Eden Falls

by Sanderson, Jane

  He gave a short, explosive laugh. ‘You’ve seen our guests. Do you suppose they’ll thank us for feeding them fried green bananas and boiled okra?’

  ‘They might. They’ve travelled all this way, so why would they expect t’food to taste like ’ome? You ’ave Jamaican cooks in your kitchen; let ’em cook Jamaican food. Be different, Silas. Be bold.’

  ‘And the name of this brave new venture?’ he asked, his voice heavy with scepticism and something else too: resentment, perhaps. She waited for a moment, reluctant, suddenly, to reward his churlishness.

  ‘Eden Falls,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t know why it never occurred to you before. The Eden Falls Hotel.’

  Chapter 30

  Henrietta’s sentence had been reduced to three months on account of the time she’d already spent in prison, and, until she had fully recovered from her fall, she would be allowed to remain in hospital. Meanwhile, if she was quiet and submissive the three months might well be reconsidered: six weeks, perhaps, or eight. This was what the solicitor told Tobias, and what Tobias duly relayed to his mother, who merely closed her eyes, as if shutting out the distasteful facts of her daughter’s current existence.

  ‘Quiet and submissive might be too much to ask,’ Isabella said. ‘She’s had a lifetime of being exactly the opposite.’

  ‘You should visit her,’ Tobias said. ‘You both should. You’ll see how changed she is.’ They had recovered indecently quickly from the shock of Henry’s continued imprisonment, he thought. An awkward silence ensued. Tobias sighed.

  ‘After the ball, that is.’

  ‘I’ll go, but it’ll have to be Monday now,’ Isabella said. ‘Not that she’ll want to see me. She thinks me silly and irrelevant.’

  Tobias, who yesterday evening had sat at Henrietta’s bedside trying to steer her through a coherent conversation, didn’t contradict Isabella, but said, ‘She’s not yet quite herself,’ which was putting it mildly. ‘She’s…’ He paused, at a loss for the words to describe his sister’s present state. Humiliated? Demoralised? These things, certainly, and also timid and querulous, quite altered.

  ‘Thoroughly ashamed of herself, I hope,’ cut in Clarissa. ‘The only blessing is that her father isn’t witness to all this. Now, Toby, you’ll have to excuse us: we have two hundred young people descending in a few hours’ time. Henrietta’s difficulties will have to be set aside, and since they’re entirely of her own making, my conscience is clear.’

  ‘Good for you, Mama,’ said Tobias, and Clarissa, who heard only what she wished to hear, smiled at him. He wandered from the drawing room, leaving them to their ecstasy of minute detail; they had no need of his input where Isabella’s dance was concerned. His own contribution had begun and ended in drumming up a few extra young men – there never did seem to be quite enough of them – from his own fund of friends: brothers of friends, generally, or friends of brothers of friends. It hardly mattered how distant the connection with Isabella; if they were bachelors under the age of twenty-five, and if their social credentials were impeccable, they could be added to the list.

  A hundred debutantes required, ideally, a hundred chaps, especially if there was to be dinner. It happened, here and there, that two girls would have to be placed side by side at the table when a list was one or two men short, but such contingencies smacked of failure in Clarissa’s eyes. The whole point of every gathering was to dangle tender, debutante flesh under the noses of eligible young men. She considered any ball where there was a shortfall of white tie and tails a flop. Tobias grinned to himself at the memory of those seasons – not so very long ago – when his own name was on the list of every titled girl in London. The mantelpiece in the drawing room of Fulton House had been stacked with invitations for dances, dinners, garden parties. He went to everything, and didn’t behave particularly well either: that is, he didn’t propose marriage to anyone. He had never been able to see the appeal of these alabaster-skinned virgins whose mothers sat on the periphery of every occasion, scrutinising potential suitors like farmers at a cattle auction. His younger brother Dickie – foolish, gallant, eager Dickie – had dutifully played the game: attended the balls, fallen for girls, even proposed to one of them. But Mimi Anderson had been after a bigger fish; the second son of an earl wasn’t enough of a catch for her. That was why Dickie was now drifting around the Italian Riviera, and why Mimi Anderson was unhappily married to a buck-toothed viscount, whose father looked good for another couple of decades at least. Poor Dickie. Poor Mimi. Poor viscount.

