THE FAIRLIGHT SERIES II
ISABEL'S WAR
Chapter 1
Damn. He was back. And half an hour earlier than usual, as well.
The need to kowtow to her husband first thing in the morning always got her day off to a bad start – and he knew it. It was the sole reason he went to the bother of coming home. To add insult to injury, to ensure she heard him arrive, he made a point of closing the front door so heavily against the frame that the pictures in the hallway rattled. It would have been bad enough had he done it to jolt her awake but, after twenty years of being forced to live by his ridiculous rules, he knew full well there was no chance she would still be asleep after six o’clock.
‘From today,’ he’d announced on the first morning of their honeymoon, at the same time taking hold of her wrist with a strength that had alarmed her, ‘by the time I wake up, you will see to it that you have washed, dressed and made yourself look presentable. Slatternliness is something I will not tolerate. As my wife, it is your duty to ensure my day gets off to a smooth start, by which I mean that the appropriate cleaned and pressed set of my garments is laid out ready, my breakfast – which you are to ensure has neither grown cold nor been allowed to dry out – arrives at the table as I do, that my newspaper, along with the morning’s post, is at my left hand. More generally, you are to run my household in such a manner that I am never inconvenienced by issues of a domestic or otherwise trifling nature. Confirm to me now that you understand my instructions because if I am forced to issue reminders, I guarantee you will not enjoy the consequences.’
No, her husband didn’t come home in the morning and slam the door to wake her up; he did it to draw her attention to the fact that he hadn’t spent the night in his adjacent bedroom – that he had instead been with Her. He did it to rub her nose in the fact that, after all these years, he was still being unfaithful, and to hammer home that she was powerless to do anything about it. Many was the morning she’d been tempted to tell him he could desist from the farce because she couldn’t care less where he’d been – that she’d stopped caring years ago. But experience always checked her tongue; safer to remain silent and let him think he still had her nicely cowed than be called to account for her latest transgression or made to list her every shortcoming as his wife. The predictability of his routine did have one bright side: on the mornings when he didn’t wake up in his own bed, she didn’t have to be up with the lark to have everything ready for him. Today, however, with his timing adrift from the norm, she was about to get caught out.
Hastily pulling the bedclothes up over her shoulder, she braced for the door to fly open. Three, two, one.
‘Get out of bed and pack my things.’
When the canvas kitbag he tossed onto the bed landed on her feet, she winced under the weight of it but hauled herself upright anyway. She would never have thought it possible to detest someone quite so roundly. But it was, and she did.
‘Good morning, dear.’
His bulk filling the doorframe, he glowered back at her. ‘For the love of God, woman, hold your tongue and listen. Zero-seven hundred a driver is to collect me. Do not make me late.’
Biting back the urge to do precisely that, she got out of bed, removed his kitbag to the floor and padded across to the easy chair for her robe. If the army was sending a driver, he had to be going out of town – not that she cared for the details; military duties or otherwise, he went wherever he pleased. That said, on the handful of occasions when she’d been foolish enough to let him leave without enquiring as to his movements, she’d been left clueless as to when he might return. And having him show up without warning was a surprise she could do without.
‘For how many days do I pack?’ she asked, glancing up from tying the sash of her robe.
Already part way along the hall, he paused before turning to retrace his steps.
This morning, she detected from his demeanour an even greater distaste for her than usual, the tell-tale tic in his right temple suggesting he was close to blowing his top.
‘Not that it’s any of your concern, but I have been appointed Lieutenant Colonel of a battalion in Aldershot.’
A promotion? Her husband was being posted away? She doused a frisson of excitement; she’d got her hopes up before – many, many times before – only to have them roundly dashed.
‘So –’
‘I report this morning to Colonel Hyde-Llewellyn.’
‘So, does that mean –’
‘Do not mistake this for a discussion. My order to you was clear. Pack my things. By the time I’m dressed, I expect everything to be ready. And don’t even think about leaving anything out.’
