The White Marriage Read online

  Gray did realise the exact gravity of his situation because it had been communicated to him by Leandra. He had hardly rung on the front doorbell before Sunny had opened the door to him, so he guessed that she must have been waiting all too anxiously, and probably for some time, in the hall. They stared at each other, the age gap shrinking instantly as they became bonded by the fury of her parents.

  ‘My father is in the sitting room, Mr—’ Sunny stopped, realising that if she was going to continue to insist on marrying this tall, handsome, elegantly suited man, it would sound really very odd to address him so formally as ‘Mr Wyndham’, so she quickly changed it to ‘Gray’ for the first time and they both smiled fleetingly, because they recognised that it was a sort of breakthrough.

  Gray stared down at Sunny. She looked enchanting, despite the fact that she was obviously very tense.

  ‘Stop looking white to the lips,’ he whispered. ‘They’re not going to kill me.’

  ‘If I was you I would not be too certain,’ Sunny whispered back, bossing her eyes to make Gray laugh, which he did.

  After her luncheon with Leandra, Sunny and Gray had spoken several times on the telephone, but now that she was standing beside him, Gray, who since the war was not in the habit of thinking very much beyond enjoying himself as much as possible, now found himself wondering what on earth he was doing.

  It had all seemed so simple at Maydown – but then taking Leandra’s advice always did seem simple – whereas now, seeing the tension in Sunny’s face and how her hand shook as she leaned forward to open the sitting-room door, it seemed to him that Leandra’s plan was about to backfire.

  Before Sunny could turn the handle of the sitting-room door, Gray leaned forward and kissed her swiftly and delicately on the cheek. Sunny stared up at him.

  ‘Good luck,’ she whispered, as Gray passed her.

  For the second time Gray found himself going into the Chantrys’ sitting room, wondering at its cosy, welcoming ambience, its lack of pretence, its Englishness.

  ‘Mr Chantry, I don’t think we’ve met. How do you do?’ He smiled and held out his hand.

  John Chantry put his hands behind his back. ‘How do you do, Mr Wyndham?’ he said, and nodded his head instead of extending his hand.

  Gray smiled. ‘Quite well, thank you.’ He stared humorously for a second or two at his hand. ‘I can’t blame you for not wanting to shake my hand, Mr Chantry,’ he went on easily. ‘But if it is of any comfort to you, today my hands are at least clean. The last time I was here they were far from being so, covered in oil, from my motor car. Sunny was so kind to me that day, you know. Sweetest girl in the world, isn’t she? No wonder I fell in love with her the moment she opened your front door.’

  John Chantry’s eyes narrowed. He was not in the mood to be cajoled, charmed, or talked down to. In fact he was in no mood for anything except stating his case, which was that he absolutely refused to have Sunny marry this Gray Wyndham, whatever kind of case he made out.

  ‘Mr Wyndham, my daughter is only eighteen,’ he began. ‘If it wasn’t such an abhorrent idea I would be quite prepared to take you to court for trying to seduce an underage girl.’

  Gray’s large eyes widened. ‘Far from trying to seduce her, Mr Chantry, I have hardly held her hand, except, unlike you and me, to shake it. No, I have no desire to seduce your daughter, only to marry her. She seems just the girl for me.’

  ‘How very satisfying for you. Well, in that case you will have to be quite prepared for her to reach twenty-one, Mr Wyndham, because as of this moment I propose to make her a ward of court, and to make sure that when she is twenty-one she will be as far away from you as possible.’

  ‘May we sit down?’

  ‘No, we may not. At least you may not.’

  Gray frowned. He had expected opposition, but not such ill manners.

  ‘Very well, in that case let us consider what we have to discuss, er, standing up.’ He crossed to an armchair and stood behind it, leaning on it. ‘First of all there is Sunny. Now Sunny is an enchanting, innocent girl, with no ill intention towards anyone – at least not as far as I can discern – and this enchanting innocent girl has, as you know, consented to marry me. I, on the other hand, am an older man and I have only honourable intentions towards this lovely creature. I can provide for her.’ He looked carefully round the small sitting room with its homely touches. ‘Frankly, I can give her a lovely life, full of luxury. Two houses, a flat in London, her own maid, a car, and a chauffeur, whenever she should need one.’

