The White Marriage Page 10

  ‘I am sorry it is not grey flannel, which would have suited your purpose a great deal better,’ Mary was now saying. ‘But nevertheless I believe that this will make up into just the right kind of coat and skirt that will be most useful to you, Arietta, really I do.’

  ‘I may have some savings—’

  ‘Never mind your savings, dear, really. Never mind any of that for now. You will need them for gloves and shoes, and train fares, for going up to London to see people, for cups of tea on the train, and so on. One’s money goes nowhere when one is in search of work. I will guarantee that once we have you looking as you should do, you will land a very good position as someone’s social secretary. We don’t want you letting down the side, now, do we? You must put your best foot forward for Rushington, eh?’

  Mary patted Arietta on the arm. It was only a very light pat, but as far as Arietta was concerned it might as well have been a bear hug, so much did it mean to her. She now knew that Mrs Chantry wanted her to do well, that she thought she could do well, and what was more and what was better, she was prepared to help her.

  For the next few days Arietta came in and out of the Chantrys’ cottage for fittings, and both Mary and Arietta became more and more excited as the suit – or coat and skirt, as Mrs Chantry called it in the old way – took shape. In the excitement, Arietta quite forgot to ask after Sunny, and Mary was only too relieved not to have to talk about her.

  As Arietta stood having first the pattern, and then the toile, followed by the material with linings, and all the other paraphernalia, tried and fitted, refitted, and retried, and she stood in front of Mrs Chantry’s dressing mirror, Mary talked to her instead about the kind of more sophisticated fittings that would take place in Paris.

  ‘Now if this was a gown being constructed at Dior, dear, first would come Brivet’s tulle, then Abraham’s organza – to prevent the scratching of the silk stockings – and finally silk pongee to line the skirt.’

  Arietta did not like to admit that she did not know exactly what silk pongee was, so she did her best to imagine it, and quickly came to the conclusion it must be a very special French silk.

  ‘Of course, that is only the beginning,’ Mary went on, speaking as always through her dressmaking pins. ‘The dresses fit so beautifully because they make corsets individually for each of their ladies; these fit inside each individual piece. To look at a woman in a Dior dress one would almost imagine her to be perfectly made, which of course she is not. The average wealthy woman who goes to the House of Dior is just as short-legged, flat-chested, or over-plump on the hips as the average poorer woman – the only difference being that at Dior they can so mould the corsets fitted inside the gowns that they can deceive even the men paying the bills that they are married to perfectly proportioned ladies!’

  ‘How nice that must be,’ Arietta sighed.

  ‘I cannot rival Dior, alas, but I shall try to make this suit your elegant little figure,’ Mary added, holding up the skirt to view the tacking. ‘Besides, the long flowing lines are so pretty on the young, and no need for a young girl with your silhouette to have to do much more than wear really well-cut clothes with a good silk lining. Now, if you don’t mind going up to see Sunny, dear …? Nowadays she seems to spend the whole time in her room.’

  Arietta went upstairs, and found Sunny, who was seated in a chair staring out of the window at the distant view of the Downs. The room was small, and there was no other chair, so Arietta sat down on the bed.

  ‘You look a bit peaky, you know, Sunny,’ Arietta told her after they had greeted each other in their usual way.

  ‘I do, don’t I?’ Sunny agreed in a vaguely triumphant voice. ‘I’ve hardly been downstairs since Pa lost his rag with me. I keep out of his way. Talk about icicles coming from the ceiling. He is not at all amused at the moment. Doesn’t even ask me to go out for a spin with him in the Vauxhall. And my so-called fiancé has gone off the radar map as a result, I should think.’

  They both contemplated John Chantry’s parental fury and its aftermath, which appeared to have contributed to Mr Wyndham going off the radar map.

  Sunny looked out of the window again. ‘Growing up can be a bit beastly, can’t it?’

  Arietta couldn’t agree. She thought growing up was wonderful. It offered a chance to escape from Rushington, to make her own way.

