The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  Wherever we went that summer I found that my bedroom was always next to Robert’s, and this escape from the standards set at Oxmoon also added to my enjoyment. In fact I was in ecstasy—or so I told myself. Probably it would be closer to the truth to say I was feverishly trying to divert myself from the ghastliness to come. At some stage during all this hedonism I had ordered two sets of school uniform, and at the beginning of September I returned to the flat to start sewing on name tapes. Bobby brought the boys up to town a day later, but although Rory was willing to see the sights of London Declan shut himself in his room and refused to go out. I was terrified he would also refuse to go to school when the time came, but Bobby had persuaded him to give Downside a try, and after a tense miserable week I think Declan was willing to go anywhere to escape from Robert.

  Robert visited us every day and took trouble to be pleasant to both boys, but Declan could hardly bear to be in the same room with him. However Robert’s behavior continued to be immaculate. He escorted the boys himself to Downside; he made sure that a watchful eye would be kept on them; he did everything possible to lessen the ordeal of beginning a new life. That was why he was so angry and I was in such despair when three weeks later Declan ran away. Robert was quite justified in feeling he himself had done all he could to avoid such a disaster.

  To make matters worse Declan didn’t run away to Oxmoon, where he would have been assured of a nonviolent, if disapproving reception. Anxious for money which would take him to Ireland he came to London to see me, and arriving late at night he found me with Robert.

  A hideous scene followed.

  After Declan had been locked in his room Robert stayed the rest of the night at the flat to ensure that I exhibited no criminal weakness, and then he took Declan straight back to school the next morning. I didn’t think Declan would go but he did. He knew Robert would beat him again if he refused. I tried to kiss him goodbye but he spat at me, and although I at once cried out, “No, Robert—” Robert only exclaimed, “You don’t think I’m going to let him get away with that, do you?” and more horrors ensued.

  Returning from Somerset soon after six, Robert reported that the school authorities had been most understanding and had told him he had done entirely the right thing. This failed to surprise me. Robert always did the right thing. However at least this time he was expecting me to be upset so I didn’t have to pretend that everything in the garden was lovely once the two of us were alone together again. He made no attempt to lead me to bed but sat on the sofa and put his arm around me as he held my hand.

  “You’re being a great comfort, Robert,” I finally managed to tell him when my tears were under control.

  “I’d be a poor sort of friend if I wasn’t!” he said surprised, and when I thought of all those times he had stood by me in the past I dimly saw, far away in the distance, a gleam of happiness.

  “Oh Robert!” I exclaimed passionately, aching for reassurance. “We’ll be all right, won’t we?”

  “How can we possibly fail?”

  That settled that. Robert had decided our marriage was going to be a huge success. In exhausted relief I surrendered all my fears, all my anxieties and all my battered emotions to his irresistible self-confidence, and told myself that everything was bound to come right in the end.

  Let me see, it must be three months since I wrote anything in this journal. Why did I stop? Because having finally made up my mind that everything was under control, I no longer had an urgent need to set down my conflicting emotions in an effort to understand what was really going on. I was also diverted by the fact that after the crisis with Declan I had to spend much time house hunting and preparing for married life (and spending too much money but I won’t think about that just yet). However now is the time to pick up my pen again because here I am in Gower on the nineteenth of December, 1913, and tomorrow at five o’clock in the afternoon I shall be marrying my formidable second husband in Penhale parish church.

  I’m in such a muddle about this bloody wedding that it almost beggars description. (Oh, what a relief to write that down in black-and-white!) What I really wanted was to marry Robert quietly in London in the briefest of ceremonies and then leave immediately for some destination like Timbuktu where the past would seem a thousand years away. But what I wanted was impossible. Margaret made that clear to us well before we had embarked on our wedding arrangements, and I knew I could not possibly oppose her.

  Robert’s attitude to his mother has changed from a patronizing filial courtesy to a profound filial respect. We’ve never discussed this but I know it’s connected with his discoveries about his father (that’s why we don’t discuss it). Very well, I don’t mind him respecting Margaret. God knows she’s earned his respect, and God knows I respect her myself. But when iron-willed Robert, who normally stands no interference from anyone, least of all from a woman, prepares to listen in meek obedience as his mother tells him how he should get married, I want to scream with exasperation.

  Margaret declared—in a long sinister highly Victorian letter liberally sprinkled with the words “Ginevra dearest” and “dearest Robert”—that we had to be married at Penhale and endure a reception at Oxmoon afterwards because from the point of view of keeping up appearances this was the right thing—indeed, said Margaret, the only thing—to do. All Gower would expect the wedding of the heir to Oxmoon to be a big occasion, and all

  Gower could not be disappointed. Otherwise there might be unfortunate comment that the marriage was unpopular and this, Margaret explained serenely, would be “tiresome.” The church ceremony must necessarily be austere, since I was marrying within months of being widowed, but this “little awkwardness” could be glossed over with the help of a magnificent reception at Oxmoon. A ball and supper would “suit admirably” and she looked forward to conferring with us further as soon as possible.

  Robert said he really didn’t care what happened so long as he danced with me to “The Blue Danube,” and I then discovered to my absolute horror that he had every intention of making this waltz our special tune.

  “For me it symbolizes the moment when my life really began,” said Robert, “the moment at your ball in 1898 when I held you in my arms beneath the chandeliers at Oxmoon and knew I’d never be content until I’d married you—and that’s why when we do marry I’m going to dance with you there again to ‘The Blue Danube’ and then the past will be rewritten, all my unhappiness will be cancelled and that tune will become a symbol of the greatest triumph of my life.”

  “Oh darling, how romantic!” I said, heart sinking, because of course for me “The Blue Danube” belonged to Conor. It symbolized that moment when he had appeared in the ballroom to save me; it symbolized the end of the horrors at Oxmoon and the beginning of a new life. How was I ever going to cope with a second marriage haunted by the strains of “The Blue Danube”? I had no idea then and I have no idea now.

  What a prospect! Can Robert honestly fail to realize how awful this wedding at Oxmoon is going to be for me? No. Emotionally color-blind Robert has simply shut out all the aspects of the situation that might interfere with the celebration of his mighty victory but meanwhile, half-blinded by the gory colors of my own emotional spectrum, I can’t help but visualize ghastliness at every turn.

  Anyway here I am, staying at Penhale Manor with the de Bracys in order to fulfill the traditional requirement that the bride and groom shouldn’t meet on the night before their wedding. It’s very kind of Sir Gervase and Lady de Bracy to offer hospitality because they probably think it’s dreadful of me to rush to the altar before my first husband’s been dead a year, but Gwen’s such an old friend of mine and no doubt she’s been campaigning vigorously on my behalf. This evening the whole family has nearly driven me mad by telling me how romantic it is that I’m marrying my childhood sweetheart. When Gwen said cheerily, “Now all you have to do is live happily ever after!” I had a hard time suppressing the retort

  “Never mind living happily ever after—the main question
is whether I can survive the next twenty-four hours.”

  I wonder if my boys are all right. Dearest Bobby said he would take special care of them. He is kind. How bizarre it is to think that someone as decent as Bobby should ever be capable of doing what he did to me. How sinister life is, how frightening. I remember Robert saying once that some of the murderers he had met had been quite charming. Ugh! A vile thought. Well, at least poor Bobby’s not a murderer.

  I wonder if Declan really will come to the wedding. He’s promised Bobby he will, although how Bobby extracted that promise I can’t imagine. But Bobby’s such a magician with children. He doesn’t have to beat them to get his way. I think Declan will be there but only to please Bobby. He won’t want Bobby to be disappointed in him.

  Let me cheer myself up by thinking how simply stunning I’ll look in my pale green velvet wedding gown with those luscious dark green trimmings and that sumptuous matching shallow hat with the gossamer-thin veil (twenty-five guineas from divine Harrods). I hope to God naughty little Thomas doesn’t throw a tantrum at the wrong moment. I didn’t want a page but Margaret said Thomas would enjoy it so that was that. However at least I’ve had the brains to recruit little Eleanor Stourham as a bridesmaid so that Thomas has an eleven-year-old partner to keep him in check. Maybe they’ll fight. Oh God, I wish the whole nightmare were over. …

  But I must stop groaning and be for one moment, as Robert would say, rational. How do Robert and I stand as we prepare to sally forth upon our greatest adventure of all? I think our position is favorable but I can look back now and see how far I was deceiving myself when I hoped we’d have our problems solved before the wedding. We’ve got them under control but nothing’s been solved. We don’t talk about Bobby, we don’t talk about Conor, we don’t talk about what’s going to happen to those boys—and these three areas of silence represent three huge bridges to be crossed. But we don’t have any other problems, do we? And I’m sure everything will come right in the end.

  So am I ready to promise to love, cherish and obey Robert till death us do part? Yes. Absolutely. But how stern that marriage service is, how forbidding. Till death us do part …

  I hate death. I hate all thought of death. I want to live and love and have a wonderful time … and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  Darling Robert, what a dear little boy he was, offering me his boiled sweets and saying he wanted to be a hero when he grew up. … Yes, Gwen’s right after all. It is romantic that Robert and I are finally getting married, it’s a fairy-tale happy ending, it’s a dream come true and I’m passionate about it. Forget Conor. Forget the rows and the lies and the cheating and the adultery and the tears and the rages and the misery and the sheer soul-destroying awfulness of disillusioned love. Down with reality, long live romance! I’m marrying the man I really love at last and nothing on earth can now stand in my way.

  “I Ginevra take thee Robert …”

  We were married.

  It was gorgeously romantic, the ceremony taking place on that dark winter afternoon in Penhale’s old candlelit church which had already been decked for Christmas with holly and evergreens. But all through the service I could not forget that I was due to be the belle of the ball again at Oxmoon and that Bobby would be waiting to kiss me under the mistletoe.

  Oh, the horror, the horror …

  “Dearest Ginevra—welcome home again!” I was there. I was at Oxmoon. And Margaret was holding out her arms to embrace me.

  Ghastly. God help me. Please don’t let me break down.

  “This is the happiest day of my life!” exclaimed Robert to the guests.

  Don’t think of the past. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think—

  “Are you happy, Ginette?”

  “Darling, how can you ask? This is the happiest day of my life too!”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Truthfully—cross my heart and hope to die!”

  And may the Lord have mercy on my soul.

  But I had to lie. I had to survive. Was I going to survive? Could I? Yes, of course I was but—

  “Ginette, Ginette!”

  —but I was in the ballroom at Oxmoon and the past was about to repeat itself.

  The ballroom was dazzling, a glittering dream glowing with winter flowers, and all the mirrors reflected a glamorous celebration of life as the gentlemen of the orchestra raised their bows to their violins.

  “The waltz, Ginette! The first waltz this time!”

  I looked back over my shoulder to the ballroom doors and all I saw was the emptiness where Conor had stood fifteen years before. He wasn’t there. He would never be there again, and as I realized that I realized I was alone among the radiant crowds at Oxmoon, alone and bereaved and longing for the dead man I still loved.

  The music began.

  “Isn’t this romantic, Ginette?”

  “Darling,” I said, “it’s sheer unadulterated heaven!”

  And then we danced again beneath the chandeliers at Oxmoon as the orchestra played “The Blue Danube.”

  It was hell.

  I’m rather horrified that I experienced quite such an overwhelming sense of my bereavement at a time when I should have been thinking only of Robert, but I suspect the explanation lies in the fact that for the past few months I’ve been resolutely refusing to contemplate Conor as I struggled towards the blessed security of my new marriage; I’ve been suppressing my grief and that was probably unwise, but the truth is that my feelings for him are so deep and complex that I was afraid to dwell upon them in case they diverted me from my goal. However all will be well now that I’m safe with Robert. I’ll have the courage to grieve secretly every now and then, and soon the awful pang of bereavement will be dulled until finally I shall have Conor securely locked up in the past where he now belongs.

  Meanwhile perhaps I should start savoring the fact that I’ve survived the wedding, God knows how, and here I am, strolling with Robert down the Champs-Elysées just as a quarter of a century ago we used to pitter-patter hand in hand along the lane to the village shop at Penhale. We’re enjoying ourselves hugely, rushing off on exciting expeditions as if we were children again, only this time, as Robert points out amused, nobody’s going to be cross with us if we turn up late for tea. Yes, I think I’m recovering from that ghastly wedding—and certainly a heavenly honeymoon is a useful start to the rigors of married bliss. …

  What a wonderful honeymoon! Darling Robert’s spent money like water and this proves he’s quite capable of being generous when it suits him. He did make one edgy remark about my weakness for lavish spending but I pretended not to hear, and anyway I’m absolutely determined to reform. (Yes, I really am. I must.)

  We’re now back in London again at our heavenly little house in Ebury Street and everything in the garden couldn’t be lovelier—except that Declan and Rory are due to arrive from Oxmoon tomorrow, and new horrors are without doubt about to begin.

  The boys have gone back to school after four frightful days and Robert has told me frankly how pleased he is to have me to himself again. To do Robert justice I have to admit he has good reason to be pleased; when the boys are with us I’m in such a state of excruciating tension that I’m very poor company and a most inadequate wife. I’ll have to pull myself together but it’s hard to be serene when Declan calls me a whore and encourages Rory to be as disobedient as possible. I daren’t tell Robert who’s fortunately out of the house most of the time. If Robert knew what I was going through there would be more beatings and I couldn’t stand the strain.

  However now they’ve gone so I have a breathing space for eleven weeks—although I shall visit them next month at the school. But I don’t have to think about that yet. All I have to think about now is my delicious new social life as Mrs. Robert Godwin. For a day or two I had this frightful worry that I might be pregnant, but thank goodness it was a false alarm. As I told Robert at the beginning of our affair when he finally roused himself from his passion to consider the potential conseque
nces, I’ve never had an unwanted pregnancy, although I’ve certainly had some bad scares in my time.

  I do want another baby, of course—I’d like two more, a boy and a girl—but not just yet. Robert would be livid if he couldn’t have me entirely to himself once the boys were out of the way, so I must be careful—and in being careful I’m being realistic. Some marriages can take the strain of an early pregnancy, some can’t. Ours couldn’t, and it’s much better to face this truth and acknowledge it. In a year or two it’ll be different—after all, Robert’s told me he wants a son and I believe him—but at this particular moment little unborn Robert Godwin would most definitely not be welcome.

  I hate to admit it but I’m uneasy. Having acknowledged that our marriage isn’t yet stable enough to welcome a child, I now have to acknowledge that our unsolved problems are assuming a sinister clarity of outline. I can’t keep saying to myself, Oh, everything will come right after we’re married. This statement may well be true—my God, it’s got to be true!—but here we are, married, and we now have to grit our teeth and solve these problems. Or, to be accurate, I’ve got to solve them, since Robert won’t admit there are problems to be solved.

  Heavens, how worrying it all is! In fact I’m so worried I can’t even begin to think of divine Harrods and their slightly overwhelming blizzard of bills. …

  “Ginette, I’d like a word with you, if you please.”

  “Yes, darling, of course. What about?”

  “Money.”