Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  Where her diary had been relatively empty, it was now full: not an hour free—and if there was, it could be pleasurably spent, for attendance at all these functions required a radical revision of her wardrobe.

  “No, Gwen, you can’t wear that dress again,” Maud would proclaim, delighted to have found a new ally and recruit. “What’s more, Constance hasn’t a thing that’s suitable. We need a shopping expedition. Immediately.”

  So, as the months passed, the shopping expeditions increased too. Under Maud’s expert tutelage Gwen rediscovered the seduction of luxury.

  “Silk, Gwen, next to the skin! It’s the only thing!” Maud would cry, and Gwen, who had some years before taken up cotton in response to Denton’s demands for economy, experienced a rapid conversion.

  It was heady—and it was expensive. Occasionally, waiting in a scented salon for a model to parade irresistible dresses, Gwen would become anxious. Maud would brush these scruples aside.

  “Rubbish, Gwen,” she would cry. “Denton is such an old miser. He doesn’t understand money at all—all he understands is saving. Besides, don’t worry—they’re terribly good here. They don’t send the bills for months….”

  Credit! It was hardly difficult to obtain; these places that parted Gwen from her husband’s money were discreet. The actual cost of a dress or a hat or a pair of French-made shoes or a hand-embroidered petticoat of shantung silk—such a vulgar matter as price was not mentioned. It seemed to Gwen crude to inquire. After all, had she not always assumed, in her vague way, that the Cavendish fortunes were inexhaustible? They could hardly be dented too badly by expenditure such as this. Dresses, one or two pieces of jewelry. Why, as Maud said, it was a nothing!

  There was another dimension, too, to all this activity, to the succession of parties and the succession of shopping expeditions, and that was the transformation they produced in Constance.

  Constance, Maud said, in her tart but affectionate way, had the instinct for luxury. She reveled in the intricacies of excellence; she was a quick and a clever pupil.

  “No, Constance, dear. I know you like colorful things, and they suit you—but that green is too bright. Now this”—and here Maud held up a length of silk that was twice as expensive—“this is the real thing. Feel it, Constance. You see?”

  Constance did see. She began to understand subtlety, although her taste remained dramatic. She began to understand about line. She saw that fashion was akin to disguise.

  Yes, Constance learned fast. Maud discovered—as Gwen had done before her—that it was pleasant to teach; it was pleasant to see how quickly her pupil advanced. One day, early in January 1916, Maud took Gwen to one side. It was at one of her tea parties, and Constance, at the far end of Maud’s drawing room, was much in demand. The two older women looked back; they regarded her with pride.

  “You know, Gwen,” Maud began in a thoughtful way, “Constance has possibilities. I know there are problems—lack of family, lack of money—but those things do not matter quite as much as they once did. They are certainly not insurmountable! You see how amusing she is? Always so quick and so animated. She has charm, Gwen. She may not be beautiful, exactly, but she is striking, don’t you think?” Maud gave Gwen a sidelong glance. “People like her, Gwen. Even difficult people. Maud Cunard was stiff with her at first—you know how she can be—but now she’s quite won over. She can see Constance as an asset—and she is an asset, Gwen. She has such energy! She makes a party go! Women like her. More important, men like her. They are intrigued by her. I think, Gwen, if we set our minds to it, that Constance could make a really very good marriage.”

  “Marriage?” Gwen started. Maud gave her a dry look.

  “Darling Gwen, you can be slow. Constance will be seventeen next May. You were eighteen when you married, and so was I. We should look ahead, Gwen, and start to plan. In fact, I mentioned it to Monty just the other evening. There are simply masses of candidates—I wouldn’t rule out a title, not if we played our cards the right way. After all, she’s practically your adopted daughter; she has your name behind her now. And if not a title, certainly money.”

  “Money?”

