A Life of Secrets Read online

  Dear Sir,

  Myrtle Waters died last week and has today bin buried. I carn’t keep the child. She sed to write to you.

  Yours respecfully

  Annie Jones

  Gerard swore, and leaning forward, clenched his hands on his knees. He’d never expected that blasted business to raise its head again, could hardly even recall the features of the woman who had died. He’d played his part by giving way to what had amounted to blackmail at his original suggestion that the brat should be sent to a workhouse, and had paid handsomely to keep the Claremont name free from any scandal. Hurriedly he glanced down at the envelope again, feeling relief that this Annie Jones had incorrectly addressed her note to G. Claremont, Esq., which meant that his true identity was unknown.

  But the confounded problem would have to be taken care of, and with urgency. He toyed again with the workhouse option, but what if Myrtle had left an incriminating letter in case that circumstance ever arose? She had been vehement in her outrage at even the thought. He could never take such a risk. Leaning back in his chair, Gerard took a deep breath and steepled his fingers. This was going to need intensive thought, especially in finding the needed trustworthy accomplice. Whereas the right amount of money could buy most things, absolute discretion could not always be relied upon and that was paramount. He shuddered at the thought of the unsavoury truth emerging. That would be disastrous.

  It was an hour later, having come to a decision, that he summoned Fulton. ‘Is Her Ladyship in the morning room?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so, sir.’

  ‘Alone?’

  The butler inclined his head.

  ‘I shall join her. And although it’s early, I’ll take a glass of Madeira there.’ Seconds later, Gerard went to join his wife.

  ‘Darling,’ she said from the Chesterfield sofa where she was flicking through the Tatler. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t down for breakfast.’

  ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, I was just feeling lazy.’ She patted the seat beside her.

  Gerard, however, settled into an armchair opposite. ‘Sweetheart, I have a matter to discuss with you.’ He turned as the butler brought in his wine, then waited until he’d left.

  ‘It is just a suggestion, my sweet, but I wondered whether you might enjoy several days in Paris, perhaps to choose some new clothes?’

  Her face lit up. ‘What woman could resist? You are so good to me, Gerard.’

  ‘It gives me pleasure to indulge you. And you will need a companion, of course.’

  ‘You mean you would not be accompanying me?’ Her limpid blue eyes showed dismay.

  He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t. However, perhaps we should make the most of an opportunity …’ he hesitated. ‘Would this not be a chance to develop your relationship with Deborah?’ Seeing her frown he continued, ‘It would lead to a more harmonious atmosphere, don’t you agree? Perhaps being in your company might soften her a little, bring out her more feminine side.’

  ‘You think so? I don’t find her easy, Gerard.’

  ‘I know, neither do I. But it would oblige me, Julia.’

  She sighed. ‘In that case, I shall suggest it to her.’

  ‘No sense in delay; perhaps quite soon, would you like that?’

  ‘It sounds lovely. I’ll talk to Deborah when she returns this afternoon.’

  A little of Gerard’s tension eased. Julia’s nature meant that he could easily bend her to his will, and already her mind would be turning to fripperies. Also, he found her blonde prettiness and curvaceous body appealing, whilst her excellent lineage boded well for a suitable heir. Gerard had never considered that Julia might refuse his marriage proposal. Hadn’t becoming the Countess of Anscombe been every debutante’s ambition? But in view of the contents of the letter, he could do without any social distractions in the near future, inevitable if Julia were in residence. He may also need to bring unsuitable people to the house. And Deborah’s presence? She was far too perceptive.

  At the agency, Deborah’s thoughts were of Sarah Boot. She would be coming that afternoon in the hope of being the recipient of good news. And Deborah had found something to offer her. However, she did find herself in something of a quandary. Yes, there was a request for a parlourmaid in Hampstead but where the position would be a quiet one. The mistress was an elderly spinster who led an almost reclusive life while the staff, small in number, were long established. That in itself was a recommendation, but Deborah couldn’t help wondering whether such a lively spirit as Sarah’s wouldn’t feel confined. Frowning, she tapped her pencil on Sarah’s file. There was another opening here in London that might suit the girl, a grand and busy household. But Deborah had occasionally dined there, and as always needed to be wary of taking any risk that might threaten her own anonymity. Her appearance might be different devoid of the plain lens spectacles she wore at the agency, but she could do nothing to alter her voice. It was unrealistic to hope that a parlourmaid waiting on table might not recognise her, and a servants’ hall was always a hotbed of gossip. As Gerard was fond of lecturing her, no whisper of scandal must ever touch their family. And so most of her placements tended to be with middle-class families rather than with aristocracy.

