Take No Farewell - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  When I tapped on the door of the master bedroom, it occurred to me that I had never been inside since it had been furnished. It enjoyed the finest prospect of any room in the house, with its broad bay-window looking out over garden and orchard. The ceiling was high and the fireplace vast. My intention had been for the design to combine privacy with pride, the intimacy of the bedchamber with the grandeur of possession. Many times since I had regretted devising the effect, regretted and resented all that it implied about Victor’s ownership of his wife as well as his house.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Consuela answered the knock softly, as if from a great distance.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The bedroom itself was empty, a vacant arena of granular, suspended sunlight. The door to Consuela’s dressing-room stood open and I could see her beyond it, sitting by a mirror, brushing her long dark hair. She had just dried it, I thought, for it glistened damply as the brush swept through its strands. She wore a silk peignoir of some shade between pink and peach. It shimmered faintly as she turned to look at me.

  ‘I’d hoped you would come sooner.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy to leave unobserved.’ I moved into the centre of the room, feeling the hint of a breeze from the open windows to my right, letting my vision absorb the details of the furnishings: the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, the jaguar-skin hearth-rug, the wide and canopied double bed. ‘Are we alone?’

  ‘Quite.’ She set down the brush, rose from her seat and stepped into the room. ‘I sent Lizzie to see her family. They have much to discuss.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘As do we.’ She walked straight up to me and we embraced. It seemed so natural, so obvious, to find her in my arms, her lips brushing against mine, her body soft and inviting beneath the peignoir. ‘You have heard Victor is to lunch with the Kaiser’s brother on Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is my opportunity to escape.’ She kissed me and drew still closer. The sun was hot on my back, Consuela’s flesh cool to my touch. In her the anticipation of liberty had stoked a reckless passion. In me something I would like to pretend was not mere lust unveiled its temptation. ‘We shall be free, Geoffrey, free to live as we please.’

  I should not have done it, should not have enacted that worst of all lies, there and then, in the bedroom I had designed for her husband. But I did. It was too easy, too potent, too delicious not to. Her pliant limbs wrapped about me. Her fluttering, clutching excitement. Her every secret mine. And the sheer carnal pleasure of violation. Her body, her trust and her marriage. All were abused, all deceived, by our frantic coupling across the canopied bed at Clouds Frome that breathless afternoon thirteen long years ago.

  ‘In three days’ time,’ Consuela murmured as we lay together in a languor of physical contentment, ‘we will not have to steal moments like this. We will be together – and at peace.’

  It was too late to tell her now, far too late to do anything other than sustain the pretence. ‘How do you propose to leave here?’ I asked.

  ‘By train. You should return to London on Monday, as Victor expects. On Tuesday he has his luncheon party with Prince Henry at the Mitre Hotel. I shall wait until he sets off for Hereford in the car, then I shall ask Danby to call a cab. I shall say I have suddenly remembered an appointment in Hereford. But I shall ask the driver to take me straight to the station, where I shall board the one o’clock train to London. It’s due at Paddington just before six. Will you be there to meet me?’

  ‘Yes.’ I inclined my head to look at her, smiled and kissed her lightly on the nose. ‘I’ll be there.’ The lie burned within me as I spoke it, but my talent for deception was intact. In Consuela’s eyes as she gazed at me there was not the least shadow of a doubt.

  Some minutes passed. I think we may have slept a little. At all events, I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Consuela had slipped from the bed and was walking across the room towards the half-curtained windows. More beautiful naked than in the most flattering finery, she seemed to me then sublimely desirable. I could still, I knew, honour the promises I had made to her. I could still elect to stand by her. And so long as she was near me, as long as I could feast my eyes upon her, I could still pretend that I would.

  She shook her head and the black tresses of her hair slid across her shoulders. A shaft of sunlight caught the curve of her breast and stomach, caught and crystallized every pleasure I had ever taken from her.

  She glanced back at me and, seeing that I was looking at her, smiled. ‘The English are famed for their sense of irony. Ironia. I never understood it till now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This house, Geoffrey. Clouds Frome. You built it. And I live in it. But after Tuesday neither of us will ever be able to come here again.’

