by Dodie Smith
Tea was brought in at eleven, after which they all trailed up the white marble staircase to bed, and another day was gone.
No visits were paid; no visitors called. Lady Crestover once spoke of being understaffed and of the impossibility of entertaining, but added that there were no neighbours worth knowing and all her friends were in London. The family appeared to live isolated, using only a small portion of their huge house, which was said to contain a hundred rooms. The thought of all those closed rooms weighed on Merry strangely, almost frightening her, yet she longed to see them and had asked if someone would show her over the house. No one had jumped at the job; she’d been told it would be a long walk and very dull.
But on her sixteenth day, after tea, she asked again and had better luck.
‘Why don’t you take her, Claude?’ said Lady Crestover.
Lord Crestover said he would be delighted to. Merry had already seen the ground-floor rooms (only the library and dining-room were in general use but there were also two drawing-rooms, several indeterminate sitting-rooms and a billiard-room) so they began by walking to the first floor. Here Lord Crestover opened the door of the Long Gallery, which ran the full depth of the house.
She had been in here before, to go through the chests full of ancient clothes and choose a dress for Lady Teazle. No clothes had been saved since the Victorian era. She had suggested that the collection should now be added to but Lady Crestover had said that modern clothes weren’t worth saving.
‘But they will be, to posterity,’ said Merry. ‘You could put in some cashmere sweaters. They’re so very twentieth century.’
‘What, waste good cashmere sweaters?’ said Lady Crestover. She had, most generously, made Merry a present of several but saw no point in making presents to posterity.
Lord Crestover now opened one of the chests, took out a Paisley shawl and wrapped it round Merry, saying that the radiators weren’t in use on the upper floors. They weren’t doing much for this floor, Merry decided. She was glad of the shawl already.
The Long Gallery led into the Picture Gallery, which ran across the back of the house. The paintings were either mediocre portraits or vague, dark landscapes and they all needed cleaning. No attempt had been made to fill the gaps caused by the sale of more valuable paintings which had helped to pay death duties on the death of Lord Crestover’s father.
She was mildly attracted by one portrait, of a very young girl holding a cherub-like little boy.
‘My great, great – oh, lots of greats – grandmother,’ said Lord Crestover. ‘She married the sixth earl when she was fifteen.’
Merry’s interest increased and she peered more closely; not much daylight came in now as the windows looked onto the courtyard round which the house was built. Lord Crestover switched on the lights but only one dangling bulb functioned.
‘Oh, put it off,’ said Merry. ‘It makes things gloomier than ever.’ She added hastily, ‘I mean, dark old pictures always are a bit depressing, aren’t they?’
‘It’s the gaps I find depressing,’ said Lord Crestover. ‘There’s so little left for Tom to sell when I go.’
They went on into the ballroom. This, Merry felt, was melancholy rather than depressing, and sadly beautiful. Rose-brocaded sofas, along the walls, were surmounted by ceiling-high mirrors. Four shrouded chandeliers hung from the elaborate plaster ceiling. The great stretch of parquet floor was lustreless.
‘How long is it since there was a dance here?’ asked Merry.
‘Not since before the war. I fell in love with my wife at it – though we didn’t, of course, marry until some years later, when we were both twenty-one.’ He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head, pointing out new cracks in the plaster.
The door at the far end of the ballroom brought them back to the front landing, onto which Merry’s room and all the bedrooms occupied by the family opened. From here, the staircase led up to a floor of closed bedrooms.
‘Mother had these rooms done up soon after she married,’ said Lord Crestover. ‘She’s never cared for bright colours herself but she let some interior decorator fellow get round her.’ He opened a door to reveal a large, square room with a wallpaper splodged in orange, magenta, emerald and gold. ‘Influenced by the Russian Ballet, I believe. The colours have faded a little.’
Lovely colours for a ballet, Merry decided, but hideous for wallpaper. Lifting dustsheets, she found satin upholstery, worn and grubby but as violent in colour as the walls. Numerous tarnished gilt tassels increased the general impression of tired gaudiness. Room after room after room was shown to her, each a large, square box with two sashed windows, and though the violent colours of the furnishings and decorations varied, the total effect was always the same.
‘The next floor’s utterly dreary,’ said Lord Crestover, as they went up to it. ‘Just bedrooms for servants – our own, and the maids and valets visitors brought with them.’
They began with the west-facing rooms, now flooded with sunset. Squat, drably distempered, furnished with oddments … after half a dozen of them, Merry admitted she’d seen enough.
‘Then that only leaves the attics,’ said Lord Crestover. ‘It’s about time I went round them to see if the roof’s leaking anywhere.’
She asked if he and his sisters hadn’t had a nursery. ‘Oh, yes – the nurseries were over the kitchen. They got turned into rooms for the few servants we still have.’ He was now leading the way up a narrow back staircase. ‘It’s pretty awful up here. I doubt if anyone’s slept here since my grandparents’ days, when there must have been as many lower servants to wait on the upper servants as there were upper servants to wait on the family.’
