‘Because . . . because I’d much prefer it if you weren’t,’ she’d said.
All nonchalance gone, he’d straightened up and unfolded his arms. ‘No,’ he’d said. ‘I’m not married.’
Her immediate reaction was a relief so vast that her knees felt weak, and then she’d said in utter incomprehension, ‘Then why . . . ?’ Unable to complete the sentence, she’d made an expressive gesture with her hands.
‘Why no shipboard romance?’
She’d nodded, and beneath his dinner jacket she’d been aware of his muscles bunching with a tension almost equal to her own.
‘Because there’s someone in Boston waiting for me.’
‘You’re engaged?’ A new, but not impossible anxiety followed hard on the heels of her relief.
‘Not officially,’ he’d said.
‘Then I don’t understand.’ Her bewilderment had been total. ‘You’re still free – and you’ve wanted a shipboard romance with me just as much as I’ve wanted one with you. I know you have.’
His eyebrow had quirked. ‘A shipboard romance? Is that all you wanted? Then perhaps it’s best that my head ruled my heart.’
‘By “shipboard romance” I didn’t mean a romance that would have ended when we sailed into Southampton.’ Her mouth had been dry. ‘Brief, meaningless flings aren’t my style.’
‘Or mine.’
‘They why have you kept your distance?’ she’d asked, her voice thick with emotion.
‘Because I’m twenty-two years older than you,’ he’d said. ‘Because I’ve long outgrown the hand-holding, chaste-kiss romances of girls of your age. And last, but by no means least, because I never seduce virgins.’
Nothing could have been blunter or more explicit, and she’d known that she had two choices. She could say that she quite understood. She could change her shoes and return to the ballroom with their relationship the same as when they had left it. Or she could take another, far different course. It would mean, of course, telling the most monumental lie.
The only doubt she’d had about telling it was what would happen when she was found out. That was if she was found out. Blood on a sheet didn’t, surely, follow the loss of virginity as night followed day. Even if it did, the deed would have been done and their relationship would have been changed in a way that could never be altered. Whoever was waiting for him in Boston would wait in vain.
‘I’m not a virgin,’ she’d said, and then, as she’d seen that he didn’t believe her, she had said vehemently. ‘It’s 1925. Queen Victoria has been dead for a quarter of a century. I’m a modern young woman. A flapper. I smoke. I drink. I have a career. I’m financially independent. I travel unaccompanied. I’ve read Marie Stopes. There is absolutely no need to treat me as if I’m a pre-war virginal shrinking violet.’
‘Then I won’t,’ he’d said, ‘but I’m not in the habit of ravishing young women just because they’ve given me permission to do so. Change your shoes. I’ll wait for you here.’
With burning cheeks she had entered her cabin, certain she’d made an absolute fool of herself. As she’d changed her shoes her hands had been shaking. Ever since he’d first spoken to her she’d wanted him to think well of her and she’d been convinced, as she’d walked back out into the corridor, that even if he’d thought well of her when they’d left the ballroom, he did so no longer.
It was a fear he’d immediately vanquished.
Putting a finger beneath her chin, he’d tilted her head to his so that their eyes met. ‘You didn’t misjudge my feelings,’ he’d said thickly, and the next moment his mouth had come down hot and sweet on hers. It had been a long, passionate, expert kiss – a kiss totally unlike any she had previously experienced. When he had finally raised his head from hers, her senses had been reeling.
This time, as their eyes held, the expression in his hadn’t been unreadable. It had told her all she’d needed to know and as they’d walked back down the corridor towards the ballroom, thigh-to-thigh and with hands tightly clasped and fingers intertwined, Rozalind’s heart had been singing like a lark’s.
It was singing like a lark’s now too, as she and Olivia came to a halt outside the hotel she was staying in.
‘Do you really think he’ll break it off with whoever it is he’s been seeing in Boston, Roz?’ Olivia asked again, impatient for an answer to her question.
‘I’m absolutely positive. He’s as crazy about me as I am about him. I’m so crazy I was tempted to cut short my time in England by returning to New York with him in two weeks’ time. The only reason I’m not doing so is because he’ll then be in Washington and I’d be in New York, twiddling my thumbs. Plus he’s due back here towards the end of July, so I’m continuing with my original plans and then we’ll return to America together.’
