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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
Deploring social injustice, Lady Deborah Claremont opens a staff agency, concealing the fact that she's a member of the aristocracy. But Deborah has become accustomed to keeping secrets. It began eight years ago in 1918 when her dashing French lieutenant was tragically killed. Amid an undercurrent of social unrest and with the General Strike looming ahead, Deborah meets two very different men, handsome Theodore Field, MP and the charismatic union firebrand Evan Morgan. Deborah is torn between her feelings for Theo and the magnetism between herself and Evan. But then she is astounded by a mystery, one she is desperate to solve. And when its explosive secret is revealed she discovers that she has been both manipulated and betrayed...
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A Life of Secrets
MARGARET KAINE
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For my much-loved family
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‘Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds’
William Shakespeare8
Contents
Chapter One
Bloomsbury, London, 1926
‘You look so seductive with your hair loose, so beautiful,’ the husky and haunting voice crept into her mind and she found herself struggling to push the memory away. Yet she had to, it belonged to another life, one taken from her by the terrible war that had robbed England of the cream of her youth. And only too aware of the pitfalls of allowing such nostalgia to overwhelm her, it was a welcome distraction for Deborah when there came a timid tap on the door.
A pale and anxious face peered round, followed by the plainly dressed figure of a young woman.
‘Please, do come in and take a seat.’ Deborah indicated the chair opposite her desk and waited.
‘Be you Miss Claremont?’ The girl’s voice was hesitant.
‘Yes, that is my name.’10
‘And is it true that you find positions for such as I?’
Deborah studied her, trying to establish the girl’s dialect. ‘I shall certainly try to help you if I can.’ She opened a file and on a blank sheet of paper wrote the date. ‘Perhaps if you could tell me your name?’
‘Boot.’
‘And your Christian name?’
‘Sarah.’
‘Age?’
‘I be nineteen this coming June.’
Again, that soft burr. ‘And your current address?’
She named an East End area notorious for its poverty and crime, and Deborah frowned. ‘May I ask how long you have been resident there?’
‘A fortnight, miss.’
Deborah felt a surge of relief. Poverty in itself was not a crime, but dishonesty was, and it was essential that her agency’s reputation for supplying staff with good character did not become tainted. Otherwise she would never be able to achieve what had become her only purpose in life.
‘And before then?’
‘Wiltshire, miss, then I come up to the London house when I were sixteen. Kitchen maid to start with, and finally parlourmaid.’ The last word was spoken with pride.
‘And your reason for leaving?’ Deborah paused, seeing colour rise in the girl’s face. ‘If it was for an embarrassing reason, I can promise you that I won’t be shocked, nor will I judge you. Not unless it was for theft. In that case I’m afraid I cannot help you.’ Sarah’s expression was one of horror. ‘No, miss, I never stole nothing in me life.’
Deborah waited.11
The words stumbled out. ‘It was the master. Been after me for weeks, he had, ever since I went upstairs to work. And I knew it was only a matter of time afore he had his way, because we servants weren’t allowed locks on our doors. He was a randy old—’ She bit her lip. ‘And I wouldn’t have bin the first maid he’d ruined.’ Sarah looked directly at her with eyes full of honesty. ‘I was brought up respectable and I want to stay that way.’
‘So you gave notice.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I just packed me bags. I wasn’t taking no chances.’
‘Was that wise? To leave without a reference?’
‘Better than leaving with something else, if you’ll beg me pardon, miss.’
Deborah’s lips twitched. But the situation didn’t call for levity. The girl, like many before her, was now in a desperate situation and through no fault of her own. However, she did need to probe a little more. ‘But you knew you had somewhere to go, to family perhaps?’
‘I thought I had, miss. I went back to Wiltshire, but I found me auntie had taken up with a man at long last and I didn’t fancy the way he looked at me either. Out of the frying pan, if you know what I mean. So I slung me hook and managed to find a cheap room here. You know, miss, it’s a mixed blessing to be born with looks.’
Deborah’s lips twitched again. She had no illusions about how she must appear to this young girl, older and dressed as soberly as she was.
‘And how did you hear about my agency?’
‘It was when I went to Mass at St Malachy’s. The priest told me as how you had a charitable outlook on girls without references.’
‘Deserving girls,’ Deborah corrected.12
‘Yes, miss.’
‘And you want to go back into service?’
‘Even though things are changing, it’s all I know.’
Deborah regarded her. It was true that since the war ended, increasing numbers of women were looking for different employment, but a position in a good household still offered advantages for girls without family support. A roof over one’s head, warmth and food were benefits not to be underestimated. Deborah took great care in placing her applicants. ‘And the name of your previous employer?’ She made a note of it with an asterisk, ‘Females – send only homely and middle-aged.’
She gazed at the young woman before her. Fair, with a good complexion and frank blue eyes, she seemed trustworthy and Deborah had great faith in her own judgement. ‘If you would like to return the day after tomorrow, perhaps in the afternoon at three o’clock, I may have some news for you.’
‘You mean you’ll help me?’
Deborah smiled at her. ‘I’ll certainly try.’
Sarah rose. ‘Oh, thank you, miss. I’ll be here on the dot.’
Deborah watched her leave and then began to leaf through her card index, thankful that her father had not subscribed to the belief that education was wasted on women. Her private tutor, Mr Channing, had included administration in his teaching, peering at her over his half-rimmed spectacles.
‘It is quite probable that you will marry a member of the aristocracy, or at least be the mistress of a large household, and you will find such knowledge useful.’
Deborah paused in reflection. Who could have possibly foreseen that at the age of twenty-six she would not only be a spinster, but while concealing her title, have an occupation that would have appalled her parents. A staff agency would have been 13regarded as ‘trade’, a term of disparagement used by her insular class to describe anyone who worked for a living other than in a profession. Even as a young girl she had inwardly rebelled against such narrow-minded snobbery.
