by John Pearson
“All that I did was try to help poor Cressida,” he added pompously.
Prudence still looked quizzical.
“I must do something straight away to put things right with Marjorie,” he exclaimed.
“I think you should,” she said.
Richard did his best, returning home with flowers and a locket bought from Cartier. Had it been anyone but Richard, such extravagance might have convinced Marjorie of his guilt, but she knew him well enough by now to know when he was lying.
“So you really thought I’d been unfaithful, and with Cressida! How could you possibly imagine.…?”
“All too well, my dearest,” Marjorie replied. “She is a very pretty woman and you would still be quite a catch.”
“Nonsense, Marjorie,” he said, but he was secretly flattered at the thought of all the trouble he had caused.
This was nothing, though, to the relief they both felt. Their troubles and misunderstandings seemed unimportant now, and suddenly they were immensely happy. It seemed to Marjorie that she had recovered the excitement and the joy of love which she had given up for good. It was much later that night, when they were both almost asleep, that a thought struck her.
“How dreadful, darling,” she said suddenly. “Next Thursday I’m supposed to be leaving you for America. I’ll cancel it tomorrow.”
“No, don’t do that,” he said. “The voyage will do you good. You’ll be in the lap of luxury. And think how disappointed Lucy and Elizabeth would be.”
“I know what, then” she replied. “Why don’t you come as well?”
He paused before replying. It was immensely tempting. He had just rediscovered how warm and passionate his wife could be. Four entire days and nights at sea with her, and then New York … He remembered Parliament. He had his duties there. It would be irresponsible to think of going.
He kissed her tenderly. “I’ll be over the week after,” he whispered. “Then we can all be together in New York and the two of us can come back at the beginning of May.”
“You promise?” she said anxiously.
“Promise,” he replied.
Those last few days together were days of special tenderness. After the months of coldness and suspicion it seemed as if they’d never been so close. Now that Marjorie was going she seemed very precious, and though Richard told himself that they’d be parted for little more than a fortnight there seemed a terrible finality about her journey. He found himself worrying about her, and as the date of her departure loomed he began dreading it.
She was leaving on the ninth of April. On the eighth he managed to escape from Parliament. They rose late, lunched together, and spent the afternoon shopping for the last few things she needed. As a final treat he took her out for dinner at the Ritz. Then he noticed that she was wearing the gold locket he had given her.
“What do you keep inside it?” he asked thoughtfully. She looked at him and paused before replying.
“Only a picture,” she said finally.
“What of?” he asked.
“The man I love. Would you like to see?”
He nodded and she opened it. Inside there was a faded photograph. It had been taken of him on their wedding day.
“You really love him?” he asked gently.
“The only one I ever have,” she said.
Richard and James travelled to Southampton to see Marjorie off. Now that she was going all Richard’s sadness of the past few days had lifted. Marjorie was bright-eyed, excited at the prospect of the voyage. She wore a new fur coat that he had bought her, and they all chatted happily as the train steamed through the gentle Hampshire landscape: messages from Jumbo to Elizabeth, last-minute presents James had bought for his goddaughter, little Lucy, speculation about Elizabeth’s husband.
“Wish I was coming with you, Mother,” James said enviously. “I could just do with a week or two away from the City. Might even find myself a job in little old New York.”
Hugo and Marion were already at Southampton, Hugo extremely grand in travelling cape and new moustache, Marion flushed and angry because of some trunk that had been left behind, Martin very pale.
Now that the time had come to part, Richard and Marjorie both found themselves inhibited by the presence of so many other people. Also, they’d never had to say a real goodbye before. If it had not been for Marion, Marjorie—who felt like clutching Richard—would undoubtedly have cried, but she would not display her emotions to her sister-in-law. So she made the parting brief. A short embrace, a whispered “See you in a fortnight, darling,” and she was gone.
“We’ll look after her, old boy, fear not!” Hugo shouted from the gangplank.
