The Novel in the Viola (25 page)

Despite it being barely ten o’clock, Mr Rivers poured two large measures of whisky, sliding one across the desk to his son.

‘All right,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘I accept that you love her and she you. But come on, Kit. This is not what is supposed to happen. People like you and people like Elise. You’re not supposed to marry.’

Kit recoiled. ‘People like Elise? You mean Jews.’

‘Yes,’ answered his father, without apology.

‘This isn’t nineteen twenty. They’re part of the set now,’ said Kit, anger rising.

‘Yes. They’re welcome or, if we’re honest, tolerated in almost any house in England. But when it comes to matrimony, they stick to their own kind. Their rules as much as ours.’

Kit shook his head. ‘What nonsense.’

‘Don’t be such a schoolboy. Her father would be as furious as I am. And, it’s not just that she’s a Jewess. For God’s sake, Kit. She’s a housemaid.’ Mr Rivers drained his whisky. ‘I don’t like it when people talk. Especially when it’s about us.’

Kit gave a short laugh. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them.’

‘Yes. I would like you to love a rich woman. I would like you to have something to pass down to your son. I have done my best, but Kit – Tyneford . . . we can’t carry on as we are. The estate needs money.’

‘So you want me to marry some girl I don’t love, for her cash.’

Mr Rivers shook his head. ‘No. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Gone are the days, for better or for worse, when we married for England – to keep her land green and pleasant.’

Kit studied his father with cold curiosity. ‘Did you love my mother? Or was it just her fortune?’

Mr Rivers stiffened. ‘Don’t you judge me. We did our duty. What everyone expected of us both. And that cash kept roofs on the village cottages, paid for Eton and Cambridge. It’s why the limes on the avenue remain un-felled and the fields unsold.’

Mr Rivers’ face softened in remembrance. ‘I loved her in a way. She was a kind, sweet girl. A wonderful mother – she doted on you. I hope I made her happy. But did I love her with the passion of the poets? No. But we didn’t expect to in those days.’

Kit stared at his father and felt his anger subside into sadness.

Mr Rivers sighed. ‘This is a choice, Kit. If you marry Elise, then you must know that you will probably lose Tyneford – not this year, nor the next, but someday. Will you love her then, knowing that you gave up this place for her?’

‘Of course,’ replied Kit, with all the indignation of a young man in the flush of his first romance.

‘I expected you to say nothing less.’ Mr Rivers gave a bitter laugh. ‘No one would blink if you slept with her. Took her quietly as a mistress. Half the so-called gentlemen in England carry on discreet affairs. But I wouldn’t let you do that to Elise.’

‘And I wouldn’t. I want to marry her.’

Mr Rivers gave a slow, tired smile. ‘You’re one and twenty. You don’t need my permission but I would ask you to wait. Please, give it a year to be certain, for my sake. I’ve never asked much of you, Kit.’

Kit was silent for a minute and then nodded. ‘All right. A year. But only because you ask it. I shan’t change my mind.’

If I had known then the choice that his father presented to him, would it have altered anything? Would I have still agreed to marry him? I don’t know. These things were so long ago.

Beside me on the wall, Kit blinked. I nudged him.

‘Why does your father want us to wait, Kit?’

Kit took my hand. ‘Come on, Elise. We must give him a little time. You’re a Jew and you came here as a servant. It’s nonsense to us but it matters to my father. It matters to all of them – the Lady Vernons, the Hamilton girls and despite appearances my father is still one of them.’

I bit my lip, hurt that despite everything – his admiration of Julian’s books, selling the Turner, his kindness towards me – Mr Rivers saw me as marked by my Jewishness. It was worse than my humble position in his household – that was a mere flick of fate. Jew was in the blood.

‘Have you even thought what your father would say?’ asked Kit.

There had been plenty of mixed marriages in Vienna, at least there had been before the troubles. They had been common enough to lose their exotic sheen. Julian argued over dinner with his mouth full of schnitzel that this was the future and one of the Good Things in This World. Well, this and excellent burgundy and publishers who didn’t demand spurious changes to his manuscript or describe his work as ‘obscure’ and ‘obtuse’. The ‘obscene’, he took as a compliment.

