Spare Brides (36 page)

‘Why don’t I stay here with you?’ she offered.

‘Oh, that wouldn’t work.’ He didn’t look up from the pan.

‘Why not?’ She kept her eyes trained on him.

‘You wouldn’t like it.’

‘I think I would.’

‘You’d get sick of me.’

‘Never. I never would.’

L
AWRENCE HAD STUDIED
the books and consulted with his lawyers and accountants. He thought there was a way to make it work, but only just, and it would demand sacrifices. He thought it was ironic that by inheriting a fortune, there was a very real danger that he might actually be worse off, unless he exercised great caution. Luckily, the late earl had not been a spendthrift. He’d been a careful and wise man, alert to the charge of squander. He had never allowed his wife to throw parties for two and a half thousand guests, the way the Marchioness of Londonderry did; he had not kept a staff of forty, he had only one motor car and he’d thought holidaying abroad was something only youngsters did. Even so, death duties were so extreme that to keep Clarendale running and in the family Lawrence would have to sell off a substantial amount of farmland, perhaps the odd painting and, unfortunately, Dartford Hall. It was the loss of Dartford Hall that irked. Yes, it was a draughty pile, in need of renovation, but he had a sentimental attachment to the place because it was his and Lydia’s first home. They’d been very happy there, all things considered, the war and whatnot. But it had to go.

Lawrence straightened his back, tapped out his pipe and told himself that this was an opportunity; detaching himself from agriculture could, if handled properly, be progress. He would release more cash than he needed to pay off the tax and then he’d invest in government bonds. Here in Britain, for sure, it was the patriotic thing to do, but in America and the colonies too. Spread the risk. If he could generate an income, drawn from dividends and independent of the land, he’d be secure. He would be able to pass the Clarendale estate on.

To whom was a different concern.

He turned in response to a knock at the drawing room door; Sarah popped her head around and smiled warily.

‘I’m sorry to disturb, Lawrence.’

‘Not at all.’

Her smile nudged a fraction from apologetic to relief, and then settled upon being nervously ingratiating. ‘I thought you might like a cold drink. It’s so hot again.’ She pushed through the door, revealing the fact that she was carrying a rather cumbersome tray, laden with a jug of lemonade, two glasses and a plate of biscuits, freshly baked by the smell of them. He rushed to assist. Having taken the tray from her, he looked about helplessly: where to set it? Sarah smiled at his obvious lack of experience in serving himself. Carefully she cleared some papers and a novel from a side table so Lawrence had somewhere to place the tray.

‘Are you joining me?’ he asked.

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘I’d be happy to have the company and a break from all of this.’ Lawrence waved at the piles of paperwork. Sarah’s eyes followed attentively.

‘Shall I open the patio windows?’

‘It is stifling in here.’ He was suddenly aware that the room smelt fusty and male. He’d been bent over the papers for days; the air had been breathed in and then out too often.

‘Everyone always benefits from fresh air,’ Sarah said tactfully. Lawrence noted that before she opened the window she looked around and located two or three paperweights, then carefully placed them on the piles of documents. As the sweet summer breeze whooshed through the room, the papers fluttered but were not disturbed. She was a thoughtful, careful woman. They sat on chairs, facing partially towards one another and partially towards the view of the wide lawn, which was framed by heavy elms and sycamores that drooped down into a stream.

‘Shall I pour?’ asked Sarah. Lawrence smiled and nodded; it would be peculiar to have it any other way. ‘Have you heard from Lydia?’ she asked conversationally.

‘Not since Thursday, when she sent a telegram to say she’d arrived safely.’

Lawrence noted that Sarah’s face did not move a fraction when he gave this information. If she thought his wife neglectful in her correspondence, as he himself did, then she did not say so. ‘Have
you
heard from her?’

‘No.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘Why would I? If she had time to send a telegram to anyone, then it would be you.’

‘I suppose she must be very busy.’

‘London is hectic.’

‘I ought to ring her at Ava’s.’ He knew he didn’t sound enthusiastic; he wasn’t.

‘I could do that for you,’ Sarah said quickly. ‘I’ve been meaning to telephone Ava; we hardly managed a word at your father’s funeral, and Beatrice is going to stay with her again soon. Let me telephone.’

‘Well, send Lydia my …’ He hesitated. He meant love –
Send Lydia my love
– but it wasn’t something he could say to another woman, even a dear friend like Sarah; he rarely said the word to Lydia herself. He settled for, ‘Send her my best wishes. Tell her not to spend all my money on new shoes.’

Sarah laughed appropriately at his small joke. ‘She must be tempted, though. If I were her, I’d buy all the pretty things in Bond Street, Selfridges and Liberty combined.’

Lawrence grinned. ‘Ah, and here’s me thinking you were the perfect wife. I now see your flaw. You are a wastrel.’ He wagged his finger playfully.

‘No, I am not,’ Sarah spluttered with mock indignation. ‘I said if I were
her
. Lydia looks wonderful in everything she puts on. I can’t imagine how she ever holds back.’

Lawrence didn’t know how to respond. He knew Sarah well enough to understand that she was not fishing for compliments. She didn’t want or expect him to insist that she would look just as beautiful as Lydia in all those fashionable clothes women liked so much. For a start, it wasn’t true. Very few women looked as beautiful as Lydia, and he would not insult Sarah’s intelligence by throwing out a platitude. Secondly, it would be unseemly, almost flirtatious, for him to make such a comment, even to a steadfast family friend like Sarah. In the final analysis she was a woman and they were alone. Yet he did want to say something. He wanted to tell her that she was lovely. Lovely in an enduring, magnificent way. Her beauty was rather like an old stately home, not quite fashionable any more but solid, undeniable, valuable. Since Arthur’s death, who was there to tell her such things? Lawrence searched around for a means to express himself but, as so often was the case for him, he couldn’t think of an elegant way to say what he wanted. He chose instead to ignore the comment, letting the chattering birds in the trees fill the gap.

Presently he asked, ‘Do you think I made the right decision letting her go to London?’

‘I really don’t think you had much say in the matter. She’s a grown woman.’

‘She’s gone alone. Wouldn’t hear of taking Dickenson with her.’

‘She probably didn’t want to overburden Ava by taking her maid along too.’

‘I wonder what people must think, her off shopping and partying and what have you, so soon after my father’s death.’

‘Oh, I don’t think anyone of any value will think about it at all,’ commented Sarah breezily. She turned to Lawrence and smiled at him reassuringly. ‘All the people we care about are far too busy to waste time gossiping about what other people are doing, aren’t they?’

Lawrence thought this was sensible and agreeable, if not entirely accurate. He really wished Lydia had not headed off so swiftly. He understood that she cared about how she looked and that she would want the most flattering and beguiling black clothes, but he’d rather she’d stayed here and not bothered with mourning rituals; no one really expected anyone to wear black for longer than a week nowadays. He’d have liked to have her around. He wanted to discuss some of the decisions about the property sales; he wanted her to start to instruct the servants here, otherwise his mother might never give up the habit. Last night he’d been thinking about when he was a boy and used to go fishing with his father and his older brothers. They’d spend hours up to their thighs in the stream, sunlight and salmon dancing on the glittering surface; tadpoles slipping carelessly in and out of the frilly grasses near the water’s edge. It was a lovely memory and he’d have liked to share it with someone; but none of them were here now. Brothers and father dead. Lydia gallivanting. He couldn’t risk sharing it with his mother – it might upset her – and he had no intention of saying any of it to Sarah, so they fell silent again. It was a companionable silence, though, not awkward or toxic. He could hear the fountain flowing; although it was out of view, he could imagine it clearly. He knew every inch of Clarendale. The dogs were barking at something or other. Playful chaps.

‘Thank you, Sarah.’

‘What for?’ She looked genuinely startled.

‘Well, being here, with Mother. With me. It’s kind of you to agree to stay on.’ It had been Lydia’s suggestion. She’d mentioned it the day before the funeral, saying to Lawrence how wonderful it would be for Sarah’s children to stay at Clarendale Hall for a spell. ‘They never get a holiday,’ she’d pointed out. ‘It will do Sarah a power of good too. She needs a break from all the gloom at Seaton Manor.’ He’d thought that Lydia wanted to spend time with her godchildren, and had agreed instantly, but then Lydia had made her plans to rush off to London, leaving Sarah and the children to their own devices.

‘The children are having a marvellous stay.’

