Women and Children First (38 page)

Juliette couldn’t stop torturing herself with visions of Robert escorting an actress around town. How could he believe that she wouldn’t hear about it? How could he be so careless of her feelings? He was her husband and should have been protective towards her. Yet in truth, their acquaintance had been brief: a mere eight weeks spent together and nearly as long again apart. They didn’t know much about each other at all.

She thought of all the things Robert hadn’t discovered about her. He hadn’t met her friends and didn’t truly understand her English sense of humour. They’d never played tennis or cricket so he hadn’t encountered her fiercely competitive streak. They hadn’t chosen gifts for each other. Suddenly she realised she didn’t even know when his birthday was. It must have been written on the marriage certificate, but he had kept the sole copy for fear of her mother coming across it in her luggage. She had no proof they were married. Even a flimsy piece of paper would have been comforting at that juncture.

In his letters, Robert always sounded busy. He was going into business with a man who had invented machines called ‘air conditioners’ that would cool the air in a room on a hot summer day. It seemed a good idea, and Robert was talking to manufacturers who could make them and department stores who would sell them. He seldom mentioned his social life, and the omission made Juliette suspicious. Surely he was doing
something
in the evenings? Did he eat at home on his own every night? He seemed a sociable person. Didn’t he miss conversation over his meal? Or was he dining every night with a certain attractive actress and that’s why he didn’t mention it in his letters?

Juliette questioned herself closely. If he wasn’t in love with her, was it true love that she felt for him? Or had her shock at the sinking of the
Titanic
led her to make a foolish mistake? At least part of her strong attraction to him had its roots in the way he made her feel safe again after the appalling experience of having a man die in her arms. He knew how to quell her anxieties. His conduct on the
Carpathia
and while they were staying at the Plaza had been irreproachable but now that the crisis had passed, perhaps he was reverting to his true nature. He must be a playboy. Juliette’s parents had a sound marriage and she was determined to find the same for herself. She knew some women were prepared to turn a blind eye to marital indiscretion but she certainly didn’t want a husband who had affairs.

How easy would it be to get divorced in America? Would she be able to do it without her mother finding out that she had ever been married? The thought provoked a fit of bitter weeping and she retired to her bed for a morning, causing her mother such concern that she called out the doctor. He took Juliette’s blood pressure, listened to the baby with his stethoscope and noted her reddened eyes.

‘You must take better care of yourself for the sake of the child,’ he cautioned. ‘It is understandable that you are anxious, given your unfortunate circumstances, but you must not endanger your health. Perhaps you should take up an interest to occupy you? My wife finds cross-stitching a most engrossing task. I expect your housekeeper could supply you with the materials.’

Juliette bit her tongue in irritation and after he had gone, she made an effort to come downstairs and rejoin her mother. She must pretend to be well, if only to prevent that doctor being summoned again, because his judgmental attitude was infuriating.

When a ferocious storm blew up one evening in early August, Juliette welcomed it for the change it brought. She sat at the window and watched the wind bending nearby trees and tearing off branches, while huge puddles of rainwater formed in the parched garden. Lightning crackled across the sky and thunder boomed around their cottage. Once her mother had retired to bed, Juliette crept out to sit on the verandah at the height of the storm and she could feel the electricity in the air. It made the skin on her arms prickle. The rain was pounding the earth so hard that it bounced up again, causing a white-out. All the stale heat of the last few weeks was swept away in a single destructive stroke of nature. She began to choose the words with which she would describe the storm to Robert in her letter the next day, and it was the early hours before she crept up the stairs to bed.

She was drowsy next morning, and her head rolled forwards a couple of times as she read the newspaper. But then she reached the gossip column, and was instantly wide awake. ‘Mr Robert Graham was seen with actress Miss Amy Manford again, this time dining at Delmonico’s. Could it be that his engagement to fellow
Titanic
survivor Lady Juliette Mason-Parker has hit the rocks?’

Juliette threw the paper to the floor. It was the final straw. She couldn’t sit in the countryside suffering this torture any longer. Enough was enough.

