I Should Have Known

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

A sweeping sun-drenched love story from the original Queen of Romance first published in 1969 and now available for the first time in eBook. When young Shelley Bray was appointed governess, she thought that she would be in complete charge until she met her employer's sister. Worst of all, she was constantly made to feel small in front of her new employer, Esmond Torrington - and for some reason that mattered terribly to Shelley. Shelly had fallen desperatly in love with Esmond, the world-famous symphony director.

Release date: June 12, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

On that hot sunny morning in June when I walked into the Monte Carlo tourists’ agency to get my ticket for London, I think I was the unhappiest girl in the world. I hadn’t slept all night. I left the Villa Arc-en-Ciel long before the rest of the family were up. It is never a hardship to get up early in the South of France when you can open the jalousies and let a stream of sunshine into your room, yet I had felt cold. I was trembling with nerves and agitation as I closed my two suitcases and crept down the long corridor, terrified that somebody would hear me. I did not want to see any of them. Certainly not him, the one whom I loved more than my life. Certainly not the woman who had been so cruel to me, so viciously opposed to my presence in the villa, and my happiness. And not even the children because I knew they would weep at my departure. Above all I did not want to hurt them.

But I had to go. The whole thing was too strong for me. I could no longer cope. My life had become insupportable. I stopped only once and that was in the hall. The villa was dim and shuttered, and I fancied I could just see the portrait which had once hung there—her portrait. That wonderful face, carved as though from ivory, with the huge dark eyes and the crisp upward sweep of flame red hair and just a hint of that same red in the fringed shawl that draped one bare shoulder.

Beautiful Veronica who had been dead all of three years, and whose loveliness was now ashes that had been scattered on the side of the mountains she had loved—way behind Monte Carlo. Veronica, who had died so tragically in a car accident on the Corniche road but whose personality had lived on and dominated this villa, just as she did the house in London where there hung yet another striking portrait of her.

There is a saying: ‘The beauty that is the body perishes, but the beauty that is the soul endures.’

Is this true? Was it true of her? Had Veronica ever possessed a beautiful mind or spirit, or had it been merely the memory of her grace and elegance and that fantastically glamorous colouring of hers that had settled like fine dust upon everything in the place, blurring it; just as it had destroyed the peace of mind of those who remembered her?

I do not know. I’m too confused now. Too heart-sick and worn out.

I had wondered when I looked at myself in the mirror this morning to brush my hair, why my tears had not worn away my very cheeks.

I left the Villa Arc-en-Ciel, I hope for ever. I dared not wait there until the ticket-office opened in case they tried to stop me from going.

So I sat for the next three hours in the gardens of the Casino, looking out upon the still blue waters of a sea that was as calm as a lake, mirroring a faultless sky.

How wonderful are these early mornings on the Côte d’Azur! Cool and delicious. How intriguing the Casino looked—not that I had often visited it. I am no gambler and nobody at the Villa Arc-en-Ciel ever gambled. But the exotic, sugar-coated building held a strange fascination for the onlooker, like all those expensive gleaming yachts in the harbour or the sleek cars, the air of general luxury that makes a little Monégasque town a veritable playground for the rich.

I sat motionless, trying not to think; looking at the dreaming beauty of the sea. The green palms and the lemon trees along the coastline. The gorgeous blossoms in the wide beds of the well-kept gardens.

I was leaving it all, and I didn’t care. I did not even know what I was going to. I was just a young girl of twenty-three, hall-marked by the tragedy of a hopeless love and a sense of bitter loss and loneliness. I was quite alone, preparing to go back to London to face a new life. This time without glamour, without love, without hope.

At eight o’clock I had a cup of strong black coffee and a croissant in a little café which had just opened. At half past eight I was in the tourist office buying my ticket.

In twenty-two hours’ time I would be back in London.

I scarcely knew how to pay for that ticket or how to face the journey, I felt so utterly desolate. Oh, Esmond, Esmond, my love, my very life, haw am I going to bear that life without you?

All through the long train journey to Paris and then to Dieppe I remained miserable and afraid of the future. Sometimes I was filled not only with wild regret, but with the puzzlement of a bewildered child who has not yet grown up and is still unable to become mistress of a difficult situation. Yet the next moment I felt so old and wise, so experienced that I thought I saw things clearly, and could even blame myself for some of the awfulness that had happened.

Sometimes I stopped grieving and remembered only the loveliness of Monte Carlo and the glorious pride and joy of having loved and served Esmond Torrington.

