The Snow Globe

by Judith Kinghorn

  It was a request she had been dreading.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “You do look well,” said Daisy. “You really do look years younger.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s the result of five months on the continent—and a new hairdo. But you have a new look, too,” Mabel replied, smiling back at her daughter’s reflection in the dressing table mirror.

  Daisy lifted her hand to her hair. “Yes, what do you think?”

  “I told you earlier, I like it . . . but I can tell that you don’t.”

  “No, it’s not that; it’s just that I sort of miss my old hair.”

  Mabel laughed. “Too late now.”

  Mabel’s room had its own distinct atmosphere and style and was filled with huge and reputedly valuable pieces of furniture. Ever fragrant, soft and warm, it was to Daisy an oasis of calm, imbued with Mabel’s soothing manner, her femininity reflected in its tones and textures. The large pink roses on the voluminous chintz curtains, the dressing table delicately shrouded in muslin, with its antique perfume bottles and silver-topped jars, its hairbrush, mirror and comb; the sumptuous bed, with its neatly piled pillows and lace-edged cushions. It was, had seemed always, the most sweet scented of havens.

  Daisy sat down on the chair by Mabel’s dressing table. She watched her mother as she brushed her hair. The new hairdo came from Rome. The dress she had worn that evening, purchased in Paris; the shawl, from Koblenz. Her nightdress, from a “divine little place” in the South of France; the small beaded handbag, lying on the table next to the bed, handmade in Venice. There would be a shipment of “trinkets,” Mabel said, arriving sometime soon. “Some souvenirs, a few little things for the house and some presents for you and everyone else.”

  Mabel, usually somewhat frugal and never overly indulgent with herself, seemed to have been on a spending spree across Europe. She obviously had no idea about the state of Howard’s finances.

  “Did it cost much . . . your trip?” Daisy asked tentatively. Discussing money had always been frowned upon at Eden Hall, particularly where Mabel was concerned.

  “I funded the entire expedition myself,” said Mabel proudly. “With the money my father left to me. Well, it wasn’t a lot, but it’s paid for my little adventure. And it was something I wanted to do for myself, without any financial help from your father.”

  Just as well, Daisy thought.

  “So tell me,” Mabel said, putting down her hairbrush, picking up a pot of face cream and turning to Daisy, “how are things between you and Benedict?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Mabel’s eyes widened. “Not sure? Not sure about what?”

  Daisy picked up a comb and ran her fingernail along its teeth. “Not sure about any of it, I suppose . . . not sure about him.”

  Mabel put down her jar of cream and swiveled round. “I thought as much. I think you need to bring me up to date . . . Your father told me you were happy, very happy, he said.”

  “Yes, I think I was, at first, perhaps . . .”

  Mabel sighed. “I did tell you; I told you when I wrote to you in March that I’d prefer you not to get yourself embroiled in any liaison until I returned. To be perfectly honest, Daisy, had I known what would happen, I would never have consented to your going to London. Never. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that I was instrumental in persuading your father.”

  “You said he put up no fight?”

  “Please, don’t interrupt me. It’s not just the fact that you’re too young to be married; it’s that Benedict Gifford’s so much older than you . . . and so very different. I really can’t for the life of me think what the pair of you have in common.”

  “You were younger than me when you married Daddy—and he’s thirteen years older than you.” Daisy had no desire to defend Ben or her mistake, but she could not allow the hypocrisy to go uncommented.

  Her mother stared at her. “We’re not talking about Daddy and I here; what we’re talking about is the rather frightful mess you’ve got yourself into during my absence. And anyway, things were very different then . . . I’m sorry, dear, but I simply don’t understand what you were thinking, or why your father gave his consent, and really, I do wish you had at least waited until I was home, until you could talk to me about it.”

  “He’s invested some money in the business—which, by the way, is in a bit of a mess, in case you didn’t know.” Daisy wasn’t sure why she said this, but she thought Mabel ought to know.

