It was, Tess felt, a much more subtle line than the one used by a television producer at a first-night party when he had explained how successful his vasectomy had been. And it was, at last, something that could be recognised as a line. For the previous half-hour she had felt as safe as if she had been with her own brother, which was not what she had been anticipating. She was puzzled and mildly disappointed; it would have been interesting to see how one of the most eligible bachelors on the matrimonial hit lists of several titled families operated. Now, perhaps…but Dunford had turned away from her, almost as if he was uncomfortable about the implications of his remark.
‘We ought to be getting back,’ he said. ‘I’ve monopolised you much too long.’
As they returned through the silent and darkened church-yard, the faint clamour of the party growing louder as they approached the gate in the garden wall, Tess could make no sense of their private excursion. Dunford had blatantly flirted with her while they danced and had deliberately taken her to where they would be alone together in a setting with at least a touch of Gothic romance. He had been attentive, amusing and flattering and then—she smiled to herself as the parallel struck her—he really had just shown her his etchings. Now he seemed strangely quiet as if his mind was occupied with something. Just outside the gate he stopped by an unremarkable gravestone, obviously old and neglected, tilting like an ever-falling domino. ‘This is the other member of the family.’
Tess glanced at him sharply. In the church he had joked about his ancestors; now he sounded immensely sad. The tombstone was half in shadow and she had to crouch down to read the worn lettering: Susannah Hawkhurst, 1835-1858. No quotation, no indication of affection, no grief of loss, just the baldest record of a name and twenty-three years of a woman’s life.
‘Why isn’t she in the family vault?’ she asked as she straightened up.
‘Susannah was the youngest daughter of William, the eighth Earl,’ Dunford replied softly. ‘In Capley they borrowed the nickname of the Duke of Cumberland and called him Stinking Billy. It had been arranged that she should marry the second son of the Duke of Fennimore. There may have been a nastier man in Victorian England but I doubt it. She was in love with a captain in the eleventh Hussars. She had spirit and pleaded with her father but it was no use. She and the officer ran away together but were captured as they were boarding the Dover ferry just before it left for Calais. He was cashiered and she was brought back to Edenbridge House and confined to her room until the wedding. It sounds like a Victorian melodrama now, but such things really did happen.’
Tess stiffened as an angry bitterness entered Dunford’s voice.
‘The night before the ceremony, they heard her screaming in her room for hours,’ he continued, and it was as though the tragedy had just happened. ‘Then she stopped. In the morning they found she had torn her wedding dress into strips and woven them into a rope and hanged herself. Only her mother’s pleading allowed her to be buried in consecrated ground. Her father refused absolutely to place her in the chapel, although given the influence of the Pemburys that could probably have been arranged. For Christ’s sake, they were prepared to arrange everything else in her life for her.’
Dunford turned to look at Tess and the moonlight caught the anger and sorrow staining his face.
‘Her mother kept the note she left and it’s still in the archives. All it said was, “I cannot do my duty”.’ He sighed as Tess looked at him with a questioning frown. ‘No, you don’t understand. Very few people do. When you’re born into a family like mine, duty is the iron they put in your soul. There’s a terrible fear that our citadels will crumble if one of us doesn’t obey. That’s what killed Susannah.’
Tess had to stop herself from mocking him, reminding him that it was now the late twentieth century and women had the vote. Dunford was rational and intelligent—and now tormented by something she could not understand.
‘That was more than a hundred years ago,’ she gently reminded him.
He smiled without humour. ‘They have a saying in Old Capley that when you walk through the gates of Edenbridge Park you should put your watch back two hundred years. It doesn’t matter how up to date we are in some ways—running the estate with computers, making videos to show to potential tourists in America—certain things simply never change. The first thing I can remember being told as a child was that one day I would be Lord Pembury. Ever since, it’s been constantly hammered into me that I have no choice about it.’
‘Yes you have,’ objected Tess. ‘You could refuse the title. Others have.’
‘It’s happened with a few minor titles,’ Dunford acknowledged. ‘But not in one of the really ancient families like mine. The only thing that it’s like is being brought up as a devout Catholic. You can reject it as much as you want…but on your deathbed you beg for a priest. When my father dies, I must take the title and pass it on to my own son.’
‘And some people would envy you,’ said Tess. ‘A beautiful home, money, a privileged lifestyle. There are worse fates.’
‘Yes, I expect there are. But those who envy me don’t have to pay the price—and there always is a price. It’s called duty and it comes before everything else.’ Dunford gestured towards the grave. ‘It killed Susannah.’
A burst of sound suddenly surged over the wall as the party guests raucously joined in the chorus of the most inane pop song. Whooping, half-drunken voices were mixed with the screech of party whistles and the explosion of balloons. In another world of St Barbara’s silent, grey churchyard, Tess sympathetically leaned forward and kissed Dunford’s cheek. She could feel the anguish surrounding him, even though she was unable to comprehend it. But what confused her most was why he had decided to reveal something so private and painful of himself to her; she was convinced that had not been his intention when he had taken her out to the church.
