Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  When George entered the common room he spotted Andrew slumped in a comfortable leather chair by the window, reading a newspaper. George poured himself a cup of tea and strolled across to join his friend.

  “Have you seen The Times this morning?” Andrew asked.

  “No,” said George, placing his cup and saucer on the table between them. “I usually catch up with the news after evensong.”

  “The paper’s correspondent in Delhi,” said Andrew, “is reporting that Lord Curzon has brokered a deal with the Dalai Lama to allow a select group of climbers to enter—”

  George leaned forward a little too quickly and knocked over his colleague’s tea cup. “Sorry, Andrew,” he said as he grabbed the newspaper.

  Andrew looked faintly amused by his friend’s rare lapse of good manners, but said nothing until George had handed the paper back. “The RGS is inviting interested parties to apply,” continued Andrew. “Are you by any chance, my dear Mallory, an interested party?”

  George didn’t want to answer until he’d given the question a little more thought, and was relieved when the bell alerting masters that break would end in five minutes came to his rescue.

  “Well,” said Andrew as he rose from his chair, “if you feel unable to answer that particular question, allow me to put a less demanding one to you. Are you doing anything other than reading The Times on Thursday evening?”

  “Marking the lower fifth’s essays on the Armada,” said George. “I do believe that lot finds a sadistic pleasure in rewriting history. Wainwright even appears to think that the Spanish won the battle, and Drake ended up in the Tower.”

  Andrew laughed. “It’s just that one of the school governors, a Mr. Thackeray Turner, has invited me to join him for dinner that night, and asked if I’d like to bring a friend.”

  “It’s kind of you to think of me, Andrew,” George said as they walked out of the common room and into the quad, “but I expect Mr. Turner meant a lady friend.”

  “I doubt it,” said Andrew. “At least not while he’s still got three unmarried daughters.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 12TH, 1914

  GEORGE CHALKED HIS cue. He liked Thackeray Turner the moment he met him: blunt, open, and straightforward, if somewhat old-fashioned, and forever testing your mettle.

  Andrew had told George on the journey to Turner’s home that he was an architect by profession. When George was driven through a fine pair of wrought-iron gates and down a long avenue of lime trees to see Westbrook for the first time, nestling in the Surrey hills, surrounded by the most magnificent flower beds, lawns, and a sunken water garden, he didn’t need to be told why Turner had made such a success of his career.

  Before they had reached the top step, a butler had opened the front door for them. He guided them silently down a long corridor, where they found Turner waiting in the billiard room. As his dinner jacket was hanging over the back of a nearby chair, George assumed that he was prepared for battle.

  “Time for a game before the ladies come down for dinner,” were Turner’s first words to his guests. George admired a full-length portrait of his host by Lavery above the fireplace, and other nineteenth-century watercolors that adorned the walls—including one by his host’s namesake—before he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

  Once the three balls had been placed in position on the green baize, George was quickly introduced to another side of his host’s character. Mr. Turner liked winning, and even expected to win. What he hadn’t anticipated was that George didn’t like losing. George wasn’t sure if Andrew was simply happy to humor the old man, or just wasn’t that good a player. Either way, George wasn’t quite so willing to fall in with his host’s expectations.

  “Your turn, old fellow,” said Turner, after he had posted a break of eleven.

  George took some time considering his shot, and when he handed his cue to Andrew he’d amassed a break of fourteen. It soon became clear that Turner had met his match, so he decided to try a different tactic.

  “O’Sullivan tells me that you’re a bit of a radical, Mallory.”

  George smiled. He wasn’t going to let Turner get the better of him, on or off the table. “If you are alluding to my support for universal suffrage, you would be correct, sir.”

  Andrew frowned. “Only three points,” he said before adding that sum to his meager total.

  Turner returned to the table, and didn’t speak again until he had posted another twelve to his name, but just as George bent down to line up his next shot, Turner asked, “So you would give women the vote?”

  George stood back up and chalked his cue. “I most certainly would, sir,” he replied before lining up the balls once again.

  “But they haven’t been sufficiently educated to take on such a responsibility,” said Turner. “And in any case, how can one ever expect a woman to make a rational judgment?”

  George bent over the table again, and this time he had scored another twenty-one points before he handed over his cue to Andrew, who failed to score.

  “There’s a simple way to remedy that,” said George.

  “And what might that be?” asked Turner as he surveyed the table and considered his options.

  “Allow women to be properly educated in the first place, so that they can go to university and study for the same degrees as men.”

  “Presumably this would not apply to Oxford and Cambridge?”

  “On the contrary,” said George. “Oxford and Cambridge must lead the way, because then the rest will surely follow.”

  “Women with degrees,” snorted Turner. “It’s unthinkable.” He bent down to take his next shot, but miscued, and the white ball careered into the nearest pocket. George had to make a supreme effort not to burst out laughing. “Let me be sure I understand exactly what you are proposing, Mallory,” said Turner as he handed the cue to his guest. “You are of the opinion that clever women, the ones with degrees from Oxford and Cambridge, should be given the vote?”

  “No, sir, that is not what I was proposing,” said George. “I believe that the same rule should apply to women as it does to men. The stupid ones should get a vote as well.”

