake of the others, up to the nursery.
The baby was not asleep. In fact, he was more than ready for a diversion after enduring a tedious afternoon, and he greeted the visitors with beaming smiles and chuckles, making it evident he wished to be picked up and admired. Nanny West was less delighted with this invasion of her domain. Heartened by the presence of Agnes she dared to give a disapproving sniff at the way in which her charge’s routine was being disturbed.
At the sound of that sniff Blanche looked up. ‘You have a cold, nurse?’ she demanded. ‘Surely you know better than to remain in charge of my great-grandson when you have a cold?’
Nanny West bridled and said that it was nothing.
Blanche glared at her. ‘One more sniff and I strongly advise that you and your attack of “nothing” are sent packing until you have recovered!’ she snapped.
Nanny West looked at Agnes for moral support. Finding none she suddenly wilted into a corner. Contrary to her silent forebodings over-excitement did not trouble the baby. After being duly admired and played with, he was settled back in his cradle by Mercy. He was asleep before the visitors had tiptoed to the door.
Once outside Blanche took charge. ‘I am sure you want to hear all the family news, so I suggest that we withdraw to your sitting room,’ she said, adding ominously, ‘You do have your own sitting room, I presume?’
Mercy had not. Agnes was far too eager to keep her under constant surveillance.
‘We can go into the morning room, can’t we?’ Mercy looked at her mother-in-law for approval.
‘I suppose so. There is no fire there, and there’s scarcely time to have one lit.’ Agnes felt duty-bound to put forward as much objection as she could.
‘The cold will not bother us,’ Blanche assured her. As Agnes made to follow them into the morning room she added, ‘My dear Mrs Lisburne, I am sure we have taken up more than enough of your valuable time. We do not want to bore you with our family talk.’
Faced with such a rebuff Agnes had no option but to withdraw, though not before she heard Blanche remark loudly, ‘A house this size and you have no sitting room of your own? What an extraordinary arrangement!’ Once inside the morning room grandmother and granddaughter faced each other in silence for a few seconds, then Mercy flung her arms around Blanche’s neck, saying tearfully, ‘You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you. I’ve missed you terribly.’
All sentimentality had long ago been knocked out of Blanche – or so she had thought – now, though, she found her arms eagerly embracing Mercy and she heard herself saying, ‘There, there, child, did you not think that I was concerned about you?’
Mercy looked at her inquiringly.
‘You forget, I know just how cruel the gentry can be,’ she continued. ‘Not that she is true gentry, that woman.’ ‘You can’t mean Mrs Lisburne!’
‘Who else? She is certainly not out of the top drawer. A governess who did very well for herself, I would guess, or maybe the daughter of one of the lesser clergy.’
‘Surely not?’ Mercy had so come to regard her mother-in-law as the epitome of high society that she could not accept that she might be anything other than high-born.
‘Believe me, an upstart! I can always tell! Certainly no one to strike you with awe. Your lineage is far more illustrious than hers, never fear.’
Mercy thought back to Blanche’s comments earlier in the afternoon. She had heard the story about an ancestor coming over with Eleanor of Provence many times before, and had never considered it to be more than a romantic tale. Now, though, she began to wonder. Not only had Blanche spoken with complete conviction, her behaviour had been most impressive. Incredibly, she had reminded Mercy of Charlotte Dawson-Pring. They both had the same air of innate authority and confidence. Before Mercy could ask any questions, however, her grandmother firmly changed the subject. As far as Blanche was concerned the matter of their ancestry was closed.
‘Now, I want the full truth of what has been going on here!’ she demanded. ‘You need not tell me it was that female who forced you to stop communicating with us; I know you too well to think otherwise. But there has to be more. She still holds the purse strings?’
Mercy nodded.
‘Tightly?’
Again Mercy nodded.
‘That husband of yours must have an allowance of some sort, so what possessed you both to return here, right into her web? Debt?’
