by Angela Arney
‘And lucky to have such a doting grandmother,’ answered Liana with genuine fondness. And I’m lucky myself to have such a mother-in-law; she often thought it, a thousand times. Sometimes she allowed herself to fantasize, thinking that even if Margaret knew the truth it would not dim her love for herself and Eleanora. But that was something she could only guess at and would never know for certain because the burden of the secret was hers and hers alone. Margaret’s love would never be put to the ultimate test.
*
‘They’ve arrived.’ Arthritis forgotten, Margaret leaped out of her chair and raced into the entrance hall of Broadacres.
‘It might not be them, Grandma.’ Eleanora pounded after her, followed at a more leisurely pace by Liana and Nicholas.
It was. The family Rolls Royce, now back in regular use, crunched to a halt in the gravel before the main steps to the house.
‘Anne!’ Half laughing, half crying, Margaret nearly stumbled in her haste to get down the steps. Flinging her thin arms around her daughter she hugged her. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’
Anne, perilously close to tears herself, hugged her mother back. The two women were very alike in appearance, both tall and slightly uncoordinated, both untidy. Anne’s hair was wispy, too, and tied back in a bun almost identical to Margaret’s. The only difference was the colour. Margaret’s hair was grey, Anne’s a faded blonde. Liana liked the look of her. She looked gentle, like Margaret.
‘Oh, it’s so good to be home,’ said Anne, and then did burst into tears.
Nicholas grinned and raised his eyebrows at his new brother-in-law, Richard Chapman. ‘Women!’ he said. ‘They always cry when they’re happy.’
Richard gave a long, slow smile. ‘They baffle me,’ he said.
Liana was reminded of Wally Pragnell’s geniality. Richard Chapman had the ruddy complexion of a farmer and an open, candid face. He looked an easy man to get along with.
Nicholas led the way into the house and up into the Arcadian Room where Meg was waiting to serve afternoon tea. He made the formal introductions but when it came to Eleanora’s turn she took matters into her own hands.
‘I’m Eleanora,’ she announced. ‘I’m eight years and two months old. I can ride a horse, and I can jump bare-back.’ She turned to Peter, throwing her head back so that she could look up into his eyes, every inch of her athletic frame tense with challenge. ‘Bet you can’t jump bare-back.’
‘How much do you want to bet?’
‘Oh.’ Eleanora was disconcerted. She had not thought of that.
Richard Chapman laughed. ‘You’d better be careful, young lady. Everyone in New Zealand rides; it’s the only way to get about. Your cousin Peter was practically born in the saddle.’
‘You mean you can ride bare-back?’
‘I always do.’
Eleanora was impressed. Peter went up several notches in her estimation. ‘How about roller-skating?’
Peter shook his head. ‘I’ve never tried.’
‘Come on, then. I’ve got spare skates.’
‘Darling, Peter must be tired after the long journey.’ But Liana’s words went unheeded.
The pair ran giggling from the room, Eleanora’s dark, shining curls contrasting sharply with Peter’s fine, straight, blond hair.
‘Looks as if those two have taken a shine to each other.’ Richard Chapman beamed at his wife.
‘Oh, Anne, I do hope you will buy Clara’s old place. It would be so lovely to have you near. And Eleanora and Peter would be such company for each other.’ Margaret’s voice rang with longing.
‘William really has gone for good?’ Anne looked at Nicholas.
‘Yes, I think it is safe to assume that he has.’
Liana looked up quickly. How did Nicholas know that William might not decide one day to return from Scotland? But Nicholas was smiling confidently; it seemed he was sure. He was thinking of his secret meeting with William’s psychiatrist the week before.
‘No chance of recovery,’ the doctor said.
‘Not a hope in hell?’
‘I suppose you could put it like that.’ The psychiatrist was mildly disapproving.
Margaret sighed. ‘I know I shouldn’t say it, Anne, but life is so much easier with William in . . .’ she hesitated fractionally then said, ‘Scotland.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Anne quietly. She reached across and grasped her mother’s hand. ‘If Richard likes the farm, we will be staying.’
‘What’s the land like for rearing sheep?’ asked Richard. ‘Because that’s what I’m best at.’
