by Jo Walton
“I am under no obligation to Miss Maynard, I have made her no offer, nor has she led me to believe one would be welcome. In so far as her parents think chivalry demands that I propose because to some degree I endangered her at the rally, exactly the same applies to you.”
Now I understood him, and he saw immediately that I did.
“How would you like not just to introduce me to your uncle, but to make him one of the family?” he asked. “I want a wife, and you’ll suit me personally a great deal better than Betsy Maynard ever would. Would you care to be Lady Bellingham, Cinderella? Would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
“I can’t possibly get engaged before I’m presented,” I said. Even as I was saying it I knew I didn’t want to be engaged to him, or married to him, or to anyone. The thought of being married in my first season and one of the first of the year to be engaged was enticing, and the thought of being Lady Bellingham and taking precedence of Mrs. Maynard was tempting, but none of it would have been compensation for being married to Sir Alan instead of going to Oxford. Oxford lay before me like a vision of punts and green willows and dreaming spires—and more importantly books, and talk about books, and young men who were interested in the same things I was and really liked me. Every girl is supposed to be swept off her feet at her first proposal. We’d even been taught how to deal with it, in Switzerland. But like a lot of Leni’s teaching, it wasn’t as much practical use as it might have been. There hadn’t been anything about how to deal with a man laying things out and making as baldly self-interested an offer as this.
“We could certainly wait a week to make the announcement,” Sir Alan said, encouragingly.
“Sir Alan, I’m quite taken aback. I must have time to think,” I said. I almost said “This is so sudden,” the way girls are always supposed to. It really was sudden, and I really was taken aback. “I don’t think I can agree to this. No. I really must decline your very kind offer.”
That last sentence was what Leni had told us to say.
“I’ll certainly give you time to consider,” Sir Alan said. “You don’t know what you’re saying now, that’s clear. Talk to your uncle about it—talk to Miss Maynard if you like, though I’d prefer for obvious reasons that you didn’t talk to Mrs. Maynard.”
“I wouldn’t give her the time of day,” I said, without thinking. It was a Cockney expression, and it made him laugh.
“Oh, Cinderella, we could suit each other very well, you know,” he said, coaxingly.
“Why do you always call me Cinderella?” I asked. “I don’t believe you know my actual name.”
“Miss Royston,” he said, but I could see from his rueful look that I’d caught him out.
“What’s the rest of it?” I pressed. “Good gracious, Sir Alan, do you often propose to girls whose names you don’t even know?”
“Ellen? Elspeth?” he ventured. “No. What is it? I always think of you as Cinderella. And you call me Sir Alan, so formal.”
“Elvira,” I said. I wasn’t actually cross about that at all, I thought it was funny, but I was further from agreeing to marry him than I ever had been.
“Elvira, of course. How could I forget something so uncommon?”
“I can’t marry you,” I said.
“We’ll talk about it next week, after you’ve been presented, and when you’ve spoken to your uncle,” he said. “I hope to take you up on your promise to introduce me to him, whether you accept or not.”
“I think you ought to take me back to the ballroom,” I said.
“Before midnight, of course, when your carriage turns back into a pumpkin,” he said, smoothly.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I won’t kiss you, as you haven’t agreed,” he said. “But let me do this.” He took a piece of string out of his pocket and before I had any idea what he intended, he took hold of my left hand and used it to measure the circumference of my ring finger. Then he kissed the back of my hand, like d’Artagnan. I’m afraid I just stared at him. My hand tingled when he let it go. Everyone in the room was looking, which I’m sure was what he intended.
“Should I congratulate you, Alan?” Sir John called.
“Not just yet, Sir John,” Sir Alan said.
Christine giggled. I stood up and left.
Sir Alan escorted me back to the ballroom without speaking, and took me back to where Mrs. Maynard was sitting. Betsy was sitting by her mother. He bowed to both of them, and moved on. “Why, Sir Alan!” Mrs. Maynard said, but he was gone.
