Hettie of Hope Street (30 page)

Hettie didn't, at least not entirely, although she was beginning to guess what Mary meant.

‘Mary, you can't mean…you aren't thinking,' she began, horrified.

But Mary didn't let her get any further. ‘I've got no choice, 'ave I?' she demanded bitterly. ‘Who's going to give a part to a chorus girl with a ninemonth belly on her? No one, that's who! And I ain't goin' back 'ome to end up in the bleedin' factory and 'avin' everyone knowing. He would 'ave married me, 'Ettie, I know 'e he would. It's his family as won't let him. And if he had married me then this in 'ere would be going to be born a little lord or lady,' she told Hettie savagely. ‘But he ain't married me and this what he's put in here, ain't going to be born.'

‘Oh Mary, surely he will do something to help you?' Hettie protested.

‘Not 'im. Not now. Too scared of his family, he is. Gorn away to stay with his fiancée's family, he has. It's in all the papers.

‘No, 'Ettie, me mind's made up. Bin thinkin' about it all week, I have. I reckon if I pawn his ring then I should 'ave more than enough to pay this doctor to get rid of his brat for me.' Mary tossed her head defiantly. ‘Going to see the pawnbroker this afternoon, I am, and then…' Mary shrugged. ‘At least this doctor as I've heard about knows his stuff. Lots of theatre girls 'ave been to 'im and none the worse for it. If you ask me it certainly beats drinking a bottle of gin and jumping off the top of the stairs,' she added grimly.

‘Maybe there's another way,' Hettie wondered shakily. She hadn't forgotten how the loss of her baby had affected Ellie – how could she ever forget it? And yet here was Mary talking about her coming baby as though she hated it, and talking about doing something that Hettie knew would be a terrible risk legally and physically.

Mary laughed bitterly. ‘Like what? I don't want to be loaded down with a bastard brat anyway. Bloody nuisance it would be. No. I've made up me mind, 'Ettie. I just think 'Is bloody Lordship should be the one as has to pay for it and not me, that's all.'

‘Mary, please don't do it. When are you going to see this doctor?' Hettie asked, thinking swiftly that maybe she could offer to go with Mary and try to dissuade her.

Mary hesitated and then told her dismissively, ‘I don't know yet. And as for not doing it, like I just told yer I 'aven't got any choice, and see 'ere, 'Ettie, don't you go blabbing about this to anyone else. Especially not yer own chap. I've got enough to worry about wi'out losing me job as well. And mind as how the same thing don't 'appen to you an' all, 'Ettie,' she added grimly.

The same thing happen to her? A shudder of terrified dread seized Hettie. Although she had been worrying about the disgrace and shame that would face her if she did become Jay's mistress, until now she had naively not even thought of the kind of consequences Mary was facing. And she did not want to think about them now, Hettie admitted. It was too frightening.

‘But Mary, don't you think you should tell the other girls?' she suggested hesitantly.

Immediately Mary grabbed hold of Hettie's arm, her fingernails biting deeply into Hettie's flesh.

‘'Ere, 'Ettie, don't you go saying nothing to them. I've got enough on me plate without 'aving to listen to them sayin' as 'ow they knew all along sommat like this would 'appen. And besides…' She frowned and looked at Hettie. ‘I shouldn't 'ave said anything to you about any of this, 'Ettie, and if I was you I'd forget that I 'ad. If you tek me meaning.'

‘You mean about…about the baby?' Hettie asked her unhappily.

‘Wot baby? I ain't 'aving no baby, and mek sure you remember that, 'Ettie,' Mary warned her fiercely.

By rights she ought to be enjoying her afternoon with Jay, Hettie reflected as Jay touched her arm and drew her attention to the gown displayed in the window of the Bond Street salon they were approaching, saying jovially, ‘That would suit you, Hettie. Come along, let's go inside…'

Hettie held back and shook her head. Jay might be in high spirits, the sun might be shining, but instead of the elegant outfit in the window all she could see was Mary's tear-streaked face.

John looked at his watch. It was 9.00 p.m. and the last of the growing number of more experienced pilots who owned their own flying machines, which they kept at the airfield, had just left. Sir Percival Montford certainly wouldn't be coming into the club now, since officially it closed to non-experienced pilots at 6.00 p.m. The money Polly had left with him was safely locked away in his desk drawer.

Bitterly John acknowledged that, whilst Sir Percival might in terms of protocol be able to claim the title of gentleman, he would never be able to call himself a true gentleman. The man was an utter cad, ‘a bounder', to use the term favoured by the young graduates who flocked to the club for flying lessons. And John had one or two things
he intended to say to him about the kind of men who bullied and blackmailed vulnerable young women. John would have liked to see him barred immediately from membership of the flying club, but it concerned him that that might lead him to take revenge by blackening Polly's name.