It was only as we drew into Victoria Station that I made my decision to face up to facts more fully. To write them down without prejudice, so that the children, anyhow, might one day read my diary and understand why I had so suddenly left them.

Words come easily to me, and tears too, so it would seem, but I am glad I have kept a diary while I was in France and have written so much about my life there. Here in London I can just revise it and add the story of the terrible finale.

Now I want to begin at the very beginning. I must—in order to explain and rationalise my emotions, and re-shape my future.

Esmond, Esmond, will you ever see what I write, I wonder. Will you ever know what it all meant to me? But this I do know: I love you, and I shall love you until I die—and long after that.

The very first time I saw the Villa Arc-en-Ciel was on a morning such as the one I have just described. Golden-fine, exquisitely fresh. I had just got off the Calais-Méditerranée in which I had a second class couchette.

There had been three other women with me. Two young girls who left the train at Nice. French students who had just finished a year in London and were returning home. We three had gossiped most of the night, thankful that our number four was a very old lady—stone-deaf, so not bothered by our chattering. But as I, myself, had recently been a student, before I worked in a P.N.E.U. (Parents’ National Educational Union) school, we girls had a lot to talk about. In fact we arranged to meet again, as they said they often drove over to Monte Carlo. One of them actually knew the villa to which I was going.

The Arc-en-Ciel was famous, she said. It had belonged to a well-known Italian Duc and had been sold a few years ago to the great English conductor, Esmond Torrington, who was at the moment giving a series of concerts in Southern France. She couldn’t give me any more information about Mr. Torrington although I eagerly asked for it. For he was my future employer. His secretary—an elderly and efficient lady, named Miss Collins—had interviewed me in London. All I knew was that Mr. Torrington was a widower with two children—Conrad, a boy of seven and Kate, his sister, a year younger. Their mother was dead. I knew no further details except that so far they had had a nurse of the ‘nannie’ type, but their father considered they were too old for her now and wanted them to be trained under the P.N.E.U. system. That was why I had been chosen. I thought the P.N.E.U. curriculum a first-class training for small children.

When I first saw my future home, I felt enormously excited, and I am not by nature excitable. I am rather calm; shy until I get to know people, and although quick to feel appreciation, slow to show it. I’ve often been called too reserved. I wish I wasn’t, because I’ve truly got very deep feelings. I just can’t always produce them. I always hesitate to disclose my secret, inner heart. It is precious to me, like a jewel that I do not want anyone to steal.

But the sight of Monte Carlo on that glorious day roused even me, the calm Miss Bray, to enthusiasm.

It was simply lovely. From my taxi I caught a brief glimpse of the famous harbour; and the glittering Casino, the verdant shores, which at that time of the year were gay with azaleas, mimosa and carnations. The very air seemed fragrant with flowers.

And, of course, on the rock of Monaco, dominating the town, was the beautiful palace which I had seen in so many pictures at home. I thought rather tenderly of the ruler of this bijou monarchy; Prince Rainier and his lovely Princess Grace. I had watched their marriage on television, and thought at the time what a romantic, glamorous wedding it was! What girl wouldn’t want to identify herself with such a Princess and find her Prince Charming and live happily ever after with her husband and children in that beautiful palace?

I am a lucky girl, I thought, it isn’t everyone who can leave college on their twentieth birthday, have two years’ experience teaching little girls in an English country school, then find a job in a place like this.

My sense of anticipation and pleasure increased as the taxi went through the open wrought-iron gateways over which hung the name Arc-en-Ciel. (Rainbow—what a charming name!) I looked out on a perfect flower-filled garden. Quite different from anything in England. Much more artificial; but undeniably lovely. I couldn’t put a name to many of the flowers. But I adored the pink and scarlet carnations which grew so profusely here. The oranges, the eucalyptus, and the rose-laurels. Now, suddenly, I saw the gleaming white of the villa, itself, half-hidden in purple bougainvillaea.

Green-shuttered, cool-looking, with a wide verandah, and an air of immense elegance and wealth, it seemed to be waiting for me; little Miss Bray! It was thrilling.

The taxi driver sprang out, opened my door and gave me a dazzling smile. A brown-faced, cheeky-eyed Provençal.

“Voilà, mademoiselle!”

A glass door, with a black lace grill of wrought-iron, opened. A bald-headed man wearing a baize apron came out. Obviously a man-servant, and obviously I was not expected because he stared at me, then spoke in rapid French to the driver who shrugged his shoulders, then they both turned and stared. I spoke to the man in the baize apron in my best French, which was adequate if not colloquial. He understood when I explained that I was Miss Bray and that Mr. Torrington expected me.

