‘Yes, of course. I’m sure they’d love that,’ said Grace. Her heart tumbled further within her. Of all the ordeals ahead of her, a meeting between her parents and the Bennetts looked much the worst.
‘I didn’t know you liked riding so much,’ she said to Charles as they drove over towards Thorpe St Andrews and the Mill House that afternoon. She realized with a mild pang of alarm there was a great deal she didn’t actually know about him.
‘Oh – yes. I used to ride a lot. Loved hunting. But it takes a lot of time, doesn’t really fit in with a full-time job. So I’ve let it drop. But I might get a horse again, yes. When we’re married. I could teach you to ride as well.’
‘Yes,’ said Grace doubtfully.
The Mill House was very pretty; she had hoped she would be able to dislike it, take a stand, but she could see at once it would have been cutting off her nose to spite her face. It was set in the heart of the village of Thorpe St Andrews, the great millwheel still intact, a tall red-brick house with a beautiful garden – ‘Father gets very cross about this garden, he’s jealous,’ said Charles laughing – and a large paddock behind it.
‘Do you want to go in?’ asked Charles. ‘The Wetherbys are charming, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.’
‘No, no,’ said Grace, ‘some other time. But I do like it. It’s lovely.’
‘Good. Well maybe—’
‘Yes, maybe,’ she said, reaching over to kiss him.
She would have to take a stand about something else.
The something else was the wedding itself.
At the end of a nightmare hour, when her parents sat in the drawing room at the Priory, her father trying to charm Muriel Bennett, her mother sparkling archly at Clifford Bennett over her glass of sherry, Muriel said suddenly, ‘Well now, perhaps we should talk about the wedding itself. I believe April is now being discussed – providing Herr Hitler allows it, of course – I wondered where you were thinking of holding the reception, Mrs Marchant?’
‘Oh, do please call me Betty. Well, we have discussed it, of course, and we were thinking perhaps the golf club—’
‘The golf club,’ said Muriel. ‘Ah, yes, the golf club.’ The words had an extraordinary venom. ‘Well, that would be very nice of course. You haven’t got room at home, I imagine.’
‘No, not quite,’ said Betty. It was clearly one of the most difficult things she had ever had to say. ‘But—’
‘Well, I’m sure the golf club would be very nice,’ said Muriel again. There was a silence, then she went on. ‘Look, do forgive me, Mrs – er, Betty – but we did wonder if perhaps you would consider having the reception here. Plenty of room, and we could have a marquee, especially if the wedding were to be moved forward to May, which would be better in any case, I would have thought—’
A surge of anger, an actual physical wave of heat, went through Grace. She stood up, so that they would all take notice of her, and said, quite quietly, ‘That’s very kind, Mrs Bennett, but I don’t want to postpone the wedding any further. And I think the golf club would be extremely nice, don’t you, Charles?’
Charles was clearly embarrassed by the whole thing.
‘Grace darling, I wonder if we might consider having the reception at the Priory. Mother’s quite right, there is lots of room, and it would be so much easier and—’
‘Charles,’ said Grace, ‘you can consider it if you like. I’m not going to. I know why your mother wants to have it at the Priory and for much the same reasons I don’t. If you want to marry me you can marry me at the golf club.’
She was astonished at her courage. She knew that if Charles himself had suggested the Priory she might well have agreed. She knew her mother would have been delighted once recovered from the initial humiliation. But her new status had given her courage, and she also knew that if she was not to be entirely engulfed by Muriel’s crushing will she had to start resisting it at some point.
‘Well,’ said Charles, carefully, ‘well, we’ll see.’
‘No,’ said Grace, ‘we won’t see.’
They had quite a fight about it for a long time; Charles took her out in the car, they parked near the castle and Grace stood her ground, defended her parents, said she loved them and she was proud of them. Charles said that had nothing whatsoever to do with the reception and where it was held, Grace said of course it did, and she didn’t believe he couldn’t see that it did, that she was not going to be patronized by Muriel Bennett. Charles said his mother wasn’t patronizing her, merely trying to be helpful, that he resented the implication very strongly. Grace told him he could resent it as much as he liked, she knew his mother didn’t like her, that she was upset about the marriage. Charles told her she was neurotic and absurd, and Grace then burst into tears and said maybe, but if he didn’t want to marry someone neurotic and absurd, then he had better find someone else.
Charles started the car at that point and drove her home without a word; she got out, walked inside and burst into fresh tears on her mother’s shoulder and then after sobbing for several minutes and refusing to tell Betty what the matter was – and how could she, she asked herself, how could she say anything so hurtful, so horrible – she went upstairs and lay awake for a very long time, wondering if in fact this marriage was a mistake, if she was going to spend her entire life submitting to Charles, doing things his way, what he wanted, and if she did really love him enough – and if he loved her. She felt she had seen a new Charles that night, someone more overbearing, less sensitive than she had imagined; all her earlier doubts and anxieties revived – the long intervals between their meetings, the reluctance to talk about his past relationships, indeed the apparent absence of past relationships, the reluctance in fact to talk about himself – and she lay looking at the ring on her finger, the ring she still didn’t really like, and debated very seriously whether or not she shouldn’t give it back.
In the morning she felt so dreadful she didn’t go into work, got Betty to phone and say she had a sick headache; her father went to the bank, and Betty, white with what was clearly an appalling anxiety, desisting from cross-questioning her with awe-inspiring restraint, cancelled her attendance at a meeting of the Westhorne W I of which she was vice-chairwoman, and was making pastry with great determination when the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go,’ said Grace.
Charles stood there, with a great bunch of flowers. ‘Can I come in?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes of course.’
She led him into the sitting room; he sat down in one of the wing chairs by the fire, still holding the flowers, and looked at her.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘you really have got things all wrong.’
‘Have I?’ said Grace.
‘Yes, you have. Terribly wrong. None of us want to hurt you, least of all me. My parents are terribly fond of you. They certainly don’t wish to upset your parents. It’s just a fact of life that this house’ – he gestured round the sitting room – ‘this house simply isn’t big enough to contain a large wedding reception.’
‘We could have a small wedding reception,’ said Grace. She knew they couldn’t, or rather that they wouldn’t, but it seemed worth proposing. It wasn’t.
‘Darling, we can’t have a small wedding reception. You know we can’t. It would upset so many people.’
Grace was silent.
‘So it just seemed a better idea to have the wedding at one of our homes, where it would be surely so much nicer, than somewhere like the golf club.’
‘But Charles—’
‘Let me finish. Please. I still think so, actually. It would be wonderful for me to have it in the house where I grew up. I hate the idea of getting married in some strange environment. But I love you, and I don’t want to hurt you, and of course if it’s so important to you, we’ll have the wedding wherever you like, in your father’s potting shed if you want to—’
‘Oh Charles,’ said Grace, her resolution to review their marriage, their relationship, wavering in the f
ace of such a retreat, ‘Charles, I—’
He dropped the flowers then, just dropped them on the floor, and stood up, held out his arms; she went into them, and he held her and she began to feel warmed, soothed, to think that after all he might be right: at which point Betty walked in with a coffee tray, said sorry, backed out again, still with the tray, and Charles released Grace, went over to Betty and took the tray and said, ‘Please, Mrs Marchant, please come in and join us.’
‘Oh,’ said Betty, ‘oh, but I don’t want to interfere.’
‘You’re not,’ he said, ‘you never interfere. You’re a model mother-in-law.’
Betty turned pink with pleasure.
‘I was just saying,’ said Charles carefully, ‘that I do understand how Grace feels about the reception.’
In the end, of course, Charles and the Bennetts had their way; the arguments were too powerful, and Betty was halfway to being persuaded already.