But it was only when her heart was splintered, first by the news that the man she adored had been killed at the Battle of Amiens, and weeks later by the loss of her parents to the Spanish flu pandemic, that Deborah discovered within herself a core of steel. Her beloved mother, then within days, the gentle, intelligent man who had been her father, had succumbed to the airborne virus that had taken the lives of 228,000 people in Britain alone. And afterwards she’d had desperate need of that inner strength. Even more so when it was revealed that her brother Gerard had been appointed as her guardian.
That evening, Deborah sat before her walnut dressing table feeling impatient as Ellen began with firm strokes to brush her shining bob. ‘I’m feeling rather tired tonight, I wish I hadn’t accepted the invitation to go and dine with the Anstruthers. And Gerard expects me downstairs for drinks beforehand, more’s the pity. I expect my new sister-in-law will have invited more of her boring friends.’ She knew that her mother would have disapproved of such intimacies with one of the servants, but Deborah had little patience with such conventions. She had fought years ago for Ellen to be her personal maid, with Gerard’s opposition only stiffening her resolve.
‘You’re mad. The girl is far too young and inexperienced!’ Her brother’s pale-blue eyes had been like flint. ‘An older woman such as Olive would be a much more sensible choice.’
What you really mean, Deborah had thought, is that she would be a useful spy for you. She’d stood her ground. ‘Ellen might be a parlourmaid now, but she is an intelligent girl and a quick learner. 14Besides, I had discussed the matter with Mama before she died. Naturally, her maid then attended me, but now that she’s left …’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I hope you are not accusing me of lying, Gerard. You should consult Fulton, because he was aware of the plan.’
It was a bold untruth but with relief she saw his expression of uncertainty and knew she had won. The Claremont household depended greatly on the efficient butler who had not only run their Grosvenor Square house for twenty-five years, but to whom their mother’s word had been sacrosanct. Gerard would never dare to gainsay one of her instructions.
‘Sadly, Mama died before she discovered how much you needed guidance.’
The barbed reminder had made Deborah, who then was at her most vulnerable, flinch, but over the years Ellen had not only repaid her support with fierce loyalty, she had become her trusted confidante.
Deborah smiled. ‘I suppose I’m lucky that since she married Gerard − Julia shows little interest in my personal affairs. She knows I serve on various charity committees and enjoy shopping and lunching out with friends, but never asks for details.’ She considered her reflection as Ellen teased her hair into its sleek shape.
Ellen said, ‘But she might later, as she becomes more used to being the mistress here.’
The possibility had already occurred to Deborah, and it was not a welcome one. While she had been able to conceal her activities from her cold and distant brother, she suspected that Julia might become both curious and ultimately more perceptive.
‘I shall tell her the same as I told Gerard at the beginning, that I just like to keep busy during the middle of the week. My habit 15of spending time away from the house on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays has long been accepted. If she does ask further, I’m sure I’ll cope with it.’
Ellen turned to the two couture gowns she had laid out on the rose silk eiderdown. ‘Which one, Lady Deborah? The blue or the green?’
She gave them a cursory glance. ‘You decide, Ellen.’
‘I think the blue, it matches your eyes. And the sapphire earrings look lovely with it.’
Deborah tried to imagine how she would feel in Ellen’s place, caring for beautiful clothes for another woman to wear, handling her exquisite jewellery, yet unless she was an excellent actress, she had never betrayed any jealousy. One Christmas, Deborah had offered her a string of seed pearls and with some reluctance Ellen had accepted, but she only ever wore them beneath her black dress, fearing being accused of theft, or even of causing jealousy. The revelation about the insecurity of servants was one that Deborah had never forgotten.
Ready at last and gazing at her reflection in the cheval mirror, she had to admit that her applicants, or even clients at the agency, would hardly recognise her. There, Deborah was careful to wear only layers in grey: dropped-waist dresses with pleated skirts and matching jersey cardigans. Or a plain skirt and white or ivory blouse. Her business outfits, as she thought of them, were completed not only by a small cameo brooch and black bar shoes, but plain lens spectacles. But now, the blue brocade dress not only revealed her bare shoulders but was cut on the bias to drape in sinuous folds over the contours of her slim figure. A body she was well aware that men found attractive. Knowing that her decision to remain single was a constant irritant to her brother, afforded her not a small amount of pleasure.16
It was when Deborah paused at the foot of the sweeping staircase that she heard from the open door of the drawing room the tinkling sound of her sister-in-law’s voice.
With a sigh Deborah paused in the doorway. The room held several small groups of people, while Julia, with Gerard by her side, was talking to a young woman with insipid features. Deborah remembered her as also being vacuous.
‘Good evening, Deborah, you’ve joined us at last.’ Julia’s smile was thin. ‘I believe you know Caroline Morton. You recall that she was one of my bridesmaids.’
Deborah wondered whether it was truly a coincidence that all of Julia’s six bridesmaids had been less than beauties. The bride had shone like a lily in a field of dandelions. ‘Yes, of course. How are you, Caroline?’
‘I am exceedingly well, thank you, Lady Deborah.’ She gave a complacent smile. ‘Have you heard my news? I have just become engaged to be married.’
‘My congratulations, and who is the lucky gentleman?’
‘Unfortunately, my fiancé could not be here this evening.’ She named an odious friend of Gerard’s, who was florid of face with hard eyes and fleshy fingers. Deborah had to bite her lip to suppress an exclamation of dismay. He would eat this little mouse alive. And she had no doubt that he had chosen his bride in anticipation of her fortune. Deborah hated hypocrisy. Caroline might be glowing with pride at the prospect of having a wedding band on her finger, but Deborah suspected that she was more in love with the status of a married woman than she was with the man himself.
‘Maybe one of these days you will have similar happy news to share,’ Julia’s tone was one of honey.
