The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  The police arrived.

  Hours of tedium followed. Rory and I were charged with a breach of the peace and spent the night in separate cells at the police station. Rory was allowed a telephone call, and after an all-night drive in the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Uncle John arrived at Gretna Green just ahead of a gang of journalists who had realized that a junior member of Burke’s Landed Gentry was trying—futilely—to elope with style and good taste.

  More tedious hours passed. Uncle John’s aides-de-camp handled the press. Uncle John’s solicitor handled the police. Eventually the charges were dropped, and back at the hotel Uncle John himself prepared to mop up the rest of the mess.

  “I’d be obliged if you’d return to London, Rory,” he said in a voice that made his son-in-law cringe. “I’ve no wish for you to prolong your disastrous presence here.”

  Rory slunk away. If I hadn’t been so consumed with nervousness on my own account I might even have felt sorry for him.

  The moment had now come. It was without doubt the most crucial moment of my life so far. Did I assert my independence or did I allow Uncle John to reduce me once more to the level of a recalcitrant child? I was beside myself with fright as we confronted each other, but beyond all my terror I was aware of an iron determination not to give way.

  “Well, Kester,” said Uncle John, his glance flickering around my little bedroom with such distaste that it instantly became as drab and sordid as the current state of my elopement, “this is a very unfortunate situation.”

  “It was all right,” I said, “before everyone tried to interfere.” To my horror my voice shook.

  “I’m sorry—I was under the impression that my interference at least was essential; after all I’ve just extracted you from a police cell and saved you from a great deal of unpleasantness. However, that’s of no consequence. If the price I have to pay for saving you is your anger and resentment, then I’ve no alternative but to pay it. Now—” He paused to draw together the shreds of his patience. “—I must tell you that as Rory’s pleas have had no effect, your mother wants to prevent the marriage by making you a ward of court, but I would strongly urge you to come home with me so that this step is rendered unnecessary.”

  “I’m not going home till I’m married.”

  “I don’t think you quite understand. Once you’re a ward of court you can be jailed for contempt if you disobey the court’s order forbidding you to marry.”

  “Then I’ll go to jail. But I’m getting married and no one’s going to stop me.”

  “I’m sure that if you come home quietly now your mother will agree to a formal engagement—”

  “No. I’ve waited long enough. I’m waiting no longer.”

  “But—”

  “That’s my decision and I’m sticking to it.”

  “—if only I could convince you to—”

  “No.”

  “—postpone your plans for a while—”

  “NEVER!”

  I faced him. We were the same height. I looked him straight in the eyes and finally he said, “I wish your father were alive to talk to you. Robert found the reality of marrying his childhood sweetheart rather different, I think, from the romantic dreams of his adolescence.”

  “This is no mere romantic dream,” I said. “I’m marrying for friendship, and personally I think that’s extremely realistic and practical. It’s certainly a lot less foolish and misguided than to marry for sex and social position as so many people seem to do.”

  Uncle John said nothing.

  “Personally,” I said, looking him up and down, “I think the real obscenity is to marry for money. If Anna were an heiress and I were pretending to love her in order to further my ambition, that would be so despicable that you’d have every right to interfere.”

  Uncle John remained silent. But he was very white.

  “Friendship lasts longer than sex,” I said. “Everyone says so. And friendship, real friendship, is something money and social position can’t buy. Anyway, I love Anna—I love her without illusion, without pretense and without deceit—and how many men could say that on the eve of a trip to the altar? Could you, in fact, have said as much before you married either Aunt Blanche or Aunt Constance?”

  Absolute silence.

  “And don’t you try and fling my parents’ marriage in my face,” I said, “because I don’t believe you know anything about it. Maybe I don’t know so much about it either, but one fact I do know and that’s the one fact you can’t deny: they were old friends who loved each other and she stuck by him to the end. So don’t tell me not to marry for friendship. And don’t tell me my father would ever have stood in my way.”

