The Granville Sisters

by Una-Mary Parker

  ‘Juliet probably frightened him to death, then.’ He turned to look at his daughter in the semi-darkness of the car; her profile was as expressionless as a marble bust. ‘You overdo it, you know, Juliet. It’s not seemly. No man’s going to be interested in a girl if she throws herself at him.’

  Juliet didn’t answer, but gazed out of the window sadly.

  ‘Didn’t I throw myself at you?’ Liza asked with champagne-fuelled coquetry, as she placed her hand on Henry’s arm.

  ‘I flung myself at you first, darling, so you were only responding,’ he said with swift faux gallantry.

  ‘I didn’t throw myself at Cameron,’ Juliet retorted, stung. ‘I don’t even care for him. What with Mummy on one side, encouraging me to go after every eligible man in Britain, and you on the other side, practically accusing me of acting like a tart … what am I supposed to do?’ Her voice broke angrily, and she was near to tears.

  Henry spoke calmly. ‘Don’t exaggerate, Juliet. I merely think you were a bit forward.’

  ‘Most men like it,’ she replied sulkily.

  ‘Not those who are looking for a wife,’ Henry pointed out mildly.

  ‘Rosie would have enjoyed the party tonight,’ Liza said peaceably. ‘I saw Charles, and he said she didn’t feel well enough to go out.’

  Juliet gave an impatient sigh. ‘God, who would want to be pregnant? It’s a ghastly thought.’

  ‘I might ask them to dinner next week to meet Cameron,’ Liza chattered on, as if she was thinking aloud.

  Juliet shot her mother a dark look. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. If she’s in one of her moods, she’s bound to bring up something that will ruin my chances of becoming a duchess.’

  When all the guests had gone, and he’d thanked Liza for her kind invitation to dinner the following week, Cameron Kincardine turned to Hector.

  ‘As Mother’s gone to bed, let’s have a nightcap,’ he suggested.

  ‘Aye, fine, man,’ Hector replied, slipping into the informal father-and-son casualness that typified their relationship when no one else was about.

  They’d retired to the ‘drawing room’ of the hotel, which was empty at this hour, and ordered whiskies.

  ‘Well?’ Hector asked, his expression hopeful, as they settled themselves in two easy chairs.

  Cameron rubbed his hand across his brow, not answering.

  Hector continued, ‘What’s the problem? She’s beautiful, aristocratic, dresses well and seems accomplished – what does she lack?’

  ‘Nothing. I think it’s me that’s lacking.’

  Rosie couldn’t find a comfortable position in bed. To lie on her back made her spine hurt. To lie on her side made the bump seem heavier. She hated being pregnant. She hated this poky little house. She hated her life.

  It was after midnight, and Charles still hadn’t returned from the Duke of Kincardine’s cocktail party, and all sorts of thoughts were preventing her from falling asleep. Had he gone out to dinner with her parents? Had he gone out to dinner with someone else? Not that she feared he might be interested in another woman; it was his heavy drinking that disturbed her. Something he’d never done before they married.

  She eventually fell into an uneasy slumber, and was awakened at dawn by the sound of Charles snoring. Worse, he smelled strongly of drink, and as he was taking up the centre of the bed, she found herself clinging to the edge of the mattress.

  ‘Charles …! Move over,’ she exclaimed irritably.

  ‘Wha’? Whatch t’matter?’ he slurred.

  ‘You smell of drink, and you’re taking up all the bed.’ She clutched at the sheet and blankets and pulled them towards herself. ‘I’m freezing, too.’

  ‘Go to hell!’ He rolled on to his side, and instantly fell into a deep sleep again.

  ‘Oh, God …!’ Her back ached and so did her hips. Struggling to her feet, she got out of bed, dragged on her dressing down, reached for a lacy shawl, and padded down to the kitchen. Tears stung her eyes as she filled the kettle with water and lit the gas stove.

  Her life was becoming unbearable. She knew she’d been spoilt by her parents, knew she’d always been waited on by servants, and given money to spend on what ever she wanted, but losing those privileges wasn’t the main source of her misery. What was causing her sense of desolation was the knowledge she’d fallen out of love with her husband, knew he cared nothing for her either, and into this hellish mess she was bringing a child.

