Isabel's Wedding Read online

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Your father, for instance. Money is no object, of course, but we must make quite sure there is enough.’

  Olivia tried to hide her dismay. ‘That sounds very reasonable,’ she stammered. ‘Izzie made up her own list but I didn’t see it. As you probably know we have a very small family. My father’s family have never kept in touch and my mother’s parents died within a few years of her death.’ She frowned. ‘I always wondered whether they died of shock or grief.’

  ‘A little of both, maybe. It must have been a terrible time for you. Thank heavens for your Aunt Alice.’ She brightened. ‘We are very much looking forward to meeting her, naturally.’

  ‘Yes indeed . . . except that she runs an art gallery and they are having a major exhibition very soon and she may not be able to be here. The mayor is going to be present, apparently, and she is very pleased about that but dare not be absent on the great day!’

  ‘The mayor! How wonderful. I shall tell Wesley. He’ll be very pleased.’

  She looked genuinely impressed, thought Olivia and added, ‘But unfortunately she is also very elderly and not always well enough to travel.’ Did that sound reasonable, she wondered.

  ‘And your father? Will he be with us?’ Her tone was determinedly casual but Olivia realized that this question was actually the point of her visit.

  Olivia decided to be as frank as possible. ‘We don’t know when he will reach England,’ she said. ‘Simply that he is on his way back to this country. He might be already in the country but we have no way of telling. As you can imagine it has been something of a shock.’

  ‘After all these years? I should think it is!’ Her smile was a little strained. ‘Izzie is obviously very excited about meeting him. We wonder if perhaps his return has . . . how shall I put it? His return may have distracted her a little from the wedding.’ She made no effort to hide the reproach.

  Recognizing the danger signs, Olivia said quickly, ‘Nothing could distract my sister from her wedding, Mrs Hatterly. I can set your minds at rest on that point. Only a day or two ago the dressmaker was here for the final fitting. Izzie talks about nothing else. But I won’t pretend it is an easy situation and we are all doing our best to stay calm and deal with it.’

  Mrs Hatterly nodded. ‘Then you don’t think she will want to delay the wedding until he can be present – only I’m afraid we may have to change the date of the wedding and that means notifying the guests and altering the date for the caterers.’

  ‘Barring illness, you can rest assured we have no plans to change the date – and we have booked a photographer.’

  Belatedly Mrs Hatterly sipped her tea. ‘Our only child leaving home! We shall miss Bertie dreadfully but they have found a charming flat. Somewhat on the small side but quite sufficient for now. You must insist on seeing it. Of course it’s furnished but there are still things that they can add of their own. I am giving them my second best china which was passed on to me by an elderly aunt some five years ago.’

  ‘I’m sure they are delighted.’

  ‘And we have sorted out some rather nice linen for the table with matching serviettes – we have always had more than we needed – but I have to confess they are difficult to iron and probably not for everyday use. Oh! And a patchwork quilt which I made years ago but which is still in very good condition and Izzie was very “taken” with it when I showed it to her.’

  Olivia wondered belatedly if the Frattons had anything worth passing on to the engaged couple. ‘Unfortunately most of our furniture belongs to Aunt Alice and came with the house, so to speak, but I’m sure she would be very generous if Bertie and Izzie need anything specific.’ She searched her mind for anything else. ‘And Mrs Whinnie along the road has offered them an umbrella stand although their hallway is rather narrow . . . and Luke and I have bought them a carriage clock for their mantelpiece although they haven’t seen it yet. It’s wrapped up on top of the wardrobe.’ It all sounded rather tame by comparison, she thought, but all contributions should be gratefully received.

  Fifteen minutes later, as Olivia walked with her visitor to the front gate, the thought grew that Izzie had had been very diffident about showing off the flat that would be their first home. Surely it should have been a great excitement. Maybe she was becoming distracted from the wedding and more concerned with her father’s return. Olivia was aware of a frisson of apprehension as she gathered up the teacups and turned back towards the kitchen. Everyone was feeling nervous, she thought, and with good reason. A few imponderables were creeping in. Maybe Jack Fratton was going to be the straw that broke the camel’s back!

