The Season Page 28

  ‘I am sure, Minnie. And now, please, lead me to Lady Emily, for we have much to discuss.’

  May made a small gesture as if to indicate that her old friend’s rooms lay ahead of her down the corridor, but as it turned out they were behind her. They both turned, and leaving Harper to wait to be shown to Miss Edith’s rooms May walked quickly after the little Irishwoman, her own sixth sense at its most alert. For why and how Emily could have received any sort of telegraphic communication before May had sent it, not even her stage training could tell the flustered Duchess of Wokingham.

  ‘The Duchess of Wokingham, my lady!’

  May swept in to Emily’s rooms determinedly. Emily had always been a great deal taller than May but May, she always felt, was just as determined. While she might not fancy galloping across country at every minute of the day, she knew that rules were rules, and that Lady Emily was in the process of flouting them, which, in the little Duchess’s less than humble opinion, would not do.

  ‘So you have heard.’

  Emily turned, and May saw at once that she was in her travelling clothes, and paler than pale, as if she had been terribly ill, and she could not help feeling heartsick. Her old friend was as much changed from the bubbling happy individual of the previous night as could possibly be imagined.

  Why was love so awfully, awfully painful, she wondered, of a sudden. She herself had never known the pain of it, only the happiness. She and John had been chalk and cheese, oil and water, to look at and certainly to listen to, but he had been impassioned by her, first on the theatrical stage, and then on the stage of life, and, it had to be faced, that was more than satisfactory for May. She had done very little to encourage him, in fact just carried on doing what she had wanted to do, namely acting, and he had found her somehow, married her, and taken her back to his family home where they had truly as nearly as is possible with human beings, lived happily ever after.

  ‘I never believe anything until I hear it from the personalities involved,’ May replied evenly, after a few seconds, and very much on her guard, not knowing into what deep waters she was dipping her small foot. ‘To do so would be wrong – the theatre teaches you that, if nothing else.’

  ‘Well, it is after all unbelievable, but only to be expected.’ Emily started to wring her already gloved hands. ‘I warned Rory. Time and time again, I warned him that getting mixed up with country house politicking would be either dull, or dangerous, and now – she went to the window, looking out onto the tranquil scene below – ‘now it has turned out to be both dull and finally, fatally, dangerous.’

  ‘Dull? In what way?’

  ‘You do not know, why should you, what I had to put up with before I came here from Ireland. Nothing but caterwauling and lecturing and people conspiring and planning, and then re-conspiring and changing all the previous plans, and all of it muddled and muddleheaded, and a great deal of it dangerous talk that can only lead to sorrow. Nothing to which you can honestly put your hand on heart and say, “Well now, that does sound a good idea.” Oh no, just talk, talk, talk. And about what? Dear heavens, they could have all turned a hundred acres of bog turf to sweet loam in the time they used up in talking, and to much better effect, I would say, and most sane people would agree with me.’

  ‘So it is politicking that causes you to return to Ireland of a sudden? Are you needed by your husband?’

  May felt it safe to venture in this direction, although she knew that the ground beneath her words was liable to suddenly give way and Emily to explode, such was the look of mingled sorrow and fury in her old friend’s eyes.

  ‘Politicking sooner or later turns to deeds, but deeds of any worth are seldom attached to high-flown notions and no practicalities.’ Emily snapped the lock on her father’s old worn Gladstone bag with its small gold coronet and initial P, and turned sad eyes on May. ‘What Ireland needs is prosperity, not politics. It needs a collective policy, it needs investments, but it is neglected, neglected, and neglected still more. We will be driven from it now, and our kind not likely to come back, yet at Glendarvan we have done nothing but try to improve and give employment, and Rory, whatever his present stupidities, knew the land better than any. All gone to ashes, but thank God at least the children and Rory and the servants, and the horses of course, have been spared. And – would you believe it? – the children’s toys.’

