The Love Knot

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘In that case you must admit him, Blanquette.’

  Dorinda knew that to admit Harry to her drawing room, even though he was still her ‘usband, was a great mistake, but she was looking so particularly ravishing in a promenade dress of tiny white and blue check with a silk ceinture, and she was so awfully bored with no-one seeing her in it. That was how tedious her life had become during Ascot week – she had taken to trying on her promenade dresses indoors.

  In contrast to the beauteous sight Dorinda was certain that she herself presented, Harry came into the room looking perfectly dreadful. Grey and gaunt, white and wispy – not at all the thing.

  ‘Harry! What is the matter? You look terrible.’

  ‘I am not at all right, Dorey.’

  He spoke in such a pathetic voice that Dorinda was immediately alarmed, and of course his calling her Dorey in such a sweet unaffected way touched her heart. No-one had called her by her petit nom for so many months.

  ‘Sit down, Harry, sit down.’

  She could see immediately that he hardly had the strength to do even that, so she went to him quietly and lowered him into a seat. As soon as she had made him comfortable she rang for Blanquette and told her to bring some chicken broth up to the drawing room on a tray, while she herself sat down beside her husband and held his hand.

  ‘Ever since you left me you have been haunting me, Dorey.’

  He looked into her eyes and his own filled with tears.

  ‘Everywhere I go I see your picture in the fashionable shop windows. They even sell it on the street corners in the cheaper districts. Boys are selling pictures of you for as much as sixpence or a shilling. I should have been able to forget you, but I can not. Try as I might, Dorey, you are haunting me.’

  Dorinda felt terrible. She understood for the first time just what a punishment she had handed out to her hopeless husband when she left him for Gervaise Lowther. With gathering remorse she remembered how often her mother had warned her that Harry Montgomery would be bereft if she left him; and now that she looked at him she realized that her mother had been right. He had always been weak and a fool, but now he was stricken.

  ‘Why do you not have some of our cook’s good chicken broth? That will stop you feeling so out of sorts, Harry.’

  She spoke to him as she would have done to a young relative who was in a bad way. Not that she had any young relatives, but she imagined that if she had that was how she would have spoken, in a maternal voice, while looking as kindly as she could.

  As they waited for the soup to come up from the kitchen Dorinda asked him, in that same kindly voice, and hoping that conversation might help to take his mind off his condition, which was obviously very serious, ‘How are your butterflies, Harry?’

  ‘Oh, bugger butterflies,’ he said, brokenly. ‘I have not been able to look at one of the damn things since you left me. To tell you the truth they might as well be moths now, I hate them so much. You see,’ he said, looking into his wife’s beautiful face as if he had seen heaven once more, ‘you see, I really only loved butterflies, Dorey, because they reminded me of you. Loved the blasted things, darting and flying from plant to plant with their gorgeous colours, because they were so like my Dorinda, my Dorey. If you only knew how much I loved you…But now you have gone, just like the butterflies. With the summer, my beautiful summers with you have gone.’

  ‘It is still summer, Harry. Look out of the window. The sun is shining a little after the rain of this week.’

  ‘Not for me, Dorey. Anyway’ – he turned his head away – ‘who can blame you? You have money now, and a fine house, and your own maid, and a cook. You have a carriage and the smartest pair of thoroughbreds to pull them, and you look heavenly, so who can blame you?’

  Blanquette placed the tray of soup and crisp rolls and cold butter on a small table and brought it to his side.

  ‘Monsieur …’

  Dorinda picked up the soup spoon for him, for he was making no effort, and said conversationally, ‘Do you remember, Harry, when you won twenty pounds at cards and you came home and gave me ten? Do you remember that?’

  ‘Twenty pounds.’ He sipped at the spoon gratefully. ‘Twenty pounds will not bring you what Lowther has given you. He has been able to give you everything. All the things you must have wanted so much.’

  ‘Now, Harry, be a good fellow and take your broth. It is very nourishing, you know.’

  He nodded, white faced, but just the effort of a few sips seemed to take it out of him terribly, and he rested back, his eyes closed, and gave a great sigh.

