Stratford Jewel

by Oliver, Marina

  Rosa began to make plans. The money from the sale of the business hadn't been touched, it was still in the bank, and fortunately Jack's share had not been tranferred from her name. She would arrange for half of that to be sent to Celia, and she would have plenty left for the passage back to England, and perhaps to set herself up there, either in a small business or while she looked for a job. She felt like a wounded animal, crawling back to its lair, but she knew there was no alternative to going back to England. In America she would always be tempted to return to Max, even though he obviously didn't love her. Perhaps, in England, she could forget him, and he could divorce her for desertion. The laws on divorce were much easier in some American states than in England, so he'd have no difficulty. Then he could marry Jenny, or continue what appeared to have been a roving bachelor life.

  She went to the bank, then spent the rest of the morning feverishly packing, suddenly anxious to be away from the apartment. If there was no liner leaving for England, or even France, immediately, she would go to an hotel. She would not risk any further confrontation with Max.

  *

  Max arrived at the apartment a scant hour after Rosa had left. He was feeling utter self-contempt for his loss of temper and subsequent visit to Gloria. It was, he recognised, her air of triumph that most offended him. Rosa hadn't deserved that, especially when she was feeling so vulnerable after the horror of Jack's death. He had gone into the office early, to do essential tasks before returning home in the afternoon, where he might be able to make his peace.

  The apartment was empty. It felt cold, and he knew instinctively that Rosa was not there, but it was some time before he went into the bedroom and discovered her clothes were gone too.

  Appalled, he sat on the bed. Where had she gone to? One possibility was California, and he would send a telegram to Celia at once, but Rosa might have preferred going back to England. She had no family there, apart from distant cousins, but she had friends and might go to them for help. Somehow she had discovered about his liaison with Gloria, and not unnaturally resented it. Would her thoughts turn to Adam Thorn? He'd never been sure exactly what Rosa's relationship with him had been, and he had seen them entering the same bedroom. Might she go to him? The thought made him wince, but if she meant to return to England there might still be time to prevent her.

  He sprang for the telephone and distractedly began to harangue all the shipping lines, demanding to be told when their next ship was leaving and whether a Mrs Higham was on the intending passenger list. It was only when he had drawn a blank that he wondered whether Rosa might be using her maiden name, so he began the weary process of telephoning them all again. He kept glancing anxiously at his watch as he waited for the operator to connect him. The offices would soon be closed. And then he was told that a Miss Greenwood had secured a cabin on a boat leaving in less than an hour.

  Max grabbed his hat and rushed outside to hail a cab. He fumed with impatience at the slow progress through heavy traffic, and at the dock gates jumped out and started to run towards the liner in the distance. Before he reached it he knew it was too late. The gangway had been removed, and the liner was moving slowly out into the river, the passengers hanging over the rail to wave farewell. Frantically Max peered at the faces, but they were too far away, and he could not distinguish any. For a few minutes he tried to discover how he might obtain a boat to set out after the great ship, and then rejected the possibility. There were other ships. If he were lucky he might even reach England before Rosa. Turning abruptly he headed for the nearest shipping office.

  *

  Rosa remained in her cabin all the way across the Atlantic. She ordered meals, but ate scarcely anything. On the outward journey, once safe from fear of pursuit, she had enjoyed the voyage. There was a lot to do, the surroundings were leisured and elegant, and most of the passengers friendly. She had enjoyed talking to interesting people, many of them experienced travellers, but this time she coveted solitude. She had to be alone to mourn both Jack and the end of her life with Max. She wouldn't see Max again, for he had no reason to return to England. She would not write to him again. They could make all the necessary arrangements, for he would surely want to divorce her, through solicitors. She had to make a new life for herself and it would be easier to do this if she could forget him.

  They were almost in Liverpool before she began to think of practicalities. There was nowhere she could go in Stratford. She no longer had a home there. Winnie was living with her sister in a tiny cottage, and couldn't take her in. None of her distant cousins could possibly feel any responsibility for her, and she was reluctant to ask any of her friends for help.