‘It is Charles’s day too, dear,’ she said to Grace, ‘and our house isn’t big enough. Oh, dear, if only we’d bought the Manor House at Norton Bradley, we were going to, you know, about ten years ago, that would have done beautifully –’
Grace agreed that it would; since they hadn’t, and before a great deal more discussion had ensued, she heard herself agreeing – not only with Charles and her mother but her father as well – that it really would be much more sensible to have the wedding reception at the Priory after all. And was left with the sense she had been manoeuvred with considerable skill into a corner where she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.
‘My sister’s coming down to stay for a few days,’ said Charles to Grace one evening. ‘Apparently she’s not terribly well. Maybe she’s preggers,’ he added, brightening up. ‘About time, I must say. Anyway, that’ll be nice, we haven’t seen her since we got engaged.’
Grace tried hard to look cheerful about Florence’s visit, and hoped that if Florence was indeed pregnant, it might soften her a little.
Florence arrived on a Friday evening by train; Muriel went to meet her and then insisted she went straight to bed, before announcing to Charles and Grace over supper that Florence was indeed having a baby. ‘In the spring. Not very good timing, I’m afraid, for the wedding. We may have to juggle with dates a bit.’
She sounded rather stern about it; Grace’s sympathies were for the first time with Florence. She could hardly be expected to have planned the conception of her child around a wedding that had not even been considered at the time.
Grace went over to the Priory again next morning. Florence was lying on a sofa in the morning room, and managed a wan smile and a half-hearted expression of pleasure to her on the engagement. ‘About time he settled down anyway,’ she said. ‘We all thought he never would, that no one would have him.’
Grace tried not to feel as if she was the last in a very long line of girls under consideration by Charles, and smiled back at Florence. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and congratulations to you, too. How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible,’ said Florence, ‘but thank you. I’m certainly not doing this again in a hurry.’ She did look dreadful, very pale and drawn, with great shadows under her eyes; she picked miserably at her food at lunch, said she was alternately too hot and too cold, snapped endlessly at her parents, at Charles, and even down the phone at Robert.
Grace felt terribly sorry for him.
They were all sitting down to tea when there was the sound of tyres in the drive and a loud jangling on the bell; Maureen came in and said, ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Compton Brown, Madam.’ There was a great scurry of footsteps in the hall and then the door opened wider and an extremely pretty girl appeared, swathed in fox furs and a black hat tipped rakishly over one eye, followed by a young man in a rather loud tweed suit.
‘Darling Moo,’ cried the girl, rushing up to Muriel and hugging her, ‘and Charlie, sweetheart, and Florence, oh what luck, and you must be Grace. How lovely to meet you—’
‘Clarissa, my dear!’ said Muriel. ‘How lovely to see you, and Jack, how are you?’ She was flushed and smiling with pleasure; it was the first time Grace had ever seen her display any warmth or emotion. Charles on the other hand, she noticed, was looking rather heavy and tense; Clarissa, whoever she was, was obviously not such a favourite of his.
‘We’re both fine, on our way back to London. We’ve been visiting my darling old godmother and I said to Jack that you were only a teeny bit out of the way, didn’t I, Jack, we must go and see them, and here we are. Where’s my special sweetheart then?’
‘I’m here,’ said Clifford, coming in, giving Clarissa a hug. ‘You naughty girl, why haven’t you been before?’
‘Oh, you know, it’s a long way from London, well, Florence knows that, don’t you, darling, and of course we were away when you had your lovely party, and we’re so busy you wouldn’t believe it, so much to do, just bought a new house, perfectly lovely, in Campden Hill Square. You must come and see it, all of you, we’re going to have a huge party when it’s done, I’m not taking any notice of all this war nonsense…’
Jack came over to Grace and held out his hand. ‘How do you do. Jack Compton Brown.’ She liked him; he was extremely handsome, with very dark hair and quite extraordinarily blue eyes.
‘How do you do.’ She couldn’t think what else to say, just stood there, smiling at him.
‘Congratulations,’ he said, ‘on your engagement. We were so pleased when we read the announcement. Clarissa meant to write, but she’s – well, she’s very busy.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Grace, ‘Anyway, we’ve been swamped with letters, I’m still answering them.’
