The Granville Sisters (9 page)

‘You know perfectly well.’ Rosie was hunched forward, her arms held across her front as if she had stomach-ache. ‘Everyone’s talking about you,’ she whispered, white with anger. ‘They’re saying you behaved like a virago. How
could
you, Juliet? How could you treat Alastair like that?’

‘If that’s what they’re saying about me then it must be true,’ Juliet flashed back, shrugging.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Mind your own business.’

Rosie protested in panic, ‘I can’t go back to the ballroom on my own. People are
talking
.’

Juliet had had enough. She turned recklessly away, five foot six and eight stone of champagne-fuelled venom. ‘Let them bloody talk! I’ve done you a favour; you’re so stupid you’d have married him if he’d asked you, and
then
found out he was after your money.’

Tears of rage and disappointment streamed down Juliet’s face as the taxi rattled through Mayfair towards Green Street.

Like Rosie, she’d set her heart on marrying Alastair, and she’d convinced herself so thoroughly that she cared for him, that she no longer knew now whether it was actually true or not. But how differently she and her sister had regarded him.

To Rosie, Alastair had been a knight in shining armour, brave, kind, true and of course eminently eligible. To Juliet, he’d been someone who was dangerously exciting, possessed of dark forces, a wild stallion whose love-making would be thrilling and feverish. Tonight she’d been almost scared by his uncontrollable emotions, but at the same time horribly enthralled.

But would he, if he’d been rich, have been the right man for either of them? She wondered.

‘I’m afraid there’s no question of it; you can’t possibly marry Alastair Slaidburn,’ Liza had told her fretfully, earlier in the day. With Henry’s help she’d found out what she should have already known; Alastair was broke, and his cousin was trying to find him a rich bride.

‘He didn’t know I had money when he first met me,’ Juliet had pointed out swiftly. It was true. He’d known from the beginning Rosie was a Granville, because Lady Heysham had made a point of introducing him to her, but that first magical night when Juliet met him, he hadn’t even known her name.

‘You may be right,’ Liza agreed, reluctantly, ‘but please don’t say that to Rosie. He’s hurt her enough as it is.’

‘And you don’t think I’m hurt? And disappointed?’ Juliet had retorted. And so she’d gone to the ball, deciding to ignore Alastair whilst flirting with all the other young men, so she’d at least have the pleasure of being the one to end their relationship.

It was still only midnight, and to her annoyance Parsons was lurking in passageways and landings, checking locks and switching off lights.

‘Miss Juliet?’ he said in surprise at seeing her arrive home so early and unchaperoned.

‘Good night, Parsons,’ she said coldly, averting her face so he wouldn’t see her tears.

On the second floor landing she ran into Miss Ashley, Liza’s lady’s maid, who was about to put Liza’s jewels back in the safe after their return, a few minutes before, from another party.

Juliet nodded to her silently, before tapping on her mother’s bedroom door. ‘Can I come in, Mummy?’

Liza was taking off her make-up at her dressing table. She called out, ‘Come in,’ at the sound of Juliet’s tear-thickened voice. ‘What happened, darling?’

‘I told him I couldn’t marry him.’ Juliet slumped on to her parents’ large bed, her beautiful face woebegone.

Liza spoke anxiously. ‘Nicely, I hope?’

‘How can one do it nicely? He used me, and I’ll never forgive him for that.’

‘Does Rosie know?’

‘I think you’ll find the whole of London knows by now.’

Liza jumped to her feet, her face covered with Pond’s cream, her blue satin and lace negligee slipping off her bare shoulders.

‘Surely you were discreet? You didn’t let anyone know you were turning him down, did you?’

Juliet rose, suddenly tired, sickened and defeated. ‘He got what was coming to him,’ she muttered, marching out of the room, and slamming the door behind her.

‘What’s going on?’ Henry demanded, emerging from his dressing room wearing dark blue silk pyjamas.

‘Leave her alone, Henry,’ Liza said firmly, as she quickly averted her face so he wouldn’t see the cold cream. ‘Juliet’s overtired. We’re
all
overtired.’ Her bottom lip trembled. Really, it was all too heartbreaking. She’d worked so hard to bring out the girls, and give them every opportunity, and now everything had been ruined.

