by Sophia Tobin
They walked to the Red Parlour. ‘Designed for the ladies,’ he said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘in a more delicate, feminine style – French rococo.’
She looked around, as though some mistake had been made. ‘But this is a copy.’
‘Of your private salon at Redlands?’ He walked ahead of her, so she could not see his face. He felt a mingled sense of triumph and desolation. ‘Yes.’
‘Did my husband order this?’
‘No. He allowed me my head on this room.’
She frowned, openly puzzled, but he did not address it. Then she went to the window and looked out.
‘So, you have seen the main rooms,’ he said. ‘The News Room is undergoing some final decoration. Don’t allow me to keep you, Mrs Kinsburg. I’m sure you have many important affairs to attend to.’
She spoke without turning towards him. ‘I’m not sure I’ve seen the real building at all. I’m sure it has many things you haven’t shown me.’
‘I’ve shown you the public rooms, the rooms which ladies wish to see.’
‘Do you hate me, Henry?’
He could have struck her; his breath caught in his throat, and he suddenly felt the tension in his neck and shoulders, he was as stiff as a guard on parade. The truth fell from him without effort or judgement. ‘Yes,’ he said.
She turned and looked at him, unblinking. He saw her strength, he saw that he had not created it, and he hated it.
‘You want to see the real building?’ he said. And he seized her wrist and pulled her through the Red Parlour and out onto the north landing, talking all the time. He named the amount he paid for the excavators; how the Club was built on a plinth of granite from quarries in Derbyshire; of concealed lamps, and plasterwork. He took her through the back of the Dining Hall, through the kitchens, and he talked of the range, the stewing stoves, the boiler for vegetables, the fittings of the confectionary. He took her into one of the service lifts, and pulled the iron grille across. She followed him without a word, although he felt the weight of her as he dragged her, and it satisfied him. He was a gentle man, and yet, perversely, he hoped he was hurting her.
Out of the lift, he took her through a privy, to a small wooden door, which he unlocked and pulled her through. ‘Keep your head down,’ he said. She did, but struggled to fit her dress through, and he held her close to him and half-lifted her down.
He closed the door behind them, and released her wrist. They stood in near-darkness, in a passageway which stretched on around the perimeter of the building. Further down, light streamed through a glazed grille.
‘What is this place?’ she said.
‘It’s called the moat.’
She smiled, and looked around her. ‘What is it for?’
‘It’s a passage dug to protect the building from damp,’ he said impatiently. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘What do you mean, Mr Dale-Collingwood? When, exactly?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charlotte!’ he cried. He turned, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. Your wrist. Dragging you down here.’
‘You didn’t hurt me,’ she said, her voice soft and low.
The things he had wanted to say to her crowded in upon him. ‘Was there a child?’ he said. ‘That has haunted me. The idea that there was a child.’
He saw her lips part, the shock in her eyes. ‘Oh, Henry,’ she said. ‘No. There was no child.’
But I have felt its hands on my shoulders in my sleep, he thought. I have felt the knowledge of it pulling me back. Now that he knew it was his imagination only, he did not know whether to weep or be glad. His body sagged. They stood, listening to the sound of feet on the pavements above, and watching the way the light changed as people walked over the glazed grille. The moat smelt of earth, of damp and ruin.
‘I have missed you,’ he said. ‘I have loved you all this time. And you have taken everything from me, even my pride.’
‘Do not say such a thing,’ she said. She did not take a step towards him, and yet he saw the sorrow in her face, and heard it in her voice. ‘This is not you speaking, Henry. I know who you are. I know you to be strong, and good, and made, yes, made, to be content. I left to give you that, to allow you to be free of me, and to let you have a happy life. I came here today to celebrate your achievement, not to grieve you.’
‘I don’t believe that you know why you came here,’ he said. ‘I fancy it is to see whether you still have power over me. And now I have given you your answer.’
She shook her head. He turned away, and rubbed his eyes again, eyes that were red and sore.
‘I did not think you would still feel things so deeply,’ she said.
‘Why? In God’s name, after everything, why would you think that?’
‘I have thought it for a long time. Ever since I left London,’ she said. ‘The day after I spent the evening with you, at your house, someone visited me, a maid called Foi. She was desperate. She had already visited the Club site, when the committee were meeting. You did not attend that day – you were unwell, I believe.’
He felt fear then, a terrible realization. ‘I did not wish to be there. I slept late, that day. I did not wish to be with anyone – only to remember that night with you.’
‘In any event, they had turned her away.’
He rubbed his eyes. He had seen Foi a handful of times after their night together. And she had always been the same: cheeky, but slightly distant. No hint of deeper thought or action. Then she had gone, to another post, he had been told.
‘How did she find you? Or even know you?’
‘Henry, dear, our servants know everything. Surely you’ve noticed that.’ She said it sadly.
‘What did she say to you?’ he said. The words came out only with effort.
