‘All in good time. But don’t, I beg, let yourself get in too deep before we know more about the girl. I tremble to think what your mother will say when she learns I have let you involve yourself with a young woman who is wandering about Germany, in these times, with no better chaperon than a male cousin of mixed birth and dubious antecedents.’
‘But that is not the case at all. Surely I have told you that she has her other cousin with her, too. A widowed lady of the most unimpeachable respectability, a Mrs Barrymore.’ And then, alarmed: ‘What is it, Giles? Not one of your attacks?’
‘No, no, nothing to signify.’ He was very white under the tan he had acquired on their journey. ‘Mrs Barrymore, you say? I knew a family of that name, many years ago, when I was at Cambridge. No connection, of course. As for her “unimpeachable respectability,” I’ll believe that when I see it.’
‘Then you will let me introduce you to them?’
‘I suppose I must. I confess I should like to know precisely what your Mr Vincent was doing in Switzerland. You spend a good deal of time with him, do you not?’
‘Theirs is the pleasantest house in Frankfurt. I wish you would let me take you to visit them.’
‘I am beginning to think I should. The play there is very high, they tell me. Stewart was grumbling the other day about the sums he had lost there.’
‘Charles Stewart is a fool.’
‘I did not say he was a wise man. I said he had lost considerable sums at cards, at the house of these friends of yours.’
‘I hope he did not suggest there was anything out of the line about their play.’
‘Gently, Philip, gently. No, I have heard no hint that the play there is not everything that it should be—only, it seems, they are very skilled players. “The devil’s own luck,” Charles Stewart calls it. “And a face like an angel.” Rather a public sort of an angel, surely, Philip?’
‘Sir, she is the only woman I shall ever love.’
‘You have loved at least half a dozen since you left the university, to my certain knowledge. Are they so soon forgotten?’
‘You won’t understand! This is different; entirely different. I want to marry Miss von Hugel; to care for her, protect her.’
‘You think her, then, in need of protection?’
‘No, no! Why will you keep twisting my words? If you had only ever been in love, you would understand.’
‘You are so sure that I have not?’
‘How could you have? Your sister is the only woman in your life; always has been; always will be. No wonder if you do not understand what I feel, what I suffer… Only, come and see her. Then, perhaps…’
‘Perhaps I shall understand what it is to love? Very well, when shall we go? They keep open house, do they not, these friends of yours?’
‘And why not? You yourself have often said how tedious this masculine society is, with its dinners, its overeating and hard drinking. You will find nothing of that at Charles Vincent’s. It is a most genteel establishment; nothing that even Elinor could fault.’
‘Those are strong words, Philip.’
‘I intend them to be. But—when shall we go?’
‘Tonight, if you like. But I do not promise to play cards with these paragons of yours. For there are two of them, are there not? Did you not say—a Mrs Barrymore?’
‘Yes, Sonia’s cousin and chaperone. A most delightful person; you cannot help but like her.’
‘A widow, you said?’
‘Yes, a tragic case. Married practically out of the nursery—and widowed at Trafalgar. She’s been with Miss von Hugel ever since. Can’t be a day over thirty—less, very likely. Sorrow’s ageing, of course. Twenty-eight, maybe. Striking-looking woman. I rather hope her sorrows are over: Charles Vincent’s very much attached, or I miss my guess. Stands to reason. Why else would he submit to petticoat government as he does? I mean, if they were his sisters it would be different, but cousins…’
‘Well, I shall look forward to meeting them. In the meantime, I have work to do.’
‘And I must have a word with that man of mine. Do you know, he had the effrontery to suggest, this morning, that I spoil too many cravats? Something about a shortage of starch—I am seriously considering getting rid of him.’
Denbigh laughed. ‘War’s terrible, isn’t it, Philip?’
It was unlucky that Charles Vincent chose that evening to bring in a very lively group of young Russian officers on leave whom he had encountered over dinner at Frankfurt’s best inn. Elizabeth had been far from pleased at their merry arrival, and indeed her first instinct had been to retreat upstairs with Sonia and leave Charles to entertain them. But it was hard to resist their delight in encountering two ‘real ladies,’ as one of them put it with the formidable frankness of the drunk. And they had so obviously made an effort to pull themselves back into sobriety when they saw what kind of a house they had come to… She ordered coffee and hoped for the best.
