The Granville Sisters (16 page)

Rosie looked up through tear-blurred eyes. Then she nodded, slowly. ‘I thought it would all be like a fairy tale,’ she admitted. ‘Like in the movies.’

Juliet smiled briskly but kindly. ‘Believe me, real life isn’t a Hollywood movie. If it turns out to be all too dreadful, you can always get a divorce, you know.’

Rosie perked up and gave a watery grin. ‘I suppose marriage needn’t be a life sentence; it’s not like being sent to prison, is it?’

Juliet shot her an amused look. ‘Not unless you want it to be, but it can always be a comfortable padded cell.’

Rosie blew her nose. ‘Mummy says it’s only wedding nerves, and I’ll be all right on the day.’

‘Of course you will,’ Juliet said robustly, sounding rather like her grandmother.

H
earing the excited roar of the crowds outside St Margaret’s, Westminster, the congregation of a thousand guests wondered what the commotion was all about.

Surely the bride and her father couldn’t have arrived so early? Heads turned to look down the aisle, the pretty flowers on the women’s hats trembling like a herbaceous border in a gust of wind. Who was arriving? A member of the royal family? The Prime Minister? Flashlights popped and another cheer went up.

Then Juliet made her entrance, and everyone knew what the furore was about. Dressed in pale aquamarine silk, which exactly matched her eyes, and with a saucy concoction of matching feathers and veiling tipped over one eyebrow, she looked straight ahead as she sashayed up the aisle, ignoring the stares of other guests, who were stunned by the sheer beauty of her exquisite face.

‘It’s the younger sister …’ people whispered, then turned to each other with knowing looks. Once again Juliet was stealing the limelight.

‘I, Charles Douglas Hugo, take thee, Rosemary Helen …’ Charles’s voice was high and tinny, tight with nerves.

Rosie stood trembling beside him, her ivory satin wedding dress gleaming in the light that streamed through the stained-glass windows. A diamond and pearl tiara held her tulle veil in place, and from her shoulders trailed a thirty-foot satin train, embroidered with tiny crystal beads. Liza had insisted that Norman Hartnell, who had designed a twenty-eight foot train for the famous beauty, Margaret Sweeny, in 1933, should make Rosie’s just that much longer.

Liza watched, dazzled with pride, and relieved there had been no more from Charles about a dowry, and that Rosie was unaware of his talk with Henry.

Henry looked grave, moved by the occasion, yet worried about his daughter’s future.

Juliet watched Rosie with pity. If Charles had been the last man on earth, she wouldn’t have wanted to marry him. After her experience with Daniel, she wasn’t sure she trusted any man now.

Lady Anne, sitting very upright in lilac chiffon and a waterfall of pearls, felt a mixture of concern and disapproval. The former because she thought Rosie was too young to be tying herself down for the rest of her life, the latter because Liza was to blame; for pushing her daughter into marriage, and for arranging this ostentatious and vulgar display of wealth.

‘… for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health …’

Rosie listened to the marriage vows, while Charles repeated them in his rather reedy voice, and in her head she was packing a small suitcase. Filled with necessities. Doubt about marrying him swept through her again; but there was nothing to stop her running away if the whole thing became too unbearable, was there?

The terrible solemnity of the vows was hitting her like hammer blows. They were even more profound than she’d realized. Making promises to God she wasn’t sure she could keep.

‘… to love, cherish and obey, till death us do part …’

The thought of that little case helped Rosie keep her composure as the marriage service continued. She was promising her life away to this young man, who, in the excitement of arriving at the church, the centre of attention and in a whirl of cheering and photographer’s flashes,
she’d forgotten would be there
.

Her surprise at seeing him, waiting for her by the chancel steps, was like bumping into an old friend at a cocktail party, safe in the knowledge she could move on to talk to someone else after a few minutes.

And now these life-binding vows …! How could she possibly promise to love, cherish, for richer for
poorer
…! Oh, God, what have I done, she thought in panic.

Then it was her turn. ‘I, Rosemary Helen …’ The rest was a blurr. All that mattered was the thought that if the worst came to the worst she could run back to Granny at Hartley at any time.

The reception passed in a jolly haze of shaking hands and cutting the cake, listening to the speeches, whilst vaguely aware that, even though this was
her
day, people were saying how beautiful Juliet looked.

