by John Pearson
The only answer, Richard realised, was to earn money for himself, preferably so much money that he could politely tell the Southwolds what they could do with their wretched settlement. But that was a luxury which for the moment he could not hope to afford. Eight thousand pounds per annum is a lot of money: the opportunities for an unknown back-bench M.P. to earn so much were limited.
He lacked connections in the City, and although there were undoubtedly opportunities for less scrupulous politicians to sell their influence to business interests in return for a discreet appointment to a directorial board or two, this practice struck Richard as dishonest. He had strong views on the independence and integrity of M.P.s, views which he put forward with some sharpness in an article he wrote about this time that was published in the November issue of the Political Quarterly.
“The Member of Parliament,” he wrote, “has a sacred obligation to preserve himself from the blandishments and pressures of the businessman. And Parliament itself must recognise the insidious dangers of the newest form of corruption in its midst.”
Brave words, even reckless words, from someone in Richard’s vulnerable position, and they caused quite a stir. Ironically, it was barely a week after they were published that Richard received a visit from Geoffrey Dillon at the House of Commons. Richard was distant but polite. Dillon looked strangely out of place in the Strangers’ Lobby of the House: away from his chambers in the Temple he seemed to lose that slightly chilling sense of power. Suddenly there was something servile about the man.
It took him some time to come to the point—a request that Richard sponsor a private member’s bill on behalf of a company called “Imperial Holdings Ltd.”
“Before you refuse,” said Dillon quickly, “I feel I must say that this is a perfectly straightforward legal document, a sale of land for which, because of some bureaucratic nonsense, the form of a parliamentary bill is needed. And also Southwold interests are involved. As you have benefited not inconsiderably from them in the past, I should have thought …”
Richard cut him short. “I don’t need you to tell me what I owe the Southwolds. Leave the bill with me. When I’ve considered it I’ll let you know my decision.”
The next few days were crowded ones, as Parliament prepared for the Christmas recess and he and Marjorie prepared for their first Christmas together. There had still been no contact with Southwold, and Richard was secretly delighted at the prospect of Christmas at 165. Christmas in his own home—something that he had not experienced for years. Perhaps his mother could come up from Norfolk, and they would have a few close friends for a party on Christmas Eve. Then on Christmas Day there would be himself and Marjorie and the servants—presents around the tree, carols, a quiet dinner. It was a pleasant dream, and like most of his dreams these days it was abruptly shattered, in this case by Marjorie herself.
He had been Christmas shopping—a gold bracelet for Marjorie, cuff links for Hudson, embroidered handkerchiefs for his mother—and had then gone on to the tail end of the debate in the Commons. It was the second reading of the Armed Forces Bill, a governmental attempt to deal with some of the traditional abuses in the army. Richard was more or less in favour of it, as he was with any obvious reform—and certainly the army needed it, especially with the old die-hard Duke of Cambridge still its C-in-C. But the debate was flat. As usual, Richard admired the fire and penetration of Randolph Churchill. How he could dominate the House! But once he had spoken, everyone lost interest. Richard included. No real Englishman cared about the army—the navy was what mattered. Perhaps there was even something to be said for keeping the army weak and inefficient; at least it would be no threat to English liberty.
When he got home he found a delighted Marjorie.
“Guess what’s happened?” she said, arms around his neck as he came through the door.
“Great-Aunt Flo’s died and left us a fortune.”
“No, be serious.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I’ve heard from Father, and he wants us to go down to Southwold for Christmas. Oh, Richard darling, I’m so happy. Say that we’ll go!”
Richard succeeded in not showing his deep disappointment. How could he possibly refuse when Marjorie was suddenly more thrilled than she had been for weeks?
“It will be lovely, dearest. You’ve no idea how marvellous Christmas at Southwold can be. I can’t wait to share it with you!”
So Richard’s private dream of a quiet Christmas at 165 was forgotten, and preparations went forward for the trip to Southwold. The house would be closed up for several weeks. Hudson would go up to Aberdeen to spend Hogmanay with his family, Mrs. Bridges would go down to Broadstairs to her sister, whilst Miss Roberts and two of the housemaids would accompany the Bellamys to Southwold.
