Jonquil

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Roland Charter, described as 'the most fascinating man in London', could have had all the women he wanted. Except one. The one he married. Jonquil's secluded life as the heiress to the Rivers millions was no preparation for his seductive line, and only when she had married him did she discover that his dominating passion was revenge, not love. With unrivalled insight, Denise Robins explores this explosive relationship and lays bare the jealousy and disillusionment of a woman betrayed.

Release date: June 12, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Charter was bored.

Mrs. Tollington, known to her intimate friends as “Micky,” and one of the most popular hostesses in town, looked at Charter’s gloomy face and folded arms and knew that he was bored. She hastened across the beautiful, flower-filled reception-room to the alcove where he stood, eager to chase that expression from his handsome face, not only because it was her duty as a hostess to see that her guests were not bored, but because she wanted him to be happy.

Every woman who met Roland Charter wanted him to be happy and set out to make him so. He had just the splendid good looks and attractive manner which made men like and women adore him. He did not endeavour to fascinate people. He exercised a charm that was wholly natural. Although he had no money, no prospects, and was rumoured to be a “black sheep,” he was an asset to any drawing-room, at any dance. Micky Tollington had met him on the boat coming home from South Africa, in October, and having made a “pal” of him, had refused to let him go when they reached England. She was a very pretty, polished, woman-of-the-world. He had shown that he liked her; and if they had played at flirting both had thoroughly known the rules of the game and were all the better friends for having been a little intimate.

Micky was so “sensible.” That was what most men liked about her. Of course, like all women, she had her faults. Possessing a “weakness” for Roland Charter, she spoiled him. He should have been looking for work. He had just lost his job in South Africa. But she encouraged him to laze, and to enliven her parties with his ready wit and absolute disregard for the conventions.

“Roland, wherefore that solemn face?” she demanded when she reached his side. “Here am I giving a jolly good dance with lots of nice people, and it’s Christmas week, and you look as sulky and bored as a kid who wants sweets and can’t get ’em.”

“You’re wrong, Micky,” said Charter, with an attractive, sidelong glance from very blue eyes which made many feminine hearts flutter needlessly. “I feel that I’ve had too many sweets this Christmas-tide.”

Mrs. Tollington patted a fair curl into place, dived into a brocaded vanity bag for a puff and applied it vigorously to her small nose.

“You’re rather sickening sometimes, Roland,” she said. “The truth is—you’re much too good-looking to be let loose in Society. You’re a positive danger.”

“Without a bean—eh?” His laugh was a trifle bitter.

“Good looks and personal charm are almost as attractive as money—to some women, more so,” said Micky. “Anyhow, I think you’re sickening, Roland. Too many sweets, indeed! Just because all the wretched flappers—or even old ladies—to whom I’ve introduced you have fallen at your feet.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“My dear Micky, it isn’t only me. With modern women any man will do.”

“Cynic! And you’re disgustingly conceited. But I don’t blame you. Girls are fools. An old matron included, eh?”

Charter looked with affection at the pretty woman in the jade-green chiffon frock. She was thirty-four, but as slender as a girl, very charming with her pink cheeks and bright, impudent eyes.

“You’re a dear, Micky, and no fool,” he murmured. “Just the sort to make a man a topping pal, and that’s what you’ve been to me.”

For a moment a tinge of regret shadowed Micky Tollington’s gay eyes. Perhaps because she might have loved Roland Charter had she been given the chance. But he had never cared that way … and she was glad that she had never spoiled their friendship by becoming sentimental.

“I’ve got a decent husband and two ripping kids, and I ought to be shot for thinking of any other man,” she often reminded herself.

The shadow passed. She broke out laughing and indicated a big heavy man with an eye-glass, and a jolly smile. He was dancing with a very young girl in white.

“There goes my old man. Really, my dear, Harry is getting positively frivolous with the flappers. Just watch him.”

Charter glanced idly at Tollington, then at his partner.

“Who’s the kid?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s Jonquil Rivers,” said Micky. “Want to meet her, Roland? She can’t dance very well, but she’s a nice little thing.”

