Dorothy Eden (9 page)

“That, too, to be honest. He’s in a bit of a fix. There are a lot of estate debts and he gambles too much. And he does have this thing about Loburn that all the Hazzards have. Lionel has it, too, though less, since he’s the younger son. But I can tell you, Hetty, Hugo does care about you a lot. He came back from America cock-a-hoop about this beautiful girl he’d persuaded to marry him. He couldn’t wait to see you again.”

“And then I arrive looking like a drowned cat.”

“Well, let’s say not quite the lovely creature he expected. But that’s only temporary. Wait until we’ve got you fixed up. You lost your maid, too, didn’t you?”

Hetty nodded, unable to speak.

“That’s easily fixed. You can have Effie. She’s wasted on me. I work in the hospital, and in the garden here, and scarcely ever have time to dress up. But you must have a shopping spree and give my stupid brother-in-law a surprise. You two got on all right in London this morning, didn’t you?”

“Yes. He was—nice.”

“There you are. What are you scared about?”

Hetty made no reply, but the question stayed with her. What
was
scaring her? The pampered invalid, Lady Flora, upstairs? Julia? No, I’m not scared of anybody, Hetty told herself. Not after all I’ve been through. Hugo might not love me, I might never love him. But I’m going to be Lady Hazzard. I’m going to be mistress of Loburn. That will be enough. For the hungry child from the Bowery it would be more than enough.

T
HE NIGHTMARE WAS SO
vivid that she cried out, and woke to see an unfriendly English face bending over her. Not Clemency’s as she had dreamed, nor Mrs Jervis, magisterial with rage and declaiming, “You have stolen my diamonds, Brown, and now you’re planning to steal Clemency’s husband!” In her dream she had been protesting frantically, “You don’t need your diamonds now, and Clemency doesn’t need Hugo, either!”

And there was the bright light in her face, and Julia Pemberton watching her.

Had she said those words aloud?

“It’s nine o’clock, Miss Jervis. Lady Flora sent me to see how you are.”

Hetty sat up. The bright light was morning sunshine streaming in through the windows. She must have slept through yesterday afternoon and all through the night. She felt rested and sanguine, even the dark nightmare receding.

“I was dreaming about the
Lusitania.
Did I call out?”

“You were mumbling something. Better not do that when you’re married. Hugo won’t care for it.”

In her new mood of optimism Hetty felt almost sorry for this cool haughty young woman who obviously had hoped to marry Hugo. Perhaps she still thought such a thing possible. But it wasn’t. Hetty had lived long enough in a rich household to know the power of money.

Nevertheless, Julia might be troublesome. She couldn’t marry Hugo, but she could stop him falling in love with his bride. It would be better if she were not at Loburn.

Feel your way at present, Hetty said to herself. Make friends with Lady Flora. Learn about things. Be subtle.

“I guess I won’t have nightmares for long. Anyway, I guess Hugo could have them about the trenches. We may have to comfort each other.”

“The best way to comfort Hugo is to go on early morning gallops with him. I believe you don’t ride.”

“It’s nice of you to worry about my deficiencies, Julia. But I’ll correct them.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing the slight scowl on Julia’s smooth brow, and knew she had made her first point. It was bad luck for Julia that she imagined her adversary to be a spoiled rich girl, naïve and unused to criticism, not the tough child that Hetty had been. A child used to fighting for her rights.

“Tell me when Lady Flora would like me to visit her. I’m looking forward to meeting her. I hope she’s looking forward to meeting me.”

“She suggested eleven o’clock in her sitting room. She doesn’t like unpunctuality.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve always been trained to be punctual,” Hetty said truthfully. She had been trained to take orders, too. This was an order.

And she was just about to give one herself. A plump rosy-cheeked maid answered her bell, bobbing and then stealing curious glances at Hetty. There would have been a lot of speculation about her. Hetty knew all about kitchen gossip.

“What’s your name?”

“Annie, miss.”

“Then, Annie, tomorrow I’ll come down for breakfast, but this morning I slept in. Could you bring me some coffee and—say, what do you have for breakfast in this country?”

“Bacon and egg, miss. Grilled kidneys. Sausages. Kedgeree. Toast and marmalade. Hot muffins.”

“Do you really have all that food in wartime?”

