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Friday 30th November 1934
Dottie Manderson twirled in front of her dressing mirror, observing with satisfaction the way the long skirt flared and flowed about her legs. It would be perfect! She reached for the matching opera gloves and began to ease them on.
Half an hour later she was feeling less sure. Her mother, encountering her on the stairs, had given her a slight frown and said, ‘Dorothy dear, that frock’s rather daring, don’t you think?’
Dottie had stuck her chin in the air and said, ‘Exactly!’ and continued into the room where the dancing would take place. It was really both the drawing room and the dining room, thrown together by the opening of the adjoining doors to create a large space, then rolling back the carpets. A little band was tuning up in one corner. Her father always liked to have a modern dance band for special occasions.
She could see Gervase over in the opposite corner, a little gaggle of people around him, hanging on his every word. But before she could reach his side, another man, closer at hand, spoke to her.
‘Good Lord, Miss Manderson, are you trying to give every man here a heart attack?’
William Hardy. Police inspector, almost-boyfriend, and now, to Dottie’s mind, an odious man she had been taking great pains to avoid. Her family, it seemed, took delight in annoying her by inviting him to this or that event or occasion, and not warning her in advance. He stared at her, his eyes light with amusement—and—with something else she couldn’t quite name. She felt irked. She had forbidden him the use of her first name some months ago, and therefore she now had no recourse to his.
‘Is it any of your business, inspector?’
She knew she sounded waspish and this was not at all the way one addressed a guest in one’s parents’ home. A guest presumably invited to the house by those same parents. But...damn the man! Why did he make her feel she had to lash out at him all the time?
He hid his annoyance by taking a sip of his drink. ‘I suppose not, though as a police officer I’m very much against vice, and the top of that thing you no doubt call a dress is practically pornographic. I’m fairly sure a bathing dress would cover more.’
She couldn’t deny the top of the ruby silk dress was almost non-existent. With no sleeves or bodice in the conventional sense, her shoulders and back were completely bare. At the front, modesty was just barely maintained by two triangles connected to the waistband of the dress with long narrow bands, leaving a tantalising triangle of bare midriff, and that was it. The narrow bands that went up from the triangles formed the straps around her neck that held the thing up. She looked down at it, moved her hips and felt the skirt swooshing around her calves and ankles, then met his eyes with a laughing, joyous look.
‘I designed it myself,’ she told him with pride. ‘It’ll be heavenly to dance in.’ She gave a quick twirl.
‘For you? Or your partner?’ He could imagine all too well the feel of her soft warm skin. Surely she had no idea how men would be affected by the almost complete lack of a bodice to the dress, not to mention the little window in the centre to her midriff, and the truly gorgeous satin gloves that reached to the top of her arms, her smooth shoulders so bare and alluring. He was furious at the thought of any other man touching her. Of Gervase Parfitt touching her. He was forced to hide his temper yet again and adopted a polite social smile. ‘I hope your dancing partner has warm hands.’
‘Can you believe I almost thought of hanging a label on my back saying, ‘other shades available, fourteen guineas’.’
‘Fourteen guineas! My word!’ He grinned at her then, and it was the old William, before all the anger and pain had come between them. She caught herself smiling back, then pulled herself up. She couldn’t stand here and let him grin at her. Across the room, Gervase acknowledged her arrival with a smile of his own.
‘Excuse me, inspector.’
Then as she began to turn away from him, he said softly, for her ears alone, ‘No one else will look half as good as you in that dress.’
That threw her. She couldn’t help glancing back at him. He seemed sincere. His eyes, shadowed, almost grey in this light rather than the deep blue she found so appealing, regarded her steadily. Unable to think of anything else to say, she repeated herself. ‘Excuse me, inspector.’ She walked away. She felt his eyes on the bare skin of her back; she fidgeted with the top of the gloves. She no longer felt quite so happy about the dress. Her mother had been right, it was too much for a little party like this.
William watched her go. He watched as she approached Parfitt. She leaned in against Parfitt’s body, her hand going into the crook of the man’s arm. Parfitt gave her a quick glance then returned to his anecdote. Dottie smiled as they all did at the culmination of the tale.
With a sigh, Hardy looked down at the wine glass he held. He’d snapped the stem clean through. Arthur Greeley, Dottie’s sister’s butler, on loan as he often was from the other household for special occasions, came over and relieved him of it, handing him a replacement.
