Thrones, Dominations

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Peter had also personal peculiarities to be reckoned with. His physical fitness had sometimes puzzled Harriet. Though he could, when called upon, ride, swim and play cricket, he bore none of the obvious stigmata of the sports addict; yet he was obviously in first-class training, and, except for an occasional nervous headache, never seemed to be ill. A solution of this problem was offered by Monsieur d’Amboise and Mr Matsu. Harriet preferred the attitude of Monsieur d’Amboise, in spite of his tedious and scarcely credible anecdotes directed to prove his descent from the great Bussy. He treated Peter with a proper respect, and complimented him on his mastery of fence. But Mr Matsu, a wiry Japanese who scarcely reached his pupil’s shoulder, was laconic and sparing of praise. One had imagined Peter would be an accomplished ju-jitsu performer, until one saw Mr Matsu throw him effortlessly about like a brisk housemaid handling a clumsy eiderdown. Mr Matsu had seen nothing of Peter for some months, and affected to find him gravely deteriorated. ‘Can’t be helped, Matsu,’ said Peter, writhing under the vigorous attentions of the masseur. ‘I don’t get any younger, you know.’

  ‘Not too old,’ replied Mr Matsu, brutally. ‘Too much restaurant, too much automobile, too much lady wife.’

  ‘You be damned,’ said Peter; and in the next bout put Mr Matsu on his back for nearly six seconds.

  ‘Better,’ said Mr Matsu, extricating himself, ‘but please not to lose temper; very disadvantageous to lose temper in sustained encounter.’

  Then there was a whole series of fads and absurdities: the interminable dawdling in the bathroom; the agonised fuss over a pimple or a carelessly rolled umbrella; the haunting and irrational terror of being some day obliged to wear false teeth which sent my lord post-haste to the dentist at the first sign of trouble, breaking every engagement to be encountered in his headlong flight. There were the incunabula and piano, whose health involved the daily taking of temperatures in library and music-room; there was the passion for ritual that set ten feet of mahogany between husband and wife at a solitary meal and that prefaced any request for Harriet’s presence in another part of the house by the dispatch of a footman with compliments. And there was the preposterous contrast between Peter’s diffidence as a husband and his confidence as a lover, so that his bedside manner displayed no inhibitions but only an infinite series of courtesies; while his hatred of any exhibition of feeling in public was only equalled by his shattering frankness in the disregarded presence of his own servants.

  Lady Peter Wimsey, thoughtfully chewing her cigarette-holder, paused in her writing and stared out of the window. She had begun to realise why marriage is sometimes a handicap to a novelist’s career. The emotion of love – fulfilled and satisfactory love at any rate – does not stimulate the creative imagination, but puts it to sleep. Hence, she supposed, the dearth of really cheerful poems about love in any language. She had wasted a great deal of her working time that morning owing to sheer inability to concentrate. This afternoon she had sat down determined to get the chapter finished. It was raining remorselessly, so that there was no temptation to go out; and Peter had gone to keep a business appointment, so that, being out of sight, he might be presumed to be out of mind. In the little room adjoining Harriet’s study Miss Bracy the secretary sat before the silent typewriter, reproachfully knitting a jumper. Miss Bracy always looked reproachful when there was no manuscript for her to get on with. She was a quick and efficient worker, and it was very difficult to keep her supplied.

  Cormorant! thought Harriet. She lit a fresh cigarette and squared her elbows, preparing to tackle afresh her detailed and scientific description of a ten-day-old corpse as it appeared when removed by the police from the city reservoir. It was a subject well calculated to dispel daydreams.

  But like Dr Donne at his prayers she was in a mood to neglect her occupation ‘for the noise of a Flie, for the ratling of a Coach, for the whining of a door . . .’ A jingling of harness and a clatter of hooves under the window were sounds unusual enough to merit investigation. She looked out. A brougham with a rotund coachman and two fat, shining horses, passed and drew up before the door. It was evident that something of a portentous sort was coming to call – something that would never have called on Miss Harriet Vane, but was liable at any moment to descend without warning upon Lady Peter Wimsey. Her ladyship, repressing Miss Vane’s natural inclination to crane her head out of the window, laid down the author’s pen and wondered whether she was suitably dressed to receive whatever fairy godmother should descend from this pumpkin equipage.

