In Distant Fields (25 page)

‘As long as we don't have to go shopping for another wedding,' Partita said in dread, with a look towards Kitty.

‘No need for that yet, lovey,' her mother replied. ‘Besides, you make it sound as if you have attended Elizabeth's funeral, not her wedding.'

Both Circe and Kitty could not help laughing at Partita, even though Kitty would rather the subject had not been raised. She and the Duchess had discussed the matter of her engagement to Almeric over and over again, and it had now been agreed by all concerned parties that in the circumstances it would be wise to allow for a longer rather than a shorter engagement. Although every time they were together Kitty found Al was chafing at the idea, she herself could see the reasons behind it.

‘You are from a very important and distinguished family, Al,' she had told him. ‘You must be quite sure that you really do want to marry me, to marry a Rolfe.'

Kitty went to the window and looked out at the park. She knew that she was now entering into that strange state that she had observed in other girls, that of being engaged but not married, of being loved but not considered suitable.

She tried not to let her heart sink as she realised she could still be engaged in a year's time, but then it lightened the moment she saw Almeric far below her in the park. He was riding Slippers, his favourite bay mare, and he looked so dashing and debonair, it suddenly seemed entirely foolish for her to be nursing any worries. What was time compared to love? And even if she was not completely sure whether or not she really loved him as a fiancée should, she knew that because he was such a good man and so
fair-minded and attentive, in time she could, and indeed would, learn to love him.

‘I've seen photographs of the new season's gowns, darling lovey,' she heard the Duchess telling Partita, ‘and I must say they are truly …' Circe stopped, searching for the right description.

‘Truly fearful?' Partita offered.

‘No, Tita,' Circe laughed, standing up. ‘Truly interesting. Now, why don't we all go for a walk in the park – after which – alas – I have to call on Mrs Catesby.'

‘Poor Mamma,' Partita said, pulling a face. ‘I'd rather eat an earwig sandwich than be in your shoes, calling on Mrs Catesby.'

‘I should imagine after hearing the news about her daughter and Valentine she would find an earwig sandwich nothing short of a treat, Partita.'

This remark induced a fit of coughing from the footman as he opened the door for the Duchess. She threw him an amused, conspiratorial look, but said nothing.

The blinds all over Consolata's house appeared to be drawn down, Circe observed on her arrival, such was the air of funereal gloom that greeted her as a footman in a much-stained livery with a great deal of stale lard and flour on his malodorous and rancid ancient wig opened the door to her. As always, Circe had to make a special effort to cross the threshold of the house, but such was her determination to see her
mission through that she made an even greater effort than normal and stepped into a house that seemed to all intents and purposes to be plunged in mourning.

‘Good afternoon, Circe,' Consolata greeted her from the murky depths of the drawing room as the Duchess was shown in. She was standing by the unlit fireplace, dressed in black, wearing as usual the oddest of shoes: a pair of what looked to Circe at first glance very much like oversize galoshes, but which in fact turned out to be some form of medieval pump.

‘Good afternoon, Consolata.'

Oblivious to the normal protocol and without inviting Circe to sit, Consolata then sank herself down onto a much worn and very faded brocade sofa, clasping a well-faded handkerchief to her mouth. Choosing a chair that appeared to be less damp and certainly considerably cleaner than anything else on offer, Circe sat herself down and prepared for battle, curbing her impatience at her hostess's self-indulgence.

‘To what might I owe this visit, I wonder?' Consolata said from behind her kerchief.

‘I have come to see you, Consolata, because I feel that you're holding me in some way responsible for the elopement of Livia.'

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.'

‘You have every idea, Consolata, of course you have. Now we've known each other far too long not to talk frankly and honestly, so I must admit that I do feel some responsibility as to what has
happened, but only indirectly. I have enjoyed my holidays at Waterside for many summers now, in the company of friends both young and older, and nothing untoward has ever happened before. What I think may explain this sudden rush of romances and, I have to say, your daughter's elopement, is the fact that there seems to be a war imminent, and if this is indeed the case then it really is little wonder that young men and women would want to enjoy what time they may or may not have left together. Your daughter …'

Consolata's dark eyes regarded Circe with indifference as she interrupted her. ‘I do not have a daughter, Circe. Not any more. A son, yes, but not a daughter.'

