The Velvet Glove

by Mary Williams

  Kate had met him only once, briefly, since her return from France at a rose show organized by her father. With her mind already concentrated so romantically on the Hon. Jon, his presence had not registered, except as a somewhat arrogant individual who gave her the impression of owning the whole event. This hadn’t been at all a fair assessment, of course. He’d done nothing obvious to impress his power on the public; in fact rather the reverse, by merely sauntering round, taking an interest in the exhibits without much socializing. But there was something about him – something difficult to explain – that seemed to place him as a man apart – different; a little irritating perhaps, but impossible completely to ignore.

  And how fortunate, at this moment, Kate told herself, with her head whirling, that it should be so. Her dignity was restored with a surging through her of bitter-sweet pride as her body responded to the firm pressure and rhythmical movements of his. Triumph and a wild sense of abandonment possessed her. Her feet seemed to float on air. Like the wings and feathers of some gorgeous tropical bird the crimson silk gown billowed and swirled brilliantly through the crowd of dancers. Even when the strains of the orchestra died on a last quivering note, Kate and Rick were still moving.

  Then, very slowly, his arm round her waist slackened into grudging release, and they stood for a moment, quite still, until her dizziness cleared.

  He glanced down at her for a moment before offering his arm and guiding her from the floor. She smiled at him with a contrived sweetness about her lips, aware of faces staring and doing her best to impress. Let them think what they like, she decided defiantly; she didn’t care, or about Jon either.

  Following three dances with Cassandra Jon approached her for a polka, which she declined coolly, saying she was sorry – she was otherwise engaged. Rick supported her, and Jon merely shrugged, then moved back sharply to Cassandra. With a faintly possessive gesture Ferris momentarily touched her waist.

  ‘What a risk I took,’ he said, ‘in not filling your card earlier. If you hand it to me I’ll amend the error immediately.’

  He held out his hand and Kate automatically took it from her bag and gave it to him.

  He glanced at it briefly and placed it in his pocket.

  ‘Shall we take a breath of air?’ he suggested. ‘It’s rather warm in here, don’t you think?’

  She agreed, and together they walked conspicuously from the ballroom into the great hall, and from there through a lounge where a few elderly guests were gathered, with two or three couples who were not dancing. A glass partition led into a large conservatory which had further doors opening to the grounds outside.

  A drift of heady perfume from exotic plants subtly intermingled with that of wines and scents of bodies and food hung insidiously in the warm air as Rick guided her through.

  ‘Do you want to rest?’ he said. ‘Or take a stroll? But you haven’t your shawl, have you. I’ll go back for it—’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was emphatic. ‘I’m used to fresh air. I love it. You needn’t worry. I shan’t be cold.’

  With a shrewd yet enigmatic glance at the rich white and rose of her skin and dark eyes brilliant with excitement and glowing life, he had to agree.

  ‘Very well. If the worst comes to the worst there is always my coat for your – bare shoulders.’

  She flushed and placed her right hand across the left breast letting her gloved fingers rest near her throat. A wave of unexpected self-consciousness swept through her.

  ‘I suppose you think I look rather – gaudy,’ she remarked childishly. ‘My mother didn’t approve of this red. Or the cut. But—’ She swallowed and when he said nothing immediately she added quickly, ‘I’m nearly nineteen you know. Old enough to know my own mind, I think.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He led her through the door into the sweet air of the gardens, saying, ‘No need for explanations, Miss Barrington. If you must know, I approve your choice; you look quite magnificent.’

  ‘No I don’t. You’re laughing at me. I – I wish you wouldn’t. As a matter of fact—’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he interrupted, ‘you’re in the middle of an emotional crisis, I believe. It’s the Honourable Jonathan, isn’t it? – oh, don’t worry. No one else would guess or have an inkling. But I have eyes in my head you know, and I’m a man of the world. I noticed your expression when he whirled away with your pale-faced little cousin. She is your cousin, isn’t she?’

  ‘A sort of adopted one. But it isn’t really your business, is it? Or the dress. Or Jon. Or me.’ She spoke haughtily to disguise her discomfort.

