And it was all Geoff's fault.
"Geoff, darling, I can count on you for dinner tonight, can't I?"
He turned his back to the rain. His mother was standing in the doorway, guest list in hand.
"Only if you need me to round up; otherwise I'd prefer to take something in my room." He gave her a waifish smile to soften the rejection.
But his mother wasn't buying it. "Listen to me, my little poppet. I expect you not only to be there, but to be there in your best bib and tucker. Enough really is enough. Miss Marylsworth is just back from the Continent, and I don't want you staring at her as if she's a spoonful of cod liver oil."
"Mother, I can't possibly marry her in time to save the farm, and has Pop ever told you how beautiful you are when you're angry?"
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Your 'Pop' never makes me angry, Geoffrey. That particular talent of yours is not inherited."
"Hoo-ray for that, at least. I was beginning to think I had no skills whatever."
"Geoffrey—dear—this won't do. Since you've got back from the United States you've become less, well, functional than ever. It used to be that you moped and slept all the time. Now you mope and pace. You're getting on your father's nerves and, quite frankly, on mine as well. What, specifically, is bothering you? Is it the war?"
"The war is over, mother."
"Oh, I know that, darling. What, then? The sale of the farm?"
Geoff thought about it, sighed, then nodded his head pensively. "I hate to see it go."
"It's virtually a fait accompli. Accept it."
That was Lady Julia all over: change what you can; otherwise, bow with grace. Good advice. He'd followed it all his life. Why was he resisting it now? Because it wasn't right, damn it to hell. God. He was thinking like Amanda.
Besides, he was being crushed by guilt. "I'm going into London to see Henry tomorrow, Mother. To throw myself on my knees and plead for a job."
"Well, wear your plus-fours if you do; I won't have you ruining a perfectly good pair of trousers." Her soft blue eyes flickered the way they had a habit of doing when she was being impertinent.
He ambled up to her, put one hand on her shoulder, and dropped a kiss on her cheek. "I've been a bloody sod, haven't I, Mum."
"Geoffrey, please!" protested Lady Julia with a wry grimace. "Your language since you've got back—"
"Ha! That isn't what they'd say over there. She'd say, 'I've been a stupid assho—' Or whatever," he said quickly, embarrassed by his burst of candor.
In a polite but rather deadly tone his mother said, "Who would say what, darling?"
"Well, Amanda might say … whatever."
"Amanda. She's the daughter of the shipbuilder whom you've mentioned once or twice?"
His mother didn't miss much. Geoff, never one to spill his soul, had decided soon after his return to bury all mention of Amanda in a lead-lined chest and sink it off the southwest coast of England. Even Anna got mentioned at the dinner table more than Amanda. There was no easy or even polite way to explain Amanda.
"I think I may have dropped her name," he said vaguely. "An American to the core. You wouldn't care for her."
"Probably not," Lady Julia agreed with more seriousness than she had used in the conversation so far. She turned to leave. "What sort of position are you looking for in Henry's bank, by the way?" she asked, about-facing.
"Oh, anything that will exploit my background in literature: a chimneysweep, preferably. Not right away, of course. I may have to work up to it." He allowed himself the merest hint of a smile.
"That's where Henry can be quite useful, you know. He has all sorts of influence at the bank. You can depend on him." Lady Julia held her son's look for a second and a half, then swept out of the smoking room.
Exit stage right, he thought. She was really quite good at it. Geoff had long ago decided that an actor's mask was put on one part at a time: the first piece to be donned was the stiff upper lip.
He went back to his desk, closed his ledger book, and poured himself a brandy. The rain had lost its anger by now; it was falling more from habit than conviction. Odd, how it had never seemed to rain in the States. His recollection was of sunbeams bouncing off dark bobbed hair. Odd. He sat a long while, thoughtful, not quite depressed, sipping at memories. He filled his snifter again, and then possibly one more time; he wasn't sure.
Much later his mother, beautifully dressed in palest lemon crepe de Chine, wafted into the smoking room and fixed him with a look of absolute horror. The mask, possibly for the first time in her life as his mother, had slipped. It gave him inordinate joy.