It didn’t end there. Two days later Juliet received a letter from Alastair. His small writing, like mouse scratchings, was difficult to decipher at first, but eventually she was able to make out his rambling exhortations as to why they were meant for each other.

Phrases such as ‘We belong together. I can’t imagine a life without you …’ and ‘How can you think I’m only interested in your money? You
must
know I love you more than life itself. I
adore
you’ caused Juliet to have doubts about rejecting him, for all of ten minutes. But her mother was right. There was no way she could marry a blatant fortune-hunter. On the other hand, would she ever find another man who cared about her so passionately?

In the end, Liza helped Juliet compose a polite but simple letter, saying they had no future together, and under the circumstances she didn’t want to see him again.

Two days later, Rosie and Juliet left London for a weekend house party given by Sir George and Lady Frobisher, in Gloucestershire. Around a dozen of their friends had also been invited.

The Frobishers had a grand country house, much more formal than Hartley, and with many more staff. When they arrived, Lady Frobisher greeted them in the main hall. Here, heraldic armorial bearings and insignias abounded, and they were told that tea would be served in the library in fifteen minutes.

‘You will find an itinerary of the weekend arrangements in your rooms,’ a housekeeper in a black dress informed the sisters, as she led the way up a broad sweeping staircase.

As Rosie and Juliet weren’t talking to each other, this announcement didn’t garner much response.

Having made sure everyone had been introduced, Lady Frobisher, a vague-looking woman with a rictus grin and eyes so blank she might have been comatose, retired to her throne-like chair by the fire, while Sir George held forth to the group of his own friends who were also staying.

Juliet’s heart sank. Especially when she found herself trying to balance a cup and saucer and small plate with a cucumber sandwich, as she sat perched on a chair, amid her hosts’ friends. Colin, Archie, Edward, and all her other chums had formed a group in a bay window on the far side of the room, and there was no way she could join them without appearing rude.

‘It’s to be hoped the Prime Minister’s attitude will soften if the Conservatives are returned to power,’ Sir George was pontificating.

‘I don’t think Stanley Baldwin’s the right man for the job,’ a retired colonel opined. ‘We need someone like Winston Churchill at the helm.’

‘But he’s a warmonger,’ quavered an elderly dowager, whose sagging neck was contained by a choker of pearls almost up to her ears.

Ignoring this boring discussion, which she’d heard a hundred times, Juliet was surreptitiously trying to attract Colin’s attention. At last he caught her eye, smiled and then tilted his head towards the door. ‘Later,’ he mouthed.

Juliet raised plucked eyebrows, and gave the hint of a nod.

Suddenly the room seemed to have gone quiet. She looked around wonderingly, and found Sir George staring at her with a pained expression.

‘I’m sorry …?’ She had no idea what for, but it seemed expected of her.

‘I was asking if your father is still a keen supporter of the League of Nations,’ Sir George repeated testily.

Juliet’s eyes flew open, like glistening aquamarines. ‘I’m so sorry … I’ve had a bad ear infection and it’s left me slightly deaf, but yes, Daddy is certainly still a supporter. A strong one, actually.’

She was aware of Colin’s suppressed laughter from the far corner, and Rosie’s nervous stare of astonishment.

‘Jolly good,’ Sir George muttered, but he turned away with a sneer on his face, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

Into the stuffy and old-fashioned formality of this house party, there was much worse to come.

Juliet deliberately waited to come down from her room until everyone, including some of the guests invited to dinner before the ball, had gathered in the hall for drinks.

Earlier in the evening, Colin had managed to secure two glasses of gin and tonic from one of the footmen, and he’d sneaked one to Juliet, to drink while she was getting ready.

The alcohol gave her a lift, brought a slight flush to her cheeks and made her feel exultant. As soon as the dancing started, she intended to enjoy herself in spite of being in this great unfriendly mausoleum of a mansion.

Descending the stairs slowly, she knew her appearance was making an impact. Her ice-blue chiffon dress clung to her body before floating out around her feet.

People looked up, caught sight of her, and were hooked, fascinated. Others turned to see what they were looking at and, seeing her, were unable to turn away either, mesmerized by the strong sexual chemistry that emanated from her.

The men felt lust pulse through their veins, while the women, with sinking hearts, knew that Juliet Granville would be the centre of attraction for the rest of the night.

