Spare Brides (51 page)

‘I had to come,’ she said. Her confession slipped out as though she was ashamed of it. He nodded eagerly, but then stopped. Why was she here? To forgive him? That was impossible. To yell at him? To take this final opportunity to tell him he was a low cad and he’d ruined her, if not socially then most certainly her peace of mind? He almost didn’t care which it was. He would take a tongue-whipping. He’d bear all her fury. It would be worth it. Here she was! He could rest his eyes on her again. Her glance alone filled his world. It was enough. It was everything.

She looked about her, seemingly nervous, dazed. ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea, perhaps? Or a cocktail? I understand you don’t sail until—’

‘Yes.’

They sat in a shabby hotel bar, two overpriced glasses of gin and a tricky history between them. She refused to take off her coat, which unnerved him. It was as though any moment she might bolt for the door, which he didn’t want. No, not at all. A silence engulfed them. He stared at her but she kept her eyes trained on the threadbare ruby-red carpet. An elderly, slightly pernickety man held court with the landlady across the polished wooden bar; his pipe smoke and dogmatic opinions drifted towards them. It reminded Edgar of the long nights in the trenches; when the air was still, the enemy could just about be heard. Before they’d all drowned in weariness and before the eternal monotony of slaughter calcified them, there had been card games and sometimes chatter or even jokes from both lines. Sometimes one side would cease their chatter and listen to the other. Traditionally it was believed that at those moments men searched their souls and realised that differences were minuscule, politics surmountable, but Edgar had always felt otherwise. It was at those moments that he felt most drained and desperate. He found the similarities were more painful than the discrepancies.

At length Lid muttered, ‘You’re married.’ The words burned the air; they were branded into their story.

‘Yes.’ Edgar sat up straight. He was accountable.

‘Is she here?’ Lid glanced around the bar as though she expected his wife to jump out from behind a potted palm.

‘No. I’m divorcing her.’ Lid let out a breath that clouded the air and yet cleared his vision. She did not hate him. She was relieved there was no wife. He rushed his explanation and bungled it. ‘I’m going to Brisbane.’

Lid nodded; she looked baffled and exposed. ‘Why did you lie to me?’

‘I knew you’d never forgive me.’ His reply was naked and pitiful. He clasped closed his plump lips. Holding life in. He wanted to shut his eyes too. A way of avoiding the tender, crude, undiluted sense of her.

‘You know nothing,’ she snapped. She reached for her drink and took a large gulp.

‘But I was right. Once you found out, you despised me. You gave me cash to be silent and disappear like a redundant gigolo.’

Her expression was the most human he’d ever seen. He’d fought in a war for four years. He’d seen hate and terror, abhorrence and mistrust. Her expression caught all of that and yet it was made still more vivid because there was something else. He was almost sure there was love too. ‘It wasn’t my money. I didn’t—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, what the hell. I thought I could fix this but I can’t. I can’t.’ Her eyes blazed with outraged indignation. She stood up and started to walk quickly towards the lobby. Away from him. He pursued her, his eyes trained on the rhythmic sway of her bottom under her fur coat. He was sure he could hear the hint of silk; her dress or her underwear? He thought of her thighs gently touching and parting as she strode. He felt such lust, and a need to hold her. Her coat slipped open and he saw her ripe, swollen belly.

‘Lid!’ She was already out on the street. He threw some coins on the table and gave chase. He caught her just a few yards up the road; the street was wet and oily with rainfall and she couldn’t hurry, she couldn’t risk missing her step. He caught hold of her hand and pulled her round so she had to face him. ‘Is it mine?’ he demanded.

‘Of course.’

She was carrying his baby. Growing their child. His future nestled just there, inside her womb.

‘Weren’t you going to tell me?’

‘How exactly could I have done that? You disappeared.’ Her anger splintered out into the street. Like shards of glass from a window vandalised by a brick.

‘I’m sorry.’

She nodded. ‘So am I.’ There was something about her tone that seemed final. It was, after all, goodbye.

