The White Marriage Page 25

  Arietta turned away, feeling miserable. She really did not want poor Uncle Bob to send her money, and she could not, as her mother obviously could, see his help as something that he enjoyed doing. She could only see it as miserably embarrassing. Once she returned to London she would write to him and tell him she had no need of anything, that at the moment she could rub along perfectly fine on her wage.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I must take the train back.’

  ‘You’re leaving now? Not spending the night?’

  ‘I must get back to my job.’

  ‘Job? I would hardly call being paid a pittance to sell books a job, Arietta, really I wouldn’t.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Arietta agreed, still making for the door. ‘But, you see, I do. Goodbye.’

  She closed the cottage door behind her, and started to run down the garden path, but as she did so she saw the Chantrys setting off from their cottage, and she waved to them. They waved back. They were a happy sight departing in their motor car, such a happy sight that it was only when the car had disappeared from vision that Arietta remembered Sunny’s situation, and everything she knew, and her sudden exuberance evaporated. It was impossible to feel happy, even when shutting a door behind which she knew Audrey would be sitting fulminating, when she knew what she knew about poor Sunny: that she was being deceived by her older man who was busy writing letters beginning ‘darlingest’.

  As she stood on the station platform waiting for the train, Arietta opened her strangely light handbag searching for a peppermint, and at once found that she had left her wallet with her return ticket tucked in it behind on the kitchen table. Inwardly groaning, she turned back from the platform and headed for her mother’s cottage once more.

  Chapter Ten

  Sunny had known right from the start that Hart was unusual. He was not handsome, as Gray was. People, most especially women, would not vie to sit next to him because of his looks, which were good rather than beautiful, but she instantly realised that he was possessed of a strangely electric personality; more than that, he seemed to know about everything. Although they had only known each other for half a day, an evening, and an early morning, he had already proved himself to be a mine of information about everything that Sunny – inevitably feeling at sea in London – needed to learn.

  The morning following their dinner, Sunny found out many things. The first thing of which she could not help feeling intensely approving was that Hart had a way of dressing in front of a girl that was both elegant and discreet. He had asked her down to breakfast with him in the basement only after he had ascertained over dinner that she badly needed employment, that her mother was a dressmaker, and that she herself, while disclaiming any kind of talent in that direction, was nevertheless forced to admit that she was deft with a needle.

  ‘With your figure you would make a great mannequin, but until you are discovered by some genius photographer we must find you work. I have a godmother who is a hatter,’ he announced as he poured coffee and pulled his tie through his shirt collar, more or less at the same time. ‘Come with me this morning; I will introduce you. She always has need of people in her workroom. She uses a great many Italian and Spanish ladies, who are all too often great with child; so she is constantly having to replace them when they have to hurry off and give birth in their native Soho.’

  Hart and Sunny’s dinner together the night before had been delightful, not because of the food, although that had been delicious, but because they had talked non-stop. Sunny had hardly noticed this until she stood up to fetch her coat, and then she had paused by the table and, looking down at Hart she had said, in what she, rather too late, realised was a voice full of wonder, ‘Do you realise we haven’t stopped all evening.’

  ‘Really? I thought dinner had all been quite awkward really,’ Hart replied, straight-faced.

  Sunny laughed, and wandered off to the cloakroom, leaving Hart to smile at everything and everyone, including the bill.

  Of course they hadn’t stopped, he said silently to himself, while writing the cheque for the dinner, of course they hadn’t stopped. The moment he met Sunny he had known they would never stop. They were made for each other. He knew it. He just had to convince her that she knew it too. But perhaps even that would not now be necessary?

  They had not kissed.

  He would not kiss her on a first date, especially since she was meant to be engaged to someone else, but he would kiss her soon. He knew that. And he would kiss her well. Hart had always been a very good and dedicated kisser, so he knew that he could be sure of Sunny enjoying his kisses. He would make sure of it.

  Now he made sure that she stepped into the Underground train carriage and found a seat, while he strap-hanged above her, smiling every now and then at her as she looked around her, fascinated. He knew from the way she was staring, first at him, and then at the other passengers, and without her having to confess to it, that it must be the first time she had been on an Underground train, the first time she had sat between regular commuters making their way to their all-too-regular jobs, the first time she had listened to the train stopping, hissing, swaying, stopping, hissing, swaying, making that latent clickety-clackety false-teeth sound that Underground trains make as they snake their way from stop to stop through frightening, blackened soot-laden tunnels only to re-emerge into what then seemed like blinding sunshine.

  ‘Here we are.’

  He guided her by the elbow out of the train carriage towards the escalator. Normally Sunny disliked anyone taking her by the elbow and guiding her anywhere, but for once she was grateful, for whether she liked to admit it or not, after Rushington the carriage had seemed dreadfully confined, the train overcrowded, and even the escalator all too eager to snag the heels of her new high-heeled shoes.

  ‘Well, now, here we are.’

  Hart stopped outside a darkly painted shop. It was a few steps down to the door, which led into a darkly painted interior. Nothing so indiscreet as a product name on the door, or anything more than a curtained window, proclaimed it to be what it was – a famous establishment frequented by beautiful women, tremulous debutantes and the mistresses of rich men.

