Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “You bled them white.” Boy banged down his whisky glass. “You hypocrite—you’ve made a fortune out of this war. You sit there and tell me you’re sorry—when it’s your fault the Arlingtons went under. Compound interest—you inveigled yourself in there—used my father—used his house and his introductions. If Hector had lived—”

  “If Hector Arlington had lived, there would have been only one set of death duties to contend with. Which would have altered the situation considerably. Boy—”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Boy was now scarlet in the face. His hands would not keep still. They waved about in the air. The guns were there again, louder than ever, so loud the Foreign Secretary looked up.

  “It’s not just the Arlingtons in any case. There are others. I’ve heard. Your first partners—the ones who took you into their bank. What happened to them? One of them cut his throat—and why did he do that? Because you broke him; you set out to break him. Oh, I know what you’ll say. You’ll say those are old rumors—but some of those rumors just happen to be true. I’ve asked people. I’ve talked to Maud. I’ve put two and two together and—” Boy stopped. His eyes rounded. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve just realized. That’s why my father is allowing this to happen. He owes you money. Of course. Everyone owes you money. He owes you money, and this marriage is a way of paying you back.” Boy took a swallow of whisky to steady himself.

  “Well,” he continued, beginning to feel proud of himself—this indeed was how his father should have spoken. “I suppose that makes it simpler in a way. We can treat it as what it is: a financial transaction. How much to buy you off, Stern? Obviously there’s a price. Name it.”

  Stern took some time to reply. He did not appear offended, which disappointed Boy. He sipped his whisky before he spoke.

  “Oddly enough …” Stern looked away, into the middle distance. He sounded ironic, still amused. “Oddly enough, despite the fact that I am a Jew, there is no price. I feel … disinclined to be bought off, as you put it.”

  He glanced at his wristwatch as he said this, as if Boy no longer greatly interested him. Then he reached one of his narrow and elegant hands into the breast pocket of his jacket. He drew out an envelope. He rested that envelope on his knee, without comment. He looked back at Boy. He waited.

  “I shall tell Constance,” Boy burst out, trying to ignore this envelope. “And not just Constance. I shall … speak out. I shall … make the truth known. I shall, I shall …” He cast around wildly for something decisive that he could do, something that would expose this man for what he was: a moneylender and a profiteer. Money and munitions—how much profit per shell, per bullet, when there were so many bullets, and so many shells?

  “Boy.” Stern leaned forward. He regarded Boy with quiet eyes. “Boy, I think you are overwrought. No doubt there are reasons for that. You do not look well. Might it not be better if we forgot this conversation, and you left?”

  “I won’t do that.” Boy’s face became mutinous and stubborn. He could see Constance dancing away from him on the crisp lawns, with her appalling little dog. “I won’t. You shan’t ruin Constance’s life. If I have to … stand up in that church and speak out, I’ll do it. Just cause. Just impediment. You were my aunt’s lover for years. You’re old enough to be Constance’s father. Constance does not care for you. She cannot—”

  He stopped. Without a word, Stern had leaned across and placed the envelope on his lap.

  Boy stared down at it. A small envelope, square, unaddressed and unsealed; there was something inside it, stiffer than a sheet of paper. Blood surged in Boy’s head. Slowly—and his hands had begun to shake again—he opened the flap.

  A photograph. He had no need to remove it from the envelope completely; just one glance down sufficed, for it was familiar enough. One of his own photographs, one of the secrets of his life: a young girl, Constance as a young girl. Innocence and experience. Her dress was wet.

  “Where did you get this?”

  The sentence jammed; it stuck on the letter g, which would not be pronounced. Stern did not answer the question, merely gave a small and perhaps disdainful gesture of the hand. There was no need for an answer anyway. From Constance herself—Boy knew that. From Constance, to whom he had given so many little presents: the ring with the blue stone, a collar of lace, a shawl of bright silk, a necklace of amber beads—bright magpie things, the hopeless tokens of his devotion. And (when she asked for it, and she asked for so little) the small silver key that opened the chest in his room, that opened the drawer where he kept … these photographs.

