by John Pearson
Richard, not normally put out by anyone, could only try to stammer some excuse for the Ambassador. It was totally ignored.
“Disgraceful. Quite disgraceful. He should be here to do his duty. Still, he needn’t think he’ll get away with it. I shall inform Her Majesty. I shall make sure that she at any rate knows how her servants can behave to ladies when they need them.”
“Mother,” said a voice. “Perhaps this gentleman could be doing something about our luggage.”
“Luggage, Marjorie! There are more important things than luggage at a time like this. There are principles at stake.”
But principles or no, Richard had seen his chance to do something practical and escape her ladyship’s iron tongue. With some efficiency he ordered off a footman to sort out the Southwold luggage. A frightened-looking lady’s maid of Lady Southwold’s went with them, and with arrangements made, Richard walked back towards his guests. Lady Southwold was already in the coach but behind her, still standing on the platform, was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
There was a certain echo, in the face, of Lady Southwold—the same classic profile, the same colouring, and the same clear line across the brow. But whereas with Lady Southwold all these features had become grotesque, here they retained a sort of virginal perfection. She was extremely slim and appeared younger than she was. She wore a blue-and-white-silk dress, and there on the platform of the Gare du Nord, against the background of that shouting, vulgar, garlic-smelling crowd, she seemed a fairytale princess in miniature.
Richard bowed. At that moment and with all that noise there seemed little else that he could do. The princess smiled in return, a faint northern smile.
“I’m Marjorie Talbot-Cary,” she said somewhat primly.
“And I am Richard Bellamy.”
Years later Richard would always say that this was the moment—the one moment in his life—when he fell truly, utterly, and helplessly in love. But did he really? How can one ever tell with anything as strange and as mysterious as love, especially a love like his, which came to dominate his life and rule it totally? There is a clear temptation to proclaim, “At such-and-such a time I fell in love and that was that!” But if this really did occur with Richard on the platform of the Gare du Nord, it must have been a species of unconscious love, an almost fleeting recognition of desire or adoration, call it what you will, to which he could subsequently refer as an amorous point of reference.
For the quite simple truth is that during these crucial minutes of his life Richard had far too many worries on his mind to be able to devote himself to any luxury as single-minded as falling in love. There was the business of instructing the coachman how to battle safely through the crush of vehicles and bring his charges back to the Embassy without loss of dignity or comfort. There was the sheer discomfort of his uniform (the trousers in particular, which, like most diplomats’ ceremonial trousers, were far too tight). And above all, of course, there was Lady Southwold. Richard sat opposite that lady as her elephantine ego continued to assert itself. In such pained circumstances he had no chance of more than an occasional glimpse, a fleeting glance towards the overshadowed and demure young girl who sat beside him.
“Disgusting city,” her ladyship proclaimed as they swept past the Pont Royale and entered the splendid concourse of the Rue de Rivoli. Before them was the great palace of the Louvre, gilded and gleaming and the fountains playing. The gardens of the Tuileries were coming into leaf; beyond them lay the Seine.
“I refuse to be impressed,” she said patriotically. “Cheltenham’s far nicer, don’t you think, young man?”
Richard, good diplomat though he was, found this a little difficult to take. “The Palace of the Louvre is generally considered one of the finest things in Paris,” he replied politely.
Lady Southwold sniffed. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, I see. So you’re infected too by all these foreign habits. You must watch out, young man. One simply cannot be too careful,” she added darkly.
He did his best, despite this warning, to point out some of the sights of Paris as the Ambassador’s fine carriage with its pair of greys bowled its way on towards the Champs Élysées. Marjorie appreciated her first sight of this city she would soon inhabit, and her excitement—simple, girlish as it was—reminded Richard of her fate; to his surprise he suddenly felt angry at the thought of her linked with that ageing pederast, the Duc d’Amboise. He also felt obscurely jealous of that platoon of future lovers whom Lord Cartwright had predicted for her. As he thought of this he wondered how the xenophobic Lady Southwold could possibly inflict a fate like this upon her daughter. From this moment dates his positive dislike of her.
The next few days became a time of heaven and hell for Richard Bellamy. Hell centered irresistibly around Lady Southwold, heaven around her daughter; and as might have been expected, there was far more of the former than the latter. Everything, or almost everything, was wrong where Lady Southwold was concerned—the suite of rooms which Cartwright had allotted her within the Embassy, the sanitary arrangements, even the food at dinner. Her powers of complaint rose to the dizzy heights of genius, and Richard was there to bear the brunt of them.
Within two minutes of entering her apartment she had summoned him and he found her pointing icily towards a painting on the wall.
“What is that doing here?” she asked.
Slightly puzzled, Richard looked at a painting of nymphs and shepherds languishing wistfully in a wooded clearing. It was from Cartwright’s own considerable collection of French eighteenth-century paintings.
“It is a Fragonard, your ladyship,” said Richard.
“It is an obscenity,” said Lady Southwold. “Remove it instantly.”
There was trouble too about the introductions she had. She was outraged that Amboise failed to appear that evening and made quite a scene of this at dinner. Luckily the Ambassador was there to deal with it.
“His grace requested me to give you his apologies, but he is hunting.”
“At this time of night?”
“That, madame, is when he generally does,” said Cartwright drily.
On only one occasion did her ladyship show just the faintest personal interest in Richard.
“And which of the Bellamys are you?” she asked him after dinner.
He replied that his father was a Norfolk rector.
“Oh,” said Lady Southwold.
But like some alternating image of Virtue linked irresistibly to Vice, there was Lady Marjorie. She was cool, elegant and curiously untouched, both by her mother and by the fate that lay in store for her. As Richard watched her after dinner, sitting so prettily and laughing so unreservedly at one of Cartwright’s jokes (even Lady Southwold smiled), Richard found himself wondering just how intelligent she really was. Was she so clever that she could discount everything around her, or so stupid that it did not matter? He went to bed that night without deciding.
Nor did he find the answer next day, although his duties meant that he had to spend some time with her. She seemed, if not devoted, at least dutiful and uncomplaining with her mother; and on the one occasion when he had a chance to sound her out upon her marriage she seemed as down-to-earth about it all as if he had asked her whether a pair of shoes would fit or a new dress suit her.
He asked her if she minded being promised to a man whom she had never met, and her reply had more than a touch of Lady Southwold in it.
“Mind, Mr. Bellamy? But why should I mind? My parents have arranged it for my own well-being. They have considerable experience of the world, so I see no earthly reason why it should not succeed.”
Even Richard, who was becoming quite besotted by her beauty, could find no answer against that.
Perhaps it was her unattainability that attracted him. Certainly she was totally unlike any other woman he had known. Not that his experience of women was that limited. Priggish he may have been, but this had not stopped him from enjoying the delights of female company. There had been village girls in Norfo
lk, bored diplomatic wives in Paris, occasional ladies of the town, and at the moment there was Juliette. She was in many ways the ideal mistress for a man like him—understanding, skilled in love, and beautiful, undoubtedly quite beautiful in her own heavy, peasant way. There was a painter who employed her as a model—a funny, dark, excitable young man called Degas—although Richard didn’t like his pictures, saying quite rightly that they never did her justice. He had occasional doubts about the fellow, wondering sometimes whether he should be concerned about those portraits of his mistress in the bath. But, as he told himself, France was France and Juliette was certainly devoted to her beau diplomate, as she called him. Until now he had always been delighted with her. She kept house for him in their apartment off the Rue Jacob, and she was warm and passionate and undemanding. But suddenly Richard found her—what did he find her? He asked himself this very question the first evening after meeting Lady Marjorie. Boring? How could this generous woman whom he lived with possibly be boring? Coarse? Perish the suggestion! Hardly ladylike enough for a rising second secretary? Come now, Richard Bellamy had faults, but snobbishness like this was not among them.
But in fact—although he could hardly acknowledge them—all these defects did quite suddenly appear in Juliette once he set eyes on Marjorie. And since he could not acknowledge them, he felt guilty and morose when in his mistress’ company.
The ball Lord Cartwright had so dreaded giving duly took place some four days after the Southwolds’ arrival. It was a ravishing affair, for Cartwright, much as he might protest his distaste for it all, actually enjoyed these glittering events, and such was his taste and wealth and reputation that everyone in Paris who was anyone—and many who were not—clamoured for invitations. There were the notorious Princesse de Noailles (currently rumoured to be the mistress of both Dumas and the Prince de Galles) and her banker husband, the most famous dandy in the whole of Paris. Their being there together was in itself quite an event. There were countless Rothschilds and the President of France. There were the De Brantes, who owned half Normandy, and the Comte de Limousin, who was said to be a woman. The great actress Réjane made a brief but dramatic entry. Her rival, Bernhardt, made an equally dramatic absence. The champagne flowed, as it did in those days only in the British Embassy, and the orchestra was directed by the great Boieldieu of the Paris Opéra. And all of this in order that Lord Southwold’s daughter should be suitably introduced to her future husband. She took it very well: indeed, Richard was amazed at just how well. She wore a ball dress of shimmering white silk which looked, as he said afterwards, “like a waterfall of stars.” She seemed as young as ever, perhaps even younger tonight. Richard’s sentimental heart was touched at the mere sight of her, for there was something so defenceless and so lonely in that fragile face against that cynical and worldly throng. She looked anxious and wide-eyed as she walked among them all, on Richard’s arm (he had that honour), to meet her fate. At the same time she showed the strength and iron will of her Southwold ancestors. There was no cowardice, no flinching, even when she reached the man she was to marry and Richard said solemnly, “Your grace, I have the honour to present to you the Lady Marjorie, daughter of the Earl of Southwold.”
The music stopped. A hush, then an excited murmur came from the crowd as Marjorie, ivory-pale, faltered, then made her curtsy before the Duke.
Well might she have faltered, for his grace was not a pretty sight. Generations of inbreeding, years of indelicate excess, had finally produced this over-honoured jelly of a man. He was immensely fat—a barrel, a balloon—and had the curiously expressionless face of a young Silenus. But at the same time there was a sort of gloating charm as he surveyed her. (Was it possible, Richard asked himself, that he desired her?) When he spoke his voice was high-pitched, like a eunuch’s.
“The honour is entirely mine,” he said, “to see such beauty and—ahem—such purity.” He bowed, or rather wobbled in Marjorie’s direction, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. In Richard’s eyes, Marjorie had never been as lovely as she was then, at the moment she confronted her fate, her Beast.
After that evening Richard’s relationship with Marjorie changed. She had her duty to perform, he had his, and their former closeness seemed forgotten. Richard was still her guardian—or “her studgroom,” as he ruefully described himself to Cartwright—in the days that followed, and he performed his duties scrupulously and well: he was on hand to take her to the grand ball in her honour at the Presidential Palace, he accompanied her to Maxim’s and the Grand Véfour, and she was on his arm when she entered the reception at the Palais d’Amboise. This enormous mansion off the Champs Élysées was en fête that night, with great flambeaux blazing round the courtyard and footmen in eighteenth-century dress on every stair, and beneath a galaxy of chandeliers there was a banquet cooked by the finest chefs in Paris. The real purpose of the evening was to present Marjorie to Paris and the Amboise family as their future Duchess, and Amboise relatives had been dragged from the distant provinces, summoned from deathbeds and dower-houses especially to meet her.
What a collection they all were: old crones ablaze with diamonds, old generals dithering with drink, young matrons who were already exhibiting the inherited misfortunes of their line. Normally Richard would have been silently amused and enjoyed his dinner, but tonight he was in misery. To make matters worse, he had been seated next to Lady Southwold, who at this point of triumph and success was almost affable with him. She wore the Southwold diamonds and appeared thinner—and her wig redder—than before.
“Such a good couple I think they make, don’t you, Bellamy,” she said, nodding towards the Duke and future Duchess where they were sitting at the head of the table.
“A mature man is so much what Marjorie needs. She’s a mere gel, you know, and he can take her in hand.”
Richard looked towards the happy couple and to his horror saw that Lady Southwold might conceivably be right. Was that a smile of lechery he saw on the Duke’s fat lips? Could it be true, as some had recently been whispering, that d’Amboise was turning to females as the ultimate perversion?
That evening Richard had to wait for hours before Marjorie was ready to leave. Lady Southwold had retired already, so he was alone with Marjorie as they drove back to the Embassy through the light spring rain. She was silent, glacial, as they drove down the river, past the slumbering Bois with the bobbing carriage lamps lighting the black and silver cobbles of the road.
For the first time since Marjorie arrived Richard felt angry—no longer sorry for her. If this was how the aristocracy behaved, let them get on with it. She was one of them by temperament and breeding. Let her enjoy it, and if she ended up like her mother, so much the better! In half an hour he would be back with warm, faithful—or unfaithful—Juliette. At least they could laugh together and enjoy making love together. She and her friends might be coarse and uncultivated and unfashionable, but they were worth the whole Palais d‘Amboise and le tout Paris together. They were healthy, honest and, unlike their betters, weren’t prepared to deny their appetites and their emotions for a title or a fortune. Thank God for them!
As he was thinking this, Richard had been staring morosely through the window. Now something made him turn and look at Marjorie. Tears were streaming down her face.
“You must help me, Richard Bellamy,” she said. It had always been Mr. Bellamy before, and Richard hadn’t realised she knew his Christian name.
“What do you mean, ma’am?” he asked coldly.
“My name is Marjorie and I am counting on your friendship. I have no one else. Help me as a friend. I know so little of the world, but I can’t go through with this. I can’t, can’t, can’t.”
She was really sobbing now, despite herself: great silent tears which racked her body. And Richard—much as he would have denied it— secretly enjoyed her suffering, if only as a lover’s revenge for all the secret suffering he had endured for her. And so, perversely, he steeled himself against sympathy and found himself calmly r
epeating most of Cartwright’s arguments in favour of the marriage—the splendid château, the distinguished name.
“And be sensible. You can please yourself once you are married. You can have lovers if you want them, children, money. You will be free to do exactly as you please.”
He sounded very cold and very calm. In fact his heart was beating and his mouth was dry.
“I thought you were my friend,” said Marjorie in a stifled voice.
“Your ladyship, I am. And as a friend I’m telling you that you have certain obligations to your position and you can’t be too soft and squeamish. It is quite natural to feel as you do, but it is also very unimportant. Titles, land, influence—these are what count for people of your class, and if you have to give a little in return it doesn’t do to moan about the bargain.”
By now the carriage had reached the high gates of the Embassy. Marjorie said nothing, but as she stepped down from the carriage she gave him a look that stabbed his heart.
The Ambassador, who had brought Lady Southwold back from the reception, was still up to greet them—tall, in a long black cloak, with the rain glistening on the grey eyebrows and moustache.
When he had said goodnight to Marjorie he turned to Richard and with a sardonic, faintly mocking smile said, “Richard, dear boy, so pleased that it has all turned out so well. My sincere congratulations. Lord knows quite how you’ve done it but you seem even to have impressed my cousin. She must be in love with you—on the way back tonight she quite sang your praises. You’d better watch your step, my boy.”
He laughed and put his arm round Richard’s shoulders.
“Seriously, though, I can’t tell you how grateful I am at the way you’ve handled things. It’s all arranged, largely thanks to you. The engagement will be announced within a day or two: there are a few formalities to be settled with the lawyers, and then, thank God, we’re rid of them. The marriage will take place at Amboise. And you, my boy, will always have an ally in the Southwolds and the Duke. They could be useful. Well done, well done,” and after patting Richard gently on his back, the old diplomat walked up the stairs to bed.