by John Pearson
Marjorie had watched her mother’s sad decline knowing quite well that there was nothing she could do about it. The drinking had got worse and her husband’s death had finished her. For several months she had been kept, barely human now, in an institution outside Brentford; and then, quite suddenly, she had died. Only then was it discovered how much of the Southwold property was in her name. It was left to Hugo, but in effect it meant that the estate was loaded with two sets of death duties. Not even Dillon’s shifty genius could cope with that, and at this very moment Southwold was up for sale. Hugo appeared quite unaffected and talked blithely of “cutting my losses and cashing in on progress.” Marjorie suspected this would mean that when he had sold up everything he and Marion would be off again for Canada or the U.S.A.
Materially, thank God, this would not affect her, for her money and the lease of 165 were established as her own, but how she hated this disruption of her past! Emotionally she had depended on the firm rock of Southwold for so much—for her strong sense of continuity, for the belief that her own privileged and private world would never change. Now suddenly the rock had vanished.
All this had taken physical toll of her. If one compared her with the portrait Guthrie Scone had painted of her barely eight years earlier, one would see depressing signs of change. She was still beautiful: the bone formation of her face would guarantee her beauty to the day she died. But something had gone—the boldness of her gaze, the strength and resolution of her chin, the sense of life.
Richard, on the other hand, had been reacting differently to change. Had Scone painted him (it is a thousand pities he did not) one would have noticed something very different over the past eight years. True, he had aged, but now in his middle fifties he looked tougher, more assured than in the past. He was also better-looking. Age, by maturing him, had subtly improved him.
All this reflected, as looks do, the way life had treated him. What had been so disastrous for Marjorie had on the whole been good for him. Lord Southwold’s death combined with the shock of Hugo’s perfidy had finally released him from his bondage to the family. Once he had learned the bitter lesson that the Southwolds could no longer be relied on, he began standing on his own feet at last. Helped by his old friend Dangerfield (now a distinguished figure in the City), he had accepted two directorships, one in Dangerfield’s own merchant bank and the other with a big firm of shipbuilders in which his onetime connections with the Admiralty stood him in good stead. This meant that for the first time since his marriage he was becoming independent. His writing too was flourishing. He had long ago got over the failure of his novel and had accepted the suggestion of the Southwold family to write Lord Southwold’s life, a task that had absorbed him for the last twelve months and was now all but finished.
Finally, Richard’s curiously erratic political career had recently improved and he had come to terms with the frustrations of being out of office. The heady period when he had felt himself so close to real power was over, and he was more philosophical about the way his hopes had vanished, for a while at least. It was a gamble, he accepted that, and if the turn of fortune brought him back to power he would enjoy it. If the Conservatives did win the next election Balfour would have to give him something, but that was not the point. For Richard recognised that there were more important things at stake than these games of political musical chairs. War was coming: it was in the air and it was here that he could make his contribution. Much of his time and energy now went to the inter-party committee on defence. It made enormous inroads on his time, which also meant that he had less to spend with Marjorie or in missing Lucy and Elizabeth, but it also meant that he had now become one of the leading defence experts in the House. It was in this capacity that he had worked so closely with Boy Hartington until his death. This made him particularly concerned about his widow.
Marjorie was right about that lady’s powers of recovery. At the funeral she had appeared pathetic—frail, grieving, with her small white face tragic beneath a small black hat. Richard made a short and much appreciated address (on the theme of “those whom the Gods love …”), and when Boy’s extremely lengthy coffin was finally consigned to the flinty Sussex earth, Richard’s was not the only heart that was touched by slender Cressida’s bravery and grief. How could any woman recover from such a shattering disaster?
But she had. Perhaps, as Richard gallantly maintained to Marjorie, it was a further instance of the dear girl’s courage.
