by Phillip Rock
“Oh, yes, but it was difficult to concentrate on the fruits of mammon. I found myself yearning for Saturday and four days of gracious living in company with a particularly beautiful lady.” He kissed her hand again, let go of it, and patted her knee. “And lo, it came to pass.”
“I think it was clever of you, Noel, to sneak four days.”
“Not sneak, my dear—demand.”
He settled back against the seat as the car pulled sedately away from the railway station. He felt blissfully content and very happy to be out of London. It had been a hectic week with signs of far more hectic ones to come. The financial world was in a state of flux that verged on the chaotic. Strikes in the Welsh coal mines, anarchy and civil war in Ireland, the crushing war debt were just a few of the ingredients in a pot that refused to stop boiling. And the French were not helping matters to simmer down. Their new premier, Poincaré, was determined to fly in the face of British and American opposition by tightening the screws on Germany another notch or two. Squeezing Germany until “the pips squeaked” was all very well when Lloyd George had said it during the heat of victory, but he had soon changed his mind. No one with a sense of history or a basic understanding of economics would deliberately drive a nation as large as Germany into bankruptcy and despair. International finance and trade were always in a perilous state of balance at the best of times. To destroy one country in order to bolster another, as Monsieur Poincaré appeared to be trying to do, could only result in wrecking that delicate balance beyond hope of recovery.
France felt justification, of course. The devastated land, the wrecked industry, the appalling loss of blood. But that blood could not be returned to France by trying to squeeze it out of German stones. Reparation payments had never made any sense. The draining away of German gold had only succeeded in turning the mark into a bitter joke, from twenty to the pound sterling to nearly four thousand to the pound—and inflating daily. Rubbishly bits of paper. The million and one wires that tied one nation to another through trade and finance were being cut away or tangled into a hopeless knot. What was happening in Hamburg and Cologne was starting to be felt in Glasgow and Coventry—and stocks reflected it. His week had been spent in trying to explain to bewildered clients why their portfolios were steadily shrinking in value. It was gratifying to be spending the next few days among people who, although they might have worries, certainly had no financial ones.
He looked through the window at the dark fields and hedgerows flashing past. Good English land. That’s where the grand old families put the bulk of their wealth. Lord Stanmore as an example. Acres and acres of it, fields and farms and villages and more than just a few square blocks of London’s West End. No sinking values there. He patted Alexandra gently on the knee again—an affectionate touch without a trace of crass familiarity.
“It’s so good to be with you,” he said—and meant every word of it.
Candlelight gleamed softly on the long, highly polished walnut dining table. The footmen made their rounds with the silver salvers. The roast was carved. The wine decanted and poured.
“Well, Noel,” the earl said after the servants had left the room. “What do you think will happen in Ireland in this dogfight between the Republicans and the Dail?”
“No,” Hanna said with mock severity. “I forbid political discussions at dinner, if you don’t mind.”
“But that’s not politics, Hanna,” the earl said. “It’s more like war, if you ask me.”
“Neither war nor politics has a place at the table.” She smiled across at Noel. “Tell me, Noel, did your mother enjoy Spain?”
“Very much, Lady Hanna. Madrid was freezing, but Malaga was delightful.”
“Yes, Andalusia is wonderful this time of year.”
After dinner, there were port and cigars to be endured, and his opinion of the Irish situation to be aired and discussed, as well as other worldly matters, man to man—and then he was free to be alone with Alexandra.
They had demitasse and brandy in the library, seated side by side on a wide leather couch.
“I’m sure you must get rather bored down here in the country, Noel.”
“Bored? How could anyone be bored being with you?”
“Is my company that exciting?”
“It most certainly is to me.”
“Why exactly?”
He took a sip of brandy and then placed the glass on the table in front of them. “Because I feel such a sense of—completeness when I’m with you. It’s as though a part of me has always been missing until now. A hollow man. I never knew what caused that desolation until we met. It was love, Alexandra. I fell in love with you—an emotion I’d never felt before for any woman.” He turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s a moment like this when I wish I were a poet—to tell you how I feel. All I can say is that I love you very much.”