  ‘Will you miss it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Will you?’

  ‘I can build other houses, Consuela. Dozens of others.’

  ‘Will you build one for us?’

  ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘I think I do. Very much.’

  The appeal in her voice seemed to summon me. I rose at its bidding, crossed to where she stood and wrapped her in my arms. She closed her eyes as I kissed her, then let her head fall onto my shoulder. Her hair was warm and fragrant against my cheek, her body smooth and golden where the sunlight fell upon it. A sudden realization of her loveliness swept over me and, with it, renewed desire, a desire so powerful that the future – and what I meant to do in it – dissolved into nothing. Every compartment of my mind, every recess of my imagination, was filled with the need to possess her once more.

  Consuela looked up at me and whispered, ‘You want me again?’

  ‘I want you always.’

  ‘Then you shall have me. Always.’

  Desire and deceit surged within me. I was laughing as I carried her back to the bed and, seconds later, thrust triumphantly into her; laughing with a sound that in my memory resembles nothing but the baying of my own conscience.

  There were ten to dinner at Clouds Frome that night: Victor and Consuela; Mortimer and Marjorie; Hermione and old Mrs Caswell; Mr and Mrs Peto; Major Turnbull and I. Naturally, the success of the house-warming and Caswell & Co.’s victory in the cricket match dominated conversation. The two events had filled Victor with an exultant sense of belonging, of restoration to his rightful domain, and his guests responded in kind.

  I was seated between Hermione and Mrs Peto. Victor was at our end of the table, with Consuela at the other. There was scant need for me to converse in view of the garrulousness of others, for which I was grateful. The events of the day had left me confused, my resolution gone, my nerves in tatters. If I so much as glanced down the table at Consuela, my mind filled with the images of what we had done in Victor’s marriage-bed that very afternoon. And I knew, as Consuela did not, just how wrong it had been. There was nothing for it but to drown my self-reproach in Victor’s claret and pray for the end to come swiftly.

  But it did not. And, during dessert, I found myself involved in an argument with the Caswell brothers that I should have avoided. Hermione, devouring strawberries with an undiminished appetite, took Mortimer to task for dismissing a member of his workforce. When I caught the man’s name – Ivor Doak – I expressed an interest, sorry as I was to think that Doak of all people had fallen on hard times.

  ‘Yes,’ Mortimer starkly confirmed. ‘I had to get rid of him. Fonder of emptying cider bottles than of filling them.’

  ‘It’s appalling,’ put in Hermione. ‘We owe that man a job if we owe him nothing else.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Mortimer, ‘we owe him nothing.’

  ‘The Doaks are an ancient Herefordshire family. If Ivor drinks, it’s to forget what they’ve been reduced to.’

  ‘My sister,’ said Mortimer, smiling tartly at me, ‘is a great believer in charity – usually at my expense.’

  ‘I can’t help agreeing with her,’ I sa
id. ‘Surely it wouldn’t hurt to be lenient on poor old Doak. As a former owner of this land—’

  ‘A former tenant,’ Victor interrupted. ‘And a neglectful one at that. You’re well rid of him, Mortimer. We’re all well rid of him.’

  ‘But what will he do for work now?’ I protested.

  ‘Starve or go hang,’ snapped Victor. ‘Who cares what a man like Ivor Doak does?’ His vehemence seemed unnecessary, his scorn disproportionate. I could not understand why he should be so vengeful towards somebody who – so far as I knew – had never done him any harm.

  ‘He needs to leave Hereford,’ said Hermione, ‘and all the memories it holds for him.’

  ‘To go where?’ asked Victor with a sarcastic curl to his mouth.

  ‘Australia. He has a cousin who farms sheep there.’

  ‘What my sister means, Staddon,’ said Victor, ‘is that Doak’s uncle was transported to Western Australia fifty years ago for shooting a gamekeeper and that his progeny are still out there, allegedly eager to welcome and support their kinsman.’

