The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

by Nancy Mitford

  ‘Oh! thank you so much, you are kind,’ said Poppy sweetly. Jasper, envisaging a seed-pearl locket, merely scowled.

  At this moment a slight commotion broke out the other side of the terrace. Two liveried attendants sprang forward and led away between them a young man of untidy appearance who was gesticulating wildly. The other peers seemed totally uninterested by this occurrence.

  ‘That’s Gunnersbury,’ said the duke, ‘dreadful fellow. A shocking Socialist you know.’

  ‘Poor thing, he seems to be in a great stew,’ said Poppy.

  ‘All the Labour peers are very much upset at the moment, it’s about a bill of theirs we flung out last week. They called it the Toll of the Roads or some such nonsense and they kept us up until four o’clock one morning talking the most utter gibberish you can possibly imagine. It appears that every year a few thousand totally unimportant persons are killed on the roads, and that lunatic Gunnersbury, supported by some squeamish asses on the Labour benches, brought in a bill to abolish all motor transport. These Socialists put a perfectly exaggerated value on human life, you know. Ridiculous. As I said in my speech, what on earth does it matter if a few people are killed, we’re not at war are we? We don’t need ’em for cannon fodder? Then what earthly good do they do to anybody? Kill ’em on the roads by all means, they come off the unemployment figures and nobody is likely to be any the wiser.’

  ‘I see your point,’ said Jasper. ‘So I suppose you had a fairly heated debate?’

  ‘Very heated indeed. However, we Tories won the day – we always do, of course, there’s some sense talked in this place let me tell you. All the same, these Labour fellows are a perfect curse, forever bringing in some ludicrous bill or other, and then making the dickens of a fuss because they are in the minority here. Damned good thing for the country if they are, I should say. That blasted fool Lord Williams now, red-hot Communist if you please, brought in a bill the other day to try and substitute dandelions for strawberry leaves on our coronets and rabbit skins for ermine on our robes. Anybody would think the poor chap wasn’t quite right in the head, the way he goes on.’

  The duke then took them for a short stroll in the park, which was dank and gloomy. During the course of it, however, Jasper managed to obtain several promising snapshots of his grandfather as well as an interesting study of Lord Rousham, who, peeping over the edge of his nest as they passed, began to pelt them with orange-peel, chattering wildly to himself.

  ‘Wonderful fellow, Rousham,’ said the duke, hardly bothering even to look up, ‘he can turn his hand to anything, you know. That’s a first-class nest he has made. They tell me it is entirely lined with pieces of the India Report. Of course we miss him in the House just now, but I bet you he is doing good work up there all the same.’

  Presently they were joined by the curator, who had come to inform Jasper that all visitors must be outside the park by six o’clock.

  ‘That’ll be in ten minutes’ time,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come again and take the duke out? We always allow it in the case of the moderate ones. There is an excellent tuckshop in the village and they love to go there, it makes a nice change for them.’

  ‘I’ll do that one day,’ said Jasper. ‘I had thought of taking him over to see Lady Chalford as I know she would be pleased. And by the way, there is to be a garden party and pageant at Chalford House next Wednesday week, and she asked me to find out whether you would care to come over for it, and bring any of the peers with you?’

  The curator accepted this invitation with pleasure, and so, when it was put to him, did the Duke of Driburgh. After this, Poppy and Jasper, feeling more exhausted than if they had spent the day with a small boy at his private school, mounted their Rolls-Royce and drove away.

  13

  The artistic young men of Rackenbridge found themselves a good deal inconvenienced by Mrs Lace’s preoccupation in her new love affair. Their hearts were perhaps less affected than their stomachs, the emotions of those young men had never been much shaken by any petticoat, but up to now they had always been able to count on Comberry Manor and its chateleine for such agreeable amenities as free meals and pocket-money during the summer. This year a gloomy change had come about. The colony had already been at Rackenbridge for over a month, but as yet not one single picture, photograph, piece of pottery or hand-woven linen had been commissioned by their patroness, nor had she introduced to the studios, as she usually did, any gullible visitors. Almost worse than this trade depression was the fact that practically no invitations to meals at Comberry were now being issued. The artistic young men were getting tired of scrambled eggs and sardines eaten off studio floors, they longed to sit up to a table and attack a joint.