I gave Betsy a look, and I’m sure my cheeks were heated in any case. We ducked out to the cloakroom. We surprised the maid, who was sitting down reading a battered copy of the old scientifiction novel Nineteen Seventy-Four. I’d loved that book when I’d found it in the school library, and I’d have loved to have talked to her about it, but she whisked it under a cushion and stood up as soon as she saw us.
I was a little inhibited in the maid’s presence, but Betsy didn’t seem to notice her. “What happened?” she asked. “You drew him off ever so well.”
“A bit too well,” I said, powdering my face, which needed it. “He proposed.”
“No! Did you accept?”
“I turned him down, and he said he’d ask again after we were presented. I’m not going to marry him! I only drew him off because you asked me to. But if we let him carry on thinking I might until next week, I don’t think he could possibly propose to you after that. He practically cut your mother just then.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Betsy said, kissing my cheek, and looking as pretty as she ever did. “Thank you so much. I don’t know how you did it, but it’s simply splendid.”
“I want to tell you all about it, when we get home,” I said, with a glance at the maid, who was pretending to straighten some cottonwool tufts in a box. “Couldn’t you tell your mother your arm was aching and you needed some medicine so we could get away?”
16
Carmichael had always hated giving press interviews, even when the press only really consisted of newspapers and he had information on a case to give them. Now that the press included the BBC, and what he had to give them was so often propaganda, he hated them ten times worse. Nevertheless he had agreed to go to their Central London location on Sunday evening to be interviewed for the prestigious This Week television program. The Prime Minister liked it, and what Normanby commanded, Carmichael did, especially this week. They needed each other.
He sat back in the chair with his eyes closed and allowed the makeup girls to dab at his face with a powder puff, trying not to think about what a fool it made him look. They fussed with him quite impersonally, as if he were a doll. “What do you think, Muriel, a bit more number two under the eyes?” He tried to relax. At least he used to be able to glare at the press and answer or ignore their shouted questions. He could leave when he wanted to leave. Now they had him over a barrel, and before the nation. “Right, sir, that’s you ready, do try not to rub your face if you can help it, but we can always touch you up right before you go under if you do.”
He opened his eyes and got out of the chair. Jackie Hardcastle, Mr. Bannon’s assistant, was waiting. “Oh good, you’re ready, Mr. Carmichael,” she said. “Now it’ll be going out live, as usual, you’re used to that, aren’t you, you won’t let the camera worry you? The other men this week will be the Japanese general—we couldn’t get the prince, and he doesn’t speak any English anyway—and the Home Secretary, and the Duke of Windsor. Now we’re expecting the focus of the program to be on the peace conference, but the question of the riots is bound to come up, people would wonder otherwise, so be prepared on that one as well.”
“The Duke of Windsor!”
“It’ll be his first television appearance anywhere,” Jackie said proudly. “Quite a coup for Antony.”
Who had authorized that? Carmichael tried to smile, and felt the makeup caking his face. “Well, thank you, Jackie, you’re very efficient as usual. I don’t know what Mr. Banno
n would do without you.”
She looked down modestly. “I’ve been with him so many years I really do think he’d have trouble getting by without me now,” she admitted. “I’ve been with him ever since he was an actor manager, you know, long before he got into television.”
“I was at Hamlet,” Carmichael said. He remembered meeting Jackie then, a younger Jackie, but just as efficient and no less harried.
“Oh. Yes, of course you were. Well, you know all about it then. He’s never acted since, you know, but he made himself this whole new career. Do try not to be angry with him if he gets the teensiest bit sharp with you about the question of the riots.” She looked at him imploringly. “It doesn’t do any good with the viewers if you’re angry. It doesn’t play well.”
“You mean Mr. Bannon is going to lacerate me about the riots on camera,” Carmichael said. “Thank you for the warning. I know it’s not your fault, and I’ll cope, don’t worry about me. I’ll be calm.”
