The Season Page 8

  She curtsied. Her mother-in-law nodded, briefly, her eyes travelling from the rising figure of her daughter-in-law to a chair, after which a slight movement of the head indicated that May should be seated.

  May sat down, an elegant, slender figure, even to the Duchess’s eyes, and beautifully dressed in a tailored coat and skirt with a high-collared blouse, and shoes buttoned neatly to the side.

  ‘There is no news, as yet, for myself and the Duke?’

  ‘No, Duchess.’ May blushed, turning such a high colour that it seemed to her that even her toes inside their perfectly fitting shoes were scarlet.

  ‘That is a pity. But there is no need to panic, you know.’

  May stared hard at the carpet in front of her shoes. It was old, and she knew that a previous duchess, some hundred or so years before, bored to ribbons of the bad weather and being confined for weeks to the castle had, on a whim, supervised her servants while they painted it its present all too bright blue, thereby blotting out all the patterns, all the graceful swirls, all the decorations that had been so carefully hand-stitched into it by the Persians who had made it.

  ‘These things take time.’ The Duchess picked up a piece of paper and started to make a spill, looking at it absently as if it had no reality, but was merely something to aid the conversation. ‘John was not born for many, many months.’ She nodded again, and May, taking it for a nod of dismissal, stood up, curtsied again, and made thankfully for the door. But there was something more to come, and May realised that she had perhaps been a little previous when the Duchess spoke again, forcing May to turn back.

  ‘Just remember there is no privacy here at Castle Cordrey, my dear. Everything you do or say is seen, overhead, or noted. Living here is really more like being in the middle of a small town than a house. In time you will get used to it, but until then, take my advice and – note it well.’

  May almost fell into the corridor outside. She suddenly knew, without any doubt at all, that somehow or other the Duchess had come to know of her letter from Herbert Forrester. May could not have said how she knew, she just did – women’s second sight, or intuition, whatever it was. Someone had told her mother-in-law of Herbert’s plan for buying a small house, or love nest, for her, which meant, if it were indeed so, that there was no time to waste at all.

  May hurried off down the corridor, and within minutes was being helped by her maid into her third change of clothes that day. It would not be very surprising if her mother-in-law had been told about her plan. Anyone could have told her. Perhaps even the lawyer who had handled the purchase of Stilley Street.

  ‘My fur muff please, Watt, and hurry.’

  She turned at her bedroom door and smiled warmly at the maid. ‘And Watt?’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘I have no use for you this afternoon, so you may stay here at the castle. I wish to be quite alone. There must be some mending, and if there is not you may have the afternoon off.’

  ‘But my lady, Her Grace will not hear of you going anywhere alone. My instructions are quite explicit.’

  ‘I am going to find my husband, Watt. Not even Her Grace would see a need to take my maid to find my husband, would she, surely?’

  Watt hesitated. Part of her was quite willing to have the afternoon off, and the other part of her, the part that was in the pay of the Duchess, was in dread of missing something that she should be reporting back to her employer.

  ‘Very well, my lady. If you are just going to meet your husband, for a walk or some such?’

  ‘I am.’ May shot out of the door.

  ‘John!’ Outside she fairly pounced on the young Marquis as he emerged from the stables, a small terrier at his heels. ‘John, as soon as maybe, you must come with me. I have a surprise for you, my dearest.’

  John stared at his young, beautiful wife, the word ‘surprise’ engendering none in either his eyes or his face. May registered this, then thought: Oh, the agony of it. The eternal frustrating agony of the slowness of the male reaction to surprises. First the thought reaching the brain, then the suspicion that if it is a surprise it is bound to be a nasty one, and then, at last, and thank goodness, the well, all right look coming into the eyes as he is finally persuaded that he will allow himself to be surprised.

  ‘I must change if we are to go into York, dearest.’

  ‘Well, if you must you must, my darling, but do hurry, if you will.’

  May waited downstairs while John was changed by his valet, and Watt, spying on him, was satisfied to note that he did indeed join his wife in his street clothes, some half an hour after her ladyship had left her own bedroom.

  They were halfway across the great hall, hundreds of feet by hundreds of feet – exactly how many had never really interested May, only that it was desperately large and draughty – when John stopped and pulled May back.

  ‘If you have a surprise, so have I! A new team of greys, and I am going to drive them myself in the new carriage. We will fairly race along.’

  It was only a matter of a handful of miles to Stilley Street from the Castle, which meant that May could enjoy the journey. When they arrived at last she realised that any longer would have been too long.

  ‘Where are we?’

  Naturally, the arrival of such a smart turnout was drawing a great deal of attention, and the groom had not climbed down from the box, nor May out of the new carriage, before there was much pulling back of curtains at many windows, not to mention gatherings of small boys who stared and ran away, only to run back again, this time with a friend, and stare for a while longer.

  ‘We are in Stilley Street. I told you, John. Stilley Street.’

  ‘Yes, but why are we here?’

  May turned the key in the door, her face lit up with the joy of her own surprise, and the fun of the moment, her hair blown into clusters of curls, and her cheeks pink with the effects of the drive in the open carriage.

