'Where are they going?' said Bella, as we watched the pair of them strike off across the park.
'Charles said he'd look over the farmhouse for us, and see if anything needed doing.'
'How long before we can move in, do you think?'
I shrugged. 'Straight away, I gather. If we don't mind roughing it a bit.'
'God knows I'd sleep on a mountain side rather than spend another night in that hotel,' said Bella with a wry laugh as she held a flame to her apparently non-flammable, little smoke.
Simon took another look at the departing figures below. 'I think I might go up there with them. I can tell him if he's fussing unnecessarily. After all, we want to get in tonight if we can.' He nodded and walked off down the corridor. Bella and I watched him go in silence. She spoke first.
'Off he goes. To break more hearts.'
'Don't you like him?'
She bent down to concentrate harder on her dingy little fag. 'What's not to like? I just get a bit worn out with all that charm.'
'I shouldn't think Charles would notice it,' I said.
'Maybe not. But she will. And judging by last night I'm not sure she'll like it much. I hope he doesn't bugger things up before we've even moved in.'
He didn't. Or not enough to prevent us taking up residence that night. We had broken for lunch and were sitting at a rickety caterers' table on the gravel in front of the house, making the best of our cardboard lunch, when Simon returned in triumph, dancing and punching the air as he spoke. 'We're in!'
'When?'
'Today.'
'What about the hotel?'
'All done. I've given them notice for the three of us and told them we'll be back to pack and pay as quickly as we can.
They're making so much money out of the film they didn't complain too much.' He beamed. 'Edith and Charles have asked us back for supper tonight so we don't have to worry about any shopping.'
'But how very generous of Edith and Charles.' Bella let the unaccustomed names linger on her tongue with a conspiratorial half-smile at me. I could see that Simon was destined to give her a great deal of amusement.
It was of course rather a bore to have to return to Broughton for the second evening running and make more polite conversation with 'Tigger' and 'Googie'. Bella and I confessed later that we had each privately thought of chucking. I would imagine that Simon had no such scruples. But in the event we came independently to the conclusion that it would have been a churlish return for what was both a favour and a dramatic improvement in our lot, so once again, shortly after eight o'clock, we crunched our car to a halt and made for the front door.
Simon was a changed man. The night before, his general braggadocio (unbeknownst to him, of course) had betrayed his social unease even to the unobservant. He had dropped names that had no kudos and spoken of social events that had either no currency value or with which he was clearly completely unfamiliar. In the end it was hard to resist a twinge of sympathy for his gaucheness despite the success he was having with his hostess. Like many actors, or civilians for that matter, he had been caught out by the need to demonstrate his right to belong in a world that he had long claimed as his own but seldom, if ever, penetrated. Tonight, however, he was free. He had that glow that distinguishes the insecure egomaniac when they find that their doubts were ill-founded and that they are liked. It was hard to avoid catching Bella's smiling eye as we made our way up to the family drawing room, with Simon trailing his hand along the gleaming banister and chattering amiabilities to the butler all the way, very much the Friend of the Family. Once there, we witnessed him greeting both Lord and, particularly, Lady Uckfield as Old Pals.
Of course, one of the basic truths of life is that, as a general rule, the world takes you at your own estimation. Just as the inexperienced hostess will tremble over her guest list, pondering endlessly whether or not she dare invite some grandee or media personality she hardly knows, only to discover in later years that nobody usually questions anyone's 'right' to send them Edith. The others started to snicker, as the blonde on the stage frisked and shouted her silly lyrics about striking it lucky.
Charles was silent. The performer beckoned him up onto the stage and clearly this was part of what had been pre-arranged but he shook his head and kept his seat, with no change in his expression. The boy/girl looked, puzzled, over to where Peter was sitting with a laughing Eric and a couple of the others. The act was grinding to a halt. In another moment, Peter jumped up onto the stage as her partner and the dance went on. Towards the end, Peter was given a cardboard jewel-box to present to her, which he did, going down on one knee. 'Edith' opened it and started to deck herself out in the glittering gewgaws within. I was reminded of Gillray's cartoon attacks on the actress, Elizabeth Farren, who succeeded in marrying the Earl of Derby in the 1790s. At the bottom of the box was a little coronet, a pantomime walk-down affair, bright with coloured glass. At the last note of the song 'Edith' took it up and planted it on her head.