‘Do you realise what sorrow you're building up for yourself, Consolata?' Circe enquired, with a sad shake of her head. ‘For you – and for any grandchildren you may yet have? How in heaven's name will Livia and Valentine manage to tell their children that their grandmother refuses to speak to them simply because they married? What kind of loving or spiritual example will that be to them? All that is saying is that their parents' love is wrong, and if that is not misguided and unchristian, for the life of me I do not know what is.'

‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Circe,' Consolata insisted. ‘I have told you. I have a son, but no daughter.'

Circe took a deep breath, disappointed that the
deliberate mention of grandchildren had seemed to have produced absolutely no effect.

‘If there is a war, Consolata, as John thinks there is bound to be,' she then continued, ‘imagine how you will feel should Valentine be killed and Livia left a widow with children. How will you feel then? What will your intransigence look like in light of such a loss, I wonder. I can only imagine that an attitude such as yours will bring misery and bitterness, rather than love or consolation, in spite of your apparently tender name. Think to yourself how other people will regard you, a woman of breeding who works so hard for the poor and the dispossessed, who gives so much to others – how does it look that you can take such an attitude to your daughter?'

Consolata stood up at once, her eyes staring with a look that Circe could only later describe to her husband as madness.

‘I have a son, Circe,' she all but barked. ‘I do not have a daughter! I have a son. I do not have a daughter! Do you hear me?'

‘Consolata, Valentine and Livia are married now. In the eyes of God – whose opinion surely matters considerably more than your own – in the eyes of the laws of this land, and, indeed, in the eyes of every fair-minded decent person, their union is legal and nothing you can say, do or think is going to change that.'

‘Circe—' Consolata began in warning.

‘I insist on being heard, Consolata,' Circe continued, her voice indicating that she was
quite prepared to use her superior social rank to do so. ‘It is important that you understand what the effects of your attitude might be on perfectly innocent young people. Valentine and Livia are married because they love each other, and they had to run off to get married because they knew that you would do everything you could to forbid it. You consider this was wrong of them, as do society's tittle-tattlers, but they only eloped because of your intolerance. They are almost certain to have children, please God – and if and when they do, you will cast such a terrible shadow over their young lives that you must be mad if you think God is going to reward you for that.'

‘I have heard quite enough, Circe,' Consolata insisted, ringing a bell to summon her footman.

‘You are a very stupid, stubborn and misguided woman, Consolata,' Circe said with sudden passion, abandoning all her resolutions to be tactful, at the same time rising to her feet. ‘You are about to cause much unhappiness, but if you do not have the wisdom to see the folly of your ways, then all I can say is God help you, although I doubt very much that He will. And please do stop ringing that awful little bell. I would much rather see my own way out.'

Circe hurried from the house of gloom and into her carriage as if escaping from some dangerous infection. She had done her best for Livia and for Valentine, but the truth was that Consolata seemed still to live in a time when
people considered that life was merely a short journey towards the inevitability which was death; when the virtuous went to Paradise and God's love and mercy, and the not so virtuous were committed to eternal hellfire and damnation. The atmosphere in the Catesby house was that of a place that denied that there had been any kind of Renaissance, a movement that had determined people to raise their eyes upwards and see the beauty of life. Circe herself stared out of the carriage window thinking how different Peregrine Catesby was from his mother and wondering at it, while also marvelling that Livia had finally escaped from the clutches of such a bigoted mother, who had clearly been utterly determined to turn her sweet and lovely daughter into a bitter old maid.

