Palace Circle (6 page)

“I love her differently.” He paused, seeking for words. “She's my intellectual equal,” he said at last. “And for twenty years we've been bound together. It's a situation that has to be accepted, Delia.”

Her heart drummed against her breastbone. Of all the seenarios
she had imagined when on her way home with Jerome, none had been as terrible as this.

“And you won't give her up?”

He shook his head. “No. I'm sorry.”

She wanted to fly at him, claw his face, scream at him that he
had
to give Sylvia up; but she didn't do so. She was too numb with shock—and besides, she knew it would be of no use. In the short time they had been married she had come to realize that beneath Ivor's suave charm there was a side to him that was absolutely implacable. Tears, scenes, and demands would always fail to move him.

She realized that he was giving her a choice. She could accept her position—a newly married woman whose husband had a long-standing mistress—or she could refuse. And refusing would mean eventual divorce.

With such a choice, there was no real choice at all.

She was going to have to make the best of the hand fate had dealt her, but it wouldn't be the Delia Ivor had married who would do so, the loving, trusting, carelessly happy, naive Delia. It would be a new Delia. A hardened Delia. A Delia well able to hold her own in the glittering, cynical, amoral world she had been plunged into.

“There are just two things I want to know,” she said, as all her wonderful castles in the air tumbled to the ground. “If you have loved Sylvia since before your marriage to Olivia, and before her marriage to Jerome, why didn't you marry her?”

He took a silver cigar tube from the inside pocket of his black tailcoat and removed the cigar from it. “Olivia was the only daughter of the Duke of Rothenbury,” he said, cutting the end off the cigar with the cigar cutter attached to his watch chain. “Sylvia's father, though a millionaire, was in commerce—not that many people now remember that. The distinction was one that mattered to me at the time. What is the second thing you would like to know?”

She began to shake, not knowing how it was possible to feel such pain and live. “You said you had an ulterior motive in marrying me.” It was all she could do to force the words past her lips. “What was it?”

He lit his cigar and blew a plume of blue smoke upward.

“I wanted an heir,” he said simply. “And I still do.”

Time wavered and halted and would, she knew, never be the same again.

She remembered the time at Sans Souci when her father had said of her aunt Rose's hopes of catching Ivor, “When Conisborough marries again it will be to a woman much younger than Rose. He'll want an heir and, because of his age, he'll want one fast.”

She thought of all the times he had made love to her so passionately. Had it always been only because of his need of an heir? She knew that she would never know—and that she would never know in the future, either.

The one thing she could be certain of was that he didn't love her in the way she deserved to be loved—and that her heart was broken.

“I think I'll wear the Poiret embroidered gold silk tonight, El-lie. It's only four weeks until Christmas and it will make me feel suitably festive.”

“Shibden will soon be looking suitably festive as well, my lady,” Ellie said chattily as she opened the doors of Delia's vast armoire to take out the evening gown. “The head gardener always sees to it that there's an enormous fir tree in the hall and when Lady Olivia was alive, all the staff were allowed to help decorate it.”

“Were they?” Delia continued opening an array of jewelry boxes. “That's interesting. I didn't know that.”

“I don't suppose his lordship thought to mention it, my lady.” Ellie laid the gown on the bed. “Everyone always enjoyed it very much, though.”

Her meaning was clear and Delia didn't disappoint her. “If it has become a tradition it is one I shall keep,” she said, trying to decide between an emerald necklace and a diamond one. “Do you know if the prime minister has arrived yet?”

“He arrived about fifteen minutes ago, my lady.” Ellie helped her into the dress. “Mrs. Asquith is in her room, attended by her maid. His lordship and the prime minister are having a private conversation in the Blue Room.”

Delia breathed in as Ellie fastened the gown's tiny hooks and eyes, not remotely surprised that Ellie knew the exact whereabouts of the evening's most important guests. “And Sir Cuthbert and Lady Digby?”

“Still in their room. Parkinson said that when he arrived Sir Cuthbert looked a little tired.”

Parkinson was Shibden Hall's butler and, like Ellie, missed nothing.

“And most of the other guests?” Though Delia had hosted weekend house parties before at Shibden Hall, this was the first the prime minister had attended and she was anxious that everything run smoothly. The last thing she wanted was for someone to cancel.

