The Passing Bells

by Phillip Rock

  “Are you going up to London for the season, Winifred?”

  “Oh, yes,” she blurted, staring down at her feet. “Mama will open the house next week. Number twenty-four Cadogan Square.” She looked up at him, and there was a wistful look in her eyes. “That isn’t very far from the Guards’ barracks, is it?”

  “No. And it’s just a short walk from my flat on Lower Belgrave Street.”

  He detected a sudden change in her breathing. The exertion of the dance? Hardly, she was barely shuffling her feet across the floor. A faint line of perspiration had formed on her upper lip.

  “Perhaps . . .” she said hesitantly, “perhaps . . . you could attend one of our . . . entertainments. That is . . . if . . . if your social schedule isn’t completely filled.”

  “Why, no, it isn’t. I’m quite flexible this season. Quite flexible indeed.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “My debut ball is on the twenty-second of next month. Alexandra will be there, of course . . . and Charles . . . and I know that Mama would be pleased if you could come, also. Do you think that you could?” she added anxiously.

  He appeared to think about it. “Why, I believe so, yes. You can tell your mother that I’d be honored to receive an invitation.”

  She smiled brightly and her dancing improved to a remarkable degree.

  Passing them, Lydia caught part of the exchange and the smile and decided that Fenton was toying with Winifred. The Fenton charm. Was it just for her benefit, Lydia wondered, or did he have a serious motive in mind? Winifred Sutton was rich, as Fenton well knew. Rich and dowdy, with a good deal of poundage and not an ounce of chic. No one knew that more than her mother and father. A dashing, handsome man like Captain Fenton Wood-Lacy, son of the late Sir Harold, nephew of Major General Sir Julian Wood-Lacy, would hardly be ignored if he asked permission to call on their daughter. Would he do that? He was smiling at her and Winifred was smiling back. Lydia looked away.

  Charles bent closer to her. “Let’s dance out onto the terrace.”

  “Oh,” she said, forcing her attention back to him, “if you wish.”

  They stopped dancing as soon as they had tangoed out of the music room. Taking Lydia by the arm, Charles led her across the terrace and down the stone steps into the Italian garden.

  “You’ve been practically ignoring me all evening,” he said, his hand pressing into her bare arm. He stopped at a stone bench and pulled her down on the seat beside him. “You look so beautiful tonight, Lydia . . . that dress . . . your hair . . . everything about you is like music . . . poetry. You knew I wanted to talk to you alone before dinner, but you deliberately stayed in . . . in groups!”

  “It would have been rude not to mingle.”

  “So much has happened today,” he said excitedly, running a hand through his hair. “I told Winnie, in a very nice way, that I could—well, that I could never become emotionally involved with her. She took it quite well.”

  “So I noticed,” she said stonily.

  “But that doesn’t really solve anything, darling. I’m afraid that Father is going to be as intractable as ever as far as we’re concerned.”

  She smoothed her dress over her knees. It was a long evening dress of pale-green silk embroidered with seed pearls, the bodice cut with a discreet plunge.

  “Charles, I think that the time has come to be honest with each other. I love you and . . . I think you love me.”

  He stared at her with his mouth open. “You think? Good God! You dominate my thoughts day and night. I wake up in cold sweats a dozen times a night because I have nightmares of losing you. There’s not another woman on this earth that I would care to even look at, and you think I love you!” He put his arms around her and pressed her close to him. Her perfume made his head reel. “Oh, Lydia, how can you question my feelings?”

  She pulled back from him slightly and placed a slim, cool hand on the side of his face. He was gravely handsome, with a noble, intelligent face that reminded her somehow of the portrait of Shakespeare—the engraving in most editions. He was much younger, but had the same high-domed brow, the soft eyes—an Elizabethan man, courtly and gallantly romantic.

  “You had a talk with Winifred, and I’m sure that you were very tactful and considerate.”

  “And direct,” he cut in.

  “Yes . . . direct. But tell me, Charles, are you ever that direct with your father regarding us?”