In later years Richard always maintained that there was something odd about the departure of the Titanic on her maiden voyage. He felt uneasy again as he stood waiting on the quay for the great ship to sail. James felt it too. They heard a grey-haired little old lady anxiously asking one of the officials if the ship was absolutely White Star safe.
“God himself couldn’t sink the Titanic, ma’am,” he answered.
For Richard the next two days dragged as he’d never known days to drag before. Luckily he was busy. The naval estimates were due, and Balfour had demanded a precise resume of the opposition’s attitude to them. This kept him occupied until after midnight. Even so, he kept feeling uneasy about Marjorie. For some reason the words of the woman on the quayside troubled him, and so did the official’s reply. One shouldn’t tempt fate with remarks like that. As he found it hard to sleep, he wrote Marjorie every night. This was something he hadn’t done since just before their marriage, but for some reason he felt impelled to tell her of his love for her and to try again to explain all the cruel misunderstandings that had dogged them for the past six months. Things would be better in the future; this he promised her. Just two weeks and they would be together. Each night he wrote this as if needing to convince himself that it was true.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when Richard heard the news of the disaster. The unsinkable Titanic, travelling full speed ahead, had struck an iceberg somewhere off the Newfoundland coast. At first this was all there was—no further news about the ship, no certainty of whether she was afloat or not, no hint about survivors. And at first the news produced no great alarm. Everyone knew how vast, how strong, how powerful the great new liner was. God himself—let alone a mere iceberg in the North Atlantic—couldn’t sink her.
Richard was in the Commons when the news came through. In some strange way he had expected it. He also knew with iron certainty that there was no hope, not for him at any rate. As he left the Palace of Westminster and hurried through the April afternoon to buy a paper with the latest news, he knew quite well that he would not see Marjorie again.
It was this certainty of his that made the wait so dreadful. Everyone else at 165—even James and that natural pessimist Angus Hudson—managed to keep themselves buoyed up with hopeful stories of survivors. A Swedish ship had picked up several hundred from the lifeboats. All the rest must certainly be safe. The Atlantic was a busy thoroughfare of ships, and it was impossible, quite, utterly impossible that a company like White Star, with a ship like the Titanic, could let a single human being drown.
Hudson, who read these optimistic theories in the newspapers, used them to keep the servants’ hopes alive. James did his best to do the same thing for his father—but it was useless. Richard said nothing, but he showed no interest in the newspaper reports nor in the news that started coming through by radio from White Star in New York. Most of the day he stayed immured in his study, and that night he could not sleep. Towards dawn he rose, dressed and, without bothering to shave or eat, left the house. He couldn’t bear to be inside 165 any longer. The whole house was redolent of Marjorie—her scent, her taste, her very presence.
All Richard could think of was to walk, and he found himself automatically making his way towards Westminster, scene of his efforts and ambitions for so long. There was something strangely consoling in the gre
at slumbering building. Dawn was coming up across the river. Big Ben boomed out the quarters of another day. Somewhere downstream a tug was hooting.
He noticed that he was cold (in his haste to leave the house he hadn’t bothered with an overcoat) and in a way this pleased him. The poor wretches in the lifeboats must have been cold as well. He crossed the road and passed beneath the angry horses pulling bronze Boadicea’s ample chariot. Apart from Boadicea no one was about, and he headed east along that stretch of the Embankment with St. Paul’s rising in the distance from the river mist.
He thought of Marjorie. Suddenly it was as if she were walking beside him. His loneliness was over. He remembered how they had walked together through the city in that first autumn of their marriage. He saw her face, heard her voice, and knew that she was with him. It was quite simple, and there was no point in grieving. Marjorie had lived her life. It was complete and they had loved each other at the end. That, he knew now, was all that mattered.
1912–14
15. Time Runs Out
Richard let himself into 165 with his latch key. In the cold early-morning light the house seemed alien and empty. Nobody was up, and as he climbed the stairs and felt a sudden weariness assail him, he had his first bleak intimation of what life without Marjorie would mean—loneliness and old age beginning, emptiness and no one waiting for him in their bedroom when he reached the landing.