At last it was over. In a flurry of goodbyes, showers of rose petals and Henry saying to Charles, with an intimate man-to-man look, ‘I’ve popped a couple of bottles of champagne into your luggage, old chap,’ as they drove off and the guests piled into Bruton Street to wave and cheer.

They were to spend the first night of their honeymoon at the Ritz, before setting off the next day for a three-week driving excursion through France, Italy and Switzerland.

‘How nice of Daddy to give us that champagne,’ Rosie remarked, cheering up, as the car edged neared the hotel.

Charles nodded, looking serious. ‘Yes, but we should keep it for a special occasion, don’t you think?’

‘Aren’t you going to take off that silly hat?’

They’d been shown to their suite. Still in her sapphire blue dress and coat, with a hat trimmed with matching feathers, she was relaxing on a sofa, admiring the welcoming flowers her mother had ordered to be put in their sitting room.

She flushed, startled by the rebuke, and looked hurt.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I hate feathers.’ Charles sounded sulky, as he unpacked his overnight case. Ignoring her, and remaining silent, he pottered around in an aimless sort of way.

A block of ice seemed to form itself in Rosie’s stomach and she started trembling. It seemed as if she’d married a complete stranger, with whom she had absolutely nothing in common. Who was this truculent young man, fidding with his wash bag? Wandering, looking bored, from their bedroom into the sitting room, and then back to the bedroom again?

For the first time in her life, Rosie had no idea what to say.
Well, here we are, married at last!
sounded too hearty.
Darling … at last we’re alone
sounded rather forward to someone who’d suddenly become a stranger. On the other hand,
What’s the matter with you, Charles?
were the words of a nagging wife.

She removed her beautiful hat very slowly, and laid it on the table. She felt cold and miserable and homesick. She wanted to run back to Mummy and sit with her in her cosy sitting room, so they could gossip about the wedding and who’d been there. She wanted Daddy to tell her everything would be all right, and then she wanted to slip up to the nursery, to see if Nanny had any aspirins.

But instead she sat in numb silence, experiencing the terrible feeling that, now Charles had secured her as his wife, he no longer intended to show her he cared for her, or to reassure her they were going to be happy together.

‘Shall I order room service, or do you want to go down to the restaurant for dinner?’ was all he asked, breaking into her bleak thoughts.

‘Dinner in the restaurant would be nice,’ she replied, in a small voice. Whether Charles liked her or not, she’d order champagne, and in front of a lot of people he wouldn’t be able to stop her. Getting tipsy might be the only way she was going to get through the rest of the evening. And the night ahead.

The pain was excruciating. She felt as if an iron spear was being thrust inside her. Charles was trying to be gentle, she was sure of that, but nevertheless, why hadn’t her mother told her the first time would be so painful? There was absolutely none of that ‘pleasure in pain’ that people talked about, either.

‘Oh-h-h!’ she gasped again and again, shrinking back from the steely probing. ‘Wait … please.’

But Charles did not intend to wait indefinitely. With a final impatient thrust he completed the act, and then lay, spent, on top of her, panting. Without having said a word.

Later, while he slept heavily beside her, she lay awake, gazing into the darkness.

She’d always been jealous of Juliet, but never more so than at this moment. To be home, and safe, and feel loved was all she wanted, she thought, as hot tears scalded her cheeks and dampened her pillow.

‘It’s
such
an amusing little doll’s house,’ Juliet mocked, when Rosie invited her to cocktails in her new home, after she’d returned from honeymoon. ‘I suppose it’s all Charlie could afford.’

‘Charles,’ Rosie corrected automatically, ‘and we’ll be moving somewhere bigger in due course, but we just wanted a tiny place to begin with, where we could be on our own.’

‘How cosy.’ Juliet sounded unconvinced.

‘Come and sit down.’ Rosie patted the new two-seater sofa, and then went over to a side table, where there was a small selection of drinks on a tray with a hunting scene, which they’d been given as a wedding present. ‘Sherry?’

‘Sherry?’ Juliet repeated. ‘Haven’t you any gin?’

Rosie nodded. She did not look happy. ‘I’ve only got lime juice to go with it, I’m afraid.’

‘The tart’s drink,’ Juliet remarked, amused. ‘That’ll do, but go easy on the lime.’

