The Long Shadow

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

When Violet Wellingham woke up that morning and realized that she had lost not only the husband she adored, but everything else that had made life worth living, she found it quite impossible to believe that she was not still in the middle of a nightmare.

Release date: June 26, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

“Old sins have long shadows.”

Proverb.

WHEN Violet Wellingham woke up that morning and realized that she had not only lost the husband she had adored, but everything else that had made life worth living—she found it quite impossible to believe that she was not still in the middle of a nightmare.

Then the suffraggi knocked on the door. When she said “Come in” he entered with her breakfast tray. He laid it beside her and said with his usual flashing smile: “Morning, Lady,” and she knew that it was all true, horribly true. She was wide awake. She had not dreamed the tragedy. This was her bedroom. Isman, the Sudanese, was her servant, the same old Isman with his nice broad, bronze-coloured face bearing the scars of his tribe; his striped galabieh, the red tarboosh on his fuzzy head—unalterable; opening the shutters to let in the strong sunlight that hurt her head and eyes that were blind with weeping.

Then he was gone again. She was left alone. Terribly, inexorably alone, seeing that twin-bed beside hers, made up, unused; seeing the photograph of Tony standing on her chest of drawers at the far end of the big white-painted bedroom. (He had bought those gay-coloured rugs for her on his last trip to the Sudan. He had given her the blue and gilt enamel toilet set on her dressing-table.) The door in the far corner led into what had been his dressing-room. She had only managed to bring herself to go into that room once since she had received the news of his death. It had looked very tidy. Everything the same—his ivory brushes and comb on the tallboy; the same wardrobe which she knew contained all his suits in a neat row (Tony had been always meticulously tidy), the books and papers on his writing bureau.

Violet pressed her finger-tips against her eyes, closed now as a shudder went through her long, thin body. He had been her first and only lover, and she was not the type of woman to love twice. She had always been what people called “reserved”. She was incapable of demonstration and not given to close friendships or affections of any kind. But she had loved Tony. Loved him too much, perhaps, and at times to her own humiliation. For all through their marriage—they had been together for nine years—it had seemed to her that she was the one who gave and he who accepted. There had been moments when she had felt ashamed of the wild, even pagan, emotion he had roused in her—she who shrank from sensuality in others and criticized the stupid over-emotionalism of the average woman; the type to wear her heart on her sleeve. Violet had never shown her true self to any living being except the man who married her.

But despite the fact that there had been those odd occasions, more frequent during this year, perhaps, when she had felt that he was less passionately in love—she had been happy. So far as she could remember they had never had a serious row. Friendly disputes—yes. Odd disagreement—patches of bickering—just like any other married couple. But nothing to disturb the even tenor of their existence. And she had always been so proud because she was Tony’s wife. Even when she had first married him, and he was only twenty-nine, the Foreign Office had looked on him as one of the most promising young men in the service.

Clever, amusing and extraordinarily handsome.

She had been aware that she had not been first with him. In that rather boyish, guileless way which she liked, he used to admit that he liked pretty women. As for money—he had a nice private income as well as his salary, and would have come into a lot more when his father, old Admiral Sir Harry Wellingham, died.

Tony had had his faults, of course. Who hadn’t? She had hers. She knew that she was difficult for strangers to get on with, and Tony used to deplore the fact that she could not be more sociable, although he forgave her because he knew that it was due to her shyness. He used to reproach her, too, for being over-critical.

“You ought to relax more, Vi,” he used to say, “you’re damn well tied up in knots at times, and much too introspective. You ought to come out of your shell. I never feel that you enjoy things like I do.”

But he had never known—and nobody else in the world knew—what bitter difficulties she encountered with her own nature. To be intrinsically cold and proud—yet within oneself have a volcano of feeling shut up, ready to erupt at a touch, was apt to complicate a person’s whole existence.

