Chapter 13
It was a curious phenomenon, but in England, one felt lonelier in a crowded place than a quiet one. This was Eugene Stiller’s theory, and he was currently feeling the truth of it, sitting alone at a table for two in the midst of the chattering customers at the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street. He had been there for the best part of an hour, and apart from the waitress – who didn’t count, since she was obliged to speak to him – no one, not a soul, had so much as nodded at him. The English leisured classes were a very buttoned-up lot, he thought. If he’d been in New York, in a similar establishment, he would have made enough new friends by now to hold a party. Here, however, it was impossible to catch anyone’s eye.
Eugene had always been uneasy in his own company. He needed the stimulation of other people to keep him jolly; alone, he tended to brood. He blamed this weakness on his artistic temperament – a certain insecurity that was part and parcel of his sensitive nature. It had ever been thus. An only child, he had, early in life, fallen into the habit of always making friends, and he had found this easy as he was pleasant-looking without being actually handsome, amiable without being overbearing. But he wished he were more self-sufficient. Even now, as a young man of some account in the world, he craved the attentions of others; indeed, he almost seemed to dwindle with the lack of it, growing paler and somehow less substantial, like a sun-loving plant placed in the wrong part of the garden. So, two months after the Cunard liner had deposited him in Southampton, he was missing the easy familiarity of New York, where strangers in the street might pass the time of day without fear of overstepping an invisible social mark. For it was snobbery, he was convinced of this, that dictated the terms here; the famous rigid social hierarchy, which prevented one fellow speaking to another for fear that encouragement might be given to the wrong sort of person. He missed the democracy of America in general, and the specifics of New York in particular. He missed Central Park and pastrami sandwiches, Broadway and Brooklyn Bridge; the longer he was away, the rosier and more perfect were his recollections.
He should, in truth, be making plans to return. The portrait was finished. He could, perhaps, add a scrap here, a dab there, but he had left it on its easel in the drawing room of Netherwood Hall, and if he didn’t return, it wouldn’t suffer for it. It was a fine piece and, in the end, he’d been glad to have the spaniels. Thea was throwing a challenging stare directly out of the canvas and the dogs were gazing up at her, their liquid brown eyes fixed on their mistress’s face; it was a neat composition, and symbolic – Eugene liked to think – of Thea’s place in the world. Plumb centre, with an audience. She had loved it. She wanted him to paint another one, of the earl standing by his new Rolls-Royce. ‘I don’t work with motorcars,’ Eugene had said, and she had laughed, not as if he’d made a joke, but as if he were the joke; she mocked him most of the time.
Yet here he was, still, in England; and if it wasn’t work that held him here, what was it? He couldn’t say for sure. A relationship, of sorts, but not a courtship, certainly; not even a love affair. Rather, it was a monstrous physical urge: a consuming obsession that he once naively believed only true love could inspire. It had turned out that, within Eugene’s pure and idealistic soul, there was a seam of rather filthy-minded lust, which had him completely enslaved. It thrilled and intoxicated him, but also it disappointed him. He had thought himself a higher being; not superior to other men, exactly, but driven by an artistic imperative, not a physical one. He was compelled to adapt and accept this new self, since he seemed powerless to escape it.
He looked at his watch. She was late, by half an hour. The waitress, three times now, had passed his table, glancing at him meaningfully, and it was true that a line of people stood at the entrance to the restaurant, waiting to be seated. Perhaps he should order more coffee to justify his presence? But then, if he drank more coffee, he feared he might drown in it. Five more minutes, and then he would leave. Ten, perhaps. But he mustn’t be played for an utter chump. These thoughts ran seamlessly through his mind, while all about him the mêlée of conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed, reminding him of his solitude and making him feel miserable. Absently, he picked up a starched white napkin and spread it flat on the table, then began to fold, roll and tuck. It was a trick his father had taught him: a few deft twists of the cloth produced a little oblong body and a long tail. Frank Stiller used to make little Eugene laugh by resting the mouse on the flat of his hand and offering it to his son to stroke. Gently now, he would say; he’s a timid little fellow. Then, with an imperceptible flick of his fingers, he would send it shooting up the length of his arm. Eugene smiled at the memory. He was almost done. He tugged at the tail to secure it.