How Peregrine had happened to turn out as he had was a mystery to all those who knew the Catesbys. He was golden, enchanting, kindness and patience itself. Circe knew, as they all did, that it was Peregrine's brilliant and patient coaching that had got Almeric into Oxford, after which, far from considering his duty as coach as being over, he had spent many hours helping Almeric through his three years at university. All in all, how Peregrine had emerged as balanced as he undoubtedly had done from a union as ill sorted as that of Bede and Consolata's, was generally considered to be nothing short of wondrous.

That evening at a small family dinner in the
informal dining room, while the young gossiped, Circe told her husband of her mission to see Consolata Catesby.

‘I really did it for the best, John,' she assured him, while knowing all the while that she was also trying to reassure herself. ‘I really did try to talk Consolata round.'

‘Must have been a bit like trying to talk Queen Victoria into wearing a red dress, I should have thought.'

‘It certainly seemed as impossible,' Circe agreed with a smile. ‘What a terrible thing to see a rift about to happen in a family, John. Something that might make generations to come so dreadfully unhappy.'

The Duke listened sympathetically, as he could do, since he had a habit of insisting at informal dinners such as this that his duchess sit beside him, considering, quite privately, that there was simply no point in being a duke if he couldn't flout convention and seat his wife where he liked.

‘Have to say Consolata's timing isn't too good,' John sighed. ‘This is not the very best of times to decide to take a stand against the young.'

The Duke picked up his glass of burgundy and drank it rather too quickly, glancing momentarily after Cecilia, who had hurried out of the room following mention of the fact it had been hinted that Livia might be expecting.

‘Something up with your sister?' John asked Allegra.

‘She says she's suffering from nerves, Papa,' Allegra replied in a bored voice.

‘Hmm. Women's palaver, more like,' her father muttered to himself, nodding to Wavell to refill his glass, before turning to his younger son.

‘Thought about a regiment yet, young Gus?' he enquired. ‘Possibly high time you should be doing so.'

‘I hadn't given the matter much thought yet, Papa.'

‘Don't want to leave these things till the last moment, you know, young man.'

‘Perhaps we should study some of the portraits in the gallery, Gus,' Circe said, coming to his rescue. ‘See which regiment has the most appealing uniform. Why don't we do that?'

But even his mother's swift intervention tailed to restore the colour to her younger son's cheeks. Circe knew that, unlike with Almeric, the military life would never appeal to Gus, unsurprisingly since he was the brother who least enjoyed shooting, hunting or indeed even fishing. At heart Gus was a gentle soul, far more interested in music and painting. His mother smiled reassuringly at him, wishing there was some way she could prevent not just Gus, but both her sons from going into the wretched army.

Beyond the pass door, down in the servants' hall, Wavell and Cook were drinking tea and discussing the latest news gleaned from the newspapers.

‘Lord alone knows what is going to become of
us, Mr Wavell,' Cook said, putting down the
News Chronicle
. ‘There's no going back now.'

Wavell looked up from the
Telegraph
to glance at the faces of the younger members of the household, who were all sitting either at the large table or in easy chairs arranged around the servants' hall, anxious as always to try to keep morale at its highest. He saw a look come into the young men's eyes every time talk turned to the war, and knew that however boastful their talk about how they couldn't wait to give the Hun a bloody nose as soon as they could be off, what they would all infinitely prefer would be for the Kaiser to stop his belligerence and for their leaders to come to their senses and put an end to all the rumours and unease. No one wanted to shoulder arms and be off to trade bullets with people who, to all intents and purposes, were no different from them; young men who at this very moment he imagined to be happily drinking their late night beverages somewhere, smoking their last cigarettes of the day, gazing into the eyes of their loved ones and hoping with all their hearts that tomorrow the world would awaken from what could well turn out to have been just a terrible nightmare.

‘They say the enemy will be able to attack us in all these purely unimaginable ways, Mr Wavell,' Cook continued, oblivious of the butler's warning look. ‘Not just on land and sea, but by air now, would you believe it? And with all these terrible new guns – and there's even talk of gas
now. I mean, what is our world coming to, Mr Wavell? I ask you. All we can do, we people, is to think up some new hell, some new ways of killing each other, I ask you, I really do.'