Page 49

‘What do they think might happen,’ he asked, aghast, ‘should they mix, I mean? Maybe the young spinsters might learn how to get pregnant?’ he added. ‘Or better still, how not to.’

Her smile matched his wry tone. ‘Yes, indeed. I agree it’s all very early Victorian thinking, but those are the rules and the Rowntrees are so generous in every aspect that I can’t bring myself to criticise them as others might.’ She slipped an arm into her coat.

‘Allow me,’ he said, and lifted the shoulders of her garment so she could shrug into the coat. It was thick cashmere wool, lined with slippery satin that slid expensively beneath his touch. He noted the label from London’s fashionable couturier district around Mayfair and wondered why this woman of means was involved in such a menial pursuit.

They were close enough that he could smell the soap lingering from her bath that morning, and he could see the baby-like wisps of hair at the back of her neck that would flutter if he so much as breathed on them. He blinked with consternation at the impulse to kiss the long neck that straddled square, angular shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and as he caught her soft sideways look it brought with it the childhood memory of a similarly capricious glance from a French girl who haunted his mind. Ah yes, that’s who Mrs Britten-Jones reminded him of. It was Antoinette. His breath seemed to get trapped in his lungs at this realisation.

‘Pardon me, I was miles away for a moment.’

‘Am I boring you already?’ she teased.

‘No . . . not at all. I’ve just recalled who it is you remind me of.’

‘I hope she’s devilishly ravishing.’ Was she flirting now because she felt safe that the wedding band had been noted?

‘Almost unbearably so,’ he replied, as he moved to her side.

‘Good. I want to hear all about her sometime,’ she said and he dared not entertain the hope that they would meet again. Either she heard her error or was aware of the sudden awkwardness, as she pressed on. ‘What I was saying is that married women tend to be gone for several years while having children. By the time they might wish to return, they’re badly out of practice from their work on the factory floor and have lost their dexterity. The young girls are much faster, and factories are all about speedy production, of course.’

He nodded, interested. ‘So did they stretch the rules for you?’

‘In a way, yes. Due to the war our engagement was long. I know it frustrated my mother.’ He watched her grin, probably recalling many tense enquiries. ‘But neither of us was in any hurry. When we did marry I was already a tour escort and so the rules were bent a little by no one really mentioning that my status had changed, but I can’t really lean on that excuse for much longer. I’ve been Mrs Britten-Jones for almost two years.’ She gave a soft smile and Harry wondered if he was only imagining it as a sad one.

‘Lovely.’ He didn’t know what else to say and even that single empty word reverberated in his throat like a press of pain. ‘I mean, that’s lovely to hear.’

‘Thank you. I reminded my husband only last week that we never did have a honeymoon, what with the war. He keeps promising to make it up to me. Shall we go through here?’ She gestured and he nodded.

‘Your husband must have been demobbed extremely early . . . I mean, that you spoke to him last week.’

‘He didn’t go to war, Mr Blake,’ she said, in a rehearsed breezy voice as though she’d had to say this phrase repeatedly. ‘He tried but he wasn’t permitted for health reasons . . . his eyesight. He was also part of essential services. Matthew works with the railways.’ Harry gave a moue of understanding but immediately labelled him a coward privately. It was unfair but he was feeling churlish that a bloke with spectacles, who probably collected train numbers and memorabilia, had landed this woman. ‘And he did do lots of work behind the scenes, particularly with the transport of men: those going to the Front, the injured being brought to hospitals, as well as moving around goods and equipment. If not for Matthew’s personal efforts to get more trains on lines, I wonder if more of our brave men wouldn’t have survived.’ Harry said nothing and this seemed to unnerve her. ‘Actually his work was invaluable, I believe, and he was likely more use on the ground here than being shot at in France or Belgium.’

Harry didn’t believe her for a moment. ‘I’m sure.’

They were walking now towards another red-brick building. He felt the chill settle in his chest like frosted crystals and his breath became raspy. He wished now he’d packed appropriately but it was not as though he wasn’t familiar with uncomfortable winters. The trenches of winter in 1916 and ’17 were arguably the most bitterly cold temperatures of most soldiers’ memories, including his.

She gestured at the building. ‘We have a gymnasium at the back of our dining room and here is the factory swimming pool and baths: very important to our staff. Er, do you swim, Mr Blake?’ Her breath clouded in a mist in front of him and he felt a ridiculous temptation to inhale it.

‘I do. I enjoy it very much, although I haven’t in a while, for obvious reasons.’

‘Where’s home for you, Mr Blake?’

He looked down to his shoes briefly, where he could feel winter clawing through the leather. He knew that sensation too from the trenches, wasn’t scared of it; he grinned instead. ‘Call me Harry, would you?’

‘All right, but then you’ll have to call me Alex.’

He then realised just how much he had missed female company these last years. Her smile was melting all the shields he’d built up around his emotions to get through the relentless days of war. Just being close to the blush of smooth, soft skin and the neat clip of her voice with only the vaguest hint of the northern lilt in it threatened his masterful ability to remain distanced from life.

‘Home for now is London.’ There was no point in lying; his appearance, manner, the fact that he had been put on a VIP tour by the booking office were all obvious clues. ‘Er, Greenwich.’

‘I do love Greenwich,’ she admitted, not sounding even vaguely surprised, more delighted, in fact. ‘The Royal Observatory fascinates me . . . well, its measurement of time and all those astronomical instruments: so impressive.’

‘I’m no sailor – sickened like a weakling on the crossings to and from France during the war – but I do find it reassuring to be around all that maritime paraphernalia too,’ he quipped. ‘The royal museums are splendid, I agree.’

They had entered the mugginess of the swimming baths. ‘There are eight shower baths with hot and cold running water, which the men from the starch room use daily. Plus, I mentioned the slipper baths for use by the women.’

There were only two lone swimmers, sliding slowly through the marked lanes, with a single, broad woman seated atop a tall ladder-like seat watching them. Harry’s gaze met Alex’s after they’d both spotted the lifeguard.