The Distant Kingdom

by Daphne Wright

  ‘Charles, don’t.’

  ‘That first summer here, when I decided to have you, I planned it all so cleverly: I would work on you gradually through the summer until you were ready, like an apple so ripe that it needs only a touch to fall into the picker’s hand. And then I would take you, just before I left Simla so that our one magnificent moment wouldn’t be muddied by emotion.’

  ‘Charles, please don’t.’

  He brushed aside the hand she had put on his arm as though to restrain him.

  ‘I thought we should both be able to enjoy a nice wallow in sentimental sadness that way. And now this is what I have done to us both.’ He laughed again, without a vestige of amusement.

  ‘You once asked me if I regretted what happened, Charles. Do you regret it?’

  ‘As you said to me, how could I? Perdita’ – his voice changed, losing its saw-sharp edge – ‘you took me into a world that had never existed for me.’

  The bitter anger had died out of his eyes, and he smiled more gently at her as he put out an unsteady finger to brush a tear off her dark eyelashes.

  ‘Don’t weep.’

  She tried to smile back at him as she shook her head.

  ‘It’s only because it seems such an unjust waste. Cruel. Will you go back to America?’

  The sudden change of subject took him aback, and he looked around the cool, book-lined room before he answered slowly:

  ‘I don’t think so. If your father will have me, I think I might stay on here for a while. When … when do you sail?’

  ‘The middle of next month. Papa has taken berths for us and he thinks we should leave here next week. We’ll stay in Calcutta with the Macdonalds, old friends of his, while everything is packed and crated up. He is to come with us, but I expect he’ll come back here when we’ve gone.’

  ‘A week. One week to last for a lifetime.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Calcutta, November 1842

  My dearest Perdita,

  Leaving your father last month was a bitter wrench: not only because he is my last link with you, but because I have come to care for him so much. But I could stay no longer; the book is done at last, and my mother has written that my own father is ill. I sail for Virginia next week.

  We are to dock at Southampton, where I change ships, and I wish I thought I should be able to see you, if only for an hour. But I do not suppose you will come. But write to me care of the shipping office, if you will, so that I know that all is well with you.

  I do understand why you had to go with him, in spite of what I said to you. Write that you forgive me.

  Charles

  Beaminster Abbey, February ’43

  My dear Charles,

  There is nothing to forgive. Leaving you like that almost pulled me into two pieces. I am glad that you understood.

  We both miss India terribly, and are finding this new life hard to bear. I have never lived in such a house – I suppose it must be ten or more times the size of Whitney House, and that always seemed huge to me – and my ignorance and stupidity fret my mother-in-law into the most awful anger.

  Marcus left England while he was still only a boy and so he is in nearly the same case.

  I think it is the size that appalls me most. The oldest part of the house was an abbey (obviously) and the family seems to have been adding to it ever since they were given it by Henry VIII. But it is beautiful: the whole amorphous pile has been built of the same local stone, a pale golden colour that sits very well against the green. I had forgotten that lush, wet-looking greenness of this country, or perhaps Norfolk was never the same. Looking out at the lawns here, I sometimes think that they must be deep tanks of some imaginary substance – half liquid, half soft, resilient matter. Pay no attention, Charles! I only write like this because there is no one here to talk to. My mother-in-law is impossible; Juliana, too preoccupied with her own affairs; and Marcus … Marcus is trapped in his memories.

  Sometimes I long for him to talk about what happened, to find out whether he thinks James’s death was my fault, so that I can exorcise it and leave that great burden of guilt and fear and memory behind. But he will not talk, and if he ever hears the children speaking of Afghanistan or ‘Uncle James’ he stops them, as though if no one ever says anything more, we can pretend that none of it ever happened. If I could only see his eyes I should know, I think, what it is that he truly thinks. And if he still had his eyes, I might be able to force him to speak, but in the face of that injury I cannot. Oh, Charles, how shall we ever forget what happened?

  The only thing that seems to give Marcus any pleasure at all is the knowledge that I am with child again. But I think the thing that keeps me from despairing is the memory of what you said to me that day in Simla. I too, Charles … until the end of time.

  Perdita

  August ’43

  My dearest Perdita,

  I suppose that I am glad for your sake about the child, but I confess to bitter jealousy. She or he should have been mine. Forgive me, dear, I will not write anything like that again.

  I told you, I think, that my father was ill. Well, I reached home just in time before he died. It is a sad thing to write, but I could never forgive what he did to my mother, and the sight of her face after his death, almost as though she had been freed from some intolerable weight, made dutiful mourning impossible.

  But since then I have begun to understand your difficulties at Beaminster. I have had to take over his estates and I know nothing of tobacco. It is absurd that my brother Robert did not inherit; he is far more fitted to run the place than I. I miss my travelling life, and the temptation to hand over the reins to him and take ship somewhere becomes stronger every week.

  Charles

  November ’43

  Charles, my dear,

  I do not know if this will reach you, because I expect your roving nature has pulled you away from Virginia by now, but I had to write. I was sorry to hear about your father, but I envy you your freedom to leave Virginia whenever you want. We shall be confined here for ever.

  It might not be so bad if Marcus and I and the children could live alone together, but that is not allowed. Marcus and I have been allotted bedrooms in one of the modern wings, overlooking the gardens down to the lake, and my morning room is on that side of the house as well, but the nurseries are at the other end of the older part; and we have to take our meals with absurd ceremony in the hall, surrounded by everyone from the chaplain to my mother-in-law’s pathetic cousin and any visitors she has summoned. I know that I should stand up to her; for the moment it is my house, after all, not hers, but as I still do not understand how everything happens, or how to give all the orders that seem to be necessary, I find that I cannot.

  Sometimes when I look around at this house and think of all the people who work for us here, I remember that five of us shared one tiny, windowless room for nine weeks and the contrast makes me despair. When that happens, I escape from all the things I am supposed to do and retreat to the library, where I know I shall find Marcus. It is a lovely, peaceful room – long and low with faded old velvet chairs and worn curtains – and it has become our refuge. They always light a fire there first thing in the morning to stop the damp harming the books and so it is really cosy – the only place that is. The books are a wonderful selection, and would keep anyone occupied happily for years. Sometimes I try to read to Marcus, but too often I can tell from the way his hands twist and he bites his lip that he is not listening. Then I am afraid that he is back in Afghanistan and thinking of James.

  His mother is forever sending agents and men of business and bailiffs to talk to him and ask for orders and he hates it so. They all know so much more than he about what needs to be done that the whole procession seems like an empty travesty, cruel almost. I try to stop her, but all she says is that both he and I have to learn to carry out our responsibilities. I suppose that one day we shall learn, but it seems an idiotic way to spend our energies in a world where people are ki
lled in thousands on the whim of statesmen pursuing their own political obsessions.

  The children, though, are truly beginning to forget. They no longer wait helplessly if they drop something, or call imperiously in Hindustani for the servants. And Annie has even stopped hating this English food. At first, I think, that was her greatest difficulty – porridge and vegetables and bland, nursery meals. Poor child!

  I wish that I knew where you are, Charles. Then I could picture you, working on one of your books perhaps, and feel that there really is a life beyond Beaminster Abbey. Papa’s letters help, too. I need you both so much.

  Perdita

  Hong Kong, December ’44

  My dearest Perdita,

  Your letter of thirteen months ago has finally caught up with me. As I read it I wished I could be with you to help. But the only solution I could suggest would be the one I have perfected: escape.

  Why not try, Perdita? Must you remain in Dorsetshire? If it is so uncongenial, and if Beaminster has nothing to do except give orders to men who know just what they should do, why not take him to London? His position must entitle him to sit in your House of Lords. Could he not do something there? It would not be so complete an escape as mine, but it might alleviate what you suffer now.

  You have written nothing about the child, Perdita – tell me about it (her? him?) and that you are happy.

  Charles

  London, January ’46

  Dearest Charles,

  I do not know if this will ever find you, because your December letter took so long to arrive that you have probably wandered away somewhere else, but I have to write.

  I did as you told me and took Marcus to London and at first I thought he would be still more unhappy, because he hated to go among strangers and could read nothing of what he needed to learn. But now it is better.

  There are still many people at Westminster who remember his father, and Marcus’s affliction makes them all very good to us. I have had to learn all about blue books and government papers of all kinds, and read to him by the hour. We write his speeches together, and sometimes I even feel as though I too were involved in his work. We both believe that we might one day be able to do something to make this government think twice about going to war, and if we can do that then all our labours will have been well rewarded. We are learning to become masters of army constitution and foreign affairs, but we are still novices and one day we shall make a mistake that will make Marcus a laughing-stock. So far that has not happened, I think.

  You asked about the child: we decided to call him Richard; people say that he looks like me, I think he will be more like my father. I hope so. Papa seems to have a much happier nature than either of us.

  Perdita

  Virginia, November ’46

  Dearest Perdita,

  Your letter followed me to Hong Kong and now has caught up with me here. I hope that you had all the letters I sent in the interval.

  I came back to see to the publication of my empires book, long delayed, I know, but there have been many misfortunes at the printers. My father would have been astonished that I had ever finished it. Even when he was dying he told me that I was a good for nothing, always running away from the difficult or demanding. For months I was so angry that I would not even think about what he said. But now I have the answer I should have liked to make and I present it to you, the only person I can trust to understand: yes, I do run away – but not from trouble or hardship. I run from boredom, confinement, and the threat of having to pretend to feelings I do not have.

  Yes, you are right again. I shall be leaving here very soon. Robert and his wife look on me with pitying scorn, but my mother has always understood – as you do.

  Yours always, Charles

  London, January ’47

  My dear Charles,

  The parcel with your book has arrived, but no letter. Is all well?

  I read the book with interest, as you will suppose, but so much of it is beyond my understanding. It sounds foolish, but I never knew how wise you are. Reading the book I could not prevent myself wondering how you ever came to love me.

  Where are you now? Reports of almost every country in the world are so violent that I fear for you. I find myself saying ‘what if’and ‘if only’too often. Please do not stop writing to me. Your letters bring you back to me so vividly that without them I do not know how I should go on. The days when the letters come always seem full of sun, even when the clouds are black and thick and the rain pours down as heavily as on that day in Simla. I know we should not spend our lives looking back, but I cannot help remembering.

  Perdita

  The Cape, June ’47

  My dearest,

  I am glad that you remember. It is something that should not be forgotten. I am back here to finish the China book, and I hope it will impress you as much as The Management of Empires, but you are a goose: you know perfectly well why I love you, and it has nothing to do with books.

  The efficient and virtuous Robert is organizing everything in Virginia and so I have taken up residence here. I am considered something of a freak by the Boston matrons; they are all happy to come out to the Cape in the summer, but to leave the warmth and comfort of their red-brick houses for these wooden ones by the shore, where the wind whistles in winter and the ocean crashes up on to the beaches, seems mad to them. But I like the space, and no one troubles me here. I am fixed here for a while, and I promise not to go anywhere without telling you first. May I come to London soon?

  Charles

  London, November ’47

  Dearest Charles,

  I cannot prevent you going anywhere in the world you want, and I should never try. But I am glad that you are avoiding the most dangerous places at the moment.

  I think London could be dangerous too. Is it very selfish of me to want to keep on as we are? If we met again, we might lose our peace …

  P

  The Cape, February ’48

  Very well, Perdita, I accept your prohibition, but only because I know too well the suffocating frustration of being made to do things and see people I would rather avoid.

  If that sounds too feeling it is because my mother (even she cannot quite understand) is trying to marry me to a young cousin of hers – a serious, black-haired child called Emily. She is almost beautiful in a restrained, Bostonian fashion and she can talk sensibly of things that matter. It is possible that had I met her ten or fifteen years ago I should have succumbed, but I know too much of myself by now. I have no inclination to exchange this paper love affair for the drab realities of domestic matrimony. I know that I should be driven mad by the imprisonment of it – and my infidelities’would distress her. I dislike hurting people and I should always hurt her.

  But the only real regret I have in resisting the temptation is that I shall never have a child of my own. Strange, is it not, how such atavism is presented to the most unlikely subjects?

  I have finished the last volume of my China work and I expect the printers will have done their part in time for me to send you a copy for your birthday.

  Dear Perdita, I do not know how I should arrange my life if I did not have you in it.

  Always yours, Charles

  Beaminster, November ’48

  My dear Charles,

  It is weeks since I received your last letter and perhaps you have been wondering why I have taken so long to answer. The truth is that it aroused an explosive mixture of emotions in me that had to be separated before I could write.

  At first I suppose it was jealousy that consumed me – not of your Emily, who sounds a charming girl – but those ‘infidelities’. Then once I had found a way to be rational about what I have in fact known must be so, I discovered a passionate wish that you should have what I have found with Marcus. We have become so comfortable together and I have learned to value that highly. I do not suppose that I shall ever again be as happy as I was that day in Simla, but nor shall I plumb the depths I should have known had I gone away wit
h you and then learned of those ‘infidelities’, or come to realize that I was confining you in the way you fear so much.

  Marry her, Charles. I know that you will always want to escape, but it is good to have an anchor and children. I do not understand what ‘atavism’means, but if you could feel for a child what I have with Richard, you would know that a little imprisonment is worthwhile.

  Perdita

  The Cape, April ’49

  Ah, Perdita, Perdita – I love your honesty – and thank you for that jealousy. It is a compliment I shall treasure that you still feel like that seven years on.

  I do envy you your Richard, and when I am tired or sorry for myself I envy you and Beaminster; but, Perdita, you and I are not the same despite what we shared. It would never suit me to be anchored as you are.

  It is a good thing that you were strong enough to resist my childish importuning. Do you know that verse of Keats?

  Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal – yet do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

  It is good to be able to write that I shall always love you.

  Charles

  London, September ’49

  My dear Charles,

  Do you not find it curious to look back and remember how intensely we felt and how amused we can now be about it all?

  I longed for you in quite a new way recently, for help with my poor Charlie. He has become so uncontrollable in the last year that we have had to send him away to school. I hate the thought, but when I found out what he had been doing to Annie, I had to send him away. I found her once with the most shocking bruises on her arms and when I questioned her, she eventually told me that he had made them. At last the whole story came out – years of teasing, bullying and actual physical hurt. She hates me for sending him away and insists that none of what he has done to her merits such punishment.