When he left to take care of his ablutions, Isabel wandered back to her bedroom and sank into the easy chair. His assertion that his news didn’t concern her wasn’t true. While she didn’t give a fig about his promotion per se, his announcement that he was being posted to Aldershot was nothing short of astonishing: Hector, promoted to Lieutenant Colonel in charge of a battalion – a field appointment, after so long comfortably behind a desk at the Ministry of War? That can’t have pleased him. Neither could the need to remove to somewhere as far from the capital as Aldershot, the two, together, constituting inconvenience on an unprecedented scale. His secondment to a cushy job in Whitehall, about three years previously, had provided him with all manner of perks, not least of which was working within a fifteen-minute stroll of the apartment in the Holborn mansion block where he’d installed his long-time mistress, Audrey Deacon-Jones. No wonder he was crabby; being promoted to a distant field battalion was definitely not the type of leg-up for which he would have spent the last year or so jockeying. But it served him right. He was in the army, and there was a war on. And she, for one, couldn’t be more delighted that his luck had finally run out. The one or two female acquaintances with whom she still occasionally crossed paths remarked how fortunate she was to still have her husband at home; little did they know how deeply she wished he wasn’t. Either way, make it through the next half an hour and she would be rid of him, at least for now.
The enormity of his revelation sinking in, she shot to her feet. Her husband was being sent away – and for more than the odd few days. Her prayers had been answered. She must make haste and be rid of him.
Grasping his kit bag, she carried it along to his dressing room. Then she shuttled between various drawers, assembling on his leather-topped bench the requisite undergarments. From the rack in the bottom of the closet, she retrieved his dress shoes and PT plimsolls, which she stuffed with paper and then forced into separate linen bags; she folded briefs, vests, and rolled pairs of socks in precisely the manner in which he liked to find them. From where he’d cast them off, she scooped up what he’d worn to last night’s black-tie dinner, catching as she did so a whiff of patchouli, vanilla, carnation – of Tabu – the heady scent favoured by his mistress, the woman’s choice of fragrance always striking her as rather on the nose.
Quelling amusement, she plunged the garments into the linen bag for the dry-cleaner. From the wardrobe, she retrieved an identical outfit and then fell still to listen. In the bathroom, he was running water into the washbasin, which meant she had about ten minutes before he would reappear and expect to see everything mustered and ready.
Taking marginally greater care with his newly laundered outfit, she slipped it inside the canvas suit carrier that bore his initials. The sight of them, stitched in gold thread, jogged a memory of how she’d once let him go away without his hip flask – a gift from his mother and similarly emblazoned – the recollection leading her to dart across the hall to his study. Spotting the flask alongside the decanters on the galleried silver drinks’ tray, she snatched it up, the lightness of it telling her it was empty. Despatching him with a flask devoid of whisky was as heinous a crime as failing to pack it at all.
Removing the stopper from the decanter of his single malt, she positioned the little silver funnel and carefully topped up the flask to a level she knew to be precisely three-quarters: I said three-quarters, you dolt; had I wanted it filled all the way up the neck, I would have said so. His exasperation, on that very first occasion he’d instructed her to fill it, was still sharp in her mind today: the depth of his scorn; the extent of his loathing; the fury with which he had grasped her arm. No matter how often she attempted to rid herself of such memories, the shock and the hurt never dulled. They hadn’t even finished their honeymoon before she’d found herself wondering what life must be like for the poor soul he’d picked to be his batman. She hadn’t needed to wonder for long, her own experience at the wrong end of his temper giving her a pretty good idea. Still, very shortly now, he would be gone. All she had to do was obey him a moment or two longer.
His final requirements assembled on the floor of his dressing room, she set about packing them into his bag. If she’d found his behaviour that first time abhorrent, it was a good job she’d had no idea what else lay in store, especially given that, around eighteen months into their marriage, Audrey Deacon-Jones had been divorced by her own husband on the grounds of her adultery – specifically, the affair she’d been carrying on with Hector. Hector, of course, like the rat that he was, had strenuously denied any and all transgression. Yes, it might have taken her less than a month of marriage to realize that making him happy was going to be an uphill task – and that was before she had failed to become pregnant – but it had been Audrey’s divorce that had ultimately sounded the death knell for her loveless union; as far as Hector was concerned, from that day forward, by the simple act of being his wife, she stood in the way of his happiness; from the moment Audrey had become a divorcée, every time she’d thought his behaviour couldn’t become any worse, he would deliver a new humiliation and prove her wrong.