  ‘I am not interested in your wealth, Mr Wyndham, only your suitability. You are not suitable to be my daughter’s husband.’

  ‘I had a good war, though not as distinguished as yours, I am sure. Nevertheless MC and bar – that sort of thing.’

  John Chantry looked openly appalled. In his book, anyone who mentioned their war gongs was an absolute bounder.

  ‘I hardly think that a gentleman would mention such a thing about himself to another gentleman, Mr Wyndham, any more than he would keep on his wartime ranking rather than returning to plain “mister”.’

  ‘I agree with you. And you are quite right about mentioning wartime gongs, but you forced my hand. I was merely trying, albeit in a rather crude manner, to tell you that much as you are determined to think the worst of me, I did at least fight for my country. I do assure you that it is not something that I would normally mention.’

  Gray cleared his throat, realising that he had been forced into a corner.

  ‘Whatever you say, the answer is the same. I do not, categorically, give you my permission to marry my daughter at this time, and there is an end to it.’

  ‘In that case, there is nothing I can do or say, sir, other than to wish you good day.’

  Gray turned on his foot and let himself out of the sitting room.

  Sunny was still in the hall. She had gone from looking tense to horrified, because of course she had overheard everything.

  Inside the sitting room, Mary had appeared at the other end of the room from the conservatory. John knew at once that she had heard it all. For once Mary had no pins in her mouth, which was perhaps why she was able to open it and sigh loudly and theatrically.

  ‘Well done, John. Now you have given Gray Wyndham every reason to run off with Sunny!’

  *

  Following Gray Wyndham’s visit, the atmosphere at Pear Tree Cottage changed almost overnight, as it might be expected to do. Sunny, too frightened of her father to do anything else, went back to attending Princess Secretarial College with Arietta.

  Unlike Sunny, Arietta was surging ahead in her shorthand and typing tests, and seemed primed to be able to leave long before anyone else had reached halfway through the course. Not that this impressed Audrey.

  ‘I fail to see how anyone will employ you now that you have finished,’ was Audrey’s only comment when Arietta burst through their front door to inform her mother that she was now fully qualified. ‘I mean, look at you.’

  Audrey’s eyes moved slowly up and down Arietta’s tense young body.

  ‘It’s all right, Mummy. I am going to find a job as soon as possible.’

  ‘Looking like that, I very much doubt it. You will not be able to find anyone who wants to take on someone so young and, frankly, unversed. Typing and shorthand are not enough, you know. You will not be an asset in an office, or other secretarial situations. The whole idea is ludicrous.’

  Audrey turned on her heel and stalked off to the kitchen, where she began to prepare a cup of tea, for one, in a tiny pot.

  Arietta had never liked or enjoyed tea, preferring orangeade, if she could get it, or coffee, so she was only too relieved not to have a cup of tea made for her. Instead she rushed upstairs and lay down on her bed. It somehow didn’t matter if her mother was still full of doubt as to her possible future. All that mattered was that she had passed her exams in one term instead of three. She was now fully qualified and she had a certificate to prove it, which meant that she coul
d get a job – any kind of job – and once she had a job she would have money, and once she had money she would be able to leave Rushington, because even if she did not quite believe in fairies, she did believe in happiness.

  With all this in mind she called at the Chantrys’ cottage the following day.

  ‘Oh, hallo, Arietta.’ The pins were back in Mary Chantry’s mouth, and she was holding a large, very stiffened black taffeta skirt in one hand. ‘How are you?’ She turned to go back into the dining room, and Arietta followed her.

  ‘I am very well, Mrs Chantry.’

  Mary sat back down behind her sewing machine, which in some strange way suddenly appealed to Arietta as being a kind of altar to fashion, and Mrs Chantry its attendant priestess.

  ‘Sunny is not very well, as you know, Arietta.’

  Arietta nodded. She did know. Sunny had not been to college for some days now, so she would not know about Arietta, or her results.

  ‘I heard she had some sort of fever.’

