“There are other more interesting things to prune?”
“Perhaps I could show you my conservatory sometime.”
“Your conservatory? How grand! Do you have one of those marvelous mansions where the gas lights flicker and the heroine screams at intervals and the skeletons rattle in the cupboards as soon as the sun sets?”
“Come and see it,” I said, “and find out.”
“Oh dear, I hope that doesn’t mean you throw it open to the public and charge sixpence admission every day except Sunday with children half price!”
“I haven’t yet been reduced to that degree of penury!”
“Thank goodness! In that case—” the door opened as her mother re-entered the room—“would you care to have coffee in the lounge, sir?” said Isabella meekly.
“Thank you, I will.”
But it was her mother who brought the coffee, and although I lingered over it for some time I did not see Isabella again until I went outside to my car.
She was sitting in the front seat. “Do forgive me,” she said, “but I simply couldn’t resist your invitation to view your conservatory. Do we have far to go?”
We did, so I compromised by driving across the Devon border and stopping for tea in Launceston. Halfway through the afternoon it occurred to me to ask her about her fiancé.
“How old is he?”
“Keith? Twenty-three. He’s so sweet. Sort of placid and steady and reliable.”
It was patently obvious that she was already bored with him and was marrying to escape from her parents’ watchful supervision.
“Don’t marry unless it’s for love,” I said. “I married for money and a roof over my head, lost them both and hurt my wife, who’s a very decent woman, into the bargain. It was a fiasco. Don’t you dare rush into marriage with your market gardener unless you can’t live without him, and if you can’t live without him what the devil are you doing having tea with me in Launceston? If you cared a straw for your fiancé—a real straw, not a pseudo straw—you wouldn’t have looked at me twice.”
She gazed at me with her great green eyes and was silent.
“Isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “You understand.”
“Then let’s have no more of this market gardener nonsense. Don’t marry him. Marry me instead. I’m not in the least saintly but I can at least promise you that you won’t be bored. Don’t maroon yourself in an obscure Devon village! You know damned well you’d hate it in no time at all. Come and be mistress of Penmarric.”
There was a pause. We stared at each other. “You really do understand, don’t you,” she said, subdued at last. “You don’t know me but you understand.”
“You’ll marry me?”
“Yes, of course. How soon can we be married?”
2
That’s a true story, which no doubt explains why it seems stranger than fiction. It makes a good after-dinner anecdote and all the women exclaim, “No! Really? How romantic!” and the men gape and say, “By George, that was quick work!” and then everyone looks at one another and wonders if we lived to regret our rapid dive into matrimony.
Of course we did not marry immediately by means of an elopement to Gretna Green—that would have been too rapid even for our precipitate courtship—but we did at least manage to arrange everything so that Isabella didn’t have to alter her original wedding date in August. Only she did not marry her market gardener. She married me and became mistress of Penmarric.
When her parents first realized my interest in her, they were horrified. I think they regarded me as a fiend in human guise who had descended upon them out of the blue, wrecked their daughter’s engagement to a respectable young man and enslaved her passions with a snap of his fingers. I had to work very hard to win them over, but I can work hard when I want to and I was determined that Isabella and I should be married openly and with her parents’ approval in a normal registry office ceremony.
My divorce precluded me from marriage in church.
“You were the innocent party?” said Mrs. Clay doubtfully.
“No,” I said. “I was divorced for adultery, but it was all arranged for our mutual convenience. You can write to my first wife, if you like—she’ll speak highly of me. We parted on a very friendly basis.”
It was hardly a surprise that they regarded me with such extreme suspicion.
“Come and visit Penmarric,” I said and added craftily, “You must meet my mother. She loves to have visitors.”
They liked this. It appealed to their sense of stability and reassured them that my proposal was in good faith. After they had consented to come and inspect their daughter’s prospective home and mother-in-law, I rushed hotfoot to Zillan.
“Mama,” I said as soon as I had explained the position to her. “This is very, very important to me. Could you come to Penmarric and receive them with me when they arrive for lunch? They don’t approve of me because they think I’m too rich, they know I’m divorced and they correctly suspect I’ve a checkered past, but as soon as they see you the scales will be tipped in my favor. You can play the grand lady and they’re sure to think you were born a duchess. Mention how we go to church together every week and that I’m dead keen to marry again and settle down! They’re bound to lap up every word you say.”
“Hm,” said my mother skeptically. “I suppose you do know what you’re doing.”
“Mama, wait till you meet this girl. She’s unique. I can’t wait to marry her.”
“She sounds a most designing woman to me.”
“No, no, no, Mama, you’ve got quite the wrong idea! She’s just a young girl—fresh, innocent—”
“Well, if she’s not,” said my mother, “she certainly pulled the wool over your eyes.”
“I’m sure you’ll like her. In fact I’m convinced of it. Just wait till you meet her!”
“Is she a lady? In my young day, a girl whose parents kept an inn was considered very common.”
