The White Marriage Read online

  ‘Jolly good, Sunny. Anyone as handsome as that must be given every kind of encouragement,’ Mary laughed. ‘Oh, look, there is Mr Arkwright at the door, come to mend the handsome stranger’s Bentley motor car.’ She turned back to her daughter. ‘I told you when I saw that tea leaf floating in your cup this morning that a handsome stranger would call,’ Mary murmured, with a distinctly satisfied look in her eye, before closing the dining-room door again.

  Sunny opened the front door. Mr Arkwright stood on their doorstep looking immaculate in a startlingly clean pair of overalls, a black bowler hat on his head, which he now removed in greeting to Sunny, and held to his chest.

  ‘I will not ask myself in, Miss Chantry, seeing as what I am in my overalls, but if you yourself would care to ask the owner of the motor car to step outside …? He may be able to explain to me the nature of the problem with the, ah, Bentley.’ The last word was uttered with such reverence it was clear that Mr Arkwright thought of the Bentley as being the undisputed monarch of the road.

  ‘The owner’s in the sitting room, Mr Arkwright. He is drinking sherry – you know how it is?’ Sunny added inconsequentially. ‘One should always offer refreshment to people travelling by road, especially if they have broken down. Awful for him, really, because his motor car is quite new. If it was a Rolls-Royce I dare say they would have sent someone out to him by now.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, Miss Chantry.’ Mr Arkwright dropped his voice as Sunny moved away from him. ‘But I had to change my overalls – for a Bentley, you understand?’

  Sunny nodded. Of course she understood. If a Bentley did not warrant clean overalls, what did?

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed, dropping her own voice. ‘And for my part you must excuse me for being in a long frock, but I was modelling this gown for my mother when the breakdown happened.’

  Mr Arkwright looked understanding. The whole village knew that Mrs Chantry did alterations to help bring home the bacon, until such time that the building restrictions were fully lifted and Mr Chantry could get going again, but it wasn’t something that was talked about, except of course by the ladies who took her their dresses for remodelling and alterations.

  Sunny pushed open the sitting-room door and put her head around it.

  ‘I wonder if you would care to come to the door, Mr Wyndham? Mr Arkwright is here.’

  Gray put down his half-finished schooner of sherry. ‘Why, certainly.’

  At the door he shook Mr Arkwright’s hand. ‘It was very kind of you to come out so quickly to me, Mr Arkwright.’

  Now it was Mr Arkwright’s face that grew rosier. He was too shy to say to someone he didn’t know that it was a privilege to be called out to a Bentley Mark VI.

  ‘I only hope I can be of assistance.’

  He stepped aside to allow Gray to walk up to the car, which stood by the kerb, looking like some great patrician lady who had suddenly, and most unexpectedly, been taken ill and was at pains to look dignified despite this.

  Meanwhile, Sunny went back into the dining room and quickly changed out of the ball gown, handing it back to her mother who they both knew had to get it finished for Lady Finsborough as soon as maybe.

  Once more in her navy-blue skirt and neatly darned twin set, Sunny hurried out to the front where the two men now stood gazing into the Bentley’s engine.

  Sunny listened to them talking for a while, but as soon as Mr Wyndham stood back to let Mr Arkwright peer happily at the relevant parts in the immaculate engine bay, she could not help showing off.

  ‘This is one of the first Mark VI’s to be factory built, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, this is coach built.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t think they were coach building them—’

  ‘A few have been—’

  Sunny nodded, pretending not to be impressed as Gray too tried not to look impressed.

  ‘You know a great deal about motor cars, perhaps, Miss Chantry?’

  Sunny shook her head. ‘No, no, not a great deal, but I know a little about these particular “queens of the road”, as my father calls them. He will be so sorry he missed seeing this one. But I will tell him all about it.’

  ‘What will you tell him?’ Gray prompted.

  ‘I will tell him it was a Mark VI, which means that it has, I think, a six-cylinder in-line F-head engine with inlet over exhaust and a four point two five seven capacity. I think that’s right,’ she finished.

  ‘Has your father got a Bentley, Miss Chantry?’