‘Don’t worry about it, sir, it’s not just you. That’s the fourth we’ve had in the last two minutes.’ He too turned to look at Dottie across the room. ‘Any chap who buys his wife a dress like that will find himself faced with a very heavy glass bill whenever she wears it.’
‘Yes,’ William said. ‘I imagine he will. Not that any other woman will have the same devastating effect as Miss Manderson. If I could afford to buy my wife a frock like that, it would be worth every penny of the fourteen guineas.’
‘Very true, sir. Do excuse me.’ Greeley moved off to the next gentleman, thinking to himself, I can’t wait to get back to the kitchen and tell them they were right about the inspector. He’s as smitten as ever, if not more so.
Gervase’s eyes told her he approved the dress. She clutched his arm and became part of the chatter that centred around him. Men and women alike took in every line of her dress, though perhaps not for the same reason. Dottie hoped she might receive some orders over the next few days; that would probably be the only good thing to come out of wearing it tonight.
Since Mrs Carmichael’s death, the fortunes of the warehouse had gone into a slight decline. Dottie could only hope her plans for the next two seasons would change all that. In bleak moments of doubt, usually in the middle of the night when fear nibbled at her self-belief, she felt afraid the business would fail because of her incompetence. She still had so much to learn.
If only the music would start, and they could dance. She acknowledged a secret treacherous thought that the dress was very decorative—but it was not very warm, and after all, they were almost in December. Even with the fire lit and all these bodies in the room, she was rapidly growing cold. She folded her arms over the non-existent bodice and wished she could put on a coat.
This gave her an idea, and as Gervase’s latest anecdote came to an end, and he took a smiling step back from the knot of laughing men and women around him, Dottie’s imagination was busily fashioning a dress exactly the same as the one she was wearing but with a matching dainty, miniscule wrap to go about the shoulders, perhaps with spangles of some sort.
‘A drink, Dottie dear?’
Thrusting her designs aside, she beamed at him. ‘Oh yes please.’
He took his own empty glass and went to get his refill along with a drink for Dottie. A friend of Dottie’s mother, a woman in her late thirties, made a comment to Dottie about the dress, and her mood soaring, Dottie began to tell the woman about the warehouse. It quickly became clear she had a new client. Dottie’s ‘professional’ eye took in the woman’s dated and slightly rusty black gown. A glance about the room showed that most older women still favoured black, and the younger women largely wore white evening gowns. One or two wore other colours, but they were of sombre, muted shades. There ought to be more colour, Dottie thought with passion. Women needed some colour in their lives.
Gervase stood waiting for the servant to bring the drinks. Every now and then he sent a glance back towards Dottie, closely observing everyone she spoke to or laughed with. He was pleased to see she was conversing with a slightly dull-looking woman of his own age.
Gervase glanced to his right. He was standing beside a tall, fair, well-built young man, though definitely not well-to-do if the fellow’s evening attire was anything to go by. Nevertheless, he was clearly a guest, so Gervase was inclined to be pleasant.
‘William Hardy,’ said William Hardy, holding out his right hand to Gervase. ‘A friend of the Mandersons. Mr Manderson knew my father years ago.’
Gervase shook his hand. ‘Ah. Nice to meet you. I’m Gervase Parfitt, the Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire. I’m engaged to Mr Manderson’s daughter Dorothy.’
Hardy knew that of course. It was the reason he’d come over. It intrigued him that Parfitt felt the need to give his professional rank as he introduced himself. Did he think it made him seem powerful? It was common for men of rank to make sure everyone knew how important they were. It chimed perfectly with the impression he’d already formed of the man.
But Hardy simply smiled and nodded. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
‘Quite a dress she’s wearing this evening, don’t you think? My fiancée, I’m talking about, of course,’ Gervase said, casting another proprietorial glance in Dottie’s direction. His eyes narrowed as a man halted to speak with her. She gave the fellow a smile, the chap nodded then moved on. Gervase relaxed once more.
With some hesitation Hardy agreed it was quite a dress.
‘Designed it herself. She dabbles a little in dressmaking. Always looks very decorative. That’s important to someone in my position, of course.’
‘Yes, indeed. Congratulations, you’re a very lucky man. Have you set a date?’
