Chapter Twenty
Today is my final day in Seacombe. I awake to rain.
It sounds like someone’s throwing shells against the glass.
The gale causes the window frames to rattle and the light that usually bursts in through the gaps in the curtains is a weak beam of dull grey.
I remain in bed for a moment, warm beneath the sheet and blanket, not wanting to step out into the cold.
There’s no central heating and the fire in my bedroom is not lit.
I can feel the damp in the air on my face, even though the windows are closed.
It’s no doubt a typical English day in May; low-hanging grey cloud, wind and rain.
Mrs Crocker enters. ‘Hardly worth getting up,’ she says gloomily as she walks over the carpet to open the curtains. ‘Miserable day. Rain and more rain to come.’
I wonder if the rain will prevent some of the theatre building from being destroyed in the fire.
My spirits sink further with dread as I contemplate the fire.
I know what’s to come. But what I don’t know is how I’m going to navigate my way through the events in order to find out exactly how Nessa dies in the fire, while at the same time, finding a quiet moment to tell Cavill the truth, as I realise now that I must.
I get up and hurry into the bathroom. ‘It’s freezing,’ I complain, closing the door behind me.
‘I suggest you wear something warm,’ Mrs Crocker says, raising her voice so I can hear her above the gushing of water from the tap, and I envisage her going through the cupboard to find a suitable sweater. Oh, for a pair of jeans and a hoodie!
Together we choose a tweed skirt, silk blouse and a gorgeous Fair Isle sweater, which might easily have been bought at Ralph Lauren were we in my time. I’m grateful for the stockings, because my legs are cold. It’s not common for women to wear trousers. Lydia is unusual. I really miss my jeans!
I appraise myself in the mirror and conclude that the 1920s is not the most flattering era for women.
The Eton crop and bob are not becoming hairstyles unless one is very beautiful, like Eddie and Gilda, and the low-waisted dresses are shapeless.
The Edwardian women in my last slide looked much more attractive, even though the corset and long skirts were uncomfortable and constraining.
Nessa declares over breakfast that she will not be leaving the house in the rain and is going to practise the piano.
Lavinia would like to remain with her but has to go to work.
‘If I didn’t have to start typing Mr Waddle’s letters at nine o’clock sharp, I wouldn’t have got out of bed,’ she says.
‘What a morning! I hope the weather doesn’t put people off coming to the play,’ she adds a little worriedly.
‘On the contrary. It’s the perfect day for theatre,’ says Nessa, chewing on a piece of buttered toast. ‘One has to be inside in this weather and where better than the good old Aphrodite.’
‘I wonder whether Gilda will be back,’ I muse provocatively. I want to get a sense of what these two young women have plotted. For I believe they have been plotting. ‘Perhaps I should pay her a visit,’ I suggest.
Nessa catches Lavinia’s eye. She takes another bite of toast. ‘I think that’s a capital idea, Skippy. Maybe take her some Turkish Delight. There’s a box in the drawing room from your soirée last week. You could take her that.’ She grins at Lavinia. ‘A ribbon around it and she’ll be none the wiser.’
‘Yes, give her Turkish Delight and encourage her to stay in bed,’ Lavinia rejoins.
Nessa gives me a pleading look. ‘Oh, please, Skippy. Tell her to stay in bed, just for today. She can play Lady Macbeth every other night. I must have the part tonight, for Papa. You understand, don’t you, Skippy? I’m only asking for one night.’
‘I will do my best,’ I tell her.
A while later, I’m in the hall with Mrs Crocker, putting on my hat and coat, when Nessa comes running down the stair with the box of Turkish Delight wrapped in pink paper and tied with a velvet ribbon.
My suspicious mind immediately leaps to wonder whether she hasn’t injected something into the sweets.
I dismiss the idea as silly. How would she do that at a moment’s notice?
Who would happen to have a syringe on hand, and how could they guarantee that Gilda would eat one?
Lavinia has already left. Nessa skips off to practise the piano, and I head out into the rain. Mrs Crocker shakes her head and calls after me. ‘Don’t catch cold.’ The wind buffets my coat, and I have to hold tightly on to the umbrella to stop it flying away.
Few people are in the streets today. A black car motors by, splashing the pavement as it drives through a puddle. I keep my head down and walk hurriedly. It’s certainly not a day for a stop and chat. For that I’m grateful.
I arrive at Cavill and Gilda’s house and ring the bell. The building still manages to look splendid, even in the rain. The butler opens it, looks me up and down in an imperious manner, and then welcomes me inside. ‘Good morning, Mrs Skipton,’ he says solemnly.
