Circles of Time (11 page)

While the maid searched the closet for the dress, Hanna parted the window curtains again. Alexandra, nurse, and child could no longer be seen. They were somewhere on the gravel paths in the green tunnels of the trees, just one of many groups of mothers, nursemaids, and prams.

“Oh, it's lovely!” the maid exclaimed, holding the silk dress up to a shaft of sunlight. “You will look a picture in it.”

She looked beautiful, the pale green suiting her complexion, the new length and simplicity of design complimenting her figure. The earl, taking coffee in the morning room, was quick to remark on it as she walked in. He had just returned from his daily ride in Hyde Park and was in a euphoric mood after an hour's hard canter along Rotten Row.

“You certainly look radiant this morning, Hanna. New frock?”

“Yes. From Harcourt in Paris. Do you like it?”

“Stunning, I must say. Had your breakfast?”

“Tea and toast.”

He made a clucking sound. “Tea and toast is hardly what I'd call a breakfast. Cook is preparing grilled kidneys, gammon, shirred eggs, and stewed tomatoes.”

“Sounds intimidating. I have my figure to think of—or what's left of it.”

“Nothing wrong with your figure, dear girl.”

“You're just being gallant.”

She opened the French doors and inhaled the subtle perfume from the rose garden. The open doors flooded the room with light. It was the most pleasant room in the house, she was thinking as she turned back to face it. White and soft yellow gold. Golden-oak flooring, a blue and saffron Persian carpet, pale blue and dusty rose upholstery. The four Renoirs on the wall accenting the colors. It seemed a sacrilege to feel unhappy in such an exquisite space.

“You slept badly last night,” she said. “I could hear you pacing your room.”

He cleared his throat and retrieved the newspaper, opening it and raising its folds like a shield. “Had a spot of indigestion. The lobster, I expect. Too warm for shellfish. You must have been sleeping poorly yourself to have heard me.”

“I've been a bit restless the past few weeks.”

“Oh? I'll give Merton a ring. He'll have the chemist send over something. A sleeping draft, perhaps.”

“Yes. That might help.”

“Bound to, my love. Bound to.”

“Love” was not an idle word. They had loved one another from their first meeting. But a gulf had been growing between them. It had begun during the war when the first irrational hatred of Germany and the Boche had swept England like a plague. For the first time in their lives they had found it necessary to avoid touching on certain subjects so as to avoid rancor. By an unexpressed agreement she never mentioned her concern for her numerous, and much loved, relatives in Germany. And he did not verbalize his wish that
all
Germans, her cousins or otherwise, should be blown from the face of the earth by British shells.

As the war had progressed year by year into increasing frightfulness, as the casualty lists bloated past all human understanding, other differences had grown between them. She became sympathetic toward the pacifist movement and its goal to end the war at any price. He endorsed the more popular attitude of war to the knife. But these opposite beliefs were never discussed for fear of destroying that one constant value in a vortex of chaos—their love for each other. They had, unwittingly and foolishly, woven a habit of avoiding the unpleasant by discoursing on the superficial. It was a habit to which they still adhered. Alexandra's return from Canada had sent them retreating into private reflections on the matter, with only infrequent and brief clashes over its numerous ramifications. The morning sunlight streaming into the room could not penetrate their separate shells.

“There was a murder in Bournemouth, of all places,” the earl said. “A sordid little affair involving a chauffeur and a rich widow.”

“Who murdered whom?”

“He did her in—for forged gain in a will. He'll swing for it, I suppose. Waste of a good driver.”

A footman brought in the mail, separated it on the hall table, and carried two round silver trays bearing envelopes into the breakfast room. The letters addressed to Lady Stanmore far outnumbered those for the earl. Early in 1919, Paul Rilke had written from Chicago to gleefully inform his sister that the net profits of various companies—which Paul controlled and in which she owned substantial shares—had come to several million dollars in fiscal 1918. The news had shocked her to the bone. Because most of the money had been earned by the manufacture of shell casings, cannon mounts, machine-gun barrels, and bomb racks for airplanes, she had suffered nightmares for a week, seeing in her dreams ditches filled with the bony cadavers of men who had died for no greater purpose than to increase her bank account. Her impulse had been to give her share of the profits to charity, but her fortune was not hers to control. Her millions were managed by her husband, or locked into a trust set up by her father before his death in 1902 and administered by a consortium of law firms and banks in Chicago and London. The best she had been able to do was to persuade Anthony and the trustees to increase her personal allowance by thirty thousand pounds a year. She gave this money to a variety of organizations dedicated to the welfare of wounded soldiers or to the destitute families of dead ones. As the honorary chairwoman of half a dozen charities, her daily mail was prodigious.

The earl finished a second helping of grilled kidney and gammon rashers, poured himself another cup of tea, and began to open his slight pile of envelopes.

“Note from Dick Bates. Wishes you well. Says he saw a five-year-old jumper at Tattersall's that I might be interested in. Thinks I could get him for sixty guineas.”

Hanna sifted through her mail, most of the envelopes bearing the imprints of various charities. She put those to one side and opened the remainder.

“We've been invited to a cocktail party at Bouchard's on Thursday evening,” she said.

“Bouchard's?”

“The gallery in Old Burlington Street. A showing of contemporary art to raise money for the Slade.”

“I'm not overly fond of contemporary art—or the Slade School, for that matter. I don't know why we should teach the artists of this country to paint like Frenchmen. There hasn't been a decent painting out of Paris since nineteen six.”

“And a short letter from Martin,” she said. “He's been having trouble reaching us on the telephone. I thought the damage to the cable had been fixed.”

