Authors: Fay Weldon
The New Countess (28 page)
‘But they may in future,’ said Anthony, ‘if we have the likes of timorous Spencer not Sporty Eddie to hold back the great tide of public outrage.’
‘In the meantime, Rosina,’ said William, ‘I do think it would be wiser to heal the quarrel with your mother at your earliest convenience. We need friends in high places more than ever.’
‘It’s hardly a quarrel, William. It’s a clash of values,’ protested Rosina. ‘The Philistines against the Aesthetics.’
‘Too right, mate. Too right,’ squawked Pappagallo from his perch.
‘Oh, be quiet, be quiet,’ said Rosina. Since she had found happiness with Diana she gave poor Pappagallo far less consideration than once she had. ‘And I sincerely hope my book was published because of the value of its contents rather than because of my relatives.’
‘But of course it was,’ said William.
‘And the speed of its publication, and the consequent failure to check various facts and figures, has nothing at all to do with the timing of the King’s visit,’ said Anthony, ‘and even less to do with vulgar commerce. Or indeed that a daughter of a peer of the Realm has taken it into her little head to write of masturbation amongst the natives of Australia. Nothing at all.’
‘Oh Anthony, do stop trying to make trouble,’ pleaded Diana. ‘Poor Rosina. One must be allowed to shake off the shackles of family.’
‘Too right! Too right!’ squawked Pappagallo.
‘Oh do be quiet, bird,’ said Rosina. ‘This is serious.’
‘That’s not what Digby tells me,’ remarked Anthony. ‘Rosina is not interested in shaking off family shackles – she pops off to see her papa every now and then, when he can find time away from The Cardinal’s Hat. Don’t you, Rosina?’
‘Digby?’ asked Rosina, confused. ‘“The Cardinal’s Hat”?’
‘Anthony, you are too bad,’ said William. ‘Giving away our girlish secrets! There’s no reason for disquiet, Rosina. Digby is your father’s new valet and a Special Branch informer, but our informer too. You find yourself in print because I have the greatest faith in your literary ability and academic prowess, and an encomium from Seebohm Rowntree has helped greatly with this latter, if only because of his father’s august name.’
‘My left foot!’ said Anthony. ‘As the servants say.’
‘Oh Anthony,’ said Diana. ‘Stop trying to upset everyone. As for you, William, I think it would be more prudent if you did not spend the night here.’
‘You spend all your nights with Rosina,’ said William.
‘But nobody will think of closing us down because of it,’ said Diana. ‘We are women, not inverts or anarchists, and therefore above suspicion. Or at any rate, being women, not worthy of it. Though if Havelock goes on writing about female sexuality I don’t know how long for.’
‘What I would really like,’ said William, ‘is a poached egg – two, perhaps – on toast. Talk can be the death of appetite. How about you, Anthony? An egg or two to give us strength against the women?’
‘That is a very good idea,’ said Anthony. ‘Poached, I think, with just a little vinegar in the water. But not too much or else the whites go brown and disgusting. Will you do the honours, Diana?’
‘No I will not,’ said his sister. ‘I may be your dogsbody, but I will not be your slave.’
‘Perhaps you would then, dear Rosina?’ asked Anthony. ‘Do stop brooding. I daresay your father only goes to The Cardinal’s Hat to write his speeches. We fellows need nourishment. Do I not house you, advise you, shelter your runaway in-laws – is this not worth poaching an egg for?’
Rosina did not have the opportunity to consider her reply, which might well have taken some time. It was at this tense moment, at a quarter to nine in the morning, that there came a loud banging on the door, imperious and demanding immediate attention. The forces of authority were at the gate and would not be denied. Anthony moved slowly to the door; the others wiped crumbs from their mouths and hastily composed their faces to show no panic, merely a mild curiosity. Even before Anthony could get there the door burst open, the wood kicked in, any locks and bolts overcome by a splintering violence, and a uniformed Inspector Strachan and six of his Special Branch men crowded in, spread to the rooms at the back of the house, and made the upstairs safe. All had Webley revolvers at the ready. The four occupants were corralled at their single table.
‘Oh dear,’ said William, stage-whispering behind his hand. ‘How very fierce! But what gorgeous young men!’
‘Better you didn’t say anything, sir,’ said the Inspector, in a quite kindly manner. He must have had ears on the back of his head. He spoke with an accent that was almost educated but not quite. ‘We are not in a frame of mind for joking. The national interest is at stake.’