  Mabel affected a laugh. “My darling, you don’t agree to marry a man simply because he’s invested in your father’s business,” she said, shaking her head. She turned back to the rosewood mirror, rubbing cream into her face with renewed vigor. “I knew, knew when your father cabled me, knew the moment I read the words, that it was a mistake . . . and I blame him.”

  “No, don’t! Don’t blame Daddy, please . . . it’s nothing to do with him. It’s not his fault.”

  Mabel’s head turned again. “Nothing to do with him? You’ve just said he took money from that man and then gave his permission. And now you’re embroiled in an unsatisfactory engagement—one which will undoubtedly have to be called off. And that has ramifications on you, my dear. No girl wants to have had more than one engagement; otherwise, it looks sloppy and ill considered.” She slammed down the jar. “I knew I couldn’t go away, knew it would all go horribly wrong. That man is incapable of managing anything.”

  She had gone back to her old self and appeared to Daisy to be having a battle with her face now, wrestling with her cheeks and forehead and breathing much too rapidly.

  “I thought . . . I thought he appeared better—changed—at dinner,” said Daisy.

  “Oh, he’s probably still feeling sorry for himself, that I dared to go away and leave him here for six months. That’s all.”

  This, Mabel knew, was untrue, but she was cross with her husband about what they both now referred to as the Gifford Situation. In truth, she had been shocked by Howard’s appearance and manner when she returned. She had been expecting someone decidedly older than the rather handsome, lean man who’d met her at Southampton docks, the one who’d taken her so eagerly in his arms and kissed her—and not on the cheek, but on the mouth. Even now, if she allowed herself to think about that welcome home, it made her feel strangely giddy.

  Howard had told Mabel after Christmas and then again before she left that he intended to win her back. “Back from where?” she had asked.

  “Wherever you have been these past six years,” he’d replied.

  While away, she had sent him only the occasional postcard. She wanted him to experience her absence fully, the emptiness of that place without her there; to rattle about rooms, to sit alone each evening with only the sounds of the owls in the trees outside for company. She wanted him to know how all of this felt. She wanted him to have time to reflect on the past twenty-five years.

  “He hasn’t been to London much at all,” Daisy said now, “or not that I’m aware of.”

  “No, so I hear.”

  Daisy moved over to her mother. “Mummy,” she said, wrapping her arms round Mabel, “we’ve all missed you . . . and you know, we all fall apart a little when you’re not here.”

  Daisy had gone to her mother’s room that night hoping to avoid Ben. She wanted to tell her mother; wanted to say that the man had asked if he could come to her; that the hour was approaching and she didn’t know what to do. Sitting in Mabel’s bedroom, she knew the minutes were ticking by and imagined Ben already stalking the silent passageway beyond the closed door, reeking of brilliantine and cheap cologne. But Daisy said nothing, and when Mabel said she thought Daisy looked “a little overtired,” she had done as she was told—and gone to her room.

  It was shortly after midnight when the knock came.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Ben said, poking his head round the door and smiling, “it’s only me.” He
looked completely out of place and looked as though he felt that way, too.

  “Golly,” he said. “Not exactly the room I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting?” she asked.

  “Something a little bigger, grander.”

  “Look here, Ben,” she began, not altogether sure what she was about to say, but standing up from the chair at her desk, where she had been waiting.

  “I am,” he said. “I am here, I am looking, and I see a rather well-dressed Daisy . . . Isn’t it time good little girls were in their nightgowns and in bed?”

  He had dispensed with his jacket and tie, removed the collar from his shirt, which was unbuttoned, revealing the pale, mottled skin and wiry red hairs on his chest. He moved over to her, placed his arms round her waist. Predictably, his hair was wet and shiny; predictably, he reeked of cheap cologne—almost but not quite masking the smell of alcohol on his breath. His lips were stained blue-red from the claret and port he had been drinking that evening, and his speech was slightly slurred.