‘Now why would I wish to marry,’ Deborah’s own voice was also sweet as she turned to her stony-faced brother, ‘when I have such 17a welcoming and comfortable home here in Grosvenor Square?’
‘But surely you would like to have your own establishment?’ Caroline said. ‘Every woman wishes for that.’
‘But I am not like most other women.’ She met Gerard’s gaze in challenge, but he was looking towards the door where a tall man was hovering.
The butler announced, ‘Mr Theodore Field.’
‘I believe he’s single,’ Julia whispered, with an arch glance at Deborah, which only served to annoy her.
Gerard turned to greet him and made the necessary introductions, mentioning that the new guest was a Member of Parliament.
‘And which political party do you favour, Mr Field?’ Deborah said.
‘Mr Field is a leading Conservative,’ Gerard snapped. ‘Something I would have expected you to know.’ He turned to the MP. ‘My sister professes an interest in politics.’
Deborah ignored him. ‘I would imagine, Mr Field, that with the widespread unrest in the country, this is not an easy time to sit in the House.’ He was by far the best-looking man she’d met for ages.
‘Indeed it isn’t, Lady Deborah. But of course, one has to do one’s duty.’
Pompous prig, she thought. He’s obviously not prepared to elaborate on a political point with a mere woman. She excused herself, relieved she would soon be leaving for her dinner engagement. But then what else had she expected? Only after a long and bitter struggle had women achieved the vote, and then only once they were thirty years of age. As for their political opinions being sought and valued, that was a rarity. Deborah glanced at Gerard’s smug face, which epitomised the grim fact that it remained a man’s world.18
It was only by running the staff agency that Deborah had been brought into close contact with ordinary people, and she continued to be shocked to discover how many of the women had suffered hardship or abuse at the hands of their fathers or their brothers. Often innocent young girls sent out to service were a target for unscrupulous employers who, complacent in their innate superiority, managed to remain free from censure. But I can at least try to protect my own applicants, Deborah thought, while her fixed smile gave lip service to the idle gossip around her. And that, surely, was a worthwhile ambition. It also gave meaning to what would otherwise be a rather empty life.
Chapter Two
Gerard glanced up absently as the butler placed the salver with the morning’s post on the small table beside him, then, once he had finished an article in The Times, idly picked up a paperknife. Bills he put aside to approve before being forwarded to his agent on his country estate. Invitations received only a cursory glance as he now left such things for Julia to attend to. Then his hand stilled. He stared down at the envelope. The uneducated scrawl wasn’t familiar, but the postmark was. He hesitated, a creeping sense of dread rising from the pit of his stomach. Why now, after so much time had passed? His lips compressed into a thin line so tight it almost hurt before he forced himself to slit open the cheap envelope. All it contained was a single sheet of lined paper ripped from an exercise book. He looked down at the signature and found it different from the one he’d expected. The content was terse.20
Dear Sir,
Myrtle Waters died last week and has today bin buried. I carn’t keep the child. She sed to write to you.
Yours respecfully
Annie Jones
Gerard swore, and leaning forward, clenched his hands on his knees. He’d never expected that blasted business to raise its head again, could hardly even recall the features of the woman who had died. He’d played his part by giving way to what had amounted to blackmail at his original suggestion that the brat should be sent to a workhouse, and had paid handsomely to keep the Claremont name free from any scandal. Hurriedly he glanced down at the envelope again, feeling relief that this Annie Jones had incorrectly addressed her note to G. Claremont, Esq., which meant that his true identity was unknown.
But the confounded problem would have to be taken care of, and with urgency. He toyed again with the workhouse option, but what if Myrtle had left an incriminating letter in case that circumstance ever arose? She had been vehement in her outrage at even the thought. He could never take such a risk. Leaning back in his chair, Gerard took a deep breath and steepled his fingers. This was going to need intensive thought, especially in finding the needed trustworthy accomplice. Whereas the right amount of money could buy most things, absolute discretion could not always be relied upon and that was paramount. He shuddered at the thought of the unsavoury truth emerging. That would be disastrous.
It was an hour later, having come to a decision, that he summoned Fulton. ‘Is Her Ladyship in the morning room?’
‘Yes, I believe so, sir.’21
‘Alone?’
The butler inclined his head.
‘I shall join her. And although it’s early, I’ll take a glass of Madeira there.’ Seconds later, Gerard went to join his wife.
‘Darling,’ she said from the Chesterfield sofa where she was flicking through the Tatler. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t down for breakfast.’
‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
‘Yes, I was just feeling lazy.’ She patted the seat beside her.
Gerard, however, settled into an armchair opposite. ‘Sweetheart, I have a matter to discuss with you.’ He turned as the butler brought in his wine, then waited until he’d left.
‘It is just a suggestion, my sweet, but I wondered whether you might enjoy several days in Paris, perhaps to choose some new clothes?’
Her face lit up. ‘What woman could resist? You are so good to me, Gerard.’
‘It gives me pleasure to indulge you. And you will need a companion, of course.’
‘You mean you would not be accompanying me?’ Her limpid blue eyes showed dismay.
He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t. However, perhaps we should make the most of an opportunity …’ he hesitated. ‘Would this not be a chance to develop your relationship with Deborah?’ Seeing her frown he continued, ‘It would lead to a more harmonious atmosphere, don’t you agree? Perhaps being in your company might soften her a little, bring out her more feminine side.’
‘You think so? I don’t find her easy, Gerard.’
‘I know, neither do I. But it would oblige me, Julia.’
She sighed. ‘In that case, I shall suggest it to her.’22
‘No sense in delay; perhaps quite soon, would you like that?’
‘It sounds lovely. I’ll talk to Deborah when she returns this afternoon.’