Just before going to Cairo two days ago, on that fatal trip which had cost him his life, he had kissed her goodbye and said:

“I do make you happy, don’t I, Vi?”

The question had surprised her a little. But she had been touched by it and assured him that she was absolutely happy, except, of course, for the one great sorrow of both their lives: that they had no child.

Therein lay the canker that had eaten at her heart ever since she became Tony’s wife.

If only she had had a child of his—she would not feel so terribly alone today. Violet’s childlessness had become a sore that never healed. Every time she went home she used to go to some new gynaecologist in the hope that he could work the miracle. She had suffered physical pain and mental humiliation in the hands of many medical men. And nothing gained at the end of it. She was just incapable of bearing a child, they said. Even Tony had submitted to tests, so anxious was he for that son. He had been healthy enough. It was her fault. And he had never reproached her. Never, never.

Her in-laws, however, had not let her forget that she was to blame, Violet thought bitterly. Particularly her mother-in-law. They had never got on, but Lady Wellingham had worshipped Tony. The Admiral, who was a jocular, blustering old boy, seemed to delight in tormenting Violet.

“Come along—come along, where’s that baby?” he used to say with a booming laugh which brought the red blood to her cheeks.

But Tony’s mother said nothing—only looked at her. And the look spoke volumes—Violet knew perfectly well that Lady Wellingham despised her for not being able to bear a child.

Now she would have to go back to England and face them alone. She writhed at the thought. Poor things—in their way they would be as heart-broken as she was over Tony’s death. Possibly they would consider they should offer her a home with them at Sulkdown Manor—the family estate near Wendover. She had no home of her own. No parents; mother and father were both dead. Only one elder sister living. And Violet didn’t get on very well with Betty. She was quite a different type—jolly and loquacious—very much a country type married to a gentleman farmer. Betty had four children and that alone made Violet dislike her. She supposed it was all part of her warped, difficult temperament. She had made only one women friend out here in Egypt—the Contesse Louise de Verigny. Louise’s husband, Paul de Verigny, was in the French diplomatic corps in Cairo. They understood each other perfectly. For Louise was of the same intensely proud retiring nature as Violet. Louise gave Violet friendship and sympathy. She had been in Cairo when Violet—hysterical for the first time in her life—phoned her the news of Tony’s death. She had at once flown to Alex to be at her side. But Louise had to go back to Cairo last night for an important diplomatic dinner. Before leaving Alexandria she had assured Violet that she might rely on her friendship at all times, and that if she wanted a temporary resting-place she could stay with them in their villa in Versailles to which the de Verignys were returning next month.

Dear Louise! Violet was grateful for such loyal support. But she did not want to be an object of pity to anybody—even Louise. She wanted Tony back. She could not bear to know that he was dead.

“How am I going to bear it?” Violet moaned to herself, and asked herself whether she would not be driven to find some quick, painless method of following the man she had loved and lost.

SIR OLIVER MOSTYN finished his egg and bacon, pushed back his plate and picked up the Egyptian Mail. He concentrated on the paragraph marked:

“BRILLIANT BRITISH DIPLOMAT CRASHES TO HIS DEATH.”

There was a photograph of a good-looking man, wearing a white shark-skin dinner jacket, holding a champagne-glass in his hand, laughing at the beautiful girl beside him who had long hair floating to her shoulders, and wore a strapless evening dress. She, too, was holding a glass aloft as though answering his toast. Under the picture were the words:

“Mr. Antony Wellingham and Miss Prudence Mostyn at the dinner-dance given at the Cecil Hotel for Miss Mostyn’s twenty-first birthday.”

Sir Oliver frowned, shook his head regretfully, and then tossed the paper back on to the table.

“Bad show,” he said. “Rotten bad luck. Always thought that air line safe as houses. And we can ill-afford to lose clever chaps like Tony Wellingham.”