In fairness to Peter Broughton I'm sure he hadn't quite hoisted in how fantastically offensive the cumulative effect of all this would be to Charles. Certainly the last thing he wanted was for the evening to end as it did. Peter was not one of the cleverest, poor soul, and I remember I thought then that Chase or one of the others must have embellished his original idea of simply having someone impersonate Edith, which, in itself, if 'she' had just sung a love song, could have been quite amusing. As it was, and without I think Peter's really knowing, she was lampooned as a greedy, social-climbing adventuress in front of her bridegroom. Chase and some of the others were applauding loudly. They were sitting behind Charles and so could not see the expression on his face, though for the life of me I can't imagine how they thought he was going to find it funny. But Chase was one of those who insults you and then says, 'Can't you take a joke?' and I suppose he had done this so often he had begun to think these insults really were jokes and that Charles, or anyone who couldn't take them, was simply being dull.
Charles stood up. 'I'm rather tired. I think I'm going back to the hotel,' he said.
Tommy and I volunteered to join him and that was that. We strode off, leaving the others to nurse the failure of Peter's prank.
'Shall we get a taxi?' said Tommy. It was late and the night was perceptibly cooler than it had been but Charles shook his head.
'Is it all right if we walk for a bit? I want some air.' We strode along in silence until he spoke again. 'That was rather unpleasant, wasn't it?'
'Well,' Tommy was placatory, 'I'm sure they didn't mean it to be. I dare say the girl, or boy or whatever she was, misunderstood the brief.'
'It was Peter's fault.'
'Well…'
Charles stopped walking for a minute and stood, looking mutely about him. 'Do you know what really depressed me about that?' We both had some pretty good ideas but naturally said nothing. 'It was because I suddenly realised how absolutely bloody stupid most of the people I know really are. These are supposed to be twelve of my best friends, for God's sake!' He chuckled bitterly. 'I'm embarrassed for them and I'm embarrassed for myself.'
In the end we walked home right across Paris. The others must all have gone to bed by the time we fell through the door in the Place Vendôme. We parted and went to our rooms and I suppose, all in all, the evening must be rated as a flop —
particularly considering the planning and the cost — but in some odd and undefined way I found myself feeling rather encouraged by Charles's outburst. My assessment of his brain was not revised but I do not think I had appreciated before that night how thoroughly decent he was. It is not a fashionable quality these days but it seemed to me that Edith's happiness was in safer hands than I had realised.
SIX
When she opened her eyes she knew at once that this was the last morning in her life when she would awake as Edith Lavery.
Henceforth, that girl would have gone away and whatever might happen in the future she would not be coming back. Edith attempted to question h
erself as to what exactly she was feeling. Just as when you are forced into a decision it is often the mouthing of one choice that makes you realise you really want the other, so she wondered if her stomach would tell her that she was making a ghastly mistake simply because this was the day when the whole thing became irrevocable. But her stomach did not wish to play the part of a goat's entrails at Delphi and declined to give an opinion. She felt neither elated nor depressed
— simply that there was a lot to do. There was a faint knock on her door and her mother came in carrying a cup of tea.
It is no exaggeration to say that Stella Lavery was so happy on this morning she really felt she might burst, that her heart might stop, exhausted by pumping the feverish blood of satisfied ambition. It is not true to say she would have gladly sacrificed her daughter to a rich marquess's heir if she had thoroughly disliked him, simply that unless he had attacked her with a knife it was not physically possible that she could dislike him. Actually, I don't think she had given Charles qua Charles much thought. He was pleasant, well-mannered, not bad-looking. That, to coin a phrase, was all she knew and all she needed to know. That, and the fact that after tomorrow her daughter would be the Countess Broughton.
