by Mira Stables
Unfortunately the concert proved to be rather mediocre, and Alethea, who was not particularly fond of music, found her thoughts straying with distressing frequency either to Marianne’s confidences or to her uncle’s teasing and from these to a consideration of the married state in general. There could be no comparison, for instance, between the marriage of her own parents and that of Uncle Matthew and Aunt Maria. Yet Aunt Maria was considered to have made a very good match while Mama was thought to have thrown herself away. Alethea could perfectly well imagine Mama keeping faith with her beloved for four weary years, just as Marianne had done, because she truly loved Papa. No considerations of wealth or social aggrandisement could so bind people together.
A patter of polite applause, signifying the end of an item, broke across her reverie, and she must rouse herself to take her part in the chorus of praise and criticism. But in the subdued mood induced by her reflections she was quieter than usual so that even Aunt Maria enquired if she had the headache. The two of them were alone in the carriage, the indefatigable Tina having gone on with friends to another party when the concert ended.
Alethea sat up hastily. “Just horridly mopish,” she said lightly. “And quite without cause, unless it is that I have been spoiled by too much gaiety. Perhaps it is the prospect of going back to workaday life that is making me feel so low.”
Aunt Maria took her seriously. “My dear child!” she said kindly. “I do hope you are not refining too much upon your uncle’s remarks at dinner! He was only funning. There is nothing in the least derogatory about coming to the end of one’s first season without having formed an eligible connection. Moreover your parents most particularly requested me not to press the matter. They wished only that you should acquire a little Town bronze—as the saying goes. But if you wish to make a push to establish yourself creditably,” she went on in thoughtful tones, “I believe John Chester could be brought up to scratch with very little effort on your part. Or even Sir Evelyn Crowley, though he”—she broke off doubtfully.
Her horrified niece hurriedly disclaimed any matrimonial designs on either of these worthy gentlemen. “And indeed, kindest of aunts, can you not understand how much I shall miss our shopping expeditions, and our comfortable gossips after parties? Not to mention the balls and assemblies and theatres that I have so much enjoyed.”
Aunt Maria was satisfied. Naturally, any girl suddenly realising that she must bid farewell to such delights was bound to feel a little low. She hastened to comfort the afflicted one with promises of a long visit to be paid next spring.
Perhaps because her thoughts had been so much with Marianne, Alethea was not particularly surprised to receive a note from her the following day. Recognising the handwriting, she tore it open eagerly, for surely it must bring news of James Borrodaile’s return.
So, indeed, it did. James had landed safely at Spithead four days ago. Thence he had posted to Greenwich where he might claim hospitality from his kinsman and patron, the Governor. There were certain duties, certain enquiries into the welfare of former shipmates that could best be carried out from there. And at this final delay, Marianne had reached the end of her long patience. See him she must, however briefly, however formally. But alas! Mama was unwell. Nothing serious, the doctor said, just a slight chill, but she must keep her room for a few days. The thought of taking an abigail as chaperone was intolerable. Would her dear Alethea consent to forego the splendours of the military review and go with her instead to Greenwich?
Alethea saw nothing odd in the suggestion. Completely unversed in the rules governing naval and military procedure—and which, in any case, was a marine officer—it never occurred to her as strange that after serving so long in a beleaguered fortress, James could not snatch so much as a couple of hours’ leave of absence to come up to Town himself and visit his promised wife.
Nor had she the least notion how much pains it had cost Damon to coax his cousin into agreeing to the scheme. It had taken James’s support—James, who had reached London shortly before noon and was, despite his weariness, benevolently disposed towards all mankind—to win her consent to such a deception. Imposing on her dearest friend! Even if the bit about Mama was true. But Damon felt that a journey by river to Greenwich would provide him with just the kind of situation that his present need demanded. James would be relied upon to see to all the trappings. If he could not borrow some kind of ship’s boat and a well-trained crew from one of his navy friends, then he had fallen sadly short of the standard required of the Marines. The river trip, Greenwich Palace itself, with its beauty and its historic associations, was just the thing to appeal to Miss Forester. As for deceit and play-acting, he was not asking a great deal. If Marianne could not feign a touching reunion with her betrothed, and that without undue effort, he wouldn’t give much for their chance of a happy married life. Marianne, laughing, protesting, allowed herself to be overborne, and her letter was written at their bidding.
