The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  I now feel quite exhausted with getting Lion off my hands, almost too exhausted to consider the problem of the school holidays. Declan is determined to go to Ireland again and Rory is determined to go too, but although I’m not keen on this I feel I can’t cope with them here while Robert’s being even more possessive than usual. With reluctance I shall tell them that they can spend the first month of the holidays with Dervla and Seamus but the second month must be spent with me—and yet I’m sure now, if I drum up the courage to be honest with myself, that this time when Declan goes to Ireland he’ll have no intention of ever coming back.

  How did the war creep on me like this? One moment I was thinking of Lion battling for Daphne and worrying what in God’s name I was going to do about Declan, and the next moment the ultimatum was expiring and the Germans were on the rampage. I know a great many people felt they had been taken by surprise but I thought I should have been more aware of what was going on.

  “Why didn’t you tell me how crucial matters had become, Robert?”

  “I thought all you cared about was getting Lion married.”

  Robert’s still being thoroughly impossible. I know I should put matters right by being especially warm and loving to him, but frankly I can’t be bothered. I want someone to be warm and loving to me. I’m desperately upset about Declan, and I’ll never forget that dreadful scene two weeks ago on the eve of his departure for Ireland. …

  “Declan, you’re not coming back, are you?”

  “No, I’m sorry, Ma, but it’s impossible. I promised Cousin Bobby I’d stick it for a year to see if things got better, but they haven’t. I loathe that school. I loathe England. I loathe Robert.”

  “Do you loathe me?”

  “Yes, sometimes. But generally I just feel you’re no use to me and I’d be better off on my own. Are you going to raise hell if I don’t come back?”

  “There’s no point, is there?”

  We were silent for a time. We were in his room, which only so recently I had planned for him with such care. It still looked new and unused, a symbol of his hatred of the house and everyone in it. Declan looked older than fifteen because he was tall. His dark hair grew exactly like Conor’s and even waved in the same places. His dark eyes, also exactly like Conor’s, regarded me with gravity. A lump formed in my throat. I turned away.

  “Will you remember,” I said to him, “that this separation’s not of my choosing? Will you remember that whatever happens I love you and will always want you to come back?”

  “I couldn’t come back so long as you’re married to Robert, Ma. So it’s no use wanting the impossible.”

  “But you’ll write to me?”

  “No. I don’t want any correspondence. I want to start again without having to read your letters telling me how miserable I’ve made you.”

  “I wouldn’t reproach you, I swear it—”

  “The very letters would be a reproach. I’ll send news regularly to Aunt Dervla, and if you want to know what’s happening you can write to her.”

  “Oh Declan—”

  “No, it’s no use crying, Ma. You’ve brought all this on yourself, behaving like a whore, betraying Pa’s memory, smashing all my faith in you by marrying a bastard like Robert—”

  I left him, and the next day he left me. I managed to control myself at the station but when I arrived home I shut myself in my darkened room and cried as I had not cried since Conor’s death fourteen months before.

  “I’m sorry,” said Robert. “Very sorry. I know how you must feel. But it may all be for the best.”

  My nerve snapped. I flew at him, hit him, screamed that I wished we’d never married. Then I burst into tears again and flung myself down upon the bed.

  I felt him sit beside me but he said nothing, and when at last I felt compelled to look at him I saw his face was stricken with grief. His pain was obviously so genuine that I couldn’t bear it. One can be driven to be cruel to a husband, but no matter how adverse the circumstances one should never be cruel to a friend.

  Struggling upright I pushed my tangled hair away from my face and put my arms around him. After I had apologized I said, “You did your best, you tried so hard, this failure isn’t your fault. Some problems really are insoluble and Declan’s one of them. There’s nothing we can do but let him go.”

  He seemed not to hear. He whispered, “Do you really wish you’d never married me?”

  “Darling, I wish no such thing, and I don’t hate you either, but do try to understand. I’ve just lost my son. I’m demented with grief—”

  “Of course. Yes. Forgive me—oh God, what a fool I am sometimes,” said my poor friend, pathetically acknowledging how baffling such a complex situation was to his simple emotional nature. He put his arms around me and we hugged each other. Finally he said in a low voice, “I’m beginning to think I’ve been a most obtuse and unhelpful husband. I must try and put matters right. You mean everything to me, Ginette, everything in the world, so … what can I do? Tell me how I can help you get over this tragedy.”

