Dark Angel (57 page)

Boy had bent toward the scattered letters. When Constance spoke his name, he flinched; he remained bent, hand still extended.

“Oh, for God’s sake—do you think a lot of pious letters will bring your brother back? I’ve read them and I know—none of them write about Acland as he was. He’s dull and sensible and painstaking and honorable when they write—all the things they think he ought to have been, all the things he never was! Those letters are lies, and your brother is dead. It’s over. It’s done with. I can’t breathe here. I’m going out.” She slammed the door behind her.

Boy lifted one hand to his face, as if Constance had struck him. Then he began, in a quiet way, to pick up the letters.

“She’s broken the spine,” he said.

“Boy, she didn’t mean it.” Jane bent to help him. “She’s upset. She grieves, too, you know, in her way.”

“I could try to stick it, I suppose. I don’t know if it will hold.” Boy straightened. “It will hurt Mama. She ordered this specially.”

“Boy, leave it for now. Look—it’s such a fine day. Why don’t we go for a walk? We could go to the park. It would do us both good. I don’t have to be back at the hospital yet—”

“All right.” Boy continued to finger the album. He ran his thumb along the spine; he bent the torn leather forward, then back; he traced the gold letters of his brother’s name.

“It won’t mend.” He shook his head—his new mannerism, which Jane found mildly irritating—as if he had water lodged in his ear. He set the album down on a side table.

“She shouldn’t have done that. It was a wicked thing to do. I hate her when she’s like that—”

“Boy—”

“All right. As you say. It is a fine day. Perhaps a walk in the park.”

So, that afternoon in July (a time of year when, in peacetime, the Cavendish family would have avoided London) Constance walked in her direction, Jane and Boy in theirs.

Less than a mile apart. It was very hot. The air in the city was sticky and tight, as if the streets were a kettle, and the sky a lid.

Constance walked to Albany. She pretended to herself, at first, that she did not. She pretended to walk to Smythson’s for Gwen’s writing paper, a promised errand. Then she pretended she needed to examine the shop windows of the Burlington Arcade, and indeed she examined those windows with close attention, though she saw nothing of what they contained.

Then, in a casual way, a strolling way, her small handbag and her small parcel swinging from her wrist, she walked the short distance from the arcade to Albany itself. She looked up at that discreet and desirable building—a smart address. She wondered on which floor Montague Stern kept his rooms, whether he was still there, at half past three; whether he overlooked the place where she waited.

She could always walk in. She could inquire. She could leave a note. A lady might not be expected to do any of these things, but she could do them. Prudence? Reputation? She cared nothing for them. She could go in. She could stay here.

She swung her little handbag back and forth; she let the minutes tick by.

Constance had seen Montague Stern on several occasions since that day at Maud’s, for he visited Park Street no less than three times a week. When he visited, and they met, Stern gave no sign of remembering what had taken place. The embrace, his note: they might never have happened.

It occurred to Constance that he might have put the matter from his mind; perhaps he was merely being discreet. On the other hand he might intend to pique her curiosity and her vanity. Which?

To meet, or not to meet? The decision was left with her, apparently. Constance swung her bag; she scanned bricks, glass.

She would not go in; she would leave no message. With a defiant air Constance turned and retraced her steps.

The air felt fresher; she increased her pace. Back toward Park Street, and Gwen, and a house where she could not breathe. Her home. As she approached it, she glimpsed the figures of Boy and Jane in the distance. They were arm in arm; Jane carried a parasol. They turned into the park.

Inside the house, Constance repented. She fetched glue, cardboard, a tube of Steenie’s paints. She repaired the album for Acland. She strengthened the new join with the cardboard. She glued the spine back into place. She touched up the edges with the paint, so the frays in the leather should not show.

She tested her handiwork. The album was heavy, and the strain on the damaged spine considerable. Even so, she thought it might hold, for she had deft hands and had done the work well.

In the park they made for the Serpentine. There was a breeze there; the light was soft; people rowed on the water. After a while Boy led them toward a seat in the shade of a plane tree, and they sat down. Boy continued to gaze at the rowboats; he seemed morose and preoccupied, certainly disinclined for speech, but Jane did not mind this. It gave her time to prepare herself.

