Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  Constance has tossed back her long, untidy black hair, so that it snakes over her thin shoulders. Her face is pale and concentrated, its expression taunting. As Boy looks at her, she first bites her lower lip with her small white teeth and then licks her lips so that they appear very red against the pallor of her skin. Boy stares, wrenches his gaze away, and concentrates on his camera. A few adjustments; he pulls the black hood over his head and adjusts the viewfinder.

  An image of Constance Shawcross is in his gaze, upside down but perfectly in focus. He blinks at it. It seems to him that there is now an even greater amount of stocking visible, less drab skirt, more grubby petticoats. He clears his throat, tries to sound magisterial.

  “You must keep absolutely still, Constance. The light is poor, so I need a long exposure. Turn your face a little to the left….”

  The child turns her head, tilts her small pointed chin. Boy sees that she is posing stiffly and self-consciously, as if anxious the photograph should be a flattering one. She is a plain child, and Boy is touched.

  Under the hood he reaches for the shutter bulb, adjusts the aperture. A half-second before the bulb is pressed, too late for Boy to stop, the child alters her position. Two minutes; silence and whirring.

  Boy emerges from the hood, scarlet. He stares at Constance accusingly and she stares back at him. In that half-second she parted her thighs and altered the position of her hand. She has posed with her left hand lying across her thigh, her fingers outstretched, pointing downward into her lap. A garter, a patch of bare skin, a knicker-leg are visible. It is a gesture capable of innocent interpretation … just. It is also (coupled with the brazenness of her stare) the lewdest, the most lascivious gesture Boy has ever seen in his life.

  To his horror, to his shame, his body has stirred. He remains behind his camera, grateful for its protection, telling himself that he is foul, evil. Constance is a ten-year-old child; she is motherless, innocent….

  Constance bounces down from the bed. She seems now in an excellent humor.

  “Thank you, Francis,” she says. “You will give me a print of the photograph, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes—that is, certainly. If it comes out … I’m not sure about the exposure I used, and—”

  Boy lies badly. He has already decided to destroy the plate, although later, when he sees it, he will change his mind.

  “Oh, please, Francis—”

  To Boy’s utter consternation, Constance reaches up (Boy is over six feet tall) and, as he bends awkwardly, plants a childish kiss on his cheek. Boy drops, and loses, one of the wing nuts from his tripod, although in his confusion he does not realize this. It rolls across the carpet to rest under a desk—from where Boy will have to retrieve it, somehow, later. Constance, kiss over, skips to the door.

  “I shall give it to my father,” she says, with one backward glance over her shoulder. “Papa will like that, don’t you think?”

  “Fetch out the traps.” Denton takes a large swallow of claret. “The hell with the law. This is my land. Fetch them out—see how the beggars like that! Traps rusting away in barns—what’s the sense in that? Set them. I shall tell Cattermole. Patrol the woods. Get four men in there, six if necessary. I won’t stand for it. I must have lost fifty birds this past month. Fifty! Three last night alone. How they get in I don’t know, but I intend to find out, and when I do, they’ll damn well regret it. Blast of shot up the backside—only thing they understand, these fellas. Blast of shot, then up before the magistrates. Old Dickie Peel—been on the Bench since the year dot. He knows how to deal with them. Maximum sentences, the full weight of the law. Mind you”—another hefty swig—“prison’s too good for them. Poachers? You know what I’d do if I had my way? Ship ’em out, that’s what. Ship ’em off to the colonies—America, Australia. Get rid of ’em for good. No respect for a man’s property. It makes my blood boil.”

  Denton does indeed look as if his blood could have reached one hundred degrees centigrade: His face is livid as an overripe plum; one large index finger is raised in admonition at the entire table; he waggles it, glares from face to face, as if his luncheon guests might be guilty of poaching his pheasants, given half a chance.

  He fixes each of his three elder sons with his gaze, glowers at Mrs. Heyward-West’s mild-mannered little husband, scowls at Jarvis (a friend of Eddie Shawcross, invited at his request—something to do with Art; no one is sure exactly what).

