A Desirable Husband (9 page)

Gerard was now in tears. He was so poor an advocate that Constance had not even begun to think that his case might be just. She had responded angrily to all his attempts to persuade her; and now he felt he could carry on no longer. He would have to be weak. He would allow her to remain at Combe Chalcot in triumph, and because Hugh would have disapproved of this weakness on his part, he would try to pacify his memory by at least remaining at the Bar. Gerard had expected to be free of his work as soon as he inherited: now he would have to wait for years before he could exchange it for the worry and tedium of becoming a properly out-of-date country squire.

He knew that his wife would comfort him, and would say that he could very well just live in London and do no work at all.

*

Finola was in Truslove and Hanson, queueing at the desk, and wondering why she had been silly enough to choose Christmas shopping to distract her mind from Gerard. The shop was extremely busy, and in front of her there was a woman who was arguing about the price of fifteen books
she wished to order and have sent to America. Finola wanted only to pay cash for two. She had chosen the new Georgette Heyer for Anatole, who adored romantic comedies and always cried at the end, and
The
Cruel
Sea
which she was buying for Constance, because it looked very realistic and nasty and full of action. Constance liked such novels.

There was a cross and sad expression on Finola's face as she tried to look through the window, past the piles of books and the Christmas tree. She wondered whether Gerard would be back yet: perhaps he would ring to say that he was spending the night at Combe Chalcot, either because of the bad patchy fog in the west of England, about which she had heard on the wireless, or because his mother had welcomed him. Finola could not believe this was possible, and she imagined him driving out into the fog, and hitting a tree, and being killed, and she told herself not to be so stupid when he had gone down by train. She was very hot, and tired, and she wanted to sit down but there was no empty chair in the shop.

She suddenly noticed that a man across the room was raising his hat to her, and she shifted a little as he came forward. She did recognise him: he was Winston Lowell, the ugly civil servant whom she had met with her parents in April. Finola supposed she ought to be pleased that he had recognised her and was obviously coming to talk with her.

‘Hello, Mr Lowell,' she said boldly, clutching her parcels to her as he came within speaking distance.

‘Hello, Mrs Parnell,' he said, blinking rapidly under his black eyebrows. She was a little surprised, for there was a shy note in his voice, and he certainly did not have a shy face. ‘I didn't think you recognised me. Christmas shopping?'

Finola hoped she had not been scowling at him. ‘Yes.'

‘I hate it,' he said.

‘
So
do
I
,' said Finola. ‘But I'm through for today, after this.'

He looked at her. ‘In that case, would you have time for
some tea? You rather look as though you could do with some.' His voice was kind, and not at all presumptuous.

Finola, who was on the point of saying she could indeed before she quite took in the fact that this was an invitation, was distracted by a shop assistant as harassed as herself. ‘Are you being served, madam?'

‘No I'm not, I want to buy these please, I'll pay in cash.' Putting the books down on the counter, she dropped the parcel containing three pairs of nylons for Alice, and Mr Lowell bent to pick it up.

‘Thank you!' she said. ‘And – and yes I
would
like some tea though I haven't a lot of time. How kind of you. I mean, do you know of a place near here?'

‘There's Bendicks'.'

‘Oh yes – of course – only won't it be awfully crowded?'

‘We can but try.'

‘Yes, of course. It's most – yes please, do wrap them. I do wish I'd brought a shopping basket!'

Mr Lowell took three packets out of her arms, and smiled at her.

‘Thank you!'

When her books had been wrapped and they had made some remarks about the weather, Finola preceded Mr Lowell out of the door and into Sloane Street. Their heels sounded clearly on the wet pavement. He was still holding half her parcels, and she was hoping that Bendicks' had no table free, although that would be rather embarrassing. Finola could clearly see herself making fluttery excuses and taking back her property, and trying ineffectually to call a cab outside the shop.

‘Table for two, sir? Yes sir, these ladies are just going.'

Finola was quite relieved to hear this in the end, and she was pleased to take her coat off and sit down in the velvet stuffiness of the restaurant, though her hair was in a mess and her twin-set was rather grubby. She could now tell that Mr Lowell thought her charming.

‘Have you seen my parents lately?'

‘I saw them on Tuesday actually. They seemed well.'

‘Oh good,' said Finola.

The waitress came up, and Finola and Mr Lowell agreed that they were not hungry, and preferred Indian tea to China.

‘I saw your brother-in-law the other day,' said Mr Lowell, a while after.

‘Really? I didn't know you knew him.' Finola then remembered that Alice had told her he did.

‘Oh yes, we knew each other at Cambridge. We've always kept up.'

‘You must know him well, then.'

‘Yes, pretty well.'

Finola looked down at her plate. She was depressed by the thought that he knew not only her parents, but Darcy as well: she supposed he must know, through Alice, who did not understand discretion, a good deal about Combe Chalcot.

‘He's down in Dorset at the moment – Darcy I mean,' she said. ‘My father-in-law died in September, I don't know if Alice told you?'

‘Yes, she did.'

Their tea arrived, and Finola poured her own cup and then, because she was used to having tea alone only with Gerard, Anatole and Darcy, she attended to Mr Lowell's. He smiled.

‘… So Darcy's gone down there to look after my mother-in-law.' Suddenly she did not feel so much depressed, as full of the desire to complain to a stranger in a way she knew to be wrong. She reminded herself again that he was not a stranger to half the family, but only to her.

‘Is your mother-in-law not well?' said Mr Lowell with concern.

Finola raised her eyes and tugged at her earrings, a habit of hers. ‘She's
well
enough but she's – she's being rather difficult at the moment. My husband is worried about her.'

‘Actually,' said Mr Lowell, ‘Alice told me something of the kind.'

‘Did she? Well, she had no business to! Oh, I beg your pardon, I suppose I'm rather overwrought – this beastly Christmas shopping and it's so
crowded.
'

They looked at each other for a moment. She noticed how unusually dark a brown his eyes were and that, though he was well-shaven, he must by nature have a thick black beard.

‘I must say you don't look quite as well as you did when I last saw you, Mrs Parnell.' Mr Lowell was interested by the mixture of her parents' features in Finola's face. He was fond of Alice and Anatole.

‘Oh dear,' said Finola casually. ‘We
are
both very worried at the moment.' She blushed, thinking that she must make the best of it, now she had begun. ‘I do wish I could tell my – my husband how much I
hate
Constance, my mother-in-law, I mean!' She scowled, and he laughed. It had been quite a humorous scowl.

‘Tell me,' he said. ‘It's easier to say these things to strangers, if you know they won't gossip. Rather like going to confession.'

‘Yes and one
can't
confess to family, they think too much about it.' There was silence for a while and they drank their tea, though it was too hot still to be drunk with comfort.

‘From what I know of my mother,' said Finola at last, ‘I would guess you might – might have heard about us – about the difficulty, in quite some detail. I don't know how close you are with my parents?' Her voice was very polite.

Mr Lowell replied boldly: ‘All Alice said was that Mrs Parnell refused to leave this house which belongs to you and your husband. I don't think she's told many people.'

‘I hope not! Oh dear, I don't think she'll – Constance will –
ever
go of her own accord, at least not without half the stuff in the house, and – and we can't live
with
her, you see, which I'm sure is what everyone expects us to do, and Gerard knows that quite well, especially down in Dorset where she's awfully popular. We just don't get on.'

‘I do see.'

‘And I can't really
talk
about it even with Darcy. I haven't seen Darcy for ages. You see Gerard – my husband – practically forbade me ever to mention it, or ask questions or anything. I once – I once found a letter from her in his study. He didn't show it to me, I suppose he wanted to –
protect
me, in some silly way. Anyway, it was full of the most horrible abuse, nasty things about me, too. She said he'd always been a disappointment to her, oh, I don't know what else.' Finola was talking in a low voice, and she was not properly aware of Mr Lowell. He did not mind that she was so absorbed in herself, and not talking politely, or flirting with him.

‘I'm surprised he did not confide in you.'

