The Granville Sisters (23 page)

‘So, is Charles staying at Hartley too?’

‘He’ll probably go down at weekends, as he’s been doing,’ Henry replied with deliberate vagueness.

‘Why didn’t Mama phone me if she was worried about Rosie?’

‘She phoned me because she actually wanted to discuss getting another gardener,’ he lied, glib with long practice at spinning white lies for the sake of peace, ‘and the topic of Rosie came up.’

He walked abruptly over to the drinks tray and helped himself to a whisky and soda, without the soda. ‘How are the wedding plans going, darling?’

It did the trick. Liza prattled on for the next half hour, and he caught something about the page boy’s trousers, Juliet’s shoes being embroidered with crystal beads, and forty more acceptances, while his mind dwelled on more serious matters. Such as, if Charles really had lost his job, what was he doing for money?

It was two days before Charles returned his call.

‘I’ve been frantically busy,’ he muttered vaguely. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

Henry felt incensed by his attitude. ‘Have you been staying down at the cottage with Rosie?’

Charles fell into the trap. ‘That’s right. Jolly nice weather it’s been too.’

‘Then you must have had a very lonely time, because Rosie’s moved out,’ Henry said coldly.

‘Er … what was that?’

‘You haven’t been down to Shere, have you? And you haven’t been to work, either. The truth is, you’ve been sacked from Lloyd’s and you haven’t got a job, have you?’

‘No, I mean … I’ve left Rodwell, Singer and Brett because I’ve had a better offer.’ Charles sounded flustered, and Henry could tell he was lying.

‘That’s good,’ Henry said genially. ‘Which firm has made you an offer?’

‘I’m not in a position to say at the moment, but as soon as it’s confirmed, I’ll be able to tell you.’

‘Charles, why are you lying like this? Rosie has been paying for everything. Before you got married you asked me if I was giving her a dowry, and I repeat, I’m not. She’s not an heiress, you know. It is a husband’s job to look after his wife, and not depend on the little money she has.’

There was a stunned silence on the line.

Henry continued tersely, ‘You gave my wife and I the impression you were able to support Rosie. When I questioned you about your finances, you lied to me by saying you had a private income, as well as a good future as a name at Lloyd’s. You led me to believe you were in a position to
buy
a house in Farm Street. Don’t think I’m going to support you now,’ he added heatedly, inwardly cursing himself for not seeking more proof of Charles’s financial position before the wedding.

‘I’ve had a lot of bad luck, and your daughter really is very demanding. And extravagant,’ Charles said defensively in a self-pitying voice. ‘She wants to go on living in the style of
your
house, although she knew I was just starting out on my career.’

‘And now she can’t even afford a woman from the village to do the washing,’ Henry cut in angrily.

‘Well, what am I supposed to do about it?’ Charles demanded sulkily.

‘Are you staying at the club?’

‘I can’t afford to. I’m staying with a friend in Ebury Street.’

‘Which friend?’

‘Guy Douglas. You know, he was my best man at the wedding.’

Henry remembered him well; a twenty-five-year-old rake, whose interests seemed to consist of drinking, gambling and chasing girls.

‘I want to see you tomorrow,’ Henry said grimly. ‘Be at my office by ten o’clock.’

Charles sounded appalled. ‘
Ten
o’clock?’

‘Ten o’clock. And don’t be late.’

Henry phoned Lady Anne at eleven o’clock the next morning.

‘Mother, I hate to do this to you, but …’

He’d arranged for Charles to stay at Hartley, where he must try and patch up his marriage. He knew his mother could keep an eye on him, at least until Rosie had the baby. The other condition was that Charles must come up to London for job interviews; Henry would even buy him a season ticket, so there’d be no excuse.

‘After the baby arrives we can review the situation,’ Henry had told him. ‘You’ve got to face up to your responsibilities. I’m only doing this to spare Rosie’s feelings. She’s vulnerable at the moment and she needs you. But mind you behave yourself.’

Lady Anne took the news with her usual sanguineness. ‘That’s fine, Henry. Rosie needs her husband at a time like this.’

‘I hate to lumber you with this, Mother.’

‘My dear Henry,’ she replied calmly, ‘with Mrs Dobbs, Warwick, who’s still working in spite of his bad feet, and three able-bodied young women who clean and do the laundry, why should it be too much?’ She gave a chuckle. ‘I’ve a good mind to get Charles to help Spence with the garden at weekends. A bit of exercise and fresh air might be good for him.’

