The Passing Bells (12 page)

“We may go to Greece in July,” Roger said. “Pity you couldn't hop over for a week or two and join us. But you must at least make a point of seeing Perugia and the Abruzzi. That's the true Italy, Rilke, the true Italy.”

They arrived at Abingdon Pryory in time for tea, which was being served on the terrace. It was a hectic moment for both Martin and Hanna, he trying to remember the names of the people he was introduced to, and she trying to greet him in a proper “auntly” manner while not neglecting her guests. Two of the guests were leaving for London—a lady somebody or other and her daughter, a Winifred something—and their departure added to the confusion.

“We shall have a long talk later, Martin,” Hanna whispered, giving his arm a little squeeze. “I'm sure you'd like to freshen up before dinner. I'll have one of the servants show you to your room. And it
is
your room, Martin, to stay in as long as you wish.”

He blurted his thanks to her and then excused himself to the dozen or so people whom his aunt had invited for tea. “My fellow members in the Abingdon Garden Club,” Hanna had explained to her nephew before introducing him to them. They had seemed pleasant enough people, but they had studied him with unabashed curiosity, as though he were some rare breed of plant that was entirely foreign to them. He was grateful when a footman arrived and ushered him into the house.

His trunk and suitcase were in his room, looking shabby against the pristine furnishings, but he only had eyes for the bed and flopped wearily onto it. He wondered what time they served dinner and whether he could take a nap for an hour or two. He had just closed his eyes when someone coughed to draw his attention. A middle-aged man wearing a black linen jacket and gray striped trousers stood just inside the room, one hand on the handle of the door.

“Yes?” Martin said, raising himself on his elbows.

“Beg pardon, sir,” the man said. “I'm Eagles, your valet. If I may have the trunk keys, sir, I shall unpack and give your clothing a press-up.”

He wanted to tell the man not to bother, but his aunt had obviously ordered the valet to come and she might feel offended if he told him to go away. He got off the bed and searched his pockets for the small flat keys.

“Here you are,” he said, handing them over.

“Thank you, sir. Shan't take but a moment. Travel is terrible hard on clothing, sir.”

“Yes,” he said lamely. “I guess it is.”

“Oh, terrible hard, especially a sea voyage, sir. The salt air sets the creases.”

It was embarrassing to Martin to watch the man go through his luggage, like standing by and watching a total stranger sort through his dirty laundry, piece by piece. And that was what most of his suitcases seemed to contain: soiled shirts, underwear, pajamas, and socks. The valet did not actually cluck his tongue, but his lips remained pursed as he sorted out the dirty clothes and removed wrinkled suits and jackets from the steamer trunk. It was obvious even to Martin that everything needed a good “press-up,” but the valet singled out one article of clothing for immediate attention as he held up a particularly wrinkled tuxedo.

“I shall give this a sponge and press immediately, sir. Dinner is always black tie—at least.”

The “at least” had an ominous ring. He didn't own tails. The tuxedo was his only article of formal wear, and it was nearly two years old, bought for a fraternity dinner in his senior year and not worn since. It would be tight, but maybe a sponge and press would stretch it a little.

“Thank you . . . Eagles?”

“Eagles, yes, sir. I shall get right on to this, sir, and have the rest of your clothing back in the morning.”

After the valet had gone, Martin sat on the edge of the bed and debated whether to flop back and go to sleep or take a hot shower. A shower sounded good, but it was obvious that the room didn't contain a bathroom. He was puzzling over that dilemma when there came a gentle knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called out.

The door opened and a slender dark-haired girl in a maid's uniform came into the room, bearing a large bouquet of flowers in a glass vase. She seemed to shrink into the room like a scared doe.

“Hi,” Martin said cheerfully. “Who sent the flowers?”

The girl mumbled something inaudible and set the vase down on a table next to the windows. She barely glanced at Martin before turning to go.

Martin stood up and blocked her exit to the door. “Wait a minute . . . maybe you can help me.”

“Help you, sir?” the girl whispered, almost shrinking away from him.

“Well . . . I'd like to take a shower. Where's the bathroom?”

“The bath, sir . . . or the WC?”