  Now May was truly lost. She had arrived at Medlar House all prepared to read the riot act to her old friend, in whatever diplomatic but firm way she possibly could, and instead she had found that this same friend was already preparing to leave the capital and head back to the west of Ireland.

  ‘My family have been in Ireland for four hundred years. Does not that give us as much right to live there as anyone? Besides, who is to say who can live in whose country after so much time? And do we not say we are Irish? Have we not been christened and raised there? And I married to a man with the name of O’Connor and still they came and razed Glendarvan to the ground in the name of some so-called cause. Not a brick of it left, not a painting, not a piece of china, nothing. Just the stables and the horses – which does at least mean we can get out and go north, which we shall now do.’

  May stared at Emily. So this was the subject of the communication of which Minnie had spoken? This was why Emily was leaving so suddenly, nothing to do with Captain Barrymore Fortescue and everything to do with Ireland and its political unrest.

  ‘Oh, Emily, my dear, I am so very sorry. How too terrible for you. Has this been known for many days?’

  ‘It happened two or more days ago, but I have only just heard of it. And I am to leave at once, for as you can imagine there is so much to be done. Happily our house at Bangor, by the seaside in the north, is ready and waiting and we shall go there at once. As I say, at least we have the horses and the carriages to take us there, and the children and the servants are safe.’

  ‘I was come here – I came here – as a matter of fact to ask your permission for Edith to stay in London with me, with us. We have so much to which to commit ourselves in the way of social engagements, and it seems a pity, given that this is her first London Season, that she should not be presented. Our son as you know is to make his first Court appearance with the Duke, and then we have our ball tomorrow night, which should be an exciting event. Costume, you know – such a rage at the moment – everyone is to be in fantastic costume! It should be very glamorous. And if it is not, well then I shall want to know why! All in all, what with Ascot and other events, it would be such a joy to chaperon Edith, whom I understand to be a girl of great charm.’

  ‘You understand? But I thought Minnie said Edith was coming to see you this morning?’

  ‘Oh, she did, but only for a minute or so, and then she went off shopping with her maid. We exchanged a few pleasantries and sipped lemonade and then I promised to run around here and ask you the favour of leaving her with us, for the duration of the Season, as ’twere.’

  May’s head was on one side, and her voice was at its most charming, but Emily did not seem to notice. Seizing her Gladstone bag she walked up to her old friend and caught May’s slender arm in her own gloved hand.

  ‘Oh, May, I do feel that God is punishing me, that Glendarvan has been razed to the ground by these rogues simply and solely to punish me for my sins. I have sinned so dreadfully, and as if it were not enough that poor Rory has so much in the way of pain, now he has no house.’

  Emily was too stern a character to cry or feel sorry for herself, but looking at her now May knew that she was suffering the most dreadful remorse, and she sympathised with her.

  Who had not, perhaps on the death of a friend, or even a pet dog, wrung their hands as she was doing and asked themselves whether they could not have done more? May had felt such emotions too often not to put out her own hand, and placing it over Emily’s gloved one she looked up into her friend’s beautiful great green eyes, and said, ‘Hush, now. No use in continuing with this talk, believe me, no use at all.’


  ‘No use at all,’ Emily repeated dully, nodding her head. ‘No, of course, there is no use, but still I am unable to stop thinking in this way. I am being punished for my sins. I should have returned to Glendarvan long ago. I lingered too long in London—’

  ‘Remember you had to chaperon Edith through her first London Season. You could not have gone home.’

  ‘Edith!’ The name seemed to be wrenched from Emily. ‘My poor darling Edith hates London. She never wanted to come. She never wanted to leave little Valencia, who is now it seems quite ill from the smoke affecting her chest, and what with her weak heart …’ She stopped. ‘No, it is no use. I am leaping my fences before I reach them. I am seeing a ditch before I come to it, miles before. If I think like this before I have even set foot back in Ireland I will have gone mad by the time I reach the ruins of my poor family home. Oh, but, May, just think – the paintings alone! Would it not have been better if they had taken everything? The paintings, the statues, they could at least have given someone else pleasure, but to set fire to it all? And for what reason? Hatred, alone, an uncontrollable hatred. God forbid that Rory seeks vengeance. I do not think that he will, not given his temperament, not given his history. No, we will go north, to Bangor, and we will be happy again. People matter, not things.’

