Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “Acland?” Wexton appeared interested.

  “Oh, that was ages ago. It’s probably worn off. All she thinks about now is hospitals.” Steenie gave a few more capers and prances. He shot Wexton a look of triumph.

  “You see? You’re failing miserably. Not one single candidate. No one to touch us. Who else had you in mind? Freddie? Poor old Freddie—he always seems at such a loss.”

  “No. Not Freddie.”

  “Who then? Admit it. You’ve failed.”

  “Any of the people here.” Wexton waved a hand in a vague manner at the people who passed. “Any one of them. At any time. That’s the way it is.”

  “Them?” Steenie dismissed the passers-by with one lordly wave of the hand. “They don’t count. We don’t know them.”

  “Okay. I give up.”

  “Just us?”

  “If you like.”

  “I knew it.” Steenie gave a happy sigh.

  They walked on a little way in silence. They turned into Wexton’s street. At the corner Steenie gave Wexton a sideways glance.

  “Of course, there is someone we left out. Neither of us mentioned Constance.”

  “That’s true.”

  “After all, everyone’s waiting for Constance to fall in love. Or to be married, anyway. That’s what the ball was all about. So maybe we should have considered Constance. How odd that we didn’t.”

  “It’s not odd at all. It’s because neither of us can imagine …”

  “Constance loving someone?”

  “Yes. She might think she did. She might talk herself into it.”

  “She could hate, I think.” Steenie paused. “Yes, I can see Constance doing that. It’s quite a frightening thought.”

  “She’s frightening altogether.”

  “Do you think so?” Steenie stopped. “I suppose she is, in a way. All that energy. Except—I do like her, Wexton. I always have. She had a vile childhood, you know. Her father was perfectly ghastly. Horrible to her. Well, horrible to everyone, really. And then he died—in a particularly gory way. Have I ever told you about that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I might. One day when I’m feeling strong. It was at Winterscombe. Everyone said it was an accident, but …”

  “You didn’t think so?”

  “I don’t know. I was very young. But there was … something odd. It never felt quite right. The edges didn’t stick down. Anyway”—he shook himself—“I don’t want to think about that. Not today of all days. Whyever did we start on all that?”

  “Because of Constance.”

  “Oh, yes, Constance. And love. I think she’d like to love, Wexton—I think she wants to, very much. I think she loved her father, for instance—she always seemed to. You know what he used to call her? ‘My little albatross.’ Can you imagine? He really was the vilest man. He was a writer too.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wexton had reached the door of the house where he lived. He was fumbling from pocket to pocket, looking for his keys. Steenie, having checked that the street was empty, gave him a hug.

  “Oh, God—I didn’t mean that. He wasn’t a proper writer, anyway. And he didn’t write poems. Just horrible affected little novels. You’d hate them. Even Constance hated them. She knew they were no good, I think, and she couldn’t bear it. Do you know what I caught her doing once?”

  “No. What?”

  “Cutting them up. One of the novels. The last one, I think. She was sitting there on the floor of her room, cutting it up. Page by page, with a pair of nail scissors. She cut up the whole thing, until there was just the covers left. It took ages. When she’d finished she put all the bits in a bag and put the bag in her desk. It was quite spooky. Then she cried. It wasn’t long after he died, you see. And she was grieving. She was very peculiar then. She got over it a year or two later.”

  “Aha! Found it.” Wexton produced his key. He frowned at it in a reproachful way, as if it had been hiding from him. He inserted it into the lock.

  Steenie felt a certain excitement, and a certain apprehension, since this would be the first time he had ever visited Wexton’s flat. He hoped he would not fail it. He mounted the steps cautiously. He was ushered through a small hallway into a pleasant room. It was full of books.

  “It’s rather a mess, I’m afraid.”

  Wexton looked about him in a fond yet apologetic way. There were books on shelves, books on tables, books on chairs, books on the floor.

  Steenie advanced into the room. Wexton approached a gas ring, lifted the kettle.

  “We could have some coffee. Or some more tea. I could fix us something to drink.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “All of them?”

  “Any of them.”