  ‘I want us to move to the country,’ she told Charles, when he returned from Lloyd’s the following evening. She’d been thinking about it all day, planning what they should do, and how much less expensive it would be.

  He looked shocked. ‘The country?’ he repeated, as if she’d suggested the Moon or Mars.

  ‘It would be cheaper. And better for the baby.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  Rosie ignored the question. ‘We’re living beyond our means, Charles. We could rent a cottage for a fraction of the cost of this house; a bigger place too. Food would be cheaper, everything would cost less. And you could come up to London by train every day, like Daddy did when we all stayed at Hartley last autumn.’

  Charles flushed angrily. ‘But I don’t want to live in the country. I hate the country. I never even stay up in Cumbria, which is my home, if I can help it. Why on earth do you want to bury yourself in some corny little village in the country, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because it’s easier and less humiliating to be poor in the country than it is in a smart part of London, where one’s friends are soon going to cotton on to the fact we’ve got no money,’ she replied heatedly.

  ‘Oh, come on, Rosie, we won’t be poor for ever,’ he reasoned in a coaxing voice.

  ‘Why? What are you waiting for? My inheritance when Daddy dies?’

  He looked at her, shocked, wondering if Henry had told her he’d asked about a dowry.

  Rosie’s deep blue eyes were filled with anguish. Somehow she was going to have to make this marriage work, because she could never get divorced. No one in her family had ever been divorced.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that,’ she said, her fighting spirit wilting.

  ‘It sounds very like it to me.’

  ‘No, really … you don’t understand. I’m pregnant and it makes me nervous and jittery. If we had a nice little cottage, perhaps on the outskirts of Shere, life would be much simpler. For one thing, I wouldn’t keep running into my friends, who all seem to be rich, and have big houses and lots of servants.’

  ‘So you’re saying you’re fed up because I’m not rich? God knows, I work myself to death at Lloyd’s, in an effort to—’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying, Charles,’ she cut in, though of course she knew it was true. ‘But we might even be able to afford to buy a cottage in the country. Maybe the bank would lend us the money. It would be a good investment,’ she added.

  ‘Who have you been discussing this with? Your father? Since when did you know about investments?’ he demanded, furiously.

  She looked distressed. ‘I haven’t discussed it with anyone. My parents still think you own this house, and we’re comfortably off, and that’s what I want them to think. We’d be better off in the country, Charles, we really would.’

  Charles looked uncomfortable. ‘It might suit you, but what about me? I like meeting my friends for a drink at the club. Having the odd game of cards. What in damnation am I supposed to do in the country? The next thing you’ll be suggesting is that we grow our own vegetables or something,’ he scoffed derisively.

  Rosie blanched. She’d never heard him swear before, and the ugly word hovered like a stain in the atmosphere.

  ‘Charles,’ she said, carefully drawing a deep breath. ‘I want, more than anything, for us to be a happy family. It will be so much better for the baby if we’re in the country. We can have a little garden for him to play in—’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Your son and heir, if it’s a boy,’ she continued smoo
thly. ‘And we can have a much higher standard of living. If we have a spare room, you can invite friends down for the weekend. Please, Charles, it really would be better for us all.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can get a bank loan,’ he muttered, sulkily.

  Rosie smiled at last. ‘No, but I’m sure I can.’

  In a thinly disguised manoeuvre, Liza invited several single people to the dinner party, as well as two couples, so Cameron Kincardine wouldn’t think she was matchmaking. And in spite of Juliet’s warning, Rosie and Charles were one of the couples.

  ‘I don’t know why you think it’s a good idea,’ Juliet protested. ‘Rosie feels sick half the time, and Charles is a crashing bore.’

  Liza frowned; any criticism of Rosie annoyed her. ‘It will give Cameron the message that your sister, who is only a year older than you, is already happily married and having a baby. Then he’ll realize you’re ready to make the same commitment.’

  ‘I’d have thought the sight of Rosie, all fat and bulging, is enough to put him off marriage altogether,’ Juliet retorted. ‘He’ll probably take to the hills and we’ll never see him again.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ Liza went off to discuss menus with Mrs Fowler. Forget minor members of the royal family, foreign ambassadors and the cream of London society; this was probably the most important dinner party she had ever given.

