The Thief of St Martins Page 13

  ‘But she didn’t?’

  ‘No, Dottie. She never spoke to me about it. She still hasn’t. And yet somehow everyone seems to know. Well, one day over breakfast, she said, ‘I’ve been invited to Paignton to spend some time with Lavinia and the little one. Poor Lavinia’s had this nasty bronchitis everyone’s been getting, and she’s been ordered to the coast for a few months’ rest. You don’t mind, do you?’ What else could I say but, no, of course I don’t mind. She was gone for a little over three months, from the middle of January to the last week in April. I got the odd post-card, what a marvellous time they were having and so on, and how well Lavinia was recovering, and a bit about the arrival of a surprise baby Cecilia hadn’t realised Lavinia was expecting. My wife wrote to the children. They were all away at school, of course.’

  Dottie nodded. Of course. In many ways, her arrival couldn’t have been better timed.

  ‘She came back so slim, refreshed, and talked endlessly about how well she felt, how rested, what a lovely time they’d had, and so on. Told me all about Lavinia’s new baby daughter, how surprised and happy everyone was, how pretty the little thing was. And all along, I knew. We never spoke about it, but I knew.’ He poured himself yet another whisky, but this time sipped it meditatively. ‘I was just glad the poor little beggar—sorry, you—were going to be brought up by Lavinia. A damned good woman, Lavinia.’ His hand was shaking as he set the glass on the table, still more than half of the measure intact. Without looking at her, he said, ‘Did you have a happy childhood?’

  Through sudden hot tears, Dottie said, ‘Yes, very happy.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m glad, my dear.’ He held out his handkerchief to her. ‘Always thought the world of Lavinia. And Herbie. Excellent people. The kind you always want on your side in a scrape.’

  She couldn’t speak, and simply nodded.

  He sipped his whisky, then said, ‘I was at school with Herbert. Herbie, we used to call him, though Lavinia didn’t like that. A good fellow. When you go home, ask him to tell you about the time we almost burned down the cricket pavilion. Lord, I don’t believe we could have been more than thirteen or fourteen.’ He smiled at the memory.

  Dottie said, ‘Who was my father?’ She’d blurted it out without even knowing what she was going to say. The words seemed to echo, to hang in the air.

  He sighed. ‘I can’t tell you. I suspect, but I don’t actually know. And it’s not my place to tell you, in any case.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me there were too many for her to know which one...’

  ‘Oh my God, no, my dear! There was just one special man, I’m sure of it. Someone we’ve seen a good deal of over the years, always in our social circle for one reason and another. Cecilia and he were always close, but he was married to someone else, as was she of course, and then—well, there were objections from a social point of view.’

  ‘He wasn’t good enough for her, you mean? Or she wasn’t good enough for him?’ Dottie couldn’t help the bitter edge to her voice. She’d wanted this information, and now—so close to the truth—she couldn’t quite decide how she felt.

  Lewis shot her a look. ‘The former.’

  ‘So he wasn’t good enough for her. You obviously do know who it was. What was his name?’

  He hesitated. ‘Look, it’s better you ask Cecilia. In any case, as I say, they were both married. No one wanted a scandal.’

  ‘I have asked her. She won’t tell me. She doesn’t even like me,’ Dottie pointed out. ‘Especially not after this morning.’

  ‘Ask her again, you never know. Give her a day or two to calm down, and you might have a chance to talk to her again.’

  He sat forward on the edge of the sofa, and she knew the conversation was at an end. ‘Well I need to do a few things in my study.’

  He paused at the door, looking back to say, ‘By the way, I agree with you about Imogen and this chap Clarke. They would be good for one another.’

  ‘Then why on earth don’t you say so?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s no use with Cecilia. She doesn’t listen. Really, she just doesn’t want Imogen to leave her. She’s afraid of being alone. And with Clarke, you know how it is, he’s not really one of us, is he? But for Imogen’s sake I invite him to the house for this and that. Not that Cecilia approves.’