His face cleared. He picked up my suitcase and bade me follow him. I was about to settle with the driver when an English voice said:

“Let me do that.”

I turned and saw a tall thin man in grey flannels. He had grey thinning hair and wore horn-rimmed glasses. This was not the great Esmond Torrington, that most famous of English conductors. The grey-haired man smiled and said:

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Austen Warr. And you—?”

“I am Miss Bray. Shelley Bray.”

“Shelley!” he repeated. “What a charming name!”

I blushed. I was not used to compliments, and I am quite sure I did not look ‘charming’ after an all-night session in the train. I felt hot and sticky. My cotton dress was crumpled, and although I had just powdered my nose and hastily brushed my hair, I was quite sure I was unprepossessing. Thank goodness, I thought, when the formidable Miss Collins had interviewed me in the Torringtons’ London house I had looked more attractive.

“Now forgive me,” went on Sir Austen, “if I do not yet know who you are, but please come in. Bertrand—” He turned to the man with the baize apron and told him to settle the taxi.

He then explained to me, as we went into the villa, that Bertrand was the ‘treasure’ of the family, and had been at Arc-en-Ciel with the Italian Duc who used to own it, and that he did five times as much work as any of the lazy girls. Then Sir Austen laughed, and giving me a kindly look, added: “But I oughtn’t talk about lazy girls to you. I’m quite sure you’re not one of them.”

I then told him I had been engaged as a resident teacher (sort of governess to use an old-fashioned word) for Mr. Torrington’s children.

“Ah! now I understand,” exclaimed Sir Austen. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Bray, and I’m sure we are all glad you’ve come. Those two poor children have been far too long with a doting nannie. They need a little discipline, although they’re jolly kids. I’m devoted to them. I’m their uncle by marriage.” And he went on to say that he was married to Esmond Torrington’s sister and that they, the Warrs, had joined forces with Esmond and made a home with him since his young wife died.

“Such a tragedy,” ended Sir Austen, and led me into the hall to look at the then unfamiliar portrait of Veronica Torrington in her Spanish shawl. In an undertone he explained that the late Mrs. Torrington had been killed in a terrible accident, driving her own car to Villefranche.

“She must have been very beautiful,” I said.

“Very!” echoed Sir Austen. Then abruptly he turned and led me back into the big cool entrance which had a mosaic floor. After the strong sunlight it all looked rather dim, but splendid beyond anything I had ever seen out of pictures. Marble statuary, great bowls of flowers, handsome rugs, gorgeous striped yellow silk curtains. An air of brooding silence hung over everything which, I learned in time, seems always to hang over such villas in the hot languorous South.

“Is Mr. Torrington at home?” I asked of Sir Austen.

I was, I must confess, a little surprised to hear that Mr. Torrington’s sister also lived here and wondered why she could not cope with her niece and nephew. She must be quite young. Esmond Torrington was only thirty-five. Incidentally, Miss Collins had not mentioned the Warrs when she engaged me. But now Sir Austen was enlightening me further as to the general set-up at Arc-en-Ciel. First of all, he said, Mr. Torrington was away—he had been in Paris for a week but he was due back this morning. Secondly, Sir Austen’s wife was a semi-invalid, and a good deal older than her brother. In fact, Sir Austen said with a little cough and a rueful expression, his poor wife was confined to a wheel-chair. Although barely forty-eight, she had for the last few years been martyrised by arthritis and could no longer walk. That was why Esmond had bought this villa, which was like an enormous bungalow—all on one floor. It made it easy for Lady Warr to wheel herself from one room to another, when she came to stay with her brother.

“And she has an active mind,” he finished. “Wonderful little woman, my dear wife. Controls everybody from that chair of hers.”

Just how wonderful Lady Warr—‘Aunt Monica’—was, and how active mentally, I had yet to learn. I had to learn, too, to my cost, the remorseless machinery of what her husband called ‘her control’, which, when it was set in motion, could be so dangerous that one had best beware of it and not step too near. But I knew nothing of that then, and when a smart-looking dark-haired girl in a white overall appeared, stared at me and said: “Milady had heard that mademoiselle had arrived and wished to see her—” I followed the girl down a long corridor, full of eagerness to meet Lady Warr. I had no premonition that she would be a thorn in my flesh. I just wondered why Miss Collins hadn’t warned me that Esmond Torrington did not live alone and that there was a mistress of the house. Later I learned that it was because Monica Warr liked to ‘surprise’ people—especially people whom she wished to intimidate. She believed that the element of shock often brought people to their knees the sooner. Well, I must say, now when I look back, that her ladyship needn’t have worried about me. I suppose she thought that I might be one of those girls who hoped to take over not only the children but the father, in a job like this, in which case my lady meant to put a speedy end to my hopes.