“Most women,” he said, “would have let themselves go entirely,” but not Cressida. Mourning became her—and her small, trim figure. When she arrived a few weeks later to spend a weekend with the Bellamys at 165, her grief was as plain to see as ever. Any reference to Boy would bring a bravely stifled tear to those blue eyes. As Richard said again, “Boy would be proud to see the way she’s bearing up.” Marjorie said nothing.
A few days later Richard suggested they invite her up to Scotland, where the Bellamys were to spend a holiday outside Perth. As he explained to Marjorie, he would be tied to London with the defence committee for part of the time, and Cressida would be company for her.
Marjorie had a favourite motto about lame ducks: “If you see one, run over it.” But in this case she considered the thought unworthy; and she wondered too if perhaps she wasn’t being slightly jealous of a younger woman. So—somewhat gracelessly, Richard felt—she agreed to write inviting her, and Cressida accepted with alacrity.
Marjorie and Richard would have agreed that their Scottish holiday that year was not the most successful they had had. Where they would have differed was on the cause. For Richard the real trouble was that neither of the children nor the precious baby Lucy had been there, and that Marjorie, for some inexplicable reason, had been difficult, so difficult that one might have thought she was going through the “change” a second time. (He shuddered at the thought.)
For Marjorie there was no such mystery. The cause of the fiasco was quite simple—Cressida. Of course one had to make allowances, but when one had done all that, and more, the plain fact was: Cressida was hell! What other woman, as she asked Prudence when the holiday was over, would have put up with that coy, shameless, sanctimonious little hussy for so long? The way she had thrown herself at Richard! The way she even looked at him! And he, poor silly man, refused to understand what she was up to. (Or so, at any rate, he said.)
She had monopolised him totally—and flattered him and played up to him, as pretty women always could with Richard. (That new secretary, Hazel, did the same, but not, thank God, so blatantly!) Rather than fight or make a scene, which would have been too shaming, Marjorie had simply allowed them to get on with it. And that, as she explained to Prudence, was why she had pleaded a sprained ankle and allowed the two of them to go off together to the Braemar Games. And that, in turn, was how that unfortunate photograph of Richard, standing arm in arm with the widow of the Honourable Richard Hartington, M.P., had found its way into the pages of the Daily Mail.
Marjorie’s fears were quite absurd, but Richard, it must be admitted, was more than a little disingenuous about his feelings for the Widow Hartington. Had anyone accused him of wanting an affair with that desirable young woman he would have been quite horrified. When he had calmed down he would have said that he adored his wife, that he would willingly lay down his life for her, and that he had never thought of another woman since he married her.
All this was true, but what was happening was subtler than that. During those weeks in Scotland he had been, quite unconsciously, enjoying what amounted to a flirtation with Cressida. Since Marjorie was there, and since his motives were so very worthy, he had felt quite justified in everything he’d done. There had not been the faintest impropriety—and yet he’d gone beyond the joint of prudence. A man with fewer principles, or with more experience of women, would have been more careful. But Richard was so conscious of his good intentions that he inevitably became involved—and inevitably enjoyed it.
Gossip took over then, as gossip does. Aft
er the picture in the Mail it might have rapidly subsided. It was thanks to Prudence that it didn’t. Partly from sympathy with Marjorie, partly from jealousy, she was incensed at Richard Bellamy and never paused to offer him the benefit of the doubt. From her the news soon spread in ripples over the limpid surface of Belgravia. It was disgraceful, quite disgraceful! Richard Bellamy, the Richard Bellamy, was having a walk-out with Cressida Hartington, and barely three months after her poor husband died.
Richard, of course, was quite oblivious of what was being said, and even when Prudence cut him dead in Belgrave Square he failed to realise the truth. But if his wife’s friends were shocked, his own male acquaintances were frankly envious. For some time now he’d been regarded in the House as rather a bore, “decent but deadly,” as Lloyd George somewhat tartly called him after a late night sitting on the Pensions Bill. But it is quite extraordinary how the merest hint of sexual indiscretion can liven up a politician’s reputation. (It is also quite surprising what a field for gossip is provided by the Mother of Parliaments.) Suddenly Richard found himself an object of attention. Members who had previously ignored him now came in especially to listen when he spoke. There was high interest in the smoking room when he entered. Reporters in the gallery took out their notebooks whenever he appeared.
