“The City?” Stern, who was used to this kind of jibe, appeared unperturbed. “No. Downing Street, actually. Last week.”
It was rare for Stern to allude to his influence or his contacts. It was rarer still for him to put those who were offensive in their place. Silence followed his remark. Steenie, who disliked Dunbar, giggled. Constance, who admired Stern for his composure, gave him an approving glance. Dunbar blushed scarlet. Maud was quick to intervene. She was always sensitive to all slights to her lover. She had also noticed, as Dunbar had not, that his remarks were causing Gwen dismay.
“Monty, my dear,” she said lightly, “you are usually right, but you are a terrible pessimist. Personally, I have immense faith in our Foreign Service, especially now Acland is to join it. In my opinion, the whole matter will be resolved by diplomats. Why, it may never come to battles at all! The Kaiser, I’m sure, is at least a reasonable man. Once he understands what he is taking on—the British Navy; think of the British Navy!—he will back down. These gallant Belgians are all very well—one cannot stand by and see them overrun, I suppose—but really, when you examine it, what is this silly war all about? A great many peculiar countries in the Balkans, which I for one couldn’t begin to name—why, I couldn’t even place them on a globe with any degree of certitude. Besides which, I had it on immensely good authority—only last week, at dear Lady Cunard’s—that …”
At the far end of the table Gwen scanned the faces of her sons. All but Steenie were of an age to fight. Even Freddie, whom she thought of as a boy still; Freddie, who had only just left school.
Gwen pushed aside her food, untouched. The worst thing was that her present fears must remain unspoken. To voice them would be both cowardly and unpatriotic. She had already disgraced herself by weeping; any further exhibition of her true feelings would make Denton angry and her sons ashamed.
My hostages to fortune, Gwen said to herself; as the conversation continued she began to make silent and panicky plans. Denton would not help—that much was certain. Denton was in favor of war, would be proud for his sons to fight. In any case, Denton was almost seventy and showing his age. Gwen looked down the table, watched her husband’s hands tremble as they conveyed food to his lips. Poor Denton—the fire had gone out of him. His great rages were rarer now, and for the past year, two years, Gwen had found herself again growing fond of him.
In some way she could not understand, the death of Shawcross, that terrible accident, marked a dividing point in her husband’s life. Before then he was, if irascible, still vigorous: after it he became an old man.
The advent of war might have revived him a little, but Gwen knew that would not last. No, Denton would revert in a few days to the quieter way of life he had adopted. Days would be dozed through; Denton would begin again to speak, as he now loved to do, of the distant past. For that period, his childhood, his memory was vivid—yet, increasingly, he forgot events from the previous day. Names escaped him, also dates, and these sudden and unpredictable gaps in his memory, far from enraging him as they might once have done, now made him oddly humble.
More and more, Denton turned for comfort to Gwen.
“Talk to me, Gwennie,” he would say sometimes of an evening, when they were alone. Or: “Sing to me, Gwennie. One of your old songs. You have such a sweet voice.”
Gwen took a sip of her wine. The conversation had now, with Maud’s assistance, been turned to other things. She began to feel a little more courageous. She began to make plans. Friends, she said to herself—friends in politics, friends in the armed forces, friends—that was what she needed. Friends who, at her behest, could pull strings.
Boy must have a staff position—an adjutant, perhaps, well behind any front line. Acland—well, Acland had that First from Balliol; he had passed the highly competitive Civil Service examination; he was due to take up his work at the Foreign Office shortly. An illustrious future was foretold for Acland. Gwen saw him as an ambassador very soon. The Foreign Office: surely, on the strength of such vital work, Acland would—if it ever came to conscription—be classified exempt? Not so very difficult to achieve, Gwen thought. Which left Freddie. Freddie, she decided, must have some health defect. She began to think about weak hearts, flat feet, and obliging doctors.
With these plans, her spirits rose. She would begin this campaign, she told herself, immediately after dinner. No delay. She would begin with Maud, and Montague Stern.
Looking across at Stern (wearing tonight “one of those flamboyant waistcoats of his, jade-green with, yes, gold embroidery—Constance had given it a covetous look), Gwen felt a passing envy of Maud, a jealousy, there, then gone. With the advent of Sir Montague, it had to be admitted, Maud’s life had been transformed.
