The Tailor's Girl (20 page)

APRIL 1921

It seemed impossible to Alex how quickly time had slipped away. He had deliberately kept himself frantically busy. There was so much catching up to do on the company’s business dealings and that made it easier not to confront the painful truth: that he’d escaped one no-man’s-land to run the daily gauntlet of another. Life at Larksfell, though privileged and ordered, felt as empty of hope as the trenches had. He realised he had no right to be feeling like this, of course, and he berated himself through each interminable night of restless sleep that if he just persisted, it would get easier and he would feel connected to this life again.

But the notion that he may have belonged to someone else nagged in its darkly silent way. It hunched in the shadows of his mind like an unspoken accusation that had taken form . . . and yet it was shapeless. It had no face, no name, no voice, just a sound. The sound was of heels clicking on stone but it was always leaving him; had he been with someone who abandoned him? He’d had a lover, of this he was sure. The red handkerchief attested to that, and so he carried it like a talisman wherever he went, hoping that maybe one day its secret would be revealed and he would be there to discover it along with the truth about his past few years.

In the meantime he’d made a private pact with himself that he would not torture the rest of the family with his angst. Why shouldn’t they believe that he was deliriously happy to be returned to the bosom of the family, proud to take up the reins of his father’s empire, and with a full heart that he was home at Larksfell and the world was at peace?

And so Alex Wynter had thrown himself into picking up the threads of where his father had left off and acquainting himself with the entire reach of the Wynter industrial and corporate empire. It had meant relentless meetings with the firm’s accountants, lawyers and bankers as well as travelling east to west, mainly up north, to visit all of the manufacturing locations. Manchester was where he invested a lot of time and Alex was also pleased to attend several football matches to cheer on his family’s favourite team. He gave up most of his hours getting to know the managers who were busily running all the various strands of the diverse organisation that Wynter & Co had become, ensuring they felt safe that the son was going to be as supportive as the father.

He had admitted to his mother the previous evening that he felt ready to start making strategic decisions.

‘I wonder if you might also feel ready to rejoin our lives?’ she pondered, as though thinking aloud.

‘What does that mean?’

She fixed him with her cool, pale gaze. ‘You’re here in person but not in spirit, Lex. My conversations with you are always tinged with the sadness that I have you back, but not fully.’

He shook his head, baffled. ‘What am I missing here, Mother?’

‘It’s been eight months since your return but it feels to me as though you’re on a frozen lake, skating over the top, taking the fastest route to the other side, hardly daring to look left or right.’

He indulged her. ‘What’s on the other side?’

‘Old age, my darling. You’ve passed through autumn and winter barely noticing them and here we are welcoming spring and I bet you can’t even tell me when you last took a day to notice anything about it.’

‘Make a point, Mother.’

‘I thought I had. Stop working so hard and start enjoying your life. It’s important, Alex. You’ve had a ghastly few years and I don’t want you to look up and realise another year has passed!’ His mother shook her head as though she could see right through to his churning thoughts. ‘Tell me where you go to in that troubled mind of yours.’

He hadn’t been able to give her an answer, preferring not to confide his sense of dislocation. Alex shook his head as he’d shrugged.

She’d risen, squeezed his hand. ‘I’m going to bed, darling. Tomorrow, promise me you’ll rejoin life. If an opportunity presents itself, give it a chance.’

He’d frowned, but was glad to be let off the hook of her pale-eyed scrutiny.

Eight months! Alex stretched, heard the soft crack of complaint in his spine and considered that he’d been here all morning without shifting from his seat. He glanced out of the French windows and could see the early bulbs in bright roar – jonquils and snowdrops were leading the charge with the merry colours of Clarrie’s croci not far behind. Soon the Wynter gardens would be a splendid meadow of spring cheer.

To be fair, he argued silently, the time had also given the family a chance to settle into its new shape and for Dougie to accept being the middle son again, although Alex was deliberately shifting greater responsibility to his brother. The brothers met regularly now to share their ideas for the future and for Dougie to update Alex on various projects that he was now spearheading.

Alex returned his attention to the latest file of paperwork requiring his signature, but his thoughts distracted him. He wanted to get these back to London by tomorrow. He dragged the nib of his fountain pen across his blotter but was irritated to realise he was out of ink. As he began the process of refilling the pen, there was a knock at the door that startled him. The plunger snapped back and ink splattered predictably in a brief and localised rainstorm all over his precious red handkerchief lying nearby. He stared at it, horrified.

‘Damn!’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Master Lex,’ Bramson said as he half appeared around the door. He took in the scene immediately and sensibly waited while Alex got the lid back onto his bottle.

‘Something wrong, Bramson?’

‘Not at all, Sir. Um, you have a visitor. Miss Aubrey-Finch is here to see you.’

He frowned. ‘Me? Is my mother in?’

‘No. Clarrie has run her into Hove today to see some friends. She won’t be back until this evening.’

‘Ah, yes, she mentioned something about that.’

‘Miss Aubrey-Finch seemed to know about that too, Sir,’ Bramson said.

Alex looked taken aback. ‘She surely can’t be here to see only me. There must be a mistake.’

‘No mistake, Sir,’ he replied dryly. ‘I have shown her into the orangery.’

He sighed, glanced at the stained handkerchief and felt strangely sickened that it had been tarnished. He could see tiny spots of ink had bled onto that fine stitching around the heart. He was surprised how much it hurt to see it. ‘Well, I suppose it must be about time for a coffee,’ he offered, distracted.

‘Already ordered, Master Lex.’

‘I’ll get down there, then,’ he said and winked at his butler, hoping he was covering his angst well enough.

Bramson’s expression didn’t shift. ‘I’ll let your guest know.’

Alex emerged from his father’s study – his study now – and drifted across to the warmer side of the house, which caught the morning sun. His mother’s pride, the orangery, was aglow with the sharp spring light, twinkling through the panes of glass that formed a ceiling and arched beneath a cloudless blue dome. Corinthian columns soared like alabaster sentinels and around them spread the dark, shiny leaves of figs and palm trees. At lower levels ferns added a softer background for Cecily’s breathtaking array of orchids with their complex, fragile arrangement of petals, while simple-veined leaves were a foil for the gregarious blooms.

Alex saw Penny admiring an exquisite, trumpet-like flower that was neither pink nor white but had a blushing quality to it. Alex couldn’t help but notice the neat figure and curve of his distant cousin’s breasts as she bent over the bloom.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ He startled his guest and grinned. ‘Mother is very proud of her vanilla orchid. So few gardeners can grow it outside of subtropical regions.’

‘I didn’t hear you coming. The war must have taught you to tread silently.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right there, Penny . . . Sorry. It’s Penelope now, isn’t it?’ He strode across the black-and-white chequered floor to peck her gently on both cheeks.

‘Pen is fine,’ she said easily and then surprised him by blushing. ‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping in?’

‘Not at all,’ he lied airily, keen not to offend. ‘You’ve brightened an otherwise dull day. I mean, a dull day in the office; it looks jolly decent out there.’

‘Well, why don’t you enjoy it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Join me on a picnic.’

Alex was astonished. ‘Er . . . I have to sign —’

‘Oh, come on, Alex. I’ve been dying to talk to you properly,’ she said, risking poking him in the chest. ‘I’ve held off for months because you never seem to be available.’

He looked back at her, perplexed. ‘Pen, I’ve been overloaded with a lot of —’

‘I know, I know. Your mother, Bramson . . . everyone tells me how bogged down you are in work but you have to come up for air sometime or you’re going to miss spring altogether.’

‘Now you sound like my mother,’ he said, wondering if she had anything to do with Penny’s visit.

‘You need a life, Alex, or what was the point in coming back?’

He grinned helplessly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘About what? The picnic, you mean?’

‘No, about coming to see me? I thought you were just being polite because my mother wasn’t in.’

Did he detect a ghosting of guilt in her expression? ‘I deliberately came to see you. I’ve just told you I’ve been trying to catch you for weeks and weeks with no luck. I knew Cecily was not available today. She’s seeing the Smyth-Carters,’ she added at his silence.

‘So I gather. Um . . .’

‘So, shall we?’ she said, gesturing to a basket. ‘I came prepared.’

‘So you have.’

