Page 39 of The Lavender Bride

WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE, MARCH 1937

As Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced, as Cary Grant wise-cracked in screwball comedies and as Aidan Neil sang, the movie-going public saw what the studios wanted them to see. Glamour, sophistication and elegance. But behind that glittering facade there were some dark secrets.

One of those included me.

HOLLYWOOD’S SECRETS BY M.E. CALVEZ

Smoke billowing, the engine huffs into Hawes Station. As it eases to a halt, there’s a sharp hissing as steam swirls around the wheels. Doors bang open. I stand looking for my youngest sister, Rose among the few passengers. I wave my umbrella when I spot her but then see the look on her face. I turn to my other sister, Meg who’s remained sitting on the bench.

‘She doesn’t look thrilled to see us,’ I say. At twenty-three, Meg is five years younger than me.

‘I told you she wouldn’t be.’ Meg gathers her brown paper parcels before she stands. ‘She likes to walk part of the way with Beryl.’

‘Well, I don’t know how much longer I’m home for and I want to spend time with both my sisters.’ I adjust my scarf against the chill breeze blowing down the dale. ‘She can tolerate us this once.’

I’ve been home for six weeks, returning to damp, grey Yorkshire in mid-January after five months in Belfast schooling the daughter of a brewing magnate as she recuperated from scarlet fever.

Rose parts with her school friend and waves as she comes towards us. Her felt hat is askew and her gym slip rumpled. She’s sixteen which makes our relationship complicated. Ever since our mother died when she was two, I’ve been more of a parent than a sister to her.

‘What’s this?’ She grins as she does up the buttons on her navy coat. ‘An escort to make sure I get home safely?’

‘Certainly.’ I take her arm as I join her. ‘There are rumours of highwaymen on Bellow Hill.’

‘Hester!’ She gives me a look of barely suppressed irritation. ‘I’m not eight.’

I squeeze her arm with a glove-clad hand. ‘I know.’

I’m good with eight-year-olds. As a governess, I’ve had plenty of practice (my pupils are rarely younger than seven or older than fourteen). I’ve got much less idea of how to converse with a sixteen-year-old.

‘What brought you into town?’ Rosie asks as we pass through the picket gate into the station yard.

A dray is being unloaded. The horse stamps a hoof as it waits. As we pass, the man breaks off from hefting barrels to tip his cap at Meg. Then his gaze switches to me and he stares.

Meg is pretty; the kind of pretty which makes men look twice as she walks down the street. In a couple of years, I expect Rosie will turn as many heads as Meg. I am not similarly blessed. Even before the accident, I had the kind of face the polite would call ‘strong featured’. Now that it is marred by a three-inch scar across my cheek, I am generally looked at with either pity or disdain.

‘I had an order to deliver,’ Meg says as she takes Rosie’s other arm. ‘Hester came to keep me company.’

Meg’s a talented dressmaker. As well as caring for Father, she makes clothes for the women of Wensleydale, creating dresses which look a lot like the fashion plates in Weldon’s Ladies Journal but at a fraction of the price. This afternoon, we’d delivered a light tweed suit to the doctor’s wife who was delighted with the fit and the exquisite embroidery on the collar.

‘Then we went to Meg’s favourite shop,’ I add. ‘But I dragged her into the bookshop afterwards so we’re even!’

Rosie laughs. We both know how long Meg can spend in the haberdashers. She adores them as much as I do bookshops and Rosie loves the brightly packaged arrays of face powder and lipstick in a chemist. Not that she’s old enough to use them to my mind but that’s an argument we fortunately haven’t had over the past few weeks.

‘I wasn’t that long,’ Meg protests. ‘And I found the perfect buttons for the dress I’m going to wear to the dance on Saturday evening.’

‘I don’t think Dan’s going to notice your buttons,’ I say with a smile.

Meg’s stepping out with Dan Berriman, the youngest vet in the practice in nearby Reeth. It’s only been four months but he’s obviously smitten and clearly makes her happy.

We turn onto the road home. Otterdene, our much-loved house sits a mile above the town, amongst the drystone walls and barns that Wensleydale is famous for. It’s a twenty-minute walk, partly across fields, with a steep climb at the end of it.

‘Can I go to the pictures with Beryl on Saturday afternoon?’ Rosie says. ‘ Head Over Heels , the new Jessie Matthews film is on at the Elite.’

‘Will you be back by six? Someone needs to take Father his tea,’ I say. ‘I thought I could do it but I’ve been roped into making refreshments for the spring dance.’

‘Heavens!’ Rosie says. ‘Who on earth asked you to do that?’

‘The vicar’s wife.’ I force a smile which I hope hides the sour taste that’s been trapped in my throat since the request was made. ‘It’s only a couple of hours.’

‘It seems a bit much to land you in the kitchen with the old dears,’ Rosie says, her voice rising with irritation on my behalf. ‘You’re only twenty-eight.’

