by Angela Arney
‘I don’t want to hear a deep philosophical psychological argument, or whatever else you choose to call it,’ she said now, stubborn as ever. ‘As far as I’m concerned things are back to normal. Or as normal as they ever will be with baby James gone and now poor old Donald Ramsay having had a stroke.’
Peter gave up. Knowing Eleanora as well as he did, he knew she could not be forced to see things she did not want to see. But it would have taken more than a few smiles and pleasantly bantering conversation to fool him. They were trying just that little bit too hard, and Peter sensed that Nicholas and Liana were coping, but only just. It was an ordeal for both of them but it was also their only hope of salvation, and he prayed that they would succeed. He thought of John Bunyan’s words, ‘The name of the slough was Despond.’ No-one else could help them; somehow they had to drag themselves from their own particular slough.
All he could do was pray, and that he did every day. His mind, finely tuned and disciplined, was perceptive to the senses of others, always seeing past the obvious outward appearances. It was that faculty which had made him the fine writer he was. His plays were successful because the emotion in them was real, and because he often wrapped up hard-hitting social comment in an acceptable package. The audiences went home thinking, which was just what he always intended.
He changed the subject. ‘It was good to see that Dorothy managed to get Donald Ramsay to the meet, even if he did have to sit in the car.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Eleanora, unusually seriously for her. ‘It broke Gran’s heart, you know, his not being able to hunt with her. They’ve always ridden together before but now it seems that era has come to an end.’
‘Things change,’ said Peter, ‘nothing stays the same. It’s something we all have to accept sooner or later. But look on the bright side. At least he’s got his speech back and the use of his hands. According to Doctor McCallum that’s a miracle in such a short space of time. He only had the stroke the day before we came down from London.’
‘But he’s still partially paralysed; his legs are useless.’ Eleanora shuddered. She hated thinking of old age and illness. ‘The live-in nurse Mummy has organized to help Dorothy is very nice, but poor old Donald, he isn’t the boss any more. Having to be helped to go to the lavatory and being washed: it must make him feel like a baby.’
‘Give him credit. I think he’s coping better than you think. He’s remarkably cheerful, and babies don’t knock back the amount of stirrup cup that he did on Boxing Day!’
Eleanora grinned at the recollection. ‘Yes, he enjoyed that part of it.’ She could visualize it vividly now in her mind’s eye; hounds and horses milling around the Ramsays’ car; Donald propped up, half in and half out of it, one hand determinedly holding his stick, the other sneaking out and taking a glass from the tray of stirrup cup every time it came within reach. ‘And then Gran nearly finished him off for good and all. That new horse of hers has a wicked streak; he’s not called Diabolus for nothing. I’m not so sure Donald enjoyed getting kicked!’
Peter laughed as he remembered. ‘He enjoyed all of it, and he managed to wack Diabolus a good one with his stick. No, he’s not sorry for himself, and he would hate it if he thought you were.’
‘Lecturing me again?’
‘No, just trying to cheer you up.’
Eleanora put her head on his shoulder and snuggled up against him. ‘I know, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You are my guide and mentor.’
‘I thought I was your lover, soon to be your husband!’
‘Oh, that, too!’ Eleanora sat up and turned to face him, her eyes glowing with excitement. ‘I can’t wait until February the sixth. Won’t everyone be surprised?’
*
Liana was glad the whole family had all come to Peter’s moment of triumph. She loved him dearly. In fact, although she was loathe to admit it, even to herself, she often felt that she was closer to him than she had ever been to Eleanora. It was not because of what they said to each other; it was nothing as simple as that. A much deeper emotion, which she did not really understand, drew her to him. He and Margaret were the same kind of people, both compassionate, both understanding. They did not need to be told things, they instinctively seemed to understand.
‘My goodness, we are in celebrated company tonight.’ Anne Chapman, for once out of her jodhpurs and shirt and into an evening dress looked around at the assembled company. The foyer was filled with elegantly gowned and bejewelled women and equally elegant men. But as always on such occasions it was the women who glittered and sparkled, and glitter they certainly did. ‘I’m glad I took your advice over what to wear,’ she whispered to Liana. ‘At least I don’t look too much of a country bumpkin.’
