The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘I love you, you know. I suppose I oughtn’t. I ought to love Diana or one of those girls who’s frightfully dull and frightfully rich. But I don’t. I love you.’

  I stared at him. No one apart from my mother had ever said those words to me. And I had always imagined that when somebody did, the words would be spoken in German, not English. To my ear, they sounded new. I’d never been to an English cinema and I never listened to Mrs Ellsworth’s love-struck plays on the wireless. I’d read Kit’s romance novels, but I’d never heard the words said aloud. The first time was when he said them to me.

  ‘We’ll get them here, I promise you, Elise,’ he whispered. ‘If I have to go to Austria myself and carry their bags, I will get them to Tyneford.’

  He gazed down at me, blue eyes wide and guileless as a child. He was so certain and whenever I looked at him, I was certain too. I slid my hands into his golden hair and kissed him.

  ‘I love you.’

  I tried the words in English. They tasted strangely exotic in my mouth, and yet, in a way, detached from their meaning. I tried again in German.

  ‘I love you.’

  Kit laughed, a throaty chuckle. ‘Say that again. I like it.’

  Before I could, the door handle rattled.

  ‘Mr Kit, sir. Would you be so good as to unlock this door?’ called Mr Wrexham.

  I sat up in horror, bumping Kit on the forehead in my haste.

  ‘He knows I am here,’ I hissed, springing off the bed.

  Kit shrugged and reached for his silver cigarette case. ‘Probably. Wrexham knows everything. Damn fine butler. Old school.’

  He swung his legs out of bed and jumped up, grabbing a dressing gown from the back of the door. He glanced round to check where I was and seeing me lurking by the window smoothing my apron, he opened the door.

  ‘Morning, Wrexham. Ah excellent, you brought tea. And aspirin, you really are a champ.’

  The butler stepped into the room, holding out a tea tray, and stopped dead when he saw me. Kit, apparently unconcerned, helped himself to the packet of aspirin, swallowing the pills dry. Mr Wrexham’s face turned as grey as a winter’s sky and he studied me without blinking.

  ‘May I enquire as to Elise’s presence?’ he asked, recovering himself sufficiently to place the tray on the bedside table and pour Kit a cup of tea.

  Kit took a noisy gulp. ‘Yes. Well, if I’m honest, I woke up to find her here. Lovely surprise. Touch irregular, I know. But don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the old butler blanch. ‘Nothing untoward happened. Well, nothing too untoward,’ he concluded with a wicked smile in my direction.

  I gave a short cry, and covered my mouth, turning to face the window. I did not wish to see Mr Wrexham’s expression.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, Wrexham,’ said Kit. ‘I love her, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Kit, you would be good enough to inform your father of this fact.’

  The butler bent to scoop up a stray pillow and a fallen magazine from the bedroom floor. Kit crossed the room and settled into the battered armchair beside the window, looking slightly troubled for the first time since Mr Wrexham’s interruption.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I must.’

  He shifted in his chair.

  ‘Think I shall dress first, though.’

  ‘Very good sir. Shall I draw you a bath?’

  ‘Yes. Excellent.’

  During this exchange, I had remained at the window, a few feet from Kit’s chair. I was elated and mortified all at the same time. I wanted to cry, whether from joy or humiliation, I was not quite sure. It was clear that Mr Wrexham was not going anywhere, and so I decided that mostly I wanted to leave the room.

  ‘I must clean downstairs,’ I said. I did not think Kit would try to kiss me in front of the old butler, but I could not be sure. I could feel both men watching me as I fled, and was glad that I could see neither of their faces.

  I avoided the breakfast room, not wanting to encounter either Mr Rivers or his guests, certain that the entire household must suspect something was afoot. I dusted the netsuke in the drawing room, taking them out of their glass cabinet and cleaning each piece in warm water before drying it and returning it to the appropriate shelf with shaking fingers. They were ugly things: grey ivory rats crawled over one another, tails knotted; fat warriors smirked. I washed the skirting boards with soap solution, and rubbed the dado rails with beeswax. I needed to keep busy; I couldn’t stay still. When I thought about Kit, my fingers fluttered to my throat. I smiled. Perhaps I ought to worry about my possible dismissal and yet I was happy and untouchable. He kissed me. He loved me. Would we get married? I’d read all the romance novels stashed in the guest bedrooms, from Lady Rose and Mrs Memmary to the intriguing Miss Buncle’s Book and the more troubling Cheerful Weather for the Wedding, but all the novels stopped at the crucial point: the wedding itself, and what came after remained terribly intriguing. I wished Margot were here to talk to. The information Poppy and I had shared now seemed rather inadequate and I suspected that no books on Mr Rivers’ shelves could offer practical assistance. My sister was not coy, and I knew she would deliver without a blush any information I required, between languorous pulls on her cigarette. I pictured her, sprawled upon the bed in the blue room in her elegant underwear, eating rose creams and offering advice on married life while surrounded by a haze of smoke. I would write to her, demanding detailed factual advice by return, but I did not want the cold page, I wanted her.

  I tried to imagine Kit and me taking tea together on the terrace in summer, the climbing roses filling the air with their pervasive scent, as we discussed the unconscionably warm weather or perhaps the cricket. I giggled. Next, I imagined not leaving the room when he took his bath and sitting on the edge of the tub as I did with Margot – only this wasn’t the same at all. I saw Kit lazing, naked, and smiling at me through the steam. What would I wear for such an occasion? A dressing gown? My underthings? Nothing at all? My cheeks flushed and I bit my lip. Yes, I decided, I could marry him very well.

  Kit found me as I was sluicing the back steps by the stable yard. I was so busy scraping at the green moss on the stone that he was forced to shout.

  ‘There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over.’

  I stood up and brushed myself down, conscious of the layer of black-green slime beneath my fingernails.

  ‘Come for a walk.’

  I cast a guilty look at the bucket of filthy water and the half-cleaned steps.

  ‘Oh, leave it. Do it later,’ snapped Kit, grabbing hold of my wet hand and hurrying me out of the yard and along the path leading up the hillside. We didn’t speak for a minute or two, breathless as we climbed the steep hill, slip-sliding over the damp ground. Fragile violets grew amongst the tangled grass stems, the first I had seen that spring, and I tried not to crush them underfoot. Kit walked swiftly, and I was soon panting to keep up, feeling my forehead moisten with sweat. As we reached the summit he slowed.

  ‘Well, I spoke to him.’

  I leant against the dry-stone wall criss-crossing the top of the hill. White clouds buffeted across the grey-blue sky. Kit came and stood beside me, a strand of damp hair sticking to his brow.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Kit shifted. ‘Well. I sort of marched in there. Into the library. And I said “I love Elise”. And he looked up at me and he said, “I know”.’

  ‘“I know”?’

  ‘Yes. It’s funny – I’ve only known myself since yesterday. I was almost sure when I left. And while I was away, I kept thinking about you. I’d be trying to do other things – dinner with the chaps, a game of tennis – and there you were. I started to wonder if I was in love. Then when I came back and you hurled yourself at me, beside the motorcar, I was certain.’

  ‘I didn’t hurl myself.’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m pretty sure you did.’

  I swatted him, half in anger and half in jest, and he caught my arm, tugging me against him. I smiled, snug in his arms, and thoug
ht, so this is happiness.

  ‘And you smoked my cigarettes. I found one that was half spent. It smelt of you.’

  Letting me go, Kit heaved himself onto the wall and helped me scramble up so that I perched beside him, our legs dangling. He gazed out towards the sea. It rippled in the distance, waves rushing the beach.

  ‘It was odd. Father didn’t want to know much about me. Already knew all about my grand passion. He was much more interested in you.’

  ‘In me? Whatever for.’

  ‘He wanted to know if you loved me. Asked me several times, if I was quite sure. He seemed rather anxious about it all. No.’ Kit paused, searching the pale sky for the words. ‘That’s not right. Sad. He was sad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I supposed Mr Rivers must be disappointed in Kit loving me. It couldn’t be terribly good for his reputation. He probably wanted Kit to fall in love with a Diana or Juno or Lady Henrietta. Somebody with no chin and a large fortune and a wardrobe full of mink stoles. And a neat entry in the baptismal register of Some-shire.

  We sat and listened to the birds, the swooping song of the skylarks, the chatter of the rock pipits as they parachuted to earth and the yaffle of a green woodpecker. The gorse dotted across the hillside was coated in sticky yellow flowers smelling sweetly of coconut. Kit was silent for a moment, then he fidgeted beside me, and said quietly, ‘He doesn’t want us to be engaged. Not yet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  My stomach twisted with uncertainty.

  Kit smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried. He just wants us to wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  I found out many years later exactly what passed in the library between the two men. But on that spring morning in 1939, Kit described only part of their conversation, concealing what was said later. Over time I have pictured the conversation so often that sometimes I have to remind myself that I was not actually there and it is not a memory.

  Despite it being barely ten o’clock, Mr Rivers poured two large measures of whisky, sliding one across the desk to his son.

  ‘All right,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘I accept that you love her and she you. But come on, Kit. This is not what is supposed to happen. People like you and people like Elise. You’re not supposed to marry.’

  Kit recoiled. ‘People like Elise? You mean Jews.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered his father, without apology.

  ‘This isn’t nineteen twenty. They’re part of the set now,’ said Kit, anger rising.

  ‘Yes. They’re welcome or, if we’re honest, tolerated in almost any house in England. But when it comes to matrimony, they stick to their own kind. Their rules as much as ours.’

  Kit shook his head. ‘What nonsense.’

  ‘Don’t be such a schoolboy. Her father would be as furious as I am. And, it’s not just that she’s a Jewess. For God’s sake, Kit. She’s a housemaid.’ Mr Rivers drained his whisky. ‘I don’t like it when people talk. Especially when it’s about us.’

  Kit gave a short laugh. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them.’

  ‘Yes. I would like you to love a rich woman. I would like you to have something to pass down to your son. I have done my best, but Kit – Tyneford . . . we can’t carry on as we are. The estate needs money.’

  ‘So you want me to marry some girl I don’t love, for her cash.’

  Mr Rivers shook his head. ‘No. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Gone are the days, for better or for worse, when we married for England – to keep her land green and pleasant.’

  Kit studied his father with cold curiosity. ‘Did you love my mother? Or was it just her fortune?’

  Mr Rivers stiffened. ‘Don’t you judge me. We did our duty. What everyone expected of us both. And that cash kept roofs on the village cottages, paid for Eton and Cambridge. It’s why the limes on the avenue remain un-felled and the fields unsold.’

  Mr Rivers’ face softened in remembrance. ‘I loved her in a way. She was a kind, sweet girl. A wonderful mother – she doted on you. I hope I made her happy. But did I love her with the passion of the poets? No. But we didn’t expect to in those days.’

  Kit stared at his father and felt his anger subside into sadness.

  Mr Rivers sighed. ‘This is a choice, Kit. If you marry Elise, then you must know that you will probably lose Tyneford – not this year, nor the next, but someday. Will you love her then, knowing that you gave up this place for her?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Kit, with all the indignation of a young man in the flush of his first romance.

  ‘I expected you to say nothing less.’ Mr Rivers gave a bitter laugh. ‘No one would blink if you slept with her. Took her quietly as a mistress. Half the so-called gentlemen in England carry on discreet affairs. But I wouldn’t let you do that to Elise.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t. I want to marry her.’

  Mr Rivers gave a slow, tired smile. ‘You’re one and twenty. You don’t need my permission but I would ask you to wait. Please, give it a year to be certain, for my sake. I’ve never asked much of you, Kit.’

  Kit was silent for a minute and then nodded. ‘All right. A year. But only because you ask it. I shan’t change my mind.’

  If I had known then the choice that his father presented to him, would it have altered anything? Would I have still agreed to marry him? I don’t know. These things were so long ago.

  Beside me on the wall, Kit blinked. I nudged him.

  ‘Why does your father want us to wait, Kit?’