“There’s plenty to eat. So far, anyway. Although Bates—he’s the butler—says if the German submarines go on sinking merchant ships—Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mention submarines, miss.”

“It doesn’t matter, Annie. We didn’t see the submarine. We just heard a great explosion.” We. Mrs Jervis, Clemency, herself. Mrs Drummond and her babies, Donald Newman and all those unfortunates trapped in steerage.

“It must have been horrible, miss.”

“Yes, it was, but I don’t want to talk of it now. I’d like bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, and lots of hot coffee. And quickly, Annie, before I starve to death.”

Annie giggled behind her hand. She bustled off, ready to report in the kitchen that the new mistress was ever so nice and jolly.

So there was a friend made. She might need friendship among the servants in this house.

Breakfast, a bath in the huge marble bath with gold taps shaped like dolphins, and then dressing in the borrowed silk blouse and skirt. Perhaps Kitty would take her shopping this afternoon.

It was still only ten o’clock. Repressing her eagerness to go and explore, Hetty decided to do something much less agreeable, but very necessary. She must compose a letter to Uncle Jonas, and, for safety write it with her left hand. She wasn’t sure how familiar Uncle Jonas was with Clemency’s handwriting. At this early stage she couldn’t take risks.

Dear Uncle Jonas,

Please forgive wobbly writing, my right hand was hurt when I was dragged aboard the Irish fishing boat, and it is still troubling me. But I am well otherwise, and so grateful to be alive. Poor, poor Mummy. And Brown I never saw again. She was in steerage, which was the worst place.

Mr Walter Page, the American Ambassador, met us (the American survivors) at the railway station in London yesterday, and Hugo was there, too. He (Hugo) took me to breakfast at the Berkeley Hotel and then we drove to Loburn.

Everyone is being kind considering that they had been expecting an American heiress, not a drowned cat without a single possession to her name.

The war is much worse than we, or I anyway, realised. Hugo has to go back to France very soon—he is recovering from a wound—but he wants to be married first. I have quite given up the idea of a grand wedding. It would be wrong and tragic without dear Mummy. Hugo doesn’t want it, either. So we are to be married next week in the little village church.

I already love Loburn. Now that Mother has gone, I expect Father’s money comes to me. Will you advise me what I should do? I think some of it should be put in trusts for my children. I have changed since the disaster. I no longer want balls and parties, but only quiet and safety. I realise how lucky I am to be alive.

When you write to me you must address your letter to Lady Hazzard for that is who I will be then. Dear Uncle, you are my only remaining relation,

Your loving niece,

Clemency

There. Apart from the difficulty of using her left hand, the letter had written itself. She thought it was the way the new subdued Clemency would have expressed herself, slightly garrulous, slightly excited, but mostly over-awed by her brush with death.

Anyway, Uncle Jonas, a bachelor, would not know too much about the way a young woman’s mind worked. He would give her good advice about investments, but none on how to cope with loneliness, grieving, guilt. Nor show any personal interest in her marriage beyond seeing that her aristocratic husband didn’t make off with all her fortune.

Lady Flora’s sitting room was a large light room overlooking a charming vista of lawns and blossoming trees, an avenue of limes and a fountain. The room itself, with its apple green and white colours and its orderly clutter, innumerable small tables covered with silver-framed photographs, bowls of flowers, china and glass objects, was a perfect setting for the slim grey-haired woman sitting with poker-back spine in a handsomely carved chair at the window. The room told the story of Lady Flora’s well-ordered privileged life.

She extended a regal hand to Hetty. The dowager duchess, Hetty thought, straightening her own spine. Instinct told her to play this encounter with great caution. Lady Flora was almost certainly opposed to an American daughter-in-law, rich or otherwise. Her wide faded blue eyes, an older version of Hugo’s, were deceptively innocent, her high-bridged nose, long narrow face and strong chin, the opposite, she could change her expression, but not the shape of her features. They spoke for her, even when her gaze was completely seductive. Hetty had heard of these strong-minded autocratic supremely confident English women. She was dismayed to find that her future mother-in-law was one of them.

Even so, her blood stirred to the challenge. She was twenty-two, good-looking, healthy and clever. This woman was sixty at least, and tired. Her tiredness showed in the fragility of her skin, the smoky tinge round her eyes, the thinness of her hands and wrists.

