October 7, 1947
The envelope was sitting on her chair when she returned from morning break. Miss Ann Hughes, it read.
“The guard at the back door called up to say someone had left it for you. I needed to stretch my legs, so I popped down to fetch it,” Miss Duley said. “Go ahead and have a look before you get stuck in again.”
Dear Ann,
As I haven’t your address I resorted to leaving this at your work—it was that or wait for you outside. I only wish to say that I am sincerely sorry for my rudeness on the day of the royal ladies’ visit, and while there is no excuse for such ungentlemanly behavior on my part, I do wish to try to make it up to you as best I can. Do say you’ll dine with me as soon as you’re able—any night at all. I await your telephone call most eagerly.
Your devoted admirer,
JTM
She read it a second time, just to be sure, and then tucked both it and the envelope in the pocket of her coveralls. The others were back and taking their places at the great frame that held the princess’s train, and she’d only end up having to answer a hundred questions if they noticed her goggling over the note. So she bent her head to her work and tried to sort out just what was bothering her.
Had Jeremy hurt her when he’d pretended not to know her? He had, but she could understand why he’d done it. It must have been a shock to see her there, of course, and it wasn’t as if she had been entirely forthcoming with him. No wonder he’d been taken aback.
When dinner came she set off in search of a telephone box that wasn’t occupied, and found one on New Bond Street. She dialed the number, holding her breath as it buzzed and buzzed at the other end.
“Hello, Thickett-Milne speaking. Hello? Ann? Is that you?”
“I, uh . . . it is.”
“You got my note?”
“I did.”
“Oh, good. I am terribly sorry about what happened. It’s only that you took me by surprise. I’d absolutely no notion you worked at Hartnell.”
“I’m sorry I never told you. Really I am. It’s only that with our having the commission for the wedding we aren’t supposed to talk about work with anyone.”
“I understand. And now you know about my top secret job, so we’re even.”
“Are you an aide to the queen?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“To Queen Mary, yes. And that’s about all I’m allowed to say. At any rate, I was hoping you might like to come to dinner.”
“Are you sure? Now that you know what I do for a living?”
“I don’t see why that should affect anything. Why don’t I collect you after work one evening this week?”
“That would be lovely, but I can’t leave any earlier than half-past six.”
“Then why don’t we say seven o’clock? I can wait for you at the corner of Bruton and Berkeley. Is there any particular day that suits you? How about tonight?”
“Tonight is fine,” she heard herself say.
“Very well. I’ll see you there at seven this evening.”
Miriam and Walter were spending the evening with their friends Bennett and Ruby, whose new baby had arrived a fortnight early, so Ann told Miriam that she, too, was going out, but wouldn’t be that late. She took her time in the cloakroom after work, waiting until the other girls were gone before powdering her nose, combing through her hair, and fixing a button that was threatening to come loose on her coat.
When she did walk to the end of the street, a few minutes before seven, Jeremy was already there, standing next to his car, bareheaded in the cold. “Don’t you look lovely. That scarf brings out the green in your eyes.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and opened the passenger-side door for her, waiting until she was settled before closing it softly. “I was thinking we’d go somewhere quiet for supper, but first I need to collect my gloves. I can’t believe I forgot them at home.”
It seemed odd that he would need his gloves badly enough to return home for them, for it was warm inside the car, and presumably they wouldn’t be outside for very long. But there was no point in being a pill about it.
“It’s not far at all,” he assured her. “Eaton Square in Belgravia. Enormous old pile but it keeps the rain off my head.”
He kept the conversation going as he always did, moving from topic to topic in his smooth way, never seeming to desire or require much involvement on her part. Likely it was a skill that served him well in his work.
After about fifteen minutes he turned the car onto a side street, or perhaps it was a mews of some kind. It was lined with large doors, the sort that once had led to carriage houses but now were fitted up for expensive motorcars.
“We’ll be going out again, so I won’t bother putting the car away,” he said. He dragged open one of the doors, just enough for them to pass through, and led her through an empty garage and, beyond it, a darkened garden. No lights were shining from the interior of the house ahead, and she tripped more than once as she followed him through the night.
They went down a short flight of steps to a door, and after fumbling for the correct key, Jeremy let them inside and switched on an overhead light.
“Hello?” he called out, but no answering voice broke the silence. “My sister must be out. Oh, well. Shall we go upstairs?”
“What about your gloves?” she asked.
“Like as not in my bedroom. Or the drawing room. No point in your staying down here—it’s as cold as a tomb. I’ll make a fire and you can have a drink while I rummage around. Give me your coat so I can hang it up.”
He led her up a flight of stairs to street level, switching on lights as he went, and along a high-ceilinged hallway to a drawing room that was, on its own, at least as big as the entire main floor of her little house. It was decorated in the usual style of such places, with elaborate draperies, wedding-cake plaster moldings, and several centuries’ worth of intimidating antiques.
