The White Marriage Read online

  Chapter Six

  Gray arrived promptly for dinner at Maydown to be greeted as always by Rule.

  ‘Mrs Fortescue is in the Yellow Drawing Room, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Rule.’

  Gray smiled. He had been delayed in London by a business deal he was putting through on behalf of the family trust. Aware of the time, he fairly sprang through the drawing-room doors towards Leandra, smiling with his usual urbanity, hands outstretched.

  ‘I am so sorry that I am late, but not so late as to upset Cook, I hope?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  They smiled and kissed each other on the cheek briefly.

  ‘Dry martini, sir?’

  ‘Splendid.’

  Gray looked round, but it was not for his drink, which he knew Rule would bring to him, perfectly made, exactly how he liked it, but for something else.

  ‘Are we alone tonight, Leandra?’ he asked in a surprised voice.

  ‘Dilke is in France,’ Leandra said, her head on one side. ‘And I am afraid Sunny could not stay.’

  Gray’s face fell. ‘Oh, is she not well?’

  Once again Leandra felt a sharp but, she hoped, fleeting pain as she registered Gray’s expression.

  ‘She is perfectly well, but not able to stay. I think it was something to do with a complication at home.’

  ‘Oh, well then, in that case, I will telephone her.’

  ‘She won’t be home, Gray.’ Leandra looked at him, making sure to wear her sweetest and most tender expression. ‘She will be out tonight, with, well, I can only call it – a complication.’

  Gray turned as Rule held out a silver tray for him. He took the martini glass and raised it to Leandra, keeping the look in his blue eyes as unemotional as it had ever been.

  ‘A complication? Really?’ He sipped at the martini a little too quickly. ‘Well. Here’s to everyone, Leandra. Including the complication,’ he stated in a purposefully even voice, and then he walked off down the drawing room to the garden where he sat down, without Leandra, who, surprised by his sudden exit, finally followed him out into the balmy summer evening air, knowing that her inference about Sunny had been picked up all too quickly, as it was meant to be, but not knowing quite how it had affected Gray.

  ‘Darling,’ she said in a low voice after a minute or so, when she had settled herself beside Gray, ‘you have to understand, there are bound to be complications with such a young person. It is only understandable. She is, after all, much younger than you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gray agreed. ‘Of course. I just wonder how it will affect our arrangement. She is such an enchanting creature.’ He smiled. ‘Even the old man fell in love with her, you know? He became putty in her hands. I don’t think she meant to wrap him round her little finger, but she did, and now nothing must be but he must send her fruit and flowers from the garden every week. He has never done that for anyone else. And when he was with her, wonder of wonders, he actually laughed and smiled. The first time I heard him laugh I thought it must be someone else. In fact I looked round for someone else, but no, it was my father, laughing. But when I asked Sunny what it was that had made him laugh, she only gave that funny little shrug of her shoulders, you know the way she does? And that mischievous look came into her eyes, you will know the one, and she said, “Just a joke I told him.”’

  ‘And did she tell you the joke?’

  Gray stared ahead. ‘Yes,’ he said. He turned to look at Leandra for a second, before saying, solemnly, ‘And it was very funny.’

  ‘May I hear it?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t dare risk telling it again.’ He sipped his martini, and then, the flat tone returning to his voice, he said, ‘It wouldn’t seem funny now. It was the way she told it, the look on her face, really more than anything, I think, that was what made it seem funny, why even my father laughed.’

  Leandra was unhappier than ever, but at pains not to show it because she knew it would upset Gray even to glimpse her jealousy. Of course it had been a risk to tell him a lie about the reason for Sunny’s absence, but if all went well and Leandra soothed him in the ways that she, and she devoutly hoped she alone, knew best, everything would all turn out satisfactorily.

  ‘Would you like to know what is for dinner?’

  Gray shrugged, and drained his martini.

  ‘It’s almost too hot for food, don’t you think? I doubt that either of us have much appetite, have we?’