With notable lack of scandal, Maud had allowed her Italian princeling to drift out of her life. Maud no longer had to endure debts, constant traveling, perpetual uncertainty, and a succession of younger mistresses. Now Maud was the owner of a splendid London establishment, bought for her by Stern. It overlooked Hyde Park. Maud now dressed in Paris, with the best couturiers. Maud was, month by month, establishing herself as a prominent hostess. At her London parties, where Gwen often felt like a country bumpkin, Maud assembled a heady cast: royalty, both British and European; maharajahs; rich Americans (with whom Stern had many business contacts); celebrated names from the worlds of music, literature, opera, painting, and the dance.
Maud gave parties for the Ballets Russes. She invited Diaghilev to tea. She patronized Covent Garden, where Stern explained to her the plots. Augustus John had just completed her portrait. Maud was triumphing; she was becoming a close rival, even, to that doyenne of hostesses, Lady Cunard.
Gwen found these triumphs dazzling. She did not envy Maud her worldly success. No, she loved Maud, who had a kind heart and a shrewd mind, belied by her manner of speech. But, just occasionally, Gwen would look at Maud and feel a little wistful. Maud, after all, was older than she; her age might be a closely guarded secret, but she approached her late forties, Denton said. At—what?—forty-seven, forty-eight, Maud had a man by her side who was wise, reliable, considerate, discreet. A man who was younger, who was energetic, active, vigorous. Maud had, in short, a lover and a friend. Gwen spent her days with an old man whom she protected like a son.
Gwen sometimes felt it would be pleasant to have a man she could lean on, a man she might be kissed by, a man she could embrace. However, she did not. Nor would she have, she reminded herself, for Shawcross had cured her of that. Such days were over. Now, at forty-two, Gwen felt she had crossed the summit of the hill; she rested on the gentle incline downward. In her heart she neither resented that fact nor chafed at it. It was restful on that slope. When she considered it, she was content. After all, Maud had no children. She herself was a mother; that was her fulfillment.
My dearest sons, Gwen thought, half including Denton in that group. My dearest family.
“Nursing.” Jane Conyngham’s clear voice cut across her thoughts.
“Nursing,” Jane repeated. “I shall begin to train at once. I made inquiries a month ago. Guy’s Hospital will take me, I think.”
“Oh, I shall knit,” Constance interjected, with a demure glance toward Montague Stern. “That is, I cannot knit yet—I never mastered it—but I shall. I shall knit constantly. Balaclavas and woolen vests, little useful pouches and belts. Don’t you think that would be fitting, Sir Montague? For a woman, that is?”
Seated beside her, Stern smiled. He had detected the ridicule in her voice—as, perhaps, had Jane, at whom it was directed.
“Most fitting,” he replied. “Though difficult to envisage in your case, Constance.”
“Well, we must do something.” Jane blushed. “I did not mean … It is just that nursing …”
Nurses? Gwen frowned at Jane, whom she liked but found untactful. Her sons would not need nurses. Of that she was determined.
She leaned across, touched Stern’s arm.
“Monty, my dear,” she said, “after
dinner, might I have a word?”
“How much longer?” Freddie demanded with mild irritation as, from behind a screen in Constance’s sitting room, the shrieks and giggles continued.
“Not long. Wait, Freddie. Steenie, keep still. Stop wriggling, I can’t do it up …”
Freddie shrugged; he began to pace about the room. It annoyed him that Constance should have insisted on Steenie’s joining them here; that she insisted on performing this charade. Dinner was over now. Constance’s present, yet again, was being delayed.
It would not do to betray his irritation, however; Freddie knew he must be careful. Too much protest on his part and Constance would be angry. No present then; its offer would be withdrawn, with a toss of the head, a stamp of the foot.
Best not to complain. In any case, being made to wait even longer had its consolations. Anticipation was sharpened, for one thing—as Constance, of course, would know. Constance’s favorite word (one she constantly used to him) was: wait. So, resigned, Freddie hummed to himself and continued to pace up and down. He lit a cigarette and looked around him with curiosity.