‘Julian won’t mind at all,’ I said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘At least, I don’t think he will. All his books are about perfect assimilation, and he’s always talking about thoroughly modern marriages. So he ought to thoroughly approve. Also, I think he’s an atheist.’

Kit frowned. ‘It’s possible a man might write one thing, but perhaps think something else when it comes to his daughter.’

I gazed at him blankly and he sighed and tried again.

‘It’s just, that, well, I’m not sure that a man’s novels can be accurately read as a forecast to how he will react to his daughter’s Christian suitor.’

I studied Kit and wondered whether this was something that he had thought all by himself, or if it was something that his father had voiced. It all seemed rather abstract without Julian here. Julian liked to argue for himself, preferring to surprise people with his opinion – usually the opposite of what they imagined him to think. He was so far away and Kit was right here beside me with his blue eyes and twitching smile and his scent of sandalwood and his particular blend of Turkish cigarettes. I was struck by a thought.

‘You’re not going to want me to convert, are you?’

Kit laughed. ‘Good God, no. I adore you as you are.’

‘And you’re sure that your father won’t try to insist? Because I won’t, you know. I can’t.’

I thought in horror of the time I had peeked into the St Stephensdom, the cathedral in Vienna. It was pouring with rain and I had forgotten my raincoat and umbrella. I was clutching a sticky date pastry that would get spoilt, and I had ducked into the cathedral, looking for a dry corner to nibble my treat. A black robed priest grimaced when he saw me eating, and I stuffed it into my mouth before he could hiss at me. As I tried not to choke, I saw a grotesque marble statue of a man in agony on a white cross, trickling stone blood, his forehead torn by thorns, lips pursed, forever about to scream. And they thought we had done this? No wonder they hated us. Until I saw that statue and inhaled the sickly scent of burning incense, I had not realised how different the other girls in school were from Margot and me and the other Jews. I’d not eaten dates since. I shuddered as the cool March wind blew through the thin weave on my sweater.

‘I won’t. I can’t.’

‘Darling, I told you, no. And what about you? Do you want me to convert?’

Kit pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and popped it onto his blond curls, like a makeshift yarmulke.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course not.’

‘Well, then, it’s settled, darling. We’ll be thoroughly modern. Herr Landau will approve, so will Father. And we’ll live happily ever after.’

‘Just like in one of those romance novels.’

‘Exactly. But with less taffeta.’

Kit leant over and kissed me, his long eyelashes fluttering against my cheek. I could kiss him all day and night. I supposed that this was what May and the dailies termed ‘necking’. He took my hand, and traced his fingertips across my knuckles. I tried to draw away – my skin was coarse and chapped from hours spent scrubbing, and I was embarrassed. Gentlemen were supposed to marvel at their lover’s remarkably smooth skin, not calluses and cracked nails. Violetta might have been a courtesan/whore but I was certain that she never had that particular problem – her hands were probably as soft as duckling down. I felt like an elderly Juliet with rough hands and thick ankles. Kit would make a splendid Romeo, even though I could picture him more easily idling with a cigarette and a gin cocktail than running a fellow through with his sword.

‘Look, a dandelion clock. The first of the year,’ said Kit, pointing to a white feathered flower nestling amongst the yellow dandelion scribbles that studded the green grass like a child’s painting of a starry sky. He slipped off the wall and plucked it, offering it up to me.

‘What o’clock?’ he asked and blew, sending a volley of feathered arrows into the wind.

Kit and I might not have been engaged, but my life at Tyneford had shifted. Mr Wrexham enquired as to whether I wished to move to more commodious quarters, but I declined. I’d grown to love my attic room. Lying in bed at the top of the house, I dreamt that I sailed along on the lookout post upon the mast of a tall ship, and I had the best view of the endless sea, better than the captain himself. Mr Wrexham, though surprised, agreed that I may remain for the present in my attic chambers, but the morning after Kit’s declaration, I became for the first time ‘Miss Landau’.