  I kissed him to show how precious he was to me. Then when I was calm enough to speak, I said, “I want to have a baby.”

  Robert’s response is perfect. He says it’s the best possible idea and he’s only sorry he didn’t think of it himself because he wants a child just as much as I do.

  No more douches of vinegar. No more sordid little chunks of sponge tied with flesh-colored thread. The dreary side of physical love will be eliminated for nine blissful months, and at the end of it all will be another adorable bundle in a shawl, a new little Robert Godwin for Oxmoon—or perhaps a little Ginevra for myself. I’ve always longed for a daughter. What a pity it was that my first marriage was so arduous that I never had the strength to embark on a third pregnancy, but at least now I can make up for lost time. Conor wanted a daughter. I’ll never forget the rows we had after Rory was born and I, encouraged by a sophisticated friend, started to conspire against pregnancy with the aid of vinegar and sponges. I can so clearly remember Conor shouting that it was contrary to his religious principles and he wanted me to have a baby every year.

  “And who’s going to look after them?” I screamed, demented with motherhood as I struggled to survive two small boys with the aid of incompetent nursemaids. “And who’s going to pay for them?”

  Sulks. Then a smile. Then a laugh. And finally acquiesence, laced with the charm that made me forgive him everything. “Suit yourself, sweetheart, but say nothing more. Then I’ll lie more easily in the confessional.”

  What a villain he was, but how we laughed! And we did so enjoy my pregnancies, our times in bed became better than ever—and of course that was why he wanted me to be constantly pregnant, the rogue; it had nothing to do with his religion at all.

  I understood him and he understood me but now Robert finally understands me too so all’s well. Oh, I simply can’t wait to conceive. …

  This war is really rather alarming. At first, reassured by Harrods’ notice that business would be as usual, I thought the squabble would be a nine-day wonder, but ghastly things have been happening in Belgium and someone’s now invited me to a charity bridge afternoon to raise money for the refugees. I don’t play bridge but I’m going to learn. The Asquiths are mad about it. However I can’t learn just yet because there’s no time. Darling Lion, triumphantly engaged to be married at last, is busy telling me I’m the best sister-in-law a man ever had and I’m just wholeheartedly agreeing with him when we hear that our joint victory has been eclipsed by his younger brother. Johnny has announced his engagement to the beauty of the season, Blanche Lankester. How typical! Lion huffs and puffs, I moan and groan, we both end up in a stupor of exhaustion securing a nice plain little girl who apart from her money is nothing out of the ordinary, and then Johnny, without any apparent effort, walks off with the catch that richer and more blue-blooded men than he have been fighting for since the season began.

  “How did you do it?” gasps poor Lion, overcome with admir
ation. “You’re just as penniless as I am!”

  “True,” says Johnny, who I’m beginning to think is a very cool customer indeed, “but my prospects at the F.O. are excellent, and Mr. Lankester is convinced that I have a first-class diplomatic career ahead of me.”

  The benign Mr. Lankester has a large estate in Herefordshire, a house in Connaught Square and a private fortune which Margaret might describe as “useful.” Like Daphne, Blanche is an only child. I would love to write that she’s a spoiled bitch of an heiress certain to make her smooth-tongued Lothario unhappy, but honesty compels me to admit the child is perfect. She’s eighteen, charming, lovely, modest and accomplished. In fact she’s the kind of girl who makes a married woman like me feel like a garish old war-horse. I’m probably jealous of her youth. Let me combat my jealousy by saying how lucky Johnny is. I feel her musical talent, which is considerable, is quite wasted on him, since he’s one of those people who only recognize “God Save the King” because people stand up.

  I still say he’s too young to get married, but if Mr. Lankester’s happy with his daughter’s fate, who am I to criticize? I think Bobby and Margaret are perturbed, though, for Bobby’s been dispatched to London to size up the situation, but Bobby is charmed by Blanche and confesses himself unable to object to the match.

  Silly Lion’s talking of enlisting. I tell him it’s pointless as the war will be over by Christmas, but he thinks being a soldier would be a terrific lark. Apparently down at Oxmoon Edmund thinks so too. Men are odd. I can’t see the point of enduring all sorts of tedious discomforts like poor food and primitive lavatories unless there really is a chance that the war will last, but Sir John French will soon mop up the Germans and everyone will be on their way home again before Lion can emerge from some dreary training camp. Thank God I’m a woman and can sit at home and knit Balaclava helmets. Who in their right mind would want to do anything else?

  Silly Lion.

  I can’t conceive. At least I’m sure I can, but I haven’t yet. I tell myself it’s because I’m still so upset about Declan, and that’s true; I am. But Rory was so nice to me when he came back from Ireland, and I’m sure he’ll be less difficult now that Declan’s gone. I wonder what he’ll think when I have the baby. Declan would have hated it but I suspect Rory will be generous. He’s more forgiving and has such an easygoing nature.

  Oh, I do hope I conceive soon! Perhaps this time next year I’ll be preparing for the christening. …

  Excitement about the war is rising to fever pitch and all we need now, as Robert says sardonically, is a panegyric from Kipling. However Robert takes a bleak view which is quite out of step with all this raging Jingoism. He says he knows death too well to be deceived; he says death often appears brilliantly attired in the theater of life, but once that mesmerizing figure starts to move downstage the gorgeous garments dissolve to reveal the horrors beneath. What a revolting image. I thought Robert had finally set aside that morbid obsession with death, but it would take a morbid mind to imagine that death could ever seem glamorous. It’s war that’s glamorous, not death. It’s death that makes war vile. I know war is vile, of course I do, but nevertheless unlike Robert I do see the glamour of this great European convulsion. It’s jolted everyone out of their ruts, sent a thrill of excitement crackling through all the ranks of society and united our unstable problem-racked country in an electrifying comradeship against the common foe.

  However as usual I have Lion to divert me because it now looks as if he’ll be sent to France in the new year and he wants to marry before he goes. (I thought the war would be over by Christmas but it seems everyone’s got bogged down in France. Such a bore.) I told Lion to press for an early wedding day, and to my surprise the Wynter-Hamiltons have now given way. But no doubt they feel that our fighting men have to be humored wherever possible, and certainly everyone’s rushing to the altar at the moment. Even Johnny’s taking advantage of the current rage for the quick marriage, although there’s no obligation on him to rush into uniform; his position at the Foreign Office would exempt him from military service even if military service were compulsory—which it isn’t. However I can see Johnny’s becoming muddled about his position because although he wants to do the Done Thing as usual, he can’t work out what the Done Thing is. Should he resign and enlist? Or should he stay where he is? Robert tells him in no uncertain terms that anyone can enlist but not everyone can do Johnny’s work at the F.O., and that as the Home Front will ultimately be as important as the Front Line, Johnny has an absolute moral duty to stay where he is. That settles it. He stays.

  Robert sets Johnny an example, thank God, by deciding from the start to stay at Westminster, and he says he’s determined to stick to that decision no matter how long we’re bogged down in France. Of course being a Member of Parliament is more important than being a Foreign Office clerk, but Robert says the principle is the same: he can be of more service to the nation at home than overseas. And now this truth has just been confirmed by Mr. Asquith himself who has dropped a hint that Robert will be given an Under-Secretaryship at the earliest opportunity. Robert can hardly flout the Prime Minister’s plans for him so there’s nothing he can do now but remain in London—unlike his friend Raymond, who isn’t yet a Member of Parliament and will probably enlist. But perhaps Raymond, like Lion and Edmund, is keen to be a soldier. At least it’ll give him a respite from the legal and political worlds for which he apparently has so little enthusiasm.

  “You’re not secretly longing to escape into uniform, are you, Robert?” I say nervously, just to make sure.

  “Good God, no,” says Robert. “I wouldn’t want to compete with death when the odds are stacked against me.”