  Her speech over, Emily seemed to have calmed herself, and seeing this May leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  ‘You are right. It is people who matter, not things. And may I take it, since you are leaving so precipitately, that you are quite happy for Edith to stay on with us at Wokingham House?’

  ‘Of course! If she wishes! Anything you like! But I must go now.’ Emily, once more in a tearing hurry, leaned forward in her turn and kissed May briefly before remembering one more item. ‘Oh, and May – I have a letter. I wonder if you could see to it yourself, if you could place it in the appropriate hands without its going through a third party?’

  May nodded, and took the letter without even glancing down at the name written in Emily’s bold writing across the envelope.

  As it turned out it was the only mistake she made during the whole interview. Knowing each other as they had when they were young, which is to say when they were at their most vulnerable and innocent, as soon as Emily saw that May had simply taken the envelope and slipped it into her small reticule she realised that May knew everything. Her old friend had been too unsurprised by the request to deliver what must be a private letter to be in ignorance of her affair.

  ‘You know?’ Again the green eyes stared into May’s brilliant blue orbs.

  May could not lie. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’ The word burst from Emily, and she reddened. ‘Everyone? The whole of London? Who?’

  ‘No, no.’ May put out a reassuring hand. ‘No. The servants. No-one else. Not yet. And now – not ever. No-one else shall know, I shall see to it. I will buy more silence than you can imagine. Please, rely on me for this. I am your friend. It will not go further than tittle-tattle and servants’ gossip below stairs and so on, truly. Put it from your mind.’

  Emily sighed. For all that she wished that she had not sinned, for all that she knew that God had punished her, and she had now lost Glendarvan and possibly every family treasure that she had ever loved, just seeing Barrymore’s name in her own writing across the envelope as she passed it to May had made her heart contract.

  The truth was that she had loved that passionate young man, and for a few hot afternoons she had been young again, and carefree. Even now, knowing how splendid that had been, how it had made her feet float and not touch the ground, how he had adored and loved her, how he had admired and worshipped her – even with Glendarvan gone she could not regret having loved him. She should, but she could not. She must, and yet again she did not. She would not be being honest if she did not admit at least to herself that she would never look back on that brief time without thrilling to it, knowing that it would never come again, that she would never feel so young again, be so much in possession of all her senses.

  ‘Do not groan so, Emily dearest, you will make another home.’ May was patting her back now, and Emily had not even been aware that she had made any sound.

  ‘Yes, I will. You are right.’

  Emily turned and walked to the door without looking back, wishing that she was as innocent and kind as May. Every step she took was as if her shoes were filled with lead, and every part of her body longed to be that letter which those hands would hold, that envelope which those fingers would unseal. She longed to be the very words that she had written to him just so that she could enjoy the passionate look in those brown eyes as he read, and thinking that he would hold the letter to his dear face to smell her scent and kiss her words she longed to be the paper too.

  She turned towards May at the door. ‘Goodbye. Take care of Edith, she’s a good girl at heart, you know. You will find that out.’

  May nodded, realising just a little of what Emily must be feeling but happy too that she could not feel it more exactly. Unmarried love was so painful, while married love brought so much happiness, such contentment, such security.

  There and then she resolved that she must find her son the same happiness as she and John had enjoyed. If she was right in her summary of Miss Edith O’Connor’s character, George might indeed find it with her.

  First of all firsts, she thought, already feeling a little less fraught on the carriage ride home, she must not at any turn praise Edith to George. There was nothing worse than the feeling that someone was being pushed towards you. That was the first of all firsts.