  It was Leandra’s turn to shrug. Just as Gray had described Sunny as making the lightest of shrugs, so was Leandra’s the lightest of shrugs, a mere indication of feigned indifference to Gray’s resistance to the idea of eating.

  After a few seconds, however, Leandra murmured, ‘What a pity. Cook had some crevettes, freshly delivered from her private source, and then she has been slaving over that velouté sauce that she knows you love …’

  The expression in Gray’s eyes changed, and a minute or two later they were moving into dinner at really quite a fast pace, Leandra smiling, Gray looking more cheerful.

  Rule walked ahead to pull out their chairs, his expression as always professionally inscrutable, despite the fact that one word, and one word alone was dominating his thoughts – trouble.

  Mrs Ashcombe, as Mr Joseph had stated, had indeed taken a sleeping draught, but it seemed that she had taken too much. It was a mistake, of course. The doctor wrote ‘heart failure’ on the death certificate.

  As soon as she knew that her employer of two days was dead, Arietta wanted to run back to Rushington, but instead she telephoned Mr Beauchamp.

  ‘Start packing up everything, my dear, before the bailiffs arrive and take over, because, believe me, they will commandeer everything, up to and including your chic little chignon. I will call a taxi immediately, and come round and help you move from your smart Mayfair attic room to “downtown Bohemia”, otherwise known as Chelsea.’

  Arietta started to do as she had been told, and within the hour she heard Mr Beauchamp climbing the stairs to her room. He arrived in a dark coat, clutching his hat, and a little out of breath, but commendably calm.

  ‘I don’t wish to sound like a magistrate, Miss Staunton, but I am very much afraid that we will have to return those items of apparel that you have not worn,’ he said, looking round at the many boxes that had made their all-too-brief appearance in Arietta’s attic room.

  ‘Of course. I already thought of that.’ Arietta nodded towards a virtual pyramid of precious boxes all filled with new shoes and new handbags, and other delights that she had been looking forward to enjoying.

  ‘If we leave them in the downstairs hall with a note that they should be returned to their shops, it might be the best solution, do you not think?’

  Arietta nodded again, and quickly started to collect up all the boxes preparatory to taking them downstairs, returning several times until she had stacked everything neatly in what now seemed like an oddly empty hall.

  ‘I have already worn one of the suits and one of the dresses from Mrs Pomeroy,’ she finally confessed.

  ‘No matter. We will take those and I will make sure Jeanne Pomeroy is suitably reimbursed for her remakes, my dear. Now we had better skedaddle while the going is good, as they say in the movies.’

  Arietta stared for a second into Randy Beauchamp’s round, smooth, unlined yet middle-aged face.

  ‘Why are you doing all this for me?’

  Randy smiled. ‘Because I know my types, Miss Staunton. The moment I clapped eyes on you I saw that you were intelligent, attractive, although not a beauty, and very, very good-natured. You have good nature written all over your face. Believe me, I can spot a good ’un from a mile the way my father would spot a winner. Trouble was, he always forgot to back them.’

  Arietta was left speechless.

  ‘It’s all right, you needn’t say anything,’ Mr Beauchamp went on cheerfully. ‘We all need each other in this world, and I happen to need you, as of now.’

  ‘Well, well, I had better sa
y goodbye hadn’t I, I mean—’ She stopped. ‘Well, I mean, to Mr Joseph, at any rate. I had better say goodbye to him, at least?’

  ‘No time for those sorts of niceties, my dear,’ said Randy. ‘Besides, the house is completely empty. To my certain knowledge Joseph and Mrs Joseph have fled, as is the way with servants when disaster hits. I dare say they have taken with them those items that will compensate them more than adequately for not having received any wages for the past heaven only knows how long. And who can blame them? I think it is called rough justice, or maybe just barter? Who knows? But skedaddle time it is, that I do know.’

  He opened the front door, but as he prepared to hurry out to the waiting cab, closely followed by Arietta, they were met by two heavyweights in fawn mackintoshes.

  ‘May I know who you are, sir?’

