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Chilbury Manor

Chilbury

Kent

Wednesday, 3rd April, 1940

Dear Angela,

The bet still stands! Mr Slater is tiresomely resisting my advances. I’ve tried my best tricks, even knocking on his door and asking if he had any spare paint as I was attempting ‘a frightfully difficult landscape’, but he simply handed some paint over and politely waved me off. I’d spent all day getting ready, wearing my green silk dress, my hair curled to perfection. Perplexing, my dear. Perplexing isn’t the word!

But you must stop proclaiming victory, as I’ll have him soon enough. He is truly captivating, Angie, and a romantic artist too. I’ve always thought of them as bohemian willowy types, but he is more athletic, with the look of a gentleman fencer – en garde and all that. Beneath those crisp suits I can make out his muscular arms, thighs even. How I long to run my fingers over him. But Angie, it’s more than that. There’s something about him that makes me feel we’re meant to be together. The way he looks at me, as if he’s looking through me to a different person inside.

I miss having you here, even though things are improving. Everyone is finally calming down after Edmund’s death, although Mama remains weepy and Daddy furious. I miss him too, in my way, the antics we’d get up to. Funny how one forgets how beastly someone can be when they’re dead. I suppose the threat of him is gone.

I’ve been rekindling my friendship with Hattie, even though she’s been as boring as boiled cabbage since she’s become pregnant. I went around for afternoon tea yesterday. She’d redecorated the baby’s room a ghastly green as that’s the only paint she could find. Her terraced house on Church Row is excruciatingly tiny. I don’t know how she can bear it.

‘But it’s next door to Miss Paltry, the midwife!’ she exclaimed, inexplicable joy on her pretty face, her long dark hair especially unruly since she’s been pregnant. ‘Don’t you see how useful that is? Although Mrs Tilling is to be my main attendant at the birth. She’s like family to me with my parents gone.’

‘And Mr Slater lives on the other side of you. That’s infinitely more exciting,’ I laughed, wondering if all this tedium was ruining my lipstick. I didn’t want to bump right into him without looking perfect.

‘How is your bet going?’ she asked.

‘Not well. I confess I don’t know what to make of him.’

‘I know what you mean. I do wonder what he’s up to. I always see him going out, in his motorcar or on foot, with not so much as a paintbrush, and he doesn’t come home for hours.’ Hattie’s always acting the sensible older one. She thinks being two years older makes her wiser. And now that she’s going to have a baby, she’s insufferable.

‘Maybe he’s really a movie star!’ I laughed. ‘He certainly has the looks.’

She didn’t laugh. ‘Maybe you’re better off chasing someone else.’

I looked at her, in her dreadful maternity dress, the lonely quietness of the pokey little house, but I knew she was tediously happy. I have to confess that a flash of envy crossed my mind. But don’t worry, I soon snapped out of it. Who wants Victor Lovell, after all? Who wants to be pregnant when there’s so much excitement with this war? All the new things a girl can do. We’d never have got our clerical jobs with the War Office, and you would never have been sent to live in London by yourself. All the parties and freedom. I heard that Constance Worthing is even ferrying planes for the war effort.

I suppose Hattie’s always been the sensible one, but she seems so annoyingly settled. I remember when we were young, the three of us in the Pixie Ring shouting, We are as strong as the snakes, as fierce as the wolves, and as free as the stars.

‘I’m still the same person as before,’ she said suddenly, as if reading my mind – funny how she does that – and I knew she hadn’t changed at all.

I thought about Hattie having a baby as I walked home. I’m not sure I’d like being a mother, but perhaps it isn’t as bad as all that.

Silvie came into my room when I was home, her quiet little feet treading carefully to the dressing table. She scoured it for treasures, asking me what various items were. Sometimes I make up stories about them: a necklace from the deep, a lipstick lost by a princess.

‘Do you like Mr Slater?’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Kitty told me,’ she said simply. ‘I hope he is kind. Like you.’

I smiled and gave her a cuddle. I’ll have to make sure Kitty regrets telling my secrets, and doesn’t hear any more.

Do write soon, Angie, as I heartily miss your mischief making. I do wish they’d send me to London with you, although now that I have Mr Slater to tantalise me, perhaps not quite yet.

Much love,

Venetia