by Kitty Neale
A Daughter’s Ruin
Kitty Neale
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2020
Copyright © Kitty Neale 2020
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb/Alison Aldred (figure), Shutterstock.com (background)
Kitty Neale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008270940
Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008270957
Version: 2020-01-22
Dedication
For my three beautiful great grandsons – Mikey, Kobi and Finley.
Gorgeous boys who I couldn’t be prouder of!
Even though I don’t get to see you as often as I’d like, I want you to know how very special you are. You mean the world to me and I love you dearly.
I know you’ll each grow up to become talented young men with kind hearts – you make the world a better place.
All my love,
Grandma xxx
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Kitty Neale
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
London, Clapham, July 1964
‘Constance, how dare you come down to dinner with bare legs?’ Henrietta Burton Blake chastised her seventeen-year-old daughter on Friday evening.
‘Oh, Mother, surely with just the three of us there’s no need for formality.’
‘I don’t care if there are three or thirty for dinner, standards must be kept.’
Constance could hear the slight slur in her mother’s voice and guessed she’d been drinking. It was the only clue. She was sitting rigidly upright, wearing a dated brown silk dress and her usual pearls. Her grey, tightly permed hair was immaculately groomed, but with grey eyes too, she looked colourless. It felt warm and stuffy in the dining room, but her mother appeared cool and composed, whereas Constance felt a trickle of perspiration running down her neck. ‘Mummy, it’s too hot for stockings.’
‘Please don’t argue with me. Now go back upstairs and dress properly for dinner.’
Constance sighed heavily but did as she was told and reluctantly returned to her bedroom. Her room was on the third floor of their imposing four-storey house, and her window overlooked Clapham Common. It was almost eight o’clock in the evening but still light as Constance looked briefly out of her window. She saw families with children and dog walkers enjoying the lovely summer evening. She longed to be out there too, but instead would have to sit in with her parents. She knew she’d be bored, her evening spent watching her mother getting steadily more inebriated, and her father showing increasing disapproval until he’d leave to go to his club.
After rummaging in the top drawer of her dresser and refusing to even contemplate wearing a suspender belt, Constance found her stockings and peeled them up her legs, fastening them just above her knees in a twisted, untidy knot that would be covered by her calf-length plain blue dress. With only her parents to see her, she didn’t care if the stockings wrinkled, and once summer was over she hoped to be allowed to wear tights. They were the in thing now, not silly stockings with girdles or suspender belts. She knew her mother still wore a boned corset, no doubt accounting for her rod-like stance, but as she was stick-thin Constance thought it ridiculous and unnecessary. With the way she dressed and her overbearing manner, it felt to Constance as though her mother was still living in the 1940s instead of the ’60s. The girls at college wore modern column dresses that fell just above the knee, or Capri pants, but Constance knew her mother would never allow her to wear them. There was one concession to modern living – a television – but it was only allowed on after dinner, and for about an hour before they retired for the night.
‘At last,’ Henrietta snapped when Constance appeared in the dining room. ‘Mary, you may serve us now.’
‘Yes, Madam,’ answered Mary Flinch, a fifteen-year-old girl with frizzy hair who had come to them from a nearby children’s home. She slept in one of the rooms in the eaves on the top floor and was very subservient, but strangely enough, Constance had found, Mary seemed happy to be working for them.
They also had a cook, Ethel Jones, who had a small flat next to the kitchen in the basement. Ethel had worked for the Burton Blakes for many, many years, along with her husband, who had been their gardener and handyman until his premature death six years earlier. Constance was unsure of Ethel’s age but guessed she must be around sixty. Short and tubby with salt-and-pepper hair, rosy cheeks and a ready smile, Ethel radiated warmth – a stark contrast to Constance’s mother’s coldness.
Constance twisted a strand of hair around her forefinger as she thought back to her childhood. She’d always felt unwanted or in the way, and had often fled her mother’s bad moods by sneaking down to the basement to find comfort in Ethel. The woman would make a fuss of her, offering cuddles and giving her the affection she craved.
‘How many times have I told you to stop habitually doing that to your hair?’ her mother barked, snapping Constance from her thoughts.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ she replied dutifully and sighed heavily as Mary placed a bowl of soup in front of her. Though no longer a child, Constance still loved to escape to the basement. Without the confidence of other girls her age, and after years of being belittled by her mother, she was excruciatingly shy. This had led to her being pi
cked on at school, and now at college she kept herself to herself, finding it difficult to form relationships.
