WALKING QUICKLY ALONG the flagstone path on a warm May morning, Cecilia halted at the entrance to the stables and called out, ‘Griffiths?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’ replied the stableman, emerging from the nearest stall.
‘Have you groomed and saddled Bluebell?’
‘Yes, ma’am. And the gelding.’ He looked approvingly at his wealthy employer; what a show she made of it, as she was clad in a green redingote riding habit, a double-breasted tailored jacket over her dress and boots, with a white silk scarf knotted at her neck and tiny hat pinned to her auburn hair.
‘I’m riding alone today,’ said Cecilia, as she strolled into the enclosure, redolent of straw and horse manure. Emerging at the far end in bright sunshine, she smiled at Griffiths and said, ‘Help me up, if you please.’ Placing one finely polished boot in the stirrup, she grasped the pommel as he lifted her by the waist onto the side-saddle on the bay mare. ‘Thank you, Griffiths,’ she said, slipping a half-crown into his hand. ‘Advise Mrs Clark that I’ll return by midday.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And remind her I’m expecting company for lunch.’ With the reins in her left hand, Cecilia slapped the mare’s haunch with her crop and cantered along the gravel path through the alley of oaks, emerging on Tooting Bec Common, the open fields of which were blanketed with bright yellow and blue wildflowers. An accomplished horsewoman, she turned the mare onto the dusty track through the common, slowing to a trot as she bypassed several nannies pushing prams and then returning to a canter. ‘Good girl,’ said Cecilia with a reassuring pat on the mare’s neck, thinking that the strong, spirited animal might have been taught to jump but for the absence of fences or hedges. At the far end of the common she slowed the horse to a walk, traversed the streets of the village and then entered the somewhat smaller Streatham Common, where she skilfully put the mare through her gaits, from a trot to a canter and a final gallop across a quarter-mile of soft turf. ‘Whoa,’ she called, with a tug on the reins at the approach of the woods that bordered the common, halting the mare to water at a public trough before heading home. Almost an hour had passed when she turned on the gravel drive to the Priory stables where Griffiths was waiting with his arms crossed at his chest. Taking Cecilia’s hand and helping her down, he said, ‘She’s had her exercise, from the look of her’, noting the mare’s sleek, lathered neck and haunches.
‘She’s had water,’ said Cecilia as she straightened the front of her jacket, ‘but I’ve no doubt she could use more.’ Unknotting the scarf at her neck, she walked quickly along the path to the door at the rear of the house, glancing up at the noonday sun and wondering with a quickening of her pulse if her visitor had arrived. Entering the kitchen, with its exposed beams and array of gleaming copper pots and pans, she walked over to the stove where the cook stood over a cauldron of simmering soup. Bending down to inhale its inviting aroma, Cecilia asked, ‘Has Mrs Clark specified the hour lunch is to be served?’
‘Yes, mum,’ replied the cook as another servant entered the kitchen. ‘At one o’clock sharp.’
‘Very well,’ said Cecilia as she turned to go.
As Cecilia entered the central passageway, Mrs Clark rose from her desk beneath the stairs, smiled briefly and said, ‘Your guest has arrived. I showed him into the drawing-room.’
Charles Cranbrook stood beside the Broadwood grand piano in the corner of the drawing-room, lightly running a finger over its gleaming walnut finish. During his five minutes alone he had carefully examined Cecilia’s collection of fine art and furnishings: the Gainsborough over the mantel, a fine bronze figure of winged Mercury, a large Meissen urn, and the expensively upholstered rosewood chairs and settee. The piano alone, he reckoned, must have cost a thousand quid, and he seriously doubted Cecilia could play it. Hearing footsteps, he turned as Cecilia appeared in the arched entrance from the passageway. ‘Hallo,’ he called out in a cheerful voice.
‘I’m going up to change,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll just be a minute. Have the maid fetch you something to drink.’
‘Right ho.’ As the hem of Cecilia’s dress disappeared up the stairs, a maid wearing a black dress with starched white apron arrived from the kitchen. ‘I say,’ said Charles, moving in her direction, ‘is there a chilled bottle of champagne to hand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bring it along,’ instructed Charles, resting his arm on the back of the rosewood settee, ‘with two glasses.’
By the time Cecilia descended the staircase, wearing pale-pink organdie with a scarlet sash and matching shoes peeking from beneath the cloud of flounce, Charles had consumed the better part of a flute of fine champagne and made up his mind that life in The Priory would suit someone of his expensive tastes very nicely indeed. He reached for the bottle in the silver bucket, poured a second glass, and walked up to Cecilia. ‘You look smashing,’ he said, as he handed it to her. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve raided your supply of champagne.’