‘Gerard's funny. I know he wants to make things easier for me but for heavens' sake it
is
my business, isn't it!'

‘I quite agree it's your business. Tell me, Mrs Parnell, is it very important to you to make this move down to Dorset?'

She looked at him then. ‘Yes,
terribly
important. Oh, I didn't know how important.'

‘Why?' He poured more tea.

‘I want a change, something new, it's – it's as though Gerard and I have never been properly
grown
up.
We've never had a real place in the world, we've just drifted! And I keep hoping … you see, we're
both
a disappointment to our parents.'

‘What nonsense,' he said, suddenly smiling. ‘Your parents adore you.'

Finola was in too much of a hurry to resent his ‘nonsense', which she suspected was true. ‘Yes, I know, but all the same of
course
I'm a disappointment, not being musical or artistic, or even
clever.
And I'm frightened of them in a way, just as Gerard is of his – was of Hugh. I'm frightened of them – of their finding out too much
about
me, of their criticising me which Anatole's never done even for a moment and that makes it worse, and Alice only when I was little, and I can't tell you how much that upset me. I can see all the criticism underneath, I – you must think it's idiotic to be scared of them. Laughable.' Darcy would certainly find it laughable;
Gerard was too good and too serious to laugh at other people.

‘No,' said Mr Lowell. ‘No, I think I understand. As parents, people are very different from what they seem to be to others, after all.' He paused. ‘I hope you'll forgive me for saying this, Mrs Parnell, but I really think you would
not
be better off down in Dorset, either of you. Something like moving house, you know, just can't work miracles. It's a hell of a lot of work, that's all.'

Finola opened her mouth to explain more and to imply politely that he was insensitive, and had not been listening properly. She knew that he had been.

‘You must make up your mind,' said Mr Lowell. ‘Don't be vague. Think what you
really
want, and you'll get it if you try. Do you
really
want to go and live in Dorset? Does your mother-in-law matter so much?'

When she looked at him she could see that he did not disapprove of her as he ought to, and his words seemed to imply that she was a strong person. It occurred to her that others thought she was a dear, sweet, rather muddled thing, though with good principles and some common sense, and a certain streak of obstinacy. She was accustomed to sympathy, and Mr Lowell showed none. ‘You must be thinking, she said, ‘that I'm very –
unhappy,
but I'm not. I'm especially not unhappy in my marriage. You must forgive me for having talked like that.'

‘Anyone who has ever seen you with your husband can see that you must love each other very much.'

‘Oh!' said Finola.

‘Are you embarrassed? I'm not.'

‘You have no need to be!' she replied, though she knew that most men would have been so, at saying something so improper. ‘You're – you're – oh, dear, I hope I don't see you again, it'll be so awkward!'

‘I hope I do see you and I expect I will – through Alice, or Darcy,' said Mr Lowell.

‘But you won't remind me of what I've been saying?'

‘I promise you I won't, Mrs Parnell.'

‘Tell me about yourself,' said Finola then, pulling at her hair.

‘I live in Pimlico, I sometimes review books for different papers, and I'm rather anxious about whether or not I'm going to be made an under-secretary next month,' he said. He did not really expect such a promotion, but it sounded well.

She smiled. ‘Yes, but tell me something
indiscreet.
Not if you don't want to!' she added.

Mr Lowell was sure that Finola had taken in his remarks about whether she did indeed want to go and live in Dorset, and he thought she might try to follow his advice. He could not picture her in the rich and formal house he had heard about from Alice, nor could he see her changing the place, and he felt sorry for her. Her husband would undoubtedly ease out his mother and take Finola to live there, and she would not be happy. When he had met Gerard, Mr Lowell had thought him a quiet, upright and very determined man; a husband on whom Finola clearly leant in a way he found touching, but dull.

Finola and Gerard were in bed at Egerton Gardens, lying in each other’s arms as they usually lay, until they rolled apart in their sleep. They were proud of being affectionate people.