He wasn't sure for a moment what she meant by WC. Then he recalled all the tales he had heard about primitive British plumbing facilities. An English mansion might have thirty bedrooms but only two baths and a couple of water closets, almost as an afterthought. There would be, he felt certain without taking the trouble to look because he'd be damned if he'd use it, a chamber pot under the bed.

“Well,” he said, “both, I guess.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl said, looking past him toward the door. “The WC is the last door at the end of the corridor, sir, and the bath is the third door to your left—no, to your
right
as you leave the room, sir.”

She was a daisy of a girl, Martin was thinking as he looked at her. Seventeen or eighteen. Skin like the proverbial peaches and cream and eyes that were almost violet, with the thickest and longest lashes he had ever seen.

“My name's Martin,” he said impulsively. “Martin Rilke. What's yours?”

“Ivy, sir.”

“Ivy what?”

“Thaxton, sir.”

“Thaxton.” He repeated the name slowly, savoring it. “
Thaxton.
That's really a good
English
name, isn't it?”

She was looking squarely at him for the first time, and a smile appeared to be lingering just below the surface of her face.

“Yes, sir . . . I suppose.”

“I guess that's because it rhymes with
Saxon.”

“It does . . . yes.” The smile came, faint, curious. “You're from America, aren't you?”

“That's right. Chicago.”

She nodded. “Chicago, the state of Illinois . . . Situated on Lake Michigan . . . Railroads . . . stockyards . . .”

“Say, you've really done your homework, haven't you?”

“My what?”

“You know . . . study. You seem to know a lot about Chicago.”

“I was very good at geography, sir . . . at school. It . . . it was my favorite subject. . . . That and arithmetic.”

“Arithmetic? You're the first good-looking girl I've ever met who liked arithmetic.”

A bright crimson glow appeared suddenly on her cheeks. Lowering her eyes, she started past him toward the door.

“If you need anything, sir, just ring the bell. . . . The pull's on the wall, sir.”

“Hey, wait a second.” But she was gone, and he could hear her footsteps going rapidly off down the hall.

The bathroom was large, its walls and floor covered with tiny white tiles. There was nothing in the room but a mammoth cast-iron porcelain-enameled tub and an oak cabinet containing fresh soap and extra towels. There was no shower. The hot water came in fits and starts, rattling the pipes and belching occasional puffs of steam, but eventually the water rose in the tub and Martin sank gratefully into its warmth. Odd, he thought as he soaped himself and lathered his hair. The room was totally out of proportion to its use. Ten bathtubs could have been placed in the room along with half a dozen stall showers. On the other hand, the WC had been no larger than a closet, a dark, evil little place to get out of as quickly as nature would permit. The bathroom had four wide windows along one wall with a view of trees and distant hills. The WC had only one tiny window near the ceiling, which had emitted the palest shaft of light—like the window in a dungeon far above the prisoner's reach. Odd. Well, the English were an odd race. No question about that. Everyone on the paper had warned him about what to expect—although only Harrington Comstock Briggs, the managing editor, had ever been to England, and that had been during the Boer War. “Primitive.” That had been the most common word bandied about. “A cultured but primitive race.” Trying to pin people down as to their interpretation of the word “primitive” had led to little or no elucidation. To Briggs, primitive had meant warm beer and boiled food. To others it had meant king worship, the class system, and the bullheaded preference for cricket, when it was obvious to anyone with even a grain of sense that baseball was a better game. So far, the only area of criticism he could find was in their plumbing.

The tuxedo was back, hanging from a peg on the closet door when he got back to his room. Its appearance had been bettered, but not by much. Martin eyed it dubiously and prayed that he could get into it without popping any buttons. He dressed gingerly, but, Glory be, the suit fitted quite well. He was struggling with a black tie when there came a tap on the door. It was one of the liveried footmen informing him that whiskey would be served in the library at six-thirty.

Lord Stanmore set down his glass of whiskey and soda and walked toward the door as Martin entered the room.

“My dear fellow,” he said, advancing with hand outstretched in greeting. “I'm delighted to meet you. Pity we've never met before this, but your aunt talks of you often.”