‘Good morning,’ I reply, aware that I should really greet him by name for we are obviously familiar with each other. ‘Is Mrs Pengower well enough to receive a visitor?’
He nods slowly. ‘If you don’t mind waiting here, Mrs Skipton, I will go and ask her if she is at home.’
That sounds contradictory to me. I watch him disappear through the large double doors to my right.
I’m left alone in the silent hall, surrounded by Gilda’s immaculate taste, wondering whether Cavill is at home too. I’m painfully aware that today I must somehow make him understand who I really am, but here is not the place, and most certainly not the time.
The butler reappears. ‘Mrs Pengower is at home.’ He takes my hat and coat and hangs them up in the cloakroom. ‘Please come this way.’
I follow him through a splendid set of grand drawing rooms, each connected to the other by big white panelled doors, until he hovers in front of a smaller, more intimate and feminine sitting room decorated in raspberry red and sage green.
To my surprise Gilda is not alone. Mr Bentley, Taran, is with her. Hiding in plain sight springs to mind!
Gilda smiles from the sofa. She’s lounging there with her feet up, beneath a blanket. Her smile is frail. Mr Bentley is smoking a pipe in one of the armchairs beside the fire, which is lit. When I enter, he stands and greets me warmly.
Gilda puts out her hand, which looks very white against the baby pink sleeve of the silk gown she’s wearing. ‘Skippy!’ she exclaims in a feeble voice.
‘I’ve been worried about you,’ I tell her, crossing the sumptuous Persian carpet to give her my gift.
‘What is this?’ she asks, taking it. Her eyes, a second ago listless, now glimmer with the delight of a child. ‘I do love a present. What have you got me, Skippy? Really, you shouldn’t have.’
‘Oh, it’s only a little something,’ I reply, taking the chair on the other side of the fire to Mr Bentley. He has a smug look about him, but he doesn’t know what I saw the other night.
‘Might it be edible?’ Mr Bentley laughs, sitting back down and arching his eyebrows at me playfully.
‘I do hope so,’ says Gilda, pulling on the ribbon and opening the paper. Her eyes light up when she recognises the box. ‘Turkish Delight! My favourite,’ she cries happily. ‘I’m going to have some now. Do you want a piece, Mr Bentley? Skippy? Oh, do!’
I envisage Nessa and Lavinia, like the witches in the play, hovering over the sugared squares with a syringe full of poison, and decline. But Mr Bentley gets out of his chair, takes one and pops it into his mouth with relish.
‘Don’t they just melt on your tongue?’ Gilda says with a contented sigh. She helps herself to another. ‘I swear I’ll eat the whole box.’
‘They’re moreish, aren’t they?’ I add.
Gilda looks at me and frowns. ‘I love that word. Moreish. I’m going to use it a lot. Moreish.’ I could teach her a few other new words besides.
‘Might you be well enough to perform tonight?’ I ask.
‘I hope so,’ she says, glancing at Mr Bentley. ‘I must rest today and see how I feel later.’
‘Miss Blunt is ready to take your place,’ says Mr Bentley. ‘There is no pressure. Your health must come first.’
Gilda smiles at him with gratitude. ‘You’re too good to me, Mr Bentley.’ I don’t doubt that to her he’s usually Taran.
I recall them having sex in the theatre, and then the conversation between Mr Bentley and Nessa, and wonder where he really stands in all of this.
Does he love Gilda? If he does, why is he moving to London and leaving her?
If he loved her, would he have encouraged Nessa to go too?
I watch Mr Bentley closely. Right now, he seems very attentive towards Gilda.
Perhaps he doesn’t want her to perform tonight, considering the dazzling performance Nessa gave in the dress rehearsal.
Maybe he loves Gilda as a woman, but not as an actress, and genuinely wants to help promote Nessa whom he recognises as very talented.
A maid brings in a tray of crockery and Victoria sponge cake and proceeds to pour tea from a pretty floral teapot into delicate china cups.
Gilda sips her tea as she makes her way blithely through the box of Turkish Delight.
I can barely eat the piece of cake the maid has sliced for me because I’m so worried Gilda is going to suddenly froth at the mouth, poisoned by Nessa with her syringe!
But she doesn’t froth at the mouth. She doesn’t even cough.
Her cheeks flush with a rosy glow and she appears much restored.
The butler returns and lays another log on the fire.
When he uses the bellows to reignite it, crimson sparks fly out and the logs crackle and burn.
Soon the flames are dancing merrily in the grate.
I can’t help but look into the fire and think of Nessa.
I turn my attention back to the conversation to distract me from what is imminent and unavoidable.