by John Pearson
“Here, Marjorie?” Richard replied, suddenly apprehensive. Even in Paris, with the very fastest set, he had never been asked such a thing by the most outrageous courtesan. Embarrassed, he tried to escape.
“The servants, Marjorie dear! Just think what Hudson will say when he comes in for the tea things.”
But Marjorie was determined and was already carrying the tea tray to the door. She placed it quietly outside, then closed the door, locked it, and lay back invitingly on the sofa.
“What sort of husband are you, Richard?” she said softly. “Why don’t you show me? Or are you afraid?”
Richard enjoyed these games with his young wife, whose eagerness more than made up for her innocence. Besides, her innocence was tempting in itself, and it flattered him to play the experienced older man to this eager pupil in the art of love.
“Show me exactly everything that la Beccucci did when you slept with her,” she ordered.
“I never slept with her,” said Richard.
“How very disappointing. I thought that everyone in Paris did. Still, do your best to show me just the same.”
Amused at first, and then excited, Richard would do as he was told.
This sort of passionate devotion, this combination of lubricity and licit love, was something he had never known before. Nor had he known the luxury of so much time to spend on love. Even with Juliette love had been essentially a partial pleasure, something to be enjoyed amidst or after the various demands of a most busy day. As a result, in Paris Richard had never lost himself entirely to love, never acquired the dangerous habit of forgetting time and place and work and immersing himself in pleasure. Now that he had the chance, he discovered quite a taste for it. With this discovery his love for Marjorie began to change.
During those first weeks of their honeymoon he had still been very much in charge, the knowledgeable, sophisticated man of the world Marjorie first fell in love with. He had loved her, but not with that passion which she felt for him. He had been—faintly but unmistakeably—condescending in his love. Now it was different. He was becoming the dependent one, and Marjorie’s stronger, more single-minded character was starting to assert itself—and not only in the bedroom. For the truth was that without a regular routine, without the discipline and ambition of his former very busy life, Richard was the sort of man who could rapidly become soft. He half realised this himself. It worried him but there was not a great deal he could do about it on his own. The pattern of a marriage is a subtle thing. His was forming. At this crucial stage he might have lost out almost totally but for the presence of one key person in the household—Hudson.
In many ways, some of them obvious already, Marjorie was the antithesis of Richard. Partly through breeding, partly through the influence of many generations of nobility who had had their way in almost everything, she was a natural authoritarian. (Indeed, old Lady Dunamore’s remark about her similarity to her mother hadn’t been all that wide of the mark.) She was also selfish, self-assertive, and at heart, entirely self-confident.
Richard was quite different. Like many sensitive, intelligent men, he lacked self-confidence and was over-diffident. He couldn’t bear a real argument (when it came to it, Marjorie thrived on them); he disliked rudeness (Marjorie was rarely aware of it when she behaved badly); his instinct in all unpleasant situations was always to give in, accommodate, or else use tact to bring about a compromise (Marjorie would fight).
In light of these differences it would have been quite likely for Marjorie to have soon become the virtual tyrant of the house and Richard little more than an amiable ghost about the place (as happened with so many noble households one could name).
But Hudson, from the start, seems to have realised the danger and to have worked quietly to avert it. It was always hard to know quite how consciously he did this, whether his behaviour was the reaction of the perfect servant who always managed to do what was required by a curious sort of sixth sense, or whether an astute and slightly cynical intelligence lurked behind that rocklike sense of precedence and order.
Whatever the answer, one thing is certain. From the beginning of the marriage it was Hudson, and no one else, who built up the respectful myth of Richard Bellamy’s supremacy within the walls of 165. Richard was the master, and, with a fine Calvinist inflexibility, it was to him and him alone that ultimate loyalty was due, above stairs and below.
