Dark Angel (52 page)

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. I don’t think it is.”

“Maybe it’s happiness.” Steenie’s voice was returning to normal. He risked a look into Wexton’s eyes. “I think it is. Extreme, sudden—happiness.” He paused. “Also a heart attack of a kind. Because of course I love you. I love you madly, Wexton. Totally. Irresistibly.” He leaned across the table and took Wexton’s hands in his. He looked into Wexton’s kind and melancholy eyes.

“I know what you must think.” Steenie began to speak very fast. “You must think I’m very affected. And frivolous. Featherbrained. Idiotic. Superficial. I expect you do think that, don’t you?”

“No.”

“I’m not like that really. I know I sound like it, but that’s mostly camouflage. Well, not entirely. I exaggerate—I know I do. But words are so approximate anyway that one might just as well, don’t you think? What did you just say?”

“I said ‘no.’”

“Oh, God. Would you mind saying it again?”

“No,” Wexton repeated in an obliging manner. He had finished the cream bun. He drank his tea, then poured more, a cup for Steenie, one for himself. Steenie watched him do this with delight.

“Wexton. That tea is far too strong. I’m sure they don’t drink tea like that in Virginia. You could stand up a spoon in it. It’s perfectly disgusting.”

“I like it.”

“I shall always love you, you know.” Steenie’s grip on Wexton’s hands—already attracting some attention from neighboring tables—tightened.

“I shall love you, Wexton, forever and ever, world without end. Anything else is unthinkable. Oh. You don’t believe me. I can tell.”

“Let’s wait and see.”

“No. Absolutely not. You must believe me
now
.”

“Right now?” Wexton gave him a sad and yet benevolent smile.

“
Right
now.”

“Okay. I believe you now. Shall we get the check?”

“The check?”

“The bill.”

“Can I come back to your flat?”

“Sure.”

“Will you read me some more of your poems?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Will you tell me you love me again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve said it once. Once is enough.”

“I might need reassuring.”

“Too bad.”

When they reached the street outside, Steenie capered. The sun shone. The streets were crowded. Steenie would not have cared had it poured with rain, but the fine weather pleased him nonetheless. The elements were on his side. They knew he was in love.

“Do you think,” he began, stopping dancing, taking Wexton’s arm, and falling into step beside him as they turned into the King’s Road. “Do you think other people are in love like us, Wexton? I’m sure they’re not. No one else could possibly be this happy—don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Wexton began cautiously. “We haven’t cornered the world’s supply. I guess there’s some left over.”

“Nonsense. Who?”

“Well.” Wexton considered. “Lots of people. Your mother and father, for instance. They love each other in their way. Your aunt Maud and that man Stern—she’s crazy about him—”

“Aunt Maud? She’s as tough as old boots. She couldn’t be crazy about anyone—”

“Then there’s Jane—”

“Jane? You’re mad.”

“She’s engaged, isn’t she?”

“Oh, God, yes. But she doesn’t love Boy. You’d know if you saw them together. She
likes
him, yes. And she used to be mad about Acland.”

“Acland?” Wexton appeared interested.

“Oh, that was ages ago. It’s probably worn off. All she thinks about now is hospitals.” Steenie gave a few more capers and prances. He shot Wexton a look of triumph.

“You see? You’re failing miserably. Not one single candidate. No one to touch us. Who else had you in mind? Freddie? Poor old Freddie—he always seems at such a loss.”

“No. Not Freddie.”

“Who then? Admit it. You’ve failed.”

“Any of the people here.” Wexton waved a hand in a vague manner at the people who passed. “Any one of them. At any time. That’s the way it is.”

“Them?” Steenie dismissed the passers-by with one lordly wave of the hand. “They don’t count. We don’t know them.”

“Okay. I give up.”

“Just us?”

“If you like.”

“I
knew
it.” Steenie gave a happy sigh.

They walked on a little way in silence. They turned into Wexton’s street. At the corner Steenie gave Wexton a sideways glance.

“Of course, there is someone we left out. Neither of us mentioned Constance.”

“That’s true.”

“After all, everyone’s waiting for Constance to fall in love. Or to be married, anyway. That’s what the ball was all about. So maybe we should have considered Constance. How odd that we didn’t.”

“It’s not odd at all. It’s because neither of us can imagine …”

“Constance loving someone?”

“Yes. She might
think
she did. She might talk herself into it.”

