by John Masters
‘You had perhaps better allow a bit more time than that,’ Mr Merritt said diplomatically. After a silence, he said, ‘Would you care to dance, Mrs Rowland? This is a nice slow one, at least.’
Rose considered. Why not? She must not give up living just because of a little pain, a few bruises. She rose, holding up her hand.
‘Why haven’t you been dancing?’ Richard Rowland asked his niece, sedately two-stepping round and round the floor in his arms, ‘I know that you have been introduced to several young men.’
Naomi said, ‘Oh, Uncle, I’ve told you. I can’t stand them! They’re all so stuck up, so … insulting! They think that all women ought to be silly little flibbertigibbets, with rosebud mouths and turned-up noses and big round eyes.’
‘That’s an exaggeration,’ Richard said. ‘And anyway, Cantley asked you. He’s over thirty, and he’s an important banker. Good heavens, girl, he’s off to Baghdad soon, he told me, to negotiate some huge loan to an oil company – and you think he’s stuck up?’
‘Are you trying to marry me off, Uncle?’ Naomi said, laughing at him. He was nice, she thought; and, like her parents, he worried so much. She said, ‘Mummy said it was all Fred Stratton’s fault that she and Daddy couldn’t come to Henley this year. He wanted these days off, and one of the cowmen is ill, so they had to stay.’
He said, ‘I haven’t been down to High Staining for a while, but Fred seemed happy when I last saw him.’
‘He’s not now. And Mummy’s come to hate him. Rachel says it’s because he won’t bow and scrape and touch his cap every moment.’
Richard said nothing. Rachel Cowan was too clever for her own good, he thought. Not a lady, of course … God knew where she’d come from, what her background was, and his sister-in-law’s attempts to find out had met thin air. They only knew that she was Naomi’s friend from Girton, where she was on a full scholarship; that her father was in business in London; and that they lived in Stepney. Richard didn’t think that anyone in the family had ever before met anyone from Stepney.
The dance ended, his wife Susan joined them, and with one woman on each arm he headed for the supper room. The long tables, loaded with cold salmon, lobster, chicken, salads, trifle and great silver bowls of white wine cup, were surrounded by men heaping food on to plates. Most of the women stood aside in twos and threes, talking animatedly, or singly, waiting for their partners to serve them, but a few younger girls were at the tables helping themselves.
‘I’ll get my own food, Uncle,’ Naomi said firmly, before he could open his mouth. She disengaged her hand from his arm and pushed between two tall young men.
Richard found Guy at his side. ‘Naomi doesn’t like anyone to think she’s a poor helpless female, does she, Uncle Richard?’ Guy said.
Richard smiled. ‘No. Well, she’s as healthy as any man here, and stronger than some, so I suppose it’s all right.’ They moved towards a table.
Guy said, ‘What’s going to happen to Probyn Gorse, Uncle?’
Richard said, ‘I don’t know him very well, but your Uncle John and Uncle Christopher both say the trouble is that he’s obstinate. He thinks he has a right to take a certain amount of game, wherever he can find it. But Lord Swanwick thinks he hasn’t. And he’s just as obstinate … and a lot more powerful.’
A voice behind his other shoulder said cheerfully, ‘Are you implying that my noble father is conducting some sort of vendetta against Probyn Gorse?’ Richard turned, to meet the smiling face of the Honourable Arthur Durand-Beaulieu, second son of the Earl of Swanwick.
He said, ‘Hello, Arthur. How’s Dorothy?’
‘Fine. She’s here somewhere … Hello, Guy, I see you took seven for twenty-eight against Winchester last week.’
‘And sprained my wrist catching one in the slips – fell on it,’ Guy said. ‘What about Probyn, sir?’
‘Your uncles are quite right. Pater hates Probyn with a consuming hatred. Foams at the mouth when his name is mentioned. He’d give Walstone Park to anyone who would guarantee putting Probyn in gaol for life.’
They reached a table and began to help themselves. Arthur continued, ‘I’ve tried to tell Pater that Probyn’s family have lived on the land in Walstone several centuries longer than ours – longer even than the Cates – and we ought to give a little, share some things with him, not as a favour but as a right… but he won’t see it that way. What’s Probyn been up to this time?’