Finola was awake, though her husband was not, and just as she was beginning to doze, she was disturbed by a window of light which, thrown by a passing car, went round the bedroom walls and disappeared. The Parnells often forgot to draw their curtains, for they did not object to the light in the morning, but tonight Finola crept out of bed and padded over to the window to close them. A little snow was falling, and melting on the pavements; there would be no dirty covering of white tomorrow.

Finola made her way through the warm dark to bed, climbed in and just touched Gerard’s shoulder, but she did not go back to cuddling him. She wrapped her arms about herself and worked her head into the pillow in an attempt to fall asleep. There passed through her mind images from her childhood, and images of Gerard and his passionate morality, which sometimes lulled her, and sometimes brought her into sudden wakefulness.

She imagined herself sitting in the kitchen corner at Bramham Gardens, reading
Ivanhoe
and chewing one of her plaits as Alice and Anatole and their friends Kate, and Christopher Tuskin, and Augustus and Clementina argued about cubist painters, and eating in Paris, and sex. There had never been a time when Finola had not known all about sex, and the knowledge had not always been agreeable. This
brought her back to Gerard, and the change in her circumstances, and her children, and the death of nearly all her parents’ old friends, and Gerard again, and the corner of his dressing-room where there was a prie-dieu and a crucifix. She always avoided looking at this corner, as though it were a secret diary which might contain unpleasant things about herself.

Finola now sat up in bed again. The night before, Gerard had disappeared to his dressing-room after telling her about how he had been obliged to walk all the way from the station at Chalcot St Anne to the estate office with his hat pulled over his eyes, to see Darcy and hear about Constance, who had refused to see him. Finola had been angry; she had only been able to say that it was all a great deal worse than
The
Spoils
of Poynton.
Gerard had not read the book; he never read novels and could not understand them.

Finola knew that she should have comforted him, and should not have behaved in what she called in her head a vulgar way, as though she had been cheated. She did not know now precisely what it was she hoped a move to Combe Chalcot could give them, when they already had a comfortable independence.

Gerard rolled over and moaned slightly, and Finola turned for a moment to look at his dim shape. She remembered his coming down for dinner, and saying as she looked up from her tapestry and they exchanged strong cold glances: ‘I’ve been thinking upstairs, Finola. I know now – I know there is no real reason, nothing which would morally justify me in making her leave the house or give up any of the things she wants. It’s only for her lifetime – I
cannot
force her.’ Pause. ‘I do know she is trying to bully me, but I know it would really be worse, it would be weaker in a real sense,
not
to give way to her about this. That is, I mean that –’

‘She’s in the wrong,’ Finola had said, interrupting as soon as Gerard began to have difficulties.

‘I know, but I can’t be in the wrong too. I must have
something to comfort me!’ He had smiled. ‘My dear, do you understand? Do I disappoint you very much?’

After this, she had behaved just as she ought. When Gerard had come from a successful examination of his conscience, he always wanted to make love.

As she looked at Gerard now, she decided that she could not say she thought him weak, but only annoyingly superior to herself. He even thought himself worldly, and was in many ways so firm. Finola thought how hard she was, the same troubled but conventional little person she had felt herself to be before she joined the Wrens: it was this in part which was keeping her awake. She had decided to go down to Combe Chalcot tomorrow or the next day, and this was a great worry because she had feared for seven years that she would one day anger her husband. When she fell asleep at last, there was in her mind an old memory of her father chasing Alice round her studio with a palette covered in paint. She had thought it very odd at the time, and she still thought it so.

*

Sir William Warren was a gentle and slightly pompous man, and his only lasting passion had been for Constance Parnell, who had very strong views on adultery. In 1919 she had slapped his face at a house party when he had tried to kiss her. They had made up that quarrel, and over the past thirty years Constance had told him everything she had been able to discover about her own husband’s infidelities.

‘Of course, heaven knows, Hugh had his faults – but, William, I simply had no idea how much I was actually going to miss him,’ she told him when, two days after Darcy had returned to Cambridge, Sir William and his wife Mary came down to stay at Combe Chalcot. Mary had retired to bed exhausted.

