Gentlemen and Players

by Frances Vernon

  Possibly no one ever knew quite what Sarah meant. Gabriel said, ‘You’re sure you have no hats with feathers on concealed somewhere? No poor little corpses ready for your supper?’

  Sarah was thinking of how he knew her well enough to bring a gun into her drawing room. They were neither of them quite conventional people. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘How are you, Gabriel?’

  He did not mind her using his Christian name. It was clear that she thought it a very attractive one, and she had a pretty way of pronouncing it. He did not call her Lady Henry, Mrs Templecombe, or Miss Pagett, because she had asked him not to, and he did not call her Sarah, or think of her by any name. He realised this suddenly.

  ‘Oh I’m well, Sarah,’ he said, spreading his hands a little, lazily. ‘I’m very well. How are you?’

  Sarah wondered whether she could say anything about Susan’s queer letter, anything brief and entertaining about Susan, of whom Gabriel had said that she must be a dear. She would never say anything serious about her children to anyone except her paid companion, for she had long known that other people’s children were of no interest to anyone. She nearly blushed at the thought of mentioning their lack of health and happiness to Gabriel, who, although he was only twenty-two, was a manly man. As she used the words she had a little nervous fit in her womb, seeing herself touching his great naked male shoulder cased in skin as smooth as a girl’s. Such a picture had never before come to mind without her concentrating on it.

  ‘I’m very well too. Is that not good?’ She sparkled. ‘Come now, Gabriel, tell me what you have been up to. Give me gossip. In fashionable circles, you know, this is the time for intimate gossipy calls: five to six.’ She looked very serious, and spread her hands with his gesture. He knew that she was only pretending to laugh at him, because she had the adoring eyes of many women.

  Laughing a little and looking down, he told her familiarly that he knew no gossip fit for ladies’ ears.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Sarah. ‘Do you know what ladies gossip about, Gabriel? I’m sure I’m glad that you don’t talk over-much about yourself: when I was a wife, you know, too many young men found me a sympathetic confidante. It was very odd.’

  ‘Not odd. I should think you would be the type.’ She raised her eyebrows, not quite flirtatiously. ‘Well, tell me what’s been happening here,’ said Gabriel. ‘Any interesting callers? Or interesting communications?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Sarah, chewing her little finger, ‘I had a letter from dear old Sue today. She has taken my poor baby girls to her ample bosom, you know. She says I neglect them.’

  ‘Oh – oh, I’m sure you don’t.’

  New thoughts were coming to Sarah. ‘Susan is too much of a good wife and mother,’ she said, ‘to realise that I have very little choice in the matter. My children are, I believe, legally my husband’s children. He can prevent me from seeing them because I have deserted him. It’s a hard world for women, Gabriel,’ she chided sweetly.

  ‘Oh, take no notice of your sister,’ said Gabriel, and then looked up. ‘Wouldn’t have thought you were the maternal type, as a matter of fact.’

  Although she had not become angry or upset she never did mention her children to him again. ‘Gabriel, do you think women ought to be of the maternal type?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. Of course they ought to be, I suppose.’

  *

  Susan was in tears. She did not believe that anyone would voluntarily take care of Sarah’s children. She had come to believe fiercely, since writing the letter to Sarah, that their question must be settled as soon as possible and everyone satisfied, although they were not yet out of the nursery.

  As the days passed she came to see the letter as lying and hysterical, so much so that she could never talk about it to anyone, felt sure that no one would believe that she had written it. Her swift slip into cruelty and unreason made her an unfit guardian of Charlotte and Emily, who did not want to stay with her and whom Octavius did not want. She could not talk to Octavius. Templecombe and Sarah clearly cared nothing for their children, whom Susan saw passing eventually into some institution, unloved for the rest of their lives. She knew that money would save them from some practical difficulties, and that therefore a good competence must be settled on each of them, but she could do nothing whatever about it, for she might have more children of her own to leave her money to.

