by Sophia Tobin
Henry gave her what he hoped was a mildly puzzled smile. ‘I am no judge of these things.’
‘Ignore my wife, Dale-Collingwood,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has the gift of being able to destroy a perfectly civilized conversation.’
Henry kept the bland smile on his face and turned to the window. It was nearly midday, the promised heat had come, and the sky was now a furious white. Black starlings sat exhausted on the parched grass, stunned by the rising temperature. As the carriages passed, they flew into the shadow of the woods. Light dripped off the dark green leaf surfaces. Even the moving water in a brook they passed seemed dark and stagnant. Henry saw one field in the far distance, speckled intensely with red, and wondered if it held poppies. He turned to ask Nicholas, but saw that the feuding couple were now murmuring sweet nothings to each other, their heads bowed close. He turned away again, with as much insouciance as he could manage.
The two carriages drew up and let the visitors loose at the top of the down, in the midst of a small copse of trees. The effect, thought Henry, like everything else here, was ornamental: as a group they walked through the light-flecked darkness of the tree canopy’s shade, and into the fullness of the sunlight, looking down at the vast golden slope of the down, the grass parched by the summer days. They all stood there, foolishly, in a line, visitors and family alike. They were meant to be alert and cool, especially the women in their many-layered clothes, but he saw dull and stifled faces masked by pretty smiles. Looking at Charlotte’s face, he wondered how a coating of white could really cool such a corseted body. Her gown was again decorated by a profusion of flowers and plants, elaborate and busy. He felt Ashton’s eyes upon him. It was a familiar sensation now, being watched, and for a moment he wondered whether he had become extra-sensitive and was imagining it. So he looked. Sure enough, the man was watching him. Henry swore lightly under his breath.
‘Are you bored yet?’ It was Charlotte, speaking softly. Her gift was a voice which was not easily heard. Even at dinner, when she had meant to raise her voice, he had heard several gentlemen ask her to speak up. No matter how hard she tried, it seemed she could not make herself heard.
She was beside him. He glanced at her, her eyes fixed on the horizon. He saw the slight shadows beneath her eyes, and wondered if she had been wakeful after she had returned to bed. The long pink ribbon of her bonnet, tied beneath her chin, rippled in the breeze which now plundered the trees above and sent leaves floating down. He noted the effect, to draw later: the taut, rippling ribbon. Last night, he had paused to set things down: every detail he could remember of her, and of the rooms that held her.
‘These trees are sick,’ she said. ‘Or so my gardener says.’
Without any sense or reason, he felt jealous of the man who had the ease to speak to her of trees, who had time at hand to look at her face. He heard the others, particularly Peregrine, remarking on the fineness of the view.
‘To answer your question,’ he said, ‘how could I be bored? With such a charming companion, and in such an idyllic place?’
‘You may dissemble if you wish,’ she said. ‘I do not speak of me. I speak of Redlands, and of my husband’s desire to please you.’
He decided in that moment to set aside his manners. ‘Of course I am bored,’ he murmured. ‘I’m also exhausted.’
At his words, she looked directly at him, and her eyes had such an effect on him that it was his turn to look away. It was the look which he had recognized in the portrait that Ashton so disliked: knowing, slightly sardonic, and full of life. ‘You went riding with Ashton this morning,’ she said. ‘Did he show you his acres?’
‘Every last one, madam,’ murmured Henry, and, despite his painful disloyalty to his host, he observed her smile with joy.
He had been woken in his chair by his makeshift valet at first light with a basin of water and a note from Ashton, requesting him to ride with him in an hour. ‘Why did he not ask me at dinner?’ Henry had said, grumpy and half-asleep. The man only shrugged.