  ‘It’s no good. I’ve had it, Dorey. I’ve done myself in, and I know it. Been living it up for so long since you left me I’m more dead than alive.’

  Dorinda leaped to her feet.

  ‘Well, never mind that. You really can not stay here and be ill, since I truly do not own the house, although it is mine to live in.’

  In not much more time than it would have taken Harry Montgomery in his present state to drink a bottle of wine, Dorinda had packed some of Gervaise’s nightclothes and other items befitting a gentleman of a certain station into Harry’s Gladstone bag, and it was not long before she had them both dressed for the street and seated in the back of her Dorinda Blue leather lined carriage, trotting off towards Sister Angela’s Nursing Home.

  ‘But madame!’ Blanquette called after her mistress, suddenly remembering her other duties. ‘Madame, what shall I tell Monsieur Lowther when he come back?’

  Dorinda wound down the window of the carriage and stared down at her maid.

  ‘Tell Mr Lowther I have gone to see a sick friend.’

  Blanquette watched the carriage with its roguish coat of arms trotting off towards Sister Angela’s nursing home. The horses’ black, tightly knotted manes glistened in the light rain, and what with the wheels and the sides painted smartly black, it seemed to the maid that Harry Montgomery had just stepped up not into Mrs Montgomery’s carriage, but into his hearse.

  ‘Le pauvre, he is nearly dead, and rien à faire,’ she murmured, crossing backwards and forwards between two languages as she sometimes did at moments of crisis.

  Two hours later Gervaise Lowther called at his mistress’s house, and on tenderly enquiring for her was told that she had gone out some time before.

  Having placed his hat and cane on the hall table, Gervaise promptly took them up again, for he could not abide to be by himself, let alone left bored and waiting.

  ‘Where has Mrs Montgomery gone, and with whom?’

  The maid smiled coquettishly up at him. At least, looking down at her, or trying not to look down at her, Gervaise realized that this was what she was trying to do.

  ‘She has told me to say to you that she has gone with Mr Montgomery, monsieur.’

  Gervaise closed his eyes briefly against the sight of Blanquette’s flirtatious expression. She was such a plain Jane after Dorinda’s beauty that it was almost unbearable. He longed for Dorinda, not just her, but the sight of her. But since she was not there he might as well hurry on to some wretched family dinner, and listen to a lot of claptrap about hats and dresses at Ascot and how Princess Alexandra was looking, or not looking, and similar twaddle.

  He scribbled a note and gave it to the maid before leaving. But Blanquette, having read it the moment she closed the door behind him, promptly, and with a great deal of satisfaction, threw it into the fire.

  After all, she thought, as she watched it burning, if Madame Montgomery could be kept in great luxury, why not Blanquette herself? All she needed were the trappings of the rich, provided by a rich gentleman, and she too could turn herself into a beautiful, kept woman. She just needed the trappings.

  Dorinda, arriving in a great hurry at Sister Angela’s, had not considered any details. All she had thought of was that she must get Harry some medical help – quickly, quickly.

  Once there, however, she wished that she had not acted in such haste, especially when she found herself confronting Lady Angela, who was stati
oned – there was no other word for it – behind her desk. Dorinda, although seated some way away, was made to feel very much ‘on the other side’ of Society.

  Lady Angela Bentick was tall when standing, and such was her presence, even when seated, that she still gave the impression of looking down on whomsoever she was addressing. Facing her, Dorinda was quite thrown. She simply could not understand why this beautiful, patrician woman with her blue eyes, her immaculate appearance, and her man’s fob watch pinned to her dark Victorian dress would have wanted to take up nursing, let alone defy Society and run a home for the sick and the dying.

  ‘I am sorry for your husband, but I have no beds,’ she was saying to Dorinda, but Dorinda, being Dorinda, and among many other things half French, simply chose not to believe her.

  ‘I too am sorry, Lady Angela,’ she said, pretending a courage that she certainly did not feel and fixing her with her own violet blue eyes, ‘but you will have to find my husband a room, or at least you will have to find room for him somewhere. He is, as you can see, at death’s door. At the very least he must see one of your doctors immediately.’