  Her father had the money. She had already pictured herself approaching him, making suggestions about his co-operating in the matter with Templecombe’s father, the Marquess of Armagh, and being rebuked and sent away as she had been when she approached him about Sarah herself. Tears slid from her eyes, and she thought that there would soon be a poolful of the silly things for her to wallow in.

  A week after she had written the letter she heard from the Archdeacon’s wife, who was Lady Moresbury’s sister, that Lord Armagh was spending most of August at Moresbury Place, ten miles from Lynmore. Susan stopped thinking so much about what she had written to Sarah, and worried a good deal about how she was to persuade Nicholas to see Lord Armagh about the children. She considered going to call on Lord Armagh herself, and talking to him about it, explaining the problem as she would to Nicholas, telling him about her father’s deep shyness and willing blindness which allowed him to let such things slide almost indefinitely. She saw herself driving over to Moresbury Place in the pony trap, arriving at an inconvenient time, insisting on seeing Lord Armagh and waiting for him, in the hall or in some ante-room, trying not to feel like Jeanie Deans in the presence of the Duke of Argyll.

  She knew that she exaggerated. At last she wrote a gentle letter to Lord Armagh, telling him who she was and asking him to excuse her presumption. She reminded him that she was taking care of his granddaughters, and she said that she wondered what eventual provision would be made for them. It took her a day to write the letter and in the end she only wrote, once she had said that, of how she hoped he would call on Nicholas and endeavour to settle the matter with him. Disturbed, she told Octavius what she had done and then laughed and said, ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil,’ so that he kissed her and said everything would be all right.

  A very sensible letter from Sarah arrived. She told Susan that she was extremely fond of her daughters but that she was quite unfit to look after them, as Susan knew well, and that she knew they would settle down at the Rectory after a few more months of their aunt’s care. The rest of the letter was about Gabriel Morrison, who, Sarah said in one paragraph, was just a sweet boy, who could not possibly wish to seduce a woman old enough to be his mother. Sarah thought Susan ought not to worry so much about love affairs.

  *

  ‘By the by, Susan,’ said Nicholas when he came to dine at the Rectory with Augusta some weeks later, ‘I’ve been in touch with Armagh, concerning our grandchildren’s futures. Well, we have hit upon a solution – there was some hard bargaining, unfortunately, rather distasteful it was.’ He laughed a little. ‘There are to be trusts set up: the girls are to have ten thousand pounds apiece. Little William can make his own way in the world: he’ll have just two hundred a year, otherwise he can work for his living. And of course, he’ll remain with his father. I think it’s all fair and square.’ He began to hurry. ‘However, I must ask whether you’re agreeable to what seemed to us the obvious solution for the time being? That is, that Charlotte and Emily are made your wards – yours and Octavius’s, that is – and live with you. Naturally the trustees – that is, myself, Armagh, and, I hope, Octavius –’ he bowed to Octavius – ‘will pay for their keep so long as they’re with you. Could you take them, Susan? I’m sure you don’t have to by any means, but I do believe they’d be best off with you.’

  CHAPTER 17

  MORE LOVE

  Sarah and Gabriel met again at the Sacheverells’ in January. Edwin and Sophia were giving a big, informal evening party: there was no proper dinner, only a large supper. Guests filled several rooms, holding their plates and glasses, sometimes standing.
Sophia had crossed out the word ‘soirée’ on the invitations, written ‘supper party’ and then ‘indoor picnic’. Most of the guests were delighted at its being so like a picnic: there were not enough chairs, so that those who did not want to stand had to sit on the floor, and there was not enough space for the used plates, which had to be put on the floor, and were trodden on.

  Gabriel and Sarah greeted each other at the beginning of the party, but did not sit next to each other and talk until it was getting late. Only two other people talked to Sarah during the evening: otherwise she sat near chatting groups and listened, sipping sparkling wine. She watched Gabriel, who talked on the whole to other men.

  ‘I thought we might share a hansom,’ said Gabriel after they had discussed the picnic. ‘We’re going in the same direction.’