“Come and sit while I deal with the fire,” he said, and nodded in the direction of a pair of settees that flanked the hearth. “We’ll have a drink together before I try to run down those blasted gloves.”
She sat, shivering, and waited as he piled coals in the grate and set them alight. “There. That’ll take the chill from the air. Would you like a sherry? Or possibly something stronger?”
“Sherry is fine,” she said. The glass, when he handed it to her, was dusty. In fact, everything in the room was dusty, and the air was stale, too, and she was almost certain she could see cobwebs clinging to the top of the draperies. On the far wall, opposite the fireplace, were a pair of darkened patches.
“My mother had them sent out for cleaning,” Jeremy said, noticing her interest. “The paintings that usually hang there. Said they needed a freshening up.”
“Oh. I, ah . . .”
“So. Hartnell. Have you worked there for long?”
“Since I was a girl. I’ve never worked anywhere else.”
He sat opposite her and sipped at his drink. “You must have had a lot of people asking after the princess’s dress. You know there’s a king’s ransom to be made there.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, although she had a terrible feeling she did.
“It’s a secret, and there’s nothing people love more than secrets. Uncovering them, I mean. In the right hands, a picture of that gown is worth a lot. A fortune, even.”
“Is that what this is about? The princess’s gown?”
“’Course not. I mean, I did have an idea of what you did for a living. Saw you with Carmen that first night, didn’t I? She used to go out with a friend of mine. Until he found a decent girl to marry, that is. But you never said a word about your work, or that bloody gown, and I wasn’t about to go digging. I do have my pride.” He gulped at his drink; it was half gone now.
She was going to be sick. “If I told you anything, even a single detail, I’d be sacked. I’d be betraying all of my friends at work.”
“Have I asked? No. So let’s forget about it. Do you feel like seeing some more of the house? Been in the family for ages, you know.” He tipped the glass to his mouth. Emptied it.
And then he looked at her, and there was something in his eyes, or behind his eyes, somehow, that set every nerve in her body jangling with apprehension. His easy friendliness of their earlier meetings was gone, and in its stead was a sort of avid, predatory watchfulness.
“I’m not feeling all that well,” she protested. “I think it might be best if I went home.”
“Don’t be such a wet blanket. Finish that sherry, and let me show you this house. How often does a girl like you get a peek inside a place like this?”
He’d taken her coat when they came in, but she still had her bag. The front door was only yards away. But would it be locked? And surely he didn’t mean to hurt her. He’d think her mad if she suddenly ran across the room and started clawing at the front door.
“Come on,” he said, and took her hand in his. He led her to the stairs, wide and carpeted, and she was surprised by how gritty the banister felt under her free hand. As if no one had wiped it down in months and months.
They reached the top of the stairs. “There’s another drawing room at the very front,” he explained, “and several guest rooms along the hall. At the back are my parents’ bedrooms. You’ll like my mother’s room. She had it done up by some poncy decorator just before the war.”
He hadn’t let go of her hand, so she had no choice but to follow him. He opened the door, swore under his breath when the overhead light failed to come on, and went over to the mantel, still dragging her along, and switched on the lamp there.
It was hard to make out much, for the light wasn’t especially strong, but she could see pink and silver everywhere: the carpet, the draperies, the upholstery on the occasional chairs and settee by the hearth. Even the bedcover was made of pink-and-silver brocade.
“What do you think?” he asked, and she realized he had let go of her hand. He’d gone over to the windows and was pulling back the draperies. Now was the time for her to go—just run. Run.
But then he was at her side again, his hand combing through her hair, and she was too frightened to move. “It’s very pretty,” she lied.
The room, and the house, had once been pretty, but now they felt and smelled as if they were rotting away. Armies of mice and silverfish and woodworm were nibbling away at his house, and Jeremy didn’t seem to notice or care.
“My mother hasn’t been here in years. She and my father never come in from the country. They live their lives, and I live mine, and they don’t care that it’s all gone. That my inheritance is nothing but this moldering heap and mountains of debt. I’ll never be free of it. And now I’m almost out of time.”
He twisted her hair in his fingers, winding it tight, so tight she couldn’t move her head. “You are very pretty, you know.”
He began to kiss her, and his mouth was a little too hard against hers, his fingers pressing a fraction too tightly against the soft skin of her arm, and he didn’t seem to notice, or care, that he was pulling her hair.
It was the first time he had kissed her and she didn’t like anything about it. “Jeremy,” she said. “Please stop.”
His hand moved from her arm to her breast, kneading, pawing, and one of his fingernails scraped against the soft skin just above her brassiere. She flinched, and he laughed softly.
“Were you expecting hearts and flowers? Stupid, silly girl.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything. I’d like to go downstairs now.”
“Why did you think I brought you here, if not for this?”
“You said you wanted to show me the house, and now I’ve seen it and I’d like to go home.”
