The Last Dance (22 page)

‘Yes, of course, I’ll stay with Grace,’ Stella replied, her tone dull. ‘You carry on – I know you have a lot to organise.’

Beatrice glided out of the room, wearing a short soot-black woollen cape to match her dress giving her the appearance of a bat leaving. Stella sat forlornly on the bed and gazed at Grace. If she looked past the sweet chubbiness, she could see Rafe’s expression etched in the child’s expression in repose. Calm and strong, just a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth as though harbouring a secret, but there was nothing sly about it – not like Georgina.

What had Georgina meant earlier? The horror of that conversation returned like a stab of pain. She touched Grace, stroking her hair before holding her hand. The girl stirred, eyelids blinking, open halfway.

‘Stella?’ she lisped.

She was relieved that Grace recognised her immediately. ‘Yes, darling girl. How do you feel?’

‘Achey.’

‘I know. Do you want anything? A drink?’

The child nodded. ‘Lucozade? Daddy says it’s good for you.’

‘It’s good for fever when someone doesn’t feel like eating.’ She wished she could afford it for Carys, who couldn’t swallow food when she suffered sore throats with fevers.

‘Hmm. I’m hungry too.’

‘Water first,’ she said, smiling, and reached for the jug and glass beaker. She knew it would be easy to begrudge Grace her wealth and access to anything she needed, including the sparkling glucose drink that always felt like a treat rather than a health aid, but Grace prompted only pleasure in Stella. ‘How about I get you some Lucozade as a treat and you can have a tiny glass of it each day.’

Grace nodded and tried to whisper. ‘Mrs Boyd keeps some bottles in the butler’s pantry. I’ve seen them.’

Stella grinned. Grace was ever observant. ‘Is it your head that hurts?’

‘A little.’

‘Happy to talk, though?’

‘Yes.’

‘No French or any lessons for a while,’ Stella said, waggling a finger. ‘What do you remember about what happened?’

Grace considered this. ‘I remember being in the car with you and Daddy.’

‘That’s excellent,’ Stella said, her fear escalating. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you could remember much at all.’

The girl nodded, full of innocence. ‘I have a really good memory. That’s why Daddy likes me to help him memorise stuff.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ Grace replied, yawning. ‘He practises his memory with me.’

‘Do you mean recall?’

‘I don’t know.’ She yawned again.

‘You must rest.’

‘He needed me to remember stuff to do with maps. Numbers. We used to make up little songs and he’d get me to sing them around him to help him practise.’ She yawned so widely this time she closed her eyes.

Stella frowned, baffled. Beatrice had alluded to this habit too, equally confused, while Rafe had not offered a word of insight but had seemed deeply irritated by the mention. Stella leaned down and laid a soft kiss on the child’s head and let go of the thought, even though the conversation he shared with Basil Peach once again erupted in her mind.

‘Why are you “the other woman”?’ Grace murmured in a drowsy voice. She opened her eyes again and stared at Stella.

Stella could barely breathe.

‘Other woman?’ she repeated, her voice breaking on the question, pulse instantly racing as though a starter’s gun had just gone off in her mind.

Grace nodded. She turned onto her back so she could look at Stella squarely. ‘You said you didn’t want to be the other woman to Daddy and he said you already were.’

‘Er, I’m trying to recall now. Gosh, you have a fine memory. Um . . . what were we talking about? It was all such a blur. We were both so worried about you.’ She knew she was gabbling but Grace waited patiently.

‘You said you felt guilty. What did that mean?’

Stella’s thoughts fled to control the damage. ‘Er, that’s right . . . I think I was feeling terrible that your Mummy wasn’t in the car with your father, and I was talking to you, Grace,’ she said. ‘I was trying to soothe you, not let you feel badly about Mummy not being with you.’

Grace considered this for a few moments. ‘I heard you say that you didn’t want to stop holding —’

‘Oh my word! You poor child. I didn’t say that to your father, Grace,’ she said, her chortle sounding strained. ‘Good gracious, no, I was talking to you, precious girl.’

