by Anne Weale
Summer shook her head. 'Even Emily, who's very close to him, has never raised that subject. Do you know the reason?'
'Yes, I do—but it was told to me in confidence.' The artist picked up her magnifying glass and came to where Summer was sitting. I'm going to study your eye in detail for a few minutes. Don't try not to blink. Look at the pictures on the wall behind my desk and try to ignore me.'
Knowing that she had been too precipitate in speaking about James's rift with his family, and had been deservedly snubbed for her inquisitiveness, Summer flushed.
'I wasn't sure what to do about eye make-up so I left it off,' she murmured.
'You don't really need it, except perhaps in the evening. You're lucky to have naturally dark eyelashes. I have mine dyed,' said Diana. 'Eye miniatures don't always include the eyebrow but I shall put yours in. They were sometimes framed with a lock of hair at the back. Do you want to have yours made up as a locket or a brooch? Or you could have it mounted to hang as a tiny picture. I'll send you to my favourite framer and let him show you the alternatives.'
While she was making one or two preliminary sketches of Summer's eye from different angles, Mrs Brown brought up two cups of coffee.
Putting aside her pencil to drop two minute white pellets into her cup, Diana said, 'The other day you suggested that I had been James's first love. Am I right in suspecting that you would like to be his last love?'
An even deeper flush suffused Summer's face. 'What makes you think that?'
'Something in your expression when you were looking at the portrait of him—and the fact that, unless he's changed a great deal, it would be difficult not to love him. She paused. 'I did. It began as a friendship, and ended as a love affair. Ending it, as I realised I must, was as painful, in a different way, as losing Ben, my first husband. I loved James with all my heart, but the age gap between us was too great. He was too young to be bound to anyone.'
She sipped her coffee, her hazel eyes kind and understanding as she looked at her sitter over the rim of her cup.
Summer said in a low voice, 'I don't aspire to be James's last love, but yes—I love him. It isn't just idle curiosity which makes me ask if you knew why he seems to have hated his father.'
'Lord Cranmere wasn't his father. James is the son of an American army officer, a hero of the Second World War who ended his career as a four-star General at the Pentagon and, as far as I know, is still alive.'
There was a long pause before Summer said, in a stunned tone, 'So that's why he looks so unlike the rest of the Lancaster's.'
'Yes, and it was because he took after his natural father that his legal father loathed him and made his early life hell for him. Even his mother was never nice to him. He adored her and couldn't understand why she was cold and unloving. In the end he found out—he was a living reminder of her lapse from grace... an affair with the commanding officer of a postwar American base not far from Cranmere.'
At last Summer understood why James had always referred to the Marquess as 'Emily's grandfather', never as 'my father'.
'I don't blame her for that,' Diana continued. 'In the different social climate of those times, she'd been pushed into marriage with a middle-aged man who preferred horses to women but needed an heir. She supplied him with one. Probably she would have had other legitimate children, but my guess is that heavy drinking had made Lord Cranmere impotent. Then, at a hunt ball, she met a dashing American who was everything her husband wasn't. Who can blame her for losing her head? Whether he, being unmarried, tried to persuade her to leave her husband, is something which will never be known. Perhaps he didn't. Being involved in the divorce of a member of the House of Lords, with all the attendant publicity, might not have improved his career prospects.'
'But if he had been a war hero, and he loved her, would he have cared about that?' Summer interjected.
Diana smiled. 'Most people aren't all of a piece. A man can be physically brave, but not have moral courage. Possibly the General didn't love her. Perhaps for both of them it was what the French call an amourette... an affair of the body rather than the heart. Anyway, although there appears to have been a lot of gossip at the time, nobody could have proved anything if James's splendid dark looks hadn't made him an obvious cuckoo in the nest.'
'How did he find out?'
'His brother—who was actually his half-brother—enlightened him. They'd had a quarrel about something and the older boy—was his name Gerald?—called James a rotten little bastard. In a flash, James realised it wasn't just an angry epithet. Somehow Gerald had found out something which explained why Lord Cranmere disliked him and his mother was never affectionate. He went to her and asked if it were true. She admitted that it was, and she made him feel it was his fault rather than hers.'
Summer remembered the night at her cottage in England when James had said: No man with my income is ever avoided by women. If a man has power and money he can be the biggest bastard ever born; there'll always be plenty of women prepared to overlook his defects.
Her retort had been: Are you a bastard, Mr Gardiner?
No wonder he had glared at her. Unwittingly she had touched him on a raw spot.
She said, 'Like you, I don't blame his mother for her affair with the General, but I find it hard to forgive her treatment of James.'
'She must have been a flawed personality to have made such a marriage in the first place. Her situation, following the birth of her second son, would have tested a strong, sound character,' Diana said thoughtfully. 'I've no doubt her husband gave her hell. He may not have minded her having affairs. He might even have accepted James, if he'd looked like her. But to have his wife's infidelity confirmed and advertised by the boy's resemblance to her lover must have galled him beyond endurance. What an atmosphere to grow up in!'
"Yes... terrible,' Summer agreed. 'It explains a great deal about him which I've never understood. May I ask you something very personal? How long did you know him?'
'For nearly three years. For a long time after that skiing holiday I saw him only spasmodically. I was still missing Ben and even though James was so tall I thought of him as a boy. It wasn't until he kissed me that I realised he wasn't; and that, if I didn't do something about it, our friendship would get out of hand. So I went to Greece, to the island of Patmos. Unwisely I wrote to him from there. Three weeks later he turned up.'
She paused to finish her coffee before going on, 'By that time he was almost of age... almost eighteen. I was renting a house built by a Patmian sea captain in the days when the island had a merchant fleet. I told James he could stay for two weeks... for a holiday. A year later, we'd been to most of the islands together. I didn't care if people thought me a cradle-snatcher. I was very happy. So was he, and for him that kind of happiness was a novel experience. The family who took him skiing had always been kind to him, but no one had loved him before. It was good for him... good for both of us.'
They were sitting almost knee to knee and now she rose from her stool to fetch a wheeled table of the type with a single leg so that it could be used in bed and for various other purposes. Reseating herself, Diana pulled it over her lap. On the table was an old-fashioned writing slope to which she had taped some white paper with a small oval piece of ivory gummed to it horizontally.
She said, 'One could live very cheaply in Greece then. James had a little money and sometimes earned a little more. He learned to speak Greek in no time. So he paid his way, or would have done if I hadn't sometimes insisted on paying for better accommodation than he could afford. But I knew that our wanderings couldn't go on indefinitely. As he was half-American I thought he should go to America where perhaps his real father could help him get a start. He refused to go without me and, because I couldn't bear to part from him, I agreed.'
As she talked she was using a fine sable brush dipped in Venetian Red to outline the shape of Summer's left eye and her eyebrow.
'We spent some time in New York and James made enquiries about his father. When he found
out how important he was, and that he had a wife and children, he changed his mind about approaching him. He became determined to make good on his own. Somehow I felt sure he would, in spite of the difficulties. He had incredible energy. He could study until three in the morning and wake up at seven, ready to run in the park. After a while I knew he'd be better off without me. In the note I left for him, I said I wasn't coming back to England but I didn't say where I was going. I left him some money—as a loan—and I wrote that I'd be in New York in twelve months' time if he wanted to see me. Then I flew back to Europe and went to stay with some friends with a villa in Tuscany. It was there I met my husband—although at the time I was too unhappy over James to pay much attention to Alex.'
She fell silent, concentrating on her work, her glance flicking from her subject's face to the piece of ivory and back again as, with a larger brush, she washed in the local flesh tints.
'And did you meet him the next year?' Summer prompted.
'Yes, by that statue of the girl outside the Plaza Hotel—New York's equivalent of Eros in Piccadilly Circus. We had lunch together, and that was the last time I saw him. My feelings hadn't changed then, but his had. For him it was over. He was absorbed in his new life. Having repaid the loan, and given me a miniature by Richard Cosway which he'd discovered in Boston, he rushed off to catch the bus back there. I was sad for myself, but glad for him. And after a while I thought less about James and more about Alex until I was thinking about him most of the time.'
She began to mix another colour. 'Ivory isn't absorbent like paper. One can't take off superfluous colour. One has to work with a much dryer brush than when painting an ordinary water-colour.'
She tested the colour on the paper alongside the ivory before beginning to apply it.
'Don't be jealous of my little share of James's love. It was a long time ago and, for him, less important than for me.'
'I'm not jealous. I'm envious,' said Summer. 'I—I would give my soul for what you had. James hasn't changed physically since you knew him—or only for the better. He's still devastatingly attractive. But I think he must have changed inside. He's had three long-term affairs, all with clever, independent career-women. Some time ago he decided it was time to start his dynasty. Because I was conveniently to hand, as it were, he asked me to marry him.'
Diana looked up. 'And—loving him—you refused?' she exclaimed, with obvious perplexity.
'Wouldn't you have done the same?'
Instead of answering the question, Diana said, 'What reason did you give him?
Summer told her the gist of their conversation on the subject. It was not one she was likely to forget.
'So you didn't tell him you were in love with him?'
'No! How could I?'
'Why not? Men have been laying their hearts at our feet for centuries, and they haven't always been turned down gently and tactfully. Equal rights involve equal risks. If you laid your heart at his feet, I doubt if he'd kick it or trample on it. He'd be flattered and possibly delighted. For all you know, he may have discovered that he feels more warmly towards you than he did at the time he proposed.'
Summer shook her head. 'I—I think he may be beginning to fall in love with someone else.'
'Will she make him happier than you would?'
'No.'
'Then fight for him, my dear. Who is this other woman you think he may be interested in?'
But this wasn't something which Summer felt able to confide. 'I could be mistaken. Anyway he can never marry her.'
'In that case you've nothing to fear. From my knowledge of his character, James is not the type to allow his life to be blighted by a yen for a woman he can't have. If she's married and won't leave her husband because of children or whatever, I'm sure he will cut his losses. He has a romantic streak but he's primarily a realist—as I am.'