  Henry, returning from the city, found Liza in a fever of nervous agitation. ‘What on earth’s the matter, darling?’ he asked in alarm.

  She was pacing up and down their bedroom, trying on different necklaces to go with her long new lime-green dinner dress.

  ‘I just want everything to be perfect tonight,’ she replied reproachfully, as if he ought to know. ‘Juliet’s whole future, the rest of her life, could depend on tonight.’

  Henry tried not to laugh at the absurdity of her remark, but at the same time, he felt annoyed.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Liza …!’ he burst out crossly.

  ‘What …?’ She suddenly looked scared, tears welling in her eyes. He was calling her Liza again. He seemed to be calling her Liza more and more these days, whilst he used to use loving pet names for her. Being called plain ‘Liza’ made her feel very insecure, and once again the impoverished daughter of a village seamstress, desperate to be accepted by the upper classes.

  She’d been frightened that she wouldn’t be able to keep up with Henry and his family, and now she felt scared all over again; was the fact that she was an arriviste showing?

  ‘Well, I …’ she floundered, dashing the tears away. ‘I want to do the best for all the girls.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Henry said, going to her, remembering how sensitive she still was about her background, ‘you’re going to be a wreck by the time you’ve brought out five daughters at this rate! By the time Charlotte’s eighteen, you’ll be an invalid, and I’ll be pushing you around in a Bath chair,’ he teased laughingly, putting his arms around her, and smiling into her face. ‘Now, we can’t have that, can we? The beautiful Mrs Granville in a wheelchair?’ He kissed her gently on the lips, and he could feel her relax against him with the sheer relief of knowing he still loved her.

  ‘Now, my darling,’ he continued brightly, reaching for her jewel case, ‘I think this is the one to go with your dress tonight.’ He picked up a Cleopatra collar, made of pale-green aventurine stones linked by Asian pearls. He’d bought it for her on a business trip to Hong Kong years ago and it would go well with her dress tonight.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ Liza stood still while he fastened the clasp at the back of her neck.

  ‘You’ll look marvellous, as you always do,’ he told her firmly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she repeated, grateful for his support. Sometimes she envied Rosie and Juliet their laissez-faire.

  As the result of a stiff brandy and soda, however, Liza presided over the evening with aplomb. The friends she’d invited were what Henry referred to as lightweight – ‘Because I don’t want any horrid talk of war,’ she’d told him. ‘Let’s keep off the subject of the King’s abdication and Mrs Simpson, too. It’s so depressing, and I want it to be a jolly evening.’

  Juliet listened to her mother with amusement. ‘You mean we should only talk about things like the latest Noel Coward play, and is he really having an affair with Gertrude Lawrence?’ she mocked. Then she took a quick sip of champagne, the name Lawrence reminding her of Daniel again. I wonder where he is tonight? she reflected, painfully. In Paris with another gullible young woman? Maybe staying at the Ritz again? Her heart hurt as if it had been bruised, aching for the man she’d been forced to reject.

  Everyone seemed to arrive at once, and amongst them was Cameron Kincardine. Juliet studied him surreptitiously across the room, while he chatted to her parents and a friend of theirs. He looked more attractive in a dinner jacket than he had in a suit, she reflected. And he laughed a lot, which she liked. And he was very pleasant-looking. If she narrowed her eyes, so his outline was blurred, and his back view was turned to her, he could almost be mistaken for Daniel. This realization was suddenly comforting.

  ‘So what’s all this about?’ a voice said in her ear. Juliet turned round and there was Rosie, her expression quizzical.

  ‘Mummy’s matchmaking, isn’t she? Who’s the victim tonight? Or is it you, being thrust into the arms of another fortune-hunter?’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Juliet snapped.

  ‘There’s no need to be nasty!’ Rosie averted her face, her jawline now white and bony, whereas before there’d been soft rounded curves. Yet her drawn face and hollowed eyes made her more beautiful, in a remote way.

  ‘So, how are you feeling?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘We’re thinking of moving to the country.’