‘Poaching again,’ Guy said. ‘A couple of pheasants, last month, out of season, of course. It was at nignt, and he had a stick, which the keepers are going to say was a weapon.’
‘When’s the trial?’
‘I believe it’s on the 14th.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘I’d like to go down and help, but I can’t. I’m off to Italy on Monday.’
They had all loaded their plates and sat now on scattered chairs in the lounge, eating gingerly, the plates balanced on their knees. Susan said, ‘Dare we ask what your mission is?’
Arthur said, ‘It’s no secret. The Times gave details last Thursday. A strong Foreign Office team is going down to try to pry Italy out of its Triple Alliance, with Germany and Austria.’
Richard said, ‘What are you going to offer the Italians?’
‘Ah, now that is rather private … You’ll be playing for Kent when you come home for the holidays, I hear, Guy.’
‘They’ve asked me to try out, yes.’
‘Good luck … I’d better find Dorothy, and there’s my brother, dying to tell me more than I care to know about some wild Spanish painter called Picasso.’ He went off, smiling, balancing the half-empty plate.
Richard said, ‘A great family,’ adding in a lower tone, ‘ – except for the Earl, I’m afraid.’
Naomi joined them, Rachel Cowan at her side. ‘Where’s that American?’
‘Johnny Merritt?’ Guy answered. ‘I don’t know.’
‘With Stella, I’ll bet,’ Naomi said.
Rachel said, ‘Can he be in love, so soon, only meeting her this afternoon?’
Naomi laughed. ‘Well, Stella’s always in love, so why not? As soon as this one sails for America – or even leaves the ballroom – she’ll be in love with someone else.’
‘That’s not a very nice way to speak about your cousin,’ Richard said reproachfully.
‘I don’t mean it badly, Uncle. That’s just the way Stella is. She can’t help it.’
‘We can all help ourselves,’ Richard said firmly. As he spoke, he wondered whether he really believed his own words, or whether he was speaking for the instruction of the young – who were not listening.
Stella Cate walked slowly along the edge of the Phyllis Court lawn, below the wall that marked the upstream corner. Across the river at the Regatta Fair, a steam organ blared out Alexander’s Ragtime Band, the merry-go-round swooped and rose, girls screamed with laughter, barkers cried, rifle shots cracked out from the shooting booths. Here the moon-bright Thames flowed soundlessly on her right, Johnny Merritt walked at her other side, his shoes silent on the grass. She felt that another river was flowing inside her, carrying her towards the lip of a fall. She had been to that fall before in her mind, and swooped over, falling dissolving, an imagined, impalpable presence upon her like a weight, her secret body longing, opening like a bud. She had seen the bull with the cow, the dog with the bitch, and once a farm boy with a girl, her outflung legs white, he thrusting, hawthorn’s white blossom raining on her closed eyelids, upturned, ecstatic mouth gaping. Was it possible that other girls, well brought up girls, ladies, felt as she did? Or was she alone in her helplessness, and longing, and wickedness? Could she ask her mother? She shuddered involuntarily.
Johnny cleared his throat and she looked at him, the moonlight bright on his starched white shirt, white waistcoat, white tie. He said, ‘I … Stella …’ His voice was hoarse.
‘Yes?’
He cleared his throat again, looked away, and after a while said in a different tone, ‘I keep being introduce
d to lords and honourables … Honourable Arthur something, Lord Cantley or Bantley … and someone said they’re sons of another lord. ‘Can you explain, so I don’t make a fool of myself?’
Stella was relieved that he had so obviously changed the subject. If he had said something tender – moved to kiss her, taken her in his arms under the giant trees, she knew she would have responded.
