by Clara Benson
‘You seem rather preoccupied, Charles. What are you thinking about?’ asked Sylvia, looking sideways at me as we strolled around the rose garden, taking advantage of a short spell of autumn sunshine after several days of drizzle. I roused myself from my musings.
‘How rude of me. I’m afraid I let my mind stray to business matters,’ I replied. ‘It seems I have not yet shaken off the cares of the world, which can be my only excuse for letting my attention wander.’
‘Oh dear! Well, we simply must try and bring you out of yourself. You were rather stern and reserved when you first arrived but a few days have already done wonders for you. But we can still do better. Bobs and I are going down to Sissingham Hall to visit the Stricklands in a couple of weeks. You must come with us. I shall get Rosamund to invite you.’
I must have hesitated, because Sylvia immediately blushed, put her hand to her mouth and cried:
‘How simply dreadful of me, I completely forgot! Of course, you can’t have seen Rosamund since—’
Feeling, for my own sake as well as hers, that I must reassure her quickly, I laughed as naturally as I could and told her not to be an idiot.
‘Rosamund and I are old friends, nothing more,’ I said easily. ‘Our engagement was a mistake and both of us quickly realized it. We parted on the best of terms and I should be very happy to see her again after all these years.’
Sylvia had been watching me intently as I made this not-entirely-truthful speech and seemed relieved.
‘I’m glad of it,’ she said. ‘I was afraid I had said the wrong thing. I’m always doing that. Mother says I shall never make a diplomat’s wife.’
Again I told her not to be silly and instructed her in no uncertain terms that she was by no means to avoid Rosamund’s name; that I was looking forward to seeing Rosamund again; and, moreover, that I also relished the prospect of renewing my acquaintance with her husband, Sir Neville Strickland. I further intimated that there were other women—a woman even—whom I found more attractive these days. Sylvia quite rightly snorted at this thunderingly clumsy attempt at gallantry but seemed satisfied with my assertions.
‘Anyway,’ she said, reverting to the topic of my self-improvement, ‘I hope you are planning to stay with us for a good while yet. I—we are very much enjoying having you here. And besides,’ she continued in a practical tone that was more like herself, ‘You won all my money last night and I want to win it back.’
I laughed and we argued the point all the way back to the house.
‘What were you two talking about so cosily in the rose garden?’ Bobs murmured to me with eyebrows raised, as we came in to tea.
‘Haven’t you anything better to do than to watch people strolling in the rose garden?’ I replied blandly. Bobs’s eyebrows rose further but he did not press the point.
‘Charles, dear boy,’ boomed Lord Haverford as he entered the room. ‘We must have that chat about the prospecting rights. I have the maps all prepared.’
‘I’m ready now, sir, if you like.’
‘Then let’s go to my study, where we won’t be disturbed. As for bringing someone else into the business, I know the very man. Have you met Sir Neville Strickland? He already has interests in Africa and knows the work.’
Sylvia looked up warily and I couldn’t help but catch her eye as I was conducted out of the room. I smiled brightly and she gave me a wink, much to Bobs’s evident entertainment. I felt a little guilty for leaving her to withstand Bobs’s merciless teasing alone but Lord Haverford was not to be refused. And anyway, I reflected, she must surely be used to it by now.
After a week or so of more or less idle enjoyment, I reluctantly felt I must go up to London. I had business awaiting me there and, more pressingly, I was finding that my light clothes were wholly inadequate to ward off the chills of a dank October. So, dressed in a warm suit lent to me by Bobs, I arrived at Waterloo station for my first encounter with the fogs of London in more than eight years. After the ruin and subsequent death of my father, I had left town almost a pauper, owning little more than the clothes I stood up in; now, as I hailed a taxi and pronounced the words: ‘The Ritz’, in emphatic tones, I experienced a certain feeling of jubilation, for which I think I can hardly be blamed.