It was the proudest day of Liza’s life. The sight of Juliet coming down the aisle with her new husband so overwhelmed her that tears sprang to her eyes. For a moment she wished her parents were still alive, so she could turn to them and say, Look how far I’ve come, Mum! And look how far your granddaughter’s come!

Every dream, every wish, and all her life’s ambitions had now culminated in this glorious moment. Liza slipped her hand through Henry’s arm. Sheer gratitude for what he’d given her over the years amounted to a kind of devoted love she’d never felt before.

‘All right, darling?’ There was a hint of surprise in his voice, especially when he saw the tears glistening on her rouged cheeks.

‘
More
than all right,’ she whispered back, her voice catching.

Outside St Margaret’s, Westminster, crowds of people and photographers had gathered to see the high-society bride and groom emerge through the stone portals into the sunlight. There was cheering and clapping, and even the passing traffic ground to a halt as people craned their necks from the top of buses to have a look.

Juliet was in her element. She loved the crowds who gazed in awe, she loved the photographers whose shutters clicked like dozens of snapping insects, she loved being the centre of attention; this, it flashed through her mind, is almost better than sex.

As she stood in the sunshine in a long white dress with medieval sleeves moulded to her body, and the Kincardine tiara blazing brilliantly on her head, she wished this exact moment could last for ever.

Cameron, standing stiffly by her side, might not have existed at that moment. This was
her
wedding,
her
day, and she gloried in this moment.

Then the dowager duchess came out of the church, wearing a white muslin Empire-style dress, with a white toque, supporting a pearl and diamond tiara and a clutch of grubby white ostrich feathers. Clutching a white ermine muff, she slid up to take her place on her son’s other side, so that for a bewildering moment it looked as if Cameron had two brides.

Henry, seeing what was happening, gently pulled the duchess to one side, so that she stood with him, Liza, and Lady Anne, while the child bridesmaids and pages completed the group.

But Iona Kincardine was a determined woman. As Cameron and Juliet moved forward to step into the waiting Daimler to take them to the reception, his mother began to follow, as if she expected to go with them.

‘This is our car, my dear,’ Lady Anne said, taking the dowager’s arm, and leading her firmly to the second car. ‘We’re going with Henry and Liza.’

Henry flashed his mother a grateful look. Liza felt alarmed. Was Iona suffering from dementia? Did she believe this was her wedding day too? Or was she just plain possessive of her son?

The fact that she’d come so eccentrically dressed was worrying enough, but if she was going to hang on to Cameron all the time, Liza began to understand why Juliet had been so keen to have a house in London.

Rosie, looking suspiciously thin, in spite of giving birth to a premature daughter six weeks before, climbed into the third car with Charles and her three younger sisters, who were all dressed in their pale pink
broderie anglaise
bridesmaid’s dresses.

‘I’ve just remembered,’ Louise said suddenly, as the car swept round Parliament Square, ‘that you were married a year ago today, weren’t you, Rosie?’

Charles looked startled. ‘Were we?’ He glanced at Rosie, who had flushed red, and was blinking hard.

She nodded, turning to look out of the car window, too upset to speak.

‘Are you going to celebrate?’ Amanda piped up.

‘We
are
celebrating,’ Charles pointed out with forced joviality. He reached for Rosie’s hand and squeezed it.

Charlotte, clutching her posy of white sweet peas and pale blue love-in-a-mist, peered into Rosie’s face with the instinctive perception of the very young.

‘Why are you crying? Are you missing your baby?’

Rosie gave a wobbly smile. ‘That’s right.’

‘Shall we pick her up from Green Street and take her to the reception?’ Louise suggested helpfully. Sophia had been left with the monthly nurse, thanks to the generosity of Henry, who could see Rosie was in no state to look after her tiny daughter by herself.

Charles looked at Rosie again, anxious to steer her away from one of her ever more frequent crying jags, especially today of all days. ‘What do you think, darling?’ he asked.

With a tremendous effort, Rosie had pulled herself together. ‘It’s a sweet idea, Louise,’ she said, ‘but she mustn’t go to crowded places until she’s bigger, in case she picks up germs.’