“Yes, my lady.”

“And the Damnyankee?”

Ellie grinned, knowing that though Delia often used the expression in a derogatory way, in this case she was using it with deep affection. “No. The Duchess of Marlborough has a reputation for lateness.”

“Ah, well. There ain't nobody like her for niceness and so her faults can be easily overlooked.” It wasn't often now that Delia's speech lapsed into a Virginian drawl, but when it did it always made Ellie laugh.

She giggled as Delia handed her the emerald necklace.

“And Sir Jerome and Lady Bazeljette?” she asked as Ellie fastened the necklace around her throat, not betraying by a flicker what it cost her to utter Lady Bazeljette's name.

“Not yet, my lady.”

Delia fastened her emerald pendant earrings, knowing there was not the slightest chance of Sylvia forgoing a weekend at Shibden.

It was an issue she and Ivor had fought about. “She didn't visit Shibden when Olivia was alive,” she had said furiously.
“I know, because Jerome mentioned to me that he was never invited here, and though he fudged the reason, it can only have been because Olivia put her foot down.”

“And she could get away with it because she was a duke's daughter,” said Ivor. “You, sweetheart, can't pull the same rank. And if she
isn't
invited here by you, it will cause just the kind of gossip you are so anxious to avoid.”

No longer in awe of him, she had thrown a book at his head.

Such scenes were blessedly rare, partly because they were together far less than she had imagined. This was not because his time was spent with Sylvia but because as financial adviser to the King his workload was a heavy one.

The necessity of having to adjust with great rapidity to a life centered at court and among the royal set had given Delia little time to brood. First there had been her presentation. She had insisted Ivor make known to Sylvia her awareness that she was his mistress and that, though she realized she had no option but to be presented at court by her, she had no intention of speaking to her on the subject, then or ever.

This he had done and, from then on, whenever they met there was no trace of condescending amusement in Sylvia's violet-dark eyes. Instead, beneath a veneer of exquisite politeness, there was a frosty hauteur which Delia returned in full measure.

The presentation had been her baptism by fire, but she had survived it magnificently. After that, nothing held any terrors, not even the awesome coronation. In her crimson and ermine robe she had looked—and felt—so grand, she had doubted if anyone in Virginia would be able to recognize her. The length of the gown's train and the width of the ermine on it denoted rank and, as a viscountess, her train was one-and-a-quarter yards long, the ermine two inches wide. That Sylvia Bazeljette's
train was far shorter and the ermine trim far narrower gave her a stab of satisfaction.

Three weeks after the coronation, she and Ivor had been in attendance at the investiture of Edward, Prince of Wales, at Caernarfon Castle. It had been another occasion of medieval ceremony with the seventeen-year-old golden-haired prince looking almost like a child beneath the weight of his robes and fleur-de-lis-decorated crown.

She had been so enraptured by the spectacle she had clutched Ivor's arm, saying breathlessly, “Oh, isn't it a cracking occasion, Ivor! I'm so glad I'm here!”

He had patted her hand and smiled down at her and it was almost as it had been before she had known of his infidelity. Almost, but—to her continuing distress—not quite.

She now took a last look at herself in the three-way mirror and liked what she saw. Emeralds were perfect with her flame-red hair and the gold silk was so seductive on her youthful body she couldn't imagine anyone, even Sylvia, outshining her.

There was a knock at the door and Ellie opened it to Gwen.

“Darling, nearly everyone is gathered in the drawing room and it's time for you to make an appearance,” she said as she swept in, her angular frame resplendent in an evening gown of beaded gray silk, a pearl-and-diamond necklace hanging to her waist. “I've just seen Margot Asquith and she's looking very dramatic, but then she always does. She was wearing a full-length scarlet cloak when she arrived. You will remember that her Christian name is pronounced without the
t
, won't you? I only mention it because I'm sure you are nervous and Americans do have such trouble with English names. Pugh once had his name pronounced Pug by the American ambassador. I believe he quite lost control, thundering, ‘Pew!
Pew!’
until someone brought him a very large brandy.”

Delia chuckled. “I'm not surprised my countryman was
stumped. The difference between the spelling and pronunciation of some names is enough to give anyone a headache. Unless you heard Cholmondeley and Dalziel and Geoghegan spoken, you'd never know how to say them. And I'm not nervous, Gwen. Truly.”

