by John Pearson
A lover barely half her age? How Prudence would have laughed. But when she was in his arms and felt his firm young flesh, what did it matter? It was all something of a game, of course, although she would never have admitted it. There were the tender declarations and the avowals of undying love—the captain was romantic to a fault. There were tears, red roses, lines of Keats and Shelley. Marjorie found them all delightful. At her age it was marvellous to be called “My goddess” by an eager young man as he slipped your dress from your shoulders and admired you by the flickering firelight in his darkened room. It was thrilling too when he rhapsodised about your naked body when you were lying on his bed. But best of all was the moment when the pretence of all romance was over and he was hungry, dominating, cruel—the sort of lover she had longed for since she was a girl.
At first she was shy of showing him her body, not from prudery but from concern that he would find it old and ugly. This was one thing she need not have feared. She was more desirable than at twenty-five. Then she had been slim, undeveloped, unawakened; now she was in her prime, mature, full-bosomed and desperately eager to experience anything her lover wanted.
After the first few hesitant experiments she was soon taking the initiative. She was so reckless and so hungry that even the ardent captain showed signs of tiring. Marjorie told herself that she must be a little more discreet and restrained if she wished to keep him, but discretion and restraint were not in her nature. Always headstrong, she had always taken what she wanted. She had had enough of restraint with Richard, and now there was little she could do. Now that she had finally abandoned herself to passion, she was completely in its grasp. Sense, conscience, even self-respect meant nothing, as did other people. For those few autumn weeks of 1905, Marjorie existed on a sort of island: its centre was the large brass bed in Ebury Street, its sole inhabitants herself and Captain Hammond.
The gallant captain was in love as well, although in his case “love” was something very different from the emotion felt by Marjorie and Richard. For all his sexual expertise, he was the most romantic of the three. Like many hardened lechers he was a simple man at heart. Bored wives in Poona, courtesans in Kashmir had not given him the sort of social sophistication he would have picked up in London, and when he fervently addressed his naked mistress as his “goddess” he meant it.
Previously, the nearest he had ever come to rank and glamour in a woman had been a sad flirtation with the wife of a colonel of the Punjab Horse, and he was still a firm believer in the gulf between a “woman” and a “lady.” Women were fair game for anything, but ladies were so elevated, so romantic and refined that the thought of having an affair with one was almost inconceivable—and very thrilling. Particularly with Lady Marjorie Bellamy. She wasn’t just a lady, she was the daughter of an earl, the wife of a minister in a Conservative government, the mother of a brother officer. The taboos surrounding her were so intense that poor Hammond—experienced and hardened though he was—was actually trembling when he took the, to him at least, appalling risk of asking her to his apartment.
For those first few ardent weeks of the affair his sense of awe continued, and it was this that fueled his romantic love for her. Even at those moments of quite perfect fleshly ecstasy, even when Marjorie was giving him abundant proof of her instincts as a very normal woman, Hammond was still whispering to himself that this was a lady, not a woman, in his bed.
But with every time that they made love this odd distinction became harder to maintain. “Surely,” another small insistent voice began to whisper in the captain’s ear, “surely no real lady can behave like this.” And since he knew he was in love, the small voice troubled him.
Marjorie, of course, had no such doubts. She enjoyed the blissful unconcern of all single-minded women. She had no qualms about her love, no sense of guilt, and precious little thought for anyone except her lover, so she was not much use to Richard just as that moment when he needed her. She barely noticed what he was going through.
Even before he learned the truth about Marjorie, things had been perversely going wrong for Richard that fall. He was concerned about Elizabeth. The few recent letters she had written from Germany had been extremely odd. She seemed to have changed, and he was not sure he liked what she was changing into. James worried him as well—he had heard rumours of extravagance and heavy drinking in the mess. He looked unwell and tended to flare up at anything.
Worse still, for Richard, all his great hopes of political preferment had been swept away in that year’s disastrous elections. Balfour had thought it might be “good for the country to experience a short sharp dose of the Liberals’ medicine,” but not even the pessimistic Balfour had expected anything quite like the great Liberal landslide that had occurred. Nearly two hundred Tory seats were lost. Richard’s majority fell to a bleak three hundred votes, and when he returned to Parliament the former Undersecretary at the Admiralty found himself a mere back-bencher in a demoralised and muted Tory opposition.
Loss of power can have an extraordinary effect on politicians. Overnight Richard lost the dominating role that had consumed his energy and enthusiasm. Overnight he lost his chance of shaping history. And overnight he was reduced from a somebody, with propects of the highest office in the land, to a virtual nobody. Time hung heavy on his hands.
This was when he needed Marjorie, but she had little time for him. He was depressed and lonely, but she complained of feeling tired in the mornings and was also mysteriously tired at night. He suggested that they go to Southwold for a few days by themselves. (Lady Southwold was in hospital and his reinvigorated lordship had gone off to France.) Normally Marjorie would have loved to: now she replied impatiently that it was quite impossible. There was some charity affair with Prudence that took all her time.
“A pity,” Richard said. “It would have done you good. Lately you’ve been looking pale, my love.”