In truth, Henry was not that interested in agriculture, the home farm, land management, or the new workers’ cottages that Ashton had built. ‘We hope to keep revolution from our door, unlike our more unfortunate friends in France and Italy,’ Ashton said. ‘Redlands should be its own world, just and content; that is what I hope for.’ Henry had nodded, and had done his best to seem interested as tenants came out onto their front steps to look actively grateful in a way that had made him shudder with embarrassment. He had paid many compliments, about the land and about the quality of the horse he had been given to ride. But he sensed, somehow, that no matter how gracious he was, he was somehow failing Ashton. The younger man wanted something from him which he was not able to give. His frustration showed itself in the way he turned his horse so sharply, and that was all.
On their return, Henry had only had time to eat a small breakfast before he was told that another excursion was planned. He had raced upstairs to find the valet waiting for him, with fresh water and a change of clothes. Even as he irritably tore his riding coat off, he had to admire the organization of Redlands. He had stayed at many grand country residences before, where it could be hard to find so much as a cup of tea at an irregular hour, so mechanistic was the machinery of keeping one hundred rooms going. But here, the routines and servants moved with every switch of the rein from Ashton, and thus his visitors all moved too. He wondered: how many times had Ashton had to hurt the mouth of this horse before it moved to obey him?
Beautifully choreographed, the visitors started forwards down the slope, and within moments Madam Barbara began to sneeze into her lace-edged handkerchief, barely gaining enough breath between each sneeze to apologize. Her husband silently took her parasol and held it over her head as she did so. ‘She is always so, in summer,’ he announced to the party.
Henry looked at Charlotte. She kept her delicate ivory parasol positioned at the exact angle to shade the entirety of her face from the blistering sun; her neck was protected by the small curtain at the back of her bonnet. She never looked at her feet, only moved forwards down the slope with measured steps, her chin up, her posture graceful. Peregrine was right: every gesture was deliberate.
‘You are watching me, Mr Dale-Collingwood.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. Would you tell me why?’
‘I must keep making you speak, so that I know you are real.’
She frowned. He felt the disturbance of a missed step.
‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘What is wrong?’
‘I hoped we might talk of real things. I hoped you might converse with me, not just pay me compliments.’
‘Look at me, then.’
She did so. At the contact of their gazes, he felt a tightness fold itself beneath his breastbone. He was breathless in the dry air. They both turned from what they saw in each other, and looked ahead as they walked.
‘Am I as you remembered?’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Your spirit is the same. In your face, you look older than I remember.’
He laughed. ‘I thank you. It is the building of the Club. I am tired.’
‘Ashton talks of it often. Do not let the committee be too involved, if it is possible to drive them off. Ashton has his own world here, but he will not rest until everywhere is remade in his own vision. Your vision will be better. Resist him if you can.’
‘I will do my best. Patrons often lose interest as time moves on.’
‘He does not.’
Barbara sneezed three times in a row; Peregrine continued to converse loudly with Ashton, whose eyes were directed towards Henry, across the distance.
‘I wish I could watch the building rise,’ Charlotte said.
‘I could send you drawings.’ He hardly believed he was saying it. He knew then that he would go to great lengths simply to stay in some kind of contact with her, to know that her hand would touch something that he had touched, even if it w
as an architectural drawing.
‘No.’ She stopped for a moment, raising one gloved hand to the level of her eyes, as though seeking out a detail in the view. ‘Do not do that. My husband reads my letters – every one I send and every one I receive. He asks that I read my correspondence to him when I open it. If you sent me drawings, it would encourage him to be even more involved, and he will never let it go.’
‘Why must he read all your letters?’
‘He does not like secrets. That is, he treasures openness.’ He imagined, rather than saw, the spark in her eye.
‘Are you well today? You look a little pale.’
‘I drank too much champagne last night. My husband disapproved. And it made me queasy.’
‘Why did you drink too much?’
‘Because I missed you.’ She tilted her head. ‘Strange, is it not?’
He stopped on the spot, felt the mark where her words had hit him, subtle as the sharpest rapier. She looked warily at him as they began to walk again. ‘Do you know my least favourite time of day? It is the evening, when my husband and I are alone. There are some lines from Tennyson, which I wept at, on first reading: he distilled it so completely.’ And in a soft, low voice, she began to recite them.