  ‘It happens to be true,’ said Hermione. ‘And you of all people, Victor, should appreciate the value of making a fresh start in life.’

  Victor’s face reddened. His voice dropped to a growl. ‘If you think an addle-headed comparison like that is going to persuade me to put up Doak’s passage-money to Perth—’

  ‘I don’t think any such thing! I know you and Mortimer too well to expect any gestures of decency towards somebody who’s down on his luck.’

  ‘His luck? Is that what you call running his farm into the ground? Is that what you call leaving Mortimer no alternative but to sack him? It’s not bad luck that’s got Ivor Doak where he is, woman. It’s bad blood!’

  ‘What perfect nonsense! All he needs—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, leaning forward across the table, sorrow and regret for all I had lately done fastening themselves on the memory of my one encounter with the evicted tenant of Clouds Frome Farm. ‘How much would it cost to pay Doak’s passage?’

  ‘More than even he could spend on drink,’ said Victor.

  Hermione ignored the remark. ‘About forty pounds. More than he is able to raise. And more, I regret to say, than I can afford to lend him.’

  Victor snorted. ‘Forty pounds! I ask you.’

  Hermione pressed on. ‘Three months’ wages for Ivor Doak, Mr Staddon, and loose change to my brothers. Yet still they begrudge it.’

  ‘Prudent investment is the essence of good business,’ said Mortimer. ‘Investment in Ivor Doak would be the height of folly.’

  But Hermione was undaunted. ‘I’m confident he would repay us as soon as he found his feet.’

  There was a dismissive grunt from Victor. Mortimer shook his head and returned to his pineapple. But Hermione glared defiantly round the table, where all other conversation had now ceased. Clumsy, tactless and aimlessly energetic, she had long been the one Caswell I had any regard for, but this, I knew, was not the reason why I warmed to her proposal. Sickened by my own conduct, I needed to prove that I was not as mean and selfish as Hermione’s brothers; to prove it to myself and to demonstrate it to others. And so, with Consuela’s admiring eyes upon me, I spoke.

  ‘I’ll lend Doak forty pounds.’

  Victor’s spoon clattered into its dish, but I refused to look at him. Instead, I merely smiled across the table at his sister. ‘That’s exceedingly generous of you, Mr Staddon,’ she said. ‘As it happens, I can supply half the amount myself.’

  ‘Then I’ll supply the balance.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  ‘Splendid! Together then, you and I will do our best to salvage poor Ivor.’ She grinned round at her brothers. ‘It is such a rare pleasure to find oneself dealing with a true gentleman.’

  ‘You’re a fool if you follow my sister’s lead in this, Staddon.’ The force of Victor’s tone obliged me to look at him. To my surprise, he appeared genuinely angry that I should have made such an offer.

  ‘I presume I can be a fool with my own money if I wish.’

  ‘You mean the money I’ve just paid you.’

  ‘I do have other resources besides the fee for this house.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’ He eyed me malevolently. ‘You’ll regret loaning money to Ivor Doak, Staddon. Take it from me, you’ll regret it.’ He meant what he said. That was clear from the thunderous expression on his face. But whether he meant it as a prediction or a threat was altogether less clear.

  As the dispute dissolved and other conversations sprang up round the table, the doubt that Victor’s remarks had sown in my mind ran and wriggled about my thoughts. Why did he care whether I gave Doak a helping hand? Why did he resent it so keenly? And why was he so sure, so very sure, that one day I would regret it?

  Sunday was for me an ordeal of prolonged inactivity. A late breakfast. A more or less obligatory attendance at Mordiford Church. Luncheon. Then a torpid afternoon of croquet and tennis. Tea on the terrace. And the sun blazing down from a cloudless sky. Any neutral observer of the scene would have concluded that the Caswell family and their guests were passing the sabbath in contented ease.

  How my thoughts ranged to and fro as the heavy hours plodded by. Both courses that I was bound to choose between seemed impossible to face. To lose Consuela or to sacrifice fame. Each chalice was poisoned, each decision foredoomed. I watched her serving tea, smiling at Turnbull’s witticisms, deferring to her husband, strolling beneath the pergola. I watched her and she, I felt sure, watched me. And still certainty eluded me.