She found ‘pretty awful’ too mild a description of the attics. They were truly horrifying. Their small windows, only a few inches from the floor, looked onto the parapet surrounding the house, and let in hardly any light. The outer walls sloped so much that there was little space in which one could stand upright. Thin, stained mattresses lay on iron bedsteads. The sparse furniture was almost all damaged; she did not see one chest of drawers with its full complement of handles. Hooks on the walls did duty as wardrobes. The floors were bare except for occasional strips of worn linoleum. Each attic contained a battered enamel jug and basin on a metal stand.
Ironically, the wallpapers, though faded, damaged, and discoloured by damp, were charming: delicate floral patterns tiny enough for a dolls’ house, relics of Victorian taste now back in fashion. Perhaps the nightmare papers below would one day seem as charming.
‘This used to be a hidy-hole of mine,’ said Lord Crestover opening a door. ‘I suppose the window attracted me.’
It was a circular window, high in the wall and unbaulked by the parapet. She recalled seeing, from the outside, one such window in the middle of each side of the attic storey.
He went on, ‘I thought it was like a port-hole. Of course I had to stand on a chair then, to look out. I used to come up here with my cat.’
She joined him at the window, now a circle of sunset, framing both their heads. ‘No dog, ever?’ She had been surprised to find a country house without a dog.
‘Never a dog. They’re supposed to give my mother hay-fever; anyway, she doesn’t like them, or cats, much, for that matter. I used to smuggle this cat in from the stables.’
He began to tell her about the cat’s unusual intelligence. She listened with sympathy, thinking how much she liked him and noticing how white his teeth were and how particularly clean his face looked; it was extremely close to hers. Perhaps she was a little in love with him. And surely he was gazing at her very intensely – was she at last going to have to do a bit of coping? But perhaps he was just thinking about his cat. He spoke of his misery when it died, caught in a trap – oh, poor little boy, and poor, poor cat, which had obviously done its level best to substitute for a dog. Her eyes filled with tears. He saw them, bent his head, and kissed her.
In a split second she reminded herself of two things: that this was her first k
iss, and that she’d read somewhere that a girl should not respond too eagerly when a man first kissed her or he might think she was over-eager. In any case, she was too busy noticing this kiss to respond to it. She expected to be thrilled, shaken by emotion; nothing of the sort happened. She merely felt a warm, meaningless pressure on her mouth. Then Lord Crestover moved away and said:
‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’
She saw his disappointment and embarrassment. To hell with avoiding eagerness – she had hurt him! Instantly, she moved towards him, raising her face. This time, she would be Juliet, kissing Romeo. That should work.
It did indeed. She had not known that emotion could be experienced by one’s whole body as well as one’s mind. She swayed and had to clutch him for support. He looked as astonished as she felt, and then delighted. Clinging together, they kissed again and again until he paused long enough to say: ‘My darling, will you marry me?’
She was so astounded that she not only backed but also pushed him away.
‘Oh, no, no! Oh, my goodness! I can’t, I can’t!’
‘My dearest child, what is it?’
‘Oh, what a thing to happen!’ Never had she dreamt of coping with this. In the very beginning she had visualized some kind of dangerous romance, he pursuing, she running away perhaps not very fast, the outcome uncertain. But marriage—!
‘Don’t you care for me?’
‘Of course I do!’ She had no doubt of that now. ‘It’s just that … I’m too young.’
He looked stricken. ‘Oh, I know I’m too old for you—’
‘You’re not, you’re not,’ she interrupted. ‘But—’ For a second she was on the point of telling him the truth. Then she thought of a way out. ‘You see, there’s my career. I’ve barely made a start.’
He laughed with relief. ‘But marriage won’t interfere with that – I promise. My mother will help you; she still has theatrical friends.’
‘But surely she won’t want you to marry me?’
‘Why, it was her idea! I mean, she mentioned it to me before I mentioned it to her – of course I thought of it for myself. I think I fell in love with you when you were lying on the floor, that first day.’
‘And I with you, as soon as I opened my eyes and saw you standing there in blue brocade.’ She began the sentence simply wanting to please him; she finished it believing every word to be true.
‘Then it’s all right?’ Again he drew her to him.
She must think. And it was difficult, while he was kissing her. At what age could one legally marry? Presumably not till school-leaving age. Fifteen? Yes, that would be it; the girl in the painting had married at fifteen. Looking up beetween kisses, she said: ‘Could we have a six months’ engagement?’
‘But why, my darling?’
‘If I could do even one job on the London stage, before I’m a countess …
‘You absurd child!’ He kissed her again.
From far below came the faintly heard boom of the dressing gong. He sighed and said he must take her downstairs. The sunset had faded now, the little room was growing dim. With his arm around her, he steered her along the dark passages and down the darker back stairs, then past the closed bedrooms to the wide front staircase. When they reached her door there were lights under the other bedroom doors, where the family were now dressing for dinner.
He said he must go and tell his mother. ‘She’ll be so happy.’
‘Please make her understand we’re going to have a six months’ engagement,’ Merry begged. ‘We are, aren’t we?’
‘We’ll see,’ he said tolerantly.
Too well she remembered, from early childhood, that ‘We’ll see’ was often a kindly postponement of ‘No’.
6
Forty-eight Hours
She dressed as fast as she could, hoping to have a little time left in which to think. But she had barely begun when Lady Crestover and her daughters arrived to express their delight about the engagement. The twins, for once, were positively vivacious, and Lady Crestover combined her most dazzling smile with tears of emotion – not that Merry actually saw the tears, but a lace-edged handkerchief was very prettily used.
The three of them bore her triumphantly downstairs, where Mr Deane kissed her and expressed warm wishes for her happiness. Then there was a great deal of laughter when she had to be told to call Lord Crestover ‘Claude’.
At dinner she drank two glasses of champagne instead of her usual one, and tried some valuable, historic and revolting brandy which was ostentatiously brought in by Binner to mark the occasion. And she listened blissfully, if a trifle hazily, to Lady Crestover’s plans for shopping, and a winter in London after the wedding. Only Mr Deane appeared willing to consider her request for a six months’ engagement during which she could make a start on the West End stage.
‘Anyway, it won’t take you six months to make a start,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘Remember, your engagement will give you some very useful publicity.’
No doubt that would have been the case in Donna Deane’s day, but would it now? And did one, as a serious actress, want to be helped by any such publicity? Well, at least Merry could feel thankful that the engagement wasn’t to be announced until the night of the theatrical entertainment. Long before then she would somehow straighten things out.
The straightening-out process was due to begin as soon as she got into bed. But as she lay down, she decided she would first allow herself to re-live the moments after Claude had proposed. (She would have welcomed some more lovemaking during the evening but had never been left alone with him for an instant; and his good-night kiss outside her bedroom door had been witnessed by the entire family, every member of which had also kissed her good night.) She set the scene by remembering the attic he’d called his hidy-hole, saw most vividly the porthole window flooded by sunset … And the next thing she saw was the maid arriving with her breakfast tray.
Well, perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t racked her brains last night, for – having tottered to the bathroom and banished sleepiness by splashing her face with cold water – she was now back in bed drinking chocolate and feeling most splendidly clear-headed. The situation was really quite simple: it was just a matter of insisting on a six months’ engagement. Not that, even at fifteen, she could just rush off and get married; she knew that until you were twenty-one, you needed the consent of your parents or guardian. But if her father turned up within six months, she felt sure he would oblige (he’d probably be in jail; she hoped the Crestovers wouldn’t mind). And if he remained absent, as she hoped he would, then Richard, ranking as her guardian, would give his approval. How could anyone not approve of her marrying a kind, handsome earl? (She was thrilled at the thought of being a countess but sure her feelings about this were romantic, not snobbish.) Of course she must (fairly soon – but not yet) tell Claude her real age, but why should he mind her being a few years younger than he expected? Anyway, she would remind him of his ancestress who had married at fifteen; and already, after treating the family to Juliet’s major speeches, she had told him Juliet was only fourteen when she married Romeo.
Yes, it would all work out. She had just reached this pleasing conclusion over her second cup of chocolate when the maid returned, bringing a message from Lady Crestover.
‘Her ladyship wants to take you to London for shopping and the car will be waiting at ten o’clock, if you can be ready then. And please, miss, we’re all ever so glad about the engagement.’
‘Oh; bless you!’ said Merry, feeling the whole world was on her side. ‘Please say I’ll be ready.’
She put on the black-and-white outfit in which she had arrived at Crestover; none of the clothes which had been given or lent to her seemed suitable for London. Ready a little before ten, she went along to Lady Crestover, whose room, unlike the bedrooms upstairs, still represented her own unchanging taste. Merry, judging by the old theatre magazines, thought it must be very like the sets of old musical comedies. The panelling and the furniture were w
hite and gold, the pink satin curtains elaborately draped; taffeta and lace abounded, also a great many photographs and theatrical souvenirs. Even two long-legged dolls, known as Donna and Desmond, had survived and, though faded and dilapidated, were still limply elegant.
‘Oh, you’re wearing those clothes,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘Well, I must say they suit you, if they are a bit …’ She let the words trail, as she saw through the window that the car was waiting.
They went downstairs, to be seen off by the assembled family. Everyone kissed Merry. She was helped into the car and the chauffeur solicitously spread a rug. Lord Crestover said he wished he were coming too. ‘Oh, men are a nuisance when one’s shopping,’ said Lady Crestover. They drove off through the misty autumn morning.
The journey to London took nearly three hours, during which they conversed pleasantly – ‘conversed’ was the right word, Merry decided. She was discovering that Lady Crestover had a talent for talking almost continuously without saying anything one could remember, unless one could get her onto the subject of her youth in the theatre, and this wasn’t always possible; Merry tried this morning but had no luck. During the entire drive, only one remark interested her – to the effect that she would be ‘so splendid for Claude’.
‘In what way?’ she instantly asked.
‘We must discuss that later,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘Yes, indeed, we must have some very serious discussions.’
Then the small talk flowed on.
They lunched at a quiet hotel of which Merry had never heard. Lady Crestover asked for a secluded table. ‘I want to keep you under wraps until the engagement’s announced,’ she whispered to Merry, flashing her swift, wide smile.
After lunch they drove, not to a shop as Merry had expected, but to a tall house without even the hint of a shop window.