“She could
hate,
I think.” Steenie paused. “Yes, I can see Constance doing that. It’s quite a frightening thought.”

“She’s frightening altogether.”

“Do you think so?” Steenie stopped. “I suppose she is, in a way. All that energy. Except—I do like her, Wexton. I always have. She had a vile childhood, you know. Her father was perfectly ghastly. Horrible to her. Well, horrible to everyone, really. And then he died—in a particularly gory way. Have I ever told you about that?”

“No.”

“Well, I might. One day when I’m feeling strong. It was at Winterscombe. Everyone said it was an accident, but …”

“You didn’t think so?”

“I don’t know. I was very young. But there was … something odd. It never felt quite right. The edges didn’t stick down. Anyway”—he shook himself—“I don’t want to think about that. Not today of all days. Whyever did we start on all that?”

“Because of Constance.”

“Oh, yes, Constance. And love. I think she’d
like
to love, Wexton—I think she
wants
to, very much. I
think
she loved her father, for instance—she always seemed to. You know what he used to call her? ‘My little albatross.’ Can you imagine? He really was the vilest man. He was a writer too.”

“Thanks.”

Wexton had reached the door of the house where he lived. He was fumbling from pocket to pocket, looking for his keys. Steenie, having checked that the street was empty, gave him a hug.

“Oh, God—I didn’t mean
that.
He wasn’t a proper writer, anyway. And he didn’t write poems. Just horrible affected little novels. You’d hate them. Even Constance hated them. She knew they were no good, I think, and she couldn’t bear it. Do you know what I caught her doing once?”

“No. What?”

“Cutting them up. One of the novels. The last one, I think. She was sitting there on the floor of her room, cutting it up. Page by page, with a pair of nail scissors. She cut up the whole thing, until there was just the covers left. It took ages. When she’d finished she put all the bits in a bag and put the bag in her desk. It was quite spooky. Then she cried. It wasn’t long after he died, you see. And she was grieving. She was very peculiar then. She got over it a year or two later.”

“Aha! Found it.” Wexton produced his key. He frowned at it in a reproachful way, as if it had been hiding from him. He inserted it into the lock.

Steenie felt a certain excitement, and a certain apprehension, since this would be the first time he had ever visited Wexton’s flat. He hoped he would not fail it. He mounted the steps cautiously. He was ushered through a small hallway into a pleasant room. It was full of books.

“It’s rather a mess, I’m afraid.”

Wexton looked about him in a fond yet apologetic way. There were books on shelves, books on tables, books on chairs, books on the floor.

Steenie advanced into the room. Wexton approached a gas ring, lifted the kettle.

“We could have some coffee. Or some more tea. I could fix us something to drink.”

“That would be lovely.”

“All of them?”

“Any of them.”

“All right.” Wexton still appeared to hesitate. He turned back to Steenie, the kettle still in his hands.

“One thing. I mean, I don’t want to keep harking back to her. In fact, I’d be glad to forget about her. But before we do. At Winterscombe—at that ball …”

“Yes?” Steenie, who had begun to smoke, using a holder, was about to light a cigarette. He paused. He eyed Wexton, who seemed unwilling to go on. Steenie sighed.

“Oh, Wexton. I’m not blind, any more than you are. I knew you’d noticed. And I know exactly what you’re going to say.”

“Constance and Stern.” Wexton frowned. “When they were dancing together. Right toward the end. Didn’t you think—”

“Wexton. I most
certainly
did. My eyes were on stalks. Absolutely no one noticed, except you and me. And it was
so
obvious.” There was a silence. “Her, did you think?” Steenie said at last. “Or him?”

“Definitely her. Him—I’m less sure. Probably not. He looked kind of impatient.”

“Precisely what was interesting.” Steenie put out the cigarette. He stood up. “Stern never is—impatient, I mean. Absolutely nothing ruffles him. You could introduce him to death, and he wouldn’t turn a hair. But that night, he was ruffled. Peddling backwards
quite
fast, I’d have said. I saw him when he left. I bumped into him in the cloakroom. I don’t think he even saw me. He looked like thunder—no, like ice! Terrifying! Then, the next moment, he was back with Aunt Maud, and he was perfectly charming. He’s usually perfectly charming. And just the tiniest bit coldblooded. So maybe I imagined the whole thing.”

