The New Moon With the Old

by Dodie Smith

  ‘They’ve made for me since I was a girl,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘Of course the old lady’s dead now, but they still do beautiful work.’

  She rang the bell and they were ushered upstairs into a grey-carpeted double drawing-room where Lady Crestover’s own saleswoman, white-haired, grey-robed, came to them. The whole Collection, they were told, would be shown at three-thirty.

  ‘Oh, we won’t wait for that,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘Just show us some simple evening dresses for this young lady, and a day dress or two and a good warm coat. You know the kind of thing I like.’

  Merry’s hopeful excitement lasted until she had seen half a dozen dresses, all displayed by girls so slim they looked breakable. After that, she became dispirited. The clothes were certainly well made but the evening dresses seemed to her insipid, the day clothes extremely ordinary. And she had not the courage to say so. She allowed Lady Crestover to choose two ‘sweetly pretty’ evening dresses, and a woollen dress and coat which, though of admirable black cloth, were deadly uninteresting in shape. Even the prices depressed as well as impressed her. Let loose in a shop, she could have bought herself a complete and far more exciting outfit for less than the cost of just one of the evening dresses.

  Her measurements were taken, a fitting arranged for the next week. Then they left, just as people began to arrive to see the Collection. Merry wondered if it contained clothes she would have liked better. Perhaps the saleswoman knew only too well the kind of thing Lady Crestover liked.

  They drove next to a house agent, to make inquiries about a London flat. Merry, left waiting in the car, looked out on the sunless London afternoon. What had been mist in the country seemed like fog here. Why had she been so spiritless about the clothes? Somehow, she felt … undermined. By Lady Crestover’s kindness? And by her own guilt, she decided gloomily. It was dreadful to deceive anyone so generous, so unsuspecting. She was almost annoyed by the lack of suspicion. Surely it was … a bit stupid, not wanting to know more about a son’s future wife? Suppose one was a criminal? Perhaps one was. Certainly one was a liar. No use pretending all the lies told at Crestover came into the category of ‘playing a part’. One couldn’t play the part without lying.

  Oh, she must tell Claude the truth – soon, soon now! But not just yet.

  The clothes, guilt and the dreary afternoon all combined to sadden her. But she cheered herself up by remembering the previous afternoon. Not much later than this, she and Claude had begun to explore the house …

  Lady Crestover returned in good spirits; she had heard of several possible flats – ‘Ruinous, of course, but … I shall see them when we come up for your fitting. Oh, you poor, patient child, waiting for your tea!’

  They went back to the quiet hotel.

  After tea, the return journey began. As they drove along Shaftesbury Avenue Merry leaned forward eagerly, trying to see photographs outside theatres.

  ‘All the shows sound so dreary nowadays,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘There’s nothing one wants to see.’

  There was nothing Merry did not want to see.

  She found herself remembering a day trip to London with Betty, when they had rushed around shops in the late morning, lunched and dined at Espresso bars, done a matinee and evening performance, and dashingly gone home on the last train, to be met by Richard. Perhaps Betty could come and stay … eventually, when everything was straightened out.

  ‘How ghastly these interminable suburbs are,’ said Lady Crestover, as the journey proceeded.

  Merry had been finding them interesting – or rather, their shopping districts, where the crammed, colourful windows of dress shops were now garishly lit. Most of the clothes were gaudy but some of them were fun. But she reminded herself she was seeing them with the eyes of a teenager. Obviously the future Countess of Crestover couldn’t wear such clothes.

  They were half-way home when Lady Crestover, who had been unusually silent for some time, leaned forward to make sure that the glass division between them and the chauffeur was completely closed. She then said: ‘Merry, dear, I think we mustn’t tell Claude yet that I’m considering unfurnished flats. Of course you must have a permanent home in London, not just a flat for a few months. But he’ll be alarmed at the expense – until we can, well, swing his thoughts away from Crestover. You’ll help me, won’t you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Merry, puzzled.

