The Granville Sisters (22 page)

And if she thought it strange that a man of thirty-two might still be a virgin, the faint alarm bells that rang in the back of her head were quickly dismissed. He was just shy. He lived in a remote area and had met few girls. He had strong morals.

It was only later, sitting in the staid and elderly atmosphere of the restaurant, that she began to realize the rules of an arranged marriage.

With Daniel, she’d known what was expected of her. Right from the beginning. Their whole relationship had been set alight by a driving passion that was impossible to resist. The instant attraction between them had crackled like a firework display, so that they lost themselves in each other, never wanting to become separate entities again. Sheer instinct told her what to do, what to expect, and Daniel had been the perfect teacher.

Juliet told herself she must stop thinking of Daniel, and stop comparing Cameron to him. That way lay eternal anguish.

‘Here’s to us, Juliet …’

She realized Cameron was smiling at her across the table, his glass raised.

‘Yes … of course,’ she said quickly, collecting her thoughts. ‘Here’s to us.’

Everything went very smoothly and very quickly after that. Their engagement was formally announced, photographs were taken for the society magazines, and the wedding set for June. Like Rosie’s, it was to be held at St Margaret’s, Westminster, with the reception at the Hyde Park Hotel, where, if it was fine, guests could spill out from the ballroom into the garden overlooking the park.

All the arrangements seemed to have been taken out of Juliet’s hands and she wondered what she was supposed to be doing. Most of the time she felt totally detached, as if it was someone else’s wedding that was being arranged. Even when Cameron produced the magnificent Kincardine diamond tiara for her to be married in, her reaction was: Yes. Very nice. Nothing more.

However, Louise, Amanda and Charlotte, having fittings for their bridesmaids’ dresses, could hardly contain themselves.

‘Aren’t you excited?’ Louise asked Juliet wonderingly, when the imposing invitations arrived from Smythson’s.

Henry had arranged for one of his secretaries to spend a week at Green Street helping Liza to send them out.

‘Not really,’ Juliet replied, ‘I always expected to have this sort of wedding.’

In truth she didn’t understand her own impassivity. Her heart seemed numb, a dead unfeeling organ. It had happened the moment her ambitious dreams had turned to reality, leaving her with an intense sense of anti-climax. She was joining the adult world at ninteen, and a part of her grieved for the crashing down of the fantasy world that her tender years had conjured up with such vivid desire. What could she dream about now that all her wishes had been supposedly granted?

While all around her people were boiling up into a frenzy of excitement, Juliet felt no more than if she’d secured a good, steady occupation for life. Daniel she had put firmly out of her mind. He belonged to her giddy youth, a treasured memory to be tucked away with her newspaper cuttings of her coming out.

‘It’s a good thing the coronation will be over before the wedding,’ Liza said dismissively, as if the marriage of Juliet and Cameron were more important than the crowning of George VI and Queen Elizabeth. ‘It will give people something to look forward to.’

Rosie didn’t bother to get out of bed these days. She lay there, dozing, reading, eating packets of biscuits, and listening to her beloved wireless.

The move to Speedwell Cottage had been a success; it was fifteen minutes walk from Hartley Hall, had three bedrooms, a delightfully ramshackle overgrown little garden, but the best thing, as far as Rosie was concerned, was that Charles went up to London from Monday to Friday, because he described the daily train journey from Victoria Station to Guildford as ‘utter hell’.

When they’d first moved in, Rosie had loved arranging all their belongings in the sweet little rooms. The cottage felt more like home than Farm Street had ever done. Lady Anne helped out by producing side tables, lamps, a bookcase and a long looking glass, from amongst the stuff stored in the attic at Hartley. She also found some rugs, a rocking chair and a small desk.

‘Thank you, Granny,’ Rosie said gratefully. ‘Isn’t this cosy?’

Lady Anne smiled. ‘It’s lovely, darling. Very peaceful. Much better for you at the moment than living in London.’ She had more diplomacy than to mention the absence of Charles during the week; in her opinion, some marriages benefited from the couple being away from each other from time to time.

‘Isn’t the garden heavenly?’ Rosie continued enthusiastically. ‘Look at the sweet peas. I want to grow roses too. And lavender. Do you think I could grow lavender on either side of the path up to the front door?’