She smiled and touched the side of his face with her fingertips. “You do mean that, don’t you, Noel?”
Bending his head, he brushed his lips across the back of her wrist. “You know I do.”
They had kissed often during the past three months, but he felt a passion in her this time that surprised him. Her torso pressed against his and he eased her gently—oh, so gently—down on the couch. His fingers lightly touched the side of her right breast, a soft caress, the warmth of her flesh felt through the thin silk of her gown. Her mouth worked against his own and he fought against the urge to shift his hand to her legs. Gently … gently … He drew his head back and looked down at her closed eyes, her parted lips. He touched her eyelids.
“Dear Alexandra. If I only knew for certain.”
She opened her eyes and studied his face. “Knew what, Noel?”
“That you would consent to marry me.”
“You’d have to ask me to find out.”
He got onto his knees before her, praying that she would find the gesture romantic and not slightly ridiculous.
“Will you marry me, my darling?”
“Yes.” Her tone was thoughtful. “I think so, Noel.”
And that was that. She looked gravely at her image in the dressing-table mirror as she unpinned her long hair, knowing in her heart that she had not so much made a decision as drifted into one. It had certainly made Noel happy. Her upper arms were sore where he had gripped her, and her lips tender from his kisses. In the morning he would go through the formality of asking for her father’s permission and then they would be engaged. A June wedding, he felt, in London, Saint George’s, Hanover Square, with the reception at Claridge’s. A small wedding. Just family and a few friends.
She undressed and looked down at her body before slipping into her nightgown. Not exactly the perfect figure for 1922. More Peter Paul Rubens than John Held—the breasts too large, the hips too round. There were stretch marks across her abdomen from Colin. It had not been a difficult delivery, but he had been a large baby, over eight pounds. She had carried him high and had gained a great deal of weight. That weight was gone now, but it had left its marks—all to be revealed to Noel in June. And no one had ever held her naked except Robbie.
SHE AWOKE LATE after a deep, dreamless sleep and barely had time to dress and drink a cup of coffee before leaving for church service in Abingdon. She sat between her father and mother in the car, Noel on the jump seat facing her, smiling at her the whole way with a tiny we-share-a-secret smile. Her own smile felt forced and lacking in joy.
After the service, Noel and her father strolled off by themselves in the rectory gardens and she stood with her mother in front of the church.
“Noel is acting a little oddly this morning, isn’t he?” Hanna said.
“He has something to ask Papa.”
“Oh?”
“I told Noel last night that I’d marry him.”
Hanna’s relief and happiness could not be expressed in words. She hugged her daughter to her, oblivious to the glances of the other worshipers who were leaving the church.
“I hope I’m
doing the right thing,” Alexandra said.
Hanna gave her a final hug and stepped back. “But of course you are, dear. How could you doubt it? He’s a charming, exceedingly handsome man from a fine old Cheshire family. He’ll make a perfect husband. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me—and your father. We’re not exactly blind, you know. We’ve discussed the possibilities. Noel’s attraction to you has been obvious from the start.”
“Yes, I suppose it has.”
“Your father and I have even discussed the wedding gift. Something you could both enjoy. A London house, perhaps. In Belgravia or Mayfair.”
“I’m sure Noel would like that.”
“Nothing ostentatious. There are some charming smaller houses to be found near Belgrave Square or off South Audley Street.”
The two men joined them, both smiling, her father with an arm draped across Noel’s shoulder. All settled and done.
“So very pleased,” her father was saying, bending to kiss her cheek. “So very pleased for both of you.”
Going home in the car, the talk was of banns and announcements and the sheer mechanics of getting wed. She felt alien to the conversation. She had married Robbie in the front parlor of a justice’s house outside Toronto, and after the ceremony the justice’s wife had served them coffee and angel food cake. The justice’s wife had been eight months along also and they had discussed their various discomforts and mutual joys without the slightest trace of embarrassment.