  “All right.” Wexton still appeared to hesitate. He turned back to Steenie, the kettle still in his hands.

  “One thing. I mean, I don’t want to keep harking back to her. In fact, I’d be glad to forget about her. But before we do. At Winterscombe—at that ball …”

  “Yes?” Steenie, who had begun to smoke, using a holder, was about to light a cigarette. He paused. He eyed Wexton, who seemed unwilling to go on. Steenie sighed.

  “Oh, Wexton. I’m not blind, any more than you are. I knew you’d noticed. And I know exactly what you’re going to say.”

  “Constance and Stern.” Wexton frowned. “When they were dancing together. Right toward the end. Didn’t you think—”

  “Wexton. I most certainly did. My eyes were on stalks. Absolutely no one noticed, except you and me. And it was so obvious.” There was a silence. “Her, did you think?” Steenie said at last. “Or him?”

  “Definitely her. Him—I’m less sure. Probably not. He looked kind of impatient.”

  “Precisely what was interesting.” Steenie put out the cigarette. He stood up. “Stern never is—impatient, I mean. Absolutely nothing ruffles him. You could introduce him to death, and he wouldn’t turn a hair. But that night, he was ruffled. Peddling backwards quite fast, I’d have said. I saw him when he left. I bumped into him in the cloakroom. I don’t think he even saw me. He looked like thunder—no, like ice! Terrifying! Then, the next moment, he was back with Aunt Maud, and he was perfectly charming. He’s usually perfectly charming. And just the tiniest bit coldblooded. So maybe I imagined the whole thing.”

  “Maybe.” Wexton shook the kettle. “It’s interesting anyway.”

  “It’s interesting—up to a point,” Steenie replied in a new firm voice. He hesitated, then took a step forward. He became rather pink.

  “Up to a point?” Wexton put the kettle down.

  “Wexton—do you think you could put your arms around me?” Steenie became pinker still. His voice rose, then sank. He advanced another pace. Wexton held his ground.

  “Just one arm, Wexton. To begin with. One arm would do.”

  “What about the coffee?”

  “The hell with the coffee.”

  “You’re very young. Steenie, I—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Wexton. I have to begin somewhere. I want to begin now. With you. I love you, Wexton. If you don’t put your arms around me, right now, I shall do something terrible. I shall probably cry. I might have another heart attack.”

  “Well, I guess we wouldn’t want that,” Wexton said. He shuffled about from foot to foot. He gave Steenie his benign smile. He pulled at the tuft of his hair.

  Then, looking sad, as he always did when happy, he held out both arms.

  Steenie rushed into them.

  “And so, Gwen, they will have to sell up. Lock, stock, and barrel. The house. The estate. Everything. Isn’t it sad? Tragic, when you think: there have been Arlingtons there for three hundred years.”

  The end of June, some two weeks after Constance’s ball: Maud was enthroned behind the teacups and the spirit kettle, in her London drawing room. One of her more elaborate tea parties. Other guests were expected, but she and Gwen (as was their practice) could have a few moments of enjoyable intima
cy first. Also gossip, of which Maud always had such a fine store.

  At the far end of the large room there was a cluster of younger guests: Constance, Steenie, Freddie, and Conrad Vickers, the young photographer. Wexton, who had gone to train for his ambulance driving, was absent.

  Next to the flamboyant figure of Vickers, who wore his hair several inches longer even than Steenie, sat a stiff row of young officers on leave. Several of these men seemed inclined to take exception to Vickers—which was predictable. A number of the others stared at Constance with bemused rapture. That group, as far as Maud was concerned, could take care of itself. She and Gwen had more important matters to discuss.

  “I can’t believe it,” Gwen said in a gratifying tone of shock. “The Arlingtons? There must be some mistake. It’s unthinkable. Who told you, Maud?”

  “Heavens, I can’t remember! Was it Jane? Their land borders hers, as you know, so … But no, of course it wasn’t Jane—she’s always the last to hear anything. Now, who could it have been? Someone at Maud Cunard’s last night … but goodness, there was such a crush, I can’t remember who … Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because it’s definitely true. Monty said so, this morning. You see, Gwennie, the thing is”—Maud leaned forward confidingly—“Gertrude Arlington was forced to borrow—only in a modest way, of course. I believe Monty helped her to arrange some of the loans. But he warned her, years ago, and now the price of land has fallen in this shocking way, so she daren’t borrow more, and anyway she hasn’t the security. And then—” Maud rattled to an abrupt halt. Gwen stared at her. It was not like Maud to break off in the middle of a story.

  “And then what? Go on, Maudie, go on.”

  “Well, the thing is …” Maud hesitated, but could not resist the plunge. “The thing is, if you remember, it’s only two years since poor Gertrude lost her husband. The death duties were crippling then, but she and Hector managed somehow. Then Hector joined up—well, I always said he would never make a soldier, but apparently nothing would keep him away. He was adamant, just like Acland, and now—”

  “He’s dead? Hector Arlington is dead?” Gwen interrupted, her voice sharp. “That’s not possible. He was on leave. He came to the ball. I saw him just the other week. He danced with Jane, I remember, because Denton was remarking on her hair, and her dress.”

  “He went back two days later, Gwennie. I thought you must have heard.” Maud hesitated. She leaned across and pressed Gwen’s hand. She should not have embarked upon this story. It was now imperative to keep details to the minimum; better not to mention that Hector, in the same regiment as Boy, had (like Boy and Acland) been posted to the Somme, that it was there the sniper’s bullet had hit him. “They say it was very quick, Gwennie. No pain. But for Gertrude … well, it had to be the final blow. To lose her only … She was devoted to Hector, as you know. And then, death duties again. Within two years. I blame the government, and I told Monty so. Death duties, and such punitive ones, such socialistic ones—it cannot be right, Gwennie. So inhumane, so insensitive. Three hundred years, a whole way of life. If this continues, we shall all be wiped out. Even Monty agrees with me there.”

  “Hector.” Gwen set down her teacup. Her eyes had a vacant look. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Now, Gwen …” Maud’s voice took on a warning note. “Now, Gwen, you promised me. I shouldn’t have told you. I wouldn’t have told you. I thought you must certainly know.”

  “He stammered.”

  “Who, Hector? No, he didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did. Very slightly, when he was a child. Like Boy. He was such an earnest child. The others used to make fun of him—”

  “Gwen …”

  “I’m sorry, Maud.” Gwen’s eyes had filled with tears. She leaned forward and attempted to pick up her cup, but her hand was shaking and she let it rest.

  Maud leaned forward again. She took Gwen’s hand once more and pressed it. “Dearest Gwennie, I know it’s sad, and I’m sad too. Now listen, that wasn’t the only thing I had to tell you. I had good news, too, and I saved that for last because I knew it would cheer you. Don’t cry. You don’t want Freddie and Steenie to see you. Take a deep breath—that’s it. Now: Monty says, and he has it on the very best authority, you understand, that this is almost over. The war! The whole wretched thing! Truly, Gwennie—another few months at most, Monty says. The generals are convinced, even those dreadful pessimists at the War Office. By Christmas, Gwennie—think—it could all be over.” She had invented this rigmarole on the spur of the moment, for Stern had given her no such assurance, and the last time the matter was discussed, his predictions had been gloomy. Maud, in that moment, cared for none of that; the words tumbled out. She had her reward when she saw hope flicker in Gwen’s eyes.

  “Oh, Maud, are you sure? Is Monty sure?”

  “Darling, I promise you. He’s at the War Office now, and he said he’d look in on the way back. Ask him yourself then. Since he went into munitions he hears everything—and anyway, he and that horrid Lloyd George are like that.” Maud held up two fingers, crossed. “Think, Gwen! By Christmas, Boy and Acland could be home. We could all go down to Winterscombe. We could have a family party, just as we always used to do. We can see in the New Year together. We can be reunited; we can drink to 1917, and peace at last …”

  “Death to the Kaiser?” Gwen put in, and managed a wan smile, for this currently was Maud’s favorite toast.

  “Death to the Kaiser, absolutely,” Maud replied with spirit.

  “I always thought him the most vulgar little man.”