  ‘Well,’ Dottie said with some vinegar to her voice, ‘If she lets Imogen marry Norris, there’d soon be grandchildren to keep Cecilia busy. Not to mention Guy, and any children he might have if he marries, and there’s Leo and June. They might have children in time. There’s no reason for Cecilia to feel alone.’

  He nodded vaguely. ‘Very true. Well, I’ll see you in a little while, my dear.’ He closed the door behind him. Dottie waited a few moments then went upstairs. She was relieved that she met no one on the way.

  Norris Clarke had been invited for lunch by Lewis Cowdrey, and Imogen’s excitement at her beloved coming to the house an unprecedented two days in a row had been quickly squashed. Though Imogen was still distressed about the scene over breakfast, Dottie couldn’t help feeling the situation could have been better handled.

  ‘Things could have been worse. Your mother could have told Drysdale to turn Norris away at the door,’ Dottie pointed out. ‘You ought to have reminded your father to mention it to her sooner than this morning.’

  ‘But what if she speaks to him, tells him he mustn’t see me anymore? She thinks he’s not good enough for me.’

  ‘Norris won’t take any notice even if she does warn him off. But you really must stand up to her.’

  But Imogen was almost in tears. Even before Dottie finished speaking, she was shaking her head. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, her whole demeanour was that of someone completely broken down and hopeless, making her look far smaller and more fragile than she actually was.

  ‘No, Dottie, I can’t. I just can’t. I know I’m a goose, but Dottie, I can’t do the things you do.’

  ‘What things? What things do I do?’

  ‘Well, you know. You go here and there on your own. You travel. You drive a car. And you have a career. That’s so terribly exciting—and so brave and I—I don’t know, I just think it’s so bold of you. And you’ve got your wonderful beau—handsome, wealthy, influential. You’ll be the society hostess of Derbyshire when you’re married.’

  That was something Dottie didn’t want to think about. ‘I don’t know about that. In any case, although he works in Derbyshire, he actually lives over the county border in Nottinghamshire. And I’m quite sure he already entertains, he won’t be relying on me to do it all. There are lots of county families, I’m sure they are all far more elegant and experienced in entertaining than I am.’

  Imogen’s lack of confidence must be contagious, Dottie thought. She was beginning to feel rather anxious now, ‘And as for my career, well, I sort of fell into that by accident. I had no idea poor Mrs Carmichael had left the business to me in her will, and I’m afraid I’m likely to make a fearful mess of things. Most of the time I feel like I hardly know what I’m doing. So it’s not really exciting or fun, it’s just rather worrying and exhausting.’

  But Imogen was hanging on her words like an eager puppy, not in the least discouraged.

  ‘But the designs! And you know—everything else—paying the bills, ordering the stock, managing the girls, making all those decisions. Talking to clients. All of that—I could never do any of it.’ Her face fell even more. The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘I—can’t even get Norris,’ she whispered. A tear rolled down her nose.

  They were back to the beginning again. Dottie quashed her impatience. She said, ‘You need to stand up to your mother. You need to say, ‘Mother, I’m very sorry, but I’m in love with Norris, and he’s in love with me. And we’re both of age, so you can’t stop us. I’d rather have your blessing, but if you won’t give it, that won’t stop me.’ Then you and Norris run away, get married and open a new antiques’ shop somewhere else. You could help him with his bu
siness—you, Imogen. You could pay the bills, order the stock, manage staff, or talk to clients. It would be no different than talking to a new acquaintance invited to dinner. You, Imogen. You can do this.’

  Imogen stared at her as if she’d just witnessed the impossible. ‘Golly.’

  ‘You could go anywhere together. You could go to London, or Bournemouth. Derbyshire. Anywhere. You could have your lovely little antiques business, with a cosy little flat above it, or a house somewhere. And your mother will just have to like it or lump it. It could be wonderful. But you’ll never have it if you sit here saying ‘I can’t...’ all the time.’

  ‘Oh, Dottie, I c-can’t...’ Imogen was screwing her handkerchief into a tight damp ball. ‘I just...’