‘Jack, come and talk to me! It’s so nice to see you both.’ Even Florence sounded more cheerful. Whoever these people were, Grace thought, they were obviously very important to the family.
Clarissa came over to Grace, kissed her. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I’ve known Charlie so long. It’s so nice to meet you.’
She was extremely and unusually pretty, with blonde hair and (rather surprisingly) brown eyes, and thick creamy skin. She had slithered out of her furs and was wearing a blue woollen dress; she was very slim, with, Grace noted miserably – oh how she would love to be like Clarissa – a full bosom and long slender legs.
‘It’s nice to meet you too,’ she said rather feebly.
‘I expect Charlie’s told you all about me,’ said Clarissa, settling down beside her, biting into a buttery crumpet.
‘Well – a bit,’ said Grace uncertainly. It seemed rather rude to say he hadn’t.
‘Oh,’ said Clarissa. It was her turn to look uncertain, to flush even.
‘Oh I see. Never mind. I just thought he would have done. Silly of me. Well, it was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Florence?’
‘What was?’ said Florence. ‘God, I feel awful. I think I might be sick again.’
‘Darling, why? You’re not in the club, are you? Oh what heaven. Jack, did you realize, Florence is in the pudding club, isn’t it exciting? Darling, where’s the gorgeous father-to-be?’
‘He’s in London,’ said Florence. She sounded rather sulky. ‘He couldn’t get down.’
‘Oh how thrilling. When’s it due? I want to hear all about it, what names you’ve chosen, everything. Could I be godmother? Oh, that would be marvellous, do say I can –’
Clarissa seemed to be deliberately making a great deal of Florence’s baby; Grace felt she was grateful for the change of subject from herself and whatever it was Charles might have said about her.
‘You must both stay to supper,’ Muriel said, ‘I simply insist. Stay the night if you like, then you won’t have to do any more driving.’
‘Oh, sweet of you,’ said Clarissa, ‘but honestly we do have to get back. But may we come and stay soon? And Florence, I’m going to come and see you lots in London, knit some bootees for you, all that sort of thing.’
‘Please do,’ said Florence. ‘I’d love it. Not the bootees so much, just the company.’
Pregnancy, Grace thought, seemed to be softening Florence, making her nicer.
They stayed for an hour or so, and then Clarissa stood up. ‘Come along, Jack darling, time to hit the road, it’s such a long way. Clifford dearest, I’d so adore some advice on our garden in town. It’s tiny, but so sweet, not much more than a sort of courtyard really. Now what would you suggest? I’ve got a man coming to see me on Monday, just to talk shrubs and things, do you have any books or anything?’
‘Oh, plenty,’ said Clifford. ‘Come along with me to my study and I’ll sort a couple out. Courtyards, now let me see…’
He got up and went out of the room, Clarissa holding his arm. After a few minutes, Charles got up too and followed them. Grace watched him go, feeling rather miserable, and tried, without very much success, to concentrate on what Jack was saying to her, which seemed to be a lot of boring detail about their recent holiday in France.
Ten minutes later Clifford came in, smiling and shaking his head in mock despair, obviously over something Clarissa had said or done. ‘What a girl!’ he said, ‘Mad as a hatter. Jack, you’ve got your marching orders, she wants to go.’
‘Right,’ said Jack, jumping up. ‘Go we must. Goodbye, Grace, I hope to see you again soon—’
‘Oh, I’ll come out and say goodbye,’ said Grace, and followed him out to the drive; Clarissa and Charles weren’t there. She turned and walked dejectedly back into the house, through the hall, and saw them suddenly, standing in the morning room, talking intently, their backs to her, looking out of the window at the dark garden.
‘—felt so awful,’ Clarissa was saying, ‘so stupid and tactless.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Charles, ‘but—’
‘Charlie, you really should have told her. Ages ago. I can’t understand it. And what about your parents? Surely they—’
‘Clarissa, I was going to. Honestly. My father said the same. But it’s a bit difficult, now it’s gone on so long—’
Forbidden Places Page 6