  He looked away from her, toward the house, which reared up against the moon-streaked sky; most of the rooms were lighted, and yellow squares of light fell across the dark lawns.

  “I . . . I intend to . . . have a long talk with him.”

  “You might begin by reminding him that we’re living in the twentieth century.”

  He smiled sardonically. “The twentieth century? Father doesn’t recognize it socially.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t, but most people are beginning to. I don’t think he would be ostracized in the House of Lords if I married into the family. After all, it would be apparent to everyone that I hadn’t bought my way into the peerage. Now, if I should marry Lord Peter Manderson, or the Earl of Cromer, that would be quite a different story, wouldn’t it? There are a number of impoverished peers in this country, Charles. You’d be utterly amazed at how easy it would be for me to marry one of them if that was all I wanted . . . as your father seems to think.”

  He was staring at her with a look of dread. “Lydia . . . you . . . you’d never marry a rotter like Cromer. My God . . . I—”

  “Of course I wouldn’t.” She draped her slender white arms about his neck and pulled him gently down to her. Her lips roamed teasingly across his face. “You’re my own, sweet darling and I love you very much. I want to stop being Miss Foxe and start being Mrs. Charles Greville. I want to experience all the joys of marriage . . . and I want to experience them with you . . . no one else.”

  He held her tightly, kissing her lips, her neck, the soft hollow of her throat. He could feel her firm breasts against his chest.

  “Lydia . . . Lydia . . .” he murmured.

  She stroked the side of his head and traced a finger tip across his earlobe. He was really such a boy, she was thinking, so torn between duty and desire, so deferential to the Victorian codes of his father. The future Earl of Stanmore pressing trembling kisses on her skin.

  “I’ve thought of a way to approach your father, Charles,” she said quietly, stroking his soft hair. “It will require a positive attitude on your part, darling. You’ll have to beard the lion in its den . . . but I’ve given quite a bit of thought to this—”

  “Whatever you say, Lydia,” he mouthed against the narrow opening of her dress, the deep cleft between her breasts.

  “But we must talk it over thoroughly first. Spend the day with me tomorrow. Daddy’s still up in London . . . we can be alone . . . have the day to ourselves. . . . Perhaps take a luncheon basket to Leith Woods and talk . . . talk . . . talk . . .”

  “Lovely,” he murmured, “lovely—” He suddenly stiffened and pulled away from her, his face even more pallid than it had been before. “Oh, God! I can’t. . . . I . . . I have to go to Southampton tomorrow and greet some bloody cousin from America. Oh, damn . . . I’m sorry, darling, but . . .”

  Her smile was cryptic. “I understand, Charles. There’s no need to explain. I quite understand.”

  4

  Martin Rilke double-checked his tiny cabin to make sure that he had left nothing behind. He had packed in a hurry, having spent the entire morning on deck gawking at the coast of England as the S.S. Laconia moved up the channel toward Southampton.

  “You won’t see a better day than this in a long while,” one of the ship’s stewards had told him. “We ’ave quite a bit of mist most days, sir.”

  Not a speck of mist that morning. Martin had gulped down his breakfast and had gone on deck to share a pair of binoculars with a fellow passenger, a Dr. Horner from Cincinnati, who was on his way to London for a month’s seminar on neurosurgery.
Both men had been fascinated by the vivid greens and whites of the land, the sparkling blue of the sea. The passage had been marred by a summer storm on the second day out of New York, gray seas and a clammy rain staying with them as far as the coast of Ireland. Of the Emerald Isle they had seen nothing but great banks of cloud, but the clouds had parted when they entered the English Channel and there was not so much as a scrap of vapor to mar the scenery.

  “ ‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle . . . ’ ” Dr. Horner had recited grandly as he leaned against the rail, the binoculars cradled in his hands. “Shakespeare, Richard the Third.”

  “Second,” Martin had corrected. “Richard the Second. ‘This precious stone set in the silver sea.’ It does look like a precious stone, doesn’t it?”