He spoke to the girl who was seated at the table opposite him. The dining-room in this villa was a large airy cream-painted room with arched doorways and tessellated floor; designed for coolness during the hot weather. Today being the 15th of May it was very warm indeed. The suffraggi had already closed the shutters. There was a minimum of light.

It was as well, Prudence Mostyn told herself, dully, that her father could not see how terribly she had been crying all night. He had weak eyes and always wore dark glasses. In any case, she had taken extra care with her make-up this morning. She had had to. She looked very young and thin and not particularly like the glamorous laughing young woman of the photograph. She had put on a sleeveless cotton frock. Her shoulder blades stood out sharply. She had a wide, soft mouth, and looked helpless. She was a little vague and uncertain of herself; easily influenced by others. She had never been clever and had no talents save that of looking devastatingly lovely when she was well and happy! Her doe-like dark eyes were quite wonderful with the fair bleached hair, which, despite the new fashion for short crops, she kept at shoulder length.

Sir Oliver Mostyn was the head of an Anglo-Egyptian shipping company which had not yet been taken over by the new Government. The Egyptians liked him. He had made a study of their language and their habits. There was even some talk of his turning Moslem to please them. He was a hard, blustering man. None in the English colony liked him, but he was accepted because of his wealth and position. His wife, who had been cast in the same mould as Prue, a weak, silly, pretty woman, had died a year ago of some strange germ which she had picked up during a holiday at Luxor. It was a grief to Oliver Mostyn that he had no son, and he found no particular pleasure in this young, pretty daughter who was more of a nuisance value than anything to a widower. However, he was glad that Prue was beautiful, because he had marked down for her a young man attached to the F.O. who was considered not only full of drive and brains, but was heir to a baronetcy. Sir Oliver made all kinds of plans for ensuring that Prue saw a lot of Darcy Gateways. Darcy wasn’t good-looking, but people called him a fine fellow with a sense of humour. Sir Oliver had felt annoyed once or twice when Prue observed that “Darcy wasn’t her type”. Sir Oliver wasn’t going to have any nonsense, like some of his friends whose ultra-modern daughters defied their parents, wore the breeches, and went off with Tom, Dick or Harry.

Sir Oliver caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror which hung over the sideboard. He expanded his chest. He was proud of the tall, straight figure that he had kept. He passed a finger lovingly over a toothbrush moustache and cleared his throat.

“Shocking business that air disaster. You had better send some flowers to Mrs. Wellingham.”

Now for the first time Prue spoke; it was like a hollow whisper in the big room. It might have come from some disembodied spirit.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said.

“Send a little note with them,” added Sir Oliver, “something to the effect that we are deeply shocked and all that, and to let us know if we can do anything. If Mrs. W. wants to go home by boat I could get her a good cabin, etc. Don’t suppose she’ll want to fly, do you—after her husband has just been burnt to death.”

Prudence Mostyn had a horrible fear that she was going to faint. She had eaten no breakfast. She felt sick. She was always feeling sick. Nerves, the doctor had said. She was too thin—wanted a change of air. He had advised her father to send her back to England, but she didn’t want to go.

Why had she refused to go? Because she couldn’t bear to leave him. Her adored Tony. Tony who had loved her as madly as she had loved him. And he had just died out there in the desert midway between Cairo and Alexandria.

Now her father kept harping on the details. Tony, whom she could only remember as a vital, heavenly person with his caressing voice and hands. Oh, dear life, what was she going to do? Everyone would sympathize with his wife. But it was she, Prue, who had been his true wife. Not for very long; their affair had lasted barely five months. But it had been five months of sheer bliss for them both.

“You feeling seedy, my dear?” she heard her father speaking.

He had such a loud, dominating voice. She admired him, of course. She had grown up to regard him as “wonderful”. Yet when her mother was still alive she had always felt a bit uneasy about the relationship between the three of them. She was sure poor Mummy had never received either affection or gentleness from Daddy, although he was most generous. Her jewel-case used to be full of gorgeous diamonds. They lived in one of the most luxurious villas in Alex.; had a huge staff, and went everywhere; and visited relatives in England twice a year.