Once I had firmly installed myself and my belongings in that luxurious establishment, the next few days were spent in conducting essential business. I very soon possessed myself of a suitable wardrobe and as I surveyed myself in the long glass, I noted with satisfaction that, apart from the sun-tan, no longer could I be immediately set down as a Colonial. The next step was to set inquiries afoot for a discreet valet: I had lived in the rough for long enough and now I was determined to avail myself of all the comfort and convenience that London life affords. Of course, I would also have to find somewhere to live but that was not yet an immediate concern.
Town was rather quiet at that time of year but I managed to look up a few old school-mates, who were very glad to see me, or gave every appearance of it, and saved me from the unspeakable dullness of spending each evening alone. I dined out, disported myself rather disgracefully at the newest and most fashionable jazz night-clubs, danced with a string of pretty women and generally shook the dust of South Africa from my feet altogether.
Shortly after my arrival in London, I received a letter from Sir Neville Strickland, inviting me to lunch at his club with a view to discussing the prospecting rights. He rose and shook my hand warmly as I was ushered in to the grand, wood-panelled room in which so many vital affairs of state had been discussed over the years—and so many questionable deals done.
‘Delightful to see you again, my boy,’ he said. ‘It must be five years since you left, what?’
‘Eight, sir,’ I replied.
‘Indeed? So long? My, how time flies! Well, well, let us sit down. What will you have? The fish here is very good.’
Sir Neville was a florid man of around fifty, who was much more at home in the country than in town. He made cursory inquiries about my recent return to England, then plunged straight into the business at hand. This lasted us all the way through to coffee, when he suddenly changed the subject and invited me down to Sissingham Hall.
‘We should be very happy to see you,’ he said. ‘I know that Rosamund particularly wishes you to come, since you are such old friends. Young Buckley and his sister will be there and one or two other people. I expect it will be quite a jolly party. What do you say, hm?’
I accepted his invitation with thanks and promised I would play my part in making it a lively weekend. I had no idea when I said it that this would turn out to be truer than I had supposed.
‘How is Rosamund?’ I inquired.
‘Oh, she’s splendid, splendid. Of course, she finds it terribly dull in the country, so she’s very keen on these house parties. Naturally, I leave it to her to do all the organizing. Women are much better at that sort of thing, don’t you know. We men do well to stay out of it!’ He gave a short bark of laughter.
I well remembered how Rosamund used to bask in the gay brilliance and glitter of a large party, with herself as the queen of the evening. She had an almost child-like delight in being the centre of attention and would repay the devotion she received by graciously bestowing notice on her worshippers, rewarding them with dazzling smiles and a few moments in the bright circle of her radiance. I had been one such acolyte myself for a short while but this time I would resist.
The conversation touched on sport and fishing and then turned to politics and public affairs. Sir Neville bemoaned the rising costs of running his estate and became quite heated on the subject of tax. I nodded and made sympathetic replies whenever called upon to do so, although in truth, I was not really listening. I was instead reflecting on the strange forces that bring people together. Sir Neville and his wife were two very different people, with apparently very little in common: he was a staid, middle-aged man, strongly attached to the countryside and much preferring a tranquil life and family surroundings, while she
was a lively, beautiful young woman with a wide circle of friends and a taste for excitement—and yet by all accounts, they were a devoted couple whose mutual attachment nobody doubted. But perhaps Rosamund had altered in the eight years since I had last seen her. Time wreaks many changes, as I knew only too well.
Sir Neville and I parted with cheery salutations on both sides; he to return to his Norfolk estate and I to my suite at the Ritz, where I had some letters to write. On my return, I found a telegram waiting for me. It read:
Hope Neville remembered to invite you Sissingham. Do come. Will not be the same without you. Strong silent Colonial simply essential to complete party.
I could not help but smile. However else she might have changed, it appeared that Rosamund was still as impulsive as ever.
Two days later, I happened to wander into a restaurant which was well-known among certain circles for its discretion and caught sight of Bobs dining with a rather striking-looking woman. They seemed to be having a private conference and I was just about to ask tactfully to be seated well away from them, in order to avoid causing embarrassment to all concerned, when Bobs caught my eye and beckoned me over.