So it’s an unfair contest between us, Hetty told herself. But when I’m pregnant with your grandson you will accept me, Lady Flora.

She made herself smile with the dimpled charm she knew she was able to produce.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Lady Hazzard.”

“You must call me Lady Flora. You, I imagine, are going to be Lady Hazzard.”

“I guess so. Well, I guess that’s Hugo’s intention.”

“I apologise for not being downstairs yesterday to greet you. I understand you had a rather poor welcome. I had one of my bad mornings. I have a tiresome heart. And then, in the afternoon, they said you had gone to your room to rest. You were in a distressed state, Kitty said.”

“Yes, I was. That nightmare comes over me—about the ship, and everything.”

“It must have been a terrible experience.”

Hetty nodded. “I hope I’ll forget it in time. I’m just learning how appalling war can be. We didn’t know so much in New York. We were—cushioned I suppose is the word.”

“But it isn’t your war, is it?”

“It is from now on,” Hetty said with some vehemence. “Especially when I’m married to Hugo.”

“That’s so. One will expect that.” Lady Flora’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s your engagement ring?” The question came out sharply and suspiciously.

“I lost it. In the sea. It was a little too big for my finger. I meant to get it altered.”

“What a pity. That was Hugo’s grandmother’s ring. A very fine emerald. It can never be replaced.”

“I lost my grandmother’s wedding veil, too,” Hetty said. “That can’t be replaced, either.”

“Yes, I realise that family heirlooms give one an identity. Without them how does one know who one is?”

The mildness of her tone was deceptive. Hetty was aware of the trap.

“Hugo recognised me without his ring on my finger, Lady Flora. Are you suggesting he might have made a mistake?”

Had those wide blue eyes become a shade more chilly?

“You sound rather aggressive, my dear. Hugo told me you were a charming butterfly, very bright and amusing. Just the kind of girl he admired. He never said you were clever.”

Hetty refused to be discomfited. “I’m not clever. But if I were, maybe I would have concealed it. Men don’t like clever women, do they? At least, Mother always told me so.”

“I can see you’ve had a conventional upbringing. Personally, I think it’s quite wrong for a young girl to have to hide her intelligence. We’re surely growing out of those repressive ways. But if you aren’t as clever as I think, you do have a determined look. As if you are one of those fortunate people who know what they want.”

Hetty made her voice flippant, as Clemency would have done.

“I do know what I want. Your son Hugo, first. And then this lovely, lovely old house.”

“You’re a New Yorker, used to modern things. How can you love a house like this, creaking with age?”

“Just because it is old, I think. We don’t have houses that go back this far in history. It’s fascinating. But it does need a great deal of money spent on it, doesn’t it?”

She had the satisfaction of seeing a flicker in the stern face. Was it an acknowledgment of defeat? She wasn’t sure, for Lady Flora had begun another ploy. And now she was less tactful.

“I believe a title has a quite irresistible lure for ambitious American girls. There have been several marriages of this kind in England. I’m not sure how successful they’ve been.”

Hetty attempted a look of complete honesty. She didn’t know how long she could deceive this sharp-witted woman.

“I admit it will be kind of fun being Lady Hazzard. I’ll have to get used to it. But it wasn’t for that reason I came to England.” Now she was speaking the truth far more than Lady Flora would ever know. “I’ll make Hugo a good wife, and give him a son or two sons, or maybe three.”

“Do you love my son?” the question was clipped and abrupt.

“I did, in New York. I wanted him terribly.” Hetty knew this answer was important and had to be convincing. “Since the shipwreck I’ve felt kind of stunned and I just know I want not only Hugo, but everything. Everything!”

Lady Flora’s eyes were narrowed.

“A close escape from death seems to have made you remarkably greedy.”

“I was always greedy. For all manner of things. To see life almost vanishing made me want to grab just everything.”

“Yes, I believe I understand that. Well, I suppose that attitude has made you a survivor. Hugo’s one, too, so far. It’s terrible at the front. All our good young men are dying.”

Now Hetty was aware of the grief behind Lady Flora’s composure.

“He’ll need to care a great deal about staying alive. That’s up to you. And he must have a son. Otherwise there’s only Freddie, and he’s delicate. His mother barely survived his birth, so there won’t be any more from that quarter. I know Kitty looks strong, but she isn’t.”