‘And sell the house?’
‘I will talk to my husband again. I will talk to Prosper. I will do what I can. However ...’ she reached out a hand towards Guy, who clasped hers ‘... however, I must tell you that I don’t hold out much hope. Business is business, and when it comes to figures the Martyns and Heerings have few human sympathies. I know that now.’
13
Roger sat in the gracious drawing-room where he had first been introduced to Prosper and, indeed, his whole new life at the age of twelve, thirteen years before. After a brief fit of pique, when Lally revealed she was his mother, he had taken a flat in Pimlico, but he soon moved back. By now he was used to servants and the pleasure of being looked after. In a bachelor flat he missed too many of the good things in life to which he had become accustomed.
He had now lived in the house in Montagu Square for longer than he’d lived in the small, overcrowded house in Kentish Town, but he still dreamed about the place, and his memories of it were as vivid as when he had been that small urchin boy who wiped his nose on the back of his finger.
Thirteen years, and now that same undernourished scrap of a boy was on the verge of being made a junior partner in a firm of international stature and reputation, about to be married to a girl whose father was a knight and an admiral.
Roger wore a grey suit made by Prosper’s Saville Row tailors, a blue shirt from a shop in Jermyn Street, and a pearl-grey tie with a pearl tie-pin his mother had given him for his twenty-first birthday. He looked, and he felt, the quintessential young man about town; only he was more. He was a businessman who was not only the heir to a fortune – two, if one counted that of his wife – but he was in line to succeed Prosper and Julius as head of the huge Martyn-Heering combine. He had specialised in finance, the purchase of bonds and the transfer of stocks and shares; he was an acknowledged expert in the Far Eastern money market. Quite an achievement for a man whose formal education had not begun until he was twelve. Life, indeed, looked very rosy. Or rather, it should have looked rosy.
On his lap was the cat Coral, who had first welcomed him when he had come to Montagu Square. In the imperious way that cats have, her greeting had at first been rather frosty, as though she sensed that his dubious origins meant he had possibly more in common with an alley cat than with a well-bred tabby such as herself.
But after that, love had grown, and from being Lally’s cat Coral became exclusively Roger’s, utterly and completely devoted to him. His solely, to spoil and love.
Coral was now an old cat who had all the grace and dignity of a dowager. She came down the stairs with caution, as though a touch of arthritis had begun to stiffen her bones. Sometimes she had to be helped onto Roger’s knee, her spring not quite what it was. But her silky, lustrous coat, lovingly tended by Roger, was just the same, and that look of disdain in her eyes only turned to hero-worship when she gazed at Roger.
Roger’s long hand lay on Coral’s back and he was murmuring to her in the language only they understood, when the door opened and Prosper came in, a bundle of letters in his hand.
‘Ah, Roger.’ His eyes lit up with pleasure. ‘I wanted to talk to you, my dear boy.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’ Roger, with his hand still on Coral, gazed imperturbably at him.
‘The rehearsal for the wedding.’ Prosper sat opposite his nephew and consulted a paper in his hand. ‘It is scheduled for next Tuesday, but that is the day we have called the board meeting to have you elected a partner. Now, which is the more important? Which shall we change?’
‘Change the rehearsal,’ Roger said without hesitation, picking up Coral and giving her a hug, whereupon he placed her tenderly in the centre of the sofa. He then went over to the fireplace and gazed at himself in the large ornate mirror over the mantelpiece, stroking the silky moustache he had recently grown.
In the background, Prosper chuckled.
‘First things first, eh? Business before pleasure.’
‘Oh definitely, Uncle. Call the rehearsal for the morning and the board-meeting for the afternoon.’
‘There will be a lunch.’ Prosper frowned at the cat, who had started scratching the sofa. ‘I think the board-meeting in the morning, then lunch. The rehearsal, perhaps, the following day. Would you see if it will suit Emma?’
‘Oh, it will suit her,’ Roger said casually, gazing at Coral.
‘I wish you’d stop allowing that cat to scratch the furniture, Roger,’ his uncle said a little testily. ‘That sofa is Pompadour.’
