The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  Mr. Lloyd George has always been friendly towards Robert, though in a detached way because Robert is an Asquith protégé, but now Mr. Lloyd George is beginning, like a baby, to “sit up and take notice.” Mr. Lloyd George, naughty man, is certainly taking notice of me but luckily I find him absolutely resistible: too old, too crooked, too full of empty charm.

  For the coming election I’ve ordered some new clothes, absolutely plain, all black and navy, no trimmings, and I’m cultivating a serious austere air so that no one will want to murder me for being a Society woman with a penchant for raiding divine Harrods. I’ve also been practicing “You will vote for my husband, won’t you?” in Welsh in front of the looking glass. I can’t remember much of the Welsh that we all picked up in a haphazard fashion from the Welsh-speaking nursemaids whom Margaret employed, but at least I can brush up a few choice phrases, and Mr. Lloyd George tells me my accent is superb.

  Robert laughs admiringly as I trot out my Welsh phrases, and when he laughs I laugh too so that suddenly, miraculously, we’re happy once more, no longer an ill-assorted husband and wife but friends, rushing off hand in hand into a thrilling new adventure.

  “My dearest Ginette!” says Robert shining-eyed, and as he kisses me I know he doesn’t mind anymore about his absurd plan to withdraw from London, just as I know that he’s grateful to me for standing by him in his hour of need, just as a friend should, to stop him making such a terrible mistake.

  “I love you,” I say, and I do. I’m deeply connected to him by some unique emotion which has nothing to do with any conventional idea of passion—and suddenly as I realize this I know that in our minds we’re back at Oxmoon, the lost Oxmoon of our childhood, and I can see the strawberries ripening beneath the powerful summer sun.

  Life is still absolutely stunning—oh, I am enjoying myself! Robert has just made his last speech before the election, every word in Welsh, and his audience has cheered him to the echo. How did he do it? He’s told his listeners that he’s a Welshman but because he’s had an English education he has a unique insight into those English minds at Westminster, and therefore he, unlike his opponent, is qualified to play the English at their own game with lasting benefit for Pwlldu. This is all nonsense, of course, but by playing on their nationalism he avoids the issue of class on which his opponent had hoped to impale him. And then, thrill of thrills, triumph of triumphs, Mr. Lloyd George, the greatest Welsh statesman since Owen Glendower, appears on the platform to endorse Robert’s views and the audience go wild.

  Victory is still touch-and-go, but if Robert does win tomorrow it will be a tremendous triumph not only for him but for the Liberal Party, which has lost too many seats to the Unionists in various bye-elections since the second general election of 1910. In fact the Unionists now have more seats in the House than the Liberals, and although at present the Labour Party backs Mr. Asquith, such support might prove unreliable in shifting circumstances, and obviously the Liberals would prefer to have their own man representing Pwlldu rather than a Labour ally who might or might not be loyal in the days to come.

  I’ve been modest and retiring, loyal and admiring, bold and courageous, meek and mild, depending on which performance each occasion has required. I’ve been asked regularly for my views on the suffragettes, but I just say, “I love my husband and I think a woman’s place is in the home.” However I’m beginning to think I’d rather like to be a Member of Parliament. All that glamour, that excitement, that intrigue, that power—delicious! I can see myself wearing trousers and smoking a cigar, like George Sand, and briskly calling the Cabinet to order.

  Enough! No more idle fantasy. I’ll never have the vote and I’ll never have a seat in the House and I’ll certainly never be Prime Minister. But I really do think darling Robert’s going to be a huge political success, and that, when all’s said and done, will be quite enough for me.

  He did it. He won. He had a majority of over a thousand votes, and when the result was announced the waiting crowd began to sing “Land of Our Fathers.” I cried. The party organizers cried. Robert wanted to cry but his English stiff upper lip was too much for him and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. But he was very moved and very thrilled and afterwards, long afterwards when we were finally alone together, he thanked me for pushing him into politics and said he realized now that I had been absolutely right and he had been absolutely wrong on the subject of our withdrawal from London.

