by Phillip Rock
They sat in silence until the butler’s footsteps had receded down the hall, then Fenton stood up and sought out an ashtray.
“When are you going to speak to him?”
“I’m going to invite him for dinner,” she said. “Not that it’s any of your bloody business.”
“My, my, aren’t we touchy this morning . . . and after I walked all the way over here to ask you to marry me.”
He was standing very close to her, reaching across the table to snuff out his cigarette in a crystal plate. Her hand was on the spoon, and he noticed that it trembled slightly.
“Anything the matter with your hearing?”
“No,” she said softly. “Please go away, Fenton.”
He straightened up and stepped behind her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders.
“We could hop into your spiffy little motor and drive up to Scotland. Get married in Gretna Green. I know an inn overlooking Luce Bay with a magnificent view of the Solway and the deepest, softest feather beds one ever sank into.” His fingers slipped through her hair and stroked the back of her neck. “Give up on Charles. Nothing can ever come of it. You know that, if you’re honest.”
“He’ll marry me,” she said, so quietly that he could barely hear the words.
“I’m sure he wants to, but his nibs has something to say about it and that’s an obstacle you’ll never get around. And Charles won’t be much help. He’ll never take any step that isn’t right and proper . . . according to the unwritten code of the Grevilles and the untainted earls of Stanmore. Christ, is marrying into the peerage so damn important to you? Of course, you could always pick up a lord on the cheap . . . pay off his debts and add a title to your name. But you don’t want that, do you? People would only make jokes about how one can buy anything at a White Manor Tea Shop these days.”
She jerked her head away and turned quickly, lashing out at his face with her right hand. He grabbed her wrist in full swing and pulled her roughly to her feet, knocking the chair over.
“You bastard!” Her lips were taut, bloodless.
He held her wrist tightly and pulled her against him, bent his head, and kissed her mouth. She didn’t struggle—he hadn’t expected that she would—and he could feel her body relax, submit, bend into him.
“Marry me,” he said, pulling gently away. She shook her head, eyes closed, lips parted. “You love me and you damn well know you do. But then love doesn’t count, does it? Marriage is too important for that.”
She stiffened, as though slapped in the face, and stepped back. Her eyes smoldered, passion and rage mingling.
“You’re a fine one to talk. You and Winnie Sutton . . . what a fine exhibition that was. The Fenton Wood-Lacy prelude to seduction.” She mimicked his voice: “ ‘It’s so easy to tango . . . let me teach you.’ What else do you plan to teach her?”
“I felt sorry for her.”
“Yes, that’s easy to do. She’s such a dowdy, awkward creature. Simply makes your heart bleed to look at her! Don’t insult my intelligence. You weigh your charities very carefully. You looked at poor Winnie as just so many pounds sterling to the ounce. Is that how you look at me?”
He smiled sheepishly and rubbed the side of his nose. “Touché. Yes . . . I admit part of that. I feel a bit of a cad about my behavior the other night. I’m a good sportsman. Never shoot ducks on the ground. You’re quite right. I’m in a rather nasty spot at the moment, and endearing myself to Winnie and her loving parents would pull me out of it . . . very nicely, too, I might add.”
“I’m sure it would, but that would be nothing to how nicely you’d be ‘pulled out’ if you married me. Daddy would be so happy, he’d probably thrust a million pounds into your hot and greedy hand!”
“Hands,” he said, holding them up to her, palms out. “Two hands. Drive a spike into each if I’m not speaking the truth. I’m not after Archie’s money. If I thought you’d be content living on my twelve-shillings-and-sixpence-a-day pay, less mess fees of course, I’d never ask the old boy for a farthing. But you couldn’t live on it, and so I’d be willing to go to work on civvy street. It’s as simple as that. I’d make you a damn good husband, in bed and out, and you bloody well know that, too.”
She nodded solemnly. “Yes, I know it.”
He placed his hands on her hips, feeling the softness of the flesh beneath the silk morning gown.