  This state of affairs was rightly laid at Noel’s door. As well as providing a complete distraction from the ordinary routine of her life he had shaken Mrs Lace in the belief that her friends were geniuses. He assured her that in London they were perfectly unknown, and his attitude towards their work, too, was distressing. For instance, after glancing at Mr Forderen’s series of photographs entitled ‘Anne-Marie in some of her exquisite moods’ which, when they were first taken a year before had caused the greatest enthusiasm in Rackenbridge, he had remarked quite carelessly that she ought to have her photograph taken by some proper photographer.

  ‘Don’t you see,’ Anne-Marie had said, ‘that these pictures represent, not me but my moods, this one, for instance, “pensive by firelight”, don’t you think it rather striking?’

  ‘No I don’t,’ said Noel, whose own mood that day was not of the sunniest. ‘It is nothing but an amateurish snapshot of you looking affected. Frankly, I see no merit in any of them whatever, and as I said before, all those young aesthetes at Rackenbridge strike me as being fearfully 1923, and bogus at that.’

  As a result of this conversation the series was removed from the walls of Anne-Marie’s drawing-room, from whence it had long revolted Major Lace, and consigned to those of a downstairs lavatory. Here it was duly observed by poor Mr Forderen on the occasion of the cocktail party.

  Under the stress of these circumstances Rackenbridge abandoned the petty jealousies which usually marred its peace, and decided with unanimity upon a course of action. Mr Leader, who, up till now had been the envied but acknowledged favourite at Comberry Manor, was deputized to woo Mrs Lace away from her Philistine lover or, if this should not prove feasible, to point out at any rate that her old friends were entitled to some small part of her time and attention. To this end Mr Leader sent a little note accompanied by an offering of honey in a handmade jar, in which he begged Mrs Lace to keep a midnight assignation with him at a spot well known to them both, a little green knoll surmounted by a giant oak tree. He knew his Anne-Marie well enough to be convinced that whereas she might easily refuse to see him alone if he called in the ordinary way at six o’clock, the prospect of tearful scenes by moonlight would be beyond her powers to resist. Sure enough, at the very stroke of twelve o’clock she crept from her conjugal bed, leaving Major Lace to the company of his own tremendous snores which, as she well knew, nothing short of an earthquake could disturb. Throwing a chiffon wrap over her chiffon nightdress she floated away to join Mr Leader at his oak tree.

  As she approached he took a graceful step forward, throwing out both his hands and cried, ‘Beautiful Swan!’ hoping thus to evoke romantic memories of a time when he and she were known in Rackenbridge as ‘Leader and the Swan’. ‘You look more lovely than I have ever seen you tonight. Are you a denizen of this earth, you wonderful creature, or do you come to us from another sphere!’

  Anne-Marie, arranging herself upon the greensward, assumed a classical pose and gazed up at him with sombre eyes.

  ‘I have com,’ she said, her foreign accent more than usually stressed. ‘It was dangerrous and deef feecult, but I have com. What ees it that you want – que veux-tu mon ami?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Mr Leader, moodily, ‘or nothing.�
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  Anne-Marie leant back and waited for the passionate outburst which she hoped was coming; she was not disappointed. Mr Leader, assuming the attitude which had proved so successful when he as Hamlet and she as Ophelia had taken Rackenbridge by storm two years previously, began to accuse her of unfaithfulness, not to individuals, but to the deathless cause of Art. He told her that she alone could provide inspiration to those who loved her so earnestly, that no good work had been done at Rackenbridge that year, or could ever be done again until she should consent to shine like a star in their midst once more. As individuals they could bear her loss even if it killed them, as artists it was their duty to recall her to hers. Mr Leader spoke in this strain for some time, during which Anne-Marie wept and enjoyed it all very much, and particularly wished that Noel could have heard. When at last she had an opportunity to speak she said that those to whom she meant so much must make a tremendous effort to understand her now. She explained that she was probably one of the world’s great lovers, and her love for Noel would be accounted in days to come as one of history’s greatest loves.