Some years earlier Constance had been moved from the nursery to this small set of rooms. She at once made them her own in a way that fascinated Freddie. This sitting room had become, for himself, Constance, and Steenie, a kind of headquarters. It was where they all three retired when the activities of the older members of the household threatened to become boring. For Freddie this room was part of a puzzle, a clue to the mysteries of Constance herself.
When Constance was moved in here, the room was redecorated on the instructions of Gwen. Gwen, not greatly interested in matters of interior decoration, had suggested in a vague way that the room should look fresh and feminine.
Accordingly, its colors were pale, and there was a certain amount of frippery: lace curtains, small ornaments, decorative little cushions. All this had been overlaid by a different and stronger hand: Constance had claimed the room and set her mark upon it.
Now, it resembled some Gypsy caravan, or the tent of a desert nomad. Gwen’s chairs were covered with rugs and throws of brilliant material, which Constance had rescued from the attics. The lamps were dimmed by pieces of bright silk; there were always candles burning. On the old screen (behind which Constance and Steenie were still conspiring and giggling) Constance had glued a mass of vivid images, cut from periodicals and cards or painted for her by Steenie. By the window was a large brass cage containing a fuchsia-pink parakeet. Under its cage were the homes of Steenie’s and Constance’s other pets—their menagerie: one white rat, called Ozymandias (Steenie’s contribution); one bowl of goldfish; one grass snake, given to Constance by Cattermole. This snake, a harmless and somnolent creature, Constance loved. She would hide him in her pocket, let him coil about her arm, tease Maud with him. She seemed almost as devoted to the snake as she was to Floss, but Freddie accepted this. Constance, he thought sometimes, preferred pets to people.
Freddie yawned, puffed at his cigarette, settled himself in one of Constance’s chairs. Yes, he liked this room. Constance always derided it, of course. Constance maintained that, if she had her way, she would inhabit a room that was black and silver and red. Freddie did not take this seriously. It was just another example of Constance’s need for drama, Freddie told himself, then shifted somewhat uneasily in his seat. Some of Constance’s little dramas (to which Freddie was addicted) made him afraid. With Constance there was always danger: Would she go too far, or (on the other hand, in some ways worse) would she not go far enough?
“Ready!” Constance cried from behind the screen.
A small scuffling, more laughter; then Constance and Steenie emerged. Freddie stiffened, blinked, stared. Constance surveyed their audience of one with steely concentration.
Constance and Steenie had exchanged clothes. Constance stood before Freddie dressed as a young man. Steenie, though taller than Constance, was very slender. His stiff shirt and black evening trousers fitted her well. Freddie had never before seen a woman in trousers. He gazed, fascinated, at Constance’s slim legs, her narrow hips, and—as she pirouetted for him—her pert and erotic bottom.
Beside her, Steenie gave a languorous sigh and fluttered his eyelashes. He looked, Freddie thought, quite horrible. He was wearing Constance’s dark-green dress, under which, in the area of the bosom, there was some lumpy padding. He had rings on his fingers, rouge on his lips and cheeks; his longish hair was scraped back in a bun at the nape of his neck; on his nose was a pair of small round reading spectacles. As Freddie stared, Steenie leered at him. He wiggled his hips in a lascivious manner. Constance cast him a look of disapproval.
“Steenie’s overdone it. As usual. I told him he didn’t need padding. Jane’s bosom is like an ironing board. And as for all that face paint, have you ever seen Jane wear the merest smudge of it? Really, Steenie, you are the most terrible little queen.”
“You’ve cheated as well.” Steenie seemed unmoved by this criticism. “You don’t look anything like Boy. Boy’s heavy. Well, stout—let’s be kind. Sort of square-shaped, anyway. I told you, you should have stuck a cushion up—much more convincing.”
“Be quiet, Steenie. Wait. Now …” Constance turned back to Freddie with an imperious gesture. “Now. Tonight, before your very eyes, and for one performance only, we bring you a most solemn and historic moment. We bring you, just as it occurred, the betrothal—the famous proposal of the Honorable Boy Cavendish to Miss Jane Conyngham, Spinster and Heiress of our neighboring Parish. Now, for your delectation: The Night of the Great Comet. We are in—I’m sorry about this, but Boy isn’t imaginative—we are in: the conservatory. At Winterscombe.”
