‘Thank you,’ said Grace. ‘I’m so sorry about Florence. I’m sure she’ll feel much better soon. And feel like trying again. After all, it’s not as if there was something permanently wrong.’
‘No, you’re quite right,’ he said, ‘but she seems to feel rather hostile towards me. That’s what’s upsetting me most. It’s as if she blames me in some way. Maybe because I wasn’t there, looking after her. I don’t know.’
‘That’s so sad,’ said Grace, ‘but I expect it’s all part of the depression. My mother had a miscarriage once, she said she was depressed for a year afterwards, and felt she disliked absolutely everyone, including my father.’
‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s comforting in a way. Bless you for telling me that. It’s the most helpful thing anyone’s said to me about this whole wretched thing.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘So there might have been another one of you, might there? How delightful for the world that would have been.’
They were walking round the garden in the crisp morning sunshine; he suddenly put his arm round her shoulders, gave her another hug. ‘You’re a lovely girl, Grace,’ he said, ‘such an asset to the family.’ And he bent and kissed her, very gently, on the lips: just a brotherly kiss, nothing more, of course, Grace knew, but it still made her feel awkward. On the other hand, it also made her like him even more; he was so warm and friendly, so unlike Florence and indeed Muriel.
Betty had made her outfit herself, a raspberry silk suit, and bought a navy hat in London; her father had had a new morning suit made at his tailors. Muriel was wearing, she announced firmly, what she had worn to Florence’s wedding: a rather stern-looking dark brown woollen suit, with an even darker hat.
‘It’s as good as new, it was absurdly expensive, and I can’t stand waste. And who’s going to look at me anyway?’
Grace said politely she was sure lots of people would and, try as she might, was rather hurt that Muriel should see buying something to wear for her son’s wedding as wasteful, but it certainly didn’t seem worth arguing about.
Laurence, the blood brother, was to be Charles’s best man.
‘My father’s very sensibly keeping well out of everything,’ said Charles to Grace, laughing, as the wedding fever mounted. ‘He’s spending more time in London than I can ever remember. Pressure of work, he calls it.’
‘Doesn’t your mother mind?’ said Grace, thinking that if she was married to Muriel she would spend all her time in London.
‘I think she’s too busy to mind,’ said Charles. ‘She just says every now and again that she hopes he isn’t going to cause us all a lot of inconvenience by having a heart attack before the wedding.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Grace, looking alarmed.
‘Darling, don’t be silly,’ said Charles, kissing her. ‘Old boy’s fighting fit. Heart’s sound as a bell.’
There were to be three hundred and fifty guests in the end: the Bennett seniors had invited a hundred and fifty, Charles a hundred, Grace and her parents a hundred between them.
‘I wish we had asked more,’ wailed Betty as the final list went over to the Priory. ‘They’ll think we don’t know anyone.’
‘They’ll think we know a hundred people,’ said Frank wearily, ‘which seems quite a lot to me. Dear God, I shall be glad when this damn thing is over.’
He never swore; Grace and Betty looked at him in alarm.
Most of Frank and Betty’s friends had accepted the rationale behind the wedding reception being held at the Priory, but a few clearly felt it was odd. Sometimes as Grace listened to her mother, her voice overbright, explaining how extremely sweet Muriel was, how generous of her to offer her home, how they had planned the whole thing together, and how it would give the wedding much more of a family feeling than holding it at some hotel, she felt her heart ache for her and wished passionately that she had stuck out and insisted on the golf club.
Grace had decided not to have any grown-up bridesmaids; her best friend from school had been married in February at what seemed to Grace a wonderfully uncomplicated, small and charming occasion, and there really wasn’t anyone else she cared enough about, certainly none of the overconfident girls in Charles’s circle, despite a certain amount of gentle pressure from him. Most of them still behaved with a rather distant politeness towards her, and displayed what she could only describe as slight surprise that the wedding was happening at all. So she had chosen the two small granddaughters of Betty’s best friend, Marion, as attendants (both of them being in possession of the obligatory blonde curls and blue eyes) to be dressed in cascading pink frills. Muriel clearly felt this showing was a little sparse, and had said surely she would like to have a couple of pageboys at least, but Grace had said no, she didn’t know any little boys, and she certainly wasn’t prepared to have any she didn’t know for the sake of form. She was actually quite surprised to hear herself utter these words: as the wedding grew nearer, she found it increasingly hard to stand up to Muriel.