“Stupid, silly girl,” he repeated, and he pulled at her hair so sharply that tears came to her eyes. He might do anything to her now, for they were alone in the house. She was alone and she had gone into this bedroom with him willingly, or at least that was how anyone else would see it.
He propelled her backward, one stumbling step after another, and then the back of her knees hit something. It was the bed, the bed, and he pushed her back, finally letting go of her hair, but only so he might pull at her skirt, higher and higher, oblivious to her slapping hands. The same fingernail that had caught at her breast before now tore one of her stockings. It laddered, splintering, and he laughed, a cold, sharp heh that killed the last of her hope.
“No, Jeremy! I said no! I’ll scream,” she threatened, and she pushed at his shoulders with all her strength. It made no difference.
“There’s no one to hear you. My sister’s staying with friends, and the daily girl doesn’t come in until eight. Scream all you like.” And then, his mouth hot against her ear, “I actually rather like it.”
He wrenched aside the crotch of her knickers. “That’s better,” he said, and then he spat. She flinched, but he’d aimed the spittle at his own hand. It made no sense—why should he do such a thing?
He opened the flies on his trousers, and now he was rubbing his wet hand over his—no, no—and he pushed at her legs, forcing them wide, and the horror of his invasion, the tearing, wrenching brutality of it, stunned her into immobility.
What had she done for him to be so cruel? Or was this what it was simply like? Did all women have to endure such indignities? Were the love stories Milly had read aloud to her all lies?
Everything had been a lie.
He was so heavy, and his breath against her face was so rank, and everything he was doing was so painful and disgusting, and the sounds he made under his breath were just awful. Filthy words, over and over, right against her ear, and soft, whining groans that turned her stomach.
She hardly noticed when he rolled off her.
“Up you get,” he said, slapping at her thigh. He sounded almost playful. “You’ll want to clean yourself up. I’ll see you downstairs.”
How long did she stay there, her legs splayed open, her eyes hot and dry and sightless? She had to get up, she knew, and find some way out, but it was a long while before she was able to move. Even then the room spun around her and she had to fight hard not to be sick.
She noticed an open door, and beyond it the cool gleam of white tile, and somehow she managed to stand and then stumble to the bathroom. She was still wearing her shoes.
She switched on the light above the sink, and was surprised by the woman she found in the mirror. Eyes wild, face ghostly pale, hair dull and straggling and damp against her neck.
A stack of linen hand towels, impossibly fine, sat on a table next to the sink. She wet one of them with cold water, wrung it out, and wiped her face. Then her breasts, where a long, livid scratch had risen against her milky skin. And, last, between her legs. She had to rinse the towel again and again, but after a while the water no longer ran pink.
She pulled down her skirt, straightened her ruined stockings, and, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped out of her torn knickers and stuffed them in the bin. Her blouse was intact, for the buttons had obediently popped through their holes when he’d tugged it open.
He was in the kitchen, and her bag was on the table. He must have taken it with him when he’d gone downstairs. He had made himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and he didn’t even look up when she came in.
“I’d like to go home,” she said.
“Fine. You know the way out. I hope you didn’t make a mess on my mother’s bed.”
“No,” she said, enjoying a moment of perverse pride in her lie. There was no easy way to get blood out of silk brocade. She put on her coat, which he’d thrown over the back of a chair, and picked up her bag.
She stared at him, wondering how he could be so calm. So unaffected by what he had done to her. “Why?” she said at last.
He kept eating his sandwich, bite after bite, and when it was gone he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went to set the empty plate in the sink. Only then did he turn to look at her.
“You have no idea what it costs to live properly. No idea of the expectations people have, of the things I’ve had to force myself to do, just to keep a foot in the door.”
“It was all lies.”
“In the main, yes. I kept hoping you might be silly enough to tell me about that bloody gown. But not a word—not one word. And I couldn’t come straight out and ask, could I? You’d have run in the other direction if I’d said a thing. I’ve wasted weeks on you, and I’m no further ahead than I was in August.”
“So it was revenge just now?”
“That? That was me having some fun. You, too, if you’d bothered to unclench your teeth.”
“You raped me.”
“Did I? You came to this house with me. You walked upstairs on your own. You let me kiss you. There isn’t a judge in this land who’d agree it was rape.”
“But I know it was. You can try to forget, but it will never leave you. I know, and you know, that you are the farthest thing in the world from a decent man.” She walked to the side door and tore it open. “I hope you drown in your debts. It’s no less than you deserve.”
She didn’t look back. Her heart pounding out of her chest, she ran up the darkened steps, through the garden and garage, and back into the mews. She ran until she could see lights and traffic and safety ahead.
Soon she would be home. She would be home, and safe, and she’d have a hot bath and a still hotter cup of tea, and she would mend the parts of her he’d broken.
He had been a mistake. That was all. The sort of mistake she’d never be stupid enough to make again.
The sort of mistake she would take to her grave.