  And then again, she must be casual, she must not say ‘I cannot wait for you to meet the delightful Miss O’Connor’, rather the reverse. She would say something faintly damning, like ‘Poor little Miss O’Connor, such a tragedy. First she has no success so far in the Season, not being a beauty, and second she now has no home in Ireland because rogues have razed it to the ground.’

  That was how she would approach the whole matter of George and Edith O’Connor. Although, and here she had second thoughts, it would probably be far better if no-one apprised Edith O’Connor of the demise of the family home until after the Wokingham Costume Ball. Really, bad news could always wait, and it would only spoil the ball. Or, worse, Edith might return to Ireland before George’s mother had been able to introduce her to George.

  Daisy was still of a mind to throw in the towel, or whatever the horrid expression was, as far as Sarah Hartley Lambert, and indeed Mrs Hartley Lambert, was concerned. Not content with being the butt of this really silly remark – it could hardly be called an amusing joke – Sarah Hartley Lambert must now add fuel to the laughter it seemed, by riding out with Miss de Nugent and Miss O’Connor, all of them now tricked out in hats more suitable to the demi-monde than to nice young ladies.

  ‘What do vey think vey were doing, Jenkins?’ Daisy demanded. ‘Why, I hear vat even the King and Queen have heard about it, although vat I cannot believe, for surely even kings and queens have better things to do than listen to idle gossip about debutantes giggling in Rotten Row, do you not think?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘And you are quite right, Jenkins, as always. Kings and queens do have better things to do, so vat I cannot believe.’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  Daisy raised her chin in order to allow Jenkins to lower the great diamond necklace, once the property of her mother-in-law, and place it reverentially against Daisy’s skin. Then, slowly, oh so slowly, because old jewellery could be dreadfully chilly, she did up the clasp.

  Now they both stared with some satsifaction at the dull glow of those perfect old diamonds so beautifully placed around Daisy’s still elegant neck.

  ‘They are dear, are they not, Jenkins? These old diamonds are very dear. Dear old friends. And they do glow so, do they not? They are so old they are like old silver, which has a perfect dullness. Like perfect conversations which must always be a little on ve dull side in order to show up ve wit to come,
these diamonds are just a little on ve dull side until they catch the light, and then they really burst into life.’

  ‘They are perfect, my lady. Quite perfect. Especially around my lady’s neck.’

  ‘Well, who else’s neck would they go round, Jenkins, may I ask? Who else’s, please?’

  Jenkins looked sideways at Daisy in the looking glass. She knew just how jumpy her mistress was, and why. They had enjoyed little or no success with this latest American heiress, Sarah Hartley Lambert, and now, by all accounts, at least by Evans’s account, all three young ladies had made a dreadful stir. It seemed it was meant to be a prank to redeem Miss Sarah and squash the silly joke about her, but it had sadly backfired and now fashionable people everywhere had gone from mocking Miss Sarah to being outright shocked by her and her antics.

  Everyone knew that it really did not do to make exhibitions of themselves in purple and orange hats (everyone knew what kind of women wore either purple or orange), and as for trotting demurely down Rotten Row at the height of the fashionable hour wearing them, well, it was the kind of thing that, in her ladyship’s day at any rate, would have been enough to send the three of them packing.

  Happily one of them was rumoured to be engaged already, and the other had been taken under the wing of the Duchess of Wokingham, which was itself a social panacea – once under the protection of a duchess few debutantes had much to worry about.

  This left only Miss Sarah, Daisy’s protégée, in the centre once more of the very worst kind of attention.

  It was a headache and they both knew it, and now, tonight, it was the Duchess of Wokingham’s ball, and Daisy had to find dancing partners of a suitable nature for the young American girl whose mother was now threatening to return to Newport and close not only her doors but the doors of all her friends to Daisy. And that, Jenkins knew, they could frankly not afford. For a handful of London Seasons now her mistress had only just kept going, only just kept her beautiful head above water, with the help of the American heiresses and their mothers, and now it seemed only too likely that it was about to be all over.