She was haunted by all the usual terrors: that Charles would not turn up, that her mother would sob so loudly throughout the service that no one would be able to hear anything else, that she herself would fall over, fluff her lines, drop her bouquet. One night she actually dreamt her knickers fell down on the way up the aisle. Charles on the other hand didn’t seem to be worried about anything at all.
National nervousness echoed her own: Mr Chamberlain’s pledge at the end of March that Britain would go to war to guarantee the independence of Poland was seen as tantamount to a declaration of war itself. The London Evening Standard asked the capital what it would do if a bomb suddenly dropped on it, and although nobody was doing much officially – apart from the crypt at Lambeth Palace being shored up as a possible shelter, and the preparation of gas and bomb-proof cellars at Buckingham Palace for the King and Queen and the little Princesses – everybody was aware of the imminent dangers, and were haunted by them. People old enough to have vivid memories of the First World War – which included the Marchants and the Bennetts – felt they were living through a nightmare, ‘a film I’ve seen before and hated’ as Betty put it, with a second run-up to war. Conscription, everyone said, would be automatic in the event of war. It was not an entirely happy atmosphere in which to be embarking on a new life.
Early in April, Grace decided to go to London. She still hadn’t got a going-away hat to wear with the blue and white silk suit she had bought in Salisbury, and Vogue told her the place to go was Harvey Nichols, in Knightsbridge.
‘It’ll probably be expensive, but I’m only getting married and going away once,’ she said cheerfully to her mother.
She went on her own. Her mother was beginning to get seriously on her nerves, not only echoing all her own anxieties but finding more: supposing it rains, what if Frank’s father (who, it had been decided, could not be invited) found out and insisted on coming anyway, whatever would Mr and Mrs Bennett think of Frank’s Aunt Ada, who was not refined, to put it mildly, and was quite likely to get tipsy and start singing, suppose the bridesmaids didn’t behave properly in church, suppose also none of the Bennetts’ friends spoke to any of their friends, what would happen if and – of course, for this was the what-if that preceded every conversation about every arrangement that spring – what if war was declared before the seventeenth of May?
Grace and her father had an unofficial pact to take it in turns to soothe Betty, but as the date got nearer and Frank’s own nerves about giving his daughter away and making his speech in front of 350 people, three-quarters of them strangers, increased, his temper shortened and any panacea he was able to offer Betty became rather severely rationed.
Grace reached Waterloo at eleven o’clock and took the under ground to Knightsbridge. She had half expected, from everything she had heard and read, to find London in a state of military readiness, with soldiers in uniform, tanks rolling up the streets and sandbags in doorways. What she found were shop windows full of pretty summer clothes, streets busy with well-
dressed people clearly without a thought in the world beyond what they were going to buy or eat next, and a general air of carefreeness. She bought a copy of Tatler to read on the train and learnt that there was a large number of outstandingly pretty girls to be presented to the King and Queen at the beginning of the London season, that the forthcoming Caledonian Ball would be attended by not only the obligatory number of Titles, but possibly also the beautiful young actress Vivien Leigh, fresh from her triumph as Scarlett O’Hara in the already legendary film of Gone with the Wind. Everything suddenly seemed much safer than Grace had thought.
She went first to Harrods, wandered through the lush departments, gazing in awe at things she might buy if she could afford them – most notably a sable coat, a bit like Clarissa’s, and the almost unimaginable magic of a radio and television receiver for twenty-nine guineas – and then walked along Knightsbridge to Harvey Nichols. The hats there were wonderful. Grace finally settled on a straw hat in raspberry pink, which tilted rakishly over her forehead; it was indeed appallingly expensive at two guineas, but she knew Charles would like it.
She bought herself some make-up for the day, too: Coty powder and mascara and an Elizabeth Arden lipstick in a pink just slightly lighter than the hat. All the articles she had read, from Vogue to Woman’s Weekly, had told her not to try to look different from her usual self on her wedding day, but she told herself she could surely look more glamorously familiar. She found herself in the lingerie department, subsequently parting with another three guineas for a shell-pink satin nightdress and swansdown-trimmed bedjacket: appallingly expensive, but it would give her confidence on the honeymoon, make Charles aware that he had married someone special, someone more glamorous than he had perhaps imagined. Finally, feeling slightly shocked at herself, she decided she would have an economical lunch of soup and a sandwich and then take a stroll in Hyde Park before making her way back to Waterloo.
She sat by the Serpentine and watched people rowing past her, some of them laughing helplessly as they lost their oars and were unable to control their boats, walked along by Rotten Row, admired the horses with their superbly turned-out riders. That reminded her of Charles, and her resolve to have him riding again after the wedding; and as she walked on, thinking of him and the wedding that was now so near, she thought how lucky she was, how happy. Her nervousness, her anxiety had vanished in the sunshine, in the carefree extravagance of her day; she wished she could stay for longer, safe from reality.
She had just decided she should get back to Waterloo, catch her train home, was waiting to cross the road in fact, when she saw Florence standing outside the underground station, looking at her watch. She was wearing a very glamorous cream suit, with a fur stole round her shoulders, but she was hatless, her dark hair tumbled on her shoulders. She looked lovely, perfectly well again, though very thin. Of course, her house was quite near here, Grace thought, and was about to try to attract her attention, to wave, to get across the street when someone came up to Florence, a male someone. Grace could not see very clearly what he looked like, only that he was most assuredly not Robert, that he had very fair hair, that he was tall and slim. He took Florence’s hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it just briefly; and watching her, Grace saw Florence’s face change, lighten, saw her smile, an odd, swift, radiant smile. Grace watched first intrigued, then shocked, then almost incredulous as together they crossed the road, onto her side, walked along a little way – not speaking, not touching, but still unmistakably linked, joined, bonded – and disappeared into the haven of the Hyde Park Hotel.
All the way home, Grace felt sick; not just at what she had seen, at what she had known it meant (however hard, at first, she tried to tell herself it did not), but at the implications for herself: should she tell, who should she tell, what would happen if she did? Most of all she minded for Robert, sweet, kind Robert, who had been so genuinely distraught about the miscarriage, so worried and saddened by Florence’s depression, so ready to blame himself. But she thought too of the Bennetts and how shocked and unhappy they would be, of Charles, who in spite of everything loved and admired his sister, and she thought of Florence, of her arrogance, her coldness, her superiority, and reflected that if she so wished she could bring not only such behaviour, but even her marriage itself to her rich, charming, and devoted husband, to an end.
‘Good day, darling?’ asked Charles. He was waiting for her on the platform in Salisbury. ‘How did you find the wicked city?’
‘Wicked,’ said Grace, smiling at him with an effort.
‘And did you get yourself a hat?’
‘Yes.’
‘A horribly expensive, wonderfully flattering hat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it in that box? Can I see it?’
‘Yes. If you really want to.’
‘Of course I don’t. Well I do, but I know I mustn’t. Grace, are you all right? You don’t seem quite yourself?’
And ‘Yes’ she said smiling, determinedly (having decided in that very minute there was nothing she could do or say to make things better, only worse, that it was none of her business anyway what Florence did, what harm she wrought on her life and her marriage), ‘I’m quite all right. But I tell you what, Charles. I’m not really up to all that sophisticated living. It’s awfully nice to be safely back in Wiltshire. I like it much better here.’
‘So do I,’ he said, kissing her tenderly, ‘so do I. Especially if you’re here.’
‘Oh Charles,’ said Grace, feeling simultaneously a wave of love and a sense of remorse, guilt even that she was deceiving him for however good a reason. She put down her parcels, throwing her arms round him, giving him a hug. ‘Oh Charles, I’ll never ever love anyone but you. Never leave you, never ever.’