‘That’s why she likes it,’ Roger said, going across to unfasten the cat’s claws, then returning to the mirror to continue his self-appraisal. ‘She has such good taste.’
‘Now then, Roger.’ Prosper gave a slightly nervous laugh. ‘I wish your mother would take the damn thing to Dorset, together with that wretched baby ...’
‘Come, come, Uncle.’ Roger looked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘In the first place, Coral is mine, and she will come with me to Eaton Square. And “wretched” baby ... really, Uncle. How can you say that of your adopted son?’
‘Your mother is quite absurd.’ Prosper’s tone was churlish. ‘How do we know where it comes from? What its antecedents are? It might have inherited defects. How can we tell?’
Prosper persisted in referring to his newly adopted son as 'it' as if to distance himself from it.
‘Well, it seems perfectly healthy.’ Roger languidly ran a finger along his fine blond moustache. Yes, he thought, it gave him character, made him look older, sagacious and responsible. It would be sure to impress the board.
‘How does Emma like your moustache?’ Prosper looked with interest at Roger’s face in the mirror.
‘Who knows?’
‘Haven’t you asked her?’
‘Why should I?’ Roger seemed surprised by the question. ‘Whether I have a moustache or not has nothing to do with Emma. Frankly, I rather like it.’
Prosper crossed one leg over the other. He too was in grey, but wore a winged collar and cravat, and a double-breasted waistcoat with his morning-coat. He was a Victorian, and still wore formal dress to the office.
‘Roger, far be it from me to ask,’ he began diffidently, ‘but when I was first in love with your mother I was most concerned to know what she thought about me. Indeed I still am. Are you sure of your affections for Emma?’
Roger finished his self-inspection in a leisurely manner and then, turning to face Prosper, put his hands in his pockets.
‘And if I am not? After all, it was you who practically forced the engagement on me.’
‘I was merely asking. It is not a good thing to marry someone one does not love. There is no need for it. In your case, none at all. I imagined you needed a little push; there was no force, I assure you. But if you are not in love, do not love her at all, it can lead to all sorts of trouble later on.’
‘But if I withdrew now, Uncle, would you like the publicity that a possible breach of promise case brought in the courts might cause? The cancellation of the wedding? What an uproar!’
‘My dear boy,’ Prosper continued in deep earnestness, ‘I would prefer it to a lifetime of misery for you and for the girl, who I really like.’
‘Oh, I shan’t be miserable,’ Roger said offhandedly. ‘And I shall try not to make Emma miserable. I assure you, I shall do my best to make her happy. I think she will be, she already is. As for love ...’ he shrugged his shoulders ‘... frankly, I’m surprised you place such high store on it where marriage is concerned ...’
‘But I adored your mother ...’ Prosper protested.
‘Oh, I’m not for a moment suggesting you did not. Far from it, and I believe you took your time about popping the question.’ (Roger in fact knew that Prosper had lived for years with his mistress before proposing to her.) ‘Yours, in fact, is one of the truly happy marriages I know, or was until the advent of Alexander which banished Mother to the country.’
Prosper put his finger to his mouth and began to gnaw a nail.
‘I confess I was angry, maybe a little unjust. Your mother is the kindest of people ... But to take an urchin off the street ... At first I couldn’t understand her.’
Roger returned to the chair facing his uncle, and Coral took a leap from the sofa onto his lap again, where she settled down happily. Once more one of Roger’s long, elegant hands began rhythmically to caress her back.
‘Was I not an urchin off the street, Uncle Prosper?’
‘Certainly not,’ Prosper snapped. ‘You were your mother’s child and she knew who you were, and had kept an eye on you.
‘After abandoning me ...’
‘She did not abandon you, Roger. I’m surprised to hear you say that. You don’t know how hard those early years were for her. She was the one who was abandoned and at her wits’ end, and she placed you with the Mountjoy family, who were known to her through her maid.’
‘Her maid!’ Roger said scathingly. ‘And when at last she married you, why did you not take me out of that wretched place?’ In the last few seconds Roger’s tone had hardened.
