“Well, that was what you were about to tell me, wasn’t it?” he asked, looking a little bemused by my hesitation.
I turned away. “Yes, of course . . . that’s what I was about to tell you.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, steadying myself; realizing Emily would have to wait a little longer.
But I wasn’t altogether sure how or where to begin about that day, the day his mother came to see me.
Begin at the beginning . . .
“She wanted to talk to me about you,” I said, shuffling nearer to his chair, allowing myself to lean against it, against him.
“And?”
Just tell him. Be honest . . .
“She told me you loved me, and that . . .” I paused, unsure how to navigate from there.
“That what?”
“That you’d always loved me.”
I was half expecting a shrug, a joke, a witty quip, but he said nothing.
I reached up, took hold of his hand. “And she told me about your father, Tom.”
“Ah, my father . . . I see. So she came to see you to tidy up a few loose ends then.”
“I suppose she did in a way, yes. She wanted someone to know the truth; someone who cared, cared about you.”
I paused, waiting for him to say something, but he said nothing.
“Your father, Tom . . . your father was the earl, Earl Deyning.”
I turned and looked up at him. He stared at me.
“So, I’m the bastard son of the old earl . . .”
“Tom!”
“Well, really, what a lot of codswallop.”
“No, it’s not . . . it’s the truth. Why do you say that?”
“Why do I say it? Because, my darling, what does it matter now?” He shrugged. “I am who I am. I wasn’t good enough to marry you . . . wasn’t good enough to be part of the Granville family. I think it’s rather funny, don’t you? I mean funny in an ironic way, of course.”
He was right. We’d lost so many years. And really, what did it matter?
“Truly, it means nothing to me, not now,” he continued. “Perhaps if someone had told me ten years ago . . . or even before the war, when I needed to know who I was, what I was . . . where I fit in, it would have meant something, but no, not now. And anyway, I realized a long, long time ago that I’d probably been born out of wedlock. My mother was never able to furnish me with any information about my father—other than the fact I looked like him—so I assumed they’d been . . .”—he shrugged—“ships in the night, so to speak. And then there was the small matter of who’d paid for my education, where the money had come from to get me through university.” He paused, shook his head. “And other monies . . . quite sizable amounts, which my dear mother could never explain. I had my suspicions, of course, and, I imagine, so did quite a few others.” He paused again. “I suppose the greatest irony of it all is that I ended up purchasing my birthright, Deyning. Although that was only ever because of you, and nothing to do with any notions of grandeur on my part.”
“Because of me?”
He looked down at me. “Yes. I thought if I could buy back Deyning, if I could present you with what you’d lost, what you loved most in the world, I might just win you back. It was a simple enough plan. All I had to do was make money.” He paused, smiling at me, and then added, “And let’s face it, I’ve been rather good at that.”
“Yes, you have been rather good at that.”
“I didn’t—perhaps couldn’t—foresee the complications . . . your mother, your marriage, your life with Charlie . . . my inability to be on my own. I thought I’d be able wriggle out of any liaison as soon as I had a sign from you. And then, when you didn’t come to Southampton, when you didn’t appear—well, I thought that was a pretty clear sign.”
“Oh Tom . . .” I looked away. I didn’t want to think of that day, that time; my agony, his agony.
“Strange how life turns out, isn’t it?” he continued. “And here I am . . . Tom Deyning. How very apt that I decided to call my company Cuthbert-Deyning . . . maybe I do have foresight, after all.”
For some minutes he remained silent, staring just beyond me with narrowed eyes. As though, despite what he said, despite his somewhat flippant, cynical reaction, he needed a moment’s reflection: a moment to cogitate upon the details of his birth, his mother and now, suddenly, his father. He moved his head back, looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “So my mother and the earl, eh? The lord and his servant . . . rather a cliché, don’t you agree?”
“She loved him, I think . . . truly loved him.”
He moved his head, stared down at me. “True love, it knows no boundaries, does it?”
“No. It knows no boundaries,” I repeated. I wasn’t sure what he meant, whether he was referring to his parents, or to us, but I could sense his sadness. And as I lifted his hand, still held in mine, I could hear the drift of his thoughts, the word cliché echoing.
“Perhaps all love is a cliché, Tom,” I said. “Every love . . . apart from ours.”
He looked down at me and smiled, and right at that moment my heart sang out for that smile.
“So . . . tell me, did you buy all of my paintings?” I said, longing to see him smile again. And he laughed.
“No! I have not bought all of your bloody paintings. Though, as you’re being so persistent, I can tell you I happen to have a fair few.”
“And is Pritchard one of your employees?”
“Really, you’re impossible,” he said, turning away from me for a moment.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Is he?”
“Yes, yes he is. Happy now?”
I released his hand, placed my head against his knee, and we sat like that for some time, without either of us uttering a word.
“It’s late. I should let you get to your bed,” he said at last, and as he rose to his feet, he added, “So . . . dinner, tomorrow night?”
I stood up. “Yes,” I said, “sounds lovely.”
He put his arms around me, pulled me to him. “Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . you choose.”
