After casting a concerned glance at Margery, Ralph took up the story. “After Betty died, Henry retired as Head of the English Faculty and began his book, a thorough and detailed literary history of Cambridge. He meant to dedicate it to Verity, and I think that thought kept him going for years. Then one night last summer he went to bed and didn’t wake up the next morning.” He shrugged. “A blessing, people always say when that happens, but it seems a bit unfair to me. No chance to tie up loose ends, or to say good-bye.”
Would it be any better, Kincaid thought, if he’d had a chance to tell Vic good-bye? To say all the things he might have said? He dragged his attention back to Margery.
“… so Ralph and I thought we should see the book finished, and published,” said Margery. “A labor of love, if you will.”
Ralph patted a thick stack of manuscript pages near the center of his desk. “We’ll have bound copies by June, in time for the anniversary of Henry’s death. Sounds a bit morbid, but I think he would have appreciated it.” He stared at the manuscript a moment, then looked up at Kincaid and frowned. “Those poems you were asking me about-I’d like to see them. I’m not as well versed-excuse the pun-in Lydia’s work as Dr. McClellan, but I might be able to tell if the poems belonged in the manuscript. I don’t like the idea that anyone’s manuscript pages might have gone walkabout from my office.” Turning to Margery, he added in explanation, “They say that Dr. McClellan found some poems she thought should have been included in Lydia’s book.”
“I’d be glad to let you see them if I had them,” said Kincaid. “But we didn’t find them among Dr. McClellan’s papers. They’ve disappeared.”
“How very odd,” said Margery, musing, her gaze still resting on Henry Whitecliff’s manuscript. “There’s another unfinished book now-Victoria McClellan’s. I know how dedicated she was to this project-it would be a shame to let it all go to waste.”
“Margery, don’t even think it,” said Ralph, sounding horrified. “You’ve too much to do as it is, and the doctor’s cautioned-”
“As if he knows anything about it, the desiccated old stick,” said Margery in disgust. “He’d have me mummified in no time if I listened to him.” She smiled at Ralph, forgiving him. “I appreciate your concern, darling, but you know it’s work that keeps me going, and if I should end the same way as Henry, then so be it.”
“Dame Margery,” said Kincaid, “I’d suggest you leave this particular project on the shelf for a while. I’m concerned for your health in a more concrete way-working on Vic McClellan’s manuscript might prove very dangerous indeed.”
Cambridge
27 March 1969
Dearest Mummy,
You know ginger biscuits cheer me like nothing else, and I will nibble at them when I can’t bear the thought of real food. I’ve put the tin in the middle of the kitchen table, so that I can have them with my tea while I watch the chaffinches in the garden.
It’s a comfort to know you’re thinking of me. It has been a long winter, but I think I’m reconciled to things now. Morgan has a lover, I saw them in the marketplace. He looked white with misery, and I’m sure he thinks I wish him ill, but I don’t. I feel too empty for that, light and unanchored as an abandoned husk, and I think only when the divorce decree becomes final will I gain substance again. Writing comes slowly, if at all, and that I miss more than anything.
Old friends have rallied round-Adam with pots of nourishing soup and ministerial good cheer, and I’m grateful enough for his company to ignore the hopeful undercurrents. No one is worth what I’ve been through these last few months, years, really.
Every so often Darcy pops round for cocktails and shares all the academic gossip, and I daresay his acerbity is easier to take than outright sympathy. Nathan Winter and his wife, Jean, have just had their first baby, a girl called Alison, and I’m to be godmother. I managed my shopping for her christening gift (a silver cup with her name and birthdate engraved) with some fortitude, and treated myself to dinner at Brown’s afterwards.
Daphne’s been a rock, of course, but she had finally to make a decision about the teaching position in Bedford, and I could only encourage her to take it. It’s a well-known public school, and will do her career prospects good. Bedford is only an hour’s drive, and we’ll still manage to see one another at weekends, so I’m consoling myself with that thought.
I heard a rumor yesterday at the greengrocer’s that the Beatles are breaking up, and I found myself crying quite ridiculously among the cabbages and the carrots. It was utterly nonsensical-I thought to myself that they each had their own separate lives and families, that it was time for them to move on-but I felt an overwhelming sense of loss. It’s as if they symbolized our hopes and our innocence, and I felt suddenly that I’d lived through the passing of a generation.
I can see your lips curve in that knowing smile even as I write these words. When you were my age, you had lived through the war, been widowed, borne a child, and for you the loss of a generation was counted in hundreds of thousands of lives.
If only we could absorb one another’s experiences, altering our emotional as well as our intellectual perceptions, then we might prevent so much suffering, such sorrow.
But then I realize that we can do this, at least in a small way, through fiction, and poetry, so perhaps my battlefield has some merit, after all.
Love, Lydia
* * *
Kincaid had Gemma ring Laura Miller at home, asking where they might find Darcy Eliot on a Saturday afternoon, and she’d sent them to All Saints’ College. “He’s had the same rooms for aeons,” said Laura. “I’ve always envied the male dons living in college-drinking college wine, eating at High Table, being waited on hand and foot. I think that’s why Darcy’s never married-he couldn’t bear to give it up,” she added, laughing, and rang off.
They stopped at the Porter’s Lodge and were directed towards the back of the college. Gemma walked slowly, conscious of Kincaid’s impatience but ignoring it. She glanced down at the folded brochure she’d taken from the porter, then up again at the buildings forming the four sides of the quad they’d entered from the Porter’s Lodge. “This is the main court,” she said. “And that must be the entrance to the chapel on the left. We go through here”-she pointed to the building straight ahead-“and come out the other side.”
When that passage had been safely negotiated, she stopped and consulted her map again. “This must be the Elizabethan Library on the right. Isn’t it lovely? Look at all the tiny panes in the windows.”
“Gemma-”
“And these are the perennial beds,” she continued, pointing at the freshly turned black earth bordering the library. “It says here that they’re one of the college’s best features.”
“It looks like clumps of dead stems to me.” Kincaid gave her a withering glance. “You’ve been spending too much time with Hazel. You’re beginning to sound like a gardener.”
“They’ll be lovely in another month or two,” she said a little wistfully, with a sudden wish that she might see them then, but she knew it to be unlikely.
“Gemma-”
“All right.” She started walking again across the lawn, following the line of buildings that curved along the right-hand side of the parklike garden, ending at the wall overlooking the Cam. With the mutability Gemma was coming to expect from Cambridge weather, the clouds had again released the sun, and within the precincts of the daffodil-studded garden it felt quite like spring.
Darcy Eliot’s staircase proved to be the last in the building nearest the river. Following the porter’s instructions, they climbed to the first floor and easily found the door with ELIOT inscribed on its brass plate, but before they could knock it swung open.
“Bill rang to say you were on your way,” said Darcy Eliot, with every evidence of pleasure. “But I’d begun to think you’d fallen in the Cam.” He stepped back and gestured them inside.
“I’m afraid I was sight-seeing along the way,” said Gemma, with
an apologetic wave of her map.
“And I can’t blame you. All Saints’ is rather a jewel-small enough to be accessible, don’t you think?” Eliot considered them curiously. “It’s rather refreshing to find anyone interested in architecture these days. The world is full of Philistines.” He wore a large cashmere pullover in a robin’s egg shade of blue, and looked considerably more rumpled, and more human, than when Gemma had seen him at the memorial service. “Do sit down,” he added, indicating a sofa upholstered in a velvet almost the same shade of blue as his sweater.
But Gemma was already crossing the room as he spoke, drawn by the windows in their deep stone embrasures. The men followed and stood on either side of her as she gazed out.
“That’s St. John’s you can see across the bend in the river,” said Darcy, pointing. “It’s quite lovely, isn’t it? I never tire of my view.”
One of the casements was cranked open a few inches, and Gemma felt the air move against her face, cool and fresh. “Yes, I can see that,” she said, with a glance at Kincaid beside her, still silent.
She was accustomed to a consistency on his part that allowed her to function as the volatile half of the partnership, but his behavior over the past few days had been unpredictable. He seemed to ricochet from a forced, feverish pleasantness, to a sharp-tongued sarcasm, to the withdrawn silence he exhibited now.
In that moment, she realized how much she had come to depend on him, even when she argued with him and questioned his decisions. The sense that she might no longer be able to count on his strength frightened her.
Well, I’ll carry us both, she resolved, but she had the feeling it was going to take all her wits. She turned to Darcy Eliot and smiled.
“You must feel king of the castle up here,” she said, looking about her as she let him lead her back to the sofa. The room was comfortably opulent, with much gilt in evidence on picture frames and mirrors, and a coordination of color and fabric that spoke of a professional hand in the designing. In the center of the wall opposite the windows, an ornate mahogany bookcase displayed multiple copies of Darcy Eliot’s books-some with the now-familiar Peregrine logo-and Gemma found the little vanity rather endearing.
Darcy seated himself at the other end of the sofa, carefully crossed one ankle over the other knee, revealing a colorful argyle sock, and said, “To what do I owe this visit, other than the attractions of my college?”
This had been Vic’s college, too, Gemma remembered with a quick glance at Kincaid.
He turned but didn’t come to join them. “We’ve just had a very pleasant visit with your mother,” he said. “I hadn’t met her before.”
“Please don’t tell me my mother inflicted the damage to your face.” Darcy stared with frank curiosity at Kincaid’s swollen lip and purpling cheekbone. “Her manners are usually exemplary.”
“Her manners were exemplary.” Kincaid smiled and ignored the probe. “We seem to have interrupted her meeting at the Peregrine Press, but she was quite gracious.” He crossed to the sitting area and sat in the armchair opposite Darcy.
“Ah, my mother’s other child,” said Darcy, sounding faintly amused. When Kincaid raised a questioning eyebrow, he went on. “Did she not mention she was on the board of directors?”
“She only said she’d been helping Peregrine with Henry White-cliff’s manuscript.”
“Henry was on the board as well,” said Darcy. “Both of them from the beginning. But Peregrine Press would never have seen the light of day without my mother’s considerable assistance, financial and otherwise. She and Ralph have had a long and productive relationship.” He smiled, and Gemma felt a bit shocked, wondering if he could possibly mean what she thought he meant. Dame Margery must be at least twenty-five years older than Ralph Peregrine, if not more. Surely…
“… Vic tell you that she thought some poems might have been removed from Lydia’s last manuscript?” Kincaid was saying as she picked up the conversation again.
“You’re not serious.” Darcy looked from Kincaid to Gemma, his smile fading. “You are serious. Surely you don’t think Ralph had anything to do with it? He’s as honest a chap as you could ever come across.”
“We don’t know anything at this point, except that Vic was worried about this manuscript,” said Kincaid. “I thought she might have mentioned it to you.”
Darcy smoothed the sock on his crossed ankle before lowering his foot to the floor. “No, she didn’t. And I doubt I’d have been Vic’s first choice as a confidant, I’m sorry to say. We didn’t always see eye to eye as far as Lydia’s work was concerned.”
“I remember that you weren’t an admirer of Lydia’s, Dr. Eliot. I find that interesting, in the light of the close… nature of your relationship.” Kincaid settled back in his chair, his posture more relaxed as Darcy appeared less comfortable.
“Lydia and I were friends for many years, but I’ve never considered friendship grounds for wholesale professional admiration. That sort of thing does not tend to increase one’s standing in academic circles.” Darcy sounded as though he’d expected a bit more sophistication from Kincaid.
Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean that one is required not to praise good work by friends, for fear of being thought weak and undiscriminating? That seems a sort of reverse hypocrisy.”