  ‘Titfers for the famous, the rich and the patrician classes only, because, quite frankly, only they can afford them,’ Hart murmured as he rang the top bell which said, in wobbly writing, ‘Workroom’.

  Sunny had no idea what ‘titfers’ meant.

  Hart caught her puzzled look, and laughed. ‘Titfer tat – hat?’

  They both laughed as the door was opened by a tall woman wearing a bright red wig and glasses, both of which she promptly removed.

  ‘But, Harty – mon cher filleul, you have come to see your poor old godmother.’ She leaned forward. ‘I put the wig on to confuse anyone I do not want, you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hart agreed smoothly. ‘I do quite the same at the gallery.’

  ‘Come in. We must have a coffee. I still am hardly awake, enfin.’ She stared at Sunny. ‘But this beautiful girl, she is very awake, hein?’

  ‘She needs a job, and since you are my magical godmother, who can turn pumpkins into hats, I know you will find her what she needs. She is very good at sewing.’

  ‘But this is fantastique! Only this morning my beautiful Anna Maria gave birth to twins next door to the Windmill, so no more Anna Maria.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Did she die?’ Hart asked in a vaguely disinterested voice.

  ‘Mon Dieu, no. Of course not, no, but she die on me. She will not be allowed to come back here. Her husband insist on the lactation, no one can sew hats while lactating,’ she added sadly.

  Hart closed his eyes momentarily.

  ‘I don’t know why, but the idea of lactating at all near a hat seems vaguely offensive at this hour,’ he murmured to Sunny, who promptly started to laugh helplessly, as did his godmother.

  ‘Harty, you are a naughty boy, thank God,’ she finally managed. ‘Your mother never lactated, enfin, that is why
you are so different. You were lactated by the woman in the village near the castle.’

  They were now standing in a large room off which, and more or less parallel, ran another room, glass panelled, and filled with activity. Here Sunny could see constant, if disciplined, movement. Small black-frocked ladies were surrounded by the gaiety of hats of every kind – flowers, veils, precious beads – as their small, neat brown-skinned hands flew in and out, sewing at a rate that Sunny appreciated was at least as fast as that of her mother – and that was fast.

  ‘It is the end of the Season, the beginning of the next already, Harty. It play havoc with my nerves. So much tiny pieces of material arriving from the couturiers, all of which may be lost in a moment, and all of which must match my ladies’ costumes. Ah, là là, I love it and I hate it too. So, Auguste will fetch us coffee, we will sit, and I will see your sewing, if you please, mademoiselle. For we have high standards here. Voilà, I will fetch you something, and you can show me your skill.’

  Her mother might have made fun of Sunny’s sewing because, it had to be faced, she had spent less time sewing than she had dreaming, and more time trying clothes on than putting stitches in them, but once presented with a fine needle, and a piece of thread, a button or a feather, Sunny found that her fingers were as quick and almost as neat as those of her mother.

  Madame Charles, for that was the name of Hart’s godmother, watched Sunny intently for little more than a minute.

  ‘Ah, good, mademoiselle, bon. You may start at once, we are desperate for anyone.’

  Sunny laughed, taking the remark as a lopsided compliment, while Hart shook his head and murmured something in French to his godmother, which, in turn, made her laugh.

  ‘Ah, but you know your godmother, Harty, she is no diplomat. Sometimes I think that is why my ladies come here. They know I will tell them the truth. If a hat is affreuse, if it is make them look ugly as a pill, I tell them, straight from the hatter’s mouth, eh?’

  As Sunny saw Hart off the premises, she leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for the introduction, you know, really I can’t.’

  ‘Nor shall you try – at least not at this moment. You may save up the rest of your thanks for later – mademoiselle.’

  Sunny turned and shot back up the stairs. Suddenly life had taken on a new and brighter turn. It was only as she settled down to the work that the thought came to her once more – she was meant to be engaged to Gray Wyndham. Oh dear.

  Arietta was not looking herself that morning. Randy felt anxious. He liked his little assistant to look delightful, and the truth was she was looking rather less delightful than either of them would wish.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll do it.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll do it. You’ve been travelling.’

  Once the coffee was made to their mutual satisfaction, and because there were no customers in the shop, they retired together to the little room at the back to enjoy it.

  There was a long pause. Randy sipped, Arietta sipped. Randy stared at Arietta’s pale face, Arietta stared ahead of her at something she could see that he could not.

  ‘How was Sussex?’

  ‘Oh, you know Sussex …’

  ‘As a matter of fact, hardly at all since the war.’

  ‘It was there, you know.’

  ‘Obviously or else you couldn’t have come back.’

  Silence was resumed, a long silence during which Randy waited for the words to come tumbling out, for the drama to unfold, for the hurt to surface, for surely only hurt, or a dread disease could change his bouncy little assistant into such a morose being overnight?

  ‘You’re in a scludge, my dear, and that will never do.’

  ‘What is a scludge?’

  ‘What you’re in, and you mustn’t be. It’s not fair on either of us.’