‘Busy?’
Thea – for it was she for whom he was waiting – had appeared at last and now regarded him with a look of arch amusement, as if she’d caught him in the act of something faintly embarrassing; which, in fact, she had.
‘It’s a mouse,’ he said, a little too defensively, and regretted it instantly. He sounded absurd. He looked at her, feeling thoroughly disadvantaged. Not only was he holding a linen mouse by the tail, he was also seated while she was standing. Plus, with her back to the window, her gauzy silk dress was quite transparent. He could see the outline of the lace edging on her underclothes, and he knew that she was probably aware of this, and its riveting effect. So, then: here was the reason he had not yet left English shores. The Countess of Netherwood, famously irresistible, had, in the course of their interminable sittings, decided to seduce the artist. She had done this casually, with an emotional detachment that was, in an odd way, part of her charm: this is of no consequence, her eyes had said as she peeled off her blouse the first time, and lifted her chemise over her head. This is something and nothing. She’d done it before, with others; that had been very clear. Eugene, not entirely inexperienced, but no Casanova, had felt himself in expert hands. Thea had reeled him in like a bass and now, to continue the analogy, he was flapping at her feet, waiting to know his fate. Actually, he thought, a bass would’ve put up more of a fight. Eugene had capitulated the moment Thea cast the line. He was not without conscience; he liked Tobias, and by nature Eugene wasn’t a deceitful person. But any qualms he had were as chaff in the wind against the power and pull of Thea Hoyland.
He unfolded the mouse and shook out the napkin, then, because he felt foolish, he said, ‘I was thinking I’d like to be back in the States,’ and he was pleased to see Thea look not exactly affronted, but certainly a little put out. She sat down next to him.
‘But I’m not finished with you yet,’ she said. She smelled of jasmine, or of hyacinth: something heavy and floral, and very possibly narcotic. ‘And you’re not finished with me, are you?’
‘I believe I am,’ he said, deliberately obtuse. He raised his voice, and said, ‘I formally declare The Countess with Spaniels complete,’ and a wary hush descended on the neighbouring tables.
‘I wasn’t talking about the portrait,’ she said, lowering her voice to a seductive drawl. She leaned close to him, so that her lips brushed his ear, and she whispered, ‘I don’t want a cup of tea. Let’s go home and fuck.’
This was how she operated, he thought wretchedly. This was how he fell, every time. Embarrassment and desire had him in their clutches and rendered him temporarily speechless. Furtively, he pulled the napkin onto his lap and, staring ahead, tried hard to think of something unpleasant, but Thea had unnatural powers and she used them now to occupy his mind with the erotic details of their previous couplings. She laughed, and wormed a hand under the napkin. He pushed it away in alarm. She only wanted him because she was bored, he knew this; he was her toy, and only for the present. Part of him – a small corner of his mind, too small a corner to influence his actions – disapproved very severely of her wanton appetites. He wouldn’t want such a woman for a wife, he knew that much.
Beside him, Thea waggled her fingers at the waitress, who came to the table with the air of a woman showing
immense forbearance. There should be a law against taking up residence, she thought; the gentleman must be putting down roots by now.
‘Is it the bill, madam?’ she said, without hope.
‘Nope. Earl Grey for me, and a macaroon for my friend. Thank you.’
Eugene waited until the waitress had gone, then managed to say, ‘I don’t want anything to eat.’
‘I know. But you look so sour, I thought it might sweeten you up.’
‘This is all an almighty joke to you, isn’t it?’ He sounded pained, which merely provoked Thea to more mischief. She shrugged.
‘I thought we were both having fun. Sex, with no obligations.’
She spoke, now, at a perfectly audible pitch, and Eugene looked stricken. ‘For God’s sake Thea!’
‘Well, let’s say making love then, for the sake of your feelings. Don’t you want to do it?’
He moaned, almost imperceptibly, but she caught it.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘So do I. Look, here comes your cake, so polish it off and let’s get going.’
He was as a lamb to the slaughter, he thought gloomily: there could be no happy ending, for him or the lamb.
