There are Sarita’s footsteps in the hall. He has asked to be alone, but he knows that she will not be able to stay away. She knocks and without waiting for an answer opens the door.
Grief has hardened her features and her look is accusatory. “Do you know what time it is?”
“No,” he says. “And I’m not at a good stopping point.” He watches her eyes arc over to the desk, at the page half-filled with scribble.
“I am beginning to despise you,” she says.
“Despise me?” He takes his pen and nervously scrawls The. “What an odd thing to say.”
“You couldn’t even send him a note? You sent that woman away empty-handed, weeping.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to write to him and tell him that you loved him, that he was your brother.”
“Given recent developments, I don’t think that would have been appropriate.”
“It would have been appropriate because it was true.” Sarita has started to cry. She presses her fingers hard against her lips to compose herself. “And what are these recent developments?”
“The diaries,” he says and he’s nervous, although he’s not sure why.
“The diaries? Are you saying you didn’t know?”
Ward can feel himself blinking. “Are you saying you did?”
Sarita’s eyes fly into an unreal gaping and she swings her head around like a birch in a storm. “How could you not?”
“And you let him into our house.”
“I welcomed him, even when he made me uncomfortable, because no one made you happier. No one. Not me. Not the children. And that gentle man who got nothing out of life and just gave and gave and gave was happy enough with that, pleased enough to see that he made you smile.”
There’s a moment of panic. As he feels that he is unhinging, he sees Sarita summoning her strength. He says, “After the death of your son, I find it difficult to understand how you can take such a position.”
“If my Charlie were still alive he would have written the letter himself and sent it on your behalf. And I wanted to, but I didn’t. And I’ll never forgive myself.” She presses her hand to her forehead. “He was alone. They put a hood over his head and a rope around his neck—” She can’t go on. “I’ll never forgive myself and I’ll never forgive you.” Because she won’t. She keeps seeing Casement on the sidewalk in London. It was the last time they were together and he already had an unnamed tragedy weighing on him. “Germans killed my son but the English killed my friend. And I stood by silently, as if it didn’t matter.”
Ward feels the battered word groups rising to the surface In times of war or We must not allow personal sentiment to cloud or He knew what he was getting into. He dare not speak such useless phrases to his wife. He says, “I could not write.”
Her eyes flicker over the shelves of books and a watercolor painted in the Vosges and back to him. She delivers an almost imperceptible nod. “Then you are a coward.”
Ward’s not sure when she leaves or how long he sits suspended in time, but when he returns to the moment he finds the room cold.
XIV
Paris
August 1919
She accepts her role in her husband’s death. She looks at it and sees its measure for she is no coward. In response to the moaning of his friends who wonder what Herbert had hoped to prove, she would like to say that he was trying to regain the admiration of his wife. But perhaps she is overstating her importance in his choices. His life was a catalog of risk: He put himself in canoes to be shot at by savages, carried stretchers in battle zones, exhausted himself despite the subpar heart, did all those things that spun the wheel of fate. But he had known this last venture to the Near East would kill him. Dr. Bathurst, the “old croaker,” had told him as much. Sarita told Herbert not to go. He was no coward. How many times had she taken those words back? She had, in an uncharacteristically generous moment, apologized and blamed grief and the general hysteria that electrified her nerves throughout the war for that indelible accusation. To be truthful, he was most often not a coward. He was a brave man, undeniably so. Her injury had been in convincing Herbert otherwise.
He had needed to prove his valor to himself and so when the opportunity arose to be part of a commission to investigate the economic situation in Bucharest and Belgrade, he had insisted on joining. The war may have been over, but its aftershock was still being felt and Herbert was committed to see it through, despite the fact that the “old croaker” had determined his heart so weakened that the winter had to be spent in some southern clime. Herbert needed a place with lots of rest, steady sun, and a situation where all activities could be performed in a robe and slippers.
His current situation could be performed in a robe and slippers.
Herbert had gone off in his uniform and with his cough. She hadn’t heard from him for two weeks and when the letters finally arrived, they were addressed from Rome. She read the most recent letter first. He had been recovering in hospital and would be sent to Paris as soon as he was fit. The situation was very grave. She had accepted the news with calm resignation as she had been waiting for it, then gamely decided to read the rest of the letters in chronological order. The first dated from the eleventh of March and had been written en route to Bucharest. To start, the letters were cheerful. Herbert was getting plenty of rest, eating well, and felt that he was doing much good. There were the usual charming anecdotes of unsinkable lads, the usual descriptions of costumed girls. He asked how Roddie had done in his boxing tournament, which was insensitive. She hated that Roddie had gone in for boxing as it was Charlie’s sport and Roddie was no good and had been pushed to it by his father and her father as a way of making him more manly. Of course, being battered by other boys accomplished no such thing.