"Geoffrey! You're not dressed! They'll be here in two minutes and you're—tipsy!"
He smiled angelically. "Actually, mother, I think I'm pretty thoroughly pissed," he said, gently correcting her.
She adjusted her expression immediately. "Well, then, we'll have to do without you, won't we."
He stood up. "Wouldn't think of it. Be down in a sec." And he made his way, with the same deliberation he had once used to cross a mined field, upstairs to his room.
Tying his white tie into a decent bow was a bit more difficult. His head had cleared, more or less, but his fingers, being at some distance from the command center, seemed to have gone awol on him. He might have had the decency to be upset with himself, but no. He was humming. He was exhilarated. He was ready for anything. Combat adrenaline, he told himself on his way downstairs to mingle with his mother's guests.
Of all people, he bumped—literally—into Miss Marylsworth in the hall as she was giving up her wrap to the butler. She was very pretty and faultlessly dressed. He'd never noticed how pert her nose was before, and he wondered why he'd given his mother such a hard time about inviting her.
"Miss Marylsworth, Miss Marylsworth, Miss Marylsworth—how nice to see you again after all these—" Here he stopped. Had he seen her weeks ago? Months? Days?
"—time," he finished.
She looked at him carefully. "Why, thank you, Mr. Seton." She turned to the young man beside her. "You remember my brother Anthony."
"Of course, of course, of course. Good to see you again, Tony. "
Tony knew a drunk when he saw one and said, "Right."
Miss Marylsworth took up the slack. "I understand that you've been abroad, taking in the Cup races."
"Yes. I understand that you've been abroad, taking the cure."
"Yes." She glanced upstairs, then said, "You will excuse me a moment, won't you?" and added, "I'm looking forward to hearing all about how Sir Tom nearly vanquished the Americans. And she gently withdrew her hand from between his two, which were holding on to hers for balance as much as for anything else, and left him.
She's about as exciting as peas pudding, he decided as he watched her graceful ascent to the dressing room. For some reason the thought exhilarated him. Her brother indicated that he would take Miss Marylsworth into the drawing room, so Geoff continued on his way without him. His parents and several guests were gathered there around the usual topics: properties, Parliament, and parklands. It was all very nice, he thought, automatically stiffening his somewhat rubbery gait. About as exciting as peas pudding. Again he felt a little surge of happiness.
His father, unaware of his son's blighted condition, drew Geoff into a conversation about defense spending. Geoff considered himself—compliments of Amanda and her father—a sometime expert on the subject. With a face flushed with what his mother would have called untoward excitement, he dove in happily. He talked too long, too fast, too enthusiastically. His father's guests stared.
When it was time for dinner, Sir Walter offered his arm to the guest of honor, Lady Chandling (widow, viscountess, and distant cousin to Lady Seton). Men had ceased to lead women in to dinner except in London, but in Seton Place they clung to the old ways, so Geoff trotted up to Mrs. Watchett, the minister's wife. Jane Marylsworth was taken in by the Reverend Watchett, and Lady Seton brought up the rear on the arm of Anthony Marylsworth, a favorite of hers. The co
mpany was excruciatingly correct and, with the exception of Geoff, excruciatingly sober.
As he was hoping, Geoff was placed next to Jane Marylsworth. He resisted an urge to slap his knees with glee. The evening was going so right; he didn't know how much more of it he could stand. Over asparagus soup he turned to his dinner partner and said, "Have you been to the United States, Miss Marylsworth?"
"No, I haven't," the young woman replied. "It's on my list, but I never seem to get there. Am I missing much?"
How blue her eyes were; how serene. She was quite certain that she wasn't missing much. "You're missing it all," he blurted, not at all annoyed by her complacency. "The energy, the optimism—your youth in the bargain!"
"Oh dear. And I thought I was only missing the mountains, the geysers, and the Great Lakes," she answered lightly.
"Yes, yes, that too," he said impatiently. "Tell me, do you like to drive?"
"Well, yes. I like a tour in the country as well as anyone." Her voice was becoming more and more cautious.