  ‘Dorey, please ...’ Harry implored quietly, only to sink back in the large leather chair in which he was seated and stare listlessly at the floor. ‘We really must not impose on Lady Angela. Ascot week must be a busy time for a hospital, people enjoying themselves, bouts of indigestion and what not.’

  ‘It is not an imposition, Mr Montgomery, it is, I am afraid, an impossibility. I am sorry, but we are at the moment in the middle of something of a crisis here, and there are simply no beds.’

  At that moment the door behind Lady Angela’s desk opened, and Dorinda immediately smelt not just a rat, but the strong scent of something familiar, which after a few seconds, such was its pungency, she recognized as eau de Portugal.

  She had smelt that scent before, she was quite sure, and very recently, so recently that she could almost feel the silk of the dress that she had worn that night, and see the decorations of the gentleman. So sure was she that she stood up and leaned forward impulsively as she saw a hand, covered with rings, beckoning silently to the still seated Lady Angela.

  ‘Sir!’ Dorinda cried, not just impulsive but imploring, because of one thing she was sure, and that was that the future King of England and Emperor of India had a kind heart and would help her out of this terrible situation. ‘Sir! Please put in a good word for me with Lady Angela. I know you will.’

  The Prince of Wales paused by the now quite open door, frowning, as Lady Angela curtsied, and Harry Montgomery struggled breathlessly to his feet to bow, and Dorinda smiled winningly from the depth of her own, best and deepest Court curtsy. She knew that she had chanced everything on the kind of impertinence and cheek which will always carry the day with a man if you happen to have a nineteen inch waist and a pair of large violet coloured eyes, not to mention a tip-tilted nose, charming, white, even teeth and a wonderful smile.

  The Prince of Wales immediately, and gallantly, stepped in. Knowing that only the most desperate

  plight would have compelled Mrs Montgomery to appeal to him so cheekily, he said to Lady Angela, ‘Might I put in a good word for my little acquaintance? I can guarantee she plays the pianoforte most beautifully, and surely that alone would be of great benefit to your patients?’

  Lady Angela looked round at Dorinda momentarily, and for a second it seemed that, looking at Dorinda and her charms, she was imagining that it was not just Dorinda’s piano playing that had so delighted His Royal Highness.

  ‘Sir, as you well know, I can refuse you nothing.’

  ‘Merci, ma belle dame,’ he murmured, and closed the door behind him as quickly as he had opened it.

  There was a long silence. Dorinda had the good sense not to say anything and Harry had the equal good sense not to cough, for one coughing fit and Dorinda knew that he would have given Lady Angela Bentick all too good an excuse to refuse to give him a bed, such was the very real terror of the spread of tuberculosis among the upper classes.

  ‘Very well.’ Lady Angela nodded. ‘I will take your husband, Mrs Montgomery, but you must understand, we can only nurse here.’ Having taken in Harry’s shaking hands, his high colour, and his general air of having slept in his clothes, she looked straight at Dorinda. ‘We cannot cure.’

  She quickly rang a small, ornate brass bell on her desk. So brief was the ring that Dorinda knew immediately that there must have been a nurse standing outside her door the whole time.

  ‘Miss Lynch, please conduct Mr and Mrs Montgomery to the room overlooking the gardens at the back of the house.’

  Dorinda followed Miss Lynch with Harry shuffling along beside her for all the world like some old down and out from the Nicol.

  As they walked down the pale green corridors behind the elegant figure in its really rather appealing nurse’s uniform, Dorinda wondered what it could be that would attract such young women to tend sick people, and indeed why someone so obviously patrician as Lady Angela Bentick would want to own a nursing home. She herself had never understood wanting to be around people who were ill. As a matter of fact she had no wish to be around Harry at that moment, but when all was said and done he was her husband, and she was grateful to him for marrying her, when possibly no-one else would have done, given the unholy nature of her mother.

  For her part, looking at the young woman whose husband was so obviously at the very least an inebriate, and at worst a physical wreck, Leonie could not help wondering at the optimism of her sex. Why would a beautiful girl such as Mrs Montgomery give her hand and her heart to such a worthless individual?