  ‘Well, by getting him more and more interested in your career, to start with. You see, dear, he must let Crestover go. He should have done so years ago but … he was influenced against it. Our life there is finished. Even with a skeleton staff, the house eats money. And we’re all so bored. Thank goodness you came along to cheer us up, dear child.’ She patted Merry’s hand affectionately.

  ‘But if Claude’s fond of Crestover—’

  ‘He isn’t. And there’s nothing for him to do now the estate’s let to a syndicate – quite advantageously, I’m glad to say. Oh, Claude’s consulted occasionally but that’s purely a courtesy. The trouble is that … well, he may think he’s a little fond of the house and he feels Tom should have the chance to inherit it. As if Tom cared one straw about it! No, my dear. We’ve just got to make Claude see there’s a new life ahead of him – and of all of us – once he lets Crestover go.’

  ‘Could you sell it to … isn’t it the National Trust that takes care of old houses and opens them to the public?’

  ‘We couldn’t even give it, I fear – even with an endowment, which we couldn’t afford. It’s so dull, and the architecture’s said to be bad. And the public won’t pay to see houses unless there are interesting things inside them; we’ve practically nothing left. But we might sell it for a school or something, once Claude’s willing. Luckily it isn’t entailed. Anyway, we could close it, in which case we should have enough income to live in London, provided we pooled our resources and all kept together. You wouldn’t mind that?’

  ‘Me?’ said Merry, astonished. It then dawned on her that most married women expected to have their husbands to themselves, but it was too late to disguise her astonishment.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t,’ said Lady Crestover happily. ‘And of course you’ll need someone to run things for you while you’re busy with your career. Oh, it’ll all work out. Already Claude’s a different man. There’s just one thing more, my dear. Please don’t insist on this six months’ postponement of the wedding. It will distress us all greatly if you do. And really, Merry, it could prove a most serious mistake.’

  ‘How?’ said Merry, abruptly.

  Lady Crestover was silent for a moment. Then she said:

  ‘Yes, I’d better tell you. I’m sure you’re sensible enough to understand. Dear Claude cared very deeply for his wife; indeed, I never expected him to fall in love again – as he undoubtedly has, with you. But during his years of loneliness he … formed a close friendship with a near neighbour of ours, a married woman with an invalid husband. None of us like her and she’s had a very bad influence, perpetually enthusing over Crestover House. She’s a countrywoman, born and bred, always hunting or shooting or fishing – or ratting, heaven help us, with a pack of yelping dogs. If she married Claude—’

  Merry interrupted. ‘But didn’t you say she was married?’

  ‘Her husband died some months ago and she went on a long visit to her family in Ireland. Merry, dear, you’re not to imagine there’s any question of … an entanglement but all the same I’d like to see Claude happily married before she returns. She has no claims whatever on him, but … well, there it is, my dear.’

  ‘I see,’ said Merry. ‘Worrying, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not if you’ll be a dear, sensible girl – as I know you will,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘Now let’s talk of something else.’

  ‘Something else’ proved to be the history of her intense dislike for Crestover House, ever since she had married its owner. The ’twenties hadn’t been so bad, one could stand the place just for weekends, with large house parties. But in the ’thirti
es, they’d had to sell the town house and there’d been less and less money for entertaining. The war had at least been a change, with Crestover closed. ‘We offered it for a hospital but they wouldn’t take it. Nobody wanted the damn place. I begged my husband not to open it again …’ The chronicle went on and on. ‘For over forty years that house has bored … Such long years and yet they’ve somehow gone so fast.’ For once, her bright, confident voice sounded sad and bewildered; then she fell silent, gazing out into the dusk.

  The car slowed down so that the chauffeur could study a signpost. Looking at it, Merry felt her heart beating wildly as it dawned on her that they were only a few miles from Dome House. She had realized they were returning by a different route from that taken in the morning but hadn’t anticipated— The car drove on. Would they actually pass the house?