  ‘You must remember,’ she said, gazing at the moon which hung over them like a large melon, ‘that love, if it is to be worth while, is always tragic, always demands immense sacrifice. Otherwise it is of no value. I will sacrifice everything to it ruthlessly: my husband, my children, my reputation, even all of you my friends, you and your wonderful work must go to feed the flames which light its altar. Je n’en peux rien, que voulez-vous. C’est plus fort que la mort.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ said Mr Leader, gloomily contrasting in his mind scrambled eggs and sardines with the very satisfying quality of Mrs Lace’s food; ‘but, dear Anne-Marie, can he be worthy of your exquisite intellect? We all greatly fear that he is not.’

  ‘That may be so,’ she said, complacently, ‘but that is neither here nor there. What is intellect, compared with passion? I tell you that I love him, he occupies my time, my thoughts, my very soul – there is no room in my life for anybody else at the moment. When he is gone, as go he must, I may come back to all of you, an empty hollow husk; life will hold no more for me, but I shall at least have loved and made the great sacrifice, and I shall struggle on to the end, living for my memories.’

  Her voice trailed away into a sob. Mr Leader, in the face of so much fortitude, and so much grief, found no words with which to suggest that a few free meals and one or two of the usual small commissions would be a great boon to himself, and his companions. He assured Anne-Marie that when her hour of sorrow should come she would find loving friends at Rackenbridge ready and anxious to pour balm into her wounds. Before he could enlarge upon this theme, Anne-Marie, whose trailing chiffon afforded but little warmth, and who was blue with cold, was floating back to that excellent circulation which, in her eyes, constituted Major Lace’s chief virtue as a husband. Mr Leader sadly set forth on the long tramp to Rackenbridge.

  One o’clock in the morning. The village of Chalford was sleeping soundly when a flickering light appeared in the sky and presently became a steady crimson glow. A reflection of it shone into Jasper’s room, so he got up, very sleepy, and went out on to the green, looking to see where it could come from. In doing so he ran into Mr Leader, who was walking quickly towards Rackenbridge.

  ‘Oh, hullo!’ said Jasper, ‘what is it, a house or a haystack?’

  Mr Leader merely gave him a nasty look and hurried away.

  Jasper, turning a corner of the village street, saw that Eugenia’s Social Unionist head-quarters were a mass of flames. He felt sorry for Eugenia, he knew that she would be very much upset by this disaster. As it was a pretty sight, and he now felt fairly wide awake, he stayed to watch it blaze. Presently the others appeared, having been woken up by the smell of burning.

  ‘Jolly little bonfire, isn’t it?’ said Jasper, putting his arm round Poppy’s waist. ‘Nothing we can do would be of any use, luckily. Hullo! here are the Comrades, rotten luck for them I must say.’

  The Comrades marched up in formation, but seeing that no human effort would avail to extinguish that furnace, they indulged in a little community singing to keep up their spirits in the face of this setback to their cause.

  Lady Marjorie, by the light of the flames, observed Mr Wilkins and with a little cry of excitement she streaked off in his direction.

  ‘Wonderful, what love will do for a girl,’ observed Jasper. ‘I can’t think when she finds time to grease her face nowadays; I suppose it will seize up soon, like a motor car. Hullo! here come the Laces to see the fun – good-bye, Noel. What did I say? This village is a perfect hotbed of romance, isn’t it, darling Miss Smith?’ He kissed her ear. ‘Oh, God! there are the detectives again; come on, let’s bunk shall we? I’m sick of the sight of them.’