The earl cooled a bottle of Dom Perignon, performing the ceremony of twirling the bottle in the ice bucket and popping the cork himself while Coatsworth stood by. A father’s privilege, he said, to pour champagne to bless his daughter’s engagement.
“To happiness,” he said, raising his glass.
“Happiness,” Alexandra murmured.
After lunch she walked with Noel along the terrace and then down the curving stone steps into the Italian gardens, the wild March wind shaking the topiarywork and bending the cypress.
“You seem very subdued, Alexandra.”
“Do I? Sorry. Just thinking, I suppose.”
“Not second thoughts, I hope.”
“No, of course not.”
He stopped walking and pulled her close, hands buried in the deep fur of her coat collar. “Now look here. I know what you’re thinking. But the past is over and done with. A clean slate from here on in. Mrs. Noel Rothwell. Although your father has made me the gracious offer of the family name. How does Mrs. Noel Greville-Rothwell sound to you?”
“Very nice. Quite melodic, in fact.”
“Yes,” he laughed, “it does trip lightly off the tongue. It will take me some time to get used to it. Noel Edward Allenby Greville-Rothwell. With a name like that I should stand for Parliament!” He kissed her impulsively on the lips. “Oh, Alexandra. I shall make you very, very happy.”
“As happy as yourself, Noel?”
“Happier, my dearest—if such a thing is possible.”
It had been, by any standard one cared to apply, a remarkable few days. From Sunday noon, when he had walked with her father into the rectory gardens, to Wednesday noon when she had seen him off to London at Godalming station, Noel had been thrust firmly into the bosom of the family with a gratitude that would have seemed puzzling to anyone not acquainted with the facts. She had made him aware of the facts—all of them—during a weekend in January. His second weekend stay at the house. They had walked down the drive to the gates and back, walking slowly while she talked. She had told him everything—her affair with Robin Mackendric in France during the war, and then of her decision to live with him in Canada. Of Robin’s efforts to get a divorce from his wife in Aberdeen, and of how the divorce had finally been granted and then made final shortly before Colin was born. Everything.
“I understand,” he said, holding her hand tightly.
Of course he did. He was an intelligent and perceptive man. She was—at least by the code of her father—slightly damaged goods. Noel Edward Allenby Rothwell understood that code very well, even if he himself did not consider it applicable in this day and age, and certainly not in the present circumstances.
“I understand perfectly, Alexandra, and I admire you greatly for telling me. It doesn’t lower my regard for you one iota. In fact, I must say, it makes me love you more.”
Love you … love you … love you …
She had no doubt that he loved her. And why not? She would bring a great many things into his life, Greville-Rothwell being just one of them.
Did she love him?
She pondered the question on the drive back to the house as she tried to visualize the type of life they would lead together. Very social. Small dinner parties in their London house—Belgravia, Noel thought; so many parvenus in Mayfair these days—and long weekends at the Pryory. He would hunt and go shooting with his friends and she would go shopping and have tea with hers. There would be jaunts to Paris and the south of France. Winter cruises to Greece and Egypt. A boarding school for Colin when he was eight or nine. Children of their own, no doubt. Noel was a strong, virile man. He would probably give her more sexual enjoyment in bed than Robbie, his thoughts always on some trying case or other, had been capable of giving. But Robbie had given her pleasure—pleasure in a thousand little ways that would have been impossible to explain to anyone. She did not experience that kind of intangible gladness around Noel. Perhaps she would in time. Perhaps she would feel a regard for him that would pass for love, but she didn’t love him now because she couldn’t find anything about him to love.
But did it matter? She had been in love, and that emotion could never be recaptured. It was something she would hold in her heart forever, secret and inviolate. Noel would, as her mother had said, make a good husband. She would make him a good wife. Not a marriage made in heaven, perhaps, but certainly one that could not be faulted. And one that pleased her parents. The distressing past all forgotten now. Their happiness showed and she felt a kind of peace—a sense of atonement.