“Marjorie,” he muttered under his breath. “Marjorie, my dearest!” Then he shook his head as if he couldn’t understand why she failed to reply. Alone on the Embankment he had felt able to accept her death. Here in the house it was different.
“Marjorie,” he called again, louder this time.
“Sir,” said a voice behind him, “I’m most relieved that you’ve returned. We were all worried. Might I suggest that you wait in your study while I fetch you something?”
Hudson had heard his entry and was standing just behind him in his shirt-sleeves and black early-morning waistcoat. At the sight of his familiar, loyal, anxious face, Richard finally broke down.
For the rest of his life Richard was to be grateful to Hudson for the way he handled this dreadful moment when all of Richard’s grief struck home. Hudson’s training had instilled in him the firm belief that the passions and emotions of his betters were none of his business: a lesser man than Hudson would have found himself embarrassed and incapable in such a situation. But Hudson did not just respect his master. Over the years he had grown to love him, and it was this that now enabled him to forget just for a moment the taboos against “undue familiarity” and to give the help and comfort that were needed. Somehow he led Richard to his study and persuaded him into the easy chair beside the fire. He did nothing to try to check the tears that streamed down Richard’s face.
“Is there no hope then, sir?” asked Hudson softly.
Mutely Richard shook his head. Hudson placed his hand upon his shoulder.
“There, sir,” he said. “It’s best not to try holding back the tears.”
Richard could not eat, but Hudson managed to produce a flask of whisky and make Richard drink. And then, since he knew that it was bad for people in extreme unhappiness to drink alone, Hudson drank with his master. He sat with Richard for some time, and his presence was calming, but Richard still felt overwhelmed by his appalling sense of loss. He had never had to face bereavement of this sort before, and he was frightened at the pain his grief was causing him.
“Tell me, Hudson,” he said finally,” how does one go on, just how does one?”
Hudson replied sternly and a shade impatiently, since he knew that pity was the last thing Richard needed: “Och, sir. You go on because you have to, because everyone depends on you, and because that’s how her ladyship herself would have behaved if it had been you who had gone.”
Hudson was a tower of strength for others besides Richard. The news of the disaster had resulted in a sort of numbed despair among the servants. True, there had been no close affection between any of them and Marjorie, but she had been the central pillar of their lives. For twenty-eight years she had reigned absolutely over their world. With her unbending sense of order she had guaranteed the continuity of everything they knew, and in a strange way they had largely lived their lives through her, enjoying her enjoyments and taking pleasure in her pleasures.
Hudson understood all this and with a sort of genius he managed to preserve their dwindling morale. He made no reference to the master’s certainty that her ladyship had perished.
“No news is good news, Mrs. Bridges,” he said philosophically. “There’s bound to be confusion after a great sea disaster of this kind. We must just hope and trust in God. And in the meantime, Rose—and this applies to everyone—I know you’re worried. All of us are. But try and keep your feelings to yourselves. The master and Mr. James are the ones with most to bear. Do all you can to keep their spirits up.”
Thanks in the main to Hudson’s firmness and example, 165 did manage to maintain at least a semblance of calm throughout the uncertainty and horror of the next few days. There were no further outward demonstrations of despair from Richard. (Some of the more sentimental servants such as Rose even wondered how he could seem so heartless and unfeeling when poor Lady Marjorie … On the other hand, the stoic Hudson was immensely proud of him.)