They soon settled down to two tables of whist, and Elizabeth, at her embroidery, congratulated herself on the sobering effect of concentration on the cards. She returned, however, from a brief absence, to find that Charles Vincent had sent for wine and was pressing his guests to abandon their coffee cups and let him fill their glasses instead. This made her angry on many counts. She had no doubt these handsome, well-cared-for boys could afford to lose their money, and, indeed, were much safer here than if Vincent had left them on the town. But—she never liked to see it happen. Nor did she like the part Sonia played. Worst of all, she had noticed Vincent’s habit of working casual allusions to the progress of the Allied armies into the conversation on such occasions. Busy with their cards, muddled with what they had drunk, his guests were all too likely to give a careless answer to what seemed a careless question. Where were these answers reported? She did not know, and blamed herself both for wondering and for not trying to find out.
Today, she had had enough. She put down her embroidery and moved over to Sonia’s table. A hand had just finished; the moment was opportune. Sonia and her partner were being congratulated by their opponents on their run of luck.
‘Luck, nothing,’ said the fair young man who had partnered Sonia. ‘Where did you learn to play, sweetheart? You’re a m…m…miracle.’ He pronounced the word with drunken dignity, though in the fluent French they all talked.
‘I’ve played all my life.’ Sonia was carelessly collecting the cards for a new deal when Elizabeth intervened.
‘It is getting late,’ she said, ‘and you know we promised ourselves an early night. I am sure these gentlemen will excuse us, my love.’
A babble of protests countered this suggestion. ‘What, stop before the luck turns?’ ‘You cannot be so cruel!’ Worst of all, Sonia’s partner, elated with wine and success, put out a long arm to pull Elizabeth towards him: ‘The first ladies we’ve seen since home’—he was maudlin now—‘and they want to run away and leave us.’
‘Sir!’ But he was beyond caring for her anger, and the next appeal followed close on the first: ‘Charles!’
This was the moment when their servant flung open the door and announced, ‘Lord Denbigh, Mr Haverton.’
It could hardly have been worse. The scene that met Denbigh’s eyes might have come from some Hogarthian ‘Card Sharper’s Progress.’ Close to the door, Elizabeth had her back to it, but there was no mistaking her angry attempts to free herself. While Haverton looked on, appalled, and Vincent hurried across the room, Denbigh acted. His iron hand fell on the young Russian’s shoulder. Gasping in sudden pain, he released Elizabeth who turned to face her rescuer.
‘Lord Denbigh!’ Her face was white as the cards on the table.
He too was suddenly white. ‘Miss Barrymore!’ And then, on a note of extraordinary bitterness: ‘I beg your pardon. I believe I should say, “Mrs Barrymore.”’
‘Oh, God, Giles!’ There was a note in her voice that Sonia had never heard before. She would have said more, but now the whole room was in confusion. Everyo
ne talked at once. Vincent and the oldest Russian had converged upon her tormentor and were demanding that he apologise; someone knocked over a chair; someone else dropped a glass; Philip Haverton seized the opportunity to take Sonia’s hand.
‘Gentlemen.’ It was Denbigh’s voice, not Vincent’s, which suddenly commanded silence. ‘You will apologise to these ladies, and leave, at once.’
Contrite silence. Then the Russian who had knocked over the chair picked it up again; the one who had broken the glass began a long apology to Sonia, while Elizabeth’s molester broke, in his shame, into rapid unintelligible Russian.
‘That will do.’ Once again Denbigh’s voice dominated the room, and the Russians filed sheepishly out, escorted by Vincent, who spared only one look, eloquent of apology, for Elizabeth. ‘And now,’ Denbigh spoke impartially to Philip and Sonia, ‘I should like a word with Mrs Barrymore—alone.’
‘But—’ Elizabeth’s protest was swept aside.
