Spare Brides by Adele Parks Page B

was fine and hung on his sharp cheekbones; his dark hair was long and flopped over his right eye, as was fashionable, but even so, it could not hide his eyes. Green. Enormous. Sad. He held out her glove. Red, it lay like a gash in his hand.
    ‘Yes, it must have fallen off the table,’ she mumbled.
    ‘Well, luckily I was passing, so I could avert any real disaster.’ His tone was humorous; his enunciation was not quite middle class. He was trying to hide an accent; she couldn’t yet tell which one. She was frozen; he shook the glove a fraction, as if reminding her that he was offering it. She took it from him and their fingers touched; the jolt dashed through her body, then found a harbour below her stomach. She fought the mad urge to stand up and kiss him.
    ‘I like your eye make-up.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘That smoky, smudgy look you’ve mastered. It’s very attractive.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Well, good day, ladies.’ He nodded his head a fraction.
    ‘Goodbye,’ Lydia replied.
    Both women watched the soldier leave the café; it was impossible to turn away.
    ‘Wasn’t he forward?’ commented Sarah.
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘Handsome enough to be forgiven, though,’ she added, with a playful smile.
    ‘Indeed.’ Lydia summoned a giggle. It was a little higher than her usual pitch, but she was determined to turn the event into a harmless, flirtatious moment. She couldn’t allow that it was more.
    ‘Gosh, Beatrice will be devastated to have missed that excitement,’ added Sarah. ‘I wonder who he is.’
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘Officer rank.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes, a staff sergeant major. Didn’t you notice the insignia? A non-commissioned officer, but an officer all the same.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Well someone must know him.’
    ‘I suppose.’
    Sarah then confided, ‘Not that Beatrice would stand a chance. Not really. I’m certain a man like that has his pick of beauties and fortunes. And Beatrice …’ Sarah sighed, not cruel enough to finish the sentence. It was unnecessary anyhow: Lydia understood.
    Lydia breathed in deeply. She tried to adjust her world, straighten it, because it was tilted, just a fraction, and she felt dazed and confused as a consequence. How strange he’d made her feel. Yes, he’d have his pick of women, and she was married. Happily so. She stretched and strained to regain a sense of reality.
    ‘Let’s take Bea a cake. She’ll like that.’
    Sarah beamed, always impressed by her friend’s thoughtfulness. ‘What a lovely idea. Shall we take the macaroon?’
    ‘Yes. That’s perfect.’
    Perfect.

9
    I T HAD BEEN a long day. Endless and drab. The trees were beaten by the wind. The sky was tin grey. Her nieces and nephews had not provided the respite that Beatrice had hoped they might. They had not shattered the monotony with delighted squeals or warm, enthusiastic cuddles. Instead they had squabbled and behaved badly. The two older boys had refused to permit little Jimmy to join them riding; her nieces had been prepared to allow him to tag along, but he’d been ungracious about it and lashed out, insisting he didn’t want to be with the girls. He’d flung his wooden pull-along duck, which had caught Molly’s kneecap, causing her to howl. Bea suspected the reaction was disproportionate to the actual injury, but her tears had been loud and fearful enough to bring Nanny running from the nursery. Nanny had thrown Beatrice a furious glare, effectively communicating her condemnation of Beatrice’s inadequate mothering skills.
    Why would she be any good at controlling the children? At mothering? She was not a mother. She probably never would be. Not a mother, not a wife. The thought was not a new one, but every time Bea encountered it, anguish and disappointment engulfed her like a wave.
    As she wiped little Jimmy’s nose and tears – because having caused his sister to cry, he too was now crying, although it wasn’t clear whether he was bawling with frustration or shame – she