  Suddenly she thought of Mrs Thorn, who had almost been a second mother to her and Celia after their own mother died. She had ensured that as they grew up they had suitable clothes and knew what was fashionable, as her father cared little for such matters, and that extra piano and elocution lessons were available in addition to what they had at school. She introduced them to tennis clubs and the amateur dramatic societies, and gave them the new books which she had considered suitable for them to read. She had often taken them to performances at Birmingham theatres. What was it Celia had said? She was going to Baden for a month. That was in April, and it was now June. She would be back in Birmingham now, and would both take Rosa in temporarily and help her find somewhere to live.

  Rosa determined to forget Max, to forget America, and to thrust her sorrow and regrets about Jack into the back of her mind, from whence she might recall them at appropriate moments. She would show the world a calm front, and look forward, not back.

  Rosa was impatient to throw off the past and embrace her new life. She boarded a train for Birmingham, and took a cab from New Street station to Mrs Thorn's house near Calthorpe Park.

  Doubts began to assail her as they drew nearer. The driver was garrulous, but she had no difficulty in shutting out his comments on the recent general election and the new Labour cabinet as she pondered her own situation. When he mentioned the recent ceremony at Stratford, when the foundation stone for the new theatre had been laid, she brightened momentarily, but soon her thoughts swung back to her own problems. Would Mrs Thorn maintain that she had no right to leave Max, that a wife's duty was to remain with her husband in all circumstances? She squared her shoulders. She wouldn't go back. All she wanted was a few days in which she could make arrangements, and then she would be able to find a job and support herself,.

  The house was in darkness, and Rosa's heart sank. Was Mrs Thorn away? 'Please wait, in case they're not in,' she asked the taxi driver. 'I may have to go to an hotel.'

  Rosa gritted her teeth and pulled the bell. Perhaps it was just late, and Mrs Thorn and her maid had gone to bed. She'd heard a clock strike ten during the drive from the city centre. Then her heart leapt as a light was switched on somewhere at the back of the house.

  'Yer'll be orright now,' the man said and began to unload her luggage.

  Rosa smiled distractedly at him and nodded. She could hear the key scraping in the lock and turned to face the door. She frowned. It seemed like a man's silhouette just visible through the thick coloured panes of glass. Then the door opened.

  'Adam!' she exclaimed. 'Why are you here?'

  He was staring at her, bemused. 'Rosa? Is it really you?' He breathed raggedly and stepped forward to grasp her shoulders, 'Rosa, I've missed you so much!'

  ***

  Chapter 15

  Max slammed the door of the apartment. He hadn't been able to book a passage for three more days. He tossed his hat onto the table in the entrance hall and something fluttered to the floor. It was a letter and he pounced on it. As he tore it open he wondered briefly why he'd missed it when he first came home. Then, shamefaced, he recalled how guilty he'd felt when he returned from spending the night with Gloria. He'd gone straight to the living room, not looked for any mail, he'd been so anxious to find Rosa.

  At last he straightened out the single sheet of paper. The letters danced, bu
t he forced himself to concentrate.

  'Max, I'm going home. Don't follow me, it would be useless. You don't love me and I'm preventing you from marrying Jenny. I'm sure you can get a divorce and it will work out satisfactorily in the end.

  'I've discovered that I don't love you either, so please don't try to make me change my mind. When I hoped you could help Jack I thought I loved you, but now I know it was just gratitude. I was wrong to marry you. Now there is no need for me to stay in America, and it will always have painful memories. Thank you for what you tried to do. Rosa.'

  Max read the letter again. It was clear, unambiguous. Rosa didn't openly blame him for Jack's death, but she thought him responsible. He supposed he'd been wrong not telling her about Jack's odd behaviour that night on the boat, but he hadn't wanted to worry her. He'd done it because he loved her. Then he shut his eyes tightly. Did he? Did he love her or had it all been a wild infatuation? Had he simply been attracted to her physically, as he had to other women, and in the strange circumstances of their flight with Jack thought there was something extra, deeper, to that attraction?