‘Mrs Kinsburg!’ It was Ashton. ‘Do not tire our visitor, my dear child. He has to make conversation at dinner.’
Charlotte inclined her head. ‘An early dinner today, you will be glad to hear,’ she said in a sing-song voice to Henry, and then she purposely increased her pace to leave him behind and join her husband, who had moved slightly ahead. Below, in a valley, there was an Elizabethan house of grey stone.
‘The Birches,’ said Ashton, over his shoulder. ‘You will meet my good friends, the Halls.’
*
As Charlotte walked into The Birches, she paused in the sudden shade and coolness, and let her husband go ahead. She longed to be left alone in its shadows, and to lean against the wall, but instead she engaged herself in letting down her parasol, and folding its delicate span into the right shape so that it could be fastened. She turned away as Henry passed, talking to Peregrine.
‘I must keep making you speak, so that I know you are real.’ How disappointed she had felt at his words; how exhausted. It was always the externals. What if I told him, she thought, that I sweat beneath these clothes? That I am hot, and stewing in it; that the wasps will soon attack my sugared hair. If I stumble – fall – if I shake off this grace which has been so hard won, which is absolutely a matter of discipline, will you still care for me? Will you still like me? Will you raise me from the ground as you raised me from the dirty squalor of a London street, in my despair?
She had wanted to tell him that if he thought of her only as something perfect, then her husband had won.
‘Ce-ce? Darling Ce-ce, are you quite well?’ It was Barbara and Nicholas. Barbara sent Nicholas on ahead to the Halls, who were greeting the group in the dining room.
‘I will look after you,’ said Barbara. ‘Was it the heat?’ It was unclear what assistance she intended to offer; she neither took Charlotte’s arm, nor sought a chair; she only stood and watched her. ‘Perhaps a cold drink,’ she said to a servant who offered assistance. The man went off, rather slowly. ‘An old family retainer, evidently,’ said Barbara, watching him go. ‘With any luck, he will return within the hour.’
‘I am quite able to go in,’ said Charlotte. ‘It was just the heat.’
‘I feel it too.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘No, I really do, Ce-Ce. You see – I am. Expecting.’
Charlotte felt a falling away. All at once the world narrowed. Barbara’s face swam before her in triumph. ‘My dear, you look as though you really might faint this time! Do you not wish to congratulate me?’
‘Of course, yes. I wish you every joy. I am very happy for you.’ But she was not. She did not know why.
Barbara’s gaze was steady, strong, unwavering. ‘You see, dearest,’ she said, ‘circumstances do change.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘You are right.’ Unnervingly, Barbara had touched on the source of her distress. Everything had been the same for a decade. This one certainty had given her assurance. Now the world was set to crumble, its fragility revealed.
‘Charlotte?’ It was Ashton. ‘What is wrong?’
She attempted a smile. ‘I was a little faint from the heat – someone was fetching me a drink.’
‘There are drinks in here – lemonade – if you care to take just ten steps forwards.’ He was irritated. He did not come to her; instead he held out his hand. As she reached him, Charlotte saw the look of venom that Ashton cast at Barbara. ‘Has she told you her news?’ he said quietly, placing her hand on his arm.
‘Yes.’ She walked alongside him. ‘You knew?’
‘Of course. Nick told me yesterday.’ He glanced at her. ‘It changes nothing, of course. Other than that she will bore us with her triumph.’
*
The Halls were a family of twelve, well-known to Charlotte, so that she found a way to be absorbed into the group with little fuss: a few smiles and nods were enough. At dinner, Henry was seated at the furthest point of the room from her, and was entertained by the eldest daughter, a fine, bright girl. Charlotte watched him laughing and talking, and saw in his wilder moments of laughter the recklessness in him. He drank more than one glass of wine, and she saw it combine with the tiredness to make him louder and more boorish. She saw all of this, but she could not help her gaze from returning to him again and again, drawn by some magnetism which she could not explain. She tried not to catch his eye, and he evidently did the same for her. Only as the meal drew to a close did she see him grow more subdued. He talked less to his companion, who had turned to Peregrine on her other side, and gazed at his plate. He put his hand over his wine glass when he was offered more.