“We’re very much alike. We both want things that are just a shade beyond our grasp. I’m in a regiment that I can’t afford, and you want a social standing that all the money in the world won’t buy. I have a minor confession to make. I didn’t sit up half the night drafting a letter to my colonel. I just couldn’t sleep. My mind was a jumble of thoughts. I kept seeing the expression on poor Charles’s face after trying to reach you on the telephone. Did you have a tiff with him?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
His smile was knowing, a bitter twist of the lips. “Letting him dangle on the hook?”
“That’s unkind,” she said stiffly.
“Perhaps, but I know the game. He might just become desperate enough to take a positive stand with the lord of the manor—an ultimatum that he may or may not win . . . that you may or may not win. You’re a reckless gambler, Lydia, and for what? There has to be more to life than living in Abingdon Pryory and becoming a countess one day. And more to life than my strutting around Buckingham Palace in a red coat. Do you remember when you were eight or nine years old and my father was working at the Pryory? You used to follow me up the scaffolding and do every dangerous thing I did. Charles and Roger were afraid, but you weren’t. You used to say that you’d follow me anywhere. Well, I wish you’d follow me now.”
He was very handsome in a dark, piratical way. A swashbuckling bounder with fine manners. His hands on her hips had a strong surety, as though they had a right to be there, or anywhere else they wanted to rest on her body. It would have been easy to succumb, to rush upstairs and pack a bag, to drive to Scotland and then to follow him anywhere. But it wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t enough.
“I’m sorry, Fenton. I’m not a little girl anymore.”
He let go of her hips. Not with any obvious reluctance. He simply allowed his hands to drop away from her body.
“No need to apologize. It was a forlorn hope anyway.” He held out his hand. “Still friends?”
Her fingers brushed his. “Always.”
“May I leave by the front door? I’m not too adept at going out of windows.”
“Of course. What are you going to do? About Winnie, I mean.”
“Oh,” he said vaguely. “I haven’t really given it much thought.”
“Are you horribly in debt?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“I can give you a check, or would that be too painful to bear right now?”
He bent stiffly from the waist and kissed her on the forehead. “As a matter of fact, it would be. No, I’ll land catlike on my feet as usual. I have some plans afoot . . . prospects in mind.”
She winced and looked away from him. Gardeners in dark-green smocks could be seen through the windows moving down one of the paths toward the rose trees. They carried spades and hoes over their shoulders and looked like medieval soldiers going off to the wars. She had a vivid mental picture of Fenton and some featureless debutante walking beneath an arch of drawn swords, strewn rose petals at their feet. The image pained her. She looked past the gardens at the distant chimney tops of Abingdon Pryory faintly visible above the green frieze of Leith Woods.
“Let’s wish each other good fortune,” she said tonelessly. “And much happiness.”
Martin slept late and was the last one down for breakfast, but there was plenty of food left and he was amazed by the variety. He heaped his plate with scrambled eggs, broiled kidneys, two slices of a hamlike bacon, grilled tomatoes, and thin fried potatoes. He also had some hot scones and a fruit compote. There was a humidor filled with slim, mild “breakfast” cigars on the
table, and he lit one after finishing his meal and strolled contentedly out onto the terrace. He was walking slowly around the house, admiring its architecture and the view of the gardens, when a ground-floor window suddenly opened and Lord Stanmore leaned out.
“Good morning, Martin. Had your breakfast yet?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, removing the cigar from his mouth. “More breakfast than I should have eaten.”
“Have some coffee with your aunt and me. See that door? Just follow that passage to your right.”
The earl was waiting for him in a corridor and led him into a room which contained a rolltop desk, several filing cabinets, a leather sofa, and some chairs. Hanna was seated at the desk, papers strewn in front of her.
“My office,” the earl explained. “The heart of Abingdon Pryory.”
Hanna glanced up from her work. “Good morning, dear. We were just discussing you.” She tapped some papers with a pen. “We have so many functions planned for later this month and all through July. I don’t believe you’d find all of them interesting, but I’ve written your name down on every list containing lots of pretty girls.”