The arrangements were extremely complicated, and Marjorie took charge of them with great efficiency—so much so that when Richard had his next encounter with Geoffrey Dillon he was not really in a position to say afterwards to Marjorie, “Cancel the visit! We spend Christmas here!”
He should have done, but then, the situation was not easy, and he was not the sort of man who cares to make his wife unhappy.
He had had more difficulty with the legal terminology of the Imperial Holdings Bill. Dillon had phrased it in the usual mumbo-jumbo favoured by lawyers, and Richard had shown it to the only lawyer friend he had—Dangerfield. He, in turn, asked for a few days to consider it and finally gave Richard unequivocal advice.
“Don’t touch it with a barge-pole. All very shady, I’m afraid. Dillon’s the front man for Imperial Holdings, but I’ve found out the list of shareholders. The major one is your mother-in-law, Lady Southwold, and your bill would legalise their buying up of common land in Wiltshire at rock-bottom rates.”
“You mean it’s criminal?”
“Not criminal, but very sharp. And after what you’ve written about M.P.s and their business interests, it could have an unfortunate effect on your political reputation.”
Richard thanked him. When he called at the Temple to tell Geoffrey Dillon that he would not be presenting his private member’s bill, there was an icy silence.
Finally the lawyer said. “Thank you, at least, for your frankness, Bellamy. I will make sure that your words are suitably conveyed to Lady Southwold. Perhaps I should warn you that I hardly think her ladyship is likely to be best pleased when she hears that the Member she supports in Parliament is behaving in this way. Like most generous people, Lady Southwold appreciates a little gratitude from those she helps.”
Snow transformed Southwold from a great country house into some legendary northern city. As the coach crested the hill by Bordon village, Richard and Marjorie could see its windows glittering in the distance in the setting sun. The park looked like a huge white lake and the house seemed to float above it with its walls and battlements, its roofs and towers gilded against the wintry sky.
“I’d forgotten just how beautiful it was,” said Richard.
“I hadn’t,” Marjorie replied, and when Richard saw the way her face lit up as they drove into the avenue of yews behind the courtyard and she saw old Cromwell standing on the steps, he was glad that he had let her come. Southwold was a part of her. It was pointless to try to fight the fact.
She was soon hugging the old dog, and the dog was licking her face and making mournful noises welcoming her back. Then one by one the servants all appeared—Widgery the butler, Mrs. Petifor the cook, Charnock the gamekeeper in his anchovy-red tweeds, and pretty, excited little Rose Buck, the lodge-keeper’s daughter, who was jumping up and down and shouting, “Welcome home, my lady, welcome home!”
“Marjorie, how marvellous, you’ve really come!”—and Hugo, his jacket off, had rushed out and was hugging her.
“Hugo, my dear old thing. And a very happy Christmas!” There were tears in Marjorie’s eyes. “Where’s Father?” she asked quickly.
“Still up at Newmarket, but he’s due back tonight. Mother’s not been too well, but
she’ll be down for dinner.”
“Oh!” said Marjorie, then put her arm through her brother’s and led him in towards the house. Richard heard them laughing and suddenly felt lonely.
The house seemed even grander, vaster, more elaborate than he remembered. It was also rather cold, despite the log fires that were burning in the hall and in every available fireplace in the house. His breath condensed in Southwold’s Arctic atmosphere, and the cold seemed intensified by the sheer mass of stone and marble all around—acres of black-and-white-marble floors in all directions, hillsides of blood-red marble billowing up the stairs, grey stone buttresses which bore the ceilings and the great cage-like chandeliers. The fact that it was Christmas scacely impinged on this inhuman quarry of a place.
He and Marjorie had been allocated an apartment in the Gothic wing, where the décor reminded him of parts of the Palace of Westminster. There was a lot of red and gold, a gilt four-poster hung with crimson curtains, and an elaborate brass chandelier ablaze with candles. More to the point, the rooms were warm and water was steaming in the bath. Marjorie had had the sense to pour him a man-sized tumbler-full of whisky. Soon he was feeling more attuned to Southwold and its splendours.
His only worry now was Lady Southwold. Not even Marjorie had seen her mother yet, and according to Hugo (usually the pillar of discretion), “the mater has been rather playing up of late.” As Richard struggled with his evening tie, he found his hands shaking very slightly.
“Nonsense,” he told himself. “Pull yourself together!” All the same he wondered just how much the loathsome Dillon could have told her ladyship.
“Don’t worry about Mother,” said Marjorie, cheerfully echoing his thoughts. “It’s Christmas. She’ll be delighted to see us all.”
To start with it seemed as if she were. When she swept into the anteroom (next to the silver dining room) just before dinner she seemed unusually affable and animated—a flashing smile for Richard, the offer of a cheek to kiss, and a seductive “How are you, son-in-law? A very happy Christmas to you.”
Apart from the Bellamys and Hugo, there was Aunt Emily (the legendary “Bolter,” now looking very flushed and fiftyish), Cousin Alec (Lord Lindsay Banting Browne, a chinless captain from the Grenadiers), and Mr. Prothero, the vicar. (Lady Southwold apologised for him before he came in words that were all too accurate—“rather a vulgar little man, but old and fairly harmless.”) After a jug-full of mulled claret and apologies from Lady Southwold for her husband’s non-appearance, Widgery announced dinner.
It was a nervous meal from the start. One of the footmen dropped a plate of vegetables which seemed to explode like a grenade on the marble floor. And when Cousin Alec started on an interminable anecdote about the use of elephants in the Afghanistan Campaign (in which he had fought with some distinction), Lady Southwold abruptly shut him up with an unanswerable “I disapprove of elephants on principle—always have, always will!”
By this time they were into the third course, a succulent haunch of venison superbly cooked by Mrs. Petifor and carved by Widgery. But Richard noticed, rather to his alarm, that Lady Southwold was not eating: on the other hand her glass had been frequently replenished. There were now tell-tale spots of colour on her cheeks and the glint of battle in her eyes. For a while she was silent, and as the other diners munched their venison the Reverend Mr. Prothero regaled them at length with memories of other Christmases he had enjoyed in the mission field. (“Dear Uganda and those sweltering Christmas Eves! Adorable Assam!”) Cousin Alec nodded sagely, and Richard was wondering what he could add to the desultory conversation when he felt Lady Southwold’s eye fixed, like a sighted rifle, on him.
“You’re very quiet, Bellamy,” she said.
He mumbled something about not wishing to interrupt such interesting talk.
“But you’re not always quite so silent are you, Bellamy? You’re a great one for lecturing others on their duties, aren’t you, Bellamy?”
“I have my views, your ladyship, and as an M.P. naturally expound them.”
“Expound. I like that word expound. So tell me, what do you expound on the subject of loyalty?”
Richard had fortunately drunk little and was quite clear-headed as he replied.
“One can have several loyalties, Lady Southwold. Sometimes they clash. When they do, one must rely upon one’s conscience.”
Lady Southwold nodded. There was a strained silence in that icy room. Then with a curious effort she said, “Doesn’t your conscience tell you of your duty to the family that picked you from the gutter, that pays for the food you eat, the very clothes you wear? Isn’t that where your precious loyalty should lie?”
Richard had risen, white-faced, from the table.
“Mother!” said Marjorie, aghast.
“Marjorie,” said Richard softly, in a voice that she would not forget, “please to go to your room and pack. We’re leaving instantly!”
Marjorie rose. She was in tears now. Richard took her arm and with considerable dignity led her towards the door. He bowed silently to the other guests, but no one spoke. The only sound was the nervous drumming of Lady Southwold’s great amethyst-and-diamond ring upon the table.
Richard discovered that he was relieved at Lady Southwold’s outburst. At least it cleared the air, and he would be justified in ending all relations with his wife’s hateful family. It was good to know exactly where one stood.
As for Marjorie, she was still stunned—and ashamed of her mother. She was also slightly cowed by Richard, for this was a side of her husband she had never seen before—firm and furious and cold.
“Call Roberts and get her to help you pack immediately. Also to please order us a carriage. We’ll spend the night in Bordon at the Southwold Arms, and tomorrow we’ll go back to Eaton Place.”
“But Richard, dearest, it’s Christmas Eve; 165’s closed up. We’ll have no fires, no food, no servants.”
