‘Over in the shooting field. It’s for you. Something beautiful,’ he adds, with a shy smile.
‘Oh no, this is yours. You must keep it,’ Lillian insists. ‘It’s lucky.’
‘Albie was quite the sharp shooter today, weren’t you, boy?’ says David Molesworth.
‘He could have hit even more targets if he’d spent more time practising his shot and less time drifting about in the clover.’ Charles turns to Jack. ‘How about you, Fincher? A successful day in the west wing?’ he asks, clapping Jack on the shoulder before handing him a martini.
‘Yes, very good.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Charles takes a moment to introduce Jack and explain his extravagant commission as they move into the dining room and take their places at the long table, Lillian and Charles seated at either end with the guests scattered between them. She is relieved to have David Molesworth on her left and Edwin Parker to her right, with Jack a little further down the table, just out of direct eye-line. The wine is poured and over a smoked trout starter the conversation glides into a discussion of the recent execution of Ruth Ellis.
‘But don’t you think it is rather barbaric, in this day and age?’ asks Miriam, turning to Charles.
‘Justice is justice,’ says Charles. ‘She shot the man in cold blood. The jury convicted her in twenty minutes. Of course the woman should have hanged.’
‘Though it does seem rather medieval. What about redemption? If she really were a danger to others couldn’t they have simply kept her locked up?’
‘Ah yes, locked away, a perpetual drain on the state. That’s the trouble with caged birds. They cost a fortune in upkeep.’ Charles turns to Lillian. ‘We know another young lady like that, don’t we, darling?’ She knows, instantly, that he’s referring to Helena, but is too shocked to reply. Charles carries on, regardless. ‘You only feel sorry for her because Ruth Ellis is young and attractive,’ he continues, addressing Miriam again. ‘If it were a man who’d shot a woman I’m sure you’d feel differently.’
‘It’s the child I feel most sorry for,’ says Lillian, through gritted teeth. ‘Just ten years old and left without a mother.’
‘Better off without her, I say,’ says Charles, ripping into his bread roll.
‘Oh gosh, we have turned rather gloomy, haven’t we?’ says Miriam. ‘Tell everyone about that new play we saw at the Arts Theatre, David.’ She nudges her husband. ‘You know the one . . . Waiting for Godot. Oh it was quite unfathomable. Two men sitting by a tree waiting for someone who never arrives. I ask you!’
‘Sounds dreadful,’ says Edwin Parker.
‘It was,’ agrees Molesworth. ‘Coarse and dull.’
‘Why it’s getting such raves is quite beyond me,’ says Miriam.
‘Do you get to the theatre much?’ asks Catherine, turning to Lillian.
‘No, not often,’ says Lillian.
‘Oh Lillian’s far too busy running this place to go gallivanting up to London, aren’t you, darling?’
She looks across at her husband and smiles. ‘That’s right.’
‘So, Jack,’ Charles begins, turning his spotlight on the artist as the plates are cleared, ‘the question I really want to ask is when you think you’ll have finished my room?’ He leans forward in his chair, elbows propped on the table.
Lillian is as interested as Charles in the answer, but she keeps her attention fixed on her wine glass as she twirls its stem in her fingers, watching how the candlelight catches the blackberry-coloured liquid, turning it blood-red.
‘Two weeks,’ Jack says, with surprising conviction.
‘Two weeks?’ Charles leans back in his chair, looking pleased. ‘Why, that’s excellent news.’
It takes every ounce of Lillian’s willpower to keep her gaze fixed on her glass; then realising her mouth has gone horribly dry, she takes a sip.
‘That is assuming you approve of what I have done,’ adds Jack. ‘It’s such a grand space, I’ve had to go with a rather ambitious design.’
‘I’m certain I will. I’m in a state of high anticipation.’ Charles turns to his other guests. ‘Mr Fincher has been most mysterious all summer long. I have no idea what he’s painting in there. I’m not usually one for surprises, but there’s something rather marvellous about the thought of having a room unveiled in its entirety.’
‘Bravo, Charles,’ says Edwin Parker. ‘Very bold. Life can be such a dull affair. It’s good to take a few risks.’