‘So the earl will have his heir,’ Edgar commented. He tried not to let the bitterness shatter his voice. He understood. At last, he understood it all. She was not his. She never had been. How could he ever have imagined she was? He had always shared her, although he had never wanted to. He’d tried to stay away. Tried not to go to her. After that first time in Sir Peter Pondson-Callow’s study, he’d realised she was somehow different to the other women he knew, married or single. He hadn’t called for six weeks. He’d resisted because sharing a woman he cared for was beneath him. However, her pull had been too strong. He’d caved in and sent word. He’d never asked her to leave her husband and his millions. It didn’t make sense. What could he offer? Once, she’d joked that she’d like to stay with him. He’d told her it wouldn’t work, but maybe, just maybe it might have. He’d seen crazier things. It seemed to be the final insult to lose her to a man who hadn’t even fought. But then maybe that was how it had to be. Lawrence was unsullied. Besides, she’d made her own decision in the end. She’d sent the money.

‘You reduced us to a financial transaction.’ He spat out the words. ‘You were buying me off. You’re just here to see I get on the boat and go across the world, where I can never cause any trouble for you and the earl.’

Fury engulfed him. She should not have come to the dock. He was just learning how to do without her. He’d at least had the memories. His version of what he thought was true. He’d thought she loved him, at least briefly. Not constantly, not above everything, but in some way. But now it seemed he’d been wrong. He knew he loved her. Constantly and above everything else. If the war had taught him anything, it was that it was only worth being angry with those you loved. Being angry with those you hated was a waste. So he became vicious. ‘I’ve read about women like you.’

‘Like me?’

‘Rich society women who want some fun with a common man. Want to know if we do it differently. Want to see if we are dirtier.’

She looked shocked. ‘How can you think that of me?’

‘There was a case in the paper just recently: Lady Henning and her dance teacher. Friend of yours, is she?’

‘We’re acquainted,’ she admitted.

‘So tell me, is it the fashion? I don’t mind at all. It’s all the same to me,’ he snapped sarcastically. ‘Worked out rather well for you and the earl, didn’t it? The pregnancy was a bonus.’

‘Shut up. Shut up. You brute. Don’t you understand anything at all?’

He understood all too well. He felt he’d been here before. Used. Knee deep in mud and blood. A sense of hopelessness swept over him. He ploughed into his instinct to survive. He turned and walked towards the dock. He had a ship to catch.

B
EATRICE HAD FOUND
the drama of the day all too thrilling. They had driven since before dawn to get to the dock in time. It had been Ava’s idea. For reasons that she didn’t quite make clear, she had apparently continued to have Edgar Trent followed. The private detective had discovered that the sergeant major had bought a passage to Australia and was due to set sail today. Ava was the one who had persuaded Lydia that she must travel to Plymouth and at least tell him about the baby, tell him she’d left Lawrence. She maintained that she’d insisted on this line of action because she was fed up to the back teeth with Lydia’s dreadfully long face. ‘We simply can’t leave her to rot in that awful semi in suburbia.’ Bea suspected it was because she finally recognised that Lydia was deeply, irrevocably, although most certainly inconveniently, in love with Edgar Trent. Ava had admitted, ‘Perhaps one ought to stay out of other people’s love affairs, but …’ She hadn’t finished the sentence. Bea had finished it for her.

‘But you thought you were doing the right thing.’

‘I did, darling. I really did. Now it appears I was wrong.’

All the friends had been surprised at the intensity of Lydia’s feelings for the sergeant major and at her commitment to him, even long after he had gone. She’d left Lawrence two months ago; since then, Sarah had become his companion with what could only be described as indecent haste. Lydia had not shown a moment’s resentment, but talked of how lovely it would be if John eventually inherited the estate and the title. Needless to say, this would only be possible if Lawrence could formally adopt Sarah’s children. A swift divorce was in everyone’s interests. Lydia remained dignified. Alone. Beatrice couldn’t help but admire her. Her initial disgust and horror at Lydia’s affair dissolved into something softer; if not understanding then certainly compassion.

Bea had fully expected that the mad dash along the winding English roads would culminate in a passionate reunion. Ava had also been quite certain that this would be the outcome. She’d bought two first-class tickets for the passage and gifted them to Lydia. ‘Darling, I draw the line at you travelling third. Even in the name of love.’