  Uncle John turned aside. He had now been silent for a very, very long time. I stared at his profile but of course, as always in moments of complex emotion, it was inscrutable. I went on watching him, I went on listening to my heart hammering in my chest and slowly, very slowly I began to realize that I had won.

  At last he said without looking at me, “Very well. I’ll tell your mother not to make you a ward of court,” and he moved towards the door.

  I tried to thank him but he cut me off. “I wish you well,” he said, finally managing to look at me. “I hope you’ll be happy. I’ve nothing else to say.”

  The door opened. The door closed. I sank down on the bed. I covered my face with my hands. I cried. So might William the Conqueror have wept after Hastings. Then feeling about seven feet tall and fit to conquer the rest of the world I dashed away my tears, surged to my feet on a tidal wave of euphoria and raced off to find Anna and order champagne.

  II

  As soon as our three weeks’ residency had been completed we rushed to be married, I in a plain dark suit, Anna in a short white dress, and as I slipped the ring onto her finger I thought: I won!” I was in ecstasy, so was she, and immediately the deed was done we jumped into our hired car and headed north. Anna wanted to take the Road to the Isles because it sounded so romantic, and that night after a breathtaking journey west through the mountains we arrived at Mallaig where I had reserved a room in the little hotel that faced across the harbor to Skye.

  I wrote Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Godwin in the register and stood gazing at the words in disbelief. Anna sighed and revolved her new ring as if to make sure it hadn’t faded away. Meanwhile the receptionist, who had at first leaped to the conclusion that we were unmarried, decided we were so obviously newlyweds that there was no point in her continuing to look tight-lipped. We were advised kindly that dinner was at eight and a wish was expressed that our stay would be a happy one. Since unhappiness was inconceivable we beamed at her but made no comment. The porter showed us to our room. After his departure we stood hand in hand by the window and gazed at the sea, bathed in the golden light of evening, and at the purple-shadowed shores of Skye across the water.

  Later we tried to eat dinner but lost interest after one course. We attempted a stroll along the harbor but soon lost interest in that too. Back in our room we sat on the bed and stared at each other.

  “Shall we do it or not?” I said anxiously. I was terrified of ruining her happiness.

  Anna considered the question carefully and said with her usual good sense, “Let’s have a go. If we don’t—”

  “—it’ll be hanging over us like the sword of Damocles. All right, let’s do it,” I said, resigned. “I expect it’s really quite easy. Think of all the fools who have made it a lifelong occupation.”

  We took it in turns to undress and visit the bathroom, and by the time I returned from an absentminded encounter with my toothbrush, Anna was in bed. She was wearing a plain blue sleeveless nightgown with a high neck and looked about twelve. Glancing in the glass I saw an awkward, profoundly unattractive youth who looked as if he were about to go to the dentist.

  “God, I’m white with fright!” I said, appalled.

  “So am I!”

  We saw the humorous side of the situation at exactly the same moment and we both began to laugh.<
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  “Oh, Lord, Anna!” I gasped at last. “I must keep a straight face or else I’ll never be able to drum up the necessary passion!”

  “Heavens, do you have to beat a drum?”

  Laughter overwhelmed us again as we visualized some ancient tom-tom secreted in my pajama trousers, but finally I managed to say, “Oh, Anna, I do love you!”

  “And I love you,” she said, hugging me, “and quite honestly I don’t mind if you beat the drum or not because it’s just, so wonderful to laugh and be happy with you.”

  That settled it. The drum immediately began to thunder in my ears, and as all laughter was set aside at last, I knew, with an absolute certainty, that everything was going to be all right.

  III

  “In retrospect,” I said as we lay dreamily in bed the next morning, “what did you think of it?”

  “Very peculiar,” said Anna, “but I can see it has possibilities. In fact once I’d got over thinking I was going to die I enjoyed feeling so close to you.”

  I sighed. As usual we were in complete agreement. “I thought it was jolly nice,” I said. “Mum was right as usual.” Yawning pleasurably I sat up and stretched myself. “Oh well, that’s that—I’m glad we’ve got it over with. Now we can relax and start enjoying ourselves.”

  A mail boat sailed from Mallaig to the Inner Hebrides, and one day we set out on the ten-hour voyage which took us past Skye to the most beautiful islands I had ever seen. The weather was extraordinarily changeable; one moment the boat would be drenched by gusts of rain and the next the sun would be shining from a clear northern sky. It rained at the port of Kyleakin across the water, but as we left the Isle of Skye the weather cleared and by the time we reached the Isle of Eigg I was on deck in my shirt sleeves. We anchored off Kildonan as a small boat drew out to relieve us of the mail and supplies, but soon we were off again, sailing around the coast, swaying up and down on that dark and splendid sea.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” I shouted to Anna above the wind as the boat inched past the great Sgurr of Eigg which rose from the beach towards the clouds.

  “Wonderful!”

  We watched the view for a little longer before Anna said, “I’ll just see what’s happening on the other side,” and crossed the deck to the opposite rail. Her reaction was dramatic. “Oh Kester, look—look!”

  I ran to join her, and there ahead of me I saw the grandest seascape I had ever seen. Huge mountains rose sheer from the white foam, their summits wreathed in shifting clouds, their slopes glittering in the sun, and as I stared, struck dumb with awe, a squall hit the water ahead of us and the next moment a double rainbow stretched unbroken from the Sgurr of Eigg to crown those mystical peaks which lay ahead of us across the sea.

  I grabbed the nearest deckhand to ask him the name of the mountains and he replied in his soft Highland voice, “Ah, those are the Coolins of Rhum.”

  I knew I was in the presence of perfection, and at once all the pain and horror of the world faded, into insignificance. Physically I was still standing on the deck of that mail boat, but spiritually I was in the presence of eternal truths beside which all worldly preoccupations were futile.

  “I want to feel like this when I look at Oxmoon,” I said to Anna. “I want to make it so beautiful and so perfect that long after I’m dead people will gaze at it and catch a glimpse of eternity.”

  Anna’s hand slipped into mine. The boat plunged on to the rainbow’s end where Kinloch Castle, the celebrated stately home of Rhum, overlooked a sheltered bay.

  “At last—Zenda!” said Anna, laughing, and that was when I knew I was in Ruritania with my princess, just as I had always longed to be; that was when I knew I had the power to make all my dreams come true.

  I remember thinking: Making one’s dreams come true is simply an attitude of mind.

  IV

  We spent two glorious weeks wandering all over the Inner and Outer Hebrides, but eventually we drove south, returned our hired motor and caught the train to London. As we had been living so simply I thought we could afford a touch of extravagance so I wired my kind, sympathetic bank manager Mr. Lloyd-Thomas for extra money and we settled down in a suite at the Savoy. It made an engaging change to sip champagne and nibble caviar in a room liberally decorated with red roses.

  “It’s so romantic!” sighed Anna as we held hands and watched the dusk fall over the Thames, and I agreed with her. I even wondered if it would be too much of an anticlimax to propose the possibility of sex, but the sumptuous triple bed suggested to me that the atmosphere of romance could be sustained without trouble, and as it turned out I was not deceived.

  “Wonderful!” breathed Anna, and immediately my mind was at work to form a new equation to supplement the basic equation of my life (Kester plus Oxmoon equals bliss; Kester minus Oxmoon equals misery). This time I thought: Caviar plus champagne plus red roses plus the Savoy equals marvelous sex equals Anna thinking I’m wonderful equals me feeling more heroic than any Godwin who’s ever lived. I tried to abbreviate this by amending it to Lavish spending equals Anna in bliss equals me in ecstasy, but that sounded too mercenary, so I told myself instead: Being master of Oxmoon (that, after all, enabled me to spend lavishly) plus having Anna (without whom no sex or romance would be possible) equals Success (whether or not I ever published a novel). After enduring many years in the company of people who thought me a freak doomed to failure, I now decided I was rather partial to being a huge success in life.

  “I say, Anna … shall we do it again?”

  “Oh yes! At least … is it possible?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Gosh, you must be superhuman!”

  I modestly disclaimed superhuman powers but was secretly thrilled. I only wished I’d had the nerve to ask Uncle John how many times it was possible to copulate in a single night. I felt in the mood for breaking records.

  “No wonder those grown-ups used to worry about us, Kester. If we’d known sex could be like this—”

  “Exactly. We’ll have to forgive them for being so awful,” I agreed, and the next day, full of benign concern for our parents, we sent them telegrams to announce our imminent return to Wales.

  Dr. and Mrs. Steinberg were waiting to meet us at the station when we arrived in Swansea the next day. Mrs. Steinberg was so overcome with emotion that she had forgotten all her English and I found myself being embraced amidst torrents of German. Anna wept happily. Mrs. Steinberg wept happily. Dr. Steinberg said, “Jolly good,” which seemed to be the only English phrase he could remember, and then he wept happily too.

  I thought of Uncle John lecturing me about the virtues of a stiff upper lip and thanked God I had married into a Jewish family.

  “What’s the news from Oxmoon?” I inquired when we had all recovered sufficiently to conduct a normal conversation.

  “I shall drive us there now,” said my new father-in-law. “Your mother has been most charming and friendly. We’re invited to drinks to celebrate your return.”

  This sounded promising. I was glad my mother had recovered from the paroxysm of rage that had driven her to threaten me with a wardship of court.

  We drove out of Swansea, and because of my prolonged absence I seemed to see Gower with new eyes. What struck me most, after the vast stark ravishing wastes of Scotland, was how diverse beautiful little Gower was, sixteen slender miles of infinite variety set in a changeless yet ever-changing sea. Gower had everything, cliffs, sands, tidal causeways, estuaries, moors, miniature mountains, woods, fields, farms, villages, churches, megalithic monuments, Norman castles, eighteenth-century mansions, Medieval manors, a romantic history and even, as its gateway, glorious Swansea, the plain woman with “It,” lounging on her chaise longue of hills above the Neapolitan curve of Swansea Bay. As Rhossili Downs became visible in the distance I squeezed Anna’s hand and whispered with pride as well as joy, “Nearly home.”

  “Home,” said Anna. “Home.” She sounded as if she could hardly believe her good fortune, and greatly to
uched I leaned over to give her a kiss. In the front seat Mrs. Steinberg saw us and wiped away another tear.

  Dr. Steinberg hooted the horn three times as we passed through the gates of Oxmoon. “Your mother’s instructions!” he called, smiling at us in the mirror, and glancing up the drive I saw all the servants trooping out of the front door. As Lowell chivied them into line, my mother, massive in purple like some neo-Roman empress, stood framed formidably in the doorway.

  “What’s happening?” whispered Anna in wonder.

  “Good God, Mum’s turned up trumps! It’s the royal reception, darling—Mum’s acknowledging us as master and mistress of Oxmoon!”

  Dr. Steinberg managed to halt the car but he was in such a state that he stalled the engine. We lurched forward, startling Lowell who had been about to open the passenger door.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said when I had recovered sufficiently to scramble out. “Good afternoon, madam. On behalf of all the servants I would like to welcome you home to Oxmoon and express the hope that you’ll be very happy here. Sir, may we offer you our best wishes for the future and our sincerest congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Lowell,” I said. “That’s very decent of you.” I piloted Anna past the row of servants who all bowed or curtsied. Anna was nervous, but when Cook’s small daughter presented her with a bouquet of flowers she smiled with genuine pleasure, and I knew all was well.

  I took up a masterful position on the porch steps.

  “Thank you all for your splendid welcome,” I said in Welsh, trying hard to get the accent right, and added in English: “My wife’s much looking forward to living here, and we plan to make Oxmoon the finest house in Wales!”

  Everyone looked thrilled. Smiling radiantly I took Anna’s hand in mine and steered her up the steps to my mother.

  “Hullo, Mum!” I said. “The prodigal returns!”