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not yet.’

  They were walking down a narrow path between hedges of some night-flowering shrub. The scent was overpowering, almost hypnotic. She stopped walking for a second.

  ‘What do you mean, not yet?’

  ‘Simply that I hope we can be friends in the future. Perhaps more. Who knows?’

  She brushed a curl away from her cheek. ‘It takes time to become friends – real friends, Mr Ferris.’

  ‘Not for some people. I’m not the patient sort. Neither I’m sure are you. And for Heaven’s sake, less of the “Mr Ferris”. Rick’s my name, short for Richard. And I’m damned if I’m going to go on calling you “Miss Barrington”. Oh, don’t worry’ – he lifted a hand with a negative gesture – ‘I’m not about to ravish or even kiss you, nothing familiar, although I’ve a shrewd idea some of the old girls – pardon me, ladies – in the lounge will be thinking so – that’s inevitable, looking like you do, and me being what I am.’

  She glanced at him speculatively, then remarked, feeling more at ease, ‘You speak like some kind of brigand. Not the murderous kind, exactly, but rather wicked.’

  ‘I can be, if the occasion warrants it. There are things I don’t like which rile me. Seeing an attractive girl like you for instance, hurt by some conceited aristocratic young bounder like the Honourable Jon.’

  She pulled her arm sharply from his.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Oh, I have to if we’re to understand each other. I’ve been quite content for you to use me for the one evening, Kate, but after this any sharing basis wouldn’t be my cup of tea. I hope that’s clear.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Nothing’s clear tonight. I’m just – can’t we talk about something else instead of feelings?’

  He laughed. ‘Of course. Choose the subject. I’ll listen.’

  She pulled herself together. ‘It would be nice to go for a walk – a real walk, but of course, it would be stupid, wouldn’t it – dressed like this? I mean—’

  ‘Slightly. We could share my coat, of course. But if you don’t like tongue-wagging it would be better not. Come along now; we’d better get back. Take a good sniff of fresh air then we’ll brave the crowd again.’

  She stood for a moment, turned her head and stared into the soft damp dusk. ‘I expect Beacon Hill’s that way. You could see it I expect from the tump where the gazebo is.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your home is at Woodgate, quite near here. Near the Beacon, I mean. Ours is—’

  ‘Why the geography lesson?’

  She shrugged, and gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just – think we’re very lucky to live round here.’

  ‘There are more spectacular parts of the country.’

  ‘But not like this. This is different, mysterious – secret somehow – perhaps because it’s so old. Funny, isn’t it, to think that all the rocky tumps of hills were once great volcanic mountains. Fancy! and right in the middle of England. They say it became King Lear’s land. Did you know that?’

  ‘My dear young lady! – enough of history. There’s another waltz starting. Listen!’ From within, above the confused murmur of movement and voices, the rhythmical sounds of Strauss beckoned. ‘And I’ve a fancy to have my arm round your waist.’

  His fancy took over almost immediately and minutes later when Kate had tidied her hair they were entering the ballroom.r />
  The birthday event continued until two in the morning, and during the remaining hours Kate, for the sake of appearances, danced twice with Jon. It was quite clear to her that his thoughts were elsewhere; at moments his eyes strayed from her searching for – well, of course, for Cassandra – Kate told herself bitterly – pale, colourless Cassie who’d been invited to Charnbrook only from a sense of duty, and wearing her dress. Hers. Perhaps Kate’s figure stiffened. Jon suddenly forced his attention upon her. ‘It was jolly of you both to come,’ he said with a slight inflection on the ‘both’, ‘your cousin’s a top-hole little dancer. I hear her mama has a dressmaking establishment.’ Kate had a desire to scream establishment? – it’s nothing. She helps her mother – her adopted mother – in a back room of a dreary house in a big dirty town, and that dress she’s wearing is one of my cast-offs. Don’t you remember – it was me you saw in it first?

  But she kept the flow of words back. She must retain her dignity at all costs. And anyway there was no point in trying to carry on any conversation against a background of music and dancing.