She held her breath, watched the child’s forehead crease. ‘Wasn’t I lying in Daddy’s lap in the car?’

Stella nodded, giving her best artless smile and hating herself to be ensnared in this lie to someone she loved. ‘You were, but I was holding your hand the whole way.’

Grace grinned. ‘Thank you, Stella. Daddy told me when he sat next to me last night that you took control and bossed everyone around like a sergeant major . . . even Mrs Boyd had to pay attention to your command.’ She giggled, no doubt enjoying the image of that in her mind. ‘I wish I’d been awake to see that.’

Again, Stella sighed inwardly with relief that she’d deflected the enquiry. ‘If I hadn’t been so worried I would have enjoyed it more,’ she confided. ‘You should have seen Mrs Boyd, one minute holding up your legs, the next yelling at poor Hilly about smelling salts, then marching down the stairs making sure we didn’t drop you. Now I think about it, it is quite funny but not at the time.’

‘You’ll never be scared of her again, Stella,’ Grace murmured, looking like she was struggling to stifle another yawn. ‘I think I’m asleep,’ Grace continued in a thick voice. ‘I’ll tell Georgie tomorrow.’

At the mention of the sister, Stella’s relief dissipated like a curlicue of smoke scattering in a breeze. ‘Georgie?’

Grace nodded, eyes closing before turning on her side into a sleeping position. ‘When Georgina asked me what you both talked about in the car, I told her but when I asked what you might mean she said she didn’t know. But Georgie is always fibbing. Now I can tell her I do know.’

Claws of terror, with fingers of jagged icicles, raked in her fears again, gathering them to settle in the pit of her belly like a wintry pool of anxiety. So that’s what Georgie had been probing at . . .

Just making you aware, Stella, that I know something. Don’t get too comfortable. He can’t protect you.

Stella took a slow, silent breath that seemed to come up from her toes. She watched the rhythmic movement of Grace’s chest and the slack expression. The little girl was fully asleep. She moved back a stray lock of dark hair from the child’s closed eyes and held no grudge towards the innocent Grace. But it was obvious that her conniving sister was likely right this moment considering and plotting how best to use this information to her best advantage.

Stella shook her head. Should she leave now? Run away . . . or face up to the consequences?

‘I’m no coward,’ she murmured into the stillness of the room, as though speaking directly at her parents. ‘I’ll face the repercussions of my actions.’

She jumped at the arrival of Miss Hailsham.

‘I can take over now, Stella.’

‘She’s just fallen asleep, best not to disturb.’ Stella moved to the door. ‘I have to pack,’ she said, knowing the poor woman didn’t understand. But then neither did she, especially as she wasn’t sure whether she was packing for going on a trip abroad with the wealthy, or heading home and back to the life she knew that was setting itself up to be much poorer than she ever dared fear.

She was shifting around her few clothes in a blur, not really packing, not really thinking about abroad or even going home. Her suitcase was on the bed, but nothing had been placed inside. Stella was carefully folding each item but her mind was elsewhere, flying between Rafe, wanting to be with him, wanting to finish the letter he left her but the escalating panic of discovery and wanting to flee was equally urgent. She could read the letter later. Right now all that mattered was packing . . . getting away, time to think – Brighton would give her that distance to reflect and make decisions.

She didn’t hear the knock and so jumped as if scalded when the door opened and Mrs Boyd appeared.

‘Good grief, Miss Myles. Why didn’t you answer?’

It was a fair enough query but Stella was not in the mood. ‘Why didn’t you take the hint that I clearly don’t wish to be disturbed?’

Mrs Boyd’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Er . . . forgive me. Are you all right, Miss Myles?’

‘Clearly not.’

‘Can I help?’

‘No, Mrs Boyd. The choice is mine. I just have to reach it.’ Stella didn’t care that the housekeeper looked perplexed. ‘Did you need me for something?’

The housekeeper shook off her confusion. ‘Er, Mrs Ainsworth asked me to give you this.’ She held out a thick manila envelope.

‘What is it?’ It reminded her of the letter in the pillowslip. She’d take it with her and read it well away from Harp’s End.

‘I wasn’t informed of the contents. Only that you’d under-stand.’

‘I see. Thank you, Mrs Boyd.’ She took the envelope.

‘London or Eastbourne?’ the housekeeper wondered.

‘Brighton, actually. Going to London would only make me feel sad, and I really don’t know Eastbourne, whereas I do know my way around Brighton.’

‘Oh . . . er . . .’

‘Something wrong with that choice?’

‘Not at all,’ she said, sounding satisfied.

Stella waited while the housekeeper left her before she opened the package, tipping the contents onto the small desk by the window. A brief, scrawled note in a bold, slanting hand was wrapped around money and a train ticket.

Stella,

I couldn’t wait for your decision. I am leaving for London in half an hour. Enclosed is sufficient funds for a return ticket to anywhere you choose in the south. I am including additional money, which is not taken from your wages. Doug and I feel that this sudden trip is our decision and being forced upon you so we will fund your wardrobe. I’m sure we can lend a trunk.

B.

It ended as abruptly as it began with a large, artistic rendition of the letter ‘B’ with lots of loops drawn firmly in black ink. Stella shifted her glance to the pound notes on the desk, neatly bound in a rubber band, each crisp and new, serial numbers in ascending order.

‘I’ve never carried this much money in my life,’ she murmured in a low state of shock as she stared at the top note with its profile of the King emblazoned strongly in sepia. Stella couldn’t resist and counted. ‘Fifteen,’ she breathed, confirming her expectation. The balance to pay on her parents’ house was thirty-six pounds. It felt vulgar to finger nearly half of the money it would take to own it, with a view to lavishing it on clothes. It was worth four hard-working weeks of her previous job. She dared not imagine its true value, given that she was not to be taxed on this cash. It was too much. Stella hurriedly sifted eight of the notes and tucked them into the pocket of her suitcase. She could surely kit herself out for the role of governess or secretary on a voyage with that amount.

In no time she was dressed for travelling, had grabbed Rafe’s letter and without feeling obliged to let anyone from the family know her whereabouts, she hunted down Mr Potter in the garage.

‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you,’ he said, straightening from where he had been testing the inflation of a back tyre on one of the cars. She hadn’t realised that there was more than one motor car within the family.

‘Expecting me?’

‘Yes, Mrs Boyd warned you would likely need a lift to the station.’

‘Mrs Boyd is certainly thorough.’

‘Ready? You look it.’ He gave a kind smile.

‘Thank you, Mr Potter . . . er, John,’ she added at his raised eyebrow.

‘Can’t be that bad,’ he said, winking. ‘Tomorrow it could be raining.’

Stella dug out a smile. ‘Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

‘Nothing to apologise for, Stella. Here we are,’ he said, opening the door of the gleaming black car. ‘Or would you prefer the front?’ She knew he watched her glance into the back seat and although he couldn’t know she was remembering how her body had aligned itself so easily to Rafe’s during the alarm of Grace’s accident, she felt the guilt all the same. She remembered it as clearly as she could now construct every aspect of his face, his features as vivid in her mind like a design etched deep in glass. And if she were that distracted, perhaps Mr Potter noted their closeness too. She felt nauseous suddenly.

‘Miss Stella?’

‘Er . . . I’m sorry?’

‘Front or back, sweetheart?”

‘Front, thank you, John.’

He nodded and opened the front passenger door. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

She watched him roll down his sleeves, button them, take his jacket from a convenient hook on the outside of the garage, where he also had his hat. He tucked this under his arm and joined her. ‘Should be a nice day for shopping.’

‘Did Mrs Ainsworth tell you?’

‘Yes, indeed. And you must be excited.’

‘I’m not sure what I’m feeling,’ she admitted and had never expressed a truer sentiment. ‘Do you know the times of the trains?’

‘We should be able to get you on the 11.16 and if for any reason you miss that, there’s another seven minutes later. It takes just a minute or two past an hour to get into Brighton if you catch the first; nearly an additional half hour if you take the next.’

They travelled in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

‘So how are you finding the family, Stella?’

‘Early days,’ she murmured.

‘That’s true. It’s a real pity about Miss Grace.’

‘I have young siblings. They’re always falling down and scraping their knees, or tripping and tearing their clothes. Must be a child’s rite of passage,’ she chuckled, trying to steer him away from talk of Grace.

‘Mr Ainsworth was as white as chalk yesterday.’

She breathed deeply to steady her nerves. ‘Yes, I noticed. He was very worried.’

‘Probably felt responsible, what with you both up on the hillside at the time.’ He glanced at her and her treacherous cheeks felt as though they flushed but she didn’t flinch.

‘What are you saying?’

He lifted a shoulder. ‘Nothing. Just . . . well, tongues wag, Stella. I like you very much and so I’m just giving you advice from an older person who sees how less sympathetic minds work.’

Stella turned to face him fully. ‘What do you mean?’

He gave a small sigh. ‘He’s charming, gallant, kind, and at times rather mysterious, Miss Stella. He would be easy for any lovely young lady such as yourself to fall for.’

Stella gasped.

‘Please don’t upset yourself. I’ve travelled enough with Mr Ainsworth and the fact that he’s my employer aside, I hold a deep, abiding respect for him and his folk.’

‘But . . . ?’ she queried, trying to smooth the jagged edge away from her tone.

‘But he’s . . . well, he’s a wolf.’

She hadn’t expected such a description. ‘Are wolves charming and kind?’

‘The one in
Little Red Riding Hood
is.’

‘And I’m Little Red Riding Hood, I presume?’

‘I’m just saying you could be. There are sides to him.’

‘But, John, Little Red Riding Hood saw through the disguise to the wolf.’

At this comment he frowned back at her. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right, but . . .’

‘You are not to worry about me. I have Mr Ainsworth’s measure and whatever you believe you should caution me about, there is no need.’

‘He is not how he seems.’

‘Can you speak plainly? No one’s listening and I won’t tell anyone.’

‘Miss Stella, I pick up Mr Ainsworth from London regularly.’

‘And . . . ?’ Her companion squirmed, looking like he wished he’d never begun this conversation. She knew he shouldn’t have and while not happy about it, she was prepared to make him keep squirming. ‘Go on.’

‘I don’t always pick him up from his club.’

She feigned amusement, while feeling suddenly pathetic for allowing herself to be so vulnerable to Rafe’s charm. ‘I’m sure he can do at his club whatever it is he does elsewhere. John, what happened to discretion?’

His cheeks showed spots of high colour. ‘I’m trying to protect you because I like you.’

Stella softened and let him off the hook he was wriggling on. ‘And I am deeply grateful for your concern but I want to assure you that Mr Ainsworth has been nothing but entirely honest with me . . . and because I can tell you care I want you alone to know this, John.’ He blinked, glanced her way and back at the road. ‘I am not falling in love with him,’ she lied, and almost believed it herself.

He let out the breath he’d obviously held. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Miss Stella. He’s a bit of a tomcat when he’s in London and his gentle manner at home is like his shield. Forgive me for speaking out of turn but I think you’re a fine young woman and you remind me of our Lizbeth who would have been your age.’

‘Would have been?’

‘She succumbed to tuberculosis. She was just seventeen when she died in that sanitarium, although I learned she died lying outside in the depths of October when most of us are rugged up.’

Stella took a quiet breath.

‘“Plenty of fresh air, no matter the season and lots of bed rest” was all the doctors kept saying to us. I spent all my wages on buying lots of good meat for them to cook for her because they say protein is important. We were saving for one of those new-fangled sun lamp things when she passed.’ He shook his head in memory. ‘My little girl, she just slipped away from us. We weren’t allowed to see her for fear of the disease spreading. They just told us she was dead via telegram. It felt like the war all over again, when we lost our son.’ He pulled into the station forecourt at Tunbridge Wells.

Stella had barely seen the countryside passing on their journey. ‘Oh, John, I’m so sorry. Was Lizbeth your only daughter?’

‘Only child left. We loved her so much. My Marge couldn’t have any more after those two. Anyway, the day I saw you I was reminded of Lizzie and I guess the father in me felt protective, that’s all.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘You have nothing to worry about. Mr Ainsworth has been so careful and kind with me. As we’re being honest with each other, I find the women in his life far more dangerous.’

He nodded with a look of understanding. ‘Miss Georgina has a streak in her, that’s for sure. I should tell you that she’s in Brighton, Stella. I’d hoped I’d be getting you to Eastbourne as you’re best out of her way right now. She was in a vicious mood this morning.’

‘I noticed.’

‘She talked about you in the car.’

‘John, perhaps you shouldn’t be telling me this, I —’

‘She believes you are having an affair with her father, Stella.’

‘What?’ she squeaked, not very convincing in her aim for indignation.

‘We picked up her friend on the way to Brighton and Miss Georgina is never terribly discreet about what she discusses in the car. I think she presumes we’re all deaf or mute . . . or too frightened to repeat it.’

‘You shouldn’t be repeating it.’

‘Miss Georgina has never been kind to me. But you have in a short time. And I know she is going to make trouble for you and for her parents, by the sounds of what she was saying.’

Despite her desperation to know precisely what he had overhead in that conversation, Stella kept her dignity and remained aloof. ‘John, you must forget whatever Georgina spoke about. If she thought she was safe in being overheard, then we must respect that. I do not feel threatened. I have nothing to hide,’ she said with so much control she could almost believe in the innocence she claimed. ‘Your concern is touching and I know it comes from the right place but you must not worry for me. Thank you for the lift.’

John nodded with acceptance. Stella was able to leave the car, turning to him with a smile she schooled into her expression.

He handed her a newspaper. ‘Don’t buy a new one, I’ve already read it. I will meet the evening train that comes in around seven and another at eight. That should give you enough time. If you come in earlier or later, just ring the house and I’ll drop down.’ He gestured with his chin. ‘You’d better hurry, Miss Stella, here comes the Brighton train.’

She looked over her shoulder for the telltale steam and only now above her scrambling thoughts she heard the huff and squeal of the approaching train. ‘Thank you for the paper,’ was all she could choke out. She tucked it into her bag.

Stella ran to the platform, getting her ticket clipped as she hurried. The look of silent panic would have told others around her she was frantic at the possibility of missing her train. No one could know that she couldn’t care less about getting to Brighton.

She hoped to find a lonely carriage and tuck herself away in a corner by a window to examine the horror of what she’d learned about Georgina, but also to read Rafe’s letter, burning through the fabric of her pocket as if to scald her into action. She couldn’t find a quiet spot and ended up squeezing between two women so didn’t dare take out the letter, imagining their bored gazes settling on Rafe’s words. She had to content herself with staring out of the window. She wanted to examine the situation of Georgina and what she may reveal but she couldn’t bring herself to think on the troubles that potentially lay ahead for her. So Stella let her mind go blank. She found it wandering to the memory of Rafe’s kiss.

‘Connecting at Eridge,’ the ticket inspector interrupted as he moved through her carriage.

The serene scape of open fields helped to distract her and she barely noticed the stops at Crowborough, Buxted and Uckfield that took away some passengers, including her female sentinels, but it had delivered yet more people into her carriage. She’d taken the chance to shift seats next to the window but the carriage was still crowded and she didn’t want to share Rafe’s letter with all their noise. When the train began clattering through the valley of the River Ouse she became acutely aware of the higher pitched chatter of women, the flapping of newspapers and the coughs and snorts of people around her.