  Jarvis is wearing a cravat that is perhaps a trifle bright; in St. James’s London this cravat pleased Jarvis; now, as Denton’s ripe gaze fixes on it, Jarvis feels less certain of its shade. He winces, and Denton’s gaze roves on. It fixes finally on the trim person of Eddie Shawcross, seated on Gwen’s left at the far end of the table. Staring at Shawcross, Denton’s features become, if possible, even more empurpled.

  “Poachers. Trespassers. Interlopers,” Denton pronounces with special savagery, and Shawcross, more used to these outbursts than some of the other guests present, amused enough by them to recount them in malicious detail in his journals, returns him a polite even smile. Denton makes a gurgling noise in his throat, indicative to his family of extreme fury, and Gwen’s treacherous heart gives a tiny leap. Seizure? Apoplexy? Now, at her luncheon table, in front of her guests? But no, it is merely the residue of rage, the result of Denton’s inspection of his woods with Cattermole that morning, the honest indignation of a man whose most passionate belief is the sanctity of property. It is not directed particularly at Eddie Shawcross, and it is even now subsiding.

  Gwen’s instincts as a hostess rise to the surface. There are ladies present, which Denton seems to have forgotten. They have already endured “backside” and the clumsy emendation of “buggers” to “beggars”; it is more than possible that, even with his rage spent, Denton might actually swear or blaspheme.

  Gwen leans forward to intervene, but Acland is quicker.

  “One small point, sir,” he says into the silence that has fallen. “Just that the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776 … which means America hasn’t been a colony for quite a long time.”

  “So? So?” Denton looks up with new belligerence.

  “Well, it might be difficult to dump our felons there. Even the poachers. The Americans might object, don’t you think?”

  Acland’s voice is exceedingly polite; his father, head lowered like a bull about to charge, is regarding him with suspicion, sniffing for heresy, but he is deceived by Acland’s tone.

  “Inconvenient, I grant you. But a bit of a poser nonetheless.”

  There is another silence, during which Shawcross smirks behind his napkin. Mrs. Heyward-West (charming and tactful Mrs. West, Gwen thinks) comes to the rescue. She is seated on Denton’s right, and she leans forward, her hand brushing his arm. She is still a well-preserved, a handsome woman.

  “America!” she says in her deep voice. “How I love that country. And the Americans themselves—so welcoming, so very very kind. Did I tell you, Denton my dear, about our last visit there? We were staying in Virginia, with some friends who breed quite magnificent horses. Now I know, Denton, what you are going to say. You’re going to say I’m no judge of a horse at all, and I’m sure you’re right. But—now this will interest you—”

  The miracle has been achieved; Mrs. Heyward-West has his full attention; Denton’s somewhat bulging blue eyes revolve, then fix on her. Everyone relaxes (even Jarvis of the lavender cravat), and at the far end of the table Gwen and Shawcross exchange glances.

  The moment of drama is past, and from then onward the luncheon passes very pleasantly. Gwen employs a good cook, and the meal—by Edwardian standards—is light, in view of the feasting to come at the comet party that evening. On Gwen’s left, Eddie Shawcross is being most charming to an elderly deaf neighbor, last spinster member of a once-prominent Wiltshire family. He is discussing the work of George Bernard Shaw. (Eddie never lowers his metropolitan standards, even in the country.) The neighbor has never heard of Shaw, that much is obvious,
but no matter—Eddie is being witty. On Gwen’s right, George Heyward-West, a dignified little man who has always seemed quite unaffected by the past scandals concerning his wife and the King, is explaining the intricacies of the stock market to Denton’s sister, the famously beautiful Maud, a spectacular girl, who married so high that Eddie claims she gives him vertigo. Maud (now, Gwen notes with satisfaction, becoming a little too plump) hitched her star to that of an Italian princeling. The Italian princeling is never much in evidence, and is not present now; Maud claims he is in Monte Carlo, gambling.

  Maud has, in fact, considerable knowledge of the stock market herself, but she is woman enough not to betray this to George Heyward-West, who is patiently explaining the difference between bonds and equities. Money, as a subject of conversation over luncheon, is not strictly speaking de rigueur, but both are clearly enjoying themselves, so Gwen does not intervene.

  Instead, pleasurably, she allows herself to dream. The room is warm, the wine has made Gwen feel gently soporific, and all her guests seem animated—she may indulge herself a little.