Richard was still supremely unaware of what was going on, but he was quietly flattered by this unaccustomed air of deference around him. Marjorie too became a person of fresh interest. “Wronged” wives possess a morbid fascination in the eyes of other wives, and during this period Marjorie received more invitations, visits, confidential sessions with old friends and mere acquaintances than she had had for years. None of her friends had shown such interest since her affair with Captain Hammond.
And, as usual, the one group that was always several steps ahead of public gossip was that permanent and unacknowledged audience who saw almost everything—the servants. Within a week of Mrs. Hartington’s début inside 165, that embattled student of society and morals Mrs. Bridges was already muttering dire warnings on the subject.
“Trouble with that one, Mr. ‘Udson, mark my words,” she said, and her suspicions seemed abundantly confirmed when Mrs. Hartington left half her veau hongrois and refused Mrs. Bridges’ specialty, the rainbow pudding. Hudson, as usual with a pretty face, was chivalrously inclined to give the lady the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m sure nothing untoward can possibly occur, Mrs. Bridges,” he replied. “It’s not as if Captain James were actually in need of female company now that Miss Hazel’s here.”
“It’s not Mr. James I’m worried for,” said Mrs. Bridges darkly. “Its Mr. Richard Bellamy.”
In the light of all that happened later it is ironic that in fact this whole inflated piece of nonsense was already dying down. Marjorie had sensibly decided—after several strategic planning sessions with a sympathetic Prudence—to do nothing and say nothing “and let the squalid little business die its own death as it’s bound to, dear.” For, as Prudence counselled, “They’ve not a thing in common. She’s just a pretty bit of fluff, and he, whatever else you might say about him, really cares about you and the family, to say nothing of his precious political reputation.”
Richard was seeing less of Cressida, too. He still felt a certain sense of duty to the lady. He would give her lunch, listen to her problems, give her avuncular advice, and frequently invite her back to 165. When she came there to dinner Marjorie would take pains to be scrupulously polite, and Mrs. Bridges would tell Hudson what she thought of Mr. Bellamy bringing his mistress to the house in this shameless manner.
But by now Richard was finding pretty Cressida distinctly boring, and with so much happening that autumn he had little time for her. His book on Lord Southwold, much as he had enjoyed writing it, was difficult to finish and considerably overdue. (Hazel was now engaged full time completing the research and typing the manuscript.) In November there were two full-scale debates on the naval programme and defence, in both of which Richard found that he was leading for the opposition. Then, that Christmas, much of his time and feelings became taken up with Southwold. Hugo had managed to sell the place at last, to an American biscuit manufacturer with a pretentious English wife, and Hugo and Marjorie had agreed that as many of the family as possible should gather there for one last Christmas. Richard at first refused to go. His feud with Hugo had been rumbling on since old Lord Southwold died. But Marjorie, as usual in her family, played the peacemaker and Richard, as usual, finally agreed. But it was a melancholy occasion, despite Hugo’s somewhat frantic efforts to enliven things with lavish presents (he could finally afford them) and splendid food. Richard, as he wrote to Elizabeth a few days later, had never eaten so well or drunk so much at Southwold, even when her grandfather was in his prime.
But what was most depressing—certainly for Richard—was the feeling that the new Lord Southwold didn’t care about the loss of Southwold, and that his spindly heir, young Martin Talbot-Cary, cared even less. Marjorie seemed slightly numbed by what was going on. As she told Richard later, she could not believe that the great house would soon be lost forever. James was affected too. On Christmas Eve he got very drunk and nearly caused a scene by telling his uncle what he thought of him for letting Southwold go. It was left to Richard to step in and stop a brawl. And it was left to Richard, too, to mourn the sale of the house.