Another source of order and stability was provided now by Richard’s secretary, Hazel Forrest. Richard, despite his show of calm, was quite incapable of coping with the countless queries and decisions that the crisis suddenly threw up. There were reporters to be dealt with, anxious friends to fend off politely, and the complex running of the house needed somebody to take the place of Lady Marjorie. Self-effacing and efficient, the pale Miss Forrest managed wonderfully. It would have been all too easy for a mere outsider to have put Mrs. Bridges’ sensitive nose cruelly out of joint, but that embattled lady followed Miss Forrest’s culinary suggestions now without a murmur. The other servants respected her quite automatically. “A fine young woman, that, Mrs. Bridges,” Hudson said feelingly. “I can’t think how we would all be managing now without her.” And Mrs. Bridges staunchly agreed.
It was Thursday evening, April 18, when Hazel Forrest entered Richard’s study with a telegram. He knew what it contained before he opened it. He was even relieved that the dreadful period of waiting was over. He was impassive as he slid his ivory paper knife into the envelope and cut the paper, and he showed no sign of emotion as he read the contents.
“So, it’s official,” he said finally. He sighed wearily, then, realising that his secretary was still standing there, he handed her the telegram to read. It was from the London office of the White Star Line and there was something horribly impersonal about the wording.
“Deeply regret,” she read. “Lady Marjorie Bellamy missing stop must be presumed drowned.” It was signed “White Star Line.”
“I’m sorry,” she said limply, suddenly all too conscious of the fact that anything she said would sound inadequate. But she did feel sorry—sorrier than she could possibly admit—for Richard Bellamy. During the nine months she had worked with him on his immense biography of Southwold she felt that she had got to know him, and she had felt sorry for him even then. He was so different from the people round him—so much softer and more vulnerable, and so much more intelligent. Now, with his lined face and his brave attempt to cope with this senseless tragedy, he seemed more in need of help than ever.
“Is there anything that I can do?” she said, trying to convey something of the protectiveness she felt for him.
“My dear Miss Forrest,” said Richard, unaware of the emotions he was rousing in that passionate young woman, “you have already done so much. I would be more grateful than I can tell you if you could stay on for these next few weeks at least. We really need you.”
“But, Father!” James shouted. “How can my mother possibly be dead? I don’t believe it and I won’t believe it. There must be more survivors. A ship like the Titanic doesn’t just disa
ppear.”
Richard stared gloomily out the window at the rain and yellow gas-light in the street. His son’s reaction was exactly as he had expected, the same blank refusal to accept the bitter facts of life that he had shown as a boy.
“James, my dear James,” he said gently. “We must not deceive ourselves. It is more than three days now since the Titanic sank. No lifeboat can survive three days in the North Atlantic at this time of year. There is a very slender chance that she has been picked up by some unknown vessel and will still be brought to safety, but …”
“There you are then. If there is a chance, why are you so anxious to believe her dead? Why, Father? So that you can now go off and marry that Hartington woman?”
“How dare you!” Richard cried, but now that James had found an outlet for his anger there was no stopping him.
“Now, Father, don’t pretend this doesn’t suit you. Don’t try to play the tragic widower to me.”
Richard tried to interrupt, but there was now no stopping James’s flow of frantic bitterness.
“I know why you sent her to America—don’t think I didn’t realise what you were up to. I only hope you’re satisfied. You sent her to her death.”
There was silence then as both men realised that something had been said that could never be forgotten or forgiven.
“I’m sorry, Father,” James said finally in a low voice. He rose and made as if to come towards Richard.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should not have said it. I apologise.”
But Richard shook his head and left the room.
And so the bereavement, which could have brought Richard and his son together, drove them still further and more bitterly apart. James’s words seemed to run like poison through the house. Edward, the new footman, had overheard his outburst, and before the day was out a suitably embellished version of the whole affair was being debated in the servants’ hall. Rose and Mrs. Bridges were predictably on James’s side. “What with ’is poor dear mother dead it’s only natural for ’im to defend ’er memory,” said Mrs. Bridges staunchly. Rose nodded vehemently and said that she admired Mr. James for what he’d done. But Mr. Hudson said that he was shocked that any son should speak thus to his father—particularly when, as in the present case, there was not a scrap of evidence to back his monstrous allegations.
