The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘This must have been marvellous!’ Polly said, as they walked past an ancient camellia whose topmost branches had literally gone through the glass roof. She caught his eye when she said that, and thereafter was conscious of his casting many anxious, enquiring glances.

  The next room was what had been the library. The shelves were still there, and it was about half full of books. One wall was decorated by a rather jazzy black and white fungus and the room had a strong mushroom smell. And so on. Two more sitting rooms, a study with a wallpaper so dark that it was almost black, and a vast partner’s desk littered with papers. Unlike most of the rooms they had seen this showed signs of fairly recent occupation: there was a smell of pipe tobacco and the fire was freshly laid. ‘My father used to spend a lot of time in here,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better tackle the next floor. The other rooms here are just gun room, boot room, pantry, telephone room and lavatories – that sort of thing.’

  ‘How many bedrooms are there?’ she asked, as they went up the staircase from the main hall.

  ‘I don’t know. We could count if you like.’

  At the top of the staircase was a very wide passage that ran in both directions, lit by a regularly placed series of round windows set almost at ceiling level. The ceiling was vaulted in a Gothic manner. The bedroom doors were mahogany with small brass-edged frames pinned at eye-level to the wood. In one of them a card was slotted. ‘Lady Pomfret’ was written on it in beautiful copperplate. ‘For weekend parties,’ he said, ‘they used to put the visitors’ names on the doors so that people knew where they were, and other people knew where they were. Edwardian high jinks,’ he said gloomily. ‘My mother simply loved talking about that sort of thing. When she married my father it was still going on.’

  The bedrooms were all much the same. Many had dressing rooms adjoining that each contained a single bed, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a smaller fireplace. Again, dust sheets prevailed; many of the carpets were neatly rolled and tied with tape. There were fifteen bedrooms on that floor and two bathrooms: the lavatory pans were blue and white porcelain. Two of the bedrooms had basins.

  ‘There’s an attic floor as well,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you’ve had enough for one day?’

  ‘Oh no! I’d like to see it all.’

  So up they went.

  ‘I suppose the things in the house belong to you?’ She wondered whether the mother would come and take anything nice.

  ‘Oh, yes. Every single thing.’ He sounded so despondent that she nearly laughed.

  The attics were clearly where the servants had slept – a good many of them, judging by how many attics there were. But in one of them she made a discovery. They very nearly hadn’t gone into it, the light was fading and the rooms were all drearily alike. He suggested going down for tea, but there seemed to be only two doors left unexplored, so she said, ‘We might as well finish the job.’

  The first was exactly like the others: a small window facing the battlements, thus concealed from public view, and an iron bedstead, the mattress gone, a hard chair, a painted chest of drawers, a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, the faded flowered wallpaper, the tiny grate never used …

  ‘Last one,’ he said, as he opened the door. It was exactly like all the others except for one thing. The walls were four deep in very small watercolours, widely mounted and in identical gilt frames. This was so surprising that she went to examine one. It was a sunset over a stretch of wild seashore, and it was somehow familiar. She looked at others. They were all full of skies and light at different times of the day: of landscapes, seascapes, their weather and their seasons, storms, sunrises, thundery winters, sunlit summers, balmy autumns – all by the same hand. She took one off the wall and carried it to the window. ‘J. M. W. Turner’ was clearly discernible in the bottom right-hand corner.

  ‘Come and look!’

  ‘It’s rather good, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘My mother loathed water-colours unless they were done by her, so I suppose she just bunged all these in a maid’s bedroom to be out of the way.’

  ‘Have you noticed the signature?’

  He looked, and then looked at her. ‘Good Lord! The chap we saw in the Tate! What an extraordinary thing!’

  ‘You’ve never seen them before?’

  ‘Never. They must have been here for ages. It’s a good thing, because if my mother had realized about them she’d have sold them like a shot. She sold all the good pictures – whenever she needed money, in fact.’ He watched her put the picture back on the wall, then he said: ‘I suppose they’re all Turners?’

  ‘You could take one to London to find out. I should think that if one of them is they all will be.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  They both counted.

  ‘Forty-eight,’ he said.

  ‘Fifty-two. There are four behind the door.’

  ‘He must be awfully valuable,’ he said; he seemed rather dazed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So – if I sold them, I’d have some money?’

  ‘Of course you would. Only – won’t there be death duties?’ She’d heard her father talking about them when the Brig died.

  ‘I don’t think there will. When Mr Crowther read me the will, it turned out my father left the house and all its contents first to my brother, and then, when he died, to me. He never told us. And, anyway, it’s all tied up in some ghastly trust, so it can’t be sold or blown up or anything like that. I suppose, actually, these pictures would be worth thousands of pounds?’

  ‘Thousands.’

  ‘Enough to repair the house, do you think?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. I should think so.’

  ‘But probably not enough to do that and live in it,’ he said.

  As they were leaving the room, he suddenly said, ‘Have one!’

  ‘Have what?’

  ‘A picture. Choose one. Well, do it tomorrow, when you can see them better. Choose the one you like best. You found them, after all.’

