Take No Farewell - Retail (13 page)

‘I can build other houses, Consuela. Dozens of others.’

‘Will you build one for us?’

‘If you want me to.’

‘I think I do. Very much.’

The appeal in her voice seemed to summon me. I rose at its bidding, crossed to where she stood and wrapped her in my arms. She closed her eyes as I kissed her, then let her head fall onto my shoulder. Her hair was warm and fragrant against my cheek, her body smooth and golden where the sunlight fell upon it. A sudden realization of her loveliness swept over me and, with it, renewed desire, a desire so powerful that the future – and what I meant to do in it – dissolved into nothing. Every compartment of my mind, every recess of my imagination, was filled with the need to possess her once more.

Consuela looked up at me and whispered, ‘You want me again?’

‘I want you always.’

‘Then you shall have me. Always.’

Desire and deceit surged within me. I was laughing as I carried her back to the bed and, seconds later, thrust triumphantly into her; laughing with a sound that in my memory resembles nothing but the baying of my own conscience.

There were ten to dinner at Clouds Frome that night: Victor and Consuela; Mortimer and Marjorie; Hermione and old Mrs Caswell; Mr and Mrs Peto; Major Turnbull and I. Naturally, the success of the house-warming and Caswell & Co.’s victory in the cricket match dominated conversation. The two events had filled Victor with an exultant sense of belonging, of restoration to his rightful domain, and his guests responded in kind.

I was seated between Hermione and Mrs Peto. Victor was at our end of the table, with Consuela at the other. There was scant need for me to converse in view of the garrulousness of others, for which I was grateful. The events of the day had left me confused, my resolution gone, my nerves in tatters. If I so much as glanced down the table at Consuela, my mind filled with the images of what we had done in Victor’s
marriage-bed
that very afternoon. And I knew, as Consuela did not, just how wrong it had been. There was nothing for it but to drown my self-reproach in Victor’s claret and pray for the end to come swiftly.

But it did not. And, during dessert, I found myself involved in an argument with the Caswell brothers that I should have avoided. Hermione, devouring strawberries with an undiminished appetite, took Mortimer to task for dismissing a member of his workforce. When I caught the man’s name – Ivor Doak – I expressed an interest, sorry as I was to think that Doak of all people had fallen on hard times.

‘Yes,’ Mortimer starkly confirmed. ‘I had to get rid of him. Fonder of emptying cider bottles than of filling them.’

‘It’s appalling,’ put in Hermione. ‘We owe that man a job if we owe him nothing else.’

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Mortimer, ‘we owe him nothing.’

‘The Doaks are an ancient Herefordshire family. If Ivor drinks, it’s to forget what they’ve been reduced to.’

‘My sister,’ said Mortimer, smiling tartly at me, ‘is a great believer in charity – usually at my expense.’

‘I can’t help agreeing with her,’ I said. ‘Surely it wouldn’t hurt to be lenient on poor old Doak. As a former owner of this land—’

‘A former
tenant
,’ Victor interrupted. ‘And a neglectful one at that. You’re well rid of him, Mortimer. We’re all well rid of him.’

‘But what will he do for work now?’ I protested.

‘Starve or go hang,’ snapped Victor. ‘Who cares what a man like Ivor Doak does?’ His vehemence seemed unnecessary, his scorn disproportionate. I could not understand why he should be so vengeful towards somebody who – so far as I knew – had never done him any harm.

‘He needs to leave Hereford,’ said Hermione, ‘and all the memories it holds for him.’

‘To go where?’ asked Victor with a sarcastic curl to his mouth.

‘Australia. He has a cousin who farms sheep there.’

‘What my sister means, Staddon,’ said Victor, ‘is that Doak’s uncle was transported to Western Australia fifty years ago for shooting a gamekeeper and that his progeny are still out there, allegedly eager to welcome and support their kinsman.’

‘It happens to be true,’ said Hermione. ‘And you of all people, Victor, should appreciate the value of making a fresh start in life.’

Victor’s face reddened. His voice dropped to a growl. ‘If you think an addle-headed comparison like that is going to persuade me to put up Doak’s passage-money to Perth—’

‘I don’t think any such thing! I know you and Mortimer too well to expect any gestures of decency towards somebody who’s down on his luck.’

‘His
luck
? Is that what you call running his farm into the ground? Is that what you call leaving Mortimer no alternative but to sack him? It’s not bad luck that’s got Ivor Doak where he is, woman. It’s bad blood!’

‘What perfect nonsense! All he needs—’

‘Excuse me,’ I said, leaning forward across the table, sorrow and regret for all I had lately done fastening themselves on the memory of my one encounter with the evicted tenant of Clouds Frome Farm. ‘How much would it cost to pay Doak’s passage?’

‘More than even he could spend on drink,’ said Victor.

Hermione ignored the remark. ‘About forty pounds. More than he is able to raise. And more, I regret to say, than I can afford to lend him.’

Victor snorted. ‘Forty pounds! I ask you.’

Hermione pressed on. ‘Three months’ wages for Ivor Doak, Mr Staddon, and loose change to my brothers. Yet still they begrudge it.’

‘Prudent investment is the essence of good business,’ said Mortimer. ‘Investment in Ivor Doak would be the height of folly.’

But Hermione was undaunted. ‘I’m confident he would repay us as soon as he found his feet.’

There was a dismissive grunt from Victor. Mortimer shook his head and returned to his pineapple. But Hermione glared defiantly round the table, where all other conversation had now ceased. Clumsy, tactless and aimlessly energetic, she had long been the one Caswell I had any regard for, but this, I knew, was not the reason why I warmed to her proposal. Sickened by my own conduct, I needed to prove that I was not as mean and selfish as Hermione’s brothers; to prove it to myself and to demonstrate it to others. And so, with Consuela’s admiring eyes upon me, I spoke.

‘I’ll lend Doak forty pounds.’

Victor’s spoon clattered into its dish, but I refused to look at him. Instead, I merely smiled across the table at his sister. ‘That’s exceedingly generous of you, Mr Staddon,’ she said. ‘As it happens, I can supply half the amount myself.’

‘Then I’ll supply the balance.’

‘You will?’

‘Gladly.’

‘Splendid! Together then, you and I will do our best to salvage poor Ivor.’ She grinned round at her brothers. ‘It is such a rare pleasure to find oneself dealing with a true gentleman.’

‘You’re a fool if you follow my sister’s lead in this, Staddon.’ The force of Victor’s tone obliged me to look at him. To my surprise, he appeared genuinely angry that I should have made such an offer.

‘I presume I can be a fool with my own money if I wish.’

‘You mean the money I’ve just paid you.’

‘I do have other resources besides the fee for this house.’

‘Do you? Do you really?’ He eyed me malevolently. ‘You’ll regret loaning money to Ivor Doak, Staddon. Take it from me, you’ll regret it.’ He meant what he said. That was clear from the thunderous expression on his face. But whether he meant it as a prediction or a threat was altogether less clear.

As the dispute dissolved and other conversations sprang
up
round the table, the doubt that Victor’s remarks had sown in my mind ran and wriggled about my thoughts. Why did he care whether I gave Doak a helping hand? Why did he resent it so keenly? And why was he so sure, so very sure, that one day I would regret it?

Sunday was for me an ordeal of prolonged inactivity. A late breakfast. A more or less obligatory attendance at Mordiford Church. Luncheon. Then a torpid afternoon of croquet and tennis. Tea on the terrace. And the sun blazing down from a cloudless sky. Any neutral observer of the scene would have concluded that the Caswell family and their guests were passing the sabbath in contented ease.

How my thoughts ranged to and fro as the heavy hours plodded by. Both courses that I was bound to choose between seemed impossible to face. To lose Consuela or to sacrifice fame. Each chalice was poisoned, each decision foredoomed. I watched her serving tea, smiling at Turnbull’s witticisms, deferring to her husband, strolling beneath the pergola. I watched her and she, I felt sure, watched me. And still certainty eluded me.

The afternoon gave way to evening. The hour for dinner approached. The party had been reduced to eight by now and its mood had become weary and circumspective. There was no mention of Ivor Doak, no enthusiastic recollection of the cricket match or the house-warming. We were all, I suppose, a little bored with each other’s company. But boredom, though it may have appeared to be, was not the explanation for my distracted condition. Whenever I caught Consuela’s eye between the epergnes and the candelabra, whenever I heard her soft voice amidst the murmur of conversation, I knew that the moment of decision was drawing ever closer, the moment to which I still felt unequal.

