Last Nocturne (20 page)

‘That at least is a very refreshing attitude.’

‘You sound very cynical. Don’t you like London?’

‘Oh, I like it pretty well. As long as it isn’t confined to Mayfair. But listen, I have a better idea than looking at the Thames. It’s very dirty, you know. Have you visited Kew yet? No? Then we can go and see the lilacs and I’ll show you the Pagoda Vista, now it’s been replanted,’ he announced, and swung round to face the road and an oncoming hansom, waving his stick.

‘Cab, sir?’

Before she could find reasons to demur, he had her seated next to him in the buttoned-leather interior.

The driver didn’t seem in any hurry to draw away, and it soon became obvious that they must wait until all the passengers from a motor omnibus which had broken down in the centre of the road were transferred to a more reliable, horse-drawn one, a not unusual occurrence.

His manoeuvring her into the cab like that had been rather high-handed, to say the least, but the silence as they waited was not at all uncomfortable. Yet even as the thought struck Grace, his pre-occupied frown returned and a tense, held-in mood seemed to come over him. His knuckles were white around the silver knob of his stick and she couldn’t help wondering if by now he were not regretting the impulse which had caused him to take pity on his mother’s little secretary. She wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be so easily coerced into this situation. There was, however, nothing else to do now but wait until their driver, perched on his high outside seat at the rear, finally cracked his whip and they were off at a smart pace towards Kew and its gardens, and Guy was being agreeable again and pointing out to her things and places of interest.

Dulcie waited only until she was sure Grace would be quite clear of the house before settling her little dog, Nell, in her basket, pulling on her tam-o’-shanter, buttoning her coat and running out of the house, pausing only long enough at the top of the stairs to peer over the banisters and make sure the hall was, for the few moments she needed, empty. She wasn’t afraid of any of the servants seeing her because she’d taken the precaution of slinging her satchel over her shoulder, so they would presume she was going out into the square-gardens to sketch, as she so often did – but she would not have been able to explain herself had she encountered her mother.

Her exit safely negotiated, she ran to the main road. At the first opportunity, she hopped onto an electric tram as if she’d been doing it all her life. Not at all the done thing for girls of her age and social class, and certainly not for a daughter of Edwina Martagon. But Dulcie had travelled by this mode before, with Grace, and ran up the steps to sit on the open top deck and enjoy the view and the breeze blowing on her face, trying to ignore her fright at the thought of what would happen if she were caught, but rejoicing in her dangerously snatched moment of freedom. The leaden weight of oppression that was fast becoming an almost insupportable burden, the thought of how her future life was already inexorably mapped out began to lift a little. She hardly ever had any time to herself – and she had never in her life been further afield than the square-gardens without being accompanied by a nanny or a governess, her mother or someone like Grace Thurley. Her daily life was ordered, strictly supervised, and too utterly boring and meaningless. Apart from an occasional sortie with Grace, her outings consisted almost entirely of shopping with Mama, or being commanded to take tea with other girls of whom her mother approved. She was supposed to make friends and exchange girlish confidences, discuss dressmakers and new hats and learn to curtsey in the coming-out dresses their mamas, like Dulcie’s, had already chosen, even though Dulcie herself wasn’t to come out until next year. She submitted, but did not make friends…was there no one of her own age who had their minds on anything other than giggling together and dressing up and talking of simply nothing else but the day they could be launched into society to catch a husband? She found them as unutterably boring as they evidently found her. This was much more fun, she thought, trying to prevent herself from sliding sideways on the slippery, polished wooden slats of the seat as the tram swayed round a corner.

When at last she reached the modern block of small flats in Pimlico which was her destination, she found a card beside the door marked with several names, one of which was ‘Dart’. Yes, she had found the right place. Exhilarated at having successfully and safely negotiated unfamiliar and possibly alien territory on her own, she ran eagerly up the stairs, but her spirits sank when there was no immediate answer to her ring on the bell of the upstairs flat. Somewhat belatedly the horrid possibility occurred to her that she might have made the journey for nothing. All at once, her adventure did not seem quite so thrilling. But what else could she have done? Miss Dart had no telephone.

She stood indecisively for some time and was about to turn away, disappointed, when the door was suddenly flung open, and after a moment’s astonished surprise an equally astonished voice was crying, ‘Darling! What on earth…?’ And there was Miss Dart herself, standing on tiptoe in order to clasp Dulcie to her bosom in a softly plump embrace.

