The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  Lewis said, ‘Good idea,’ and bounded after him.

  The four ladies sat awkwardly together. If Dottie hadn’t been present, would Cecilia have said something about Guy giving June gifts? Dottie felt her presence was a constraint on all of them. Perhaps June sensed it too, for she turned to Dottie now and said, ‘Leo doesn’t share my enthusiasm for gardening, sadly, although he is quite keen on art and encourages my interest in photography. He bought me a wonderful—and fearfully expensive—new camera for Christmas. I must show you. He said we ought to take a trip to Scotland in the summer so that I can take come really lovely pictures of the wonderful scenery—the lochs and mountains.’

  ‘I’d love to go to Scotland,’ Imogen said, then, and they all began to talk of holidays and the joys—and trials—of travelling.

  With a brief, ‘May I?’ Dottie picked up the gift that June had just unwrapped. The book was about alpine gardening and contained a large number of photographs, some of them beautifully in colour. On the flyleaf was the inscription, written in a surprisingly neat hand in black ink: ‘To dearest June, ever yours, Guy.’

  Modern young people thought nothing of calling one another ‘dearest’, and ‘darling’ all the time, like the actors they saw each week at the cinema. And it didn’t mean a thing, it was just a casual endearment used for all their friends and acquaintances. Half of Dottie’s friends called one another darling or sweetheart, and it had no significance beyond that of an affectionate nickname. But Guy—for all his casual, lazy, youthful ways—was ten years older than Dottie and her friends. And she assumed June as about the same sort of age as Guy. Dottie’s feeling was that Guy meant every word of that dedication.

  The problem was—did June reciprocate his feelings? No, Dottie told herself, the real problem was, did Leo know his brother was in love with his wife? Judging from his expression, she rather thought he did.

  Chapter Nine

  The family habitually attended church in the village and this Sunday was no exception. Dottie was glad of a break from the gloomy house as well as the tension amongst its inhabitants.

  But when they arrived at the church, she was embarrassed by the way all the villagers waited outside in the drizzle and chilly breeze, until Cecilia Cowdrey—Lewis had been called away to town on business unexpectedly, or had he, Dottie wondered—led the rest of the family inside. Only then did the dutiful incumbents of the estate’s former village follow them inside out of the weather. It was all too archaic. The curate was a Yorkshireman, and whilst he showed a proper respect for the Cowdrey family, Dottie wondered if there wasn’t also a trace of amusement in his manner, as if he too felt the whole hierarchical charade was ridiculous in this day and age.

  But at least they were out of the house, and no one was arguing. Yet. Dottie fully expected a few barbed comments about Lewis’s absence once they all got home again. The church was a lovely old building, typically cold inside, but with the sense of peace old buildings held. Dottie used the time to indulge in pleasant daydreams of the warehouse back home in London and her plans for it. If she slipped into a gentle doze about halfway through the service, no one seemed to notice. When the congregation stood to sing a familiar hymn to a frustratingly unfamiliar, awkward tune, Dottie awoke, surprised to find that Gervase and William were not there urging their opposing armies of geese to attack one another.

  When the service was over, they hung about waiting for Cecilia to graciously acknowledge a few people, and have a short conversation with the vicar, then they returned to the house for lunch, joined as always by Leo and June. But to Dottie’s relief, Leo and his wife returned to their own abode as soon as lunch was over, promising to return later for dinner, which was a special occasion as Cecilia had invited a number of guests, largely for Dottie’s benefit. The rest of the afternoon was a sleepy, pleasant one. Until...

  ‘I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes,’ her aunt said at about half-past three. ‘Shall we go into the morning room?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dottie, with a sinking feeling. It was rather like being summoned to the headmistress’s office at school.

  ‘I feel the time has come to discuss your situation in greater depth,’ Cecilia Cowdrey said, settling herself in a commanding position facing both the door and the rest of the room. She indicated the chair opposite her. Dottie obligingly seated herself. They were facing one another once again. Dottie could hardly see her aunt over a large vase of flowers, and with the little crowded table between them it was like surveying the opposition before going in to battle. Dottie steeled herself. She was on the point of speaking when her aunt continued. ‘Now that you know the truth about your parentage, I am making certain arrangements.’