‘And Hermione and Charlie’s wedding?’
‘Oh, I’ll be in Yorkshire for that.’ She gave Olivia’s arm a loving squeeze. ‘And, if I have my way, so will Max.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Oh, Hal! A motor car! How wonderful!’ Carrie clapped her hands in delight.
They were standing in Richmond’s cobbled town square. It was the morning of Charlie and Hermione’s wedding, and in order to attend it they had arranged to travel to Outhwaite together. Normally this would have meant an hour’s journey by bus on narrow, winding country roads, but to Carrie’s wonderment Hal had roared up the steep street into the square in an open-topped motor car.
Hal grinned, pushing his driving goggles up into his dark curls. ‘It is pretty wonderful, isn’t it?’ he said, with the engine still running. ‘Hop in and I’ll tell you how I got it.’
Carrie didn’t need to be asked twice. She’d been enraptured by motor cars ever since her chauffeur-driven ride with Blanche in the Fenton Rolls-Royce. Mindful of how blowy a ride that had been, she took off the flower-decorated hat she’d bought especially for the wedding and hopped in.
‘How on earth have you managed to afford it?’ she asked as Hal, looking strangely formal in a navy-blue suit, put the car into gear.
‘It’s a Clyno,’ he said, circling the obelisk in the middle of the square and heading off in the direction of Frenchgate. ‘They’ve been making motorcycles for years, but now they’ve moved into car manufacturing and, to get a foot in the market, they’re undercutting every other motor-car manufacturer. It’s a beauty, isn’t it? It’s got wheel brakes, balloon tyres, a four-cylinder water-cooled engine, electric starting, a spare wheel and tyre . . .’
Carrie giggled. He was rhapsodizing about the car in the same way he used to rhapsodize about the baby voles. ‘However cheap it was compared to other cars, it must still have cost a lot of money.’
‘Oh aye. It cost enough.’ As they bucketed down Frenchgate he shot her an amused glance. ‘But I’m not without a penny or two these days, Carrie. I write all the political stuff for the paper now, as well as what my editor likes to call “Yorkshire high-society coverage”. It won’t be long afore I’ll be heading down to London to work on a national paper – and, when I do, I’ll be driving myself down, not going by train.’
At what to Carrie was a giddying speed they roared through the cobbled streets and swooped over the bridge.
Carrie didn’t like to think of Hal leaving Yorkshire for London. It was bad enough Thea being there almost permanently, without Hal being there as well. It had been months since she had seen Thea and Violet, and months and months since she had last seen Olivia or Roz. Almost as much as she missed her friends, she missed Gorton Hall. That she was going to be there in little over an hour’s time filled her with elation.
It was Gorton, not the tied cottage she had been brought up in and which her granny still lived in, that she thought of as home – and she didn’t do so because she had illusions of grandeur; she did so because it was where she had always been happiest, and because it was the family home of the people who were the dearest to her in all the world.
She said now, tentatively, ‘Do you think your edit
or will want you to write about Lord Fenton’s wedding to Lady Pyke?’
With Richmond behind them, Hal had increased speed and they were now spinning along the country roads at an exhilarating rate. As drystone walls flashed past he said, ‘He’s already made it clear he wants me to use all my contacts with the Fentons to write an exclusive on the wedding. Have you heard yet where it’s to be held? As it’s a second marriage for both of them and they’ve both been widowed, I imagine it will be a low-key affair. They may even end up marrying here, in Yorkshire.’
Carrie was silent, trying to imagine Gilbert Fenton marrying again. No image of it would come. When she thought of him loving anyone, then she thought of Blanche.
‘She was so lovely, wasn’t she?’ she said, tears suddenly pricking the backs of her eyes.
He didn’t need to ask who she was thinking about.
‘Lady Fenton?’ he said, his voice gentling. ‘Yes, she was a lovely lady.’
Carrie’s clasped hands tightened in her lap. ‘I think of her often, Hal. And though it’s a long time since I’ve been at Gorton, I know the instant I step over the threshold it will be as if she’s still there. She was always so kind to me. I’ll never be able to forget her. Never.’