  Tobias laughed, although he was alone with his thoughts. He had wandered into the library, where he poured himself an early scotch from the decanter and rang the bell for ice. He thought about Thea, who had gone to the hospital against all her instincts and inclination. She ought to be home by now, he thought: at least, she ought to be home very soon. He closed his mind to suspicion and made himself think instead how kind it was of his wife to visit Henry; it was a mark of how affected she had been by the sight of her in a dead faint in the courtroom. Tobias hoped the friendship between the sisters-in-law might be rekindled as a result of this drama: a silver lining, as it were, to the cloud.

  Once, when he and Thea were first married, the two women had been very close, and this had been the source of considerable happiness to Tobias. Their intimacy had somehow underpinned his own relationship with his wife, giving it ballast, tying it down. True, he had at times felt excluded by their mutual affection – had felt, indeed, like an occasionally unwelcome third party – but this had, at least, left him free to come and go as he pleased. Certainly it had been preferable to the enigmatic coolness that had characterised their relationship for the past couple of years. For a fellow with vast experience of women, Tobias was prepared to admit to bewilderment in this matter. He wished for harmony between his wife and sister: his own life had run smoother when this happy state had last existed.

  Ballatyne, the butler, slid into the room. He was holding an ice bucket and silver tongs, which he immediately put to good use, dropping two cubes into Tobias’s glass. Tobias gave him a perfunctory nod of thanks. Ballatyne was one of Thea’s finds and the absolute antithesis of his predecessor, a most unaesthetic fellow named Munster with an expression and bearing more suited to the funeral cortège than the drawing room. This chap, on the other hand, wore his butler’s worsted tight and with panache, and his eyes were a dark liquid brown.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Your Lordship?’ Ballatyne had a musical Edinburgh lilt. His tidy black eyebrows lifted in gentle enquiry and a small smile played about the corners of his mouth. Tobias gave him a hard look. There was good looking and too damned good looking, and this fellow bordered on the latter.

  ‘No,’ Tobias said rudely, and he stared at his whisky while Ballatyne left the room, then, when the door closed he stood and walked to the window, sitting down on the cushioned sill to watch for Thea’s return. He saw rivals everywhere; that was his problem. He saw rivals even among the servants. This was the price he paid for the privilege of calling Thea his wife.

  The ballroom glittered with diamonds; afterwards, when those who had been there relived the occasion moment by moment, the flash and blaze of precious stones remained in the memory, along with the music, the conversation, the food, the gowns. In the dancing flames of the candelabra and the steady glow of the chandeliers, arrows of diamond light darted constantly across the room like glorious, abundant fireflies. The debutantes were relatively modestly adorned with discreetly precious family jewels, but their mothers were quite weighed down, all of them rising to the challenge set by Clarissa, whom everyone knew would be wearing the Plymouth tiara. It was famous – had been famous, in fact, for decades – and was always rather resented. Garrard had made it in the 1840s for Ursula, the third duchess, and Archie, keen to avoid the disastrous consequences of a wife with a tiara-induced headache, had spent a small fortune having it adjusted to sit perfectly atop Clarissa’s head. She wore it well: regally, in fact. And all around, the ver
y finest ancestral stones vied for similar glory, and fell fractionally, crucially, short.

  At dinner Isabella sparkled with conversation. She had sought a tutorial from Tobias a few days earlier. Sometimes, she had said, there were awkward silences. At another girl’s dance one could blame the seating arrangements: tomorrow, though, she would only be able to blame herself.

  ‘When in doubt, talk about ghosts,’ he had said. ‘Don’t mention the weather or the food; never yet met the fellow who gives a damn. But hauntings, everyone likes.’

  ‘Right,’ Isabella had said, tempted to make notes. ‘What about world affairs? Should I be mugging up on Home Rule or unrest in the Balkans?’

  ‘Good God, no. The skill lies in being clever enough not to sound too clever,’ Tobias said. ‘Steer clear of politics, since you know nothing about it anyway, and it comes over as bluestocking. Motoring goes down well. Mug up on motors – six cylinder over four cylinder, Rolls-Royce over Daimler, you know the sort of thing. That should do it. Well, and sailing,’ he added, remembering his yacht. ‘It’s not every debutante who has a boat named for her.’

  ‘I wish I could have you on one side of me,’ Isabella had said.

  He had smiled, thinking how very glad he was to be out of it. ‘Who do you have?’

  ‘Matthew Peverill and a German chap, I think. No one knows much about him, but Continentals can bring a splash of colour, Mama says, and I think he’s connected to the Hohenzollerns so…’ she trailed off, and shrugged.

