The Magic Hour Read online

  Also by the Author

  CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS

  LUCINDA

  CORONET AMONG THE GRASS

  THE BUSINESS

  IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW

  STARDUST

  NANNY

  CHANGE OF HEART

  GRAND AFFAIR

  LOVE SONG

  THE KISSING GARDEN

  THE BLUE NOTE

  SUMMERTIME

  DISTANT MUSIC

  THE MAGIC HOUR

  FRIDAY'S GIRL

  OUT OF THE BLUE

  IN DISTANT FIELDS

  THE WHITE MARRIAGE

  GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART

  THE ENCHANTED

  THE LAND OF SUMMER

  THE DAISY CLUB

  The Belgravia series

  BELGRAVIA

  COUNTRY LIFE

  AT HOME

  BY INVITATION

  The Nightingale series

  TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE

  THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS

  The Debutantes series

  DEBUTANTES

  THE SEASON

  The Eden series

  DAUGHTERS OF EDEN

  THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS

  The Bexham trilogy

  THE CHESTNUT TREE

  THE WIND OFF THE SEA

  THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT

  Novels with Terence Brady

  VICTORIA

  VICTORIA AND COMPANY

  ROSE'S STORY

  YES HONESTLY

  Television Drama Series with Terence Brady

  TAKE THREE GIRLS

  UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS

  THOMAS AND SARAH

  NANNY

  FOREVER GREEN

  Television Comedy Series with Terence Brady

  NO HONESTLY

  YES HONESTLY

  PIG IN THE MIDDLE

  OH MADELINE! (USA)

  FATHER MATTHEW'S DAUGHTER

  Television Plays with Terence Brady

  MAKING THE PLAY

  SUCH A SMALL WORLD

  ONE OF THE FAMILY

  Films with Terence Brady

  LOVE WITH A PERFECT STRANGER

  MAGIC MOMENT

  Stage Plays with Terence Brady

  I WISH I WISH

  THE SHELL SEEKERS

  (adaptation from the novel by Rosamunde Pilcher)

  BELOW STAIRS

  For more information on Charlotte Bingham and her books,

  see her website at www.charlottebingham.com

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Charlotte Bingham

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Magic Hour

  Prologue

  Part One: The Past That Will Not Go Away

  A Mess of Pottage

  A Question of Birth

  Comings and Goings

  Part Two: Many Years Later

  Alexandra

  The Oik

  New Brooms

  Invitations

  Changes

  Gentlefolk

  Putting on the Ritz

  Sweet Sorrow

  A Rough Passage

  A Voyage of Discovery

  Sweet and Low

  Part Three: The Hour

  Home Chats

  The Devil’s Comedy

  Epilogue

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Epub ISBN 9781409057451

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  Published 2005 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Charlotte Bingham 2005

  The right of Charlotte Bingham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 0593 054237

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  Typeset in 11/13 New Baskerville by Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon.

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  Papers used by Transworld Publishers are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  For Terencey

  who has given me so many

  THE MAGIC HOUR

  Charlotte Bingham

  Prologue

  The Magic Hour is that time when late afternoon and early evening meet, when sun and moon seem set to tussle as to who is to take possession of the darkening sk. The Magic Hour is a time when it seems that the distant sound of children playing will never cease, when birds sit on telephone wires pretending that daylight will never fade, and bicyclists amble home without their lights. The Magic Hour is when night creatures are still found to be asleep, when daisies on lawns remain detergent bright, and birds sing among richly various leaves.

  Then, with silent surrender, as day slips off and night’s black agent sets out his stall to claim his percentage of the skies, and the burnt-out worlds we know as stars burst through the great dark curtain above – the Magic Hour is gone.

  So it is with people. They too have their Magic Hour of meeting, when it seems that neither day nor night can yet claim victory, and guardian angels hold their breath, willing them to turn their backs on that devil’s comedy that is the past, urging them forward towards a new dawn, where the early-morning salutations of the birds will provide the opening chorus for their joys to come.

  Part One

  THE PAST THAT WILL NOT GO AWAY

  England Before World War II

  A Mess of Pottage

  Betty Stamford was a tall, big-boned woman with tightly knotted grey hair and an expression of unremitting sobriety, as befitted a widow of some long standing. Just at this moment her expression was unusually severe, even for her, which was hardly surprising, since her only son John had recently informed her that he was marrying a London girl. No matter what the girl’s social standing, this news had come as a rude shock to John’s mother, for in common with their country neighbours, the Stamfords regarded London at best as a foreign city, at worst as a centre of all that was bad in English Society.