  She quickened her steps. Today was one of her ‘reading days’ and Mrs Whinnie would be expecting her in less than ten minutes.

  Mrs Whinnie was a wealthy widow, eighty years old and suffering from poor eyesight and acute rheumatism. The latter meant that she was fairly immobile and spent most of her time alone – apart from a daily live-in maid – and frequently bored. When they had first met Olivia had offered, out of the kindness of her heart, to read to her once a week, but instead of accepting, Mrs Whinnie had insisted that instead they made it two days a week for an hour, to be paid for at a very fair rate which Olivia could not refuse.

  Mrs Whinnie’s home, about sixty yards further down the road, was a superior building to Laurel House, having an extra bedroom, a larger garden and being in a better condition.

  ‘So Miss Fratton,’ she began as soon as Olivia had settled herself on the seat opposite, ‘What is this I hear about your father? Rather a late appearance, I would say, wouldn’t you? After how many years?’

  Groaning inwardly, Olivia forced a smile. ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘Hm! Quite a shock for you, I suspect.’ She regarded Olivia thoughtfully, her lips pursed in disapproval. Her hair was piled elaborately on top of her head and held in place with the sort of lace cap favoured by Queen Victoria. She had once been a beauty and had been married three times to rich men who had left her well provided for. She gave Olivia a penetrating stare. ‘Will he be welcomed after all this time? After years of neglect?’

  Olivia’s smile faded. These questions, she realized, were going to become more common once the news spread. She understood people’s interest but how could she answer, even if she wanted to? She had no idea how she would feel towards Jack Fratton. Ignoring the question she opened the Ladies Journal which waited as usual on a small table, and began to turn the pages.

  ‘Olivia?’ Mrs Whinnie had no intention of being denied an answer.

  ‘We shall see,’ Olivia told her reluctantly. ‘I’m reserving judgement until we meet. That seems the sensible thing to do.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mrs Whinnie reached forward and rang a small brass bell. When the maid entered the room she said, ‘A tray of tea and biscuits, please. And have you swept the landing – and the top stairs?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Whinnie – all except the top stairs but I remembered to iron your nightdress.’

  ‘Good girl.’ As soon as the girl had left the room Mrs Whinnie rolled her eyes. ‘Millie’s very willing but has a head full of sawdust. Can’t remember things. Needs constant prompting.’

  Seizing her opportunity to keep the conversation away from Jack Fratton’s return, Olivia began to read the second episode of a serial in the magazine which Mrs Whinnie had been enjoying. Adopting a slightly tragic tone of voice she began. ‘Veronica sighed deeply and her blue eyes darkened with the pain of remembering. The sense of loss—’

  Mrs Whinnie snorted. ‘We all suffer loss at some time in our lives. Veronica should pull herself together. What was I saying?’

  ‘—hung over her like a dark shroud of misery and she covered her face with her hands, pressing her slim fingers—’

  ‘Oh yes! About your father. There were a lot of rumours at the time, you know. People will always talk – I blame the servants. They know too much and they gossip at every opportunity. I suspect it is bred into them!’ She smiled thinly. ‘Hav
e you ever noticed nannies in the park? They seat on the seats and gossip to other nannies. You can tell them a thousand times but they will talk. My sister had several nannies and she despaired of them.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s a universal failing. I dare say most people like to talk.’

  You obviously do, thought Olivia, but then so do I if I’m honest. Crossing her fingers she hoped Mrs Whinnie would elaborate on the rumours she had mentioned.

  ‘People like me,’ Mrs Whinnie continued, ‘who have no one in the world and nothing else to think about!’

  Olivia felt obliged to protest. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Of course you would. Anyway, let’s just say it was common knowledge that he’d deserted your mother – just slipped away in the night without even a goodbye to a wife who was expecting another child.’ She looked at Olivia expectantly as though challenging Olivia to deny it or defend him.

  Doggedly Olivia continued the saga. ‘—pressing her fingers against closed eyes to hide her growing despair—’ Olivia was forced to snatch a breath and Mrs Whinnie pounced.