  She found she longed to, even more than she dreaded to. Eagerly she watched for landmarks. Soon they were on the hill outside the village. Looking downwards, she could see the dome, dimly lit. As they drove down the hill she remembered with a pang that the house would be hidden by trees; the leaves were tinged by autumn now but still thick. Then she was past the gate and driving through the village, past Betty’s house, past the Swan. Not one person did she see in the street. Soon they had left behind the last lighted window.

  She leaned back in her corner shaken by homesickness. If only she could talk to them all, ask their advice! If only she could be told what to do! Things were even more difficult now, after what she had learned.

  But she cheered up once she reached Crestover. Everyone was so pleased to see her and Claude kissed her so lovingly. She would not let that hard-ratting woman have him. And again she promised herself she would think it all out in bed. But again she was vanquished by her old enemy, sleep.

  The next morning rehearsals were resumed with unprecedented energy. ‘I’m hoping this will be the last entertainment we give,’ Lady Crestover whispered to Merry, ‘so let’s make it a good one.’ Merry enjoyed herself, in spite of the undercurrent of worry, and planned to take a long, thoughtful walk in the afternoon when, for once, Lady Crestover, her son and her brother were all going out, having promised to attend a committee meeting of some local charity. But the twins remained at home and insisted on sacrificing their afternoon naps in order to accompany Merry. Now that they were at ease with her she found they could talk almost as much as their mother. They chattered – ‘twittered’ described it better – throughout her walk and throughout tea, after which, hoping to silence them, she picked up the local paper.

  Almost instantly a headline caught her attention. Below it was the report of a case dealing with a labourer and a girl of fifteen who, though obviously a most co-operative consenter, was said not to have reached the age of consent – which was, Merry gathered, sixteen. If one could not legally consent to be seduced before that age, could one legally consent to be married? One could in the eighteenth century – there was that portrait in the Picture Gallery – but the law might have been changed. If so, her case was hopeless. It was proving hard enough to stave the wedding off for six months; eighteen months would be out of the question.

  She must find out what the law was now. Surely there must be some reference book in the library? Yes, she remembered seeing a many-volumed encyclopaedia. If only she could get rid of the twins!

  After a couple of well-simulated yawns, she suggested they should all have a rest before dinner, saw them safely into their rooms, and then hurried downstairs again. The encyclopaedia was housed on shelves which were now, so to speak, in the wings of the little stage erected in the library. She got out the index, rested the heavy volume on the floor of the stage, and squatted in front of it. She would look up ‘Marriage Laws’. A moment later, she heard Binner enter the library to remove the tea tray. She was glad that, though the proscenium curtains were drawn back, one of them hid her from him. She had located Marriage Laws and was reading absorbedly when she heard other sounds in the library. From where she was squatting the drinks table by the fireplace was partially visible. As she looked up, she saw Mr Desmond Deane standing there with his back towards her. Then she heard Lady Crestover say: ‘I wish I’d time for a test before dinner. Really, I’m quite exhausted. I suppose Merry’s gone up already.’

  Was Claude there too? Whether he was or not, Merry decided she must disclose herself, but first she must think of a reason for being where she was. She had it: Sheridan. She’d say she’d been about to look up the first performance of The School for Scandal. Her hesitation lasted only an instant, but in that instant Mr Deane began to speak, in his dry, penetrating voice.

  ‘My dear Donna, may I make one last appeal to you? Are you really determined to marry Claude to this girl?’

  Merry froze. Then – while Mr Deane, pouring drinks, still had his back to her – she silently moved forwards on her knees until she was so close to a proscenium curtain that she could not be seen from any point beyond it. Meanwhile, Lady Crestover was answering her brother defensively.

  ‘I couldn’t break the match now even if I wanted to. Claude’s in love. Why can’t you stop fussing, Desmond? She’s well bred, well educated and extremely talented – and a godsend in our circumstances. Do you want us to spend the rest of our lives shut up in that mouldering dower house? What’s wrong with the girl, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with her, that’s what’s so alarming. But she’s been lying to us ever since she opened her eyes after that bogus faint on the hall floor.’

  ‘Who says it was bogus?’

  ‘Don’t you know a stage fall when you see one – with the feet gracefully crossed? Did you plan it all from the beginning, Donna – when you asked her to stay?’