  To any other family perhaps, Laura Anne Millington might have seemed a catch, but to Betty Stamford, her future mother-in-law, Laura seemed flighty, suspiciously patrician, and not likely to take to the country life that the farming Stamfords all knew and
loved.

  ‘My dear, such a day! So wonderful for you!’

  Betty’s best friend Janet Priddy beamed at her over the top of her rose-patterned teacup. Betty nodded automatically, something that she found she had taken to doing all too often since the Millingtons had posted the announcement of Laura’s engagement to her John in the Daily Telegraph.

  ‘What a joy a son is to be sure, for you will have nothing to do with the wedding arrangements, it will all be up to the bride’s side, and so all that has to be done is to sit back and buy a hat.’

  ‘The reception is to be at her brother’s house at Knighton Hall.’

  ‘And a tiara will be worn, perhaps?’

  This time Betty shook her head.

  ‘No, the Millingtons have no family tiara.’ Betty straightened her back. ‘They are county, not aristocratic, Janet,’ she reminded her friend with some asperity, and then she sighed.

  What her son John, always such a sober-sides, could see in a social butterfly such as Laura Millington, she had no idea, but there it was. It must be borne.

  ‘Such a pretty girl, she will be sure to make a beautiful bride.’

  Betty nodded yet again, and put her teacup down. No one seemed to realise that because your future daughter-in-law came from a well-to-do family that did not mean any wealth passed on to her future husband’s family. Laura Millington had no dowry to speak of, and little jewellery besides, and while her future husband’s family, the Stamfords, might be land rich, they were certainly not cash rich. They worked for their money, tilled the fields and harvested, and grazed their animals, and always had, and always would, please God.

  ‘Would you like another cup of tea, Janet dear?’ Betty asked her childhood friend in a flat voice.

  Janet nodded, but as she dutifully handed Betty her pretty cup and saucer with its accompanying apostle teaspoon, Betty raised her eyes to hers for the first time. Janet gave a sharp intake of breath, for in Betty’s eyes she saw reflected nothing except misery.

  * * *

  John Stamford was besotted with Laura, as well he should be. A stocky, stout young man with a florid complexion, he could hardly believe his luck when Laura Millington set her cap at him, making it quite plain that she thought he was the handsomest man who had ever come into her life, and quite the most witty. She seemed to find anything and everything that he said funny, laughing inordinately at his attempts at humour, and even extolling his seat on his horse.

  ‘How could you?’ Laura’s best friend Jenny asked her. ‘I mean to say, Lala, look at him, would you?’

  They were both seated at the window watching the hunt meeting in front of the Stamfords’ solid, square, eighteenth-century house, observing the polished hunters, their breath steaming the air, their assorted bridles, double or single reins, snaffle or curb bits, betraying their tractability, their tightly held mouths indicating the nerves of their riders – for who knew who would come back from that day’s hunting on the hard frosty ground in the English winter?

  Laura stared down at her fiancé. She had become engaged to John Stamford knowing full well that she neither loved him nor saw anything remotely attractive in him. He was, to her mind, a poor sort of creature, the kind of young man who could never attract a full-blooded girl such as herself; but, as one of her aunts had told her, ‘a gel must get married’, and so marry him she would. She was after all twenty-two, and quite sure that she was about to gather dust on the shelf, about to become an old maid, and this despite always finishing up the last sandwich on the plate, as the old country superstition dictated.

  ‘I just don’t know how you could tell John that he looked divine on his horse. I mean, look at him!’ Jenny started to shriek with laughter. ‘Oh, do look!’

  Laura too started to laugh, but as she did so, her hand flew up to her mouth to stop a sudden sob as she remembered how divine Gerald Hardwick had looked on his magnificent grey hunter, how elegant his figure in his beautifully cut hunting coat, how handsome the set of his head on his slim shoulders. Her eyes filled with tears at the memory. To cover this she turned quickly away, but happily Jenny was still swaying from side to side mimicking a farmer’s seat. What on earth was she doing marrying John Stamford, a thick-boned son of a country bumpkin? But it was too late now.

  It was a late spring afternoon in Knightsbridge and the trees in the London parks were beginning to paint the town landscape with that fine fresh green that Londoners so enjoy to see. Ellen Millington, wife of Laura’s uncle, Staunton Millington, was taking tea with Laura’s former fiancé’s mother, Sally Hardwick. Not a happy occasion for either of them, but something upon which Ellen, for the sake of her husband’s family, had insisted, for in her view the Hardwicks could not and should not be allowed to what she called ‘get away with it’.

