Until the Colours Fade (26 page)

Charles Crawford returned to Leaholme Hall from Devonport two days before Christmas and learned, as he had feared he would, that Helen Goodchild had left Hanley Park to stay with her sister-in-law until the New Year. Nevertheless his
disappointment
was softened by the news that during his absence his father had seen Helen regularly. As soon as Catherine had told him this, Charles had jumped to the optimistic conclusion that Helen, with her usual astuteness, was making herself
pleasant
to his father in order to undermine the numerous objections which he might raise should his eldest son and heir appear keen to connect himself with a widow whose financial prospects were so uncertain. During his reluctant stay in the West Country, Charles had thought a great deal about his chances and had become increasingly hopeful. Few eligible men would take at once to a woman of thirty-three with a thirteen-year-old son and enough assignments, mortgages and debts to keep several
hard-working
solicitors busy for years. In fact even Charles had
entertained
doubts about the wisdom of marrying, until George Braithwaite had told him that less than ten thousand had been raised on Hanley Park itself before Goodchild’s death.

After dinner on the day of his return, Charles and his father sat drinking port at the horse-shoe table in front of the fire in the dining hall. Moments like these Charles cherished above all others; the vast room lit by a dozen candelabra and the glow of the fire, his father at his side, nodding at what he said and
listening
carefully. After Charles had regaled him with the technical details of the inquiry and the case against the Inspector of Machinery at the dockyard, he mentioned that Admiral Phipps Hornby, the Second Sea Lord, had chaired the commission.

‘Privately he told me he thought it scandalous that no further employment had been offered you.’

‘Most kind,’ replied Sir James ironically. ‘A pity
Northumberland,
like most First Lords, is deaf to any voice but his own.’

‘His Grace won’t last long. Derby’s administration can’t
survive
the next budget.’

To Charles’s surprise, these words, which he had intended to comfort his father, only made him angry; but the mood was
short-lived. Sir James turned to his son with a smile.

‘If a man’s on the shelf and no spring tide will get him off, he must try something else.’

‘Superintendent at a dockyard?’ asked Charles.

‘Damn dockyards.’ He pushed back his chair and assumed a heroic pose. ‘How do I strike you?’

‘I’m sorry…?’

‘My looks, man.’

‘Little changed,’ replied Charles with evident confusion. Vanity had never been one of his father’s traits, but possibly
disappointment
would lead to unexpected eccentricities.

‘Changed from what? How old would you say?’

‘Forty-five. Maybe a year or two more.’

‘But not fifty-four?’

‘Definitely not.’

Sir James relaxed and became thoughtful. After a long silence he turned to Charles.

‘Whatever I look, I
feel
far older. Just recently it’s as if I always have a dead weight on me; the sensation that a great
misfortune
had just happened or is about to happen to me. I used to have a peculiar elasticity of spirits which resisted constant strain and pressure for long periods without losing its spring. But it’s not so now – the spring is gone, quite gone.’

Charles could have sustained no greater shock had Sir James told him that he had decided to become a missionary or begin a career in trade. The quality he had most admired in his father was his refusal to give in to pessimism or self-pity whatever his problems. The confession embarrassed him too, more, he guessed, than would have been the case had his father admitted to immorality or drunkenness. Nevertheless he felt tears in his eyes.

‘You mentioned doing something else.’

‘I shall be direct with you. Age and experience allows me a
degree
of honesty which youth rarely permits itself – I want a wife.’ Charles felt an unpleasant falling sensation in his stomach, as he tried to smile. His father looked down at the surface of the table. ‘I did not expect the news to please you. You may be assured that if I marry and children follow, your inheritance will not be
materially
affected.’

‘That was not in my mind. Only that … after so long.’

‘No fool like an old one,’ replied his father. ‘You must speak your mind, Charles. Nobody else will.’

‘If you are sure that it would contribute to your happiness, you
must marry.’