With Hudson this was a subtle process, often no more than a glance, an intonation, or a way of asking “Does the master know?” or “Would the master approve?” But it was enough. In his quiet way, Hudson was a match for anyone—including Marjorie. Sometimes they clashed. Sometimes she felt like screaming at him. (Sometimes she did.) But Hudson was like some old past master in this strange game of domestic chess. He knew all the rules, the pieces and their places. Nobody—and this included Marjorie—ever truly managed to checkmate him.
Of course, this was Hudson’s great strength from the start. When he told the servants that he would have the house run like clockwork, he had meant it. He had a massive sense of order: everyone in 165, from lowliest kitchen maid to Richard Bellamy himself, found themselves living by it. Each new servant would discover on the day he joined the household a daily list of duties pinned to the wall beside his bed and written out in Hudson’s own strong, spiky hand. Hudson also possessed a quite uncanny nose for the slightest item that had been forgotten. And if it had been—a grate unblacked, a floor inadequately scrubbed, a cabinet unpolished—he would convey to the offender, not merely threats or admonitions but a deep sense of shame that one of the laws of nature had been broken.
Even Richard found that he was soon being ruled by Hudson’s sense of what was “fitting.” True, he was “the master”—but on Hudson’s own very rigid terms. Several times that autumn Richard tried varying meal times: twice he was late for luncheon. Without a word being spoken, Hudson managed to convey to him the sense that such behaviour simply was not fitting: finally Richard took care not to offend again.
Similarly with all questions affecting Richard’s wardrobe (and here, as Richard’s valet, Hudson was in an even stronger position to enforce what he thought was suitable). Richard was still something of a dandy by inclination, and in Paris had quietly enjoyed indulging in the coloured waistcoats and elaborately frilled shirts (most of them purchased from Manessier in Rue de Rivoli) that were considered very chic. Paris was still behind London in imposing a drab uniformity of dress upon its males, and Marjorie romantically approved of Richard’s finery. Hudson did not. Once again nothing was ever said, but Richard sensed, without a shadow of a doubt, that Hudson felt his clothing inappropriate—and once again quietly conformed.
When Marjorie chided him about this he could become quite irritable.
“Dearest,” she’d say, “you’re scared of Hudson and his steely eye.”
“Nonsense. Sheerest nonsense, Marjorie. Nothing of the sort. It’s just that—dash it—well, London isn’t Paris.”
Inexorably and rather to Marjorie’s regret, Richard’s appearance sobered perceptibly as the first months of marriage passed.
There was another faint but gradual change in Richard Bellamy’s appearance at this time—and here not Hudson but Mrs. Bridges was responsible. Thanks to her increasing success in the kitchen (whatever Marjorie said, Mrs. Bridges was becoming one of the best family cooks in Belgravia), Richard had started to put on weight. This was not serious—yet. As a young diplomat, living on his nerves and eating when he could, he had been what Marjorie called “the Embassy bean-pole,” all brains and bones. Since then, regular hours and three good solid meals a day (plus Mrs. Bridges’ irresistible scone and fruitcake teas and plates of delicately cut bedtime sandwiches in case of that dread ailment, night starvation) were starting to flesh him out a little.
There was a long way still to go before he could be thought fat, or even flabby. Marjorie thought his body was becoming “manlier” and thoroughly approved. But Richard wasn’t sure, especially when he r
eached that first disturbing point of male disquiet when trousers become a little tight and jackets call for letting out. Occasionally he’d try eating less, but once again the house defeated him. Much of the life of 165 centred on the ritual of good food: how could he possibly turn away the game pie or the partridge en culotte, or—pride and joy of Mrs. Bridges’ repertoire—her bécasse dorée Duc d’Aosta? How could he refuse a second helping of her wonderful jam roll which she cooked especially for him (in an unguarded moment he had once told her it was his favourite pudding as a boy)? It was a problem but a pleasant one, and the truth is that Richard never made a serious attempt to solve it.
What was surprising about 165 was the way it imposed certain clear routines on those who lived there. It was a friendly house. Richard could never quite work out why, but as he said, it had a calming atmosphere that was all its own: within a few days of moving in he had the comfortable feeling that he had always lived there.