  He'd been imagining himself some sort of Sir Galadad. By helping Rosa he had created a special tie, and confused this with love when it was not. Would he have married her if there had not been Jack needing help? He'd been reluctant to say farewell when he finally left Stratford, but he hadn't felt the sort of desolation that now assailed him at the prospect of never seeing her again.

  A sliver of guilt forced its way into his thoughts. Would Rosa have left if he hadn't spent the night elsewhere? Had that been, for her, the final straw? But she couldn't have known about Gloria. She ought to have been concerned, worried that he might have had an accident. She should have waited, told him personally. They ought to have discussed the matter face to face. Instead, not even knowing whether he might be dead, she'd gone and with such a brief note of explanation. Perhaps it was true she didn't love him. He felt aggrieved. They were both sensible adults. He'd have been willing to listen to her, try to convince her she was wrong about his supposed regrets over Jenny. He sighed. He'd never wanted to marry the child, could never imagine making love to her as he had to Rosa.

  The memories of those passion-filled nights and days made him wince. Surely she'd loved him then! But Gloria was just as passionate without making any pretence that she felt any tender emotion. She was hot-blooded. Rosa might be too, and her passion could be a purely physical response like Gloria's.

  Would it serve any purpose to chase Rosa to England? Did he want her to come back to him? Could they, with Jack's death between them, recover the joy they'd shared?

  He slowly took the steamer tickets out of his pocket and set them on the table in front of him. He'd sleep on it.

  *

  Celia lounged on the long, low chair, sipping slowly from her glass. A smooth-faced, pretty boy her own age leaned possessively over the back, regaling her with a recital of his triumphs in every school and college drama production since, she calculated boredly, he was four years old. Hank Rossi was on the far side of the room, paying no attention to the two eager girls talking avidly to him. He glowered across at Celia. She took care not to look directly at him, and when her bored gaze swept the room did not permit herself to linger, in any way appear to notice him.

  When he loomed alongside and with a peremptory jerk of the head sent her juvenile adorer packing, Celia rewarded him with a faint smile.

  'Come on,' he ordered.

  'Where?'

  He sighed impatiently. 'Upstairs.'

  'I didn't know the party had expanded up there,' she commented, making no attempt to rise and glancing round at the other guests. She noticed with some amusement that they had drawn slightly apart so that she and Hank were isolated in a small open circle.

  'Only for a favoured few. Miss Greenwood, you are being favoured.'

  'If you mean what I think you do, Hank,' Celia drawled, deliberately using his first name, 'it's you hoping for my favours. Not the other way round.'

  'What? Look, gal, if you know what's good for you, don't try and play games with me.'

  Celia laughed. 'I thought that was what you wanted? Fun and games. If it's not, then I might consider a business discussion.'

  He frowned, then sat down beside her, one sinewy hand resting on her silk-stockinged knee. Celia forced herself not to flinch at his touch. She couldn't forget Willy and his gross mountain of flesh. At least Hank Rossi wasn't old or fat, but the bony hand looked equally unattractive. 'You want parts in my films?'

  'I want parts in someone's films. And I want to be paid for my services.'

  Suddenly he laughed. 'I like you.'

  'Not just my body, and my compliance?'

  'I'll have them. You won't be able to stop me.'

  'On what terms do you imagine I'll agree?'

  'Oh, I'll find you a part in the next film,' he said carelessly. 'People will tell you I pay my debts.'

  He rose, took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet.

  Celia resisted. 'That isn't good enough for me, Hank.'

  'What do you mean? Hey, gal, I'm offering you a chance of a movie part in return for a bit of fun, and you're saying no?'

  'I'm saying no to just any old movie part, being a waitress in one mingy little shot, for example. I want a proper part, a speaking part in a talkie. Not the star, yet, but near. The star part can come second time around.'

  He sat down again abruptly. 'Your voice is good, baby, and that British accent's a wow. This is going to take all night to work out,' he said slowly, his eyes crinkling suddenly. Celia realised with an unexpected surge of excitement that he could be attractive.

