The Wardrobe Mistress_A heart-wrenching wartime love story Read online

  Tanith kept her magazine open, a finger marking her place. ‘Couldn’t Peter go? It’s more his job now.’

  ‘Miss Stacey, I wouldn’t send Peter Switt to knock on your door if I thought you’d overslept. Second point, I still pay your wages. Get going.’

  Forty minutes later, Tanith reported that she’d peered through Vanessa’s window from the pavement and seen only an empty room. ‘Totally cleared out.’

  ‘Sure it was the right room?’

  ‘Perfectly. That day you took us home from the Wishbone Club, we waited for her to go inside, don’t you remember? We both know where she lives.’

  Tanith was being deliberately provocative. He felt his temper shortening. ‘Did you knock at the door, try to raise somebody?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s the sort of building where the residents hide when they hear knocking, because it’s either the police, social services or a debt collector. D’you think she could have run away with Hugo?’

  ‘Don’t be simple.’ Hugo Brennan wouldn’t invite a woman into exile with him. Vanessa had spoken about running away to Paris if she couldn’t deliver Miss Abbott’s dress in time, but that had been in jest. Anyway, to get to Paris you needed a passport and currency. There was only one logical place she’d have gone. He put a call through to Lord Stanshurst. The butler answered, informing Alistair in his pinched, over-polite, way that ‘his Lordship is currently unavailable.’

  ‘Out all day? Gone abroad? Be specific, man.’

  ‘Walking the dogs in the park, sir.’

  ‘When he’s back, ask him if Mrs Kingcourt has arrived home.’

  ‘I haven’t heard that she has, sir.’

  ‘Would you mind walking over to her mother’s house? Mrs Ruth Quinnell, isn’t it? But don’t alarm the woman. Call me when you’ve seen her.’

  Alistair oversaw the fire inspection, cutting the officer short when he tried to make conversation. Back at his desk, he caught up with the accounts but his mind wouldn’t settle. He didn’t suspect Terence Rolf or his wife of leaning towards violence. Too buffed, too well-fed. Miss Bovary, on the other hand, had the impulses of a predator. Edwin was an enigma. When, after four hours, no word had come from Stanshurst and his calls went unanswered, he walked Macduff to Vanessa’s lodgings, and saw the cleared-out room for himself. Possessing a more stubborn fist than Tanith, he raised a response. An old, rough-looking man put his head out of an upper window.

  ‘The girl in room two, have you seen her?’

  ‘Scarpered,’ came the reply accompanied by a gobbet of phlegm, which Alistair jumped to avoid. ‘Got kicked out.’

  Alistair felt a nerve jump in his throat. The old man was either drunk or barmy, but it put the cherry on his anger. He should have found Vanessa decent lodgings. He could have made her believe it was a perk of the job.

  ‘Any idea where she’s gone?’

  ‘Nah.’ The window was slammed shut.

  An hour later, he and Macduff boarded a train at Charing Cross. Getting out at Hayes, they got a lift in a coal lorry; its driver lived in Stanshurst. He dropped Alistair and the dog at the bottom of Church Hill and pointed. ‘Straight up. White cottage on the right, green gate.’

  If Vanessa had turned up at the Hall, Ruth Quinnell declared, Lord Stanshurst would have sent word. Hugging a worn house-coat around herself, she created a deliberate barrier in the doorway. When Alistair requested water for the dog, she went wordlessly to fetch some. While he waited, Alistair willed Vanessa to pop out from behind a hedge. The front of Peach Cottage was dominated by a gnarled fruit tree from which, presumably, its name sprang. It had a picket gate and fence and was postcard-pretty with its white weather-boarding. Two small bedrooms he guessed, the interior low with beams. Doubtless, Vanessa could glide through it without hindrance. A closer inspection showed that the cottage was falling into disrepair, its thatch rimed with green, window frames rotting. He thought of Vanessa sending half her monthly earnings here . . . Come to think of it, the cottage probably belonged to his father-in-law. Most of Stanshurst did.

  As Macduff quenched his thirst, Alistair tried to make conversation with Ruth Quinnell but she answered in monosyllables and after a while, started coughing.

  ‘Vanessa coughs quite a lot,’ he said, seeing her use a handkerchief she had at the ready. ‘When she’s anxious.’