‘Hallo, old chap,’ he said. ‘Come and join us. We were just talking about Sissingham. Have you met Mrs. Marchmont? Angela, this is my great friend Charles Knox. Angela is Rosamund’s cousin. She’s been living in America but now she has returned to England and is coming to Sissingham next weekend. Try not to let the fact that she dines with disreputable types such as I put you off, by the way. She is a woman of impeccable reputation and delightful company to boot.’
Mrs. Marchmont took this pleasantry with good humour.
‘How do you do, Mr. Knox,’ she said. ‘As Bobs says, I’m afraid you catch me at a disadvantage. Still, I suppose that is the way society is going these days and you know in the States we take these things much less seriously, which must be my excuse!’
She gave a wide smile and shook my hand as she spoke. I must say I rather took to her immediately. Tall, dark-haired and dressed elegantly but not ostentatiously in shimmering blues and greens, she appeared no more than thirty at first glance but a closer look revealed one or two lines about the eyes and the mouth that told a different tale. She was not precisely beautiful but there was a certain look in her eye that attracted and yet challenged. I had heard about Rosamund’s American cousin of course, and remembered vaguely that they had been close as children but had not seen each other since Mrs. Marchmont left England. The waiter drew up a chair for me and I sat down.
‘How long were you in America?’ I asked politely.
‘Oh, longer than I care to remember! Why, it must be fifteen years, now I think about it,’ she replied. ‘I went out there a year or two before the War. And yet, now I have returned, it seems only yesterday that I left.’
She told me about her delight in meeting Rosamund again, after so many years apart. As children they had been almost like sisters but circumstances had separated them and she was looking forward to getting reacquainted with her cousin, of whom she spoke with great fondness.
Mrs. Marchmont seemed to be on the most friendly terms with Bobs, which did not surprise me, as Bobs knew everyone. She had had many interesting experiences in America and made some intelligent observations about how things had changed in England since she left. In this respect, we had much in common, both of us having spent time away from our native land and seeing it for the first time in many years from the perspective of outsiders.
Mrs. Marchmont did not remain with us for long, as she had an engagement elsewhere. I escorted her to her car.
‘It has been very nice to meet you,’ she said, as the car drew up. ‘I look forward to continuing our conversation at Sissingham.’
I assured her that the feeling was mutual and watched for a moment as the motor pulled away. It struck me that Mrs. Marchmont was very different from her cousin. Then I returned to our table, where Bobs was just lighting up a cigar.
‘A fine woman, that,’ he remarked. I could not help but agree with him.
‘Rather inscrutable, too, perhaps,’ I said. ‘She appeared to me to be quite unlike the average woman who has an interest only in jewellery and fine dresses. You may think it odd but while we were talking, I had the strangest feeling that she held many secrets and could reveal a great many interesting things if she chose.’
‘Yes, she does strike one that way, doesn’t she?’
‘Is there a Mr. Marchmont? She didn’t mention him at all.’
‘Why, I couldn’t say. I believe there is, or was. A financier, or a captain of industry, or something like that, back in America.’
‘From what she said, it sounded as though she and Rosamund were as thick as thieves, once.’
‘Yes, that’s true—despite the age difference,’ Bobs said. ‘Angela is rather older than Rosamund, you know. I believe she has always been fiercely protective of Rosamund—especially after the trouble happened with old Hamilton. But Angela’s family weren’t exactly well-to-do either and she had to make her own way in the world, so they parted. She was a secretary to some Duke or other and then took a post with Bernstein, the financier. That’s how she ended up in America. Rosamund was still a child at that time and she stayed in England with her mother and grew up with very little money—but of course you know about all that.’