  ‘Yes, she is running a bit of a high temperature in the mornings, but no other symptoms.’

  The wheel of the sewing machine was now turning faster and faster as Mary bent to her work. It seemed to her that her sewing machine was the only thing of which she could be truly sure in a mad, post-war universe. At least if she finished a dress, it stayed finished. It did not, unlike so much in the house, have to be done over and over again, endlessly, it seemed to her, and all too often pointlessly. Nothing else was quite as good as it should be, neither her cooking, nor the flowers, nor their few savings. Only her sewing stayed as she had designed it, either on or off her grateful customers’ elegant bodies.

  ‘Mrs Chantry?’

  ‘Yes?’ Mary called over the sound of the sewing machine.

  ‘I was wondering if you could make me a suit.’

  The machine continued, the wheel going as fast as ever, but Arietta knew that Mrs Chantry must have heard her question, because she was frowning.

  ‘You want a coat and skirt?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, a coat and skirt. It is very necessary, if I am to get a proper job, which I must do to help out at home, and that sort of thing. It is also very necessary that I don’t look like an unmade bed, which Mummy says I do most of the time.’

  Mary stopped the machine. She liked Arietta so much. Just lately she had actually found herself wishing that she had a daughter more like Arietta, and less like Sunny. Not that she did not love Sunny with all her heart, but she did not understand her. Could not understand how she could have set out to deceive her and John by agreeing to marry a man she hardly knew, just to irritate her parents, or more likely to get out of going to secretarial college, or because she did not want to have to earn her living. Whatever the reason, it was quite definitely a shallow one, and one of which her mother could never approve.

  ‘My dear Arietta, you never, ever look like an unmade bed. You always look nice, and … and smart, but if you are to be a career woman – however temporarily – you must look the part, we both know that. Moreover, my dear,’ Mary eyed her daughter’s best friend with a kind, firm look, ‘you must not look as if you need the work. That is the most important aspect of going for an interview. You must look enthusiastic, but not – never, ever – as if you need the work.’

  They looked at each other, silent for a second. Part of what Mary had said was true, and another part of it was not true. Arietta always did look nice, but she certainly never looked smart, and because she had no smart clothes she had to go for the bohemian look. And she not only needed the work, she was desperate for it.

  ‘You are perfectly right, Mrs Chantry. That is why I need a coat and skirt, Mrs Chantry. Because I need to work so very much.’ She smiled with sudden nervous enthusiasm, and her colour heightened. ‘I can’t go for interviews in my old school skirt and cardigan, and that kind of thing. I really cannot. As you say, I must try to look the part, or I will never have a chance.’

  Mary remained looking at Arietta rather than her clothes, afraid that if she glanced down it might look critical.

  ‘Yes, as I have said, at the risk of sounding repetitious, the key to this sort of thing, if you don’t mind my saying so, Arietta, is to look as if you will find the situation that is being offered amusing and interesting, but not completely necessary – which, of course, we both know it is if you are to help your mother. One just must not let on.’

  Arietta knew at once that Mary Chantry was trying hard to mark her card, and as always she was terribly grateful. She made a mental note to rehearse looking casual, but enthusiastic.

  Mary stood up. ‘I always think that grey flannel is so useful, and so awfully safe, don’t you, Arietta?’

  Arietta nodded, her heart sinking. Grey flannel was not cheap. Grey flannel would be way beyond her Post Office savings. Besides, decent materials were still difficult to find.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed. ‘I do so think so, I do so agree, grey flannel is always so elegant, and perfect for all but the most wintry of days.’

  Mary went to the cupboard where she kept her precious French patterns.

  ‘There is something by Jacques Fath that I have here, sent to me from Paris last year. I know it is here somewhere …’

  Arietta watched as Mary’s slim well-dressed figure moved slowly past shelf after shelf of patterns. Somewhere in the background the wireless was playing organ music. Somewhere above them Sunny was lying in bed with a temperature, perhaps dreaming of marriage to Gray Wyndham. At their cottage across the green, her mother would be reading the Daily Telegraph and drinking a cup of chicory coffee, whereas here in the room with Mrs Chantry was Arietta, holding on to a dream of how her life could be about to be changed by a beautiful French pattern made up in a material that she would never, in all her wildest dreams, ever be able to afford.