Something as serious as this was really a matter for the police, but John could well understand why Polly preferred to give Sir Percival the money he was demanding. Blackmailing a woman, having forced her into an intimate relationship, must surely be the most sickening of all male crime. But, even though he would be condemned and excluded from his social circle were his behaviour ever to come to light, it would be Polly who would suffer most from the salacious gossip that would inevitably result. Even so, John hated the thought of Sir Percival getting away with what he was doing. It offended not just his friendship with Polly but his sense of justice as well.

The June evenings were light and warm, and he had a sudden nostalgic yearning to be back in Lancashire, standing atop one of its hills and looking down the length of the Ribble valley. He missed the north and its people; the easy life of indulgence he was living here in the lush richness of Oxfordshire didn't suit his northern temperament.

He missed his family, too, and his friends; what he wanted, John admitted to himself for the first time, was to go home.

The morning's post had brought him a letter
from Gideon alerting him to two offers for the airfield. One from the Royal Air Force, and the other from English Electric, who owned Dick Kerr's, Preston's tram-making business, and more famous some people liked to think for its all-girls football team than for its trams.

English Electric wanted the airfield for their new flying machine construction business, and Dick Kerr's second cousin, Harold, had written to say that if John did feel like moving back up north they would be very keen to make use of his expertise.

The light was fading fast now and if he didn't make a move he would be going to bed supperless, John warned himself as he stood up and stretched.

Did Hettie, like him, miss Preston and her family? The thought caught him unawares, jarring his whole body mid-stretch.

Hettie was gone from his life and should be gone from his thoughts, too, he told himself grimly as he started to lock up. His life and his future was here, now, in Oxfordshire, where he himself had chosen it to be. He had even begun to make new friends in the nearby village. Only the previous Sunday the wife of one of the church wardens had left her bashfully blushing daughter to step up to him and invite him to have his dinner with them next week after church.

The shrill, sharp ring of the telephone that Alfred had insisted on having installed in John's quarters woke John up immediately, although it was several seconds before he realised just what had disturbed his sleep.

Getting out of bed, he hurriedly made his way to the living room, the telephone's unexpected summons far too urgent for him to waste time switching on any lights.

The minute he picked up the receiver he recognised the voice of Ethel, one of the local exchange's small team of telephone operators, telling him in relief, ‘Oh, thank heavens you've answered, Mr Pride, only they want to speak to you urgent, like, up at Moreton Place.'

John could tell from Ethel's voice that she had been crying, and his stomach muscles tightened as a presentiment of bad news gripped him.

‘It's His Lordship's batman who wants you,' she told him. ‘I'll put him through now…'

There were a few faint crackles and then John heard Bates saying emotionally, ‘Is that you, Mr Pride?'

All at once the fog of sleep that that been clogging his mind cleared, leaving in its place an icy cold certainly of fear and dread. Something had happened to Alfred…

‘Yes. It's John Pride, Bates,' he confirmed. ‘What's happened? His Lordship?'

‘Oh Mr John.' John barely had time to register the old retainer's use of his name in a fashion that virtually included him as member of the family before Bates's broken voice continued, ‘The police are here, wanting to ask some questions, and…and Lord Alfred's…' John heard him blowing his nose. ‘I'm sorry to bother you, Mr John, but you was the only one we could think of and…None of us can…And…I was just wondering if you would mind coming up to the house?'

‘Of course I will, Bates,' John assured him. ‘I'll leave immediately.'

It was only as he pulled on his clothes that John realised he hadn't even asked Bates what had actually happened.

Twenty minutes later, as he pulled his small Austin to a halt outside Moreton Place, he saw that the forecourt was filled with two police cars plus a large Bentley he didn't recognise at all.

He had expected Bates to open the door to him, but instead he discovered that the front door was
being guarded by a stern-faced and very large policeman, who enquired brusquely, ‘And who might you be, Sir?'

The front door had opened and another, obviously more high-ranking policeman, had stepped out.

‘John Pride,' John introduced himself. ‘I'm an employee of Lord Alfred's. Bates, his butler, telephoned me and asked me to come over.'

‘It's all right, constable,' the more senior officer announced. ‘Come in, Mr Pride. Sorry about that,' he apologised as John stepped into the hallway. ‘But I'm sure you understand that in a situation like this the last thing anyone wants is Fleet Street's press hounds descending on the family. Shocking business,' he added with a shake of his head. ‘I'm Inspector Philpot, by the way.'

‘I'm sorry, but could you tell me what exactly?' John began as he shook the hand the Inspector had extended, and then broke off as Bates came hurrying towards him. The older man had plainly been crying and looked somehow smaller and shrunken.

