In the room Wavell and Tommy Taylor had just vacated, silence still reigned, a quiet broken only by the crackling of the fire that burned in the hearth, whatever the time of year.
‘This brouhaha is not going to reflect at all well on anyone, you know,’ the Duke finally said, breaking the silence. He was standing where he always liked to stand at such moments of reflection, at one of the long library windows, surveying his beloved parkland, seeing the white deer moving slowly among the trees, grazing the lush green grass and occasionally trying to pull down one of the branches of his precious young trees. ‘Least of all you, my dear,’ he concluded. ‘Not going to reflect well on Waterside.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right, John,’ the Duchess replied, still holding the folded telegram she had just received and tapping it nervously on one elegant hand. ‘Of course one had no idea …’
‘Course you didn’t,’ John agreed. ‘Boys will be boys, don’t you know. Particularly when there are pretty young ladies about.’
‘I don’t think there was any real impropriety, John.’
‘Don’t doubt your word for a moment, my dear. Fact is, however, the two of them have eloped, and there’s an end of it. People like to point their fingers and this is just what people will be doing. Should have kept a more watchful eye, they’ll be saying behind their wretched fans. Should have kept an eye on the emotional weather.’
‘You’re absolutely right, of course, John,’ Circe agreed. ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry.’
‘Quite sure you are.’ John continued to stare out at the landscape while he considered the situation. ‘Since it’s fairly obvious we’re about to go to war, then we can be pretty sure that when we do that’ll scotch any such scandal that follows in the wake of this sort of thing. Most other times this would cause the gravest of embarrassments, but I suppose in light of what’s about to happen, it will all blow over, don’t you see? It’ll prove to be small beer, at a time like this.’
‘You are convinced about this, John?’ Circe asked, putting the telegram at last to one side. ‘You really do believe war to be inevitable?’
‘No doubt about it, my dear. Put my shirt on it.’
‘I do so hope you’re not right, John. Trouble is, you invariably are. You have a way of reading the runes.’
‘Any fool can see it, Circe. Don’t have to be some kind of prophet fellow. The Kaiser simply cannot wait. He’s dying to show us all how big and strong he is, and how weak and feeble we are. Can’t be doing with the man, but there you are. That’s Germany for you.’
‘I simply cannot bear the thought.’
‘Which of us can? But that’s how it is. Grown men make wars for boys to fight.’
They fell to silence once more, the Duke to stare out over his estate and the Duchess to wish the Wynyard Errol boy had been born with more sense.
‘Anyway,’ Circe began again, bringing the subject away from the unbearable, back to what she now saw as the truly trivial: the subject of Valentine Wynyard Errol and Livia Catesby’s totally unforeseen elopement. ‘To return to the news this telegram has brought us: do you know how I felt when I read it? I felt as though I had been betrayed. Absurd, I’m sure, since young people do this sort of thing without any such consideration, but I couldn’t help it, John. I felt betrayed.’
The Duke nodded, turning now to face his wife. ‘Don’t know what they thought they were doing,’ he said with a puzzled shake of his head. ‘Consolata Catesby is a bigot, it must be faced, and there’s nothing to be done there. She’d never have given her consent to Livia marrying the Wynyard Errol boy. Quite apart from the religious side of it, there is the question of the Wynyard Errols being theatricals. You know how many of the Roman Catholics regard the theatre as a place of debauch and temptation, no more and no less.’
‘No, I didn’t know that, John. I know my mamma’s friends were all happy to go to the theatre in New York.’
‘Apparently a great many of the more backward of them still think it’s sinful to go to the theatre.’
‘Surely not nowadays?’
‘The absolute sticklers I understand won’t even stomach the Bard.’
‘Gracious heavens.’
‘I’m not being judgemental, my dear. Just factual.’
‘I have to tell you that I can never quite understand the notions people have about religion, John. No one can prove God likes to be worshipped one way more than another, after all, can they, dearest?’
‘Rather not, Circe, and if He could tell us, would He? Absolutely not, because it would mean He would be favouring one lot over another, and He wouldn’t do that. I have always found religions of all Kinds a trifle baffling. On the other hand, Nature,’ John said, nodding backwards to the parkland behind him, ‘I have no trouble understanding, however red in tooth and claw, but religious feelings that insist on being right, I just don’t understand them, truly I don’t.’
‘Why should you, John? You are by nature tolerant; it is one of your many virtues,’ Circe assured him. ‘But to get back to the subject of Valentine and Livia – the reason they have run off is obvious, wouldn’t you say? They have run off because Livia knows that Consolata would never countenance the match so I suppose the only way open to them was to elope. I don’t know what gets into people with their young, I really don’t. You know about Elizabeth Milborne and Pug Stapleton, of course?’
‘Understand wedding bells are in the air, yes.’ John grunted. ‘From what Al has told me, that is imminent, which is something to celebrate, at any rate.’
‘If only it were as easy,’ Circe sighed. ‘I dare say Almeric has not told you that Elizabeth’s father is refusing to give his consent.’
‘The devil he is! What is wrong with that man?’
‘What is wrong with him, John, is that he takes the greatest pleasure in putting every kind of obstacle in his daughter’s way. It would appear the last thing he is concerned about is Elizabeth’s happiness.’
‘He can’t have any feasible objection to young Stapleton? Young Stapleton is a thoroughly decent sort of chap. All right, he is a bit mannered, but there you are, that’s only a phase – sort of thing a lot of young men go through, that sort of affectation of speech. But you couldn’t meet a more four-square young man. Don’t know what the devil is wrong with Milborne, I really don’t.’
Circe smiled to herself, amused how, as always, John seemed to know everything that was going on without ever apparently taking much of an interest. She had long suspected Wavell as being the source of the gossip, yet she knew there was more to it than that, because John always seemed to know that little bit more than even a butler could possibly know.
‘Just wish all these romances had kicked off somewhere other than your summerhouse,’ John said, looking momentarily and uncharacteristically glum. ‘I can hear all the gossips at it already.’
‘Actually, John,’ Circe decided, getting to her feet and going to her husband’s side, ‘I think we’re making a bit too much fuss. What does it matter where or how these things started? They’re not children any more – they have wills of their own and emotions the same too. And if what you say is right and there is going to be war, all these young men will be marching off to fight. When and if they do, that really is going to make all these obstacles that have been put in their way look even more stupid and pointless than they are already.’ Circe slipped her arm into his, and smiled up at him, at her most beguiling. ‘Now why don’t we go for a long walk in our park, sweetest? Why don’t we go out and enjoy this wonderful weather and talk about all the things we used to talk about when first we met?’
‘What sort of things were they, my dearest dear?’ John heard himself asking. ‘Not sure I can remember that far back.’
‘Of course you can,’ Circe smiled. ‘And what you can’t remember, I shall prompt, because I can remember everything we said to each other when we were young and first in love.’
‘Dash it, I suppose you can too, Circe,’ John said with a sudden s
hy smile. ‘So very well – let’s take the air. I should like to hear all the things you said to me when we met.’
‘And all the things you said to me,’ Circe replied.
Besides recalling how they had met and how John had shyly but successfully wooed her, Circe suggested that rather than worrying about what society was going to say with regard to Valentine running off with Livia, they should do what they could to shore up the happiness of the young lovers, in particular Pug and Elizabeth, who having both reached their majorities were fully entitled to marry whomsoever they wished, regardless.
‘Why don’t we invite them to get married here at Bauders, John?’ Circe suggested. ‘If Cecil Milborne is going to be so intransigent about poor little Elizabeth, the least we could do would be to offer to let them marry here.’
‘And incur old Cecil’s undying displeasure, you mean?’ John mused with apparent delight. ‘Can’t think of anything better. Good for you, my dear. What a good notion.’
‘Especially in light of what you think is about to happen,’ Circe added, putting her hand in his, which John promptly kissed. ‘We could make it a most memorable day.’