  ‘We are here’ – she pushed open the door and pulled John after her, shutting the door firmly behind them both – ‘for one reason, and one reason alone.’ John stared down at her, his expression suddenly both serious and wondering, looking quite the small boy. ‘We are here, John, to make love and be properly married, all alone, just the two of us, no-one else!’

  He stared at her for a further few seconds. ‘But this is not our house, May dearest. We should surely—’

  ‘No, it’s not our house, it’s my house, given to me by my old friend Herbert Forrester as a late wedding present, and I have brought you here for that single reason: to make love.’

  ‘But May dearest, it is the afternoon. We make love at night, don’t we?’

  Inwardly May sighed, but outwardly she smiled, and pulled her young husband up the stairs behind her.

  ‘Not any more we don’t, John. Not any more, dearest one!’

  After that, afternoon after afternoon, and in the most ingenious manner, with no comments to each other, and everything done by looks and signals, the two of them were able to slip away and escape to Stilley Street, where May was able, afternoon after afternoon, to demonstrate her domestic and other skills to her young husband.

  And of course John, being a young aristocrat brought up in a cosy nursery with a loving Yorkshire nanny, was transported back to the happy years of his childhood, as with feet up on the sitting room fender, and a plate full of slightly burnt tea cakes, May read to him, or sewed the first of what they both hoped were many small garments for their much longed-for baby.

  And so the time progressed, but so also did Watt’s reports to the Duchess, for May had, unfortunately, become all too skilled at losing her maid of an afternoon, and the maid, not seeing that the young Marquis was also absent, his valet being all too often after luncheon quite the worse for wear, was naturally forced to make her young mistress’s frequent absences from the castle known to the Duchess.

  ‘Thank you, Watt.’

  The Duchess always gave the maid some small token for her troubles. Today it was a thi
n, old gold and turquoise bracelet. She did not believe in giving money. It was too little for knowing so much.

  Later that evening, she sent for her son. The Duchess did not ever ask for anyone, she always ‘sent for’ someone.

  John, reluctant to leave the company of his wife in their private apartments, nevertheless went immediately.

  His mother was a very good-looking woman. Every time he saw her John appreciated her looks, and her refinement, her air of having been sculpted, not to be put in the Long Gallery along with the other statues, but to stay, still, and perfect, in her life, exactly as she was. Even her cheek or her hand, if he touched them, would, he knew, be as cold as marble. When he was with his mother he could never imagine something quite as human as a baby emerging from her. Indeed, it seemed quite impossible.

  ‘John. I am afraid I have sorry news for you.’

  ‘Really, Mama?’

  ‘Yes, John, sorry news indeed.’

  John’s eyes roved around the room in which they were seated. Mentally he counted how many of his mother’s pugs were present, but finding every one of them not only present but also alive he put aside the idea that one of them must have died. Coming to the conclusion therefore that the ‘sorry news’ must be the death of an old servant, or some relative, or an old friend, he waited in some dread.

  ‘As you know, John, when you married May, I was in some trepidation, although I said nothing to your father. It was not just that she had been an actress, she was not used to our ways. Women like May are not like us. They just do not have the breeding, they do not understand our way of life. And no sooner are they married than they turn back to being how they were before.’

  John, who now loved his wife more, if anything, than ever before – and when he thought about the fun that they had enjoyed at Stilley Street these past months he realised it was with good reason – now felt his expression changing from anxiety to amazement. What was his mama talking about, if anything?

  ‘My wife is both beautiful and virtuous, Mama, and I am more than happy with her. I am ecstatic, particularly at this moment, in fact, most particularly.’

  ‘That is you all over, John dearest.’ The Duchess put out a thin, cold hand and touched her son on his warm one. ‘You cannot see anything but good in anyone. You were ever like that, and always will be, for, for some reason that we cannot know, you have been blessed with a golden nature. But other people, I am sorry to say, take a terrible advantage of good men like yourself, John. I am dreadfully afraid that your poor young wife might be one of them.’

  John Cordrey’s mouth fell open, and he went to say something, but, not being able to quite assemble his appalled thoughts and form words, for a second or two he just stared at his mother in utter silence, until, finally, one word burst from him. ‘Balderdash!’

  It was of course quite shocking to swear in that way in front of his mother, but he was past caring. His darling May was everything to John and, as far as he was concerned, if May was not there, if anything happened to May, he had really rather not go on living.

  ‘I am sorry to say it is nothing of the sort, my dearest son.’

  The Duchess was full of aplomb. She knew and trusted her servants to be telling the truth. It would not pay them, after all, to do anything else. And the fact that her dearly beloved son had been fooled by an ex-actress was just too bad. Something would have to be done to get rid of her, and soon. Divorce being unthinkable, they would just have to come up with a way of setting the marriage aside for some technical reason.

  ‘May and I have never been happier, Mama. In fact, we are so happy that we have some good news for you and Papa, news for which you have been waiting. May is to give birth next year. We were hoping to save the news until your birthday, but, since you sent for me, now must be the time I tell you. May not virtuous? Who has been telling you such hogie-pogie? One of the servants has been spying again, I suppose. Well, servants are as servants must be, particularly if you are in charge of them, Mama! You should not grease their palms the way you do, it makes for temptation, I always think.’