Packing his cashmere scarf and kidskin driving gloves, she shook her head in dismay. As she had pondered so very many times – and, on occasion, had even dared to ask him outright – why, if she made him that unhappy, hadn’t he simply left her? With next-to-no effort on his part, he could have fabricated grounds for throwing her out. Instead, since he apparently had what he wanted – a subservient wife running his home and the thrill of a mistress for his pleasure – he’d chosen not to give her the satisfaction. Despite spending at least five nights each week in Holborn, he still got up every morning and came back to their apartment in St. James’. And the only reason she could think he continued with the charade was either because it gave his assignations with Audrey an illicit edge or, more likely, because he enjoyed rubbing his wife’s nose in it.
She supposed an outsider might ask the same question of her: why, once it had become clear what sort of man he was, hadn’t she divorced him? The answer was straightforward. Firstly, she lacked the means; she had very little money of her own and certainly nowhere near enough to pay for a divorce. Secondly, while a wife was now allowed to petition her husband for a divorce on the grounds of his adultery or cruelty, the onus fell upon the woman to prove it. And with Hector having long since cut her off from her friends, what was left of her social circle comprised almost exclusively his acquaintances and their wives, not a single one of whom would speak out against him: how dare she complain that her husband kept her in her proper place? Even if a court did somehow take her side, a divorce wouldn’t bring an end to her problems but rather present her with a whole new set. She had no family to speak of – her father having died while she’d been away at school, her mother having remarried and gone abroad twenty years ago, her only brother having been lost in the Great War. No, Hector had her so cut-off that she had nowhere to go and no means by which to survive on her own. She was exactly where he wanted her – firmly under his control. Why had she married him in the first place? Because, although she hadn’t seen it at the time, her widowed mother – anxious to marry the wealthy Argentinian she had snared for herself – had schemed and manoeuvred and manipulated her into it.
Realizing with a jolt that the splashing of water in the bathroom had given way to the sound of him humming – her signal that he had reached the point in his routine where he oiled his hair – she knew she had just two or three minutes to have everything ready. With a wry smile, she got to her feet; if she was really fortunate, once he had things as he wanted them in Aldershot, he would install Audrey somewhere close by and forget that he had a wife at all.
The recognition triggered an idea. Grabbing the pile of handkerchiefs she’d set aside to pack, and with a quick glance towards the closed door of the bathroom, she stole back to her room. There, she spread out the starched linen squares, snatched her bottle of Joy perfume from her dressing table, and treated every one of them to a light misting of jasmine and rose. Granted, it was a criminal waste of good perfume, especially since she had no idea when she might be able to replace it. But picturing his irritation at being forcibly reminded of her every time he plucked a handkerchief from his pocket more than compensated for the profligacy.
Back in his dressing room, the handkerchiefs slipped in among his garments, she got to her feet.
‘Done?’ He dumped his shaving kit and wash bag in front of her.
‘Done.’
As she watched him adjust his collar, she realized she never had managed to work out what Audrey found so irresistible about the man; she doubted it was his thinning hair and shiny forehead, the combination of which his mother insisted upon referring to as his ‘noble brow’. Since the description implied honourable qualities, it could hardly have been less appropriate. She also thought it unlikely Audrey had fallen for his eyes which, unlike those of heroes in novels, were less dark soulful pools and more seething pits. Of late, he was also starting to develop a paunch, which made her think that even Audrey wasn’t brave enough to suggest he consider cutting down on the claret.
As she watched him survey his reflection in the cheval mirror, she wondered whether it was the sight of him in dress uniform that attracted the woman. It seemed unlikely; something so superficial couldn’t possibly account for Audrey Deacon-Jones not only destroying her own marriage by pursuing an affair with him but also enduring the humiliation of being dragged through court for adultery. Perhaps that was it – perhaps she thrived on humiliation. Hector certainly knew how to dish it out. And it did take all sorts to make the world go round.
‘Two minutes to spare,’ he announced over his shoulder as he stood fastening his wristwatch; having one day found a hand-written card inside its box, she knew it had been a gift from Audrey on their tenth ‘anniversary’. When she handed him his hip flask and he stowed it in his pocket, he added, ‘Rather late in the day to finally have come good.’