  She and Rick spent most of the remaining hours together, either dancing, relaxing in the conservatory, or at the buffet. Nearing the end of the evening, when she accidentally dropped one of her white velvet gloves, he picked it up and said, ‘I will keep this as a memento,’ and put it in his pocket.

  But at the finale, when the bars of the last waltz faded, she felt she really knew him little better than at the beginning of the party.

  Her father’s Daimler was waiting in the drive below the front terrace steps, with Adam standing by to open the doors of the car for the two girls.

  Ferris took Kate’s hand and pressed it lightly before saying, ‘Au revoir. Be good.’ She didn’t look at his face, just nodded, and with her cloak pulled to her chin hurried to the car. She glanced back impatiently for Cassie, and saw her at the top of the steps, just out of the door with Jon trying to retain her attention, obviously whispering some endearment. Rick had disappeared. Cassandra tore herself away, and a minute later was seated by Kate on the lush back seat of the car while Adam cranked the engine.

  Presently they were moving through the gates of the grounds and had turned past the lodge into the lane towards the main road.

  Adam drove cautiously, never motoring above twenty miles an hour which was considered by most people quite fast for such a large car, especially at night.

  Nothing to Kate seemed quite real any more. The rocky tumps of Burnwood Hills emerged fitfully against the landscape of trees and misted moonlight as they passed down the thread of roadway. The excitement and tension of the evening had left her exhausted emotionally, and it didn’t help matters when Cassandra said softly, ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’ Crossly, although she knew.

  ‘Jon.’

  ‘He’s all right. I told you you’d be looked after. The Wentworths know how to behave.’

  ‘He didn’t make me feel only like that though.’

  Kate’s head gave a jerk round. She hadn’t meant to look at Cassie; she didn’t want to. But something in the quiet voice, a certain smug sweetness, was too much for her.

  Cassandra was staring ahead as though hypnotized, spell-bound, by some image or memory withheld from Kate. In the changing play of shadows reflected through the windows, of course, it was impossible actually to see her expression, but the stillness of the slim form swallowed in the blue velvet – the confident assertion and atmosphere only emphasized Kate’s conviction that Cassandra had somehow managed to inveigle herself into Jon’s affection and esteem. And it was ridiculous; she had no looks, no background, nothing at all in keeping with the Wentworth’s world. How had she managed it? Pity, perhaps, and a certain slyness that had played up to a sympathetic strain in Jon’s nature.

  It must be that. Yes, Cassie had been sly. A real sly puss.

  In spite of her tiredness Kate had a sudden desire to slap her cousin sharply across the cool pale cheek conveniently next to her.

  But she again restrained herself.

  One didn’t, after all, resort to vulgar brawls in a Daimler in the early hours of the morning. All the same – I detest her, she thought in a rising wave of anger. Yes, I do.

  As quickly as it had flared up, the hot wave of temper died, and she was momentarily ashamed. Jon had a right to dance with whom he liked; that he had chosen Cass instead of herself proved she lacked something the other girl had.

  Or was it the red dress? Had it been wrong, as her mother had suggested?

  Sitting miserably silent for the rest of the journey back to Beechlands she knew she’d never wear it again. She’d give it away; one of the maids could have it, or perhaps, ironically, Cassie. It had been an expensive dress to buy. Such a gift could absolve her from any guilt on her part for having felt such violent animosity against her cousin.

  Cassie hadn’t been aware of it anyway, she told herself defensively. In her quiet way she was far too concerned with her own feelings to think of anyone else.

  *

  It was past three before the girls got to bed, and another hour passed before Kate managed to sleep. Yet she woke at her usual early hour, dressed and went for a walk before breakfast in an effort to get her memories of the evening’s events into perspective. A dull ache of disappointment and sense of betrayal filled her. How could Jon have acted as he had? How? And why? And with Cassie of all people, dull colourless Cassandra? Even if the red dress had been a mistake if he’d possessed a shred of feeling he wouldn’t have allowed it to spoil what had promised to be friendship between them. Maybe she shouldn’t have flaunted herself quite so blatantly with Rick Ferris, or have refused to dance with him the first time he’d asked her, following his early choice of Cass. But she’d had to show him that Kate Barrington had no intention of being treated as second best.