She filled her days by walking. Poor Mary, who suffered terribly from bunions, was not up to walking along country roads and across fields. The elegant, high-wheeled pram so suitable for the gravel paths of Regent’s Park was totally useless at Abingdon, except on the terrace. And, besides, Colin balked at it now. He could walk along like a trooper on his sturdy little legs, flopping down when he was tired or holding up his arms to be carried. One of the grooms had devised a carrying sling for her from an old canvas rucksack. She could carry Colin in it, his legs dangling from the two holes in the bottom, the strap around her shoulder, and the baby riding comfortably against her hip.
She hiked to the top of Burgate Hill in that fashion, her son bouncing gently against her right hip, a light wicker basket in her left hand. When they reached the top, she put Colin down and let him wander among the daffodils and crocuses beginning to thrust up from the ground. She lay back in the grass to catch her breath and then opened the basket and took out the sandwiches and the vacuum bottle of milky tea that cook had prepared for them. They sat facing each other, eating the sandwiches and drinking the warm tea, and then Colin rolled onto his back with a cry and pointed toward the sky. “Mama! See! See! Mama, see! …”
She leaned back on her elbows, hearing it now, and saw the airplane sweep in and out of the great white clouds. It banked sharply—dived—looped—engine sound pulsing against the earth. Colin pressed his hands against his ears and squealed with delight. And then it was gone from overhead, flashing down toward the airfield at Blackworth’s five miles away.
“BY GOD,” SIR Angus cried, “I’m not a drinkin’ man, but, by God, I’m goin’ to get drunk tonight!”
Ross grinned at him. “I might just join you.”
The plane, a converted BFC-3, powered by the new Argo engine, taxied toward them, the pilot blipping the engine in triumph. When he cut the switch and the plane rolled to a stop, he jumped out, waved his arms like a madman, and ran toward them.
“Bloody fanta
stic! I can’t tell you—simply can’t!”
“Just simmer down, Gerald, and tell us all about it.”
“It’s a bloody marvel.” The pilot took off his leather flying helmet and grinned foolishly at Sir Angus. “Like being shot from a bloody cannon! I had her up to a hundred and sixty going over Guildford on the straight and level. Did you see me do that loop over Burgate Hill?”
“We did that,” Sir Angus said.
“Not a cough—not a miss. Talk about smooth as bloody silk!”
“When she’s refueled, take ’er up again. See how she does at twenty thousand feet.”
“No need. I had her at twenty-two thousand over Farnborough.” He tapped the notepad strapped to his leg. “Bloody fucking cold up there, but I’ll decipher my notes.”
“Good lad.” Sir Angus clapped him on the shoulder. “Go get yourself a cup of tea and a tot of rum.”
“Well,” Sir Angus said, watching the pilot hurry off toward the hangars, “we did it, by God. We did it, lad.”
“It looks like it.”
“I have an ear, Ross. I closed my eyes when he took off and just listened. I could tell by the sound we’d done it. I didn’t see him loop over the hill, I heard him loop. Not a beat lost—not a stroke. She’s a blinkin’ marvel, Ross.”
They walked across the tarmac to the plane and stood in front of the engine, looking up at it, inhaling the odor of hot oil and burnt petrol. The mountings on the plane had been adapted to fit the big engine. With its oversize cylinders and large manifolds, the engine made the slender plane look overburdened and front-heavy—but it had flown like a dream.
Sir Angus reached out and touched the propeller. “The only way, Ross. I don’t give dog turds for testin’ on the frames. Take ’em up is my way. See what they’ll do in the bleedin’ air. We done it, Ross. May just be the best air-cooled engine in the world.”
“I think so. Yes.”
“The point now is—the blinkin’ next problem is—gettin’ these brutes rollin’ off the line in quantity. I’ll need the first three to put on the Atlas. When I fly that plane for buyers with these engines on her, I’ll have more orders than I can fill. That means an extension of my credit line with Cox’s Bank. And that means more engine workers on the payroll. I’ll be able to have the first fifteen of your thirty crated for shipping by the end of August.”