A Future Arrived (16 page)

“Let me help,” he said, following her into the kitchen. “I know how to wash up.”

“Do you?” she laughed. “I'm sure you've never
washed up
in your life.”

“I'm willing to learn.”

“Not with my Limoges, thank you. You can have a brandy and watch.”

He poured Armagnac into a snifter glass and leaned against a heavy wood kitchen table.

“I've been thinking of Derek Ramsay. ‘Fat Chap,' Valerie calls him.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “Everyone will be calling him that now, I suppose. Valerie A'Dean-Spender is like the BBC.”

“It won't matter. No malice to it. The kids love their nicknames. They wear them as medals.” He swirled the brandy around in the bell-shaped glass. “Coming to Burgate is going to make a profound change in Derek's life. Mine as well.”

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “In what way?”

“I really don't know, but I have an odd sort of feeling about it. It's like chemistry. A tiny substance is added to a compound and that compound is changed utterly. A catalyst. I feel that Derek is a catalyst in some mysterious way. My standing here in your kitchen—”

“Little Ramsay's doing?”

“I think so. In a manner beyond explanation.”

She rinsed the last of the plates and placed it in a wood rack to drain. “It's true you never came here before. Although you were invited. More than once.”

“Something held me back. I apologize.”

“No need. I can understand how difficult it can be sometimes to face social engagements. I went through a stage during my divorce when I didn't want to be around anyone.”

“My … ‘stage' lasted for years.”

“Past tense now?”

He looked steadily at her face. Her eyes, he noticed for the first time, held tiny flecks of gold. “Very much in the past tense.”

He poured another brandy and one for her, and then they went into the parlor, the sun's last rays touching the west-facing windows, glowing deep rose through the glass. Tartuffe lay on a chair, doglike, huge head resting on his paws. Marian sank back on the sofa with a sigh.

“I love this time of day.”

“So does your cat, it seems.”

“A highly civilized creature when night comes. No prowling about in the dark undergrowth for him. An easy chair, preferably a coal fire in the grate. I expect him to smoke a pipe one day and wear slippers.”

Charles smiled and sat beside her. “I envy the beast.”

“For living a hedonistic life?”

“For living it with you.”

The sun dipped beyond the wooded slopes of the hills and a purple afterglow filled the room. Marian leaned forward and placed her glass on a table. “That was a charming thing to say.”

“It's what I feel. A sudden, irrational envy.”

“He won't mind. I certainly don't.”

Her face was in profile, as sharply etched as a silhouette cut from black paper. The paper had substance, a perfumed warmth, velvet against his lips as he bent impulsively and kissed her cheek. “I have enjoyed this day,” he whispered.

“So have I,” she said with a throaty softness.

And her lips were soft … and her body soft under his gentle hands as she slipped back against the cushions and enfolded him in her arms.

The night wind stirred the curtains and moaned under the eaves. Tartuffe opened his tiger eyes, stared unblinking into the darkness for a time, and then closed them in sleep.

A
LBERT
T
HAXTON, ON
his third day of the summer holidays and still wearing his school uniform, picked up the morning mail and brought the bundle of letters and newspapers into the dining room.

“Cripes! A fair amount in the post this morning, sir.”

He placed the pile on the table next to Martin, who was pouring his first coffee of the day. Albert's cheerfulness in the morning took getting used to.

“Thank you. Had your breakfast?”

“Oh, yes, sir. An hour ago. Mrs. Bromley is a super cook. Sausages … bacon … eggs and fried bread …”

Martin winced and took a swallow of black coffee. The thought of food made him feel queasy. He'd spent the evening with Jacob Golden drinking martinis and discussing the problems of the world. The only problem worth considering at the moment was how to get rid of his hangover. He rang for the housekeeper and asked for a glass of tomato juice and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce.

“And anything else for you, Master Thaxton?” the woman asked. “There's some sausages left … and a gammon rasher.”

“Oh, yes, please, Mrs. Bromley. That would be super. And perhaps a bit of toast and marmalade.”

“God!” Martin grunted. “Where do you put it?”

Albert grinned and sat down at the table. “Making up for what they feed us at school. Porridge and treacle.”

“And dry crusts and water, I suppose.”

“Not quite so horrid as that.” He toyed idly with the sugar bowl. “Were you able to discuss the matter with Mr. Golden, sir?”

“I was. He'd like nothing better than to put you on as a copyboy for the summer, but he's afraid there might be a few problems if he did.”

“Problems?”

“Resentment from the other boys. The ones who have to work for a living. So many people out these days. I'm sure everyone on the paper knows someone who's desperate for a job.”

“I can understand that. They'd put mine down to rank favoritism. I wouldn't want that. And it is true about the slump. I listened to the wireless last night before going to bed. The Board of Trade released the latest unemployment figures. Rather frightening.” He pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his blazer. “I jotted it all down in shorthand, in case you'd be interested.”

“Taken to carrying a notebook?”

“Oh, yes, sir. A conscientious reporter carries one at all times. I thought it would be a good idea if I got into the habit of it.”

“You're really serious about all this, aren't you?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “More so than ever. I really buckled down to languages this term … and mastering Pitman. I practiced my strokes an hour a day, on my own time.”

“Good for you. Don't be too disappointed. We'll work something out. I'll have a talk with Joe Johnson at INA. A wire service is not much different from working on a newspaper. Something might turn up there, if only for a week or two. It would get your feet wet. In the meantime, we can just knock about and enjoy ourselves. Ned said I wasn't to spoil you, but what the heck.”

“Ned believes in hard work and no nonsense. Idle hands and all that. If he sees me spending an hour reading the
Times
he thinks I'm frittering my life away. What I'm actually doing is dissecting the method of putting a paper together. Not something they teach at school.”

“I understand. I used to read every paper from cover to cover when I was in college. When I got my first job with the Chicago
Herald
I had the style down pat. Keep it up.”

When Albert's second breakfast arrived, Martin avoided looking at the loaded plate and began to sort through the mail. There were the usual number of household bills which he set aside for Mrs. Bromley to check over; four or five letters requesting money for various charities; a couple of invitations to cocktail parties honoring people he had never heard of; a letter—sent airmail via the
Graf Zeppelin
—from an old girlfriend in New York that was as light as the blue onion skin paper on which it was written. He sighed and wiped his reading glasses with his tie. Hard to imagine by her frothy tone that only two years before they had been in the midst of a love affair of operatic intensity. There was a letter from Germany, from Scott Kingsford, postmarked Hanover. It was, in the manner of all his ex-boss's letters, terse and to the point. More in the manner of a cablegram.

Curious. He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. The final envelope was buff colored, the Stanmore crest embossed on the flap. It was an invitation …

He would phone her and tell her he would be bringing Albert. She would be delighted. The more the merrier.

“We're invited down to Abingdon Pryory this weekend, Albert. A Fourth of July celebration.”

“
Fourth
of July?” He made a rapid calculation. “Saturday will be the twenty-sixth, sir.”

“Yes, but my aunt isn't a stickler for dates. You'll enjoy yourself—and I've always wanted you to see the place.”

“The country house where Ivy was in service?”

“That's right. Down in Surrey.”

“Exactly what sort of maid was she?”

“What they called an upstairs maid. Then she became a lady's maid … the personal servant of my cousin Alexandra. Alex was eighteen … Ivy a year younger.” He smiled in fond memory. “Boy, let me tell you, seeing the two of them together was seeing the two prettiest girls in England … bar none. You'll meet Alexandra this weekend. She lives in California now.”

Albert crunched a piece of toast between his teeth. “Blond woman?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Mum used to keep a snapshot on her dressing table. Ivy and a blond girl, both in uniform standing in front of a tent. Lady Alexandra Greville. Is that right?”

Martin nodded. “That was Alex. She and Ivy became the best of friends. They served together in France for over a year on the hospital trains … Rouen to the Somme.”

“Odd, come to think of it.” He chewed slowly and took a swig of tea. “Their being friends, I mean. Never could have happened if it hadn't been for the war. Rather a democratic institution in its own horrible way. May I see the invitation, sir?” He studied it, running a finger across the heavily embossed lettering. “Crikey. The Earl and Countess of Stanmore. How would I address them, sir?”

“A simple ‘ma'am' will do for my aunt, though I imagine by the end of our stay she'll have you calling her Hanna. As for the earl … just call him ‘sir.' God knows you won't have any trouble saying
that
.”

T
HEY TOOK THE
three fifteen from Waterloo on Friday afternoon. Charles was on the platform to meet them when the train pulled into Abingdon thirty-five minutes later. There was a pronounced change in the man, Martin was thinking as he introduced him to Albert. His clothes for one thing. The baggy, shapeless tweeds had given way to white summer flannels and a dark blue blazer of faultless cut. But it went beyond mere haberdashery. His cousin's eyes had a sparkle and vitality that he hadn't seen in many years. There was a radiant air of cheerfulness and well-being about him.

“I must say, Charlie, you're looking good.”

“Feel tip-top, old boy.”

“End-of-term euphoria?”

“Actually, no. I keep the school open year round. There are always fifteen or twenty children who stay on for one reason or another. The place is rather like a holiday camp just now. Quite pleasant.”

They reached the street and Martin looked for the Rolls-Royce and the chauffeur. Neither could be seen.

“Shanks' mare or taxi?”

“My car,” Charles said.

“Can the three of us squeeze into it?”

“Not the ancient Austin. I bought a new one. A spacious and powerful Humber.”

Martin looked dubious. “How powerful? Willie told me a few chilling tales about your driving.”

“All true. I used to be a danger to both man and beast. Been taking lessons from someone who's a whiz with motorcars. She says I'm progressing nicely.”

“She?”

Charles beamed a smile. “Very much
she
. You'll meet her at the house. She's lending a hand with the bazaar—supervising the decorations.”

“You'll have to tell me all about her, Charlie.”

“I will … yes … she is really quite special.”

Well, Martin thought as they reached the shiny new car, how quickly things could change.