by John Pearson
As for the cause of all the trouble, he kept resolutely to his room, just as he had when he disgraced himself as a small boy. When Rose knocked gently on his door and asked if there was anything he wanted, there was only a muffled “Go away!” from behind the door; and next morning his breakfast tray was left untouched outside his room. Just before mid-day Hudson considered it his duty to inform the master that Mr. James had still not appeared.
“Do you think he’s ill?” asked Richard.
“No, sir. But I think that Mr. James might have a considerable head-ache by this evening, to judge by the bottles that he’s left outside his door.”
But Richard found himself with more important matters than his son’s drunken sulking—especially with Geoffrey Dillon due for lunch. Richard would have prefered to see almost anyone but that desiccated lawyer at a time like this, but there was no avoiding it. And since he had to see him, he preferred to do so when backed up by Mrs. Bridges’ cooking.
Sir Geoffrey was, as usual, early, and, as usual, Richard was intensely uncomfortable in his presence.
The lawyer made an attempt at sympathy. “My dear Richard,” he began as Richard greeted him. “How can I possibly express my sense of shock at this most dreadful loss? My profound condolences.” As he said this he took Richard’s hand between both of his, a gesture Richard hated, especially from Sir Geoffrey. His hands were smooth and rather cold, and as Richard met his gaze the lenses of Sir Geoffrey’s spectacles gave his eyes a look of magnified superiority. Disaster was undoubtedly Sir Geoffrey’s element. But Richard felt that, just for once, even Sir Geoffrey Dillon had been shaken by events beyond his lawyerly control.
“Who could have dreamt of this?” Dillon said a trifle querulously, as if fate or whatever legal godhead he worshipped had no right to have behaved so irresponsibly. “At one blow, a million-to-one catastrophe, a great name like the Southwolds is extinguished. Utterly!” He shook his head and for a moment seemed at a loss for words.
“So there’s no news of Hugo—nor of Marion?” said Richard.
“Nothing,” said Dillon. “Not a word. The White Star people informed me officially last night that Lord and Lady Southwold and their son, along with Lady Marjorie, must be presumed lost.”
“Poor, silly Hugo,” said Richard slowly. “Who would have thought that he of all people would have been the last Earl of Southwold? And after all those plans of his for recovering his fortunes out in Canada.”
“They might have worked,” said Dillon as he sipped his sherry.
“But as they haven’t, I suppose that all he’s left behind him is the usual pile of debts.”
Dillon nodded. “That, Richard, is one of the matters that I wanted to discuss.”
“Surely a little premature,” said Richard.
“In the circumstances, I hardly think so. An event like this raises a lot of problems—particularly for you. I felt that in simple fairness I should make the whole position clear as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Geoffrey. But, as I’m sure you will appreciate, I’ve had a lot of problems of my own to face over the last few days. Let’s just leave them for a while, until lunch is on the table.”
Although 165 was now in mourning, this did not affect the standard of the food. As Mrs. Bridges had put it to Hazel Forrest when they were discussing that day’s menu, “’Er ladyship would have wanted ’er lawyer to be properly fed, even at a time like this,” So at twelve forty-five Sir Geoffrey and his host sat down to a smoked haddock soufflé followed by spring lamb and a delicious salad. The Niersteiner was precisely chilled, the service as discreet and courteous as ever.
Richard was grateful. Dealing with Geoffrey Dillon was an ordeal at the best of times, but there was something reassuring now in being able to show him that the routine of life at Eaton Place would continue—at whatever cost. Marjorie had established certain standards: one way of remembering her was to make sure they continued.
Even Sir Geoffrey Dillon—hardly the most sensitive of mortals—seemed to appreciate this. It was as if Marjorie was still making her presence felt, for when he finally began explaining how the disaster would affect the whole future of the inhabitants of 165, he did so with an unaccustomed diffidence.
