by John Pearson
During Parliament’s Easter recess of 1914 his work brought Richard an unexpected bonus when he and the Liberal Lord Ivor Dennison were sent on a fact-finding mission to the United States. They had a crowded programme, visiting dockyards and munition works and sailing with the North Atlantic fleet on spring manoeuvres.
They also had to go to Washington, which Richard wrote had “too much marble, too much bourbon whisky, and far too many politicians.” Nevertheless, he managed to squeeze in a few days in New York and have his first reunion with his daughter since her marriage.
It was an uneasy meeting at first, for on the surface both of them had changed a great deal. Elizabeth was shocked at how much her father had aged since her mother’s death: he was not only greyer and more lined than she remembered him, but more tired as well. Much of his old exuberance seemed to have gone. At the same time, Richard’s first reaction was that this sleek, self-confident young matron with the beginnings of a New York intonation in her speech could not possibly be his daughter. There seemed no trace of the wild young woman he had loved, and who had caused him so much trouble, nor of the desperate girl who had once seemed scarred for life by a disastrous marriage and headlong love affairs. Everything round her breathed contentment now—the opulent apartment with its views of Central Park, the casual talk about the holiday they planned to take in Maine, her new and very solid-looking husband, Dana Wallace. She seemed to keep him firmly in his place and did almost all the talking, so much so that Richard felt that stolid Mr. Wallace was thoroughly in awe of Mrs. Wallace. He felt rather the same himself.
But not for long. After half an hour or so the old Elizabeth began to break through. She was eager for news of the family, anxious about James, curious about Hazel. She wanted to discuss the rumours that a European war was coming.
“And what are you doing to avoid it, Father?” she blurted out.
Richard shrugged and replied that the only thing that anyone could do was to make sure Britain was prepared.
“But how can you talk like that, you of all people?” Her anger and impatience were the same as she had always shown when she argued with him, and, as always, she had the uncanny knack of saying what he half believed himself. But now she had more than Richard to contend with.
“Elizabeth,” her husband said, in his quiet and most reasonable courtroom voice. “Just be sensible. Your father doesn’t want a war. None of us does. But with a warlike maniac like the German Kaiser arming his country to the teeth, just what else do you do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Elizabeth replied, frowning in the same way she always had when beaten in an argument. “But it must be possible to do something other than just go on arming all the time yourself and bleating that war’s inevitable.”
“Nobody’s saying war’s inevitable,” said Richard, though in his heart of hearts he was sure now that it was.
It settled nothing, of course, but the brief exchange showed Richard that in Mr. Dana Wallace, Elizabeth, thank God, had more than met her match. And after this the four days in New York passed all too quickly. Lucy, his granddaughter, now nearly five and mercifully looking exactly like her mother, was thrilled to see him, and for those four days Richard enjoyed the unaccustomed luxury of playing the doting grandfather. He took her to the zoo and Coney Island, and all four of them spent a golden afternoon aboard the pleasure boat that chugged and puffed its way around Manhattan Island.
Following as it did the anxieties and nightmarish imaginations of the past few months, this was the happiest day that Richard could remember. He knew that one member of his family, at least, had managed to survive and make a genuine success of life. As he looked at the newly matronly Elizabeth with her substantial husband and her dark-haired daughter, he felt a sudden surge of gratitude for America. Whatever horrors Europe had in store, Elizabeth and Lucy would be safe and happy here. But how he dreaded going back to England!
Two days later, when he sailed aboard the Mauritania, Elizabeth’s farewell to him was, “Promise to be happy, Father!”
But there was not much happiness at Eaton Place when he returned there at the end of April. It was a glorious springtime. Outside in the park the chestnuts were coming into leaf, the lilac was in bloom. After the grey of winter London appeared reborn in all its style and splendour. Belgravia’s long, cream-painted terraces and squares were like the centre of some northern capital, gleaming and sparkling in the pale spring sunlight. But 165 appeared a house of shadows. Richard’s first night back there was no sign of James at dinner. Hudson was subdued, Edward distinctly surly, dinner was cold and nearly inedible. As for Hazel, Richard was shocked at what he saw. She seemed to have aged ten years in a few weeks. Her figure looked shapeless and her face was grey. As Richard held her and kissed her on the cheek he felt her trembling.