  “I never hurt her. I never touched her. I give you my word on that.” The pain was very great, but he had to justify himself, he found, even then, and even to Stern.

  “I was looking for her. In my photographs. I wanted … to pin her down.”

  He said this, the best explanation he could give for something he had always seen as a quest, never a perversion. An impossible quest—he saw that now. Constance was not a butterfly, to be pinned, identified, labeled. She resisted categories, just as she had resisted his photographs. The remark, which Boy regretted at once, seemed to make Stern pause.

  “I understand. I believe you. Nevertheless …”

  Something flickered in Stern’s eyes—a comprehension, possibly even a sympathy. Then his face became closed. He reached across, retrieved the envelope, replaced it in his pocket.

  Boy stumbled to his feet. He felt the ground rock. The table holding his whisky glass tilted upon its tripod feet. No one looked up. Conversations continued. No one seemed to notice that Boy bled.

  This confused him. He gave a small, inconclusive gesture of the hand. He turned, without addressing Stern, and navigated his way to the door. He weaved past tables and chairs, and might have been taken for drunk, for he was unsteady on his feet.

  When Boy had left, Stern went out to the club’s telephones. From there, sitting in a small paneled cubicle, the door closed, he telephoned Constance at Winterscombe. He knew she was awaiting the call.

  “Did you do it?”

  Her voice came and went on the wires; it had an odd note in it which Stern could not define, which might have been excitement or fear or distress.

  “Yes. It was unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

  He gave her a brief account of the meeting, but Constance would not be content with a brief account; she must know the details. How had Boy looked? What had he said? Had he seemed hurt?

  Stern cut these questions short.

  “You would hardly have expected him to appear happy, I think.”

  “Did he cry? He does cry, sometimes. I’ve made him cry … before. Oh, Montague—”

  “We will speak tomorrow.”

  Stern replaced the receiver. He returned to the smoking room. He turned his chair so its back was to the room and he might be left alone and undisturbed. After some while he took the picture out again. Stern pitied Boy, whom he had always liked; and this photograph of Constance he stared at for some time.

  Constance wanted her wedding to be fast. She wanted it to be a dance, everything hectic, everything bright, everything quick. No time to think: a day of fragments, like a mesh of stars.

  She would have run down the aisle of the Winterscombe church if she could—if Denton, at her side, had not been so slow, so out of breath, so limping from his gout. She felt as light as air; the cold air gathered her up from the huge car with its white ribbons. It gusted her across the churchyard, past the gravestones, which shone with thin hard snow. Into the porch, the nave. She was glad the floor was so cold; she danced over it in her thin satin slippers.

  Tiny shoes trimmed with white ribbons, sent from Paris; war, to Montague Stern, presented no boundaries and no obstacles. Gwen ordered these accouterments; Stern paid for them: slippers from Paris, white stockings of the finest silk fastened with blue garters, which cut her a little.

  The dress—such a dress! Fifteen fittings at the House of Worth, mousseline de sole, Brussels lace. A long, long tra
in fanning out behind her, a beautiful thing, looped, wired, flounced, embroidered with crystal flowers and stars—a triumph of engineering.

  The tiniest of waists, cinched in, and cinched in again, her new maid hauling on the laces of her white corselet—Pull it tighter, Constance had cried—seventeen inches, sixteen and a half, sixteen. One span of Montague’s fine hands—that was what Constance had intended, and that was what she had achieved. Impossible to breathe, almost, but today she felt she did not need anything as commonplace as oxygen; she was air itself: bright and invincible, like air, like a diamond.

  There were diamonds around her wrists and diamonds in her ears; diamonds were strewn like tears in the artifice of her veil. The diamonds were a present from Montague; they lay on her wrists and, around her throat, like rain. They were her badge, the talisman of her daring.

  Glancing to right and left, proceeding up the aisle, Constance felt she triumphed. What if the congregation was smaller and less distinguished than she might have wished? People feared scandal, that was all. Some who had been invited stayed away on Maud’s account. So be it; Constance did not care. They would not ostracize for long; they would seek her out, all those who hesitated now. She would win them over. She and Montague would lay siege to them.

  Lady Cunard was there, despite Maud. A woman who sensed the rising of a new star in the firmament; Constance gave her a little nod. Who else? Gus Alexander, the construction king, who once sent her a basket containing two hundred crimson roses. Conrad Vickers, who—in the face of Boy’s refusal—was to take the wedding photographs. He flirted with Steenie. Three members of the Cabinet—they had come without their wives. Several prominent financiers. County neighbors, leaned upon by Gwen. Oh, it was enough, after all—this wedding was just the beginning.

  Constance had reached the family pews. There was Gwen, her head bowed. There was Freddie; Boy, in full dress uniform; Steenie, who held her new little dog upon his lap—the dog had to be there, too; Constance had insisted, to the consternation of the vicar.

  Poor little dog: she must leave him behind for her honeymoon. Constance blew the animal a kiss. She smiled at Steenie, Freddie, Boy—who averted his face.

  Twenty paces more; ten. There was the altar, decked with flowers, all of them white, as Constance had decreed: “White,” she had said, “and no lilies.”

  There was the best man, some friend of Montague’s—Constance did not give him a second glance. There was Stern, turning now, at last, as she approached. An even, level gaze; an unusual sobriety of dress.

  Then—how slowly Montague Stern spoke the vows! Constance gave him an impatient glance. Why speak them so slowly and so weightily? If ever a man was an atheist, Montague was. “To have and to hold, from this day forward.” Constance did not like the words at all; she refused to listen to them. Let them skip past, for they were full of traps, these words. Constance hated promises. Acland had promised her not to die; promises were air, and people never kept them.

  When the ring was upon her finger she felt a great agitation, then the next second, a great security. There! It was almost done. Just a few more words and the whole thing would be over.

  Quickly, quickly. Stern’s hand touched hers. She was a married woman: Lady Stern. Constance stared at the altar. A cloth of white and gold. She tried out this new title on her tongue. Hard and bright and sure.

  It was time for the bride to be kissed. Stern took her in his arms, as she had known he would, with an icy decorum. Constance turned her head. Her veil billowed. The veil spoiled the congregation’s view. She laced her small arms tight about his neck.

  Stern’s eyes met hers behind the protection of that veil. His glance was as she had expected: cool, unmoved, watchful, and intent. As his lips brushed hers, Constance darted her tongue between them. She would ruffle this composure of his.

  “Well, adversary,” she murmured into his ear. She rested her cheek against his. This was a new term adopted between them. Stern’s hand tightened over hers.

  “Well, wife,” he replied, with curious emphasis.

  They turned. Constance shivered. The organ pealed: abrasive Bach.

  The wedding photographs; the wedding breakfast. The photographs, which were to launch Vickers’s career, were silver print, exquisite; Constance keeps them still.

  The wedding breakfast, and a menu chosen by Constance, the first time she was to exercise her preference—which was for the rare, the expensive, and the small. Thimble-sized servings of caviar; quails’ eggs in silver baskets; truffles as small as bullets, seasoned with a sauce of marrowbone; tiny woodcock perched upon fragments of toast.

  Constance ate little. She was impatient to move on. One glass of Denton’s pink champagne; one sliver of foie gras. The only person at the table who ate less than the bride was Boy.

  There would be no dancing after the wedding breakfast; again, Constance had decreed. The honeymoon was to be spent at Denton’s Scottish estate; the journey ahead of the bridal couple was long. Constance left the table at one; by one-thirty she was ready. She dismissed her new maid, who was slow, compared to Jenna. She surveyed herself in her glass. She pirouetted.

  Not an ermine coat, after all. Constance had thought of ermine, then rejected it when she discovered that ermine was a species of weasel. Stern had provided sables. A cream traveling suit of silk and cashmere. (Scotland would be cold. Constance did not care. She would have welcomed even Norway, Sweden, Finland—the colder, the farther north, the better. Even if there had been no war, even if it had not been a winter wedding, Constance would have despised the idea of Italy or France. She wanted extremity.)