‘Who can be sure of that? Marriage like shipbuilding is at best an experimental science.’ He looked at Charles intently and said in a low voice: ‘You would not turn against me?’

‘Never.’

‘I must be sure. Magnus first and then you. It would be a high price to pay.’

‘I swear it.’

Sir James filled his son’s glass and they drank, as if sealing their trust and unity.

‘After your mother’s death, I felt a great emptiness and then thought it had gone; I was wrong. Absorption with my work only patched over the damage and hid it from me.’ He stared into the flames of the fire. ‘Of course at my age, youth’s
couleur
de
rose
has faded, but there should be some bright lights left, some
vividness
remaining in the landscape – not just an unending grey haze. Even gratified ambition is stale and unprofitable if unshared. Only the affections bring brightness to the void. I not only wish to marry – I must.’

Charles coughed uneasily, and shuddered when he thought what Magnus might have made of ‘youth’s
couleur
de
rose’
if it had ever come to his ears.

‘Have you talked to Catherine?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. She can only benefit if I am more in society.’

Charles ran his fingers down the side of the decanter and said hesitantly:

‘The lady? You have met…?’

Sir James nodded.

‘I have not yet asked her; although I think she may accept … in time. I fear I already hope too much – unwisely. You see with her I have glimpsed what I thought lost forever.’ He shook his head and smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘Laugh at me for a
commonplace
fool – she makes me feel young.’

‘And she
is
younger?’ murmured Charles, with an agonising presentiment.

‘Little older than you.’ And then Charles knew. Who else but her? Who else? A spasm of nausea and then a desire to scream. Sir James did not notice the colour drain from his son’s cheeks, nor see the deliberate movement which upset the decanter. Charles leapt to his feet, muttering apologies. Port dripped down his shirt front, staining his waistcoat and trousers. His father rang for the butler, but Charles said that he would have to change. In his bedroom, he slammed the door and flung himself
face downwards on the counterpane; but he did not weep nor make any sound. How could he admit his own feelings now, after what his father had told him? Could he tell him that he had indeed hoped too much, that no father had the right to steal a son’s happiness in pursuit of his own? He had had a wife and children already, had known a life that was not empty of
affection
, and now should he expect his son to stand aside for him to be given a second youth at that son’s expense? Charles heard his father saying: ‘You would not turn against me?’ Recalled the great weight of depression he had described; and as Charles remembered his own promise of loyalty, he knew that he could not now say what he should have said before. A lifetime of
hero-worship
and emulation could not suddenly be ended and turned to enmity. For no other man or woman on earth could he have made the renunciation he was now planning. He imagined his father breaking down and weeping years later when he
discovered
the sacrifice that had been made on his behalf. And then suddenly he sat up and stared in front of him in amazement. Just as he had assumed Helen to be prepared to marry him, he had now assumed that she would accept his father. She could refuse; probably would if he asked too soon, before she had been disappointed by neglect and loneliness. Nor would his father be likely to wait long. Of course for he himself then to approach a woman who had rejected his father would be a hard thing to do, but he would be patient, and careful not to disclose his intention until Sir James had found another woman or gained a new
command
. Probably Helen had no idea that her godfather regarded her as a potential wife; when she heard she would be horrified. The thought of his father suffering such a humiliation made Charles forget his own troubles for a moment. Given Sir James’s state of mind, he ought to be protected from such an event. While dressing, Charles decided what he would do; what he now firmly believed to be his duty. When he returned to the dining hall, he was calm again. He sat down and smiled at his father.

‘Forgive my clumsiness. But at least it has given me time to think who it can be.’

‘And have you guessed?’

‘You mean to marry Helen. I applaud your choice.’

‘Thank you.’ He studied Charles carefully to try to gauge his real feelings. ‘Probably you think twenty years is a great
disparity
?’

Charles shrugged his shoulders.

‘As you yourself said, marriage like shipbuilding is an
experimental
science.’

Sir James laughed, delighted that Charles seemed able to joke about what he had feared might disturb him.