  When the spasm passed, Ruth Quinnell said hoarsely, ‘Aviation fumes. I’ve been like this since Biggin Hill became operational.’

  Macduff had drunk all the water. He’d be hungry by now. ‘I’ll walk up to the Hall,’ Alistair said. ‘If Vanessa should arrive – ’

  ‘She won’t. Her life’s in London now. She’s on a wild goose-chase after her father’s shadow. I wish her joy.’

  ‘Why don’t you love your daughter more, Mrs Quinnell?’

  Shock shimmered over her face. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Withholding love is a fool’s game, you know.’ He looked at the fruit tree whose black-spotted leaves spoke of exhausted roots. ‘Come on, Macduff.’ He turned his back on Peach Cottage. Hearing the door slam he thought, Now I know why you believe in very little, Vanessa Elizabeth. But where the hell are you?

  At the Hall, his father-in-law was surprised but welcoming. No, his butler hadn’t mentioned a telephone call earlier in the day. Or perhaps he had. Trouble was, Borthwick was growing daft, and he, Lord Stanshurst, was becoming forgetful. ‘We’re like the man who can’t throw playing cricket with the man who can’t catch. Will you stay for dinner?’

  ‘So long as you feed the dog too.’

  Dinner was tinned fish and boiled turnip. Lord Stanshurst and Macduff wolfed theirs down, while Alistair found himself nostalgic for wardroom fare, corned beef and carrots. The butler served a 1928 Château Cheval Blanc from a crystal decanter. During a moment when Borthwick was fetching a dessert of late windfall apples, Lord Stanshurst mentioned

  Ruth Quinnell.

  ‘A good woman but whenever I see her coming, I feel like a spider who has just spotted the feather duster. She makes apple pies with the peelings on, did you know that?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘She was Margery’s choice.’ Lord Stanshurst referred to his late wife. ‘Efficient and incurious, a marvellous thing in a social secretary. Margery liked theatrical friends but demanded dull sobriety in her servants. Ruth’s relentless devotion was something of a chore, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘What of Vanessa? Is she like her father?’

  ‘Eh?’ Lord Stanshurst blinked, and Alistair fancied he could hear cogs whirring. ‘To look at, you mean?’

  ‘Is she a bolter, like Johnny Quinnell?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘He was despicable. The way he’d come to me for money, rasping his fingers with the pad of his thumb . . . Vanessa’s a steady sort, though she changed after her husband’s death. Blames herself.’

  ‘Shot down, wasn’t he?’

  Lord Stanshurst nodded. ‘They called it battle fatigue, twenty-

  two sorties in ten days. Those lads got so exhausted, they ceased caring if the enemy killed them or not. They’d had an argument – more than a newlywed’s tiff – and she told him to leave. Hours later, he was down in flames.’

  It offered an insight into Vanessa’s anxieties, the constant apologising. Alistair thought of roses on a church memorial and his clumsy feet. It must be coming up to the anniversary of her husband’s death. Had she fled on some kind of pilgrimage?

  He rose from the table, declining an invitation to stay the night. ‘I’ll get the late train back.’

  ‘I don’t know how you’ll make it – I can’t drive you to the station as I’ve no fuel. I could lend you a bike, but the dog won’t fit in the basket. We did have a pony and trap, but the old cob died and his replacement doesn’t come till next week. You’d have to walk.’

  Alistair would have done so gladly, but Macduff wasn’t up to five miles of road. Reluctantly, he accepted the offer of a bed. He ask
ed to use the telephone, calling Doyle from whom he learned that Vanessa had not shown up at the theatre. He told Doyle to check her lodgings again. ‘Call me at Stanshurst if she’s there.’

  Doyle did not call back.

  ‘Do you know how Vanessa’s husband came to grief?’ Lord Stanshurst asked from the sideboard where he was un-stoppering the port decanter.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘She denied him his conjugal rights and kicked him out into the cold. Those boys had fought the whole summer and autumn long. You’d think she could have found it in her heart to comfort him. So destructive.’

  ‘We can’t know the circumstances.’

  Lord Stanshurst grunted and poured each of them a measure of port. ‘Before we turn in for the night, I’d like assurance that your anxiety for Vanessa does not overshadow your loyalty to Fern. Whatever Vanessa’s claims here, Fern comes first.’

  ‘You know Fern wants a divorce?’

  Lord Stanshurst’s hold on the port decanter was shaky, but in other respects he was still the ruler of his house, the patriarch. ‘Divorce does not happen in my family. Live apart if you must, but do not expose my name to disgrace.’

  Respectful but implacable, Alistair replied, ‘Unfortunately for you, Nigel, I’m incurably middle class. I won’t spend my life sustaining a civilised lie. Fern either comes back to me, or she may have her divorce. If she goes to court and asks for it.’

  Lord Stanshurst looked appalled. ‘My daughter, taking the stand, incriminating herself?’

  ‘If she wants her freedom, she must pay the price.’

  Alistair was put that night in the east wing, in a single bed in an undusted room reserved for guests of modest status. The curtains had an ugly horse-chestnut leaf weave. The same fabric had been used for the chairs. Had Ruth Quinnell used this room in the past? He wondered because along with faded prints of Stanshurst dogs and horses, there was a photograph of Vanessa. She was sitting in the passenger seat of Lord Stanshurst’s 1910 Rolls Royce, dressed in an old-fashioned duster coat, her arms folded as if she was saying, ‘Hurry up so we can get going!’ Her hair seemed lighter than in real life though the curls were familiar, as were the eyes. Alistair knew the car, which had fetched Fern and himself from the station on their first visit here as a married couple. It was the colour of the port wine he’d just drunk, and since 1940, it had been up on blocks, its fuel tank dry.

  After a wretchedly bad night, Alistair collected Macduff from the kitchen and they walked down the long avenue to the lane, where an approaching rumble promised the possibility of a lift. A military vehicle rounded the corner, stopping as Alistair flagged it down. A khaki-clad shoulder leaned out of the driver’s side. ‘Something up?’

  ‘Commander Redenhall, RN – and dog – requiring a lift to Hayes railway station.’

  The driver papped his horn and a pair of squaddies jumped over the tailgate. Macduff was bundled into the back, while Alistair got up beside the driver’s mate. He glanced back towards Stanshurst Hall, nestled among winter trees like a sheltering dove. He was sorry to lose his father-in-law’s friendship. Sorry to be seen as a bounder who wouldn’t play the game.

  Though he sensed this wasn’t goodbye. Stanshurst’s roots coiled around him, around Vanessa, Ruth, Johnny Quinnell and Fern. They might never be cut.

  The early London train was pulling in as the army truck drew up at the station. One of the squaddies kept it waiting while Alistair and another soldier hefted Macduff into a compartment.

  Another bout of knocking at the Calford Building finally brought the landlord down. It wasn’t the man who had told him that Vanessa had scarpered, though this one smelled as unpleasant as the last one had looked. Alistair’s fist itched to make contact with the blue-veined nose. If this bastard really had thrown Vanessa on to the street –

  The man put up his hands in swift surrender. ‘Throw out Mrs Kingcourt? She’s a lovely lady. Though come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for a while.’ A deep tuck appeared between his brows. ‘She moved upstairs. I did warn her – ’

  ‘Upstairs. Bloody hell. Just take me to her. Do you have a key?’

  Chapter 21

  Alistair was shocked by the heat radiating from Vanessa’s skin. That colour was fine for a shrimp, but not for a young woman. His priority was to get her out of this place. In the doorway, the landlord stood dry-washing his hands, saying over and over, ‘She was fine two days ago. Wednesday night, she was right as ninepence.’

  Unsure if she could hear, Alistair told Vanessa, ‘I’m taking you where you can be looked after.’ Wrapping her in bedclothes, he carried her downstairs. She was no heavier than a set of golf clubs. He’d fetched his car from a street behind Cecil Court, where he generally parked it, and settled her in the passenger seat. Macduff had the back seat. From Long Acre, Alistair drove fast down Charing Cross Road and along Whitehall, turning into the lattice of streets that terminated at Ledbury Terrace. The drawing room lights were on at number twelve. He knocked. Fern answered.

  ‘Now what?’ She looked ready to use her fingernails should he try to push past.

  ‘Vanessa’s ill. I want you to call our doctor and look after her.’

  ‘Oh, God, where is she?’

  ‘In the car. Can I take her straight upstairs?’

  ‘I – yes. I’ll just – ’

  ‘I don’t want to see him, or even know he’s here. Tell him to stay where he is.’