  A smile appeared on Turner’s lips for the first time since the game had begun. “I can’t see Parliament agreeing to that. After all, turkeys don’t usually vote for Christmas.”

  “Until one of the turkeys works out that it might just win them the next election,” George suggested as he successfully executed a cannon and pocketed the red. He stood up and smiled. “My game, I believe, sir.”

  Turner nodded reluctantly. As he was putting his jacket on, there was a gentle tap on the door. The butler entered. “Dinner is served, sir.”

  “Thank you, Atkins,” said their host. Once he’d left the room, Turner whispered, “I’d wager a year’s income that Atkins wouldn’t give women the vote.”

  “And I’d wager a year’s income that you’ve never asked him,” said George, regretting his words the moment he uttered them. Andrew looked embarrassed, but said nothing.

  “I do apologize, sir,” said George. “That remark was unforgivable, and—”

  “Not at all, dear boy,” said Turner. “I fear that since my wife died I have become something of—what’s the modern expression?—an old fuddy-duddy. Perhaps we should join the ladies for dinner. As they crossed the hall he added, “Well played Mallory. I look forward to a return match, when no doubt you’ll enlighten us with your views on workers’ rights.”

  The butler held open the door to allow Turner and his guests to enter the dining room. A large oak table that looked more Elizabethan than Victorian dominated the center of the oak-paneled room. Six places had been laid, with the finest cutlery, linen, and china.

  As George walked in, he caught his breath, which he rarely did even when he stood on the top of a mountain. Although all three of Mr. Turner’s daughters, Marjorie, Ruth, and Mildred, were waiting to be introduced, George’s gaze remained fixed on R
uth, causing her to blush and look away.

  “Don’t just stand there, Mallory,” said Turner, noticing that George was still hovering in the doorway. “They won’t bite you. In fact, you’re far more likely to find them in sympathy with your views than mine.”

  George stepped forward and shook hands with the three young women, and tried not to show his disappointment when his host placed him between Marjorie and Mildred. Two maids served the first course, a plate of cold salmon and dill, while the butler poured half a glass of Sancerre for Turner to taste. George ignored the most appetizing dish he’d seen in weeks as he tried to steal the occasional glance at Ruth, who was seated at the other end of the table. She seemed quite unaware of her own beauty. Botticellian, he whispered to himself as he contemplated her fair skin, china blue eyes, and luxuriant reddish brown hair. Botticellian, he repeated, as he picked up his knife and fork.

  “Is it true, Mr. Mallory,” asked Marjorie, the eldest of the three sisters, interrupting his thoughts, “that you have met Mr. George Bernard Shaw?”

  “Yes, Miss Turner, I had the honor of dining with the great man after he addressed the Fabian Society at Cambridge.”

  “Great man be damned,” said Turner. “He’s just another socialist who delights in telling us all how we should conduct our lives. The fellow isn’t even an Englishman.”

  Marjorie smiled benignly at her father. “The theater critic of The Times,” she continued, still addressing George, “felt that Pygmalion was both witty and thought-provoking.”

  “He’s probably a socialist as well,” said Turner between mouthfuls.

  “Have you seen the play, Miss Turner?” asked George, turning to Ruth.

  “No, Mr. Mallory, I haven’t,” Ruth replied. “The last theater production we attended was Charley’s Aunt in the village hall, and that was only after the vicar had banned a reading of The Importance of Being Earnest.”

  “Written by another Irishman,” said Turner, “whose name should not be mentioned in respectable society. Don’t you agree with me, Mallory?” he asked as the first course was removed. George’s untouched salmon looked as if it was still capable of swimming.

  “If respectable society is unable to discuss the two most gifted playwrights of their generation, then yes, sir, I agree with you.”

  Mildred, who had not spoken until that moment, leaned across and whispered, “I do so agree with you, Mr. Mallory.”

  “What about you, O’Sullivan?” asked Turner. “Are you of the same opinion as Mallory?”

  “I rarely agree with anything George says,” replied Andrew, “which is why we remain on such good terms.” Everyone burst out laughing as the butler placed a baron of beef on the sideboard and, having presented it to his master for approval, began to carve.

  George took advantage of the distraction to glance once again toward the other end of the table, only to find that Ruth was smiling at Andrew.

  “I must confess,” Andrew said, “that I have never attended a play by either gentleman.”

  “I can assure you, O’Sullivan,” said Turner after sampling a glass of red wine, “that neither of them is a gentleman.”

  George was about to respond when Mildred jumped in, “Ignore him, Mr. Mallory. It’s the one thing our father can’t abide.”

  George smiled, and indulged himself in a more genteel conversation with Marjorie about basket weaving until the plates had been cleared away, although he did steal a glance toward the other end of the table from time to time. Ruth didn’t appear to notice.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Turner as he folded his napkin, “let us hope that you’ve learned one lesson from this evening.”

  “And what might that be, sir?” asked Andrew.

  “To make sure that you don’t end up with three daughters. Not least because Mallory won’t rest until they’ve all gone to university and been awarded degrees.”

  “A capital suggestion, Mr. Mallory,” said Mildred. “Had I been given the opportunity to follow my father’s example and become an architect, I would have happily done so.”

  For the first time that evening, Mr. Turner was struck dumb. It was some time before he recovered sufficiently to suggest, “Perhaps we should all go through to the drawing room for coffee?”

  This time it was the girls who were unable to hide their surprise at Papa’s break with his traditional routine. Usually he enjoyed a brandy and cigar with his male guests before he even considered joining the ladies.

  “A memorable victory, Mr. Mallory,” whispered Marjorie as George held back her chair. George waited until all three sisters had left the dining room before he made his move. He was pleased to see that Andrew was deep in conversation with the old man.

  Once Ruth had taken her place on the sofa in the drawing room, George casually strolled across and sat down beside her. Ruth said nothing, and appeared to be looking across at Andrew, who had joined Marjorie on the chaise-longue. Having achieved his objective, George was suddenly lost for words. It was some time before Ruth came to his rescue.

  “Did you defeat my father at billiards, by any chance, Mr. Mallory?” she eventually offered.

  “Yes, I did, Miss Turner,” said George as Atkins placed a cup of coffee by her side.

  “That would explain why he was so argumentative during dinner.” She took a sip of her coffee before adding, “Should he invite you again, Mr. Mallory, perhaps it might be more diplomatic to let him win.”

  “I’m afraid I could never agree to that, Miss Turner.”

  “But why not, Mr. Mallory?”

  “Because it would reveal a weakness in my character that she might find out about.”

  “She?” repeated Ruth, genuinely puzzled.

  “Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.”

  “But my father told me that it was Everest that you were hoping to conquer.”

  “‘Everest’ is the name the English have labeled her with, but it’s not the one she answers to.”

  “Your coffee will be getting cold, Mr. Mallory,” said Ruth as she glanced across the room.

  “Thank you, Miss Turner,” he said, taking a sip.

  “And are you hoping to become better acquainted with this goddess?” she inquired.

  “In time, perhaps, Miss Turner. But not before one or two other ladies have fallen under my spell.”

  She looked at him more quizzically. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Madame Matterhorn,” he replied. “It’s my intention to leave a calling card during the Easter vacation.” He took another sip of his cold coffee before asking, “And where will you be spending Easter, Miss Turner?”

  “Father is taking us to Venice in April. A city that I suspect would not meet with your approval, Mr. Mallory, as it languishes only a few feet above sea level.”

  “It’s not only elevation that matters, Miss Turner. ‘Underneath day’s azure eyes, ocean’s nursling, Venice lies, a peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite’s destined halls.’”

  “So you admire Shelley,” said Ruth as she placed her empty cup back on a side table.

  George was about to reply when the clock on the mantelpiece struck once to indicate that it was half past the hour. Andrew rose from his place and, turning to his host, said, “It’s been a delightful evening, sir, but perhaps the time has come for us to take our leave.”

  George glanced at his watch: 10:30. The last thing he wanted to do was take his leave, but Turner was already on his feet, and Marjorie was heading toward him. She gave him a warm smile. “I do hope that you’ll come and see us again soon, Mr. Mallory.”

  “I hope so too,” said George, while still looking in Ruth’s direction.

  Mr. Turner smiled. He might not have defeated Mallory, but one of his daughters certainly had the measure of him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13TH, 1914

  GEORGE DIDN’T WANT Andrew to discover what he was up to.

  He couldn’t get Ruth out of his mind. He had never come
across such serene beauty, such delightful company, and all he had managed to do, when left alone with her, was stare into those blue eyes and make a complete fool of himself. And the more she smiled at Andrew, the more desperate he had become, quite unable to come up with a witty comment, or even to manage polite conversation.

  How much he had wanted to hold her hand, but Mildred had kept distracting him, allowing Andrew to retain Ruth’s attention. Did she have any interest in him at all or had Andrew already spoken to her father? During dinner he had watched the two of them deep in conversation. He had to find out what they had talked about. He had never felt so pathetic in his life.

  George had observed smitten men in the past, and had simply dismissed them as deluded fools. But now he had joined their number and, even worse, his goddess appeared to favor another creature. Andrew isn’t worthy of her, George said out loud before he fell asleep. But then he realized that neither was he.

  When he woke the following morning—if he had ever slept—he tried to dismiss her from his thoughts and prepare for the day’s lessons. He dreaded the thought of forty minutes with the lower fifth, having to listen to their opinions of Walter Raleigh and the significance of his importing tobacco from Virginia. If only Guy wasn’t serving as a diplomat on the other side of the world, he could ask his advice about what to do next.

  To George, the first lesson that morning felt like the longest forty minutes in history. Wainwright almost made him lose his temper, and for the first time Carter minor got the better of him, but then thankfully the bell tolled. But for whom, he wondered? Not that any of them would have heard of Donne—except perhaps Robert Graves.

  As George made his way slowly across the quad to the common room, he rehearsed the lines he’d gone over again and again during the night. He must stick to the script until every one of his questions had been answered, otherwise Andrew would work out what he was up to, and mock him. A hundred years ago George would have challenged him to a duel. Then he remembered which one of them had a boxing blue.