There were many things she would have liked to explain to Boy; some of them were small things, perhaps stupid things. She would have liked to tell him why she cut her hair, and how her hair made her feel brave. She would have liked to tell him about that mannerism with her hands, how she had noted it and decided to cure it. She would have liked to tell him about the boy Tom, who had recovered and returned home. She would have liked, above all, to make him understand what it had meant to her to be a nurse, and how—because of that, and because Acland was dead—she had decided: She was going to change her life.

There it was in her hands: a piece of clay. She could shape it. She would not be shaped by others any longer. She glanced toward Boy as she thought this, and saw he frowned, possibly daydreamed. She had half an hour at most. She must come straight to the point.

“Boy.” She cleared her throat. Her hands jerked in her lap, and she clasped them.

“Boy. I brought you here because I want to ask you something. I want to ask you to release me from our engagement.” There! It was said. Boy turned to her with a blank look.

“Release you?”

“I think we should end it, Boy. You know, in some ways we should never have embarked upon it. No, please listen, Boy, and hear me out. It’s better if we are honest with each other. We like each other, I think. We respect each other. But we do not love each other, and we never did. It was an arranged thing.” Jane drew in a deep breath. “You did it to please your father. I did it … because I was afraid to be a spinster. There! That’s the whole truth of it, Boy. And look at it—look how foolish we’ve been. It’s gone on and on, postponed until you finished Sandhurst, postponed again when my father died, postponed a third time when the war came. Boy, we’d go on postponing it forever if we could—you know that. All it does is make us both unhappy. So, please, Boy, may we not end it and be friends? You know—when the war is over—I feel sure you will meet someone else then, someone you love and truly wish to marry. Isn’t it better to admit our mistake now—to be honest sooner, not later?”

“You don’t want to marry me?” Boy was looking at her, Jane felt, in a most curious way.

“No, Boy, I don’t,” she replied, as firmly as she could. “And you don’t want to marry me either.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Absolutely sure. This is not an impulse.”

“Well.” Boy sighed. He gave a shake of the head. “If you put it like that, I suppose I have no option.”

The alacrity with which this was said surprised Jane, who—knowing Boy to be stubborn—had expected more argument. There was also a lack of grace in the way he spoke, and this surprised her, too, for Boy had excellent manners. He was looking at her intently, his eyes fixed somewhere on the bridge of her nose. Jane had the impression he did not see her at all, but looked through her and beyond. Whatever he saw there seemed to evoke mixed feelings: Boy looked anxious, gratified yet fearful, and a touch smug. After a silence he turned back to the lake. Jane, expecting him to make a few conventional remarks about a continuing friendship, a continuing and unaltered esteem, waited. She felt she had done her part. Boy said none of the conventional things she expected. He seemed to ponder the matter, or possibly to count the rowboats. He remarked that it would be difficult to explain to his father.

“Would people need to know, do you think? Would they need to know at once? I go back to France tomorrow.”

This, Jane had anticipated; she was firm. She would tell Gwen, but Boy must tell his father. He must tell him at once, that night. Only then could Jane continue to visit the house without hypocrisy or misunderstandings.

“Papa will be furious.” Boy shook his head. He touched his ear, and wiggled it.

“Initially; perhaps. But it won’t last. He’ll come to accept it in time. Boy, you can’t let him rule your life.”

“It’s just that he’s so set on it. He always was.”

“I know. Because of the estates, I think. He might have liked to see them joined.” Jane hesitated. She reached across and laid her hand on his arm.

“Boy, if it will help, you can tell him that would not happen in any case. I’ve decided—I’ve almost decided—to sell.”

“Sell?”
Boy turned to her in astonishment.