‘Mrs Kinsburg?’ said Mr Hall, the father of the family. ‘I asked what you thought of the plans for Dower Coppice?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Charlotte. ‘I am rather tired. Do tell me what the plans are.’
It was three o’clock when Ashton rose from the table. ‘My dear infant of a wife is tired,’ he announced. ‘Luckily, I ordered the carriage for this time. We and our guests are so grateful for your hospitality.’
Farewells were said and promises of future engagements exchanged. As they passed down the grey stone hall towards the entrance, Henry manoeuvred himself to be near Charlotte. Even as she moved away, he took more steps to come close to her, as though they were engaged in a complex dance. She only wished to be alone, but in the end surrendered to him, and smiled.
‘Did you enjoy dinner?’ he said.
‘Of course. I hope you were kind to your companion,’ she said. Her disquiet created a flash of malice. ‘She wished to marry my husband, you know, before he decided on me. She has been seeking someone comparable ever since.’ She realized she had been jealous at lunch, that she clung to the fragments of their encounter in London, and that she did not wish to let go of it. ‘You see, Mr Dale-Collingwood,’ she said, ‘I am the lucky one.’
Emboldened by jealousy, she felt wretched a moment later. But if he were to go so easily, then she wished to leave her scar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1941
RED PARLOUR, THE MIRRORMAKERS’ CLUB
Livy sat, cross-legged, on the floor of the Red Parlour. In the midst of its shattered decoration, plaster and gilt, she had cleared a space on the deep red carpet and was reading through the letters she and Jonathan had gathered from the trunk. Beside her was an archive box containing architectural drawings she had not yet been through; she had decided to settle in for the afternoon. Refusing to sit on the floor, Jonathan had dragged in one of the heavy chairs from the Committee Room, and pulled it near to her.
Dear madam, I write because you promised me an answer.
The letters from Henry which they had extracted from the trunk, buried amid hundreds of other pages, of receipts and e
phemera, invitations and tickets, were all formal in their own strange way. They did not presume any intimacy, but were laced with mentions of public events. They were not letters of the boudoir.
I am late writing to thank you for your great hospitality. Nothing can excuse this – I am without any good reason. Other than the building work, which consumes me. I know you to have a generous heart. Forgive me.
Do you remember, Mrs Kinsburg, that day when we walked to The Birches, together with your husband, and your brother and sister-in-law, and my good friend Peregrine? If you remember, Mrs Kinsburg, the way the light fell on that day.
Your absence from London is felt acutely, dear madam. If you wish to inspect the works, on any given day, I will be at your disposal. One word is all that it would take.
Each one of the letters to Charlotte had been pierced in the top left corner, a small hole for a ribbon to pass through. Some still had traces of red, from the ribbon. At one time, the letters had all been tied together. Who had cut the ribbon, and scattered them free, to wherever Stevie had found them?
These brief, taut letters, were crazed with a brittle politeness. Henry wrote as to a stranger, and yet in between each word, in each space, lay such suffused feeling that it made Livy’s chest tight, as though the oxygen were being extracted from the air. Each letter began, Dear madam, or Dear Mrs Kinsburg, and was signed, Your obedient servant, Henry Dale-Collingwood. There was both nothing in them, and everything.
Jonathan looked back at her face. ‘Read the last one,’ he said. ‘They are all the same tone, until that one.’
Dear Mrs Kinsburg,
Your husband tells me your diamond will be set in a tiara. Why do you need such a diamond? A jewel such as you.
Bring it here, and I will keep it safe.
But let me remind you. You are everything, already. You do not need jewels. You have your eyes, and your voice, and your sense. I beg you always to remember it.