‘Come on.’ She ushered him out of the glasshouse. ‘Get out of that stuffy tie and jacket, pull on a jumper and let’s go. And don’t say you’ve got work to do because no one should be working on a day like today.’

She was right. And in the spirit of cooperation with what his mother had been lecturing him about, he decided he could give himself a day off. The paperwork would wait. No one would die. Nations wouldn’t fall. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’

_______________

Madeleine stretched her long limbs and Edie noticed with amusement that her friend’s body ran the full length of the French bed with her feet hanging over the edge. Crooked in her arm, Tommy gurgled and Edie could tell that she was deeply in love with this child too.

‘Neither Britain nor France is built for me,’ Madeleine drawled.

‘Mads, we’re like a married couple, aren’t we? Living together, travelling together, raising Tommy together.’

‘Careful,’ the Frenchwoman yawned. ‘People will talk.’

‘I don’t care.’ Edie leaned back, her head on the pillow of the twin bed nearby. ‘I feel quite changed.’

‘How so?’

‘These last few months have shown me that I must stop yearning for Tom to walk back into my life and . . .’

Madeleine waited.

‘And save me.’

‘From what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. My whole life has been dominated by men. My father, my brother, the elders, Ben . . . even Tom, although Tom at least viewed me as his partner in everything. Now it’s up to me. I don’t need a man to achieve anything.’ Edie reached across the space between their beds and put her finger into Tommy’s hand and smiled as his small fist clamped around it and immediately raised her finger to his mouth. ‘This is the little man in my life and he’s entirely dependent on me. He
is
my life now. Him and the salon.’

‘And Tom?’

‘I haven’t given up hope. But the last time I saw him was a hot August day. Here we are . . . a new spring . . . and in Paris.’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘I have to let go of that need to scour every street for a glimpse of him. I find myself staring into buses, peering into taxis. Any tall, dark fellow gets scrutinised. I can’t live like that any more. Tom wouldn’t have left me knowingly, and as there is no sign of him, no record of anyone like him in a hospital – or morgue – then my only conclusion is that my greatest fear has occurred.’

‘His memory returned,’ Mads finished for her. ‘Odd, if it’s true, that he can’t remember you at all.’

‘The doctors had told Tom how contrary the mind can be with head injuries compounded by the shellshock of war. For all we know, his memory of who he was returned but took with it his memory of who he had become.’

‘You’re making me dizzy,’ Madeleine admitted.

‘It circulates like a nasty merry-go-round in my mind too, and it’s time I got off.’

Madeleine sat up to face her friend, cradling a wriggling Tommy, who was stretching and yawning. ‘That’s a big change, Eden.’

‘You and Tommy are my family now.’ She took her child, who broke into a gummy smile. ‘Look at those two little pearls,’ she said proudly, pointing to where tiny teeth were pushing through at the front. ‘He never complains.’

‘Tommy’s calm and easy, that’s for sure,’ her friend agreed.

‘Just like his father, who I realise is here through our son. It has to be enough. If Tom comes back, we’re blessed, but my heart can’t take the pain of yearning any more. I’m going to throw everything into the salon and raising Tommy. That’s it.’

‘
Bravo
, Eden,’ Madeleine said, reaching over to hug her.

Edie smiled sadly. ‘You’ve saved my life, and bringing me here has already given me perspective.’

‘Eden, my darling,
you’ve
saved your life by having the courage to face it.’

‘And here we are,’ Edie said, standing. She planted a tender kiss on her son’s dark head. ‘Paris,’ she said, dreamily. ‘You’re a lucky boy, Tommy. Travelling to far-flung places already. Gosh, what a rush that was. Can’t believe we nearly missed the train. I’ve never run like that in heels in my life. I thought my hat was going to blow off.’

Madeleine began to chuckle at the memory. ‘We must have looked very amusing – like two famous movie starlets skipping down the platform, hissing at the porter to hold the train . . . and our child! Anyway, next time we’ll be wealthy enough to take the British Pullman and do it in style . . . and they will hold the carriage open for us.’

‘Next time, Mads, Tommy and I are going all the way to Istanbul on the Orient Express,’ Edie assured.

‘Now you’re talking. For now, we make do with a boat train and a stay at my ageing friend’s apartment.’