‘Excellent,’ said Liana decisively; she wanted the Chapmans to stay. ‘I’ll ask Wally Pragnell, our estate manager, to show you round. He’ll be able to answer any questions you have.’
Chapter Eighteen
Anne and Richard Chapman bought the house and land and four months later moved their belongings from New Zealand to England to settle permanently.
As Richard Chapman had remarked on the first day, Peter and Eleanora had taken a shine to each other. But it was more than just a casual friendship. From that very first day it was obvious that theirs would be a deep and lasting friendship. A mutual respect and affection flowered in a surprisingly short time to an almost adult intimacy. Not that the two children were yet aware of the deeper implications of their friendship. Now they just took pleasure in each other’s company and enjoyed the passing moments.
The peace and quiet of Broadacres, always shattered whenever Eleanora was about, was now doubly shattered. An astonishing breathless turmoil surrounded the pair as they roller-skated down the long corridors of Broadacres, screaming with excited laughter and putting the life of any hapless adult who happened to be there in imminent danger. If not pursuing that pastime, they were urging their ponies over hair-raisingly high jumps in the paddocks, aided and abetted by Rolf and his friends from the village. Suddenly Broadacres was full of children; just what Margaret had always wanted. She could not have been happier.
When Anne first returned, Margaret was a little shocked to find that her daughter had converted to Richard’s religion and was now a Roman Catholic. But it was something she had to accept, and, with William out of the way, she achieved a rapport with her daughter which his presence had always denied them.
Like Eleanora, she adored Peter from the first moment she saw him. It was easy to love him, he was such a lovable boy always laughing and such fun, but kind and gentle and considerate to others as well.
Nevertheless for such a young boy Margaret did think that perhaps he was too devout a Catholic. He seemed to have an understanding beyond his years. That did worry Margaret a little, although she never mentioned it. She had the ingrained Church of England prejudice against the Church of Rome. She liked her religion simple, and the mysteries within the Catholic Church made her nervous. But she kept silent. Of course Peter always went with his parents to Mass on Sundays, while Eleanora attended Longford Parish Church with Nicholas and her grandmother. However, a small hiatus occurred later that year when Eleanora suddenly announced that in future she intended to go to Mass on a Sunday morning with Peter instead of accompanying her father and grandmother to the parish church.
‘But you always come with us. Longford is your church.’ Margaret protested.
‘I want to go to Mass with Peter.’ Eleanora was stubborn.
Not getting much parental support from Nicholas, Margaret appealed to Liana. ‘Liana, please will you persuade her?’
‘Margaret, dear, what can I do? I don’t even believe in God!’ Liana was as stubborn as Eleanora and refused to get drawn into the conflict.
To Margaret’s great relief the phase did not last long. Eleanora, never very patient, complained that the Catholic service was too long, there was too much ringing of bells and the incense made her sneeze.
‘If I have to go to church,’ she told her grandmother, ‘I’ll come with you to the short service because then I can have a ride before lunch.’ Then she asked anx
iously, ‘Is it true that Mummy is a Catholic?’
‘Well, dear, she was reared as one,’ said Margaret cautiously, not sure where the conversation was leading, ‘but she has decided to let her faith lapse.’
‘Oh,’ said Eleanora, not sure what ‘lapse’ meant. ‘Then I’m not a Catholic. Peter says I am.’
‘Peter is wrong,’ said Margaret firmly. One Catholic grandchild was quite enough. ‘You are Church of England like your father and me.’
‘Good,’ said Eleanora, glad that the matter was settled. ‘Then I shall ride Goldie while Peter is still praying!’
Richard Chapman, a bluff, no-nonsense New Zealander, had very successfully raised sheep in the South Island near Christchurch, and he now set about converting the long under-used land of Clara Maltravers into a haven for fat, thick-cream-coated sheep. He was assured of a ready market for his high quality wool, Liana had seen to that. Never missing an opportunity to diversify she had already recruited two young graduates from Winchester Art College to work on designs for exclusive woollen coats and evening cloaks. They were to be woven and made up in two old established mills in Yorkshire and the finished garments sold through her Knightsbridge fashion store.
‘It really will be a “Lady Liana World”,’ said Nicholas when he heard of the plans. Often he wished he had Liana’s ability. She could see all the possibilities, tie all the loose ends together until they formed one compact, viable business.
‘Lady Liana World’ was the label under which Liana sold Dolly’s exclusive designs. From initially running up dresses for Lady Margaret and Liana, a business with a turnover of thousands of pounds had been established. A whole army of local girls now made dresses in the Old Mission Hall at Shawford, the next village along from Longford; every dress was destined for the Sloane Street boutique, where they were snapped up by the fashion-starved society women of London. It amused Liana to charge exorbitant prices. Whatever she asked, the clientele paid. Nicholas protested that she was charging too much.
‘Some of them are sisters of chaps I went to school with. We should let them have a special rate.’
‘Nonsense. That would be bad business practice. If they are foolish enough to waste their money, that is their problem,’ was Liana’s quick reply. She had no time for the breed of woman whose only thought was of her appearance. Now, as usual, her thoughts were racing, and Nicholas’s faint sarcasm at her expense was lost on her. There were more important things to think about. ‘I won’t be able to use Richard’s wool for the coronation fashions; we’ll need to buy in some. It’s lucky Richard and Anne have plenty of good contacts in New Zealand and Australia, because I shall need excellent quality wool for what I have in mind.’
Nicholas stared at Liana. She was remorseless, like a machine, her mind always flying on ahead. ‘God almighty, Liana, the King is only just dead! No-one has mentioned the date of the coronation yet.’
Liana shrugged, his implied criticism washing over her like water off a duck’s back. ‘It will be next year. Already Fleet Street is buzzing with rumours that it will probably be in June fifty-three. There will be parties and balls in the spring, then there will be test matches, Wimbledon, Ascot, Henley, Cowdray Park,’ Liana ticked off the events on her fingers. ‘Then, of course, there will be the Spithead Review. I think I’ll get some special waterproof jackets made up for that, very chic with an anchor motif. Women will buy them even if they have no intention of going anywhere near the sea.’
‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that you will have time for me and Eleanora between now and the coronation?’
Liana laughed at Nicholas’s gloomy expression. ‘I do believe you are jealous.’
‘Yes.’ Nicholas admitted it. ‘Sometimes I think you don’t need me at all.’ But he knew jealous was the wrong word. He was envious, and at the same time anxious about Liana’s increasing involvement in the world of commerce. Although physically as close as ever, Nicholas often had the uneasy feeling that she was moving further and further away from him.
Liana linked her arms behind his neck and kissed him. ‘Darling, how can you say that? I adore our daughter. I’m always there when she needs me, although I must say she seems to prefer her newly found cousin Peter, her grandmother, or a horse to my company! And am I not always here whenever you want me?’ She kissed him again.
Nicholas sighed, a mixture of exasperation and affection. There was no argument against that. She was always there when he wanted her.
‘Yes, you’re always here,’ he said. He kissed her back, feeling the familiar stirring in his loins.
*
The coronation of Queen Elizabeth the Second took place on 22 June 1953. Nicholas and Liana as a peer and peeress of the realm were there, although at one point Nicholas had despairingly thought Liana would never have time to get herself organized and to attend. But, of course, she did, managing everything with her usual efficiency and sweeping into the Royal Garden Party on the Friday prior to the coronation, causing heads to turn and cameras to click.
Fashion editors from all over the world were there, eyeing the assembled nobility and even the most eminent of British designers, who had been working flat out for the past few months, waited anxiously for their verdicts. Would their design be voted the best outfit? Of course the top names, Norman Hartnell and Victor Steibel were all serene smiles as they sailed into the Royal Garden Party, but they, too, knew the power of the press. Fortunes could be made or lost at such an occasion. Would the Marquess of Queensbury do justice to her outfit? Would the Duchess of Bedford outshine the Duchess of Kent? No, the unanimous opinion was that the Duchess of Kent was by far the best-dressed woman. Her hat alone was the biggest, an enormous tip-tilted cartwheel of pink with the underside of the brim faced in white.