  'My agent's over there, watching us,' she murmured softly. 'Let's take him upstairs too and draw up a proper, legal contract.' She stood up and held out her hand. 'Well, Hank, are you coming?'

  *

  'What are you doing here?' Rosa asked, startled, as Adam released her then took her hand and drew her into the hall. 'Where's your mother?'

  Adam turned away abruptly and led the way into the drawing room. He switched on the light and went to stand in front of the empty fireplace. Rosa, following him into the room, watched his face through the big cheval mirror on the wall. He was frowning, and seemed to have difficulty in speaking. Suddenly Adam swung round to face her. 'Mother died just after Easter. Agnes said she'd write, but I imagine her letter didn't reach you. Why are you here?'

  'I'm sorry, Adam, I loved her, you know,' Rosa said softly, and crossed to him. She touched his shoulder and he stood staring into her eyes. Then he took a ragged breath and turned away.

  'She was in Germany, trying the cure at Baden-Baden. I was too late by the time I got there.'

  'Adam, come and sit down,' Rosa said briskly when he seemed to vanish into his dream world again. She led him to a large sofa and sat beside him. 'I came to ask her if I might stay here for a few days,' she said gently. 'I'll go to an hotel, though, I won't disturb you and Agnes at such a time.'

  'Agnes? Oh, she's not here. You knew I married her?'

  'Celia told me. I didn't write, but I do wish you both happy.'

  He grimaced. 'There didn't seem any reason not to, once you'd gone to America. And she was pregnant. Or so she said.'

  'Agnes – didn't seem to be that sort of girl,' she said in confusion.

  'What sort? The sort to allow a man to make love to her, or the sort to claim to be pregnant when she wasn't?'

  'Wasn't she pregnant?' Rosa asked.

  'I just don't know! She could have been. That was almost certainly my fault, I admit that, and I make no excuses, but I wouldn't have married her if she hadn't said she was having my child. Then she miscarried, or said she had, while I was in Germany. That's why I came here. At least, I was sorting my mother's things, but I preferred to stay here on my own for a while, to give myself time to think. Rosa, why did you go away and let me be so foolish?'

  'Jack,' Rosa said with a catch in her voice. 'I couldn't let you put Jack in p
rison again.'

  Adam groaned. 'That damned fire! I was furious, I'll admit it, but I'd have calmed down, Rosa. You know I would.'

  'No, I didn't. I was too afraid for him after the other time. But it was all pointless in the end. He'd have been safe in prison.'

  'What do you mean? Safe? Where is he?'

  Rosa bit her lip until the blood flowed. 'He died,' she said briefly. 'Oh, Adam, he died, and it was all my fault for making him go to America, for believing Max could find a cure for him. I as good as killed Jack.'

  'Rosa, darling, of course you didn't,' Adam said, appalled, and took her into his arms. 'Do you want to tell me?'

  Rosa sniffed, and the whole story poured out. When she had finished she was drained, exhausted. Adam gently put her aside and went to pour two brandies.

  'Here, drink this,' he said, coming and sitting beside her again.

  She sipped, and managed a weak smile. 'Thanks, Adam. I'm sorry to be such a watering pot. I'd better find a taxi and go to an hotel.'

  'No, stay here. It won't take a moment to make up the bed in the spare room.'

  'May I?' Rosa stood up and went to look at her tear-streaked face. 'I don't think I could face curious hotel porters looking like this,' she said, trying to laugh.

  'Are you hungry? I haven't much apart from bacon and eggs, or bread and cheese. I eat out mostly.'

  'I don't think I've eaten since breakfast,' Rosa said. 'Yes, I am hungry, though I hadn't thought about it. Bacon and egg as well as bread and cheese sounds delicious. Shall I cook it? I know where the kitchen is.'

  'Do some for me too, I haven't been eating much. I'll go and sort out the bed.'

  An hour later, replete, Rosa yawned and pushed herself up from the kitchen table where they had eaten, and remained to exchange all their news. 'I must go to bed. I'm so tired.'