Alethea did not think that she would be missed from the large party that was to attend the military review. She was a little disappointed, since it so chanced that she had never witnessed such a spectacle, but the claims of friendship must come first. She dashed off a hasty note to Marianne, promising to be with her early next day. She naturally assumed that Kit would be their escort. He would scarcely desert his sister at such a time. Hetty promised that the note should be sent off at once, and Alethea hurried down to dinner to explain her change of plan to her aunt.
Mrs. Newton, much interested, agreed that her defection from tomorrow’s party would cause no inconvenience. Of course she must go with Marianne. And Kit was perfectly to be relied upon to see her safe home again. If there was a gleam of satisfaction in Tina’s lovely eyes for the new arrangement, no one particularly noticed it. Tina behaved very sweetly, wondering if the long-standing friendship between Marianne and James would now end in marriage, and promising to excuse Alethea’s absence, if anyone should enquire about her, without betraying the mission upon which she was engaged.
Tina had good cause for satisfaction. Kit was being tiresome, hanging about her with reproach writ large in face and bearing. To have both him and Alethea removed for the day would make it just that much easier to spend most of her time with Damon. She had actually begun to wonder if his lordship had scruples about taking her away from Kit. Quite absurd, of course. She had never encouraged Kit in the belief that she might marry him. But how else could one account for the reserve with which Lord Skirlaugh treated her? He showed no such reserve in his dealings with Alethea. Of course he regarded her as a child, talked to her about such boring things as old battles, long dead kings, and the shockingly revolutionary ideas which had caused the rebellion of the American colonies. Just the kind of subjects that a gentleman might fall back upon when driven to converse with one who had no idea as to how to set about conducting a light flirtation. Tina, herself a mistress of that delicate art, thought he must be heartily sick of all this edifying talk, and just as thankful to be relieved of Alethea’s presence as she would be of Kit’s.
ELEVEN
Even when she was a very old lady, more than half a century later, Alethea could remember with crystal clarity every detail of that perfect summer day. She had but to close her eyes to see again the fringed parasol that she had carried to protect them from the sun’s brilliance, the sheen on the hide of the grey gelding that Kit was driving when he called for her—very early, since Marianne had said that they must set out by ten. She had begun the day with the happiest of anticipations, planning with innocent cunning how best she might tactfully remove herself from the society of the reunited lovers, and wondering what topics would be most likely to divert poor Kit from his melancholy.
It had been a considerable surprise to learn that they were to make the journey to Greenwich by river, and, even as her eyes lit with delight at the suggestion, to discover that their escort was not, after all, to be Kit—for whom she had been at such pains to devise distraction—but Lord Skirlaugh. Her sur
prised face drew a gentle explanation from Marianne.
“Going by boat was Damon’s idea. He chanced to be with me when—when I heard of James’s arrival,” she improvised hurriedly. “It was he who suggested that you might be willing to bear me company in Mama’s place.” And that, at least, was truth, she breathed thankfully. “He thought you would like to visit so historic a building, and that, since James was able to put a boat at our disposal—a cutter, I believe it is called—that you would enjoy the novelty of a different form of transport. That was why I had to ask you to be here so shockingly early. It seems that at this hour the tide will serve us well. Did you know that Thames had tides? I vow that I did not, until Ja—Damon explained it to me.”
Alethea smiled for the slip of the tongue. It was plain that Marianne was bemused by her happiness. Useless to expect sensible conversation from her. She could think only of James. And her own heart was joyous. How kind! How truly kind of his lordship to take thought for her pleasure when he must be deeply preoccupied with his own affairs. Briefly—as she had done so often since Marianne had let slip the fact that her cousin had at last chosen a bride—she speculated as to the unknown girl’s identity. But such thoughts, she well knew, would only give her a heart-ache. Resolutely she banished them. It was utterly foolish. There would be a price to be paid. But at least today was hers, and she would enjoy it to the full.
The circumstances, so different from anything in her experience, conspired to lend a dreamlike enchantment to the journey. The cutter was so immaculately clean, with polished brass and gleaming paintwork. There were even cushions placed in the sternsheets for the comfort of the passengers, plump square cushions, covered in blue and piped with silver cord. So very different from the wherries that Londoners were accustomed to use when they wished to cross their river. The sailors, too, in their picturesque clothing, sturdy and suntanned and smelling of soap and flannel and tobacco, and never so much as glancing over their shoulders to see where they were going. It was easy to imagine oneself as a princess of olden days, travelling in the royal barge from Westminster to Greenwich. Beside her, Damon, who had begun by pointing out various interesting features of the busy river scene, fell silent, sensing her mood and, to some extent, sharing it. On his other hand, Marianne was happily lost in blissful dreams of her own. The three of them seemed to be drifting in a fantasy world. The glitter from the dancing water that made even a parasol inadequate protection and forced one to half close dazzled eyes, heightened the effect. It was with a sensation of coming back from some far country that Alethea put her hands into Damon’s and allowed herself to be helped ashore, and fortunately she was still too bemused to notice that the greeting between James and Marianne was surprisingly restrained for lovers who had been so long parted.
Indeed, after one brief irresistible peep to see what kind of man had won Marianne’s heart, it seemed only courteous to avert one’s eyes until such time as the pair had so far returned to earth as to have time to recall such mundane matters as formal introductions. Alethea turned her gaze to her surroundings and was at once entranced. The river frontage of the Palace was quite the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Damon briefly indicated the salient features—the King’s House, to her right, where the Governor had his quarters; Wren’s graceful twin domes, and King William building where later, he promised, he would show her the magnificent Painted Hall.
They had strolled a little apart from their companions as they talked, but at this juncture Marianne called to them and she and James came up, hand in hand like a couple of children and full of laughing apologies for their casual behaviour. James was presented to Alethea in form, but it emerged that he and Damon were old acquaintances. Shipmates, in fact, though only for a very brief period. Alethea looked puzzled until James explained that marines served on board ships as well as ashore and that he had met Damon as a newly appointed and—he threw in, with a grin—painfully efficient first lieutenant.
James was one of those people with whom one was immediately at ease. He treated Alethea with perfect courtesy but as naturally and simply as though she had been Marianne’s sister. It was not long before she was asking his advice as to how she should address the Governor. Never having met anyone so awe inspiring as an Admiral before, she confessed to certain nervous qualms. James smiled—an attractive flash of white teeth in his thin brown face—and told her not to trouble her head. Sir Hugh was perfectly amiable and much enjoyed the society of pretty mannered young females. A few questions about the establishment—the progress of the repairs to the Chapel, or the distinctive uniform of the pensioners—and the thing was done. On such topics he would discourse at length.
“You are the dangerous guest,” he teased Damon. “Don’t let him stray into Navy talk, and above all, don’t mention the name of Keppel. He has never accepted the Court Martial’s findings on that disastrous affair. But he’s not likely to steer into troubled waters with ladies present,” he consoled the girls, who were looking a little alarmed by these mysterious warnings.