Henrietta looked at her brown-haired, plain-faced daughter and she too sighed. She had been forty, and had given up on having children, when Constance had been conceived. Instead of being overjoyed, she’d found motherhood trying, and Constance an inconvenience. It hadn’t helped that Charles, her husband, had refused to employ a nanny so she’d been forced to give up many of her social events to care for the child. On top of that, when Constance was old enough, Charles refused to send her to boarding school, saying that for a girl it was an unnecessary expense. Henrietta felt that he was punishing her for not giving him a son, though, much to her distaste, they had continued to try. The efforts had proved impossible. Now she was fifty-seven and Charles sixty-four, they were no longer intimate. That suited her, but she still found his cold and distant manner towards her difficult.
‘Mary, wake up,’ she snapped, taking her angst out on the servant. ‘Clear these soup bowls then bring our second course.’
At least Mary rushed to do her bidding, Henrietta thought with some satisfaction. She might not have been able to give Charles a son, but he couldn’t complain about the way she ran the house. Once Mary had cleared the bowls she took them out to the dumbwaiter, sent them down to the basement kitchen and waited for it to return with their next course.
‘Constance, you could have made more of an effort with your appearance,’ Henrietta complained. ‘You wouldn’t look so plain if you did something with your hair. Instead of letting it just hang straight down to your shoulders you could try putting it up, or waving it.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, Hettie,’ said Charles. ‘I wouldn’t call Constance plain.’
‘Well, she’s hardly a raving beauty, and if she wants to attract a husband she’ll have to make herself more presentable,’ Henrietta replied as she scrutinised her husband. As always, Charles was immaculately dressed, in a grey suit, white silk shirt and tie. He was a tall man, grey-haired and green-eyed, his bearing imposing. Henrietta thought to herself that Constance hadn’t inherited his looks, or hers, and she could only describe her daughter as mousy.
‘Constance is still at college and is far too young to think about marriage,’ Charles said firmly.
‘I don’t approve of young women in commerce. That leaves marriage, and I want her to marry well. She may be young, but it wouldn’t hurt to consider some suitors and arrange introductions.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Hettie, those days are gone. Nowadays young ladies pick their own husbands, and I am sure when the time comes Constance will choose wisely,’ Charles said as the lamb and vegetables arrived already plated. He frowned with disapproval. ‘What’s this, Hettie? The meat should be on a platter and the vegetables in serving dishes.’
‘I’m well aware of that, Charles, but as we only have two servants now, certain standards are impossible to maintain. Cook has time to rest between preparing our meals, but Mary has been on duty all day and she still has to wash the dinner dishes before she can retire. Therefore, the less washing-up she has to tackle, the better.’
‘It’s what she’s paid to do.’
‘So you think that working from eight in the morning until ten at night is acceptable?’
‘Come now, Hettie. Mary doesn’t work those hours. She has every afternoon off.’
‘She used to, Charles. But since you insisted that I get rid of the other cleaner, Mary has had to take on her duties too.’
‘I have to pay for a gardener and a handyman when necessary so I must cut back on household expenditure,’ Charles said grumpily, rising to his feet and throwing his napkin on to the table in disgust. ‘If you insist on employing another cleaner again, go ahead. However, her wages will have to come out of your allowance.’
‘But … but …’ Henrietta blustered. Her allowance was paltry as it was, and if Charles cut it she’d barely be able to afford the smallest of luxuries.
‘It’s either that or you do the cleaning yourself, Hettie. Now I’ve had enough of listening to you whining. I’m going to my club.’
With that, Charles marched out of the room and Henrietta was left sitting with her mouth agape. What did Charles mean when he said he was having to make cuts? Was he having money problems? No, of course not, she told herself. He was an investment banker on a high salary, advising a top City of London financial organisation. There was also this house and the sizable amount of money he’d inherited when his parents had died. He was just being mean, as always, still punishing her for not giving him a son. But how dare he suggest that she take on the cleaning! That was going too far, and she wasn’t going to put up with his miserly ways any longer.
Charles left the house and immediately his mood lifted. He wasn’t going to his club. Instead, he was going to Battersea to see his mistress. He climbed into his Bentley and, before driving off, patted his inside pocket. The necklace hadn’t cost the earth, but he hoped it would pacify Jessica. She had been his mistress for four years now – four years during which her demands had cost him a pretty penny. To add to that, his investments were not performing as well as he’d hoped, so like it or not he’d been forced to rein in his expenditure.