She could send Robert a telegram demanding that he tell her who Miss Amy Manford was and why he was dining with her – but then it would be the following day before she could possibly expect a reply, and besides he might lie. Mere words in a telegram were easy. She could risk going to the telephone exchange in Main Street and trying to place a call, but she only had his home number and by that time he would surely be at the office. Besides, if he was a proficient liar he might be able to fool her on the telephone as well.

Any patience she’d had was spent and impetuosity took over. She had to see him and ask him to his face what was going on. Of course, he would realise her condition straight away. He would have to decide whether he loved her enough to remain married to her when she was carrying another man’s child. It was perhaps the greatest test of all. If he wanted a quiet divorce, she would give him one without complaint. So be it. She would rather lose him because of the mistake she had made in allowing Charles Wood to make love to her than lose him to another woman.

She went up to her room and packed a small overnight bag then wrote a brief note to her mother, saying that she had gone to New York because she had to see Robert. She propped the note against her pillow then waited until she heard her mother in the kitchen talking to Edna about the evening’s menu before sneaking down the stairs. She crept out the front door, across the verandah, and down the track that led to the main road. The driver was outside the garage, waxing his car.

‘I need to go to New York right now,’ she told him. ‘I’ll make it worth your while if you will take me.’

‘Of course, miss,’ he nodded, without so much as a raised eyebrow.

During the journey, she planned her next move. Robert would still be at the office when they reached town and she didn’t know where that was. She decided that she would reserve a room at the Plaza and send a message to his butler. The butler could phone and inform him of her whereabouts and if he still loved her, he would surely hurry straight there to be reunited with her. She shivered at the prospect. In just a few hours she might be in his arms again – or she might have lost him once and for all.

She knew she was taking a huge gamble, but it was as if the storm had cleared her head as it swept across the countryside. She needed to be honest with this man if she was going to spend the rest of her life with him. She had to tell the truth and suffer the consequences, and she would demand that he did the same.

When Reg awoke, it was daylight outside and the storm had abated. Through the crack of the door, he could see the sky was pale grey and overcast, while the wet shingle was a dark tan colour. He tried to sit up but the movement brought on a pounding headache. He pressed his temple against the door frame then his stomach muscles contracted and he threw up violently, only just managing to push the door open in time so it spewed onto the sand rather than inside the hut.

Reg glanced up and down the beach. It was deserted. He wiped his mouth, lay back on the towels and let the events of the previous night wash over him.

Was Molly dead in the wreck of the automobile? Had she been unconscious in the garage when he saw her sitting in the front seat? Reg was pretty sure that must be the case, and there was only one person who could be responsible: Mr Grayling. He had no intention of letting Molly go after she made her blackmail threat. He probably intended to kill Reg as well. If it was true that he had murdered his wife on the
Titanic,
he couldn’t risk anyone finding out, especially now that several weeks had passed and he thought he had got away with it.

The question was, what should Reg do next? If he went to the police, would they believe him? He fingered the back of his head and there was a painful gash where he had been hit. That proved something. If they found the wreck of the car and Molly’s body was still in it, surely that was evidence enough? Alphonse would be able to back up his story that Molly had been trying to blackmail Mr Grayling; they’d both overheard the conversation.

But what if the police thought Reg was guilty? Molly’s interest in him had been common enough knowledge in the household for it to have reached Miss Hamilton’s ears. They might suspect he had murdered Molly after a lovers’ tiff and driven the car off the road to hide the evidence. Reg had no love of the police. He knew that in England they always took the upper classes’ word against that of the lower classes, and he assumed that it would be the same in America. Mr Grayling would be sure to hire a fancy lawyer while Reg would have to defend himself. The odds weren’t good.

Maybe Molly was still alive. He wished fervently that would turn out to be the case. He hoped she had got out of the car before it rolled into the sea, or she had escaped from the wreck and swum to the shore. In that case, she would go to the police with her story and Mr Grayling would be arrested. Reg decided to walk back and try to find the spot where the car went off the road so he could check whether there was any sign of her in the area.