‘Most certainly.’ An experienced gardener, Lady Anne studied the tiny front patch of moth-eaten grass. ‘As a house-warming present I’ll get Spence to plant half-a-dozen
lavantera
on either side for you. You won’t be sitting out here, will you? Then may I suggest you get rid of that grass, and plant some shrubs? Maybe
hydrangea macrophylla
? And
camellia japonica
? The flowers are such a lovely shade of pink.’

‘Yes, if you’ll tell me how,’ Rosie replied with delight. She slipped her arm through her grandmother’s, and, hugging her to her side, kissed her cheek.

Dear God, thought Lady Anne, hugging her back affectionately, Rosie still
is
a child. Far too young to be married. Far too young to be having a baby.

But everything was going well, with Rosie beginning to even enjoy her pregnancy, when the shock of Juliet’s engagement exploded in her face, stripping her in that instant of self-confidence and self-esteem.
She
was supposed to be the golden girl in the family, not Juliet. She was the one who was meant to have made a brilliant match, not her wild and wayward sister.

It was a blow to her heart to realize she hadn’t lived up to the expectations of her mother.

Liza, almost hysterical with excitement, had telephoned to impart the thrilling news. Rosie realized in that instant the shift in Liza’s approval from herself to Juliet.

‘Isn’t it the most marvellous thing in the world?’ Liza crowed. ‘Daddy and I are
simply
delighted. The wedding’s going to be …’

It didn’t help Rosie that by some dark demonic coincidence, the date chosen was that of her own wedding anniversary.

‘… and you’ll have had the baby by then,’ Liza was gabbling on, ‘so you must get Hartnell to make you a beautiful outfit.’

Rosie lowered her bulky body on to the little chair by the telephone, feeling stunned and sickened. For a start, how was she going to tell her mother that she had taken out a bank loan to buy Speedwell Cottage, which she was paying back month by month out of her generous dress allowance? How could she explain that Charles hardly gave her enough for food and the household bills, because he said staying in London during the week was expensive, for which he blamed her?

Appearances meant so much to Liza; she’d be mortified if it got out that, after all her effort, Rosie was reduced to doing all her own housework and cooking, like an ordinary working-class woman.

The full impact of what Juliet’s impending marriage really meant, compared with her own, hit Rosie when, unable to sleep, she went down to the little kitchen to make a warm drink at three o’clock one morning. The milk was stored each day in a slate box, chilled by cold water, and kept outside on the window sill. When she poured some into a pan, she realized it had gone off. Congealed, sour lumps splashed on to the stove, making her feel nauseous.

Resentment, envy, anger, and sorrow for what might have been, welled up in a surging mass of sheer misery, sweeping away all sense of proportion and reducing her to a weeping wreck.

Speedwell Cottage suddenly seemed, not sweet and cosy, but cramped and poverty-stricken. How had everything gone so wrong? Why was it that Juliet, badly behaved and unscrupulous, was going to be living in the lap of luxury for the rest of her life, and a duchess at that … while she scraped together the little money she had to keep a roof over their heads? She’d done everything Mummy had wanted; played by the rules of her class and upbringing, and yet everything seemed to have gone wrong. Her marriage had become insufferable, and she couldn’t rid herself of unhappiness.

Rosie didn’t even have the courage to tell Lady Anne how bad things were, because her pride wouldn’t let her. After a while, she blew her nose, poured herself a glass of water, and, going back to bed, decided to stay there until the baby arrived in six weeks time. Sleeping would blot out how hideous her life had become. As for going to Juliet’s wedding … In one of her old outfits …? Like bloody hell! she reflected, with unaccustomed spirit.

‘Henry, I’m sorry to ring you at the bank, but I wanted to have a –’ Lady Anne paused pointedly – ‘a word with you in private. I’m worried about Rosie. She’s not looking after herself. And she seems very depressed.’

‘In what way, Mother? Is she ill?’

‘I don’t think she’s physically ill, so far, but she will be unless something is done. Charles only comes down at weekends, and not even every weekend, and I think she’s lonely. She also seems to be living in poverty. When I dropped in unexpectedly this morning, the cottage was filthy and there was only a stale loaf and some cheese in the house. She’s so proud, you know, she’d never complain, but I was shocked by the state of things. The poor child made some excuse about not feeling up to doing any shopping, but it’s more than that. I sense a feeling of
despair
about her life.’

