Nancy Carson - The Factory Girl

NANCY CARSON

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

MAZE

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Previously published as T he Love Match by Hodder and Stoughton 2002

Copyright © Nancy Carson 2015

Cover images © azsoslumakarna/ istockphoto 2015

Cover design © Lizzie Gardner

Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008134822

Version: 2016-02-22

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

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The moment Henzey Kite’s clear blue eyes alighted on him she regretted it. Never in her young life had she seen a man so immaculate, so handsome, so desirable. His eyes, when he smiled, made her legs wobble like aspic. He oozed a calm self-assurance and a dangerous allure that compelled her heart and soul to sing out to him as wilfully as a nightingale calls its mate through bluebell woods. But he heard not her heart’s call. In any case, he was unattainable – as unattainable as the moon. Yet having seen him, no one else would do; and therein lay her regret.

The girl at his side matched him perfectly. She was strikingly beautiful. Henzey had spotted her once before, a week ago, on the evening she had first met Andrew. She was called Nellie, and she was Andrew’s sister; but Andrew had not introduced them. Everything about Nellie was exquisite, especially her dark hair, which was impeccably styled and framed her lovely face. Her skin was flawless, her clothes fitted to a stitch and her figure was inspiring. Yet everything about her was sublimely understated to the point of rendering her demure. Men would die for Nellie Dewsbury. She stood out like a fine cut diamond in a tray of gaudy baubles.

And Henzey wanted to be just like her.

Realising that she was staring at them both, Henzey turned away to appraise the fine set of framed water-colours that hung on the wall behind her. She must find time to do more water-colours; it would make a change from the pen and ink and charcoal drawings she’d been doing lately. Just fancy, if she were in a position to paint him and capture his calm self-assurance! The thought sent a warm flush of blood through her veins. But then she would spend her time just looking at him, ogling him, and doubtless get little painting done.

Standing unaccompanied, holding a glass of lemonade Andrew had brought her earlier, she noted how many people in that elegant drawing room were in fancy dress. One young man arrived dressed like Rudolph Valentino as The Sheik , another like Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer , and one masqueraded as an ancient pharaoh, obviously influenced by the recent excavations of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Couples began dancing to the strident sounds of a jazz band emanating from a gramophone standing in a corner. Henzey looked doubtfully at the highly-polished wood block floor, which was at the mercy of so many skidding, twisting, leather-soled shoes.

Sipping her drink, Henzey was aware that the party was growing noisier. All around her, people were shrieking with laughter. Clipped accents proliferated, sounding as foreign to her as the strange, rolling American cadences she’d heard in the talkies. She’d often imagined that people who spoke ‘posh’ would be stand-offish, so she was surprised at how friendly they were, towards each other at any rate. They were totally uninhibited, prepared to do things to make fools of themselves that she would never contemplate. Three young men took everybody’s attention when they held an impromptu competition between themselves to see who could dance ragtime best to a scratchy version of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’. A diminutive young thing in a long, blue dress elected herself both partner and judge for each. Henzey watched their tomfoolery and laughed.

‘Who’s this raven-haired girl here?’ she overheard somebody behind her say. ‘The one with the Egyptian bob. She’s absolutely too divine.’

His chum replied, ‘Sorry, old man. Never seen her before.’

She turned to see who had spoken, naturally believing they must be referring to Nellie. When it was obvious that the two young men were discussing herself, Henzey smiled, flattered. Blushing, she cast her eyes down.

‘Wouldn’t mind having a tilt at her. Love her dress.’

The dress had been bought specially for the party; black, with a low waist, short and straight. Save for the low back, it gave her a boyish appearance; the height of fashion. A matching headband and a row of long, black beads afforded the finishing touch. She looked beautiful, and respectable enough to be visiting the home of a wealthy family, her mother had affirmed with pride.

‘See how it falls over the cheeks of her backside? She’s an absolute peach.’

‘Faint heart ne’er won a fair lady,’ said the first. ‘Introduce yourself, man…Go on, before somebody else snaps her up. Sweep her off her feet.’

Henzey wished fervently that Andrew would return to her side. But the young man’s approach was thwarted nonetheless: a tall, willowy girl had been edging towards her, and overheard the boys’ comments. She was wearing an expensive-looking sleeveless, white pyjama suit with a green snake embroidered on the front, poised to strike. She carried a long black cigarette holder in one hand and a half-empty champagne flute in the other. Her head was wrapped in an unusual cloche hat, styled like a turban.

‘At the risk of ultimately dying a spinster,’ she articulated close to Henzey’s ear, as if to impart a great secret, ‘I would go so far as to say that some of these young men have a tendency to over-rate their own merit.’

‘Oh?’ Henzey replied with an interested smile.

‘You must have heard what they said just now?…They must believe they are some sort of rare species. Frankly, I blame their mothers. They’ve doubtless drummed into them that they’re worth their weight in gold. Such sentiments should have been directed at their elder brothers, surely? Those spared by the war.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Henzey could hear Andrew’s voice booming boisterously on the other side of the room, and she was trying to listen to him at the same time. ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said.’