  “A little nervous, are we? It’s only to be expected . . . with a man in your room. Am I the first? Am I the very first man to come here?” he asked.

  Daisy nodded; he was, apart from Howard.

  “Well, here I am, your Valentino.” He ran the back of his hand over her cheek and pushed back her hair. “Sweet little Daisy,” he whispered as he lowered his mouth to her neck. “So innocent . . . ,” he murmured.

  “Ben . . . please, I don’t want—”

  Then, all at once, his mouth was over hers, his tongue forcing open her lips, a hand on her bottom, another on her breast.

  “Stop!” she yelled, turning her head, pushing at his chest with her hands. “Please . . . please stop,” she said, stepping away from him, stumbling over her chair.

  “What? I thought you said I could come here tonight.”

  “Yes, but not to maul me . . . not to maul me like some pervert.”

  “Pervert? Oh, for God’s sake! You’re wearing more clothes than your grandmother does on the coldest winter’s day. What the hell do you think I was coming here for? To read you a bedtime story and then kiss you good night?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know you’re a virgin, and I wouldn’t be marrying you if you weren’t, but to carry on like this with the man you are going to marry . . . well, it’s a bit much if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Eh?”

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  “Ha, very clever,” he replied. He walked over to the bed and sat down on it. “Look, I know this is all new to you, all a bit queer and strange to have a man in your room . . . but it’s me, Ben, and we’re engaged . . . and have I ever tried anything on with you? Have I ever been disrespectful or compromised you in any way?”

  He hadn’t.

  “Come over here,” he said, patting the bed. “Come along . . . don’t be silly. You’re not a child.”

  She wasn’t.

  She moved over to him, stood in front of him. “I need to tell you something, Ben,” she said quietly.

  He lifted her dress, ran his hands up her legs, over the tops of her stockings and onto her thighs. “That’s it,” he said, breathing deeply as he squeezed her flesh.

  “I need to tell you something,” she said again.

  He looked up at her. “Now, take off your dress, darling . . . and let me look at you. That’s all I want, you know, just to look at you . . . to look at my Daisy.”

  She stepped away from him again. “I’m very sorry, but I don’t want to do this . . . and I don’t want to marry you.”

  He stared up at her, smiling, and then he laughed. “You don’t want to marry me? Oh dear, you really are frightened. I hadn’t realized—hadn’t thought . . .” He paused. “You don’t like to be touched?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Yes, it is. I can tell. And I’m sorry I shouted, and I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you at the station today, but you should know I’ve had a very difficult time lately. You more than anyone should understand . . .”

  “I do, I do understand, but it’s not about that, Ben. And it’s not that I don’t like to be touched, don’t want to be touched . . . it’s just that it doesn’t feel right . . . with you.”

  “Oh, I see, with me. Now I understand . . . ,” he said, nodding, continuing to smile, his mouth taut. “Doesn’t feel right with me . . . ,” he said again. “Do you know what the word frigid means? If not, look it up in that dictionary of yours over there, because you need to know . . . You’re just like your mother, but at least Howard makes up for you both, scattering his seed about London.” He leaned forward, glancing about the room, scanning the carpet with incandescent eyes. “So who do you want to be touched by, then? Is it that half-wit servant—is he the one you fancy, hmm? Is he the one, Daisy? Because I saw the way you were with him today, staring at each other with your own little private memories . . . Is that where you’ve set your sights?”

  Daisy said nothing.

  “So I’m expected to take this . . . suffer this humiliation, and all because you fancy some servant . . . What a bloody joke.” He glanced up at her. “Have you nothing else to say? Is that it?”

  “This has nothing to do with Stephen.”