“Of course, Richard, it will take some while for us to sort out the estate. The details will inevitably be complicated and the whole sad business could spin out for months. But as I’ve said already, I hardly think that there’ll be much to play about with by the time Hugo’s debts are settled. With Southwold House already sold, and most of the other property as well, the only substantial assets are the ranch and land that Hugo—that is to say, Lord Southwold—bought in Canada. I have no way of knowing what they would be worth, but I hardly think that the amount will cover what is needed.”
“The debts are that big?”
“Unbelievable. And as well as all the creditors there is the child Georgina to be taken care of.”
“Marion’s daughter. Poor thing, how’s she taking it?”
“Not well at all. As you know, her father was killed when she was quite young and the Southwolds were the only family she had.”
“Can’t you trace her father’s people, or her mother’s? In the circumstances they’d have to do something.”
“My agents have tried without success. Apparently Marion and her daughter were quite alone in the world when they went out to Canada, and the father’s estate was infinitesimal. I only hope I can salvage something from the Southwold debâcle to complete her education. But that’s not your worry, Richard.”
“What is, then?”
Dillon carefully placed his knife and fork in the exact centre of his plate before looking up at Richard and replying,
“Simply this. While Lady Marjorie was alive, the two of you were in receipt of a joint income in the region of eight thousand pounds a year, the interest on several capital sums held in trust for Lady Marjorie. This income naturally ceases on her death, and I am afraid that it is my duty to inform you now to this effect.”
“I see,” said Richard. “You don’t exactly beat about the bush, do you, Geoffrey? Barely a week ago I was waving off my wife on holiday. Now you’re telling me that I’m not only wifeless but penniless. Thank you very much.”
“Richard, I’m not enjoying this, but facts unfortunately are facts. Surely you must have savings and some capital of your own?”
“Geoffrey, you know quite well I haven’t. As you’d probably put it with your usual delicacy, I’ve been living off my wife for years. And as I’m sure you also will remember, the lease of this house was, at my insistence, put in my wife’s name too.”
Sir Geoffrey sucked his teeth impatiently. “Well, Richard, with a little common sense it should be possible to work something out. Under the terms of Lady Marjorie’s will, the lease on this house will pass to James, and since as one of her heirs he also gets half of the capital she had in trust, the two of you can obviously continue as you were.”
“Not if my son has anything to do with it,” said Richard bitterly.
It was typical of Richard Bellamy not to have foreseen what Geoffrey Dillon had to tell him. He had always been content to let the future take care of itself. At periods of crisis he had felt angry, even bitter, at the servile status which throughout his marriage had been the price of his dependence on the Southwold bounty. But the anger and bitterness had never lasted long enough to make him change things. At heart he had a most complacent, optimistic nature. As long as things went well he never thought it worth while questioning the basis of his comfort and good fortune; and, to be fair to him, what could he possibly have done? Renounce the pleasant life of 165? He had no other. Insist on some more clear-cut situation for himself? It would have seemed most churlish in the circumstances, and with Sir Geoffrey Dillon there to guard the Southwold interests, it is hard to see what chance he would have had of that. Instead the little world of Eaton Place had subtly conspired with him to bring about what seemed to be his present dow
nfall. Hudson’s loyalty and Marjorie’s love had always made it seem as if he really was the master of the house—and for twenty-eight well-fed and contented years Richard had behaved as if he was. Now that a trick of fate had robbed him of his wife, his world—which in effect was 165—was suddenly revealed to him as the flimsy edifice it was.
He was intelligent enough to see this very clearly now, and the truth did little to console him. Losing Marjorie had been bad enough; now he was swiftly losing his self-respect as well.
Hazel was waiting for him in his study when he returned from seeing Sir Geoffrey off. She knew him well enough by now to recognise his moods. Instead of looking at the pile of letters she had typed for him, he swung his chair round and gazed mournfully through the window at the street beyond. Cool and competent as ever, with her graceful neck and spotless blouse, she said nothing—which was wise. Even when he groaned and muttered, “Oh, my God!” she merely raised an eyebrow—and kept silent.
It must have been this show of calm that finally encouraged Richard to confide in her. It seemed an age—a whole eternity—since he had known the luxury of talking freely to a sympathetic woman.
“Hazel,” he began (during the last few days he had begun to call her by her first name without realising it), “I am afraid that you will soon have to start looking round for fresh employment. I was hoping, as you know, to be able to employ you permanently here, but circumstances make this quite impossible. I’m very sorry.”
Hazel Forrest opened her large grey eyes a little wider, but she still said nothing. Richard’s words had not come as a complete surprise.
“You see,” Richard continued, “my wife’s death has made it hopeless for this household to continue and I must face realities. James, my son, is now the owner of this house. He and Elizabeth will also inherit most of the money that was held in Marjorie’s name. As you must have realised by now, James and I don’t get on together well enough to make this sort of situation tolerable.”
“So what will happen?” Miss Forrest managed to make the question sound almost casual.
“As far as James is concerned, I’ve no idea, although I can’t imagine what a bachelor like him would do with an establishment like this. As for myself, I daresay I’ll manage.”
At this Miss Forrest gave him a look of quite extraordinary concern.
“But that’s terrible,” she said. “You mean you’re losing everything—your home, your livelihood—and what about your political career?”
Until this moment, Richard hadn’t given much concrete thought to the future, but Hazel Forrest’s show of sympathy made his situation seem suddenly desperate.
“I’ll have to give up politics,” he said. “And probably about time too. I daresay I can find myself a job. Something or other in the City. It should be quite a challenge.”
“And what about the books you want to write and all the other things you’d planned to do?” Miss Forrest sounded outraged now.
“They were just dreams,” said Richard, smiling what he imagined was a brave and realistic smile. “Just self-indulgent dreams. At my age a man should really have got over things like that.”
That evening James appeared for dinner—a subdued and very white-faced James, with bloodshot eyes and precious little appetite. Richard made no attempt at conversation. Since his talk to Hazel Forrest he had been brooding on his future and realising with grim satisfaction that it was indeed as bleak as he had said. So it was his turn to be bitter with his son, although poor James, to do him justice, had no idea of his present offence. In his misery about his mother’s death he had not given the fact that legally he, and not his father, was the master of 165 a moment’s thought, nor did he know about his new inheritance.
But, as usual, there was one group who were all too well aware of what was happening. Sir Geoffrey’s visit had aroused considerable speculation below stairs, and this, coupled with the strained relations between James and Richard, had caused much anxiety. This was severely practical, for all the servants, even that paragon of loyalty Angus Hudson, knew that with Lady Marjorie gone, their livelihood and security hung in the balance.
Edward, the under-footman and one of life’s natural pessimists, voiced all their fears.
“Better start looking round for a new appointment, Mrs. B,” he shouted cheerfully to Mrs. Bridges that evening after dinner. He enjoyed baiting her, but now for once he was quite serious.
“New appointment? What d’yer mean, you daft young idiot?” she retorted. She was already most put out to see how little of the stuffed leg of veal the two gentlemen upstairs had eaten. Edward’s jokes—if that was what they were—were not required as well.
“Well, stands to reason, Mrs. B. With Miss Elizabeth now in America and poor Lady Marjorie no more, the master and young Mr. James won’t want this great white elephant of a place for long.”
“Edward,” Hudson said indignantly, “no house in Eaton Place, and least of all number 165, can possibly be termed a white elephant. I think you should learn to mind your language.”
“All right then, Mr. Hudson. But you saw the two of them tonight. At daggers drawn they was. Don’t try telling me that they intend to go on living happily together just as if nothin’s happened. I think we lost more than we expected when ’er ladyship was drowned.”
Hudson looked thoughtful and for once seemed at a loss for a reply. It was Mrs. Bridges who finally voiced everyone’s opinion.
“Things here won’t be right,” she said, “until there’s a lady in the house again.”