‘Not to mention my mother’s peace of mind,’ said Rosina.
‘That is quite uncalled for, Rosina,’ said Anthony. ‘National security must be preserved at any cost. Please do what you must, Inspector. And as for you, William, please restrain your levity. I think you would be well advised not to aggravate our guests. You are one yourself, after all, having just dropped by for breakfast.’
‘Mr Anthony Robin, I believe,’ said the Inspector, with infinite courtesy, ‘and your friend Mr William Brown of Longman’s publishing house?’
Anthony agreed that this was so. The girls, shocked and surprised, stayed silent. The Inspector said he was not interested in friendships on this particular occasion, just the nature and source of various possibly obscene publications which were causing concern. To this end his men would be taking away such papers and records as appeared relevant to their investigations and would do as little damage as they could during the search. It was, as it happened, a thorough search: the sofa was ripped open and examined, various floor and ceiling boards levered open, and boxes of correspondence, manuscripts, both in handwriting and typed, bills, receipts and so on, loaded into cardboard boxes and carted off to a waiting police van which Rosina could see from the window. A blanket was roughly nailed in the door space to hide what was going on from the outside world. It did not keep the cold out. It was midday before they left.
‘There goes January’s edition,’ said Anthony. ‘I shall of course call my solicitor.’
‘You are more than welcome,’ said the Inspector. ‘And I hope you realize there is nothing personal in our actions; that this is done in the national interest.’
‘Oh, obviously,’ said Anthony.
‘As it happens,’ said the Inspector, ‘I don’t think you have very much to worry about.’ He waited until the last of his men were gone. ‘But just a word to the wise from me. It occurs to me that if Lady Rosina and Mr Brown were to marry – both I believe are currently unmarried – it would save a great deal of unpleasantness all round. Much is allowed to the married that is not permitted to the unmarried. Many problems would be solved at a stroke. And do get your door fixed, Mr Robin – known as Redbreast, I believe? – Holloway Brothers in Belvedere Street are the people to go to. We use them all the time.’
He smiled, a rather charming and friendly smile, and left.
15th December 1905, Dilberne Court
To be loved by a king is a wonderful thing. Alice Keppel lived in a cloud of loveliness: her step light, her head held high, every wisp of her auburn hair the thicker, every glance of her great blue eyes the kinder and more generous, because of that love. Even the ropes of pearls which hung from her long, alabaster neck seemed to gleam the more lustrously, imbued as they were with so great a confidence, tranquillity and joy. She kept the pearls to a minimum that day, Friday 15
th
December 1905, when she arrived with her husband George at Dilberne Court. They were, after all, ‘slumming it’. After the glories of Chatsworth, Blenheim, Hatfield, Sandringham and the rest, Dilberne was as nothing. But the King got on with the Earl, trusted him as a confidant, liked his company, looked forward to his weekend’s sport and that was that.
So Mrs Keppel came in friendliness and kindness, eager to enjoy her weekend with the King, and wore only one rope of pearls on her arrival, the better to keep the Countess in countenance. Alice remembered Isobel as wearing a rather dull and rather thick navy
moiré
too hot for a summer’s day when they had met at Newmarket, and did not want to outshine her. She brought only one lady’s maid with her, though she still needed six trunks for the four days – and her own electric smoothing iron in case Dilberne Court could provide nothing but flat irons, though some swore they made a better job of starched blouses than did gas or electric. But Agnes her maid was able to assure Alice that the irons at Dilberne were modern, and well-padded, collapsible ironing boards were provided. That was better than Sandringham where the irons were flat, rusty and left marks on fine linen. George her husband brought a valet, his guns, his two Labradors and little else but his handsome, benign and affable self.
Mrs Keppel needn’t have bothered to dress down. As she came out to greet her guests Lady Isobel Dilberne was prettily attired in a rose-coloured woollen suit with a suede appliqué collar in pink and even an aspiration to frivolity in a cluster of yet pinker ribbons on the jacket shoulders which, Alice thought, augured well. What Alice feared most was dullness. The men would be out shooting from early morning until dusk: the ladies would join them for lunch but otherwise would be in each other’s company during daylight hours. At least Ripon’s wife Constance was to be there: Constance knew any number of interesting people, artists and writers, though her husband, poor girl, was the most boring man in the world, interested only in shooting birds and known by the King, at his most jovial, as Ripon 29 p.m. – short for twenty-nine pheasants per minute, once upon a time his record bag at Sandringham.