  It was strange, but from the moment Alistair put her in his car, Vanessa’s headache ceased. When he laid her on the guest-room bed at Ledbury Terrace, she felt as weak as feathers, but the pain in her joints vanished too. She was able to croak, ‘I’d like water. And to wash. Let me wash.’

  Fern leaned over her and pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. ‘I’ll run you a lovely bath. How about some hot blackcurrant? And later on, toast and Bovril?’

  ‘Just toast, thank you. Thank you both.’

  When she woke to morning light, her bedsheets smelled of spiced orange from Fern’s bath oils. She felt heavy-limbed, hot-eyed, but otherwise well. She dozed until Fern came in with a tray.

  ‘Darling thing, what have you been doing to yourself?’ Setting the tray on a bedside cabinet, Fern plumped up Vanessa’s pillows. She answered her own question. ‘Over-worked and harried. We heard about Hugo Brennan’s midnight flit.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  Fern murmured, ‘Oh, you know, the grapevine spreads deep and wide.’

  ‘Mr Stephen spreads deep, for sure.’

  Fern poured tea. ‘Darrell has donated his sugar ration.’

  ‘None for me.’

  ‘Oh, stuff, you need the energy.’ Fern stirred in two teaspoons’ full. ‘I won’t lie, Vanessa. The word on the avenue, Shaftsbury Avenue, is that The Farren is in trouble, and I planted the seeds. It’s war, d’you see? Though I pity Alistair. Wilton Bovary left him a theatre without the money to run it. Selfish old man, hiding a fortune in trust so that everybody fights for it. Like throwing a bone to starving dogs. The sisters want to break into the trust. They want to break Alistair.’

  Vanessa sipped her tea as Fern talked. Sweetness slid into her veins. Money didn’t interest her, except as the means of enabling life, but she knew that not everyone viewed it in the same way. ‘You’re the first person I’ve heard speak badly of Wilton Bovary. Alistair loved him.’

  Fern laughed. ‘Darrell says that you groom Alistair with your eyes.’

  ‘“Darrell says”. Are you two living together yet? You’ve moved back into the master bedroom.’

  ‘I sleep alone, the pinnacle of respectability. You know . . . when Alistair laid you on the bed, I watched from the door-

  way. If he’d cherished me half as much, things might be very different. Did you know he raced down to Stanshurst, trying to find you?’

  She blushed. She’d had no notion of it. ‘He cares about me, that’s all.’

  Fern picked up a bowl of porridge. ‘Feed you?’

>   ‘Certainly not!’ Vanessa wriggled up straighter. ‘I wish I understood you. Are you bad, or just taking a holiday from goodness?’

  ‘I’m fighting for what I need. I told you that.’

  Vanessa sighed. ‘Can I borrow something to wear?’

  Fern brought her an outfit and underwear, then left her to sleep. When Vanessa woke, Alistair was at her bedside.

  She blinked. She was wearing a powder blue silk night-dress that had wrapped around her like a mermaid’s tail. One of Fern’s, too generously cut for Vanessa. The straps had slipped down her arms. ‘Is it Saturday?’

  She had to repeat the question.

  ‘Don’t think about work,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘But tomorrow is the Blandfords’ D-Day, and if I’m not there to dress Clemency Abbott, Miss Bovary will take over. I will fight her on the beaches.’

  He smiled bleakly and she wondered if he was annoyed at being put to such trouble. ‘How much petrol have you used on my behalf?’

  ‘A third of a gallon. Does it matter? I’ll chauffeur you wherever you’d like to go – just not to that repulsive building, unless it’s to pack your things. I’ll find you somewhere else to stay, or put you up in a hotel. I don’t care what you say – ’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m never going to sleep another night there.’

  He put his hand on her forehead, like a doctor. ‘When you didn’t come to work on Thursday, I imagined all sorts of things. You could die in the Calford Building, and nobody would notice.’

  ‘Don’t!’ It had taken at least two days for her father’s death to impinge on the same residents. ‘I shall take over Hugo’s flat, then he’ll have somewhere to come back to.’

  Alistair leaned forward and put his arm around her. She nestled into him and his lips found her open mouth. A hand slid to cup one of her breasts, freeing it from its silk. In a muffled whisper against his lips, she admitted, ‘I want you so very much!’

  ‘I know, I – ’

  ‘Alistair?’