  Arietta coloured. ‘I say, I am sorry, really I am.’

  ‘Good, in that case we’ll say no more about it, except to remind you, as we must all be reminded, that if we feel sorry for ourselves, as old Nanny Beauchamp used to say, then there’s really nothing for anyone else to do.’

  Arietta’s colour remained heightened. She hated to think that her glum ambience had brought Mr Beauchamp down. She jumped up and hurried out of the shop, leaving Randy to stare after her, thinking, for a few minutes, that he might not see her again, but she was back again soon enough with a triumphant look, and a paper bag, which she thrust towards Randy.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘So-sorry-for-being-glum buns …’

  Randy stared at them. ‘From now on that is what we will always call Chelsea buns – glum buns. Oh dear, here comes Nephew. Don’t let him see, he’ll scoff the lot.’

  Arietta went to smile, and then stopped.

  ‘Come to lunch at the studio?’ Sam asked her.

  Randy looked from one young face to the other. This was just what was needed, surely?

  Arietta, still swathed in deepest remorse, shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’d better.’

  ‘I’m shutting the shop for the afternoon, so if I was you, I would go to lunch with the dear boy. He’s really quite a good cook. He might even give you his fish pie.’

  Randy gave Sam his most innocent look. In return Sam looked daggers at his favourite uncle. It was a long-running joke between them that Sam could seduce most girls over his fish pie. It was that good.

  ‘It’s chicken pie today. Old English chicken pie, not fish pie.’

  ‘Oh, well, chicken pie. In that case Arietta has to go.’

  Sam had always told Randy that he would never make chicken pie for a girl unless he was serious about her.

  ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’

  Randy looked down at the young anxious face looking up at him, and he sighed inwardly and hoped fervently for the best of all possible outcomes for her. There was nothing he, the older man, could possibly do to help her unhappiness, but perhaps a little loving from a younger man might do the trick?

  ‘I will employ you until one of the clock and not a moment longer,’ he said. ‘As for you, Sam Finnegan, you can shoot off and start cooking.’

  Sam did as he was told, and a few hours later Randy shut up the shop, and watched Arietta wandering off towards his nephew’s studio. Dark stockings, a pinafore dress and white, wide-collared shirt, strappy shoes, and a black velvet ribbon in her hair, she looked every inch what she was – a nice girl about to be wooed by naughty Sam.

  ‘You be good to her, Sam,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Or else you will have to answer to your Uncle Randy – and what is more, there will be no more Five Go to Smuggler’s Top or The Castle of Adventure stories coming your way.’

  Sam had already explained to Arietta that his studio was actually only just off the King’s Road, and that once you arrived outside number fifty-eight, all you had to do was cross under an archway, and then turn right to be faced with an old door which, after a few pushes gave into a dark hallway from where led a staircase. Arietta found herself on a dimly lit staircase walking up past two or three doors, all of which sported names that proclaimed them nothing to do with Sam Finnegan, until at last there was his door.

  Of course! Despite the fact that his name was on the door – ‘Samuel Finnegan, Portrait Painter, Artist’ – she would always have known it was Sam’s door, from the music she could hear he was playing rather too loudly.

  ‘I love Duke Ellington,’ she announced as he flung open the door wearing a Parisian-style apron, and brandishing a wooden spoon. ‘He really swings like no other.’

  ‘He certainly does.’ Sam widened the gap in the door and bowed, indicating for Arietta to pass him.

  As she did so he put his hand across her eyes.

  ‘I want to play Little Blind Girl with you. Don’t open your eyes until I tell you.’

  He led Arietta into the room.

  ‘One more step and then I will reveal my surprise, Miss Staunton.’r />
  Arietta stared. On a large, old mahogany easel stood a canvas, and on the canvas, the beginnings of a drawing.

  She turned and looked at Sam.

  ‘Haven’t you got better things to do with your time, Sam Finnegan?’ she asked, pulling a little face. But then he looked so cast down she immediately altered her tone. ‘What a compliment, to have you draw me. But, but – why me?’

  ‘Because I missed you,’ Sam said simply, his eyes never leaving the canvas in front of them. ‘I missed you so much, the only way I could cope was to draw you. Or begin to draw you, rather. I really needed you here, but it’s not bad really, considering it is from memory.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Now you are going to make up for your absence – which, by the way, is the name I have given the painting – by sitting for me this afternoon.’ He stared at her. ‘Except I would far prefer to put you in something red.’

  He went to an old wooden chest in the corner of the room and took out a red lace shawl heavily embroidered with imitation jewels of every colour and shape.

  ‘Here.’

  He swirled the shawl around him as a matador might. Arietta laughed, and he went to her and put the shawl around her shoulders, tying it at the back so that it covered her top half, after which he arranged her dark hair, removing the black velvet ribbon and tying it instead around her throat with the bow concealed under her long hair.

  He stood back and stared.

  ‘No lunch until I have worked.’

  Arietta nodded, still feeling subdued and at the same time thrilled that Sam thought her worth painting. It was only when he had been at work for about an hour, and the smells from the little studio kitchen were wafting towards her and she realised how hungry she was, that she finally stood up and stretched.