‘We did not marry for some time, Roger.’ Prosper sounded nervous, as well he might, wondering how to explain a basic situation with delicacy. ‘To begin with, as you know, I protected your mother ...’
‘Knowing nothing about me?’
‘No.’
‘So that must have been a shock?’
‘It was. It was a shock.’ Prosper got out his handkerchief and passed it over his upper lip with a hand that trembled slightly.
‘You knew nothing about me, and yet you adopted me?’
‘I knew quite a lot about you. For example, that you were Lally’s son ...’ He paused. ‘Roger, why are you putting me through all this?’
‘Did you know, in that case, who my father was?’
The question was so unexpected that it took Prosper completely unawares; his mouth sagged.
‘I ... er ...’
‘You do know who my father is, don’t you, Uncle Prosper?’ Roger’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was not some man my mother met on the street, as has been suggested ...’
‘Oh come, that was never suggested.’
‘Oh come,’ Roger mimicked his uncle’s tone, ‘I know that at one time my mother was no better than she should have been, no ordinary dancer ... A prostitute, shall we say?’
‘Really!’ Prosper stood up and threw the letters he had retained in his hand onto a table. ‘I find this conversation deeply distasteful, Roger.’
‘Nevertheless –’ Roger also stood up and put his hands in his pockets, apparently still at ease ‘– it is the truth, and high time we spoke of it. The trouble is that in this household there have only ever been half-truths, or downright lies. It is not “nice” to ask and, for so many years, I was so afraid of being sent back to Kentish Town that I never dared question my origins. But whatever happened made my mother feel so guilty that when she found an urchin on her doorstep, instead of packing it off to a foundlings’ home as anyone else would have done, she took it in and gave it a home. Maybe the plight of baby Alexander reminded her of me.’
‘I think it did,’ Prosper murmured. ‘There is no doubt that your mother was reminded of the similar situation, though in fact there was no comparison. Your father was a gentleman, there’s no doubt about that, and had your mother been able to keep you she would most certainly have done so.’
‘Ah!’ Roger held up a hand. ‘An admission. My father was “a gentleman”. You know who, don’t you?’
Prosper was silent.
‘You do know who, Uncle Prosper,’ Roger said accusingly. ‘Who now is this fine gentleman who failed to support my mother, and thus condemned me to twelve years of poverty and deprivation when I was certainly not brought up as the son of a gentleman? Oh no. How I would like to exchange those twelve years of hardship for the life that he undoubtedly had. My God, if I knew who my father was now I should like to make him suffer!’
‘You will not be surprised, then, that we do not tell you.’
Prosper had never seen this aspect of Roger, and he was shocked by it. All he had ever seen was a boy, then a man, who had done all he could to fit in, to conform, trying hard to please, and succeeding. Who had worked hard not only at school but in the business, where he had mastered the intricacies of money and commerce not only skilfully, but with ease. People had a high regard for his expertise.
Roger had set out to charm, and he had succeeded; to be obedient, dutiful, everything that one could expect of a son. Indeed, he had been better than most sons. It occurred to Prosper, who had never been a father, that for all those years Roger had behaved very much as though he were his son, and as the mask fell off and the bitterness was exposed, Prosper realised how insecure he really was, how much he had suffered.
Roger, clearly disturbed now by his outburst, began furiously to stroke Coral who, unperturbed by the commotion, settled herself more comfortably on his lap.
‘I apologise, Uncle,’ he said softly. ‘I let my emotions get the better of me. I did not mean to. You have been very good to me, very kind, the best father one could have hoped for. You have given me every chance and I believe you have loved me.’
‘I do love you, Roger,’ Prosper said earnestly, ‘as much as if you were my own son. Believe me, I have done all I could to blot out the memories of those wretched early days from your impressionable mind, but I have obviously not succeeded, because today you showed me a very bitter man.
‘But you have succeeded, Uncle, you truly have.’ Roger nodded his head several times up and down. ‘You have been more than one could have wished. It is simply that in my heart, at times, I did feel bitter. I would like very much, one day, to know who my father is ... I promise you,’ he held up a hand, ‘there would be no reproaches, no violence. I would just like to know, and now that I am to be married I think I have a right to know.’