  ‘Then you’ll be an old maid with a broken heart, and so will Norris,’ Dottie said heartlessly, determined to make Imogen understand. ‘You’ll be miserable and alone and it will be all your own fault. And your mother will get everything her own way. You’ll be her slave until you die. Or rather, until she dies,’ Dottie corrected herself. She looked at Imogen, and couldn’t believe she still dithered, not seeming convinced. Why did Imogen seem to think only other people deserved to have their own life?

  ‘If I said any of that to my mother—to our mother—she’d be absolutely livid and go all ‘get thee to a nunnery’ on me. Honestly Dottie, I’m sure you’re the only one she’d listen to. Would you please, please, please speak to her about Norris and I?’

  Dottie’s heart sank. Somehow she’d known all along that this was coming, yet she still felt as though she’d been ambushed. In spite of knowing it was the last thing she could bear to do, for some reason she said, ‘I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything. I really don’t think she’ll listen to me. But, if you really want me to, I’ll try.’

  Imogen sat up, excitedly clapping her hands like a small child. ‘Oh, I knew you would! Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  ‘Norris!’ Pink-faced and practically giggling with excitement, Imogen hurried to greet him. He kissed her cheek, but his look was so intense, Dottie thought, that given the opportunity she had no doubt at all that he would have caught Imogen into his arms and kissed her on the lips. The gentleman was certainly in love.

  Flustered but glowing with happiness, Imogen stepped back, patting her hair and straightening the sensible cardigan she wore. The garment was in Dottie’s opinion at least three decades too old for Imogen. But better that she should be comfortable and as confident as she could be in something too old, than to put her in something modern and youthful that would leave her on edge.

  Cecilia treated Norris to a slight frown but mercifully said nothing. She led her guests and her family into the dining room. Norris whispered to Dottie, ‘I think she’s warming to me.’ He had a twinkle in his eye. Dottie smiled. He had a rogueish sense of humour, she thought. Why on earth didn’t he just arrive one night at Imogen’s bedroom window with a ladder and take her away?

  After lunch it was a relief to take advantage of the dry, sunny afternoon to walk down to the lake.

  Leo, always pompous and self-important, strode on ahead of everyone, his wife clinging to his arm and clearly struggling to keep up with his pace. Behind them were Lewis and Guy. Cecilia was not with them, having gone upstairs to rest immediately lunch was over. She had expressed the intention of joining them again for afternoon tea.

  Dottie was left to bring up the rear with Imogen and Norris, walking side by side but so close they may as well have held hands. Dottie felt impatient with them. For goodness’ sake, she thought, this isn’t the nineteenth century. No one could possibly object to a little hand-holding.

  Out loud, she said, mildly, ‘I can’t think why the two of you don’t just run off together and get married. It’s not as though anyone can stop you, you’re both of full age. Why waste time hoping Aunt Cecilia will change her mind?’

  They both halted and stared at her. Imogen looked horrified.

  ‘It’s all right, no one’s listening. Anyway, they’re too far ahead.’ Dottie indicated the backs of the two men, deep in conversation.

  ‘We can’t run away!’ Norris protested.

  ‘Why not?’ There was a note of challenge in Dottie’s voice. So much for concealing her impatience, she thought. The other two seemed uncomfortable. They exchanged a look.

  Imogen said, ‘Well, to start with, there’s Norris’s business to consider. Remember this morning Mother said she would make sure he’s ruined if he continues his attentions.’ She was looking thoroughly upset.

  ‘Then why does she allow him to come to lunch?’ Dottie said. ‘She can’t disapprove of him so completely if she invites him to the house.’

  ‘You know Daddy invited him. I begged him to. I thought if Mother could get to know Norris a little better...’

  Dottie felt exasperated. ‘Again, why would your father do that if he disapproved of Norris?’

  ‘Norris’s father is an old friend of Daddy’s, so Daddy likes to invite Norris. Besides, Daddy enjoys annoying Mummy. So that’s his main reason for doing anything.’

  It’s ridiculous, Dottie thought. And said so out loud, adding, ‘Not to be rude, Imogen, but really you ought to get married soon. If—you know—you want to have children.’