  Fourteen at table now, all her sons present except Steenie, who is upstairs in the nursery wing with, thank goodness, Constance Albatross, firm instructions to Nanny that both children should remain there all afternoon. (Steenie is delicate and needs to rest; Constance will have to put up with the confinement. One of the things Gwen most dislikes about Constance is the way she is always creeping about, as if she were spying on her father, from whom, once found, she refuses to be parted. Like a limpet, that child.)

  Fourteen at luncheon, forty at dinner. Gwen is pleased by her dinner menu: mock turtle soup, oyster patties, and—always a triumph this—a ragout of lobster. Then the plainer fare, which will ensure Denton’s good temper: roast goslings, roast saddle of mutton, a boiled capon. Guinea fowl—did she remember to ask for guinea fowl, which Eddie so likes? Yes, she did. And then the puddings, of course, which always look so pretty: little champagne jellies in crystal glasses, and maids-of-honor, cabinet puddings, and the tiny lemon water-ices served in baskets of mint leaves—Steenie loves those, and she must remember to have some sent up for him in the nursery. Finally, the dessert. Gwen, who has a sweet tooth, loves this part of a meal, when the cloth is drawn and her table sparkles with silver dishes: tidbits and sweetmeats, purple Carlsbad plums sticky with sugar, tiny pyramids of preserved cherries and frosted grapes, filberts, figs from the hothouses, pale glasses of ice-cold Sauternes—oh, it will be glorious.

  They will eat inside; then she and her guests will assemble outside, on the terrace, and the comet will pass across the sky in a blaze of glory.

  Gwen will don her furs at this point. Denton has not yet seen the new sealskin with the ermine collar, nor the bill for it (when he does, it will not please him, for Denton is tightfisted). However, by the time Gwen puts it on, she will be safe. Denton will be far too drunk to notice.

  Then they will return to the house. A little music perhaps: Jane Conyngham, a gifted pianist, has promised to play for them; Gwen herself may sing one or two of the sentimental ballads she loves. And after that, no haste, let it all remain very easy, very degage (as Eddie would say), people may follow their own inclinations.

  Denton will disappear, that is a certainty. He will go off with his cronies, smoke his cigars, and down plenty of port (despite the gout) and then he will heave himself up to bed, late, late—it does not matter how late; Gwen will not have to listen to his snoring. Yes, Denton will disappear drunk, as he always does; the snooping Constance will be safely asleep; her guests will divert one another, and then—at last—Gwen and Eddie will be free to be alone. Somewhere.

  Gwen is in a reverie, but as her thoughts crystallize and focus on that sweet moment which still lies ahead, she is seized with an acute impatience. She wants Eddie; she needs Eddie; the desire for him is so intense that she feels hot, breathless, as if she might faint.

  This morning at the Stone House, after the children had left them, Eddie took her hand and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. It closed on something soft; she drew out several lengths of black silk ribbon. She looked at these ribbons in silence, a familiar lassitude building in her body. She did not need to question him about these ribbons; already her mind raced ahead—to the King’s bedroom, perhaps, or to the clearing in the woods where she and Eddie sometimes met. The places danced in her mind; so did those ribbons, and the use Eddie might make of them.

  Gwen looks at Shawcross now. He does not appear to be thinking of her as she is thinking of him. On the contrary, his manner is urbane, amused, detached. He is talking across the table to his friend Jarvis about some painter. Jarvis, as far as Gwen can understand it, is a middleman. He hopes Denton may commission some pictures from a painter of his acquaintance; the painter is good, Jarvis says, with the only subjects Denton considers fit ones for art—to wit, horses, dogs, stags, and foxes.

  Now Eddie is discussing some art gallery of which Gwen has never heard. The black ribbons may be in his pocket even now as he speaks with such assurance, dark-gray eyes glinting, reddish beard shining with pomade, his small ladylike white hands gesturing, gesturing…. “My dear fellow,” he says, “please. I’m not interested in your daubers. Words. Sentences. The sting of the novelist’s perceptions—that’s the thing. All art aspires to the condition of literature—not music, and certainly not your humdrum painting and sculpture. Why, if I had my way, we should all live like monks: books aplenty, and bare walls….”

