Chapter 23
London, England, 1922
Celia sat at her dressing table as Marcie, her maid, arranged her hair in preparation for her mother’s regular Tuesday evening Salon. She glanced absent-mindedly at that morning’s Express newspaper where Viscount Castlerosse, the gossip columnist, had written in his London Log: ‘I can never bear to miss one of my dear friend Lady Deverill’s weekly Salons at her gorgeous residence on Kensington Palace Gardens where American film actors mix with aristocrats and politicians, and drink the new American cocktails to jazz music. This week I saw Mr Douglas Fairbanks and his new wife Mary Pickford, talking about his new film Robin Hood while Ivor Novello, the upcoming songwriter from Wales, was singing one of his hit tunes at the piano, accompanied by The Sax, the black musician from New Orleans who has won many intimate fans among our lady hostesses. In another corner the Russian émigré, Prince Yusopov, was telling the Foreign Secretary, Lord Curzon, about how he killed Rasputin (for the tenth time). Also there was . . .’
Harry lounged on the chaise longue in his silk dressing gown, smoking one of Beatrice’s Turkish cigarettes he had stolen from the pearl box in the drawing room. Since moving to London he had developed a close friendship with Celia and was rarely out of her company. With their angel-blond hair, alabaster skin and blue eyes they might easily have passed for siblings were it not for George’s memory which remained clear and strong in the minds of all who had known him. While Maud trawled the scene for a suitable bride for her son, a bigger challenge than ever considering there was no castle to use as bait, Harry partied incessantly with his tireless cousin and George’s childhood friend, the beautiful and laconic Boysie Bancroft.
‘What did you think of Charlotte Stalbridge?’ Celia asked. ‘Your mama was pushing her in your direction all evening.’
Harry took a long drag of his cigarette and blew out a ring of smoke. ‘Frightfully dull,’ he replied.
‘But she’s pretty enough, isn’t she?’
‘What’s the good of an attractive shop window if there’s nothing worth buying in the shop?’
Celia giggled. ‘She might have lots of money but she doesn’t have a clue how to dress herself.’
‘That pale pink was awfully unbecoming,’ Harry agreed. ‘A girl with her colouring should avoid pale colours. You, on the other hand, look exquisite in every shade.’
‘Will you write a poem about me one day? I’d like to be immortalized in verse. A long and musical poem like The Lady of Shalott.’
‘She came to a nasty end. To look down to Camelot she knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.’
‘Oh, how romantic it is and how clever of you to know it by heart.’ Her hair done, she waved away her maid, who left the room, closing the door behind her. ‘I saw you’d written a poem for Boysie.’ Harry sat up and took his ashtray to the window where he stared onto the garden below at a pair of portly pigeons pecking the grass. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I saw it on your bedside table. Of course I didn’t read it,’ she added hastily. ‘Only, I’d like you to write one about me. You’re awfully talented. One day you’ll be famous, like Oscar Wilde.’
The comparison was not lost on Harry. He took a final drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘Oscar Wilde is remembered for more than his writing, poor, tragic man,’ he said quietly.
‘He was wonderfully scandalous. There’s nothing wrong with a man loving another man, is there? It’s a brotherly love of sorts, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t love Boysie, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I admire him. He’s a very intelligent man. I write poems about everybody.’
‘I know that. But if you did love him, there’d be no harm in it. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘You do speak nonsense sometimes, old girl.’ He left the ashtray on the windowsill. ‘I suppose I’d better change. People will be arriving soon.’
As he was about to leave the room Beatrice flung open the door and marched in, holding a telegram in her pudgy, bejewelled hand. ‘Celia, Harry, sit down. I have some extraordinary news.’ Harry glanced at Celia and returned to the chaise longue. ‘Your sister Kitty is on her way to London.’
‘But that’s wonderful news, Mama!’ Celia exclaimed.
Beatrice’s eyes widened. ‘She’s bringing a baby!’
‘A baby!’ Harry repeated. ‘Whose baby?’
‘A foundling.’
‘Really, her social conscience is a riot!’ Celia laughed. ‘Do you remember that summer we had to pick and pod for the poor?’
‘Who’s the telegram from?’ Harry asked. Beatrice handed it to him. ‘Ah, Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said. ‘I suppose Papa is having nothing to do with it, otherwise she’d be staying in Ireland. I didn’t think anything would induce her to leave Castle Deverill.’
‘She was adamant she wasn’t going to leave when I suggested it at Cousin Hubert’s funeral. I tried every sort of persuasion but she wouldn’t have it.’ Celia narrowed her eyes. ‘I wonder whose baby it is.’
‘Well, it’s not hers,’ said Beatrice.
‘Is she coming here?’ Celia asked hopefully.
‘No, she’s staying at Grace’s in Mayfair.’
‘Does Mama know?’ Harry asked.
‘Not yet. The duty has fallen to me to tell her,’ said Beatrice glumly.
‘Ah,’ said Harry. ‘The best of luck, then.’
‘Why would she care?’ Celia asked. ‘Your mother’s never given a stuff about Kitty.’
‘Her unmarried daughter arriving in London with a baby will be scandalous. Everyone will assume it’s hers,’ he told her.
‘And so what?’ said Celia, who enjoyed being avant-garde. ‘It’s 1922, not 1822!’
‘All the same, Mama’s very conscious of her reputation,’ said Harry.
‘Because it’s all she has left,’ Celia added spitefully.
When Maud heard the news she sat down and put her delicate white hand to her lips. ‘Why on earth would Kitty bring a baby to London? Does she want to ruin me?’
Beatrice had anticipated Maud’s reaction and was ready to console her. ‘She’s taken in a foundling. I think it’s admirable.’
‘It’s not admirable, Beatrice. It’s downright foolish! How’s she going to find a husband with a baby in tow? How could Bertie allow her to leave like this? Couldn’t she have stayed in Ireland?’
‘The telegram came from Grace, Maud. I don’t imagine Bertie wants anything to do with it.’
‘Of course he doesn’t. Whose baby is it anyway?’
‘I don’t know. The telegram only says—’
Maud stood up. ‘How could she! Everything was going well for me at last. Victoria is expecting a baby. I think I might have found a bride for Harry. What will Lady Stalbridge think when Harry’s sister appears with an illegitimate child? Will she want her only daughter to marry him then? I think not! After all I have suffered, how could she arrive to stain our family name?’
‘I’m sure there’s an explanation. Let’s wait until she gets here before we pass judgement.’
‘She’s always been a thorn in my side,’ said Maud bitterly. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it. But she hates me. My own daughter hates me. There’s no other explanation. It would have been better if it were her child, then at least we could all pretend her husband had died! There’s honour in that.’
‘It must be someone very dear to her,’ Beatrice suggested.
‘When she arrives I will demand an explanation.’
‘She’s not staying here, Maud. She’s staying at Grace’s.’
‘In Mayfair? Why on earth isn’t she coming here?’ Maud shook her head with self-pity. ‘Of course, how silly of me. Well, that’s just another insult. I don’t think I can bear to talk to anyone tonight. I’m going to retire to my room. Please tell Lady Stalbridge that I am unwell.’ And she disappeared to her bedroom just as the first guests were arriving for Beatrice’s
Salon.
Harry enjoyed Beatrice’s Salons. People would appear, one never knew who or how many. They would eat, drink, play cards and charades, debate and discuss and generally enjoy themselves immensely. It was where he had first met Boysie, and fallen hopelessly in love, for Boysie seemed unaware when Harry followed him with his eyes.
Boysie Bancroft was the most beautiful man Harry had ever seen. He was tall and slim like a willow, with long tapering fingers that seemed to caress the keys when he played the piano and dance on the air when he recited poetry. He was an aesthete who had the singing tone of a fallen angel whose voice has grown husky on late nights, cognac and cigarettes. His eyes were deep and wistful, the colour of green tourmaline and flecked with specks of gold, and although his lips were full and pink, like a cherub’s, they were capable of delivering the put-downs of a demon. He was twenty-four but his skin was so smooth he hadn’t yet begun to shave and his hair, a shiny mop of sugar brown, fell over his forehead like the mane of a lovely young horse. Everyone adored him on account of his charm, acerbic wit and self-deprecating humour, but Beatrice loved him especially because he had been George’s dear friend and having him around somehow made her feel connected to her son.
Boysie and Harry had liked each other on sight. Both were handsome and clever, fanatical about art galleries and museums, theatre and ballet, and equally fond of Celia. They were perfect companions, laughing at the same jokes (usually each other’s) and finding the same tedious people intolerable. However, when it came to love, Harry couldn’t be sure that Boysie admired him in the same way that he admired him. Just when he was beginning to believe that his feelings might be reciprocated, Boysie had turned up to a party with a pretty girl on his arm and declared that she, this rather plump, mousy Deirdre Mortimer, was the girl he intended to marry.
Now Harry loitered in the hall, greeting guests and waiting for Boysie, trying not to let his agitation show. He was so busy thinking about the man he loved that he had quite forgotten about his sister and the baby. When at last Boysie appeared, a simpering Deirdre Mortimer by his side in an unflattering green dress, he feigned surprise, pretending that he had only at that moment been passing through the hall. ‘What a coincidence!’ he exclaimed, patting his friend on the back. ‘Miss Mortimer, how lovely to see you again.’
‘You’ve bought a new jacket, you devil,’ said Boysie, taking in Harry’s immaculate attire. ‘Have you been to Savile Row again?’
‘I’m afraid I have,’ Harry replied. His heart swelled with happiness now that Boysie was here.
‘I feel very shoddy by comparison. I shall have to make up for it by playing the piano with gusto! Are you ready for a song?’
Just then, as Harry was about to lead Boysie upstairs to the drawing room, who should appear in the doorway but Lady Stalbridge and her daughter Charlotte. ‘Look, darling, here’s Harry. So sweet of you to wait for Charlotte. You know how nervous she is walking into a room full of people.’
Harry was bewildered, and secretly furious. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he replied as Charlotte handed her coat to a butler. ‘Why don’t we all go upstairs together? I believe Boysie is going to play the piano. How is your singing voice, Charlotte?’
Charlotte blushed. ‘I can’t sing at all,’ she said.
‘Me neither,’ Deirdre agreed.
‘Then Harry and I will sing for you, and you can both clap and make us believe we’re brilliant and talented!’ said Boysie, leading the way, and Harry marvelled at how Boysie had the ability to make everybody feel good about themselves.
It wasn’t long before the socialising descended into outright revelry. The singing grew louder, the laughter more raucous, the behaviour less decorous, and Harry more confused than ever as Boysie gazed at him lovingly over the piano yet lavished his attentions on Deirdre. At midnight Celia started the dancing. The floor cleared and other young people joined in while the older guests moved into quieter rooms or left altogether. The gramophone replaced the piano and jazz music drove the dancers into a fever of energetic foxtrotting. Boysie was not a good dancer. He preferred to watch with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other, scrutinizing the revellers to gossip about later. Harry loved to dance and took Celia by the waist, much to the disappointment of Charlotte, who wanted nothing else than to be swung around the floor in Harry’s arms.
In the downstairs study Beatrice played bridge with her inner circle of friends, boldly smoking Turkish cigarettes and lamenting the tragic state of Ireland. ‘Why don’t you buy the castle?’ one of her friends suggested. ‘After all, Digby has the wealth to buy it ten times over.’
Beatrice sighed heavily and hesitated over her cards. ‘Digby loves Ireland but Castle Deverill does not belong to him. It’s Bertie’s and he’s very proud. If Digby bought the castle, that is, assuming Bertie wanted to sell, or even paid for its renovation, it would ruin everything between them. I’m sorry to say that Bertie will have to rebuild the castle himself, or abandon it altogether. I fear that it’s all over for the Anglo-Irish.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Oh but we had some very good times.’
‘Better to come back to England than be murdered in his bed,’ her friend added. ‘I hear the Irish are an uncivilized lot.’
‘Quite so,’ Beatrice agreed. ‘But there’s no country more beautiful. If Bertie loses Castle Deverill it will be a very great tragedy indeed.’
As Harry danced around the room he felt the heavy weight of Boysie’s stare following him like a shadow. When he managed to look at him he saw that his face was serious and desperately sad. Harry stopped dancing only for Celia to tug his arm and insist he continue. ‘You’re not tired, are you, Harry?’
‘Certainly not!’ Harry exclaimed, but he was watching Boysie leaving the room. ‘Give me a moment, old girl. I’ll be back in a tick.’ He set off after his friend. Once out on the landing he saw a glimpse of Boysie’s black shoe on the stairs as he disappeared onto the floor above. Harry called but there came no reply. He sprang up the steps two at a time. Once he was there, Boysie was nowhere to be seen. He called again. No response. He put his hands in his pockets and slowly wandered down the corridor, his heartbeat accelerating with every stride. At last he reached his own bedroom. He hesitated a moment before turning the knob. A hand grabbed him and pulled him inside. ‘Boysie?’ he hissed. Before he could say anything else Boysie’s mouth had found his and he was kissing him passionately. Harry’s heart flooded with joy. He cupped Boysie’s beautiful face and kissed him back. He tasted the soap on his skin and inhaled the spicy scent that was Boysie’s alone and they were so familiar it was as if he had known them all his life. ‘But what about Deirdre?’ he asked when they came up for air.
‘I can’t fool myself any longer, Harry. It’s killing me. I love you, old boy. That’s all there is to it. I know you love me.’
‘I do love you, Boysie,’ Harry replied. The word ‘love’ had never sounded so sweet.
Boysie pressed his forehead to Harry’s. ‘Then there’s nothing more that needs saying.’
At last Kitty arrived at Grace’s red-brick mansion on Mount Street. The train journey from Fishguard to Paddington had been long and tiring but Grace had sent a maid with her to help with the baby. Kitty had never been to England before and the countryside, which she had imagined so ugly, had surprised her with its beauty. Even in February there was a charm to the rich green hills and soft pastures of grazing sheep. Wales reminded her very much of Ireland and soothed her tormented soul that ached already with homesickness. She stared out of the window of the train and wondered where Jack was. She recalled the urgency in his voice when he had said, I have to leave before they bloody shoot me. And the tears fell again for the man she loved above all others, and for herself and her broken dreams. Where had her courage got her? She had thought she was indomitable. She had believed she could do anything. But in the end she was nothing but a weak and useless woman, no different from her sisters. Jack had been arrested. She had abandoned her home. Her father had
all but disowned her. Only Grace and her grandmother were there for her now. But she couldn’t live off them forever. When, oh when, would she be able to return to Ireland? And when she returned, would Jack be there?
It was dark by the time Kitty arrived at Paddington. A chauffeur had been sent to pick them up from the station and the drive to Mayfair had been short. Kitty had gazed around at this new city in wonder. The streets near the station had been busy with people, cars and omnibuses and in the middle of it all the odd horse and cart slowly plodding home, but as they had entered Mayfair the bustle had been left behind and the streets were suddenly empty, but for the odd Daimler and Bentley driving beneath the street lamps as couples left to go out for dinner.
Grace’s home was palatial, five-storeys high with a tall grey portico and imposing black door. Rows of large windows with elegant stone pediments glowed golden in the darkness and Kitty felt an immediate sense of relief, knowing that once inside she would feel safe.
She was shown to her room by a gentle-faced, rotund lady called Mrs Blythe. ‘As soon as you’ve freshened up there will be supper downstairs in the little sitting room. Lady Rowan-Hampton often eats in there when she is on her own. It’s less formal and nice and warm. We’ll take care of the baby so you can get some rest. Lady Rowan-Hampton has given us strict instructions to make sure you are as comfortable as possible.’ She opened the door to a large bedroom with a big brass bed and a cheery fire. On the bedside table was a small arrangement of heather. ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton specifically asked for that,’ Mrs Blythe told her importantly. ‘She said it would remind you of home.’
Kitty picked it up and brought it to her nose. ‘It does remind me of home,’ she said, but she was now too weary to feel homesick.
‘Can I draw you a bath?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ said Kitty, expecting Mrs Blythe to ring for a man to bring up the water in containers. To her surprise she walked into the bathroom and Kitty heard the gush of water. She remembered Victoria complaining of the lack of efficient plumbing and electricity and now knew what she had meant. She wandered into the bathroom to watch the tub fill up. Mrs Blythe poured a green liquid into the water and Kitty’s battered spirit was immediately calmed by the soothing scent of pine. She realized how dirty she must be from her journey and her limbs felt suddenly unbearably heavy with fatigue. ‘You have a bath now while Becky and I unpack for you. You only brought the one bag?’ Mrs Blythe was surprised. ‘It won’t take us long, then, will it.’
Songs of Love and War Page 27