Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [75]
“Why?” someone asked.
“Ran into Jimmy Frent-Winston this morning. Told me he and Cathcart had gone to The Empire to pick up some lovelies at the Promenade. He said when he turned round, Cathcart had obviously got himself a lady and cleared off. Fast worker, hey?”
Rose turned away and walked down the steps to the garden, her breathing shallow. She knew about the Promenade because the campaign to get it closed down had been in all the newspapers.
It struck her with more force than ever before that ladies such as herself were merely the toys of society and expected to behave as such and turn a blind eye when the men went philandering. They had to dress up in clothes as stiff, elaborate and formal as any Japanese geisha and sit around and look decorative. They were not supposed to have any strong views on anything. They certainly would never be allowed to vote.
And Harry Cathcart was just like other men. We read romances and dream of our knights in shining armour, she thought, and they don’t exist. She knew her own father would not be outraged to hear of Harry’s visit to the Promenade. It was something gentlemen did.
She went sadly back to the drawing-room and out and down to the hall, where her letter to Harry lay on a silver tray with others, waiting for the morning post. She had hidden it under the others in case her father saw it and decided to read it. She took it out and tore it into little pieces and put the pieces in her gold mesh reticule.
Rose felt very alone. Daisy would leave and all she would have was a fiancé who consorted with tarts.
As she walked slowly back up to the drawing-room, she felt she was moving alone in a world where there was no love.
In Nice, Peter Petrey lounged on the terrace of the Palace Hotel and looked dreamily out at the moon sending a silver path across the Mediterranean. He glanced fondly at Jonathan. He felt he had never been so happy and contented in all his life.
In his dressing-room at The Empire, Roger Dallow read the report of the arrest of Jeremy Tremaine over and over again. At last he put down the paper with a sigh, remembering running across the summer fields with Dolly. He was now married to a little chorus girl and he had put on weight.
Ailsa Bridge sat in an empty church and prayed. She had been beset by the horrors the night before where large spiders had come crawling out of the woodwork. She prayed and prayed and then rose stiffly to her knees and went back to her lodgings. She picked up two bottles of gin from the kitchen counter, opened them and poured them down the sink.
After the weekend, Harry received a curt summons to call on the earl. When he arrived, the wrathful earl demanded to know the reason for his behaviour. To fail to turn up at the weekend without an apology was a snub of the first order.
Harry pleaded sickness and apologized as best he could. The earl privately hoped the sickness was not caused by something nasty he had picked up at The Empire.
“You’d better see Rose and make your apologies to her as well.”
Rose reluctantly entered the drawing-room and the earl left them alone together.
Rose was wearing a tea-gown made by the Italian dress designer Fortuny. It was a long straight garment of artfully pleated satin held at the neck and wrist and waist by strings of small iridescent shells.
“You asked to see me?” she said coldly. “Please sit down.”
“I have come to offer my sincere apologies. I was not well.”
Rose suddenly felt rage burning up inside her. She forgot all the rules about what ladies were not supposed to know or say and remarked coldly, “I trust your complaint was not syphilis.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. If you consort with whores at The Empire, it could be dangerous to your health.”
“Who told you that!”
“Does it matter?”
“For your information, I had drunk a lot and met an old army friend. He suggested we go to The Empire. I was furious at your coldness. I tried to kiss you and you wrinkled up your face in disgust. No, I left almost as soon as we had arrived. I do not go with prostitutes and