  “Fire opal, Martin. Gosh, I wish my Agnes had been able to make this trip. And she thought New England was beautiful when we went up to the Berkshires last summer. Can’t hold a candle to the old.” He had handed over the glasses. “Take a squint at that little village beneath those cliffs. If that doesn’t put the icing on the cake, I don’t know what will.”

  The landscape had at last given way to less pastoral views, reminding them both that England was not all quaint villages and rolling hills. By noon they were steaming up the Solent into the crowded roadstead of Southampton, whose shoreline was cluttered with iron cranes, docks, wharves, and warehouses.

  “It’s been a pleasure traveling with you, Martin,” Dr. Horner had said before going below. “Perhaps we can have lunch one day in London. I’ll be at Guy’s Hospital . . . the Sir William Osler seminar group.”

  A seaman with a handcart waited impatiently outside the cabin door. Martin hoped that the good doctor had been better organized than he.

  “Okay,” Martin said. “You can take the steamer trunk and the suitcase, but leave the leather attaché case.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sailor grunted as he pushed his cart into the cabin.

  Martin took one last look around—under the bunk, in the dresser drawers, the closet. He suffered from a vague absentmindedness at times, and it wouldn’t have surprised him to have come across a drawer filled with socks and underwear. But everything had been packed. Though rushed, he had been thorough. There was nothing of his left in the cabin except the attaché case, a brown wool jacket, and a Kodak folding camera in a leather carrying case. He put on the jacket and checked his appearance in the mirror. He wasn’t all that happy about the fit of the jacket. It had been bought off the rack at Marshall Field and was a bit too tight across the chest. He solved that problem by leaving it unbuttoned.

  Well, he thought, as he slung the Kodak over one shoulder, you look every inch the world traveler. He was, finally and irrevocably, a long way from Chicago.

  Jaimie Ross managed to find a parking space for the big Lanchester touring car, but they were a good distance from the Cunard dock.

  “Can’t you get a bit closer, Ross?” Charles asked.

  “Afraid not, sir. Take us an hour to crawl through that mess.”

  The mess he referred to was a nearly solid line of cars, lorries, and taxicabs jamming the narrow approaches to the Cunard and White Star Line piers.

  “Looks like three big ships came in at once this afternoon, sir,” Ross said as he slipped his driving goggles from his face.

  “So it seems,” Charles said, suppressing an urge to swear. He picked up his straw boater from the seat and placed it squarely on his head.

  Roger Wood-Lacy did the same. The hats of both men bore the Cambridge colors on a silk band around the crown. “Nothing for it, old boy, but to plod resolutely ahead.”

  “I hope we can snare a porter, Ross.”

  “I’m sure we can, sir,” the chauffeur replied as he got out of the car and hurried to open the passenger doors.

  “A thought just struck me,” Roger said as they walked away from the car, the nattily uniformed Ross keeping a respectful six paces behind them. “How do we go about finding the chap? Do you have any idea what he looks like?”

  “Haven’t a clue. My age . . . a bit Germanic, I expect. I suppose we shall have to have him paged.”

  Charles glared balefully ahead. The street was narrow, dingy, lined with small shops and eating places. The fumes from the backed-up vehicles poisoned the air. He was in a bitter mood; the thought of what he would have been doing at this moment galled him. But for Martin Rilke’s inopportune arrival, he would have been resting his back against an oak tree in the cool glades of Leith Woods while Lydia, her body uncorseted beneath a light summer dress, served him watercress and ham sandwiches from a wicker basket. Damn!

  Both young men found the jumble of large wooden structures along the wharf bewildering. Beyond the roofs of the buildings they could see the tall funnels of the Laconia, wisps of smoke still trailing after them. Ross stepped forward and suggested that they head for an enormous, open-sided structure which bore a sign marked BAGGAGE DISPERSAL—CUNARD LINE. Hundreds of people could be seen inside milling about under twenty-six large metal shingles which dangled from the roof beams and had the letters of the alphabet painted on them. A regiment of stevedores in blue coveralls trundled carts filled with luggage into the building from the ship.

  “Good thinking, Ross,” Charles said. “The chap’s bound to be under the ‘R’ sign sooner or later.”

