Fell the Angels

by John Kerr

  ‘True,’ said Charles. ‘I have a keen interest in the classics and in English poetry. And to sum things up, after Oxford I returned to London and the Temple Bar. Admitted to Gray’s Inn four years ago.’

  ‘I should imagine,’ said Cecilia, ‘you look quite imposing in your wig and gown.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He sat beside her on the bench and stretched out his legs. ‘I enjoy my profession, though it’s certainly not the path to riches.’

  ‘But you needn’t worry about that.’ He gave her a brief, questioning look. ‘Considering your stepfather’s position,’ she explained.

  ‘True,’ said Charles with a nod. ‘Now that you’ve heard my life story, my dear Cecilia, perhaps you should tell me yours.’

  ‘Well,’ she began, resisting the impulse to run her finger along the edge of her cuff, ‘I spent my childhood, with my two sisters, in Australia, near Adelaide.’

  ‘I thought I detected an accent.’

  ‘My father is in the mining industry. We moved back to the family estate, Buscot Park in Oxfordshire, when I was eleven, and divided our time between the country and our house in Belgravia.’

  ‘I see. And your marriage to Captain—’

  ‘Castello. We met at a ball when Richard was serving in the army and, well, fell in love and were married.’ Cecilia paused, feigning a faraway look. ‘But sadly,’ she continued, ‘Richard died after a brief illness, while touring in Germany. Just over a year ago.’

  ‘How tragic.’

  ‘Yes, very. And in my mourning I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of a recluse, choosing to live alone here and only recently accepting social invitations.’

  ‘Well, we shall have to rectify that,’ said Charles. He stood up and reached out to take Cecilia’s hand. Helping her to her feet, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘I would very much hope,’ he said, looking in her eyes, ‘that you’ll consent to see me again.’

  ‘You have my word,’ said Cecilia, gently squeezing his hand.

  In a silk dressing-gown, seated in her boudoir facing the mirror, Cecilia applied rouge to her cheeks and painted her lips as Mrs Clark pinned up her hair. ‘I presume you understand,’ said Mrs Clark, as she thoughtfully studied Cecilia’s reflection, ‘that marriage to a man like Charles Cranbrook is the only realistic means of restoring your reputation.’

  ‘A man like Mr Cranbrook?’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Cranbrook,’ said Mrs Clark, gently placing her hands on Cecilia’s shoulders.

  ‘I’m not ready for marriage,’ said Cecilia. ‘Not after everything I’ve been through. Charles seems, well, respectable, and he’s certainly intelligent, but I hardly know him. I should think that merely accompanying him to the theatre and the right social occasions—’

  ‘No, Cissie. You must listen to me. The only thing that will stop them talking behind your back is to marry the right sort of man from the right element of London society. The right clubs, the right schools, the right friends. Charles is the stepson of a wealthy businessman, an Oxford man, Magdalen College, and a member of Boodle’s and White’s.’

  ‘True,’ said Cecilia glumly.

  ‘And, what’s more,’ said Mrs Clark, as she fastened a necklace at the nape of Cecilia’s neck, ‘he’s utterly smitten with you.’ Stepping around to look Cecilia in the face, she said, ‘If not Charles Cranbrook, I don’t know who. You must use all of your feminine wiles to bring him to his knees with a marriage proposal.’

  In the weeks that followed it seemed to Cecilia that Mrs Clark had overestimated the difficulty of attracting the attention of Charles Cranbrook, who clearly had succumbed to her beauty, the sensuality that had blossomed during her affair with Dr Gully, and the irresistible allure of her fortune. Invitations abounded, to the theatre and dinner, the regatta at Henley, Sunday lunch at Brown’s, and a lawn tennis exhibition at the new All England Club at nearby Wimbledon. Discovering that Charles shared her passion for riding, he eagerly joined her on weekend jaunts through the common on her spirited horses, followed by lunch or tea at The Priory. The notion of marriage was gradually becoming more acceptable to her; he was handsome in a way, very bright and well read, a sportsman, and always impeccably dressed if somewhat old-fashioned. Yet she couldn’t help comparing him to James Gully, who was infinitely more astute and kind and gentle in a way she was certain Charles would never be. In fact, she was sure a man like Charles would loathe Dr Gully, with his beliefs in homeopathic medicine, nature and the outdoors, and spiritualism. Yes, she considered with a sigh, as she awaited Cranbrook’s arrival for dinner, he was condescending and narrow … a snob. Well, perhaps she could accept being married to a snob.

  A frequent visitor to The Priory, Cranbrook ignored the servant who answered the door, hung his coat and top hat in the hall, and strolled into the drawing-room with the air of a man who was at home. As Cecilia had yet to make her usual theatrical appearance, with a swish of petticoats and always a new skirt, on the staircase, Cranbrook stood before the empty fireplace with hands clasped behind his back, unknowingly under the observant eye of Jane Clark, concealed in the shadows of the dining-room.

  ‘There you are,’ he exclaimed, as Cecilia descended the stairs with a hand on the curved banister. ‘My, what a beautiful gown.’ She walked up, and he kissed her lightly on the lips with one hand at her slender waist.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ she said, swirling the elaborate folds of the skirt and extending her right arm as if to show off the ruffle at her wrist and the large emerald and diamond ring on her finger. ‘It was delivered only today from my favourite dressmaker on Bruton Street.’

  ‘I should think it cost a small fortune,’ he said, as he studied the dress’s fine embroidery and the large bow on the bustle.

  ‘Not really,’ said Cecilia. ‘Only thirty pounds.’

  ‘I see that your charming little boots match perfectly.’

  ‘I can’t abide boots that don’t match.’ Reaching for a silver bell on a side table and giving it a sharp ring, she said, ‘I presume you’re ready for your drink?’

  The butler appeared after a moment and said, ‘Yes, madam?’

  ‘Champagne, Sawyers,’ said Cecilia. ‘Pink champagne.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Brandy and soda.’

  After the butler returned with their drinks, Cecilia settled on the sofa and patted the cushion for Charles to sit next to her. Taking a sip of champagne, she said, ‘I have a little surprise for you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Charles took a swallow of brandy from his crystal tumbler.

  ‘Yes. An invitation.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘As the weather’s turned wet and cold, to stay the night.’

  The merest smile curled his lip. ‘I have a court appearance in the morning,’ he said with a rub of his chin. ‘At ten o’clock. But I reckon I can catch the early train.’ He leaned over to give her a gentle kiss, to which she responded with a passion that nearly caused him to drop his glass. Putting it aside, he reached an arm around her, pulled her to him and kissed her again, a long, sensuous kiss as he allowed his free hand to roam over the curve of her hip.

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, lying against his chest. ‘You’re not going to ravish me before dinner?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ he said, aware of a flush on his cheeks and pounding of his heart.

  ‘Very well,’ she said with a smile, as she sat up and inched away from him. She reached for her glass and took another sip of champagne as Cranbrook, regaining his composure, took a large gulp of his drink.

  ‘Do you love me?’ she asked, looking him in the eye.

  ‘Why, ah, yes. Yes, I believe I do.’ Taking another swallow, he added, ‘Sometimes you quite take me aback.’

  ‘Pardon me, madam.’ Cranbrook shot a wild look at the young parlourmaid who had appeared in the archway, as though she’d wandered into the room while he was taking his bath. ‘Dinner,’ she announced, ‘is served.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cecilia calmly. ‘Don’t worry ab
out your drink,’ she said to Charles as she rose from the settee. ‘There’ll be time for more brandy after we have dined.’

  A bottle of fine Chablis accompanied dinner – roast squab with peas and Lyonnaise potatoes – though the lion’s share was consumed by Cecilia, as Charles expressed his general dislike of all things French and drank only a glass. Following dessert of chocolate cake with ice cream, they repaired to the drawing-room for coffee or, ‘if you prefer,’ said Cecilia, ‘brandy, though I forbid the smoking of cigars.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Charles as he walked to the sideboard where he found a crystal decanter of cognac and several glasses, ‘as I prefer a pipe to a cigar.’ As he poured a glass, the maid entered with a small silver tray and wine goblet, which she served to Cecilia.

  ‘Anything else, mum?’

  ‘No, Florence. You and the others are free to go for the evening.’

  When they were alone, Charles sat in a chair facing Cecilia on the sofa, sipping his brandy with his legs crossed. ‘Does it concern you,’ he asked, ‘that the servants might discover I’ve stayed the night?’

  After taking a swallow of Madeira, Cecilia said, ‘No. How could they? There’s only Mrs Clark, and she retires early to her own room.’ She looked at him suggestively and took another sip of wine.

  ‘If you’re certain,’ he groused, ‘though I’m not sure I’d trust a servant to be discreet.’

  ‘Jane is my friend,’ said Cecilia a bit unevenly. ‘My very dear friend.’ With a slight lascivious wink, she finished her wine and said, ‘I’m going up to get ready for bed. The guest bedroom is at the top of the stairs.’

  Casting a furtive glance down the darkened passageway, Cranbrook silently crept on tiptoe and bare feet to Cecilia’s bedroom. He gave the door a gentle tap and, after a moment, she opened it a crack. With a soft giggle, she let him in and turned the key in the lock. He studied her briefly in the dim light and then slipped off his shirt and folded it over a chair. With his hands on her bare shoulders he bent down and kissed her hard on the mouth, running his hands over the curve of her breasts under her diaphanous nightgown. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured as she moved backward toward her bed. Holding her slender waist, he lifted her up and pushed her back on the mattress, falling heavily on top of her. He kissed her neck and then lifted up her nightgown and roughly, almost brutally, made love to her.

  ‘Ohh,’ she muttered. ‘That hurts. Don’t … please … Ohh, be gentle.’

  Ignoring her entreaties, he quickly reached a climax, grunting through clenched teeth. ‘There,’ he said with a groan, pinning down her shoulders and staring for a moment at her frightened face before rolling over on his side. He lay beside her for another five minutes, while his breathing returned to normal, and then silently got up, slipped on his shirt and let himself out.

  Chapter Ten

  ADJUSTING HER HAT in the mirror above the coat stand in the hall, Cecilia slipped on her kid gloves and started for the door. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Mrs Clark, standing in the entrance to the drawing-room with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Out. There are several things in town I must attend to.’

  ‘You know how much I disapprove—’

  ‘It’s none of your affair,’ said Cecilia with asperity, scolding herself for telling a lie and for allowing her employee to attain the status of a virtual equal.

  ‘I’m aware that you’ve been seeing the doctor.’ As Cecilia’s private secretary, Mrs Clark saw, even if she left unopened, all of Cecilia’s private correspondence, including the envelopes with the return address ‘Orwell Lodge, 21 Bedford Hill Rd, Balham.’

  Cecilia eyed her coldly. ‘If it’s Mr Cranbrook you’re worried about,’ she said, ‘you needn’t. I fully expect a marriage proposal any day.’ Mrs Clark responded with a dispassionate stare. ‘And, frankly,’ said Cecilia, ‘it’s partly why I want to see the doctor. To seek his advice.’ With that, she turned, let herself out and started out on a brisk, five-minute walk into the village. She arrived before noon on a fine midsummer day, and stood for a moment at the iron railing, studying the ivy-covered cottage with the profusion of day lilies in the neatly tended flowerbed and bright red geraniums in the window-box, wondering if she might have found true happiness in a simpler life with the genial doctor – if only it weren’t for his elderly, estranged wife. Walking up to the door, she gave the brass knocker a rap. After a moment Gully appeared and, with a kind smile, welcomed her inside.

  A tea tray sat on a table in the parlour before a sofa and two armchairs. Cecilia chose the sofa and Gully, pouring their tea, sat in a chair alongside her. ‘You’re looking very well,’ he began, as he handed her a cup. ‘Though perhaps a bit too thin.’

  ‘That’s what Jane always says.’

  ‘Jane?’

  ‘Mrs Clark.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gully with a frown. ‘In any case, what matters is your diet, dear. Plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables, especially leafy greens, fish, and the avoidance of sugar and fats, including butter.’

  Cecilia looked briefly at the tea tray, noting the absence of pastries, sugar, or jam. ‘And you’re looking well,’ she said. ‘How was your trip abroad?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Gully, after taking a sip of tea. ‘The July weather was perfect in the Alps, so many opportunities for long, strenuous walks. Do you recall Bodenlaube Castle in the hills outside Bad Kissingen?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cecilia, thinking back to their trip to Bavaria, when Gully first made love to her. As he continued to talk, she thought about how, after the frustrations of love-making with her husband, Gully had awakened her to sexual fulfilment she’d never imagined possible, an experience that now she expected would be exclusively reserved for the male of the species.

  ‘I say,’ said Gully. ‘Cecilia?’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said. ‘My mind wandered.’

  ‘I was merely enquiring about your father,’ he said. ‘Whether you’ve seen him.’

  ‘No. He still won’t answer my letters.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said Gully with a shake of his head. ‘Some men.’

  ‘If I were to remarry,’ said Cecilia, putting her cup and saucer aside. ‘The right sort of man, of course, I expect I would be welcomed back into the bosom of the family.’

  ‘You’re probably correct,’ said Gully, reaching for the pot to pour each of them more tea. ‘Is such a prospect in the offing? Is that what you’ve come to discuss?’

  ‘No,’ said Cecilia. ‘I mean, it … that isn’t why I wanted to see you, though I do very much want your advice, James, dear.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Frankly, I miss you very much. I expected, after everything that happened, that you would have gone back to Malvern and I’d never see you again.’ Looking her in the eye, Gully nodded gravely. ‘But as you’re here,’ she continued, ‘so close by, of course I desire to see you. I only wish—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ said Gully. ‘We both know it can’t be.’

  Cecilia nodded. ‘But to answer your question,’ she said, ‘I have been seeing someone. A man my age, a barrister at Gray’s Inn who’s the stepson of a wealthy man named Cranbrook. Sir Harry Cranbrook. Mrs Clark’s late husband was employed at his coffee plantation in Jamaica.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gully. ‘I recall Cranbrook from my days in the colony. One of the more successful planters.’

  ‘How ironic,’ said Cecilia. ‘That you should know the family of the man I may—’ Halting, she looked at Gully with a trembling lower lip.

  ‘That you may marry,’ he said.

  Nodding, she softly said, ‘Yes. I expect he’s going to propose.’

  ‘I believe I understand,’ said Gully, looking her sternly in the eye.

  ‘You do?’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘Mrs Clark,’ said Gully with a frown, ‘that mischievous woman, having persuaded you to sever all relations with me, has now cleverly arranged for you to marry the stepson of her former employer in Jamaica.’

/>   ‘That’s not so….’

  ‘It patently is so.’ Gully glared at Cecilia. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘I’m not sure romantic love,’ she answered, ‘is necessary to be married. I like Charles, he amuses me, and he’s, well, from the proper social background.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gully. ‘You regard marriage as a means of restoring your sullied reputation; I see it as a highly perilous experiment.’

  ‘But how could you, James, when you don’t even know the man.’

  ‘Because I know you, my dear. I know that you need to be loved. And I fear with your great riches, there are many men who would—’

  ‘What? Marry me for my money?’

  Looking her in the eye, Gully nodded and said, ‘Yes, Cecilia. Marry you for your money.’

  ‘But Charles,’ she said, nervously wringing her hands, ‘comes from a very wealthy family. He studied at King’s College and Oxford, is a member of Boodle’s and White’s. Why, he doesn’t need my money. He’s a very attractive, eligible man-about-town. Why shouldn’t I want to be married to him?’

  ‘You mentioned that Harry Cranbrook, the Jamaican planter, is his stepfather.’

  ‘Yes, Charles’s mother married him after the death of Charles’s father.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gully with a shrug, ‘one never knows. But there are plenty of young men about London with an Oxford pedigree but hardly a sovereign to their name. And while I appreciate your beauty and charms as well as any man, it would be a grave error to underestimate the importance of your wealth to a man considering marriage.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cecilia. ‘A point well taken. But that’s not what I came to discuss.’ Gully smiled in his well-practised, encouraging way and sipped his tea. ‘Assuming Charles asks for my hand,’ she began, ‘what should I disclose to him? About us?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Gully, putting his cup aside and scratching his chin. ‘A moral as well as a practical dilemma.’