by Fay Weldon
Since Mr Baum’s early arrival on the steps at the end of October there had been much talk of financial difficulty, and her Ladyship had certainly been rather cautious in her menus – twelve courses and only twenty-eight guests for a charity dinner which royalty was attending was unusually parsimonious – though Reginald attested that the spending on clothes was still lavish, especially in Mrs O’Brien’s company.
But that was beside the point. Were they going to read the letter to Pickford’s or not? All looked to Grace for a decision. She was moody and could be irrational but generally considered a deep thinker. She pondered for a while and then said, yes, the circumstances were exceptional and Mr Neville should go ahead. So Cook put on the kettle and the glue of the envelope was softened in the steam, Grace carefully and ceremoniously opened the letter and read the contents aloud.
It was a request to Mr Abbot to bring forward the date of the move to Hampshire from January 7th to December 4th. His Lordship and the Viscount would not be accompanying them.
‘She can’t do that,’ said Mrs Welsh. ‘The seventeenth is the royal dinner. She has to be here. The Prince is coming. I’ve got it all in my head, all twelve courses.’
‘Oh thank goodness,’ said Elsie. ‘Alan will need someone to keep him on the wagon over Christmas. I’ve been worrying so.’
‘I’ve delivered all the invitations,’ said Reginald. ‘But it suits me.’
‘It won’t do,’ said Grace. ‘You can’t uninvite royalty,’ and went upstairs to see her Ladyship.
Reginald resealed the letter and took it round to Maida Vale and delivered it into the hands of Mr Abbot himself, who read it briefly and asked him to wait for a reply. It would take only a few minutes.
Tessa Makes a Visit
12.30 p.m. Sunday, December 3rd 1899
Tessa was surprised not to find Grace in attendance. She marvelled at how little time it took to become dependent on someone to do your thinking for you, how convenient to have your clothes chosen for you and to tell you how to conduct yourself in public. She must try and find someone like her when she went back to Chicago. If she went back to Chicago. Life here was so much more entertaining than it was back home. Even the newspapers were livelier. She had begun to read the London Gazette and follow the progress of the war England was fighting in South Africa. She had lost interest in the war in the Philippines. She no longer felt obliged to tell everyone how much better and bigger everything was in Illinois, from the cattle to the lakes. It was almost as if this was her own country, and she was here by right. She wondered what would have happened if she had met Eyre Crowe and had his baby before she’d met Billy, and moved back with him to London.
It had been a wild party that she and Eyre had gone to. There had been an incident with another of the artists whose name she couldn’t even remember, but best not to dwell on that. Billy had been happy to acknowledge another’s child as his and bring her up as his own. But to live all your life with a man you liked very much in an unconsummated marriage was surely not right. You could get the Pope to annul a marriage, if you wanted and could pay, which she could – she could pay anything these days, though Billy might try to stop her.
She could start afresh in a new marriage, in a new land where she could begin again. Billy, she assumed, but you never knew, would go on supporting her; and even if he didn’t, Eyre probably had money enough for both of them. He was a well-established painter. His works hung in the Royal Academy. You did not stay poor if that happened to you. She had thought perhaps Eyre might be at the d’Asti party, but he hadn’t been. She’d thought the guests were a rather mixed lot, and Grace had agreed. They were not all out of the top drawer.
Where was Grace? There could be no harm in just going round and seeing what Eyre looked like these days; you just didn’t know after all these years. If he looked presentable she might just introduce herself to him. She knew he had not married. Perhaps he still thought of her, pined for her even? He lived (Mr Eddie had traced him through the Royal Academy, and Tessa hoped he was discreet) where Great Portland Street merged with Charlotte Street. But she did not want to sit in a cab on her own, watching a front door like a jealous woman, with the cab driver sniggering away. Perhaps Mr Eddie would come with her? Grace was quite pally with Mr Eddie, she had noticed. On the ornery side Grace, but as a lady’s maid, superb.
Which was why Tessa found herself sitting in a cab with Mr Eddie at half-past noon outside No. 88, as the door of the respectable town house opened and three respectable gentlemen came out, from the look of them going to lunch. One was Eyre Crowe, looking older and greyer than she remembered him. Well, of course she didn’t suppose she herself she looked any younger, but Eyre had gone down the desiccated route while she had gone the fleshy way; he looked as if a mere breath of Billy’s roaring laugh could sweep him quite away. He looked very different, now that she saw him in the flesh, from the man in the Whistler painting, much more like the man she remembered. One man she recognized as the curator from the Royal Academy, the other she did not know, but he was like one of those kind of guys you met in the corridors of the Art Institute back home, thoughtful peering creatures who knew everything there was to know about everything arty or philosophical, except how to get a woman to bed or enjoy a good dinner.
She opened the side window and listened. They paused just by her cab; the conversation absorbed them, and they did not even notice her. Mr Eddie sat still and listened too. He had been a pleasant escort, pointing out sights of interest on the journey, and asking no impertinent questions.
‘It was Hallam’s argument,’ one was saying, ‘that scepticism in philosophy, atheism in religion and democracy in politics, is the only way to achieve truth.’
‘All very well,’ Eyre was saying. ‘But where does that leave Art?’
Tessa thought she had heard all she needed to hear, seen all she needed to see. Let them get on with it. Anyway she loved Billy: a cuddle was better than many women got at her age, and it was only on a bad day that she thought he was so busy making money he wouldn’t notice if she was there or wasn’t. Of course he would be hurt and upset if she left. She closed the window gently – not that there was much danger these brainy old men would notice what was going on around them – and said to Mr Eddie:
‘That’s enough. Let’s go home.’ And as the driver whipped up his horse, she added: ‘Little does he know what a narrow escape he had.’
Mr Eddie took note of the remark. He would pass it on to Grace and he knew she would be relieved that Lord Master Arthur’s father-in-law would not suddenly change. Such things could happen.
The Bear at Esher
6.30 p.m. Sunday, 3rd December 1899
The Arnold Jehu puffed up to the entrance porch of the Bear Inn and Arthur escorted Minnie inside. He asked the landlady to see to her wet clothes. Minnie returned in half an hour or so, comparatively dry and dressed in a simple blue skirt and white shirt and woollen wrap which the hotel, he supposed, was used to providing these days for drenched lady motorists. He himself had been protected from the worst of the downpour by his long leather coat, and a rub down with a towel sufficed. He ordered a simple meal of steak and kidney pie and a bottle of wine between them.
He apologized when she reappeared.
‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘My behaviour was not excusable. But you must acknowledge it was something of a shock. I was surprised that you did not tell me from the beginning, but autres pays, autres moeurs.’
Minnie responded by demanding a whisky and soda. When it came she complained that it tasted differently from the whisky she had back home.
He said no doubt she knew. No doubt her past life was full of whisky and sodas of one kind or another. She glared at him and drank it down and asked for another. She was looking very pretty, and they ate by candlelight.
He told her all about Flora and how he kept her in a house in Half Moon Street, and how, pressured by his parents he had panicked and even asked the girl to marry him, then, having me
t Minnie, changed his mind. He did not mention bloody Redbreast; that seemed unnecessary. He told her he’d realized he was unwilling to give Flora up – ‘What a pretty name!’ said Minnie – even after marriage, so perhaps the answer was not to get married at all. He certainly did not want to embark on a marriage knowing there was a third person in it, even though marriage was for procreation, and pleasure taken outside it merely human and excusable. He was not as low as that. His parents would have to solve their financial problems leaving him out of it.
She pushed away her plate of steak and kidney pie, saying she did not like meat – her father ate little else, though he sometimes tempered it with corn or hominy grits.
‘I thought the Irish lived on potatoes,’ he said. ‘At least you don’t inherit that particular tendency.’ She looked at him oddly.
‘You must see,’ he said, ‘that a man from a family like mine, whose son will eventually be an earl, must be very careful. The wife must be above reproach. The line has to breed true.’
‘I am not a bitch,’ she said, and ordered some sole and then when it arrived complained that the lemon was dry and had no juice in it and demanded another. She lacked the savoir faire of his mother, who would have thought it beneath her to complain about a dry lemon. In her own household, of course, yes, standards had to be kept up at all costs, but outside it, no. His mother had been of comparatively humble, though wealthy, stock, on her father’s side, but knew how to behave. This girl tried, but couldn’t quite. Not a bitch. He’d never heard a girl say the word like that. She had the instincts of an Irish peasant, a background in the Chicago stockyards. All the same, with her hair falling lavishly about her face as it lost the last of its dampness, she was very attractive. He would not have been sorry to marry her.
He wished she had not made it impossible. Flora could have faded somehow into the background, but Minnie had to bring it up. He would have it out with Rosina when he got back. Confounded Rosina could be a terrible mischief-maker. Because she was not happy she wished everyone else to be unhappy.
‘For a bitch not to breed true,’ Minnie said, ‘she needs to have had pups. I’ve had no children.’
‘People try to argue that on this side of the Atlantic too,’ Arthur said, ‘but it is not the case. With mares and bitches, all they have to do is get out once and they’re never the same again.’
‘The hog that a sow happens to get out with first,’ she said, ‘makes no difference whatsoever to the litter she produces when properly mated. How can it? I am a child of the stockyards. We breed scientifically. You English are just romantics.’
And she, talking like this, was most certainly not a romantic. Minnie of the stockyards! He could hear his friends laughing.
‘There is no reason we cannot remain friends,’ he said. ‘In fact I hope we do.’
He knew she liked him. He could tell from the way she inclined her body towards him. She would be easy. A girl who does it with one man will do it with another. Girls quickly get a taste for sin, learn to compare one man with another, enter the realm of the animal where Flora dwelt, comparing ‘doodles’ one to another, and go on looking for perfection until the end of their days, never satisfied.
‘I’ve asked them to light a fire in the bedroom upstairs,’ he said. ‘It’s very pleasant up there. Shall we go up for a nightcap?’
She didn’t jump to her feet and scream or stab him with the knife with which she was cutting her cheese, though the expression on her face suggested she might – but just stiffened and enquired coldly,
‘Are you out of your mind?’
And then, in a gesture worthy of the Chicago stockyards, she slapped his face.
Arthur went out to see that the Jehu was safely tucked away for the night, and when he went back inside she was nowhere to be seen.
Rosina Challenges Her Mother
11 a.m. Sunday, 3rd December 1899
Her Ladyship looked askance at her daughter. The girl had abandoned her customary unconventional yet tasteful garments for a motley gathering together of clothes which looked as if they had been chosen by a child. A pair of striped black and white pantaloons, like a clown’s, a white smocked shirt like a baby’s, and a man’s waistcoat beaded with the kind of glitter a magpie would steal.
She seemed to be in fancy dress, and, her mother thought, looked almost insane. ‘You look very peculiar, Rosina,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should call a doctor.’
‘It is not I, but you who are behaving oddly, Mama. You cannot uninvite a Prince. It will cause comment. And you have seen fit to fetch that poor waif upstairs and try to train her up as a lady’s maid. She is irremediably incompetent. These garments are Lily’s choice: they are what she picked out for me. I wear them only to prove a point. She has put a silk shirt of mine in with the laundry wash, and allows you to go around looking like a madwoman in a soiled wrap and with your hair undone. Grace would never have permitted such a thing. Please bring Grace back. Mother, I need her. You neglect me. And all your concern goes to perfect strangers, and American ones at that. Why? Because you want their money? It is disgraceful.’
Lady Isobel, who had been feeling much better now she had made the decision to spend Christmas in Hampshire, so that she could order her life again, feared she might well be flung back into despair and confusion by her daughter’s nagging.
‘My early return to the country has nothing to do with the Prince,’ she said, ‘though I daresay he is much to blame in all this. I don’t mean to remain a day longer than I have to under this roof. Your grandfather was right. I should not have married your father. He was only an Honourable when I met him, and a second son at that. I never expected to have to live like this.’
‘Be reasonable, Mama,’ said Rosina. ‘Father only did what men do,’ and she launched into a tirade, which amounted to a validation of her decision not to marry, and made her mother regret that she had trusted Rosina with the cause of her distress. All Rosina could do, Isobel said, was think about herself. It was almost as if other people had no reality.
Rosina repeated that she saw no point in trusting her feelings to someone who was bound to hurt them with the passage of time. She did not intend to be a wife.
‘A wife grows old, so the husband looks elsewhere,’ she said. ‘A wife is obliged to have children, and likely as not dies horribly in childbirth, and is told as she dies she has done her duty to her husband. No, if one can afford not to, no woman should marry. It is a form of slavery. In return for a wedding gown and a declaration of love, a woman offers her sexual and domestic services in exchange for her keep for the rest of her life. Obliged to do things she doesn’t want to, like inviting the heir to the throne to dinner.’
‘Mr Shaw again,’ said her mother. ‘You’d have never turned up for the Prince’s dinner in any case. You’d have found a meeting to go to, one that seemed more important to you than any service you could possibly offer me, your mother.’
‘The Prince finds my décolletage irresistible,’ said Rosina. ‘He likes to stare at it, finger it, and if I am sat next to him, to brush his hand against it as he manages to lower his hand to my knee and give it a good pinch.’
‘But Rosina,’ said her mother, ‘when have you ever even met the prince? All talk of him but few see him.’
‘On occasion, Mama,’ said Rosina, ‘he is to be found at the d’Asti salon. He likes to keep up with the thinkers and artists of the day, the ones you so studiously avoid. Where but there is he to meet so many actresses?’
‘This is fantasy, my poor Rosina,’ said her mother.
‘If only it were, Mama. Combine a good décolletage with a good intellect and a good pinch and our Prince turns into a slavering idiot. His pleasure is in finding a woman who thinks, and then depriving her of the capacity to do so. He squeezes it out of her. He is very big and very heavy, but also very good at what he does. Flora reports that Father is also very good at what he does, which I am sure you know, and why you are in such a state now. You must be more like
the Princess, Mama, and be nice to your husband’s mistresses.’
Isobel stared open-mouthed at her daughter.
‘You are astonished, Mother, that the Prince should like me in this way. You think I’m so plain no man will look at me. Of course, he seldom gets to see me standing up. When I am seated I suppose my height is not so noticeable. When I am seated my bosom is at eye level. I expect that is what he likes.’
‘My dear, you are perfectly capable of attracting any man you want, if only you would not stoop, and stand tall and look them in the eye, and not scowl and thrust your chin out at the same time. It is a bad habit. I had no idea that this went on. My poor girl!’
‘You think I am mad,’ said Rosina, sniffling a little. Isobel was always nervous of sympathizing with her daughter. At the first ‘you poor little thing’ Rosina would burst into tears. Perhaps she was at fault in the way she had reared her daughter? Been hard when she could have been soft, unkind when she should have been kind? Told her daughter how pretty she was instead of pointing out her faults?
‘My dear, you are a lovely girl,’ Isobel said, ‘and have a noticeably graceful body,’ and even as she said it saw Rosina’s face relax and the scowl disappear. Really, was it so easy? But Rosina had not finished with her mother yet.
‘Why do you think the Prince keeps Father so close? The Prince is after me. Father is not so great a wit, though I daresay good enough for a drunken evening on the tiles when the Prince is short of a friend brave enough to go gambling with him. I inherited my mind not from Papa, thank God, but from you and my grandfather Silas. Inasmuch as I am responsible for his death, and I know it suits people to say so, I am truly sorry I killed him, if I did, and of course I did not mean to. I think you should stay quietly here until you feel better and give your dinner as planned. I will come and face the Prince out, and if he fingers my bosom, simper like all the other young women round your table hoping for his favours.’