When the invitation for Pug and Elizabeth to be married at Bauders had first been extended, Pug had naturally been thrilled and honoured, but now that the fateful day had dawned, and he found himself staring in his shaving glass, he felt the very opposite of all those previous emotions. Now he only felt frightened, nervous and unworthy. He wanted so much to please his bride-to-be, but his reflection told him a different story. The mirror showed him what he considered to be a plain and unremarkable young man with very little in the way of character, and certainly of wealth, to offer the sweet-tempered and talented young woman who had agreed to be his wife.
‘Touch of the collywobs?’ Almeric wondered cheerfully as he walked through from his dressing room to discover Pug leaning over the basin supported by both his arms. ‘Like me to get you a little shot of brandy, old chap?’
‘No, thanks, Al,’ Pug said quietly to his best man. ‘Just a little nervous, that’s all.’
‘And only natural too,’ Almeric assured him, putting his hands on Pug’s shoulders while at the same time staring at his own reflection. ‘A small cognac might be just the thing, you know, a shot from the stick at the first meet, eh?’
‘Wish I had your looks,’ Pug said gloomily, having stared at Almeric’s reflection behind him. ‘Bethy’s getting a very short straw, I’m afraid. I’m the sort of chap cows bolt from in case their milk turns sour.’
‘You are absurd, Pug,’ Almeric replied sternly. ‘You are a dashed good-looking sort of cove if only you let yourself be. Instead of hiding behind that ridiculous eye-glass that you do not need – and letting that hair of yours flop all over your eyes, you should drop all that, let people see what a good-looking chap you are, Pug. You know what my advice to you on your wedding day is? Give Elizabeth the best present she could have; stop hiding yourself away behind all these silly pretences.’
‘Almeric—’ Pug began, feeling more than a little hurt.
‘Just try it, Pug,’ Almeric urged, taking Pug by the shoulders now and standing him up straight. ‘Brush your hair like this …’
Almeric took a hairbrush and swiftly reformed Pug’s hairstyle, with the help of some of Mr Trumper’s best dressing, before returning him to stand in front of the glass once more.
‘Better already, old chap. See?’
Pug frowned at the stranger he saw staring back at him.
‘I can’t have that, Al,’ he protested. ‘I don’t have the sort of looks that – no, I really can’t have that.’
‘Yes, you can – and to prove you can, finish dressing – without your old man’s monocle – and if you’re still in doubt we’ll call Partita in – and Kitty – and get their opinions.’
‘No, Al,’ Pug continued to protest, as if being asked to perform the most embarrassing of tasks. ‘Chaps will just laugh.’
‘They will not, Pug, I promise. And if they do – tell you what? I’ll foot the bill for the honeymoon.’
As Almeric prepared his friend for the altar he wished with all his heart that he was getting married in his stead, although not to Elizabeth, of course, to his beloved Kitty. He sighed inwardly, remembering his recent conversation with his father, held inevitably in the library at Bauders. It seemed that, like it or not, Kitty had been proved right. His father had reservations about his elder son marrying a Rolfe.
‘I understand your point of view,’ Almeric had found himself saying. He did not understand at all, but he did appreciate what his father was saying about Evelyn Rolfe, and Kitty’s mother, both of whom were never now going to be received by what was known as ‘polite society’. ‘However, I have to tell you, Papa, no matter what her parents’ marriage might be, my feelings for Kitty are not going to go away.’
‘I am not asking for them to go away, I am simply asking for you to take a pull, have a year to think about it, only fair to both of you.’
‘If I have to wait a whole year for Kitty, Papa, then I shall merely love her three hundred and sixty-five times as much!’
‘I’m sure you will, my boy,’ his father had assured him. ‘It’s not what’s in your heart that concerns me, it is what is in the bloodlines of the Rolfes. We must all have time to consider, to adjust. A year is a very long time, and who knows how you may both feel at the end of it?’
‘I shall feel more, not less, Papa. You will see, but I shall wait, because I would not want to upset you or Mamma.’
So Almeric, for the love of his parents, and perhaps too because Kitty had warned him that this was how it would be, had agreed to wait to be married. Had he not, he would doubtless be standing where Pug was standing, feeling as nervous and apprehensive as he.