In fact, luncheon passed off very pleasantly. Their host, while attentive to the comfort of all his guests, was naturally more interested in James and Marianne, and talk ran safely enough on their future plans. Alethea, a little over-awed by her surroundings and by the state which the Governor kept, sat drinking it all in, storing up memories to be savoured at leisure. Her patent appreciation pleased the Admiral who addressed several very civil remarks to her and regretted that he could not, himself, do the honours of the establishment as he had to attend a Committee meeting of the Directors. His guests deplored this circumstance with expressions of regret that were, alas, purely perfunctory. Sir Hugh might make an admirable guide, but three of them felt that they would do very much better without him, while the fourth—Alethea—was still fearful of the thunderbolts that she might bring down upon her if she was betrayed into uttering some tactless remark about the Navy or Courts Martial. Better to risk the insidious if far more dangerous sweetness of strolling about the lofty, elegant rooms, the courts and colonnades, the beautifully laid-out gardens with his lordship. Never out of sight of James and Marianne, of course, but generally, with kindly tact, out of earshot.
It was small wonder that of late Alethea’s friends had found her unnaturally inclined to cling to Marianne’s skirts, or, failing that shelter, even to Tina’s, despite that damsel’s manifest annoyance. To avoid Lord Skirlaugh’s society entirely was impracticable, but as soon as she realised the danger in which she stood, she had done her best to set him at a distance. When that deep voice softened to warmth and gentleness, the crooked smile lightened the harshness of his normal aspect, she might feel as though her very bones melted, as though she longed only to give him whatever would bring him solace and contentment. But that wild sweet elation that flooded her being at his nearness should have no chance to swell to an irresistible current that could only sweep her away to bitter desolation.
Now they were flung together in virtual isolation. And if Damon had known the state of her feelings and deliberately chosen his venue, he could have found no better way of disarming her. His appreciation of historic places was as genuine as her own, and because of its naval associations, Greenwich was especially dear to him. In explaining the lay-out of the various quarters and in dipping haphazard into the past to recall memories of those who had known the Palace when it was in every day use as a royal residence, he forgot himself and even, for a while, his especial purpose in arranging this encounter. And his animation, his eagerness that Alethea should share his sentiments, drew the two of them together more delicately, more surely than any carefully rehearsed speeches.
By the time that their wanderings had brought them back to the Painted Hall Alethea’s guard was down and they were exchanging views with their earlier freedom and candour. She gazed about her, awed to momentary silence as much by the magnitude of the display as by its artistic merits, and as usual her first comment was a question.
“Who painted it?”
<
br /> “Sir James Thornhill—a well-known mural painter of Queen Anne’s day. The ceiling of the Upper Hall is dedicated to her. This one”—he indicated the central oval of the Lower Hall—“as you see, is for William and Mary. The idea of a hospital for seamen was Mary’s, you know, inherited from her unfortunate father. It is sad to think that she did not live long enough to see her plan become reality. See the inscription.” He indicated the Latin phrases around the frieze.
Alethea, no Latin scholar, spelled them out slowly. “At least her husband gave her all the credit,” she pointed out.
Damon nodded. “Yes. He pushed ahead pretty quickly with the building, too, considering his other preoccupations. It was to be his memorial to his beloved wife, so it was given precedence.”
Alethea shrugged. “A chilly kind of loving. Poor Mary! I daresay she would rather have married one of her own countrymen and stayed quietly at home. Poor, lonely homesick little girl!”
“I doubt if queens have time to be homesick,” suggested Damon bracingly.
“Do you? Of course she was homesick. She was only fifteen—a year younger than Sue—when she had to leave everything that was dear and familiar for marriage with a man nearly twice her age, who spent most of his time campaigning and left her to deal as best she might with a rigid court etiquette. And you doubt if she was homesick?”
She sounded quite fierce about it, thought Damon amusedly. “Royal personages are trained from childhood to acceptance of such marriages,” he reminded her. “It is part of the price that they pay for their state. And if I remember aright, Mary learned to love her William quite devotedly. Why else should she have gone to the pains of creating an Orangery at Hampton Court? Surely that is the kind of sentimental gesture that indicates true affection?”