‘I think so too,’ Meg adds. ‘Hester’s being far too nice about it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say hoping the words will convince me as well as my sisters. ‘It’s one evening?—’

‘You should go to the dance with Meg,’ Rosie interrupts. ‘I know you haven’t been since… since you got back from America but isn’t it time you stopped hiding away? I’ve read about this new face powder which would cover your scar and, if you wore your navy dress, no one would see the one on your?—’

As always happens when someone talks about my scars, my hand goes to where the other one lurks, where my glove is tucked tightly into my left sleeve. Beneath the layers of wool and cotton, there’s a vicious red gash that runs from elbow to wrist.

‘I’m not going.’ My stomach curdles at the thought and it’s with some effort that I keep my voice steady. ‘No man is going to want to dance with me and I’d rather not be a wallflower, thank you very much.’

‘Dan would dance with you,’ Meg says.

‘Because he likes you.’ I know Meg means it kindly but this is a kindness I don’t want. If I’m going to dance with a man again, I want it to be with someone who wants me in his arms, not doing his duty by his possible future sister-in-law.

We reach the stile built into the drystone wall. I take Meg’s parcels and then pass them to her after she’s climbed over. ‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ I say, as my feet find the stone treads built into the wall. ‘I’ll do my stint at the village hall and be home for cocoa by nine.’

I offer Rosie a hand as she descends the stile and then we set off across the field. Sheep munch contently around us as we follow the path. I don’t want to argue with my sisters all the way home. I turn to Rose and say brightly, ‘How was school today?’

I’m putting a brave face on it. The vicar’s wife’s request hurt very much. It’s one thing telling oneself you’ve accepted your future as a bluestocking spinster, quite another finding that others see you that way too. My disfigurement has catapulted me into the ranks of unmarried women twice my age.

I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset me but she’s inadvertently made it clear that I would be foolish to harbour any romantic hopes. I thought I’d cast all of those thoughts aside after Julian but one or two must have lingered in a quiet corner of my heart or I wouldn’t feel so cast down now.

In truth, life is easier when I’m working. No one asks the governess to dance.

* * *

Two letters have arrived by the afternoon post. One has a familiar London postmark and is in a thick, cream envelope which screams quality. The other is a slightly scruffy manilla posted in Skipton. It looks like a bill. We do not need any more of those. My Belfast earnings have only just paid off the ones which built up while Father was in hospital.

Rosie heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Jaffa, our chocolate retriever, disturbed from his warm spot by the stove, wanders into the hall. He rubs his head against my leg and I absently put my hand down to stroke him.

‘Is that The Call, Hester?’ Meg says, managing to give the words capital letters.

‘Yes.’ With Meg, I don’t have to hide the confusion of emotions which come with the arrival of one of the agency’s letters. It’s always painful to leave my family and there’s trepidation at starting a new position but there’s also a thrill at the prospect of travelling and seeing new places. ‘I asked for something closer to home this time.’

Father was ill all winter. He caught flu in November which became pneumonia by December, leading to a prolonged stay in hospital. He came home at the beginning of January and with the emergence of the first daffodils, he’s finally lost the hospital pallor and regained a little of his appetite.

I tear open the cream envelope and extract the neatly typed letter. It’s headed:

Constance Padgett Agency

with the words,

Providing elite governesses since 1895

in smaller font underneath. Mrs Padgett was a formidable lady, a suffragist and leading proponent of women’s education, who having struggled to find an appropriately qualified governess to teach her daughter, decided to do something about it. Forty years later and now run by Mrs Padgett’s niece, the equally redoubtable Miss Wall, the agency has a reputation for providing reliable bluestockings to home educate girls from the best families and those who aspire to that exclusive club. They recruited me seven years ago, fresh from Oxford.

The letter is short and to the point as their correspondence always is.

I assured the family in question that we had equally competent ladies available who were more willing to travel but the family have requested you by name and wished me to assure you that they will offer more than generous terms. The offer is however conditional upon you being able to swim.

Swim? How curious. But easily dealt with as I no longer swim.

The rest of the details are scant: a girl of seven, recently removed from school, a family in California.

A heavy weight settles in my stomach. I think of the promise I made to myself as I stood by the ship’s railings and watched the Statue of Liberty grow smaller and smaller.

‘It’s America,’ I say without glancing at Meg. ‘I’ll tell Miss Wall I can’t do it.’

‘Oh, Hester.’ Meg looks at me with concern. I glance away, biting my lip. Pity, even from Meg, always hurts. ‘Are you sure? I mean I know you said you’d never go back but Miss Wall…’ Meg trails off. There is a frown line between her pretty blue eyes.

‘Will think I’ve blotted my copybook again. But don’t worry, there’s a get-out clause. The position requires me to be able to swim. I’ll tell her I can’t.’

‘But that would be an enormous fib!’

‘Which Miss Wall will never know. My school swimming medals aren’t on my CV. And anyway, I don’t swim any more.’

Without conscious thought, I cradle my left arm against my body and shield it with my hand. I’ve not been in a swimming pool since the accident. I’ve tried once or twice, but the thought of unfriendly eyes seeing my scars is more than I can bear. It’s another thing I’ve lost because of what happened to me.

I open the second envelope and pull out a thin sheet of paper. ‘It’s the quote for the roof. I’ve been— Great Scott!’

‘Bad?’ I read out the figure and her eyes widen. ‘Oh my word! We can’t possibly afford that.’

‘It says there’s dry rot in the trusses and water is already getting in. Did the builder mention that when he came?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Meg frowns. ‘He was up on the ladder for a long time and then he went in the attic.’

‘We’d better go and have a look,’ I say. ‘I’ll get some light.’

* * *

There’s no electricity in the attic so I take the hurricane lantern from the hook by the door, check it’s got enough oil and light the wick. I carry it carefully up the back stairs to the second floor.

There are only staff bedrooms and the nursery up here, all unoccupied. We’re too old to need a nursery and we’ve not had any servants since the Wall Street Crash brought our family’s finances tumbling down along with most of the rest of the world’s.

Meg’s waiting for me by the small door built into the end wall. ‘Ready?’ she says. As I nod, she opens the door. A strong smell of damp wafts out to us. By unspoken agreement, I go first, feeling my way up the stairs with one hand on the wall. The lantern illuminates narrow wooden steps thickly coated in dust. One set of footprints have been here before me, creating distinctive shapes on each step. I make a mental note to clean them before the dust congeals to produce a new kind of life form.

I straighten at the top of the stairs and hold the lantern up. It illuminates a rag-bag assortment of items. There’s a battered steamer trunk, which was Mummy’s, Father’s army kit and some very shabby Victorian furniture.

I hold the lantern as high as I can. The roof timbers look ghostly as if they’re draped in thick cobwebs. I follow the line of the timber and at the point where it joins the horizontal, there’s a cluster of asymmetrical red mushrooms.

‘Oh gosh! Look at these!’

‘Is that it?’ asks Meg. ‘They look like evil toadstools from a fairy story.’

‘Evil, yes. Fairy story, no.’ More investigation reveals the other timbers have the same wraith-like quality and there are fungal outbreaks in two other spots. A trail of damp is starting to seep through to the rooms below.

How on earth did this happen without any of us noticing? Is it my fault for being away so much? If I had been here, would I have thought to check? Probably not. An Oxford education is useful for many things but the syllabus most definitely does not cover detecting dry rot.

By the light of the lantern, I look again at the builder’s letter. There’s a paragraph I haven’t shared with Meg.

The next bad storm will likely result in water ingress which will damage the fabric of the building. I therefore strongly recommend that the repairs are started immediately.

Cold settles in my stomach. I have to find out what the family in California are offering and make a decision. It doesn’t matter how it makes me feel. The important thing is that we have a roof over our heads.

‘We’re never going to be able to find that kind of money,’ Meg says as she descends behind me.

I square my shoulders as I wait for Meg at the bottom of the stairs. I meet her gaze as she steps onto the uncarpeted floor. ‘Can you hold the fort here? If I go, I need to know you’ll be all right even if I can’t get home if there’s an emergency.’

‘But Hester, are you sure? You know what you said about America. And then there’s the swimming.’

Her words bring back shards of painful memories. I blink to try to shift them. ‘It’s not New York.’ My voice comes out unusually quiet and I swallow hard before I speak again. ‘The job’s in California.’

‘Won’t you have to go through New York to get to California?’ Meg asks. ‘I’m really not sure this is a good idea, Hester. Remember how you were when you came home…’

I shake my head to chase the past away. I remember exactly. Damaged in body and soul. Shaken to the core by the man I’d thought loved me. It took four months of Meg’s careful nursing and many hours of reflection before I was ready to face the world again.

‘Let’s not worry about that until I’ve spoken to Miss Wall.’ I cross the landing and start to descend the main staircase, the heels of my shoes rattling against the stair rods. ‘As I tell my pupils, it’s best to confront one problem at a time.’

‘We’ll be all right.’ Meg follows me down. ‘Even if Father gets ill again, we’ll manage.’

The reassurance does little to help. I wrap my arms across my chest, hugging warmth into my suddenly chilled body. Can I do this? When I came home from New York in ’33, I promised myself I’d never step foot in America again. I never imagined I’d find myself forced to choose between keeping that promise and keeping the roof over our heads.

‘I’ll telephone Miss Wall and find out how generous these terms are. Then I’m going to ask her to negotiate. If this family want me to go to California, they’re going to have to pay top dollar.’ I dust cobwebs from my sleeves, hoping my briskness hides my trepidation. ‘After all, I’m a Padgett governess. We’re supposed to be expensive.’

‘But new-roof-expensive! Who’d pay that?’

‘We are about to find out.’