“Oh—don’t you see, Boy? Why
not
?” Jane tightened her grip on his arm. Her cheeks flushed. “I’ve been thinking about it so long. Why hang on to that huge house, all that land? I don’t even want to farm it—I know nothing of farming. Boy, think: Do you know what that land is worth? Even now, with the price of land low, it’s worth a great deal. Think, Boy, what I could do with that money! There are so many organizations crying out for funds. It could do such good! Clinics, for instance. Just the price of two fields would be enough to set up a clinic. Three fields, and you’d have a supply of medicines. Boy, some of the people I nurse—they have things wrong with them that have been curable for years. They have rickets, for instance, because they can’t afford the right food. Or they contract tuberculosis because their houses are damp and cold. I know you can’t cure their lungs, but cold and damp can be cured, Boy. You can cure them with money….”

This was Jane’s vision. It made her words race and her eyes brighten. She spoke of it with an excitement she could not disguise. It was some while, well into her speech, before she realized that Boy was regarding her with gentle distaste. Jane broke off. Her hand faltered to her mouth. Boy patted her arm.

“I say, you are worked up. Slow down a bit, don’t you think?”

“Slow down? Why should I slow down?”

“Well, you’re a woman, for one thing. Women are not usually endowed with a good business sense—they haven’t had the training. Besides, it’s a big step. A very big step. After all, your father loved that place—”

“Boy. My father is dead.”

“And then you have to be practical. Clinics, medicine—that’s all very well. I’ve nothing against them. But what about yourself? What about investments? Presumably you want to ensure you had something to live on—”

“When I’m an old spinster, you mean?”

“No, no, of course not. That wasn’t what I meant at all. I just meant—well, that you must be practical. You ought to take advice—sound advice, financial advice …”

Male advice,
Jane thought. “I already have. I discussed the matter with Montague Stern, as it happens. Just in a very general way. He advised me to wait, for the present. But he saw no reason not to sell in the long term. He said he was certain I could find a buyer, and at a more than reasonable price—”

“Oh, well, if you’ve talked to Stern.” Boy sounded annoyed. “If you’re prepared to take that man’s advice …” He rose.

“Is there something wrong with his advice?”

Boy shrugged. “There are … rumors. There always were. You can’t ignore his race. Shall we go back?”

He held out his arm. Jane rose. She took his arm, which made her angry with herself. They turned back toward the path.

One hundred yards in complete silence. Boy seemed unconcerned. He was back inside himself, protected by his uniform: male, mysterious, possibly anxious, possibly morose.

“Was it here?”

He spoke for the first time as they moved toward one of the park gates. The sudden question startled Jane.

“Was what here?”

“The accident to Constance’s dog. Floss. You remember. Was it here?”

Jane looked about her. She gestured behind them, toward the sand track.

“Yes. Just over there. It was very quick.”

“It always is.”

Boy turned away. He began to walk again. His cap brim shaded his face and his eyes.

“Why do you ask, Boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Boy jiggled at his ear. “I gave her the dog. She wrote to me about it, you know. And then she was ill…. No reason—I’d just like to picture it, that’s all.”

Boy was courageous enough in war, but he was afraid of his father; he told him of his broken engagement, but he took the coward’s way out. He delayed the interview to the following morning. He timed it so that once the news was given, he would have to leave for the station and his train to the Channel port almost immediately. No time for rage. He faced his father in his father’s study. Denton sat by a fire, with a rug across his knees. He seemed displeased to be interrupted; he was writing to generals and brigadiers.

These men—to whom Denton now wrote every day—were all old. They were history! They had served in battles now remote enough to be in schoolbooks: This one had fought in the Crimea; that one had lost an arm at Sebastopol; yet another had survived the siege of Lucknow and been a famous scourge of the Northwestern Frontier. These men had been Denton’s father’s contemporaries; he remembered them in all the splendor of their uniforms, when he was a small boy and they were the British Army’s Young Turks. To Denton they were ageless. He wrote to them because he believed they still had power and influence. He wrote to them because he was sure one of them would make inquiries (at the highest level), write back, and reassure: There had been a mistake. There had been a typical army cock-up. They had sent the wrong telegram to the wrong family about the wrong man. It was all an error, and his son was still alive.

Many of these old men were dead; of those still alive, some replied. They wrote courteous, considerate letters from their retirement in Cheltenham or the English south coast. They regretted they could not help. Denton was not deterred. He crossed out their names and moved on. He was already exhausting generals. The brigadiers, Boy knew, were the first stage of his defeat.