It had been a source of the faintest irritation to Stella that her daughter's title was not to be Countess of Broughton, which she thought more romantic, and it seemed to her tiresome of the first Broughton to receive the earldom not to have asked for the 'of.' After all, the Cholmondeleys had done so and so had the Balfours when they were presented with their titles. True there was a village called Cholmondeley and somewhere in Scotland called Balfour but was there not a place called Broughton? Surety there must be one somewhere? Still, allowing the fact that you can't have everything' she had grown used to the form and now gained a good deal of pleasure correcting her friends. After all, the blessed 'of would come, with the marquessate, all in good time.
'Good morning, darling.' She whispered the words, gently conveying, as she thought, great tenderness. This was a moment when she knew it behoved her to feel some nostalgia and regret at losing the child of her heart. The fact remained, however, that, notwithstanding the very real and deep joy Edith had given her mother over the years, this morning Mrs Lavery was as happy as a sandboy. Not only was she gaining a son, as the saying goes, but, as she saw it, a whole new position in the firmament. Gates as rusty as the ones at Ham, locked after the departure of the last Stuart king, were everywhere springing open before her. Or so it seemed. Stella Lavery was not a complete fool. She did realise that it was up to her to make a success of this opportunity, that if some of the people she was going to meet, most particularly Lady Uckfield, could be induced to like her, could actually want her friendship, then she could turn herself into Edith's asset rather than being (as she very secretly and reluctantly suspected) her liability. She also knew enough to go slowly. Never must there be the slightest scent about her of a beast of prey in pursuit of its quarry. Softly, quietly, mutual interests must be unearthed, books must be lent, dress-makers must be suggested. In her mind, on this dizzy morning, were shining images, holographs of elegant pleasure, showing her tucking into a light lunch with Lady Uckfield before they rushed off together to their shared milliner, pulling on their gloves as they waved for a taxi…
"Morning, Mummy.' Edith was by this time used to the dream-reverie in which her mother seemed to exist. She did not grudge her the pleasure this marriage brought, although she hoped it had not been a contributory factor, pushing her into the torrent that Edith felt whirling her towards the coronet. 'Is it raining?'
'No, it's heavenly. Now, there's no need to rush. It's just after half past eight. The hairdresser will be here at ten, then we've got two hours before we have to be at St Margaret's. I'll make some breakfast while you have a bath and if I were you I'd just get into your undies and stick on a dressing gown. Then you can stay in that until everything's ready.'
'I'm not madly hungry.'
'Well, you must have something. Or you'll feel sick.'
Edith nodded and started to get up, sipping her tea as she did so. It was one of those moments when she was acutely aware of every movement of her body, even of the muscles in her face. Each word seemed to come from some other source than her own brain. She felt drugged, but in a bright, unsleepy way. No, not drugged, dazed — or even hypnotised. Am I hypnotised? she thought. Have I been mesmerised by all those unquestioned values I have sucked down since I was three?
Have I lost myself in other people's ambitions? But then she thought of Charles, who was a nice man who loved her and of whom, by this time, she really was very fond, and of course, she thought of Broughton and of Feltham, the family's other estate in Norfolk, and most of all she thought of the flat in which she was now standing and the job in the estate agent's in Milner Street and the opportunities the one life offered and the exhausted, negligible opportunities of the other, and so thinking she threw back her head and strode towards the bathroom. Her father was just coming out. He smiled a rather wistful smile.
'Everything all right, Princess?' he said and she knew, even as he spoke, that he would probably have to stop calling her Princess, that it sounded suburban, and she made a resolution there and then that she would not let him stop calling her Princess. It was a resolution she broke almost at once.
'Fine. How about you?'
'Fine.'