At Fulton House, Isabella was crossing the hall when the front door opened to admit Thea and Eugene. He was a few steps behind, as usual, and looked sheepish. Really, he was such a sap, thought Isabella; she had seen the portrait of Thea and admired it, but still it was hard to believe he was capable of such a feat.
‘Thea, there you are,’ she said, stopping abruptly. ‘And Eugene too. What a pity.’
‘What’s a pity?’ Thea tossed her hat towards the hat stand as if it were a hoopla ring. She missed, and it skittered across the marble tiles, swiftly followed by a footman.
‘Tobes was looking for you.’
‘For me?’ Eugene said, and his craven heart skipped a beat.
‘Well, for Thea really. And then, when he couldn’t find her, for you. He’s at White’s now.’
‘Why did he want me?’ Eugene said, and Thea shot him a look which lay somewhere between pity and contempt.
‘Oh, nothing urgent,’ Isabella said, entirely unaware of the drama playing out in Eugene’s breast. ‘That is, he didn’t look very hard for either of you.’
Unwittingly, she had restored calm to Eugene’s ragged spirits and he smiled at her warmly. She was a very beautiful girl, he thought: classically beautiful. Not like Thea, whose appeal was less apparent on first meeting, but who stole your heart insidiously, like a thief in the night.
‘He left a message, though,’ Isabella went on. ‘You’re all dining at the Ritz this evening, and he wondered if you’d remembered. He’ll meet you there, he said.’
Thea said, ‘Are we? How dull,’ which Eugene thought unkind. Isabella just smiled, however.
‘Yes, poor you,’ she said. ‘I, on the other hand, am expected at Park Lane in just over an hour. Mama and Archie have arrived, with Perry and Amandine. So, you see, I’ll be having so much more fun than you.’ She pulled a face to underline the irony, and Thea took both Isabella’s hands in hers and looked earnestly into her face. ‘Oh my poor darling,’ she said. ‘Courage, mon brave.’ She meant to be amusing, and, indeed, Isabella laughed, but Eugene had never met the Duke of Plymouth, or his son, and he didn’t see the joke. He felt suddenly gauche: superfluous and uncomfortable. He wondered, too – now that the panic had subsided – how he and Thea could possibly move from this imposing, and very public, front hall to the privacy of her rooms without it being perfectly obvious what they were up to.
‘Actually, I don’t really mind,’ Isabella said. ‘My gowns are ready and Archie bought me diamonds, and Perry and Amandine will have to defer to me for a change, as it’s my Season.’
‘It doesn’t alter the fact that you’re still only seventeen.’
The voice arrived before the person came into view, but it could only be Henrietta, who did indeed appear at the top of the staircase to look down at Isabella. ‘You sound rather brattish,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’ She descended the stairs as she spoke and now she said, ‘Eugene, do you have a moment?’
He opened his mouth to say yes, but it was Thea who spoke. ‘Henry, what can you possibly need him for?’ she said, and then, to Eugene, ‘In fact, you don’t have a moment, at the moment, do you?’
Poor Eugene. He stared at Thea, helpless as a kitten, a man with no self-determination, a subordinate.
‘Later, then,’ Henrietta said affably. ‘But Thea, I’m sure Eugene can speak for himself.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Thea said. ‘Come, Eugene.’
She started to spring up the stairs. He gave an apologetic smile to Henrietta, then followed. Isabella and Henrietta watched him go.
‘Do you suppose they’re…’ said Isabella, a new consternation suddenly clouding her face.
‘Certainly they are,’ said Henrietta.
Isabella looked aghast. ‘But what about Tobes?’
‘It won’t last, Isabella. These things never do with Thea. And, to be frank, Toby’s just as bad.’
Isabella looked about to cry. ‘Oh, how horrid! I can’t understand why you’re so calm and cold about it, Henry. I can’t possibly love Thea as I ought, now. Not if she doesn’t love Toby.’
‘Oh, Isabella, she never loved Toby, not really. Do grow up.’
Isabella stared. Henrietta, who hadn’t really intended to be brutal, said, ‘It’s just their way – it’s not the same for everyone. Don’t think any more of it. Truly. They quite understand each other, and that’s all that counts.’