  ‘Remember when we used to go for bicycle rides across the Downs, stopping off to buy lemonade and crisps? How wonderful it all was, not complicated like now.’

  ‘It’s not complicated, Sunny. It’s just become a bit complicated because of – you know – because of you getting yourself into a bit of a stew about this Mr Wyndham person. Do you think you really want to marry Mr Wyndham?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you must.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ Sunny stated obstinately. ‘He is very handsome, and he wears really lovely clothes. You should see his cashmere driving coat. It is so stylish.’

  Arietta frowned. She loved clothes, but she wasn’t quite sure that admiring a person’s coat was a good reason for marriage.

  Leandra seldom frowned. She was too aware that extremes of expression caused wrinkles, and for this reason even smiling was kept to a minimum whenever possible.

  ‘Would you not consider me going to see Mr and Mrs Chantry, on your behalf, darling?’ she asked Gray.

  Gray smiled. ‘Leandra, you may be beautiful, you may have eyes the colour of Fabergé blue, and you may be the most talented hostess in London and Sussex, but not even you could change John Chantry’s mind. He is adamant.’ He took Leandra in his arms and whispered in her hair, ‘Let us forget the Chantrys and concentrate on matters nearer to both our hearts and bodies.’

  Leandra smiled over Gray’s shoulder. He was a brilliant lover, and he was looking particularly handsome that afternoon. He was wearing perfect grey suiting, a white shirt with a stiffened collar and just the right amount of cuff showing gold links of an impeccable design. As befitted a gentleman, Gray’s aftershave lotion was subtle, not overpowering, and from Trumper’s, but for once she was less than interested in Gray’s style, or his physical attributes. Without his perhaps realising it, he had challenged her, and if there was one thing Leandra could never resist, it was a challenge.

  Who was this John Chantry, she asked herself after she had checked her appearance in her drawing-room mirror.

  Leandra and Gray were about to go to an art exhibition of some rather outré sculptor, and she wanted to make sure that her dress was everything that it should be because there would be everyone who was anyone there. The dress she had chosen to wear was very pretty, the top made of white organdie with a wide turn-back cuff, and the skirt billowing out from a slim silk belt into a mass of silk pleats, the whole hand-embroidered with flower garlands.

  Who was this John Chantry, she repeated to herself, as Gray undid the belt on her dress.

  ‘Gray …’

  He eased her out of the whole delightful creation, which she had just finished admiring, before starting to make love to her.

  ‘We will be late for the …’

  But she had already forgotten what it was that they were going to be late for as she followed him through to her dressing room, with its Madame Récamier chaise longue, and its eighteenth-century paintings of French courtesans.

  Nevertheless, as they lay together a little later, and despite his having pleased her inordinately, the question of ‘Who is this John Chantry that he should stand in my way?’ returned to her mind.

  And again it came back as they attended the opening of the art exhibition, looking very much the perfect couple. Mrs Dilke Fortescue, and one of her regular escorts – Mr Gray Wyndham. Everyone in polite London circles accepted that Leandra had many different escorts, that she attended art exhibitions, first nights, and race meetings with a variety of elegant men. It was just how it was.

  Even so, the notion of John Chantry continued to dominate her thoughts. Who was John Chantry aft
er all, she asked herself as she stepped into the back of the Rolls, followed by Gray.

  John Chantry was no one, no one at all. And since he was no one she would deal with John Chantry herself. She would render him powerless. By the time she had finished with him he would not be able to see the wood from the trees; so much so that in a few weeks, at most a few months, Gray would find himself married to his daughter, and his future quite secure.

  *

  Mary looked vaguely frightened.

  ‘It’s, er, you know, that woman,’ she whispered to John.

  John knew at once from his beloved wife’s expression who ‘that woman’ was.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  He cleared his throat, and walked up to their hall telephone, shoulders straight, his expression solemn as if being summoned by the colonel of his wartime regiment.

  ‘John Chantry speaking,’ he said in what Mary recognised as his best army tone, rather than his normal civilian voice.