‘Mind?’ she said before taking a sip. ‘It’s there to be drunk.’
‘Cheers,’ said Charles, reaching out to touch glasses. ‘I understand you’ve been out riding.’
‘A wonderful ride on the common,’ said Cecilia, ‘and then over to Streatham and back.’
‘How very convenient, to have your own stable, and adjacent to Tooting Bec.’
‘It’s why I chose to live here. To be able to take advantage of a day like today, yet close enough to the city for shopping and the theatre.’
‘Why, I suppose,’ said Charles, as he strolled with Cecilia back into the drawing-room, ‘a man might even take the train to work in the City.’
‘It’s frequently done,’ said Cecilia, as she sat in one of the plush armchairs. ‘Or so I’m told.’
Charles sat facing her, with one neatly creased charcoal trouser and polished boot crossed over his knee, interlacing his fingers. ‘I spoke to Mrs Clark,’ he said, ‘on my way in. I gather she looks after the household.’
‘Jane sees to everything,’ said Cecilia. ‘Apart from my financial affairs, of course, which are managed by my banker at Coutts.’
‘Coutts on the Strand,’ repeated Charles, ‘a very reputable establishment.’ And, he considered, a bank that catered almost exclusively to the very rich and powerful. ‘I suppose your late husband chose to bank there….’
‘My late husband was a military man who knew nothing of investments. But he had the good fortune,’ added Cecilia with a smile, ‘to be the only son of Sir Alfred Castello.’
‘The Tory MP….’
‘And founder of the international telegraph company. It was my solicitor who recommended Coutts, after my husband’s death.’
‘I see.’
‘Excuse me, mum.’
Cecilia and Charles turned to the maid standing in the archway. ‘Luncheon is served,’ she said with a diffident smile.
Following an elaborate repast which featured more champagne, Yorkshire pudding to accompany the roast beef, and a raspberry tart, Cecilia invited Charles to take a walk with her in the orchard. As the day was warm, he left his coat in the drawing-room and strolled in shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Bending down to inspect a primrose, Cecilia snapped off the blossom and held it to her nose. ‘Pretty,’ she said, ‘but with little scent.’
‘Like some girls I know,’ said Charles with a half smile. ‘Pretty, but with little sense.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Cecilia with a laugh. ‘You’re very clever.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course. Though I know so little about you.’
‘What would you like to know?’
‘Well, about your upbringing, your schooling, what you intend to do with your life.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ said Charles with another of his crooked smiles.
Reaching the end of the orchard, Cecilia sat on a wooden bench facing the green expanse of the common and listened as Charles gave a succinct account of his childhood, the only son of a prosperous but not wealthy businessman in Manchester named Turner, who died when Charles was twelve. ‘After Mother remarried,’ he said, ‘I decided to take my stepfather’s name.’
‘When was this?’ asked Cecilia.
‘In ’62, when I was eighteen. My first year at King’s College, in London. I made up my mind to study law and went on to Oxford – I was a Magdalen man.’
‘King’s College and Oxford,’ said Cecilia with a smile. ‘You’re certainly well educated.’
‘True,’ said Charles. ‘I have a keen interest in the classics and in English poetry. And to sum things up, after Oxford I returned to London and the Temple Bar. Admitted to Gray’s Inn four years ago.’
‘I should imagine,’ said Cecilia, ‘you look quite imposing in your wig and gown.’
‘Perhaps.’ He sat beside her on the bench and stretched out his legs. ‘I enjoy my profession, though it’s certainly not the path to riches.’
‘But you needn’t worry about that.’ He gave her a brief, questioning look. ‘Considering your stepfather’s position,’ she explained.
‘True,’ said Charles with a nod. ‘Now that you’ve heard my life story, my dear Cecilia, perhaps you should tell me yours.’
‘Well,’ she began, resisting the impulse to run her finger along the edge of her cuff, ‘I spent my childhood, with my two sisters, in Australia, near Adelaide.’
‘I thought I detected an accent.’
‘My father is in the mining industry. We moved back to the family estate, Buscot Park in Oxfordshire, when I was eleven, and divided our time between the country and our house in Belgravia.’