We didn’t kiss. We walked through to the hallway holding hands, and at the door, he said, “I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.” He lifted each of my hands to his lips in turn and kissed them. “Sweet dreams, Clarissa.”
As he moved through the doorway, he stopped, looked back at me:
“A bientôt.”
Chapter Forty-one
I had to know what had taken place between Venetia and Tom. Had they been lovers, or was there something else between them? Was it possible, I wondered, for a passionate yet platonic love to exist between a man and woman; one that needed no expression in physical adoration; one free from all sensual desire? All I’d known was passionate love: a single overwhelming force directing me to one person, one man. And it could never be platonic, never be a friendship. It had shaped my world, consumed my senses.
As I drove to Venetia’s house that morning I pondered upon this; and as I passed along the edge of Hyde Park, I realized that my love for Tom was and always had been reflected in everything around me. For every place I knew continued to reverberate and echo with it. As though an imprint—something of it—had been left in the atmosphere. And that verdant expanse of central London, the place I’d returned to so often, and for so many years my unlikely refuge, had once again changed its form: the trees had pulled back their shadows, and the road around them—as broad as my vision.
I parked directly outside Venetia’s house, walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. I had no recollection of the young maid who answered the door, so I said, “Good morning, I’m Mrs. Cooper’s goddaughter, Clarissa Boyd. Is Mrs. Cooper at home?” Of course I knew she would be.
“Is she expecting you, ma’am?”
I smiled. “No, she isn’t, but I’m sure she’ll be quite happy to receive me.”
The maid led me up to the salon on the first floor.
Venetia—always fatigued by the commonplace and with a lifelong hankering after the exotic—disliked English words, particularly at home. She could never have tolerated anything so unimaginative as a drawing room in her house. Everything had to be French; the salon, the chambre, the hall d’entrée, la cave, and, of course, never the lavatory—always the toilette.
As I waited for her to come down, for it wasn’t quite eleven and I knew she didn’t normally rise until around that hour, I perused the invitations propped up around the oversized ormolu clock on the mantelshelf. The room itself was a testament to my godmother’s character and style, a European style: a large Louis XV settee, and French Empire chairs upholstered in jewel-colored velvets; an Italian specimen marble table, and an Empire center table adorned with framed miniatures and photographs; against the wall, between the three tall windows, two marble-topped bombe commodes with matching gilt-framed mirrors above each; and opposite, Venetia’s escritoire, where she penned her many and various letters, notes, and RSVPs. And an eclectic collection of oil paintings, watercolors and sketches of all sizes hung from picture rails against the dark gold wallpaper.
“Clarissa!”
She was wearing what appeared to be an Arabian costume: a kaftan—of sorts, full length—with a pearl-encrusted headband around her hair, and armfuls of silver bracelets.
I moved over to her, kissing each powdered cheek. “I’ve been meaning to call on you for so long,” I said. “Too long.”
“Yes, too long . . . and it’s a delight to see you, my dear,” she said, as she sat down, “but isn’t it rather early for you to be out and about making calls?”
There was no point beating around the bush. I had come on a mission.
I sat down opposite her, cleared my throat. “Yes, it is a little early and I apologize, but I need to speak with you about something . . . something perhaps a little delicate.”
She looked worried for a moment. “I see.”
“It’s about Tom . . . Tom Cuthbert.”
“Ah, yes of course. Tom.” She smiled, seemed quite relieved as she relaxed back into her chair.
“I know he’s been calling on you, Venetia.” I looked down, away from her eyes. “I know that you and he have a . . . a friendship, you see, and I need to know . . .” I hesitated, and she immediately spoke.
“You wish to know why he’s been to see me?” she said, in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner.
I looked up at her, nodded. “Yes, yes that’s right, I do.”
She stood up, walked over to the table in the center of the room and opened a silver cigarette box. “And, of course, you have every right to know, dear . . .” She placed a cigarette into a long black holder, lifted it to her lips. “Every right,” she said again, tilting her head and blowing a plume of smoke toward the chandelier above her. Then she sat back down, turned to me, and asked, “But first, would you like something . . . tea, coffee?”
“No, no thank you. I have to be at Mama’s by twelve,” I said. I had promised to call in on my mother to help her select yet another painting to put into auction.
“Tom . . . Tom Cuthbert,” she said, staring at me, “came to me for advice, Clarissa.”
“Oh really. And advice on what, exactly?”
She smiled. “Well, advice on you of course, dear.”
“Me?”
She laughed. “Yes. Why on earth else would Tom Cuthbert call on me? And I have to say, I knew the moment he appeared why he’d come!”
“And . . .”
“He wants you!” she said, dramatically. “Wants to win you back and have your Mama’s blessing.”
“But what did he tell you? What did he say?”
“Oh, he told me he’d heard about you and Charlie, but he said he’d always known that you didn’t love Charlie because . . . because you love him.” She paused, smiling at me rather coquettishly, her eyes twinkling. “He told me that he, too, was getting divorced, and that he had plenty enough money to look after you . . . but one thing, one thing,” she repeated with emphasis, “still stood in his way.”
“Mama.”