William thought Constance very spirited, and curiously innocent; he always had done. ‘I will say, Constance my dear, that it was always my private opinion you were very much attached to him.’ He patted her shoulder.

‘No, William!’ She touched him too. ‘That’s not the case
at all, as you know perfectly well. But now he’s
gone,
and I’m to lose everything, even this house –’

‘Naturally it
is
rather difficult for you,’ said William, removing his spectacles and polishing them. He was a tall thin man of seventy-two with a pale and narrow scholarly face. He had looked rather dashing in 1919. ‘But you must remember my dear, I trust you will remember, what’s – er – the done thing in these matters, you know.’

‘I
know
.’ She added: ‘Sometimes I think I’m going completely mad.’

He raised his eyebrows, and then looked worried.

The telephone rang and Constance picked it up. ‘Chalcot St Joseph 279?’ She waited while the operator connected the call from London. Constance knew this was Gerard ringing.

‘It’s Finola, Constance. I’m just ringing to say I’ll be coming down for dinner. I’m staying the night with Katie Van Leyden, but I should like to see you. Will you tell Mainwaring and Mrs Daly?’ The line crackled.

‘You can’t! I’ve got William and Mary Warren staying, we haven’t enough food in the house’. She blushed slightly, and raised her arthritic left hand to her mouth.

‘Oh, I’d like to meet them again, and I’m sure Mrs Daly will be able to rustle up something, but please do give her my apologies. I’ll be down at about six, O.K.?’ In London, Finola quickly hung up.

‘Very well, Finola, naturally you’re extremely welcome! “
O.K.
” indeed,’ she said as she threw the receiver back on the hook. ‘Where she picks up such expressions! Really
not
a word of our generation,’ she added to excuse her crossness.

‘Very regrettable,’ said William.

‘You see what I have to put up with.’

‘I must say –’ he looked unhappy. ‘To return to what we were saying, to be perfectly frank, in my opinion you’re not – er – going completely mad, Constance. Really my dear.’

‘You don’t think so?’ said Constance, and raised her eyes: dark-rimmed, dark amber eyes like Gerard’s.

‘No, no, certainly not.’ He smiled slightly, and coughed. ‘Not that I wish to offend you.’

‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that poor dear Mary will be well enough to get up for dinner. If she isn’t, I’m sure I shan’t be!’

‘Yes,’ said William, ‘yes, I do hope she will be, my dear.’

Mainwaring came in with the afternoon post, which he laid down beside Constance. She saw that on the top there was a letter from Gerard, and she opened it straight away.

He began, ‘My dear mother,’ and ended, ‘your affectionate son,’ and he told her that he had decided it would be right for her to remain at Combe Chalcot, and that her own arguments were in fact partly responsible for his decision. Constance’s hands shook a little: when she had written her violent letters to her son, accusing him of hating her, of being greedy, and wanting to despoil the estate, she had meant what she said; though after each letter was posted, she had regretted writing it and pushed the thought of it away. She loved Combe Chalcot, and clung to the thought that her distress was genuine. Her distress at missing Hugh was surprisingly so. Hugh still seemed at times to be at the Cedar House, but he was never a nuisance now.

She looked at William, and saw that he really could not understand that sometimes she did indeed feel mad, just like her sons, though they had crying fits, not rages. She mouthed the words, ‘just as well’.

‘Gerard says he will allow me to stay here, actually,’ she said aloud, but quietly, looking from William to Trumpy the dog. ‘Here Trumpy, yes, good boy. It’s most kind of him, I must say.’ She stroked Trumpy’s back.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said William at last. ‘Most kind, Constance. I don’t quite understand, you know, quite what could have – your picture of his behaviour did give me quite a different impression, my dear. I hope – well, I think I’ll just go upstairs and see how Mary is getting on. Naturally I’m glad for your sake.’

Constance was delighted, and she re-read the letter, which annoyed her a little. But she was again immensely content when she looked at her sitting-room, and thought
of never having to go. She had chosen Bath to go to almost as a penance, and she thought now this had been a mistake: a little house near Oxford would perhaps have been better.

*

Finola arrived at the Cedar House at half-past six, and by that time Constance had realised that William was on the verge of disapproving of her. She came close to being angry with Gerard for capitulating against all her predictions. She was also very much upset to think that Finola would be spending the night at the Manor: Constance realised, as the younger Parnells did not, that the whole story of their troubles would now be known to all the Van Leydens’ friends, to the village and the rest of the county. She herself did not yet know, as Katie did through Miranda, that Gerard had come down in secret and had wanted to see her.

‘My dear, it’s simply too ridiculous for you to stop the night with Katie. Sarah’s not gone back to the lodge yet and she can perfectly well air the bed in the blue spare-room,’ said Constance when she and Finola and William were in her sitting-room before dinner, drinking sherry. ‘After all, you’ll always be – this is your –’

‘No thanks, Constance, it’s very sweet of you of course, but Katie’s expecting me. How are you, Sir William?’

‘Very well – very well indeed. And Mary’s as well as can be expected, she’s looking forward to seeing you again. How is Gerard?’

‘Oh he’s as well as can be expected too,’ said Finola, sipping.

‘If only you
had
been coming for the night you might have had a bath, and changed, Finola,’ said Constance.

‘Oh, I’ll have a bath at Katie’s and she’ll lend me a toothbrush I expect. It didn’t seem worth bringing something to change into, just for one night. You know my primitive upbringing.’

‘
Mary
,’ said Constance, as William’s wife entered. ‘You remember Finola, don’t you?’ She got up and smiled at her guest, and seemed to lead her over to her daughter-in-law, as though she were a child.

‘How nice to see you, Lady Warren,’ said Finola, looking down into the little wrinkled face of the sickly and vague old lady, and then smiling faintly at Constance behind her. She had discounted most of what Darcy had told her about Constance and the Warrens.

*

William and Mary went up to bed as soon as they had drunk their coffee after dinner, and Constance and Finola had been alone together and silent for three minutes now.

Finola thought to herself as she turned to look, that Constance was old and ugly and wicked and fat. She bit her lip to control a frightening desire to slap her mother-in-law’s loose cheek, as she sat there with her feet apart under the yellow light, insolently staring at her. Fatness, except in dogs, had always repelled Finola, and Constance, who had been a beauty, now had a sagging bosom, and squashy hips, and a double chin. As she recognised for the first time her bodily revulsion, which she had suppressed for Gerard’s sake and Hugh’s, Finola felt suddenly free. She had been trying to think hopelessly of cold and dignified things to say.

‘How hateful you are, Constance. I mean – you can be awfully unpleasant at times.’

There was silence.

Finola’s heart started flapping with nervous violence, as it had last done years ago, when she had been robbed in the street, and insulted, and pushed off the pavement by the thief: she stared at Constance’s pastry-white face, unable to turn away her eyes. Her lips moved.

Constance said: ‘Really, Finola, what an unattractive thing to say. Of course, I always
thought
you were lacking in proper self-control.’

‘I!’ said Finola, dreadfully embarrassed. ‘
I
am incapable of self-control? You – well, Constance, what do you think of yourself? Do you think
you
have self control? What about those letters you wrote to Gerard? Making him cry, and you know he can’t
stand
it?’

Constance said a moment later: ‘I think you had better go and lie down, Finola, Mainwaring can drive you to the Van Leydens’, you’re in no fit state to drive.’

Finola was horrified. She said to herself: you can’t have ruined everything already. You can’t.

‘I shan’t go and lie down,’ she said at last. ‘We are going to talk. If you go to bed I’ll come up and talk in your room. I’m sorry I was rude. But we’re going to discuss things properly.’

Constance blinked. ‘There is nothing to discuss. Gerard’s letter came this afternoon, and I imagine that’s what you think you want to discuss. But he’s quite happy for me to stay in this house and I’m afraid that is the end of the matter.’

‘He is not quite happy. He’s been bullied into it by you.
He
is worried about
you
being unhappy – my God, what about him? Do you care, Constance?’