  There were a great many people under the “R” sign, roaming through canyons of steamer trunks and stacked suitcases. Several officious-looking men representing various tour organizations walked about calling for their groups to stay together.

  “Raymond Whitcomb people over here, please!”

  “Will all passengers on Cook tour number seven please wait at the customs shed. Will all passengers . . .”

  “Is that him, do you suppose?” Roger asked, pointing discreetly down one of the aisles of baggage.

  Charles contemplated the man Roger had pointed out, seeking a family resemblance. He saw a man in his early twenties, of medium height and stocky build, blond-haired and square-jawed. His nose was long and high bridged, the eyes blue and merry. Very much a masculine version of his mother’s face. And he certainly had the Rilke mouth: wide, full-lipped, and quick to smile—as it was smiling now in his direction, a warm, faintly lopsided grin.

  “Say,” the man called out, “you wouldn’t happen to be Charles Greville, would you?”

  “Why, yes, I am,” Charles said, taken slightly aback. He hadn’t expected to find him so quickly.

  Martin came toward him with his right hand thrust forward. “Don’t ask me how I knew,” he said, grinning more broadly. “I guess you just look like I thought you’d look.” He took hold of his cousin’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Gosh, it’s nice of you to meet me. Is Aunt Hanna with you?”

  “No,” Charles said, managing a weak smile—his hand felt as though it had been gripped in a vise. “I came down with my friend.” He gestured toward Roger. “Martin . . . Roger Wood-Lacy. Roger . . . my cousin from America, Martin Rilke.”

  Roger tipped his hat. “How do you do?”

  “Very well, thanks,” Martin said. “Had a swell trip . . . a bit rough for a few days, but all the passengers were good eggs. Had a really great time.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Roger said. A pleasant-looking fellow, he was thinking, although a bit on the boisterous side—like most Americans. Not one of the millionaire Rilkes, he remembered Charles remarking. Some kind of poor relation. The jacket he was wearing certainly confirmed that fact. “Welcome to Merrie England.”

  “Thanks.” He let go of Charles’s hand and stood facing them, arms folded, grinning like a fool. “I just can’t believe I’m here—that I’m actually on the other side of the Atlantic. Travel is really fantastic when you think about it. Just a week ago I was in Chicago and now I’m in the Old World.”

  “The old world?” Roger repeated dully.

  “Takes some getting used to,” he went on blithely. “But here I am, Martin Rilke in the flesh . . . or
on the hoof, as they say on the South Side. Maybe you guys wouldn’t mind helping me find my trunk. It’s dark brown leather—a bit scuffed—and it has my name painted on the side.”

  The two inhabitants of the Old World exchanged bleak glances and then helped Martin in his search. The trunk and suitcase were soon located and Charles had Ross collar a porter, tipped the man half a crown, and the luggage was soon safely strapped to the rack on the back of the Lanchester.

  Martin sat between Roger and Charles in the back seat, his attaché case on the floor between his feet, his camera case on his lap.

  “Beautiful scenery,” Martin said as they left the outskirts of Southampton and drove into the open countryside. “I hope you won’t mind if I ask your driver to stop now and then. I’d sure like to take some pictures of this.”

  Oh, God, Charles groaned silently. He couldn’t look at Roger. “Well, it’s rather a long drive, and we’d like to get there before dark. But we shall stop soon at Taverhurst for lunch. A quite ancient inn—the Three Talbards—and you can take all the pictures you want.”

  “That’d be fine. Thanks a lot. Where are we now? The county, I mean.”

  “Hampshire,” Roger said.

  “Hampshire? Near Thomas Hardy country . . . well, I’ll be darned.”

  “The edge of it, yes,” Charles said. “Dorset more than Hampshire, of course.”

  Roger arched one eyebrow. “I suppose Hardy’s novels are required reading everywhere. Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure.”

  Martin nodded. “That’s right, but to be honest, I never could get into the novels. I prefer Hardy the poet.”

  “Oh, I say,” Roger said with exuberance. “Jolly good for you. I feel the same way about him. Have you read ‘Channel Firing’ yet?”