Sitting in uncomfortable silence, the sisters looked at each other. Juliet was amazed by how different everything was, now that Rosie was married. She seemed to have taken a great leap into another world, to which Juliet did not belong, and it was a strange feeling.

‘So tell me, Lady Padmore, how was the honeymoon?’ she asked in desperation, trying to sound flippant and jokey. ‘Did you see Nice and Die? Did you break the bank at Monte Carlo? Was the Tower of Piza really leaning?

Rosie tried to laugh, but then her face crumpled and she burst into tears.

Juliet looked at her in astonishment. ‘Rosie? What’s the matter?’

‘I … I don’t think I like being m-married,’ her sister sobbed.

‘You mean you’re not enjoying sex?’ Juliet asked bluntly.

Rosie turned red with embarrassment, and blew her nose on a tiny handkerchief.

‘Go on. You can tell me, for God’s sake!’

‘It’s just that …’ she began tentatively, ‘I should warn you, because no one warned me, that it’s … difficult. Terribly painful at first. And then …’ Rosie’s voice drifted away, and she dabbed her eyes.

‘And then … what?’

‘Then … nothing,’ she said lamely.

‘How do you mean …
nothing
?’

Rosie shrugged her thin shoulders. She’d lost a lot of weight in the three weeks she’d been away, and her pretty red and white summer dress hung limply on her.

Juliet leaned forward. ‘Do you really mean you don’t enjoy it?’ She could hardly keep the amazement out of her voice.

Rosie nodded slowly. ‘It’s very nice to be loved, of course,’ she added awkwardly. She and Juliet had never indulged in intimate talk, and making love with Charles was a very private matter, something she’d be reluctant to discuss even with a doctor.

‘If you don’t enjoy it, it’s because you’ve never been properly aroused,’ Juliet said knowledgeably. ‘And if you had been, it wouldn’t really have hurt, even the first time. At least, only a tiny bit … and in a very exciting way.’

Rosie’s mouth fell open. ‘How do you …? You
haven’t
, have you?’ she asked, shocked.

Juliet suddenly smiled, a really warm, happy smile that lit up her eyes and made her face glow. No matter that Daniel Lawrence had turned out to be an adulterous rogue, she’d never forget how happy he’d made her during that weekend in Paris.

‘Yes. I have,’ she admitted, proudly. ‘It was the most marvellous experience. Sex is so important, Rosie. It’s so fulfilling … and wonderful for the skin.’

‘But … who? When …? Are you going to get married?’

There was an immediate edge of jealousy in Rosie’s voice, and frustrated longing in her eyes. Trust everything to be ‘wonderful’ and ‘marvellous’ for Juliet, she thought.

Juliet took out a cigarette and fitted it into a long green holder. ‘He’s already married and an utter rotter,’ she said, matter-of-factly, as she lit up. ‘I’ll never see him again, nor have anything to do with him, but I’ll be for ever grateful. He showed me how it
should
be done … I’ll probably never have such a wonderful lover again,’ she added, laughing wrily, ‘but it was worth it.’

‘How do you mean? There is only one way it
can
be done,’ Rosie said irritably. ‘What was so special about it?’

Juliet looked thoughtful, and drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘He was older than me, and very experienced. I think one’s first lover should always be experienced. These boys we meet at parties are fumbling amateurs by comparison. They’re only out for their own pleasure, and to hell with what the woman wants. It’s very important for a lover to have good bedroom
manners
too.’

‘You mean like saying thank you afterwards?’ Rosie looked bewildered and dazed. That her younger sister seemed to know such a lot about what had always been a taboo subject in the Granville household shocked her.

Juliet burst out laughing. ‘He’s not holding a door open for you, or offering you a seat on a train, Rosie.’ She held out her glass. ‘I say, could you top up this drink, with more gin?’

Rosie got to her feet, as if in a dream. ‘Yes. I think I’ll have another one, too.’ She tottered over to the drinks tray, suddenly feeling deeply envious. That her younger sister should have had an obviously marvellous time in bed with an experienced man, while she’d been struggling to enjoy herself with Charles, filled her with chagrin.

Charles had recently suggested that in future they should only make love on Tuesdays and Thursdays … what had happened to staying in bed, consumed by lust night and day, whilst drinking champagne? It felt as if her sex life had been committed to a calendar.