“Who’s
that?” she whispered sharply.
“Only
me,” murmured Guy. “Thought I’d pop in and see how you were.”
Becky
pulled her top sheet up to her chin. “Good night, Guy,” she said briskly.
“That’s
not very friendly,” said Guy, who had already crossed the room and was now
sitting on the end of her bed. “Just wanted to check that everything was all
right. Felt you had rather a rough time of it tonight.”
“I’m
just fine, thank you,” said Becky flatly. As he leaned over to kiss her she
slid away from him, so he ended up brushing her left ear.
“Perhaps
this isn’t the right time?”
“Or
place,” added Becky, sliding even farther away so that she was nearly falling
out of the far side of the bed.
“I
only wanted to kiss you good night.”
Becky
reluctantly allowed him to take her in his arms and kiss her on the lips, but
he held on to her far longer than she had anticipated and eventually she had to
push him away.
“Good
night, Guy,” she said firmly.
At
first Guy didn’t move, but then he rose slowly and said, “Perhaps another time.”
A moment later she heard the door close behind him.
Becky
waited for a few moments before getting out of bed. She walked over to the
door, turned the key in the lock and removed it before going back to bed. It
was some time before she was able to sleep.
When
Becky came down for breakfast the following morning she quickly discovered from
Major Trentham that a restless night had not improved his wife’s migraine: she
had therefore decided to remain in bed until the pain had completely cleared.
Later,
when the major and Guy went off to church, leaving Becky to read the Sunday
newspapers in the drawing room, she couldn’t help noticing that the servants
were whispering among themselves whenever she caught their eye.
Mrs.
Trentham appeared for lunch, but made no attempt to join in the conversation
that was taking place at the other end of the table. Unexpectedly, just as the
custard was being poured onto the summer pudding, she asked, “And what was the
vicar’s text this morning?”
“Do
unto others as you expect them to do unto you,” the major replied with a slight
edge to his voice.
“And
how did you find the service at our local church, Miss Salmon?” asked Mrs.
Trentham, addressing Becky for the first time.
“I
didn’t “ began Becky.
“Ah,
yes, of course, you are one of the chosen brethren.”
“No,
actually if anything I’m a Roman Catholic,” said Becky.
“Oh,”
said Mrs. Trentham, feigning surprise, “I assumed, with the name of Salmon...
In any case you wouldn’t have enjoyed St. Michael’s. You see, it’s very down to
earth.”
Becky
wondered if every word Mrs. Trentham uttered and every action she took was
rehearsed in advance.
Once
lunch had been cleared away Mrs. Trentham disappeared again and Guy suggested
that he and Becky should take a brisk walk. Becky went up to her room and
changed into her oldest shoes, far too terrified to suggest she might borrow a
pair of Mrs. Trentham’s Wellingtons.
“Anything
to get away from the house,” Becky told him when she returned downstairs and
she didn’t open her mouth again until she felt certain that Mrs. Trentham was
well out of earshot.
“What
does she expect of me?” Becky finally asked.
“Oh,
it’s not that bad,” Guy insisted, taking her hand. “You’re overreacting. Pa’s
convinced she’ll come round given time and in any case, if I have to choose
between you and her I know exactly which one of you is more important to me.”
Becky
squeezed his hand. “Thank you, darling, but I’m still not certain I can go
through another evening like the last one.”
“We
could always leave early and spend the rest of the day at your place,” Guy
said. Becky turned to look at him, unsure what he meant. He added quickly, “Better
get back to the house or she’ll only grumble that we left her alone all
afternoon.” They both quickened their pace.
A
few minutes later they were climbing the stone steps at the front of the hall.
As soon as Becky had changed back into her house shoes and checked her hair in
the mirror on the hallstand, she rejoined Guy in the drawing room. She was
surprised to find a large tea already laid out. She checked her watch: it was
only three-fifteen.
“I’m
sorry you felt it necessary to keep everyone waiting, Guy,” were the first
words that Becky heard as she entered the room.
“Never
known us to have tea this early before,” offered the major, from the ocher side
of the fireplace.
“Do
you take tea, Miss Salmon?” Mrs. Trentham asked, even managing to make her name
sound like a petty offense.
“Yes,
thank you,” replied Becky.
“Perhaps
you could call Becky by her first name,” Guy suggested.
Mrs.
Trentham’s eyes came to rest on her son. “I cannot abide this modern-day custom
of addressing everyone by their Christian name especially when one has only
just been introduced. Darjeeling, Lapsang or Earl Grey, Miss Salmon?” she asked
before anyone had a chance to react. She looked up expectantly for Becky’s
reply, but no answer was immediately forthcoming because Becky still hadn’t
quite recovered from the previous jibe. “Obviously you’re not given that much
choice in Whitechapel,” Mrs. Trentham added.
Becky
considered picking up the pot and pouring the contents all over the woman but
somehow she managed to hold her temper, if only because she knew that making
her lose it was exactly what Mrs. Trentham was hoping to achieve.
After
a further silence Mrs. Trentham asked, “Do you have any brothers or sisters,
Miss Salmon?”
“No,
I’m an only child,” replied Becky.
“Surprising,
really.”
“Why’s
that?” asked Becky innocently.
“I
always thought the lower classes bred like ram bits,” said Mrs. Trentham,
dropping another lump of sugar into her tea.
“Mother,
really... “ began Guy.
“Just
my little joke,” she said quickly. “Guy will take me so seriously at times,
Miss Salmon. However, I well remember my father, Sir Raymond, once saying... “
“Not
again,” said the major.
“
that the classes were not unlike water and wine. Under no circumstances should
one attempt to mix them.”
“But
I thought it was Christ who managed to rum water into wine,” said Becky.
