‘Lovely dress,’ the bird-like woman said. ‘And look at the size of that bouquet! Just fancy – red roses at this time of year, they must ’ave cost a fortune! Are yer stoppin’ until she comes out, Floss?’
‘Nah. I usually do cos I like to ’ear the bells. But it’s too flaming cold.’
Once inside the church, Helena felt a momentary sense of panic as through the mistiness of her veil she gazed at the beautiful and emotive scene before her. Its congregation a sea of wide-brimmed hats and ostrich plumes interspersed with the stiff backs of aristocrats and prominent public figures. Ahead she could see Oliver, the winter sun shining through the stained glass window, glinting on his fair head. Then at a nod from the Rector he moved with his best man, Johnnie Horton, to stand before the altar. Immediately there came a rustle of movement as the remainder of the congregation rose, with Beatrice in the left front pew, resplendent in peacock-blue.
Then the opening bars of Handel’s the Arrival of the Queen of Sheba began and Helena quelled her quivering nerves. Placing a hand on her father’s firm arm, ever conscious of the weight of her long train and being followed by her bridesmaids, she walked at a sedate pace along the flower-bedecked aisle. A few heads turned, there were gasps of subdued admiration and then as she joined Oliver, her father withdrew and the dignified Rector began to intone the immortal words, ‘We are gathered here today in the sight of God …’
Outside, as a chill breeze sprang up, Nicholas drew closer the astrakhan collar on his new overcoat and replaced his hat. Oblivious of movements within the crowd as people drifted away and then eventually other curious onlookers took their place, he waited for what seemed the longest hour of his life. His logic was cold comfort – telling him that he had only the flimsiest of reasons for being there at all.
Then at last, there came the almost deafening peal of bells, the doors of the church opened and to the sound of rousing cheers the bride and groom emerged. Now, Nicholas could see her clearly. Framed in the flowing veil, there was the same lovely face, the same honey-gold hair. Helena, beautiful and graceful, smiled for the press photographer as he came forward with his tripod, and with laughter and high spirits a few of the guests clustered around the newly married couple. Then all too soon, among a shower of rice she was leaving, giving a smiling wave to the onlookers before being handed into the carriage by the same tall man who Nicholas had seen that night in Cadogan Square. The scene brought with it such an evocative memory that even before the horses began to move Nicholas was turning, shouldering his way through the crowd and, as he told himself with bitter finality, out of their lives.
Chapter Thirteen
Faraday House occupied one of the most fashionable positions in London. Tall, elegant and situated in Carlton House Terrace overlooking St James’s Park, it had been designed for Sir Vernon Faraday, one of Oliver’s more astute and wealthy ancestors. Its staff, although small compared with that of Graylings, were efficient enough to provide not only the comfort, but also the measure of privacy he considered vital for these first days and weeks following the wedding.
The rooms chosen by Oliver for their personal use were on the second floor and had been completely refurbished. There were two spacious double bedrooms inner-connected by his dressing room and a graceful parlour with tall sash windows. His own room was decorated in burgundy and cream, the curtains plain damask, as was the coverlet on his bed. There were no fringes, ornaments or what he thought of as fripperies. It was a comfortable, masculine room. Helena’s bedroom had been furnished in accordance with her own wishes in soft pastel shades, the pale blue velvet carpet complemented by blue and gold silk drapes and quilted coverlet. There were plans to convert two further small rooms into bathrooms.
On the evening of their wedding day he had arranged for a light supper to be served in the intimacy of their small parlour, and he listened with amusement mixed with ill-concealed impatience as Helena chattered on about the glittering social gathering at the Ritz Hotel that afternoon.
‘It was wonderful, wasn’t it?’ she said eventually, sipping at her champagne, aware that she was talking too much. ‘In fact the whole day has been just perfect.’
‘Indeed, and you my darling were the perfect bride, feted and admired.’ Oliver smiled across at her. ‘As I think I may have mentioned before.’