  Dottie wasn’t sure what to expect, but she felt on edge, convinced this could not be something she wanted to hear. Her aunt continued, ‘You will of course come here to live. My husband will continue to be known to you as your uncle. I shall outwardly remain your aunt. In private, you may call me Mother. If you wish.’

  After another moment of silence, her aunt directed a dissatisfied look at her. Dottie said nothing, though well aware it was intended that she should. But what could she say that would not immediately cause grave offence?

  After a few more seconds, Cecilia said, ‘Well? Have you nothing to say?’

  Picking her words carefully, yet with an uncomfortable sense of merely postponing the inevitable, Dottie said simply, ‘I’m sorry. I’m still thinking of what to say.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Cecilia Cowdrey. She was displeased, but not able to find any actual fault in Dottie’s words. She continued, ‘You will of course be married from here, seeing that your fiancé is an eminent person.’

  ‘We’re not actually engaged,’ Dottie clarified. ‘We’re just—walking out together.’

  This Cecilia could object to—and did. In the iciest of tones she said, ‘You are not a kitchen-maid, Dorothy. You do not walk out with a gentleman. If you have been seen in public with this man, it ought to be given out immediately. Think of your reputation!’

  There was so much that offended Dottie in this, that she didn’t know where to begin. In her head, she’d thrown the vase of flowers on the floor and shouted, ‘Only my mother calls me Dorothy!’ For a moment she thought she’d actually done it, but a glance showed the lilies—hateful flowers—were still safely there in the centre of the table. She contented herself once more by keeping her tone mild as she said, ‘As you say, he is an eminent man, and Mr Parfitt is both a respectable, and well-respected, gentleman. I’m sure my reputation is perfectly safe.’

  Dottie expected an outburst of displeasure following this, but it wasn’t exactly as she expected.

  Cecilia gave a slight snort, and said, ‘He is not quite as respectable as you seem to think, according to my husband and Leo. But he is certainly eminent. The sooner you are married the better, I’d say. For your reputation—and for his.’ Her aunt got up, and crossed the room to put on the light, for the room was now almost in darkness. That done, she rang the bell. She resumed her seat. When the maid came, Cecilia ordered tea. The maid bobbed and departed. Cecilia turned towards Dottie, hands slightly outstretched as if in appeal.

  ‘These are my wishes, Dorothy. I know it’s difficult for you to think of me as your parent, and I’m fully aware that it will take you a few days to get used to being here. But you have all the time in the world to come to terms with this, but it’s not as though you are a child any longer. We’ll send to London for the rest of your things, of course. Once you have some familiar belongings about you, you’ll feel more at home.’

  This time Dottie couldn’t help herself. ‘But—I’m here on a visit,’ she said, as if explaining what had previously seemed obvious. ‘I’m only here for a short while. You invited me to visit, or rather Imogen did, and I came. But not to stay. I can’t possibly stay.’

  Her aunt was affronted. Of course. Dottie had known she would be. She had instinctively known from the moment they met that she would h
ave to choose her words carefully, that offense was always just a few syllables away, and her aunt was at all times ready to view every comment as an attack. Inwardly Dottie sighed. They were about to have a row. She knew it. After what her aunt had already said, Dottie wondered if thoroughly offending her aunt might be the only way she would be able to return to London.

  The door opened. The young maid, Win, who’d woken Dottie that morning, came in now with a massive tray. Dottie jumped up to hold the heavy door open as it seemed about to bump the girl and send everything flying. Her aunt frowned but said nothing.

  The maid, her back slightly to Mrs Cowdrey as she handed Dottie a cup, mouthed thank you and winked at her. She took up the teapot, ready to pour, but Mrs Cowdrey dismissed her. As soon as the door closed behind her, Cecilia said, ‘Dorothy, it’s not appropriate for someone of your standing to hold a door for a servant. Kindly refrain from demeaning yourself thus.’

  Mrs Cowdrey poured Dottie’s tea, handed her lemon, which Dottie declined, and Cecilia frowned again when Dottie added milk to her cup.