  Laura might be hitched to someone else, but nevertheless salt must be rubbed into several people’s wounds or she and Staunton would not be able to retire to the South of France with clear consciences.

  ‘Of course, Ariel did actually steal Gerald from Laura, you know that, don’t you, Sally?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Sally Hardwick sighed inwardly. She knew exactly why Ellen Millington had called round to take tea with her at her London house. She also knew that whatever her punishment, it must be borne, as it was thanks entirely to her son Gerald. A young man breaking off an engagement was always scandalous, but when the young man happened to be your son, the backwash was constant, and humiliating.

  ‘So what’s to be done now, do you think, Sally? After all, it is plain to see that Gerald and Ariel are about as unsuited to each other as it is possible to be. This is a right mess of pottage, to be sure, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I could not but agree, Ellen, but what’s to be done with the young when they are too old to tell? Gerald is a sweet-natured boy, but weak. And Ariel is such a very beautiful creature. He had his head turned by her. It does happen, you know, really it does.’

  ‘Too feeble-minded, your generation, that’s what’s wrong with you, too feeble-minded. Not strict enough. If you can’t tell the young when they’re taking a wrong turning you will bring up a generation of weaklings, mark my words. In our day we children were never married to whomsoever we chose, our parents went to the begat book and they chose for us. They knew better than us, and we knew they knew better than us. But what can one say? With the present Prince of Wales besotted with an American divorcée and heaven only knows what else going on, what can one say?’

  ‘Well, quite, I do see, and I must say Laura has behaved awfully well and now she is safely married and settled – not too much of a trial, after all.’

  ‘Believe me, Gerald will live to rue the day,’ Ellen stated with some satisfaction. ‘Ariel is not steady. In fact, I would say that Ariel is a bolter if ever I saw one.’

  ‘She has been a bit flighty in the past, but such a beauty.’

  ‘I tell you if Tasha Millington, if Laura’s sister-in-law had had her way Laura would have sued for breach of promise, but no, she was off seconds later, on the rebound as gels who have been hurt so often are; pinging off the nearest lump of beef; in this case poor John Stamford, and all of it just to show Gerald. What a catastrophe. If Gerald had not been sent to Germany on some footling mission for his regiment the moment he became engaged to Laura, and if Ariel had not been visiting some grand friends at some schloss or another, Laura and Gerald would now be happily married, with at least one brat on the way.’ Ellen paused to sip her tea before resuming. ‘But as it is she has settled for marrying down, and doubtless is generally making a hash of everything. Laura will not be suited to country life,’ she went on relentlessly. ‘A large working farmhouse is not the kind of house that will satisfy a gel like Laura. She will be forever standing in the milking sheds with the cows because the dairy maid is off; but there you are, it’s all spilt milk now – and bite on the bullet she must.’

  Sally found herself frowning vaguely at nothing much, probably because she was bec
oming a little confused with all the talk of milk and bullets.

  ‘At least Laura is married, Ellen. That at least is something.’

  ‘Exactly. And when all is said and done both Ariel and Laura have made their beds and now they must lie in them, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Yes, of course, quite right. That is all there is to it.’

  Laura looked over at her new husband. Her honeymoon had been bad enough, and it was no good anyone saying that shutting your eyes and thinking of England took your mind off being made love to by an oaf, because it jolly well didn’t, and now she was about to give birth she regretted the honeymoon even more. What had she been thinking marrying John Stamford? But too late now to think. She gave a sudden gasp.

  John watched his beautiful young wife disappearing through the bedroom door out onto the landing, prior to trying to find her way down the dark corridor to their only bathroom.

  ‘Why are you going to the bathroom, my love?’

  ‘Because I’m having a baby, that’s why, John. Why do you think?’

  Laura was gone before John’s next thought, which, not unlike the sturdy steam engine that chugged into Knighton station, gradually did the same into John’s head. Could it be, might it be, that Laura, his wife, Laura, was giving birth? He sat up straight in his bed. Laura was calving! He stepped out of the old oak bedstead and tripped down the corridor to his mother’s room.

  ‘Mother? Mother? Laura’s having the baby. In the bathroom. I think she’s calving in the bathroom.’

  Gerald Hardwick allowed his best man to smooth down the back of his morning coat, and smiled at himself in his dressing mirror as he did so. His wedding day had been a long time coming, but at last it seemed it was here and he was greatly looking forward to it.

  ‘You’re better than a valet, you know that, Eddie?’ he murmured to Edward Foster, and his bright blue eyes reflected his satisfaction with his handsome appearance as his old friend’s long-fingered hands anxiously smoothed his beautifully tailored morning coat.

 
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