  Shawcross, as he pronounces the words bare walls, casts an insolent glance at the walls of the Cavendish dining room. They are crammed with large Victorian oils: two stags montant; one hare being torn in two by greyhounds, and several murky sea battles purchased by Denton’s father.

  Gwen, forgetting silk ribbons in an instant, snaps back to attention, ceases to be Eddie’s mistress and remembers she is hostess. Her eyes scan the guests anxiously. What has happened? Something has happened. Denton looks purple and thunderous once more. Acland is watching him, detached as always. Freddie is trying not to laugh, Boy is scarlet with embarrassment, Jane Conyngham is staring studiously at her plate, and Mrs. Heyward-West, the most equable of women, is frowning in annoyance.

  Could it have been Eddie’s last remark? But no—whatever was said or done, it occurred earlier. Gwen, flustered, hesitates, and to her horror, her husband leans across the table—silver tinkles against glass—lifts again that waggling accusatory finger, and points it straight in the direction of a now-silent Shawcross.

  “You, sir,” Denton roars. “Yes, you, sir. You would do well to mind your manners. You will remember, if you please, your position here. You will remember you are a guest in my house. My house, sir …” And—more horror; really, this time Denton has gone too far—Denton rises. No waiting for the ladies to withdraw, not the slightest pretense of civility; Denton rises, turns his back, and stumps out of the room. The door slams. Gwen is so vexed she feels she could weep, or faint. This behavior cannot be excused or passed off. Suddenly she sees the evening ahead of her, her beautiful party, quite ruined.

  It is Acland who saves her. He looks along the table at the embarrassed faces; as Eddie Shawcross starts to apologize, Acland cuts him off with a contemptuous glance.

  “Don’t worry, Shawcross. It was nothing you said. The loss of his pheasants always makes my father quite savage. I imagine he has gone to strangle some poachers. Probably with his bare hands. Mama?”

  There is a nervous rustle of laughter. Acland turns to her, and Gwen seizes her opportunity. She rises; the other women rise. Gwen manages their exit with some dignity.

  And later—half an hour later, when they are outside again on the terrace and the guests are making their various plans for the afternoon—Gwen feels consoled. The situation has been retrieved. Most of these people are family friends; they understand Denton’s moods and eccentricities. Indeed, now he has disappeared, the mood lightens; nervousness transmutes into gaiety.

  “My dear, my brother D
enton is a beast. I shall tell him so later,” Maud says kindly.

  “Dear Gwen, you must not worry,” says the elderly, deaf Wiltshire neighbor as she takes up her crocheting. She herself spent sixty years deferring to a tyrannical father; now she pats Gwen’s. hand. “Men will have these little moods. We women become used to them….”

  The Heyward-Wests decide to stroll down to the lake; Maud announces her intention of retiring to write letters to Monte Carlo; Boy agrees to play tennis with Jarvis, Acland, and Jane. Freddie drifts away; the other guests drift away. Soon, Gwen and Eddie Shawcross are alone on the terrace with the elderly neighbor, who nods off to sleep over her crocheting.

  Gwen raises her parasol and feels her fears and embarrassment fade. She looks out across the gardens, feels the soft breeze against her skin. It is three o’clock. (We must remember the time; it is important.) Eddie rests his hand on her arm, removes it, and allows the back of his fingers to brush against her breast.

  Gwen looks up at him. The silence is now loud. Their eyes meet, and Gwen sees in Eddie’s face a fixity that can mean only one thing.

  “What time do your other houseguests arrive?” he asks.

  “Not before five …”

  “And tea?”

  “At four-thirty. For those who want it. But I must be there.” Gwen’s voice is faint. Eddie consults his pocket watch with a maddening slowness. He puts his hand into his pocket (the pocket) and removes it again.

  “What a temper your husband has,” he remarks levelly, and Gwen understands at once: The husband’s rudeness adds piquancy to the lover’s plans.

  “You must tell me more about Denton’s rages,” Eddie says, and rises and offers his hostess his arm. They turn back to the house at a leisured pace. By the French windows they pause.

  “My room, I think,” Eddie says, his eyes scanning the garden.

  “Now? Eddie …” Gwen hesitates, furls her parasol, steps into the shadows of the house.