He was surprised too that the fact that legally it was not his house soon ceased to trouble him. He never did care for the Southwold portraits in the drawing room, and soon persuaded Marjorie that they should move the painting of her great-great aunt, which bore a frightening resemblance to his mother-in-law. Once this was done, he felt instinctively as if the house were his—in its way a considerable tribute, this, to Marjorie’s tact.
But both of them loved the house, and after the turmoil that had led up to their marriage their first reaction was to withdraw entirely into it from the world outside.
“What do we want with people?” Marjorie asked. “They’ll only cause us trouble. We’ve each other. Isn’t that enough?”
And Richard would laughingly agree, even when the visiting cards left by inquisitive (or friendly) neighbours threatened to swamp the table in the hall.
“What shall we do with these?” he asked.
“Burn them!” she cried.
“And offend half the dowagers in Mayfair?”
“Certainly. Just think how peaceful it will be. No one will visit us, and we’ll make love all day and be happy ever after.”
For that brief splendid autumn it seemed as if they would. Apart from their pleasure in each other, and in their fine new house, they now also had a chance to enjoy London on their own like two young lovers.
The London season (as the Times remarked in a weighty editorial) was no longer confined to the once traditional three months from May through July when all its main events occurred. Now for the whole year round London had suddenly become “the pleasure city of the world.” Perhaps this was pitching London’s claims a shade too high, but certainly enough was happening early that September to keep the two Bellamys happy.
Neither of them had had a chance to know London well: now they discovered it and for the first time became real Londoners. Richter was conducting at St. James’s Hall and Ellen Terry was at Drury Lane; the Italian Opera had begun at Covent Garden and there were evening concerts in Hyde Park.
In later years they never quite recaptured—or forgot—the magic of that first London autumn they spent together. Perhaps this was simply because there were just the two of them: children, friends, social success are great dividers in a marriage. Together they heard Brahms in an autumn evening, then walked back through the Park as the lights went twinkling on along the Mall and the excitement of the London night began. Sometimes they dined à deux at Scott’s or at Romano’s and jolted back romantically to Eaton Place in a Hansom cab. And sometimes they just walked for miles arm in arm around the city, talking continually (they never knew of what) and simply indulging in that rare lovers’ pleasure of each other’s presence. London had never seemed more beautiful (and never did again for either of them) than it did that autumn while it was still their bridal city.
This golden isolation could not last. They enjoyed nearly three weeks of dodging friends and seeing the servants at rare intervals, and then the outside world closed in on them. The friends came first. One of the earliest was a tall, gawky, inconsequential-seeming girl with cornflower-blue eyes, lank fair hair and a determined manner. She had already called twice in person before she found the Bellamys at home. Marjorie was still in bed—it was nine-thirty in the morning—and Hudson summoned Richard to meet the lady in the hall.
“I’m Prudence,” she announced before the faintly stunned Hudson could announce her. “What have you done with our Marjorie? I demand to know. Some of our friends are saying that you must have eaten her. Have you?”
“Now really, Miss …”
“Lady Prudence Fairfax—but you can call me Prudence. Please not Pru. And, of course, provided you haven’t really eaten our dear Marjorie. That would be too bad.”
“And I would have to call you Lady Fairfax then.”
“And I’d have to call the police. Cannibalism in Eaton Place. Think of the headlines in the evening papers. Seriously, Mr….”
“Richard.”
“Seriously, Richard, I think you must produce her straight away.”
And of course he did. Or rather, at the sound of voices Marjorie produced herself, and Richard was secretly disappointed at how glad she was to see her friend.
“Prudence, how lovely!” Kisses, invitations followed. “What’s been happening. How simply marvellous to see you again. Richard, you know Prudence is my oldest friend!”
The first carefree stage of the Bellamy marriage was over.