“Spare me,” pleaded Charter. “I’m not fond of ‘nice little things’ who can’t dance well. Jonquil Rivers? Rivers. …” Suddenly he repeated the name, a sharp note of interest in his voice. The lazy expression left his eyes, and his brows came together in a frown. “Then I think I know—who she is.”

“An heiress, my dear Roland. The very chance for you,” said Micky, with a teasing laugh. “Didn’t you say you wanted to find an heiress?”

“Jove!” said Charter very softly. His eyes were now riveted on the slender figure in white, in Harry Tollington’s arms. “By jove! Jonquil Rivers! It must be the same. … Jonquil is an uncommon name.”

“She comes from Sussex,” said Micky. “She’s the adopted daughter of some very rich man who made a fortune out of rubber, years and years before the War. She lives with her grandmother—or rather old Mrs. Rivers, whom she calls grandmother.”

“Ah!” said Roland, more to himself than to Micky. He was profoundly interested now. Every trace of boredom left his face.

“Mrs. Oakley, who’s a pal of mine, lives in Chanctonbridge, next door to Rivers Court,” continued Micky. “She took a place there some years ago, and met old Mrs. Rivers and the girl who’s only about twenty or twenty-one. Dorothy Oakley was sorry for the kid—she seemed to have such a dull time. The grandmother is a mid-Victorian, and the adopted father seems to want to shut Jonquil up as though she were in a Convent, and turn her into a botanist.”

“Ye gods!” said Roland. “How, then, does the little nun come to be at your Christmas ball, Micky?”

“Oh, she’s no nun. Dorothy says she has a good deal of spirit in her. It just wanted bringing out. Dorothy made a point of being friends with Mrs. Rivers, and begged her to let Jonquil come up for my dance and stay the night at Dorothy’s flat in Kensington. The old woman made a fuss at first, apparently, but finally gave in. So Jonquil is seeing life for the first time. I rather like her. She’s rather a nice, plucky child. She must have a deadly time down in Chanctonbridge. However, when Mr. Rivers dies, she’ll have pots of money.”

The young heiress was passing close to Charter now. She was laughing in a bright, unaffected way at Tollington. Something he had said had obviously amused her. Charter’s eyes took in every detail of her appearance. She was a little below medium height and very slender. The immature figure in the straight, white-pleated georgette frock, cut severely high at the throat, was almost childish. She was much too thin for Roland’s taste. Her neck and arms were tanned. She was altogether too boyish in appearance to please him, yet undeniably pretty with clear-cut features; an oval face; a good, pale skin without much colour in the cheeks, and very dark hair, straight-bobbed; with a fringe across the forehead. The curve of her lips was sweet but firm, and she had a determined little chin, with a dent in it. Her eyes were arresting, hazel-green, with very black thick lashes and straight brows.

“What d’you think of her, Roland?” asked Micky Tollington.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that I would like to meet her. It might be—amusing.”

“Very well, but no flirting with Dorothy’s innocent protégée, or you’ll get into trouble,” Micky warned him.

He did not answer, but he gave a rather curious smile. He took a cigarette from his case and lit it.

Jonquil Rivers was thoroughly enjoying her début into London Society. This gay, Christmas ball amused and entranced her. Her pleasures, hitherto, had been solely confined to Granny’s tea-parties at Rivers Court; or country expeditions with her adopted father in search of moths and botanical specimens. He treated her like a student. Her adopted grandmother treated her like a little girl who must be properly brought up. It was a novel delight to come up to London to this important dance and meet people who regarded her as an ordinary young woman.

Rivers Court was a lovely old Queen Anne house, but Jonquil found the interior of the place gloomy, over-crowded with heavy Victorian furniture. To her enraptured eyes, this very modern ball-room of Micky Tollington’s with its Chinese lamp shades, brilliant orange and black draperies, polished floor, and first-rate band, seemed a new and exciting world. There were great chains of coloured paper. Chinese lanterns and gay balloons swinging from one end of the room to the other; holly and mistletoe everywhere; a huge wreath over the doorway, with “Merry Christmas” marked out in scarlet berries. The very spirit and essence of Christmas-tide was here. Champagne flowed, streamers and fairy balls were tossed from one couple to another. Jonquil’s eyes were dazzled with the colours, the lights, the sparkle of jewels on the women, the admiration in the eyes of the men. All new to her! All wonderful! Easy to forget her dull country home; her stern adopted father; her kind but exacting grandmother. Every time she saw young Mrs. Oakley, who had taken so much trouble to get Granny’s permission and bring her to the Tollington’s ball, Jonquil felt an overwhelming desire to rush and embrace her.