Feeling her fingers twitching at her side, she fought the urge to slap him. ‘If you say so.’
‘You know, had you given me offspring – sons, in particular – it might have worked out. You might have made the grade. You weren’t unattractive, in your own girlish sort of way.’
It was only the ring of the telephone that prevented her from delivering an unwise retort.
Jaw clamped, she went to answer it.
‘That was the doorman,’ she returned to inform him. ‘Your driver is outside.’
He checked his wristwatch. ‘Precisely on time.’
When he lifted his bag, she handed him his suit carrier. ‘Might I enquire when to expect you to return?’
‘In case it has somehow escaped your notice, woman, we’re at war, which means that, even were I of a mind to tell you, I couldn’t.’
He couldn’t resist, could he? Even a perfectly civil enquiry brought sarcasm.
‘But you’ll be coming back, as the need arises.’ Her concern, as she asked, was that, purely to spite her, he would tell his mother – by whose gift they occupied the mausoleum of an apartment in the first place – that he no longer had need of it; several times over the years, he’d threatened to put her into a rented bed-sit. While she didn’t think he’d go through with it – largely for fear his friends might think him a cad to treat such an apparently docile and compliant wife in such a degrading manner – it was a humiliation she couldn’t risk. On occasion, she’d found herself wondering whether such a fate would actually be so awful – at least she would be away from him – but that was the other reason why he would never make good on the threat: to avoid giving her the grain or two of freedom and independence such a move would provide.
‘I haven’t yet decided,’ he replied to her enquiry.
She regretted asking, his response worded to give him the whip hand one final time before his removal to Aldershot put her beyond daily reach.
‘I see.’ Part of her was tempted to add, well, that’s all right because I haven’t yet decided whether or not I shall stay. As she knew to her cost, though, trying to sound clever was never wise. Besides, a tiny corner of her brain urged, be patient: you are mere moments from having him belittle you no more.
When he opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing, from force of habit, she went ahead of him to call the lift. As she pressed the button, from the bottom of the shaft came the clank of the mechanism rousing itself into life, the subsequent whirring as it ascended soberly towards them echoing around the otherwise silent marble stairwell.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ he said when the lift car arrived and he was sliding back the scissor gate to step inside, ‘I’ve cancelled the daily. No sense paying staff to skivvy for a woman who spends all day doing nothing, is there.’
Practiced in the art of concealing her emotions, she held her expression and watched as he latched the gate and stabbed a finger at the button marked ‘G’. When the lift motor sent up a whine, and the car began its clunking descent to the ground floor, she continued to hold firm. Only when his sarcastic grin disappeared from view did she allow herself to turn and walk away. In truth, she couldn’t give a hoot about the daily woman – was more than capable of keeping the place up together by herself. But no matter how desperately she longed to set him straight, she would bite back her frustration; no matter the depth of her pent-up rage, she hadn’t let him see her cry in twenty years of marriage and wasn’t about to start now, on the day he was being posted away.
Back in the apartment, she went to the drawing room window, where she pulled aside the curtain and stared down to the forecourt below. Standing to attention alongside a black motorcar was a corporal who, upon sighting his passenger, saluted, and then stepped forward to relieve him of his luggage and briefcase; in mere seconds, her bully of a husband had gone from giving orders to one subordinate to giving them to the next, it never occurring to him to treat her any differently from anyone else he considered in some way lesser.
Waiting until she’d seen his vehicle negotiate the exit onto the street, she turned away from the window and let out a dismayed sigh; at the precise moment she should have been dancing around the room, singing at the top of her voice in celebration, two decades of keeping her emotions in check prevented her, her loathsome husband sucking the joy from the occasion even after he’d left. But he wouldn’t be doing it for much longer because she had a plan. And it was a plan that was going to completely change her life.
Yes, she thought as she finally allowed herself a smile, what she knew, but Lieutenant Colonel Hector Maximus Alexander Thaxley did not, was that, if things later this morning proceeded as she was hoping, his parting salvo just now was the last she would ever have to bear.