“How do you do?” said Becky.
“May I be permitted to inquire who removed my best riding boots from the hall cupboard?” asked Mrs. Trentham, ignoring Becky’s outstretched hand. “And then saw fit to return them covered in mud?”
“I did,” said the major. “Otherwise Miss Salmon would have had to walk round the farm in a pair of high heels. Which might have proved unwise in the circumstances.”
“It might have proved wiser for Miss Salmon to have come properly equipped with the right footwear in the first place.”
“I’m so sorry…” began Becky.
“Where have you been all day, Mother?” asked Guy, jumping in. “We had rather hoped to see you earlier.”
“Trying to sort out some of the problems that our new vicar seems quite unable to cope with,” replied Mrs. Trentham. “He has absolutely no idea of how to go about organizing a harvest festival. I can’t imagine what they are teaching them at Oxford nowadays.”
“Theology, perhaps,” suggested Major Trentham.
The butler cleared his throat. “Dinner is served, madam.”
Mrs. Trentham turned without another word and led them through into the dining room at a brisk pace. She placed Becky on the right of the major and opposite herself. Three knives, four forks and two spoons shone up at Becky from the large square table. She had no trouble in selecting which one she should start with, as the first course was soup, but, from then on she knew she would simply have to follow Mrs. Trentham’s lead.
Her hostess didn’t address a word to Becky until the main course had been served. Instead she spoke to her husband of Nigel’s efforts at Harrow—not very impressive; the new vicar—almost as bad; and Lady Lavinia Malim—a judge’s widow who had recently taken residence in the village and had been causing even more trouble than usual.
Becky’s mouth was full of pheasant when Mrs. Trentham suddenly asked, “And which of the professions is your father associated with, Miss Salmon?”
“He’s dead,” Becky spluttered.
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” she said indifferently. “Am I to presume he died serving with his regiment at the front?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Oh, so what did he do during the war?”
“He ran a baker’s shop. In Whitechapel,” added Becky, mindful of her father’s warning: “If you ever try to disguise your background, it will only end in tears.”
“Whitechapel?” Mrs. Trentham queried. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t that a sweet little village, just outside Worcester?”
“No, Mrs. Trentham, it’s in the heart of the East End of London,” said Becky, hoping that Guy would come to her rescue, but he seemed more preoccupied with sipping his glass of claret.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Trentham, her lips remaining in a straight line. “I remember once visiting the Bishop of Worcester’s wife in a place called Whitechapel, but I confess I have never found it necessary to travel as far as the East End. I don’t suppose they have a bishop there.” She put down her knife and fork. “However,” she continued, “my father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him, Miss Salmon—”
“No, I haven’t actually,” said Becky honestly.
Another disdainful look appeared on the face of Mrs. Trentham, although it failed to stop her flow “—Who was created a baronet for his services to King George V—”
“And what were those services?” asked Becky innocently, which caused Mrs. Trentham to pause for a moment before explaining, “He played a small part in His Majesty’s efforts to see that we were not overrun by the Germans.”
“He’s an arms dealer,” said Major Trentham under his breath.
If Mrs. Trentham heard the comment she chose to ignore it.
“Did you come out this year, Miss Salmon?” she asked icily.
“No, I didn’t,” said Becky. “I went up to university instead.”
“I don’t approve of such goings-on myself. Ladies shouldn’t be educated beyond the three ‘Rs’ plus an adequate understanding of how to manage servants and survive having to watch a cricket match.”
“But if you don’t have servants—” began Becky, and would have continued if Mrs. Trentham hadn’t rung a silver bell that was by her right hand.
When the butler reappeared she said curtly, “We’ll take coffee in the drawing room, Gibson.” The butler’s face registered a hint of surprise as Mrs. Trentham rose and led everyone out of the dining room, down a long corridor and back into the drawing room where the fire no longer burned so vigorously.
“Care for some port or brandy, Miss Salmon?” asked Major Trentham, as Gibson poured out the coffee.
“No, thank you,” said Becky quietly.
“Please excuse me,” said Mrs. Trentham, rising from the chair in which she had just sat down. “I seem to have developed a slight headache and will therefore retire to my room, if you’ll forgive me.”
“Yes, of course, my dear,” said the major flatly.
As soon as his mother had left the room Guy walked quickly over to Becky, sat down and took her hand. “She’ll be better in the morning, when her migraine has cleared up, you’ll see.”
“I doubt it,” replied Becky in a whisper, and turning to Major Trentham said, “Perhaps you’ll excuse me as well. It’s been a long day, and in any case I’m sure the two of you have a lot to catch up on.”
Both men rose as Becky left the room and climbed the long staircase to her bedroom. She undressed quickly and after washing in a basin of near freezing water crept across the unheated room to slide between the sheets of her cold bed.
Becky was already half asleep when she heard the door handle turning. She blinked a few times and tried to focus on the far side of the room. The door opened slowly, but all she could make out was the figure of a man entering, then the door closing silently behind him.
“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 othe
rs 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 other 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 rabbits,” 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 turn 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 followin
g 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.