Alice had brought her little girl Sonia with her, charming in her fur muff and tiny fur boots. Sonia was barely five, and so Alice, accompanied by Isobel, went up with her immediately to the nursery, which Alice was relieved to see was well-kept and warmed. One never knew with other people’s nurseries what one would encounter. Some kept their children less comfortable than their horses. But here there was a splendid rocking horse, with a great quantity of toys and a small boy a year or so younger than Sonia playing happily amongst them. A pleasant nursemaid, Molly, young but competent, took them in charge after Isobel had introduced the little boy as ‘Edgar, the son and heir’. This Alice thought slightly strange, as Isobel was obviously the grandmother.
‘His mother has gone to visit her parents in Chicago,’ Isobel explained, in her sweet, cool voice, ‘I am fortunate enough to be
in loco parentis
.’
Alice had heard something rather different; that the Viscountess was being divorced from the Viscount for adultery and had been trying to kidnap her children and carry them off to Chicago, but the plot had been foiled by Mr Strachan of the King’s security team. She had heard this from the King, who had been informed in person by Mr Strachan, so she assumed it to be true. But the world did not live by truth alone so she contented herself with saying: ‘What a delightful child!’ which was true enough, and Alice supposed that keeping his company would not in any way brush off on Sonia, though one did not normally seek out the company of the children of the divorced, or about to be divorced. Isobel preened and glowed at the compliment, and little Sonia made it clear that she approved of Master Edgar – the latter clearly had something of the legendary charm of his grandfather the Earl of Dilberne; the ladies fell instantly under his spell – so Alice Keppel and Isobel took their way back to the drawing room together.
‘And I hear your son is doing so well in the world of motor cars,’ said Mrs Keppel.
‘Oh, indeed, he is,’ said Isobel. ‘Arthur is sorry not to be here for the weekend. He has to be in New York, discussing next year’s Auto Cup with William Vanderbilt. There were no British cars entered this year. Such a pity.’
It had been the second permitted automobile race on Long Island, and was so noisy, dirty and dangerous an event, and caused such a row, there wasn’t likely to be another. Poor Vanderbilt, thought Alice, who knew everything about everyone. Really, Isobel! Be more subtle about your lies. Certainly your son Arthur is not here, and when the King comes calling most family members bother to be around: but perhaps he is in Chicago trying to steal back his younger son, whom we know to have gone with his mother?
But – with a smile even sweeter than Isobel, and the more good-natured because she was loved by, and loved, the King, and had no reason to be catty or mean – all Alice said was:
‘Ah, William Vanderbilt, dear Consuelo’s father. Such an excellent man, putting so much effort into the automobile industry. And it’s thanks to entrepreneurs like your son Arthur that soon our British cars will equal the German Daimlers and the French de Dions in speed and grace. And I suppose he’ll be bringing back little Minnie with him? Such a sweet girl!’
‘Of course,’ said Isobel, ‘such a sweet girl!’ Neither pursued the matter.
It was nearly the shortest day of the year, and the dusk was closing in. Servants – there seemed to be any number of them – switched on electric lights as they came down the rather magnificent stairs. The banisters and floors gleamed with the softness of lovingly-polished old oak; though the new white stair carpets struck Alice as impractical – all very well in London but the country was so muddy it would need a full-time maid to keep them brushed and clean – and entirely out of keeping with the house, which was more Jacobean than Palladian, though as with all these old houses it was hard to tell where one style began and another ended. Alice caught her breath as she entered the drawing room.
‘What a charming, charming room, Isobel,’ said Alice Keppel, though in truth she thought it was perfectly dreadful. You could not, should not, try and teach these old houses to play new tricks. Better to leave them as they were, replace a worn rug or so, have a few old paintings cleaned, get rid of heavy Victoriana and leave the centuries to speak for themselves. But here were bare white walls, newly plastered, no central chandelier, the glare of modern lighting, family portraits replaced by strange modern ones, hideous yellow bamboo furniture, flower arrangements which turned out to be made of satin – vulgar, vulgar, vulgar – and more of the white carpets; nothing wooden, wormy or black with age, or faded, or worn thin. Nothing of the past, in fact, had been allowed to remain, and yet the Dilbernes derived nobility, standing and wealth from the past. How did the Earl stand it? He must love his wife very much – though the King said the Earl was currently entangled with a South American girl who was causing the Intelligence Service some anxiety. It had even looked for a time that his own visit to Sussex might be postponed.