Herbert’s letter from the end of March describes bitter cold and everyone in fur coats, although Herbert had left his in Paris, where the weather was mild. He is on his way to Belgrade. In Craiova, he admits that the doctor is worried about the condition of his heart. Suddenly he needs to get back as quickly as can be managed. He travels with the party on to Trieste, writing of tremendous tiredness, incapable of levity. He is eager to be back in Paris, however once in Trieste is determined too weak to make the journey, and sent to Rome.
The packet of letters had reached Sarita in England, where she was visiting Herbie and Joyce as Joyce had just given birth. The baby was a girl and Sarita’s first granddaughter. With the end of the war, Herbie had become adrift. His marriage to Joyce had done nothing to anchor him. He did have a significant Sanford income, but needed a profession and had turned to sculpture. He was very good, which surprised her, and no one else. But she was worried about Herbie, whose natural distractedness had been pressurized by the war into something unfathomable. She had watched Herbie struggle with trying to figure out how to smoke and hold the baby until Sarita had pointed out that these two actions should not be performed simultaneously. He gave the baby odd looks, as if he wasn’t sure where she had come from or what she was. He had a similar look for Joyce but hid it from her, managing cheer whenever she might notice.
Sarita rushed back to Paris. Herbert had beaten her by a day and was already set up in the house. Villiers too was there, having traveled from Rolleboise to run the kitchen, and when she intercepted Sarita in the vestibule, tilting her head in grave sympathy, Sarita knew to steel herself for Herbert’s appearance.
He had lost weight and seemed crumpled into his chair. There was a blanket across his lap, which he tossed onto the floor when she came into the room. His eyes were tired or unfocused; she did not know which. His breath sawed through his body and his attempt to make it mild resulted in a dramatic coughing fit. He immediately spoke of his recovery, but even he didn’t believe in it. He wanted to return to Rolleboise as soon as could be managed. Sarita arranged for travel that very evening.
; Herbert hung on through the start of summer, although he slept most of the time. Speaking set off his coughing. He liked to watch the light play on the river while holding her hand. The weight of his love for her was almost more than she could bear. He would look at her as she sat consciously arranging her limbs into a relaxed posture. He kept returning his waning eyes to her, kept squeezing her hand. “Of course I love you,” she said. Why the of course? The war had made her hard. Or perhaps she had always been hard and when the war had killed off some, and altered others, she had survived, with all her strength, which made her appear callous.
When she looked at her husband it was not love she felt, but an immense pity. And sadness, because she could not remember what it was to love at all. She clung to thoughts of their first meetings. She remembered him tying her shoelace in New York, long ago, before they were married, the tremors rising in her from the simple pressure of his hand through the leather of her boot. How she had adored him. Life without Herbert would go on, just as life without Charlie had continued. She would spend more time with her daughters and all her grandchildren would know her. And then his eyes would rise to hers again. “Herbert,” she said. “Let’s just enjoy the view.” He may have wanted her weeping in his lap but, at this juncture, was probably better served with her quiet.
Herbert had been buried in Père Lachaise with a civilized, gentle drizzle as benediction. She had known there would be a good turnout, was not surprised to see so many faces she did not know because Herbert had been most successful when she was not around. His war-related efforts accounted for many of the people, although there were quite a few artists present, all old. She had produced a few weary tears, but only as she made her way up the steps of the Paris house did she truthfully understand her loss. She would never be with Herbert again and, maddening as he had been, she had never had and never would have a better friend. She had outlived Charlie and Casement and Herbert. She had survived the men undone by war, and was now left alone in its rubble.
Cricket was still in Paris, having volunteered to stay after the funeral, although Dimples too had wanted to look after her. Dimples’s personality was a little less taxing than Cricket’s, but with Dimples you got Phipps, and any time Dimples paid attention to anyone who wasn’t Phipps, he began to get agitated. It was, one had to admit, a happy marriage, even though Phipps had begun to look like an overfed housecat.
Herbie had kept quiet. He took his father’s death very hard and confided to her, secretly, that he and Joyce were having problems. She was seeing an analyst. And then he added, with a giggle, that he thought she was sleeping with her analyst. Sarita should have been appalled, but for some reason she too found it funny and, standing hidden behind a hedge, smoking one of Herbie’s cigarettes, she felt almost normal, almost herself. He was going on a journey to South Africa, something that Joyce, and her analyst, wholeheartedly supported.
Roddie seemed fine. He’d been spending a lot of money, according to Sarita’s father, and had little to show for it. Sarita had a hard time mustering appropriate concern for she felt that the boy was best left alone. He seemed happiest that way. And her father? Cricket, with her usual sensitivity, had whispered in Sarita’s ear while all were still arranged around the grave, “Why is Grandfather still alive? He’s going to outlive us all.” Which seemed a possibility.
Sarita has been flipping through the dressmaker catalogues. She had not ordered any mourning clothes while Herbert was still alive as she knew it would have upset him and she didn’t want to hide it from him. But now she lacks the necessary outfits and has been in the same dress, which reminds her of Charlie in the worst way, for days. Sarita has made some decisions—mourning is nothing to get excited about—and is just about to ring for Beatrice to set up an appointment with the seamstress when Cricket crashes into the room. She flops onto the couch opposite where Sarita is sitting, looking intensely grieved.