  The afternoon gave way to evening. The hour for dinner approached. The party had been reduced to eight by now and its mood had become weary and circumspective. There was no mention of Ivor Doak, no enthusiastic recollection of the cricket match or the house-warming. We were all, I suppose, a little bored with each other’s company. But boredom, though it may have appeared to be, was not the explanation for my distracted condition. Whenever I caught Consuela’s eye between the epergnes and the candelabra, whenever I heard her soft voice amidst the murmur of conversation, I knew that the moment of decision was drawing ever closer, the moment to which I still felt unequal.

  Dinner ended and the ladies made to withdraw. It was then, amidst the exchange of courteous wishes for a restful night, that I saw and spoke to her for the last time. How strange the stilted remarks we uttered seem now, how banal the guarded smiles and cautious glances with which we took our leave of each other.

  ‘I catch an early train tomorrow, Mrs Caswell. Perhaps therefore I can thank you now for your hospitality this weekend.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Staddon.’ Her hand rested briefly in mine. ‘I hope we will see you again soon.’

  ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Caswell.’ She moved towards the door. ‘And goodbye.’

  Just one fleeting look back – the merest glimmer of her eyes that seemed to convey and bestow all her trust in me – and then she was gone.

  The gentlemen did not linger long over their port. After one glass, Mortimer took himself off to bed, whereupon Victor proposed a few frames of billiards and Turnbull agreed. I was grateful to leave them to it and walk out into the sultry night.

  Clouds Frome had fulfilled my every hope for it. That much was clear as I circled its elegant exterior, outlined against the star-shot sky. And Clouds Frome, with Thornton’s commission mine for the taking, might only be the start. But a light burned in the window of the master bedroom, a light to remind me of Consuela’s love. For her sake I should have been prepared to endure all and to sacrifice everything. But I could not force myself to feel more deeply than I did. I could not prevent myself longing for the opportunities loyalty to her might deny me. The truth was simple and the less palatable because of it. I did not love her enough.

  I returned to the house. All was quiet, save for the crack of cue on ball from the billiards-room. I poured myself a tum
blerful of scotch and carried it up to my bedroom. And there I took out a sheet of Victor’s headed notepaper, sat at the desk and began to write.

  16 July 1911

  My dearest Consuela—

  I began again. How dare I proclaim her as my dearest – or mine at all?

  16 July 1911

  Consuela,

  It is as painful for me to write this as it will be painful for you to read it. We cannot – we must not – proceed with your plan. It would not be fair of me to let you sacrifice your good name—

  Once more I abandoned the draft. It was poor and spineless stuff. The least Consuela deserved of me now was the honesty I should have shown her earlier. I swallowed some whisky and nerved myself to tell her the truth. But how could I explain valuing my career more highly than her love? In the end, this brand of truth was worse than any deception. And so, with sincerity vanquished, I committed my weasel-words to the page.

  16 July 1911

  Consuela,

  We cannot proceed with your plan. I have thought about this very carefully and I have concluded that you were right last November when you said the sacrifices we would have to make in order to be together were too great. We have been foolish and impetuous. I cannot let you destroy your position in society for my sake. I cannot let you leave Victor to be with me.

  Do not leave Clouds Frome on Tuesday. Do not come to London. I know it will be hard at first to carry on with your life here, but, as time passes, I am sure you will come to appreciate that it is the best course of action for both of us. I am sorry, truly sorry, for any disappointment this causes you, but I am convinced that I am making the right decision.

  Geoffrey.

  And so it was done. I sealed the letter and finished the whisky, then lay down in search of the rest I did not deserve.

  I was awake with the dawn, washing and dressing in haste, consumed with an appalling eagerness to be on my way. The Oxford and London Express was not due at Stoke Edith until just before half past seven, but I intended to be out of the house as early as possible. An hour or more of hungry solitude at the station was preferable to a single unnecessary minute at Clouds Frome once my message had been despatched.