The next morning she had thought of her mother for the first time in a little while, wondering how Esther could have given herself away so cheaply. She couldn’t imagine being so intimate with anyone but Toby, and surely love would have to be the main ingredient for a woman to allow a man to possess her? But then women were bought by men for money on the streets and in brothels, it was a fact of life. She had known about it, of course, but until now hadn’t realised the significance of what was entailed.
She had told Toby only the bare facts about her past life, that her parents had died when she was a baby and her aunt and uncle had brought her up, and that she had run away from what was a claustrophobic and unpleasant existence and come to London. He had been satisfied with that and hadn’t pressed for more. But now, as they sat together at their little dining-table in the sitting room enjoying their first breakfast as man and wife, she felt she needed to tell him the full story. Something had changed with the act of making love. She couldn’t explain it but she didn’t want any secrets between them.
‘Toby, dear, I want to tell you something.’ He was sitting behind his newspaper like an old married man, and as she placed a plate of sausages, ham and egg in front of him, he lowered the paper and smiled at her.
‘Don’t tell me.’ He inspected his plate. ‘You’ve burned the sausages? Or is the yolk of the egg hard? No, I know. You’ve forgotten my breakfast roll.’
She had, as it happened. After another trip to the kitchen she surveyed the food on the cheerful little gingham tablecloth she’d bought especially for their breakfasts. Everything was in order. She sat down, poured them both a cup of tea, and said again, ‘Toby? I need to talk to you.’
Toby stifled an impatient sigh and lowered his newspaper again. He didn’t like conversation first thing in the morning. He’d always been that way. Once he’d eaten and read the paper and had a shave and a wash, he was a different man. But Sophy would learn that in time. And this was their first morning together in the flat. For a moment recollections of the mornings he’d woken up in Rosalind’s bed when her husband was away on business flashed through his head. Her maid had rarely opened the curtains before eleven o’clock, used to her mistress’s habits when the master was away, and then had followed a decadent breakfast of champagne and caviar on tiny slices of toast most days. He had never heard of caviar before the first morning he’d stayed with Rosalind, but that was her all over.
He smiled at Sophy. ‘What is it?’
‘I want to tell you about my parents. Well, my mother, I suppose.’
‘She died when you were a baby. Right?’
‘Yes, but— but there’s more. She . . .’ Sophy took a deep breath, ‘was a music-hall actress. She left her home like me and came to London when she was a young girl.’
Toby sat up straighter. This wasn’t what he’d expected. He stared into the beautiful amber eyes watching him so intently, his eyes moving to the cloud of shining, silky hair she’d tied back with a blue ribbon for breakfast. ‘Did she look like you?’
‘A bit, I think.’
‘Then she must have been a very successful music-hall actress.’
Sophy forced a smile. ‘She wasn’t married to my father, Toby. That’s what I wanted you to know.’
He took a moment to digest this. He was shocked, she could tell, and suddenly she decided she wouldn’t tell him the rest, that her mother hadn’t been able to name her father because she hadn’t known which of her lovers had impregnated her.
Toby stared at her. ‘But you said your uncle was a minister.’
‘He was. He is.’
‘And your mother was his sister?’
She nodded.
He shook his head. ‘I can understand why they were over-protective of you.’
‘They weren’t over-protective,’ she said sharply, hurt tearing through her at the implied criticism. ‘They were cruel. There’s a difference.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He read what was in her face and stood up, coming to her chair and drawing her up and into his arms. ‘I didn’t mean anything, sweetheart. I know you were unhappy at home, that’s all, and I was just trying to say they probably over-compensated for your mother’s mistake.’
A mistake. Was that how he viewed her now? But no, she was being unreasonable. Reading too much into his words. And he had every right to be shocked, of course he did. She relaxed in his embrace, her arms going round his waist. Nevertheless, she wished she hadn’t told him.