‘I should hope not.’ Richard ran a finger round inside his stiff collar. Damn thing, it was uncomfortable and was already rubbing his neck. He looked at his attractively gowned wife. ‘Country bumpkin indeed! After what I paid for that dress?’
‘Richard!’ Anne was embarrassed. It was one of Liana’s gowns, designed exclusively for her alone.
Liana was amused, not offended. She was quite used to both Richard and Nicholas forever being scandalized by the price of her clothes. ‘Ah, but Richard, remember I threw in the wool cloak free,’ she said, ‘and you didn’t give me the wool! I paid you a good price for it.’
Richard opened his mouth then shut it. The foyer suddenly swarmed with security men and a path was cut like a swathe through the crowd.
‘It must be Her Majesty,’ whispered Margaret, edging forward to get a better view.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ said Nicholas inelegantly under his breath as Elizabeth Taylor swept past.
She might just as well have been royalty, judging by the entourage surrounding her. Suddenly all the glittering jewellery of the other women faded, seeming mere pinpricks of light in comparison with the diamonds flashing on Elizabeth Taylor. They smothered her neck, ears, hair, arms, fingers and dress. Photographers crawled on the floor, scaled the foyer pillars and clambered over guests, feverishly popping their flashlights, all anxious to get the picture. The crowd in the foyer, equally enthralled, gasped and surged forward.
‘She’d fall down with the weight if she wore any more jewellery,’ murmured Liana.
Anne giggled nervously. She felt overawed in the presence of such a famous film star, especially one who oozed such flamboyant self-assurance. ‘It’s not often you are sarcastic, Liana.’
‘Over the top for my taste,’ was Liana’s disparaging verdict.
‘I agree.’ Nicholas and Richard spoke simultaneously, and the five of them started to laugh.
It was at that moment Eleanora spied them. ‘What is so funny?’ she asked, pushing her way through the seething crowd to get at them. But she did not wait for an answer. The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh were due to arrive at any minute, and she wanted her family comfortably installed in their box before that so that they could get a good view. ‘Come on, there’s not much time. Peter has managed to get hold of some really good Sancerre; it’s on ice in your box, ready and waiting for you.’
Eleanora was excited, her usually rather pale olive skin flushed and her eyes sparkling. ‘Anyone would think you had written this play, not your cousin,’ teased her grandmother.
‘I feel as if I have,’ confessed Eleanora. Once they were installed in the box, she plonked a quick kiss on Margaret’s cheek before dashing off. ‘There’s not really room for me in here with all of you; I’ll be watching from the wings.’
The truth was she wanted to be with Peter, sharing his excitement and apprehension. He was nervous; the preview audiences had received the play well but this audience was different. Not only had they handed over considerable sums of money for the privilege of attending, but many of them were also actors, actresses, writers and directors. They were bound to be more critical.
Richard Burton was not nervous at all; he was supremely confident. ‘Don’t worry, boyo,’ he boomed, his enormous Welsh voi
ce filling the backstage area. ‘Black Valley is set to become a classic, and if that lot out there don’t appreciate it, then they should bloody well be ashamed, and I’ll tell them so myself!’
‘And he would too,’ said Eleanora after he had gone. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Peter. I just know this play is the one which will really make your name and put you in the big league. I’ve got a gut feeling. You wait and see. They’ll love it.’
This was going to be a wonderful evening in more ways than one, Eleanora was sure of it. Excited anticipation bubbled up inside her at the thought of their forthcoming announcement. Being secret lovers had been fun in the beginning, but now she was grown up the fun had gone and she was tired of it. Now she wanted the world to know, and soon they would.
The evening was an unqualified success, the play receiving rapturous acclaim. The glittering, star-studded audience rose to their feet in a standing ovation, and the chant of ‘Author, author,’ filled the theatre. Eventually a shy-looking Peter was dragged on stage to take his bows.
After the final curtain call, the whole company assembled into orderly lines on stage, ready to be presented to the Queen. Eleanora brought the party from Broadacres down to the stage area through a narrow passageway that wound from front of house to backstage.
‘This is used by the electricians when they need to go up on to the gantry to adjust the lighting or sort out any other technical problems with the electrics,’ said Eleanora, eager to tell them everything she knew.
‘That girl is almost exploding with excitement,’ said Margaret.
Liana nodded. ‘I know.’ She had noticed it herself and wondered why. Surely it could not just be the success of Peter’s play? ‘But you’ve made a mistake, Margaret, in calling her a girl. She’s a mature young woman now.’ She smiled. ‘Time has caught up with us without our realizing it. I’ve been watching her. Eleanora merges in with the theatrical crowd very well, very well indeed. This is obviously her métier.’
The assembled company arranged themselves as directed by the security men who were now swarming about the stage. The Hamilton-Howard family were to stand directly behind Peter and Eleanora and await the arrival of the royal party.
The Queen arrived, smiling and looking genuinely delighted at the prospect of meeting the company. The Duke of Edinburgh, looking very handsome in evening dress, was at her side. The gala organizer introduced Peter first. ‘Your Majesty, Peter Chapman, the author of the play.’
Peter bowed and everyone nearby strained to catch the words of praise from the Queen and Duke. Then Peter brought Eleanora forward. ‘Your Majesty, may I present my fiancée Lady Eleanora Hamilton-Howard.’
Liana smiled, so she hadn’t been wrong after all! And Nicholas had poohed-poohed the idea that it was even possible the young cousins might be in love. She was pleased for her daughter and wished her happiness, and now at last recognized the reason for Eleanora’s barely suppressed excitement. Turning to Nicholas, intending to gently reprimand him about his lack of intuition, the eager words of pleasure suddenly died on her lips. She stared. Nicholas looked stricken. His face was chalk white, all the life gone out of it. Then Liana looked at Margaret. She, too, looked shattered, worried to death. Anne and Richard Chapman were almost as bad, holding on to each other, Anne looking wide-eyed and horrified.
‘We should have seen it coming,’ Anne said in a low whisper. ‘Then we could have prevented it.’
The royal party moved on down the row. ‘What on earth is the matter?’ Liana whispered to Nicholas. ‘Why this bizarre reaction to the news of an engagement?’
‘I can’t tell you here.’ Nicholas’s voice was sharp and tightly abrupt. ‘It will have to wait until we all get back to the Ritz.’
In the event it had to wait even longer as Peter and Eleanora had invited several members of the cast as well as the theatre manager to join them at dinner, which promptly turned from a meal into a party. Nicholas felt increasingly distraught, thinking that the evening would go on for ever. Champagne, lobster, strawberries, more champagne: the banquet was never-ending. The toasts were to Peter and Eleanora, and even when the meal was over the guests showed no signs of leaving; in fact other people began to arrive and the partying became more frantic.
Liana, acutely aware of the rest of the family’s increasing distress, wished Eleanora and Peter would notice, too. She was beginning to get impatient. Whatever was wrong would have to come out into the open soon. But the newly engaged couple continued to be blissfully unaware of anyone but themselves as they toasted each other, failing to observe that their own family raised their glasses with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. So much champagne had been poured down their throats with reckless regard for the after-effects that Liana despairingly realized they were incapable of noticing anything. They were swimming in an alcoholic haze on cloud nine.
‘I’m going to have hundreds of children,’ Eleanora announced loudly to all and sundry.
‘I think perhaps you should lower your voice a little,’ whispered Liana, very worried now. Nicholas’s face was becoming bleaker and more desolate by the minute.
The moment it was possible to do so, Nicholas extricated Eleanora and Peter on the flimsy excuse that, as the father of the bride to be, he wanted to speak to them alone for a few moments. He led the way upstairs to the suite reserved for himself and Liana.