  ‘That middle aitch is silent, darling,’ Tobias said.

  ‘Oh! Well, thank you. One less trap to fall into,’ she said and then grimaced at a sudden new thought. ‘Gosh, I do hope he doesn’t resemble the kaiser.’

  ‘The kaiser’s not bad looking, apart from the moustache and the withered arm, and they’re not hereditary.’

  ‘Well anyway, the connection’s rather tenuous, to be honest. He’s a cousin of a cousin of Wilhelm, or some such. Mama’s making the most of it, naturally. You’d think he was next in line, to listen to her.’

  ‘And does he speak English?’

  Isabella’s face fell. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I should jolly well hope so. They all do, don’t they? It’s not as if anyone else speaks German.’

  He did, of course, speak English. Very well, with just enough of an accent to single him out as interesting, but not so much that listening to him was a strain. His name was Ulrich von Hechingen, and he had an endearing habit of looking directly into Isabella’s eyes when she spoke, as if there was nothing or no one quite so fascinating as she at this immense gathering. They didn’t talk about ghosts, motorcars, or yachting, and yet their conversation was easy and lively. He was the oldest son of a Bavarian count – he didn’t mention the kaiser and Isabella thought it vulgar to ask – but he described a Romanesque family castle on a rock, with turrets and towers, such as Rapunzel might have recognised. She told him about Netherwood Hall and made him laugh with stories about her childhood that she hadn’t known were funny until she saw them again through his eyes. His dark blonde hair was Brilliantined into submission, but Isabella could see that it curled, or would curl, if allowed to. His eyes were navy blue, and between his two front teeth was a narrow gap, which, as imperfections went, was of no account; if anything, it rather added to his appeal. Isabella turned reluctantly to Matthew Peverill after the consommé and for the duration of the filet de truite, and worried all the while that Ulrich would forget her before the mignon d’agneau; each peal of laughter from Helena Lalham, next-door-but-one, prodded at her confidence like the sharp tip of a small knife. But then there he was, turning back to Isabella as she turned to him, and his smile radiated interested warmth.

  ‘Your mother is watching us,’ was what he said, without preamble. ‘Do you suppose she approves?’

  Isabella glanced across the room at Clarissa, who instantly looked away.

  ‘Of you, or of me?’ Isabella said.

  ‘Of you and me.’

  Isabella’s pulse quickened and she felt suddenly short of breath. Now, when she must be coolly sophisticated, she found she had nothing to say and a juvenile blush was spreading upwards from her throat. Thea, she thought; in this situation, what would Thea say?

  ‘Well, I approve of you, certainly,’ Isabella said and smiled archly. She felt her heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly against the blue satin of her gown.

  ‘And I of you.’ Ulrich let his gaze stray from her eyes to her lips and held it there. Isabella, lightheaded, was grateful to be sitting down.

  Later, the tables were whisked away and Ulrich claimed Isabella for the first dance and every alternate one afterwards. He slipped the card off her wrist and, leaning against the dove-grey panelling of the ballroom, wrote Herr von Hechingen again and again with the tiny silver pencil. She watched him, and found herself thinking that Isabella von Hechingen sounded very fine.

  ‘Look at those two.’

  This was Thea, who appeared at Tobias’s shoulder as he stood at the open door of the ballroom, staring in with an expression of gloomy preoccupation. He turned at his wife’s voice, but he didn’t smile, because he was still feeling cross at her late appearance earlier this evening. Visiting was strictly limited, this much he knew; so why had she been gone for almost four hours, kissing him blithely on her return, the smell of cigarettes on her breath and a look in her eye of secrets withheld? She had gone to change, letting him stew, and now she was back in a loose black evening gown, beaded all over with jet. The beads shook and shimmered as she moved.

  ‘Isabella, I mean. And the boy.’ Thea pointed at them with a pale finger and smiled up at Tobias.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We could dance.’

  He was silent, then said, ‘Where were you?’

  ‘When?’ She knew what he meant, but felt disinclined to respond helpfully to his truculence: it disappointed her.

  ‘After seeing Henry and before coming home.’

  ‘Why Tobes, you’re cross-examining me,’ she said mildly. ‘Poor Henry’s still very vague, by the way. She’d forgotten all about Isabella’s coming-out ball. Mind you, I think Isabella’s forgotten all about Henrietta.’ She nodded towards Isabella and Ulrich, who were dancing now, their faces flushed, their expressions intent. ‘Isn’t that a little close, for a minuet?’