“Blame your mother.”
Marjorie was sobbing now. “But think of the gossip, dearest. Everyone will know. Richard, you can’t do this to me.”
But Richard appeared inflexible. He knew that this was a crucial moment in his marriage, one of those points on which the entire future hinges.
“Marjorie, please ring for Roberts.”
But Marjorie, weeping quietly now, refused to move. “Dearest, we can’t go,” she said.
“Can’t, Marjorie? I’m afraid we can, and will.”
“Then if you go, you go alone. I’m as hurt as you are by what happened downstairs. I’m humiliated by my mother. And I love you, Richard. But I’m not leaving this house tonight.”
“Why not? For God’s sake why not, Marjorie?”
Marjorie looked at him with great tear-filled eyes, then almost whispered, “Because I can’t risk our baby.”
“Our what?” shouted Richard.
“Dearest, I thought you knew.”
“Knew? Knew what?”
And then it was Richard’s turn for tears as she gently told him she was four months pregnant. It was a strange switch of emotion for him—Lady Southwold suddenly forgotten in a new wave of unaccustomed happiness. He begged Marjorie’s forgiveness. She said there was nothing to forgive; and when midnight struck from the clock above the stables, the flickering of the log fire in their bedroom showed them sleeping gently in each other’s arms under the gold and crimson canopy of their enormous bed.
They awoke, late, to Christmas Day. The storm was past, the sun was shining on the snow, and Southwold once again appeared a place of magic. At breakfast Widgery told them that Lord Southwold had arrived during the night, but there was no sign of him—nor of his wife—until the whole household had assembled in the great hall at eleven-thirty before Christmas service in the Southwold chapel. It was a feudal gathering—more than two hundred souls, house servants, retainers from the estate, all with their families and all in their Sunday best—and Lord Southwold too was there, distinguished-looking, very tall and lean, almost a parody, thought Rich
ard, of the English aristocrat. After the service he wished each member of the household a happy Christmas and gave everyone a present which had been carefully prepared and labelled. Each gift was handed to him reverently by Widgery as he called out the recipient’s name.
Lady Southwold stood beside him throughout the ceremony, paler, if anything, than usual; but anybody seeing the Earl of Southwold and his wife there for the first time would have said what a splendid couple they made.
As they went in to Christmas luncheon, Lady Southwold passed by Richard.
“So you stayed, Bellamy, I see. Extremely sensible. A happy Christmas to you.”
“And to you, your ladyship.”
And this was all that passed between them.
Lord Southwold, however, was extremely affable. He was delighted to have Marjorie back with him—a delight that she shared—and throughout the whole luncheon kept the party laughing with his anecdotes about his friends, his jockeys and his horses, particularly the three year-old Myrmidon which he was hoping would prove one more Derby winner.
Later that afternoon he and Richard had some time together and for a while they talked of politics. Then Southwold said, “I gather there was just a spot of bother last night, Bellamy. Sorry about it. Try to forget it. Damnably difficult woman, as I ought to know. Don’t let it come between you and Marjorie.”
“Nothing could do that now,” said Richard.
1885
5. The Firstborn
Richard had Set his Heart on having his First Son Born in Eaton Place (with all the confidence of expectant fatherhood, he never doubted Marjorie would have a boy), and during those first weeks of the new year the idea of this son-to-be virtually ruled his life. It gave a great boost to his morale and quite offset the bitterness he felt against the Southwolds. This would be his son and bear his name. Not even Lady Southwold could alter that.
The idea also increased his love for Marjorie. She was no longer the naïve young girl he had married, always so eager to throw herself into his arms. Almost overnight she had ceased to be his “wild Marjorie,” as he had somewhat condescendingly called her after they married. She was a dignified young matron and her pregnancy was so important that he felt it was almost an act of loyalty to him against her mother. So he was grateful, and with his gatitude his love for Marjorie grew. He was more tender, more solicitous than he had ever been before, bringing her presents, worrying over her, trying to spoil her. It marked a further shift in their relations. He was no longer the dominating partner of the marriage, the omniscient man of the world Marjorie had once regarded with such awe. Nor was she the one who loved much more than she was loved.