  The card came in on a salver.

  ‘The Countess of Severn and Thames, my lady. Is your ladyship at home?’

  Obviously one must be at home to Lady Severn, who was of fabulous age and terrifying reputation. Harriet said faintly that she was at home, and had sufficient presence of mind not to bolt out into the hall, but to wait until the formidable antediluvian had had time to ascend into the drawing-room and recover breath.

  When, after this suitable interval, she followed, she found Lady Severn seated bolt upright on the sofa, her hands crossed upon a crutch-handled stick and her eyes fixed implacably upon the door. The room was large, and Harriet, crossing it, felt unusually conscious of her own arms and legs; yet the novelist in her registered the visitor at once as a frowsy little old vulture in a black velvet toque.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Harriet. ‘Please don’t get up. It is very kind of you to call.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ retorted Lady Severn. ‘Sheer curiosity. It’s the only pleasant vice I have left. I was ninety last week, so I can do as I like. Thank you, yes; I am wearing quite well. I came to see what Peter had married, that’s all.’

  ‘But it is very kind of you,’ said Harriet. ‘You might so easily have sent for me.’

  ‘So I might,’ said Lady Severn, ‘only Peter would have come trailing along to protect his property. As it is, I happen to know he’s out of the way.’

  ‘He will be very sorry to have missed you.’

  ‘Very likely. H’m. Well, you seem to have a sensible sort of face with eyebrows in it. Eyebrows have gone out; I’m sick of looking at human eggs. You’ve got plenty of bone. Your skin looks healthy, if it’s natural.’

  ‘It is, except for a little powder.’

  ‘H’m. You’ll do. Helen Denver is a fool. Well, how do you like it?’

  ‘Like what, Lady Severn?’

  ‘Being part of the Wimsey Estate.’

  ‘Peter doesn’t treat me as part of the estate.’

  ‘I suppose not. He always had good manners. An excellent bedside manner too, or so they tell me.’

  Harriet said gravely, ‘I don’t think they ought to have told.’

  In spite of herself, the corners of her mouth twitched and the vulture chuckled again.

  ‘You’re quite right, my dear, they oughtn’t. You won’t tell, I can see. Never tell me anything; I always repeat it. Are you in love with him?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t mind having that repeated.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you marry him sooner?’

  ‘Obstinacy,’ said Harriet, and this time she grinned openly.

  ‘Humph! You’re probably the first woman that ever kept him waiting. What do you do with him, now you’ve got him, hey? Lick his toes, or make him sit up and beg?’

  ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘Honest dealing,’ said the old lady, sharply. ‘A man’s none the better for being fretted to fiddle-strings. You’re going to amuse me. Most of these young women are very dull. They either take offence or think I’m a scream. What do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ said Harriet, feeling she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, ‘you are behaving like a character in a book. And I think you are doing it on purpose.’

  ‘That’s rather shrewd of you,’ said the vulture.

  ‘When I put you in a book,’ pursued Harriet, ‘I shall make that aspect of your psychology quite clear.’

  ‘All right,’ said Lady Severn. ‘I’ll take six
copies. And I’ll promise to live till it’s published. Are you going to have any children, or only books?’

  ‘Well,’ said Harriet, reasonably, ‘it’s easier to be definite about books. I mean, I know I can produce books.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Lady Severn, and proved that she did see by adding, ‘Good girl. You must come and see my Siamese cats. I breed ’em. I have six children, ten grandchildren, and only three great-grandchildren. Cats are more reliable.’

  ‘I expect it’s simpler for them,’ suggested Harriet. ‘No economic problems, and no prolonged connubial life.’

  ‘You’re wrong there,’ said Lady Severn, triumphantly. ‘The Siamese kind are very monogamous. So’s Peter, but everybody doesn’t know that. Did you know it?’

  ‘I suspected it. I hope you will stay to tea.’

  ‘Politeness? Or good, what d’ye call it, copy?’

  ‘That’s the first really rude thing you’ve said to me, Lady Severn.’

