by Angela Arney
It would have been better if she had not been Eleanora’s mother. That was unfortunate but it could not be helped. Anyway it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference as far as he was concerned. Why should it? She and her snooty husband could be as hostile as they liked but they wouldn’t get Eleanora away from him.
‘When exactly did you meet our daughter?’
Nicholas glanced at Liana as she spoke to Raul Levi. A perfectly ordinary question, and yet her voice had a strange ring to it.
‘Initially during rehearsals for Dido and Aeneas, in London.’
‘I see. And when did you start living together?’
‘Mummy!’ Eleanora was embarrassed. ‘Please!’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I just wanted to know how long this . . .’ she hesitated, ‘this liaison has been going on.’
‘Since I met Raul again in Florence. And please could we not discuss it at the dinner table.’ Eleanora was acutely aware of the embarrassed silence around the table and the disapproving stares of Meg and Alice.
Nicholas looked at Liana curiously. It was unlike her to discuss such personal matters on such a public occasion. He tried to change the subject. ‘I understand you’ve had a very unusual career in films and theatre,’ he said.
‘Yes, you could say that.’ Raul wished the conversation would switch away from him.
‘A rags to riches story?’ Liana enquired, her voice honey smooth.
‘Yes,’ said Raul.
He watched Liana curiously. Every inch of her manner and carriage oozed English nobility, and he was forced to acknowledge a certain grudging admiration. There was no doubt she carried the role off well, as if she had been born into the life, instead of into a peasant family, her mother a servant. Of course, the education she had shared with Eleanora had given her an advantage, and he remembered now that the young Liana had always had a slightly superior manner; but how the hell had she managed to catch herself an earl? Not from her trade as-a prostitute, he thought grimly. He would wager his life that the snooty Earl of Wessex knew nothing of that! A rags to riches story she had said. Was she warning him to keep quiet? Well, she had nothing to fear, he would not betray her.
His mind moved on to the problem of the damned story he had written. Thank God at least the manuscript of The Two Girls was still in Hollywood with Milton Hyam’s writer friend. That would need to be retrieved at the earliest possible moment. Hell! Milton might prove difficult, especially if he was thinking he could make money from a film of the story; but no matter what objections Milton might raise, Raul knew without a shadow of doubt that he must get it back.
He looked down the row of aristocratic faces sitting either side of the table, their hostility towards him barely concealed beneath smilingly conducted polite chit-chat. He smiled grimly: a lynching mob if ever he saw one. They would hang, draw and quarter him if he dared to publish. The fact that the countess had once been a prostitute might be the truth but one look at Liana’s face opposite him, as haughty and disdainful as the rest, and Raul was certain she would deny it. She had already given him a veiled warning anyway, that remark about rags to riches. It must have been a warning. No, much better burn it, cut his losses and forget the whole thing, and get away from Broadacres as soon as possible.
Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy persuading Eleanora to leave early; but there was no way he was going to stick out the whole damned weekend. He slid a sideways glance at her sitting beside him. Funny, Eleanora didn’t look like her mother at all, and, although Liana was still beautiful, Raul didn’t feel attracted to her sexually. Strange, he thought, it was always the same, once he had finished with a woman, that was it. He lost interest. Only Monika Muller had the power to draw him back time after time. He looked at Eleanora again. Yes, he was still attracted to her. It would wear off eventually, he was almost certain of that. But for the time being he still wanted her. But perhaps because of her mother there was a certain air of familiarity, and it was that fact which had attracted him in the first place. At the moment, though, he felt annoyed. She was distancing herself from him, and he knew why. The moment they had entered the Waterford Room and he had seen how grand it was, he had felt out of place. He wasn’t dressed correctly, and he blamed Eleanora.
‘Why the hell didn’t you warn me that this was going to be a formal dinner, damn you!’ he hissed at her in a low voice, very conscious of the other men’s dinner jackets and black ties, while he was wearing an informal cream jacket and open-necked shirt with the usual array of gold medallions resting on the thick hair of his chest.