‘Oh, Eugenia, may I come in? I’m so sorry if I’m disturbing you, but I simply had to see you!’

‘Of course you must come in, my dearest girl. You don’t think I’m going to leave you on the doormat? Come in, come in.’ She was led inside and given several more hugs and kisses. ‘But promise me you won’t be shocked and criticise my poor little bachelor-girl flat.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,’ Dulcie said as she pulled off her tammy and let Eugenia take her coat, looking around the small box-like room with something very akin to envy. ‘But in any case, it’s lovely, so modern.’ Apart from a small, old-fashioned desk under the window, replete with inkstand and pen-wiper, and from which papers flowed onto the floor, the room was furnished only with a low white table and a small matching sideboard, a sofa and an easy chair covered in pale green linen. There was only a single picture – storks and long-stemmed water lilies in an elongated frame – on the lavender-tinted wall above the gas fire. And a vivid Russian icon, which seemed very oddly placed to Dulcie, high up in one corner by the door, but perhaps that was traditionally the place for it. ‘How nice you’ve made it.’ It was a room such as this Dulcie would very much like to have for herself.

‘Nice enough, my dear. It’s just as well that the last word is to have everything plain and no ornaments, since that’s all I can afford. And having no distractions to my work is very restful.’ It was also an exceedingly complimentary foil to the vibrant looks and personality of its owner.

Eugenia Dart was a small and lively person with bright, quick dark eyes. At the moment she was wearing a curious wrap-around garment in a Liberty-ish fabric, and her wild mane of curly black hair was wound around by a bandeau in the style of Romney, which singularly failed to contain its unruliness. She admitted to thirty-four, not minding about adding quite five years to her real age for added gravitas, since it also served the purpose of keeping away callow young men. She had never been without admirers but she was not interested in marrying. Not unless someone should turn up with a fortune and a willingness to let his wife pursue her own interests and have her own opinions – an unlikely possibility on both counts, given that she mixed with the male sex so little nowadays, and clung so determinedly to her independence. Miss Dart was a great admirer of the women’s suffrage movement.

The extravagance of her gestures, her vivid dark looks and her volatile temperament might have marked her out as a gypsy, but both were in fact due to her mixed Russian and English parentage. She was now entirely alone in the world, which Dulcie thought very romantic, in keeping with the story of how her mother had met her father, a young author in search of copy, in St Petersburg, and how they had defied her parents by marrying. Thomas Dart had then brought his wife back to England, where Eugenia was born and where he had later died.

She was looking expectantly at Dulcie, but now that she was here, Dulcie’s courage felt to be draining away like water through a sieve. She wasn’t at all sure now that Eugenia would be able to help her, even though she had once been her dearest friend and confidante, and despite appearances to the contrary (and certain deplorable lapses) was basically very sensible and down-to-earth. She really ought not to have troubled her, and she couldn’t think how to come to the point. She said, temporising, gesturing towards the piled desk, ‘I’m afraid I’ve interrupted your work, Eugenia. I do think it’s so awfully courageous of you to live alone and support yourself this way.’

‘Well, I’ve done it before – and I didn’t really have much choice, this time, did I?’ Eugenia replied drily. ‘Does your mother know you’re here, Dulcie? I’m sure she doesn’t.’

There was a pause. ‘She’ll never forgive you for breaking all her majolica plates, I’m afraid.’

‘They were a very nasty design.’

‘
She
didn’t think so.’

‘I suppose she’s already bought some more.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Your mama—’ began Eugenia and then stopped, evidently realising she had already said more than enough. Whatever Dulcie – or Guy for that matter – thought about Edwina, no one else was allowed to say a word against her. She tucked a strand of escaping hair back under her bandeau with an ink-stained forefinger and shrugged. ‘Look, I’m sorry I ended it that way. It’s the Russian coming out in me, I dare say, but I should have known better, at my age. Still, my departure would have come sooner or later. I wasn’t a very efficient social secretary, though you and I were good company for each other, were we not? I’d much better stick to translating.’

When Eugenia’s father had died, her mother, herself not strong, had stubbornly refused to go back to her people in St Petersburg and Eugenia had struggled to keep them both by translating books from Russian into English and vice versa, until her mother too, had died. No, not her father’s novels, she had laughed when Dulcie had asked that question – she was afraid
they
hadn’t been very good ones, and they’d earned him very little money. It was fortunate that he’d had a small private income, just sufficient to keep a wife and daughter, but it had ceased when he died. ‘So it was a great advantage, having been brought up bi-lingual. I was able to find translation work, and we were able to manage.’