  A cream traveling suit. Soft cream kid boots, which laced to the knee. A collar of pearls four inches deep, worn in the way Queen Mary had made fashionable. A hat with a veil—Constance had insisted upon a veil. She regarded her face in the glass, pleased with the way the veil obscured her expression.

  So many goodbyes. The guests. The family. Gus Alexander, who, subduing jealousy, invited the couple most warmly to visit him in New York. A small drab lawyer named Solomons. Lady Cunard. Conrad Vickers, Denton, Gwen, Freddie, Boy, Steenie. Boy appeared to be drunk (in fact he was not; he was sober but looked dazed). As Constance kissed his cheek and bade him write to her from France, Boy pressed into her hands a small note. This irritated Constance. She put it, unread, into her handbag.

  She flew to Steenie, whom she hugged. She pressed her little dog in her arms and kissed his nose and let him lick her face. She gave Steenie a rush of last-minute instructions. She kissed the dog once more; she clung to him; she allowed herself to be drawn away.

  Into a great, stately car for the drive to London. Then, the night train north.

  Her wedding night would be spent on the move. At that thought, Constance gave a laugh of delight. Turning to her husband, she kissed him, first chastely, then—as the great car gathered speed—more flagrantly.

  Stern responded, yet he seemed preoccupied. This irritated Constance. She made a restless gesture. She drew back. Stern said nothing. Constance turned to the window; she rested her face against the cold of its glass.

  In their compartments on the night train, they drank champagne. The attendant (this had clearly been arranged) brought them oysters.

  “They smell of sex,” Constance said, tipping back the shell.

  Once the train whistled and jolted and the wheels’ revolutions became rhythmic, Constance began to explore.

  How intriguing these compartments were, how clever and luxurious! She looked around her with a childish delight: all this paneling and woolen padding, everything scaled down but as neat and snug as a ship captain’s cabin. A small table that when lifted revealed a porcelain washing basin. Little cupboards with towels, fresh cakes of soap, and drinking glasses. Numerous hooks and shelves. So many pretty lamps, with pink silk shades that gave a flattering light: one by the basin, one by the door, one by her bed. A doll’s house!

  Constance inspected her bed, which had starched white pillowcase
s. The blankets were tartan. She frowned at these, for tartan rugs reminded her of her father’s accident. For an instant, a bunk became a stretcher. She looked away. She sped off to the partition doors, which folded back, and found that the second compartment also had a bed, with similar furnishings.

  “Two beds.” She turned to smile at Stern. “I shall not call them bunks—they are far too splendid!” She paused. “Shall we take turns in them, do you think? It is such a long journey….”

  “We could do that.” Stern had taken up a position by the door. He watched, arms folded.

  “What I should like …” Constance eyed him. She unfastened her pearls and let them swing back and forth between her fingers, like a pendulum. “What I should like …”

  “Tell me what you would like.”

  “I think I should like to lie on my furs.”

  “And?”

  “Leave my stockings on, perhaps. And my pretty garters. And my wicked French boots. Yes, I might like that. You could pleasure me, Montague, with my boots on. Which is a kind of quotation, though I think it should be the other way about.”

  “Is it now?” Stern unfolded his arms. He began to remove his jacket. “Show me how you look then, Constance, on your sables.”

  At this, Constance tossed her furs across the tartan. Once its checks were invisible, she made a brief effort to undo her dress.

  “I’m hopeless without a maid. Montague, you will have to help me.”

  She turned and offered Stern her narrow back. His cool hands glanced against her throat, then began upon the hooks and eyes. So many of them! Constance remained absolutely still. She closed her eyes. She opened them again. She listened to Stern’s breathing, which was steady.

  When the dress was undone and Stern had eased it from her shoulders, it fell to her ankles. Constance kicked it to one side. She did not turn to face him, but leaned back within the circle of his arms.

  She caught his hands and drew them down, to prove that they would span her waist. She guided them upward again, so that they covered her breasts.