  ‘Oh, Mr Chantry, how sweet of you to come to the telephone … so kind, so dear. I doo so appreciate it.’

  John Chantry removed the telephone receiver from the side of his face, frowned at it, and then replaced it to his ear. What on earth …? What the devil …? What was the woman on about?

  ‘I know you are such a busy man, because your darling Sunny, your darling, darling daughter, told me herself, so I am thrilled that you could find the time to speak to me, but could you possibly find the time to also come to luncheon with me? I am so terribly at a loss as to how to cope with a little matter with which I think, in some way, we are both involved. I truly need your help. Will you come to luncheon with me, Mr Chantry?’

  ‘Of course, yes, if that is what you want,’ John Chantry heard himself saying, while all the time knowing that was definitely not what he had wanted to say.

  ‘Oh, but that is so kind, so sweet, so dear. Would tomorrow at half-past midday be too soon?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  As he finished speaking John Chantry frowned almost violently at his own image in the vaguely pink hall mirror. What was he saying? And why was he saying it? It was because the woman was speaking in such flowery language he was finding himself saying ‘yes’ when he probably meant ‘no’.

  As she could not hear what was being said the other end, Mary found herself standing by the dining-room door, staring at John instead of getting on with what she was meant to be doing. What had happened now with this wretched woman? Oh dear, she had the feeling that everything was getting on top of her – everything, that was, except Arietta’s coat and skirt, which were now finished, and which she really could not wait for her to try on. She was almost sure it was going to be one of the best things she had ever done.

  ‘What did she have to say?’ she finally asked.

  John replaced the telephone and looked up. There was a short pause.

  ‘To tell you the truth, dear, I have no idea at all. She wants me to go to lunch with her tomorrow. God knows why. It’s not going to change anything, you know, nothing at all.’

  Mary turned away. She was not so sure, but the truth was, just at that moment, probably because she was expecting Arietta, she was more interested in the fit of the coat and skirt than the fact that this silly woman that Sunny had taken up with had asked John to lunch. As far as Sunny and this Gray Wyndham were concerned, what would be would be. But the fit of the coat across the shoulders – well, that was something else altogether; that was really quite exciting.

  ‘Goodness.’

  Arietta stared at herself in the long dressing mirror that Mary always kept for her customers in what was ostensibly the Chantrys’ dining room, but nowadays served as Mary’s fitting room. To this purpose the dining chairs and table were set down one end of the room, and rarely used, the family making do instead with eating on their knees in the sitting room, or at a table in the conservatory.

  ‘Goodness,’ Arietta murmured, for the second time.

  Mary smoothed the fit of the jacket across Arietta’s shoulders yet again. If only she could capture Arietta’s expression for posterity. It was simply wonderful to see. A look of surprised, almost pained, fascination had run across the young girl’s face the moment Mary had turned her towards the dressing mirror so that she could see herself. To say that the clothes had changed her was to say the least: the clothes had transformed her. Mary stood back from Arietta, her head on one side.

  ‘Well, Arietta dear, if you don’t get taken up by someone immediately, I shall want to know the reason why. You really look every inch the social secretary in that coat and skirt. I know I would take you on if I was that kind of person.’

  They both smiled at each other in the mirror.

  ‘I can’t wait for Mummy to see me. She will be so surprised. I will be a made bed at last!’

  Mary’s heart sank. She knew that really that would not be the thing, for Audrey Staunton could always be relied upon to make a remark of the kind that would put poor little Arietta off the coat and skirt for ever. It would probably end up in the back of the wardrobe unworn and unloved after Audrey had finished making one of her sarcastic remarks. But what could she do? Audrey was Arietta’s mother. What could she do?

  ‘I am not at all sure that your sainted mother will like this coat and skirt, Arietta,’ Mary finally stated, plucking up her courage, after a short inner struggle, to say what she thought should be said. ‘I am sorry to say this, Arietta, but your mother has never been an admirer of my work, and while that is entirely her prerogative, and I quite understand that one cannot please everyone, nevertheless I think once she knows that I have made this for you, she might become difficult about it.’