As he reached Clapham Junction, Charles was deep in thought. When it came to Jessica Cottle, he was no fool. He knew she was only with him for what he could give her, and so far that had been substantial. He paid the upkeep on the opulent flat in Battersea he had purchased for her to live in, opposite the park in a sought-after area. He also gave her a very generous allowance, five times more than he gave his wife, but despite that Jessica often ran up bills on his Harrods account. Charles knew he had to put a stop to her spending, but feared losing her. She enthralled him, held him in the palm of her hand, and though he was no spring chicken, she was still able to arouse him to sexual heights that he had never experienced before.
When he arrived at the flat, he parked, smiling in anticipation.
‘Charles,’ said Jessica, jumping up from the sofa as he let himself in and walked into the lounge, ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I can see that,’ he replied, frowning at the young man who had obviously been seated beside her. His eyes then went back to Jessica and, seeing that she was only wearing a red silk robe, he felt a surge of anger.
‘Charles, this is Eric, my brother. I don’t think you’ve met. He’s a merchant seaman and as he has a bit of shore leave he called round to ask me out to dinner. I was just about to get ready.’
Charles relaxed. Yes, of course, he could see the resemblance. Both had almost black hair and eyes, though Jessica’s glossy locks hung almost to her waist. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Eric.’
‘Nice to meet you too, but I’d best be off. Perhaps we’ll see each other again some time.’
‘Please, don’t leave on my account.’
‘Nah, that’s all right. I only called in on the off chance that Dai … Jessica wasn’t busy.’
‘I’ll see you out, but come round again before you go back to sea,’ Jessica said quickly, escorting him out of the room and into the hall.
Charles could hear fierce whispering and once again frowned. He felt he’d arrived at an inopportune moment and had interrupted something. He just didn’t know what.
‘Bloody hell, Daisy,’ hissed Eric, ‘that was a bit too close for comfort.’
‘Don’t call me Daisy. I hate that name and changed it to Jessica. It sounds a bit more classy.’
‘If you say so, but you’ve been Daisy to me since we were kids.’
‘Yes, well, we’re not kids now and I’m on to a good thing here. I don’t want you ruining it for me.’
‘I won’t do that, but I ain’t seen you in years and you’re as gorgeous as ever. It was a bit of luck bumping into you.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ she whispered. ‘Charles might hear you.’
‘I nearly choked with laughter when you introduced me as your brother. It was quick thinking thou
gh and he obviously fell for it.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s the first thing that I could think of. Now bugger off or Charles might wonder what’s keeping me.’
‘When can I see you again?’ Eric asked, persistent.
‘You can’t. It’s too risky.’
‘It needn’t be. Look, I’ll go for a drink and then hang about until he leaves.’
‘No, Eric.’
‘I ain’t taking no for an answer. I’ve fancied you for years, and when I signed up for my first trip with the Merchant Navy, I was gutted when I came home to hear you’d buggered off.’
‘Can you blame me? You know what my parents were like.’ Jessica cast her eyes to the ground.
‘I heard rumours, talk of your dad being violent, but that was all.’
‘He used to take his belt to me, or use his fists, but I ain’t got time to go into that now. Please, Eric, you must go,’ she pleaded with urgency.
‘All right, but after a dodgy marriage I’m footloose, fancy free, and not about to lose sight of you again. I’ll see you later,’ Eric said, walking out and closing the door behind him.
Jessica sighed. It had been lovely to see Eric and he was as handsome as ever, but she’d made a silly mistake inviting him to the flat. If he came back she’d have to send him away again. As she had told him, she was on to a good thing with Charles, and after years of living in poverty and worse, she wasn’t about to give it up.
Chapter 2
Constance watched her mother make another gin and tonic, but said nothing. She’d learned a long time ago that the less said when her mother was on at least her third drink, the better. The gin affected her in two ways: she’d either become snappy and argumentative or turn maudlin, lamenting her lost youth and difficult life.
Constance quietly left the room and went down to the basement kitchen. She didn’t usually disturb Ethel during her time off in the evenings, and hoped she wouldn’t mind. She walked in and frowned when she saw Ethel sitting on a chair with her swollen feet raised on a stool. Poor Ethel, she thought. The woman’s life was a stark contrast to that of her mother’s, who’d known nothing but luxury. ‘Oh, Ethel, your feet,’ she exclaimed.