Helena held out her hand to admire the slim gold band. ‘I still can’t believe that I’m actually Mrs Oliver Faraday, and not Helena Standish.’
‘You are only my wife in name, my sweet, at least yet.’ Oliver’s quizzical gaze met her own startled one, and Helena felt her cheeks stain with colour. ‘In fact,’ he said, reaching over to remove Helena’s half-empty flute, ‘I’m beginning to think that perhaps it is time we should retire?’
Helena felt her throat suddenly become dry. Her knowledge of married intimacy was sketchy; the mysteries of the marriage bed were considered too delicate a topic to be discussed with or before innocent young women. Yet remembering how she had felt when held in Oliver’s arms and the delicious sensations his kisses had aroused, the night to come beckoned her as one of adventure and pleasure, rather than one to fear. Helena had no intention of being the ‘shrinking virgin’ so often and irritatingly portrayed in romantic novels. She intended to live life to the full. So now she merely smiled her assent to her new and handsome husband, and when he came round to her rose-upholstered mahogany chair she eased herself gracefully out of it.
Oliver smiled to himself. His gentle courtship, so carefully planned, was obviously going to bear fruit. He smiled again at the unintended pun – could it be a lucky omen? But his lovemaking that first night, and indeed for many nights to come, must be of the utmost care. While he hoped – if he had been a religious man he would have prayed – that his bride’s body would be free of blemish, bitter experience had taught him that he could not, must not take the risk of an adverse discovery. To have reached this point only to fail – he could not bear even the thought – and so he had made his decision. Only when Helena was safely delivered of a son would Oliver permit himself to see her naked.
Helena, in a white nightdress trimmed with exquisite lace, lay in the silken-covered four-poster bed listening for any sound of movement behind the inter-communicating door. The head parlourmaid who had been attending to her needs had left some moments ago and now with her hair brushed and loose around her shoulders and her body delicately scented, Helena’s anticipation was almost exquisite. There was a cosy coal fire and the two fringed bedside lamps gave a soft glow that made the room look both inviting and romantic. It was, she thought, the perfect setting for a night of love, and then as she was gazing again at the gold wedding band the door opened and Oliver came in.
Looking handsome in a maroon silk dressing gown and matching pyjamas, he returned her smile and then crossed to the far side of the bed to switch off first the lamp on Helena’s side and then the one on his own. She turned in the shadowy room with its flickering fire, and watched as he removed his dressing gown before sliding beneath the linen sheets to lie beside her.
Feeling suddenly rather shy, Helena felt the familiar bristle of his moustache as his lips immediately came down to hers in a kiss that was hard, even impatient. Then immediately Oliver lifted himself on one elbow and moved to lean over her, almost roughly parting her thighs. Appalled, she felt almost crushed by the weight of his body as, with a contorted face, his eyes blazing in intensity, he achieved a silent, swift and for her, agonising consummation. As he rolled off her, Helena, conscious of stickiness between her legs, closed them defensively only to find with bewilderment that Oliver was already flinging back the sheets. She heard the words, ‘Thank you my dear,’ as he bent to retrieve his dressing gown and then without even a backward glance left the room. It was then that slowly, almost painfully, heavy tears began to course down her face. She felt degraded, used, her body invaded. Her disappointment was so bitter that it hurt. Was this what m
arried love was like – a cold and impersonal coupling?
On the morning following his marriage, Oliver, after a refreshing cup of Earl Grey tea followed by his usual dressing routine, felt in good spirits as he went down the curving staircase with its black balustrade to the breakfast room. When he went over to the silver dishes on the sideboard, he heard a slight cough behind him and turned to see the butler hovering. ‘Mrs Faraday has expressed a wish to breakfast in her room, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Gray.’ Oliver, finding that he had an excellent appetite, enjoyed the bacon, sausages, kidneys and scrambled eggs he had chosen, and then lingered with his coffee over The Times. He suspected that Helena had chosen to have a lazy morning because she felt embarrassed after her deflowering. Oliver had a few qualms about that, knowing that his overriding urge to procreate had clouded his judgement. The actual act had been too swift – although surely the first time for a virgin could never be enjoyable. Next time would need to be different. Not only had he little desire for an unwilling wife, if the marriage bed was to be a fertile one then it was essential that Helena should welcome their lovemaking.