  He did not ask whether anyone else who lived in Marylebone or Bayswater had offered Sarah a lift in his carriage. A couple, friends of Sophia whom Sarah had once met, had offered to drive her home. ‘That seems sensible,’ said Sarah. ‘Yes, let’s.’

  They sat next to each other until they left at half-past one, although they said little to each other and listened and talked to other people.

  Outside it was very cold. The thin, dirty London snow had thawed, but now the slush was freezing again, and there were icy patches on the streets. Sarah’s smooth-soled, sharp-heeled little boots made her slip and she walked as far as Woburn Place holding onto Gabriel’s sleeve, careful not to touch his arm. He hailed a cab and helped her inside. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked.

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Sarah.

  His cigarettes were not in the usual place and he felt in his overcoat pockets, where he found them. Then, frowning, he felt in them again. Sarah watched, also frowning. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he said, ‘I don’t believe it, I’ve forgotten my latch-key, and I can’t get the old woman out of bed at this time of night. Could you give me a bed for the night? I am sorry.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Sarah.

  They did not touch each other on the way to Bryanston Square. No one was waiting up when they got there, and in the hall Gabriel helped Sarah out of her coat.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Sarah, standing up straight with her hands clasped behind her as her father often did, ‘require a nightcap. I can offer you whisky, or brandy, Gabriel.’

  He paused and said, ‘Whisky would be rather good.’

  ‘I must fetch it from the dining room.’ She disappeared and came back clutching a decanter by the neck. Gabriel was still standing in the hall, waiting. A little awkwardly she went upstairs and Gabriel followed her with a slow, firm tread. They sat down in the drawing room, on the sofa. They had shared a sofa before, that evening at Tavistock Square.

  ‘Ought ladies living alone to keep whisky in their dining rooms?’ he said, smiling, as he sipped it. It was not good and he put it down.

  ‘I entertain gentlemen,’ said Sarah.

  ‘What do you do with your companion?’ said Gabriel a moment later, without a really provocative look. Sarah thought that he would kiss her soon.

  ‘Nothing. She’s a bore. I have to keep her – propriety, you know, always propriety – but I don’t associate with her, you know.’

  ‘What woman does? The whole breed is dreadful.’

  ‘Worse than governesses.’ They looked at each other, laughed, and a moment later Gabriel put his arm round her.

  Sarah had considered the possibility of his doing this for months, on and off. She had thought that if it happened she would tremble and flush, outside and inside, but she did not. She eased herself into the crook of his arm (which was as warm and strong and large as she had supposed it would be) as though she had drunk a good deal, as though it were natural to her.

  They said nothing and Gabriel did not move. Sarah’s head came to rest on his upper arm. She was so tiny that she did not reach his shoulder. She was not looking at him and she did not try to speak. After a moment he turned her head round with one hand, bent down and kissed her. For a moment she said nothing and her expression did not change. ‘You’re like a lovely wax doll,’ he said.

  Sarah’s little black eyes opened wide. ‘I know.’ Then she said, ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  ‘Yes – yes, you must be tired. I ought not to have kept you up. I’m quite tired too as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Sarah, without looking puzzled, or angry, or embarrassed, or very lascivious. ‘We must share a bed now, Gabriel, because you know, I am not a respectable woman.’ She was very happy. She had just thought that because she suddenly felt no strange excitement, they were made for each other, and all would be easy, primitive and peaceful. ‘You musn’t look shocked and hurt, Gabriel, it’s true, you know.’

  ‘Yes – but – well, don’t you think …’

  ‘No,’ said Sarah. He said nothing but she heard his voice in her head, saying, ‘Oh, Lord,’ in the way he did. She laughed. ‘Come on, Gabriel.’

  She might have been mocking. He got to his feet and Sarah led the way to her spare room, where there was a hard, unaired, very cold single bed. She sat down on it and he joined her, and began to fiddle with her hair. She started undressing. Gabriel did not watch but went behind the little draped bedroom screen and took off all his clothes except his shirt. When he came back Sarah was in the bed, still wearing a camisole. Sarah noticed his bare foot next to one of her boots as he stood in the middle of the floor. It was more than twice the size of her boot. She had not noted the size of his hands, but she fancied that his palm would envelop her thin, yellow, outstretched hand with its white nails. Briefly she glanced at her hand, and she thought of how easily he could kill her without any weapon, painlessly if he chose. She still felt placid at the thought of it.