  Deborah made her decision. ‘Elspeth?’

  Her assistant came in from the small outer office. When she had first opened the agency in Bloomsbury, and held interviews, the stockily built Elspeth Reid with her greying hair, intelligent eyes and calm manner had convinced Deborah that she had found the ideal person. Not only because she was the widow of an Anglican minister, Deborah had known instinctively that her true identity would be safe in her hands. She had never had a moment’s regret, indeed the two women, different in both age and background, had become firm friends.

  Deborah smiled at her. ‘I think the only sensible solution would be to place Sarah Boot with the elderly spinster in Hampstead.’

  ‘Aye, from what you’ve told me about her, I agree. Although in this morning’s post there is a request for a housemaid at Felchurch Manor.’

  ‘Our last placement there worked well. You know, if Sarah proved willing to accept a lower status, that might suit her better. And isn’t it in Wiltshire where she grew up? Thank you, Elspeth. I shall give her the two options and let her choose for herself.’

  In the East End, Sarah was putting a few scraps of cheese into a small saucepan of milk. With a hunk of yesterday’s bread, it would suffice to keep hunger at bay. Striking a match to light the gas, her gaze wandered over the mean basement room, with its grimy windows, limp curtains and cracked linoleum; she had even heard the scuttling of a rat last night. How she hoped that her days there would soon come to an end, and it was all because of her aunt’s stupidity. It had been a cruel disappointment to knock on the door of her aunt’s cottage and face the dark stubble of Joe Moffat, a local man Sarah had always detested.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he muttered then shouted over his shoulder. ‘It’s your Sarah!’

  With a feeling of dread she had gone into what was once her home, and one glance at Lily’s gold band was enough to confirm her fear. Sarah was both shocked and bewildered. Joe Moffat was well known to be an idle bugger so why on earth had Lily, who had always managed to support herself, taken such a coarse man to her bed? Within minutes of Sarah’s arrival, he was patting her aunt’s bottom as if to establish his ownership, and it wasn’t long before his sly gaze flicked over Sarah. She flashed him a look of disdain and with a grin he ambled out to the tiny garden.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ she hissed, ‘at least invite me to the wedding?’

  Lily, a thin wiry woman with a tired face, looked sheepish. ‘It were a rush job, or rather I thought it was.’

  Appalled, Sarah stared at her. ‘Whatever got into you?’

  Lily glanced uneasily over her shoulder. ‘’Twas the last Harvest Supper, there was somethin’ in the punch.’

  And Sarah could guess who put it there. Lily, with her cosy cottage woul
d be a prime catch for a layabout like Joe. ‘It was a false alarm, then?’

  Lily nodded. ‘I’d missed me monthly, but it must’ve been my age. I should have thought of that, but I just panicked.’

  ‘But you’re all right?’ Sarah jerked her head towards the garden. ‘With him, I mean?’

  Lily shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s not so bad.’

  ‘But you’re still paying the rent.’ Sarah’s tone was flat.

  ‘No change there, I’m afraid.’ Lily bustled to the kettle. ‘Anyway, sit you down, you must be parched. Are you hungry?’

  When Sarah nodded, Lily cut her a slice of fruit cake. ‘What brings you back? You’ve not bin dismissed?’

  Sarah told her what had happened or could have happened. ‘I’d hoped to come back to live with you for a bit, but there’s a fat chance of that happening now!’

  ‘I could ask Joe if he’d mind. There’s still your old room empty.’

  Sarah wavered, but with her previous experience still fresh in her mind decided to trust her instincts. She’d shaken her head. ‘No, I’ll stay tonight and then go back to London. There’ll be more chance of a live-in job.’

  At precisely three o’clock that afternoon Elspeth ushered Sarah into Deborah’s office. Sitting straight, wearing a straw hat and clutching her bag on her knee, she sat before the desk with a look that managed to be both anxious and hopeful.

