"I hope you're feeling better," Elizabeth said ominously.
"Yes, Auntie, I'm much better, thank you."
"Good, because you are going to enjoy yourself tomorrow, or at least, look as if you are. You can't use the excuse of flu to hide in your room. I'm not having Maddy upset by anything"
"I wouldn't dream of upsetting her." Charlotte meant to sound conciliatory, but the words came out abruptly.
"Not intentionally, but you don't seem able to help yourself. I don't know what we're going to do with you."
"There's no need for you to do anything," she said quietly. "I'm quite happy working for Father. I should never have tried—"
"Yes, well, don't let's dwell on it. Not everyone is cut out for Society, obviously."
"I suppose not," she said, shrivelling inside. Elizabeth needled her constantly about her unsociability, and she hated it. Her relationship with her aunt had never been warm. The only thing in which Elizabeth had ever failed was the attempt to mould Charlotte to her own design.
Lady Elizabeth Reynolds' husband was a baronet, but it was an unconventional marriage. He spent most of his time abroad and Elizabeth rarely went with him, preferring to preside over his country seat and to enjoy herself in high society. Charlotte had her suspicions as to what her idea of enjoyment was. It seemed the marriage was just a respectable front for both husband and wife. Perhaps that was not wrong in itself, but the irony was that her old-fashioned father trusted his sister to chaperon his daughters, while all the time she was perverting Fleur and Madeleine to her own amoral outlook. For that reason, Charlotte could not trust or respect her.
"All is not lost," Elizabeth went on, her tone gentle. "You still ought to think about marriage, dear."
Charlotte had expected more vitriol about her social ineptitude, not this turn in the conversation. "I don't see much point, Auntie. I'm not likely to get married and I don't really want to."
"You don't want to be on your own forever, dear, surely?"
"I shan't be on my own. I shall be with Father."
"But be practical, dear. He won't live forever. What are you going to do when he dies?"
Charlotte was shocked that Elizabeth could make such a bald statement about her own brother. "Lots of women are alone these days."
"Yes, the War changed everything, you don't have to tell me that. Some women have to look after themselves, but there's no need to do it if you don't have to."
"I don't understand. I'm hopeless at making friends, especially men friends. When you said it's my own fault, and no one would want to marry me, you were probably right." She spoke quietly but there was an edge of bitterness in her voice.
"Oh, that was just the heat of the moment, I expect. I shouldn't be too sure of it." Elizabeth's lips formed a cupid's bow smile that erased all the hardness from her face and made her radiantly pretty; an older, darker-haired Fleur. "Think about it." And she patted Charlotte's arm, and left.
Charlotte could not think what her aunt was implying. She was not even sure she wanted to know. It was hard enough to let her own relatives near her. The thought of some man invading her life in a far more intimate way was repellent.
Suddenly she knew the source of the pain that was tightening inside her like a spring. She wanted love, but some internal mechanism was locking her away from it. Her eyes widened and her fingernails dug into the paint of the windowsill. I'm doing this to myself, but I can't stop.
There was a fatal flaw inside her that was dooming her to a cold and loveless existence, and it was no one's fault except her own.
* * *
Chapter Three
Seeing through the Veil
So glad you invited me, old man. Find it a bit hard to get out and socialize these days… well, you know."
"Well, Edward, you should go out more often and I'm going to make damned sure you do from now on." Captain David Neville turned the wheel as he spoke, steering the green open-topped Bentley through the gates of Parkland Hall. The first sight of the estate always raised his spirits. The long drive bisected a gentle upcurve of green that swept away into distant woodland on both sides. Light shone down between the chestnut trees, the oaks and copper beeches. Under the broad level spread of the branches sheep grazed, woolly as clouds outlined by light. And there at the top of the hill stood the Hall, with its straight Georgian lines and its mottled grey walls; plain and magnificent.
David glanced at the thin, pale man in the passenger seat. Edward was the same age as he, twenty-six, although he looked older. His mouse-fair hair was as colourless as his skin and his blue eyes were never still, always taking in everything around him. That alertness, the complete inability to relax, was the least part of the trenches' legacy.
"Soon, all this will be mine," David said drily.
Edward chuckled. "Sounds as if you're planning to bump off your aunt."
"That wouldn't get me far; her husband has two boys of his own from his first marriage. No, I shall just have the responsibility without the privilege of ownership, but that's the way I prefer it. Elizabeth will give me a free hand to administer the estate and I shall thoroughly enjoy the job."
"Will you be living at the Hall itself?"
"No." David looked over to the east, but a copse on the flank of the hill obscured his line of vision. "You can't see it from here, but there's an old manor about a mile off. Bit dilapidated but a splendid house, good thick walls. Anne and I are going to do the place up, it'll be perfect for us."
Edward gazed thoughtfully out of the side window, hands lightly clasped on the walking stick that rested between his knees. "You seem to have it all worked out. I envy you."
David brought the Bentley to a halt. "Listen, old man, I wasn't going to say this until later, but this seems as good a moment as any. I didn't bring you here just for my sister's party. I wanted to see how you like the place. When I become estate manager I'm going to need a right-hand man. What do you say?"
"You want me to work for you?"
"With me, Edward. Can't think of a more reliable man for the job… "
Edward was silent for a few moments. "There must be better people than a shell-shocked soldier. I'm a wreck, David, and you know it. I don't want pity."
"You know me well enough to know it's not pity," David said brusquely. "You can do the job, I need you, and I won't take no for an answer."
A smile spread hesitantly over the lined features. "I'd like nothing better."
"That's the spirit." David clapped him on the shoulder and started the car again. "And while you're at it, propose to one of my sisters, will you? Charlotte should suit you perfectly; she's a bit shy, but take no notice. She's a lovely girl underneath."
"Actually, it's Madeleine I'm rather sweet on."
"Oh, that's what they all say. Why not be original?" They laughed together.
Edward shook his head. "I don't know how many times I've said you don't have to do anything for me, but I have to confess I'm glad."
"Good God, man, will you stop making it sound as if I'm doing you a favour?" David said quietly. "You saved my life. I'm in absolute bloody awe of you."
***
The two blows fell on Charlotte just before the party, one after the other, like the soft double thump of a trap.
There was an hour to go before the guests would begin to arrive. And in this lull—after the frantic business of dressing up in costume—she stood with Fleur and Madeleine on the terrace, breathing in the sweetness of the garden. In white shifts and long black wigs, their eyes striped with kohl and bracelets on their bare arms, they looked as if they had stepped down from the walls of Tutankhamon's tomb. In this rage for all things Egyptian, Madeleine had chosen to be Cleopatra, Fleur and Charlotte her handmaidens.
Charlotte had mixed feelings about wearing fancy dress. In one way it made her feel ridiculous and self-conscious, but in another it bestowed a welcome anonymity.
The late summer evening was warm but overcast, darkening early under pearl-soft clouds
. Standing on the long sweep of the terrace, with the house rising up on one side and the gardens falling away on the other, Charlotte experienced a wonderful feeling of peace. They had wished Maddy a happy birthday, they had all embraced and kissed, and now they stood here in this perfect moment of accord. Past and future dissolved into mist. There was only now. It was so pleasant to be with her sisters, just listening to them talk.
Fleur seemed her usual self again; good-natured, always smiling a little, yet aloof, as if she considered herself slightly above the world. She was enthusing about the painting she was working on as if nothing else existed. Madeleine listened with uncharacteristic patience, her eyes shining, as if she were waiting for the right moment to impart some news of her own.
Then Fleur asked, "Did you see him again, your wonderful Austrian?"
"He came to the house yesterday." Madeleine put her hand on Fleur's arm. "It was quite unbelievable. I thought Father would just give him a little advice. But he was so taken with Karl that he asked him to come and work in the laboratory."
Charlotte felt her whole body turn rigid, her tranquillity slide away like a receding wave. Madeleine's statement was ambiguous. Fleur asked, "Which one? You mean the Cavendish?"