Jackie looked dubious, but moved on. “You’ll all be sitting there, and you’ll all get one introductory question, which after you’ve answered he won’t reply to, so don’t make your response a question. Then he’ll chat with each of you in turn, but bringing in the others as seems appropriate. The idea is to give the illusion of a quite natural conversation, but if you want to say something when it isn’t your turn, signal Antony so the cameras can be ready. Now I can’t let you see questions in advance, because he prides himself on being quite spontaneous,” she said, glancing down at her notes. “I’m sorry, he hasn’t quite decided on the order for today, but you’ll probably be first after the opening speeches. Remember, he might ask you something at any time—you can’t sneak away after he’s done with you. In any case, you have to sit there and remember you might be in view in the back of a shot.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Come and sit down then, while I go and collect the others,” Jackie said. “We’ve got five minutes if you want a cup of tea or to pop into the lav, but that’s all we’ve got.”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Carmichael said, and went obediently through the swinging doors onto the brightly lit set.
The studio was huge. In the center was a rectangle set up to simulate a sitting room, with a Turkey carpet, five wing chairs arranged companionably, and a low table with a pot plant. Around this oasis of supposed normality were huge lights and lines marked with tape. Huge wheeled cameras, each with their operator riding on the back, hovered at all angles. The operators kept shouting to each other in a language that seemed to be largely composed of numbers. Carmichael made his way between them, feeling like a very small David amid an army of hostile Goliaths. Great boom microphones hung in the air above each chair. “And that’s the last of the sound checks!” echoed across the room to scattered laughter.
Three of the chairs in the center were empty, but one was occupied by Tibs Cheriton, the Duke of Hampshire and Home Secretary, and another by the Japanese gentleman Carmichael had seen the night before in the Caravan Club. Carmichael blinked and wondered if it really was the same man or if he was being taken in by all Orientals looking alike. “Tibs, General,” Carmichael said, quietly, so as not to disturb the sound checks. The General gave a nod that was half a bow. “Nakajima,” he said. “And you must be Carmichael. I’m pleased to meet you,” he added, in an American drawl. “I think I saw you last night, didn’t I, but we haven’t met properly.”
Carmichael smiled as best he could. “Yes, how nice to meet properly at last. What excellent English you speak.”
“I was at Princeton,” General Nakajima said.
“Carmichael,” Tibs said, beckoning him closer. Tibs had aged well. He, like Carmichael, was known as a confirmed bachelor. As a younger man he had seemed willowy and slightly effeminate, but middle age had given him dignity, and the active life he led, hunting and breeding racehorses, had kept him fit. “I do hope they’re not going to interrogate you about the arrests after the riot. It seems to have caused a remarkable amount of difficulty.”
“Yes,” Carmichael said. He was already sweating under the heat of the lights. “The Prime Minister feels very strongly about it.”
“Didn’t like being called a cripple,” Tibs said, succinctly summing it up. “He shouldn’t be so sensitive. Mark is a cripple, he was crippled in a perfectly honorable way. Nothing shameful about it. He should milk it, not try to hide it.”
Carmichael thought it would be indiscreet to say anything at all in response to that.
“Anyway, if he does press you, take the law and order line and if necessary I’ll help you out,” Tibs went on.
“Thank you,” Carmichael said. He took his own seat, as indicated to him by one of the hovering directorial assistants. As he sat down, he noticed a huge clock on the wall in front of him, one with a sweeping second hand. Just then Jackie came out from the other side of the set, a smallish dapper middle-aged man beside her. Although he had seen his profile on stamps and his picture in the papers, it took Carmichael a moment to recognize the Duke of Windsor. He took a seat, leaving the large central seat for Bannon. He exchanged wary nods with Tibs, but ignored the others.
Antony Bannon was no less vain as a television personality than he had been as an actor. His hair was silver, and he had a potbelly—he must have been sixty—but he glided into the room with moments to spare as if he were Romeo about to win his Juliet. The director looked at his watch, nodded to Bannon, and started the countdown as Bannon took his place.