  That chills me. It chills him too—but we’re chilled for different reasons. Robert’s chilled because he’s afraid I’ll think him a coward, but I don’t, I just think he’s appallingly rational; I could never doubt Robert’s courage after hearing the details of that fearful climbing accident. No, I’m chilled because he’s implied how badly the war’s going and because he probably has secret information about the current situation in France.

  “Asquith’s got us into the war,” says Robert, “and now he thinks all he has to do is let the generals get on with it. But I don’t share Asquith’s touching faith in generals. God knows where it’ll all end.”

  I say, “Don’t let’s talk about it anymore.” Honestly, I’d rather not face such pessimism, and Robert, seeing he’s distressed me, falls silent.

  I’m not worried about Lion. Lion will bounce in and out of danger with his usual insouciance and regale us all later with amusing stories about how he won the war. But it’s Edmund’s fate that terrifies me—twenty-year-old mild gentle Edmund who loves gardening and whose biggest problem has always been how many rashers of bacon to have for breakfast. Could anyone be less suited to a military life? Yet he says he wants to do his bit to ensure that the Huns are kept out of Oxmoon. Edmund loves Oxmoon. Since he left school he’s been pottering around there, officially helping Bobby on the estate, but I think he spends most of his time growing roses. Bobby and Margaret, who are both so insistent that Lion should be employed in London, are far more lax with Edmund because they accept how unworldly Edmund is, how unsuited to earning a living in a city. How can he ever survive this nightmare waiting for him in France?

  I can’t bear to dwell on that so I won’t.

  I’ll think of Celia instead. Poor Celia has been staying with us for a few days, and I’ve been drumming up eligible men for her to meet, but alas! I know she hasn’t a hope of suiting them. She’s thirty now and yearns to be married but has never had anyone in love with her. What can it be like to be a virgin of thirty, six feet tall with mousy hair, protuberant eyes and a flat bosom? I think I’d cut my throat and pray for reincarnation in a more tolerable form. How unfair it is that women’s entire lives depend on their physical appearance! I honestly do feel very sorry for Celia, and so although she drives me to distraction with her boring conversation,
I make every effort to be nice to her.

  Robert just treats her as an imbecile, of course, but then Robert would. It’s men like Robert who make life hell for women like Celia.

  Anyway poor Celia’s rather a strain, and then on top of that I now have a fearful servant problem because perfect Bennett, butler and valet par excellence, has regretfully decided that it’s his patriotic duty to enlist. Really, it’s small wonder I’m not pregnant. I’ve got much too much on my mind.

  Lion looks gorgeous in his uniform. He says he adored his training camp and can’t wait to get to France. Poor Daphne looks up at him with shining eyes. Can it really be two weeks since they were married? It seems like yesterday. Johnny marries Blanche tomorrow at St. James’s Piccadilly, and Robert, who’s to be the best man, has taken him out tonight to celebrate his last evening as a bachelor. Not that Johnny’s interested in getting drunk and having a good time; he’ll go home early and be tucked up in bed by midnight.

  But Robert will come home and I’ll seduce him. Oh, how I wish I could get this baby started. …

  Christmas at Oxmoon. Bobby and Margaret utter not one word of reproach that we haven’t visited them since our wedding a year ago, but I talk too much out of guilt about how frantically busy we’ve been. Margaret asks me in private if all’s well, and I say yes, simply divine and I’m trying to have a baby. I shouldn’t have mentioned the baby before it’s been conceived—not the Done Thing—but I had to find some way of convincing her that Robert and I are in the seventh heaven of marital bliss.

  Margaret says, “That’s nice, dear; I’m so glad” and rearranges her mourning brooches into an octagon.

  Robert seems closer to his mother than ever, and now I notice that his feelings go beyond mere filial respect. Neither of them shows emotion to the other; they’re much too English for that, but in a crowded room he seeks her out as if she’s the only person worth talking to, and in his company she seems to relax her grip on that relentless air of refinement and become blunter, pithier and wittier. She doesn’t quite slip back into her Staffordshire accent, which I can dimly remember, but I can now look at her and see that tough energetic forthright little girl in her teens who looked after me so conscientiously during my earliest years long ago.