  Of course, she realized at once that he must be very rich, or Mrs Montgomery would surely not be dressed in the very latest fashion, a walking dress of such elegant cut, and a hat of such heart-stopping style. As Leonie stepped aside to allow the patient and his wife to pass into the large, elegantly furnished room where Mr Montgomery was going to be nursed, she could not help sighing inwardly at the perfection of Mrs Montgomery’s hat, such was its beauty.

  ‘Will you be looking after me?’

  The husband was now staring up at Leonie as he collapsed thankfully on the bed.

  ‘Yes, I and another two nurses.’

  But seeing what Mrs Dodd had always called that look on the face staring up at her so helplessly, Leonie found her heart sinking.

  And as Mr Montgomery said, his voice trembling a little, ‘How reassuring to be in gentle nursing hands at last’, Leonie could not help realizing that it was most unlikely that she would be looking after him for very long.

  Meanwhile Lady Angela was dealing with her illustrious patient with her usual firmness.

  ‘You must eat less at supper, Sir, and try to do without your lobster at tea, whatever the temptations of Mrs Keppel’s cook. Lobster before sundown is not a good idea.’

  ‘You are very censorious on an old body.’

  ‘You are as young as you choose to feel, but Sir will undoubtedly feel younger if he is less eager at the table.’

  Lady Angela smiled at her bearded patient and, taking one of his heavily ringed hands in hers, stared at his nails.

  ‘I think Sister Nursey should give those a little trim, would you not agree?’

  His Royal Highness sighed and nodded.

  ‘You are very strict,’ he said, happily.

  ‘For your own good, Sir. Remember the nails tell us everything about the body, and Sir’s are pink and perfect today, and we want them to stay like that, do we not?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  The Prince of Wales looked around Lady Angela’s sitting room. It was always so cosy and so comforting with her, so unlike anything else he could currently enjoy. With his mother growing older by the day it seemed to him, for no reason that he could really understand, that his own feelings of mortality were increasing.

  ‘Am I to have ...’ He left his sentence unfinished.

  ‘Eggies,’ Lady Angela agreed. ‘Cooked in a cup, with some softly t
oasted dippers, and a honey bun to follow.’

  His Royal Highness stared up at her as she bustled about her sitting room, the look in his eyes almost pathetic with gratitude.

  ‘And my nails are as pink as you would like?’

  ‘Quite as pink,’ came the reassuring reply. ‘Now, shall I trim your beard a little for you?’

  ‘No-one does it with such gentleness,’ he told her, using the German word. ‘It is always so gemütlich here, alone with you. And it is marvellous to know that I am here without anyone knowing, which is very good, for I arrive in a hansom cab, a commoner and not a future king.’

  ‘You like to play hide and seek with your equerries, do you not?’

  The Prince of Wales would have nodded, but his eyes being closed, and a delicious feeling of being loved and wanted for himself alone having come over him, he said nothing. It was bliss for him to be seated, listening only to the sound of Lady Angela’s little sharp scissors snipping at his untidy bits and waiting for his eggies in their cup to arrive. These simple joys in a life loaded with sophistication gave him the badly needed reassurance that he so craved.

  It was true. Sister Nursey was right. He did love to play hide and seek. He always had. Hiding had always been his greatest joy as a boy. Hiding from his tutor, from his father, from his mother, from everyone, always dreaming that he would one day find himself alone with a warm and loving person who would be the companion without demand, the mother without censure, the nurse without strictures. Someone who would not want anything from him except that he just be a small boy again, and not a future king and emperor.

  And after tea there might still be time for a more grown up form of love, but if there was not it would not really matter. Sufficient was his attachment to Lady Angela, sufficient was her attention to his inner fears, fears that he could not voice to anyone else in the whole world – not even to his wife who, poor creature, was deaf and a little silly. Certainly not to his mistress, Mrs George – with her he feared such behaviour would be seen as a weakness. Emphatically not to courtiers or socialites, or to his people – in front of them he must be strong and suave. No, it was only Sister Nursey to whom he could come and be a frightened little boy again, be made to ‘eat up’, told to be good, fussed over, comforted in every way.