Darcy gave a bark of laughter. “I should have learned not to underestimate you the first time we spoke, Mr. Kincaid. And you’re right, of course, but since I genuinely did not approve of the direction of much of Lydia’s later work, I don’t think I’m guilty of hypocrisy on that count. I find the idea of the confessional voice quite revolting, regardless of the owner.”
“But perhaps I can accuse you of being less than truthful about Lydia herself, Dr. Eliot. You hinted to me about Lydia’s relationship with Daphne Morris, but you didn’t mention the fact that it was all a bit more complicated than that. According to Morgan Ashby-”
“So that’s what happened to your face,” said Darcy, grinning. “Had a little run-in with Morgan’s famous temper, did we? You should-”
“According to Morgan Ashby,” interrupted Kincaid, “you and Lydia were lovers. In fact, Morgan seems to think that Lydia slept with everyone-you, Adam, Nathan, and Daphne.”
“Morgan Ashby is a certifiable paranoid,” said Darcy, unfazed. “And insanely jealous. The man should have been locked up years ago.”
“Are you saying that what he told me isn’t true?” asked Kincaid mildly.
Gemma, watching the two men from her corner of the sofa, was content to observe for the moment. She felt relieved, after what had happened with Morgan, that Kincaid seemed his usual unruffled self again.
“I’m saying so what if it is true?” said Darcy. “This was the sixties-remember the Profumo Affair? We were riding the crest of the great sexual revolution, imitating in our rather tame and provincial way what we thought they must be doing in London. We were young, we were away from home, and we were drunk with the idea of our own daring.” He grinned. “God, just thinking of it makes me realize how middle-aged and conventional I’ve become.”
“If these… things happened before Lydia married Morgan, then why did he feel so threatened?” Gemma asked. “She seems to have been quite devoted to him.”
Darcy made a face. “Besotted might be more accurate. Of course Lydia always did have a bit of an obsessional streak, but I thought she had better sense than to focus it on a man of Ashby’s background.”
“Background?” said Gemma, her hackles rising. “What does Morgan Ashby’s background have to do with it?”
“Oh, you know, Welsh mining family, salt of the earth and all that-and the bloody great load of puritanism that came with it. He couldn’t bear the idea that Lydia had enjoyed anyone else, no matter how much she loved him.” Darcy paused, knitting his thick brows together, then added, “I don’t think Ashby much liked the idea of anyone enjoying anything, for that matter, including himself.”
“I doubt that could be said of you, Dr. E
liot,” said Gemma with a smile. She glanced towards the sideboard, where a drinks tray held glasses ready beside an ice bucket and a dish of cut limes.
“Certainly not,” he said in mock offense. “Though I have to admit that a meeting of my graduate students seems quite dull after being reminded of the good old days.” He smiled at her in a way that made her suddenly aware that he was still a very attractive man, then he gave an exaggerated sigh. “But even I cannot escape duty entirely, especially as it looks as though I may need to take on some of Iris’s workload.”
“Is Dr. Winslow all right?” Kincaid asked with quick concern.
“She has an appointment to see a specialist about her headaches on Monday,” said Darcy. For the first time his voice held no hint of the teasing tone Gemma had come to expect. “This has been going on for some time, and I must admit I feel rather uneasy about it,” he continued, shaking his head. “Iris is one of my mother’s oldest friends. If anything should happen to her…” Looking up, he met Gemma’s eyes. “Well, there’s no point borrowing trouble, is there? I hate having come to the age where one has these constant intimations of mortality. It’s most unsettling.”
“But I understand that you’re first in line for Dr. Winslow’s position if she retires,” said Kincaid. “You must find that rather gratifying.”
“I understand being synonymous with rumor has it?” Darcy flicked a speck of dust from his trouser leg. “I learned a long time ago not to put too much credence in the academic grapevine. As in all small and incestuous communities, things tend to get blown out of proportion.”
Kincaid tilted his head to one side, as if the remark had reminded him of something. “Vic was aware of that, too, and she said she thought it curious there was so little speculation at the time of Lydia’s death. It was assumed a suicide and dropped at that.”
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