  “Oh, Gwen, think. Why shouldn’t she marry money? There’s enough of it about. Monty has heaps of friends in the City, men who’ve worked their way up, who are now looking around for the right wife. They’re a good deal older than Constance, of course, but when did disparity of age matter in love? Look at Denton and you, after all. So—there is the City contingent, several candidates there. Or what about an American? Monty has innumerable American business contacts: There’s that man Gus Alexander, for instance—you know, Gwen, the construction king! He’s still a little rough at the edges, so Constance would be just what he needs. On the other hand, what about a Russian? I love Russians—such romantic manners. Flamboyant—Constance would love that. Maud Cunard has a very diverting one in tow at present, trots him out at every opportunity. Prince-Something-unpronounceable. Dark, with flashing eyes and rather bad breath—but I’m sure that could be dealt with. Now, how about him, or—”

  “Maud, stop. I can’t keep pace with you.” Gwen had begun to laugh.

  “You shall keep pace with me.” Maud was suddenly firm. “It’s always important to plan. I shan’t let you drag your heels on this, Gwen, I warn you. Strike while the iron is hot! Women’s looks don’t last forever, and just now Constance is a novelty. Capitalize upon that, Gwen! You know what you should do? You should launch Constance. Tell Denton so. A ball—that would be the thing. This summer, at Winterscombe …”

  “I don’t know. Denton might object. A ball would be such a huge expense….”

  “Nonsense. My brother isn’t a complete fool. And he certainly won’t want to support Constance for the rest of her life. Make him see it as an investment, Gwen—one that could pay very high dividends! And if you won’t persuade him, I will. I’ll make Monty talk to him. Monty can always make Denton see sense….”

  And so it was decided: the launching of Constance; a summer ball.

  Montague Stern took luncheon with Denton at Denton’s club, the Corinthian, which would shortly afterward admit Stern as a member. Not long after this luncheon, Denton himself broached the idea; before Gwen knew what was happening, the arrangements had begun.

  They would open up the ballroom—how many years since that had last been used? There should be a marquee upon the lawn. There were a thousand decisions to be made, and they were not easy decisions, as Gwen, at first, naively believed.

  Maud began to take charge, seeing Gwen falter, and once Maud took charge, everything became much more elaborate. The orchestra Gwen had envisaged hiring—they certainly would not do! That was last year’s orchestra, not this year’s. The same was true, Gwen discovered, of the caterers, the wine merchants, the florists.

  To compose the guest list was worst of all: Who should be on? Who should be off? Gwen was under siege. Steenie could not bear for any of his group to be left out; Freddie had further suggestions; Maud’s mind changed from day to day, according to whom she had met the previous evening.

  Only Constance was quiet, and modest, making few suggestions, apparently content to let Gwen and Maud make all the decisions. There was about her a quiet air of contained expectation, Gwen thought, in the months that led up to this dance. It was as if Constance were waiting for something, planning something, serenely confident that it would fall into her lap.

  Only natural, Gwen told herself, though she found this new concentration in Constance somewhat odd. Constance was looking forward to the ball, Gwen told herself. She was nervous at the grandeur of the plans—yes, that must be it! Gwen was touched by this evidence of insecurity in Constance; she found she liked her the more.

  The ball was to take place in June; the invitations were sent out in March. Gwen’s absorption in her new task, and her happiness in it, faltered only once—in April 1916, when Acland returned from France on a four-day leave.

  Gwen, overjoyed to have him home again for those
four days in London, anticipated no difficulties. After all, Boy had returned, over the past eighteen months, on two occasions, and although he refused to discuss the war, Gwen had been encouraged by his demeanor. He had seemed so very cheerful—far more so than she ever remembered. None of his odd morose moods; no sign of agitation; she had not heard him stammer once. It had almost been exhausting, Boy’s insistence on joining in every social activity, when—for once—Gwen might have preferred to sit quietly at home with him and talk.

  Boy had not wanted to talk. He had wanted to go out. He spoke in new, ringing, confident tones, in a hearty, jocular way. Once or twice Gwen had found that heartiness strained, and Boy had developed a new habit—of shaking his head, as if he had water trapped in his ears—which she found worrying. But Boy dismissed her fears; it was just that London seemed so quiet, he said, compared to the front and the constant boom of the guns.

  That was the only occasion on which he mentioned the war. He at once changed the subject. By the time he returned to France, Gwen was reassured: Boy was well and strong and in good spirits. Her prayers were being answered.

  She assumed, therefore, when Acland returned for the first time from France, that his visit would be similar. Acland would want to go out—as Boy had expressed it, “to make up for lost time.”

  This proved not to be the case. Acland returned from France a very different man. He was leaner than Gwen remembered, and he had always been thin. He was quieter, too, and abstracted. He had no intention, he informed Gwen somewhat curtly, of going anywhere or meeting anyone. He had only four days. He preferred to stay at home.

  Stay at home he did, and Gwen stayed with him. But she found Acland very difficult to talk to now. Perhaps he regretted the terseness he had shown when he first arrived, for he did seem to make an effort. He asked all the right questions. One by one he went through the litany of the family: How was his father? how was Steenie? Freddie? Boy? … He paused. How was Constance?

  The trouble was, it was like a litany. There was none of his usual animation. Acland listened in a polite way to her answers, then put another question, as if going through some list in his mind. Gwen felt he did not listen to her replies at all.

  This change in her son made Gwen very nervous. She felt she was not simply boring him but also failing him in some way. The war—she ought to ask about the war. But she could not think of the right way to frame the questions, and Acland’s dismissive replies, when his father began on that inquisition, were no encouragement.

  Instead—and she was aware of this—she began, whenever they were alone together, to babble in the most stupid and trivial way, especially about the arrangements for Constance’s ball. Once she began on these babbles they grew worse and worse; she found she could not stop.

  “I thought—I have almost decided, Acland, this brocade. Do you agree?”

  It was the last night of Acland’s leave. Denton slumbered by the fireside; Steenie, Freddie, and Constance were at the opera with Maud and Montague Stern. The scrap of brocade Gwen held up was the material she had chosen for her ball dress. Now that she looked at it again, she found it drab.

  “And the style, Acland,” she went on. “Now that is very difficult. I don’t want to look passé. Maud cut out this drawing for me, Acland, from one of her periodicals. The new narrower look. I was not quite certain….”

  Gwen stopped. Acland had turned, first to the scrap of material, then—in his polite way—to the sketch she held out. Gwen felt he saw neither. She lifted her eyes to his face, and there—before he had time to compose his features—she saw an expression that cut her to the heart.

  She could not have described it: desolation, perhaps, mixed with anger. Acland looked at a fashion sketch as if into a pit in which unimaginable horror crawled.

  “Acland, I am sorry. Forgive me.” Gwen dropped the piece of brocade.

  “Don’t apologize. Please, don’t do that. I understand.” For the first time since he had returned, Acland looked at his mother as if he saw her. He took her hand and held it for a time, while Gwen bent her head and fought back sudden tears.

  “Tell me about your dress,” he said. He stood up and moved away to the window, his back to her. “I mean it,” he said after a pause. “I prefer it. Truly. Tell me about your dress and Maud’s dress and Constance’s dress. How the ballroom will be decorated. Who is coming and who is not … all those things.”

  “They’re trivial, Acland. I know that.”

  “Are they? Well, perhaps they are, and perhaps that is why I like them. Tell me.”

  So Gwen began to speak, slowly at first, then more rapidly, for she saw Acland did listen, and her words seemed to calm him.

  After a while he moved back to her and sat down next to her. He leaned back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes.

  Gwen looked at his pale features. She reached out, greatly daring, and stroked his hair.

  Acland did not push her hand aside. Feeling that she could, after all, soothe him, Gwen began to speak again: first the coming parties, then past parties, then—such an easy loop!—other reminiscences from the past, long days at Winterscombe, the summers when Acland was a child.

  The span of the years shrank. She was back in the nursery with this boy, her Ariel, her changeling, for Steenie was not yet born and she had never met a man called Edward Shawcross.

  “I called you that, Acland,” she said in a low voice, with a cautious glance toward Denton, who still slept by the fire. “It was because of your eyes. And then you were so very different from Boy or Freddie. Do you remember that, Acland? You were so very young.”

  “Remember what?”

  “The names I called you then. Silly names. They made your father furious. But I didn’t care. You liked them. We were very close.”

  “I think I remember. I think so.”

  “You were always so restless, Acland! It was as if there were some place you were always trying to reach, and failing—and when you failed you used to become angry, you know! Angry with yourself. When that happened, I’d sit you on my knee. I’d talk to you, just as I do now. It was so calm and peaceful, by the fire there. I remember once …”

  Gwen talked on in a low voice. Acland kept his eyes closed; he listened to her words and tried to concentrate his mind on that nursery, those vanished summers.

  If he could concentrate well enough, he felt, the image would go away. He tried, but perhaps his concentration was poor, because the image remained there fixed in his mind, as it had been for some weeks.

  Not such a terrible image, really. There were others, he supposed, that were worse—yet they did not intrude, as this one did. There it was again: a part of a man. Not a foot this time, or a hand; not even the hands which, stiffened by rigor mortis, thrust up through the waves of mud, and which—the first time he had seen them, at a distance—he had taken for branches of trees.

  No, not a hand: a jawbone—eaten clean by rats. The teeth were still intact; it was possible to count the blackened fillings.

  “Give us a kiss, love.” One of the men with him had picked it up; he articulated the jaw so that it seemed to be the broken mouth that spoke. “Just one kiss, love.” The man laughed, then tossed the jawbone aside; he said it stank.

  Acland opened his eyes and sat up.

  “Where’s Constance?”

  “Constance?” Gwen, her reminiscences interrupted, looked at him with surprise. “You remember—I told you, Acland. She’s gone to the opera with Steenie and Freddie. In Monty’s box—”

  “Which opera was it?”

  “Verdi, I think. Now, was it Rigoletto?”

  “Would you mind if I went out?” Acland leaned across and kissed his mother. “I’d like to walk for a while….”

  “Walk, Acland? In London?”

  “Just for a while. I might go to the club.” Acland was already moving to the door. At the mention of his club, Gwen’s face brightened.

  “Ah, so you do feel like seeing people, after all! I’m so g
lad, darling.” She rose and crossed to him and took his hand. “Did it help, darling—just to sit quietly and talk? I think it must have. There—you look better already.” She reached up to kiss him, then drew back, holding his face and looking into his eyes.

  “Acland, you do know that I love you, darling? You do know how much I care for you?”

  “I love you too. Very much,” Acland replied, in a stiff way. It was many years since he had said this to her, and at that, Gwen’s worries vanished.

  As he left the room, Acland had a distinct picture in his mind. It was a picture of a small and anonymous hotel, next to Charing Cross station, which had been mentioned to him several times by fellow officers.

  He had never visited the place, but in his mind’s eye he saw it clearly, down to the last details of the room he could hire there—by the hour, his friends said; no questions asked if a man were in uniform.

  Acland was not in uniform, but even so, few questions were asked. He signed false names for himself and Jenna, they were given a key, and they went up to the room. It was as he had expected.

  It had all been so easy, and so quick: a word with Jenna on the back stairs; a touch, a glance; a meeting in a mews a few streets away; a taxicab; signing a form, being given a key. So quick, so easy.

  When he did all these things—which took so little time—Acland had felt quite certain on one point: His mother could not drive the image of the man and the jawbone from his mind, but a woman could. Constance would have banished it in a moment, he felt, if he could have been with her alone, but he had been alone with Constance only once since his leave began. Possibly she was avoiding him.

  “You are keeping your promise?” She had said that to him, in a fierce way, catching him by the hand as they delayed, the last two people to leave breakfast.

  “As well as I can,” he had replied. “I thought you might have forgotten it.”