‘That’s exactly how I like to run my business, Parker. Calculated risk and return.’ Charles turns back to Jack. ‘I do hope you have enjoyed your summer with us? That you have found enough to occupy you in this quiet corner of the countryside?’
Lillian senses Jack’s eyes drifting in her direction, senses his discomfort from the way he shifts in his chair. Gripping the napkin in her lap, she wills him to keep his composure. ‘Indeed. I’ve found my time here to be very . . . inspiring.’
Charles smiles. ‘Excellent. I wonder if it’s vanity on my part to hope we might see a little of the Chilterns or perhaps even ourselves in some of your future works?’ Charles chuckles.
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ Jack agrees quietly. ‘My time here in your home is certain to leave quite the impression.’
‘And perhaps a little of the time you have spent out of the home too. Enjoying some of our local . . . sights?’ The innuendo hangs on Charles’s last word.
Jack merely raises his glass at Charles and, to Lillian’s relief, the conversation is halted by the arrival of a large silver platter rolled in on a trolley, the domed lid lifted to reveal a showstopping triple crown roast of lamb sporting tiny white paper hats.
Before dessert is served, Lillian excuses herself and slips outside onto the terrace to smoke a cigarette. She stands by the balustrade, blowing smoke across the lawn, watching it evaporate into the warm night. Her heart is a clenched fist in her chest. Two weeks, he’d said.
She turns at the sound of footsteps approaching, expecting Bentham, summoning her in for dessert, but is surprised instead to find Jack. He stands at a polite distance, leaning against the balustrade as he lights his own cigarette.
‘He’s watching us,’ she says quietly, glancing back through the French doors to where Charles and the other guests remain conversing.
‘I know.’ Jack seems calm. ‘But it would be far more suspicious if we didn’t talk, don’t you think?’
She nods and looks back out across the dark lawn. ‘It doesn’t seem so long ago that we stood here that very first time, you and I.’
Jack smiles. ‘When you played that cruel trick on me? Pretending to be someone else.’
‘That was no trick. That was your own foolish assumption.’ Her smile fades as she looks out to the velvet blackness hanging over the gardens. ‘Two weeks?’
He nods. ‘I can’t stay here forever, Lillian. Charles is getting impatient.’
She nods. ‘I don’t know how I will bear it here without you.’
‘You’ll come to the clearing tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Through the French windows she can see Charles peering out at them. ‘I should go.’ She stubs out her cigarette on the balustrade then slips from the terrace and returns to her seat.
Sarah serves generous slices of Mrs Hill’s summer pudding onto their best bone china and Charles, his tongue loosened by wine, moves the conversation into the more contentious sphere of politics and business, discussing his hopes for Prime Minister Eden and the trade potential with America.
Lillian, no longer hungry, but somewhat bolstered to have stolen a moment with Jack, turns to Edwin Parker on her right. ‘Have you enjoyed your day in the Chilterns, Mr Parker?’
‘How could I not? Beautiful countryside. This wonderful house.’ He lowers his voice. ‘And such attractive company.’
Lillian smiles in what she hopes is a bland, unencouraging way.
‘One might ask why Charles would keep a sophisticated young lady like you tucked aw
ay,’ he continues, patting her arm. ‘But perhaps he likes to keep you all to himself. He’d be wise.’
The man takes a sip of his wine then licks his lips. She knows he is flirting with her. She can sense Charles watching from the far end of the table and smiles again, hoping that he is, at least, pleased to see her putting in a little effort with his guests. ‘Catherine,’ she says, trying to draw the man’s wife into the conversation, ‘how about you? Are you a town or a country person at heart?’
‘Oh town. Most definitely town. I can’t imagine looking out and seeing only green every day. It would drive me mad.’
Miriam Molesworth has caught wind of their conversation. ‘Yes, what exactly do you do around here?’ she asks Lillian, looking utterly bewildered. ‘No shops, no restaurants, no society events? Of course the countryside is perfectly charming, but—’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. We have our social calendar, the parish council, the Women’s Institute, fetes and charity functions, the same as everywhere. We find ways to amuse ourselves.’ She can’t help glancing quickly at Jack.