Nicholas and Liana arrived late. Liana had insisted on finalizing an American deal concerning Elver Forge Industries. Nicholas thought the transatlantic telephone call would never end.
‘With this out of the way, darling, I can enjoy the next few days of festivities,’ she said, waving a hand at him, shushing him out of the library office.
‘If we ever get to London.’
‘We will, we will. Just let me finish this ’phone call.’
Their late arrival caused a flurry of attention. Glancing down at Liana, Nicholas felt a familiar surge of pride. She was so beautiful, so perfect, almost unreal; and she was his wife. Fashion editors and journalists, about to pack up and trudge on weary, swollen feet back to Fleet Street, felt a new lease of life billow through them. Pages of half-written copy for the following day’s newspapers and magazines were torn up. The word spread. One woman stood out, streets ahead of any other at the Royal Garden Party. It was The Countess of Wessex, and no British or international designer could take the credit for her outfit. The champagne-coloured silk dress and picture hat lined with finely pleated olive-green silk were both her own design.
‘Crumbs, Mummy has done it again,’ was Eleanora’s irreverent verdict when the next day’s newspapers arrived at Broadacres.
Peter gave a wolf whistle. ‘Yes, your mother looks lovely,’ he agreed. They were poring over the newspapers spread out in the kitchen of Broadacres with Rolf and some friends. Meg and Dolly were looking over their shoulders, Dolly pointing and making the little squeaking noises she always did when excited. ‘I wish my mother looked like yours,’ Peter added.
‘She only looks like that because she’s Italian,’ said Eleanora dismissively. ‘And your mother can ride a horse. Mine can’t.’ At nine years old Eleanora considered that a far more important achievement. And besides she liked her Aunt Anne a lot; she was comfortable, like her grandmother. Too young to rationalize, Eleanora had nevertheless always sensed that her mother demanded perfection. Weakness or tears were not to be indulged before her, but with grandmother it was different. She had never needed to pretend, and now with Peter’s mother it was the same. Privately, Eleanora wished her mother were more like them but loyalty prevented her from ever mention
ing such a thing.
‘I still wish my mother looked like yours. Well, a little bit anyway,’ said Peter. ‘Of course,’ he added, being scrupulously fair, ‘I know my mother is beautiful on the inside; it’s just that it doesn’t show.’
Peter was quieter and more studious than Eleanora, and noticed things that she took for granted. He saw beauty in people and objects, whereas Eleanora, always so energetic, never seemed to have time to stop and stare and wonder. He could see that his own mother was cast in the same mould as Lady Margaret. Slightly better looking and with much more strength of character, but just as careless with her appearance, caring more for the company of animals than people. A pair of jodhpurs and a shirt in summer, the same topped with a sweater in winter were almost the sum total of her wardrobe.
‘Would you like to go upstairs to the sewing room and see your mother’s dress for the coronation?’ asked Meg. ‘Dolly is just going to sew on the last few pearls.’
‘Yes,’ said Peter immediately. He slipped his hand into Dolly’s. ‘You are so clever,’ he said, smiling up at her. It was typical of his caring, thoughtful nature. He never forgot silent Dolly always in the background, unable to contribute to the conversation. She smiled back at Peter. At twelve he already showed signs of the charming man he would later become; his smile made women feel special. Dolly was no exception.
‘Boys aren’t supposed to be interested in dresses,’ said Eleanora grumpily. She was anxious to get out into the paddock.
‘This boy is,’ said Peter, and that settled it. Quiet though he was, he led and Eleanora followed. If Peter wanted to see the dress, that was good enough. Eleanora would go, too.
*
‘Oh, if only it were in colour,’ sighed Dorothy Ramsay. She sat on the settee, feet up, eyes glued to the television. ‘I wish I were there.’
‘You can see more on TV,’ said Donald, ‘and it’s more comfortable at home.’ Like everybody else who was not actually in London, they had organized their day around the coronation. A cold spread, prepared by Dorothy the day before, was on the trolley beside them and a bottle of champagne was in the ice bucket, ready to be opened the moment Queen Elizabeth the Second was crowned.