The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  I paused. I was wondering if I could avoid the subject of Irish patriotism, but I knew that if I didn’t mention the Brotherhood, Declan most certainly would.

  I gulped some air and bent over my pen again.

  … and I’m afraid they’re not very English either, darling, when it comes to discussing Ireland, but that doesn’t matter, does it, because I know you’ve always held the most advanced Liberal views on the subject of Home Rule. All the same, I think you ought to know that Conor was involved with some rather rabid patriots, and I’m afraid boys of Declan’s age do think that sort of thing is very glamorous. I was never happy with the situation, but what could I do? I felt it wasn’t my place to criticize Conor when he entertained these people—although I did feel so nervous when they started talking about the beastly English, but Conor just told them I was Welsh and they used to say, “Ah yes, another race crushed beneath the Saxon heel!” and quite honestly, darling, it somehow seemed so very much safer just to say, “Oh yes, those beastly Saxons, such a bore.” However, never mind, I’m sure the boys will soon realize that being rabidly anti-British simply isn’t the done thing at all …

  I paused for another deep breath. Now I had to turn to the subject of the boys’ education but I had trouble phrasing my next sentence. Those boys had to go to boarding school. I accepted that not only because British upper-class boys always went to boarding school but because I knew Robert wouldn’t settle for anything less. However I wasn’t being entirely feeble here, meekly letting Robert dispose of my children for two-thirds of the year. Although I adored my boys, I was still sensible enough to see that they needed both the discipline and, after the great upheaval, the stability of a good school that could provide them with a familiar Catholic atmosphere. I also honestly believed that the massed company of British boys of their own age would help them make the difficult adjustment to another culture and another way of life. But although Robert was in favor of packing them off to Downside as soon as the term began in September, I was now convinced that they needed more time before they were sent away to school. Conor’s death had been a dreadful shock to them.

  … and talking of doing the done thing, darling, that reminds me of our decision to send the boys to Downside in September. Bearing in mind how very un-English they are, don’t you think it might be better if we postponed boarding school till the new year? I’m not saying they should be with me in London—I do accept that this solution of Oxmoon is ideal, but if Bobby and Margaret consent perhaps we could engage a tutor to spend the autumn here with the boys …

  I wondered what Robert would think of this suggestion. It seemed reasonable enough, but when I read through what I’d written I thought, He’s not going to like me making regular visits to Oxmoon for the next five months. He’s not going to like it at all.

  “I don’t like the idea of you making repeated sorties to Oxmoon during the next few months,” said Robert four days later. “That may be pleasant for the boys, but I think you’re going to wind up exhausted. Why, look at you now—you’re worn out! No, I’m afraid it won’t do. You’re in a muddle as usual, and you must let me sort you out.”

  My heart felt as if it had plummeted straight to my boots, but I was aware to my interest that I wasn’t angry with him. What Robert said was true. I was indeed worn out, and repeated visits to Oxmoon would indeed put me under severe emotional strain.

  “Those boys now have six weeks to recuperate from their bereavement in eminently suitable surroundings,” pursued Robert, “but by September they’ll be ready for school and to school they must go. If they loaf around any longer they’ll get into mischief; in my opinion they’d mince a tutor in no time and eat him with bacon for breakfast.”

  I knew he was right. That, I was beginning to discover, was the great difficulty in dealing with Robert. Rationally he was always right. But not all situations can be mastered by reason alone.

  I said fearfully, “Declan will argue with you.”

  “Good,” said Robert. “Let him try.”

  I suddenly found I had to sit down.

  It was after dinner at Oxmoon on the evening of Robert’s arrival, and at Bobby’s suggestion Lion and Johnny had taken the boys off to the billiard room so that Robert and I could snatch a little time alone together. We had wandered across the lawn to the summerhouse, and now as the twilight deepened over the woods I sank down on one of the wicker chairs and found myself once more struggling against my tears.

  “Don’t be too severe with Declan, Robert. He’s not nearly so grown up as he pretends to be.”

  “I’ve no intention of being severe with Declan. Nor, I must tell you, do I intend to be sentimental. I intend to be a stepfather whom he can respect.”

  “Oh God, I’m in such a muddle over this—”

  “Obviously, but do try and be calm. The situation is in fact very simple: we’re discussing what kind of stepfather you want for those boys—or in other words, whether you want me to be active or passive. Now, if I’m active I treat those boys as if they were mine, and that means that they’ve got to recognize that I, as the Boers say, am the boss. If I’m passive I simply stand by and let them run wild while you undermine all discipline by your misplaced maternal indulgence—no, don’t interpret that as a criticism! You can’t help being overemotional, and anyway, the truth is that no woman’s fit to cope single-handed with two boys verging on adolescence.”

  “Yes, darling. But—”

  “Ginette, if I adopt a passive role here I think those boys will wreck our engagement in no time. After all, that’s what Declan wants, isn’t it? So now you have to decide what you want. Do you want our engagement wrecked or don’t you?”

  “I don’t. I couldn’t bear it—”

  “Very well. That means you authorize me to be an active stepfather. Thank you. I shall now take whatever steps I deem necessary to preserve our future—in other words I’m going to have order, discipline and respect, and I’m going to have them now, right from the beginning. In my opinion children are like wives and servants: you’ve got to start as you mean to go on.”

  Children are nothing like wives and servants. And anyway wives aren’t like servants—or they shouldn’t be. I can’t say that to Robert, though, because I’m too afraid of another ghastly quarrel. It was bad enough quarreling about money and sex, but if we quarrel over the boys I shall have a nervous collapse and then Robert will decide he’d do better not to marry me after all and oh God, what would I do, how would I manage, no, I must stave off a nervous collapse and I can start by making up my mind that whatever happens we must avoid quarreling over the boys.

  I can also help myself by acknowledging that once again Robert’s right—in theory. He’s got to be an active stepfather in order to win the boys’ respect, but the trouble is that Robert’s idea of being an active stepfather is certain to embrace behavior I shall hardly know how to endure.

  And yet … Let’s be honest; the truth is there’s a dreadful secret relief in letting Robert try to annihilate this problem. I can’t control those boys, never could. Conor was good with them but he was out at work most of the time, and I was the one who had to try to keep them in order while the nursemaids gave notice and the cook had hysterics and the apartment began to look like a lunatic asylum.

  Yet now Robert’s going to reduce chaos to order with his usual skill, and of course he’s going to succeed; he’s going to win. But what about me? I think I’m going to lose. I’m going to end up being forced to side with Robert against the boys and Declan will never forgive me. He’ll think I’m betraying them just as I’ve betrayed his father. Rory’s sufficiently young and frightened and lost to forgive me anything, but Declan has a hard fanatical streak, like Conor, and he’ll violently oppose anyone he believes has wronged him.

  I can see horror approaching, no, not just horror but HORROR in capital letters. But what can I do to avoid it? Nothing. If I don’t let Robert win here I’ll lose him and if I lose Robert I’ll collapse, I’ll be driven m
ad by predatory men, I’ll be wrecked and ruined in no time at all. No, I can’t stand alone, how can I, I’m too vulnerable, too frightened—and that means I’ve got to marry Robert, got to protect myself, got to, got to, got to, and besides …

  If only we can get these frightful problems sorted out before the wedding I’m sure our marriage will be blissfully happy.

  “If you think I’m going to be locked up for two-thirds of the year in an English prison, you’d better think again!”

  “Declan, Downside isn’t a prison—it’s a very fine school run by monks—”

  “Holy shit! I don’t want to live in a monastery!”

  “Declan, how dare you use such language to me!”

  “Why not? Pa did! But you wouldn’t remember that, would, you—all you can think about is that English bastard Robert!”

  “Declan, I will not have you behaving like this—”

  “Who’s going to stop me?”

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask that question,” said Robert blandly from the doorway.

  At his request I left them alone together in my room. I managed to walk away steadily down the corridor but on the landing the tears overwhelmed me and I rushed up the stairs to the attics. The Oxmoon attics were not set aside for the servants, who were housed in the kitchen wing which overlooked the stable yard, and the long chain of rooms was filled with junk and rejected heirlooms. Nothing was ever thrown away at Oxmoon, and as I blundered around among the memorabilia I came across the well-remembered portrait of my Aunt Gwyneth, Robert’s grandmother, who had gone mad as the result of her love affair with the sheep farmer Owain Bryn-Davies.

  Feeling on the brink of madness myself I sat down by her picture and wondered if she too had ever felt divided beyond endurance between her lover and her son. Poor Aunt Gwyneth, I could remember those bright blue eyes of hers so clearly, the eyes Bobby had inherited. Johnny too had inherited those eyes, and as I looked at the portrait of Aunt Gwyneth in her prime I was struck by the fact that Johnny was far more like her than Bobby was. Johnny was the only one in the family who had her dark hair.

  I tried to go on thinking of Johnny in order to avoid thinking of Declan. Why had Johnny, once an adorable little boy, bright as a button and delectably naughty, turned into this prim dreary young man of twenty-one? This was a mystery that could occupy me for some time but no, I was unable to concentrate on it, and the next moment I could think only of Declan.

  Burying my face in my hands, I once more abandoned myself to despair.

  Margaret and Bobby are being immaculate as usual at keeping up appearances; they’re behaving as if nothing’s happened, but Robert’s brothers are less expert at concealing their feelings. Johnny manages well but Lion keeps glancing at us in fascination while Edmund is too embarrassed to look at us at all. Celia is being kind (she thinks) and has offered to show me her pressed wild flowers, but I’ve muttered some excuse and escaped to my room for an early night. I want Robert but I know he won’t come to me. We must observe the proprieties at Oxmoon, no choice, so I’m alone and weeping, I shouldn’t weep, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

  I haven’t seen Declan since the ghastliness began. Robert’s locked him in his room and forbidden me to go near him, and of course I daren’t disobey. It’s not that I’m frightened of Robert (although I am—petrified); I just feel that if I’m to support Robert I must support him utterly and then perhaps the horrors will finish sooner. If Declan once believes I could be won over to his side he’ll go on and on and on in the hope that I’ll give way.

  But I won’t. Everything’s at stake, Robert, my marriage, my future, my entire life, and I’ve now reached the stage where I can’t go back. I’ve come so far, salvation is in sight and whatever happens I’ve got to go on.

  “If you don’t want me anymore I’ll go and live in Ireland with Uncle Seamus and Aunt Dervla.”

  “Oh Declan darling, you know I want you, you know it …”

  It was the next morning, a Sunday, and Robert had given me permission to see Declan so that I could take him to Mass with Rory at the Catholic church in Swansea. Declan was white and there were dark shadows under his eyes and he was trying so hard to be brave but when I put my arms around him he began to cry. As I had told Robert, Declan was still so young even though he wanted so much to be grown up, and Conor’s death had been very terrible to him.

  “I want Pa. … Why did he have to get killed like that … I don’t believe in God anymore. I don’t want to go to Mass I want Pa, I don’t want that bastard Robert. …”

  “Declan, I can’t hear a word against Robert, I’m sorry.”

  “But he hurt me, he hurt me—”

  “He won’t hurt you if you behave well, Declan.”

  “But Pa never hurt me, he never laid a finger on me!”

  “Pa’s dead. It’s terrible, it’s tragic but it’s true and you must try to accept that I’ve no choice but to give Robert permission to treat you and Rory as if you were his sons.”

  “But in New York—”

  “We’re not in New York, Declan, not anymore. Here Robert sets the standards, and here he draws the line.”

  “Don’t worry about the boys—I’ll cheer them up, I promise,” murmured Bobby to me when the time came for me to return to London with Robert, but Margaret merely remarked with chilling truth, “They’ll be well enough once no one’s here to upset them.”

  I had wanted to stay on at Oxmoon with the boys but this was impossible, not only because Robert would have been angry but because we had social engagements to fulfill and cancellation would have caused considerable awkwardness. Rory shed a tear to see me go but Declan was dry-eyed and withdrew into the house without bothering to watch the motor drive away.

  When we arrived in London some hours later Robert escorted me to the flat, sent the housekeeper home early, dispatched the maid on an errand to Kensington High Street and then to my extreme distaste drew me into the bedroom to make amends for the nights at Oxmoon when we had been obliged to conform to Margaret’s standards. By that time I was feeling so ill with distress that all I wanted was to be alone, but of course I couldn’t have told him that. Instead I tried to display enthusiasm, but when we were in bed together I found that competent sportsmanship of his no longer seemed so erotic, and at once the effort of acting a charade was almost more than I could bear.

  Robert withdrew from me. At first I thought with relief that his desire had died but I was mistaken. He was merely pausing to clear up the muddle.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “No. You’re right to want to be an active stepfather, and I’d be a fool if I stopped you. But”—I prayed for courage—“I’m afraid I am upset. Please try not to mind. It’s just that I’m a mother and I can’t bear to think of my children being unhappy.”

  He considered this carefully. He applied the full force of his formidable intellect to the problem. At last he said with touching simplicity, “I thought this would make you feel better.”

  It was a logical assumption to make. The only trouble was that it was quite wrong.

  We went on lying there, unjoined, Robert propped up on his elbow, I lying inert on my back, but when I saw his anxiety increasing I couldn’t bear it. He was so concerned and loved me so much. A powerful affection for him overwhelmed me. I heard myself say, “Time to raid the strawberry beds again!” and then I pulled him back once more into my arms.

  I can’t stop thinking of those boys. They’re going to hate boarding school. Downside may be the finest school on earth but they’ll loathe it. I’m a mother who can’t bear to think of her children being unhappy, and I know they’re going to be unhappier. But what can I do? Nothing. Robert must have me to himself for two-thirds of the year, and if he can find some way of decimating that final third he’ll do it.

  Robert doesn’t like sharing me. He never did. I remember how furious he became when I spent time playing with Lion—darling Lion, what a huge gorgeous captivati
ng baby he was! But in the end I had to call Lion a monster and say I hated him; I had to pretend to hate all babies otherwise Robert would be upset.

  What on earth is he going to be like when we have a child of our own?

  No, I must stop. It’s pointless worrying about the distant future at the moment, and anyway I’m sure that as soon as we’re married and living happily ever after, that sort of problem will turn out to belong to the very distant past …

  “We’ve been invited to the Wharf!”

  “Robert, how exciting!”

  The law courts were about to close for the long vacation and the invitation to the Asquiths’ country house on the Thames was only one of a number of important invitations that Robert had received from various well-wishers in Society. Because of my bereavement we had not announced our engagement formally, but word of our proposed marriage had soon circulated with the result that the invitations had been extended to include me.

  This was very gratifying, and now I had my first delicious glimpse of the affluent political world that would be waiting for me on the far side of the altar. As I immediately blossomed in bliss I found that the shady glamour of my New York life seemed—thank God—more than a million miles away, and in fact I was so captivated by the change in my fortunes that I bought rather too many smart clothes in celebration. But I told myself how important it was for Robert’s sake that I should make a suitably fashionable impression.

  We did not mingle with the aristocracy for the Liberal Party had alienated this section of society during the constitutional crisis of 1911, but nonetheless there were a number of lords and ladies who had succeeded in advancing from the nineteenth to the twentieth century by embracing the Liberal creed, while the Asquiths themselves, commoners and self-made, generated a frenetic and somewhat eccentric social life of their own. Oddly enough I was more intimidated at first by the Asquiths than by the aristocrats, but fortunately Margot Asquith chose to regard me kindly and showed her benign interest by bestowing on me one of her outrageous remarks. (“At last Mr. Godwin’s found someone who hasn’t had to poison her husband to win his attention, Mrs. Kinsella—or did you perhaps poison your husband after all?”)