Well, I was not prepared for what I found when I first met Monica Warr.

She was already up and in her wheel-chair which was one of the very latest and most luxurious kind, padded with white leather, satin-cushioned, silver-wheeled. In that chair, with a light quilt of pale blue silk over her knees, sat a tiny little lady who at first sight might have stepped out of a Watteau Shepherdess painting.

Monica Warr was all pink and white … pink cheeks (later I learned how long her maid took to tint those cheeks and darken those naturally fair brows and lashes), ash-fair hair dressed rather high; pearl earrings in small white ears. Diamond rings on small white hands that were as chubby as a baby’s. Seated in that chair in her lace peignoir she was certainly plump, but still pretty. Quite youthful, too, for her forty-eight years. I, like so many when they first met Monica Warr, was deceived into imagining that anybody as petite and fair and crippled, must be a sweet sympathetic person whom one could easily love.

I had to get to know how pampered—and powerful—she was. Everybody in the villa was at her beck and call. Everybody adored her—except little Kate. And she knew. Some children are psychic, you can’t deceive them.

However, I am letting my thoughts race too far ahead. Back to the moment when Lady Warr first smiled at me, and held out one of her chubby hands, and said in that deceptively soft voice of hers:

“Welcome to Arc-en-Ciel, Miss Bray.”

I took the little hand and answered respectfully. I am not particularly ambitious by nature, except for the good of the children in my care. I had no desire to ingratiate myself with older people. Nor had I any airs or graces. I had come here as a paid teacher and was prepared to fill that place not humbly—because I hate humble people—but fully aware of my position. And I had absolutely no idea at this first encounter with Monica Warr of the dark and well-controlled furies that raged behind her pretty welcoming smile. No notion of her bitter jealousy because I was young and strong and could walk and do all the things that she wanted to do. And above all—because I was to take charge of young Conrad and little Kate whose upbringing she so badly wanted to dominate and organise herself.

But Esmond Torrington had no intention of letting an elderly woman, even his own sister, bring up his children. Conrad and Kate needed a young companion. Until they were old enough to go to boarding school he wanted them to live with someone like myself who could not only give them lessons, but take them for walks, swim with them, do all the active things that the old nannie and their aunt could not do—as well as give them elementary lessons.

“Sit down, Miss Bray,” said Lady Warr, “and let us have a little chat.”

When the ‘little chat’ began Lady Warr could not have been more charming although now and then she delivered small but definite ‘digs’ at me; one pencilled eyebrow raised.

I remember that interrogation so well, and her rather high-pitched metallic voice. Mine on the contrary is pitched rather low, with a slightly husky quality which I have always had.

“Miss Collins tells me you are twenty-two. A little young for the post. When is your birthday?”

“I shall be twenty-three on Christmas Eve.”

“That’s quite a long way ahead. Christmas Eve. How charming! A nice present for your mother …” (That sounded acid.) “May I ask some details of your education?”

“I was at Brighton High School until I was seventeen and then went to college to take a teacher’s training.”

“Have you taught in school?”

“Yes, for two years.”

“You have parents living?”

“No. My mother died while I was still at school and my father a year later.”

“So you have no ties?”

“Only a brother.”

“Where is he?”

“Doing his National Service in the R.A.F. He hopes to get some sort of agricultural training as he wants to be a farmer.”

A delicate shudder from Lady Warr.

“I can’t imagine why anybody wants to run a farm—all those odorous pigs and the manure etc., ugh!”

I smiled. I thought that sort of remark so artificial and stupid, but I was aware even at this early stage in my relationship with Monica Warr that she was far from stupid, but seemed somewhat anxious to make me feel that my family and myself were of small account.

“How old is your brother?”

“A year younger than myself.”

“Forgive my enquiring, but I presume you are not very well off.”

“Not at all well off, Lady Warr. Robin and I have had a struggle since my father, who was a small country practitioner, died. He left us only a life insurance but that is rapidly dwindling.”

“You are lucky to have been given the chance to come to Arc-en-Ciel in a private situation like this.”

Now I agreed with her ladyship whole-heartedly.

The questioning went on.

“You’re not a bad-looking girl—quite good-looking in fa. . .