He slowed down a little and there was gruff concern in his voice as he said, ‘You never have to forget. Memories are precious – and if remembering her is a comfort to you, keep on remembering her. She wouldn’t want remembering her to make you sad, though, Carrie. She’d want you to be happy. And she’d have wanted Lord Fenton to be happy, too. How long has he been a widower? Five years? Six? It’s long enough for him to remarry without his being disloyal to her memory.’
The River Swale came into view again, its banks edged with glorious clumps of purple-headed knapweed and button-like yellow tansy.
‘You still haven’t said if anyone has written to you saying where the wedding is to be,’ Hal prompted as she remained quiet.
‘I don’t think anyone knows yet.’ Though she’d taken comfort from what he had said about memories, Carrie’s eyes were still overly bright. ‘Both Thea and Olivia are unhappy at the thought of their father marrying again – especially to someone they haven’t yet met. I haven’t had a letter from Violet, but Thea says Violet is too curious about Lady Pyke to be deeply distressed.’
‘And Roz?’
‘Roz thinks like you. That her uncle remarrying was bound to happen.’
‘That’s what I like about Roz.’ Hal swerved to avoid a straying sheep. ‘She’s always so clear-eyed about things.’
Though Carrie’s mane of wheat-gold hair was anchored in a plaited bun, the air rushing past them had tugged tendrils free around her face. Pushing them away from her eyes, she said with concern in her voice, ‘I just hope she’s being clear-eyed about this man that she says she’s head-over-heels about.’
Hal gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Stop worrying. Lord Fenton wouldn’t be allowing their friendship unless he’d vetted him thoroughly.’
They were nearly at Gorton now and Carrie’s tummy muscles tightened with anticipation. ‘Which he has,’ she said, leaning forward as if, by doing so, she would see the view of the house a fraction earlier. ‘They’re both on something called the Dawes Plan committee, which is something to do with helping Germany pay its war debts.’
‘War reparations,’ Hal corrected automatically. ‘A debt would be just a debt. A reparation payment is a payment compensating for an injustice done.’
He changed gear as they approached the bend in the road that gave the first sighting of Gorton. ‘And stop worrying about Roz’s love life. If Lord Fenton and Congressman Bradley know of each other because of the Dawes Plan, then Congressman Bradley’s intentions are honourable. If they weren’t, he’d have dropped Roz like a hot brick the minute she mentioned her uncle’s name – so put your mind at rest, Carrie.’
Carrie did so, sucking in her breath as they rounded the bend and Gorton came into view. Backed by trees and then by rising moorland, the house shimmered in the August heat, its mellow Yorkshire stone glowing like dull gold.
She let out her breath on a long, ecstatic sigh. ‘It’s so good to be back, Hal,’ she said, a lump in her throat as they began skirting the river in the direction of the bridge.
‘Even though it’s only for a day?’
‘A day is better than nothing. And it was so thoughtful of Lord Fenton to suggest that I come here first and then leave for the church with Olivia, Thea and Violet.’
‘And with him as well?’
‘Oh, no. Miss Cumberbatch’s father is dead and, as she doesn’t have a brother, Lord Fenton is going to give her away. He’ll be leaving for the church with her.’
Hal raised an eyebrow. ‘From Gorton Hall?’
‘Of course from Gorton Hall. Miss Cumberbatch doesn’t have a private home in Outhwaite. As Violet’s governess, her home is wherever the family is.’
As he sped over the bridge and turned into the long drive that wound through Gorton’s parkland, Hal wondered if, because Carrie’s father was also dead and because, like Miss Cumberbatch, she had no brothers, Gilbert Fenton would take it upon himself to give Carrie away, when the day came for her to be married. Knowing how red she would blush if he said such a thing, he kept his thoughts to himself. To the best of his knowledge, Carrie hadn’t done any courting as yet – and though he knew it was none of his business, the thought of her doing so always disturbed him.
‘There’s nearly two hours to go before the wedding,’ he said. ‘So after I’ve dropped you off, I’m going to the Pig and Whistle for a pre-wedding celebratory pint, which is where I’ll likely find the groom and best man.’ He brought the car to a squealing halt before the house and flashed her a broad grin. ‘Don’t forget your hat – and I’ll see you in church at two o’clock.’