‘I might as well go home now,’ one débutante murmured in depressed tones.

Rosie, whose features were more perfect, whose hair was a purer gold and whose eyes were a heart-stopping shade of blue, had faded into insignificance by comparison.

‘Bitch!’ Rosie thought, as Juliet came down the last few steps. Bitch for stealing her thunder, for luring Alastair away, for ruining her whole year. A bitch she wished had never been born.

Then a curious thing happened. Four guests who had driven down from London arrived at that moment, and Lady Frobisher stepped forward to greet them. A moment later, after whispered words, she gave a little gasping shriek and then threw her hands up in the air.

They were telling her something in low voices, and apologizing for being late. ‘We didn’t know what to do when he didn’t turn up to join us,’ a white-faced young man was explaining in urgent tones.

A girl near the group was in tears. Beside her a young man covered his face with his hands. The guests who had just arrived stood huddled together as if they’d endured the most terrible experience.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

‘What’s happened?’ Juliet asked someone.

One of the older women guests stepped forward and put her arm around the weeping girl’s shoulders. There were cries of ‘Oh! My God!’ Lady Frobisher stood transfixed. Then Sir George rallied, and took charge, ordering brandy and a quiet room in which the new arrivals could collect themselves. The rest of the guests had broken up into little groups, muttering quietly, looking shocked.

Everyone had forgotten Juliet, who stood alone and ignored.

Then she noticed Rosie, rushing out of the front door into the garden, her hand clamped over her mouth as if she was going to be sick.

‘What’s
happened
?’ Juliet repeated, her heart contracting with fear.

‘And so young!’ a woman was saying shrilly. ‘It’s too tragic for words.’

Juliet pushed her way across the crowded hall to where Edward stood. He looked shattered.

‘What’s going on?’ she demanded, feeling suddenly very frightened.

Edward’s face was like candle wax. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said almost accusingly. ‘Alastair Slaidburn’s dead.’

Her blood seemed to freeze into tiny particles that surged through her veins, leaving her feeling numb and faint.

‘Dead?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘Was he driving?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘On his way here, tonight … was he in a car accident?’

Edward turned wild and bloodshot eyes on her. ‘For Christ’s sake … don’t you understand? Alastair has committed suicide. Your letter was in his hand when they found him.’

Rosie and Juliet left the Frobishers early the next morning, before anyone was up and about. Throughout the journey Rosie’s eyes continued to brim with tears, and on the rare occasions she looked in Juliet’s direction, her expression filled with hostility and loathing.

Juliet ignored her as she watched the countryside slip past, seeing humble cottages and shabby terraced houses, back yards hung with washing, or carefully tended flower beds, while envying the people who lived in them for their simple blameless lives.

Nothing would ever be the same again for her; for ever branded as the girl who caused a man’s suicide, she’d become a notorious figure of curiosity, with a reputation of being a heartbreaker. Infamy would stalk her from now on, ready to pounce from the shadows no matter what she did.

‘Christ Almighty!’ Henry exclaimed, appalled, as he picked up the newspapers Parsons had arranged on the hall table.

There were pictures on the front page of Juliet looking stunning in an evening dress, her eyes cat-like and seductive, her mouth luscious. There were ones of Alastair, too, glass in hand, looking handsome and jovial.

According to the style of the newspaper, the headlines ran from
MARQUESS COMMITS SUICIDE
to
DEB
’
S JILTED SUICIDE SUITOR
!

Henry’s eyes skimmed the text with growing horror. ‘The tragic suicide of the Marquess of Slaidburn, aged twenty-eight, who fell from the roof of his ancestral home …’ and further on, ‘It is believed he was depressed at having been turned down by Miss Juliet Granville, the most beautiful débutante of the year, whose letter of rejection was found in his hand when his body was discovered in the early hours of Friday morning …’

Henry sank into his chair at the end of the dining-room table, too shocked to do anything but sit and stare into space.

Breakfast was the one meal when the family helped themselves to what they wanted from the range of silver dishes kept warm on the side. But today, Parsons, who had already scanned the newspapers and passed on the juicier bits to Mrs Fowler, took it upon himself to stay in the dining room, hovering helpfully, with offers to serve Henry.