"Not touring, Jane—driving. Leaping into a car and driving for hours at a whack just to say hello, or for some silly errand—bailing someone out of jail, for instance. Driving until your neck is in agony and your fingers are curled back into their fetal position. That kind of driving. And what about shipbuilding? We take that for granted over here. Over there it's new, exciting; it's a kick. And what about guns? Do you like guns?"
"What kind of question is that?" she asked faintly, glancing around the table.
"I'm not expressing myself well," he agreed. But he was in a desperate hurry; he wanted to finish the meal and get back to his room. "I think I meant, do you know how to handle a pistol?"
"Why would I learn?" She was resorting to the age-old feminine defense: answering a question with a question.
"Let me rephrase that." He took a deep breath and tried to get himself under control. "If someone were threatening me, and a gun were available, would you take it up and come to my defense without knowing how to use it? In other words, would you take an insane risk for me?"
"Not unless I were insane about you," she replied with a smile that suggested the question was purely academic.
"Somehow I knew that!" He turned to the maid who was removing the soup bowls and murmured, "Sancha, will you hurry along the next course? We're fainting with hunger here." He didn't like to do that to old Sancha, but it seemed less ill-mannered than jumping up and fleeing the table for his room. He wanted to pack! Now!
He turned his attention back to Miss Marylsworth, who was doing her best to become absorbed into a discussion between Reverend Watchett and Lady Chandling about the autumn fund-raiser for the ongoing restoration of the village church. Geoff began to speak, but the young lady seemed not to hear him. At last he said in a much louder voice, "I say, Miss Marylsworth—Jane—"
Two or three genteel conversations rolled gently to a halt. Geoff's mother, who had been doing her best to keep the company's attention focused away from her inebriated son, gave up completely. "Geoffrey, is it so urgent as all that?" she asked in sharp rebuke.
It was meant to make him feel six years old. He didn't care. It was urgent. "Absolutely. I wanted to ask Miss Marylsworth whether she'd ever tried to eat a peach that wasn't ripe."
"What are you babbling about, Geoff?" interrupted his father.
"An unripe peach is bitter, hard; you could break a tooth on it. You have to decide: should you throw it out, or put it in a bowl and let it ripen? Even if you decide to save it, it may or may not ripen. But you'll never know for sure if you chuck it. You have to wait and see. It's so simple, really. I don't know why I never thought of it." He leaned back in his chair, delighted, and only just stopped himself from balancing on its back legs.
There was an exquisitely short pause before Reverend Watchett said, "For myself, I do not see what can loosen the strings of a donor's pocketbook more than a used-book sale."
The broken threads of conversation got picked up and rewoven after that, but Geoffrey contributed little to the predictable pattern that took shape during the rest of the meal. He had nothing more to say. Tonight he had sized up country living and decided that perhaps he was too small to fit the bill. He loved Seton Place, but he did not want to be a slave to it. He loved his parents, but he did not see himself sharing the pleasantly dull routine of their lives.
All during his convalescence after the war he'd been aware, deep down, that he'd make a laughable country squire. But laughing out loud was another thing altogether; he would not hurt his parents, and so he retreated into apathy. He realized (possibly during the fish course) that all this time he'd been begging to be tossed out on his ear. So far that hadn't happened—although the night was still young, no reason to give up hope.
His parents were far too well-bred to disown him. So, he'd have to disavow them. Not in the usual sense, of course; he loved them far too much just to walk out of their lives. But this elder-son business ... the practice of primogeniture was absurd, obsolete. Everyone could see that Henry was the elder son in everything but chronology. Henry doted on Seton Place, nagged relentlessly about its proper maintenance—and kept a copy of Delbert's Peerage by his bed for light reading. Every chance he got he came down from London to enjoy the quiet pleasures of the old homestead. Well, Henry could have the old homestead. Geoff dug into the sponge cake, piled high with double cream and the last of the season's blueberries. It was prize enough.
After dessert Lady Seton rose from the company and said to her husband, "You will want to have your coffee here, no doubt."