Constance turned to Steenie; Steenie clasped his hands to his bosom and smirked; Constance struck an attitude, and—yes—Constance was a very clever mimic, and there, before Freddie’s startled gaze, she was translated. Of course she was not tall enough, of course she was far too thin, of course she still looked like a girl—yet also, by some magic of observation, she was Boy. She had Boy’s odd stiff stance, with his feet slightly apart; she had Boy’s puffed-out chest and nervously squared shoulders; she had—to the last detail—the inconclusive gestures of Boy’s hands. Before him Freddie saw his brother, and pitied him—for his awkwardness, his good intentions, his good heart, and his stupidity.
Constance sank to her knees at Steenie’s feet and placed one hand in the region of her heart. It lay on the starched shirtfront, inert, like a dead fish on a platter.
“Miss Conyngham … Jane …” Constance began, and although she could not match the depth of Boy’s voice, she had the manner of his speaking. She had caught the ponderous solemnity, the underlying insecurity—even the way Boy hesitated over certain consonants, that legacy from his childhood, when Boy stammered.
“… I shall, of course, speak to your father. That is, if you want … if you would like. But meanwhile, I have the honor, I should like to ask if you would do me the inestimable honor, of accepting … that is, I should like to ask for your hand in marriage….”
Freddie listened, heard his brother drowning, heard him tussle with the words, and finally end with his head, just, above the water. It was, as Constance played it, amusing. She carried on, with calm conviction, despite the fact that Steenie was overplaying his part grotesquely. Constance, ignoring this, swept on like the professional she was, and by the end both Steenie and Freddie were reduced to helpless laughter.
“Oh, God. He can’t have … he didn’t. Oh, Boy is such a fool. Constance, are you sure?” Steenie was clutching his sides, doubled up with malicious amusement.
“His very words. To the letter.” Constance gave a toss of the head and, the performance over, pulled off the band holding her hair; she shook it loose over her shoulders.
“Poor Boy.” Freddie, still chuckling, reached for another cigarette. “No wonder he made such a mess of it. He doesn’t love her, you know. Boy can never hide what he feels. I can just see his face, lighting up, the sigh of relief wh
en she insisted on a long engagement….”
“Oh, she was relieved too.” Constance threw herself into a chair and grinned at them both. “Very relieved. She doesn’t love Boy any more than he loves her. I should think they’ll be engaged for the next thirty years. And Jane will nurse a broken heart all that time….”
“A broken heart? Jane? Whyever should she?” Freddie looked up in surprise; Constance and Steenie glanced at each other.
“Oh, come on, Freddie, don’t be slow.” Steenie winked. “You must have noticed. Jane is not as prim as she looks. Years—ages—she’s always carried a torch for …” And Steenie paused maddeningly.
“Who for? Who?”
“Acland, of course,” said Steenie and Constance in unison, and began laughing once more.
Their laughter and their conspiratorial air sobered Freddie. He stopped smiling and looked at them. What they were suggesting seemed to him unlikely and absurd, but their certainty was impressive. As sometimes happened on such occasions, Freddie felt left out.
This, obviously, was something Steenie and Constance had already discussed, one of their many secrets. And Freddie resented those secrets, resented the fact that Steenie and Constance had this effortless bond.
“Rubbish,” he said after a brief pause. “You’re making it up. Jane carrying a torch for Acland? I never heard anything so stupid. I don’t believe it. In fact, I don’t believe any of it. It’s typical of you two. You just made the whole thing up, invented it. How could you know, anyway?”
“Oh, Constance knows,” Steenie said, with a little smile.
“Oh, Constance was there, I suppose,” Freddie began, with weighty sarcasm. “Constance just happened to be sitting in the conservatory when Boy and Jane came in, and Constance said, ‘Don’t mind me, just go ahead and propose in front of me.’ Rubbish. You were both in bed. Up in the nursery. Where you belonged.”
Dark Angel Page 28