Mercy kept silent, and Blanche sighed. ‘You may as well tell me,’ she said.
‘We had very little money when we first married,’ said Mercy loyally.
‘And Mama would not help out without conditions. Oh, I know her sort; she will give nothing away if she can avoid it. So your Peter has not come into his full inheritance yet? How long have you to wait?’
‘It should have been this year, but because Mrs Lisburne does not approve of our marriage she is forcing us to wait until he is thirty, in five years’ time.’
‘I knew I was right. I could tell at a glance she would not relinquish control one second before she must. Nevertheless, that does not mean you have no say in your own lives.’
‘How can we, when she calls every tune?’
‘Those methods can work both ways. Five years may seem a long time to you now; they will pass. Agnes Lisburne knows that, even if you do not. What are her financial arrangements afterwards?’
‘I have no idea, though I have no doubt she will be well provided for.’
‘And this house?’
‘It is Peter’s now. Mrs Lisburne was left a dower house of her own out at Chelston, I believe.’
‘Which she declines to occupy, even though her son is married and with a family, I suppose? That is something you can use to your advantage.’
‘You aren’t suggesting that Mrs Lisburne will be in straitened circumstances once Peter comes into his money?’
‘No, but Mrs Lisburne of some modest residence in Chelston is not going to have the same place in society as Mrs Lisburne of the Villa Dorata, is she? There is no reason why she cannot move to her own property. You should tell her so.’
‘But the unkeep of the villa?’
‘It seems unlikely Peter inherited a house of this size without the wherewithal to run it; even if it were so I am convinced that any competent lawyer could ensure suitable arrangements were made. Get that woman out of this house! You are mistress here, Mercy.’
Mercy had a heady vision of life in the Villa Dorata without Agnes. To be able to organize life just to suit herself and Peter and the baby. It was a lovely dream though not very realistic.
‘I must admit I am tempted,’ she smiled. ‘Only, poor Peter would be the one to suffer, he always is. His mother sees to that.’
Blanche nodded. ‘From what I have seen I do not doubt she is capable of spreading the story round that he had turned his widowed mother out of the house, or some such tale. Well, if you will not go to extremes remember that you are not some poor relation without a voice, you are the true mistress here. Above all, you are my granddaughter, and as such need not kow-tow to anyone. Stand up to her! Do you promise?’
Mercy nodded, heartened and delighted by Blanche’s support and by her unexpected burst of family pride. Perhaps her background was not such a cause for
shame after all. The sense of isolation that had had her in its grip ever since her return to Torquay began to lessen in the face of her new optimism.
‘Enough of my problems!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell me, how is everyone? Is Lizzie’s baby a boy or a girl?’
‘A boy. Harry Dawe to the life, I fear. What is it about that man which stamps itself so indelibly upon his offspring? As for the rest of the family, your brothers never bother to come home now, your father remains the insensitive lump he always has been, and your mother and Lizzie are as stupid as ever.’
Her family pride had not lasted long and these last remarks were so typical of the old, vitriolic Blanche that Mercy burst out laughing. ‘And what of Joey?’ she asked.
‘Apart from you he is the only one of the bunch who might amount to something. He has a steady job at the Devonshire Hall Hotel, and is earning well, if the fancy clothes he wears these days are anything to go by.’
‘I would love to see him again.’
‘Then why not? I think you are well and truly released from any stupid promise that woman forced upon you, and he is the only member of the family who would not disgrace you by his appearance.’
‘What about you?’ asked Mercy mischievously. Blanche brushed a hand over her flannel skirt. ‘Borrowed plumes,’ she said, ‘and pretty tawdry ones at that. No, take my advice; write to us as often as you like, but stay far away from Fernicombe Cottages. Remain in contact with Joey by all means. Forget about seeing the rest of us. We would only be ammunition for that woman!’
Mercy protested at this but Blanche shook her head.