Eventually, after glancing at the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, he decided it would now be appropriate for him to go upstairs – he had no desire to see his wife in a state of disarray.
Helena, who had slept very little, was sitting before her elaborate walnut dressing table as she half-heartedly tried to choose which earrings to wear. Aware that ladies of quality never wore diamonds during the day, she pushed one pair aside and stared into the mirror at her shadowed eyes.
Then came the half-expected tap at her door. ‘Come in.’
‘Did you sleep well, my love?’
Helena’s voice was quiet. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘And what would you like to do today? The weather seems reasonable, would you enjoy a stroll?’
‘I would love some fresh air, Oliver.’ She was trying to keep her voice even.
‘Then later we shall take lunch at the Savoy Grill. How does that appeal?’
‘Perfect.’ Helena rose from her velvet stool to receive Oliver’s morning kiss and straightened her back. She could hardly bear him to touch her, but she had to be adult about this. She had taken her vows before God and this man was her husband. During the long hours of the previous night, her only consolation had been a desperate hope that next time Oliver would be more tender, would show more consideration. How soon that would be, Helena was unsure, but until then this was a new day, the first of her married life and all she could do was to make the best of it.
Chapter Fourteen
A fortnight later, the long-awaited day arrived for Molly to leave Broadway Manor. And to her surprise, despite her nervous anticipation and even excitement at the thought of the new life before her, she found her eyes filling with tears when, dressed in her Sunday best, she went to say goodbye to the rest of the staff.
‘I’m really going to miss your cooking,’ she said in a choked voice.
‘Nonsense!’ Cook’s broad face was determinedly cheerful. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if at Graylings they don’t have one of those there French chefs.’
‘I don’t fancy foreign food. I like your steak and kidney pudding.’
‘Now then, Molly, you’ll be fine once you’re there,’ the butler said. ‘And Miss Helena will be relying on you. So my girl, a stiff upper lip if you please.’
‘I don’t know what you’re blubbing about,’ Ida looked scornful. ‘I mean you were the one who wanted to better yourself.’
‘I know,’ Molly dabbed at her eyes. ‘I don’t know what’s up with me.’
‘I do,’ one of the footmen said, looking up from polishing the silver. ‘You’re female, that’s all. My mam was always blartin’.’
‘Did you never think she might have had a reason,’ Ida snapped. ‘I should think having eight kids and no money was enough to make anyone shed tears.’
‘Well, I shall really miss you, Moll.’ Annie got up and went to give Molly an awkward hug.
‘Don’t forget to write.’ The butler stood pointedly aside. ‘A letter now and then would be most welcome, but you mustn’t keep Jennings waiting …’
Seconds later Molly was climbing into the Standish carriage, which was also transporting some of Helena’s belongings. Several leather trunks were strapped on to the top, while there were so many hatboxes crowding the interior that there was scarcely room for Molly and her modest carpet bag. However, she settled into a corner and leaned back against the cushioned velvet seat to enjoy her first journey, although despite the comfort there was a certain amount of swaying and sometimes jolts when the road surface was uneven.
The passing countryside and the novelty of seeing other villages she found fascinating, but after a couple of hours she was relieved to have the chance to stretch her legs when, in a sparsely populated area, the coachman drew into the yard of an old inn. Jennings helped Molly to descend and then ushered her inside to where, in a smoke-filled room, several groups of working men were ‘swilling beer’ as her granny used to say, and Molly wrinkled her nose at the odour of sweating bodies and unwashed clothes. The atmosphere was a distinctly male one, with loud talk and hearty guffaws, and as she paused on the threshold, drawing her skirt away from the sawdust on the floor, one burly man turned and gave her a lewd wink. Jennings immediately hustled Molly away and into a small snug, empty except for an old crone nursing a glass of stout in one corner.