“I say, your eyes are like stars—eh, what?” she heard Harry Tollington’s jolly, fat drawl in her ear. “Deuced fine stars, too.”

“How absurd!” said Jonquil.

But she laughed. Everything, everybody made her laugh to-night. And she liked Harry Tollington. His double-chin, his monocle, his hearty chuckle amused her.

Mrs. Tollington, with a swirl of her short jade-green skirt, approached Jonquil and took possession of her as the music finished with a clash of the cymbals.

“Now, Harry, behave yourself! I’m going to take Jonquil away,” said Micky. “She’s had enough of you, I’m sure. I want her to meet Roland Charter.”

Tollington stuck his monocle in his eye and regarded his pretty wife in mock dismay.

“You’ve robbed me of me name and me money and me heart, Micky. Must you rob me of me partner,” he grumbled.

Micky put an arm around Jonquil.

“Get away, Harry, and find someone else to frivol with. There’s Miss Danvers, aged sixty-two. She’s standing under the mistletoe, waiting to be kissed.”

“You are unkind, Micky,” began Tollington plaintively.

She laughed, waved a hand in his face, then bore Jonquil off.

“Come along, child,” she said. “I’m going to introduce you to the most fascinating man in London.”

“You’re very kind to me, Mrs. Tollington,” said the girl shyly. “But will he—I dance so badly—I mean——”

“Now don’t get shy,” laughed Micky. “Roland won’t eat you, and he dances divinely—you couldn’t help dancing well with him. He isn’t like Harry who treads on everybody’s toes.”

Jonquil looked at the man toward whom she had been led. The “most fascinating man in London!” He was smiling—the queerest little smile she thought. How handsome he was … his eyes were brilliant blue in his thin, bronzed face … and he had just the sort of hard, firm mouth and chin she liked. He seemed to her enormously vital, under a veneer of laziness. There was strength and virility in the very poise of the dark head—in the directness of the eyes which were fixed upon her now.

“How-do-you-do,” she said, shyly, holding out one small tanned hand which she felt was “horrid” in comparison with Micky Tollington’s white, manicured fingers.

Roland grasped the small hand for the fraction of a moment, then dropped it. He murmured the conventional greeting.

“I am delighted to meet you, Miss Rivers,” he said. “I hear that London and all this kind of thing …” he made a gesture toward the gay, dancing crowd … “are new to you.”

“Quite,” she nodded. “I’ve lived in the country ever since I left school.”

“Come and dance,” he said, “and tell me all about yourself.”

Jonquil accepted the invitation with the frankness and tranquillity of a child. She scarcely realised the compliment Charter paid her in asking her to tell him about herself. Most men like to talk about themselves, and Charter was no exception. But he was the kind of man who rarely acts without motive. He had a very deep, secret motive in making Jonquil Rivers talk to him. He wanted for the most important reasons of his own to hear all that she had to say. Almost before she spoke he knew the little history she unfolded.

He was scarcely conscious of the dance. With his arm about her, and his eyes fixed on her, he drank in her words with an eagerness that would have amazed her had she been conscious of it. But she only knew that this big, handsome man was very kind and charming to be interested in her, and she answered his questions freely. She was thinking too, how well he danced: was a little thrilled by the strength, the warmth of his encircling arm, and the perfection of his steps which as Micky Tollington had predicted, she found easy to follow.

She told him about Rivers Court; the lovely garden: the beauty of the Sussex Downs, and her rather dull existence with the old lady of seventy-five who was her adopted grandmother.

“I was adopted by Mr. Rivers when I was ten,” she explained. “My father was a school-friend of his, and my mother died when I was a baby, so when poor father followed her, Mr. Rivers very kindly gave me a home, and I’ve looked on him as my father ever since.”

“I see,” said Charter. “And you are—fond of him?”

“Of course,” she nodded. “He and Granny have been very kind. He is a stern, deeply religious man, mad about botanical research, and sometimes difficult. As a child I was a little afraid of him. Now I’m of age I am not afraid, because I realise it is just his manner, and he loves me as though I were his own flesh and blood. So does Granny.”

“So I have heard,” said Charter. “In fact, it is said that Henry Rivers adores you.”

Her hazel eyes flashed him a swift look of interrogation.

“You know about us?”

His smile widened, it was full of bitterness.

“Oh, yes, I—have heard.”

“Then perhaps you have also heard of father’s nephew … (I call Mr. Rivers “father,” you know) … the boy who was disinherited and sent away from Rivers Court just before father adopted me?”

“Yes. Do you know much about him?”

“Not much,” said Jonquil gravely. “Father won’t speak of him—never mentions his name, and neither does Granny. But I understand that he nearly broke father’s heart, and father will never forgive him. Father has never married, and the boy was like a son to him once, and his heir. Poor boy. Sometimes I pity him, wonder what happened to him after he left Rivers Court.”

“You pity him?”

“Well,” said the girl with a slight flush, “it must have been awful for him to be disinherited, and even if he were really bad, think of all he has missed!”

“Why pity him? You have all he has lost,” said Charter with a laugh that jarred on her.

Her brows contracted and the colour in her cheeks deepened.

“That was not very nice of me,” said Charter quickly, and looked down at her with his lazy, attractive smile … a smile that set her young heart racing. “Come and have an ice,” he added. “It’s pretty hot in this room, what?”

She agreed, and went with him through a festooned archway into the cool dusk of a conservatory. He brought her an ice and sat beside her in a basket chair smoking. She felt a little shy of “the most fascinating man in London.” He was obviously a creature of moods; charming, gay, sparkling one moment; silent, contemplative the next. She had thought his remark about her gain through the disinherited nephew’s loss in bad taste. But she had speedily forgiven him. Charter was the type whom women forgive much. With one smile he had wiped away the remembrance of his lapse from good manners.

But she wondered what was the matter with him now. He leaned slightly forward, his brows drawn together, his eyes fixed on the ground. She was fascinated by his mouth … such a beautifully shaped mouth … but so queer and grim and sulky. What was he brooding about?

In the conservatory it was quiet and tranquil after the clash of the music, the laughter, the gay “ragging” in the ballroom.

“I think Christmas is a jolly time, don’t you?” murmured Jonquil, sipping her delicious lemon ice.

“Very jolly,” said Charter.

But he answered like a machine. There was no jollity in his thoughts. He was lost in memories of the past … of a certain Christmas, nine years ago … the last Christmas spent at Rivers Court, Chanctonbridge. And he was wondering cynically what this simple, pretty girl who was now Henry Rivers’ heiress, would think if she knew that he … he, Roland Charter … was the “boy” who had lost all that she had gained.

The bitter hatred; the yet more bitter resentment which had burned in him against Henry Rivers when he had been turned out of Rivers Court nine years ago revived to-night with all the old intensity.

His thoughts winged back to his early youth when at the age of seven he had lost both mother and father and been sent to live at Rivers Court with Uncle Henry who was his mother’s brother. Uncle Henry, a botanist and ardent collector of moths, was unmarried, and had decided to make Roland his heir. Mrs. Rivers, still presiding over Rivers Court, had welcomed the handsome, high-spirited little grandson warmly. Of all her children she had loved Elizabeth, his mother, best.

But there had been very little happiness for Roland at Rivers Court. His uncle had never really cared for him. They were worlds apart. Their temperaments; their tempers clashed, and Mrs. Rivers’ attempts to bridge the gulf between them had frequently failed, yet the boy had loved Rivers Court and his grandmother; been proud of his inheritance; full of ambition, of hope for the future.

During the days of his education at Marlborough, and later at Oxford, he had been happy. But the long vacations spent at Rivers Court had alw. . .