‘Mother, I’ll drive down this evening. Do you think I should bring her back to Green Street?’

Again Lady Anne hesitated. ‘I think she’d be better here, at Hartley, you know. It’s peaceful, and I can look after her and see that she eats properly,’ she added carefully.

‘You’re right,’ he said immediately. ‘It’s a madhouse at home, with the wedding preparations and everything. Thanks for letting me know, and I’ll pop in and see you too this evening.’

‘That would be delightful, Henry.’

Rosie fell into a deep dreamless sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Back in her old room at Hartley, her sense of relief at admitting her circumstances to her shocked father was so great, she felt instantly relaxed and content again.

She would only stay at Hartley until the baby was born, she said firmly, not wanting to be a burden to her grandmother, and everyone agreed; yes, of course, it was only until she had the baby, but no one believed it.

‘Poor child,’ Lady Anne said to Henry, who stayed to have supper with his mother before returning to London. ‘She’s been most awfully badly let down by Charles. I can’t bear to think how miserable she must have been.’

‘I said all along she was too young to rush into marriage,’ Henry said testily, as he helped himself to another glass of Burgundy.

Warwick, creaking more than ever, had served lamb chops, creamed potatoes and brussel sprouts, before retiring to the kitchen, so they could talk.

‘Rosie’s baby can be born here, as you were, Henry. The local family doctor is excellent, and there’s a splendid midwife in the village.’

‘Are you sure it won’t be too much for you?’

‘My dear, Rosie will be no trouble; neither will the baby. And I won’t have to worry about her if she’s living here. What are you going to do about Charles?’

Henry sighed heavily. ‘I’ll have to talk to him. I honestly don’t feel like giving him any money under the circumstances, but I may be forced to make some arrangement, so that Rosie has a decent home, with staff. As long as Charles isn’t made to feel like a kept man.’

Lady Anne gave her son a pitying look. ‘My dear Henry, don’t delude yourself. That’s
exactly
what Charles Padmore is longing to be.’

The next morning Henry phoned Rodwell, Singer and Brett, insurance brokers in Leadenhall Street.

‘I’d like to speak to Lord Padmore, please,’ he said, when he got through.

There was a pause before the girl on the switchboard answered.

‘Lord Charles Padmore?’ she queried.

Henry had a nasty feeling he knew what she was going to say next. ‘That’s right. Charles Padmore,’ he repeated.

‘I’m afraid he doesn’t work here any more, sir.’

Henry’s heart sank. ‘When did he leave?’

‘A couple of months ago. Would you like to speak to Mr Parish?’

Henry knew Theodore Parish, and knew he’d been Charles’s boss. ‘I think I’ll leave it,’ he replied. He could guess what Parish would say. There was no point in their both being embarrassed.

Thanking the girl on the switchboard, he rang off. Then he phoned White’s. Rosie had told him Charles stayed at the club during the week.

Henry spoke commandingly when he got through. ‘I’d like to leave a message for Lord Padmore, please. Will you ask him to phone Henry Granville as soon as possible?’

So what the hell was Charles doing? Henry wondered angrily. No wonder Rosie was having to pay for everything. And supposing Charles was not actually staying at White’s? Suppose …? Henry shut his mind to the possibility of there being a mistress in the background; it just didn’t bear thinking about.

As soon as he got home that evening, Liza knew he had something on his mind. She also had some worrying news for him.

‘Henry, there was no answer when I phoned Rosie today. I tried three times. Where can she be? Do you suppose the baby has arrived prematurely? That she’s in hospital …?’

Henry raised a reassuring hand. ‘She’s staying at Hartley. I helped her move there last night. I didn’t tell you because you were asleep when I got back.’

‘You went to Hartley? Last night? I thought you were dining with Ian Cavendish?’

‘That’s tonight, darling. My mother phoned me yesterday, and suggested Rosie stay with her until the baby arrives.’ Henry was used to giving Liza an edited version of events to avoid her getting into a state, suffering from her ‘what will people think’ syndrome.

‘So I just popped down to see Rosie settled in. She sent you her love, by the way.’

Liza still looked disgruntled at being left out of a family decision.