I did indeed. When my own father had been ruined, throughout all the misery and difficulties that ensued I had at least felt, for a short time, that Rosamund and I had something in common. But it soon became clear to me that I could not expect her to live in poverty with me. Despite her penniless childhood, Rosamund was not a person whom one associated with saving and scrimping. One could not imagine her cheerfully ordering the cheapest cuts from the butcher, or darning socks, or washing the plates on the maid’s day off. When one pictured Rosamund, it was in a grand, elegant, warm setting, surrounded by brightly burning lights and dressed in glittering array. No, the rough-and-ready life of South Africa, the struggle for existence, the uncertainty of the future—they were not for her.
‘Tell me about Sissingham,’ I said. Bobs waved his cigar vaguely.
‘Oh, it’s comfortable enough, I suppose. A bit on the small side but it has some jolly good shooting. Miles from anywhere, of course.’
I took the comment about the house’s size with a grain of salt, knowing well that Bobs judged all buildings against the standards of Bucklands.
‘Sylvia spends quite a bit of time there, doesn’t she?’ I asked.
‘Yes, she and Rosamund are great pals these days. In fact, we both go to Sissingham quite often. The Stricklands are fond of entertaining—at least, Rosamund is. Neville less so.’
‘What do you mean, less so?’
Bobs grinned.
‘Oh, he’d much prefer to sit by his fireside or work alone in his study every evening. He puts a brave face on it but Rosamund has the upper hand of him there. I mean, dash it, you can’t marry a good-looking woman like that and keep her all to yourself, can you?’
‘Do they spend a lot of time in town?’
‘Not as much as Rosamund would like. That’s why they have so many house parties, to keep her from getting bored.’
‘Do you know who is coming next weekend?’
‘I believe it is to be a smallish party. Apart from us and Angela, the only other guests will be the MacMurrays. I don’t think you know them. Hugh MacMurray is a cousin of Sir Neville.’
‘MacMurray…MacMurray. I don’t recall the name.’ I frowned, trying to remember.
‘No? Well, you’ll meet them soon. He’s a nice enough chap but I wouldn’t trust him with anything important. His wife is a rather interesting woman.’
‘In what way?’
Bobs smirked knowingly and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.
‘She has come up in the world these days but I knew her slightly when I was going around with Lili. Just be sure not to believe anything she tells you about herself. I shan’t
say any more.’ He gave an exaggerated wink.
I sat back in my seat.
‘Bobs, you really are the most frightful old gossip!’ I chided. ‘You are quite an old woman. I’m half-ashamed of myself for listening to such rot!’
Bobs disclaimed my epithet with a grin.
‘No harm in a little idle chatter. I’m sure you will find her a fascinating woman. She has a certain charm about her, in her own way. In fact, what with the MacMurrays and your seeing Rosamund for the first time since you left England, it promises to be a most interesting weekend.’
I thought this a rather malicious attitude and told him so with dignity. Deep down, however, I felt that he could be right.
THREE
It was a chill, crisp autumn afternoon when I stepped down from the slow train at the tiny station of Tivenham St. Mary and squinted into the fast-sinking sun. Sir Neville had said that somebody would be there to meet me but the place seemed deserted. I picked up my bags, waving away the porter, and came out of the station. Nobody was about but as I drank in the clear evening air after the choking fumes of London, I heard an engine in the distance and, turning, saw a motor-car approaching down the road. It pulled up alongside me and an inquiring face in horn-rimmed spectacles peered out.
‘Hallo. You must be Mr. Knox,’ it said.
I assented. The inquiring face alighted from the car. It was attached to a slightly-built young man with a self-effacing manner.
‘I am Simon Gale, Sir Neville’s secretary. He has sent me to collect you. I do hope you haven’t been waiting long, only I was running a little late, I’m afraid.’
‘Not at all. The train arrived only a few minutes ago,’ I said. ‘I have been enjoying the fresh air.’
‘Oh good,’ he said, relieved. ‘Are those your bags? Here, let me take them for you.’
He stowed them safely.
‘Hop in. It’s not too far, although it’s quicker if you walk over the fields,’ he said and moved off with a crashing of gears. ‘Have you been to Sissingham before?’