‘I see. And your marriage to Captain—’
‘Castello. We met at a ball when Richard was serving in the army and, well, fell in love and were married.’ Cecilia paused, feigning a faraway look. ‘But sadly,’ she continued, ‘Richard died after a brief illness, while touring in Germany. Just over a year ago.’
‘How tragic.’
‘Yes, very. And in my mourning I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of a recluse, choosing to live alone here and only recently accepting social invitations.’
‘Well, we shall have to rectify that,’ said Charles. He stood up and reached out to take Cecilia’s hand. Helping her to her feet, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘I would very much hope,’ he said, looking in her eyes, ‘that you’ll consent to see me again.’
‘You have my word,’ said Cecilia, gently squeezing his hand.
In a silk dressing-gown, seated in her boudoir facing the mirror, Cecilia applied rouge to her cheeks and painted her lips as Mrs Clark pinned up her hair. ‘I presume you understand,’ said Mrs Clark, as she thoughtfully studied Cecilia’s reflection, ‘that marriage to a man like Charles Cranbrook is the only realistic means of restoring your reputation.’
‘A man like Mr Cranbrook?’
‘Perhaps Mr Cranbrook,’ said Mrs Clark, gently placing her hands on Cecilia’s shoulders.
‘I’m not ready for marriage,’ said Cecilia. ‘Not after everything I’ve been through. Charles seems, well, respectable, and he’s certainly intelligent, but I hardly know him. I should think that merely accompanying him to the theatre and the right social occasions—’
‘No, Cissie. You must listen to me. The only thing that will stop them talking behind your back is to marry the right sort of man from the right element of London society. The right clubs, the right schools, the right friends. Charles is the stepson of a wealthy businessman, an Oxford man, Magdalen College, and a member of Boodle’s and White’s.’
‘True,’ said Cecilia glumly.
‘And, what’s more,’ said Mrs Clark, as she fastened a necklace at the nape of Cecilia’s neck, ‘he’s utterly smitten with you.’ Stepping around to look Cecilia in the face, she said, ‘If not Charles Cranbrook, I don’t know who. You must use all of your feminine wiles to bring him to his knees with a marriage proposal.’
In the weeks that followed it seemed to Cecilia that Mrs Clark had overestimated the difficulty of attracting the attention of Charles Cranbrook, who clearly had succumbed to her beauty, the sensuality that had blossomed during her affair with Dr Gully, and the irresistible allure of her fortune. Invitations abounded, to the theatre and dinner, the regatta at Henley, Sunday lunch at Brown’s, and a lawn tennis exhibition at the new All England Club at nearby Wimbledon. Discovering that Charles shared her passion for riding, he eagerly joined her on weekend jaunts through the common on her spirited horses, followed by lunch or tea at The Priory. The notion of marriage was gradually becoming more acceptable to her; he was handsome in a way, very bright and well read, a sportsman, and always impeccably dressed if somewhat old-fashioned. Yet she couldn’t help comparing him to James Gully, who was infinitely more astute and kind and gentle in a way she was certain Charles would never be. In fact, she was sure a man like Charles would loathe Dr Gully, with his beliefs in homeopathic medicine, nature and the outdoors, and spiritualism. Yes, she considered with a sigh, as she awaited Cranbrook’s arrival for dinner, he was condescending and narrow … a snob. Well, perhaps she could accept being married to a snob.
A frequent visitor to The Priory, Cranbrook ignored the servant who answered the door, hung his coat and top hat in the hall, and strolled into the drawing-room with the air of a man who was at home. As Cecilia had yet to make her usual theatrical appearance, with a swish of petticoats and always a new skirt, on the staircase, Cranbrook stood before the empty fireplace with hands clasped behind his back, unknowingly under the observant eye of Jane Clark, concealed in the shadows of the dining-room.
‘There you are,’ he exclaimed, as Cecilia descended the stairs with a hand on the curved banister. ‘My, what a beautiful gown.’ She walked up, and he kissed her lightly on the lips with one hand at her slender waist.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ she said, swirling the elaborate folds of the skirt and extending her right arm as if to show off the ruffle at her wrist and the large emerald and diamond ring on her finger. ‘It was delivered only today from my favourite dressmaker on Bruton Street.’
‘I should think it cost a small fortune,’ he said, as he studied the dress’s fine embroidery and the large bow on the bustle.
‘Not really,’ said Cecilia. ‘Only thirty pounds.’
‘I see that your charming little boots match perfectly.’
‘I can’t abide boots that don’t match.’ Reaching for a silver bell on a side table and giving it a sharp ring, she said, ‘I presume you’re ready for your drink?’
The butler appeared after a moment and said, ‘Yes, madam?’
‘Champagne, Sawyers,’ said Cecilia. ‘Pink champagne.’
‘Sir?’
‘Brandy and soda.’
After the butler returned with their drinks, Cecilia settled on the sofa and patted the cushion for Charles to sit next to her. Taking a sip of champagne, she said, ‘I have a little surprise for you.’
‘Oh, really?’ Charles took a swallow of brandy from his crystal tumbler.
‘Yes. An invitation.’
‘I see.’
‘As the weather’s turned wet and cold, to stay the night.’
The merest smile curled his lip. ‘I have a court appearance in the morning,’ he said with a rub of his chin. ‘At ten o’clock. But I reckon I can catch the early train.’ He leaned over to give her a gentle kiss, to which she responded with a passion that nearly caused him to drop his glass. Putting it aside, he reached an arm around her, pulled her to him and kissed her again, a long, sensuous kiss as he allowed his free hand to roam over the curve of her hip.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured, lying against his chest. ‘You’re not going to ravish me before dinner?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ he said, aware of a flush on his cheeks and pounding of his heart.
‘Very well,’ she said with a smile, as she sat up and inched away from him. She reached for her glass and took another sip of champagne as Cranbrook, regaining his composure, took a large gulp of his drink.
‘Do you love me?’ she asked, looking him in the eye.
‘Why, ah, yes. Yes, I believe I do.’ Taking another swallow, he added, ‘Sometimes you quite take me aback.’
‘Pardon me, madam.’ Cranbrook shot a wild look at the young parlourmaid who had appeared in the archway, as though she’d wandered into the room while he was taking his bath. ‘Dinner,’ she announced, ‘is served.’
‘Very well,’ said Cecilia calmly. ‘Don’t worry about your drink,’ she said to Charles as she rose from the settee. ‘There’ll be time for more brandy after we have dined.’
A bottle of fine Chablis accompanied dinner – roast squab with peas and Lyonnaise potatoes – though the lion’s share was consumed by Cecilia, as Charles expressed his general dislike of all things French and drank only a glass. Following dessert of chocolate cake with ice cream, they repaired to the drawing-room for coffee or, ‘if you prefer,’ said Cecilia, ‘brandy, though I forbid the smoking of cigars.’
‘Very well,’ said Charles as he walked to the sideboard where he found a crystal decanter of cognac and several glasses, ‘as I prefer a pipe to a cigar.’ As he poured a glass, the maid entered with a small silver tray and wine goblet, which she served to Cecilia.
‘Anything else, mum?’
‘No, Florence. You and the others are free to go for the evening.’
When they were alone, Charles sat in a chair facing Cecilia on the sofa, sipping his brandy with his legs crossed. ‘Does it concern you,’ he asked, ‘that the servants might discover I’ve stayed the night?’
After taking a swallow of Madeira, Cecilia said, ‘No. How could they? There’s only Mrs Clark, and she retires early to her own room.’ She looked at him suggestively and took another sip of wine.
‘If you’re certain,’ he groused, ‘though I’m not sure I’d trust a servant to be discreet.’
‘Jane is my friend,’ said Cecilia a bit unevenly. ‘My very dear friend.’ With a slight lascivious wink, she finished her wine and said, ‘I’m going up to get ready for bed. The guest bedroom is at the top of the stairs.’
Casting a furtive glance down the darkened passageway, Cranbrook silently crept on tiptoe and bare feet to Cecilia’s bedroom. He gave the door a gentle tap and, after a moment, she opened it a crack. With a soft giggle, she let him in and turned the key in the lock. He studied her briefly in the dim light and then slipped off his shirt and folded it over a chair. With his hands on her bare shoulders he bent down and kissed her hard on the mouth, running his hands over the curve of her breasts under her diaphanous nightgown. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured as she moved backward toward her bed. Holding her slender waist, he lifted her up and pushed her back on the mattress, falling heavily on top of her. He kissed her neck and then lifted up her nightgown and roughly, almost brutally, made love to her.
‘Ohh,’ she muttered. ‘That hurts. Don’t … please … Ohh, be gentle.’
Ignoring her entreaties, he quickly reached a climax, grunting through clenched teeth. ‘There,’ he said with a groan, pinning down her shoulders and staring for a moment at her frightened face before rolling over on his side. He lay beside her for another five minutes, while his breathing returned to normal, and then silently got up, slipped on his shirt and let himself out.