  There’s nothing mean about Robert. He’s warm and honest and generous to his friends. We’ll live in amity now, I’m sure of it, and all those horrid marital quarrels will belong entirely to the past as I continue to share his new career. Am I really being too optimistic if I write that I feel our long-delayed marital happiness is finally about to begin?

  I wasn’t being too optimistic. Our long-delayed marital happiness has begun, and please God may it go on forever. We’ve swept back to London in triumph and now everyone, but everyone, is panting to know us and we’ve been scooped into a frenetic social whirl.

  I’m now passionate about London. All the trees are lush and green, all the flowers are glowing in the parks, a brilliant sun is blazing from cloudless skies. High noon in the capital of the world, high summer in ravishing glorious 1914 and there’s no limit to the glamour and the gorgeousness—it’s like the finale of some stupendous symphony except that unlike any other symphonic finale this one is set to stream on indefinitely with no end in sight. How lucky I am to be moderately young, moderately rich, vastly fortunate and vastly happy in such a place and at such a time! I feel now that nothing can stop all my dreams coming true.

  Robert says we’re riding the Wheel of Fortune; we’ve been at the bottom and now we’re being carried right to the breathtaking top. What an alluring picture that conjures up! Robert says it’s not an original metaphor of his as it was made famous by some old pet called Boethius who lived in the year dot. Darling Robert, always so intellectual! However I must confess that at the moment my thoughts tend to center on more prosaic matters, such as how I can acquire the evening gowns I need without propelling Robert into bankruptcy.

  However Robert is perfect when I confess to him that I’m worried about my wardrobe, and he quite understands how important it is for me to be well dressed. In and out of all the famous houses we go—from Taplow to Panshanger, from Alderley to Avon Tyrrell, from Mells to the Wharf—we eat, we drink, we dance, we patronize the theater, the opera, Ascot and Henley—life’s one long sumptuous party but like all parties it’s hard work. One needs plenty of stamina. But I feel so full of joie de vivre that I barely notice any weariness, and Robert, still working hard at the bar, somehow manages to look radiant on four or five hours’ sleep a night. He wants to accumulate as much money as possible this summer so that he can give his full attention to politics after the coming recess.

  I simply doted on Number Ten when we were invited to dine there. I know they say Mr. Asquith drinks too much (When? Where? I’ve never seen any sign of it), but he’s such a pet and I think he’s just as keen on women as Mr. Lloyd George is although no doubt he’s kept in check by the terrifying Margot. Or is he? I heard someone say … But no, I will nor let this entry degenerate into vulgar tittle-tattle, no matter how much I adore finding out what really goes on behind the scenes! I always feel sorry for men having to pretend to be above gossip. So dreary for them, poor dears.

  Anyway I’m in such a whirl I can hardly fit my appointments with my dressmaker into my crowded calendar, but I haven’t forgotten Lion, who’s busily bounding around looking for an heiress, and he has an open invitation to call at our house whenever he likes. I thought he might share chambers with Johnny, who’s also working in town now, but they preferred to go their separate ways. In order to be fair, though, I’ve also given Johnny an open invitation to our house so now here I am with these two eligible young men on my hands, and I’m beginning to feel like Mrs. Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, a woman unable to think of anything except matrimony for her loved ones. Actually Jo
hnny’s too young for marriage; he’s only twenty-two, whereas Lion’s twenty-four, but Johnny is looking for a wife, I can sense that just as I can sense that he too is after money. But he doesn’t confide in me. I used to think he confided in Robert, whom he hero-worships, but I now realize they talk only of intellectual matters.

  Enigmatic Johnny, Bobby and Margaret’s male replica of Bobby’s beautiful, doomed, passionate mother—but unfortunately this romantic resemblance is only skin-deep. Johnny may be beautiful in his masculine way but he’ll never wind up doomed; he’s much too clever and ambitious, and he hasn’t a scrap of passion in his prim puritanical little mind.