A little of Gerard’s tension eased. Julia’s nature meant that he could easily bend her to his will, and already her mind would be turning to fripperies. Also, he found her blonde prettiness and curvaceous body appealing, whilst her excellent lineage boded well for a suitable heir. Gerard had never considered that Julia might refuse his marriage proposal. Hadn’t becoming the Countess of Anscombe been every debutante’s ambition? But in view of the contents of the letter, he could do without any social distractions in the near future, inevitable if Julia were in residence. He may also need to bring unsuitable people to the house. And Deborah’s presence? She was far too perceptive.
At the agency, Deborah’s thoughts were of Sarah Boot. She would be coming that afternoon in the hope of being the recipient of good news. And Deborah had found something to offer her. However, she did find herself in something of a quandary. Yes, there was a request for a parlourmaid in Hampstead but where the position would be a quiet one. The mistress was an elderly spinster who led an almost reclusive life while the staff, small in number, were long established. That in itself was a recommendation, but Deborah couldn’t help wondering whether such a lively spirit as Sarah’s wouldn’t feel confined. Frowning, she tapped her pencil on Sarah’s file. There was another opening here in London that might suit the girl, a grand and busy household. But Deborah had occasionally dined there, and as always needed to be wary of taking any risk that might threaten her own anonymity. Her appearance might be different devoid of the plain lens spectacles she wore at the agency, but she could do nothing to alter her 23voice. It was unrealistic to hope that a parlourmaid waiting on table might not recognise her, and a servants’ hall was always a hotbed of gossip. As Gerard was fond of lecturing her, no whisper of scandal must ever touch their family. And so most of her placements tended to be with middle-class families rather than with aristocracy.
Deborah made her decision. ‘Elspeth?’
Her assistant came in from the small outer office. When she had first opened the agency in Bloomsbury, and held interviews, the stockily built Elspeth Reid with her greying hair, intelligent eyes and calm manner had convinced Deborah that she had found the ideal person. Not only because she was the widow of an Anglican minister, Deborah had known instinctively that her true identity would be safe in her hands. She had never had a moment’s regret, indeed the two women, different in both age and background, had become firm friends.
Deborah smiled at her. ‘I think the only sensible solution would be to place Sarah Boot with the elderly spinster in Hampstead.’
‘Aye, from what you’ve told me about her, I agree. Although in this morning’s post there is a request for a housemaid at Felchurch Manor.’
‘Our last placement there worked well. You know, if Sarah proved willing to accept a lower status, that might suit her better. And isn’t it in Wiltshire where she grew up? Thank you, Elspeth. I shall give her the two options and let her choose for herself.’
In the East End, Sarah was putting a few scraps of cheese into a small saucepan of milk. With a hunk of yesterday’s bread, it would suffice to keep hunger at bay. Striking a match to light the gas, her gaze wandered over the mean basement room, with its grimy windows, limp curtains and cracked linoleum; she had even heard 24the scuttling of a rat last night. How she hoped that her days there would soon come to an end, and it was all because of her aunt’s stupidity. It had been a cruel disappointment to knock on the door of her aunt’s cottage and face the dark stubble of Joe Moffat, a local man Sarah had always detested.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he muttered then shouted over his shoulder. ‘It’s your Sarah!’
With a feeling of dread she had gone into what was once her home, and one glance at Lily’s gold band was enough to confirm her fear. Sarah was both shocked and bewildered. Joe Moffat was well known to be an idle bugger so why on earth had Lily, who had always managed to support herself, taken such a coarse man to her bed? Within minutes of Sarah’s arrival, he was patting her aunt’s bottom as if to establish his ownership, and it wasn’t long before his sly gaze flicked over Sarah. She flashed him a look of disdain and with a grin he ambled out to the tiny garden.
‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ she hissed, ‘at least invite me to the wedding?’
Lily, a thin wiry woman with a tired face, looked sheepish. ‘It were a rush job, or rather I thought it was.’
Appalled, Sarah stared at her. ‘Whatever got into you?’
Lily glanced uneasily over her shoulder. ‘’Twas the last Harvest Supper, there was somethin’ in the punch.’
And Sarah could guess who put it there. Lily, with her cosy cottage would be a prime catch for a layabout like Joe. ‘It was a false alarm, then?’
Lily nodded. ‘I’d missed me monthly, but it must’ve been my age. I should have thought of that, but I just panicked.’
‘But you’re all right?’ Sarah jerked her head towards the garden. ‘With him, I mean?’25
Lily shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s not so bad.’
‘But you’re still paying the rent.’ Sarah’s tone was flat.
‘No change there, I’m afraid.’ Lily bustled to the kettle. ‘Anyway, sit you down, you must be parched. Are you hungry?’
When Sarah nodded, Lily cut her a slice of fruit cake. ‘What brings you back? You’ve not bin dismissed?’
Sarah told her what had happened or could have happened. ‘I’d hoped to come back to live with you for a bit, but there’s a fat chance of that happening now!’
‘I could ask Joe if he’d mind. There’s still your old room empty.’
Sarah wavered, but with her previous experience still fresh in her mind decided to trust her instincts. She’d shaken her head. ‘No, I’ll stay tonight and then go back to London. There’ll be more chance of a live-in job.’
At precisely three o’clock that afternoon Elspeth ushered Sarah into Deborah’s office. Sitting straight, wearing a straw hat and clutching her bag on her knee, she sat before the desk with a look that managed to be both anxious and hopeful.
Deborah gave a reassuring smile. ‘I have good news for you, I have found you two possible positions.’ She saw Sarah’s face light up, and went on to give a full explanation of each post. ‘Of course, they are both dependent upon a favourable interview, but it is rare that my recommendation is not accepted.’
Sarah was frowning and biting her lip in concentration. ‘You say it’d be a very quiet household in Hampstead?’
Deborah nodded. ‘And a small one where you would probably be the youngest member of staff. The establishment in Wiltshire is much larger.’
‘But the post is only of housemaid.’
‘Yes, but I imagine you would have prospects of advancement.’26
‘And I could start right away at both of them?’
Deborah nodded.