  “Stephen . . . nothing to do with Stephen,” he mimicked. “You know, I did wonder . . .” He laughed, shook his head. “Such a coincidence, I thought, him being on that train, you not being there to meet me. And then, when you disappeared off from dinner tonight . . . I thought, well, I’ll just take a look, just see where she’s got to, that little Daisy of mine . . . and I saw you, saw you come back from the woods with him. Romantic rendezvous, was it? Did you like him touching you then? Yes, I bet you did . . . Bit of a cliché, if you ask me.”

  It was quick, over in a second. But she’d always remember the sting of his hand on her cheek.

  Her Valentino.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  When Mabel walked into Howard’s study, he quickly removed his feet from the leather-topped desk and began to shuffle papers.

  “A glorious day,” he said, smiling over at his wife. “What you’ve been hoping for . . .”

  Mabel closed the door. “I need to talk to you. About the Gifford Situation.” She sat down opposite him. “Daisy tells me the man’s invested money in the business . . .”

  “That’s right. When I promoted him last year he was keen to have a stake in Forbes and Sons. I told him that he’d be eligible to buy shares at a very reasonable price.”

  “And . . . after he’d done this, after he’d invested his money, you gave your permission for Daisy to become engaged to him?”

  Howard’s eyes flashed back at her. “What are you inferring? Do you really think I’d take money from a man—any man—in . . . in some sort of payment for Daisy? My God, Mabel, what do you take me for?”

  “No, I don’t think you’ve done anything of the sort,” she said quickly, “but I do wonder if the man thought he could buy Daisy and buy his way into this family.”

  Howard glanced away, frowning. “I intend to pay him back on his investment, and give him a good return, too.”

  “I thought the business was in trouble, especially since the fire.”

  Howard turned to her. “It is, and has been for some time, but that’s where I have been clever,” he said.

  He went on to say that he knew his family business had no future and that he’d decided some time ago that there was no point throwing good money after bad, no point pouring private money—money from other investments and property—into Forbes and Sons. The business had had its day, he said.

  He would inform Ben Gifford of the situation in the coming days, and he intended to write to all of the company’s employees, to explain and give them as long a period of notice as he was able. But he felt guilty, he said; some of th
e men had worked there since his father’s day. But what his father—and grandfather before—could never have foreseen, never have imagined, and what he had for some time refused to accept, was the decline of the empire. England may have once ruled the waves, but without any empire, and with the predicted expansion in air travel, the British shipbuilding industry’s days were numbered.

  “But is there nothing that can be done to . . . to save it?” Mabel asked.

  Howard shook his head. “Even if I were to rebuild the factory, we’ll be watching the business go bust within the next year or two.”

  Mabel closed her eyes for a moment. “I hadn’t realized . . . You never said.”

  “I knew at Christmas. And I intended to talk to you about it, but then . . . well, I didn’t want to burden you or spoil your trip.”

  “Oh, Howard . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m afraid it’s the way of the world,” he said, and then he opened a drawer, pulled out a folder.

  “I’ve reorganized our finances . . . and set up a trust. It ensures Eden Hall is protected and that, after I die, you and each of the girls will have an income and that you’ll be able to continue living here.”

  But Mabel had no wish to look at the documents in front of her, and no wish to think of a time after Howard.

  She sighed and rose to her feet. “Not now,” she said. “Let’s discuss all of this another time, not today . . .” Then, placing her hands on the desk and leaning over it toward him, she said, “I’m so sorry about the business, Howard. I know how much it means to you, and how heartbreaking it must have been for you to make these decisions.”

  “It’s a business. Not a wife, not a family . . . and not nearly as heartbreaking as it would be for me to lose either of those.”

  Mabel smiled. “You still haven’t explained to me, haven’t told me why you gave your permission for Daisy to become engaged.”

  Howard stared back at her. “Because I let her down . . . Because I wanted her to have the opportunity to make her own decisions . . . and perhaps make her own mistakes and learn from them. And because if I’d said no, she’d have hated me even more . . . and been all the more determined. But it won’t last. She doesn’t love him.”