“Mama, you know how those things have changed! Her parents are simply pleasant ordinary people, well-meaning …” I glibly dismissed Major Clay’s suburban inflections and Mrs. Clay’s little lapses into lower-middle-class gentility. “Isabella has been to a private boarding school and speaks faultlessly,” I said with truth. “I could take her to a garden party at Buckingham Palace without a qualm.”
“I don’t think you ought to rush this, Jan-Yves. You’re too impulsive.”
“Mama, I’m almost thirty-two years old and if I don’t know my mind by this time—”
“Are you having an affair with this girl?”
“Mama!” I was scandalized. My mother was always the soul of propriety. “I don’t think you quite understand. In fact I’m sure you don’t understand at all.”
“I’ve lived long enough to know that nothing makes a man lose his common sense more quickly than seeing something he wants but can’t have. I presume you’re anxious to have an affair with her and she’s being virtuous enough to refuse.”
“Mama, you couldn’t be more wrong,” I said, exasperated. “I’ve never asked her to be my mistress. I want her to be my wife, and since I’m determined to marry her I have no intention of insulting her by—”
“So you haven’t asked her to be your mistress,” said my mother, interested. “Fancy! I wonder what she would say if you did.”
“Really, Mama, I can’t help thinking this conversation is rather improper.”
“Why? Aren’t I supposed to know about such things? Do you think I’ve never received an improper advance from a man? Now don’t get cross, darling, but it does strike me that Isabella’s not a very reliable girl. You see, you may be marrying her for all the right reasons, but she may be marrying you for all the wrong ones. You have money, for one thing, and belong to a higher social stratum. You’re very eligible.”
“Mama, when I first met her—”
“—she didn’t know who you were. But she saw the cut of your suit, didn’t she, and heard your
voice when you spoke, and no doubt she ran to the window and saw your nice new expensive car outside. And what happens? You fall in love with her very providentially, and she at once breaks her engagement without a second thought. A girl like that should be regarded with extreme suspicion. If she’s done it once she can do it again—and next time you’ll be the one she throws over when she goes off with someone else.”
“We love each other!”
“Is that a magic incantation to ward off all evil? Love can die, Jan-Yves, and don’t tell me it can’t because it can. I know. Also, don’t overlook the disparity in your ages. Everything in the garden may be beautiful now that you’re a mere thirty-two and she’s seventeen, but how is it going to be when she’s a dazzling thirty-five and you’re middle-aged and past your prime on the wrong side of fifty? And don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about because I do—all too well. I’ve lived through every year of such a situation myself.”
“It’s different if the husband is the elder of the two,” I said obstinately. “Husbands should be older than their wives. You can’t cite your own marriage as a parallel to mine.”
“Very well,” said my mother acidly in resignation. “Since I see I can do nothing to dissuade you I may as well do all I can to help. However, I don’t think I shall like her.”
But she did. Much to my surprise she was very taken with Isabella and completely revised her opinion of my proposed plans.
“Marry her,” she said as soon as the Clays had departed after their round-eyed inspection of Penmarric. “You’ll probably regret it occasionally but most married couples go through difficult times now and again. She’s extremely presentable. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for her parents, but at least they won’t be living on your doorstep and you won’t have to bother with them too often. It’s a pity she’s not a little older, but that can’t be helped. She’s much too attractive, of course, but I suppose I could hardly expect you to marry anyone plain. At least she’s not a fool.”
I rushed pell-mell back to the Devon borders. “My mother approves of you!” I said, delighted. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Gorgeous,” said Isabella. “But I wish my parents would hurry up and approve of you instead of dithering all the time and worrying themselves into peptic ulcers. Of course they were frightfully impressed with Penmarric and utterly bowled over by your mother, but they’re still balking at the quick wedding. They want us to wait till Christmas. How on earth can we make them realize that we’re definitely getting married on August the thirtieth and that nothing’s going to stand in our way?”
“We’ll send the notice of the engagement to The Times,” I said comfortably, “and the date of the wedding. They can’t argue any more after that. No one ever argues with The Times.”
No one did. Our engagement was duly announced to the world, and a few days later the letters of congratulations began to pour in.
“Everyone who knows you is thrilled!” exclaimed Isabella naively after sampling a selection of the letters I had received. “Everyone’s so pleased!”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, aren’t they?” And before I could stop myself I was thinking of Rebecca and the stony silence emanating from the farm at Morvah where I had spent so much of my time in the past.
3
I saw Rebecca soon afterward. We met in St. Just outside Mrs. Trewint’s shop. She was wearing a coat that was too small for her, flat shoes and no make-up.
“Hullo,” I said when I had found my tongue. “I haven’t seen you for some time. How are you?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Good.”
We paused, ill-at-ease with each other. She shifted her shopping basket from one hand to the other, adjusted a strand of hair and looked down the street toward the square.
“I heard about your engagement,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Her fingers clasped the handle of the basket as if her life depended on it. “I’m glad,” she said. “I would have written but—”
“That’s all right,” I said. “Of course.”