Mrs.
Trentham chose to ignore this observation. “That’s exactly why we have officers
and other ranks in the first place; because God planned it that way.”
“And
do you think that God planned that there should be a war, in order that those
same officers and other ranks could then slaughter each other indiscriminately?”
asked Becky.
“I’m
sure I don’t know, Miss Salmon,” Mrs. Trentham replied. “You see, I don’t have
the advantage of being an intellectual like yourself. I am just a plain, simple
woman who speaks her mind. But what I do know is that we all made sacrifices
during the war.”
“And
what sacrifices did you make, Mrs. Trentham?” Becky inquired.
“A
considerable number, young lady,” Mrs. Trentham replied, stretching to her full
height. “For a start, I had to go without a lot of things that were quite
fundamental to one’s very existence.”
“Like
an arm or a leg?” said Becky, quickly regretting her words the moment she
realized that she had fallen into Mrs. Trentham’s trap.
Guy’s
mother rose from her chair and walked slowly over to the fireplace, where she
tugged violently on the servants’ bellpull. “I do not have to sit around and be
insulted in my own home,” she said. As soon as Gibson reappeared she turned to
him and added, “See that Alfred collects Miss Salmon’s belongings from her
room. She will be returning to London earlier than planned.”
Becky
remained silently by the fire, not sure what she should do next. Mrs. Trentham
stood coolly staring at her until finally Becky walked over to the major, shook
him by the hand and said, “I’ll say goodbye, Major Trentham. I have a feeling
we won’t be seeing each other again.”
“My
loss, Miss Salmon,” he said graciously before kissing her hand. Then Becky
turned and walked slowly out of the drawing room without giving Mrs. Trentham a
second look. Guy followed Becky into the hall.
On
their journey back to London Guy made every excuse he could think of for his
mother’s behavior, but Becky knew he didn’t really believe his own words. When
the car came to a halt outside Number 97 Guy jumped out and opened the
passenger door.
“May
I come up?” he asked. “There’s something I still have to tell you.”
“Not
tonight,” said Becky. “I need to think and I’d rather like to be on my own.”
Guy
sighed. “It’s just that I wanted to tell you how much I love you and perhaps
talk about our plans for the future.”
“Plans
that include your mother?”
“To
hell with my mother,” he replied. “Don’t you realize how much I love you?”
Becky
hesitated.
“Let’s
announce our engagement in The Times as soon as possible, and to hell with what
she thinks. What do you say?”
She
turned and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Guy, I do love you too, but you’d
better not come up tonight. Not while Daphne is expected back at any moment.
Another time perhaps?”
A
look of disappointment crossed Guy’s face. He kissed her before saying good
night. She opened the front door and ran up the stairs.
Becky
unlocked the flat door to find that Daphne had not returned from the country.
She sat alone on the sofa, not bothering to turn the gas up when the light
faded. It was to be a further two hours before Daphne sailed in.
“How
did it all go?” were the first words Daphne uttered as she entered the drawing
room, a little surprised to find her friend sitting in the dark.
“A
disaster.”
“So
it’s all over?”
“No,
not exactly,” said Becky. “In fact I have a feeling Guy proposed to me.”
“But
did you accept?” asked Daphne.
“I
rather think I did.”
“And
what do you intend to do about India?”
*
* *
The
following morning when Becky unpacked her overnight case, she was horrified to
discover that the delicate brooch Daphne had lent her for the weekend was
missing. She assumed she must have left it at Ashurst Hall.
As
she had no desire to make contact with Mrs. Trentham again, she dropped a note
to Guy at his regimental mess to alert him of her anxiety. He replied the next
day to assure her that he would check on Sunday when he planned to have lunch
with his parents at Ashurst.
Becky
spent the next five days worrying about whether Guy would be able to find the
missing piece: thankfully Daphne didn’t seem to have noticed its absence. Becky
only hoped she could get the brooch back before her friend felt the desire to
wear it again.
Guy
wrote on Monday to say that despite an extensive search of the guest bedroom he
had been unable to locate the missing brooch, and in any case Nellie had
informed him that she distinctly remembered packing all of Becky’s jewelry.
This
piece of news puzzled Becky because she remembered packing her own case
following her summary dismissal from Ashurst Hall. With considerable
trepidation she sat up late into the night, waiting for Daphne to return from
her long weekend in the country so that she could explain to her friend what
had happened. She feared that it might be months, even years before she could
save enough to replace what was probably a family heirloom.
By
the time her flatmate breezed into Chelsea Terrace a few minutes after
midnight, Becky had already drunk several cups of black coffee and almost lit
one of Daphne’s Du Maunes.
“You’re
up late, my darling,” were Daphne’s opening words. “Are exams that close?”
“No,”
said Becky, then blurted out the whole story of the missing diamond brooch. She
finished by asking Daphne how long she thought it might take to repay her.
“About
a week would be my guess,” said Daphne.
“A
week?” said Becky, looking puzzled.
“Yes.
It was only stage jewelry all the rage at the moment. If I remember correctly,
it cost me every penny of three shillings.”
A
relieved Becky told Guy over dinner on Tuesday why finding the missing piece of
jewelry was no longer of such importance.
The
following Monday Guy brought the piece round to Chelsea Terrace, explaining
that Nellie had found it under the bed in the Wellington Room.
B
ecky began to
notice small changes in Charlie’s manner, at first subtle and then more
obvious.
Daphne
made no attempt to hide her involvement in what she described as “the social
discovery of the decade, my very own Charlie Doolittle. Why, only this weekend,”
she declared, “I took him down to Harcourt Hall, don’t you know, and he was a
wow. Even Mother thought he was fantastic.”