Then politics. Whenever Parliament reassembled after the long summer recess Richard would always feel that it was like going back to school. There was the same excitement of finding out what had happened after the holidays—who had been promoted, who had left or died or been disgraced. There was also the same sense of challenge in the new session as there had once been in the autumn term at school—the chance of suddenly distinguishing oneself, of being picked for some new job that had fallen vacant. In short, there was a curious promise and excitement at returning to Westminster. But just as with school there was also the dread of going back to work, of pleasure being over and the long grind starting. Particularly, of course, this first year. For both Marjorie and Richard knew that once he took up his role as Richard Bellamy, M.P., their days as carefree lovers were behind them.
So both of them were dreading that last week of September when, by Royal Decree, the Lords and Commons would reassemble in Westminster Palace and the widowed Queen would arrive in her state carriage and formally start up the political roundabout again.
But when the day came, both of them enjoyed it hugely. One of the simplest pleasures (common to Hottentots and cardinals alike) is the childish but irresistible one of feeling somebody. By the standards of the vain, rather silly world in which they lived, neither Marjorie nor Richard could be accused of snobbish ostentation—rather the reverse. Especially at this time of their lives they weren’t essentially concerned with how the world saw them. But when the chance came—as come it did that grey September Tuesday morning—of taking their superior positions in the crammed social pantomime of the State Opening of Parliament, they did it with a certain style (and, one must add, a certain relish).
As an earl’s daughter Marjorie was entitled to her own place in the gallery of the House of Lords, and had taken as much care and thought for her appearance as if she were invited to a full state ball. Her gown of ivory silk had been concocted for the occasion by Madame Desoutter’s establishment in Hanover Square (which on more than one occasion recently had sewed for the Princess of Wales herself). Her ostrich feather hat was very à la mode (Richard said it would block everybody else’s view of the proceedings but admired it immensely).
And Richard was resplendent in full morning dress, the lavender silk cravat which Marjorie had bought him from Messrs. Swan and Edgar held in position by the heart-shaped diamond and ruby pin which was her wedding present. He was, of course, a very junior backbench M.P., but he managed to find himself a place in the crammed chamber of the Lords while the royal speech was being read. It was an impressive sight in its stra
nge, unreal-seeming way, a blending of the ludicrous and the legendary. Great, centuries-old traditions—the reverence and pomp around the throne, the massive and historic power of the Lords themselves in scarlet robes and ermine—blended with the reality of power and change and opportunism, represented by the men who really mattered: the craggy face of Gladstone, the Prime Minister, looking as if carved from granite; the bearded, ambitious face of Dilke; young Randolph Churchill, all rolling eyes and beetling moustache; and the monocled round face of Chamberlain, the dangerous Birmingham radical. But the ones who really held Richard’s attention were the small group of recently elected Irish members led by Charles Stuart Parnell. Parnell was still an enigma to Richard. He looked like what he was—a stiff, withdrawn, upper-class Englishman—as he sat there unsmiling and aloof at the end of the opposition benches. But how much of a fanatic was the man? Would he, as many rumoured, finally lead Ireland into rebellion if he could not get Home Rule? Was he a true fanatic?
The sight of all these men of power set Richard wondering about his own political beliefs. He disapproved of people like Parnell. He thought he disapproved of the sort of violent change and uneducated populist politics championed by Chamberlain. But apart from this—and from the fact that he was, nominally at least, a Tory, what were his true political beliefs?
He tried enumerating them to himself. He believed in decency and honesty in government. He was against extremists of all sorts. He believed, with Jeremy Bentham, that government should aim to secure “the greatest happiness of the greatest numbers”—but how? This was the question he still had to settle for himself.
Marjorie, of course, had no such political uncertainties. That night at dinner, when she had finished giving her views on Mrs. Gladstone’s hat, the length of Lord Salisbury’s eyebrows, and “how desperately miserable the old Queen looked—she can’t still be missing Albert!” she told Richard that she had heard the Duchess of Manchester ask “Who is that good-looking young M.P.?”