  However I feel mean criticizing this paragon because he’s pleasant and courteous and he really is doing very well. Having won a first in modern languages at Oxford he passed third out of four hundred entrants in the Foreign Office examinations and is now settling down to be a success as a diplomat. Obviously he’s toiling away trying to follow in Robert’s brilliant footsteps, but this must be an unrewarding occupation, because Robert is so exceptional that Johnny, despite his considerable achievements, is always going to end up coming second. A first but no double first for Johnny at Oxford, no blues at cricket or rugger although he’s good at games, no glamour and fame at his worthy but possibly dull position at the F.O. In fact if I were Johnny I’d loathe Robert but he doesn’t. Johnny doesn’t loathe anyone because that wouldn’t be the Done Thing, and Doing the Done Thing is Johnny’s prime delight in life. He’s such a single-minded prig that I even wonder if he’s a virgin but no, he can’t be, he’s much too good-looking, although his personality is so aseptic that I don’t find him sexually attractive. That’s just as well because no doubt Johnny would think that being sexually attractive isn’t the Done Thing at all.

  “Ginevra,” he said to me the other day, “would you mind not calling me Johnny? I’m not in the nursery now and I find the name somewhat undignified.”

  I find it the only available antidote to his dreariness. Poor Johnny! So dull.

  However Johnny can look after himself without my help. Lion can’t. We toil away together hatching elaborate schemes as we plot the downfall of every heiress in sight, and whenever he wants to give up in despair I harangue him until he’s feeling more cheerful. We usually end up giggling together. Robert hates this so we have to be careful hot to giggle in his presence. Lion’s terrified of Robert, and although he resents Robert’s coldness he would secretly love to be friends so that he wouldn’t have to be terrified anymore. He has a deep admiration of Robert’s achievements and speaks reverently of Robert’s intellect. I find this touching and tell Robert so.

  “I’m getting very tired of Lion perpetually occupying my drawing room” is all Robert can say in reply. “Can you make it clear that I’d prefer him to call less often?”

  Back we are in the nursery again. Robert isn’t sexually jealous of Lion, of course, but he just can’t bear not being the center of my attention. It reminds me of those dreadful scenes he made after Lion was born when he realized there was another little boy who had a claim on Margaret’s time.

  I somehow conceal my impatience and resentment but I’m determined not to abandon Lion. Without my constant encouragement he’d drift away brokenhearted to Oxmoon, but in my opinion he deserves a rich wife. After all, these rich girls have to marry, and think what ghastly men they constantly choose! Lion’s not ghastly. He’s affectionate and lovable, and he’ll be so pleased to be saved from the dreariness of earning a living that he’s bound to adore his savior. I think she’ll be a very lucky girl … if we can find her.

  Luckily Robert’s been diverted from Lion by politics because he’s now absorbed with the ordeal of making his maiden speech in the House. As a woman I was brought up to be uninterested in political issues. Margaret said all I needed to know was that the Liberals were for change and freedom while the Tories (as they were called when I was young) were wicked enough to want everything to stay exactly the same, even the poverty and suffering. The Godwins were a Whig family in the eighteenth century, and in the nineteenth they drifted along with the Liberal tide. Bobby is actually quite radical, despite his place in that established order which the Unionists seek to preserve unchanged. Bobby said to me once that anyone who had known impoverishment could never vote for the Unionists.

  When Robert entered politics I wondered whether to study the big political issues such as Free Trade and Home Rule, but Robert said the last thing he wanted was a wife who held forth on politics, so I didn’t bother. However I’m beginning to be interested in the major issues of the day and I do wish Robert would speak on Ireland. Declan would be impressed by his advanced views, but Robert is shying away from that graveyard of political reputations and says he intends to speak on foreign affairs. Such a pity, because what could be more dreary than foreign affairs at this time? Something’s going on in the Balkans as usual but honestly, who cares? Something’s always going on in the Balkans; it’s a standing joke, just like that hoary old warning regularly issued by the Job’s Comforters that we’re on the brink of war. I’ve been hearing that for years and I’ll believe it when it happens. Meanwhile the Balkans are a big bore as usual. Let the Balkanese get on with it, I say, and good luck to them. I’ve got more important things to worry about.

  What am I going to wear when Robert makes his maiden speech?