  ‘Naturally people thought there must be another woman but then they were all saying that he’d gone back to California to be with his friend. Lawrence Something-beginning-with-K. Or maybe it was Leonard.’ She shrugged again. ‘But really! America of all places! Now, my argument was that if America was so wonderful why didn’t he take the family with him?’ She was stopped by the appearance of the maid with the tray.

  Olivia, her thoughts in a whirl at this unexpected outburst, nodded her thanks to the maid and smiled but could say nothing. Part of her wanted to jump to her feet and rush from the house but another part wanted to know more.

  Mrs Whinnie said, ‘Don’t just stand there, girl. Put the tray on the table. That’s better. Now, did you water the geraniums in the garden room?’ Her eyes narrowed as the girl shook her head. ‘As I thought! Do it at once – after you’ve done the top stairs!’

  At that moment Mrs Whinnie’s Pekinese dog trotted into the room and looked up at her mistress with longing but she said,’ You can see I’m busy, Sukey. You’ll have to wait.’

  The girl hurried from the room and Mrs Whinnie started to pour the tea. ‘Help yourself to a biscuit,’ she told Olivia.

  Reluctantly Olivia obeyed. ‘I’m sure Father was doing what he thought best,’ she said but it sounded unconvincing. She did not believe it herself but felt under some obscure obligation to defend him.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  The dog began to whine then gave a small bark. Mrs Whinnie tutted. ‘What did I say, Sukey? I know you want to come on my lap but I’ve said no. No means no, so do stop fussing.’

  She stared at the selection of biscuits. ‘The chocolate finger has gone,’ she remarked. ‘It always does. I think the girl helps herself . . . Now where was I? Oh yes. That friend of his was a bad influence. Word has it that he encouraged your father to defect from his duties to the family. Oh yes! A weak man like your father can easily be influenced.’

  Olivia said stiffly, ‘I’m sure my father was not a weak man. He was—’

  ‘Not weak? Good heavens, Miss Fratton! Face facts.’

  Sukey fidgeted, and began to whimper for attention. Mrs Whinnie glared at the animal. ‘Remember your manners, Sukey! You do not interrupt when I’m talking!’ She shook her head. ‘I sometimes wonder, Olivia, if this silly dog understands English. The breed comes from China, I believe, or is it Japan, so maybe . . .’ She shrugged. ‘What was I saying? Oh yes, this Leonard fellow was single so he had no responsibilities. That’s what I heard. He could wander off to Timbuktu and nobody would be inconvenienced, but your father was different.’

  Discouraged, the dog suddenly turned and padded away in the direction of the door. Mrs Whinnie cried, ‘Oh! Sukey, darling! Don’t go. Did I hurt your feelings then? Really, what a fuss! I simply told you not to interrupt me when I’m talking.’

  Sukey scuttled back, her fluffy tail wagging furiously, and Mrs Whinnie reached down and lifted the dog on to her lap. Sukey gave a sigh of pleasure and at once settled down.

  Mrs Whinnie resumed her story. ‘There was a terrible quarrel earlier that evening, so I heard. Shouting and screaming. It was too far away for me to hear anything but the neighbours on either side heard it and it quickly became common knowledge. There was a woman involved – a friend of the family – and she was shrieking in anger. She was something glamorous, I believe. Rich and glamorous.’ She reached carefully over the dog for her teacup. ‘Some said she was an actress or a singer . . .’ She frowned. ‘But she might have been an artist. These arty types can be very temperamental, I believe. Very highly strung. It’s the nature of the beast.’

  By this time Olivia was too fascinated to protest at this description of Alice and she guiltily said nothing in her godmother’s defence. She was wondering how much, if anything, she would repeat of this conversation when she went home. Better maybe to let sleeping dogs lie, she thought – or maybe she would confide in Theo.

  ‘Quite a scandal at the time,’ Mrs Whinnie said, straightening her back a little. ‘We don’t expect that sort of thing in Canterbury. We have the cathedral to live up to.’ She stirred her tea and sipped daintily, patting her lips afterwards with a handkerchief. Abruptly losing interest she said sharply, ‘Go on, Olivia, with the story.’

  Olivia found her place in the magazine and continued reading.

  ‘—Veronica wanted to crawl away and hide – anywhere where she would not be seen; somewhere far from spying eyes—’

  Mrs Whinnie, exasperated by her tragic heroine, rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, grow up, Veronica!’ she snapped. ‘You’re not a child.’ She reached for a biscuit, broke a piece off and gave it to the dog. ‘I don’t know who writes this rubbish! Turn over to the cookery column, please, Miss Fratton. It might be more exciting!’

  Meanwhile events were taking a new turn not many miles from Mrs Whinnie’s parlour.

  The Coach and Horses was sited alongside the main road into Canterbury but set back about ten yards from the edge which allowed vehicles to park outside. A large sign, depicting an old stage coach, swung from a pole, creaking mournfully whenever a stray gust of wind caught it. At first sight it looked unchanged from when the man had last seen it, twenty years earlier, and he was torn between reliving the comfort it offered and risking being seen by someone who might recognize him. After some deliberation he crossed his fingers, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  At two thirty on a Tuesday afternoon there were very few customers and he was soon established in a corner where the light was dimmest, with his hat brim pulled down a little to hide part of his face. He was soon sipping the local beer with pleasure – at least that had not changed over the intervening years. As a quiet stranger in the corner seat he attracted little more than a glance from those he guessed to be regulars – those who were greeted by name and whose preferred tipple, usually draught beer, was immediately poured for them by the attractive barmaid.

  He saw with relief that she was too young to have been in her present job twenty years ago so there was not the remotest chance that she would recognize him. He had made up his mind that if challenged he would reply to any awkward questions in a way that gave nothing away.

  Looking casually around he saw an elderly man slumped on a chair beneath the window, his moleskin-clad legs thrust out across the sawdust floor, a cheap clay pipe in his mouth. An absence of smoke seemed to suggest that it needed refilling. There was something vaguely familiar about him but that was as far as it went. On the far side of the room three men, obviously friends, chatted about a day they had previously spent together at the races in Folkestone – their talk interrupted from time to time by muted laughter.

  He felt a wave of nostalgia as he gazed slowly round, taking in the smoky atmosphere, the smell of dust and stale beer. A fly paper dangled from the ceiling, there was a shove-halfpenny board on the table, and a tabby cat slept on the window sill. He smiled suddenly, spo
tting the old clock on the wall which still said five past twelve. He was aware of a small glow of relief that the new owners had made very few changes.

  The Coach and Horses had been their favourite pub, where Jack and Larry were known and welcomed whenever they thrust their heads round the door – greeted more often than not by a mix of cheers and friendly catcalls. He sighed. It all seemed a lifetime ago.

  At the bar a young man leaned across to the barmaid, keeping his head close to hers and his voice low, and it was soon obvious to any casual observer that they were more than barmaid and customer. She smiled a lot, leaning confidingly across the counter towards him, keeping her voice low.

  Glancing his way, she raised her voice. ‘New to these parts, are you then?’

  The owner of the pipe had roused himself to a sitting position and was pulling a pouch of tobacco from the pocket of his coat and peering at it short-sightedly, ignoring the stranger.

  ‘Just passing through.’ The man’s heart began to hammer, in spite of the careful way he had tried to prepare for a moment like this.

  The brief exchange drew the attention of the young man who turned to look at him.

  The barmaid said, ‘Come far, have you?’

  To delay his answer he grabbed the tankard, raised it to his lips and drank. At last he said, ‘A fair distance.’ He was now wishing he had chosen a different pub but he had been a loyal customer all those years ago and it had seemed possible he might feel able to relax and blend in again. Now he regretted the rash decision, wondering if anyone could hear his heart pounding or sense his anxiety. Years ago strangers were always greeted with suspicion. Now he was the stranger.

  The young man was staring at him with unashamed curiosity. He had fair hair and a friendly, open face and a distinct look of Ellen that was unmistakable! Shocked, the man busied himself with another gulp of his beer.