For what seemed an age the atmosphere of gloom continued, with James and Richard doing their best to avoid each other. This was not very difficult, as James had to spend his days in the hated office in the City, and his father tended more and more to stay late in the House of Commons and dine in his club. There was no dearth of sympathetic friends for Richard, female ones included. Prudence had been particularly insistent in her attempts to mother him—“As poor Marjorie’s oldest friend I feel I have a definite responsibility”—but Richard sensed the predatory female, ducked, and managed to avoid her. He did the same with Cressida, who sent a gushing note of sympathy in violet-coloured ink: he penned a pointedly unchivalrous reply. Indeed, he found that the only woman he could tolerate was Hazel Forrest.
They had a very businesslike relationship. There was still no undue familiarity, still less on either side any hint of the beginning of romance. (Miss Forrest’s Wimbledon background, her middle-class morality, and her secretary’s training utterly forbade this.) And yet the two of them did have a most extraordinary understanding for each other, and as often happens in such cases, there was an element of self-deception in the way they both pretended to be physically indifferent to each other. Hazel’s red hair was the same shade as Marjorie’s, and whilst she lacked the older woman’s classic beauty, she had the sort of haunting Pre-Raphaelite looks that certainly appealed to Richard. Given time for him to get over Marjorie’s death, one would have thought it more or less inevitable for him to fall in love with her. Similarly on her side there was much in Richard to attract her. She always had felt drawn to older men. Since childhood she had always sided with her henpecked, ineffectual father. (Mrs. Forrest was a horror.) And when she told Richard, in a moment of rare candour, that her months of work with him had been among the happiest in her life, she had not exaggerated, for life had not been very kind to Hazel Forrest.
When Richard asked her why she had been so happy, she had seemed curiously embarrassed.
“I just love this house, and I’m grateful for the way you’ve treated me as a normal human being,” she replied. But there was more to it than that.
Three weeks after the Titanic sank, a small memorial service was held for Marjorie and for Marion and Hugo in the parish church at Southwold. This took the place of a funeral, but it was still a melancholy occasion. The absence of coffins seemed to emphasise the absolute finality with which the three of them had disappeared; the age and sparseness of the co
ngregation underlined the way in which the once grand house of Southwold had already been forgotten. There were a few familiar faces from the past. Old Widgery, the Southwolds’ butler, was miraculously still alive—a quivery old gentleman with thin white hair and rheumy eyes—and some of the older villagers such as the Tranters from the Post Office and the Gosdens from the Southwold stores were there in force. But most of the mourners were from London, with Hudson looking like the rock of ages, and Rose and Mrs. Bridges, side by side in sober black, snuffling audibly throughout the service. Richard found himself seated next to Geoffrey Dillon, which made it hard for him to think of Marjorie—or of anything except how heartily he disliked the man and the unpleasant facts he represented. As Richard tried to pray, he saw the loss of the Titanic as something more than an ordinary disaster. It had become the shipwreck of the world he knew, a great symbolic cataclysm in which affection, happiness, the comfortable, ordered world he loved had foundered utterly. Suddenly he had a vision of the vengeful God of the Old Testament smiting the godless nations of the world as he had heard his father solemnly predicting in his sermons when he was a boy. “The wrath of God!” his father had thundered. “There will be none who shall escape His dreadful anger.” Was the disaster only just beginning? As Richard got to his feet he found that he was trembling.
James had insisted on travelling separately to the service. The shock of his mother’s death was bad enough. He did not want it made worse by the tension he and his father now felt in each other’s company. So he drove down to Southwold by himself—Richard had come earlier in the Rolls—and slipped into the church just as the service was beginning. Hazel was sitting alone, halfway down the church. Almost without thinking James took his place beside her. Throughout the service, which he found sadder and even more pointless than he had expected, James was uncomfortably aware of his neighbour’s presence. She was wearing a small black hat which showed off her appealing profile to perfection. Her scent was lilies of the valley, a powerful and most disturbing fragrance that James could not ignore, even as he attempted to compose his mind on other things. When the service ended he was anxious to escape ahead of his father, but something made him ask Miss Forrest if she would care for a lift back to town. He was surprised when she accepted.