‘I did say it was dinner,’ Eleanora emphasized the word, ‘with drinks beforehand. I assumed you understood. When I saw the way you were dressed, I presumed you preferred the theatrical director appearance rather than the formal look.’
Raul tightened his lips at the faint undercurrent of sarcasm in her voice. Little bitch, she was being as snooty as the rest of them. ‘You could have been a little more explicit.’
‘By the time I saw what you were wearing it was too late for you to change. Oh, yes, thank you, Meg, I will have some of the Chablis.’
Quite suddenly Raul felt strangely depressed, an unusual mood for him. He told himself it was because Eleanora was quite different here. She had changed towards him the moment they had driven in through that damned stone arch. But that was the least of his worries. The sooner he got himself out of this situation the better. Once he had Eleanora back in Italy, she would be his again and all this would be forgotten.
‘White wine with the fish bisque, sir?’ Meg’s chilly voice interrupted his train of thought.
‘Oh, yes, thank you.’ God! Even the damned servants were condescending. He wondered where the nearest ’phone was which he could use without being overheard. He would ring the States that very evening and leave a message on Milton’s answer machine if necessary. The sooner the manuscript of The Two Girls was put under wraps, the better.
Peter, torn between staring, without its appearing too obvious, at Liana and then Raul, was finding polite conversation almost an impossibility. Nevertheless he persevered, partly from habit and partly because he was at a loss as to what else to do. The moment before Liana had fainted he had caught a glimpse of her face, and in that instant he was sure of two things. Liana knew Raul Levi, and she had read the story. The sight of Raul standing before her in her own house had shocked her. No, no, he thought, casting his mind back to the expression he had glimpsed, shocked was not the right word. Disbelief, that was her first fleeting emotion, then Peter remembered how her gaze had flickered from Eleanora to Raul and back again. That was when she was horrified, utterly horrified and very frightened. He felt sick, sure now that her reaction could only mean one thing. Part of the story was true. But which part? Oh, God, let it not be that Liana was the peasant girl of the story, the prostitute. But even as he said the silent prayer, Peter was sure in his own mind that it was a vain hope. She must be the Liana in the story. What would she do? What could he do to help her? His writer’s analytical mind delved into the possibilities. Slowly, he began to formulate an idea.
The soup bowls were cleared away and Alice laid fresh plates then returned with Meg to serve the meat course.
‘Claret with your roast beef?’ Meg paused by Peter, claret bottle poised over a wine glass. Peter stared down at his plate, oblivious to everything around him, his mind busy. ‘Master Peter,’ Meg hissed, ‘do you want some claret?’
‘Oh!’ Peter jumped. ‘Sorry, Meg, I was miles away. What did you say?’ He saw the claret bottle in her hand. ‘Oh, yes, yes, I’d love some claret, and the roast beef looks perfect.’
‘Thank you,’ said Meg, ‘I’ll tell my mother. She did the cooking tonight.’ You haven’t even noticed it, and I doubt that you will taste it either, thought Meg, watching Peter’s expression. He was right when he had said his mind was miles away. It was. What on earth was the matter with the family tonight? Surely it couldn’t all be due to one unwelcome visitor?
Peter sipped his claret and ate the roast beef but, as Meg had suspected, he might as well have been eating sawdust for all the enjoyment he gained. With every mouthful, the plan he eventually formulated began to seem more and more plausible. He took the facts as he thought them to be. Apart from himself and Liana, no-one else had read the story Raul had written. He glanced across at Raul who had decided to hell with the lot of them and switched on his famous charm which never failed to work. He was chatting to a stony-faced Lady Margaret.
‘You know, you should be proud. Your granddaughter Eleanora has a great talent.’
‘Yes, I do know. I’ve heard her sing.’
‘She should go far.’
‘She will. But of course it is essential that she mixes with the right people!’
Raul gave up; the charm was wasted. She didn’t like him either. It was quite obvious she didn’t regard him as one of the right people.