‘Finding things to amuse themselves, are they?’

‘Too true.’ Lawrence had seen them on the croquet lawn in the mornings and heard the rhythm of the racquet and the ball when they played on the tennis court just after lunch. ‘They’ve spent a great deal of their time fishing in the stream,’ said Sarah.

‘Have they really?’

‘Yes. They end the day smelling revolting, carrying something worse, but sun-kissed and happy.’

‘I’m very pleased.’ Lawrence resisted intruding on Sarah’s contentment by adding his own stories about fishing. He realised that it was enough that the stream was being enjoyed in that way again; he didn’t need to talk about his childhood now that others’ childhoods were blooming at Clarendale.

Sarah let out a contented sigh and sat back in her chair. She closed her eyes for a moment. Lawrence thought perhaps she might even nod off; he wouldn’t mind. The woman was a hive of activity, always playing the piano or doing something with knitting needles, or crochet needles, or darning needles – some sort of needles anyway – or running about looking after the children, or her brother, or neighbours; it was rather a treat to see her peaceful and at ease. He watched her lips part, just a fraction. The creases round her mouth and eyes softened. Her breathing became deeper. Then she seemed to sense him staring; she opened her eyes and grinned at him. ‘How rude of me.’

‘Not at all,’ he reassured her.

‘It’s so tranquil here. I’ve always loved Clarendale, from the very first moment I saw it.’

‘When was that?’

‘Your engagement party.’

‘Quite so.’

‘What a night that was.’

‘Indeed.’

‘You had a full-size orchestra, one hundred musicians playing from a marquee on the lawn.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I remember the smell of jasmine and candle wax lingering in the air. There were literally thousands of paper lanterns. It was so romantic.’

‘Yes.’

‘Arthur and I made love in the herbaceous border.’

Lawrence choked on his lemonade. It was such an audacious comment, and so out of character, that he thought he must have misheard. Sarah turned to him and grinned, revealing a rarely exposed mischievous side. ‘There’s a very real chance that John was conceived here.’

‘Well.’ He was without words.

‘I only have good memories of Clarendale,’ she added.

‘I’m glad.’ Lawrence tried to recover some of his composure. He had never made love outside a bedroom, not with Lydia or with either of the two women he had had love affairs with before he married. Both of those women had been rather loose and adventurous, but even so, neither of them had suggested or hinted that al fresco might be an option. He hadn’t realised that proper couples, married people, his friends, did such things. He was disconcerted by a feeling of both inadequacy and envy. Then he remembered that Arthur was dead, and he simply felt grateful that the man had known his wife outdoors. ‘It’s so important to hold on to the good memories, if we can,’ he said.

‘Yes, if we can.’ The truth was that the war had taken away the pleasure of pottering about the past, or bravely plunging into the future, come to that. It required enough courage to stay in the present.

‘Sarah …’ He paused. Her comment about making love in his garden had chiselled away at the usual formality that existed between them, but the question he wanted to raise was deeply personal to them both.

‘What?’

‘Do you think … Are you angry that …’ How to begin? ‘What I’m trying to say is …’ He could not say it. He could not ask if she resented men like him, ones who had had desk jobs. He didn’t want to hear her answer, not really. What he wanted was for her to politely excuse him; he wanted a salve. She’d give it, he was almost certain, but it was selfish to demand it of her. For months now Lydia and Lawrence had been locked in a grim stalemate. This absurd notion that she had, that they were being punished. What rot. Who could believe in a just world after what their generation had endured? God was not balancing the scales, adding and taking away weights at will, like some sort of grocer measuring out flour and currants. Save a son here, inflict infertility there. It didn’t make sense.

None of it did.

That was the only thing they could be sure of: none of it made sense.

Besides, it was some time ago. They ought to move onwards and upwards. It wasn’t polite to linger and poke the embers. Sarah had the right idea: the only thing to recall was the bright times. Why relive the atrocities? Nothing could be undone. It was clear Lydia was humiliated by his actions, resented him. On occasion she behaved in a way that made him think she almost despised him. He would not ask Sarah for a salve, it wasn’t fair. He could do without, because he hadn’t done anything wrong and he had to believe that. Questioning his position, well, that way madness lay. Instead all he said was, ‘I’m glad you find peace here.’