Mr Wrexham summoned me into his study, and for once offered me a cup of tea, which so surprised me that I declined. The butler’s face contracted and I realised, too late, that refusal had been a mistake. So, when he gestured to me to sit, I did so instantly, almost missing the chair in my haste. Manners always impeccable, he contrived not to notice. He perched on the chair opposite, back straight as one of the poplars beside the driveway, knees together, tails dangling behind him, white hands resting upon his black lap.

‘This is a situation of some delicacy, Miss Landau. Mr Rivers has informed me that while yourself and Mr Kit are not presently engaged, such an event is highly likely,’ he paused. ‘This makes your present situation somewhat problematic. You can no longer continue as a maid, Miss Landau. But since you are not as yet engaged, we need to proceed with considerable tact.’

Mr Wrexham explained that my duties were to be undertaken by May and the dailies (Mr Rivers could not endure his future daughter-in-law washing his floors or making his bed a minute longer) but I was to assist Mrs Ellsworth with the running of the household, a more genteel task, that as far as I could tell involved the ordering of dinners and the endless arranging of flowers. I was not permitted to assist with actual cooking. My hands were to be smooth and untainted by work before a ring was slipped onto my finger.

‘There remains the awkward matter of meals. Until the engagement is official and declared in
The Times,
it is not appropriate for you to take your meals with the family. But you can no longer eat in the servants’ hall. It has been decided that you will take your repast in the morning room.’

I tried not to frown. ‘Alone?’

‘For the present, Miss Landau.’

‘Very well, Mr Wrexham.’

He winced, ever so slightly.

‘Madam, if I may be so bold. Circumstances have changed. If it pleases you, I am now “Wrexham”.’

I shook my head. ‘No. As you said, I am not yet engaged. I live in no-man’s land. I take my meals alone. Until I am Mrs Rivers, you are Mr Wrexham.’

The butler did not smile but gave a slight nod. ‘As you wish, Miss Landau.’

March drifted into April with a late frost, icing lacework patterns across the windowpanes and smudging the tides of yellow cowslips with white. The black tulips in the terracotta pots on the terrace were bejewelled, like ladies in sable coats dusted with crystal. The nights were clear and cold, and I stood on the single wooden chair in my attic room, peeking out of the window as the stars flashed upon the surface of the sea. Mr Rivers gave permission for me to wire the news to my sister, and did not complain when I sent a rapturous and lavish telegram to Margot.

EVERYTHING All right STOP BETTER THAN All right STOP SPLENDID STOP ANNA JULIAN COMING TO TYNEFORD STOP BURNT MY CAP AND APRON STOP KIT LOVES ME STOP YOU AND ROBERT MUST COME TO ENGLAND STOP BRING UMBRELLA STOP VERY DAMP HERE STOP

Diana and Juno departed for London, taking with them the last of Kit’s college friends. Since Kit and I were not officially engaged, there was nothing to tell them, and Mr Rivers and the wily butler had contrived to keep me far away from the two young ladies during their last few days at the house. But the girls were shrewd when it came to matters of love and Diana, with the keen suspicion that she had been slighted, watched me with Gestapo eyes. On her final evening, I went upstairs to find her sitting on my bed. My drawers were open and the contents covered the floor in an untidy kaleidoscope of knickers, brassieres, blouses and gloves.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ I enquired, relieved that I no longer had to address her as ‘your ladyship’.

Diana shrugged. ‘No. I don’t believe so. Those pearls weren’t stolen, were they?’ she added flatly, pointing to the fine string pulled from their hiding place inside my stocking.

‘I’m afraid not. They’re mine.’

‘Pity,’ she said without emotion.

I started to tidy things away.

‘He ought to have been mine, you know,’ she said.

I closed the drawer with a knock and leant back against the bureau. She was quite lovely – golden curls framing her heart-shaped face and a mouth like two curved rose petals.