She nodded. “He wished me to speak with your mother, talk to her, persuade her . . .” She stared at me, her violet eyes brighter than ever, and then she reached out for my hand. “He loves you very much, Clarissa.” And as she gripped my hand, I felt a tear make its way slowly down my cheek, into my mouth. “You see, he understands, he knows that you won’t—can’t—do anything without your mama’s approval or blessing. That’s why he came to me.”
“And . . . and have you . . .”
“Yes, I have. I’ve spoken with your mother. Oh, she knows nothing of Tom’s visit to me, nor can she ever. But I have spoken with her, and at some length, and I think . . . I think she sees things a little differently now. We’ve all changed, life has changed, and you . . . well, my darling, you deserve to be happy. More than anything else, you deserve to be happy.”
I looked down into my lap. “But I wonder if Mama thinks that.”
“Of course your mother wants you to be happy! My dear, she loves you . . . you’re her daughter, her precious, precious daughter. But she was always so protective of you, so very protective, she and your father. They only ever wanted the best for you.”
I moved forward in my chair, sat up, straight-backed. “So tell me, what do I do from here?”
“You must speak to your mother. You must have a conversation with her, a difficult conversation perhaps, but one that’s long overdue. I can do no more.”
“He’s a good man, Venetia, but I think you know that.”
“Oh yes, I do know that. I most certainly know that,” she replied, with great emphasis once again. Then she glanced across at me with a new expression, half frowning, quizzical.
“What? What is it?” I asked.
She looked away, her eyes scanning the room, searching for words. “Has he . . . has Tom mentioned anything to you regarding Henry?” she asked, her eyes focused back upon me.
“Henry?” I shook my head. “No, why would he?”
She sighed. “Oh dear.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I do so loathe all this skulking about and subterfuge,” she said, shaking her head.
“What subterfuge . . . what is it about Henry? Does Tom know something? Does Tom know where Henry is?”
She stared at me, wide eyed. “My dear, Tom Cuthbert has been keeping your brother these past two years.”
“Keeping . . . I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Henry is in New York, Clarissa, and has been for some time,” she said quickly, and then stopped.
“New York?”
“Yes, but I must add—have to add—that I only discovered this myself quite recently. And Tom doesn’t wish you to know, or not yet, it would seem. He said he’d tell you all in good time . . . once Henry was quite recovered and back on his feet.” She paused again, pursing her lips, then continued. “It was Henry who found Tom, not the other way round, of course. At that time Tom had no idea, absolutely no idea that Henry had left England . . . vanished!” She threw her hands in the air with a jangling, tinkling sound. “He simply turned up there one day, at Cuthbert-Deyning’s Manhattan office . . . and looking like a hobo, from all accounts.”
“I see. And what is it he’s recovering from?” I asked. “Obviously not amnesia.”
“Oh my dear, you must try not to be angry, nor must you breathe a word of this to your poor mama. It seems he’d become embroiled in some sort of . . . illegal importation scam. I don’t know the details—nor do I wish to—but I do know he was in a mess, a rather frightful mess, but as far as I understand, he’s much better now. And he’s working, my dear, working for Tom—in his New York office,” she added, smiling at me brightly.
I looked down at the floor, closed my eyes.
Henry.
Yes, he’d have known, known immediately when he saw the name Cuthbert-Deyning; known it was Tom, known he’d lend him money . . . just till I’m sorted, old chap.
“I knew he’d turn up sooner or later, but I never imagined . . .”
“No.”
I explained to Venetia that I’d have to tell Mama something; I had to let her know Henry was alive, and well. She made me promise that I wouldn’t mention her name, and that I shouldn’t say anything to Tom, but should wait for him to tell me.
I rose from my chair, moved over to her and kissed her. “Thank you . . . thank you, Venetia.”
She began to laugh, tearfully. “Oh, my dear, you have nothing to thank me for, truly. Whatever I’ve done—whatever I have said—should have been said years ago. But some of us acquire wisdom later than others,” she added. “I only wish I could go back upon my life with what I now know.” She looked up at me. “Wouldn’t that be a marvelous thing?”
Chapter Forty-two
I wasn’t sure how to begin that conversation with Mama; that so-long-overdue conversation. And yet I felt no fear, no sense of dread, for I had already determined what I would do, with or without my mother’s approval.
We selected not one but two paintings for auction, which Mama then asked Wilson and another maid to remove from the wall and wrap, and we discussed which pictures could be moved, hung in their place. She seemed strangely happy to be relieved of yet more paraphernalia—as she’d taken to calling all of her furniture and possessions now. And I suggested to her that she shouldn’t sell anything else; not for a while, at least, I said. But the place remained over-furnished. For Mama, Deyning Park and Berkeley Square had all converged there, into a cramped emporium of cluttered surfaces, and antiques much too large and ostentatious for their modest abode.
As we sat down, she said, ��And so, are you staying to lunch?”
“No, Mama, I’m afraid I can’t today. I’ve been out all morning . . . at Venetia’s.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, brushing down her skirt and turning to look at me. “I didn’t know you’d—”
The Last Summer Page 37