The ladies all rose to withdraw, and the gentlemen stood up. When the men were alone, cigars and coffee were brought in. Geoff lit up, feeling utterly relaxed and comfortable with his decision to hand his right to Seton Place over to Henry. He wished his brother were here now; he'd drag him off to the smoking room and make the bequest happily. Or no: he ought to inform his father of his decision first. Tomorrow. The cigars were excellent—new, Cuban—and did much to add to Geoff's sense of well-being. He was free, or almost free. So. What to do with his freedom.
Build ships. Work for that impossible American, by God. Stranger things had happened. Geoff poured himself another glass of Madeira, smiling at the prospect of walking into Jim Fain's office and demanding his old job back. Across the table, Tony Marylsworth was assuming quite logically that the smile was for an anecdote he was telling that involved a unicycle and a one-armed cotton spinner.
Geoff swirled the Madeira in its glass and read its contents the way a gypsy did tea leaves. He had, at last, a future: he would walk away from Seton Place and take up shipbuilding. He knew where he wanted to be and what he wanted to be doing there. Only one more aspect needed to be divined. It was the same question that had been put to seers since time began. Who, dear Lord, will be there with me?
The conversation around Geoff had wound down, and Sir Walter, putting out his cigar, said, "The ladies will be wondering what keeps us."
They rejoined the women for tea in the drawing room. There they were, a perfect cross-section of country gentry: a viscountess, a baroness, a minister's wife, and an untitled but exceedingly cultivated young lady who spoke half a dozen Mediterranean tongues. Geoff pictured Amanda among them. Amanda: tomboy, artist, temptress, and all-around Valkyrie. Amanda, with her slinky dresses worn over underwear or not, depending on her mood. Amanda, with or without a gun! Amanda, with her ever-present cigarette. Her gin and tonic. Her sprightly language. Her gypsy eyes and red, red lips.
Geoff was deep in a game of auction bridge now, although he had no recollection of being partnered with Jane Marylsworth, or of sitting down at the game table. He looked across at the fair, blue-eyed Jane and saw: Amanda in white, letting her freckles show. Amanda in a smock, her cheek smeared with clay. Amanda exhausted and asleep in his car after a night in the slammer.
It was a case of simple demonic possession, and he wondered whether he'd need an exorcist to get through the bridge game. Amanda had taken
over everyone in the room, including Geoff (she'd entered his own body with the brandy, of that he was certain). Go away, Amanda, and let me concentrate or I won't make my bid. I love you but go away.
The queen of clubs was still in his hand, poised for the toss, when it hit him. He felt himself blush like a maiden. His heart hesitated, like a balky engine, then turned over and began to race while his body was forced to sit in neutral. Love Amanda? "Son of a bitch," he murmured. "I do."
"Geoffrey, please," begged his mother in a quietly shocked voice. She turned to Reverend Watchett in apology. "Please don't mind him. It's that dreadful American influence."
His mother was right. If ever someone was under the influence, it was Geoffrey. Amanda, I love you. I love you, Amanda. Son of a bitch.
"Geoffrey, are you going to play this hand or not?"
Still in a daze, he grinned inanely. "Play it? Oh, yes. For all it's worth."
Chapter 12
Geoff was halfway across the Atlantic when news of the bombing came over the wireless. From the first-class cabins, filled with wealthy Americans returning from business and vacation trips abroad, to the tourist thirds, filled with students, artists, and tourists who'd been able to scrape together ninety dollars for the round trip, the talk on September 17 was the same: terror and anarchy had reached the U.S. shore. The bomb had gone off in New York, a port of entry for every Bolshevik in Europe. And it had gone off on Wall Street, just opposite the House of Morgan and close by the Stock Exchange—fitting targets for angry revolutionaries.
There was more of outrage on the upper decks of the liner and more of sadness on the lower decks, but everywhere there was shock, because death was involved, and terrible injury. For Geoff there was more than outrage and sadness and shock. There was a gut-twisting fear that Amanda—his Amanda, crazy Amanda, idealistic Amanda—might have somehow indirectly bankrolled this most despicable of all man's infamies to man.
By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda Page 12