‘But is that enough for you, my dear? Times are changing. Since the war, there are so many more opportunities.’
Charles gives a snort from the other end of the table. ‘Lillian’s a homebody through and through, aren’t you, darling? No personal ambition whatsoever.’
‘Except of course to support you, I’m sure,’ says Miriam with a small, ingratiating smile. ‘You know what they say, behind every great man . . .’
‘Perhaps Charles is just worried you will show him up,’ teases Parker, patting her on the arm again. ‘Maybe that’s where you’re going wrong, Charles? Involve her in the business,’ he suggests, turning to Charles. ‘A woman like Lillian – brains and beauty – she might be just what you need to pull Oberon & Son out of the doldrums.’
Charles goes very still and Lillian holds her breath. She knows he won’t like any reference to his business struggles being mentioned at the table. But after a beat, he smiles. ‘You’re all quite right,’ chimes Charles. ‘Times have changed. It’s almost impossible to find good staff these days, which is why I need Lillian here. A house like this doesn’t run itself. Besides,’ he adds, knocking back another slug of wine, his eyes glinting dangerously in the candlelight, ‘if she had just done her wifely duty and sired me a few more sons, she’d have plenty to keep her busy.’
A silence falls over the table. Lillian folds her napkin and lays it carefully on the table. She reaches for a glass of water and takes a sip. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Jack’s knuckles blanching white on his wine glass.
‘Cover your ears, Albie,’ says Edwin Parker, who then turns to the assembled adults. ‘As a father of three, I think I speak with some authority when I say that I’ve always found the act of siring children to be far more pleasurable than the actual children themselves.’
The man winks crudely at Lillian. Catherine Parker blushes pink and slaps her husband on the arm with her napkin. ‘Really, Edwin!’
But Charles, after a short moment, lets out a loud bellow of a laugh. ‘Well said, Parker. Well said.’
Jack is the first to excuse himself after a last round of digestifs in the drawing room, citing another early start as his reason for retiring. Lillian waits dutifully for the other guests to head to bed, first the Molesworths, then finally the Parkers, both couples having grown surprisingly animated as the night progressed. With the sound of the Parkers’ goodnight calls still echoing on the staircase, Bentham appears in the room and begins to clear the glasses and ashtrays. Charles pointedly holds on to his tumbler. ‘Thank you, Bentham. That will be all.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
Lillian is hoping she might slip away herself, but Charles is already pouring himself another large brandy from the drinks cabinet. ‘Well, darling, how do you think that went?’
‘Oh,’ she says, watching Bentham disappear through the open doorway, a little startled that Charles should consider her opinion in any way important. ‘I think everyone enjoyed themselves. Don’t you?’
Charles smiles grimly and takes a large swig of his drink. ‘Tedious bores, the lot of them.’
‘Excuse me?’ She notices the slight slurring of his words, the sway in his stance.
‘Pandering to those bland moneymen all day, charming their dull little wives, having them poke and prod and paw at the house. Nobody knows the things I have to do to keep the business . . . this house . . . our family afloat. Nobody understands the hoops I have to jump through.’
Lillian, wishing she had retired with the guests, has one eye on the door. ‘You work very hard,’ she says in a soothing voice.
Charles takes another large slug of brandy. ‘Did you enjoy yourself this evening?’
‘Yes,’ she lies. ‘It was very pleasant, though I am rather weary now. Forgive me, darling,’ she says, rising from her seat, ‘but I think I’ll go up too.’
Charles’s eyes narrow slightly. ‘It’s no wonder you’re exhausted . . . after that little display.’
She stops halfway across the room, uncertain to what he is referring. Was he pleased with the way she responded to his guests? Or was he, she wonders, cold ice now gripping her insides, hinting at something more sinister . . . something to do with Jack?
Charles takes a last gulp from his tumbler then returns it unsteadily to the mantel beside him. ‘That was quite a performance.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Your friendly little tête-à-tête.’
‘You asked me to be friendly.’
‘Friendly . . . yes.’ Charles’s eyes flash. ‘Flagrantly whoring yourself in front of our guests is another matter entirely.’