  ‘Yes, in a way,’ said Poppy. ‘The only thing is, if they are still here it must mean that they haven’t got any evidence on us.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why you don’t hand out the dope and let the old boy divorce you if he wants to. It would save a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Feminine caution, I suppose,’ said Poppy. She was a good deal in love with Jasper, but not sure that she wanted to marry him. Certain aspects of his nature seemed far from satisfactory.

  ‘He is such a fearful pickpocket, you know,’ she said, in a burst of confidence to Marjorie. ‘I can’t leave my bag lying about for a moment.’

  ‘Goodness knows how much he’s had out of mine,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘Funny how customs have changed,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m sure in our mothers’ day ladies didn’t fall in love with thieves.’

  Early next morning, Eugenia, on Vivian Jackson, came thundering down to the village at a hard gallop. Having inspected the still smouldering ruins of her head-quarters, she went round to the Jolly Roger, where she found Jasper and Noel eating breakfast in their pyjamas.

  ‘It is a nuisance,’ was all she said, but Jasper thought she had been crying. He plied her with sausages and she became more cheerful.

  ‘Of course, it must be the work of Pacifists,’ she said, with her mouth full, ‘and you may be quite sure that I am going to sift this affair thoroughly. Wait until I have run them to earth, the brutal yellows financed by Jews too, no doubt.’

  ‘Talking of Pacifists,’ said Jasper, suddenly, ‘whom do you think I saw last night hurrying away from your head-quarters just after the fire must have started? Dear little Mr Leader. He was behaving in a highly suspicious manner, I thought.’

  Eugenia made that gesture which usually accompanies a snapping of the fingers. It was one she was very fond of, but as her hands were soft and babyish she seldom achieved a satisfactory crack. On this occasion it was completely absent.

  ‘Mr Leader,’ she cried, ‘how mad of me, I had forgotten all about him. Of course, when we have a nest of filthy yellows in our midst, we need look no further afield. Very well, I shall act immediately.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I will send the Comrades to fetch him along,’ said Eugenia. ‘Terrible shall be the fate of the enemies of Social Unionism. In fact, I think I will arrange for the Comrades to seize him this very afternoon, while he is working in his studio.’ (She pronounced the word with infinite contempt.) ‘He is probably laughing up his sleeve by now, thinking that nobody will ever find out who is the author of that foul crime. They can bind and gag him, and bring him to a quiet place I know of in Chalford Park, where I will court-martial him at the drumhead.’

  ‘And if he is found guilty?’

  ‘If,’ cried Eugenia, tossing her head, ‘there is no “if”. He shall be found guilty and Oh, boy! will I have him beaten up? Terrible shall be the fate –’

  Jasper, however, with some difficulty restrained her from putting such extreme proposals into practice. He explained that the time was not yet ripe for a blood-bath in Chalford, that such a proceeding would do infinite harm to her cause and that if she carried it out she would get
herself into serious trouble with the Comrades at the London head-quarters. Those men of iron, he hinted, might easily degrade her from her position of patrol leader and remove her little emblem if she drew down upon them the unwelcome publicity that would follow such a step. It was this last argument which persuaded Eugenia to leave the whole matter in Jasper’s hands.

  ‘If he really did it, I think perhaps some small punishment is coming to him,’ said Jasper, ‘but it is absolutely essential that we should hear what he has to say for himself.’

  ‘That’s why we must have a trial,’ said Eugenia, ‘and you can’t have a trial unless he is gagged and bound first. He is far too cunning and cowardly to put his head into the lion’s den of his own accord.’

  ‘We must consider it carefully,’ said Jasper, ‘there are probably ways and means.’

  In the end, Lady Marjorie, whose passion for Mr Wilkins had brought her down from her high horse, and revealed her as a most surprisingly good-natured creature, allowed herself to be used as a decoy. She sent a note to Mrs Lace asking her to tea at the Jolly Roger. ‘We hope so much that you will be able to come, Yours sincerely, Marjorie Merrith. P.S. We wanted to invite also that charming Mr Leader whom we met at your cocktail party, but cannot find out where he lives. Could you very kindly give him the message for us?’