Somehow she must answer him.

“Oh, I’m all right—just a touch of ‘gippy tummy’,” she murmured, mentioning the trouble that affected most of the English residents out here.

“I do wish you wouldn’t whisper, Prue. I can’t hear you. It’s a bad habit of yours,” said Sir Oliver.

Suddenly Prue stood up and came near him. She was as small as she was thin and her bleached head barely reached his shoulder.

“Daddy,” she said as loudly as she could, “I wonder if you would let me go home and stay with Aunt Jane for a bit?”

“Stay with Aunt Jane?” he repeated. “Whatever for?” She may be my sister, but of all the dull old wrecks and that ghastly flat of hers in Bath—my dear Prue!—don’t be silly. You’ve only just begun to bathe and enjoy the sea; besides, you and I are going away together at the end of July if I can get away. You know I’ve got business in South America and that I thought you would like to come with me, then.”

The girl pressed her hands together as though in an effort for self-control, but her whole body shivered. She was deadly pale under her sunburn make-up.

“I know. And I’d like it but I don’t feel very well. I’d rather like to go home to Bath now and be quiet.”

“What’s the matter with you?” her father asked irritably. He hated illness of any kind. The one thing he had had against his late wife had been her infernal delicacy. Always ailing. He did hope Prue wasn’t going to inherit the tendency. “I thought you saw Dr. O’Connor the other day,” he went on, “and he told you there was nothing wrong except your nerves—too many late nights. You’ll have to take a good tonic and cut down the parties. You haven’t been riding lately. Darcy Gateways is splendid on a horse, let him take you out early in the mornings. That’ll put some colour into your cheeks, my dear.”

She put a handkerchief to her lips. The mere thought of taking hard exercise, galloping over the desert sands beside Darcy who was so virile, so male, made her feel worse than ever. She quite liked Darcy … one couldn’t help it because he was amusing and had a sort of strong animal attraction for women. She knew that her father liked him. But she didn’t want Darcy or anybody else in the world except Tony.

Sir Oliver patted her on the shoulder, kissed her on the top of her head, told her to ‘enjoy herself’ and went off to his office.

Prue went slowly down the wide corridor and into her own bedroom. It was elegant and luxurious. Her father had bought this villa with all its furnishings from a wealthy Egyptian Pasha. Everything here, as in the other rooms, was fabulous. The wide double bed on its raised platform, with silver-tinted gossamer canopy floating down from a gilt angel. The pale rose-pink hand-woven carpet, the gilt Venetian furniture, the exquisite satin curtains framing the shuttered windows made it look like a film star’s bedroom. Prue had been fascinated by it all when they first moved here.

She looked around her desolately. Through a chink in the shutters came a shaft of golden sunshine. Outside, she knew, the sky would be blue and the sea glittering like glass. In a few moments the phone would begin to ring. One of the young married women out here whose husbands were in the diplomatic service was certain to ask her to bathe or go on a picnic, or out to lunch. Prue was a popular person and in a position which any normal girl would envy.

But she looked hunted … haunted … shivering as though it were cold in the warm scented bedroom. With terrible clarity she recalled the past. It had been at a New Year’s Eve party that she had first fallen in love with Tony Wellingham. She had met him once or twice before but only on New Year’s Eve had they danced a lot together and become aware of their attraction for each other. She was used to flattery and attention. But coming from Tony it had seemed quite different. He hadn’t particularly tried to “put over” anything. Never could he be accused of having run down his wife. He had merely seemed to be seeking something that Mrs. Wellingham couldn’t give him, that was all. And she, Prue, had it—whatever it was.

She remembered the first intimate, revealing words he had spoken on that New Year’s Eve while they sat out a dance, alone together.