“Do you think I’m looking pale?” she asked her lover later that afternoon.
“Pale, dearest one?” He eyed her thoughtfully. She did look pale—and slightly haggard too. He always found the same thing with his women. In the first flush of passion they were flawless, but then, like fading roses, they began to show their faults.
“Pale as ivory,” he murmured as he leant forward, cushioning his slightly weary head between her breasts. Long experience had taught him that this was a useful way of ending a discussion.
“You still love me?” Her voice seemed to come from miles away.
“Mmmm!” he replied. The warmth and comfort of her body welcomed him. He sighed.
“Charles,” she said softly; then more urgently, “Charles!”
But her lover was asleep.
It is an ancient truism, but none the less accurate for that, that the last people to hear about a love affair are those who are having it. One by one everybody round the Bellamys picked up the gossip, but Marjorie and her captain stayed on their amorous island sublimely unaware of how much interest and excitement they were providing. The servants learned about it first. Words of love read off a blotter by an inquisitive lady’s maid, are one of the clichés of the period. (Not even Albert Edward was immune to this strange source of aggravation.) But when Miss Roberts held up Lady Marjorie’s blotting paper to the mirror and read her ardent words to Captain Hammond, it merely offered confirmation of the telltale signs that everyone at 165 had been noticing for weeks.
If it is true that no one is a hero to his valet, it is still more true that no one can keep a secret long from a houseful of servants. Upstairs life is so exciting—and downstairs life so tedious—that servants naturally cherish any piece of gossip they can find about their betters. This provides the only touch of glamour and excitement in their lives, so one should not be too censorious about the habit. On the other hand, one ought to be aware of it. Lady Marjorie, like so many of her kind, was not. She had grown up to think that the lower orders were as discreet and limited and stupid as they seemed. She who was always wary of revealing anyth
ing about her private life before her friends was strangely careless in her own house. One pair of eyes would notice those afternoon excursions off to Ebury Street. Another pair would see the private notes that were addressed to Lady Marjorie in the captain’s firm, round hand. And yet another would observe the state her dress was in before she changed for Mr. Bellamy’s return.
Hudson was fairly loyal in the discussions that inevitably ensued in the servants’ hall. All the servants knew that there were limits beyond which it was unsafe to go. Theoretically at least they had to maintain the fiction of “respect” for Lady Marjorie. But even Hudson could not disguise the shock he felt at her ladyship’s behaviour or his staunch sympathy for the master of the house. On the other hand, the female servants—Rose and Mrs. Bridges in particular—tended to side with Lady Marjorie (except when she was irritable with them). Her ladyship seemed so romantic. She was by turns so radiant and then so desperately sad that their female hearts went out to her. For once they could share her feelings, and the captain, it was generally agreed, was enough to turn the head of any woman, even her ladyship. So 165, above stairs and below, was soon agog with interest in the love affair; and the interest inevitably spread.
For once again one ought to understand that servants talk to other servants and that they in turn quite often gossip to their mistresses. They oughtn’t to, of course. One ought to offer a severe reproof and close one’s ears to anything they say. But human nature being merely human nature, self-restraint of such an elevated order cannot be counted on. Every Wednesday afternoon Miss Roberts took tea with Prudence Fairfax’s maid, Miss Farquhar; and by evening Lady P. would be au fait with what was going on.
And similarly throughout Belgravia (and beyond its borders into Mayfair and across the social canyon of the Park) the news would spread. Marjorie Bellamy, that ice-cold paragon of virtue, had succumbed at last. According to the rumours, Richard knew and the Bellamys were on the edge of breaking up.
Fortunately for everybody’s sake—especially his own—Richard did not catch the lovers in flagrante. All that happened was that his growing suspicions were finally confirmed when he realised that Marjorie’s panic, when she read about an accident to an unnamed officer at Henley, could not possibly have been on behalf of James as she had said, for she had known quite well that James was safe and sound in London all the time. The only officer she knew who fitted the bill was Captain Hammond. And of course he too—damn the man—had turned up safe and sound next day at 165, and there was no disguising Marjorie’s relief when she saw him.
But what could Richard do—aside from masochistically blaming himself for what had happened? His misery apart—and that was really quite considerable—he obviously needed to make up his mind, but this was difficult. He felt he couldn’t talk to Marjorie. He knew her well enough to realise just how much in love she really was and feared the bitter things that he might say to her. All he wanted, he told himself, was Marjorie’s happiness. If he had failed her—as he realised he had—by far the best thing would be for him to offer her her freedom. Then she could marry Captain Hammond—and he would have to try as best he might to find whatever solace life could offer him.
Full of these noble, slightly maudlin sentiments, Richard sought out the only really sympathetic woman he knew to ask her what she thought.
Prudence had never really been in love with Richard Bellamy, not physically in love. But she had always had what she called “rather a soft spot for the dear old thing.” Therefore when Richard called on her and blurted out the not entirely surprising news that Marjorie was having an affair, she had a slight temptation to exploit the situation. It says much for her that she resisted it.
Instead she listened sympathetically as he poured out his sorrows, and expressed nothing but admiration for his decision to allow his wife her freedom.