“Thank God you’re back,” she said.
He did his best throughout the meal to act as if everything was normal, even when Hazel said she didn’t know when James was coming home.
“Oh, so he didn’t get my telegram,” he said.
“Of course he did,” she replied.
“The same old James,” he said and did his best to laugh it off. Edward was listening hard to every syllable. Whatever had gone wrong, there was no point in broadcasting it to the servants. They would learn soon enough.
“Yes,” she replied. “The same old James. He doesn’t change.”
Most of the meal passed in silence. When he asked Hudson why his favourite claret, the Longueville ’98, wasn’t on the table, Hudson replied that Mr. James hadn’t seen fit to reorder it. Richard nearly asked him why the devil he hadn’t seen to it himself—but bit his tongue. Not until that penitential meal was over and he and Hazel were alone together in the drawing room did he burst out, “My dear girl, what on earth has been going on?”
“Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head with painful emphasis. “Nothing at all!”
“Hazel, my dear. We know each other well enough. I beg you to tell me, whatever it is. Just what has happened?”
“I’m pregnant,” she replied.
“But, Hazel, my dear, that’s marvellous!” He went to kiss her but she pushed him wearily away.
“It isn’t marvellous at all,” she said. “It’s horrible.”
“Hazel,” he reproved her. “It’s only natural you should get depressed occasionally. I remember Marjorie was just the same when she was having James. It’s all that morning sickness and, er, all the other things. You must see Dr. Bingley first thing in the morning.”
“No” she said flatly, “it’s not morning sickness, nor anything the doctor can do much about.”
“What is it then?” said Richard, genuinely puzzled.
“I don’t want it. I don’t want to have the baby of a man that I despise.” She spoke in a voice so calm and yet so helpless that it left nothing further to be said.
Richard tried to make her talk, but all she would add was, “I don’t know what to do, and I don’t much care.”
He took her hand and they sat in silence for a while. Then she went off to bed.
Richard decided he must wait up for James, however late he came in. He tried reading in the library but nodded off. The small gilt library clock was striking three when he was wakened by a noise from downstairs. He stumbled to his feet and opened the door.
“James, is that you?” he whispered loudly.
“Whozat?” came a slurred voice from the dimness of the hall.
“It’s Father. I’m here, James. Got back this afternoon. How are you, my boy?”
“Oh!” said the voice. A hiccough followed and then James came swaying up the stairs, his tie askew, an idiotic grin on his face.
“How d’you do, Father? Welcome back to the lion’s den.”
Richard had always had a puritanical dislike of drunks, but he managed to restrain his temper and somehow got James safely seated in the library.
“What on earth’s been going on while I’ve been away?” he asked fir
mly.
His son grinned owlishly and put his fingers to his lips. “Shh, Father. You’ll wake the servants. Old Hudson will be cross.”
“James, pull yourself together. I must know what has happened.”
“Oh, I see, Father,” said James mysteriously. “Little Hazel has been sobbing on your shoulder, telling you all her troubles. But then she always was very fond of you, wasn’t she, Father? You can’t fool me.”
“James, don’t talk such utter rubbish. I want the truth.”
“All very simple really. My wife doesn’t want to have to bear my child. Have you ever heard of such a thing before? Doesn’t want my baby, Father.”
James was becoming maudlin now but Richard persisted. “Why not? She must have a reason.”
“Jealousy,” said James in a dramatic voice. “Sheer unadulterated jealousy. If I had known just now how jealous little Hazel was I’d not have married her.”
“That’s neither here nor there. You are married to her and she is having your child. Why is she so upset?”
“I tell you, Father. Jealousy. A little romp I had with old Diana. Such a good sport, Diana. She’s who I should have married. Game for anything.”
“You mean that having made Hazel pregnant, you then started an affair with Diana Newbury?”
James grinned knowingly. “That’s it, Father. Hot stuff, Diana. Poor old Hazel never was particularly keen on it, you know. That’s why I still can’t really understand why she got so worked up about it when she found out.”
For a moment Richard stared at him, silent with disbelief. Then he said, as calmly as he could, “Get to bed, James. You’re drunk and you disgust me.”
Richard was so tired that night that he fell asleep as soon as he got to bed, and next morning he over-slept, so he was spared James at breakfast. But strange to say, Richard’s return to 165 did make a difference in the atmosphere that day.
“Glad you’re back, sir.” said Hudson. “More like old times again.” Richard had brought him back some interesting American cigars, but he knew that wasn’t what Hudson meant, and with Hudson happier, the entire house seemed suddenly to revive.
Richard had a fairly crowded day, which included a long visit to the Admiralty, where the First Lord was eager to hear what Richard thought of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet, and to the Foreign Office, where Lord Curzon seemed delighted with his report on the state of American sentiment for Britain.
“Excellent to know that we will have some friends on the other side of the Atlantic, Bellamy,” said Lord Curzon in that superior way he had, “but I am sanguine that this talk of war is much exaggerated.”
Because of his official business, Richard had no chance of talking privately to Hazel during the day, but that night at dinner he saw that she had made an effort. She looked healthier and prettier, and Richard was relieved to see that Mrs. Bridges had more than made amends for the fiasco of the night before. James was a shade too hearty to be true—and this made Hazel nervous—but they were now at least making an attempt to keep up appearances, and that was something. Richard wondered just how much of their conversation of the night before James could remember.
To start with, Richard did most of the talking—which meant America and all the news of Lucy and Elizabeth.
Then in his boyish way James suddenly announced, “Hazel! Great news for you!”
“Oh?” she said, trying hard to sound excited but fooling no one. “And what could that be, James?”
“My years of serfdom have finally paid off. The managing director actually took me out to lunch today. Said various nice things about me, then said he wanted me to take charge of—guess what?”
Hazel and Richard shook their heads.
“The Bombay office. And a directorship as well. India again. Don’t you think that’s unbelievable?”
“Unbelievable,” said Hazel nervously. “When?”
“Not for about a year. They say that they need time to groom me for the part. It’s a splendid opportunity.”
“Congratulations, James!” said Richard, although he was already wondering what would happen to 165.
“Yes, congratulations,” Hazel echoed.
“You don’t sound particularly enthusiastic,” James replied.
“Of course I am,” she answered quickly. “How long will you be gone?”
“Two years at least. But good heavens, Hazel, you don’t honestly believe I’d leave you here. You’ll come too, and the baby. Naturally. You’ll love it there. The wife of the head of Jardines in Bombay really counts for something, I can tell you. Fine house, a carriage, all the servants you want …” His voice trailed off, for Hazel was emphatically shaking her head.
“What d’you mean, Hazel?” he asked, harshly now.
“I’m sorry—but I couldn’t. It’s no use pretending. I couldn’t, I couldn’t face it.”
“And if I decide to go alone?’
“It will be your decision.”
“You realise what this will mean for us?” he said slowly.
Hazel nodded.
Richard did his best to smooth things over during the weeks that followed. How much good he did is anybody’s guess. Certainly he talked a lot—to Hazel and to James—preaching the virtues of such qualities as common sense and tolerance and seeing the other person’s point of view.
To Hazel he spoke of the way her pregnancy had obviously upset her. James was an immature and irresponsible young fool. Of course he was. But at heart he wasn’t really bad, and once they had the baby everything would seem quite different. That much he could promise her quite definitely. And to James he spoke about the way he’d hurt her female pride by his infidelity with Diana. He must realise how badly he’d behaved, and that Hazel’s attitude to India was understandable. It was her way of getting her revenge. Once the baby came, things would seem quite different. That much he promised him quite definitely.
With all these promises and all this good advice—and because both James and Hazel in their very different ways both loved him and respected him—Richard succeeded in persuading them to avoid an open break. Indeed, the two of them did actually show signs of reestablishing a little of their old affection for each other, especially now that Hazel was becoming very large and touchingly ungainly with her child. James, for the first time, seemed excited by the prospect of becoming a proud father. Yes, everything could still have worked out happily, but for the heat that summer and the arrival of Georgina.
The two arrived at Eaton Place almost simultaneously. Right at the beginning of that blazing hot July, there was suddenly Georgina home from school, but a transformed Georgina, svelte, golden-skinned, bright-eyed—a raving beauty. Almost inevitably her presence upset the precarious equilibrium of 165.
Already it was showing signs of faltering. For several weeks now Richard had been having arguments with James about the imminence of war. James pooh-poohed the possibility. He knew Von Bolenstein, the Kaiser’s military attaché: “Capital fellow and a splendid shot. Might almost be an Englishman. He has assured me as a gentleman that all this talk of war is sheerest nonsense.”
Richard replied that the Kaiser was no gentleman, and that now that he had finished widening the Kiel Canal so that his battleships could sail unhindered to the North Sea, everything was ready for a war.
“It’ll be August, mark my words,” Richard said soberly. “That’s when the latest German conscripts will be in the regiments. That’s when it will start.”
“But, Father,” James would say: “Von Bolenstein assures me that the Germans’ natural enemy is Russia. If there’s to be a war it will be in the East.”
Hazel was showing signs of irritation too. The heat, the talk of war, increased her depression.
“Is India as hot as this?” she asked wearily. And with his usual lack of tact he replied, “Oh, this is nothing to Bombay when it gets really warm. But you’ll get used to it. Surprising how one does.”
Georgina, on the other hand, revelled in the heat. She spent these
baking summer days riding or on the river with her friends until she looked like an Indian herself. Soon it was obvious that James could not keep his eyes off her. He should have realised, of course, the dangerous game that he was playing, but when Richard tried to warn him he replied furiously, “Father, you must be mad! You’re like some prurient old spinster. Of course Georgina’s pretty. Damned pretty. But if you think I’d ever touch her! To me she’s just a—just a—well, a sister.”
“But she’s not your sister, James,” Richard said reasonably. “She’s a very beautiful and susceptible young girl. Of course you’d not do anything, but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point then, Father? Let’s get this dirty-minded business straight.”
“Simply that I’m worried about Hazel. In her present state she’s quite likely to misunderstand things. Believe me, James, pregnant women do. She’s not unusual in this. And she naturally feels vulnerable and at a disadvantage with a girl as pretty as Georgina. Just be careful, James. I don’t want Hazel hurt.”
“Anyone would think that’s all that matters.”
“For these next few weeks I rather think it is.”
But Richard’s warning did no good, with Georgina seeming to become prettier every day and James now apparently incapable of not playing up to her. Barely a week had passed after Richard’s warning before the trouble he had feared occurred. Georgina had been invited to a party at the Allministers’ in Grosvenor Square. Edward was having trouble with the Rolls so James quite casually volunteered to collect her in his coupé. Richard was old-fashioned about not having his ward brought home by young men in taxi cabs, and without thinking instantly agreed. Hazel said nothing.
James was supposed to pick Georgina up at midnight, but the party went on longer. James stayed himself, and the upshot was that he and Georgina, both in highest party spirits, arrived back at Eaton Place at two in the morning. Hazel was up and waiting for them. James tried to laugh it off.
“Ah, Hazel. Just what d’you think you’re doing up at this time of night?”
Georgina, a little bit tipsy, giggled. At that, Hazel, quivering with fury, raised her hand to strike the girl, but James caught her arm and held her.