She thought about lords. Everyone knew which was which, and why, but explaining it was harder. She said slowly, ‘There are lots of different kinds of lords. We have one in Walstone called the Earl of Swannick, or Lord Swannick – that’s spelled s-w-a-n-w-i-c-k. He’s a member of the House of Lords. But before they were made earls, ages ago, they were only Viscounts – Viscount Cantley – and since then, the earl’s eldest son always uses that title, by courtesy, and is called Viscount – or Lord – Cantley. But he can’t sit in the House of Lords until his father dies and he becomes the earl. Younger sons of earls are Honourable, but all the daughters are Lady, with their christian name, and the family name. The Swanwicks’ family name is Durand-Beaulieu, so the earl’s second son is called the Honourable Arthur Durand-Beaulieu, and his daughters are Lady Barbara and Lady Helen Durand-Beaulieu. None of them can sit in the House of Lords.’
Johnny laughed. ‘And what happens when one of them marries? Does her husband become Lord Barbara?’
‘Of course not! When Lady Barbara marries, she’ll change her surname, but keep her title – which her husband won’t share. They’ll be Mr John and Lady Barbara Smith, or whatever.’
Johnny said, ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’ll be of much concern to me in another week.’
They turned and walked back, again silent. Stella felt the constriction, the tension again growing between them, blocking out the raucous blare of the Fair. He wanted to say something to her, as a woman.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, his voice again hoarse. His gloved hand crept out to touch hers. She felt his grip tighten, then relax. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.’
From Phyllis Court’s five french windows, light poured out across the green lawns that swept down to the river. Half a hundred men and women strolled on that brilliant grass, their voices, the clink of their glasses, the sparkle of their laughter floating down to Johnny and Stella in the velvet night.
She said, ‘It’s nice,’ her voice strangled.
She prayed he would not try to kiss her. If he did, she’d scream … faint … fall back on the grass, spread-eagled. And there was another couple close behind them, the man smoking a cigar. After two endless minutes Johnny said, ‘I guess we ought to be going back. Your mother will be worrying about you.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said, waiting a moment before turning, hoping, deep, that he would not turn, but take her on into the dark. The other couple had already turned, and were now fifty feet away. In a moment her legs would give way and …
He said, ‘What do you think about the assassination of the Archduke?’ His voice was unsteady and she thought, he has been fighting the same battle as I. The thought gave her strength. If a man was resisting temptation, she could help him. It was when a man looked at her with confidence in his power, and she saw herself as he saw her, that she began to respond, helplessly, to his emotions and desires. But men were so chivalrous, and helped her even there, just as they might carry her across a difficult place in the path. Men were … men.
She gathered her wits and said, ‘What Archduke?’
‘Franz Ferdinand of Austria, at Sarajevo. My dad thinks it could lead to trouble.’
‘It’s nothing to do with us, is it? Or with America?’
‘I don’t think so, but Dad says we should keep out of it, whatever happens. The future of American youth is on American soil, he says, not under European dirt.’
‘This is not European dirt,’ she said, feeling a brush of patriotic resentment. These Americans, coming over here, winning the Grand, and then talking about European dirt! ‘This is English soil.’
‘Oh, England’s different,’ Johnny said hurriedly. ‘Why, Magna Carta was signed not far down this very river. Dad and I went to see Runnymede the day before yesterday. If England were involved, I couldn’t feel, well, apart. Nor could Dad really, though he pretends to think all foreigners are alike. But how could this affect England?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stella said; adding to herself – ‘and I don’t care’. The young man saw her disinterest and said, ‘I shouldn’t be talking about politics.’ He stopped, the two of them standing at the foot of the lawn, just on the grass now, the lights bathing them from the windows of Phyllis Court. Fainter from the inside of the club, music streamed out, inseparably mixed with the light and the round moon, and all three with the subtle presence of the moving river. He said slowly, holding both her hands, at arm’s length – ‘I want to say, Miss Cate, that you are the nicest, the most beautiful young lady I have ever met. May I write to you?’
‘When are you going back to America?’ she asked quickly. Let him not go: they were surrounded by people: she was safe, and he handsome and strong …
‘Not just yet. Soon. I’ll give you my address. I know yours. I asked that young fellow you say is so good at cricket.’
‘Guy.’
‘Yes, Guy – earlier this evening. And we’ll dance some more tonight, eh?’
They walked towards the french windows. She said, ‘I think I have one or two dances left. Here, look at my programme.’