“How very noble of you, Richard dear,” she said at last. “I’m sure that no other husband in London would show such real self-sacrifice,”
“You think not?” Richard answered, surprised. “Surely any decent chap would do the same.”
Prudence, remembering her own departed spouse, raised her blue eyes to heaven.
“Oh, certainly some husbands would let their wives divorce them in this situation, but that’s not what I mean. You will be losing everything, of course—your home, your income, your political career. That’s what I call real self-sacrifice.”
“Will I?” said Richard, who in the midst of his romantic misery had not paid any heed to the economic—still less the social—facts of life.
“But of course, my dear. Now don’t pretend you’ve forgotten that all the money is in Marjorie’s name, and the house as well, nor that the divorce will mean that you’ll be giving up your seat in Parliament. Marjorie should feel very flattered that her happiness means so much to you.”
Two days later, when Marjorie took tea with Prudence, she was astonished at the way her friend immediately guessed her secret, and Prudence’s explanation—“you look so radiant, my dear”—made her a shade uneasy. Was it as obvious as that?
She was still more surprised at Prudence’s enthusiasm when she confided more of the affair to her.
“But how wonderful, my love! And young and handsome. I think it’s so unfair the way some people make fun of women of our age who fall in love with younger men. As if age matters, or money either. I suppose he’s penniless?”
Marjorie nodded.
“That makes it so much more romantic. It must be wonderful for you after all those years with dreary old Richard. Frankly, Marjorie, I just don’t know how you’ve put up with him for so long.”
Marjorie nearly said, “How dare you speak about Richard like that—he’s nothing of the sort!” But then she realised that in the circumstances this might sound hypocritical, and also something at the back of Marjorie’s mind was asking just why Prudence Fairfax was so anxious to see her marriage broken up. Hadn’t she always been a little interested in Richard herself? That evening after dinner Marjorie found herself wondering just what was happening.
The afternoons in Ebury Street continued. They were still wonderful. Charles was as passionate and as ingenious as ever. He still recited poetry, bought her roses and called her by the embarrassing but touching pet name he had given her their first afternoon together. But at the same time she began to notice that he no longer talked about the time when they would finally elope; nor for that matter did she mention any more the little house just outside Cannes which Lillie Ankaster had said they might use for a winter holiday together.
The Christmas holidays were looming now. Elizabeth would soon be home from Germany and James would be expecting a dinner party in the house for some of his brother officers. What would Hudson say? Best to leave it to James to ask him personally, and of course Mrs. Bridges too, since she’d have to do most of the work. Then they’d be off to Southwold. During the last few days Richard had suddenly begun to talk about it quite enthusiastically—and as she thought of Christmastime at Southwold Marjorie discovered she was looking forward to it, whereas a week or two before the idea of even a day apart from her beloved Charles would have appeared impossible.
Prudence didn’t see the Bellamys over Christmas, although she often found herself wondering about them both. Rather a pity about Richard; he might have been the answer she was looking for, and possibly she really was a little more in love with him than she had suspected. But it would have been no use, of course. She’d had enough experience of married men who were still in love with their wives. And Marjorie, silly goose though she might be, was her best friend. Much the best thing to have acted as she had.
She finally saw them both the second week of January at the big ball at Londonderry House. They looked happier than she’d seen them for years, and Richard, she thought, was handsomer than she remembered. Later she learned that Captain Hammond had been ordered to return to India just before Christmas. After all Marjorie had said about him, Prudence felt sorry that she had not met
him.
1910
13. Money and Other Troubles
“Children,” Richard thought gloomily, “Why does one ever have them in the first place? Of course they were adorable when they were very young. Elizabeth, plump little button-eyed Elizabeth, was angelic, and young James …” He smiled to himself as he remembered James in short trousers, all skinny legs and wilfulness and the long-vanished charm of eight years old. Now he was surly, often drunk, and all set to make a thorough shambles of his life. As for Elizabeth! He sighed.
“Marjorie, dearest?” he began thoughtfully.
“Mm?” she replied from the depths of births, marriages and deaths in the morning Times. “Yes, Richard, what is it?”
“I was just wondering—where did we go wrong?”
“Wrong?” She put down the newspaper and stared at him as if he had just gone slightly mad. “I was not aware that we had.”
“No, I mean with the children.”
Lately the worry of his offspring had been eating into him. Marjorie, however, seemed immune, unchanging and unchangeable. How he envied her!
“Richard,” she said, “now pull yourself together. The children are both of an age now and are their own responsibility, no one else’s. They have their lives to lead and we have ours.”
Marjorie was quite right. She generally was when it came to a crisis, and God knew there’d been enough of them this year. First there was all the trouble with Elizabeth—his beloved, intelligent Elizabeth. My, what a lesson she had been on how not to educate a daughter. Marjorie was right (again he found himself admitting it). Elizabeth should never have been allowed to go to Germany. All that education: the lectures in philosophy and art and politics—especially politics. He winced as he remembered how impossible Elizabeth had been that winter, just two years ago, when she returned to Eaton Place.