Since Eugenia had brought up the subject, Dulcie was able to ask now, though rather diffidently, whether the work was paying any better. Eugenia shrugged and smiled. ‘No, but I don’t intend repeating the mistake of working for someone else, as I did for your mother. That was a serious aberration on my part, to exchange my independence for the chance of a little more money. But never mind that, let’s find something more interesting to talk about. First, would you like some tea, Dulcie dear?’

Much as Dulcie would have loved something to drink, strong, milkless Russian tea was not her ideal refreshment. ‘No, thank you, I really can’t stay. I must be back before Mama finds I’m gone.’

‘How did you escape? Is your new keeper not as vigilant as I was?’

‘Escape? Well, yes, I suppose that’s what I’ve really done.’ Dulcie’s eyes widened, as though that idea had never occurred to her before. ‘But she’s not my keeper, Eugenia, any more than you were. You would like her as much as I do. She understands about me wanting to go to art school, as well. In fact, we’d planned to go together to that Modern Art exhibition last week.’ She explained about the aborted trip to the Pontifex Gallery and that poor young man, her mind filling with black dread of the word ‘suicide’, though she knew she must learn not to let it bring back the grief about her father every time she heard it. ‘And that’s how I – escaped, as you call it.’

‘So – you found yourself alone – and decided to come here, brave, foolish girl! It could get you into serious trouble, you know. But I see you wouldn’t have done it unless you felt desperate,’ said Eugenia, taking from a tin a black Balkan Sobranie cigarette with a gold tip, inserting it into a long holder made of something resembling jade and lighting it. ‘So what is it you have on your mind, Dulcie? I’m simply dying to know. Out with it.’ She watched Dulcie with eyes narrowed against the smoke.

Dulcie knew she really couldn’t delay what she’d come to say any longer. ‘I needed to talk to you – and I couldn’t think of any other way of doing that than coming here. Something’s upsetting everyone at home, Eugenia. Guy’s walking around with a face as long as a fiddle, and Mama is quite unlike herself, and then – and then—’ She fiddled with the end of her thick, shiny dark plait, looking down at her tightly clasped hands.

‘Don’t distress yourself, darling Dulcie. I’m sure it’s not worth it.’

‘You won’t say that when you know, I’m sure.’ Dulcie’s mouth felt drier than ever. She swallowed, and began again. ‘One night last week – well, I couldn’t somehow get to sleep until very late. I heard Guy come in – and then he and Mama began having the most fearful row in the drawing room… You know how the sound travels to my room, just above there. At least, I thought that’s what it was, until I went down and listened – yes, I know I shouldn’t have, it was dreadful of me, but I couldn’t bear not to – and anyway, it wasn’t really a row. Oh, Eugenia…they were talking about some letters Mama had found…and something about a child!’ Her lip trembled. ‘I think I’m just going to have to tell.’

‘Tell just me, or them as well?’ asked Miss Dart humorously.

‘Both, I think.’ Dulcie looked down, now pleating her skirt with thin, nervous fingers.

Eugenia felt suddenly angry. What on earth was that mother of hers thinking of, allowing Dulcie to wear a dress of such an extraordinarily unbecoming shade of dark green? Was it because her daughter, in the not too distant future – when she became more sure of herself – was going to be such a beauty? Was that what Edwina was afraid of? Well, she would find out in a few years. She smiled grimly. ‘Do go on, Dulcie dear.’

‘Well, you see, it was on my last birthday, and Papa had taken me out to lunch. He said I was quite old enough at sixteen to be treated like a grown-up. We went to a lovely place in Jermyn Street and had the most delicious food, and some wine, and then it was such a beautiful day we decided to go for a stroll in St James’s Park before going home. It was all too lovely, until – until we met…
her
.’ She swallowed again and looked out at the rain clouds massing over the grimy rooftops and chimneys of Pimlico. A
grisaille
, thought the artist in her, tones of grey relieved only with touches of cinnabar where a shaft of sunlight fell, and the Venetian red of the brickwork. This was all the view Eugenia had, and it looked so depressing…the bright day was spoilt and, oh Lord, she hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella!