Until the Colours Fade

by Tim Jeal

  ‘Please don’t,’ he begged.

  ‘Are you convinced?’

  ‘Anybody may come … your son … Catherine….’

  She smiled at him as he realised his true position. He had proved himself more frightened of discovery than she, though she had everything to lose. Her proof was irrefutable. In acknowledgment he too went down on his knees and embraced her, awkwardly at first, too conscious of her naked shoulders. She turned his cheek and kissed him firmly on the mouth, leaving him gasping for breath. Her teeth hurt his lips, but he did not break away.

  ‘Convinced?’ she whispered again, her eyes tender and yet mocking.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he sighed.

  They held each other perhaps ten seconds, but to Tom it seemed far longer, so much did he feel during that time on his knees, beside an ornate ivory chair, under Angelica Kauffmann’s painted ceiling, in a room which he had once chosen for the quality of the light.

  28

  Among her letters brought in by the butler, Helen saw the Admiralty seal on one of the envelopes. She did not leave the breakfast table at once but continued talking to Humphrey with apparent unconcern. Afterwards she went up to the small sitting-room where she kept all her papers and shut the door. Her hand shook a little as she picked up an ivory paper-knife and slit open the flap of the envelope above the embossed anchor.

  ‘My dearest Helen,

  How I wish I could be with you in England instead of stifling here, becoming daily more convinced of my inability to influence anybody in this slow drift into war….’

  She put down the sheets of paper and covered her face with her hands, but moments later she got up abruptly from her seat at the bureau and walked over to the open window where she stood looking out at the unchanging pattern of clipped hedges and symmetrical lawns. Nothing there had changed, the room was no different, the sky as blue, the sun shining as brightly; and should she feel sudden shame and guilt because of a letter? He had sent others, and would send more, and they too, she promised herself, would alter nothing. She would be true to her word; she had agreed to marry Sir James, and marry him she would, but until she did, she would please herself. She had been discontented too long to be prepared to surrender any possibility of happiness that came her way in these last months of freedom.

  Yet in spite of her determination, the guilt remained: guilt mixed with anger. James had been perfectly aware that her financial problems had increased his chances and, although she had told him honestly that she did not love him, he had forced an answer from her before he went away, instead of giving her time to know her mind more fully. His trump card had been her fear that if she delayed acceptance, the offer might not be repeated on his return, and though others might well have offered, she had needed immediate and certain support to save her son’s inheritance. That too he had appreciated. Now was she to reproach herself for failing in his absence to dedicate herself to self-denial and to bow down at the altars of prudence and propriety, those twin goddesses whose one injunction was to pursue material advantage with a cautious single-mindedness that left nothing to chance? Never. Before paying her final forfeit to financial necessity, she would prove to herself that she could still be free, if only for a few brief months; and, since all moderate and safely acceptable behaviour would merely confirm her slavery, this proof demanded that she risk everything and have the courage to follow a course which, if revealed, would bring disgrace and ruin.

  She could imagine the universal incredulity should it ever be known that she had encouraged a man without money, influence and noble blood, and had indeed chosen him for these very deficiencies. He was what he was through no accidental or external advantages. Tom’s pride was innate and no mere badge of caste and wealth. She had been more contrary and provoking with him than she had been with any other man, but he had never behaved badly in return, nor had he ever lost his dignity and shown bitterness in the face of her mockery. In the end, in spite of all her wiles, she felt that she had become the humble supplicant and he, the penniless artist, her generous judge of bequests. Far from turning his head, her change towards him had revealed a strength of character she had never suspected. When she had offered herself, he had questioned her avowal and had given her the chance to retract; perhaps he had even been trying to protect her. Until that time, she had been as much absorbed by the thought of a daring and unforgivable liaison as with Tom himself, but his attitude had tipped the balance. Briefly, it was true, she had wondered whether his withdrawal had been a calculated attempt to draw her on still further, but the helpless embarrassment he had shown when she had gone down on her knees had disposed of this fear; in fact his bewilderment had touched her deeply. With no possible previous experience of the behaviour of true ladies, his attempted calmness and self-possession had been quite remarkable.

  Immediately after their kissing she had felt remorse. To make him love her, without being sure of her own feelings, was selfish and wrong. The attraction of his youth, freedom and novelty could not justify causing him suffering. His suggestion that she might have acted as she had to escape the future had worried her; but when they had met again at dinner, the painful tension she had felt in talking to him as though nothing had happened, had made her long to see him alone, and sitting close to him she had had to struggle with a powerful impulse to stretch out her hand. The difficulty she felt in fragmenting herself and changing from one role to another finally convinced her that she felt something very close to love; for the first time she felt frightened that she might lack the courage to sustain the part she had begun to play. What would he feel for her when her mystery had gone? Loving her might mean no more to him than an unusual adventure; a pleasing gratification of social ambition. Perhaps in the end he would reject her as revenge for having been forced to seek the patronage of a class he secretly hated. Yet she could not believe it of him. How could such naturalness and candour be false? There was no bitterness in that open face framed by tousled hair. The acid of disappointment and resentment had etched no lines around his mouth, nor dimmed the optimism of his brown eyes. His looks were not exactly innocent, he was too intelligent and had experienced too much for that, but his face still had the purity of expression only given to those unenslaved by fear and thwarted hopes. He was probably no more than five or six years younger than she, but Helen felt an age apart and this added to her other feelings a poignant nostalgia for what she had lost. For her his true possessions were emphasised by his poverty; a condition which she was sure would have crushed her. Even his faults pleased her: his social uncertainty which at times made him ludicrously formal, and his light restless gestures and nervous silences made her feel tenderly protective.

  When Helen returned to her letter she felt more composed, but James’s small precise hand still caused her acute apprehension. If peace could be guaranteed, he would soon be returning; if war became inevitable, that would be equally agonising: her precarious happiness unlikely to survive the insistent clamour of the outside world. Her marriage would take place earlier and James, if his post were made permanent, would expect her to join him in Turkey; her distance from England and the thunder of the guns would soon blot out all softer notes.

  ‘… We arrived in Constantinople yesterday having travelled from Vienna via Trieste. A hot and disagreeable journey – railways are really good for nothing except to go blindfold from place to place with superior velocity….’

  When she came to details of the diplomatic negotiations, Helen found herself not so much unable to take them in, as fearful and reluctant to understand the vast impersonal forces shaping her destiny. Sentences and phrases danced before her. ‘Stratford will recommend the Turks to reject the Vienna Note … evacuation of Moldavia … rights of the Sultan’s Christia subjects …’ At times she could almost hear Sir James’s urbar and wearily ironic voice, and then she read carefully:

  ‘… I fear that in two months’ time we will still be engaged in the same curious game, tossing a ball – often called a note, declar
ation or convention – from Vienna to Paris to London to Constantinople and finally, the longest toss of all, to the goal at St Petersburg. But either it never starts, or falls to bits in the air, or bounces into the Seraglio precincts and the Sultan kicks it under the table where it vanishes. The worst of it is that each new ball spoils the one already in use, and since we cannot control the number thrown in, this is always happening. Hence the Vienna Note wrecked Lord S’s plan, which ruined Clarendon’s convention, which killed the first French draft; and so we will go on. I could write an oriental romance entitled the “Thousand and One Notes”, but fear it would be anything but diverting…. With every added month of negotiation the Tsar will become more sure that we don’t intend to fight if he starts a war…. In a month or two Turkey will fight willy-nilly. Of course if the cabinet present the Tsar with a clear ultimatum, we may yet escape, but I doubt it. All the time the Russians are building up forces and our own army is footling at Chobham. By the time the fleet is sent for it will be winter, and a cruise in the Black Sea then won’t be all pleasure, with gales, snow and ice. A sorry figure we will cut the following spring when the naval war starts … So here I am to advise on naval matters and for all the notice that is taken of me, I might as well be at Timbuktu. If you were here I might even find something good to say of this utterly alien place. On the Bosphorus you constantly hear the muezzin’s call from the minarets and the crash of guns announcing that the Sultan has gone to the mosque, or that it is Ramadan or Bairam or some other Mohammedan feast, or the day when the Prophet went to heaven on a white camel, or was it brown? … In a week I hope to go botanizing on the Asian side of the Bosphorus with Skene and Franklin, two young attaches from the Embassy. The others will think us mad to be scrambling about in the heat in eager pursuit of eastern “flora”, but there are literally thousands of beautiful wild plants and shrubs – many quite unknown in England. Also butterflies that make our peacock look a drab clerk by comparison. When I grow tired I shall imagine you by my side with a white parasol in your hand and that lovely smile and I’ll soon be pushing on the youngsters and not vice versa.

  If God help me I am still here in November could you think seriously about coming out? You would be carried through the streets in a sedan chair like your grandmother, which would at least be a novelty, and I will be the best guide I can. I am sure Lady Stratford would invite you as her guest, so there would be no impropriety. The wearisome conduct of the crisis would seem a small burden to bear with you to share it – if you could bear to be the recipient of so much irritation and disappointment….’

  Helen started as she heard the door opening. Looking up, she saw Humphrey entering hesitantly.

  ‘I saw the envelope; couldn’t help seeing it.’ He paused anxiously. ‘You’re not cross? I had to know what’s happening. Who else gets letters from embassies in Vienna and Constantinople?’

  ‘Lord Clarendon and Sir James Graham,’ she replied with a smile, watching his look of awe and pleasure. He came closer.

  ‘Can you read bits to me? Will there be a war?’

  ‘James thinks so.’ Humphrey’s undisguised excitement, which had touched her before, now only irritated Helen. ‘People will die,’ she said sharply. At once he looked crestfallen and ashamed, probably, she thought, recalling his father’s death. Remorse swiftly followed her burst of indignation. What right had she to judge him? The thought of Humphrey finding her out made Helen’s heart race.

  ‘Won’t it all be over in a month or two?’ he asked apologetically. ‘Nobody’s beaten our navy for ever so long.’

  A new thought had Helen trembling violently – a sudden impulse more than a rational decision. The answer to her guilt: reparation to her future husband, a free choice for her son.

  ‘Do you still want to join the navy?’

  His eyes were shining with pleasure and anticipation.

  ‘Who on earth wouldn’t at a time like this? Think of it, Charles a captain, Sir James an admiral and me a cadet. Do you think he’ll get the Baltic or Black Sea command?’

  ‘He doesn’t expect either.’

  ‘But Dundas and Napier are far too old. I read that in the papers.’

  ‘I shouldn’t depend on the papers.’ She took his hand and went on in a low urgent voice: ‘You could be hurt, Humphrey – even killed.’

  ‘Does that stop the others?’

  ‘Most of them are much older.’

  ‘Not the cadets and middies.’

  Taking a cushion from the ottoman, he tossed it up and caught it.

  ‘I can’t stay here all my life; well, can I?’

  ‘Many country gentlemen find occupation enough on their estates.’

  ‘Or lounging away their lives in their clubs living on their means. You don’t want me to be like that.’

  A long silence while he waited expectantly.

  ‘I shall write to Charles,’ she said at last. ‘He can nominate you when he gets a ship.’

  Humphrey threw the cushion wildly with both hands, hitting the chandelier and setting the glass pendants tinkling and spinning; then he kissed and hugged his mother. How strange, she thought, that he should be so happy when he knows he will be leaving me, but when she cried a little, he was more affectionate than she could remember him being for several years.

  *

  After breakfast Tom had prepared himself for Helen’s morning sitting, but an hour later she had still not made her appearance. He tried to persuade himself that he was angry, but at the same time found himself making excuses for her: an unexpected letter from her solicitor demanding immediate attention, some crisis with Humphrey or Catherine, an urgent visit from her bailiff. Yet even in these circumstances she could have sent down a servant to tell him that she had been delayed; nothing could have been easier. How could she be unaware that by leaving him waiting for an hour without explanation, she would make him fear that he had unwittingly displeased her, or that she had altered her opinion of him for some other reason? But still he could not feel angry with her, instead her absence frightened and depressed him.

  Tom paced up and down the room, now and then glancing at the clock, and always listening for footsteps, longing for the door to open, and knowing that if at that moment she were to come in smiling with some transparently improbable excuse, he would at once feel happy again. He despised himself for his weakness, but could not help himself. Nor was he comforted by the thought that her lack of consideration increased his feeling of attachment. He accused himself of being a grovelling parvenu, of having allowed Helen’s superficial social graces to blind him to her underlying selfishness, of being seduced by the beauty and grandeur of the house, of having had his head turned by a little attention. What if her encouragement, which had led him to hope so fondly, had been a device to destroy his already slender powers of resistance? Everything part of a deliberate plan to humiliate him for ever having supposed himself deserving of being her lover? When he had been sure that her love was genuine, he had felt a god, capable of anything, brilliant, witty, self-assured and entirely worthy of her. Just an hour of doubt and he could not tell how she could ever have seen him as anything other than plodding, gauche and ordinary. He tried to think of something amusing and cutting to say when she might eventually appear, but could only contrive remarks that would sound bitter or spiteful. Lightness of touch was what he believed she valued most but, obsessed as he was with the seriousness of his emotions, everything he thought of seemed portentous and over-earnest. Either that, or he would chatter incoherently because of his nervousness. Lovers always said banal and stupid things to each other and found in the most commonplace ideas truth and profundity; but, if one were doting and the other detached, matters were very different.

  Tom suspected that his only salvation lay in saying and doing little, in the hope that she would find such inaction enigmatic and perplexing. If he confessed his fears, he was certain he would be lost. Never must he admit that he found it all but impossible to think of anything other than her, t
hat her most trivial actions seemed significant to him, that he could hardly concentrate enough to read a book, that he was in constant dread lest a chance remark of his might destroy the impression of him which had initially aroused her interest.

  Just before eleven, Helen’s lady’s maid came in and told him that her ladyship could not sit and sent her apologies. When the girl had gone, Tom was left with a strong impression that she had looked at him strangely. Was it possible that his feelings were evident even to the servants? Even to the servants. The pattern of his thought shocked him. Had he come to think of himself as so different from these people, whose condition was much closer to his own than Helen’s or Catherine’s? Small wonder if it should be one of them to find him out. The idea of eyes following him and ears listening to him at table or from doorways made him panic. He sank down in a chair and stared blindly at the swirling patterns in the carpet, imagining himself facing the admiral. The thought was so humiliating and terrible that he could not envisage any line of defence or justification. And Magnus – what would Magnus think? Magnus who had become his closest friend, whose friendship until a few days ago had been the single most important tie in the world, whose help had procured him his present employment. Magnus hated his father, but however intense that hatred, he could not be expected to welcome the news that his friend had become a lover of the woman his father intended to marry. As it was, his treatment of Catherine might lead her to try to turn Magnus against him, and given any additional opportunity her success could be guaranteed. Tom foresaw Magnus asking him to promise never to see or write to Helen. In his present state of mind he doubted whether he could give any such undertaking. But lose Magnus’s friendship – Tom buried his face in the angle of the back of his chair. He thought of his friend on the night he had watched him gamble at Bentley’s, recalled his manner of speaking, his courage on the day of the election, his indefatigable capacity for making plans and carrying them out. For a few minutes Tom was nearly convinced that he would after all have the strength of mind to pack his things and leave. A moment later Helen came in wearing her black riding habit; she came up to him, and touching his cheek lightly with the tips of the fingers of a gloved hand, said lightly: