by Phillip Rock
“That’s a pity . . . in some ways.”
He nodded emphatically. “The dynastic blending of two fine old names. A gilding of coronets. I feel a bit of a rotter disappointing everyone . . . except Winnie, of course. I wouldn’t say a word to Lady Mary, though. I’ll take Winnie for a drive into Guildford, treat her to a cup of chocolate and an éclair at the sweetshop, and break the terrible news to her. That’s the gentlemanly thing to do, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Then she’ll tell her mother whatever she feels like telling her—that she’s fallen in love with the Prince of Wales . . . or discovered in the nick of time that there is galloping insanity in the Greville blood—and in a day or two they will both depart, seeking more receptive game. I’m sure that Lady Mary has a list that beggars the one you’ve compiled for Alex.”
“Charles! What an awful thing to say!” Her indignation was so patently artificial that they both laughed. “Very well, you handle the entire matter . . . but don’t put it off.”
“First thing this afternoon.”
She walked further into the room and stood looking about with a wistful expression.
“You used to keep this room so neat at one time. Everything in its place. It must be the despair of the maids now.”
“I won’t let a maid in it. They have a compulsion for tidiness.”
“I think the room reflects your state of mind, Charles. A topsy-turvy confusion.”
Their eyes met and he looked away. “I sense the preamble to a motherly lecture. I think I can guess the subject matter and I’d rather you didn’t get started. Not now.”
“If not now, then when?”
He turned to the book he had tossed aside and riffled the pages idly.
“Soon. When . . . when I get it all clear in my mind as to just what I want to say.”
Hanna’s face seemed suddenly drawn and tired as she looked pityingly at her son.
“I know what you’re going to say, Charles. I can hear every word of it . . . and I can hear your father’s reply. He’s a proud and inflexible man. No need to tell you that. Yes, Charles, I can hear his reply . . . anticipate his actions. I should like to leave you with just one thought, and I want you to face that thought and dwell upon it honestly. Will you promise me that?”
“Of course,” he said, frowning at the pages.
“I hope you won’t think me cruel.”
“No.”
“I’ve known Lydia since she was a child and I’m fond of her. Her mother was a dear woman, and it was a great tragedy that she died when Lydia was so young. I think she would have grown up to be a more . . . well, a more traditionally minded woman had her mother lived.” The branch of an elm moved gently in the wind outside one of the windows. Charles used to climb out of that window when he was a little boy and clamber down the tree into the garden below. “The question I raise is this. Should you marry Lydia without your father’s blessing he might publicly disavow her as his daughter-in-law. The social implications of such an action would be devastating. I ask you in all honesty, Charles—if Lydia knew for certain that your father would ignore her in such a drastic fashion, would she have quite the same affection for you as she does now?”
Twilight lingered until past nine o’clock, a soft blue glow in the sky with cobalt shadows lying across the fields. On Burgate Hill, the top branch of the tallest tree caught the last ray of sun from the west: a golden bough turning slowly to black.
Lord Stanmore leaned back in his chair and waited for Coatsworth to pass the cigars around the table. The ladies had left for the drawing room, the younger women to the music room off the conservatory, where recitals were sometimes held and where Alexandra kept her Victrola. He could hear the steady far-off beat of music. He felt satisfied, with just a small tinge of regret. Satisfied by the dinner, an exceptionally fine baron of beef, the company—old and dear friends—but regretful over the way things had turned out between Charles and Winifred Sutton. He had allowed Hanna her way and the situation had no doubt been resolved. Charles had been a little less moody, although that could have been because Lydia had been at the table, and Winifred, acting as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, had chatted away to Alexandra and Roger Wood-Lacy like a plump magpie. The young knew what they wanted, and didn’t want, he supposed. Still, it was a pity. It would have been a damn fine match for both of them.
Coatsworth had decanted a fresh cask of port, the first of the shipment from Messrs. Lockwood and Grier, Lisbon, and he stood expectantly beside the earl’s chair, waiting for him to taste the first glass poured.
“Nice color, Coatsworth,” the earl said, holding the glass up to the light.
“Yes, m’lord, it is.”
He sniffed the rim. “Aroma, too.” He tasted, holding the wine in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Ah!”
Coatsworth took the sigh as a signal of approval and placed the crystal decanter on the table to the earl’s right, where Mr. Cavendish, a local squire and one of the earl’s oldest friends, was seated. Cavendish filled his glass and passed the decanter on to Fenton, who filled his glass and handed it down to a florid-faced man who was the Conservative MP from Caterham. And so the port went the rounds of the ten men at the table, only Roger Wood-Lacy, who could not physically tolerate spirits in any form, declining.
“Well, Fenton,” a retired brigadier, and one of the leading horse raisers in the county, called out from the far end of the long oak table. “Well, sir, what do you hear from Ireland? You chaps still standing pat at the Curragh?”
Fenton dipped the end of his cigar in his port. “One never knows from one day to the next, sir. But I believe it’s all rather more sound than fury . . . like Irish politics in general.”
There was a muted chorus: “Hear, hear.”
“It’s all the newspapers, if you ask me,” a tall bald-headed man said. “You can always rely on Northcliffe or Lord Crewe to toss kerosene on a fire. I’m certainly against this damn home rule bill as you all know, but I do believe that it’s irresponsible journalism to intimate that the British Army is on the verge of mutiny over it.”
“Only the Irish garrison,” someone remarked in clarification.
“Quite so . . . still, you get my drift.”
Fenton lit his cigar and blew a contented puff toward the high-beamed ceiling. “Oh, a few officers might resign rather than use force against the Ulster volunteers, but I’d say that would be the size of the so-called mutiny. And if push comes to shove, you’ll see the Orangemen back down. They’ll have to settle this home rule business around a table, not by taking potshots from the bogs.”
Lord Stanmore shook his head. “That’s giving the Irish too much credit for common sense, Fenton. I’m sure they could work out a solution if they tried—or if they wanted a solution badly enough—but they have dug themselves into fixed positions.”
“Oil and water, Tony,” the brigadier said. “Two things that simply will not mix. The whole concept of home rule for Ireland is as foolish as trying to tamper with God’s design.”
“That’s the Liberals for you,” Mr. Cavendish said. “They feel above the laws of God or physics. Take Lloyd George and his home rule for Ireland . . . home rule for Wales . . . home rule for Scotland. He’ll be wanting home rule for India next.”
“I met Parkhurst at the Carlton Club last week,” the brigadier said with a chuckle. “He quipped that one sure way to get that randy Welshman out of office was to offer him an earldom in Glamorganshire and half interest in a coal mine. He’d be off like a shot!”
“There might be something to that, sir,” Charles Greville said solemnly. “I have no doubt that the man’s ambitious, but I rather think he fancies himself above material gains or honors at the moment.”
“A leader of the people,” Roger said. “A sort of Celtic Napoleon or benevolent tyrant in the Greek manner.”
“Friend of the common man,” someone scoffed. “Quite an easy matter t
o make friends if one is in the position of sending five bob a week to every old duffer in the country. But the people who thank Lloyd George and Asquith for their pension money should really thank me, and the rest of us at this table. The money comes from our pockets.”
“No politician ever lost support by taxing the rich,” Mr. Cavendish remarked dryly.
Fenton let his attention wander, distracted by the ragtime music coming from the Victrola, which he could barely hear. He was a good dancer, an attribute that was an outright necessity for any officer garrisoned in London. The regimental adjutant insisted that all new subalterns attend dancing class, conducted three evenings a week by C Company’s Corporal Booth, who had been a professional dancer in the music halls before enlisting. An inept dancer would have socially disgraced the regiment. It was Corporal Booth who had taught Fenton to dance the Castle walk, turkey trot, and the Texas Tommy, and to keep abreast of all the latest steps coming out of America. His right foot began a soundless tap-tap-tap on the carpet.
“I’d gladly have them double my taxes,” the brigadier declared stoutly, “if it meant another dreadnought or two.”
“Nonsense,” the MP from Caterham said. “Let Germany pour millions into saber rattling. War is being fought now, today, and we’re winning it hands down. The British merchant navy is the most powerful on earth and getting more powerful minute by minute. By jove, it seems only yesterday that the Lusitania and the Mauretania were being touted by Cunard as the grandest ships afloat, and now they come up with the Aquitania, which simply beggars them. North German Lloyd and the Hamburg-American line will never be capable of building, or operating, anything like it.”
An elderly surgeon from Guildford, a well-known hunting man, cleared his throat. “Still, it isn’t simply a question of merchant bottoms, is it? It’s a question of production. Fritz may be trying to imitate his betters by venturing out into the sea lanes, but they outproduce us in steel and chemicals. One simply can’t argue about that.”
“The manufacture of chemical products,” the MP said firmly, as though making a point in the House. “They must import every ounce of nitrate and other raw materials. You know a bit about that, don’t you, Tony?”
“Yes, quite so,” the earl said. “My wife’s relations in Mecklenburg and Waldeck, the von Rilkes. Very heavily involved in the chemical industry. Import a great deal of nitrate from South America, I believe. Still, rather amazing how many things they can make in Germany out of coal tar. A cousin of my wife’s . . . Baron Heinrich von Rilke, you met him last year, Percy, the scientific chap.”
“Yes, of course,” the Guildford surgeon replied.
“Well, he told me of some truly remarkable things that they were doing at his laboratory in Koblenz. Quite astonishing. One mustn’t sell the Germans short.”
The Caterham MP blew a stream of cigar smoke past the candelabrum, the smoke curling above the steady candle flames.
“My point exactly! We must rise to their challenge, not with more battleships, but with increased productivity and better technocracy—bicycles, motorcars, farm tools. Fight them to a standstill in the marketplace with better and cheaper goods.”
Fenton stifled a yawn. How many hundreds of hours had he suffered through listening to after-dinner conversations? It wasn’t so bad at the Guards’ Club, where they could talk shop or sports—but not sex—or at the battalion mess, where they could talk sex or sports—but not shop. He couldn’t think of one brother officer who cared a tinker’s damn about Germany, or England’s social, political, or economic affairs. Cheaper goods indeed! That was the province of America, wasn’t it? Ford cars and buying one’s clothes through the post from an illustration in a catalogue.
“I say, sir,” he said, hoping to sidetrack any further discussion of English technocracy, or lack of it, “Roger tells me that one of her ladyship’s relations is arriving from America tomorrow.”
“Quite so,” Lord Stanmore said without enthusiasm. “From Chicago. Newspaper wallah of some kind. Never met him.” He stood up, an Augustan figure in his evening clothes. “Gentlemen, let’s join the ladies.”
Roger, Fenton, and Charles lingered in the dining room until the older men had left, trailing cigar smoke down the corridor toward the drawing room. Charles drew a silver watch from his waistcoat.
“Not bad, a damn sight shorter than usual. A master stroke, Fenton, or we’d have been stuck in here for another quarter-hour at least.”
Fenton looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“My cousin from Chicago. Father wished to avoid any probing questions about the fellow from his cronies.”
“What on earth for? Is he some kind of desperado, like Jesse James?”
Charles laughed. “I hope so, but in all seriousness, no, he’s just a chap who works on a newspaper. But there’s some kind of skeleton in Mother’s closet . . . the chap’s father, her brother William. I forget the story. All I know for sure is that he died years ago . . . of drink . . . or suicide. Something rather nasty. She named our William after him.”
Fenton grimaced and flicked cigar ash into a plate. “I’m sure young Will appreciates that.”
“Well, they couldn’t change his name, could they? It happened after he was born. Poor chap is stuck with it. Are they gone, Roger?”
Roger had been peering down the corridor. “Yes, safely turned the corner. Let’s hop to it before someone comes back and insists we form bridge fours.”
They left the dining room by way of the French doors, which led onto the terrace. The phonograph grew louder as they passed the domed glass structure of the conservatory, designed by Sir Harold Wood-Lacy as a scaled-down replica of the Crystal Palace. Beyond the carved-stone balustrade of the terrace lay the Italian gardens, bright under the rising moon, the topiary elephants and giraffes bobbing their cypress heads in the warm wind.