  ‘It was Claude who suggested it, and I was delighted to see him so attracted. I tell you she’s a charming girl. Who cares if she lies occasionally?’

  ‘She never stops lying. I wonder Claude doesn’t realize it. Of course he’s not very bright. But he’s a good man, Donna. Do you really want him tied to an adventuress?’

  Merry, sick with rage and misery, struggled to her feet. She must go Out to them, stop them …

  ‘You grow narrow-minded in your old age, Desmond,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘I’d say she’s quite as respectable as I was, when I married his father. Anyway, what does it matter? He’s got Tom. She won’t have to be the mother of a future earl, though that wouldn’t worry me. What does, is this insistence on waiting six months. Do you think she has a divorce pending?’

  Merry leaned back against the bookshelves, closing her eyes. It was too late to go to them. Besides, she felt so sick.

  ‘I should doubt it,’ said Mr Deane. ‘I have the strongest impression that she’s a virgin – and almost childishly innocent. It’s sometimes hard to believe she’s twenty-one.’

  ‘Women don’t usually say they’re older than they really are,’ said Lady Crestover, dryly.

  ‘What beats rne is why she’s willing to marry Claude – with her looks and talents.’

  ‘Don’t be idotic, Desmond. She’s penniless and ambitious, and she may even be in love with him.’

  ‘Or with his title,’ said Mr Deane. ‘I’ve often thought titles have a sexual attraction for women. But only before marriage, I gather.’

  ‘That’s extremely astute of you, my dear. But it’s of no importance.’

  ‘Perhaps not when one’s seventy, Donna, merely looking back.’

  ‘Anyway, that side of it’s her look out. Do leave well alone. She’s happy, Claude’s happy. We shall get him away from Crestover at last and out of that woman’s clutches. I’ve given Merry a hint about that and I’m sure she’ll co-operate. She’s a dear, whatever she’s hiding from us. I thought you liked her.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever liked a girl so much,’ said Mr Deane, raising his voice slightly. ‘That’s why I dislike seeing her victimized.’

  Lady Crestover laughed shortly. ‘If there’s any victimization it’s on her side. Only a coupl
e of minutes ago you called her an adventuress.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I wish her well. And I hope she knows it.’

  ‘The whole house will know it, if you shout like that. Now we must go up and change.’

  Merry, while waiting until the door closed behind them, knew why he had raised his voice. It had come to her that, as she had been able to see him at the drinks table, he must – before he turned his back – have been able to see her. She felt quite sure that he had intended her to hear the entire conversation and that his last words were a direct message, though when they met again, she could pretend she had not heard them. He had left her that freedom.

  She no longer felt sick or even very much distressed; quite suddenly, she had become calm and particularly clear-headed. Deliberately she went on reading the entry in the encyclopaedia until she found what she sought: in England, sixteen was the earliest age at which a girl could marry. Well, that settled it. But it was settled without that.

  She replaced the volume and hurried out of the library, then went cautiously upstairs. All the bedroom doors were safely closed. As she entered the room the hall clock struck. She reckoned she had three-quarters of an hour before dinner.

  She worked fast but without panic. Crestover clothes went on the bed, even those that had been given, not lent; her own were tossed into her suitcase – so carelessly packed that it was hard to get everything in, but she managed. She had put on her checked skirt and was about to struggle into the polo-necked sweater when she changed her mind and extracted an old grey sweater from her suitcase. She had other plans for the white sweater.

  She was ready, packed and dressed, soon after the dressing-gong boomed. Now for her letter. She sat down at the writing-table and took a sheet of paper, sparing a moment to look with regret at the coronet on it. How right Mr Deane was about the attractiveness of titles!

  The hall clock struck as she finished writing. She was still all right for time. Only five minutes’ walk across the park would bring her to the road where, on many nights as she walked past the hall windows on her way in to dinner, she had seen a lighted bus go by. She only had to get out of the house unseen. And there was her plan for the white sweater; an unnecessary risk but she was going to take it.