The wedding was going to cost Kenneth Lavery a great deal of money. Although less than it might have done, as Lady Uckfield had been given permission for the reception to be held in St James's Palace. Nevertheless, and even because of this, the Laverys had both been determined that they would carry the entire bill for the rest. They had even eschewed the modern, rather charmless custom of expecting the bridesmaids' parents to pay for their dresses. Edith was, after all, their only daughter and they did not want there to be any suspicion that she came from a family which could not afford to pay its way. Mrs Lavery, living as she was a plot from a Barbara Cartland novel, had even wondered if they were not expected to make some sort of dowry settlement on Edith but although her husband had touched on this with Lord Uckfield it had not been taken up.
Probably because the Uckfields did not want to embroil themselves in any corresponding legal entitlement. After all, as Lady Uckfield had pointed out before turning out the light, nowadays one could never be sure these things were for ever. Edith was grateful to her parents for ensuring she entered Broughton with her head held high, although again she was conscious of yet another of the million threads that pinned her, like Gulliver, to the ground.
She lay back in the bath and tried to conjure up her favourite mental image of herself presiding over charity boards, raising money for the disabled, curtseying to various Royalties before escorting them to her box on gala nights, visiting the sick in the village — she stopped. Do people still visit the sick in the village? She realised she had unconsciously clad herself in a crinoline in her daydreams. And she thought of Lady Uckfield and of what a model daughter-in-law she was going to be, how the day would come when they would all bless the hour that Edith came into their lives.
===OO=OOO=OO===
I arrived at St Margaret's at about twenty past ten to be handed my white carnation, stripped of course of the fern that the florist had so painstakingly arranged with it, and my list for the front pews. It was the expected combination of duchesses and nannies, with places marked for the tenants and staff at Broughton and, behind them, the tenants and staff at Feltham. From the Reigning Family we were to get the Princess Royal and the Kents, all of them, but not the Prince of Wales (a bit of a disappointment for Lady Uckfield, a tragedy for Mrs Lavery) as he was on a goodwill junket somewhere in the South Seas.
Nor were we to welcome the Queen. I don't know why as I believe Her Majesty and Lady Uckfield got on well. Needless to say, I was not deputed to usher any of them, this honour going to Lord Peter Broughton, who nodded to me as I came in. I had not seen him since leaving Chez Michou as we had been giv
en a choice of return flights and, having no City deadline to meet, I was still in bed when most of the party had set off. I had written to thank him and Henry but I had obviously said nothing of the debacle.
'I got your letter. You shouldn't have bothered.' The English always say you shouldn't have bothered to thank them when, of all races on earth, they are the most unforgiving when one does not. I smiled in reply. He pulled a face. 'God, I had a head the next day! I was in a meeting by eleven. I do not think I gave it my best.'
I couldn't remember what he did. Something financial, I assumed, although I have noticed of late that the brain standard of the City has been rising in inverse ratio to the fall of its social status. I wonder where this is going to leave people like Peter Broughton. 'You were very kind to lay it all on,' I said.
He nodded in turn, slightly awkwardly. 'I'm afraid Charles was a bit shirty.' I shrugged. 'The thing is, it seemed the most frightfully funny idea, d'you see? Henry and I went over with photographs and things and we'd even borrowed one of Edith's frocks… She thought it'd be terrifically funny too, d'you see? She was a great sport about it, she even told Charles not to be silly…' He tailed off rather lamely. Good for Edith, I thought, to come out of that ghastliness ahead. I hardly needed to point out that had she seen the act she would have been less sanguine. We could be sure that Charles had not told her exactly what he had found so offensive.
'I expect the boy doing it misunderstood his brief,' I said, borrowing Tommy Wainwright's line.
Lord Peter nodded furiously. 'That's it, exactly. I think the song was wrong, that was the trouble. That and Eric's idea of the jewel-box. I can see that wasn't too clever.'
I nodded, unsurprised at Eric's complicity. It was interesting, though predictable I suppose, that Edith's first enemy in the Broughton household should be someone of considerably lower rank than herself, who had made an infinitely greater leap in catching at his bride. 'I should forget about it,' I said. 'I'm sure Charles has.' I was actually sure that Charles had not, although I was pretty certain he would never refer to the incident again.
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