A Gathering Storm(51)
Hugh Marlow merely shot his wife a look of scorching resentment and without a word marched into his study and closed the door.
That night Jamie wet the bed. Every morning after that, Delphine, with the expression of a martyr, came down the stairs with a bundle for the wash, Jamie creeping after her with a tear-stained face. After a fortnight, his mother, skinny and sharp-nosed, from whom no one had heard a word the whole time, pitched up without warning to fetch him home. Hugh Marlow had managed the whole time by ignoring the child entirely.
England grew tired of waiting for Hitler’s bombs, and normal life – of a sort – resumed. Shortly after Jamie left, a letter arrived announcing that Larchmont School would reopen. Beatrice, returning by train this time to conserve petrol, was conscious of being almost the only person carrying a gas mask. This was at her father’s insistence. It was the day she turned seventeen.
Chapter 12
In December 1939, near the end of term, Beatrice received a letter with a London postmark and in a hand she recognized at once as Oenone Wincanton’s. Pushing away her toast, she tore open the envelope. As she read she felt herself fill up with happiness.
Will you come and stay with us in Queen’s Gate for a few days before Christmas? the letter ran. I think it would do Angelina good to see you, and of course we’d all love the pleasure of your company. I wrote to your mother last week and received a reply this morning agreeing to the plan. I gather your aunt might accompany you to do a little shopping. Do say you’ll come!
Letters flew back and forth and all was quickly arranged. Then she wrote to Rafe.
I’m coming to London for a few days. Is there any chance of you getting away? Do telephone me at the Wincantons’ house. I’m sure they won’t mind. She dipped the pen in the inkwell, thought a moment, then added boldly, It would be so lovely to see you, then quickly signed it, Yours truly. She sneaked out to the postbox herself rather than leaving the envelope in the tray in the hall where the other girls might see it and tease her. Would he even receive it, let alone reply? She’d not heard from him for a while.
Her trunk was packed and sent ahead to Cornwall, but she felt a little depressed about the meagre items in her small London suitcase. The one evening gown she had with her – the splendid party dress being much too showy for weekends at her grandparents’ and therefore left in Cornwall – was very ordinary for London. Suppose they dined out or went to a show, what then?
Aunt Julia, being a woman of discernment, solved the problem. Sitting opposite Beatrice on the train up to London, she leant forward, eyes merry in her pretty, girlish face, and said: ‘I’d like to buy you something nice to wear. A little Christmas present, if you like.’
When they reached Paddington she took Beatrice straightaway to a perfectly lovely shop in Bond Street, all hedged about with sandbags, where they had remarkably little trouble finding Beatrice a form-fitting evening gown in pale brown silk-satin and a pair of white lace gloves. Flushed with triumph, they took a bus to Harrod’s, where they were delighted to find most of the usual Christmas fare – nuts, fruits, candy – if at quite a price. Aunt Julia took some time choosing dolls for her daughters and a model steam engine for her son, whilst Beatrice, with money from her allowance, bought pretty boxes of sweets to supplement the gifts she’d made for her family in sewing lessons.
It was her first proper visit to London, apart from to change trains at Paddington, and she was overawed by the hugeness of it. The air was cold, but clear. ‘It makes such a difference to everything, now no one can afford to drive,’ Julia remarked.
A maid who wasn’t Brown opened the door of the white Regency house with black railings in Queen’s Gate, which was the Wincantons’ London home. Beatrice turned and waved down to Aunt Julia in the cab. Julia blew her a kiss and the cab pulled away.
Beatrice found herself in a big, chilly, high-ceilinged hall, greeting Jacky the dog, who looked uncertain of himself, being a country bumpkin in this elegant urban environment. To the right, a graceful staircase curved up out of sight. As she handed over her case and her coat, she was disturbed to hear raised voices. It proved only the first indication that something here was wrong.
She hugged to herself the thought of Rafe, safe, familiar. She yearned for him to be in touch. ‘Nobody’s telephoned for me, have they?’ she asked the maid.
‘No, miss, I don’t think so,’ was the reply.
Just then, a door at the back of the hall flew open and Angelina stormed out, her normally serene features distorted with anger. This turned to surprise at the sight of Beatrice, who, in turn, stared back, amazed.