Martin could only assume that the tall ruddy-faced man with the iron-gray hair advancing on him was his uncle. He had never seen a photograph of him. How did he greet him? Uncle Tony sounded too familiar, your lordship too formal.

“How do you do, sir?” he said, shaking the man's hand. The grip was strong, friendly.

“Come,” he said, placing an arm about Martin's shoulders. “You know my son and his friend, Roger. . . . Let me introduce you to the others.” He steered his nephew toward a small group of men standing at the far end of the room with glasses in their hands. Charles and Roger were among them. Their dinner jackets, Martin noted with a touch of envy, were faultless—as was the jacket of every other man in the room.

“Gentlemen, my nephew from America, Martin Rilke. Martin, may I introduce Mr. John Blakewell, Master of the Doncaster Hunt . . . Major Tim Lockwood . . . retired, I'm afraid . . . a great loss to king and country . . . Sir Percy Smythe . . . finest barrister and the best equestrian in the country. . . . And Captain Fenton Wood-Lacy.”

Martin shook hands and greetings were exchanged. Then Charles Greville put a drink in his hand, and he was on his own, the earl rejoining an interrupted discussion about horses with Blakewell, Major Lockwood, and the barrister.

“Well, Martin,” Charles said, “did Eagles look after you all right?”

“Yes . . . thank you.”

“By far the best valet I've ever had. Just take his word on all sartorial matters and you won't go wrong.”

“I'll remember that,” he said, thinking of his pile of laundry.

Roger sipped a ginger beer and pointed at the towering shelves of books that lined two walls of the room.

“As a budding novelist, I'm sure you find this rather interesting.” He bent closer. “Though I doubt that a tenth of them have been read. Charles is the only reader in the family, and he keeps his books quite separate. You won't find much in this room written after eighteen eighty.”

Charles laughed. Some sort of private joke, Martin supposed.

“So you're from America,” Fenton said.

“That's right. Chicago.”

“Ah, Chicago. And how do you like England so far?”

“Very much. Beautiful country.”

“And by far the best time of year to see it. Planning on playing the tourist?”

“Yes . . . I suppose so.”

“Then you must see the lake district. . . . Stratford, of course . . . Bath . . . the Chilterns.”

“I'm sure he knows where to go, Fenton,” Roger said.

“Just thought I'd be helpful. If you care to see the changing of the guard, I'll get you a first-rate view.”

“Are you a captain in the army?”

“Yes. Coldstream Guards.”

“That must be exciting.”

Fenton took a long pull on his Scotch before answering.

“Well, if you want to know the truth, it's deadly dull most of the time. The only excitement is when we're off duty. London is not without its perils.”

“Women and cards,” Roger said.

“Yes,” Fenton said. “Quite so. They've cut more than one promising fellow down in his prime.”

Martin caught the twinkle in the tall hawk-faced man's eyes and they both grinned.

“We have those kinds of perils in Chicago, too. But getting back to the army, don't you serve a good deal of time in India?”

“No such luck. The Guards don't leave the country without the king's permission. We're his household troops, and he's not about to squander us on the Northwest Frontier keeping the wild and wily Afghan in line.”

“Saving you lads for the big one,” Roger said.

Fenton nodded. “Right you are. The next Hundred Years' War.”

After dinner, Martin played one game of pocket billiards with Fenton and then excused himself and went up to his room. The cover had been removed from the bed and the sheets neatly turned down. His last clean pair of pajamas had been laid across a chair along with his robe and carpet slippers. The quiet efficiency of the house impressed him. All of the servants moved about without, at least apparently, anyone telling them what to do. He had seen quite a few maids during the course of the evening, but the pretty Ivy Thaxton had not been one of them. Had she turned down his bed? he wondered. He hoped that she had, not knowing why he hoped so.

There was a good bedside lamp, and he sat in bed and placed his leather attaché case beside him, opening it and rummaging through it for one of the new notebooks he had brought along. The first section of the novel-in-progress lay at the bottom of the case—like a flat corpse in a flat coffin, he thought ruefully.
City of the Broad Shoulders.
He didn't even like the title anymore.