Using the side-entrance to Gorton – the entrance she had used ever since she had been a child, and the one Thea and Olivia regularly used in preference to the front entrance – Carrie stepped inside and, as the door closed behind her, took a deep steadying breath.
For a long moment she stood quite still, remembering how overcome with awe she had been on her first day there, and how Blanche Fenton had calmed all her anxieties and had chatted to her about the people in the portraits hanging on the wall of the grand staircase. In her memory she could smell the delicate fragrance of Blanche’s rose perfume and hear again the low, soft tones of her voice. She remembered, too, how Blanche had taken her with her when she had sought out Charlie Hardwick and, in order to offer him sanctuary from the thoughtless cruelty he was meeting in the village, had offered him the position of head gardener at Gorton.
It was a long time now since Charlie had met with thoughtless cruelty. Thanks to the genius of Harold Gillies – the surgeon now famed throughout the world for his reconstruction of hideous facial disfigurements suffered by soldiers and sailors in the war – Charlie now had a face that, though not the handsomest Carrie had ever seen, was no longer mind-numbingly horrific.
It was a miracle and, where once he had been ostracized, now, with the piratical black eye-patch he still wore, he was something of a celebrity, and Carrie knew that the whole of Outhwaite would be turning out to see him get married.
‘Carrie!’ Violet shouted, breaking into her thoughts and running up to her. ‘I’ve been waiting ages for you. Hermione wasn’t going to have any bridesmaids – she said when middle-aged spinsters married they didn’t have bridesmaids – but I’ve talked her into it, and I’m to wear my yellow satin party dress and carry a posy of white roses.’
She hugged Carrie’s arm. ‘Hermione is getting ready in her own room, and Miss Calvert is here, helping her. Thea and Olivia are in Olivia’s bedroom, and Roz hasn’t arrived yet. For some reason, I don’t know why, she’s been in Paris for three days and she’s travelling up to Yorkshire straight from the boat-train. Papa’s new chauffeur has gone to Richmond station to meet her. Papa is in the drawing room and is looking forward to giving Hermi
one away. He says it will be a practice run for when he has to do the same for Thea and Olivia and me – though he’ll never have to do it for me, because I shall elope.’
Ignoring the threat of elopement, Carrie said, a little shocked, ‘You don’t call Hermione “Hermione” to her face, do you, Violet? She is still your governess.’
Violet’s exuberance vanished, to be replaced by a deep glumness. ‘She won’t be, when this Pyke person marries Papa. Papa says that once I have a stepmother I won’t need a governess. Even if I did, my governess wouldn’t be Hermione, because she has explained to me that she doesn’t want to live for large parts of the year in London. She wants to be in Outhwaite, with Charlie.’
As they talked they began walking up the grand staircase, the portraits looking down on them as familiar to Carrie as if they were her own ancestors.
‘If Lady Pyke has had no children of her own,’ she said, ‘she’ll probably be so pleased to have daughters that she’ll spoil and indulge you. It could be quite nice for you, Violet.’
‘It would only be quite nice for me if she persuaded Papa to let me go on the stage.’
‘The stage?’ Carrie came to a sudden halt. ‘You can’t go on the stage. You’re a viscount’s daughter. Your mother’s father was an earl. You will be sixteen next year and a debutante. Whoever heard of a debutante who was an actress?’
‘That’s probably only because none of them have ever wanted to be actresses.’ Violet, too, stopped walking. ‘If you were born to go on the stage – and I was – then that is what you do. Only Papa doesn’t agree with me – and I’m very disappointed in you, Carrie. I thought you at least would back me up. Olivia doesn’t. She says Dieter’s family will be horrified if they think Dieter is marrying someone who has a sister on the stage – as if anyone cares what they think. And Thea says the only girls who become actresses are those who have been born into a theatrical family.’
As they began walking up the stairs again she said crossly, ‘Thea also said that Papa wouldn’t like it if I became an actress, and that my being one would distress him. Well, Papa doesn’t like her being a socialist, and I’m sure her being one distresses him, but she still is one, isn’t she?’
A Season of Secrets Page 16