‘Sorry, it’s a bit rough, I hadn’t realised.’
Molly, knowing that he would never have brought Miss Beatrice or Miss Helena into such a place said, ‘It’s all right, you weren’t to know.’
‘What would you like to drink, love?’ Jennings was a kindly man who had only recently joined the staff at Broadway Manor and while Molly sipped at her lemonade, he told her that the future was in motor cars. ‘Me brother-in-law’s set himself up in a little garage, and I go to help him sometimes. I’ve learned quite a bit, I think that’s why Mr Standish hired me. He’s got plans to buy one, you know.’
As he wiped his moustache free of froth from his pint of mild, Molly exclaimed, ‘But what about the horses?’
‘Oh, they’ll be all right. He’ll still keep a carriage on for Miss Beatrice.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ Molly looked at him. ‘I suppose you and Mr Faraday’s chauffeur had a lot in common, then. I couldn’t get a word out of him. Did he say anything to you about Graylings?’
Jennings shook his head. ‘Come to think of it he did seem a bit quiet like if I raised the subject.’
‘Well, I’ll soon be finding out for meself.’
‘That’s true. Now are you ready, love, or do you …?’
Molly glanced at the disreputable looking old woman in the corner, thought of all the men in the bar, and decided not to risk it. She shook her head, ‘No, I’m all right to continue, Mr Jennings.’
Her first sight of Graylings was not a fortunate one. As soon as the coach drew up outside large ornate iron gates mounted by a lion’s head and a man hurried out of the gatehouse to allow them to enter, the greying sky decided to unload its heavy burden and rain came lashing down, spitting against the windows and obscuring her view. Peering out, Molly could just see the outline of a great country house, grey in the mist. Broadway Manor seemed almost small in comparison and her stomach tied in nervous knots.
Jennings guided the horses round to the back of the house and into the stable yard, and as she leaned down to pick up her carpet bag, she could only wish with despair that Miss Helena had arrived before her.
In London, Helena found herself becoming restless. The General Election had generated some excitement, but that was now over; to Oliver’s satisfaction, the Liberal Party had won a landslide victory.
Dorothy had earlier written to her, ‘In confidence, I’ve joined the
Women’s Social and Political Union. My father would have a fit if he knew! There’s going to be a huge march on Downing Street to urge the new Prime Minister to introduce votes for women – why don’t you join them?’ But her friend, Helena thought, wasn’t married to Oliver. While he might accept the concept that women could eventually vote, he would never agree to his wife taking part in a possibly violent demonstration.
And marriage itself also involved a degree of intimacy far greater and more often than she had anticipated. Without exception, each night once the maid had left, the inter-connecting door would open and Oliver, always immaculate in matching silk pyjamas and dressing gown, would come into her bedroom. His words were always the same, a murmured ‘Hello, my sweet,’ and he would then ensure the room was darkened before lifting the coverlet and sliding beneath the sheets to lie with her. She had never seen his naked body, only felt his maleness inside her. And she had to admit that he was considerate of her modesty too. It had taken some time for Helena to conquer her resentment after that first appalling scene, which was never mentioned. Gradually, as Oliver’s lovemaking became increasingly gentler and more prolonged, she found herself able to respond; he would even whisper endearments, telling her that she was ‘his beautiful wife’. But to her continuing bewilderment and dismay, Oliver always left within minutes, leaving her alone and with a longing to be held close, for him to stay with her so that they could sleep together throughout the night. What must it be like, she wondered, to awake and see his head on the soft white pillow beside her? Once Helena had actually put her desire into words, but his reaction had been one of such sharp distaste that she had felt stung, even humiliated.
Dangerous Decisions Page 9