As the director’s hand fell, Bannon stepped onto the stage, beamed confidently at the camera, and began to speak. “Hello, and welcome to This Week, with me, Antony Bannon. And this week, on this Palm Sunday, we have with us four very special guests. Please welcome his royal highness the Duke of Windsor, back in England after a long absence, General Nakajima, head of the Japanese delegation to this week’s peace conference, the Home Secretary, his grace the Duke of Hampshire, and the Commander of the Watch, Mr. Carmichael.” Carmichael tried to smile when his name was called, knowing the cameras would be pointed in his direction, trying not to pay attention to their movements and angling.
Bannon seated himself gracefully, and turned to the Duke of “Windsor.
“So, Your Highness, how does it feel to be back in England after all this time?” Bannon asked, turning his beam full on the Duke.
“Very good. Very good indeed. Nowhere is as green as England in the spring, you know, nowhere in the world. I’m very pleased to be here, I’ve missed it a great deal. There are a lot of changes, of course, some for the better, and some, well, some adoption of Continental ways that I have to say has surprised me. But I’m certainly very pleased to be back in my own country.”
Carmichael thought he sounded more as if he thought he owned the country, but that could have been because he knew about the plot.
“General Nakajima, this is your first visit to England. How do you like it so far?”
“The countryside is mighty pretty,” the General said, in his American accent. “And London sure is entertaining. I’m here for the peace conference. The wars are over, at long last. Maybe all the wars are over. We have the Atomic Bomb now, to keep the peace. We’ve lived through the era of Total War. Maybe now we’re entering the era of Total Peace.”
Bannon blinked, but kept his composure and turned to Carmichael. “Commander Carmichael, the Watch hasn’t been very popular this week, has it?”
Carmichael braced himself to look resolute. “Not very popular, perhaps. It isn’t our job to be popular; it’s our job to keep the country safe.”
“And how do you feel about that, your grace?” Bannon asked Tibs. “Do you feel, as Home Secretary, that the Watch has overstepped itself this week?”
“As Mr. Carmichael said, the Watch acts to keep us all safe. And the Watch acts under political oversight, mine and the Prime Minister’s. If there’s any chance of them overstepping the line, we rein them in as soon as we can.”
Thanks f
or that vote of confidence, Tibs, Carmichael thought. Bannon turned to him again.
“Rioting in Central London isn’t what we’ve come to expect, though, is it?” Bannon asked. “Windows smashed in Oxford Street, nine deaths, numerous injuries—how did that happen?”
Carmichael hoped his sweat didn’t show, as all the huge blind eyes of the cameras seemed to turn to him. “The Ironsides rally had all the proper permits. Such rallies have been taking place in London since 1931, and the last time we had any real problem with violence or rioting at one was in 1952. We had no reason to expect anything would be different last Tuesday. The Metropolitan Police granted the permits without hesitation. These rallies and torchlit parades are a normal part of London life. We believe that what happened was a small number of agitators—who have been dealt with severely—worked quite hard to turn a peaceful happy event into a not.”
“So this was an aberration caused by agitators?” Bannon asked, smiling and looking quite friendly.
“I believe so, yes, probably to cause trouble in advance of the peace conference.” Carmichael smiled at the General, who smiled back. “Order was restored quite quickly, and the agitators dealt with.”
Bannon smiled again, sharklike. “But the way those agitators have been dealt with has also been causing problems, hasn’t it? Many people say those arrested were not agitators but ordinary British people, their families and friends, who were caught up by mistake. They don’t want them sent off to the camps on the Continent like criminals.”
“Then their relatives and friends shouldn’t have crossed the law,” Carmichael said. “Innocent people were arrested in the heat of the moment, certainly, and we have screened and are screening the suspects very closely to separate the sheep from the goats. By now, most of the sheep are back on the streets of London. Only the goats are getting what they deserve.”
“The scapegoats,” the Duke of Windsor interrupted. Cameras abandoned Carmichael and swung around to catch him. “One of the things that surprised me on my return was that England was resorting to shipping off her criminals and her Jews to the camps on the Continent; often, as in this case, without even a trial, instead of dealing with them ourselves at home. Is this in our great tradition of justice?”