  ‘I can’t possibly. It’s very kind of you,’ she added, ‘but I don’t think you’ve taken in how – well, how valuable they are. And you need the money.’

  ‘I suppose I do. A bit of me would quite like to sell the Turners, buy Nan a cottage and just lock the doors here and never come back. What do you think of that?’ They had reached the main staircase now. He said, ‘Would you mind awfully sitting on the stairs while I talk to you about something? If we go down, Nan will interrupt us with rock cakes.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘First, I really do want you to have a picture. If you won’t choose one, I’ll have to, and I’ll get it wrong.’

  Before she could answer, he said, ‘Otherwise, what do you think of what I said just now? About leaving the house, and all that?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said slowly – she was trying to imagine being him – ‘it depends whether you love it at all. Because if you do, and you abandon it, it might haunt you, rather.’

  ‘If you were left it, what would you do?’

  ‘Oh, I think I’d try to live in it. I’d make bits of it, at least, comfortable, and then I’d see how it went.’

  ‘Would you?’

  She remembered then his saying something like that on the telephone to her – and just in the same way. This time she could see him. He was fixed upon her, earnest as well as tender. ‘Then I must take the plunge, would you live here with me? Would you marry me and do that? Would you at least consider it?’

  ‘I don’t need to consider it,’ she said, discovering how little she needed to do that.

  ‘You mean it? You really will actually marry me?’

  ‘I want to marry you.’ It seemed to her then that she had always wanted to marry him – had never had a single doubt.

  ‘I’ve wanted to marry you from the moment I saw you,’ he said. ‘And then, the more I saw you, the more I wanted to. But I didn’t think I had a hope. And then, just when I was beginning to hope that I had a hope all this happened
about my father dying and getting saddled with this place and not having any money … I thought you ought to see it all … and then the Turners …’

  ‘I would have married you without a single Turner.’

  ‘Would you?’

  When he had kissed her – a sweet and long kiss – and they had drawn a little apart she saw how his radiance transformed him.

  ‘Your eyes are like stars – like those sapphires that have a star in them,’ he said, as she put her arms round his neck.

  They spent an unknown amount of time on the stairs in a state of joyful ease, not saying very much until the dusk had become dark and they were interrupted by the distant booming of a gong.

  ‘That’ll be Nan with our tea.’ He took her hand and they crept carefully down the staircase to the door that led on to the passage where he felt for and found a light switch. Weak yellow light illuminated the passage that led back to the room where they had lunch; the fire had been made up and the table set for tea.

  Nan appeared at once as if by magic. ‘I took the liberty of calling you because as we all know drop scones won’t wait for anyone,’ she said. She had given them one shrewd glance, and then busied herself with a covered dish and a silver teapot on the table.

  After one long look at Polly, he said, ‘We’re going to be married, Nan, and you’re the first to know.’

  She straightened up from setting the table and wiped her hand on her overall. ‘I did wonder,’ she said, and shook Polly’s hand. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’ she said. ‘I’ve known him since before he was born and there’s not an ounce of vice in him.’

  ‘You make me sound like a horse!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘Your young lady can see you’re not a horse.’ She turned to Polly. ‘You have your nice tea if his lordship will condescend to pour you a cup. You can call me when you’re finished.’

  ‘She approves of you, my darling Polly – may I call you Polly, by the way?’

  ‘Unless you want to stick to Miss Cazelet – or,’ she found she enjoyed saying this for the first time, ‘I suppose, in due course, Mrs Lisle.’

  ‘Well, actually, that’s another thing. I’m afraid you won’t be Mrs Lisle. You’ll be Polly Fakenham. Chronic association with me turns you into a lady.’

  ‘You mean when she said your lordship she meant it?’

  ‘We could be called Lisle if you prefer it. Being a lord usually turns out to be more expensive, and as you know, I’ve hardly got a bean. All I can offer you is the froglike devotion of a lifetime.’

  ‘No. I think I should enjoy being Lady Fakenham. It sounds like someone in an Oscar Wilde play.’

  ‘It goes with the house,’ he said. ‘And, after all, when we’re quite alone, you can always call me Gerald.’