“You’re awfully sweet and you make me feel awfully old. Rather like your father. I could gather you into my arms and rock you like a baby and tell you a bedtime story. Quite a new feeling for me, I assure you.”

She had laughed at that. They had laughed together, and held hands. … Then suddenly he had carried one of her hands to his lips, looked down at her very deeply from those wonderfully blue eyes of his and added:

“This won’t do, Prue. I’m not behaving at all well. I’ve always been an incorrigible flirt and I thought it would be delicious to flirt with you. You’re beautiful enough to shake any fellow. But you’ve got something more than beauty—and it’s much too intriguing for my peace of mind. I’m going to say good night.”

He had left her without another word.

Afterwards she had watched him dancing with his wife. She had, of course, met Mrs. Wellingham at parties in Alex., but now she began to study the older woman with absorbing interest. Violet was dressed with great taste in silver-grey and wore a turquoise choker, and turquoises in her ears. She appeared to be formal and distant. Yet once during the dance Prue saw her smiling at her husband and the haughty face had been much softened and held real beauty for an instant. Of course she was in love with Tony—that was obvious!

Prue decided that it might be best if she didn’t see much more of Tony Wellingham. But the social life in Alexandria flung them together again and again and each time they met the attraction between them grew stronger. Until the fatal day—the fatal night—when something too powerful to resist led Tony to call here to see her after leaving the Legation. It so happened that her father was away that evening in Cairo. Prue had been going to spend a quiet evening, tucked up in bed, reading a new novel and trying to recover from a series of late nights. Then the suffraggi had announced that Mr. Wellingham was in the salon.

Standing here on this golden hot morning, Prudence Mostyn looked back—back to every detail of that night, and she felt that her heart would break in two.

“HULLO,” said Tony, “have I called at an awkward hour? Were you dressing to go out?”

Prue looked at him—the debonair figure in the light gaberdine suit; the thin bronzed face and the very blue eyes which reduced her to a state of nervous agitation. She was madly in love. With the passionate intensity of a very young girl for her first love.

She stumbled over her greeting.

“N-not at all. D-do sit down, please.”

But he came nearer, placed both his hands on her shoulders and looked her up and down with that curiously sad, haunted look that she had so often noticed in his eyes.

“How beautiful you are,” he said under his breath, “how very beautiful. And oh, God, how young. I can’t keep away from you, and that’s the dreadful part of it. Lord knows, I’ve tried, but it’s too strong for me. It isn’t just that I want an affair. I don’t. It may sound conceited but I can assure you that I could have had dozens of affairs out here since I came. It’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?” Prue asked breathlessly.

He looked into the big starry eyes that were so innocent and yet so full of primitive enticement. He looked at the big sensual mouth. Under his breath he said:

“Just you and all that you are. A little helpless thing. You are helpless—you need protecting. You need someone to adore you and look after you, and be a father as well as a husband—don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, trembling. “I never know why you always talk about this ‘father’ business. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does. It’s because I’ve always wanted a child—and you’ve become like my child to me. My child and my woman rolled into one. That’s what makes you so damned attractive. You look like a schoolgirl with your big eyes and long hair and frilly dresses, but you’re a woman and you want me as much as I want you.”

He spoke roughly, tense with pent-up emotion. Ever since New Year’s Eve he had been struggling with this mad emotion that Prudence Mostyn had awakened in him … knowing it to be wrong … knowing himself to be disloyal to a wife whom he fundamentally loved … aware that it would be monstrous of him—a man of forty—to take advantage of a young girl’s youth and innocence.

Of course it had happened before. He had heard about such things and always despised the man concerned—labelled him “cad” and something worse. But here he was, himself, about to commit the unforgivable crime. He was fully aware that this girl was in love with him—that she had not the experience of a more sophisticated woman, and never concealed her feelings. He had felt her tremble at his touch; seen those big soft eyes turn repeatedly in his direction. They had had heavenly moments together. . .