‘Come and see yourself, Pug,’ Almeric beckoned to his reformed friend. ‘Because if you are not the very picture of a dashing devil, I don’t know what or who is, I don’t really.’ He turned Pug to a full-length dressing mirror and waited for his final opinion.
‘I wouldn’t have recognised myself,’ Pug said, without affectation. ‘I simply would not have given such a thing credit.’
‘You look bang up, Pug,’ Almeric assured him once again.
‘I hope I can carry all this off.’
‘There is nothing to carry off, Pug. What you are looking at is the real you.’
Pug nodded and, taking a deep breath, walked to the window, which enjoyed a magnificent view of the parkland. Very soon he would be walking across to the church, and waiting at the top of the aisle for Elizabeth to appear on the Duke’s arm. Supposing she changed her mind? Supposing because she had changed her mind, she didn’t turn up? Or worse – suppose she did turn up, then seeing what or who she was about to marry, turned and fled? Whatever would he do then? He might shoot himself. Or if his courage failed him in that direction, he would most certainly enlist in the army.
‘I don’t think I can do it, Al, old friend,’ Pug announced, reaching for his monocle. ‘Too much of a risk, old bean. She’s used to seeing me like this, truly she is.’
‘Poppycock,’ Almeric said, taking his monocle away and putting it in his own pocket. ‘And don’t you old bean me. You look absolutely splendid and you are absolutely splendid. Now come on, or I shall leave you to flounder all by yourself.’
As they made their way out of the house and started on the short walk to the church, Pug’s thoughts now turned nervously to his honeymoon, which was to be spent in a house he and Elizabeth had been kindly loaned on the neighbouring estate, owned by a friend of the Edens. Thankfully he was a little less nervous about the honeymoon than he was about the actual marriage ceremony itself, believing that if Elizabeth did show up at the church the worst part would be over, since one of his more enlightened godfathers had sent his two older sons and Pug to stay with a friend of his in Paris.
‘Must further your education, boys,’ he had insisted. ‘Get to know how the French enjoy themselves, all pa
rt of maturing and so forth, go and visit their beautiful poodles in their parlours.’
They had indeed furthered their education, and in so many ways, and at the hands of such beautiful French ladies, that Pug and his friends had returned home not just mature, but enlightened.
‘Do you agree with your father, Al?’ Pug suddenly wondered as they neared the church.
‘On what particular issue, Pug?’
‘The situation in Europe.’
‘Not now, Pug,’ Almeric groaned.
‘Your papa says—’
‘I can’t actually remember a time when Papa didn’t think some war or other was coming – or some new form of taxation to bring about his instant ruination. That’s Papa. That’s older men.’
‘I think your father is right, Al,’ Pug insisted. ‘And if so – in the event of anything happening to me, would you look after Bethy for me?’
‘Pug?’ Almeric stood in front of his oldest friend and took him by one arm. ‘This is just wedding-day nerves, old chap, really. Apparently some chaps become totally addle-pated on their wedding days, but once the deed is done, they’re just fine. In fact, they return to normality just like that – so much so that they at once start sticking their fingers in their waistcoats, tapping their fobs if someone is a second late, and so on and so forth. So enough of gloomy thoughts. This is meant to be the day you will remember for the rest of your life, so don’t go filling your head with such gloomy stuff, do you hear? Mine neither.’
Pug nodded. Almeric was probably right, and he probably was just suffering from wedding-morning nerves. Even so, once the wedding was over and they were back from honeymoon, he would bring the subject up again with his best friend and best man and get a proper answer out of him. He had to make sure his beloved Bethy would be cared for.
Once she had been given her cue that it was time to leave Bauders for the church, Elizabeth followed her flower maidens and pages down the great oak staircase, watched by every servant in the castle, as was the custom on wedding mornings at the great house, where every member of the household staff was invited to share first look at the bride and her attendants. As soon as they saw Miss Elizabeth, all the maids gasped or sighed in wonder at the beautiful sight, while the men all smiled, nodding their heads appreciatively as Elizabeth walked by them. One or two of the younger maids began to clap, only to be hushed back to respectful silence.
In Distant Fields Page 18