“Maybe.” Wexton shook the kettle. “It’s interesting anyway.”

“It’s interesting—
up to a point,
” Steenie replied in a new firm voice. He hesitated, then took a step forward. He became rather pink.

“Up to a point?” Wexton put the kettle down.

“Wexton—do you think you could put your arms around me?” Steenie became pinker still. His voice rose, then sank. He advanced another pace. Wexton held his ground.

“Just one arm, Wexton. To begin with. One arm would do.”

“What about the coffee?”

“The hell with the coffee.”

“You’re very young. Steenie, I—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Wexton. I have to begin somewhere. I want to begin now. With you. I love you, Wexton. If you don’t put your arms around me, right now, I shall do something terrible. I shall probably cry. I might have another heart attack.”

“Well, I guess we wouldn’t want that,” Wexton said. He shuffled about from foot to foot. He gave Steenie his benign smile. He pulled at the tuft of his hair.

Then, looking sad, as he always did when happy, he held out both arms.

Steenie rushed into them.

“And so, Gwen, they will have to sell up. Lock, stock, and barrel. The house. The estate. Everything. Isn’t it sad?
Tragic,
when you think: there have been Arlingtons there for three hundred years.”

The end of June, some two weeks after Constance’s ball: Maud was enthroned behind the teacups and the spirit kettle, in her London drawing room. One of her more elaborate tea parties. Other guests were expected, but she and Gwen (as was their practice) could have a few moments of enjoyable intimacy first. Also gossip, of which Maud always had such a fine store.

At the far end of the large room there was a cluster of younger guests: Constance, Steenie, Freddie, and Conrad Vickers, the young photographer. Wexton, who had gone to train for his ambulance driving, was absent.

Next to the flamboyant figure of Vickers, who wore his hair several inches longer even than Steenie, sat a stiff row of young officers on leave. Several of these men seemed inclined to take exception to Vickers—which was predictable. A number of the others stared at Constance with bemused rapture. That group, as far as Maud was concerned, could take care of itself. She and Gwen had more important matters to discuss.

“I can’t believe it,” Gwen said in a gratifying tone of shock. “The Arlingtons? There must be some mistake. It’s unthinkable. Who told you, Maud?”

“Heavens, I can’t remember! Was it Jane? Their land borders hers, as you know, so … But no, of course it wasn’t Jane—she’s always the last to hear anything. Now, who could it have been? Someone at Maud Cunard’s last night … but goodness, there was such a crush, I can’t remember who … Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because it’s definitely true. Monty said so, this morning. You see, Gwennie, the thing
is
”—Maud leaned forward confidingly—“Gertrude Arlington was forced to borrow—only in a modest way, of course. I believe Monty helped her to arrange some of the loans. But he warned her, years ago, and now the price of land has fallen in this shocking way, so she daren’t borrow more, and anyway she hasn’t the security. And then—” Maud rattled to an abrupt halt. Gwen stared at her. It was not like Maud to break off in the middle of a story.

“And then what? Go on, Maudie, go on.”

“Well, the thing is …” Maud hesitated, but could not resist the plunge. “The thing is, if you remember, it’s only two years since poor Gertrude lost her husband. The death duties were crippling then, but she and Hector managed somehow. Then Hector joined up—well, I always said he would never make a soldier, but apparently nothing would keep him away. He was adamant, just like Acland, and now—”

“He’s dead? Hector Arlington is dead?” Gwen interrupted, her voice sharp. “That’s not possible. He was on leave. He came to the ball. I saw him just the other week. He danced with Jane, I remember, because Denton was remarking on her hair, and her dress.”

“He went back two days later, Gwennie. I thought you must have heard.” Maud hesitated. She leaned across and pressed Gwen’s hand. She should not have embarked upon this story. It was now imperative to keep details to the minimum; better not to mention that Hector, in the same regiment as Boy, had (like Boy and Acland) been posted to the Somme, that it was there the sniper’s bullet had hit him. “They say it was very quick, Gwennie. No pain. But for Gertrude … well, it had to be the final blow. To lose her only … She was devoted to Hector, as you know. And then, death duties again. Within two years. I blame the government, and I told Monty so. Death duties, and such punitive ones, such socialistic ones—it cannot be right, Gwennie. So inhumane, so insensitive. Three hundred years, a whole way of life. If this continues, we shall all be wiped out. Even Monty agrees with me there.”