5
With her hair wound in two tight coils against her ears, Joanna York looked slightly old-fashioned, like a telephone operator left over from an old black and white film, but was at least becoming increasingly animated. Maltravers, who had found her standing on her own in one of the quieter rooms of the house, had persevered after several false starts to their conversation—she had seemed almost petrified when he had first approached her—then had chanced to ask her something about the history of Old Capley and a completely different woman had emerged. She was well-informed and as she talked, prompted by only occasional remarks from him, her confidence grew. For nearly twenty minutes he found her entertaining, even witty company, making shrewd and faintly caustic observations on various past worthies of the parish and holders of the Pembury title. Suddenly she abruptly stopped as if embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised hesitantly. ‘I’m…I talk too much sometimes.’
Maltravers sensed that a lot of barriers had dropped sharply back into place and had spotted her apprehensive glance behind him just before she stopped speaking. He glanced round and saw that her husband had entered the room.
‘Excuse me,’ she said and was gone. Maltravers watched her walk straight over to York as if his very appearance had been an unspoken summons and raised his eyebrows disparagingly. He found such submissive behaviour unhealthy, particularly in a woman who clearly had a personality of her own, however stultified it may have become.
The party had changed into its after-midnight gear; about half the guests had left and the ones that remained were slowing down. Maltravers strolled out to the door leading into the garden as Tess and Dunford walked back towards the house.
‘We were just about to send search parties,’ he remarked.
‘Sorry. I’ve been showing Tess the family vault,’ said Dunford. ‘I couldn’t see you around anywhere or you could have come with us. I hope you don’t mind.’
Tess’s eyes flickered warningly, cutting off any comment Maltravers might have made.
‘Not in the least,’ he replied equably. ‘However, Luke’s been wondering where you’d got to.
He was upstairs in the study when I last saw him. Said he wanted to talk to you about something.’
Dunford looked uneasy. ‘I expect I’d better go and see what he wants…You’re not leaving yet, are you?’
‘Not for a while. It’s a very good party…and I want to dance with Tess.’
‘I’ll see you shortly then.’ As Dunford walked past them towards the hall, Maltravers looked at Tess closely as she watched him go.
‘Another drink?’ he suggested mildly. ‘There still appear to be copious gallons left.’
She nodded absently. ‘Yes, please…That was all very strange.’ She turned and smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t realise how long we’d been gone. You weren’t worried, were you?’
‘In the circumstances, there was hardly anything for me to worry about, was there?’ Maltravers raised his eyebrows, blandly interrogative.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Maltravers looked surprised that she did not understand him. ‘Don’t be obtuse, darling. You were perfectly safe with Simon. Surely you knew that?’
It still took her several seconds to realise what he meant then she closed her eyes and tapped her fingers against her forehead as though trying to send a message through to her brain.
‘Of course!’ She shook her head, reprimanding herself for her lack of perception. ‘You stupid cow! When did you know?’
‘It crossed my mind when they arrived together,’ said Maltravers. ‘When I spoke to Luke a short while ago I was certain.’
‘Then…’ Tess frowned as she reassessed what had happened in the church. ‘Then what was all that about? I thought he was going to make a pass at me and at one moment he almost did. What was he playing at?’
‘I don’t know, but if you want an educated guess, I think it may be crunch time for Simon,’ said Maltravers. ‘Whatever his personal inclinations are in matters sexual, he’s going to have to change his ways fairly soon. The time is rapidly approaching when he’s going to have to marry and produce an heir. He doesn’t really—’
‘—have any choice,’ Tess interrupted, finally understanding a great many things. ‘And that’s what he meant about Susannah. I cannot do my duty.’
‘Susannah? Who’s she?’ Maltravers looked mystified.
‘Get me that drink and I’ll tell you all about it. Our little trip to the family vault suddenly becomes very interesting indeed.’
*
Having failed to make any progress in his conversation with York, Oliver Hawkhurst had indulged in his customary habit of seeing what sexual action might be available at the party. A woman whose husband had walked out on her after ten years of marriage was offering distinct possibilities. She was overeagerly interested in any man who paid her any attention and was not greatly particular over who she found to occupy the empty desert of her double bed. Hawkhurst was finding it almost embarrassing for matters to be so easy as Dunford walked past them in the hall and went upstairs.
‘Actually I never stopped taking the Pill,’ the woman remarked casually, looking at Hawkhurst archly. ‘After all…well, you never know, do you?’
‘No, you don’t.’
After that it was only a matter of establishing which front door in Bellringer Street would be on the latch when he discreetly left a short while after she did. His wife and three children were as irrelevant to her as they were to him. Only their motives differed: in her case, a matter of eating when you happen to be hungry, in his the common practice among certain husbands who buttress flimsy egos by deluding themselves that women—preferably younger women—sleep with them because they are irresistible. The woman gave him a lascivious look of promise as she went out of the front door. He was the third prospect she had tried that evening and his smug self-satisfaction would have been fatally undermined had he known that she regarded him as only a marginally better alternative than another night spent alone with Edna O’Brien and a very large gin.