  Gabriel came into the bed, and she slowly made room for him and then turned over to face him, and laid her head on his shoulder. They lay still for a long time. Occasionally he kissed her or stroked her and then Sarah responded. At last he made love to her properly, as she did not doubt he would, quickly and quietly. She could not feel him inside her and she said to herself: ‘This is Gabriel Morrison entering me, this is really Gabriel Morrison.’ After he had finished she began to feel a little excited, but she did not disturb him or make demands, because he seemed to doze. Once or twice in the night Sarah nearly dropped into sleep but she would not let herself do so. She thought it might be pleasant to sleep with his arms round her, for he did have his arms round her just as she had imagined; but she considered that if this were her only night with him, it would be a waste of him, and that if this were not, she would sleep with him later, many times, every bone in her body unhooked from its socket, limp and dreamless and happy as after death.

  She watched the dawn light beginning to creep through the curtains. ‘You must go,’ she said. ‘The servants will be up soon.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ said Gabriel. He kissed her cheek and tightened his hold on her and she blushed very slightly and smiled.

  ‘Come on. We must be practical, Gabriel.’ He got up and dressed himself in his conventional but rather scruffy clothes. Sarah put on her skirt and bodice and managed to fasten them although she wore no stays. They looked at each other when they were clothed.

  ‘Can I see you again some time towards the end of next week?’ said Gabriel. ‘I thought we might do a play, you know.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sarah, raising her eyebrows, because she had not been expecting this.

  ‘How about the twenty-eighth? There’s a French farce I thought we might like, you know.’

  ‘That would be amusing,’ said Sarah. ‘Let’s.’

  She took him downstairs and kissed him goodbye at the door. Then she wandered up to her own bedroom and sat in an armchair, shaking with tiredness, fidgetting and smiling, half-dressed in evening clothes as she was, until her maid came in to rouse her with a cup of tea. The maid was puzzled. Sarah said nothing except that she was a trifle tired after the party and thought she would spend the morning in bed. She slep
t for four or five hours, then woke. Round and round in her head went the thought that she was not a courtesan and never would be, but she had a lover who might well come to love her. Because he was a lover he was a secret, so she did not tell her companion or her maid what she had done.

  Sarah bought a new dress in which to go out with Gabriel, and rinsed her coarse hair with a softening seaweed jelly. On the morning of the day of their appointment she received a note from him, and a small bunch of Christmas roses, her favourite flower next to the daffodil. Gabriel told her that he could not meet her tonight, but that he would ever consider her one of his greatest friends.

  CHAPTER 18

  SICKNESS

  Susan went up to London again in the early summer of 1890. She was sitting in the drawing room at Tavistock Square late one afternoon: the tea things had been cleared away, outside it was still daylight although no longer bright, and the children were playing in front of the empty fireplace. Susan, who had arrived the day before, had brought her six-month-old daughter, Gwendoline Susanna, to town with her. Sophia’s daughter, Lavinia, was eight months old and could sit up and gurgle at her brother Laurence’s tin soldiers, which he would not let her touch. Gwendoline was taking no interest and was asleep on her shawl.

  The children would be taken back to the nursery in ten minutes’ time. Susan sat back and took one of Sarah’s letters out of her pocket. She lit the lamp beside her and noticed that Laurence was holding in his mouth a tin soldier, which might be coated with poisonous paint. She reached forward, removed it and tried to hush him as he began to yell, waking Gwendoline, who was due for her next feed and started crying with hunger.

  Sophia had not seen her children today, for before tea she had gone to bed with a sick headache. The children had been brought down as usual because Susan was there. The nanny heard the screams, came down and took them all away again, a little earlier than usual, smiling at Susan who was trying to cope.