  Kit took my hand. ‘Come on, Elise. We must give him a little time. You’re a Jew and you came here as a servant. It’s nonsense to us but it matters to my father. It matters to all of them – the Lady Vernons, the Hamilton girls and despite appearances my father is still one of them.’

  I bit my lip, hurt that despite everything – his admiration of Julian’s books, selling the Turner, his kindness towards me – Mr Rivers saw me as marked by my Jewishness. It was worse than my humble position in his household – that was a mere flick of fate. Jew was in the blood.

  ‘Have you even thought what your father would say?’ asked Kit.

  There had been plenty of mixed marriages in Vienna, at least there had been before the troubles. They had been common enough to lose their exotic sheen. Julian argued over dinner with his mouth full of schnitzel that this was the future and one of the Good Things in This World. Well, this and excellent burgundy and publishers who didn’t demand spurious changes to his manuscript or describe his work as ‘obscure’ and ‘obtuse’. The ‘obscene’, he took as a compliment.

  ‘Julian won’t mind at all,’ I said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘At least, I don’t think he will. All his books are about perfect assimilation, and he’s always talking about thoroughly modern marriages. So he ought to thoroughly approve. Also, I think he’s an atheist.’

  Kit frowned. ‘It’s possible a man might write one thing, but perhaps think something else when it comes to his daughter.’

  I gazed at him blankly and he sighed and tried again.

  ‘It’s just, that, well, I’m not sure that a man’s novels can be accurately read as a forecast to how he will react to his daughter’s Christian suitor.’

  I studied Kit and wondered whether this was something that he had thought all by himself, or if it was something that his father had voiced. It all seemed rather abstract without Julian here. Julian liked to argue for himself, preferring to surprise people with his opinion – usually the opposite of what they imagined him to think. He was so far away and Kit was right here beside me with his blue eyes and twitching smile and his scent of sandalwood and his particular blend of Turkish cigarettes. I was struck by a thought.

  ‘You’re not going to want me to convert, are you?’

  Kit laughed. ‘Good God, no. I adore you as you are.’

  ‘And you’re sure that your father won’t try to insist? Because I won’t, you know. I can’t.’

  I thought in horror of the time I had peeked into the St Stephensdom, the cathedral in Vienna.
It was pouring with rain and I had forgotten my raincoat and umbrella. I was clutching a sticky date pastry that would get spoilt, and I had ducked into the cathedral, looking for a dry corner to nibble my treat. A black robed priest grimaced when he saw me eating, and I stuffed it into my mouth before he could hiss at me. As I tried not to choke, I saw a grotesque marble statue of a man in agony on a white cross, trickling stone blood, his forehead torn by thorns, lips pursed, forever about to scream. And they thought we had done this? No wonder they hated us. Until I saw that statue and inhaled the sickly scent of burning incense, I had not realised how different the other girls in school were from Margot and me and the other Jews. I’d not eaten dates since. I shuddered as the cool March wind blew through the thin weave on my sweater.

  ‘I won’t. I can’t.’

  ‘Darling, I told you, no. And what about you? Do you want me to convert?’

  Kit pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and popped it onto his blond curls, like a makeshift yarmulke.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course not.’

  ‘Well, then, it’s settled, darling. We’ll be thoroughly modern. Herr Landau will approve, so will Father. And we’ll live happily ever after.’

  ‘Just like in one of those romance novels.’

  ‘Exactly. But with less taffeta.’

  Kit leant over and kissed me, his long eyelashes fluttering against my cheek. I could kiss him all day and night. I supposed that this was what May and the dailies termed ‘necking’. He took my hand, and traced his fingertips across my knuckles. I tried to draw away – my skin was coarse and chapped from hours spent scrubbing, and I was embarrassed. Gentlemen were supposed to marvel at their lover’s remarkably smooth skin, not calluses and cracked nails. Violetta might have been a courtesan/whore but I was certain that she never had that particular problem – her hands were probably as soft as duckling down. I felt like an elderly Juliet with rough hands and thick ankles. Kit would make a splendid Romeo, even though I could picture him more easily idling with a cigarette and a gin cocktail than running a fellow through with his sword.