‘There is a piano, I see, in the next room. I am sure you perform delightfully, Miss von Hugel. And Haverton, here, would like nothing better than to turn the pages for you. Shut the door behind you, Philip.’ And then, as they retreated: ‘A little late in the day, surely, to be coming the heavy chaperone?’
She had sunk into a chair, but threw back her head to give him look for look. ‘And a little late in the day, too, for you to come back into my life.’
‘I was told you were dead.’
‘By your father, I suppose. Or that sister who loved me so dearly. And you believed them, of course, implicitly.’
‘Why not? I was ill, you know, for a long time after my father found us that day. When I recovered, my first thought was to write to you. My letters were returned, unopened.’
‘Who franked them for you, I wonder? Did you really think they would reach me? But I was just as foolish. I went on expecting to hear from you…’
‘You consoled yourself soon enough.’
‘Consoled?’
‘By marrying your cousin. Did I ever have the pleasure of meeting him? My condolences, by the way, on your bereavement’
‘My—’ she paused. ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘And I’—he was still standing over her, his hand taut on the back of her chair—‘I have allowed myself the luxury of faithfulness all these years. Faithfulness to a memory as false as’—he broke off and took a rapid turn up and down the room. ‘I have no right to say it. Forgive me. It is all a very long time ago. What I cannot understand is the situation in which I now find you. You—proud Miss Barrymore (I beg your pardon: Mrs Barrymore)—to find you running a gambling den—perhaps worse. Tell me, what are your plans, yours and your friend Vincent’s?’ No mistaking his accent on the word ‘friend.’ ‘Did you really think there was the slightest chance I would let my cousin marry that pretty little piece in there? Or do you intend blackmail? I take it money must be an object with you. I cannot believe that you—the Elizabeth I remember—you cannot like this kind of life. Why did you not apply to me for help, if it is merely a question of money?’
‘Apply to you?’ While he was talking, her anger had had time to cool and crystallise; now she spoke with a deceptive calm. ‘To you, who let your father take you away, that day, without a murmur, without an attempt at resistance? To you—who never, so far as I knew, made an attempt to see me again? Do you remember what your last words were, before you collapsed: “When I am twenty-one, I will come back.” It was not a long time, you know. I waited—but, as you say, that is ancient history, why talk of it now? When we were young, and romantic, and a little wild, perhaps, we thought we would find a new world, and happiness together. It was a dream, no more. Look at you now: Lord Denbigh, the courtier, the diplomat, the successful man. And you might have thrown it all away, for me, who am—what you see. I hope you are duly grateful to your father and sister for saving you. Indeed I can see that you are, since your first instinct is to do the same for Philip Haverton. But I think you can spare your pains in that regard. I doubt if Miss von Hugel would have him, even if he had twice your fortune. He may be your cousin, Lord Denbigh; he is still a very silly, vain young man. Sonia’s worth two of him, and, I hope, knows it. Leave him alone; he’ll get over it. And now, I do not think that we have anything else to say to each other. Allow me to wish you a very good evening.’ She rose with a rustle of satin and held out her hand. ‘I hope we shall not meet again.’
‘Elizabeth!’
‘Mrs Barrymore, you mean, who consoled herself so easily. I wonder if you ever thought what it was like, for me. Of course—you were ill, unconscious. I did not have that comfort. Would you like, just for a moment, to think of my journey home, across England, alone, unprotected?’
‘Unprotected? But my father said—’
‘And naturally you believed him. As you did when he told you I was dead. Are you still so credulous? Is it safe for you to be engaged on a diplomatic mission?’
He gave an angry half laugh. ‘You’ll be amused, ma’am, to learn that is precisely what my sister said.’
‘Your loving sister? Does she still run your life for you? What a fool I was—what a childish fool to think I could detach you from so powerful an influence. Oh, I hoped, I suppose, for a while, or pretended to myself that I hoped. But all the time, in my heart of hearts, I knew—you did not really want to break away, to give it all up. If you had—you’d have come back to me. I’ve thought of it so often, when I read of your career, your first appearance in the Lords, even your twenty-first birthday celebrations. Did you think of me at all that day? Did you think, “I promised I would go to her today?” Or did you think, “What a lucky escape?” It was my fault, I expect. I was so sure of myself, wasn’t I? I was going to save you from your sister’s dominance—and dominate you myself. Was that what you thought—if you thought of me at all?’