Gwen cocked her head to one side. “No, you're not, are you? For a girl so young you really do have the most enormous self-composure as well as the most delightful vivacity. You are becoming a great social asset to Ivor—and he knows it.”

“Does he?” Delia quirked an eyebrow and then, arm in arm with her sister-in-law, she walked downstairs to meet her guests.

There were twenty at dinner. The prime minister and Mrs. Asquith. The Duke and Duchess of Girlington. Consuelo, Duchess of Marlborough. The Earl and Countess of Denby. Gwen and her husband. Sir Cuthbert and Lady Digby. Lord Curzon. Mrs. Marie Belloc Lowndes, a renowned novelist and a close friend of Margot Asquith's. Winston Churchill, first lord of the admiralty, and his wife, Clementine. Sir John Simon, solicitor-general. And Sir Jerome and Lady Bazeljette.

As Delia took her place opposite Ivor at the head of the table, he flashed her one of his rare smiles and she knew he was pleased with the way she looked and at her social confidence.

Within minutes, Sylvia began an argument. Well aware that Marie Belloc Lowndes was a committed supporter of the suffragettes and that Ivor and the majority of the other guests, particularly the prime minister, Lord Curzon, and Mr. Churchill were against the movement, Sylvia said sweetly, “I understand you took part in the last Votes for Women march dressed as Queen Boadicea. Was it not rather chilly for you, Marie?”

“I wasn't bare-breasted, Sylvia.” Marie took a sip of her wine. “And if you are hoping to embarrass me, you've failed.”

Mr. Asquith, whose government was refusing to give way to suffragette pressure, cleared his throat.

His wife, who was tired of having the windows at 10 Downing Street smashed, and certain the suffragettes meant to cause her husband bodily harm, intervened raspingly. “Really, Sylvia. Isn't it enough that we have to contend with suffragette nonsense in our public lives without having it made an issue at house parties as well?”

Sylvia, wearing a glittering black off-the-shoulder gown, shrugged carelessly and Delia saw her eyes meet Ivor's.

She felt a rush of anger, certain the remark had been said not in order to embarrass Marie but to lure Delia into making comments that would infuriate Ivor and distance her from the Asquiths.

She admired the suffragettes hugely and avoiding Sylvia's trap was an agony; but just when she thought she couldn't bear it for another minute, the first lord of the admiralty ignored the very broad hint that the subject should be dropped, by saying pugnaciously, “Women don't need the vote. Not when their fathers, husbands, and brothers can represent their views.”

“But do they?” Viola Girlington lifted her naked shoulder expressively from a sea of indigo tulle. “Girlington doesn't represent
my
views.” She looked across the table to where her husband was seated between Consuelo Marlborough and Clementine Churchill. “In fact, I'm not sure he knows them,” she said, the amusement in her voice taking the sting from her words. “As for dearest Marie dressing as Queen Boadicea, the image is one I would love to sculpt.”

“And I'd love for you to do so,” Jerome said, “especially if the representation was bare-breasted.”

There was general laughter and, as Viola was a serious artist of exceptional talent, the conversation veered away from women's suffrage and toward the arts.

Jerome caught Delia's eye and he gave her a discreet wink, indicating he well knew that she had exercised restraint only to avoid giving Sylvia satisfaction.

As the footmen cleared away the first course, she determined to join the Women's Social and Political Union as soon as she could. If Ivor didn't like it—which he wouldn't—then he could just go whistle.

Consuelo changed the subject by saying in her gentle voice, “Do you know that Lord Croomb's bride-to-be is an American?” She smiled at Delia. “We Americans are no longer going to be a minority on this side of the Atlantic.”

“I understand the bride is worth millions and the groom is land-rich and cash-strapped,” Sylvia said with a throaty laugh, turning toward George Curzon, who was seated on her right. “Which surely makes the arrangement more of a business merger than a marriage.”

There was more laughter, but Consuelo didn't laugh and, knowing that her mother had forced her into her marriage purely for the title and that on the marriage the duke had collected millions of dollars in railroad stock from Consuelo's father, Delia didn't laugh either. She was fond of Consuelo and knew that she was desperately unhappy.