Beatrice was becoming practised at enjoying love vicariously. Georgina Vestry had made a marvellous season and had in fact received two proposals. The girl was sensible beyond her years and did not seem in a desperate hurry to accept either one, even though she was terribly fond of the lawyer and no doubt would agree to him in time. Bea thought that the importance and effect of the white kid gloves and brocade shoes that she herself had picked out was not to be underestimated. Other ambitious parents agreed. Behind fans, mothers whispered their belief that Beatrice Polwarth had a surprising knack for chaperoning and, when Georgina did marry, there would be two or three new offers of employment.

Beatrice had fully anticipated a very emotional but satisfactory day. Ava had already suggested that she could drive home once they saw off the ship. ‘Me, drive? Really?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘What super fun.’

They were becoming quite tight; an unlikely friendship, but one that Bea believed would endure all the more for its slow start. Beatrice had not expected to see Lydia again. They’d said their goodbyes before she ran off into the crowd this morning. Her trunks of luggage were now on board; she didn’t own any furniture or art any more; packing had been relatively simple. So the weeping and near-hysterical woman stumbling towards them was a shock.

‘What happened?’ Bea demanded.

‘Couldn’t you find him?’ asked Ava.

‘I found him. He doesn’t want me.’ Lydia opened the car door and flung herself in the back. Her sobbing was thick and fast. Beatrice was concerned that the baby would be disturbed.

Ava, who was a great friend and an overwhelming enemy, sighed. She had the ear of prime ministers, princes, dukes, industrialists, newspapermen, writers and artists. If there was one thing she knew, it was men, so Lydia had to listen when she said, ‘I seriously doubt that. Did you tell him about the baby?’

‘Yes.’

‘That it’s his?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it the wife?’

‘No. He’s divorcing her.’

‘Did you tell him you had left Lawrence? That you love him?’

‘No, no. I didn’t tell him either of those things. I’ve never said it and nor has he.’ Lydia looked exhausted. It had been a strain, this entire business. ‘I’ve given everything up for him. Twice. And each time I go to him, he vanishes or ducks. I can’t give any more. I can’t humiliate myself further.’

‘Oh, Lydia.’ Ava looked as though she could cheerfully wring her friend’s neck.

They all sat in silence, staring out at the melancholy sea. The only sounds were the shrill, sad squawks of the gulls and Lydia sniffing into her handkerchief. Minutes ticked by.

The air in the car was stale with disappointment. It reminded Bea of her old room at her brother’s house. Fetid and frigid. Beatrice’s room in Georgina’s house was considerably brighter. She made a point of always having a vase of fresh flowers on her dressing table; she could afford such indulgences now and she believed she deserved them. There was also a room at Ava’s that they both referred to as Bea’s room; that smelt divine. Ava thought nothing of liberally spraying sent around. Musky, sexy scent.

Lydia had been renting a house in Hounslow. It was thoroughly modern, with every convenience that an enlightened housewife could dream of. Except a husband. It smelt of polish and bleach. As expected, practically no one visited. Ava said it was because the house was nowhere near anywhere but they all knew the real reason. Even Beatrice had to keep her continued association with Lydia under her hat; Sir Henry wouldn’t like his daughter’s chaperone visiting a house so drenched in scandal. Ava had had to put considerable effort into persuading Doug and Freddie to visit. They’d done so once. It hadn’t been a very cheerful evening. There was no dancing or drinking; it was awkward.

What depressed Beatrice the most was that Lydia hadn’t seemed to care about the smell, the location or even the loneliness. She hadn’t cared about anything until yesterday, when Ava told her to pack her bags, for a short time life had been blown back into her. She’d twitched, then fluttered. But now she was very still once again.

Would she go back to that forlorn house and simply wait for the baby to arrive? The neighbours wouldn’t like it. An unmarried mother was not welcome in suburbia. She wasn’t welcome anywhere. The poor child. Poor Lydia. How had it come to this? Bea pitying Lydia? The world was indeed topsy-turvy. Why couldn’t things simply have been better? For them all.

Bea felt a sudden surge of outrage slam through her body. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end, not after all the glamour and promise and beauty. Certainly not after all the death and loss and waste.

Eventually, Beatrice cleared her throat and said, ‘Naturally I’m not the expert on matters such as these. Far from it. And I am quite certain that the whole business has been horribly wearing, as you say. Totally exhausting and yes, sometimes humiliating. I can’t begin to imagine …’ She paused, almost losing her nerve. A glance at Lydia, pregnant yet hopeless, spurred her on. ‘But I do know one thing.’