‘My analogy was unfortunate. In fact I feel we have certain advantages. We’ve both suffered in different ways; and then women who’ve suffered at the hands of a young man, often see much to commend the kindlier, less dramatic qualities of an older one. I also have the advantage of having had children of my own.’ Charles looked puzzled. ‘A man who does not understand a mother’s love might fear a child from a previous marriage as a rival. I believe the boy likes me, and that will count for
something
.’

‘And she herself?’ asked Charles, as naturally as he knew how. ‘Has she given any sign . .?’

‘I have an instinct, no more than that.’

Charles nodded attentively, careful not to betray the definite relief this caused him.

‘When will you ask her?’

‘When the right moment comes,’ Sir James replied with an enigmatic twinkle of amusement at Charles’s curiosity. ‘Would you like to tell me when my stars will be right? Perhaps I ought to let a phrenologist feel my bumps.’ He got up and took his son’s arm. ‘Catherine will think we have forgotten her.’

Leaving the room, James stopped Charles and said warmly:

‘I am a lucky man to have a son with whom I may talk freely of such things.’

*

On a clear crisp January morning, Charles rode through Flixton apparently in the direction of Hanley Park, but a mile beyond the village he turned left onto the Trawden road and dismounted at a small bridge. Sitting on one of the coping stones, he listened to the stream flowing noisily over a bed of flat stones. The sun was warm for the time of year and had brought out a number of birds, and across the water, Charles noticed some primroses in flower. In the surrounding fields the winter wheat was already covering the bare earth with a pale green film. He pulled out his watch and then glanced anxiously up the road.

Some twenty minutes after his arrival, a dog-cart swung into view between the high hedges. The driver was a lady in a dark green habit and a black beaver hat with a veil. Charles raised his own hat and jumped down from his seat on the side of the bridge. Helen reined in her bay mare and waited for Charles to come
over to her; she looked flushed and irritated.

‘Forgive this irregularity, Helen. I did not want it to be known that we had met.’

Her colour deepened and she twisted the reins.

‘Am I permitted to know the reason for this strange reticence?’

‘My father called on you several times before Christmas.’ She nodded impatiently when he hesitated. His mouth felt dry and his chest constricted. When he went on he spoke rapidly as if to get over a matter too awkward to dwell upon. ‘My father has
recently
come to entertain feelings for you, which I fear may prove unwelcome if openly expressed.’

‘Then do not express them,’ she replied sharply.

‘The matter has become sufficiently important to him to make me dread the effects of disappointment.’

She said nothing for a moment; Charles studied her face but learned nothing from it.

‘What is your suggestion?’ she asked quietly.

Charles blushed and looked down at his polished riding boots.

‘Suggestion? It is not for me to guess your feelings in this.’

Helen frowned and let her whip fall on her lap.

‘Forgive me, Charles,’ she replied with a forced smile, ‘but you have already done so. Your fear is that he will be disappointed.’

‘A fear – precisely. No more than that.’

A thrush was singing loudly in the hedgerow; the mare had started to crop the grass at the side of the road. Helen caught Charles’s eye.

‘I admire your concern, but think it is misplaced. Would you have welcomed his intrusion had your positions been reversed?’

‘The desire to spare another humiliation and pain is not an ignoble one. I think your ladyship has misunderstood my
intentions
.’

She held out a conciliatory hand and got down from the box to be at the same level.

‘Charles, what am I to do? Refuse to see him unless I intend to marry him? It would be a hard life in which a woman had to turn away every man she did not intend to make her husband.’ She smiled. ‘And if she did so, how would she ever know who might suit her, or give that eligible visitor a chance to make himself plain?’

He had listened carefully but had not understood her words; instead his only desire was to tell her that he loved her, to go down on his knees on the grass in front of her and admit his hypocrisy. Say that no words would make him happier than to
hear her laugh at the thought of marrying Sir James, that the only purpose of their meeting was for him to discover that he could still hope. She took his hand and whispered: