The Wheel of Fortune (12 page)

“Robert darling, how heavenly to see you again—give me a divine platonic kiss to celebrate our eternal friendship!”

I shuddered at the memory and wondered how I was going to survive the inevitable sexual frustration which lay in store for me. She herself would be safe, locked up in her role of the bereaved widow, but what on earth was going to happen to me as she dabbed her eyes with a black lace handkerchief and succeeded in looking seductively haggard?

I groaned, and then gritting my teeth I began to plan a debonair speech to welcome her home.

XI

FOUR HOURS LATER I
was awaiting her imminent arrival. I had made some excuse to escape from the mob milling in the hall and was standing motionless at the landing window which faced the drive. As I nervously embarked on smoking a cigarette I wondered what to do with the ash, but in the end I was in such a state that I merely let it drop to the floor.

Various inane remarks floated up the stairs.

“Let’s all pose for a photograph!” Celia was calling breathlessly.

“Celia, give me your camera!” That was the infant, being obstreperous as usual.

“No, Thomas—
no, Thomas
—oh, Mama, do stop him—”

“Edmund,” said John, intelligent enough to remain urbane amidst all this hysteria, “what about a quick game of billiards? I bet the steamer’s been delayed.”

“But supposing it hasn’t?” Edmund, even though he was now nineteen, suffered from a constitutional inability to make up his mind.

“I think she’ll be arriving at any minute,” said Lion, “and if you go off to the billiard room you’ll be fools. Lord, isn’t this a thrill? I keep visualizing this splendid creature swathed in black and looking unutterably sumptuous—”

“Shhh! Here comes Mama.”

“Boys, have you seen Robert anywhere?”

“No, he’s gone off to be wonderful somewhere else, thank God,” said Lion, revealing that he was less than respectful when my back was turned.

“That will do, Lionel. No, Thomas, you
cannot
have Celia’s camera. Edmund—”

“Here’s the car!”

“
She’s coming
!”

“Quick, quick, quick—”

“Papa—quickly, Papa, the motor’s here!”

“Out to the porch, everyone—”

“Come on, Celia—”

“Come on, Edmund—”

“
Come on, everyone
!”

There was a stampede of feet below me. Meanwhile I had dropped my cigarette and was making the most intolerable mess. Having unforgivably ground the butt beneath my heel I drew back for cover behind the curtain as my father’s Talbot bore the bereaved widow at an appropriately funereal pace up the drive to the steps of the porch.

“Hurray!”

“Welcome home!”

“Welcome back, Ginevra!”

“Shhh, boys, a little less noise and a little more decorum, if you please—remember she’s in mourning.”

My brothers fell obediently silent but as soon as the motor halted they rushed forward to catch a glimpse of the passenger. It was impossible for me and probably difficult for them to perceive her with any degree of clarity. The white dust from the Gower roads had once more laid a pale mask upon the windows.

“Ginevra!” cried Lion, beaming from ear to ear as he flung wide the door of the motor, and then the next moment his mouth dropped open in astonishment. Everyone gasped. My father was suddenly motionless. My mother appeared to be rooted to the ground.

Evidently our visitor was making some shattering impact but since I could see only the roof of the motor I still had no idea what was happening. In a fever of curiosity I flung up the window as far as it would go so that I could lean out over the sill, and it was at that exact moment that she began to descend from the motor. Then I understood. As soon as I saw her I too gasped, for she was not wearing mourning. The image of the widow swathed in black was at a stroke smashed to smithereens.

“Darlings!” cried Ginette, gorgeously clad in a brilliant turquoise traveling costume and sporting a corsage of orchids. “How simply and utterly divine to see you all again!” And as everyone continued to stare at her in stupefaction she glanced carelessly upwards and saw me framed in the window above.

A great stillness descended on her face but a second later she was blowing me a kiss with a smile. “Heavens, darling!” she called richly. “Just like Romeo and Juliet in reverse—all you need is a balcony! What are you doing up there?”

“I was on my way to the kitchen garden to pick you some strawberries!” I said laughing, and at once saw the past recaptured in her dark and brilliant eyes.

3

I

W
E DRANK CHAMPAGNE IN
the drawing room, a spacious room which Robert Godwin the Renovator had called a saloon and filled with eighteenth-century furniture. Unfortunately this elegant collection now lay under dust sheets in the attics, for my parents, whose aesthetic tastes could most kindly be described as eclectic, had long since decided to cram the Oxmoon reception rooms with overstuffed chairs, obese sofas and a bewildering jungle of bric-a-brac.

Oxmoon was famous for its ready supply of champagne to complement important occasions. It was the only alcoholic beverage which my father permitted himself to enjoy; he would take two glasses and, very occasionally, a third. Now that I was older I admired his abstemiousness the more because his cronies among the Gower gentry were a hard-drinking bunch, and I knew from experience how difficult it was not to drink to excess when in the company of men determined to be inebriated.

On this current momentous family occasion my father permitted himself a third glass of champagne. My mother, according to a custom which she never varied, took two glasses with enjoyment and declined another drop. Lion seized the opportunity to join my father in a third glass, John followed my mother’s example to show how good he was at drawing the line, and Edmund, as usual, could not make up his mind whether to continue drinking or to abstain. Celia, who had a weak head, was still conscientiously nursing her first glass while I, who could normally take my drink as well as the next man, was keeping pace with her. It is one of the idiosyncrasies of my constitution that under great stress my emotions are not soothed by the consumption of alcohol but exacerbated by it.

Meanwhile in the midst of this studied moderation Ginette was drinking the champagne as if it were lemonade. As the celebration progressed we all stole uneasy glances at my mother to see how she was tolerating this further manifestation of conduct unbecoming to a widow, and although my mother continued to smile serenely the tension steadily increased. I was just wondering how I could abort this sinister emotional momentum when Ginette tossed off the remains of her fourth glass of champagne and said rapidly to my mother, “Margaret, you must be quite horrified, do forgive me, but I’m simply overwhelmed by the desire to rebel against the way I was treated in Ireland—everyone behaved as if my life was finished, and suddenly I couldn’t bear it any longer, as soon as I reached the steamer I wanted to throw all my mourning clothes into the sea …” She stopped. She was on the verge of breaking down.

“Even your hats?” I said promptly.

“Oh my dear, you know what I’m like about hats!” she said, laughing through her tears. “Even the black ones are much too gorgeous to throw overboard!”

“You’d make any hat look gorgeous!” said Lion roguishly.

“Darling Lion, how adorable you are!”

“Where did you get those incredibly vulgar orchids?” I said to put an end to this cloying exchange of compliments.

“I forced poor Williams to drive up and down the main streets of Swansea until we finally found that very grand florist near the Metropole. No wonder I was late getting here!” She had recovered her equilibrium. Her hand moved automatically back to her glass.

“Orchids and champagne!” said my father who became subtly more carefree under the influence of alcohol. “Good friends—amusing company—laughter—happiness! Yes, that’s the remedy I’d prescribe to anyone recovering from terrible times—and we know all about recovering from terrible times, don’t we, Margaret?”

“Yes, dear,” said my mother.

“Ginevra,” said my father, “I insist that you permit me to write a prescription for you: I propose a little dinner party for twenty-four as soon as possible!”

Celia protested amidst the ensuing cheers: “But Papa, I don’t suppose Ginevra wants to see anyone outside the family just yet!” She glanced nervously at my mother.

“And what would all the neighbors think?” said John, so driven by his desire to do the done thing that he failed to shrink from exhibiting a lamentably bourgeois cast of mind.

“Oh, damn the neighbors!” exclaimed Ginette, and in the absolute silence that followed I was acutely aware of my mother straightening the garnet ring on her right hand.

Ginette blushed, and in the panic-stricken glance she sent me I read a desperate appeal for help but I was already speaking. Moving to her side I said casually, “I expect women say ‘damn’ all the time in New York, don’t they?
Autre pays, autres moeurs
.”

“What a rotten French accent you’ve got, Robert,” said John, valiantly collaborating with me in helping the conversation along, but Ginette proved quite unable to permit us to gloss over the disaster.

“Margaret, I’m so sorry—please do excuse me—awful vulgarity—frightful taste—” She was in agony.

Ignoring her my mother said serenely to my father, “I think a little dinner party would be acceptable, dearest, provided we have only our oldest friends. But it must be quiet. No champagne; I think champagne would look too eccentric in the circumstances.”

“I agree,” said my father obediently. “A good claret—perhaps a touch of hock somewhere—but no champagne.”

“And of course,” said my mother to Celia, “you and I must wear dark gowns, dear, to acknowledge the fact that there’s been a tragedy in the family.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Celia.

“Dearest Ginevra,” said my mother, smiling to conceal how implacably she was wielding her power, “you must think us so provincial and old-fashioned in our ways, but we’re so far removed here from a modern city like New York!” I do hope you understand.”

“Yes, Margaret,” said Ginette. “Of course.” She was clutching her glass so hard that I thought the stem would snap.

“Naturally,” pursued my mother, “I wouldn’t dream of dictating to you on the subject of dress. I have every confidence, dearest, that you’ll contrive to look dignified as well as fetching on any occasion when people outside the family are to be present.”

“Yes, Margaret.” Her hand shook as she put down her glass. She stood up clumsily. “I must go upstairs and unpack—all my black gowns will need ironing—I wonder if perhaps your maid—”

“I’ll send her to you at once,” said my mother, clinching her victory with a single succinct sentence.

“I’ll come and help you, Ginevra,” said Celia, and we all rose to our feet. Lion, John and Edmund all tried to open the door in an orgy of chivalry, and there was much laughter as they bumped into one another. The women departed. My father said; “Who’s going to volunteer to deliver the dinner invitations? Time’s short as Robert’s going back to London on Monday, so we’ll have to give this party tomorrow night.”

An argument began about how quickly the invitations could be delivered but I did not stay to listen to it. Opening the garden door I slipped out onto the terrace and the next moment I was escaping across the lawn.

II

CUTTING A STRAIGHT LINE
past the freshly painted croquet hoops I circled the lawn tennis court and paused on the edge of the woods by the summerhouse, a two-roomed frivolity built at the whim of my grandfather Robert Godwin the Drunkard in the days before his unfortunate habits had driven his wife to seek consolation with her sheep farmer, Owain Bryn-Davies. In the open doorway I turned to look back at the inheritance his son had resurrected from the grave.

Oxmoon’s original name had been Oxton-de-Mohun, which in a loose translation of the three conquerors’ languages involved meant “the settlement by water belonging to Humphrey de Mohun.” Of the three aggressive races who had battered the Peninsula the Vikings, prowling the coasts in their longships, had probably had the least effect; the Saxons, trading continuously from North Devon, had steadily insinuated their influence among the indigenous Celts, and the Normans had blasted their way into the seat of power with their usual brutal efficiency.

Humphrey de Mohun had been a twelfth-century Norman warlord who had delegated the running of his Gower estate to a Saxon mercenary called Godwin of Hartland. Hartland is the Devonian peninsula that lies south of Gower across the Bristol Channel, and in English-speaking South Gower—called “The Englishry” to distinguish it from “The Welshery” of the Welsh-speaking northeast—Devon is reflected like a mirror image, a little distorted but plainly recognizable, the result of centuries of communication between Wales and England across the busy waters of the Channel.

Godwin set the seal on a successful career when he married de Mohun’s younger daughter. When de Mohun died, the elder daughter received her father’s vast estates in the Welsh Marches but the younger inherited the fiefdom in Gower which included the fortified tower in the woods below Penhale Down. Financially, socially and territorially Godwin had arrived, and giving his son the Norman name of Robert he settled down to become more Norman than the Normans.

The Norman tower remained the home of the Godwin family until Tudor times when fifteenth-century Robert Godwin tried to celebrate the Battle of Bosworth by building a moated manor, but after this architectural innovation had been razed by a faction from Llangennith he retired to the Norman castle of his ancestors.

In the seventeenth century the master of Oxmoon attempted to build a Jacobean mansion on the site of the Tudor manor, but he abandoned the attempt when it became obvious that the result would be a disaster. However the founder of modern Oxmoon, Robert Godwin the Renovator, decided that this uncompleted monstrosity could be finished and given a new look. He had met Robert Adam in Italy during a typical eighteenth-century tour of Europe, and later he became acquainted with the architects of the Wyatt family. Inspiration inevitably followed, and in the library we have one of his letters declaring his intention of making Oxmoon the grandest house in Wales.