  ‘Clearly there are a great many differences between the way my sister and that man have brought you up, and the way you should have been brought up in this household. I shall endeavour to overlook some of your lighter failings, and concentrate on those which will prevent you making a success as your future husband’s hostess.’

  Dottie hadn’t paid attention to anything Cecilia said after ‘that man’, which she supposed was her aunt’s own special way of referring to Herbert Manderson, whom Dottie had always thought of—and still thought of—as an absolute sweetheart.

  She sipped her tea. It was very hot. But not as hot as her temper. Her aunt was talking—still—but Dottie heard nothing of what she said. After consulting her own feelings again, she decided to throw caution to the wind. She set down her cup, and said, rather bluntly, ‘How do you plan to explain suddenly taking me into your household? What do you think my parents will have to say about this? Surely you can’t possibly imagine they will agree? Even if they did—which they won’t—I have no intention of agreeing to your plans. Leaving aside the fact that I shall be of full age in a few months, you cannot genuinely expect me to uproot my life, turn my back on my beloved family, and my work, and settle down here in this household.’

  Her aunt stared at her in disbelief. For once she seemed to have nothing to say.

  ‘Who was my father? And don’t bother to say you won’t tell me. I have a right to know.’ Dottie had blurted it out before she even knew what she was going to say. The question seemed to hang there for a second, rather like something unpleasant neither woman could look away from. Cecilia Cowdrey was icily indignant.

  ‘We do not speak of such...’

  ‘Really?’ Dottie challenged. ‘You seem to feel able to speak of anything that suits you. You make all these demands. You insult me, my family and the way they brought me up. Well, now it’s I who have something to demand. Tell me who my father is.’ She was appalled at her own temerity, but couldn’t help feeling a sense of triumph too, and she was on tenterhooks to hear her aunt’s response. She was confident her aunt would answer. Until...

  Cecilia Cowdrey was on her feet, outrage making her rigid and pale. ‘I certainly shall not discuss...’ She was walking towards the door.

  Dottie actually laughed at that. And could have laughed again at the sheer astonishment on her aunt’s face. Had no one ever stood up to her before? She said, ‘I’m afraid that won’t work with me. I must insist that you are open and honest with me. I’m perfectly content to return home tonight if you prefer to keep silent.’

  She felt quite proud of this little speech. Not that she had any intention of staying at St Martins house another day in any case. This visit was a disaster. It had been a mistake to come. Her life was in London. But she needed information. Her aunt was certainly not going to have things all her own way. Cecilia fixed her with a look of sheer hatred.

  The door was opening. Cecilia, with her back to the door now, said, ‘How dare you! How dare you come here and make these threats against me!’

  The door closed again, and whoever it was, perhaps a servant, Dottie thought, had evidently decided to come back later.

  Dottie glanced at her aunt now and felt dismayed.

  Cecilia Cowdrey, grey-faced and breathing heavily, clutched the back of the nearest chair so tightly, her knuckles turned white. Dottie was afraid her aunt was about to faint.

  ‘Aunt Cecilia!’ Dottie said at once, going forward, stretching her hand out. ‘Don’t upset yourself. I only wanted to know the truth.’

  Her aunt took a breath, then stepped back from Dottie, saying, ‘No!’ Her hand was outstretched as if to fend Dottie off. She took another breath. Then in a low voice, as if afraid someone should overhear her, she said, ‘I admit you have a right to know. I suppose I didn’t really expect you to leave Lavinia and... But I just need...’ She halted. With an attempt to get back her earlier haughtiness she added, ‘I shall think about what you’ve said. And now, I am going to lie down for a while before our guests arrive for dinner. I have rather a bad headache.’

  Everything seemed more or less normal, Dottie thought, looking around the dinner table. There was a jolly buzz of conversation. The food was excellent as always. Her aunt appeared at ease and in a good mood, and although she and Dottie had exchanged few words since the ‘discussion’ earlier, her aunt didn’t appear to be resentful or annoyed with her. Lewis had returned from his brief business trip. Leo and June were chatting happily with a laughing plump young woman and a tall thin young man. Dottie had already forgotten their names, but the young man was a friend of Leo’s, and the woman was the man’s fiancée.