Cricket says, “It’s just so horribly sad. All of it.”
Sarita is trying to think of some mild thing to say about mourning, but Cricket is not yet finished.
“Do you remember what it is to fall in love?”
Sarita looks for the words. “Your father was buried the day before yesterday.”
“And I’m still alive, but I wish I were dead.”
“How you can possibly say anything so stupid?”
Cricket thrusts out that defiant jaw. She will not be outdone by the noble dead and there is something glorious in that. “You just don’t remember. I want to die.”
Cricket is in love. Who could she possibly be in love with? Sarita hopes he’s not married, although at Cricket’s age, just about everyone is. Including Cricket.
“You never had to deal with it. You and Father and your perfect relationship.”
“We had our troubles. You’ve heard about his scandal, the one that broke right after we were married.”
“Oh. Wasn’t he rumored to have a cannibal concubine, or something like that? But that’s ridiculous. Father would never have done anything like that.”
“When I asked him about it, he would never outright deny it.” Sarita has Cricket’s attention. “We had our troubles, even recently.”
“I know you fell out when Uncle Roddie was executed. But what was Father supposed to do?”
“Your father should have stuck by Casement, especially after the diaries were exposed. He should have said they were forged, but when he was called to verify them, he said it was Casement’s writing, both hand and style.”
“He couldn’t exactly lie to the police.”
“I would have. So many people were supporting Casement. So many people were on the fence. The petition did have a chance and if we, with our American influence, had cast our lot with your uncle Roddie, it might have made a difference. Remember, this was August of 1916. America hadn’t entered the war.”
“But Uncle Roddie really was a homosexual?”
“Absolutely. Not only that, but for many years I suspect he was in love with your father.”
Cricket finds this hard to believe and she makes the same face that she does when the fruit is not as ripe as it ought to be. “Didn’t that bother you?”
“Not as much as it bothered your uncle Roddie.”
Cricket gives her mother an appraising look. “You’re such a radical, Sarita.” Cricket adjusts herself on the couch, but she still has her knees spread out as if she’s about to give birth. “But your story with Father is still the most romantic one out there.”
“Not the story of our meeting on the Saale?” Sarita sighs heavily.
“Handsome Englishman. Beautiful American.”
Sarita supplies, penniless Englishman, rich American.
“Your shipboard romance. Him finding you on deck, your hair flying.”
“My hair was most certainly not flying. We used a kilo of hairpins in those days. And he wasn’t looking for me. I wasn’t supposed to be up there at night ever, and certainly not without a chaperone. I had some bad prospects that I’d been managing with sherry and needed some fresh air. Your father was actually looking for Paz.”
Cricket finally looks scandalized. “For Paz?”
“Remember, she was my lady’s maid. She often trawled the upper decks late at night, cutting a romantic figure, hoping to snare a gentleman. But she wasn’t that night, as your father had hoped.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know. He put his hand on my shoulder and when I turned, he was beyond surprised. I had obviously been crying and he was drunk—we both were—so he kissed me. He didn’t know what else to do.”
“He thought you were Paz?”
“Until I turned around.”
“And you let him tell that story all these years? His realizing he loved you and tearing up to the first-class deck and seeing you—”
“Windswept.”
“Windswept.
Why?”
“He wouldn’t have made it up if he didn’t love me. And you know your father. After he told it a couple of times, he believed it. And it’s much better than,” she drops her voice, “I was up on deck tom-catting after your mother’s maid. So I let your father tell it however he wanted.”
“Well,” says Cricket, “that was very valiant of you.”
Sarita considers. Valiant? It seemed like an insignificant and obvious choice of word, but perhaps valor was composed of that, these small moves in a minor key that made up the narrative of life. “It didn’t seem so at the time,” she says, “but I suppose it was.”
Acknowledgments
As I write this, I have recently delivered a talk at Kellogg College, University of Oxford, on the “Pleasures and Pains of Writing Historical Fiction,” which could have easily been called, “Historical Fiction: Why Do It?” Why, when there are so many texts that better explain the matter that filled the days of Roger Casement and Herbert Ward and his wife Sarita, write a fictional account? There is a fantastic biography of Roger Casement by Seamas O’Siochain that I consulted throughout the process of writing this book, Roger Casement: Imperialist, Rebel, Revolutionary. And a very interesting book by Jeffrey Dudgeon, Roger Casement: The Black Diaries: with a Study of His Background, Sexuality and Irish Political Life, provided a lot of detail. Herbert Ward wrote several books, all of which I read. As for Sarita, who provides the other voice for the novel, she wrote her own book about her husband: A Valiant Gentleman. She was particularly provocative in what she chose not to include, and her book, because of this, sent me in a number of interesting directions.
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