Peter’s mind went back to his plan. It should be relatively easy once Liana knew that he, Peter, could be trusted never to reveal her secret. Between them, they would threaten a libel action against Raul, pointing out that it would be his word against theirs. If necessary, they could threaten that the entire force of the Hamilton-Howards would be launched against him, although Peter fervently hoped it would not be necessary to involve any other member of the family. Once his mind was made up Peter became impatient and found the long drawn-out formalities of dinner, something he normally enjoyed, beginning to pall. He wondered what Liana was thinking. The expression on her face gave not the slightest hint.
Eleanora, sitting beside Raul, found herself comparing him unfavourably with Peter and her own father. At first, when her mother had fainted, she had thought that perhaps they had known each other. It was not an impossibility. They were both Italian and could have met before the war. But Raul had said nothing other than to exclaim like everyone else at her mother’s fainting fit, and when she had returned to the room Liana had said nothing either. The only odd thing was her mother’s strange and embarrassing remarks about her living with Raul. Eleanora could accept that she did not like it, but somehow there seemed to be more than just disapproval in her voice.
She glanced across at Liana now and felt the familiar twinge of irritation she often felt when looking at her mother. Why is it, she wondered, that I can never even guess at what she is thinking? She watched Liana incline her head gracefully towards Donald Ramsay who was expounding on some topic. She was smiling and nodding her head and looked incredibly beautiful.
Eleanora watched her for a few moments. My mother must be one of the most beautiful women in the world, she thought, and here she is, surrounded by friends and family, and yet to me she seems alone. Eleanora had never tried to put her feelings into words before but now she realized what it was that was so different about her mother, apart from her beauty. It was that she was surrounded by an aura of loneliness. But why should that be? She was never lonely. Everyone adored her. Eleanora gave up; it was too difficult trying to puzzle out why.
She switched her attention to Raul. He had given up talking to Lady Margaret and was now talking to Dorothy Ramsay. But she noticed that, however the conversation started and whatever topic originated it, they invariably ended up with the talk centred on Raul, on his doings, on his successes. How is it that I’ve never seen how egocentric he is before, she wondered with amazement. Raul was interested in nothing and no-one except himself. Politics, world affairs, science, ideas and beliefs, things which Eleanora had always been used to hearing discussed avidly at mealtimes, were of absolutely no interest to him. Unless it was something he had personally experienced or something that could be of some use to him in the furtherance of his career, Raul did not want to discuss it.
An uncomfortable thought which had been lurking at the back of her mind for some time finally emerged and she acknowledged it. The only thing we have in common is sex! She felt ashamed. Looking up, she caught Peter’s grey eyes looking at her, and hastily lowered her own. She wished he still loved her. But that was impossible; she had betrayed his love. If only I had not been so hot-headed. If only I had listened and taken further advice. If only I had not met Raul, if only, if only. Ah, but you searched Raul out, you know you did! Her conscience would not be stilled. You had every intention of taking Raul as a lover, and you succeeded. Yes, I succeeded, she acknowledged miserably, knowing that leaving Raul would not be easy. His hold over her was strong and possessive. Indubitably he would not willingly give her up. Eleanora stared down at her plate; there seemed to be no way out of the mess she had got herself into.
The conversation at the dinner table swirled, for the most part, in meaningless, unformed patterns about Liana. Sitting in the beautiful room, playing the part of the gracious hostess, she was suddenly forcibly reminded of her feelings on her wedding day. How hard she had needed to concentrate then to control the near hysteria she had felt. But I was much younger then, she reminded herself, and inexperienced in deceit. If I could get through the marriage service on that day, I can surely get through this dinner party now.
Donald Ramsay interrupted her flow of thought. ‘I take it from your earlier remarks that you do not particularly approve of your daughter’s rather elderly boyfriend,’ he said quietly.
Liana made a small grimace. ‘I cannot say that I am happy about it,’ she replied. Oh, God, what an understatement that was!