“That’s swell of you, Aunt Hanna, but—you see, I’m only planning to be in England for two weeks or so and I—well—I was hoping to see as much of the place as possible—travel around—leave my steamer trunk here, if you don’t mind, and just pack a suitcase.” He felt embarrassed, hoping he wasn’t insulting her. Then she smiled, almost with relief, it seemed to him.
“That’s a wonderful idea, Martin! Isn’t that wonderful, Tony?”
“Yes, it is,” the earl agreed, nodding his head vigorously. “When I was your age, I went on a walking tour—all around the isle, from the channel to Thurso Bay in Caithness, then back along the west coast of Scotland, through Wales. . . . Glorious time I had, too. An ash walking stick in my hand, a rucksack on my back. Yes, my boy, a capital idea. The London season may be heaven for the ladies, but it’s hell on us men.”
“Now, Tony,” Hanna chided.
“It’s true. A nonstop round of parties and balls. I require two valets in London, and I wear them both out before the season is half over. And I shan’t even mention the effect of all that partying on one’s liver.”
“Oh, Tony!” Hanna laughed. “What a dark picture you paint. But in all seriousness, Martin, I think your plans are splendid. When do you want to get started?”
“The sooner the better. There are so many places I want to go to. I thought I might take the train up to London today and make arrangements with Cook’s—you know, join a tour group of some kind. Maybe I could take off Monday or Tuesday.”
Lord Stanmore drew a silver watch from his waistcoat and flipped the lid open. “Jolly good way to go about it. Those chaps make all the arrangements in advance for accommodations in decent hotels and inns. Let’s see . . . you could catch the eleven-thirty from Godalming. I’ll have Ross drive you to the station. Get a taxi at Waterloo to Thomas Cook’s. They’re in the Strand, I believe.”
Hanna sorted her lists back into order with an air of finality. “Of course, I am a bit disappointed. I was looking forward to showing off my handsome nephew. But I will have you meet some of my friends before you travel on to Germany.”
“I would like that,” Martin said politely. He understood her approval of his plans. Aunt Jessie had found him socially redundant on more than one occasion. It was probably his destiny, he thought ruefully, to go through life messing up people’s seating arrangements.
Lord Stanmore clapped him on the back. “And we must get in a day’s riding. The only way to truly enjoy the English countryside is from the back of a horse.”
The earl walked with him to the main hall, talking ecstatically about the joys of horseback riding, a subject that Martin was incapable of warming up to.
“I shall inform Ross and he’ll bring the car around. Do you have any English money?”
“I have a pound or two, sir. I imagine I can cash some traveler’s checks at Cook’s.”
“Yes, they provide that service, but I’d better give you a fiver just to be on the safe side.” He was reaching into his jacket for his wallet when he spotted Fenton entering the hall from the direction of the conservatory. “Ah, Fenton, have a good shot?”
Fenton, walking slowly and apparently lost in thought, seemed startled by the question.
“What?”
“The bloody jackdaws. Get any?”
He had left shotgun and game bag on the seat in Lydia’s garden. Well, someone would find them. “Bagged a couple.”
“Jolly good for you. Young Rilke here is going up to London . . . book a Cook’s tour of the British Isles. Sensible way to go if one doesn’t know the country.”
“Yes . . . I suppose it is. Are you going up this morning?”
“Yes,” Martin said.
“I’ll go with you, then.” He smiled apologetically at Lord Stanmore. “I ran into the telegraph boy as I was crossing Fern Lane. The adjutant needs me back.”
“Whatever for?”
“A battalion matter that could easily have waited until next week, but he’s a nervous old aunty of a man.”
“Damn. Well, at least we got in a couple of decent rides.”
He sat in a moody silence half of the way to London. Martin had made an attempt at conversation, but Fenton had responded with a few grunted monosyllables so he gave up trying. He sat opposite the tall officer in a first-class carriage and contented himself with watching the scenery. As the train entered the suburbs of South London, Fenton emitted a deep sigh and reached into his pocket for cigarettes.
“Do you smoke, Rilke?”