‘Think about it, child, and you will realize that I speak sense. Now I have to go. I think I have disrupted life at the Villa Dorata enough for one afternoon.’
In truth, she was beginning to think with desperate longing of the bottle of gin she had hidden behind the wood-stack. All day she had been sober and she could feel a driving need for alcohol taking over her body.
If Mercy guessed the reason for her grandmother’s prompt departure she gave no sign. She hugged the old lady.
‘It has been a wonderful, wonderful disruption,’ she said. ‘Thank you for being such a help. You’ve no idea what a difference your visit has made!’ She kissed her grandmother again and again, then had a sudden thought. ‘How will you get home? By cab? Have you enough money?’
‘By cab? To Fernicombe Cottages? How short your memory is!’ Blanche raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘No, I will go as I came, by omnibus. I have my fare, thank you.’
‘If you are quite sure?’ Mercy was still doubtful. ‘If the regular payments to you cease I’ll find some way of sending money home, I promise.’
Blanche smiled, showing yellow, uneven teeth. ‘That was what I was banking on,’ she said.
As soon as Blanche had left, ushered out by a dignified, disapproving Rogers, Mercy hurried to the window to watch the scrawny grey-clad figure make its way along the drive. The notion that perhaps she would never see her grandmother again made her eyes mist with tears. When they had cleared there was no sign of Blanche. Indoors and out, there was no clue she had ever been there, not even a tea-cup or a wineglass, yet, as Mercy wiped her wet cheeks with a wisp of a handkerchief, she knew that life at the Villa Dorata would be different.
Agnes, however, sought to paper over the cracks in her authority immediately.
‘Are we to expect any more visits from your family?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘If so, I will tell Rogers to get out the best Worcester tea-service.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ Mercy replied. ‘Whatever is suitable for your guests will be suitable for mine.’
She saw the steely light of battle spark in Agnes’s eyes, but she refused to flinch. She had allowed her mother-inlaw to take far too great a control of their lives, she saw that now. Those days were over.
‘Mrs Lisburne,’ she said calmly, ‘I have no wish to quarrel with you. For over a year and a half we have lived exactly by the rules you laid down, and that is quite long enough. It’s time my wishes were taken into consideration. I intend to give notice to John’s nurse and appoint someone more in sympathy with my own ideas.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? What makes you imagine that I will stand by and let you re-order my household?’
‘Whose household?’ asked Mercy.
Agnes gasped, considered her words, then took a deep breath.
‘On the matter of your sitting room,’ she said, ‘if you are determined to go to all the bother when there is a perfectly adequate drawing room I suppose you could have the old chintz room.’
Not a muscle on Mercy’s face flickered. The chintz room was cold and gloomy, and had once been delegated to the housekeeper.
‘I prefer the yellow boudoir on the first floor,’ she said. As Agnes began to protest she added ominously, ‘I’ve always thought Chelston to be a very nice area in which to live, haven’t you?’
Agnes stared at her, for once struck dumb. Then she stalked from the room.
Mercy allowed herself a sigh of relief, her first major confrontation with her mother-in-law over. She had been right – after Blanche’s visit life at the Villa Dorata would never be the same again.
Chapter Seven
Joey whistled silently to himself as he strode jauntily along the corridor. At the last door, the one which bore not a number but the title ‘The Moorland Suite’, he stopped and picked up a Pekinese dog which snuffled at his ankles.
‘Time to hand you back to your missus, Ming, my boy,’ he said. At his knock the door was opened by a stout figure lavishly adorned with diamonds that glittered incongruously against a shabby flannel houserobe. Mrs Haddon always greeted the return of her beloved Ming herself and never entrusted the task to her maid. She held out her arms for the animal, gathering it with words of love and endearment, as if they had been apart for years instead of half an hour. Joey waited patiently until the ecstasy of greeting was over.
‘Was he a good boy, Joseph?’ she inquired with a hint of coyness.