Alexandra and Lydia were dancing together to the trombone, cornet, and snare-drum beat of a Texas Tommy. Winifred stood beside the Victrola, one hand on the crank, her hips moving slightly to the syncopated sound.
“Charming!” Fenton said loudly, watching the girls prance about the room. Their images reflected back from the mirrors on the walls—mirrors installed when Alexandra had been twelve and avid to study ballet. “Most inspiring!”
Roger stepped fully into the room, arms spread wide. “All hail the antic Bacchae . . . chaste and fair!”
“Oh, don’t be an ass, Roger,” Alexandra called out over her shoulder. “Dance with Winnie.”
Winifred looked startled. “Oh, no . . . I don’t know how.”
“Of course you do,” Alexandra said breathlessly. “Don’t be a frump.”
The frantic music came to an end and the two girls broke apart, flushed and laughing.
“Oh, I did enjoy that,” Alexandra said. “I could do the Texas Tommy all night.”
“I prefer a waltz myself,” Roger said.
“That’s because you’re staid and dull.”
Roger stiffened with indignation. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“All right, play a tango then. I’ll show you how staid and dull I am not. I dance the tango with a great deal of sensuality.”
Fenton helped Winifred find a tango record among the stack in the Victrola cabinet. The girl’s hands, he noticed, were trembling slightly.
“Don’t you really know how to dance?”
“No,” she whispered. “I never learned . . . at least not properly. I have no ear for music . . . that’s the trouble. I can’t keep time.”
“I’m sure I could teach you in a few minutes. It’s really quite simple. No trick to it at all.”
“Which tango are you playing?” Alexandra asked.
Fenton glanced at the label. “ ‘The Sans Souci.’ ”
“Fine. I like that one.” She held out her arms. “Come on, Roger . . . and try not to step on my toes.”
Charles bowed to Lydia with exaggerated formality. “Miss Foxe, may I have t
he pleasure?”
She curtsied. “You may indeed, Mr. Greville.”
He put an arm about her waist and she moved closer to him. Their hips touched and his body became tense. When he took her right hand in his left, she could feel the dampness of his palm.
“Relax,” she said softly.
“We must talk, Lydia.”
She smiled coquettishly into his taut, pallid face. “Why, Mr. Greville, whatever about?”
The music began, the pulsating Latin rhythm that had all Europe in thrall. Charles stumbled slightly, as though his knees had become locked from tenseness, and she had to lead for a moment until he was able to coordinate his body to the throbbing sound.
Fenton took Winifred by the hand. “Shall we try it?”
Her smile was wan. “I . . . I don’t think I can.”
“Nonsense. I saw you swaying to the Texas Tommy when I came into the room. You were keeping perfect time.”
“Oh, I can dance by myself. It’s just that . . . when I . . .”
“I quite understand.” He held her firmly, one hand in the small of her back. “It’s simply a question of practice . . . and confidence in oneself. I know I could teach you to tango in a very short time.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Why, of course not, Winifred. It would be a pleasure.”
She was really quite pretty, he was thinking, smiling down at her. She smiled back, shyly, a pink glow spreading across her cheeks and throat. She had been casting glances at him all day. A young girl’s sudden infatuation, a crush—he had done nothing to encourage her. Always he had been the correctly formal officer and gentleman, her brother Andrew’s friend. He guided her expertly through the steps, the sensual movements of the dance.
“You’re doing very well,” he said. “Just follow me . . . don’t look at your feet.”
She had little grace, but that was probably nervousness. Her hand clenched his tightly and the hand on his shoulder kept straying down as though she were not sure where it belonged. Her eyes were hazel, he noted, and her hair the palest shade of brown. Yes, a very pretty girl, and if she lost a stone or so in weight she would have quite a fetching figure. The Most Honorable Winifred Sutton, only daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Dexford. A substantial yearly income when she reached the age of twenty-one. A dowry of—ten thousand pounds?