  Instead of laughing at the very idea, Sunny carefully shook her head, pushing back her long dark hair as she did so, as the expression in her grey-green eyes became serious. Cars, after all, were frightfully serious.

  ‘No, Pa has a Vauxhall, but ever since he arrived back from Burma – you know, after – after …’

  ‘Of course, once peace was declared,’ Gray finished easily for her.

  ‘Well, ever since then he has always insisted on teaching me about motor cars. And one of these is his dream – when his boat comes in, that is.’ She smiled, her eyes still on the Bentley as she went on artlessly, ‘You see, Pa always says that he wants me to be the first woman in his life to know how the combustion engine works, to know how to change a wheel, and to know everything about every new car that is produced, because he thinks motor cars are works of art, just as much as paintings, or – or sculptures. He thinks motor cars have souls, and that they respond to different people in different ways, that they can be heard to sigh sadly when driven badly, and to purr with delight when they’re driven well. That is what Pa thinks.’

  At that moment a singularly happy sound filled the quiet Sussex air, a glad sound, a good sound; it was the sound of the Mark VI leaping into grateful life once more.

  ‘A split hose,’ Mr Arkwright called out from the driver’s seat. ‘Thought it might be. So often is with these thoroughbreds.’ He climbed out of the motor car and, wiping his hands carefully on a clean piece of rag, he stood back. ‘She’s all yours now, sir. All yours once more.’

  Gray sighed with some relief.

  ‘You always feel such a fool breaking down in a brand-new motor car,’ he confided to his two roadside companions as they all stared at the beautiful motor car, sunshine bouncing off her bonnet, the blue sheen of her immaculate paintwork a tribute to her makers.

  ‘She’s a grand lady, she is, and she’ll be all the grander for you carrying on with your journey, sir. She will do you proud from now on, I guarantee it. She feels ashamed of herself, letting you down like that, she does.’

  Mr Arkwright removed the cloth he had placed on the driver’s seat to protect the leather, and stood by the open door, holding it for Gray.

  ‘It’s been a privilege, sir,’ he went on, smiling and holding his bowler hat against his chest the way he always did when marching for the British Legion in the village parade on Remembrance Sunday.

  Gray stepped back from the open car, and instead of climbing into the driver’s seat he carefully removed a slim leather wallet from the inside pocket of his overcoat, but before he could do more, Mr Arkwright shook his head, holding up his hand as if he were a policeman stopping traffic.

  ‘No, sir – please.’

  Mr Arkwright’s expression was a mixture of distress and embarrassment.

  ‘Come, come, Mr Arkwright. I must owe you something, surely?’

  ‘No, sir, really. It’s been a privilege, truly it has.’

  Gray stared at the mechanic, but since he could see that to insist on paying Mr Arkwright would be truly to wound his feelings, he shook the mechanic’s now cleaned hand.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Arkwright. I am most grateful to you, really I am.’ He turned to Sunny. ‘And thank you, Miss Chantry. To say that you have both made my car breaking down a positive pleasure is to say the least.’

  He smiled and climbed into the driver’s seat. Mr Arkwright closed the door, and the car left them, gliding smoothly out into the main highway, leaving Sunny and Mr Arkwrigh
t waving until it quite disappeared from sight, although certainly not from memory.

  ‘I hope that she stays sound until she reaches the end of his journey, Miss Chantry, I do really.’

  Sunny liked the fact that Mr Arkwright still used horsey expressions like ‘staying sound’ about motor cars, maybe noting that a car was ‘lame on its off side’. It was understandable really, since his father, and his grandfather before him, had run the livery stables in the village, until motor cars took over from horses and the stables were turned into a garage. Yet somehow the language of the stables had stayed around Arkwright’s Garage, even though the horses themselves had gone.

  ‘I would say that she will stay sound, Mr Arkwright,’ Sunny reassured him. ‘My father always says –’ Sunny assumed a deep voice, her eyes sparkling – ‘he always says,’ she repeated doing a passable imitation of her father, “When George Arkwright mends a motor car it stays mended, and always did, and always will.”’

  Mr Arkwright looked shy. ‘Now petrol’s come off rationing, Mr Chantry will be bringing the Vauxhall down to see me, Miss Chantry, no doubt?’

  Sunny nodded. ‘The old girl’s coming out from under her cover soon, Mr Arkwright, or so my father told me.’

  ‘I shall look forward to that, Miss Chantry. It’s been a long time since we had the privilege of seeing the Vauxhall.’

  They both nodded, and turned away. Mr Wyndham’s Bentley might have been a Court occasion as far as Arkwright’s Garage was concerned, but Mr Chantry’s Vauxhall was a well-loved member of the village, remembered from the old days before the war with affectionate respect. Its first outing would therefore be remarked upon, even discussed in the Fox and Hounds pub. People would observe to the landlord, ‘I see John Chantry’s Vauxhall is off its blocks.’ It would be something of an occasion in the village, something that would make them feel excited, hopeful even, something that they would remember in the ensuing years. The day John Chantry’s Vauxhall made its first post-war outing.

  Sunny went quietly back into the house, and, having changed, let herself into the sitting room. She sat down at the baby grand piano, the light of her mother’s life. The sitting room was filled with sunshine, the garden was filled with flowers, and her mother was nearly finished with Lady Finsborough’s dress, and yet Sunny felt vaguely unsettled. She started to play a Chopin prelude, but found it too beautiful for her mood. She began again, this time playing a waltz. She imagined herself dancing in the dress she had just been modelling for her mother. She imagined herself moving about a large ballroom in the arms of a tall, dark handsome stranger, and then she stopped.

  Daydreams were dangerous; her mother had often told her that. Daydreams led to people having false ambitions, being discontented; putting themselves on the rung of a ladder they could never hope to climb. Ma believed only in keeping your feet firmly on the ground, whereas Sunny was always longing for them to be swept from under her. She wanted to reach for the blue sky that she could see beyond the latticed French windows of her parents’ cottage; she wanted to know more than just Rushington, but the darns in her pullover, her low-heeled shoes, and her navy-blue skirt, once a part of her old school uniform – everything told her that her mother was right. To long for what could never be was to become permanently unhappy. It would be as silly as leaving a pebble in your shoe after you walked up from the beach.

  She stood up abruptly. She must make her mother some lunch before going back to studying her shorthand notebook. It was college again on Monday, and that was no daydream.

  Leandra Fortescue stared at herself in the mirror. She was looking particularly beautiful, which was just as well since she had planned a large house party of people, all of whom were also really rather beautiful. She glanced down at the guest list in the dark blue leather book laid out for her by her housekeeper.

  To the house would be coming the Earl and Countess of Bridlington, the Hon. James and Mrs Metcalfe, Mr and Mrs Herbert Chambers. Also Celia Hopwith, Ginny Braithwaite, and Randy Beauchamp (bless him!).

  Last and not least, there would be her husband, Dilke Fortescue, and herself, and of course Gray Wyndham, everyone’s favourite house party guest, most particularly Leandra’s.

  It was a satisfactory list, and although the restrictions from the war still hung over even the most prosperous British households, happily at Maydown they seemed to manage really quite well. There would be lobster, smuggled in from France (not difficult in Sussex-by-the-sea), pâtés, brought in from the same location, and pies and soufflés made from their own produce on the Home Farm. No one would go without butter at breakfast where the pats would be the size of golf balls, and no lady would have to come down to breakfast, but rather each would have a beautifully laid tray taken up to her. An embroidered white cloth would be spread across her sheets before the tray was stationed above her lap, and an ironed copy of the Daily Telegraph placed carefully on the night table beside her.

  All this organisation, all this luxury, was due entirely to her husband, Dilke’s, wealth. Dilke was American by birth, but he had been brought up in England, spoke like an Englishman, hunted and shot like an Englishman, while living like a Southern gentleman, albeit married to Leandra, a real Englishwoman.

  ‘Mr Gray Wyndham has arrived, Mrs Fortescue.’

  Leandra, having moved to the drawing room, looked up from reading a fresh copy of the Tatler and nodded at her butler.

  ‘Please show him in, Rule.’

  Her butler gave a short bow, and closed the door once again. Leandra stared at the door for a second. Rule was a treasure, a great treasure. More than that, he was her friend in a thousand ways that she could not name; he was her rod and her staff, far more than her husband, dear Dilke. Dilke did not concern himself with the running of Maydown, his interest lying solely in the stables. For this reason just a tiny part of Leandra always slightly dreaded a large house party. After all, it was not unknown for a guest, or guests, to steal not just a good, but a brilliant butler from under the noses of their best friends. Not Randy Beauchamp, or Gray Wyndham, of course. Being bachelors, they had no large country houses to run, only London apartments in Belgravia or Grosvenor Square, flats that were convenient for the clubs, the theatres and restaurants, and all the usual amenities required by unmarried men of undoubted good looks and charm. But for the rest of the guest list – Leandra could not be quite certain. They all had houses to run. They might take Rule aside and whisper blandishments in his ear. She shook the thought off. The very idea of Maydown without Rule was beastly beyond words.

  ‘Ah, Rule. And how are we? Am I the first? I hope so. I love to arrive unfashionably early, as you know.’

  Gray stared at Rule. The butler was wearing his professional servant-as-mandarin expression.

  ‘Yes, Mr Wyndham, you are indeed the first.’

  Gray handed Rule his coat, shooting his cuffs as he did so.

  ‘It has been a beautiful day, Rule, a beautiful day even for breaking down in a brand-new Bentley.’

  ‘Have trouble with the great lady, did we, sir?’

  ‘A hose, Rule, a hose gave out; the good man who mended the new beauty informed me that hoses are to a motor car what laddered nylons are to the ladies, oft occurring, but none the less distressing for that.’

  As Rule opened the drawing-room door for Gray Wyndham they both knew that the lady inside, Mrs Leandra Fortescue, would never be found sporting a laddered nylon. Indeed, in the event of such an unlikely thing happening, there would be a short ring on the house telephone before a quick exit was made up the wide, shallow-stepped staircase to the floor above, where Mrs Fortescue’s maid would be already waiting with a fresh pair of precious nylons.

  ‘Mr Gray Wyndham, madam,’ Rule announced again.

  There was a fire burning in the grate, despite the warmth of the spring afternoon. There were great bowls of flowers brilliantly arranged on tables by the long windows, and books arranged on other tables, and a small easel that held a delicate drawing of a child’s
face.

  At the windows hung yellow taffeta curtains, swagged and draped with gold cords, the tassels themselves fastened by three matching rosettes – or as Leandra would call them ‘taffeta choux’. The large room, its fine windows leading on to a stone terrace and vistas of distant rounded hills, was painted a brilliant yellow, so to walk into the room at any time of day gave the visitor a distinct feeling of walking into sunshine, and that was before they noted the paintings of children playing on beaches, of vast bowls of flowers, of jewel-collared dogs, all the paintings hanging from the cornices on grey silk taffeta ribbons. The furniture was eighteenth century, a mixture of French and English. There was a mahogany writing table set about with small china dogs, and elegant little boxes, which probably held only paperclips. There were lyre-backed chairs placed casually near the windows, themselves filled with marble-topped tables bearing yet more flower-filled vases.

  Gray was less interested in the details of the ornaments, in the drapes, or the taffeta choux, than he was in the effect the elegant room had on the people who entered it. The result of the supreme elegance of the surroundings was that the room frowned or smiled on the people who came into it. Anyone badly dressed, or too dull and ordinary would look out of place in Leandra’s drawing room; on the other hand, bravely shabby would not be out of place; nor indeed elegantly eccentric.

  Leandra herself always looked exquisite and, to give her every due, she made quite sure to give the impression of being totally unaware of it. Today her rich chestnut-coloured hair was coiffed gracefully to touch the collar of her Directoire-style jacket, which, in its turn, covered a slim dress of silk faille.

  ‘Gray?’ She extended her hand to him, and he kissed it continental-style, which he knew she always enjoyed. ‘Some tea, or?’

  ‘Some tea, thank you.’

  ‘Some tea, Rule.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  ‘Thank you, Rule.’

  Leandra turned back to Gray.

  ‘You are slightly, if fashionably, early.’