Ragamuffin Angel (25 page)
And now he had dared to throw her love back in her face! As Doreen and Ruth and her grandchildren joined them again, Edith forced herself to smile and converse naturally, but her mind was racing. It wasn’t Dan’s fault – it was important she saw this clearly. It was that ragamuffin brat, that guttersnipe, who was to blame. She blinked as she glanced down the table at the empty places where her family should have been.
She had felt a great sense of well-being, even pleasure, when John had come to her that morning years ago and told her what he’d done and the result of it. The death of that huzzy and her family by fire had been a clean end – purifying even – to something which would have continued to fester if it hadn’t been dealt with. Atonement had been needed for Henry’s death – didn’t the Bible itself claim an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? – and there was Jacob’s suicide and Mavis losing her mind. And she had been right to think like that, by, she had. This last episode proved it if nothing else. One of them had escaped and now look at the trouble that strumpet was causing. Assistant housekeeper! And how had a wanton creature like that got such a position? On her back with her legs open no doubt. Men were fools! The whole lot of them.
But it wouldn’t end here. No, oh no, not if she had anything to do with it. She would see her day with Sadie Bell’s flyblow and teach her a lesson she’d never forget. But she’d tread carefully; there were more ways of killing a cat than skinning it, and if the baggage was aiming to sink her claws into Dan, this required some thought. Did those responsible for maintaining the Grand’s superior reputation know they were employing the results of a trollop’s whoring? Possibly not. Very possibly not.
Edith raised her head suddenly, glancing round the table with something approaching a benevolent smile as she said, ‘I think we’ll have our mince pies and coffee in the drawing room. How does that sound? And once Kitty has taken the children you’ll find the envelopes containing your Christmas boxes on the bureau.’
And to the chorus of thanks – Edith’s cheques on such occasions reflected her approval, or otherwise, of their obedience and acquiescence to her authority, and she could be very generous – she inclined her head, her smile widening. This Bell chit would soon be dealt with, her days of masquerading as a respectable woman were numbered, and when Dan returned home duly chastened she would be gracious with him, gracious and forgiving. If she handled this right it might even persuade him to look favourably on Miss Isabel Rotherington, the magistrate’s spinster daughter, who would make an excellent wife, being quiet and pliable, if a little old at twenty-eight. Yes, she would have no trouble with Isabel Rotherington if Dan could be induced to take her. And the prestige and influence a magistrate’s daughter would add to the Stewart name wasn’t to be sneezed at.
Edith rose from her seat, her demeanour a study in control, and the others followed dutifully, taking their cue as always from the formidable woman who controlled each of their lives.
Chapter Thirteen
Connie entered the hotel cold store at the back of the kitchen and quickly checked off the items delivered late the previous night from the list in her hand, before retracing her steps into the relative warmth of the scullery and then the kitchen beyond.
New Year’s Eve. She couldn’t believe the old year was ending and another was about to begin. This time last year she had still been working in the laundry and preparing to apply for training as a nurse, and now. . . She breathed in a deep sigh of satisfaction as she glanced round the almost deserted kitchen, it still being too early for most of the day staff to have arrived. She had decided to come in to work at this time as the day was going to be a busy one and the evening even busier, there being various functions booked, and she had found in the last months she could accomplish twice as much work in half the time in those precious minutes before the workforce appeared en masse. She had been there almost an hour and got through all the jobs she’d intended to do, so a nice cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast were in order.
She was seated at one of the small tables where the second kitchen maid prepared the vegetables each day, a steaming mug of tea at the side of her and her mouth full of toast, reading a few more pages of Sir Almroth Wright’s anti-women’s suffrage book, which claimed women were inferior to men, when she heard footsteps just behind her. She didn’t look up – the staff would dribble in in their ones and twos now but there was still another twenty minutes to go until the day began officially – being engrossed in the inflammatory book which Connie considered to be the worst sort of bigotry. What with Asquith’s ‘cat and mouse’ bill – the latest strategy in the Government’s clash with the suffragettes which enabled temporary discharges to be given to suffragettes in prison undergoing hunger strikes, only for the women to be re-arrested when it pleased the magistrates – and male mobs attacking suffragettes in Hyde Park and Wimbledon and other parts of the country, was it any wonder women were taking the law into their own hands?