‘Well, miss, if you could see where I’m living now, you’d understand why I’ll take either. But …’ Again she bit her lip. ‘What do you think, miss?’
Deborah surveyed her. There was spirit in the girl, it was apparent in her posture, her quick mind. She would hate to see that dimmed by monotony.
‘If you don’t mind the temporary demotion to housemaid, considering your age, I think you might be happier in Wiltshire.’
An expression of relief passed over Sarah’s face. ‘Oh, thank you, miss, I was wondering that myself.’
‘Then if you go and see Mrs Reid in the outer office, she will give you all the details and arrange for you to travel down for interview. She will also advance your rail fare and expenses.’
‘You’ll get it back, though?’
Deborah smiled. She really did like this girl. ‘Yes, we’ll get it back.’
Sarah stood. ‘Thank you very much, Miss Claremont.’
Deborah nodded, and smiled to herself seeing Sarah leave with a much lighter step. How old was she, nineteen? An age when a world of promise stretched ahead. Sarah’s spirit had reminded her of herself at that age or even younger. And with that thought came the memory of her closest friend, Abigail. She missed her vivacious friend. Similar in age and intellect the two girls had grown up in Berkshire on nearby estates and had hoped to come out together as debutantes. But with the outbreak of war, all Court presentations were suspended. Abigail was now living in married bliss in Scotland, and Deborah reminded herself that she owed her a letter.
She thought again of Sarah. Please God, fate would be kind 27to her. As to her own fate, it was better to remind herself of the countless blessings her privileged birth had brought. But that didn’t mean that deep in her soul there wasn’t an emptiness, even if she had become adept at hiding it.
Chapter Three
Later that afternoon back at Grosvenor Square, Deborah went upstairs to remove her coat and to change into more suitable attire only to find Ellen hovering in the bedroom. ‘Did all go well, my lady?’
‘Indeed it did, Ellen. It was a most satisfactory day.’
‘Only Fulton gave me a message for you from Her Ladyship. When you returned would you kindly join her in the drawing room.’
Deborah stared at her in surprise. ‘Then I had better go down.’
Once changed into a fresh ivory crêpe de chine blouse and pearls to enhance her plain skirt, Deborah left her room and went thoughtfully down the stairs and across the black-and-white tiled hall to the drawing room, which had always been a favourite of hers, holding as it did memories of her parents’ sophisticated evening soirées. Many times she had sat at the top of the stairs concealed by a turn in the bannister to listen to the clink of glasses 29and laughter. With the occasional glimpse of stylish evening gowns, it had seemed to her as a young girl to be the epitome of glamour.
But now, intrigued by the summons from Julia, she went into the room to see her seated on one of the deep cushions of a cream sofa. She was browsing through a magazine, her sole occupation it seemed to Deborah, who had yet to see her reading an actual book. Then she chided herself for being uncharitable. Her sister-in-law was merely a product of her background, in the same way that the florid middle-aged woman Deborah had just interviewed was a product of hers. It had been a pity that the latter had been too rough round the edges for Deborah to find her a suitable position. But she had at least been able to give her the name of another agency whose standards were not as exacting as her own.
Pushing such thoughts away, Deborah greeted the young woman who was now mistress not only of the Grosvenor Square house, but also of their country seat in Berkshire.
‘I’m so pleased to see you, Deborah.’ Julia put down her magazine. ‘Please, do come and share tea with me.’ She rose and went to the silken bell pull at the side of the marble fireplace.
‘Of course.’ Deborah chose an armchair opposite the sofa, a Queen Anne coffee table between them.
They chatted about the weather, a new hat that Julia had bought, and then after the refreshments had arrived and tea had been poured she said, ‘Deborah, as I plan to go to Paris quite soon for the latest fashions, I was wondering whether you would care to accompany me?’
Deborah stared at her in astonishment. Julia had made no secret of her disdain for her sister-in-law’s spinsterhood, and in the nine months since her wedding had shown little inclination for friendship.30
‘Only Gerard thought,’ Julia added, ‘and naturally I agree with him, that it would be rather nice if we could become friends. After all, we do live in the same house.’
Deborah searched her sister-in-law’s eyes for any sign of sarcasm, but Julia’s gaze remained frank. ‘It was his suggestion about Paris?’
‘Yes.’
Deborah, careful to keep her features expressionless, was immediately suspicious. Even as a boy her brother had always been plotting something, often lying to get his own way.
‘For how long, Julia?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but at least several days. Do say you’ll come.’
Deborah thought swiftly. That was manageable, Elspeth could easily cover her absence. Although she was tempted to remain at Grosvenor Square instead to try and discover what her brother was up to, Gerard had never been one for generous gestures. But she did love Paris, was never averse to buying new clothes and the prospect was certainly tempting. Anyway, it would be churlish to refuse. She forced a warm smile. ‘I’d be delighted to, Julia.’ That wasn’t completely true because the prospect of them being sole companions for several days wasn’t exactly appealing. But even she could accept that a semblance of rapport between them would make life more agreeable. Julia rose and clapped her hands, a habit that Deborah always found childish. ‘Excellent, I shall go and tell Gerard so that we can decide on a date and he can make the necessary arrangements.’
As the door closed behind her, Deborah felt somewhat perplexed. She still felt that she was being manipulated, although she had no idea why. She sighed. This trip could so easily turn into a disaster. It was not that she harboured resentment towards Gerard’s wife, it was the 31natural order of things that one day another woman would become mistress of her childhood home, both here and in the country. She just wished that her brother could have chosen someone with an outlook nearer to her own. But would such a woman have wanted to marry a cold fish like Gerard with a prematurely receding hairline? Of course, one could never underestimate the appeal of a title.
Gerard was in his study. As Julia came in with her news, he rose from his desk to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Well done, darling. But do you mind if we discuss it this evening as I have an urgent matter to attend to. Perhaps if you could let Fulton know that I don’t wish to be disturbed. Although I shall take tea as usual.’