His nightshirt was still damp but it had at least been warmed by the heat of his body; the soaking jacket and trousers were freezing cold when he pulled them on. He searched the beach hut and found a pair of men’s canvas deck shoes. They were several sizes too big for him but it was better than going barefoot. He tidied himself as best he could then peeked outside the hut. At the far end of the beach, he spotted someone walking a dog and ducked down, terrified. What if Mr Grayling had seen him swim clear of the wreck the previous night? He might be hunting for him to try and finish him off. Reg would have to stay out of sight.

He skirted round the corner of the beach hut and zigzagged between the rocks, constantly checking in each direction. When a solitary automobile drove past he hid, and was relieved when he heard the motor continue down the road without pausing.

It was a quiet morning. Holidaymakers were staying indoors because the sky seemed to threaten more rain and the temperature had dropped several degrees. He scrabbled along the rocky slopes until he found a headland where there was a drop from the road down to the water. A sign read ‘Sea Cliff’. Could that be the place where they had crashed into the sea? He scanned the surface, which was grey and choppy, but could see no sign of any wreckage.

Reg ducked behind a boulder and examined the surrounding coast. If Molly had been washed ashore there, she would have been dashed against the rocks. He could see no sign of any clothing or red-blonde curly hair floating on the waves.
Please let her be alive
, he breathed. He didn’t know who he was asking, but he asked all the same. If Molly was alive, they could go to the police together. If she was dead, he couldn’t face going on his own. As Mr Grayling would no doubt point out to them, Reg didn’t have a great record of telling the truth in recent months.

The only alternative was to reinvent himself all over again. He would have to start from the bottom, accepting the kind of job where they didn’t ask for a reference. It would help if he could at least retrieve his spare clothing from Mr Grayling’s New York house. He couldn’t apply for a job wearing a nightshirt and beach shoes, and he had no cash with him. Perhaps his new immigration papers, in the name of Reg Parton, would have arrived. He’d have trouble getting a job without them. Could he risk confiding in Mr Frank? No, he decided. He was too loyal to his boss. But there were only a few staff members left in the house, so he might be able to slip unnoticed through the cellar window, which was usually left ajar to keep the wine cool.

First he had to get to New York somehow. He had no idea where he was but sensed it was far too far to walk. He would have to ask someone for a ride and cross his fingers that the person he chose was trustworthy.

The next two automobiles that came along were black and shiny, similar to Mr Grayling’s vehicles, so Reg kept out of sight. After a while, a yellow and green painted Ford truck came into view. The cab at the front had space for a passenger beside the driver, and there was a cage of chickens on the flatbed behind. As it drew near, Reg stood up and ran out to the roadside.

‘Hey mister!’ he yelled, waving his arms in the air. ‘Mister, please stop!’

The driver pulled up. ‘You want a lift?’ he asked, eyeing Reg up and down. ‘Where y’all going?’

‘New York City.’

‘I’m only going as far as Brooklyn, but I can drop you by the bridge. Any use?’

‘That would be very kind. Thank you so much.’ Reg opened the door and climbed in.

‘You’re wet,’ the driver said. ‘I’ve got a blanket you can wrap yourself in. Don’t want you dying of the cold. My wife and I are church people. We believe in helping those who are down on their luck and you seem more down on your luck than most. I bet you haven’t eaten today.’ Reg shook his head. The man reached behind him for a paper bag. He pulled out a loaf of bread and tore off a big hunk, which he gave to Reg along with some thick slices of ham and a flask of water. ‘Be my guest.’

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Reg said. He heard another motor approaching and looked over his shoulder, anxious to get moving.

The driver started the engine. ‘I’m guessing you are in some kinda trouble. I’m not gonna ask your story because I don’t wanna get into trouble myself. You look like a good kid and from your accent you’re a long way from home, so I’ll just take you where you want to go. If you want to thank anyone, thank the good Lord.’

Reg gulped down some water and pulled up the blanket, fearful they might yet pass Mr Grayling on the road. His headache was worsening by the hour. He ate a few mouthfuls of bread but they made him feel sick again, and before long the rhythmic vibrations of the truck had sent him off into a disturbed sleep.