Dinner ended and the ladies made to withdraw. It was then, amidst the exchange of courteous wishes for a restful night, that I saw and spoke to her for the last time. How
strange
the stilted remarks we uttered seem now, how banal the guarded smiles and cautious glances with which we took our leave of each other.

‘I catch an early train tomorrow, Mrs Caswell. Perhaps therefore I can thank you now for your hospitality this weekend.’

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Staddon.’ Her hand rested briefly in mine. ‘I hope we will see you again soon.’

‘I hope so too.’

‘Goodnight, then.’

‘Goodnight, Mrs Caswell.’ She moved towards the door. ‘And goodbye.’

Just one fleeting look back – the merest glimmer of her eyes that seemed to convey and bestow all her trust in me – and then she was gone.

The gentlemen did not linger long over their port. After one glass, Mortimer took himself off to bed, whereupon Victor proposed a few frames of billiards and Turnbull agreed. I was grateful to leave them to it and walk out into the sultry night.

Clouds Frome had fulfilled my every hope for it. That much was clear as I circled its elegant exterior, outlined against the star-shot sky. And Clouds Frome, with Thornton’s commission mine for the taking, might only be the start. But a light burned in the window of the master bedroom, a light to remind me of Consuela’s love. For her sake I should have been prepared to endure all and to sacrifice everything. But I could not force myself to feel more deeply than I did. I could not prevent myself longing for the opportunities loyalty to her might deny me. The truth was simple and the less palatable because of it. I did not love her enough.

I returned to the house. All was quiet, save for the crack of cue on ball from the billiards-room. I poured myself a tumblerful of scotch and carried it up to my bedroom. And there I took out a sheet of Victor’s headed notepaper, sat at the desk and began to write.

16 July 1911

My dearest Consuela—

I began again. How dare I proclaim her as my dearest – or mine at all?

16 July 1911

Consuela,

It is as painful for me to write this as it will be painful for you to read it. We cannot – we must not – proceed with your plan. It would not be fair of me to let you sacrifice your good name—

Once more I abandoned the draft. It was poor and spineless stuff. The least Consuela deserved of me now was the honesty I should have shown her earlier. I swallowed some whisky and nerved myself to tell her the truth. But how could I explain valuing my career more highly than her love? In the end, this brand of truth was worse than any deception. And so, with sincerity vanquished, I committed my weasel-words to the page.

16 July 1911

Consuela,

We cannot proceed with your plan. I have thought about this very carefully and I have concluded that you were right last November when you said the sacrifices we would have to make in order to be together were too great. We have been foolish and impetuous. I cannot let you destroy your position in society for my sake. I cannot let you leave Victor to be with me.

Do not leave Clouds Frome on Tuesday. Do not come to London. I know it will be hard at first to carry on with your life here, but, as time passes, I am sure you will come to appreciate that it is the best course of action for both of us. I am sorry, truly sorry, for any disappointment this causes you, but I am convinced that I am making the right decision.

Geoffrey.

And so it was done. I sealed the letter and finished the whisky, then lay down in search of the rest I did not deserve.

I was awake with the dawn, washing and dressing in haste, consumed with an appalling eagerness to be on my way. The Oxford and London Express was not due at Stoke Edith until just before half past seven, but I intended to be out of the house as early as possible. An hour or more of hungry solitude at the station was preferable to a single unnecessary minute at Clouds Frome once my message had been despatched.

It was five o’clock when I left the orchard suite and ascended to the second floor. I was making for the servants’ wing and the room Consuela had told me was Lizzie’s. As lady’s maid, she enjoyed a room to herself and I therefore felt safe in slipping the letter beneath her door, together with a note asking her to deliver it to Consuela as soon as possible.

As I neared my destination, however, the universal silence was broken by the faint but unmistakable sound of weeping. I stopped to listen and there was no doubt of it. Lizzie Thaxter – or somebody in her room – was crying. To leave the letter as I had planned seemed inadequate now, in some way insufficient. I knocked as softly as I could on the door. The weeping was abruptly cut off. I knocked again.

‘Who’s there?’ It was Lizzie’s voice, faltering and congested.

‘Staddon,’ I whispered.

There was a rustling beyond the door. Then it opened a few inches and Lizzie peered out at me. She was in her nightdress. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were red, with dark shadows beneath them. She had dried her tears, but could hardly have thought I had failed to hear her sobbing.