*
Dunford hesitated outside the closed door of the study, trying to wade through the emotions that were washing about him. The interlude with Tess in the church had compounded his confusion and the inevitable image of Susan Penrose that came into his mind only made the whole thing a bigger and more tormenting mess. Luke’s refusal to accept the situation by simply turning up at Edenbridge House again had thrown him off balance just as he had thought he was beginning to sort himself out. There were too many pressures, too many complications and Dunford was rocking helplessly between what he wanted to do and what he knew he would be forced to do.
As he pushed the door open, Norman was sitting at Trevor Darby’s desk holding one of a pair of cricket balls, commemorating some distant and forgotten victories, that rested on small plinths in front of him. He glanced up cynically as Dunford entered then returned his attention to the battered blood-red sphere in his hands.
‘And was the lovely Miss Davy satisfactory?’ he asked. ‘You always did swing both ways, didn’t you darling?’
Dunford closed the door behind him. ‘Nothing has happened with Miss Davy.’
Norman tossed the ball a few inches into the air and caught it again.
‘Wouldn’t she play? Or couldn’t she turn you on?’
‘If you’re just going to be crude, Luke, there’s no point in talking to you. If you think I owe you an apology, then I’m sorry that I used Tess to try and make a point to you. You’re going to have to accept that it’s got to finish between us. I’ve told you enough times that I don’t have any choice about getting married.’
Norman looked at him bitterly for a moment then stood up and crossed the space between them.
‘Which is exactly what you told Harry, isn’t it?’ he demanded. Dunford looked away uncomfortably. ‘Oh yes, he told me all about that. He said he believed you until you turned up with me three weeks later. And how long did it last with him? Two years? It’s our second anniversary next month.’
He was standing so close that Dunford could smell the whisky on his breath as he moved past him and went over to the window.
‘All right, it was just an excuse for Harry, but it’s the truth for you.’ He spoke with his back to Norman. ‘My father has tolerated my behaviour up to now but he has made it quite clear that it’s got to stop. If I were to die without producing an heir everything would go to Oliver—and that happens to matter a lot.’
He turned to face Norman, urgently pleading.
‘For Christ’s sake, Luke, can’t you see the position I’m in? I don’t have complete freedom about what I do with my life. I’ve even been told who I’m expected to marry. There are only three choices and two of them I can’t stand. It would be exactly the same if I’d spent the last ten years screwing every woman I could find. At the end of it I’d have to ditch them for a wife.’
‘Balls, Simon,’ snapped Norman. ‘Your father was over forty before he married, you’re just using this as an excuse. You could play the gay scene for years and that’s exactly what you’re going to do. I know all about that Guards officer while I was away in Hanover. Is he the one you’ve got lined up to take my place?’
‘Listen!’ Dunford was suddenly angry with exasperation. ‘I’ve spent the last year trying to come to terms with this. As you so charmingly put it, I swing both ways and I happen to find both satisfactory—it hasn’t just been men in the past year. I’ve sorted out what I want, now get off my back!’
‘What you want?’ Norman shouted. ‘You bloody, titled bastard! Do you think this is still the Middle Ages when the Lord of the Manor can have it off with any peasant he fancies? How many of us are there? Ten? Twenty?’
As Norman screamed at Dunford, there were suddenly three men in the house who wanted to kill him, one for greed, one for vengeance and one for love.
*
Half-lit by the flickering disco lights coming through the open French doors, Maltravers and Tess sat on the low wall by the steps of the terrace in the warm darkness. The figures in the room were silhouettes, the
arabesques of their lazy movements picked up in a slow kaleidoscope of shadows appearing and vanishing on the walls. Peggy Lee sang the sentimental story of the folk who lived on the hill. The party was fading away like a glowing fire.
‘So what do you think?’ Maltravers asked when Tess had finished recounting her confusing visit to St Barbara’s and the tombs of the Pemburys with Dunford.
‘That he is very unhappy, that he’s probably still in love with Luke Norman but knows it’s hopeless. The way that Luke looked at me when Simon and I went out of the house together means he’s angry about it. And…’ Tess screwed up her lips as if trying to unravel something. ‘And I can only assume that Simon started out meaning to make a pass at me to…I don’t know. Prove something to himself?’
‘That’s possible. But you say he didn’t.’
‘No…but I’m sure he wanted to. There was something in his face in the chapel when he looked at me, as though…’ She shook her head in her own confusion.
‘As though his life would be so much easier if he wasn’t Lord Dunford—and all that means—and wasn’t gay,’ said Maltravers. ‘It’s perfectly obvious why he identifies with the unhappy Susannah.’
Tess glanced at Maltravers inquiringly. ‘Why does he have to get married? For God’s sake, Edenbridge House will survive if he doesn’t. It’s been there long enough.’
‘That’s not the point,’ he replied. ‘Edenbridge represents something, it’s part of a dynastic process. We are dealing with the ancient aristocracy who do not operate by our standards. Lord Pembury cannot understand my sense of values any more than I can understand his. I can’t imagine what it’s really like to have the responsibility of owning Edenbridge House or how important it would be that my son should inherit it. But I can imagine that it might matter a great deal.’
‘But if Simon doesn’t have children for any reason, it will still stay in the family. Didn’t you say his cousin is next in line?’
The Casebook of Augustus Maltravers Page 26