Liana followed, determined to find out what was wrong, looking back puzzled because Margaret, Anne and Richard stayed behind. They looked unhappy, embarrassed, and stubbornly determined, as if they wanted to distance themselves from whatever it was Nicholas had to say.
‘Won’t be long, folks,’ shouted Peter, raising his voice above the din of the party. ‘Help yourself to more booze.’ He waved his hands in the direction of the champagne buckets, already refilled with bottles, the condensation sparkling on the green glass.
Upstairs, Nicholas led them into the suite and, shutting the door behind him, leaned against it, closing his eyes. God, what a mess. A few split seconds, that’s all it would take him to smash the fabric of all their lives, a few moments in which he would destroy the blissful happiness of his only daughter and break the fragile bond which he and Liana had only just succeeded in re-establishing. He was in no doubt about that: their new-found relationship would disintegrate like smoke before the wind. With an effort, Nicholas took a deep breath, steadied his voice, and began.
‘There is something I must say.’
‘Daddy, I hope you are not going to be difficult about Peter and me.’ Eleanora was slightly annoyed at being dragged away from the party. ‘I know we really should have told you before, but we just couldn’t resist springing the news on everyone in the theatre. We thought you’d appreciate the occasion. And if you are thinking of playing the heavy father and objecting, although I can’t think why you should, forget it. Peter and I are both above the age of consent.’
‘Eleanora, darling, be quiet.’ Peter put a hand on her shoulder, his face serious. For the first time that evening he gave Nicholas his full attention. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Nicholas looked terrible, absolutely ghastly. ‘Eleanora,’ he said again, pulling her down to sit beside him on a nearby settee. ‘We’ve both had rather too much to drink. So much so in fact, that we haven’t perceived all is not well.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘Eleanora, neither do I.’ Liana’s nerve cracked and she finally lost her patience. ‘Please be quiet so that we can listen to whatever it is your father has to say.’
‘Marriage is out of the question for you,’ said Nicholas baldly. He held up his hand to silence Eleanora who reared up from the settee ready to object. ‘I’m not being difficult; of course, there is a reason, a dreadful reason. It’s something that has never been openly discussed within the family, something we’ve always kept hidden, trying to pretend, I suppose, that it didn’t really exist, that it would go away of its own accord, as well it might in time, but not if you marry and have children.’
; ‘If what would go away? If what exists? For God’s sake . . .’ Eleanora exploded into anger.
‘Hush, darling. Can’t you see how difficult this is for your father?’ Peter put his hand over hers. ‘Be patient.’ He sounded calm but it was difficult; he was worried, too. What was Nicholas talking about?
‘I can see now, now it’s too late, how wrong we were. If only we’d been more frank, if only you had known . . .’
‘Known what?’ Eleanora interrupted impatiently again. ‘For goodness sake, Daddy. Tell us!’
‘The Hamilton-Howards have an illness which runs in the family. Doctors don’t know, even today, precisely how it is transmitted. Some doctors now say that it is not hereditary but many believe that it is. The illness is called dementia praecox, more commonly known as schizophrenia. It was diagnosed in our family in the late nineteenth century. Several cousins and one of your grandparents were diagnosed as schizophrenic; three of them ended their days in asylums. There is still no known cure.
‘Both William and my father suffered from it. When William was away from here, he wasn’t in Scotland with relatives as we said, he was in a secure mental hospital because he was a danger to himself and others.’ Nicholas hesitated. The memories were painful but there was no going back. He had to continue.
‘Before it became necessary for him to go away for treatment, William had always appeared normal, although he’d never been an easy person to get on with, not even as a child, and after adolescence he was inclined to bouts of depression. But that was all, and he was very clever, with above-average intelligence. None of us could believe that he, too, had inherited the illness, until he had a violent mental breakdown.’
‘Are you trying to tell us William was mad?’ Eleanora’s voice was disbelieving. ‘How could he have been? He flew planes. He must have passed a medical of some sort to have been a pilot in the war.’