The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  When I entered the room she was seated at her dressing table and engaged in a favorite occupation of hers, poking around in one of the several large jewel boxes which were all full of worthless trinkets. She disliked precious stones. I think she had read somewhere once that nouveau-riche women had a vulgar habit of wearing too much flashy jewelry. As I edged reluctantly towards her I saw she was lining up her mourning brooches (sordid little squares filled with dreadful swatches of faded hair) and piling her jet brooches into a pyramid.

  “Oh, do sit down, Ginevra,” she said casually, nodding towards the nearest chair. “How good of you to come so promptly. Thank you.”

  As I sat down speechlessly I was aware of a terrible desire to burst into tears.

  “Well, we mustn’t be emotional about this, must we,” said Margaret, idly arranging four mourning brooches into a quadrangle. “There’s no room in this situation for petty little displays of hysterics.”

  “No, Margaret.” I realized at once that she was handling me in the cleverest possible way. I need to be handled firmly when I’m quite beside myself with guilt and terror.

  “So,” said Margaret, surveying her quadrangle of brooches before glancing at me in the glass to make sure I had myself in control, “Robert still wants to marry you. Very well. If you two now decide to marry in spite of what you’ve been through this morning, all I can say is that you’ve certainly earned the right to do so. However—”

  I had never realized until that moment that “however” could be quite one of the most sinister words in the English language.

  “However,” repeated Margaret, suddenly abandoning the quadrangle and turning to look directly into my eyes, “I think this marriage, if it ever takes place, would be a very big mistake. Robert’s marrying you for all the wrong reasons. He’s marrying out of pride; he’s marrying because he’s invested so much emotional energy in you that he feels he can’t change his mind without looking a fool and suffering a fatal loss of self-respect. And as for you—” She turned aside and taking another brooch she converted her quadrangle into a pentagon. “—well, I won’t embarrass you by saying what I think is going on in your mind, but I’ll say this: you shouldn’t marry anyone until your husband’s been dead a year—and I’m not just talking about the proprieties when I say that; I’m talking about the dangers of marrying on the rebound.”

  She paused. Then she took me by surprise. As I braced myself for her next verbal assault she stretched out her hands to mine which were clasped in agony in my lap, and when she next spoke her gentle voice reminded me of days long ago when she had looked after me with as much love and care as if I had been her own child. “Ginevra … my dear, don’t think I don’t understand. I of all people know why you’re so afraid to be alone and unprotected—I of all people will never forget what happened to you once when I left you defenseless and alone. Do you think I can ever forgive myself for not realizing what was going on in Bobby’s mind during that dreadful summer of ’96? I shall always feel guilty about you, and I shall feel even guiltier if you now make the wrong decision as the result of that past tragedy.”

  I began to cry. I tried to find Robert’s handkerchief but I’d lost it. I tried to blink back my tears and failed.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman,” said Margaret in her most passionless voice as she efficiently passed me a lavender-scented handkerchief from the top drawer of her dressing table, “and as such, as you well know, you’re the prey of unscrupulous men. Of course you feel you need a strong man like Robert to protect you and keep you safe—that’s quite natural and I utterly understand it. But my dear, you don’t have to marry Robert to ensure the love and security you need. He’ll look after you whether you’re married or not, so why not simply continue as his mistress? I’m sure that would suit you both far better and be much more in keeping with your old friendship.”

  After that there was an interval of some minutes because I broke down and could do nothing but weep. Margaret was very kind and very patient and even passed me a second lavender-scented handkerchief. I hardly knew how to bear it.

  Eventually I controlled myself sufficiently to whisper, “But Margaret … why wouldn’t marriage be in keeping with our old friendship too?”

  “Oh, friends find it very difficult to live together,” said Margaret. “Haven’t you noticed? In fact it always seems to me that the quickest way to end a friendship is for the parties to try to live in harmony beneath the same roof. But if you’re Robert’s mistress you’ll both have your own establishments, and then the dangers of too much proximity won’t arise.”

  “But Margaret—”

  “Just think it over,” she said. “You do at least have six months to reflect on the situation before you journey to the altar—I only wish Robert would wait longer, but never mind, the gossip caused by a hasty marriage is the least of our problems. Ginevra—” She was now crisp and businesslike again; I watched her cram all the mourning brooches but one back into the jewel box and snap shut the lid “—this may come as a surprise to you, but I think the real difficulty in this situation lies not between you and me. I think we’ll both try hard and manage tolerably well. No, the real problem for the future lies between Robert and Bobby—and that, I confess, is worrying me almost to death. Will you help me?”

  “Oh, Margaret, you know I’d do anything—”

  “Then don’t cut Robert off from Oxmoon. It would break Bobby’s heart if Robert withdrew utterly to London.”

  “Well, of course I give you my word I wouldn’t persuade Robert to do such a thing, but surely Robert himself would never—”

  “Robert will try to give you the life you want, and you like the glitter, don’t you, Ginevra, you like the glamour and the fame. You want a smart London life with a thoroughly successful husband, and Robert’s going to see that you get it.”

  “But surely that’s what Robert himself wants!”

  “I don’t think Robert knows what he wants,” said Margaret, “but he’ll use you to clarify the confusion in his mind.” She began to pin on her selected mourning brooch. “You don’t know Robert very well, do you?” she added casually. “But then how could you? You’ve lived apart for so long. A great deal can happen in fifteen years—and that reminds me: have you discussed your boys with him?”

  “Well, actually … no. No, there hasn’t been time.”

  “Has he asked about them?”

  “No, not exactly. I mean, no, he hasn’t. But you see, what with one thing and another—”

  “Quite. Well, never mind. I don’t need to remind you, do I, how much Robert has always disliked children. I’m sure you can remember that all too clearly.” She stood up to terminate the interview. “You’ll have a great many problems to sort out between you,” she said, “and all I can do is wish you well. But do remember what I’ve said. Marriage is very different from a love affair and very, very different from a romantic fraternal friendship, no matter how powerful that friendship may be.”

  “Yes, Margaret.”

  “Oh, and Ginevra—”

  “Yes?”

  “I should be greatly obliged if you and Robert would observe the proprieties while you’re under this roof. What you do elsewhere is of course entirely your own concern, but here I have my standards—and here I draw the line.”

  “Yes, Margaret. Of course. I’m so sorry, please forgive us,” I stammered, and somehow managed to escape from her in an agony of guilt and shame.

  Now that I’ve calmed down, what do I think of Margaret’s advice? Not much. I’ve got to be married. Otherwise I shan’t feel safe. Besides, how could I manage on my own in London with the boys? (That was a very nasty gibe of Margaret’s about Robert and my boys and at some time I’ll have to consider it, but not just yet; I’ll cross that bridge later.)

  No, I’ve got to be married—and so has Robert. He’s reached the age now when he really has to have a wife, particularly as he’s about to enter politics. We simply can’t settle for a smart little love
affair; it wouldn’t work. If I were unmarried I’d flirt with other men, I know I would, and then I’d be sure to end up in a ghastly mess, whereas if Robert were my husband, watching over me and frightening away all the predators, I know I’d never be lured into naughtiness. The trouble is that although I’m terrified of men in some ways I adore them in others; men are my great weakness but at least I’m terrified enough to want to fight it by vowing to be utterly faithful to darling Robert.

  My God, what a muddle my emotions are. Can Robert cope? Yes. Robert will slip the wedding ring on my finger, iron out my problems and then take whatever steps prove necessary to ensure that we live happily ever.

  I’m going to marry him.

  I’m in London and it seems so gray and dispirited, so different from shining Manhattan with its glittering vistas and gaudy crowds and rowdy celebration of life. I loved New York once and now that I’m away from it I have this terrible suspicion I love it still. But I mustn’t start thinking of New York. If I do I’ll start thinking of Conor and then I’ll feel so unhappy, and God knows there’s quite enough muddle going on at the moment without me deciding to play the part of the grieving widow.

  But I miss New York and all my friends there. They all promised faithfully to write, but they won’t. Once or twice perhaps but no more. Do I mind? No, not really. I need to make a fresh start. I don’t want to be reminded of that life I shared with Conor.

  I find London intimidatingly grand. Life in the raw exists here, just as it does in New York, but the British have drawn the line as usual and the rawness has sunk obediently out of sight behind it. There’s the East End and there’s the West End and ne’er the twain do meet. Was any city so absolutely divided between the acceptable and the unspeakable? Of course the West End too has its unspeakable side but it’s all veiled discreetly by the twin gods of Tradition and Propriety which have to be ceaselessly appeased in order to keep the real world, the chaotic world, under control. No race knows better than a conquering race how anarchic the real world can be, and no race knows better than the British how to master reality by subjugating it, by setting those chilling standards and drawing those brutal lines.

  Yet after all isn’t this exactly what I want? There’s comfort in convention, security in being ruled by the rules. Don’t think of gorgeous free-and-easy vital New York which made you feel so intoxicatingly liberated. Liberation has to be paid for, just like any other social amenity, and the price I paid was chaos, the chaos symbolized by Conor’s violent terrible end. No. No more New York, no more violence, no more chaos. Welcome to London, welcome to Robert’s well-ordered world.

  Robert has taken a short lease on a furnished apartment in Kensington. The English call it a “mansion flat,” which means it’s spacious and comfortable, and downstairs in the reception hall a porter in Ruritanian uniform presides over acres of red carpet. My apartment is on the second floor—which the English call the first—and faces south over a pastoral square. I adore it and when I wake up in the morning I rush to the window and fling back the curtains and feel lyrical. Robert’s chambers near Temple Bar are some way away, but fortunately the underground railway is very accommodating in London and it doesn’t take him too long to reach me. Meanwhile I’m only two minutes (on foot) from Kensington Gardens and five minutes (in a cab) from divine Harrods, which is just as good as any store in New York and where I know I shall be perpetually lured to spend too much money.

  I’m rather naughty about money, I know I am, but I’m going to reform. How lucky it was that although Conor spent all the money that became mine outright on my marriage (he was very naughty about money and he never reformed), ten thousand was locked up on trust to me for life with the remainder to my children, and this meant he could never get his hands on the capital. Heavens, what rows we used to have about the income—and about money in general—but I won’t have to go through all that ghastliness with Robert. Robert’s bound to have his financial affairs under iron control, and anyway he must surely earn thousands so I daresay he won’t mind if I’m a little bit naughty with money now and then.

  Robert is paying for this heavenly mansion flat, but we haven’t actually talked about money yet. I’ve been too busy settling down in London and recovering from the ordeal of my visit to Oxmoon. It was dreadful that I couldn’t stay on there for more than a week after Robert left. I wanted to. I know it must have looked so odd to come home after many years and then rush off to London ten days later, but I couldn’t bear to stay. I’m still trying to work out why. Bobby and Margaret were faultless and the boys were adorable, but … it was ghastly. I suppose my guilt must have been responsible for the fiasco. Or Bobby’s guilt. Or—oh God—maybe even Margaret’s guilt. How dreadful I feel when I think of Margaret feeling guilty; but I must blot that out of my mind and think instead of how exciting it was to move from Oxmoon into this gorgeous apartment in London.

  It has a drawing room, a dining room, a bathroom, a very elegant water closet, a kitchen with a scullery, four bedrooms and a sort of cupboard beyond the kitchen where a half-witted maid sleeps; a cook-housekeeper arrives daily to provide rudimentary intelligence and food. One of the large bedrooms has been set aside for housing the luggage, the other large bedroom I sleep in and the two remaining bedrooms, which are smaller but still comfortable, will be allotted to darling Declan and darling Rory when they arrive from Ireland. I think they’ll be able to manage there without too many fights. That reminds me: I must write to Dervla and Seamus to say I’m now ready for the boys to join me. But before I do that I simply must raise the subject of the boys with Robert and make sure he understands that I can’t bear to be parted from them any longer.

  Perhaps if I were to show him the letters that arrived this morning …

  Dear Ma, wrote Declan. Thank you for your letter. We were glad to hear you are not in a decline but remembering how prostrate you were all the way across the Atlantic, not to mention how you nearly fainted into the grave at the funeral, I don’t think you should be on your own any longer. It’s not safe. You might kill yourself in a fit of passion and then regret it afterwards. You know what you’re like. So all in all I think it would be best if we came over and collected you and brought you back here where I can keep an eye on you. I know you have the apartment in London, but I’m afraid I can’t live in England, it would be quite contrary to Pa’s wishes, so I’m making inquiries through Uncle Seamus about the possibility of renting a place in Dublin. The sooner you get here the better, in my opinion, because I’m becoming worn out with worrying about what might be happening to you. With fondest love from your respectful and anxious son, DECLAN KINSELLA.

  That letter touched me but made me feel very nervous. Rory’s letter simply touched me. The little love wrote: Dear Ma, I miss you, I can’t sleep at night for crying for Pa and wishing you were here, please come and get us, to be sure if you don’t we’ll die of grief altogether completely, and you’ll be left with nothing to do but sob on our grave. Love, RORY.

  My darling boys! I spent the whole morning feeling so sentimental that I forgot to dwell upon all the problems they represented, but long before Robert arrived that evening with his customary bottle of champagne I was asking myself in absolute panic how I could tell my darlings that I was already planning to remarry.

  “Darling,” I said to Robert after we had made love, “I’m rather anxious about Declan and Rory. Please could we talk about them for a moment?”

  We were lying languidly in bed, and far away at the other end of the flat the half-witted maid who always retired early was safe in her cupboard. It was half-past ten. We had dined out as usual and as usual we had not lingered at the restaurant because we had been so anxious to spend as much time as possible alone together. Robert never stayed the whole night, not merely because he had no wish to enthrall the morning porter downstairs but because he worked hard at hours when less successful men were asleep. Sometimes I wondered if he worked a little too hard, but I put this down to his bachelor life. Bache
lors do tend to keep irregular hours, but I was sure his habits would be quite different once he was married.

  “You see, darling, it’s like this …” I took a deep breath, delivered what I had planned as a calm unemotional statement of the problem and finally, when I had sunk into incoherence, thrust the boys’ letters mutely into his hands.

  “Hmm,” said Robert, pale cool eyes seeming to become paler and cooler as he skimmed through the pages. “Very un-English.” He handed the letters back to me.

  “Well, darling,” I said nervously, “they’re not English, you know. They’re two American boys who have been brought up to think of themselves as Irish to the core.”

  “I agree that’s unfortunate but never mind, it needn’t necessarily be fatal.” He smiled at me. “I assume you’re telling me you want to pay a visit to Ireland.”

  “I—”

  “I’m glad the subject’s come up,” said Robert, and at once I knew I was being manipulated around an uncomfortable truth as if I were some peculiarly awkward witness, “because although I guessed the situation had become as obvious to you as it’s become to me I was naturally reluctant to broach the matter myself. I thought it better if the suggestion came from you.”

  “What suggestion?”

  “The suggestion you’ve just made—that you should visit them in Ireland.”

  “I didn’t make that suggestion, Robert.”

  “Yes, you did—you said you wanted to see them again as soon as possible, and it must be as obvious to you as it is to me that it would be better if they didn’t come to London until after we’re married.”