‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment,’ said C. J. ‘Jane did say only sherry. I’m sorry, Letitia. Shall I go and see if I can find some for you?’
‘Oh, good gracious, no. Sweet of you, but I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Letitia. ‘I’ll have the sherry. It will be better than nothing. Oh dear, I seem to have been drinking much too much ever since Julian died. It’s the only way I can get through a lot of the time.’
C. J. looked at her tenderly. She was very old, eighty-seven, but until the death of her son three weeks ago she had very rarely looked anything near that age. Suddenly now she seemed smaller, frailer than she had been, a little shaky. But she was beautifully dressed today in a vivid red suit (from Chanel, decided C. J., who was clever at such things), sheer black stockings on her still-shapely legs, black low-heeled shoes; her snowy hair was immaculate, her almost-mauve eyes surprisingly sparkly; she was courage incarnate, he thought, smiling at her in a mixture of affection and admiration.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll buy you some champagne at lunch time if you like. Will that do?’
‘Of course. Thank you, darling. Oh, how nice, here’s Eliza. And Peveril. Oh, thank goodness. C. J., go and tell Roz her mother is here, it will calm her down a bit.’ C. J. thought this was very unlikely, but went off obediently in search of Roz; Letitia patted the chairs on either side of her and beamed at the new arrivals being propelled gently into the room by Jane Gould. ‘Come in, you two, and sit here with me. I was just saying to C. J., Eliza, Rosie Howard Johnson has just got married. Did you go to the wedding?’
Eliza, Countess of Garrylaig, crossed the room and bent and kissed Letitia. ‘Hallo, Letitia, darling, how are you? We’ve had the most dreadful journey from Claridge’s, haven’t we, Peveril? It took almost as long as the entire trip from Scotland. We hardly moved at all for about forty minutes. No, no we didn’t go to Rosie’s wedding. Peveril doesn’t like weddings, do you, darling?’
Peveril, Ninth Earl of Garrylaig, half bowed to Letitia, and settled down thankfully in the seat beside her.
‘Morning, Letitia my dear. God, I hate London. Dreadful morning . . . dreadful. No, I don’t like weddings. The service always makes me cry, and the receptions bore me to tears. Saves on handkerchiefs to stay away.’
He beamed at her and patted her hand. He was tall, white-haired, charmingly courteous and acutely vague, and only came properly to life when he was pursuing some animal, fish or bird – and presumably, Letitia thought, his wife. He was dressed as always in extremely elderly tweeds; he looked, she thought, amongst the collection of people in the room, like a wise old buzzard settled briefly but very deliberately among a gathering of feckless birds of paradise. Quite why the dashing Eliza, then the Vicomtesse du Chene, formerly Mrs Peter Thetford and once Mrs Julian Morell, had married him only a few years earlier was something that probably only she herself and Letitia really understood. Even Letitia found it difficult entirely to accept; Peveril was nearer her own age than Eliza, and they seemed to have absolutely nothing in common. But then Eliza had always had a predilection for people considerably older than herself, and a talent for charming them; beginning with Julian Morell, so many years ago. And there was no doubt she was very fond of Peveril and was making him extremely happy. Letitia smiled at them both.
‘I’m afraid the only thing on offer is sherry, but after being stuck in that traffic, perhaps even that would be welcome. Or would you rather have coffee?’
‘Oh, I think coffee,’ said Eliza. ‘I do hate sherry. What about you, Peveril, darling?’
‘What’s that? Oh, no, not coffee, thank you. Dreadful stuff. I’ll just have a glass of water if I may.’
‘I’m sure you may,’ said Letitia. ‘I’ll ask Jane.’
Peveril looked round the room and his eyes rested on Phaedria. He beamed happily and went over to her; he had always liked her.
‘Morning, Phaedria my dear. How are you?’
Phaedria looked up at him and smiled back. ‘I’m fine, Peveril, thank you. It’s lovely to see you. And you, Eliza. I’m sorry you’ve had such an awful journey.’
Peveril studied her more closely.
‘You don’t look fine, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. You look a bit peaky.’
‘Oh, Peveril, don’t be so tactless,’ said Eliza. ‘Of course she’s looking peaky. Poor angel.’
She walked over to the fireplace and kissed Phaedria. ‘It’s lovely to see you, darling. I wish you’d come up and stay with us for a bit. It would do you so much good.’
‘I will,’ said Phaedria, clearly trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘I will. But not just yet. Thank you,’ she added dutifully.
Eliza patted her hand. ‘Well, when you’re ready. Ah,’ she added, a thick ice freezing over her bright voice, ‘Camilla. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Eliza,’ said Camilla, smiling calmly back at her. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m extremely well, thank you. I don’t think, Camilla, you have ever met my husband. Have you?’
‘No, I don’t think I have,’ said Camilla. Her smile became more gracious still; in deference to Peveril’s age she stood up.
‘How do you do. I’m Camilla North.’
Only Peveril, Letitia thought, watching this cameo with a sort of pained pleasure, could fail to appreciate the fine irony of this tableau: the two wives of Julian Morell grouped with the mistress who had usurped them both.
He smiled, half bowed over Camilla’s outstretched hand.
‘Heard a lot about you, my dear. How do you do. Nice to meet you at last.’
‘Peveril,’ said Eliza briskly, ‘come along, let’s go and sit down with Letitia.’
‘I’ll sit down when I’m ready, Eliza,’ said Peveril firmly. ‘Been sitting much too long this morning as it is. Nice to stand up for a bit. Do sit down again, Miss North. You must be tired, I believe you’ve only flown in this morning. I expect you’ve got that jet jag or whatever it calls itself.’
‘Jet lag,’ said Camilla, smiling at him again, ‘but no, I don’t suffer from that at all. I have discovered that providing I eat only raw food and drink nothing but water, I’m perfectly all right.’
‘Good lord,’ said Peveril, ‘who’d have thought it? Raw food, eh? So do you ask them to serve you your lunch uncooked? What an idea; I expect they’re pretty grateful to you, aren’t they? Saves them a bit of trouble. Raw food. Good heavens.’ He smiled at her benignly; Camilla, most unusually at a loss as to what to say, smiled back at him. Eliza turned rather irritably and looked out of the window.
Letitia smiled at Peveril and wondered if she dared make a joke about Camilla making off with Eliza’s fourth husband, as well as her first; she decided it would be in too bad taste even by her standards, and that Eliza would certainly not appreciate it; for want of anything else to do, she returned to her Tatler.
‘Eliza, can I get you a sherry? And you sir?’
C. J. had come back into the room, and witnessed the tableau also; he smiled rather nervously at Eliza as she blew him a kiss. He was always rather afraid of what she might say or do. She was phenomenally tactless. And still so beautiful, he thought. What a mother-in-law to have. Poor Roz, no wonder she had all those hang-ups about her looks with a beautiful mother and grandmother. Eliza was forty-nine years old, awesomely chic, (Jasper Conran, who adored dressing amusing middle-aged ladies, travelled up to Garrylaig Castle twice a year with his designs and to stay the weekend), beautifully, if a trifle heavily, made up, her silvery blonde hair cut in a perfectly sculptured bob, her body as slender and supple as it had been thirty-one years ago when she had married Julian Morell.
‘No thank you, darling. Just some coffee,’ said Eliza. ‘And some water for Peveril, please. And C. J., what on earth is going on? I thought we were late. Nobody seems to be here. Where’s Henry? And what’s Roz doing?’
C. J. was beginning to feel like an air steward, nursing his passengers through an incipient disaster.
‘Roz is on th
e phone to her office. She’s worried about some meeting she has this afternoon. Susan is on her way. And I don’t know what’s happened to Henry, I’m afraid. I’m sure its nothing to worry about.’
‘Well, let’s hope not.’ C. J. went off again with his orders. Eliza looked after him. ‘Poor C. J.,’ she said, apparently irrelevantly.
‘I do wish Susan would arrive,’ said Letitia fretfully. ‘She always makes me feel so much better. And Roz too, which is probably more to the point.’
‘Where is she?’ said Eliza.
‘She’s looking at houses with Richard. He has this plan to move down to the country. Wiltshire. Such a mistake, I think, when you’ve lived in London all your life. Of course everyone in Wiltshire is terribly nice.’
‘Everyone, Granny Letitia?’
It was Roz; she had come back into the room and heard her grandmother’s words; she was smiling for the first time that day. Letitia smiled back up at her.
‘Why don’t you come and sit here with me, darling? Yes, everyone. So many of the very best people live there.’
‘Granny Letitia, you’re such a snob.’
‘I know, darling. I’m not ashamed of it. In my young day it was a virtue. It was called having standards.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘I was just saying,’ said Letitia, ‘that I wished Susan would arrive.’
‘So do I. And I really don’t want her to go and live in Wiltshire, with the best people.’
‘Well,’ said Letitia quietly, ‘it will suit her. She is one of the very best. Oh, Susan darling, there you are. I was just saying you were one of the very best people.’
Susan Brookes had hurried into the room; she smiled at Letitia and bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Not by your standards I’m not. I’m surprised at you, Letitia. Letting the side down like that. And me only an honorary member of this family. Sacrilege.’
‘Oh, Susan, don’t be difficult,’ said Roz. ‘And come and sit by Granny Letitia. She’s in a naughty mood. She needs keeping in order. And if I can find C. J. I’ll ask for a drink for you. What would you like?’
‘Tea, please,’ said Susan. ‘I haven’t missed anything important, have I? And I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat, is there? I’m famished.’
Roz looked at her and smiled again, leant forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. Susan was a tall, thin woman with bright brown hair, heavily flecked with grey; she was not classically good-looking but with a strong humorous face, a clear beautiful skin and startlingly bright blue eyes. She was in her mid sixties now, and in some ways she looked older, as her face tended to gauntness. But she had a style of her own: she was beautifully and very simply dressed in a navy wool suit and cream silk shirt, her only jewellery a pearl necklace and earrings, which no one, with the exception of Letitia, could ever remember seeing her without.
‘Oh Susan,’ said Roz, feeling much better suddenly, restored to something near normality, ‘can any of us think of an occasion when you didn’t feel famished? I’ll get C. J. to find something for you.’
She walked out of the door again; Susan and Letitia looked after her.
‘How is she, do you think?’ asked Susan quietly.
‘I think she’s in a terrible state,’ said Letitia. ‘Eaten up with hatred of Phaedria, who she seems to blame in some way for Julian’s death, desperately unhappy, wretched that she didn’t say goodbye to him – oh, I know it was her own fault –’
‘Poor Roz,’ said Susan. ‘Poor, poor Roz. I’ve known her all her life, and I’ve never felt sorrier for her than I do now. What on earth can we do to help her?’
‘God knows,’ said Letitia with a sigh. ‘God knows. She will persist in making things worse for herself. She always has, of course. And Phaedria too, I feel so sorry for her. She looks dreadful, poor child. So alone. Well, perhaps today will help in some way. Although I can’t imagine how.’
Absolutely on cue, Henry Winterbourne suddenly appeared in the room, followed by Jane with yet more files (I bet they’re just for show, thought Roz) and C. J. bearing a tray and looking like a particularly inept waiter as he hurried round trying to deliver his complex order.
Henry took up his place at the head of the table, his back to the window. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I am extremely sorry to have kept you waiting. A very tedious call from New York. Do forgive me.’
He opened the top file on the table, took a large envelope out of it and set it firmly in front of him. Everyone slowly, very slowly, as if in a badly directed play, took up new positions. Phaedria got up and sat with her back to the fire at the end of the table, pulling her coat more closely round her. Peveril sat next to her, assuming an oddly protective role. Eliza settled in the chair next to him. Camilla stood up and walked round to take up the chair nearest to Henry. Letitia and Susan stopped talking. Roz took up a challenging position, standing alone by the door, every ounce of her formidable energy focused on Henry’s face.
Henry smiled faintly round the room, catching everyone’s eye in turn with the right amount of sadness and sympathy, bestowing a smile here, a conspiratorial look there. Smooth bastard, thought C. J., finally divesting himself of the tray and moving over to sit next to Susan.
‘Lady Morell, are you all right?’ said Henry suddenly.
Everyone looked at Phaedria; she was resting her head on her hands on the table. She appeared to be about to faint.
‘Phaedria, let me take you outside,’ said C. J.
‘I’ll take her,’ said Eliza, getting up and crossing over to Phaedria, putting her arm around her shoulders. ‘She needs some air.’
‘No, no really I’m all right,’ said Phaedria, ‘I’m sorry, just a bit dizzy, that’s all. Perhaps I could have a glass of water.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said C. J. quickly, grateful for something to do.