Prosper came and sat beside Roger and took his hand in his. ‘I am sorry, Roger, but I can’t tell you who your father is, except that he was a gentleman of whom you would not be ashamed. His desertion of your mother was caused by circumstances beyond his control, and I have reason to think he regretted it. His family came to hear of it and a stop was put to the affair abruptly. But it all happened a long time ago. Such a long time ago now.'
‘Is he still alive?’
‘I’m afraid, again, I can’t say. You see, I don’t feel a free agent in this matter. It is your mother’s prerogative to tell you the truth.’
Roger’s hand remained in Prosper’s, but he felt drained of all emotion, of all hatred, all desire for revenge. The only creature he truly loved in the world was his cat. Only she spoke to him, and only she had awakened in him feelings of altruistic love. The rest of his heart remained empty and barren. He had no emotions, no feelings. Even his soul was cold, like the tundra untouched by human footsteps.
Sometimes he felt he was the unhappiest man alive, because when he really tried to look into the innermost recesses of his being, he found only emptiness.
He hated himself; he felt confused. Far from being the happy bridegroom, he sometimes felt that he was entering a long, long tunnel without light at the end.
***
‘And by the power invested in me by God, I pronounce you man and wife.’
A collective sigh rose from the congregation, the organ crashed out and Roger turned to Emma and kissed her on the cheek.Then they were joined by their respective parents and went to sign the register. Afterwards, hands entwined, they turned to face the packed congregation as man and wife, and began the slow march up the aisle to the doors, which had been flung wide open.
The pews on either side were packed with the smiling faces of people invited from all sections of society, the business world, the professions and the arts. Right at the back, out of sight, were two pews filled with estate workers from the Martyn house in Dorset, and a sprinkling of employees from the Martyn-Heering London offices, including Fred, spruce in a new suit.
It was April, and the
sun shone. The bells pealed forth and the crowd of onlookers gathered at the gate began to throw confetti. The official photographer was there with his camera and tripod, and there were a couple from the newspapers. It wasn’t the wedding of the year, but it was an important social occasion. The guests began to stream out of the church, to gather behind the happy couple while the bride and groom paused for photographs, first alone and then with Lally and Prosper on one side, Admiral and Lady Hill on the other. Everyone looked almost unbelievably happy.
A huge Silver Phantom Rolls-Royce took the newly-weds off to a reception at the Savoy, and the rest of the guests followed by various means: car, cab and carriage.
Such a large party took some time to reassemble in the ballroom overlooking the river. The bride and groom, the bride’s parents, Lally and Prosper stood for an hour in the receiving line, greeting the guests.
By any standards Emma looked the part of the bride. A good bone-structure, a pretty mouth and, although her expression was naturally haughty, it was softened by the sparkle in her violet-blue eyes. Her fair hair was caught up by her veil and the tiara that was her parents’ gift to the bride. Her wedding dress, made entirely of lace, was cut to accentuate her slim body, her pointed breasts. Next to her wedding-ring was the cluster of amethysts Roger had given her for their engagement; flawless jewels imported by the Martyn-Heering concern and set in pure platinum. She carried a small bouquet of roses, freesias and camellias grown in the greenhouse of her family home.
She was nineteen, six years younger than Roger, but she looked older. She looked poised, mature, even serene, and all the men thought how lucky Roger was, and the ladies envied her.
Beautifully-gowned women passed along the line, escorted by men in grey morning-suits, pearl-grey cravats and spats. There was a sprinkling of Far Eastern businessmen and diplomats dressed in exotic Oriental garb, their ladies gorgeously attired in rare silks fashioned into beautiful dresses and saris, according to the custom of their countries.
Connie followed Miss Fairchild around like a lamb its mother sheep. She knew she was totally out of place amid all the glamour, and was sorry she’d come. Her first instinct had been to refuse, but Aunt Vicky had been horrified. In the first place she had not wished to travel to London alone and, secondly, not everyone in Wenham had received an invitation to The Wedding. To have refused would have been foolish, out of the question. Besides, ‘It would never do to offend the Woodvilles’ was the argument that clinched the matter.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 25