  Oh, well! – there’d be other times. Surely there would be. Her spirits lifted a little. Cassie would be gone in a fortnight anyway.

  But, as things turned out, Cassie wasn’t. After Kate returned from her walk that day a letter came from Cassie’s mother urging her to stay a little longer at Beechlands, and this was agreed.

  The autumn was a golden one that year, and comparatively mild. Never had the forest area looked more beautiful.

  In the early mornings the trees emerged orange and brown through thin veils of silvered mist, and the tip of Beacon Hill shone bright in the rising sunlight beyond Woodgate where Rick Ferris had his home. Occasionally Kate rode her mare, Beth, in that direction and cantered up the slope to the summit. The atmosphere never failed to stir her imagination and senses. There, in the far past, prehistoric man had built earthworks, and millions of years before that the range of Burnwood Hills had erupted and risen as great volcanic mountains. In the centuries of recent times religious orders had thrived in peace and built sanctuaries. Travellers of Romany blood in bright caravans still wended their ways through shadowed secret lanes leading from Larchborough to Lynchester, tethering their horses and making camp en route before joining fairs or doing business in the towns selling brooms and posies from door to door.

  During the days immediately following Cassandra’s decision to spend a further indefinite period at Beechlands, Kate acquired a regular habit of riding Woodgate way, hoping she might encounter Ferris – not because she felt consciously attracted, but to captivate once again and retain the balm he’d given her hurt pride at Isabella’s dance. She had an uneasy feeling that Cassie and Jon had made some kind of pact to meet again, and the thought not only hurt but irritated her, making her increasingly restless and anxious for an outlet to her repressed emotions. Kate was unlucky, however, in any idea she had at that time of a chance encounter with Ferris. Being an astute business man embroiled, among other things, in producing a new newspaper, The Lynchester Monitor, he was off in the early hours to the town, and frequently did not return to Woodgate until a late hour, or perhaps not at all when he took the train to London for some meeting or othe
r with business colleagues or rivals.

  So Kate was left frustrated and bitter, pondering again on the annoying situation concerning Cassandra and Jon.

  The growing rift between the two girls had widened, though neither spoke of it. Kate was too proud to enquire where Cassie was going when she set off with her pad and paint-box, presumably for a session of sketching, or to suggest accompanying her. She had never done so in the past, and it would be too humiliating to show curiosity now. She didn’t think much of Cassie’s delicate watercolours anyway. All the same, there was a difference in Cass these days, not only in looks which had a kind of ethereal secretive quality about them that was tantalizing, but in behaviour.

  Before the occasion of the dance the timetable of her days had been fairly predictable; she’d either spend the mornings wandering about the expansive Beechlands gardens making pencil sketches of flowers and wildlife, or take a certain ramble to the nearby copse, returning early for lunch, then, in the afternoon mooning – Kate’s expression – in the library with a book. Occasionally they went together with Emily on a shopping expedition to Lynchester. Now her routine had changed; in fact there was no definite routine at all. One moment Cass would be in the conservatory perhaps, or arranging flowers in the lounge, the next she’d have slipped off, and if wanted casually for some reason, was nowhere to be found.

  And her disappearances were so quietly and effectively contrived that Kate was disturbed, suspecting the reason.

  ‘I think she’s meeting someone,’ she said to her mother one day, when her cousin couldn’t be located. ‘Haven’t you noticed how – odd – she’s been lately? Always slinking off by herself, and sort of – well, self-satisfied.’

  Emily laughed the question off. ‘My dear girl, Cassandra’s always been the quiet sort. She likes her own company, especially when she’s got immersed in some idea for a new painting—’

  ‘Pooh! I don’t believe it’s a painting at all.’

  Emily looked mildly surprised. ‘It’s not like you to be so bothered about Cassie,’ she remarked quietly. ‘Why is it Kate?’