‘C. J.,’ said Roz from where she was standing, ‘do settle down, you’ve been rushing round with drinks all morning. Jane will fetch Phaedria a glass of water, I’m sure. Jane dear,’ she called through the doorway, at Jane’s back, ‘could you fetch Lady Morell a glass of water, please? The strain of the occasion is proving a little too much for her.’
She watched Phaedria carefully as she took the glass of water, sipped at it half-heartedly, put it down, leant back in her chair, shaking the dark waterfall of hair from her face. Looking at her, Roz did have to admit she looked ill. Her skin was starkly white, rather than its usual creamy pale, and she seemed thinner than ever, shrunk into herself. God, she hated her. So much, Phaedria had taken from her, so much that should have been hers, and what were they all to learn now, how much more was to go Phaedria’s way, away from her, Julian Morell’s daughter, his only child, his rightful heir? Roz swallowed, fixed her eyes on Henry’s face. She must concentrate. The words she was to hear, had to hear, were what mattered just now, not her thoughts, her emotions. Time for them later.
‘Very well,’ said Henry. ‘Perhaps I could begin. Now as you may appreciate, this is an out of the ordinary occasion. These days, public readings of wills are very unusual. Although, of course, perfectly legal. And it was at Sir Julian’s request that it should be conducted in this way. In the presence of you all. He particularly specified that you should all –’ His gaze fell briefly, unbidden, on Camilla, then shifted hastily again. ‘All be here. There are of course minor beneficiaries, staff and so on, who were not required to attend. So – perhaps the best thing now is just for me to read the will. If any of you have any – comments, or questions, perhaps you could save them to the end.’
Christ, thought Roz, what on earth is the old woman going on about?
She shifted her weight slightly on to the other leg, took a sip of her drink, and fixed her eyes on Henry’s face again.
Henry began to read: ‘I, Julian Morell, of Hanover Terrace, London, N.W.1, Company Director, hereby revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions . . .’
It began slowly, with a trickle of small bequests; it was like the start
of a party, Roz thought, with only one or two guests arrived, making stiff and stilted conversation. The atmosphere was cold, tense, uncomfortable.
There were five-thousand-pound legacies for minor staff: the housekeeper and the gardener at the house in Sussex, the part-time secretary Julian had employed in Paris for ten years, and elderly Mrs Bagnold who had directed the cleaners of the offices in Dover Street for longer than anyone could remember.
Mrs Bagnold was also bequeathed a set of ‘Victorian watercolours she had once admired, to do exactly what she likes with, she may sell them tomorrow if she wishes, without fear of incurring my displeasure from wherever I may be.’
As Henry read out this part of the will, Phaedria looked up and caught Letitia’s eye, in a sudden flash of humour. He is still fun, that look said, he is still making life good.
‘To Sarah Brownsmith, my patient and very loyal secretary, I bequeath £10,000, both early Hockneys, and the use of my house on Eleuthera in the Bahamas, for at least one month a year, at a time mutually agreeable to her and my wife. This is in the devout hope that as she lies in the sunshine, she will think kindly of me and forgive me the many years of exasperation and overwork I have inflicted upon her.
‘To the head waiter at the Mirabelle Restaurant, the chief wine waiter at the Connaught Hotel and my good friend Peter Langan, the sum of £5,000 each for the great happiness and gastronomic good fortune they have brought me.
‘To Martin Dodsworth, my trainer, £10,000, my three Stubbs, and my brood mare Prince’s Flora, and to Michael O’Leary, my jockey, £5,000 and a yearling of his choice from my stable. To Tony Price, my groom, the same.
‘To Jane Gould, secretary to my solicitor, Henry Winterbourne, I bequeath my Hispano Suiza because I know how much pleasure it will give her, and a £1,000 a year maintenance allowance with which to care for it.’
Jane, sitting quietly at the back of the room, beamed with pleasure; she and her husband belonged to the MG Club and were staunch followers of the London to Brighton rally, but the possession of such a car was quite beyond the dreams of her own personal avarice. Roz wondered briefly and rather irritably where the rest of the Morell vintage car stable would go; her father had known how much she loved them. It would be very sad if the collection was to be broken up and scattered piecemeal. If this was a taster of the rest of the will, she didn’t like it at all.
Old Sins Page 2