  ‘So it is, my dear, and I apologise, but so many people don’t know the difference these days. It’s quite a long time since anyone put me in my place. Very refreshing. I like you,’ she added abruptly. ‘There’s good blood in you somewhere. I don’t care where Peter picked you up, or what you did. I wish I were younger. I’d enjoy taking you about, and seeing people’s faces. I suppose you know you’re the worst-hated woman in London?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,’ said Harriet. ‘Do you think it will be good for sales?’

  The vulture laughed – a baritone chuckle. ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘And yes, I should like some tea. Proper tea. Not this Chinese stuff that tastes of damp hay. While it’s coming you can show me the house. Stairs? Rubbish. I’ve still got the use of my limbs.’

  Lady Severn’s criticisms had their own pungency. ‘What do you call this? The drawing-room? Oh, the music-room. Peter’s music, I imagine. That’s the piano he had in the flat. Ever let you touch it? Oh, you don’t play; well, I shouldn’t begin, if I were you . . . Oh, yes, the library. Very handsome. Peter’s books, no doubt. Where do you keep yours? I suppose you have a little dog-kennel to yourself somewhere?’

  ‘We both use this,’ said Harriet mildly. ‘I have a separate study on the ground floor, and Peter has a little room for interviewing architects and agents and policemen and people. The Dowager Duchess arranged it all beautifully.’

  ‘Peter’s mother? I hope she consulted you occasionally. I like Honoria, but she always was a perfect fool about Peter . . . Housekeeper’s room? Nonsense, of course I’m going in. Dear me, it’s Trapp. How are you, Trapp? Keeping his lordship in order, I hope. Thanks; if my asthma wasn’t better, I shouldn’t be here . . . Yes; I thought that pretentious staircase would stop at the first floor – these Georgian houses are all alike . . . Whose bedroom? Yours? That bed’s a good specimen. Those curtains are unhealthy.’

  ‘But they’re beautiful, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, they are, but it seems unnatural for your generation not to be faddy about fresh air. Or is there a new fad for stuffiness coming in?’

  ‘I’ve never lived among really beautiful things,’ said Harriet by way of apology for the curtains.

  ‘No, I suppose not. What was your father? Country doctor or something? No, there wouldn’t be much in the way of William and Mary bedsteads. And the lodgings in Bloomsbury? When you lived with that poet person, which of you paid the rent?’

  She shot the question out so suddenly that Harriet was quite taken aback. After a moment’s hesitation she said quietly, ‘The expenses were shared.’

  ‘Humph! I shouldn’t mind betting I know which of you took the heavy end of the load. Never mind, child, I’m not asking you to give the man away. Were you in love with him?’

  ‘I realise now that I wasn’t. But he’s dead now, and please may we leave him alone?’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me. My lover died fifty years ago. Nobody knew about him, which was good luck. But I was in love with him, and that was bad luck. Does Peter manage to let the poor dead poet creature alone?’

  ‘He has never mentioned him.’

  ‘Then don’t you go digging him up. Let him be. And let Peter’s women be . . . wallowing in remorse is pure self-indulgence. Don’t do it. Who sleeps in here? Why on earth do you put the head housemaid next to that man of Peter’s? Nobody could possibly be as respectable as that man looks,’ and, giving the door a peremptory knock, she marched straight in.

  ‘I don’t know whether Bunter is . . .’ Harriet protested, but Bunter, knowing her ladyship, had clearly taken care not to be there. Lady Severn made a rapid inspection. In spite of her sense of decorum, Harriet, who had never before been in the room, looked round too.

  ‘I’ve always wondered whether that man had any private life,’ said Lady Severn. ‘Who are all the photographs? His wives and families?’

  ‘I expect they are his brothers and sisters. He has six, including Meredith.’

  ‘Your butler? Is he married? Oh, yes, here he is, with three children. What’s become of them?’

  ‘They’re in service, I believe.’

  ‘Who took all these photographs of Peter?’

  ‘Bunter; photography is his hobby.’