Not that she could agree with the actions of the Northumbrian martyr, Emily Davison, who had tried to stop the King’s horse at Derby in June and been killed, or all the bombings of property this year, but with public meetings by suffragettes banned by the Government and other restraints aimed at muzzling free speech by the female of the gender in place, women were getting more and more militant. There were men in every strata of society who considered women inferior mentally, physically and spiritually, and half of them were frightened to admit they might be wrong.
And then, as though to prove the last thought, Connie felt a hand stroke the back of her neck as a male voice behind her said thickly, ‘Reading, m’dear? You don’t want to bother your pretty little head with books, now then.’
‘Colonel Fairley.’ Connie managed to keep the groan out of her voice as she spun round and rose quickly, but it was an effort. Colonel Fairley was a distant relation of Harold Alridge and always stayed at the Grand when he visited Sunderland, which fortunately was infrequently, but since Connie had first met him on his arrival at the hotel three days before, the portly, bulbous-nosed military man had made numerous advances to her, all of which she had politely and firmly rejected. It didn’t help that the Colonel had free run of the hotel, often sitting for hours in the office with Harold or appearing in the kitchens or elsewhere at the oddest moments. He seemed to appear like a rabbit out of a hat when she least expected it, but that wouldn’t be so bad if he would just keep his hands to himself.
Connie forced herself to smile coolly as she turned from slipping the book into her cloth bag which had been hanging over the back of the wooden chair, and her voice was circumspect as she said, ‘Is there anything you require, Colonel Fairley? I trust the early morning housemaid brought you your tea?’ She had actually seen Agnes preparing the tea-trays when she had first arrived that morning so the question was rhetorical, but it gave her the opportunity to get things back to a more formal footing.
‘It arrived on the dot m’dear, on the dot.’ The Colonel’s pale-blue, pink-rimmed eyes were moving all over her as he spoke, their expression lascivious. ‘You young gels know how to look after a fellow, no doubt about it.’
Ugg, but he was a revolting man! Thank goodness he was only staying for two weeks; hopefully they wouldn’t see him for another twelve months after that. For Lucy’s sake she didn’t want to cause any unpleasantness by complaining, but Mary had told her that all the girls were wary of the Colonel, and even Mrs Pegg was distrustful of the manager’s relation after he had nipped her backside. ‘Mind you,’ Mary had continued, her eyes brimming over with laughter, ‘I said to Biddy he deserves a medal for that one, either that or a strong pair of glasses. The man’s got to be desperate or half sharp.’
Connie looked at the Colonel now and aimed to make her voice brisk as she said, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I’ve things to do.’
‘Of course, m’dear, of course, but how about a little drink later, eh? I enjoy a little tipple before my dinner, don’t you know.’
‘We haven’t even served breakfast yet, Colonel.’
‘True, but the day’ll be galloping away before you know it.’
‘I’m sorry, but I thought I had made it quite plain yesterday that the hotel does not encourage the staff to liaise with the guests socially.’
‘Ah, I see your point, m’dear, but no one will know if you come to my room now will they. I always keep a bottle of this and that by me, and we can get to know each other a bit better.’ He was sweating slightly, and as a crumb of something or other from his moustache fell on to his bottom lip a thick red tongue flicked out and took it into his mouth.
Connie just managed to suppress a shudder. ‘I don’t think so, Colonel,’ she managed evenly.
‘Now that’s where you go wrong if you don’t mind me saying so. A high-spirited little filly like you needs a bit of fun now and again, and I know how to treat a gel. Got quite a name for meself in some quarters.’
She didn’t doubt that for a minute. ‘I’m sorry but I have to adhere to hotel policy.’ Her voice was cool now, with an edge to it, and something in the florid face in front of her hardened before the Colonel swung round on his heel and marched out of the kitchen.
Had she offended him? She hoped so, she thought wryly. Perhaps he’d leave her alone now. She had more than enough on her plate without worrying about a lecherous old goat like him. She reached across for the fast cooling tea and drained the mug as her thoughts made a beeline for the thing that had occupied them for days. Dan Stewart. Would he try and see her again? Did she want him to try and see her again? She wasn’t that stupid, was she? The answer to that one made her shut her eyes for an infinitesimal moment but she couldn’t deny the pounding of her heart.
Oh he wouldn’t anyway – not after she’d been so antagonistic and rude. And that was for the best, absolutely and definitely for the best, she assured herself stolidly. He was part of a family that had treated her and those she loved shamefully; she wouldn’t let herself harbour any romantic inclinations towards him. It would be like consorting with the enemy. And there was Stewart blood running through his veins just the same as there was through his brother’s, that John, and if ever there was an evil so-and-so John Stewart was one. Although Dan wasn’t like his brothers. . .
Here her thoughts were cut off by the exclamation in her mind that yelled, Enough! Enough of that. The last thing she wanted was anything at all to do with any of the Stewart clan.
So why had he been on her mind every minute since that evening just before Christmas? Whatever she had done since, even when she and Mary had taken the huge hamper along to Mary’s parents on Christmas Eve, and when they’d gone to Midnight Mass and it had been so beautiful, and . . . oh, just all the time, he had been there. And she had to claim victory over this, she had to. Her thoughts were bursting to have free rein again but she forced them under lock and key, jerking her chin upwards and narrowing her eyes. She could do this, it was simply a matter of will. Everything in life boiled down to that really. She knew what she wanted in the next few years – a home of her own, bought and paid for, and the fulfilment of her dream of a little business where she, and others, could work in harmony and really make a go of something.
She liked her work here, she did, and she was so grateful to be out of the workhouse, but she
ached
for more. She supposed she was ambitious. Her chin moved higher. And she was blowed if she was going to apologise for that, even if it was frowned upon by a society that still insisted women should know their place. Well, she knew her place – or she knew where she wanted it to be at least – and she aimed to get there, however long it took. The sweet jar was getting fatter, and although it might be a slow birthing, she would get there.
ached
for more. She supposed she was ambitious. Her chin moved higher. And she was blowed if she was going to apologise for that, even if it was frowned upon by a society that still insisted women should know their place. Well, she knew her place – or she knew where she wanted it to be at least – and she aimed to get there, however long it took. The sweet jar was getting fatter, and although it might be a slow birthing, she would get there.
And then, as Wilf and Mary walked into the kitchen, Connie’s expression changed and she called, her voice teasing and light, ‘Come on then, come on! The day’s half gone already.’
They returned her smile, Wilf grinning as he snapped to attention and raised his hand in a mock salute. Since the evening before Christmas when she had prompted Wilf to take her friend home he had started calling for them on the way to work, ostensibly to escort them both, but they knew where the real object of his desire lay. He had been bolder since he’d realised she was for him, Connie reflected now as she smoothed her hair and prepared for what was going to be a hectic day. It was as if he’d needed an ally to convince him he could penetrate the formidable armour Mary had in place against the male sex in general. But his boldness was not of the swaggering kind, he was a gentle soul behind all the banter, and if Mary gave herself half a chance she could be happy with Wilf Gantry. And he wasn’t for rushing her which was good. She needed time, did Mary.
Two hours later Harold Alridge was sitting in his leather chair in the office staring unseeingly across the room into the flickering flames of the fire, a piece of paper held loosely in his limp hand. He had had a shock, a bad shock; what he really needed was a good strong tot of brandy, but it was a bit early in the day for that, he thought dismally, the words of the letter burning in his mind.
‘Dear Sir,’ it had started, the writing small and precise and the ink very black. ‘It has been brought to my attention that the Grand Hotel is at the moment employing a Miss Connie Bell in a position of some authority, namely that of assistant housekeeper. I feel it is my Christian duty to enquire whether higher management have been alerted to this young woman’s sordid beginnings, namely that of her mother, Sadie Bell, being a woman of easy virtue who was well known to the police before her death some years ago. The Grand has a reputation second to none, and I feel this lowering of its normally impeccable standards – especially in view of the fact that children and respectable young women of estimable character are entrusted to its care – is inexcusable. Connie Bell’s mother sold herself on the streets of Sunderland, and I have good reason to believe that the daughter partakes of the same inherent weakness when it suits her to do so. I know of at least one young man this girl has approached on the hotel’s premises in the guise of doing her job, and of the unfortunate liaison that has resulted from this procuring. I am sure you will appreciate that it distresses me greatly to have to acquaint you with these facts, but once enlightened I trust you will act accordingly.
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