  ‘But Mummy...’ Imogen persisted. ‘And Norris’s business.’

  Dottie sighed. With a patience she didn’t really feel, she said, ‘Norris, do you own your shop and flat, or rent it?’

  ‘Er—no, Miss—er—Dottie, I rent it.’

  ‘Then you can take your belongings, your stock and your business, everything—and move somewhere else. You can have a business wherever you want—Worthing, Hastings, Reigate, anywhere. And you, Imogen, can get your savings out of the bank, and take it, and go with Norris, get married and live happily ever after. You don’t need to do all this silly mooning about and fretting your life away and waiting for someone’s permission.’

  She wished she hadn’t said ‘silly’, but fortunately they didn’t seem to take it amiss. To Dottie it was a perfectly simple situation, and surely if they truly loved each other, it was the obvious solution. In time, Aunt Cecilia would come round. She would have to if she wanted to know her grandchildren. If not, well, surely happiness away from her family was better for Imogen than unhappiness with them?

  Norris and Imogen looked at each other. With great daring, Imogen took his hand and held it tight. They walked on.

  Dottie felt she’d said enough. Now it was up to them.

  The wreath lay on the bench in the greenhouse. Anyone standing nearby might have caught the fresh earthy fragrance of the soft rosemary stalks twined about the raffia with columbine and campion. The observer’s eye would certainly have seen the delicate sprigs of new bronze fennel, pulled up from their position in the greenhouse; or the winter aconites, their bright yellow blooms so welcome in the cold months, along with the deceptively soft-looking young nettle leaves, and the violas, past their best now at the close of the year, but still dotted here and there in sheltered places about the grounds where they were protected from the few mild frosts that had so far visited.

  It was careful work, neat, precise. It would hold together come what may. And when at last it was held up for examination, it was important that no one should miss the tiny scrap of ruby satin just that minute so painstakingly placed amongst the twisted stems.

  People passed by the greenhouse, chatting and laughing. They didn’t come inside. They walked on without seeing the wreath or wondering who it might be for.

  They ended up separating and reforming into other groups during the course of the walk. When Dottie finally returned to the house, it was in the company of Leo and Lewis. Not a happy stroll back, as they continued another of their seemingly endless discussions about fishing. Without pausing they made their way to the drawing room, where afternoon tea was about to be served.

  Norris and Imogen wandered in, still hand in hand, and looking radiantly happy.

  It was an
other ten minutes before June came in with Cecilia, stating they had met in the garden when June was admiring the last few chrysanthemums still lingering on from the autumn. They seemed tired of each other’s company, which didn’t especially surprise Dottie. June, appearing tired or out of sorts, went to sit beside her husband immediately, dropping her capacious handbag down by the side of the chair as if it had been weighing her down.

  Through the window, Dottie spotted Guy ambling along, coming from the front of the estate, whistling casually, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. If anything, his very easiness made Dottie more suspicious than if he’d been behaving furtively. But as he came in and greeted everyone with his usual wry good humour, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  She went upstairs to take off her coat, gloves and outdoor shoes just as the first tray was brought in. Passing the hall mirror, she noticed she needed to try and tame her hair; even with her hat holding it down, it had been fluffed up by the breeze to a shocking degree.

  As she entered her bedroom, something hard scraped under her shoe. Stooping to pick it up, she saw it was the bright steel of a dressmaker’s pin. She frowned, puzzling. How it had come to be there? What a good thing she’d still had her outdoor shoes on, and not stepped on it in bare feet. She placed the pin on the mantelpiece out of the way.

  Her glance drifted about the room. If she’d been a dog, she would have said her hackles rose. As it was, she shivered. She felt the goosebumps prickle out on her arms. She’d known this feeling once before: when her parents’ house had been burgled.

  Someone had been in her room.

  She caught sight of the little briefcase she’d left on the side table in front of the window. Anxiety gripped her, a cold hard hand about her heart. She rushed across and grabbed the case.

  It was unlocked, open, and empty. Save for one more dressmaker’s pin caught in the seam, her briefcase was completely empty. All her designs were gone.