‘That you had spent the night together. That you were kind to her. That she thought she might be expecting a child – no, do not worry, she did not have a child, not in the end. Of course, I was angry. I wept. But after she had gone, I sat, and thought, and I realized how unfair I was being.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘I already knew that we could never be together. I saw then that you already had a life, not the kind of half-life I lived, but a life with possibility, and action, and a hundred different characters within it. I saw that I was one small part of the richest of lives. And instead of causing you unhappiness, or poisoning it, I could just let you live it. I hoped you would understand. It was wrong of me, perhaps, not to leave a letter or an explanation, but I admit I was stung too. It was spiteful of me. I could justify it to myself a hundred times, but it was wrong.’
‘It was wrong,’ he said. ‘If you had only trusted me, just a little – I wish I could have told you what that night with her was really about. I am sorry, so sorry, that you had to hear it from her. It seems impossible to explain now.’
‘Then do not.’
‘How could you have left, without a word?’
‘I reasoned. It was the accident that brought us together, Henry. The accident – your grief. Without them, you would not have loved me. I kept your letters, though. I could not bring myself to destroy them.’
‘And I yours. But now – I will give them back to you, if you will accept them.’
She gave a brief nod.
He leaned against the wall. They looked at each other, the only noise the footsteps above, the sound of the city’s continuing life.
‘Why did you bring me here?’ she said, after some moments. When he looked back he saw that she was trying to smile. ‘Is this your favourite part of the building? Some plain and useful part that you would like me to see?’
‘No. I prefer the public rooms.’
‘Oh.’ He saw her mystification. It seemed to her, he saw, that they still did not know each other. That a thing she had thought was certain, was not: absence did that, allowing the lover to spin threads into the gaps, but one thread off meant that the picture was not perfect, always uncorrected, a small fault growi
ng into a large misunderstanding or misrepresentation. ‘And why do you like the public rooms so much? Is it the glitter, the splendour? Are you more gaudy than I thought, Mr Dale-Collingwood?’
He breathed the thin air in the earthy darkness. ‘No. How little you know me, Mrs Kinsburg. You see nothing.’
She sighed. ‘I am trying to be your friend. We were always friends, were we not? But if you wish to insult me, I must go. My carriage is waiting.’
‘I like the public rooms because they remind me of you. The scagliola columns in the Stair Hall, for example: the blue is matched to the colour of your eyes, captured by my watercolours. The yellow colour, to the dress you wore on my first day at Redlands. To put it in more romantic language, for you, madam: this building is my tribute to you. My heart, and every mark you made upon it.’
He saw the shock on her face. ‘But the design was set, long before you met me, I believed.’
‘The basic design, yes, but I had freedom with the details. Great men on committees do not concern themselves with details – apart from your husband, of course. But I continued on. Did you see the central coat of arms, in the Dining Hall? They allowed me some freedom with it. The motto ribbon is the shade of your bonnet ribbon, and billows just as your ribbon did, on the day we walked to The Birches. The flowers above the pier-glasses, either side, are those in your bouquet on the first day; the exact arrangement. And the graceful lady surmounting the frame – perhaps you noticed her?’
‘I did not.’
‘You and everyone else, it seems. Her face is yours, carved of gilt gesso. The craftsman did not quite capture you, I think, from my sketch, but still a trace of you is there. The lover’s knots. Did you not see them? I expect the crowd to notice only the general effect, but you, when it is done for you, I thought you might see those knots. They are everywhere, Charlotte. The building is smothered in them. The faces in the Committee Room, gilded on a bronze ground, those faces—’
‘The faces are half-turned away. You showed them to me, just now – I did not like them.’
‘You did not look at them properly.’ His frustration showed in his voice. ‘Your son’s face. Do you remember I sketched him? And the mottoes—’
‘Henry—’
‘There are many members of the Club who have coats of arms, you know. But I selected the mottoes which were used. Mostly they are chosen only for you. Do you know my favourite? Ad finem spero.’
‘I don’t know what that means, Henry. Ladies are not taught Latin. Surely you know that.’ Her voice was higher, a little unsteady.
‘You would have been a fine scholar. I hope to the last. Or I did, Charlotte. I did. You began all of this. And now,’ he turned about him, in the dark corridor, the light level low, ‘completur. Surely you know what that means?’ He looked at her face, stubborn, ungiving, in the shadows, and smiled sarcastically.
‘I can guess.’
‘Allow me to translate. It is finished.’
She stared at him. He felt something shift between them. For the first time, he saw anger in her face. ‘Do you think you are the only one who has known suffering?’ she said. ‘Do you think I am so easily pinned down, like a butterfly with a pin through my heart? You are like Ashton. Creating a beautiful illusion. He chose me because he saw something other in me. He saw that I was strong, that there was something in me which he did not have, which he wanted to own – to pin down, as you have tried to do. But he has never truly owned me. And neither do you.’
*
The maid in Charlotte’s carriage grumbled after ten minutes; moaned after half an hour, sticking her head out of the window to chide the driver; and was incandescent after an hour and a quarter. It was then that she went to the porter of the Mirrormakers’ Club and asked what was keeping her mistress. But a preliminary search of the public rooms found no mistress, and no architect either.