‘His Grace is in the library, Mr John. The doctor's with him but…'

‘If I could have a minute of your time first, Sir?' The Inspector asked him quietly, drawing John to one side.

‘It's a matter of someone having to identify the body, you see, Sir,' he explained heavily. ‘According to the local doctor, His Grace is in too
much of a state of distress to do it, but the staff here told us that you were well acquainted with Lady Polly. And I have to warn you that on account of the severity of the accident…

This couldn't be happening, John decided. He could not be standing here in Moreton Place listening to this inspector talking about Polly as ‘the body'. And it couldn't be happening because if it was that meant that Polly, laughing, lively, fun-loving Polly, was dead. And surely that was impossible. She couldn't be. He had only seen her this morning. His thoughts went round and round in slow disjointed eddies.

‘What…What do you mean?' he heard himself asking the Inspector hollowly. ‘Lady Polly can't be dead.'

The Inspector had started to frown. ‘Walters, bring a chair here and be quick about it,' he ordered. ‘Sit down here, Sir,' he instructed John when the chair was duly produced. ‘Didn't anyone explain to you what has happened?'

‘No,' John told him. ‘That is, Bates…He looked up at the Inspector. ‘I only saw Polly, Lady Polly, that is, this morning and I thought…I'd assumed…I thought it was His Grace who must…'

‘Very distressed is His Grace, Sir,' the Inspector told John. ‘And quite naturally.'

‘You mean it's true, then? Polly is dead?' John asked him numbly.

‘I'm afraid so, Sir.'

‘What happened?' John asked.

‘Motor accident, Sir.'

‘A car accident,' John echoed.

‘Yes, Sir. Seems like Lady Polly must have been on her way back here when it happened.'

‘Back here. But she was going to Oxford to pick up her fiancé and then they were going to his home,' John protested, remembering what Polly had told him.

‘Yes, Sir, I believe that was what was planned,' the Inspector agreed with a solemn expression.

Bates was hurrying towards them. ‘His Grace is asking for Mr John,' he informed them.

‘Excuse me, Inspector.'

As he hurried to the library John could scarcely take in what he had been told. How could Polly possibly be dead? It couldn't be true.

Alfred was seated behind his desk but he stood up the moment he saw John, exclaiming with relief, ‘John, my dear chap. Thank you for coming.'

‘It isn't true, is it?' John asked him. ‘Polly isn't…'

Immediately Alfred's eyes filled with tears, and he bowed his head. ‘Yes. She's gone. Dead. That bloody roadster. I always did tell her she drove too fast. I…'

‘Steady on, old chap.' John tried to comfort him, taking hold of his arm and guiding him to one of the chairs by the fire.

‘I've told the police I want her brought back here,' Alfred told him brusquely, lifting his hand
to wipe the tears from his face. ‘But they want me to identify the…her first. Damned bureaucracy. Want you to come with me, if you would, John. Can't face going by myself, don't you know. Shameful, what! Bloody coward.'

John could feel his heart slamming painfully into his chest wall. He wanted to refuse, but he knew that he couldn't. Inside his head he could see Polly as she had looked earlier in the day. He bowed his head. ‘You aren't a coward, Alfred,' John assured him, his throat raw with pain.

Dawn was paling the sky to the clearest and freshest of perfect blue, the sun just starting to rise on a day filled with the promise of warmth and sunshine, when John and Alfred left the hospital. But not for Polly, John reflected bleakly. There would be no more days of sunshine and warmth for Polly, whose body they had left behind in the cold of the hospital morgue.

She had still been been wearing the dress John had seen her in that morning, her face turned towards them, one cheek upon the pillow, her eyes closed so that she might almost have simply been asleep.

Her neck had been broken by the impact of her car hitting a tree, the doctor had explained.

Alfred had been totally overcome, sobbing brokenly, as he looked at her. John had been too numb to cry at first. He had reached out for her hand, pale and so cold, and he had kissed it. It
had only been when he had leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and felt the warmth of his tears on her skin, lending its deathly pallor a false life, that he had realised he too was weeping.

All Jay could talk about was New York, and Hettie was beginning to get caught up in his excitement. She had not said anything to the other girls as yet about Jay's plans, but they themselves were in high spirits following Jay's unexpected announcement that, due to a recent surge of renewed interest in
Princess Geisha
, he intended to continue the run for a further three months from the end of June.

‘I thought you were going to close the show down at the end of June?' Hettie commented.