‘But of course.’
After Julia had left, Gerard removed a cream vellum notepad from a drawer and thoughtfully unscrewed the top of his fountain pen. Ever since the letter had arrived from Annie Jones, his mind had wrestled with the problem of that dratted child. Even now he wasn’t sure the name that had risen to the surface of his mind was the right one. But he had to make a decision and immediately. He also had to be prepared in case the man he approached refused to become involved. So he needed to list other likelihoods.
He put pen to paper and wrote his first choice, Freddie Seymour, followed after some hesitation by Ivor Manfield and Charlie Andrews. All young men who were known for their addiction to gambling. In Gerard’s not inconsiderable experience, gamblers were always in need of extra funds, especially younger sons dependent upon their allowances. The question was whether one of them would be willing to undertake a task, which, while not illegal, did require both subterfuge and secrecy. And this time, Gerard was going to make sure that there was no possibility of future blackmail. He tapped the desk with his fingers. A private 32detective, that was what he needed. And one who could commence investigations into the three men immediately. There was a name lurking at the back of his mind and he frowned as he searched for it. Who was it who had used such a person? Then it came to him. That chap at the club whose wife had cuckolded him − the one who had bored him rigid over a couple of brandies. The name he’d mentioned had been so unusual that Gerard could actually recall it. Blaise Bonham, that was it, the alliteration had helped. He reached into a drawer and retrieving Kelly’s Directory, paused as a parlourmaid brought in a tray with tea and shortbread biscuits. After pouring the tea she left the room and he couldn’t help admiring her trim figure, feeling a twinge of regret that his days of dalliance would now have to be in the past. Not that he’d been in the habit of seducing the maids, for heaven’s sake – not a whiff of scandal must ever sully his family’s name. But whilst society might not look askance at a young man sowing his wild oats, it was a different matter altogether now that he was a married man, with every hope of soon siring a male heir.
Gerard bit into a shortbread and, refreshed by the Earl Grey tea, opened the directory and ran his forefinger down the entries beneath the heading Private Investigators. He soon found the name he was looking for and minutes later was picking up the telephone receiver and leaning back in the leather chair. His call was answered on the third ring. A good omen, because he needed a speedy response and swift action, and in order to obtain it he was prepared to be more than generous.
Gerard had arranged to meet Blaise Bonham at a public house in Fulham where he went into a warm, smoky fug of stale tobacco smoke and a hubbub of male conversation. The saloon bar was crowded but he managed to find a small table in one corner and 33taking a seat began to watch the door. He had arrived early for their appointment wishing to first appraise the private investigator. And within minutes a man entered, glancing around the room before his attention was caught by Gerard. Balding, wearing a checked jacket, with a yellow waistcoat over his protuberant stomach, he looked more like a bookmaker than a detective. But when he approached, Gerard noted that his brown eyes were both keen and intelligent.
‘Mr Preston?’
Gerard rose and shook his hand. ‘Indeed, and you must be Mr Bonham.’
‘That I am.’ He took an opposite seat.
Gerard smiled, and downed the last of his drink. ‘First, let me get you a drink.’
‘I wouldn’t say no. I’m fond of a good malt.’
‘Of course.’ Gerard went to the bar aware that he too would be under scrutiny as Bonham would probably suspect that he had given a false name. His choice of apparel hadn’t been easy, his usual wardrobe consisting of the finest bespoke tailoring. But he had taken a guess that a Londoner of Blaise’s class would be less familiar with country clothes, and so Gerard was wearing a well-worn tweed suit he kept more for comfort than style. Let the man make of it what he would, the most important thing was that he didn’t make the connection between Mr James Preston and the Earl of Anscombe.
Returning with a generous glass of whisky for each of them, Gerard wasted no time in furnishing Bonham with more details of his requirement.
‘The fact is, old chap, that I find myself in a fearful predicament. It’s urgent that I find a fellow in whom I can confide personal details in complete confidence. I shall need him to act on my 34behalf in rather a delicate financial matter, and as you know, there is always the possibility of blackmail in such cases.’
Bonham looked at him with speculation. ‘You mentioned three gentlemen on the telephone. I take it that you want me to look into each of their characters.’
Gerard nodded. ‘Background, the way they conduct their lives, whether they pay their debts, their reputation, that sort of thing.’
‘And you said on the telephone that you need me to act urgently.’ He frowned. ‘It would need my putting aside cases I’m currently working on.’
‘Might I enquire your terms?’
‘I charge a registration fee of three pounds and then one pound per day plus expenses. I must warn you that as your case involves three investigations, the latter could prove to be substantial.’
Gerard frowned. ‘You provide a breakdown of such?’
‘Of course, and receipts when appropriate.’
‘And you feel that this is a commission you would undertake?’
Bonham nodded, but his gaze was shrewd. ‘There would be inconvenience, of course. I am not in the habit of delaying current investigations.’
‘I will pay an extra pound on your initial fee and a bonus on completion to my satisfaction.’
There was a short pause. Gerard watched thoughtful expressions flit across Bonham’s face.
‘A bonus?’
‘Shall we say a further pound?’
‘Make it two and we’ll shake hands on it.’
Gerard nodded, concealing his distaste as the man spat on his palm. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and passed over a list written on thin plain paper. Prising the information from the porter at his club had taken an extremely generous tip; this 35unwelcome endeavour was already proving to be a costly business.
‘These are the names and addresses of the three men.’ Gerard removed several folded banknotes from his pocket – his wallet was monogrammed – and counted out the required amount. ‘I rely on you to remember, Bonham, that speed is a vital factor in this matter.’
‘You can leave it with me, Mr Preston.’ He stood up and inserted the money into a leather purse. ‘I don’t have any means of contacting you, so might I suggest that you telephone me? Shall we say in a week’s time? I would hope to have some news for you by then.’