How he had loathed the Southwolds in his time! How he had secretly despised them for their arrogance and privilege and wealth! But now that their power was over, and the great house gone, he could feel nothing but a sense of loss.
It was a bitter twist of fate that at this point, when Marjorie and Richard were being drawn together by the loss of Southwold, there should have been a fresh misunderstanding over Cressida. It was also ironic, in its way, that the damage should have been done by Prudence, but it is a fact of life that the suspicion of male unfaithfulness can bring out the harpy in the nicest women.
It was the purest chance that Richard should have met Cressida one January afternoon in Bond Street and shared a cab with her back to her house in Wilton Crescent. It was also chance that Cressida asked him in to see some letters she had promised him from her former father-in-law to old Lord Southwold. And it was chance that Prudence, of all people, was walking past just as they arrived and felt impelled to break the news to Marjorie as soon as possible.
The two women had a long and serious discussion about what was to be done. Prudence, with memories of Major Fairfax, was all in favour now of “having it out with Richard, once and for all.” Marjorie, to her credit, was inclined to give her husband the benefit of any doubt that remained. “Besides,” she said, “I think I’d like to keep my dignity,” which Prudence finally agreed was wise. But then she added, “You really must begin to think about yourself a bit, my dear. With all this worry I can see you heading for a real collapse. Why don’t you take a little holiday? It might bring Richard to his senses if he had to do without you for a while.”
Fate seems to work so often through coincidence that it is hard not to detect a certain pattern in the history of families. This was certainly the case now with the Bellamys. On the very day that Prudence called, and with her words about a holiday still in Marjorie’s ears, two other events occurred that settled everything. The first was the arrival of a letter from Elizabeth. She was missing both her parents, Lucy was missing her grandmama especially, and Elizabeth’s husband was suggesting that it was high time both her parents came over to New York. There was plenty of room in the apartment, and it would be so wonderful to be together here in New York in the spring. “Promise that you’ll come!” she ended.
The second fateful happening was that Hugo called—a very spry and very optimistic Hugo, now that the sale of Southwold had restored his credit and made him, temporarily at least, quite rich. He and Marion were planning to return to Canada with Martin.
“Nothing to stay here for now,” he said.
“When do you plan to go?” Marjorie aske
d thoughtfully.
“Early in April. I’ve just been round to book our passage on the new White Star liner, the Titanic. By all accounts she sounds a lovely ship. Her maiden voyage should be something to remember.”
For Richard the new year brought fresh activity—late night sittings in the House, with Asquith and Lloyd George and Churchill thumping the despatch box, hours of committee work on the new naval programme, and then, on top of all of this, the final revisions on his book. He was both excited and exhausted. This made him slightly baffled and upset when Marjorie suddenly announced that she wanted to sail to New York. He understood that she was missing Elizabeth; so was he. But why should she want to travel on her own? Later, when he discovered that she had booked on the Titanic along with Marion and Hugo, he was considerably put out. But since Marjorie had been acting very strangely with him lately, he said nothing.
As February came and went, Marjorie’s imminent departure hung between them. She refused to talk about it (feeling, as Prudence said, that this would teach the man a lesson). He in turn did what most husbands would do in the circumstances: he sulked and tended to stay even later at Westminster than he need have.
March was almost over before he finally found out the cause of all the trouble. Then, once more, chance and Prudence Fairfax intervened.
Richard encountered her at a small reception held for some naval charity at the House. She was still very cool. When he said that he simply couldn’t understand why Marjorie had to go off to America alone, she replied tartly, “Well, Richard, can you really blame her?”
He asked her what on earth she meant and she explained. Richard was genuinely amazed. Never for a moment had he suspected what the trouble was about.
“But it’s outrageous!” he exclaimed to Prudence. Prudence looked as if she wasn’t certain whether to believe him.