‘Charles,’ says Lillian, her heart squeezing tight in her chest as she realises that to reach the open door she will need to pass her husband, ‘perhaps we should discuss this in the morning, when things might seem a little clearer.’ She takes the first few steps across the room but doesn’t make it any further.
It is the shock, initially, more than the pain that takes her breath away. One minute she is making for the door, the next she is on the rug in front of the hearth, lying in a pile of broken glass, her head ringing. The force of his fist crashing into her temple has sent her sprawling against the drinks cabinet, glasses and the brandy decanter toppling as if in slow motion and smashing onto the tiled hearth, her left leg twisted beneath her at an awkward angle.
With the sound of shattering glass still ringing in her ears, she looks up at Charles, one hand to her temple, trying to clear her blurred vision. ‘Please, Charles,’ she says, her voice sounding strangely far away. ‘Don’t.’
His shadow falls over her, an ugly sneer coming into focus. ‘You think I’m a fool?’
Before she can reply, he has dragged her up by an arm and pinned it behind her back until she is cowed before him, whimpering with pain. She can feel the spilled brandy seeping through her dress, cold and wet against her skin.
‘Please,’ she cries, wincing in fear, ‘not my face. Think of the guests . . .’
Charles’s eyes flash dangerously but she sees her words register and his raised fist drop to his side. ‘I don’t know why you’re angry,’ she implores.
‘You don’t know why I’m angry?’ he hisses. ‘You’re my wife! You’re mine. The only reason people look at you is because of me. You were nothing before you met me. Nothing.’
‘You’re right,’ she says, knowing that to appease him now might be her only chance to bring this to a swift conclusion. ‘I was nothing,’ she agrees through her tears.
‘And after all I’ve done for you, and for your vegetable of a sister.’ He shakes his head and gives a bitter laugh. ‘You think I’m a fool. But I saw you with him . . . twirling your wine glass . . . smiling and batting your lashes.’
Lillian’s heart sinks. He knows. Somehow he knows.
He wrenches her arm more forcefully and she whimpers in pain, defeated, her head still ringing. ‘We
– we didn’t mean – it was so unexpected.’ At that moment she knows she will spill every secret – tell him everything there is to know about her and Jack. ‘We . . . we . . .’
But through her fog she hears Charles shouting, apoplectic in his rage. ‘I told you this was important. I told you to be charming. Not to act like some wanton strumpet. You were an embarrassment. A bitch on heat.’
Lillian swallows. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
‘And with his poor wife sitting right there.’
It takes Lillian a moment to process Charles’s words. ‘His wife? I don’t understand.’ The cogs in her brain are struggling to turn. He isn’t talking about Jack. He is talking about that man. The banker. Edwin Parker.
It is so ridiculous she could almost laugh. ‘You’re right,’ she says, putting a hand to her lip, bringing it away and seeing blood on her fingers, seeing it trickling onto the beaded bodice of her dress, garish red and gold mingling. ‘Catherine was right there. The three of us were sharing a joke. I did nothing but what you asked of me. The dress. The conversation. Only what you asked.’
‘Only what I asked?’ He punches her hard in the stomach, dropping her arm so that she collapses onto the ground, gasping for air. She lies very still, hoping that if she remains passive she won’t incite any further violence, but the ordeal isn’t over yet. He kicks out at her, catching her painfully between her ribs with his dress shoe.
Lillian moans and curls in on herself as he kicks her twice more then bends and pulls her up by the hair so that she sits slumped against the marble hearth, a grotesque parody of a rag doll as Charles stands before her, a monstrous blur, hissing vile words in her face.
‘Let’s go upstairs, shall we?’ he suggests. ‘Let’s wake Albie and show him what a disgusting whore he has for a step-mother.’
‘No,’ she cries. ‘Please, don’t.’
‘Please don’t,’ he mimics in a high whine.
‘Please, not Albie.’
‘He’s my son,’ he hisses, then slaps her so hard her head knocks back into the marble fireplace with a sickening thud. ‘My son, you hear? He’s nothing to do with you. You useless, barren whore. You couldn’t even keep our baby alive, could you?’
The Peacock Summer Page 24