  Death to the Kaiser, Constance heard from across Maud’s splendid drawing room, above the languid monotone of Conrad Vickers, who had taken up a position of worship at her side.

  She glanced across and saw Maud lift her teacup, her expression so fierce it seemed she might dash it to the ground, Russian fashion. Stupid woman, Constance thought to herself, watching Maud rise to her feet to greet a group of new guests; she gazed at Maud jealously. Maud was, in fact, not stupid at all, but shrewd, and her manner of speech was misleading. Constance knew this, but that afternoon she did not feel kindly toward Maud, or indeed anyone else; she felt tense and on edge.

  In part this was because two separate matters pressed in upon her and divided her energies. Constance never liked that. She was always happiest when her mind could focus with perfect clarity on one course, when all her willpower could be directed to one end. Today, she had come here with just such a purpose in view: She would see Montague Stern, and she would behave in such a way that the indifference in his gaze when he looked at her would vanish forever.

  That had been her purpose when she entered this drawing room, but more than half an hour had passed—time in which she had been forced to listen to Conrad Vickers’s inanities. Constance was beginning to believe that she would be thwarted yet again, that Sir Montague might not even appear.

  Whereupon her mind, with a facility that infuriated her, began to dart off at a tangent. It began to dwell instead upon the quite separate matter of her maid, Jenna.

  Jenna was not well: Constance had been aware of that fact for weeks, but the excitement of the ball and its aftermath, her plans for Montague Stern, had diverted her. Today, when Jenna came to help her dress for this tea party, she had looked so ill that Constance could no longer ignore it. Jenna’s normally contented expression had gone; her eyes were puffy, as if from lack of sleep, or weeping; her manner was silent and distracted.

  Constance, alerted by this change, watched her. She already knew a great deal more about Jenna’s affairs than her maid ever suspected. It was torture to Constance to think there might be other secrets to which she did not have access. Jenna still wrote to Acland, for instance, and must receive some replies; Constance knew that. At least she deduced that, for on three occasions, following at a discreet distance, she had observed Jenna make a pilgrimage: out of Park Street, down to the post office at Charing Cross Station. There she would post a letter and collect one from one of the nu
mbered boxes. Such letters, Constance concluded, could come from only one person; anyone writing openly to Jenna would have written to the house.

  Discovering this, Constance had been impatient to know more: Why did Jenna write, and why did Acland reply? Was their affair over, as she had believed and Acland had confirmed? If it was over, why continue to write? At times, speculating upon this, Constance ached with a most painful curiosity.

  Once or twice the temptation was so strong that she almost gave in. Jenna must hide these letters somewhere, and there was at least the possibility that Constance could find them. Yet something held her back. She could imagine Acland’s disdain, his contempt—to creep into a servant’s room … No, tempted though she was, for once Constance could not do it. How moral I have become! she thought to herself, and she glanced toward the door to see if Stern had yet made an appearance.

  He had not. Conrad Vickers continued to discuss his tiresome photographs, and how daring they were.

  “So, I posed Constance on a bier,” he was saying. He gave an adoring glance in her direction, which Constance knew meant nothing at all; Vickers was immune to the attractions of women.

  “Then—and this was the piece de resistance—I put one white rose in her hands. Well, I wanted to use a lily, but Constance hates lilies. Anyway, the rose looked very well. She looked like Juliet on her tomb. No—rather more dangerous than Juliet. That divine hawklike profile of yours, Connie dear! It was positively perturbing.”

  “I can’t see why you should want Constance to look like a corpse,” remarked one of the young officers with a chilly glance in Vickers’s direction.

  Vickers raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Hardly,” he squeaked. “Connie looked magnificently alive—just as she always does. I’m not taking family snaps to stand on the piano, you know. The whole point is to make a statement. The essence of Connie—that was what I was after. Not a likeness—any fool could do that.”

  “Yes, but why make her look dead?” The young officer, perhaps more experienced than Vickers in matters of mortality, was not to be repressed.

  “Not dead—deadly. A femme fatale,” Vickers replied on a note of triumph, for he loved nothing so much as explaining the obvious to the philistines.