  ‘You’d think he saw enough of Peter without eight photographs. I suppose it’s a kind of craze. It’s a pity Peter isn’t better looking, it’ll come so hard on the girls. What’s on this floor? The footman? That good-looking young man? You keep your eye on him. Human nature’s human nature. And the two other maids together? Well, keep your eye on them all the same. Your linen-closet might be worse . . . I hope your cook doesn’t take advantage of that electric fire. In my day, cooks didn’t expect luxuries and expensive electricity . . . What are you going to do with those two rooms, hey?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet thoughtfully. ‘We might keep rabbits here, don’t you think?’

  ‘Rabbits?’ cried Lady Severn in some alarm. ‘Good heavens, child, don’t take it into your head to have quads or quins or anything vulgar. Making a man look a fool. That kind of thing should be kept for the zoological gardens. Don’t you even dream of rabbits. With all this subconsciousness going about, it’s not safe. And don’t have anything you don’t fancy. I don’t care what Denver says, or Peter either. Men are a lot of Pharisees – always binding heavy burdens for women to carry. A bunch of silly peacocks. I ought to know. I’ve had a husband and three sons and two grandsons and more lovers than most people know about, and there’s not a halfpenny to choose between ’em.’ She broke off abruptly. ‘I want my tea.’

  In the drawing-room they found not only tea, but Peter, who started like a guilty thing, and said, ‘Dear Lady Severn,’ in a voice faint with apprehension.

  ‘Humph!’ said Lady Severn. ‘I came to inspect, and I’ve remained to tea. I like your wife. She’s not afraid of me. Are you treating her properly? You look disgustingly smug, and you’re fatter in the face than you used to be. I hope you’re not battening on her. I hate husbands who batten. Sit down, man.’

  ‘Yes, Godmamma . . .’

  (So it was a fairy godmother, after all, in the pumpkin coach . . .)

  Harriet poured tea, while Peter began a long series of enquiries about Lady Severn’s extensive family and acquaintance, unto the third and the fourth generations, and including the generations of her cats. He seemed determined to keep the conversation on the enemy’s home ground through cucumber sandwiches, and fruit cake, and a fresh pot of tea.

  But eventually he made a strategic error: ‘It is very good to see you here, Godmamma. Do you approve of the house?’

  ‘You’ll be able to manage for a few years,’ said Lady Severn, graciously. ‘What are you going to call the children?’

  ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,’ said Peter, rather deliberately not catching Harriet’s eye. ‘Jemima, Kezia, and Keren-happuch. After that we shall begin on the nine muses and the kings of Israel and Judah. And then there are still the major and minor prophe
ts and the eleven thousand virgins of Cologne. Your carriage is waiting, Godmamma, and the horses are catching cold.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the vulture. ‘And you needn’t try smiling sideways and waving your eyelashes at me; it won’t work. Ever since some idiot told you you had charm you go about practising it. Well, don’t. It’s silly and it’s wasted on me. You’re not my white-headed boy.’

  ‘Isn’t he?’ said Harriet. ‘Do you know, you quite gave me the impression that he was.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Peter. ‘I knew we’d have to go through the hoop one day soon, but I never thought she’d come in person. She never puts herself out for people. She must have been suffering agonies of inquisitiveness for the last three months. She was mercifully laid up for the wedding – safe in bed in Devon. Was she very awful to you?’

  ‘No. I don’t mind her.’

  ‘I do. I had the most frightful grilling, with my head stuck in at the carriage window and the rain coming down on my behind. Vain, selfish, neurotic, never had to do a hand’s turn, married to a girl with twice my guts and expecting her to sit around and hold my hand. Born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and all I could do was to wave it around and strike attitudes. And that damned fool of a footman stood there waiting to hand in the rug and never had the sense to hang it on my cruppers. Is it lumbago or sciatica you get from being lectured in the rain?’

  ‘Floating kidney, I expect, my beautiful.’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, Harriet, my self-respect won’t stand it. There was more. It wasn’t as if I was good-looking. A vapid Apollo had at least a set of features to be conceited about, but why should I give myself airs? Or she may have meant heirs with an H – I didn’t dare ask. I’ve seldom seen the godparent in such form; she must have taken an extraordinary fancy to you. In fact she told me she had.’