‘Don’t worry, miss,’ said the porter. ‘It’s a huge place, they’ll be rattling around like two dried peas in a jar, but there’s no way they’ve been lost. I’ll turn the night-glass over and set off to look for them. If I’m not back by the time the sand’s gone through, feel free to write to the director, and ask him to send a search party.’ And he chuckled, and set off up the staircase, with Polly at his heels.
The housekeeper came forwards, smiling soothingly. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Miss?’
‘Fointaine. Miss de la Fointaine. And yes, you can.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
1941
Livy and Christian walked through the London streets. Past ruin and rubble, their coats buttoned up tight, Livy’s hat on a slant, low over her eyes. Now and then Christian glanced at her profile and her long hair. Once, he touched a strand of it as it fluttered in the air, holding it just for a moment between the tip of his thumb and forefinger.
‘Will you cut it, before you leave?’
‘Yes.’
The letter from the Land Army was folded tight in her pocket. A farm in Bedfordshire, the following Wednesday.
They reached the station. ‘You go on,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait here.’
Peggy had told Livy the train Jonathan was catching. But even as she stepped into the station she half-believed she wouldn’t find him; that it would be a relief to miss him.
She saw him on the concourse. In his coat and hat, holding his brown leather case, his gas mask in its carrier, over his shoulder. He was buying a newspaper. She ran down the steps, onto the concourse. Something stopped her from calling his name. Instead, she walked up behind him, and put her hand on his arm.
He turned, and his gaze was as cool as ever, as hard and impenetrable. She noted the small mark on his face, where she had caught him.
‘Miss Baker,’ he said.
‘Mr Whitewood.’ She lifted her chin, looked him in the eyes. ‘I wanted to say goodbye. You’ve been avoiding me, I think.’
He looked at the newspaper in his hand, rolled it up tight. ‘I thought it was for the best.’
‘I’m sorry that we didn’t find your diamond.’ She meant it. She searched his face for any further clues or information, as though suddenly everything might be resolved. As though he could tell her what had happened to Charlotte.
Finally, he met her eyes properly. ‘And I’m sorry, for saying such a vicious thing to you, that day,’ he said. ‘I was nettled, that’s all. A little jealous, I admit. And I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way.’ He too was searching for something in her face. ‘But I don’t think I did. I don’t think I matter that much.’
She nodded. ‘No.’ She glanced behind her. At Christian, standing on the upper level, his hands holding the rail. She squeezed Jonathan’s arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I hope we part as friends. I didn’t want to leave things as they were.’
‘We do,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Good luck to you, too.’ She smiled, nodded, and turned. He watched her walk away from him, threading her way through the people. She did not look back, but he waited there, until she was gone from his sight.
*
Livy and Christian walked to the South Bank side by side. Now and then she reached out, and took his hand. The County Hall sat long on the bank, faced by Portland stone like the Mirrormakers’ Club. It hovered above the water, the rippling, dense green-brown of the Thames. The mint-green frames of its upper windows were the colour of weathered copper. Too many windows, she thought: remembering how in awe she had felt when she had first come here, feeling herself be swallowed up by city life. She put her hand on Christian’s arm before they turned onto the waterfront.
‘Will they let me in?’
He smiled that bright, youthful smile. ‘Of course. They might even remember you. Oh – I meant to give this to you.’ He took something from his pocket, and put it in her hand. It was her watch: the glass fixed. Livy lifted it to her ear, heard its gentle ticking. She kissed him on the cheek to thank him.
‘Come on,’ he said, a gruffness in his tone. But he wai
ted for her to buckle the watch onto her wrist before he led her into the building.
First, he showed her the library of new materials they were compiling, the empty shelves ready to be filled with samples. He watched her calm down and adjust to being back there. On walking in, she had looked stricken, murmuring that the smell of the building was the same: antiseptic and wood polish.
He saw her gaze brighten as she looked at the samples, at the neat efficiency of the library. ‘Once the war has been won, we will build a new London. We shall have a new city, nestling within the old. Bold statements. I have no idea if I’ll be part of it. I’m still torn, you see. Between the old and the new: I don’t know what to focus on. One must make a decision, and follow it completely, but I’m no good at that. I’ve only done it once.’
She looked at his hand; she did this all the time. His sleeve folded around the hand which had once worn a wedding ring.
He led her on, to a room like any other, but with its central space cleared of the usual office cabinets and desks. Instead there were large tables, over which were spread maps of the city. The one Livy stopped by was for the Metropolitan Borough of Paddington. She braced herself.
‘You must remember,’ he said. ‘It’s a tool, to help people. To help us find housing, to rebuild and renew, to make people’s lives better. It’s a memorial, to what everyone has suffered. We will use it to rebuild London, when the war is over.’
She stared at the bruised streets of her city, at the blocks marked with damage. The colours: shades of orange, yellow, green, purple, red. She remembered something, then: how much she had always loved London.
‘What does the black mean? On the buildings?’