Gerard nodded and watched Bonham leave, giving a genial smile to those he passed. A man who people would find it easy to talk to, yes, but it was to be hoped that he wore less conspicuous clothes when conducting his undercover business.
Chapter Four
It was almost a week later that the trip to Paris took place. Deborah sat behind the chauffeur and looked out of the window in silence, as beneath a slight drizzle the Daimler made its way to Victoria Station. There was no doubt that a general strike was looming and yet newspaper articles, at least the ones delivered to Grosvenor Square, expressed little sympathy with the strikers’ cause. As for members of her own class, they were ostriches, the lot of them.
Once they reached Victoria, the chauffeur unloaded their luggage, and the two maids picked up their carpet bags and began to make their way into the railway station. Meanwhile the chauffeur gave the rest of their luggage to the waiting porter. ‘Would you take care of the Countess and Her Ladyship?’
Deborah saw the perspiring man’s face light up, no doubt at the chance of a decent tip. Julia gave not a backward glance as the 37chauffeur turned to leave, but Deborah, who had known Brown for many years, gave him a warm smile.
‘Safe journey, my lady,’ he said.
Julia was already sweeping through the crowded concourse, calling over her shoulder, ‘I shall need to find something to read before we board.’
Deborah followed her into the noisy station to the WH Smith news stall and, while her sister-in-law browsed through magazines, picked up the Daily Telegraph and noticed an unfamiliar title, the Workers’ Weekly. Maybe she would be able to learn more about the reasons why during the past months she’d become aware of a change in London’s atmosphere. There was tension in the air, even well-dressed passers-by seemed subdued. On Sundays she couldn’t help noticing small clusters of working-class men on their way to Speakers’ Corner near Marble Arch, their pinched faces portraying their desperation. After a swift glance at her preoccupied companion, she bought both papers, folding the former over the latter. It was bound to arouse questions and she had no desire for Julia’s disapproval to be related to Gerard. The train was already in the station and Deborah glanced to where their maids were waiting outside a first-class carriage.
‘I won’t be a moment,’ she murmured to Julia and hurrying along the platform gave the offending newspaper to Ellen. ‘Can you hide that for me?’
With a startled glance, she bent to put it inside her carpet bag.
Deborah returned to the stall to see Julia turning away with her purchases and frowning. ‘What were you doing?’
‘I bought Ellen a newspaper.’
‘Then I only hope she can read. Wasn’t she once a scullery maid?’
Deborah tightened her lips. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Well, come along, Deborah, we had better board.’38
As they arrived at the carriage the porter stood outside to assist them, their expensive luggage already stowed. On seeing their mistresses safely settled, the two maids hurried away to their own third-class carriage. With Julia showing no inclination, Deborah handed the man a generous tip. Momentarily his gaze met her own with gratitude. ‘Thanks very much, me lady.’
‘I never tip,’ Julia said languidly, as she made herself comfortable in the otherwise empty carriage. ‘After all, these people are only doing the job they’re paid to do.’
‘But are they paid enough?’ Deborah settled herself into the seat opposite.
Julia stared at her. ‘Goodness, Deborah, I hope you’re not going to talk boring politics all the way.’
Deborah suppressed a sigh of exasperation, thankful that they were soon on their way and, being familiar with the line down to Dover, she took little interest in the passing scenery, instead immersing herself in her newspaper. Mercifully, she was rarely interrupted by Julia, except when she leant over, wishing to display an illustration of a rather daring evening dress, glamorous fur tippet, or what she described as ‘a darling hat’. And Deborah could understand the attraction of such light-hearted pleasures, but she couldn’t help being in a more serious mood, having begun to read the latest reports about the threat of a general strike. One could almost taste the atmosphere of unrest in the capital.
She would often take a cab to the agency, but on the days when Brown drove her to Bloomsbury, he would take her to respectable addresses within a mile or less, and from those she would walk, the fresh air clearing her mind to embrace her secret identity. She recalled the strained expressions, lowered eyes and hunched shoulders of many she passed. There was an underlying current of worry everywhere, even growing anger. Deborah could remember 39the Great Unrest in 1912, with talk of ugly scenes, even violence, and her father saying that Britain had come close to a revolution. He’d also expressed sympathy with the plight of the coal miners, while her tutor, Mr Channing, had read articles from the leading newspapers to her, stressing that she should become aware of what an unfair and unjust society she lived in. ‘Never forget that you are privileged, and when you are older, open a window into your soul for the plight of those who have not been so fortunate.’
Young though she had been, his words had never left her.
By early evening they were settled into the luxurious Hotel Regina Paris, opposite the Tuileries Garden, where befitting their rank Deborah and Julia were allocated spacious rooms on the first floor, while the two maids shared a cramped bedroom in the attics. At least, Ellen told Deborah, there was a proper bathroom along the corridor. She also confided that Colette, Julia’s new French maid, found her mistress excessively demanding.
‘You see, Ellen, how lucky you are to only have me to look after? I remember my mama often brought maids to tears.’
‘I was scared stiff of your mother, begging your pardon, my lady. Not that she even knew I existed.’
Deborah smiled. ‘Oh yes she did, Ellen. It was she who agreed that you should be trained to be my personal maid.’
Ellen’s expression was one of such gratification that Deborah couldn’t help laughing. She was feeling in a good mood, the crossing had been calm, their rail journey uneventful and the hotel had provided a late supper.
‘Oh, Ellen?’ she said as, after unpacking for her, the maid prepared to leave. ‘Don’t forget to let me have that newspaper I gave to you at Victoria.’
‘Of course, my lady. I’ll fetch it now.’40
The following morning, after a breakfast of pain au chocolat, warm croissants, butter and apricot jam, Deborah sipped at her coffee with appreciation. Why was it that only the French could make coffee like this? Later, as despite it being March the weather wasn’t unduly cold, they decided to take a stroll along the Rue de la Paix, where in the familiar odours, sounds and atmosphere of Paris, Deborah began to relax.