‘Not officially. She won’t even announce the engagement until she’s twenty-one. That’s in March, so not long to wait, though I confess I’m rather impatient to be on my honeymoon. I’ll probably have the engagement given out in April or May with the wedding to follow as soon as possible after that. Wait until the weather’s likely to be half decent, and of course, I’ll need to take plenty of time off for the honeymoon, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
‘Indeed,’ Hardy said again. He already didn’t like Gervase. In fact even before he’d met him, he had formed a deep dislike of him. Out of a mixture of curiosity and sheer green-eyed jealousy, Hardy had set out to discover as much about the fellow as he could. What he had found out confirmed his worst doubts, and he could have cheerfully knocked Parfitt down. But he knew that was mostly personal, although some of it was professional pride. The way the man undressed her with his eyes... The self-satisfied smirk on his face... And talking to a complete stranger about his honeymoon... Everything Parfitt said and did added fuel to Hardy’s dislike. But he hid all that and said simply, ‘And shall you live in London?’
‘Good God, no. Can’t stand the place. And there’s my work, of course.’
‘Of course. I suppose Miss Manderson will relocate her fashion warehouse?’
If Hardy sounded too well informed about the lady, the other man luckily failed to notice. Gervase took the drinks from the servant and prepared to return to Dottie’s side. He frowned over Hardy’s words. ‘I hardly think so. My wife will naturally be very taken up with supporting me socially, and of course there’ll be the nursery to think of. She’ll hardly have time to play about with her dressmaking then. In any case, it would hardly be fitting for the wife of a man in my position to wear some dress she’d made herself, no matter how revealing.’
‘Of course. Well, many congratulations. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy,’ Hardy said, unable to resist adding, with some facetiousness, ‘A man could hardly wish for a lovelier lady on his arm.’
His sarcasm went unnoticed, however.
‘Oh definitely. She’s quite the little charmer, and she’ll be the perfect little wife for a man in my position. She’s young, but teachable, if you catch my drift.’
Anger pushed Hardy to say, ‘The lady has considerable charm. I’m certain you’re the envy of every man here tonight.’
‘Damn well hope so,’ Gervase said with a smirk. He winked at Hardy. ‘And between you and I, she’s a saucy little minx behind closed doors. As you say, considerable charms. And not too shy about using them.’
Hardy almost choked on his drink. Could Parfitt have said anything less appropriate to a complete stranger? If he had the luxury to follow his own inclination he would have called Parfitt out there and then, like some slighted suitor of the middle ages, he admitted to himself. But once again, he forced down his temper and said simply, with a man-to-man grin, ‘As I said, you’re the envy of every man here.’
‘Thanks,’ Gervase said. ‘And now I must get back to her. Got to keep the other men away. One needs to give girls plenty of attention in these early stages of courtship. Of course, later on one can ignore them a lot longer.’ He guffawed at his own joke.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Hardy gave him a curt nod and turned away, his blood boiling. He turned back briefly just in time to see Dottie look up and smile as Parfitt reached her side. The way her whole face lit up, the way her lovely smile reached her eyes... Hardy had to turn away. How dared Parfitt talk about her in that disgusting way?
Later, as Herbert Manderson proposed a toast to his lovely wife and publicly thanked her in the warmest terms his daughters had ever witnessed for their twenty-five happy years of marriage, Dottie couldn’t help noticing that while William Hardy was focussed wholly on Dottie herself from one side of the room, Gervase Parfitt, official escort and unofficial fiancé, was stifling a yawn and looking everywhere except in her direction, from his position on the other side of the room. It was most aggravating.
She thought back to the beginning of the summer and the first time she had seen Gervase at a hotel in Scarborough where he’d been staying with his newly-widowed sister-in-law. Dottie had glimpsed his fair hair, his tall, lean build, and for a moment had thought he actually was William. She shook her head slightly in exasperation. Inspector Hardy. She must stop calling him William, even in her thoughts. Sooner or later it would slip out in conversation, and she could not let that happen.