‘Darling Grace,’ he said, looking down at her, laughing gently, tenderly, ‘I’m very pleased to hear that, but there’s no need to cry about it.’
‘I hope there isn’t,’ said Grace.
They had some wonderful presents. Bed linen, table linen, china, sets of silver; more practical things too, a marvellous set of copper pans for the kitchen, a set of garden chairs, an electric mixer. Florence and Robert had given them a pair of extremely nice silver Georgian candlesticks, which Charles had been especially thrilled with; every time Grace looked at them she saw Florence’s face lit up as she gave her hand to the man in Knights-bridge, and found it impossible to enthuse wholeheartedly with him.
The Bennetts had given them a very fine Queen Anne dining-room table and a large cheque and Betty and Frank had given them the deposit for the house. It was an appallingly extravagant present, and had reduced Grace to tears; but her father had kissed her and said simply that he had been putting some money by for that very purpose ever since she had been born and it would give him immense pleasure to see her living somewhere so lovely. ‘And besides,’ he had said, as she continued to protest, ‘it makes me feel I can make a slightly larger contribution to this marriage of yours.’
That, more than anything else that had been done or said, made Grace realize how excluded her parents felt, no matter how hard they tried to disguise it.
And Clarissa and Jack had given them a ciné camera, which they had delivered themselves.
They had been to stay in Bath with Clarissa’s godmother (who had been unwell and of whom Clarissa was clearly inordinately fond), and had come to Sunday lunch at the Priory on the way back. Grace, who had spent the two weeks leading up to this event feeling almost as sick with nerves as she did about her wedding, suggested that she might not be present at the lunch, that it might be awkward, but Charles had been not only horrified but plainly irritated by this.
‘Of course you must come. Clarissa, and Jack for that matter, will be hurt, think it’s terribly odd. Besides, nothing could be awkward with Clarissa there.’
This was perfectly true; Clarissa talked almost unceasingly through lunch, making them all laugh at her stories of a recent trip to Le Touquet – ‘In someone’s tiny plane, too thri
lling’ – of a big charity ball they had attended, where the committee’s president – ‘huge anyway, my dears, of course’ – had split her dress and had to leave hurriedly ‘before the Tatler photographer arrived, she was sick with misery’; of the ‘frightfully grand gardener’ who had come for an interview, taken one look at her ‘tiny yard’ and left again without even sitting down.
Charles asked her if she had been to see Florence, as she had promised, and Clarissa said yes, she had seen her lots, and she seemed very much better although still awfully thin, poor darling; and was she imagining it, Grace wondered, or was there a slightly evasive note in her voice suddenly? Quite possibly, she thought, insecurity and a helpless hostility towards Clarissa combining to form a hard, tight lump somewhere in her chest, very possibly indeed Clarissa was privy to Florence’s secret, enjoying it, was helping her to deceive Robert, providing alibis. It was the kind of thing she would clearly find exciting and intriguing. Grace thought of Robert’s anxious face when she had last seen him as he talked about Florence, the hug he gave her as he told her she was an asset to the family, and she felt sick.
After lunch, Clarissa asked if they could go over to the Mill House and see it: ‘It sounds lovely, I feel quite ill with envy.’
‘Of course we can,’ said Charles, ‘and we need to have another look at the main bathroom, don’t we, Grace, check out what they’ve done to the flooring?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Grace and then, unable to contemplate another hour of Clarissa’s sparkling, ‘If you don’t mind I’ll stay here, I’ve got a terrible headache.’
‘Oh, you poor, poor thing,’ cried Clarissa, her voice vibrant with the sort of sympathy normally reserved for terminal illness. ‘I have the most marvellous pills in my bag, I carry them always for my migraine. You must have some, Grace, they’ll have you better in no time—’
‘It’s all right,’ said Grace, ‘I have some of my own. Thank you,’ she added, seeing Charles’s face, mildly reproachful, ‘but I really will stay here. You won’t be long, will you?’
Forbidden Places Page 9