  ‘Ah, here we are.’ Mary had grown vaguely flushed with the concentration of the search, but was now brandishing the pattern. ‘I can’t guarantee you will like this, but I think you might.’ She placed it with a look of concentrated respect on the dining-room table. ‘I did not, as it transpired, make it for the lady in question, because following her order, she went to live in America.’

  Arietta did not know it, but she suddenly looked out of her depth, and because she was nothing if not sensitive, Mary realised it and, knowing of the poor girl’s circumstances, she concluded she had to quickly find some way to help her. It came to her within a few gratifying seconds.

  ‘Gracious, Arietta, a thought has come to me. The lady from Wisteria House who went to live in America, so unexpectedly did she depart, she also left behind with me the material she had bought for the pattern.’ Mary looked excited. ‘It is not, alas, grey flannel, but it is black and white worsted, and I think that will prove just as smart and useful to you, really I do.’

  Arietta swallowed hard. Black and white worsted sounded even more terribly costly than grey flannel.

  ‘I am sure I can pay her for it, eventually. I have some savings in the Post Office that my godmother sent me,’ she murmured.

  ‘Of course you can, dear,’ Mary agreed, leaving the room. ‘But not unless and until she comes back, which is certainly not on the cards at present, since the lady in question ran off with an oil millionaire and is now living in high luxury near – near, oh you know, near one of those places where oil millionaires live. Houston, I think. At any rate, have a good look at it while I go up to the attic and find the parcel. Oh dear, how exciting. Goodness, to think that had you not arrived I might have left it there until kingdom come.’

  As Mary left the room and hurried upstairs, Arietta stared at the figure of the lady on the front of the pattern. She was tall and slim, and perfectly made up, and her figure was everything that it should be – as it would be in a fashion drawing. Oddly, this did not daunt Arietta, who knew that she too was quite well made; rather it excited her. It was something to aim for. The suit itself was the epitome of everything for which Paris stood. It was tightly sc
ulpted to show off the silhouette of the wearer, and to this same end, fastened with large buttons. The collar was neat, but not small, and there were two double seams that might have been pockets, but were not. The waist was cinched tightly, and the bottom of the jacket flared, just covering the hips, while the long slim near-ankle-length skirt emphasised the cut of the jacket. Altogether it was heaven in the shape of a pattern.

  ‘And here it is. Here is the material!’

  Arietta looked up as if from a dream. Mrs Chantry was standing in front of her with a parcel of cloth, which she was now placing on the dining-room table and quickly unwrapping.

  ‘This pattern is so heavenly, Mrs Chantry. Really, so heavenly.’

  ‘Feel that!’ Mary held out a section of the cloth for Arietta, who felt its perfect surface. ‘Petit point worsted,’ she said, dropping her voice reverentially.

  Arietta felt the cloth. She had seen her mother’s tailor do the same when her mother had gone for post-war alterations to a pre-war coat and skirt.

  ‘Such nice quality,’ Mr Shoreham had murmured. ‘You will never find such quality now, Mrs Staunton. This cloth is of a quality that only royalty wears, and even they cannot find such cloth nowadays. Why, my mother had cause to take the coats of the Queen and Princess Margaret when they visited the theatre where my mother is privileged to work in cloaks – and the linings of their coats were such, there was so little sateen left, so much had they been mended, she gave it as her opinion that if one thread was caught, the whole mesh of mending would have sunk to the floor with a glad sigh. No black marketeering for our royalty – no, God bless them. They have gone without along with their people, so they have; not like some what we know of, who have lived it up through the war like rajahs and princes of the blood. No, our royalty know how to go on.’

  The tailor’s speech had made Audrey smile. She liked to think that in Mr Shoreham’s mind there was a corollary between herself, Queen Elizabeth and her daughter Princess Margaret; that in all probability the tailor was in the habit of thinking of Mrs Staunton and the Queen in the same way – that he could see no difference between her suiting and that which was being worn by those supreme beings.