  Juliet nearly choked on her dry Martini. ‘The country? You’ve always hated the country, Rosie. You’ve always complained there’s nothing to do … you don’t play tennis, or golf, or even croquet; so what on earth are you going to do?’

  ‘It’ll be much better for the baby.’ Rosie tried to sound superior, grown-up. ‘Fresh air is what a baby needs. And a garden to play in.’

  Juliet still looked dumbfounded. ‘So you’re going to live among the ruins, in Cumbria? With Charles’s mother and sister?’

  ‘Of course not! How could Charles travel to the city every day from there? Granny is looking around Shere for us, to see if there are any pretty cottages on the market.’

  ‘What’s that Granny’s doing?’ Liza said brightly, coming up to greet Rosie at that moment.

  Juliet slid away. It was a conversation she didn’t want to hear. Her mother was going to be fearfully disappointed that Rosie was opting out of London to bury herself in the wilds of Surrey.

  ‘How are you, Juliet?’ Cameron greeted her, when he saw her.

  ‘Very well, thank you. How’s the house-hunting going?’

  His dark eyes lit up. ‘I think I’ve found a perfect place. It’s about three minutes walk from here, in Park Lane.’ He sounded like a child with a new toy.

  Juliet smiled, amused by his obvious pleasure. ‘Welcome to the delights of the neighbourhood,’ she said drily.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied seriously. ‘It’s got to be redecorated. It faces Hyde Park, but I’m sure I’ll get used to the noise of the traffic in time.’

  ‘What are you going to do with yourself when you’re down here?’

  ‘Oh … go to the theatre, I suppose. Concerts, exhibitions … and I’ll probably do some entertaining.’

  ‘How exciting.’

  He looked at her quizzically, not sure whether she was being sardonic or not.

  ‘Are those the sort of things you like doing?’ he asked hopefully.

  She played with her long rope of pearls. ‘I like going to restaurants, cocktail bars, nightclubs. Then there’s the cinema in the afternoons, and shopping, of course …’ She pretended to sound exhausted by her round of activity. ‘One just never stops!’ she drawled, wondering how far she
could push him.

  Cameron looked at her earnestly. ‘What … you and a group of friends, I suppose?’

  Juliet nodded. ‘Close friends.’

  His dark eyes scrutinized her face almost analytically for a long moment, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was a specimen, being examined under a microscope.

  ‘I see.’ His voice was expressionless. Then he reached for his glass, and drank his champagne as if he was actually thirsty.

  ‘So he’s the reason for this dinner party.’ Rosie cornered Juliet in her bedroom when she’d rushed up after dinner to touch up her make-up.

  ‘Who?’ Juliet unfolded a square of pink chiffon, to the centre of which a swansdown powder puff was stitched. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she calmly patted her nose and chin with it.

  ‘Who?’ Rosie echoed crossly. ‘Who do you think? The Duke of What’s-his-name! God, you and Mummy are so unsubtle. You get asked to his cocktail party, and the next thing, Mummy is cultivating him as a suitable husband for you.’

  ‘It’s not quite like that.’ Juliet renewed her scarlet lipstick, which made her mouth fuller and more voluptuous than ever. ‘I’ve heard he’s actually looking for a wife.’

  Rosie dropped heavily on to the side of Juliet’s bed. Her face was taut with barely controlled rage. ‘So of course you instantly imagined that you’re the only girl in London he will look at.’

  Juliet turned to look at her sister mockingly. ‘What’s it to you? You’re already married to a titled man, fulfilling all Mummy’s wildest dreams; it’s my turn now. You surely can’t begrudge me that?’

  ‘To hell with Mummy’s dreams,’ Rosie said bitterly. ‘Is he rich?’

  Juliet nodded. ‘Yes, definitely. He owns a quarter of Scotland from what I’ve heard. The family seat is Glenmally Castle, and now he’s buying one of those houses in Park Lane.’

  ‘And, knowing you, you’ll marry him, whether you care tuppence for him or not, I suppose.’

  Juliet frowned, and looked more closely at her sister. Rosie looked awful. Her skin had a greenish tinge, and her soft mouth seemed to have vanished into a thin line. Pregnancy did not suit it. ‘What’s the matter, Rosie? You’ve got everything, why do you resent my wanting a good position in life?’