  But the Duchess would not be swayed by what she saw as her son’s petulance. ‘This – expectation – cannot be acknowledged as yours, must not be acknowledged as yours. Lady Cordrey has been seen escaping from the castle almost every afternoon for what are now known to be secret trysts. A letter was intercepted, in which that patron of hers has promised to give her a “love nest”. I think that was the phrase that was used, or some other such vulgarity.’

  ‘The secret trysts were with her husband, Mama.’ If the situation had not been so emotional, and if he had not been so angry, John could have laughed out loud at the expression on his mother’s face as he said this. ‘That is the truth.’ It was his mother’s turn to stare at him as he went on. ‘May, because she was having trouble conceiving un petit quelque chose, and because we are always so overlooked here, instead conceived the idea that we could have our own little love nest: a proper home such as normal people enjoy. That was her plan, and Forrester went along with it, because he always has her best interests at the centre of his generous heart. He knew that if he bought May and me a little home of our own he would be freeing us from the stuffy atmosphere of the castle, and allowing us time to ourselves, as all young couples must have, Mama. And how right he was and, as you now know, a happy outcome has resulted. So, Mama, far from wishing to be rid of my actress wife, I have found that she is indeed a pearl among women, a rare flower, a person of honesty, and, what is more important, wise beyond her years. So, Mama, on hearing this news, perhaps it is time you discovered the same thing?’

  After which speech John kissed his mother on her smooth, cold, white cheek, bowed to her, and left her still seated, the fire dying in the grate, her pugs snoring, and her daughter-in-law the winner in the first, and he profoundly hoped the last, battle with his mother.

  * * *

  But all that was long, long ago, and nowadays May even missed the old Duchess, having discovered, as the young must always do, that she had, in so many ways, been all too right about all too many things.

  Not that May could ever bring herself to spy on her children, or keep their servants in her private pay – she was just not that kind of person – but she did understand that she had to be always on her toes, always aware of what was going on, or, worse, what might be going to happen.

  Everything in a house as large as the castle was a matter of import. If one mouse was allowed to breed, then a whole attic of invaluable inheritance might be destroyed in one winter. If one maid was made pregnant and it went unnoticed, there might be an outbreak of immoral behaviour among the lower servants. If a butler was found to be drinking far too much (all butlers drank – they would not stay if their employers did not turn a blind eye to this), then this over-indulgence might spread to the footmen. It was a matter of constant vigilance, at all times, of that there was no doubt.

  And there was no doubt at all either that now she was the chatelaine of Cordrey Castle May looked back in gratitude to her mother-in-law’s stern disciplines, to her deep appreciation of order, to her belief that what was done today made sense of what happened in the future. In time, and now that time did not seem as far away as it once had, in time her son George would be bringing home his wife, and it would be May’s turn to show her how things had to be done, not by words, but by example.

  With this in mind, May made a note on the little gold pad that accompanied her from boudoir to breakfast table, and from breakfast table to dinner table, to ask John to take her to Stilley Street. There they could be young once more, or make believe that they were, until George brought home a wife, when the little house would, she hoped, come into its own once more and greet a new generation of lovers.

  Sea Breezes

  Occasionally when Edith O’Connor stood on the corner of a London street, waiting for her maid to catch her up – Minnie was so slow, her feet being afflicted with arthritis – she would try to imagine that the slight breeze and
the light rain that were coming towards her, making her bend beneath her umbrella in order to keep her hat from running off down the street, were the wind and the spray from the Atlantic Ocean driving towards her on some windy day in Galway city.

  Coming to England from Ireland had been a shock, not just because she had to leave behind the younger children, not just because she missed her dogs and her horses, but because in England she felt so alien, and above all so Irish. At home, in Ireland, at Glendarvan, she felt English in comparison say to Minnie, but in England now she felt as Irish as Minnie. Indeed, she felt as though they were not mistress and maid at all, but compatriots in a foreign land.

  And of course it was not just the younger children and the animals that she missed, she dearly missed the lilt of Irish voices, particularly of an afternoon when they all went walking or riding and would be forever stopping and talking with anyone and everybody. And too she missed the ever open doors of the cottages with the babble of sound coming from inside as you rode past; and the sound of laughter, too. And she missed the humour of the people, for despite the agonies of the previous fifty years Ireland was as full of humour still, as England, it seemed to Edith, was full of snobbery.

  Great heavens, she even missed Papa’s strangely dressed friends always arriving at all hours to discuss some matter of moment, or to read their poetry at him, or to do something strange like try out a spell on one of Mama’s hens, or send a book from the library to Galway and back. There was always something supernatural, or a sporting event, or some new personality of the day to talk about, always something happening at Glendarvan, never, ever, a dull moment, such as now, in London, with the constant sway of people passing who never stopped and smiled at you, never turned their heads, unless a carriage passed them by with some swanky coat of arms on the door, or some newly attired lady of easy virtue swept by with horses waving yellow plumes pulling her carriage, or something vulgar of that nature.