‘But they’re so indiscreet,’ Isabella said, with a sort of helpless despair. She glanced up the stairs, trying to imagine what they were up to and failing.
‘Thea is,’ Henrietta said. ‘Eugene just does as he’s told.’
Chapter 14
Stepping off the train at Netherwood Station always felt to Anna like stepping back in time. Not that there was anything quaint or old-fashioned here. Indeed, it was just like any other railway station: busy with engines and people, grey with smoke and soot. But the familiarity to Anna ran deep, so that arriving here always had a sense not so much of coming home but of going back, of revisiting her past.
On the platform Harry Beddle, the stationmaster, was watering baskets of pelargoniums. They had been foisted on him by the rail company and were hanging from the ironwork in an effort to prettify the – frankly – grim outlook that greeted alighting passengers. Harry Beddle thought them a blessed nuisance. When he watered them he did it grudgingly.
‘Hello Mr Beddle,’ Anna said.
‘Ey up,’ he said, to the plants.
He hadn’t seen Anna for the best part of a year, but if she’d been away for a decade the greeting would have been the same.
‘Maya, say hello to Mr Beddle.’
‘Hello Mr Beddle.’
The child held out a gloved hand. Really, her manners were very becoming, thought Anna. Two weeks in Lyme Regis, in the sole company of the governess, and her daughter had returned equipped with a whole new set of disarming niceties. Miss Cargill was evidently a dark horse. First impressions had been of hearty enthusiasm rather than polish and poise, and she’d been appointed as Maya’s governess for her kind face, excellent qualifications and boundless energy for exploration and investigation; but it seemed she numbered the teaching of etiquette among her responsibilities too, and some light elocution. Maya had started calling Anna Mama instead of Mam. ‘One small additional vowel,’ Miss Cargill had said, ‘makes a whole world of difference.’ Mr Beddle, however, whose sixty-two years at the school of life had taught him nothing about manners, gave Maya a nod but stuck to the job in hand. The little girl withdrew her hand gracefully and Anna winked at her, approving of her daughter’s discretion. Water had now begun to stream haphazardly through the moss that lined the baskets, splashing down onto the platform, and Anna and Maya started to move on.
‘No Mr Sykes, then?’ Mr Beddle said, to the plants.
Rum do, thought Mr Beddle; Amos Sykes, busy in London – she might as well have said he was busy on Mars – it couldn’t have sounded stranger or less appealing. Speaking for himself, Mr Beddle had never found any reason pressing enough for him to leave Netherwood, let alone Yorkshire. He put folk on trains to all corners of the country, but he never felt the smallest urge to climb on board himself. He did, at least, recognise that if everyone felt the same way as him he’d be out of a job. But it didn’t alter the fact that there was far too much to-ing and fro-ing. Mrs Sykes and the bairn here in Netherwood, Mr Sykes there in London. A rum do.
Anna and Maya, hand in hand, each holding a small bag of belongings, emerged onto Station Road, and began the walk up to Netherwood Common, and Ravenscliffe. When she’d married Amos and they’d left for their new home in Ardington, Anna had promised Eve that she’d be back often. ‘All the time,’ she’d said. ‘If Maya has any say in it.’ But Maya was a child; she lived in the present and never hankered for anything she couldn’t actually see. If she was taken to Netherwood she was happy; if she spent half a year in London she was happy too, especially now that she had Miss Cargill as an additional distraction, filling each new day with discovery. So Anna and Eve, whose friendship had once been as necessary and natural as the air they breathed, had found that life had filled and swelled to occupy the distance between them. While their thoughts often wandered from one to the other, they themselves rarely did. And yet, thought Anna, here she was, bolting to Netherwood, because even now it was her port in a storm. Amos, torn between his feelings and her happiness, had given no ground at all since the evening of their argument. He could be stubborn as a mule and today, when she and Maya travelled north, he had left early for the House of Commons, so that when the hansom cab came to take them to King’s Cross, there had only been Norah on the doorstep waving them off. Always, Amos relied on Anna’s more amenable nature to ease their passage back to friendship after a disagreement. This time, she thought, he could wait a little longer than was usual.
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