  Randy paused, and shot the bullet-headed man a sombre look.

  ‘Yes, of course, I am—’ and coughing and indicating his black tie he murmured – ‘I am sure you appreciate, sir, that we had to call for certain small items.’

  He lowered his eyes pointing an elegant hand to Arietta’s one shabby suitcase.

  The bailiffs, responding to the gravity of Mr Beauchamp’s expression, promptly removed their hats as if poor Mrs Ashcombe had been placed in Arietta’s suitcase, and without further comment allowed them both to step into the waiting taxicab.

  As the taxi turned the corner into Park Lane, Randy smiled.

  ‘One tip my dear old father gave me: if you want to do well in business, always wear a dark tie, winter and summer. It gives one an air of authority.’

  It was most likely very true. Certainly Mr Beauchamp’s expression being so solemn, and his manner so smoothly sombre, it was really not very surprising that the bailiffs had deferred to him.

  ‘I shall remember that,’ Arietta replied, wondering what the female version of a dark tie might be, before turning her thoughts to what lay ahead of her. There was no point in worrying, of that she was quite sure. She was not in any kind of position to worry. She just had to cast herself on the waters of life, and hope for the best. After all, Mr Beauchamp did not look or sound like some sort of white slaver. In fact, there was only one option open to her and that was to start to try to enjoy the reckless quality of everything that was happening to her. She had no idea where she was going, and all of a sudden she cared less. After all, when all was said and done, there was very little that she could do, except cling to the lifeline that she hoped she had just been thrown.

  ‘Here we are,’ Randy murmured in a vaguely triumphant voice as the taxicab drew up outside a house in a side street on which stood many other identical houses. ‘Life has to get better for you here, my dear. Mayfair was far too old for you, too many crumbling biddies with ageing servants. Here you will find people of your own age, all trying to make their way in this great metropolis of ours, as is only proper, for we do not want them spending their time in idleness and luxury, or worse, enjoying themselves.’

  He paid off the cab, and started up the flight of stone steps that led to the black-painted front door, which he promptly opened with a small gold key. Arietta followed him, and seconds later she was climbing a flight of stairs to a large room, the door of which was opened with a similar type of key.

  ‘You will be utterly private here,’ Randy told her, looking round with commendable pride at the clean, neat sitting room, with its dark blue checked curtains, and pale yellow carpet. ‘Through here is the bedroom, bright white and pristine. And through there the bathroom, ditto. I am your landlord, which could be bad, but is actually very good, because if you have a burst pipe you can come to work and moan at me. Below and above you are yet more similar little flats, and one again in the basement, which is occupied by one Sam Finnegan, painter and jazz drummer, the latter occupation being the reason why he has been confined to the basement, as you will soon appreciate if you ever walk by the basement on a summer evening when the windows are open. I will wait downstairs while you tidy up, and then off we must fly to my beloved bookshop.’

  ‘What is it called?’

  Randy smiled and sighed, a look of affectionate pride coming into his eyes.

  ‘It is called Beetle after my favourite character in Stalky and Co – Beetle’s Bookshop. You see, I always felt that Beetle would become a bookseller once he had knocked about the world a bit, possibly a bookseller of some note. He was so much the type, don’t you think?’

  ‘He was “stalky” all right, wasn’t he, Mr Beauchamp?’ Arietta agreed, glad to be able to show off her literary knowledge.

  ‘He was. Really we all should be, and then the world would be a better place. What does “stalky” mean, Miss Staunton?’

  ‘It means,’ she said, after a few considered seconds, ‘it means being clever and wily.’

  ‘Do you speak stalky?’

  ‘I can, I think,’ Arietta admitted. ‘“Biznai” is one of my favourite stalky words.’

  ‘And mine.’ Randy gave her an approving look. ‘I knew when I saw you trying to cope with Alice Ashcombe’s soirée that you would be stalky.’ He gave a small sigh of contentment. ‘That is another thing about bookselling – shrewdness must be practised at all times; boxing and coxing is not enough. One has to trust one’s judgement instantly, knowing a rare first edition before looking inside for corroboration – or, as in your case, the kind of person who knows her Stalky and Co.’