  Where Tobias would usually have laughed there was another silence. She regarded him with a level gaze. The band in the ballroom moved on to a Viennese waltz and that, along with the rise and fall of chatter on and around the ballroom, gave Thea the feeling that she was standing in the wings of a stage.

  ‘OK,’ she said, finally, decisively. ‘I went to see Henry and we talked in a desultory way about hospital food and the disagreeable warder who’s detailed to watch her, even when she sleeps. Then I took a cab to Harley Street, to see my doctor. He subjected me to an examination, with extremely cold hands, and he told me that I was pregnant. Then I walked around and around Regent’s Park, smoking quite publicly and unapologetically. Then I came home to you.’

  He stared.

  ‘You look such a dope, with your mouth hanging open,’ she said.

  ‘Did you just tell me I’m going to be a father? Is that what you said?’

  ‘That would be the likely outcome of my pregnancy, yes.’

  He leaned towards her, stooping so that his cool forehead rested on hers, and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sweet completeness and simplicity of his relief and his joy.

  Chapter 31

  Alderman Simpson had appeared to accept with good grace Anna’s refusal to stand for election to the council, yet he wore his quiet disappointment as openly and obviously as his chain of office. He managed to be everywhere. She had no recollection of ever bumping into him on previous visits to Ardington, but now his genial face, clouded by regret, seemed to loom at her wherever she went: the bank, the grocer’s, the post office. He was following her, she told Amos; but Amos, who wanted her to stand too, had refused to smile and s
aid the alderman was too busy with town matters to waste his time in such a way.

  Still, whether or not the alderman was guilty of engineering these apparently chance encounters, again and again she saw him, and it was as if her own ubiquity about town was proof that, if she had an ounce of public spirit, she would put her name forward. It became embarrassing, and now and again Anna found herself wishing she were elsewhere. Still, she had absolutely intended to spend the whole summer in Ardington, so she could hardly be blamed when Clara, one of her two student artists, had telegraphed to say a family crisis was taking her home to Brighton for the foreseeable future and she must leave at once, even though the de Lisle job in Kent wasn’t quite finished. William, Anna’s second assistant, distracted by the demands made upon him by the Slade, would be hard-pressed to finish the job alone and on schedule, so Anna was needed to complete the final panel of the summerhouse, and to recruit someone to fill Clara’s shoes.

  She would be alone in the London house for a whole week, and the shudder of pleasure she experienced at this prospect felt almost illicit. Amos had hidden his disappointment at her temporary departure, but she knew he wanted her with him. Maya and Miss Cargill were off on one of their educational jaunts, and that left Norah as Amos’s sole companion; she would talk too much and burn the toast, and belt out Irish folksongs in her oddly flat voice which was somehow more melodic when she spoke than when she sang.

  On the day she left, Anna had walked to the railway station, swinging her small leather bag and hoping the cheerful woman who had a cart on the corner of Gower Street would be there this evening with her pea soup and jellied eels. Then she had chided herself for looking forward to a London supper when Amos had been so evidently sad at her departure. He would be fine, of course; she had no worries on that score. In Ardington, he was famous: the people’s champion returned from battle. They didn’t know, in this corner of the kingdom, how little was achieved on the Labour benches, or how radical were the plans for the Liberal budget. It was always beneficial to Amos – to his morale – to revisit the scene of his triumph and live for a while among the men who’d voted him into Parliament. Always, when he returned to London from Ardington he felt a renewed vigour for the cause and a renewed faith in his party. Also, he was the New Mill Colliery cricket team’s secret weapon these days. Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and sometimes all day Saturday, were spent in pursuit of the precise mastery of the line and length of a speeding cricket ball. He had volunteered Anna for the tea rota, which privileged position required that she make egg-and-cress sandwiches and iced buns for home matches. To date, she had been required to do this only once, and, with the tea prepared and laid out on a trestle table, she had sat on the pavilion steps and watched the match with a growing sense of despair as she failed utterly to make sense of the progress of play. It had seemed at once static and frantic, which she found unsettling. Amos’s job was to try to hit the stumps, she realised, but that had been her only insight into the tactics of the game, which had taken hours to conclude and had ended, bewilderingly, in a draw, even though according to the board one team had scored more runs than the other. On the way home, on the train from Netherwood, she had said she thought it odd that two teams could tie when their scores weren’t the same.