  Hours later she lay in a surprisingly comfortable bed in one of the many spare rooms, clutching a stone hot-water bottle to her and wearing an old white long-sleeved nightdress, procured for her by Nan, and thought about this amazing day during which so much had happened to change her life. She lay in the dark so crammed with memories that were randomly of this day and of days long gone before it – of lying on the grass at Lansdowne Road with Louise telling her she’d marry one of the people who proposed to her out of sheer kindness, and for years afterwards being afraid that that might actually happen … and here she was, with Gerald, and kindness didn’t come into it. And Dad, at his club when she was having dinner with him saying that one day she would fall in love and get married ‘but you have to meet people to find the right one’. And she had gone to that party that she hadn’t wanted to go to and met him. Tomorrow she would ring Dad and say that she wanted to bring someone to meet him and he would guess at once why, and then when he met Gerald, of course he’d be fearfully relieved at how wonderful Gerald actually was. Here, the thought intervened that her mother would never know that, and grief, which had seemed deeply buried, sprang freshly from its grave. I’ve simply got used to missing her, she thought, but I shall always miss her. I’m far luckier than poor Wills, because I have so much more of her to remember. Then she thought about Gerald again to comfort her. She thought how funny he was when he felt at ease. There had been no shortage of personal remarks that evening, either: he had never stopped making them – in fact, he thought she was much more beautiful, interesting and charming than she really was. What would Clary think of it all? She felt she knew now that Clary could not really have been in love with Noël: she had been far too anxious and unhappy throughout the whole affair to have been that, and the end of it had been awful for her. After the abortion, when she had seemed sunk in a kind of stupor, Archie had made her go and live in a cottage he had found for her and write her book. He went down at weekends to cheer her up and urge her on – at least, that was what she supposed, because when she had suggested going down, Clary hadn’t seemed to want her to come. They had grown apart, and she was afraid that the contrast now between their lots would make this worse. It won’t. It can’t. I really love her, she thought. She had told Gerald about Clary this evening – all of it – and he had listened properly and seemed really to mind. Clary would like Gerald and she would come and stay. The house would make her laugh, though: it was so unlike the house that Polly had so often carefully described to her that one day she was going to have, it was almost the opposite; rather a challenge, she thought slowly – she was getting rather drowsy. There were so many rooms, it would probably take her all her life … she thought about some of the new things she had learned about Gerald. He could play the piano and he rode very well. These pieces of information had come from Nan, and had been the only two occasions when he had reverted to blushing – something that had otherwise stopped. ‘I was so in awe of you,’ he had said, ‘you seemed such a marvel. You know, like looking closely at a butterfly’s wing – every detail is perfect.’

  Tomorrow they were going to explore outside. There was a lake, choked with water-lilies and weed, he said, and a rose garden, but the roses hadn’t been pruned for years and it was full of weeds, and there were four glass-houses, falling to bits, and a walled garden for vegetables (this had been when they had discussed the possibility of growing asparagus as a way of making money). There was a bluebell wood, and other woods, but most of the farmland had been sold off. His mother had been a determined seller of anything that would raise money. This had come out when Nan, chatty from her glass of champagne, had arrived with a small brown-paper package that she had dumped before Gerald.

  ‘Twasn’t my business,’ she said, ‘but there’s such a thing as right and wrong, and some of us knows it and some don’t. When her ladyship sent all the family jewels up to London to some sale, I couldn’t stand the idea that this should go. It was your grandmother’s and, as you know, I first went into service with her when I was thirteen. Your grandmother gave it to your father to give to your mother when they were engaged, but it was too small for her ladyship’s finger and she never cared for it. It walked – and nothing was said. If you hadn’t married, Mr Gerald dear, I’d have given it to your lordship just the same, though the dear knows what you would have done with it.’

  Inside the brown paper was a dark blue leather box and inside that, wedged on its dirty white velvet, was a ring – an oval star sapphire surrounded by diamonds. She felt it with her fingers, remembering what he had said about her eyes after he had kissed her, and was beset by a surge of such pure happiness that she thought she loved not only Gerald, but everybody in the world.

  Four

  THE WIVES

  December 1946 – January 1947

  ‘How was your Christmas? Really?’

  ‘Oh, darling! I don’t know where to begin.’

  Jessica had come to tea, which had been taken with Miss Milliment, and therefore Christmas had been discussed with the stock cheerfulness that said nothing about emotional undercurrents. Jessica had described Nora’s Christmas tree with a present for every inmate, and how Father Lancing had brought some of his choir to sing
carols, and how she, Jessica, had made four dozen mince pies that had been consumed on this single occasion, and how the pipes had frozen just before the holiday began, and burst just in time for Christmas Eve. Villy had told Jessica about cooking her first Christmas dinner (Miss Milliment had said how good it had been), and how the children had played Racing Demon all over the drawing-room floor and Lydia had accused Bernadine of cheating and Teddy had got very angry. ‘And I made a Christmas cake that was like a bomb shelter,’ she had said.

  Now, Miss Milliment had tactfully retired to her room: Lydia and Roland were out having a Christmas treat with Rachel, and she had Jessica to herself. The room was reasonably warm since, although there was practically no coal to be had, Cazalets’ sent a lorryload of off-cuts, and the sisters sat each side of the log fire, Jessica lying on the sofa with her elegant shoes off and she, Villy, in the only comfortable armchair.

  Seeing Jessica lying there, looking so well groomed in her beige and green tweed suit with a jumper exactly matching the green, their mother’s pearls round her neck and her newly set hair, she felt a pang of resentment. How the tables had turned! Now it was she whose hands were rough with kitchen work, who never seemed to have time to get her hair done, whose clothes each day were chosen for their suitability for housework and keeping warm. It was she who had Miss Milliment to look after, had young children unused to London, who had to be fed and entertained and looked after, and worse, she was having to do this all on her own, whereas Jessica, with her neat little Chelsea house, had a daily maid and a husband.