‘I was,' Jay agreed. ‘But like all gambling men I am superstitious,' he told her ruefully. As he signalled to the wine waiter in the Ritz's beautiful dining room, he commented, ‘The Lyceum Theatre has been lucky for me, Hettie, and I want that good luck to continue, so I have decided to extend my lease on the theatre so that it will be here waiting for us when we return in triumph from Broadway. And since I am doing so, I may as well extend
Princess Geisha
's run, although I do not expect to make as much money from it in the coming three months as I have done in the past five,' he said with a laugh.

‘
Princess Geisha
has repaid my initial investment more than a hundredfold,' he told her
expansively. ‘And it, and you, are the best investments I have ever made, Hettie. Your understudy will have to take over your part, of course. She is nowhere near as good in the role as you are, Hettie, and no doubt the audiences will be disappointed not to see you, but that will not concern us, my little love, because we shall be in New York, where we will have a success even bigger than
Princess Geisha
.'

He broke off and turned towards the waiter, who was standing waiting patiently at a discreet distance, and instructed him, ‘A bottle of Moët champagne, please.'

‘Tonight, Hettie, you and I are celebrating,' Jay told her, reaching across the table to take hold of her hand and squeeze it tenderly within his own, for all the world as though he were free to make such intimate gestures to her, Hettie noted.

‘You and I have already brought one another good luck, Hettie. It is my belief that in New York we will create more of it.'

The champagne had been poured and was sparkling palely in their glasses.

‘To us, Hettie!' Jay toasted, lifting his glass. He was holding it in the palm of his hand, caressing it almost, and when Hettie glanced at his glass he laughed softly and told her, ‘Didn't you know, Hettie, that the champagne glass was originally modelled on a woman's breast? And, for that reason, whenever a man holds one he is immediately filled with a longing to caress the beautiful
breasts of the woman he loves in the same way that he is caressing his glass.'

As he spoke Jay's gaze dropped from her face to her own breasts, causing Hettie's heart to pitter patter frantically fast.

She was wearing a new gown that was rather more daring than anything she had ever worn before. Hettie had spotted it on a market stall close to Covent Garden. And the thin, hard-eyed stallholder with the shrill Cockney accent had insisted that it was an exact copy of one of Worth's newest designs, and that she could make it up exactly to fit Hettie's slender frame.

All the chorus girls had their own, often jealously guarded secret sources of copied couture clothes, not the discreet ‘little dressmakers' favoured by the aristocracy but cockneys, like the girl who had sold Hettie her gown.

In order for the new tube-like gowns to fit properly, young women were discarding the now old-fashioned heavy corsetry favoured by previous generations. Beneath the fine silk of her gown, with its beading and diamanté embroidery, Hettie was wearing a pair of new and very risqué silk satin French knickers, and a matching, equally shocking fine camisole top. Now with Jay looking so hotly and deliberately at her, her face burned with a mixture of confusion and excitement. She could feel her nipples tightening and pushing against the delicate fabric, and a seething molten sensation was filling her lower body.

Jay released her hand and leaned across the table to whisper wickedly to her, ‘Hettie, once we are on board the liner and on our way to New York, I promise you that I am not going to be denied the pleasure of seeing your breasts as nature intended me to see them. And I won't just be looking at them, my little Hettie. I fully intend to hold them and to stroke them and to taste the sweet ambrosia of them, whilst I whisper soft kisses against the little buds of your nipples…'

‘Jay. I…I would have liked to go home to see my family before we leave,' Hettie told him, deliberately changing the subject. ‘I have written to tell them that I am to visit New York, of course, but…My step-mother is to have another child, and I would just like…'

Hettie had no idea why she felt so awkward and embarrassed not only discussing Ellie's pregnancy with Jay – especially when in a very few short weeks now she would be sharing the most intimate of physical relationships with him – but also about disclosing to him her feelings of love for her family. Jay never discussed his family with her, and she had never heard him speak about his sons.

‘We are only going to be gone two months and you will be able to visit them when we come back, Hettie,' Jay pointed out. ‘There is a great deal we need to do together before we leave. Archie has sent two more songs, and I want you to learn them before we go. I have alerted the purser to the fact that we shall be travelling and I have suggested to
him that the captain may want to invite you to sing for certain specially chosen guests.'

Hettie stared at him. ‘I can't do that,' she protested.

‘Of course you can.' Jay laughed. ‘They will love you, Hettie, and even before we reach new York they will be wanting to hear you sing. Everything is arranged now for
Princess Geisha
to open there the week after we arrive. You will, of course, be singing, and I have made sure that the press over there have seen your reviews. The whole of New York will be flocking to hear you, and then, when we open with the new musical next year, they will come back.'

Hettie hoped Jay was right. To her, it seemed an extraordinary thing to do, to take her to New York to sing there for a mere six weeks and then come back, instead of waiting to go to New York until the new musical had been fully written.