  Across the table, Imogen sat beside June’s father, Sir Stanley Sissons, the Sudso soap king, who was regaling Imogen with a very long anecdote that sounded more than a little dull. Imogen smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals, and the gentleman seemed to be enjoying himself. He frequently glanced across the table at Dottie. Dottie, encountering his look, smiled back. She made herself a silent promise to talk to him after dinner, to give Imogen a break.

  Once dinner was over everyone made their way to the drawing room, and within a few minutes, other guests began to arrive, invited for evening drinks. The room grew hot and noisy.

  Dottie was on the point of keeping her promise to entertain Sir Stanley, but saw that he was busy talking to his daughter and son-in-law. She heard her name being called, and saw Imogen beaming at her. Beside Imogen was a young fellow who could only be Norris Clarke, Imogen’s beloved.

  ‘Dottie, may I present Mr Norris Clarke. Norris, this is Dottie Manderson, the cousin I’ve been telling you about.’

  Dottie wasn’t sure if she imagined the slight inflection on the word cousin. No doubt Imogen had already explained their precise relationship privately. Norris came forward eagerly and pumped her arm with enthusiasm, telling her several times he was delighted. His hand was warm and plump, rather like the rest of him, she thought, and all in all he was rather like a cherub come to life: plump, smiling, curly-haired and rosy-cheeked. His eyes held mischief until they lit on Imogen, when his look became one of undisguised male passion.

  He was perfect for Imogen, Dottie thought. If she had not already known he was in his mid-thirties, she would have taken him for her own age—his roundness made him seem school-boyish and cheeky. Yes, she thought, Imogen would have a jolly life with him, and if it could start soon enough, before Imogen was too much older, that life would be filled with plump, rosy-cheeked mischief-filled children too, and Imogen would have the family she craved. Dottie felt more than ever that she had to support Imogen in her quest for a life of her own.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr Clarke,’ Dottie said, grinning at him.

  He waved politeness away. ‘Oh please, do call me Norris. Er—I’ve heard so much about you from my dear—er—from Miss Cowdrey.’

  ‘I understand you’ve been helping Imogen restore the old scr
een in her sitting room.’

  That it was a topic close to his heart was obvious by his beaming response. ‘Oh yes. I say, Imogen, do you think anyone would mind if we went up to take a look?’ Before Imogen could answer, he was looking back at Dottie again, saying, ‘I left Imo—Miss Cowdrey some homework the other day, and I’d like to see how she got on with it.’

  ‘You’re going to love it,’ Imogen told him as they reached the hall. She hugged his arm. He grinned back at her. ‘I’m sure I shall.’ They gazed into each other’s eyes for a few long seconds. Dottie felt somewhat de trop. He led the way upstairs, clearly perfectly at home in the house.

  As they followed him up the stairs—Dottie averting her eyes from his ample buttocks—Imogen grabbed her arm in a tight grip and whispered rather loudly, ‘I badgered Daddy to invite him. Isn’t he a perfect pet?’

  Dottie almost laughed at the amount of adoration Imogen managed to cram into a whisper. She nodded. ‘He’s very sweet, and perfect for you.’

  Imogen was pink again, and just had time to say very softly, ‘Oh do you really think so?’

  Norris was already holding the door open, and both ladies went into the room ahead of him.

  They spent a good half hour admiring the screen. Dottie was surprised by how tense Imogen was about it. Was she really so anxious that Dottie should admire their handiwork and approve? Norris stood beside the screen, leaning on the top with his elbow, as if he were both holding it up and presenting it. After a moment Dottie realised he seemed proprietorial. As he explained everything they’d done—the removal of the old fabric, the repairs to the wooden frame, the varnishing of it, followed by the search for the perfect new covering fabric, then how Imogen had embroidered and decorated it before Norris had tacked it all into place, and the further embellishments he had left her to do in the two weeks since he had been to the house—Dottie couldn’t shake off her sense that something was not quite right, and that his stance, though not unusual, seemed odd in some way she couldn’t quite figure out. It felt all wrong, and she had an odd urge to leave, as if she’d stumbled into something too private for outsiders. His smile hadn’t changed, but there was something in his eyes, something calculating and wary. She had the sudden thought that perhaps he was not so sweet and charming after all.