She paused, concentrating on her work for some moments before adding, 'I've loved three men in my life and I know that, if I hadn't met them, I shouldn't have gone through life alone. There are other men in existence whom I could have loved equally deeply had my life taken a different course. I don't expect you to believe that because at the moment, for you, James is the sun and the stars. Perhaps he always will be. There are women who love only once. But one thing I do know for certain is that, when you are my age, it's the chances you didn't take, the opportunities you didn't seize, which you regret. If I were you, my dear, I shouldn't dither any longer. I'd go back and tell James how I felt.'
When Summer returned to the apartment she found a message waiting for her. The other two, who had gone to Cambridge for the day so that Emily could meet one of her heroes, Sir Clive Sinclair, a pioneer of British electronics, were dining there and wouldn't be back until late.
This threw her into a fever of impatience. Never had time passed so slowly. She attempted to read and, when she found she couldn't concentrate, to watch television. That didn't grip her attention either, so she switched off the set and began to pace restlessly about, rehearsing ways to tell James how much she loved him.
Many times during that interminable evening, her courage faltered. What if he turned her down? How could she bear it if he rejected her: either the immediate mortification or the long-term despair of facing a future without him? For if, however tactfully, he made it clear that he didn't want her, she couldn't possibly stay on as Emily's companion.
It was after ten o'clock when she heard the scrape of a key in the outer door. Sitting down with the discarded book, she took some deep breaths to steady her vibrating nerves. When Emily burst into the room, exclaiming, 'You should have come with us. We've had a fabulous day,' she was able to put the book aside and say calmly, 'Have you? Tell me all about it.'
Emily's description of the delights to be found in the Fitzwilliam Museum, and of their meeting with the admired Sir Clive Sinclair, took a full fifteen minutes. By the time she paused for breath, James had been to the kitchen to make coffee for himself and Summer and to fill a glass of milk for his niece.
'What have you been doing with yourself?' he enquired.
'Exploring London... nothing special.'
She thought he looked rather worn; not as if he had been enjoying himself.
He said, 'I think we've spent enough time here. Tomorrow we'll move on.'
'Where to?' asked Emily.
'To Austria. I was planning to spend Christmas there and then return to New York early in January.'
'What fun! I'll go and start packing. Thanks for a super day, James. 'Night.'
Carrying her glass of milk, she dropped a kiss on his head and blew one to Summer before she waltzed out of the room.
As the door closed behind her, James slid down in his chair, stretched his long legs across the rug and leaned his dark head on the backrest.
Watching him lounge with closed eyes, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, Summer wished she knew what he was thinking.
After some moments of silence, she said quietly, 'Are you exhausted?'
At once he opened his eyes and rolled his head to look towards her. 'No, not at all. Just glad to relax in your restful company.' He smiled at her.
It was the encouragement she needed. 'Actually there's something I'd like to discuss with you.'
'Go ahead.'
'A long time ago... in Nantucket... you said that we... you and I... had the makings or a "workable marriage". Do you remember?'
She paused, half expecting a frown or a look of discomfiture at the reminder of an offer which he now regretted. But although he looked surprised, James didn't appear to be embarrassed.
'Yes, of course I remember,' he said evenly.
'You said at the time that you hoped to make me change my mind... and you'd raise the subject again at a later date. But you never have.'
There was a considerable pause before he answered, 'Are you telling me you have changed your mind?'
She swallowed, her mouth dry with nervousness. 'Yes... yes, I have.'
James sa
t up. His expression as he watched her make this difficult admission had never been more poker-faced. She felt herself redden under his thoughtful scrutiny. At last he said one word.
'Why?'
'A lot has happened since then. We're not the same people we were. The objections I raised last time are no longer valid. I—I think now we could make a life together... if you're still willing to try?'
'Perhaps... I'm not sure,' he said guardedly. 'As you say, the situation has altered since you turned me down flat in Nantucket. However, I hadn't realised that your views on marriage had undergone a transformation. At that time, I recall, you were adamant that the only basis for marriage was both parties loving each other to the extent of being unable to live without each other.'
'I still believe that's the ideal. But if the ideal isn't possible then one has to compromise. When we talked about this before I—I didn't think you were capable of taking any woman seriously. Your detachment repelled me. It seemed so... inhuman. Now I know that you are capable of caring for someone, it makes all the difference. Even if you can never feel that way about me, having loved someone and not been able to tell her must make you more understanding of other people's emotions.'
His dark eyebrows drew together in a forbidding frown. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
She could see he was deeply displeased by even an oblique reference to his hopeless passion for the one girl who could never be his.
'Don't be angry, James,' she appealed. 'Surely you know you can trust me with your secret?'
When he continued to scowl at her, she went on, 'After tonight I shall never speak of it again. I realise how painful it must be. I wouldn't have mentioned it now except that I've come to realise that you are too strong a character to let it affect your whole life. And I don't believe that, after being in love with Emily, you can ever revert to those soulless relationships you used to have with women.'
It was in the open at last. Would he deny it? Would he be bitterly angry with her for divining the cruel come-uppance which life had had in store for a man who had once dismissed love as nonsense?