  What a stunning success we both were yesterday! I wore royal blue, the skirt of the costume so narrow at the ankle that I could barely glide, and the material draped and swathed in gorgeous curvy lines over my hips and legs. A new corset and three days’ rigorous banting had ensured a slim waist, and all the surplus flesh above was pushed upwards so that my bosom, discreetly swathed beneath pale blue trimmings, was guaranteed to rivet the male eye. I also wore a sumptuous new hat decorated with osprey feathers (thirty guineas at divine Harrods), and when I entered the gallery even the male monsters on the benches below dropped their eyeglasses and gaped. Sometimes I do think the suffragettes are very stupid. They shouldn’t go around wrecking everything in sight. All they need to do to get the vote is wear splendid hats and look lavish.

  Darling Robert made a wonderful speech about the boring old Balkans and was warmly congratulated. Later so was I—in fact we were both positively weighed down with “dewdrops” and the evening finished in a haze of champagne. What heaven! I adored every minute of it, and in the midst of so much euphoria I quite forgot Lion but lo and behold, today he’s appeared again, madly in love, and says this is it and please could I help him and he’s utterly desperate because he knows his whole future happiness is at stake.

  She’s perfect for him. Her name is Daphne Wynter-Hamilton, and her father, Sir Cuthbert, has a house in Belgravia and thousands of acres in Scotland complete with castle and grouse moor. Daphne is an only child. Her father dotes on her—and her wretched mother, of course, wants her to marry someone with a title and ten thousand a year.

  But this is a nice, sensible girl, not pretty but very jolly, and she doesn’t mind Lion having no money. She’s passionate about him and he’s passionate about her and whenever they’re not giggling together they’re sighing into each other’s eyes. Yes, they must certainly marry but how are we going to overcome the cold-eyed mother who thinks a penniless younger son of an untitled Welsh squire is about as low as one can go without sinking into the middle classes?

  I’m going to ask Robert if he can cultivate Sir Cuthbert.

  “Good God, certainly not!” said Robert. “Let Lion fight his own battles! Ginette, you’ll oblige me, if you please, by doing as I say and terminating this consuming interest you have in Lion’s affairs. I’m not prepared to tolerate it any longer, and for the good of our marriage I’m now drawing the line.”

  I’m back with my husband again. My friend has vanished. I’m back with this ghastly male monster who says that for the good of our marriage I should obey him unquestioningly—even when he’s being unreasonable and wrong.

  Of course we’ve jus
t had the most appalling row. I felt so angry with Robert after our clash this afternoon that this evening I flirted with a charming American at a reception in Grosvenor Square. I knew at the time that it was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted Robert to know how livid I was with him.

  I’ll never do it again, though, because just now, when we were shouting at each other in the bedroom, I felt genuinely frightened. Violence always frightens me and Robert is potentially a violent man. Curiously enough Conor, who was certainly a violent man in some ways, was never violent with me; when he wanted to hurt me he just slept with someone else or perhaps extorted my money to lose at poker. But that’s not Robert’s style. Robert’s style is first to slap me so hard across the mouth that I fall backwards across the bed and second to assert himself in the most obvious way available. It’s not rape exactly because I’m sensible enough to give in without a fight, but whatever it is, it’s vile. All I could think in the bathroom afterwards was: Conor would never have done that, never, never, never. And to my horror I found myself grieving for Conor all over again.

  Robert apologized afterwards but spoiled the apology by adding: “Nevertheless I’m your husband and I’m entitled to make a strong demonstration of my marital rights if you appear to need reminding of your marital duties.” Anyone would think I’d been guilty of the grossest infidelity, yet all I had done was flutter my eyelashes at this inoffensive diplomat over a glass of champagne.

  However with great self-restraint I made no comment on Robert’s monstrous statement and presently in bed in the dark, he slipped his hand into mine to show he wanted to be friends. What’s my final verdict? Oh, I daresay we shall be friends again in a day or two. I don’t mind Robert when he’s trying to be a friend. It’s when he’s trying to be a husband that he’s so absolutely bloody impossible.