“I hope you’ll be happy.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t think I can meet your fiancée,” she said. “Maybe you could explain to her.”
“I’ve told her about us. She’ll understand.”
She adjusted the strand of hair again. “I must go—excuse me … the bus …”
Yet still she hesitated as if she half hoped I might offer her a lift in my car. But I was silent. At last she said quickly, turning away from me, “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Rebecca,” I said and watched her walk off, stumbling a little, down the street. She was almost at the square when she looked back. We were some distance apart by that time but I could still see her face clearly. Her eyes were blank with pain, her face streaked with tears. We looked at each other for one long moment across the yards which separated us, and then I turned, lit a cigarette with care and walked fiercely down the street to my car.
4
“I wouldn’t mind meeting her,” said Isabella, wide-eyed with sincerity, “but perhaps it would be false if we treated each other like long-lost friends. Naturally she must hate me. I would if I were her.”
“My darling Isabella!” I stroked her silky blond hair and tried to say something else but was overcome with emotion by her generous and understanding nature.
“Well, I would!” she said. “I’d be desperately jealous if I were her! In fact I think I’d die with jealousy. Truthfully! I love you so much, Jan darling.”
“My angel,” I murmured, still too much affected to be coherent, and buried my face for a moment in her hair.
“Jan.”
“Hm.”
“I suppose Rebecca must be frightfully attractive and glamorous to fascinate you for all those years.”
“Yes, I did find her attractive.” I couldn’t think of Rebecca properly. Rebecca was far away, remote, part of a buried past. I couldn’t even picture Rebecca when I was with Isabella.
“When did you first meet her?”
“When? Oh, ages ago … when I was seven.”
“Seven! How old was she? Just a baby, I suppose.”
“Heavens no, she was fourteen. She’s seven years older than I am.”
“Seven years!”
“Yes, she was a year younger than Hugh, and Hugh was eight years my senior.”
“You mean—why, she must be practically forty!”
“Yes, I suppose she’ll be forty next year.”
“Oh,” said Isabella, and then: “Poor thing, I feel quite sorry for her,” said Isabella, and smiled up at me adoringly as I kissed her on the nose.
5
We were married on the thirtieth of August at the registry office in Exeter with the unqualified blessing of everyone except a minister of the church, and that same afternoon we were on the train to London en route to our honeymoon in Venice. It was the happiest day of my life. I was so happy I was almost incoherent. I was thirty-two years old and married to the most beautiful, most charming and most delightful girl who was as much in love with me as I was with her. I doted on her. In fact I was so beside myself with ecstasy that I could hardly wait to get to London, where I had arranged for us to spend the wedding night before we embarked for the Continent the following day.
We stayed at the Dorchester.
Looking back, I suppose I was too naïve in my estimation of Isabella. I don’t mean for one moment that she disappointed me on our honeymoon, but I confess it did give me an unpleasant jolt to discover that she wasn’t a virgin and an even more disagreeable surprise to find that she lied about it.
For she did lie.
“I haven’t been with a man before,” she said. “Ever.”
But she couldn’t fool me. She could act her heart out and make all the right sighs and moans, but I wasn’t deceived. I had had too much experience with too many different types of women not to know when a girl was a virgin and when s
he wasn’t.
We had our first quarrel on the first night of our honeymoon.
“All right,” she said at last in tears. “I lied. But I only lied because I was frightened of what you’d say if you knew. I was rather naughty once and I didn’t want you to know about it. That’s all. I’m sorry—please don’t be cross—”
“Listen to me,” I said levelly. “Let’s get this straight once and for all. I don’t want you lying to me about anything. I certainly won’t hold it against you that you’re not a virgin—God knows I’m no saint myself, but I have at least tried to be honest with you about it. I’ve told you about Rebecca, who was the most important woman in my life before I met you, and I’ve told you about Felicity. And there were other women too, unimportant affairs that meant nothing. I admit it! It’s much better to admit everything right from the beginning, can’t you see that? You needn’t be afraid I won’t understand or won’t make allowances for you if you’re honest but I’ll be very angry if I catch you trying to deceive me like that again. I want no deceit between us either now or in the future, is that clear? I want you to be honest with me.”
“Yes, Jan.” She sniffed and wiped each eye delicately with the corner of her negligée.
“How did it happen anyway? Was it just once after a party or something? With Keith?”
She sniffed again. “Well, no. Actually it wasn’t with Keith.”
“But it was just once—just a mistake. Is that right?”
She looked up at me miserably with great tear-filled green eyes and said nothing.
“For God’s sake, darling, I’m only repeating what you’ve just said!” I was beginning to feel nervous. “You said you were ‘rather naughty’—once. Was that a lie too?”
“Sort of.”
Then tell me the truth and let’s get it over. Did you have an affair?”
“No … not exactly … It happened about six or seven times …”
“With the same man?”
She choked. Two enormous tears rolled down her white little face. She looked as pathetic as a waif and stray. “No.”
Penmarric Page 79