"No! Aren't you listening? Karl wants to work in our laboratory, and Father said yes!"
"Fancy that," said Fleur, raising her eyebrows.
Madeleine glanced at Charlotte, knowing she would be horrified, watching for her reaction. But Charlotte kept her face expressionless, thinking, Whatever I say, it will be the wrong thing and I refuse to cause an argument.
"Aren't you pleased?" said Fleur.
"I don't know what I feel," Madeleine said quietly. "I only invited him to the lecture as an excuse to see him again. I never expected this to happen."
"But now you'll see him every day."
"Yes, yes. But I had so many plans, people to see, house parties, and now I shan't want to go, because Karl will be in Cambridge."
Fleur stroked Madeleine's arm. "Well, Karl can go with you, can't he? I hardly need to ask if he's taken a fancy to you?"
"I should think he has." Madeleine's expression brightened. "If you only saw the way he looks at me! You're right, Fleur. Everything is going to be perfect." She turned to Charlotte. "Oh, you're not miserable about it, are you, Charli? Please don't be. Not on the best birthday of my life."
Charlotte forced a smile onto her face and shook her head, but her heart felt thick and cold. She felt ashamed of ill-wishing Maddy's happiness. While her sisters lived deep in the stream of life, Charlotte remained on the riverbank, watching life flow past, fleeing from anything new. And she envied them.
A french window opened, and Elizabeth—a passable imitation of Marie Antoinette—came out onto the terrace. "Charlotte, will you come inside a minute? Your father wants a word with you."
I'd like a word with him, too, she thought. I suppose he's going to break it gently to me about Karl whatever-his-name-is.
Her father was waiting in the drawing room on the southwest corner of the house; 'the Blue room, named for the hues of its lavish carpet and its Wedgwood-glazed walls. The furniture was marble and rococo gilt; a chandelier hung from an elaborate ceiling rose. French windows opened onto a double flight of stairs which curved down into the orangery, where fountains pattered like rain under a mass of foliage.
"Good evening, m'dear," said her father. "How's the flu?"
"Oh, I'm quite better now, thank you. Did you have a good journey?" They sat together on the blue chaise-longue, Elizabeth in a chair opposite, and made some small talk; he had arrived late, and this was the first time she had seen him since she had come to Parkland two weeks ago. He seemed ill-at-ease; his expression was grave, he kept fiddling with his pipe and glaring at Elizabeth. Eventually Charlotte said, "Father, I know what you're going to say."
"Oh, do you?"
"Madeleine told me." She sounded calmer than she felt. "About you inviting this Austrian scientist to work with us. It's not true, is it?"
He looked guilty, embarrassed and flummoxed. "Oh lord, now look, my dear, it is only a temporary arrangement and he is a very pleasant young man, nothing for you to worry about. Just think of him as an undergraduate. You've never minded helping them, have you?"
"No, but—"
"In fact," Elizabeth interrupted sharply, "that's not what you wanted to talk about, is it, George?"
Now Charlotte was bewildered. What could be worse? And yet, logically, the tension between her aunt and father was unlikely to have been about Karl. Elizabeth lit a cigarette in a long holder and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Do you remember the little talk we had yesterday, about marriage?"
"I remember it, but I didn't understand it."
"Oh dear, haven't you worked it out yet?" Elizabeth looked to be on the verge of mirth; her father's face was stormy. "I'd had a telephone call, you see. Someone wants your hand in marriage."
"What?" said Charlotte, going dizzy.
"Your father's upset because your suitor spoke to me before asking him. To ask if I thought it was a good idea. As if he couldn't make up his own mind, the fool."
"But who is it?"
"If your eyes open any wider, my dear, they'll fall out. I'm sorry to disappoint you but it's Henry, of course; how many admirers do you have? Henry telephoned me and then he asked your father. Very sweet and old-fashioned of him, I'd say."
"He what?" Charlotte gasped.
"Well, you are a dark horse. I had no idea you and Henry were keen on each other," Elizabeth added with a touch of malevolence.
Charlotte was horrified. "We're not. I mean, I had no idea—I don't understand—"
"It's perfectly simple," Neville said gruffly. "Henry wants to marry you, but the silly ass daredn't say anything to you so he asked us to ask you on his behalf."
"Good God," Charlotte whispered. Then she looked round wildly. "He's not here, is he?"
"He's safely in Cambridge, dear," said Elizabeth. Dr Neville was looking accusingly at his daughter, as if she had been conducting a clandestine romance behind his back. "I swear, I gave him no encouragement," she said. "Tell him no! Oh, this is too embarrassing—I had no idea he had such feelings. How on earth can I go on working with him after this?"
"Wait a moment, dear." Elizabeth leaned over to pat Charlotte's hand. Her fingers felt hard as bone and her bracelet scratched Charlotte's skin. "Your father has you too well-trained. Naturally he doesn't want you to get married and leave him, but I think he's being just a little selfish in this instance."
"Nonsense," he growled. "Charlotte doesn't want to get married. She said as much without any prompting from me."
Charlotte's vision was blurring with the rhythm of her pulse. God, they've been sitting here arguing over this, over my life!
"But you haven't given her time to think." Elizabeth looked into Charlotte's eyes, her face veneered with kindness. "This is a good offer; the best you're likely to get, at any rate, considering you wrecked my efforts to find you a decent match. He's a steady young man, his family are well-off, and you are temperamentally suited. What's more, as he seems set to be George's shadow for life, your father won't lose you. It's the perfect solution." She sat back triumphantly.
"Solution to what?" Charlotte felt like a fly bouncing on a web.
"Don't be silly. It's just common sense, isn't it, George?"
Dr Neville made a sort of growling noise, deep in his throat, but Charlotte recognised it as assent. Then she understood.
"You—you have already decided, haven't you? You agreed on it before you sent for me!"
Her father exhaled. "The trouble is, your aunt's right, you know. A girl needs a husband. At least I know Henry, he's a decent sort, and we can all live in the house together."
They were both gazing intently at her. She could not bear being the centre of attention; she had been backed into a cage and the door was about to clang down. She could not fault their logic. If she refused they would only think she was b
eing difficult, and she couldn't rally an argument.
It is the answer. If I'm married, it will stop me wishing for things I can't have. Everyone else will be satisfied and they'll leave me alone.
So while part of her stood aghast, she heard herself saying, "Very well, I'll marry Henry, if it's what you all want."
"You're making the right decision, dear." Aunt Elizabeth picked up the telephone from a side table. "Would you care to call him now, to tell him the good news?"
That was deliberate cruelty. Charlotte hated her fiercely at that moment, but she could only give a quick shake of her head. "No. If he doesn't telephone me, I'll speak to him when I go home."
Elizabeth smiled and replaced the mouthpiece. "Quite right, dear. The poor boy is going to have to say something to you sooner or later, unless he means to conduct the entire marriage by proxy. I don't think there were ever two people better suited."
The enormity of the commitment began to hit Charlotte. She stood up, wanting to escape while she could still hang on to her dignity. "If you will excuse me now, I must finish getting ready."
Instead of going back into the house, however, she found herself heading through the open french windows, down the steps into the orangery, and out of the glass doors into the garden. She was almost running, the black plaits of her wig swinging round her shoulders.
Here she could hide. Here she was safe. The rippling sea of foliage drew her in, gentle and impersonal, making no judgments on her, asking nothing. Down through the belt of shrubs and birches she went, across the long lawns past towering monkey puzzles, until she came to the balustrade that separated the gardens from the woods.
She sat down on a stone bench at the edge of the Italianate garden, feeling the coldness bleed through the thin material of her costume, letting it calm her. And there she remained as dusk gathered and the world moved on without her.
Now the guests would be arriving… Now the party would be in full swing. The marquee walls would be taut and glowing. She sensed the rising heat and the scent of crushed grass. Skeins of music and laughter drifted around her. But she was outside it. Outside, by my own choice. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I choose not to be part of it.
A Taste of Blood Wine Page 6