Spare Brides (47 page)

‘He hasn’t seen the letter. He doesn’t know anything. I kept it from him.’

Lydia didn’t understand. She’d seen them kiss. She’d assumed it was a consequence of Lawrence’s emotional state after reading the letter that said she was leaving him, pregnant with another man’s child, in love with another man. She’d thought the kiss must have been motivated by revenge, or anger, or jealousy. If not that, then what? She wanted to ask Sarah but could not bring herself to.

She thought back to the advice Sarah had given her when she’d first stated her intention of leaving Lawrence. Sarah had suggested that Lydia could continue to see Edgar; she’d pointed out that people carried on illicit affairs all the time. She had been unequivocal that the important thing was to protect the family name, to avoid a scandal. Was it possible that Sarah and Lawrence were having an affair? Had been having one for some time now? Lydia was so distraught she couldn’t think straight. It was possible, but for all that, it didn’t seem probable. If they were having an affair, why would Sarah encourage her to stay? She wasn’t married. She stood to gain so much if Lydia left.

Perhaps the kiss hadn’t been anything significant; a drunken mistake. Heat of the moment. Yet Lydia had seen it. It had looked significant. The kiss had made her ache with jealousy. Not that she was jealous about Lawrence’s affections, but it had reminded her of stolen kisses she’d enjoyed with Edgar.

‘The baby,’ she muttered.

‘Exactly, you have your baby to consider.’ Sarah pulled away from Lydia and swung her legs off the bed so that her back was turned. ‘You need a home. The baby needs a father. You must stay.’

‘But it wouldn’t be fair on Lawrence bringing up another man’s child.’ Over the past two weeks Lydia had staunchly argued as much, on a number of occasions, to her friends; this time she sounded less adamant. Sarah heard the hesitancy in her voice and knew that Lydia was reconsidering her position. She closed her eyes, trying to trap in the tears.

‘Not fair, no, but the best of a bad job,’ she replied. ‘He’ll be a good father. I’ve seen him with my children while they stayed here this summer. Besides, he might
be
the father.’

‘I’m certain he’s not,’ said Lydia meekly. She hadn’t made love with her husband for months.

‘Nothing is certain. Not marriage or parenthood. The good won’t be rewarded and the bad won’t be punished. You can lament the fact or you can use it, but it is what it is,’ said Sarah sharply. ‘You have to stay, because there is nowhere else for you to go. Edgar Trent doesn’t want you.’

Sarah stood up but still wouldn’t turn to her friend. Lydia guessed she must be embarrassed or ashamed about kissing Lawrence. There was no need. A silly mistake, no doubt. Certainly nothing significant, because if it was, Sarah would not be arguing so staunchly for Lydia to stay. Lydia decided the decent thing was to forget all about the silly kiss; it was better never to mention it to either Sarah or Lawrence. There was enough confusion.

The two women sighed in unison.

‘You should get up, Lydia. Have something to eat and get on with being the Countess of Clarendale.’

A
VA LOVED AUTUMN.
The summer had been too long, hot and disruptive. She didn’t just mean the temperature and the strikes that had made the headlines; she meant all the disorder and upset her friends had endured. But now the crisp, sharp days had finally usurped the troublesome, indolent ones. Ava enjoyed the sense of productivity that accompanied autumn. Somehow – because the towns were fogged and the countryside misty, mornings were dim and dusk arrived quickly, then lingered for a long time – people were conscious that a lot had to be achieved in the few hours they had. There was a sense that people hurried to wherever it was they were going. Scarves protected as boots stamped out the paths of workers scuttling to and from factories, hospitals, schools and offices. Ava was among them. Ava had an office to go to every day of the week.

Her father had made a surprise offer for her to take control of a number of his smaller concerns. He’d made it quite clear that depending on her progress, she ought to expect speedy promotion. One day, if she proved able and willing, she would be in charge of his entire empire. Ava did not doubt she was both. It was what she had been waiting for. She’d secretly anticipated as much for ever, but since both her twenty-first birthday and her twenty-fifth had come and gone without an offer of regular employment, she certainly hadn’t dared to ever count on it. Having direction and focus was a relief.

Her mother was outraged. She’d said that all chances of matrimony were ruined if Ava took up full-time employment, but Sir Peter Pondson-Callow had been unwavering. Ava would work. She’d put her phenomenal brain to use. ‘No doubt she’ll make us all very rich,’ he’d said, then offered his daughter a cigar.

Ava’s first thoughts were about diversification. She wondered whether they could get into electronics; it was a booming industry. But first she needed to set their house in order. She had long since studied examples of model employers such as Bournville and Cadbury, and now set about introducing social reforms into her father’s factories; she believed they would improve productivity and worker loyalty. She wanted to increase the women’s wages by twenty-six per cent to bring them in line with the men’s. When Sir Peter spluttered his outrage at parting with such substantial amounts of cash, Ava suggested a compromise. ‘How about a ten per cent increase in wages and then we offer bonuses instead.’

‘What sort of bonuses?’ he asked warily.

‘Boots.’

‘Boots?’

‘For their families. We make boots but a number of our employees’ children go to school barefoot. We should give them shoes and boots.’

‘The little buggers constantly grow.’

‘Then they can return the shoes when they grow out of them. We can pass them down to the younger children. I think we should give them eggs and milk too.’

‘Eggs? Milk?’

‘Do you know how many days you lost to sickness and strikes last year?’

‘Too many.’

‘Exactly. Milk is threepence a pint and eggs a shilling a dozen at retail. You could buy in bulk for a fraction, then distribute on a Friday. A treat for the weekend. They need the nutrition. It’s desperate. The properly poor wait until the market stalls close down and then they forage. It isn’t dignified. It isn’t right.’

‘How do you know how much eggs cost?’ Sir Peter asked, surprised but impressed.

‘I know a great many things, Father. For example, I know that only one third of the working-class volunteers were considered fit enough to fight the damned war, they were so malnourished.’

‘Lucky them.’

‘Well, at least until conscription started.’

‘Desperation, you mean,’ sighed Sir Peter. He had never seen the glory in war, although he’d made more than a bob or two from it.

‘Since they did all fight, I think we ought to do more to change things.’

‘So single-handedly you’re going to make it the land fit for heroes they were promised, are you?’

‘I’m going to try,’ said Ava grimly, ignoring the amused scepticism in her father’s tone. She did not tell her father about plans to distribute condoms to the workers, male and female alike. But she did mention the introduction of a Christmas savings scheme, and she allowed the workers to understand that she’d hire an open-topped charabanc in the summer, so they could have a day trip to Brighton. All expenses paid. Productivity went up by nineteen per cent in the first month of her employment.

Ava often wondered what had prompted her father’s change of mind on the subject of her employment. Whoever or whatever it was, she was extremely grateful. She had never felt so alive and useful as she did when she sat in front of the clock-in cards, ledgers and order books.

It was almost with reluctance that she left the office, even though it was past eight and she needed to go home and change. She only relinquished her position at the desk because she’d promised the girls that they’d meet up for cocktails at nine. Beatrice wanted to update them on Georgina Vestry’s progress as a debutante, and both Sarah and Lydia were in dire need of a jolly night out.

Lydia had not thrived since the summer. She had resigned herself to her fate as Countess of Clarendale, but she did not give the impression she appreciated it, let alone relished it. She was lacklustre, rather like a garment that had been left out in the sun for too long and been bleached; she’d lost all her colour and vitality. She did not giggle or dance; she spoke calmly in measured tones, rarely bothering to pass an opinion on anything or even indulge in gossip. It became difficult to discern what pleased her and what didn’t. If indeed anything pleased her. She’d get used to things, Ava told herself. She’d done the right thing. It was clear Lydia missed the sergeant major, but that would pass, in time. Indeed, Ava had rather expected the desire to wane by now.

Still, at least Lydia’s morbid dowdiness was understandable, but Sarah was no better and her gloomy attitude really did perplex Ava. Sarah had always been the sort to keep her chin up. There was no doubt that she’d silently endured much. Then, during the summer, Ava had thought she was showing signs of finally casting off her perpetual grief: she’d started to take an interest in clothes and her appearance, she’d started to read newspapers again, and had twice suggested excursions for their entire gang. It had all come to an abrupt and inexplicable stop; it was frustrating to see her dim again.

Ava believed that when people were down in the dumps, the only answer was to fly high in the sky, so they met in the Silver Cat, a new nightclub that was being widely reviewed and generally raved about. Whilst she had become a professional working woman, Ava certainly didn’t want to be dull, and she felt it was almost her duty to investigate the new hot spot. She wished she’d picked more effervescent chums to accompany her, though. Freddie or Doug would have offered to dance, paid for the drinks and, most importantly, smiled.

Ava never thought she’d find herself in a position where Beatrice seemed the most jolly and interesting among her group. Bea seemed to be oblivious to the moody silences and waxed lyrical about Georgina’s dress for the Queen Charlotte’s debutante ball, the Vestry girl’s coming-out date.

‘So she’s picked white chiffon, over a gold slip which in due course will be turned into another dress.’

‘Very practical,’ commented Sarah.

Whilst this was indeed true, Ava thought they were all perhaps missing the point of a debut ballgown. Surely the important thing was whether it shimmered, flowed, enhanced and captivated.

‘I’ve had a rather dreary day practising the walk and curtsey for when she is presented at court.’ Bea professed a sense of tedium that Ava doubted. It was clear that Bea enjoyed her new role enormously and was gaining considerable vicarious pleasure from preparing Miss Vestry for court. She looked alert and tested. It clearly suited her being around youth and vitality; there hadn’t been enough of that in Bea’s life, and it seemed that it was to some degree catching. Bea detailed Georgina’s other plans. She spoke with authority. ‘Sir Henry Vestry has taken a box at Covent Garden. Did I mention that? Well, it’s essential that debs see a little life, and the opera and ballet set the tone. Don’t you agree? It’s so important to give them the sort of occasion that is correctly dazzling and luxurious.’

‘They’ll all be starry-eyed,’ commented Sarah.

‘Exactly.’ It seemed that Beatrice had gained the respect of the young woman; Ava didn’t doubt that it wouldn’t be long before Georgina Vestry turned to Bea for romantic advice. Oh, the irony.

‘Did you use a tablecloth as a veil for the practice?’ Ava asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I remember doing that!’ Ava had walked around her drawing room with Lydia, both trailing tablecloths from their heads. Walk. Stop. Curtsey. Rise. How they’d giggled. ‘Do you remember, Lydia? We thought the whole aspect was such a riot.’

Lydia smiled wanly but didn’t enter into the conversation beyond commenting, ‘It seems a very long time ago.’

Ava sighed. She didn’t subscribe to wallowing and was beginning to find Lydia’s broken heart a bore. Bea picked up the mantle, showing a newly developed maturity and tact, or simply perhaps she wanted the conversation to come back round to her again. ‘Georgina is a charming girl, and very pretty. I am sure she’ll make a good season, but graceful she isn’t. All she has to do is curtsey without getting entangled and then move off.’

‘Yes, the tricky bit is not getting entangled,’ commented Ava. She reached for a cigarette and cast a pertinent look at Lydia, but Lydia was oblivious.

Her stomach was beginning to swell now; she was about five months’ pregnant. Lawrence talked about an imminent arrival. Ava couldn’t believe that he hadn’t realised the baby wasn’t his. Perhaps he had. Maybe he’d decided to accept the child. Ava didn’t know whether that was because he wanted Lydia to stay, or because he desperately wanted an heir, or because he simply wanted to avoid the humiliation and outrage that would ensue if they separated. She wasn’t even sure if the matter had been discussed between the couple. If it had, Lydia had not related the conversation to her friends. In fact she never mentioned the child’s parentage, or the issue of how she would explain the baby being born approximately four months after Lawrence was anticipating. Perhaps she was in denial. Publically, at least, Lawrence appeared suitably delighted by the news that he was going to be a father, although like many men of their generation and class he clearly did not feel he had to become too caught up in the business of the actual pregnancy. He would reserve his enthusiasm for when the child was actually born.

Ava was relieved that Sergeant Major Edgar Trent’s name had not fallen from Lydia’s lips. Lydia restricted herself to conversations about the decoration for the nursery, and names. At the moment she was refusing to interview nannies; she insisted she wanted to take care of the child herself. Nonsense. That was not the type of thing their sort did, but no one had pointed out as much just yet; not even Sarah, who was normally the oracle on all things maternal. Ava wondered whether Lydia recognised the generous chivalry of Lawrence’s silence, or whether she felt hideously obliged. Trapped.