  Deborah gave a reassuring smile. ‘I have good news for you, I have found you two possible positions.’ She saw Sarah’s face light up, and went on to give a full explanation of each post. ‘Of course, they are both dependent upon a favourable interview, but it is rare that my recommendation is not accepted.’

  Sarah was frowning and biting her lip in concentration. ‘You say it’d be a very quiet household in Hampstead?’

  Deborah nodded. ‘And a small one where you would probably be the youngest member of staff. The establishment in Wiltshire is much larger.’

  ‘But the post is only of housemaid.’

  ‘Yes, but I imagine you would have prospects of advancement.’

  ‘And I could start right away at both of them?’

  Deborah nodded.

  ‘Well, miss, if you could see where I’m living now, you’d understand why I’ll take either. But …’ Again she bit her lip. ‘What do you think, miss?’

  Deborah surveyed her. There was spirit in the girl, it was apparent in her posture, her quick mind. She would hate to see that dimmed by monotony.

  ‘If you don’t mind the temporary demotion to housemaid, considering your age, I think you might be happier in Wiltshire.’

  An expression of relief passed over Sarah’s face. ‘Oh, thank you, miss, I was wondering that myself.’

  ‘Then if you go and see Mrs Reid in the outer office, she will give you all the details and arrange for you to travel down for interview. She will also advance your rail fare and expenses.’

  ‘You’ll get it back, though?’

  Deborah smiled. She really did like this girl. ‘Yes, we’ll get it back.’

  Sarah stood. ‘Thank you very much, Miss Claremont.’

  Deborah nodded, and smiled to herself seeing Sarah leave with a much lighter step. How old was she, nineteen? An age when a world of promise stretched ahead. Sarah’s spirit had reminded her of herself at that age or even younger. And with that thought came the memory of her closest friend, Abigail. She missed her vivacious friend. Similar in age and intellect the two girls had grown up in Berkshire on nearby estates and had hoped to come out together as debutantes. But with the outbreak of war, all Court presentations were suspended. Abigail was now living in married bliss in Scotland, and Deborah reminded herself that she owed her a letter.

  She thought again of Sarah. Please God, fate would be kind to her. As to her own fate, it was better to remind herself of the countless blessings her privileged birth had brought. But that didn’t mean that deep in her soul there wasn’t an emptiness, even if she had become adept at hiding it.

  Chapter Three

  Later that afternoon back at Grosvenor Square, Deborah went upstairs to remove her coat and to change into more suitable attire only to find Ellen hovering in the bedroom. ‘Did all go well, my lady?’

  ‘Indeed it did, Ellen. It was a most satisfactory day.’

  ‘Only Fulton gave me a message for you from Her Ladyship. When you returned would you kindly join her in the drawing room.’

  Deborah stared at her in surprise. ‘Then I had better go down.’

  Once changed into a fresh ivory crêpe de chine blouse and pearls to enhance her plain skirt, Deborah left her room and went thoughtfully down the stairs and across the black-and-white tiled hall to the drawing room, which had always been a favourite of hers, holding as it did memories of her parents’ sophisticated evening soirées. Many times she had sat at the top of the stairs concealed by a turn in the bannister to listen to the clink of glasses and laughter. With the occasional glimpse of stylish evening gowns, it had seemed to her as a young girl to be the epitome of glamour.

  But now, intrigued by the summons from Julia, she went into the room to see her seated on one of the deep cushions of a cream sofa. She was browsing through a magazine, her sole occupation it seemed to Deborah, who had yet to see her reading an actual book. Then she chided herself for being uncharitable. Her sister-in-law was merely a product of her background, in the same way that the florid middle-aged woman Deborah had just interviewed was a product of hers. It had been a pity that the latter had been too rough round the edges for Deborah to find her a suitable position. But she had at least been able to give her the name of another agency whose standards were not as exacting as her own.

  Pushing such thoughts away, Deborah greeted the young woman who was now mistress not only of the Grosvenor Square house, but also of their country seat in Berkshire.

  ‘I’m so pleased to see you, Deborah.’ Julia put down her magazine. ‘Please, do come and share tea with me.’ She rose and went to the silken bell pull at the side of the marble fireplace.

  ‘Of course.’ Deborah chose an armchair opposite the sofa, a Queen Anne coffee table between them.