  As soon as Arietta arrived downstairs a few minutes later, Randy swept her ahead of him into a taxi, even though they were barely half a mile from their destination, and it was definitely not raining, something which Arietta found stylish and impressive.

  The bookshop was in a back street. It was not smartly painted, perhaps because paint was still in short supply. Indeed, it was unremarkable in every way, until you stepped inside, and then, as Randy remarked every now and then to customers who commented on his shop, ‘It’s not until you step inside that you get the picture.’

  And what a picture it was! Ever since she was a small child, Arietta had been a bookworm, which was just as well since her mother’s idea of having fun in the holidays was to get her daughter to look after the house while she lay in bed and read novels of a certain kind. Arietta knew that they were of a certain kind because she read them so quickly.

  As a change from such things as dusting and polishing, twice a week Arietta was graciously allowed to go into town to the library, where she found a new world waiting for her, a world where no one else could go, a world of untrammelled vistas, and endless opportunities, the world of the imagination.

  ‘However many books are there here?’ she asked Mr Beauchamp, glancing round, while immediately regretting the question because it sounded stupid.

  ‘Far too many,’ Randy told her, and his eyes followed hers as he glanced affectionately round at the hundreds of volumes stacked on shelves that reached right up to the high ceiling. They were stacked so high that only the tallest of stepladders would reach, a single set of which she noticed were propped, ready and waiting.

  ‘What can I do?’ Arietta asked quickly, feeling that she had already made a bad start by asking a silly question.

  ‘You, my dear, can begin by making us each a cup of coffee, and then I will show you the ropes.’

  Mr Beauchamp’s expression was solemn. ‘Selling books is both absurdly easy, and terribly difficult. You will find that you can sell a dear old body a copy of some classic for their grandson, and yet be unable to shift a so-called best seller that has been boomed and logrolled by every literary bod in the country.’ He paused, adjusting his thin gold spectacles with a small punctuating movement. ‘What no one in this country will ever admit, except perhaps the bookseller, and then only to himself or his mother, is that a book sells because there is something in it that suddenly sparks, and once that little spark is lit, however small, other little sparks start to fly about, until finally an incendiary follows, and that is what we call a best seller. But really and truthfully, no one, bu
t no one, understands why or how it happens. It is a mystifying business, and that is precisely why being a bookseller is really so wizard, and I use that word advisedly. You have no idea when the magic fire will catch, but you have every idea that, when it does, you will have ordered far too few of whatever it is that everyone suddenly wants.’ He laughed good-naturedly. ‘Now, Miss Staunton, stop looking so worried and I will show you how I like my coffee – and then we can begin.’

  Gray had not telephoned Pear Tree Cottage for a few days, as a consequence of which Sunny went about trying to pretend that she hadn’t noticed, and failing dismally.

  Every time the telephone did ring, she would stop whatever she was doing and pray, ‘Please, please, let it be him,’ but it never was, and now it seemed it never would be.

  Even Mary Chantry noticed the lack of a telephone call, but she said nothing, just as Sunny said nothing.

  Sunny imagined that her mother was choosing to pretend not to notice, while all the time hoping to goodness that Gray’s lack of communication would continue – for ever.

  Nowadays they walked around each other, catlike and carefully, not wanting to upset each other, but at the same time keeping to the squares within which both of them had decided to imprison themselves.

  Sunny was well aware that her mother considered a year a very long time, which of course it was, and now that only a few weeks of it had gone by and Gray was not telephoning his young fiancée, it seemed that she would probably be proved right. She herself was too proud to telephone him, but finally, hurt by his neglect, she telephoned Leandra.

  ‘My dear, how nice to hear from you.’ Leandra’s voice could not have sounded warmer. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am very well, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’

  ‘My dear, you sound a little low. Why not come round to luncheon tomorrow? I am sure you can get off that silly old college for a while, can’t you?’