‘Very good indeed, Madam. He should be comfortable for the night now,’ replied Joey, who understood the unspoken questions in that one delicate inquiry. He added, ‘We had a good run on the beach. And on the way back, you’ll never guess, Madam! He nearly caught a rabbit.’
‘No! Oh, my clever darling!’ Mrs Haddon clutched the animal to her and buried her face in the dog’s hair. ‘What exciting times you do have with Joseph! But then dear Joseph is your special friend, isn’t he? He looks after you so very, very well. And now he is going to get you something delicious for your supper, aren’t you, Joseph?’
‘Indeed, Madam. I saved some roast chicken specially for him.’
‘Oh Joseph! Chicken! Are you sure? I mean, the bones…’ For a moment Mrs Haddon looked stricken.
‘You have no need to worry, Madam. I examined every piece thoroughly.’
Mrs Haddon’s raddled face relaxed into a smile.‘Of course we’ve no need to worry. Silly me! I know what good care you take of my darling Ming.’
As if to confirm her knowledge she slipped two coins into Joey’s palm.
‘Thank you very much, Madam.’ Joey pocketed the coins without a glance. Usually Mrs Haddon only gave him one half-crown. He reckoned it was the story of the rabbit that earned him his bonus. Admittedly his version of the encounter had been something of an exaggeration; it was doubtful if the myopic Ming had been able to see the rabbit which leisurely crossed their path let alone recognized what it was.
Still, Mrs Haddon is tickled pink, Joey told himself as he hurried down the staff stairs. Old Ming’s being treated like a hero and I’m an extra half a crown better off, so everyone’s happy.
Below stairs, in a side-pantry, Barty regarded the care with which Joey was setting the tray.
‘A clean cloth, silver dishes and covers! You’d think it was for old Ma Haddon herself instead of that fleabag of hers,’ he said peevishly.
‘Barty, my boy, serving in the staff dining room is doing you
no good at all. I have never heard such disrespectful talk.’ Joey paused in his task of arranging dog biscuits on a silver bonbon dish to regard the boy with mock severity. ‘Mrs Haddon to you. And as for her dog, far from being a fleabag he has such distinguished and ancient pedigree that if he could talk he wouldn’t even give a “Good day” to the likes of you; though he happens to be a particular friend of mine.’
‘Is that so? Well, animals are not allowed in this hotel, and you are aiding and abetting. Someone should report it, they really should.’
Joey gave a sigh. ‘Stop and think before you go running off to have a word in Mabel’s ear,’ he said. ‘Do you imagine no one knows there’s a dog in the Moorland Suite? Has it never crossed your feeble mind the management of this hotel might be turning a blind eye, because if they throw out Ming Mrs Haddon will certainly go too? And Mrs Haddon is a very rich lady.’
‘That shouldn’t make any difference.’
‘It shouldn’t, but it does!’ Joey gave a chuckle and patted Barty on his smooth pink cheek. ‘If you’re a good boy and don’t go snitching to the management you might find a friend like Ming too, one day.’
He knew what was ailing the other boy right enough. Jealousy! Barty’s rise on the ladder of success had stopped at the staff dining room, while, through the workings of chance and an epidemic of measles, Joey had been promoted to floor waiter. Temporarily at first, but once there he had taken Arthur’s advice and made himself so indispensable to the guests on his floor that he had stayed. He was now with the paying customers and he learned quickly. Late night snacks which never appeared on the bill, subversive errands to one of Torquay’s illicit though prosperous bookmakers, pandering to the whims of a Pekinese dog whose very presence was against the rules – these and similar activities ensured a steady flow of tips into the pockets of Joey’s trim green and gold uniform. Tips which far exceeded his meagre wages.
The tray completed to his satisfaction he covered it with an immaculate damask napkin and took it upstairs.
This time it was Mrs Haddon’s maid who answered the knock. He handed over the tray, then thankfully made his way to the staff quarters, his duties for the night complete.
To Dream Again Page 15