There was a long silence before a shocked Becky felt able to reply. She eventually said, "But what about Daphne?"
"Daphne? You surely never believed we had that sort of relationship? It's true she's been giving me night classes but not the type you think. In any case, there's only ever been one man in Daphne's life, and it's certainly not Charlie Trumper for the simple reason she's known all along that there's only been one woman in mine."
"But—"
"And I've loved you for such a long time, Becky."
"Oh, my God," said Becky, placing her head in her hands.
"I'm sorry," said Charlie. "I thought you knew. Daphne told me women always know these things."
"I had no idea, Charlie. I've been so blind as well as stupid."
"I haven't looked at another woman since the day I came back from Edinburgh. I suppose I just 'oped you might love me a little," he said.
"I'll always love you a little, Charlie, but I'm afraid it's Guy I'm in love with."
"Lucky brighter. And to think I saw you first. Your father once chased me out of 'is shop, you know, when he 'eard me calling you 'Posh Porky' behind your back." Becky smiled. "You see, I've always been able to grab everything I really wanted in life, so 'ow did I let you get away?"
Becky was unable to look up at him.
"He's an officer, of course, and I'm not. That would explain it." Charlie had stopped pacing round the room and came to halt in front of her.
"You're a general, Charlie."
"It's not the same, though, is it?"
Chapter 12
97 Chelsea Terrace
London SW3
May 20th, 1920
My darling Guy,
This is the hardest letter I have ever had to write in my life. In fact, I'm not sure where to begin. Just over three months have passed since you left for India, and something has happened that I felt you would want to know about at once. I have just been to see Daphne's doctor in Harley Street and . . .
Becky stopped, checked carefully over the few sentences she had written, groaned, crumpled up the notepaper and dropped it in the wastepaper basket that rested at her feet. She stood up, stretched and started to pace around the room in the hope that she might be able to dream up some new excuse for not continuing with her task. It was already twelve-thirty so she could now go to bed, claiming that she had been too weary to carry on—only Becky knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep until the letter had been completed. She returned to her desk and tried to settle herself again before reconsidering the opening line. She picked up her pen.
97 Chelsea Terrace
London SW3
May 20th, 1920
My dear Guy,
I fear that this letter may come as something of a surprise, especially after all the irrelevant gossip that I was able to share with you only a month ago. I have been postponing writing anything of consequence to you in the hope that my fears would prove unfounded. Unhappily that has not proved to be the case, and circumstances have now overtaken me.
After spending the most wonderful time with you the night before you left for India, I then missed my period the following month, but did not trouble you with the problem immediately in the hope that . . .
Oh no, thought Becky, and tore up her latest effort before once again dropping the scraps of paper into the wastepaper basket. She traipsed off to the kitchen to make herself a pot of tea. After her second cup, she reluctantly returned to her writing desk and settled herself again.
97 Chelsea Terrace,
London SW3
May 20th, 1920
Dear Guy,
I do hope everything is going well for you in India, and that they are not working you too hard, I miss you more than I can express, but what with exams looming and Charlie seeing himself as the next Mr. Selfridge, these first three months since you left have just shot by. In fact I feel sure you'll be fascinated to learn that your old commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton, has become . . .
"And by the way I'm pregnant," said Becky out loud, and tore up her third attempt. She replaced the top on her pen, deciding the time had come to take a walk round the square. She picked up her coat from its hook in the hall, ran down the stairs and let herself out. She strolled aimlessly up and down the deserted road seemingly unaware of the hour. She was pleased to find that "Sold" signs now appeared in the windows of Numbers 131 and 135. She stopped outside the old antiques shop for a moment, cupped her hands round her eyes and peered in through the window. To her horror she discovered that Mr. Rutherford had removed absolutely everything, even the gas fittings and the mantelpiece that she had assumed were fixed to the wall. That'll teach me to study an offer document more carefully next time, she thought. She continued to stare at the empty space as a mouse scurried across the floorboards. "Perhaps we should open a pet shop," she said aloud.
"Beg pardon, miss."
Becky swung round to find a policeman rattling the doorknob of 133, to be certain the premises were locked.
"Oh, good evening, Constable," said Becky sheepishly, feeling guilty without any reason.
"It's nearly two in the morning, miss. You just said 'Good evening.'"
"Oh, is it?" said Becky, looking at her watch. "Oh, yes, so it is. How silly of me. You see, I live at 97." Feeling some explanation was necessary she added, "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to take a walk."
"Better join the force then. They'll be happy to keep you walking all night."
Becky laughed. "No, thank you, Constable. I think I'll just go back to my flat and try and get some sleep. Good night."
"Good night, miss," said the policeman, touching his helmet in a half salute before checking that the empty antiques shop was also safely locked up.
Becky turned and walked determinedly back down Chelsea Terrace, opened the front door of 97, climbed the staircase to the flat, took off her coat and resumed immediately to the little writing desk. She paused only for a moment before picking up her pen and starting to write.
For once the words flowed easily because she now knew exactly what needed to be said.
97 Chelsea Terrace
London SW3
May 20, 1920
Dear Guy,
I have tried to think of 2 hundred different ways of letting you know what has happened to me since you left for India, and finally came to the conclusion that only the simple truth makes any sense.
I am now some fourteen weeks pregnant with your child, the idea of which fills me with great happiness but I confess more than a little apprehension. Happiness because you are the only man I have ever loved, and apprehension because of the implications such a piece of news might have on you future with the regiment.
I must tell you from the outset that I have no desire to harm that career in any way by forcing you into marriage. A commitment honoured only out of some feeling of guilt, which then caused you to spend the rest of your life participating in a sham after what happened between us on one occasion, must surely be unacceptable to either of us.
For my part, I make no secret of my total devotion to you, but if it is not reciprocated, I can never be a party to sacrificing such a promising career on the altar of hypocrisy.
But, my darling, be left in no doubt of my complete love for you and my abiding interest in your future and well-being, even to the point of denying your involvement in this affair, should that be the course you with me to follow.
Guy, I will always adore you, and be assured of my utmost loyalty whatever decision you should come to.
With all my love,