Julia too was in good spirits, even excited. ‘I do so love choosing new clothes, don’t you?’
Deborah smiled, the younger woman’s enthusiasm was infectious. ‘I have to admit that I do.’
They browsed a little at prestigious shop windows but were soon entering the richly carpeted salon of a famous fashion house, with glittering chandeliers and offers of champagne. As a procession of beautiful girls modelled elegant designs, Deborah leant forward as one particular dress caught her interest. Designed for evening wear, a vibrant emerald green, its crystal-encrusted silk shimmered with every move of the mannequin. Was the long neckline too revealing, the skirt too short? Deborah didn’t care, she just knew that she had to have it. She caught the eye of the costumier and gave a smiling nod.
Julia gasped and protested. ‘But I love it too, Deborah. You couldn’t be so mean.’
Deborah resigned herself for capitulation. But the chic and astute Frenchwoman clicked her fingers and whispered to an assistant. Minutes later, a model with Julia’s fair colouring began to walk towards them. Wearing a backless chemise dress, in a heavenly shade of azure, its bodice extravagantly beaded, the pleated skirt floated with every step.
‘Your Ladyship, may I suggest that this new creation might be a better choice for you?’41
Julia’s face glowed and she clapped her hands while Deborah breathed a sigh of relief. And as this was only their first full day in Paris, she felt a small sense of satisfaction that Gerard was going to find his suggested trip an expensive one. And she was truly enjoying herself, revelling in a light-hearted sense of freedom.
The remainder of their stay involved several similar scenes, and Deborah began to feel a grudging admiration for the way that her sister-in-law dismissed a collection that wasn’t to her taste with a gracious acknowledgement, simply sweeping out of a salon. And her attention to detail as they shopped was astonishing. Only a certain accessory, a particular pair of gloves, the perfect length of a feather boa would meet with her approval. Deborah herself was delighted with a shop selling a wide selection of exquisite belts, and a fragile companionship began to build between them.
‘We must pay a visit to the Louvre while we’re here,’ Deborah said one morning.
Julia pulled a face. ‘Must we? I find art galleries rather boring.’
‘Maybe you had the wrong companion. Or you were shown the wrong paintings. Don’t tell me that the Mona Lisa with her enigmatic smile doesn’t intrigue you.’
‘Maybe the first time I saw it, but I’m not into culture in the way that you are, Deborah.’
‘Then how about a visit to the Folies Bergère?’ Deborah burst out laughing at Julia’s scandalised expression.
‘Julia, I was joking! But seriously, Paris has so much to offer.’
‘I know – clothes, clothes, and more clothes.’
‘Now you are joking.’
‘Perhaps a little,’ she said, then added gaily, ‘I suppose you’re right, Deborah. I shall accompany you to whichever art gallery you choose, but in return you must agree to visit that wonderful hat shop we passed yesterday.’42
‘It will be a pleasure.’ Deborah had to admit that the trip had not been a disaster after all, and although there had been a few difficult times, that must have been true also for Julia.
But her favourite time was in the evenings, when weather permitting, they would take a stroll by the Seine, their maids following closely behind in case ruffians were lurking under the bridges. Warmly clad in a wrap-over tweed coat and Hermes silk scarf, Deborah would walk beside Julia, cosy in her furs, finding that her sister-in-law was far too entranced by passers-by and their clothes to want to talk much, leaving Deborah to become immersed in her own thoughts.
Paris really was the ‘city of love’, she thought on their last evening. They strolled beneath the bridges watching the barges passing beneath them, with the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame Cathedral outlined against the night sky. With the lights along the river the scene was a perfect one for romance, and her heart would feel a pang on seeing young couples, hand in hand, sometimes stopping to become entwined. Beneath a lamp she saw one young woman lift her face for her lover’s kiss, her expression of such happiness that Deborah felt an unutterable sadness. She too had felt that joy. Could a woman ever find a love like that again? The familiar murmur crept into her mind: ‘You look so seductive with your hair loose, so beautiful.’ That couldn’t happen now, my darling, she thought, not in 1926. I look so different with my hair short and cut in the new fashionable bob, I’m not sure you’d like it. How could fate be so bitterly cruel, dashing all of her hopes, changing her future, while together with hundreds of thousands of other men, her young beau had lost his life. The poignancy of being here, in France, in the very country where he had been killed, thinking of him, still loving him, made her eyes shimmer with tears. She blinked them away and took a ragged breath. Damn that blasted war.43
It was then that Julia, having paused to exchange a few words with a fashionable woman walking a French bulldog, caught up with her and said, ‘You look awfully fierce.’
Deborah managed to smile. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. I think it’s time we returned to the hotel, don’t you agree?’
And I wonder, she thought later, just what that brother of mine has been up to while we have been away. Whatever it was, it was something shady, she had no doubt of it.
Chapter Five
The day after Julia and Deborah departed for Paris, Gerard, notebook and fountain pen to hand, made the long-awaited call to Blaise Bonham. Tension was rising within him and it was a relief when the telephone was swiftly answered.
‘Ah, Mr Preston, I have news for you.’
‘Satisfactory, I hope.’
‘I have every confidence, sir. Might I suggest that we meet so that I can give you my written report? Would this evening at the same venue be convenient? Shall we say eight o’clock?’
‘I shall see you then.’
Gerard replaced the receiver. It had been tempting to continue the conversation and to make notes, but it would be far better to wait for a written report. He unlocked a drawer and taking out the cheap envelope, looked again at the misspelt letter. Annie 45Jones would have received his brief reply by return of post.
The matter will be swiftly attended to. Change nothing until then. You will be paid for your trouble.
Terse, yes, but deliberately so because he was determined to sever all contact with both the woman and the area in which she lived.