He took it, and looked at it, and through it, seeing nothing. This morning he had felt a sense of loss … Henley, finished; Harvard finished; his time of youth, going … Now there was no past, only the now and a future brilliantly glowing, but seemingly out of his reach. She was the most wonderful girl he had ever met, lovely beyond words, gentle, pure … he had felt from the tremor in her voice, by the river, that she was afraid he would take her too far into the darkness: no thought had been further from him. He had lain with a couple of Boston street girls, but Stella …! Oh God, and he was going home within a week! What to do, how not to lose what had suddenly fallen into his heart from the hot blue skies of this amazing English summer?
Margaret Cate waited till the third woman went out of the ladies’ room, leaving her alone with her sister-in-law; then she said, ‘Fiona, there’s something I must talk to you about.’
Fiona tensed. Margaret continued, ‘It’s about Archie Campbell, your lover.’ Fiona stood very stiff, at one of the dressing-tables, staring into the mirror, one hand frozen in her black hair.
Margaret said, ‘More and more people are getting to know. A friend in London mentioned it to me in a letter. Louise knows.’
‘Mother?’ Fiona said, trying to keep her voice steady.
‘Not yet, but it’s only a question of time, isn’t it?’
The music seeped dully to them here. The heavy damask curtains swayed gently in front of the open windows like slow dancers in the heavy earth-scented air.
Margaret said, ‘She asked me if I knew of any reason why you have not joined Quentin at the Curragh.’
‘I don’t like Ireland – or the Irish. You know that. So does Mother.’
‘I don’t think she accepts it as a sufficient reason. She is wondering, thinking … Are you going to see Campbell when you go to Skye to visit your mother?’
Fiona looked across at her sister-in-law then. Margaret was a fanatic, herself. Surely she must understand?
Margaret met her burning eyes. ‘He’s a nice man, from what I hear – and a good painter. His class doesn’t matter. But your marriage does. Your children’s lives do.’
Fiona snapped, ‘You are in no position to talk about your family’s lives. You and your people are doing your best to kill Quentin, who’s your brother as well as my husband. You’re destroying Christopher, and will destroy Stella and Laurence, by neglect. At least I try to be a mother to my children.’
Margaret’s face tightened. ‘It’s a matter of proportion,’ she said. ‘The freed
om of Ireland is one thing. A sordid love affair is another.’
A knot of anger twisted in Fiona’s bowels … not anger, something more animal, an emotion that would kill, as for a defenceless child or cub: in this case for a love that was as much beyond reason as the instinct of a mother wolf.
She said, almost snarling, ‘I am seeing Archie on my way to Skye. And that’s the last word I shall speak to you on the subject. Or wish to hear from you.’
Another woman came into the room, and Fiona went out, leaving her sister-in-law looking after her, her face set. Perhaps she understands now, Fiona thought furiously.
‘I’m taking over the control of Rowland’s on September 1st, Mr Merritt,’ Richard said. ‘My father retires that day. He will not be an easy man to follow.’
He raised his champagne glass towards his father. The six men were sitting on chairs at the top of the lawn, not far from the french windows of the Phyllis Court lounge. A pair of champagne bottles stood on a small table in front of them. Couples passed, music lapped them, distance muted the more raucous sounds of the Fair across the river.
Harry Rowland raised his glass and drank, acknowledging the compliment. Then he sighed inwardly. Richard couldn’t wait to get his hands on Rowland’s. But he wouldn’t find it so light a weight on his mind once the responsibility was actually, and all, his. It was easy for him to reckon that he had spent so many years preparing himself for this moment; but when the master – himself, Harry Rowland, founder of the Rowland Motor Car Company – was no longer there to turn to, to carry the untransferable burden, Richard would find it different. Who knew what crises might arise?
And what changes could Richard have in mind – for he certainly had some? Rowland’s made as good motor cars as any in England, and that meant, in the world. It made money for himself and his children; it employed four hundred men of Hedlington and brought a great deal more than their pay packets into the city’s economy. What did Richard, who had never created anything of his own, know that he, who had, did not know?