‘That’s true,’ Charles confirmed, smiling at Rosie again.

These days their marriage was as fragile as eggshell; and already so fractured it would take very little to crush it into sharp little particles. He had to watch what he said and did if he wanted to avoid a row with Rosie. He also hoped that at some point Henry would make over a large sum to his daughter, which would solve their financial problems.

But gone was the beautiful, cheerful and loving girl he’d married. Gone was the sex life he’d greatly enjoyed. Instead he had a cold and brittle wife, who always seemed to be miserable, tired and withdrawn.

Meanwhile, Lady Anne was insisting they both stay on at Hartley for the time being, as Rosie hadn’t yet recovered and there wasn’t room for a nurse at Speedwell Cottage.

Not that Charles had any objection to this. Life at Hartley was comfortable. There was just one snag. He felt Lady Anne was watching him all the time. Making sure he came back from London to be with Rosie and the baby, and questioning him about his interviews for jobs. Monitoring his movements at weekends.

He missed living in London. He missed his drinking sessions with his friends. But most of all, he missed gambling at the Mall Casino; not that he could now, even if he’d wanted to. The bank, to whom he owed a lot of money, had refused to lend him any more.

He was, in fact, penniless, and now totally dependent on the Granvilles.

Like flocks of brightly coloured birds, guests were spilling into the garden from the overcrowded ballroom of the Hyde Park Hotel. The fluttering feathers, squawking voices and tottering high heels reminded Daniel Lawrence, as he drove slowly past, of the exotic flamingoes he’d seen in Africa, pecking at their food, high-stepping daintily, mingling with each other with great amiability.

Then he spotted Juliet. He pressed hard on the brakes, nearly causing the car behind to crash into him.

She was standing just inside one of the open French windows of the ballroom, talking to a group of guests. Her beautiful face and hands seemed to rise out of a cloud of white silk tulle, crowned by a blaze of glittering diamonds. She was talking and laughing, a glass of champagne in one hand, which she waved about as she gesticulated, and a bouquet of white orchids in the other.

Daniel had forgotten he’d read somewhere that she would be getting married today. Forgotten? Or had he pushed it to the back of his mind in an effort not to remember? He parked the car a few yards further on, and walked back to where, standing half-hidden under the trees, he could watch her through the windows.

She dazzled, of course. Vivacious and sparkling, she drifted from group to group, always surrounded by admiring friends, kissing and being kissed, holding out her glass for a waiter to fill again, before moving on to talk to other admirers.

Daniel had been mesmerized by her when he’d first spotted her in that dark and smoky jazz club, and she mesmerized him still. He stood, his eyes straining to catch glimpses of her in the chandelier-lit ballroom, no longer caring if anyone saw him. She was the most fascinating woman he’d ever known, and whilst his head told him they had no future and never would have, his heart seemed to fold in half in his chest, as if a door was closing for ever.

At that moment he saw a tall older man with grey hair put his arm around Juliet’s shoulders, and smile down into her face. She nodded, as if she agreed with what he’d said, and reached up to pat his shoulder. Daniel caught the bright glint of gold on her left hand. Her father was obviously urging her away from the window, pointing to something … were they about to cut the wedding cake?

Juliet was laughing, and then, suddenly, as if she’d felt someone was watching her, she turned sharply, and looked out at the Park.

Their eyes met across the narrow stretch of grass and road. Juliet’s face registered shock. A second later, her expression became reproachful, her eyes blazed, as if it was all his fault.

Daniel felt his own heart stop mid-beat, stop so suddenly and painfully he was afraid it would never start again. Then she turned abruptly away, her back view hidden by the mist of white tulle. A moment later she’d vanished into the crowd.

He walked slowly back to his car, wishing he’d driven along Knightsbridge instead of through Hyde Park. Too many memories had been stirred, too many uncomfortable emotions that were best forgotten had been aroused.

Those damned dark eyes were still haunting her. Of all the people in the whole of London, why had it been Daniel Lawrence she’d seen, standing in the park, looking into the hotel ballroom? Had he come on purpose? To taunt her with memories of what she’d lost?

Shaken by the split-second encounter, Juliet could now not think of anything else. She was barely aware of helping Cameron cut their three-tiered cake with a sword; of listening to the speeches, of going up to change before kissing her family goodbye and leaving in a shower of confetti.