‘I tell you: I thought you dead.’
‘Of course. “When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray—” Only I didn’t even have the common decency to die. I believe I owe you an apology for being alive.’
‘And a widow. I never married.’
‘Of course not. Your sister would not let you.’ And then, impulsively: ‘Oh, forgive me. I should not say these things.’
‘Why not? If you think them. I am only sorry to find you have thought so ill of me, all these years. I wish you had written—’
‘Again? After having my first letter returned? Allow me to have some pride. It’s all I have had—’ She stopped for a moment. ‘It’s all ancient history now—forgotten, unimportant, is it not? Forgive me if I have said anything to offend you. After all, we were friends, once.’ And then, on a note of relief: ‘Ah, Charles, there you are. Did you get rid of the poor young things without bloodshed?’
Charles Vincent closed the door behind him. ‘Oh yes, we are the best of friends again. They send you so many apologies that I have quite lost count: their first leave since the campaign began; the excitement of ladies’ company at last—and such charming ladies… I am afraid they will call on you in the morning, to apologise again, in person. I am only sorry, sir, that you have had such an unlucky introduction to our house.’
‘Lord Denbigh is just leaving.’ Elizabeth did not give him a chance to speak. ‘Perhaps you would summon Mr Haverton who will doubtless wish to accompany him.’
‘Of course. Sonia’s making a terrible hash of “O Giove omnipotente” anyway. I don’t know how Mr Haverton can bear it.’
‘I expect love is deaf as well as blind.’ Her eyes challenged Denbigh. ‘I have been telling Lord Denbigh that he need have no fears for his ward in our house. I don’t promise he won’t lose a little money, but he will not run into debt, as he might elsewhere. Nor into any other trouble, if I can help it.’
‘If you mean Sonia, I don’t think she cares a snap of the fingers for him.’ He opened the door of the music room. ‘Sonia! That is enough. One more of your high notes and I shall start caterwauling too. Lord Denbigh is
just leaving. Come and make your curtsy.’
‘You speak as if I was a child.’ She came pouting into the room, her looks a brilliant mirror of Haverton’s admiration. ‘Elizabeth, tell him I’m not a baby anymore.’
‘I can tell you that,’ said Denbigh. ‘You are far too beautiful. And I thought you sang divinely. Come, Philip, we must be going.’
Chapter Seven
Sonia’s curiosity was as inevitable as it was hard to bear. ‘Fancy you knowing Lord Denbigh!’ She was sitting on Elizabeth’s bed, much later that night. ‘And you never said a word about it, you strange creature. He’s not half so high in the instep as I had heard; a little fierce when he arrived, of course, but that was to be expected. Lord, what a scene that was!’ She had obviously enjoyed it. ‘I’ve never been so surprised in my life as when he sent us off to the music room like that. Philip went meek as a lamb, did you notice? But what on earth could he have wanted to say to you, Elizabeth, and behind closed doors, too? Come, tell; I’m dying of curiosity. If you tell me, I promise I won’t breathe a word to a soul. If you don’t, I shall do my best to find out. Do you know what they call him—Denbigh, I mean? Philip told me: “The Unattainable.” All the girls in London are after him, Philip says, have been for years, and not so much as a nibble. I couldn’t understand it when Philip talked about him. I mean: I ask you, past thirty and subject to dizzy attacks. It hardly sounds the most romantic thing in the world, does it? But now I’ve met him, I can understand it all. Don’t you think there’s something very attractive about an older man? So masterful, so completely the gentleman. He made Charles and Philip look like a couple of boys on their promotion.’
‘Sonia, you must not speak of them by their Christian names. How many times am I to tell you?’
If she had hoped to deflect Sonia, she was disappointed ‘Oh, very well, Miss Prudence.’ And then, with a wicked laugh: ‘But you’re a fine one to be preaching at me. All alone for a half-an-hour tête-à-tête with the gentleman—and The Unattainable, at that! Be grateful the three of us are so discreet or you’d not have a shred of reputation left.’
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