The distress in her eyes as she spoke made Donald want to reach out and comfort her. But he did not. Old age had made him much more humble. Now he acknowledged that he was powerless to change peoples’ lives, much as he might wish to. It was only now and then that he was given an opportunity to gently push someone in the right direction, and then he took it.
But these circumstances were quite different. Because he, too, had been partly instrumental in the damage which had been done, the guilt was shared. Cursing the hereditary illness and the obsessional secrecy of the Hamilton-Howard family, to which he had always acquiesced, he speculated how differently events might have evolved if the truth had been properly aired. Then the traumatic evening at the Ritz would never have happened and Eleanora would not have flown off to Italy on an impulse, where, desperate and unhappy, she had ended up with an entirely unsuitable older man.
Donald tried to tell himself that it was Raul’s age which put him against the man, but deep down he knew it was much more than that. He did not like him, and it was not just a question of mild disapproval. The man might be clever artistically, but Donald Ramsay recognized corruption when he saw it. Raul Levi was immoral and amoral, totally corrupted by ambition and the pursuit of pleasure.
I was too proud, he thought, I was so sure that I knew what was best, but I should have forced the family to take further advice. With hindsight it was easy to see that honesty would have been the better policy.
‘Stilton, Donald?’ Nicholas passed him the enormous Stilton cheese dish.
‘Why, yes, thank you. Although to tell the truth I’ve already eaten far too much for a man of my age.’
He tried to sound cheerful. Nicholas certainly looked as if he could do with a little cheering, and no wonder. Cutting a sliver from the Stilton he passed it on. Hindsight! Such an easy faculty to acquire, but always too late. It was never possible to go back, only forward. The past could not be altered. If only he could think straight perhaps there was a way to unravel the mess they had all contributed to, but he could not think. I’m getting too old, Donald decided unhappily. My powers of reasoning are deserting me.
‘Thank you.’ He took the port bottle, poured himself a generous measure and passed it on.
Liana was smiling automatically at whatever anyone said until her cheeks ached from the effort but her thoughts were still in the past. Yes, it had been difficult, her wedding day, and yet in a way it had been made easy because she had been fired by the driving force of desperate necessity, the need to provide for the coming child. Now she had no driving force. She felt spent, completely tired and spent. Her e
yes flickered yet again across to Raul. Where had he gone that day? Why had he gone? But even those questions seemed irrelevant and unimportant in the light of what she now knew. Preposterous, hideously unthinkable! His own daughter!
Depressed beyond measure, Liana looked back on so many futile years wasted in dreaming; all the time holding back, turning away the man who loved her. And for what? For a man existing solely in her imagination. Covertly watching Raul and listening to his conversation, it was impossible to equate the self-centred man at the dinner table with the gentle Raul of her dreams. The handsome, once sensitive face, was coarsened by self-indulgence, and she felt a surge of revulsion. What did Eleanora see in him? What had attracted her to a man so different from Peter? But that, too, was unimportant. Whatever it was, she, Liana, now had to finish the cruel obscenity of the affair.
It was easy to understand now why Nicholas had disliked him on sight. The two men were so different. Nicholas was a gentle, considerate man, a man who had always put the happiness of others before his own. Ironic that it had taken her twenty-three years to realize that, only understanding now, too late, that what she had derisorily dismissed as a weakness had in fact been a form of strength through love. He lacked ambition but ambition was not a strength, it was merely another name for greed. Nicholas possessed a far greater quality, compassion. He was a man who would never walk away from a stray dog, leaving it alone and friendless on a barren hillside. Raul had walked away from a young girl.
If it had not been for Lady Margaret and Dorothy Ramsay, together with Richard and Anne Chapman, conversation during dinner might easily have petered out and died away all together. All sensed the tension, but in the absence of anything more tangible, they rose to the occasion and true to their inbred good manners, the conversation never flagged. Nevertheless, no-one was sorry when Meg and Alice took away the port and Stilton and brought round the coffee cups and liqueur glasses.