Looking at them now, she couldn’t think why she had ever thought them alike. Will—Inspector Hardy was an inch or two shorter than Gervase. Gervase was slightly taller, he was thinner, and had a slight stoop to his shoulders, no real surprise for a man who spent the majority of his time working at a desk. And of course Gervase was eight or nine years older than Will—Inspector Hardy. Gervase’s fair hair was just touched with grey at the temples—most distinguished. Whereas Inspector Hardy’s hair was lighter in colour and both fuller and thicker. What a shame she couldn’t have Hardy’s hair on Gervase’s head! And of course, Inspector Hardy was more athletically built than Gervase, with more solid muscle, broader shoulders, and...
She was distracted from her thoughts by the enthusiastic applause that greeted her father’s rather rambling, but beautifully tender speech, and along with everyone else Dottie raised her glass and repeated the toast: ‘To dearest Lavinia, the love of my life.’
Her mother, never one to encourage emotional outbursts in public, for once didn’t reprove her husband but simply said, ‘Oh Herbert, you dear, dear man!’ and kissed him on the cheek. The little band in the corner struck up a waltz, Herbert and Lavinia took to the floor, then after a few bars, other couples began to file onto the dancefloor around them. Seeing Gervase go by with a buxom lady of forty-five in his arms, Dottie ended up dancing with an older family friend, Montague Montague, known to herself and her sister as M’dear Monty for his habit of calling all women ‘M’dear’.
Later that night, when the guests had gone, the Mandersons were alone in their drawing room with their son-in-law and both their daughters. Even Gervase had left fairly early, pleading the long train journey back to the Midlands in the morning and a full week of work ahead of him. Dottie, now with a negligee over her revealing dress, sat in the opposite corner of the sofa to her sister Flora and huffed a sigh of frustration that sent her hair bouncing into the air and settling again about her temples.
‘What’s up, poppet?’ George her brother-in-law asked.
Mrs Manderson managed to restrain herself from criticising her son-in-law’s use of the popular idiom. If one of her daughters had said it, Dottie thought, they would have been scolded. But not George. Since George—once considered by his in-laws as frivolous and lacking in maturity—had proved himself to be a loving and supportive husband to his wife during her first pregnancy, then an equally loving father to his and Flora’s first child, and a loving brother to his late sister in committing himself to raising her baby daughter as his own, his mother-in-law’s regard for him had gone from strength to strength. Dottie was half-convinced her mother now preferred George to either of her daughters.
But that was not the reason for the huge sigh. Unable to put it out of her mind, she said, ‘Why did you insist on inviting Inspector Hardy this evening, Mother? It makes everything so uncomfortable.’
‘Nonsense,’ her mother said. Dottie could have almost predicted that. Mrs Manderson continued, ‘He’s a very pleasant young man, and we needed as many young men as we could get, with so many single ladies requiring dance partners. He may not be prosperous, but he is a decent, hard-working young fellow, and very presentable. And he waltzes beautifully.’
‘Knew his father,’ said Mr Manderson from behind his newspaper, his romantic leanings carefully in check once more.
‘Yes, I know, but all the same...’ Dottie gave it up. She couldn’t win this argument. There was definitely a conspiracy at work here.
‘He’s certainly better looking than Gervase,’ her mother added. ‘And has far nicer manners.’
Unable to think of anything to say to this, Dottie glared at her and went up to bed.
She brushed her hair vigorously, enjoying the scraping of the bristles against her scalp, bringing her scalp to life. When she had finished, she pulled the loose hairs from the brush and dropped them into the waste basket beside the dressing table as always. Glancing up slightly as she did so, she surprised herself, catching a glimpse in the mirror seemingly of someone else, someone she knew yet who seemed slightly strange to her, like a friend she hadn’t met in a while.
She leaned forward to look at herself. What could she see?
A pale face, grown thinner of late with the anxious times she’d been through. She felt she could see the ghosts of tiny lines about her eyes and mouth—the tiny tell-tale lines of life, that usually kept away until a woman turned thirty at the least—that vast age! But Dottie knew with a little care and rest, her complexion would recover its youth. It was the expression in her eyes that told the story of age and experience. A perfect stranger could look into her eyes, Dottie thought, and immediately see that she had known death and sorrow: too much for a young woman still not quite of full age. Too much death. Too many funerals. Too much sorrow.
She bit her lip. She was turning maudlin, she thought, and it simply wouldn’t do.
She patted some cold cream carefully into her skin and caught up the hairbrush once more to try again to coax her curls to be neat and orderly.