The earl snorted loudly. “Oh, it's been fixed, all right! I ask for a number in the city and get connected to a fishmonger in Clerkenwell! Of course it's just like the Irish, isn't it? Sinn Feiners go through all that bloody trouble and risk only to slash a cable serving Marylebone and Regent's Park! Hardly a devastating blow against the crown, I must say.”

“Odd he should write. I was thinking of him last night. I came across a snapshot in my dresser drawer.”

“Of Martin?”

“No. A snap Alex sent us from France. She and Ivy Thaxton in front of a hospital tent. They're both in uniform and smart as paint. Ivy was such a pretty girl.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Quite so.” Ivy Thaxton. He recalled her vaguely—but then, he had only known her when she had been one of the many housemaids at the Pryory before the war. He had never seen her again after she had left his service to become a nurse, except in a photograph or two that Alex had enclosed in letters. Never had the chance to know her in a different light. His daughter's servant in Abingdon, her best friend in France. Martin's wife. All of those events taking place in another world—the brief and tragic democracy of the battle zone. “What does Martin have to say?”

“Oh, nothing very much. He apologizes for having been too busy with his new job to call on us. Would like to drop by this Sunday if we're home. I'll tell him to come for dinner.”

“I might go down to the house on Friday.”

“But you'd be back by Sunday noon, surely.” Her tone implied that she expected him no later than that.

C
OATSWORTH REMEMBERED HIM—BUT
then, the old butler remembered every face he had ever seen.

“It's good to see you again, Mr. Rilke.”

“As it is to see you, Coatsworth. It's been a few years.”

“Nineteen seventeen, if I'm not mistaken, sir. At the Park Lane house.”

“You have a good memory.”

The butler smiled as he took Martin's panama hat and placed it on the side table in the hall. “My memory is about the only thing that functions properly these days.”

“You look just fine to me.”

“Appearances are deceiving, I'm sorry to say.” He shuffled toward the finely etched glass doors that separated the marble-walled foyer from the main hallway. “His Lordship is expecting you in the study.”

Martin found the earl measuring gin and French vermouth into a crystal and silver cocktail shaker. A small book lay open beside him on the oak sideboard.

“Hello, Martin,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as Martin came into the room. “I hope I have this right. Three parts gin to one part French …” He peered down at the book. “Stir well with plenty of ice … serve in chilled glasses … add twist of lemon peel, and garnish with an olive before serving. An olive? Whatever for? It's an American recipe, of course. Rather heavy-handed with ice, vegetables, and things.”

He stirred the mixture with a long-handled silver spoon and then poured some into two small glasses, handing one to Martin.

“The new martini cocktail, the book says. Just good old gin and French as far as I can see, except heavier on the gin.” He took a sip. “Not bad. Quite smooth, in fact. I can't for the life of me see how a chunk of ice would improve it. But if you'd prefer …”

“Oh, no,” Martin said, raising his glass. “This is fine.” He suppressed a smile as he thought of what the bartender at the American Bar in Paris would have said about lukewarm gin and vermouth. “To your health, sir.”

“And to yours, Martin. It's been donkey's years since we had a drink together.”

“It was down at Abingdon—and the drink was port.”

“Yes, about all one drank in those days, except for a glass of Highland malt. Although, to tell the truth, I rather enjoy these new cocktails—I find them quite challenging to prepare.” He savored another small swallow. “I never had the chance to congratulate you on winning that …”—he groped for the name of it—“Pulitzer thing.”

“I was surprised to get it.”

“I'm quite sure you deserved it, Martin. How do you like your new job?”

“Very much, so far. Quite a challenge.”

“Yes, I'm sure it is, but then you're so bloody good at what you do. I read all of your Versailles sketches in the
Guardian
, by the way. Bang on the mark. The one on little Orlando still sticks in the mind. I suppose the poor fellow is out the back door now that this chap Mussolini is running things.”

“Yes,” Martin said, gazing down at his martini. “Yesterday's news.”

“Fate trips up fools, doesn't it? What a Caesar he thought he was.” He turned toward the French doors. “It's beastly hot in here. Might as well take our drinks into the garden and wait for your aunt to join us. We'll be dining alfresco, which should be pleasant. Do you know it was over eighty today? Think of that. It's more normal for an English July to be struck by hailstones than sun.”

It was seven o'clock and the sun still had a bite to it. The roses seemed overblown and soggy with heat. Petals littered the ground, and the earl crushed their perfume into the warm soil with the toe of his shoe.

“Plays havoc with the gardening. I was down at Abingdon for a couple of days. The landscapers are there and all that rain we had has been baked out of the ground.”

“Aunt Hanna told me you were rebuilding the place. How's it coming along?”

“Nearly complete,” he said moodily. “Be fit for habitation in a month.”

“And you'll be moving down there?”

“I suppose we will. Your aunt's not overjoyed at the idea. Did she mention that?”

“No.”

He touched a rose, the petals flaking away in his hand. “She's—concerned about the size. It's a big house and we're not exactly the largest family in the world. Still, what with guests and all, we won't be rattling around in it like two peas in a colander as she fears. I'll be getting the stables and kennels up to snuff and reactivating the Abingdon hunt. The district's swarming with foxes. There's been no hunting since the war. Did you ever learn to ride, Martin?”

“Never had the chance.” Again he suppressed a smile. “What with one thing or another.”

“Pity. But the war's behind you now. Time to learn the pursuits of peace. There's a joy to riding to hounds that's difficult to explain. Still, whether you ride or not, you'll always find a room waiting for you at the Pryory.” He drained his glass and reached for Martin's. “Let's have a smahan more, shall we?”