  They chatted about the weather, a new hat that Julia had bought, and then after the refreshments had arrived and tea had been poured she said, ‘Deborah, as I plan to go to Paris quite soon for the latest fashions, I was wondering whether you would care to accompany me?’

  Deborah stared at her in astonishment. Julia had made no secret of her disdain for her sister-in-law’s spinsterhood, and in the nine months since her wedding had shown little inclination for friendship.

  ‘Only Gerard thought,’ Julia added, ‘and naturally I agree with him, that it would be rather nice if we could become friends. After all, we do live in the same house.’

  Deborah searched her sister-in-law’s eyes for any sign of sarcasm, but Julia’s gaze remained frank. ‘It was his suggestion about Paris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Deborah, careful to keep her features expressionless, was immediately suspicious. Even as a boy her brother had always been plotting something, often lying to get his own way.

  ‘For how long, Julia?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but at least several days. Do say you’ll come.’

  Deborah thought swiftly. That was manageable, Elspeth could easily cover her absence. Although she was tempted to remain at Grosvenor Square instead to try and discover what her brother was up to, Gerard had never been one for generous gestures. But she did love Paris, was never averse to buying new clothes and the prospect was certainly tempting. Anyway, it would be churlish to refuse. She forced a warm smile. ‘I’d be delighted to, Julia.’ That wasn’t completely true because the prospect of them being sole companions for several days wasn’t exactly appealing. But even she could accept that a semblance of rapport between them would make life more agreeable. Julia rose and clapped her hands, a habit that Deborah always found childish. ‘Excellent, I shall go and tell Gerard so that w
e can decide on a date and he can make the necessary arrangements.’

  As the door closed behind her, Deborah felt somewhat perplexed. She still felt that she was being manipulated, although she had no idea why. She sighed. This trip could so easily turn into a disaster. It was not that she harboured resentment towards Gerard’s wife, it was the natural order of things that one day another woman would become mistress of her childhood home, both here and in the country. She just wished that her brother could have chosen someone with an outlook nearer to her own. But would such a woman have wanted to marry a cold fish like Gerard with a prematurely receding hairline? Of course, one could never underestimate the appeal of a title.

  Gerard was in his study. As Julia came in with her news, he rose from his desk to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Well done, darling. But do you mind if we discuss it this evening as I have an urgent matter to attend to. Perhaps if you could let Fulton know that I don’t wish to be disturbed. Although I shall take tea as usual.’

  ‘But of course.’

  After Julia had left, Gerard removed a cream vellum notepad from a drawer and thoughtfully unscrewed the top of his fountain pen. Ever since the letter had arrived from Annie Jones, his mind had wrestled with the problem of that dratted child. Even now he wasn’t sure the name that had risen to the surface of his mind was the right one. But he had to make a decision and immediately. He also had to be prepared in case the man he approached refused to become involved. So he needed to list other likelihoods.

  He put pen to paper and wrote his first choice, Freddie Seymour, followed after some hesitation by Ivor Manfield and Charlie Andrews. All young men who were known for their addiction to gambling. In Gerard’s not inconsiderable experience, gamblers were always in need of extra funds, especially younger sons dependent upon their allowances. The question was whether one of them would be willing to undertake a task, which, while not illegal, did require both subterfuge and secrecy. And this time, Gerard was going to make sure that there was no possibility of future blackmail. He tapped the desk with his fingers. A private detective, that was what he needed. And one who could commence investigations into the three men immediately. There was a name lurking at the back of his mind and he frowned as he searched for it. Who was it who had used such a person? Then it came to him. That chap at the club whose wife had cuckolded him − the one who had bored him rigid over a couple of brandies. The name he’d mentioned had been so unusual that Gerard could actually recall it. Blaise Bonham, that was it, the alliteration had helped. He reached into a drawer and retrieving Kelly’s Directory, paused as a parlourmaid brought in a tray with tea and shortbread biscuits. After pouring the tea she left the room and he couldn’t help admiring her trim figure, feeling a twinge of regret that his days of dalliance would now have to be in the past. Not that he’d been in the habit of seducing the maids, for heaven’s sake – not a whiff of scandal must ever sully his family’s name. But whilst society might not look askance at a young man sowing his wild oats, it was a different matter altogether now that he was a married man, with every hope of soon siring a male heir.