“Yes, thanks.” He preferred cigars, but he took the offered cigarette, grateful for the breaking of the ice.
“Rather a blistered landscape, isn’t it?” Fenton said, gesturing toward the window. “I suppose all England will be like that one day—every scrap of turf paved, every hill crawling with brick villas. I really detest progress.”
“So do I—sometimes. It’s the same way in Chicago. New things going up all the time, the city growing like a weed.”
“Yes, I dare say. Still, in America there is so much land to expand into. I mean . . . all those prairies and deserts and things.” He puffed on his cigarette and eyed Martin narrowly through the smoke. “I really hate to bring this up, Rilke, but that jacket doesn’t fit you at all. Who the devil is your tailor?”
“Marshall Field,” he blurted.
“The man should be shot. Look here, old chap, I hope you won’t take offense, but a gentleman is judged by his clothes and you’re too nice a fellow to be snubbed. My tailor is a wizard. He could make you a couple of outfits in no time flat, a few days. He’s in Burlington Street, just off Savile Row. What do you say we pop around there after you leave Cook’s?”
“Well, I . . .” He felt like ripping the offending jacket from his body and tossing it out of the speeding train.
“And if ready cash is a problem,” Fenton went on blithely, “don’t give it a thought. Old Purdy wouldn’t expect an earl’s nephew to fork over vulgar coin. Just pay him when you get around to it. And you’ll find him surprisingly reasonable.” He sat back with the contented air of a man who had just settled a question once and for all. “Yes, we’ll do that straightaway.”
Martin squirmed. He felt humiliated, but the man had only been speaking honestly. The jacket was terrible, there was no question about that.
“But . . . don’t you have to report to your unit?”
Fenton brushed a fleck of cigarette ash from the knife crease of his gray flannel trousers. “As a matter of fact, I pulled a slight deception on his lordship. There never was a telegram from the adjutant. It was an excuse to get out of staying for the weekend. I hope you won’t say anything.”
“Of course not.”
“Thank you. I just felt like getting back to London for . . . personal reasons.”
They took a taxi from Waterloo Station to the Strand. The office of Tho
mas Cook & Sons was found and arrangements quickly made. Martin would join a tour group leaving Euston Station on Thursday morning for “ten days of wending one’s way slowly through the beauties of the British Isles. The pageantry of her great castles . . . the historical significance of Stratford-on-Avon . . . the Roman wall . . . Bath . . . the lake district, where the great poets roamed . . .”
The clerk had spoken with evangelical zeal and had congratulated Martin on his foresight in choosing Cook’s. He had then cashed one hundred dollars in traveler’s checks for him and handed him a printed sheet detailing the schedule for his trip, British Isles Tour Number 32.
“Rather painless,” Fenton remarked as they left. “Though Lord knows what your fellow tourists will be like. One should at least be given a choice of traveling companions.”
The two hours spent with Fenton’s tailor, the firm of Purdy & Beame, were equally painless. Both Mr. Purdy and Mr. Beame looked on Martin as a challenge to them as makers of fine gentlemen’s apparel. They exchanged knowing glances and raised eyebrows as they divested Martin of his clothes, clucking their tongues over the shoddiness of Yankee cloth and workmanship. Martin was so much clay in their capable hands. He ended up purchasing three outfits, which, according to Fenton and the tailor, would see him through the day in impeccable style. They would be ready Wednesday afternoon.
“Two fittings on Tuesday, Mr. Rilke—in the morning and again in the afternoon. It is not customary for Purdy and Beame to work under such pressure of time, but we will be, I can assure you, equal to the task.”
Martin was then helped back into his offending garments and that was that.
“A decent bowler and an umbrella with a silk slipcase and you’ll look like the Duke of Norfolk,” Fenton said as they stepped out of the shop. He pointed in the direction of Old Bond Street. “My hatter’s a short walk away. Come along.”
As they turned into Bond Street, Fenton suddenly stiffened and then faced about to peer intently into a window displaying pipes and tobacco.
“Christ,” he said under his breath. “I hope he didn’t see me.”