  Arietta coloured. She knew how hard it must be for the really rather diffident Mrs Chantry to pluck up the courage to say what she had just said. She also knew that she was completely right, but what to say in return? If she agreed with Mrs Chantry, it would mean that she had betrayed her mother. If she did not agree with her, it would mean that she had lied.

  ‘I will not wear it in front of her,’ she said simply.

  ‘Won’t that be difficult, dear?’

  Arietta shook her head. ‘Not really. She has started going out a great deal to see friends and so on, and as a consequence she sleeps in late, so I can leave for interviews before she sees me. If I get any interviews, that is. There is very little work at the moment, my uncle told me.’

  ‘It might be best, dear, for Audrey not to see the coat and skirt, just until you are offered a position.’

  ‘You have been so kind, so kind. I – er – I—’

  Arietta stopped. She knew she must mention remuneration, but she didn’t know how to bring the matter up without sounding impertinent.

  Mary guessed poor Arietta’s thoughts and, reaching forward, she patted her gently on the arm.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, Arietta, the making, and the material for the coat and skirt, both are my present to you for your future, and I only hope they bring you the greatest of good luck, dear. You certainly deserve it, whizzing through your exams like that. Really, I think you have been quite plucky in your attitude.’

  Arietta would have liked to have hugged Mrs Chantry. She knew that in her place Sunny would certainly have done so, in her usual spontaneous way, but Arietta was more inhibited than Sunny, and anyway, Mrs Chantry was not her mother.

  ‘The coat and skirt are so beautiful, Mrs Chantry. I will always treasure them, and I will never forget this present of them you have made me.’ She smiled suddenly and brilliantly at Mary. ‘I know they will, they must, bring me luck. I feel so different now. I feel – I feel as if I could do anything.’

  That particular morning had passed so pleasantly for Mary that she took the rest of the day off to potter in the conservatory and to tidy up her workroom. She even made a pie, something that she normally never had time for, but the following morning reality struck as she waved John off in the perfectly polished Vauxhall, while all the while crossing mental finger
s that his car would not conk out before he arrived at Maydown.

  She knew that whatever John and Mrs Fortescue said or decided about Mr Wyndham and Sunny, the truth was that the end result was always going to be dreary. If John gave in and allowed Sunny to go ahead and marry this Gray Wyndham, that would be less than satisfactory, and if he fought his corner and did not allow anything of the sort, Mary would have a listless daughter on her hands for the foreseeable future, which was really quite a miserable prospect.

  ‘You are far too young to marry,’ she had said many times to Sunny, but Sunny took no notice, staying in her room where she played her gramophone, usually the same songs over and over again. So much so that Mary thought if she heard one more song about the sun being high in the sky and the wretched corn no doubt too, she would go dotty, but she could think of nothing to end the whole horrible cycle.

  She had a shrewd suspicion that Sunny, being Sunny, was clinging stubbornly to a situation out of which she was refusing to extricate herself, while Mary herself could think of nothing that she could do to help, short of giving Sunny a hard shake, while John, poor chap, was facing down this Society woman, and that was something. Mary was comforted by the thought of John standing up to Mrs Fortescue. She knew that he would. He was, after all, made of stern stuff, and had come through the war, if not unscathed, at least more or less sound of wind and limb.

  Rule was courtesy itself when he took John Chantry’s coat.

  ‘Mrs Fortescue is expecting you, sir, in the Blue Room.’

  John followed the tall, good-looking butler down a long corridor lined with beautiful gold-framed paintings. It was difficult not to feel shabby when you were faced with such splendour. Walking from the hall, with its great elaborately framed paintings and its marble chimneypiece and exquisite furniture, down the specially woven carpet they were now treading, he was hard put not to feel inferior, and really rather certain that he was going to look so. Never mind being poor and proud, everyone felt smaller when they were faced with a display of such wealth wisely spent on beautiful effects.