A Future Arrived (5 page)

“I hope you're right, Arnold. Is there any way I can help?”

Calthorpe propped the drawing against the side of the desk. “A speaking tour would do no harm. I was hoping to have you interviewed by John Mugg on the BBC, but he would have none of that. Refused to give you a forum—his word—a
forum
for disarmament philosophies. Willing to have you on the air if you would promise to confine yourself to a discussion of American wireless news commentators vis-à-vis British news readers. That sort of twaddle. Turned him down flat. A total waste of your valuable time.”

It was nice to know that his time was valuable, as he certainly had enough of it on his hands. He sat in the office until nearly noon discussing one thing or another with Calthorpe and Jeremy Crofts, and then he went with Calthorpe to drop off the cover drawing at a lithography shop near Covent Garden and then on to lunch at Whipple's.

It was only two thirty as he headed home, the taxi crawling through the traffic on Piccadilly. A long day stretching ahead. Albert would be back at school by now. He would, he suddenly realized, miss him.

“Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Mr. Rilke,” the housekeeper said, meeting him in the hall as he closed the front door. “Lady Stanmore just rang up. Desperate anxious to talk to you she was. I couldn't understand half she was telling me … but I wrote it down.” She squinted at a scrap of paper in her hand. “Something about the three-twenty for Waterloo … or … call her if you come in before three—Marylebone seven-nine-eight-six, I think she said.”

The elderly woman was flustered and Martin calmed her down with a pat on the arm.

“That's all right, Mrs. Bromley. I know the number. I'll call her right away.”

“Oh, yes, sir, please do. She seemed in such a state.”

He had never called Lady Stanmore's house without having a servant answer and intone “Stanmore residence,” but it was she who picked up the phone on the first ring with a quavering, “Yes?”

“It's Martin, Aunt Hanna. Is there anything wrong?”

T
HE TRAIN CLATTERED
through the gray fringe of London—on trestle and embankment through Battersea, Clapham, and Wandsworth: Rows of slate-roofed houses and serpentine streets. The occasional green patch of a playing field, gas works' small factories, refuse dumps and scrapped cars, and then the city fading into strings of red-brick townlets and open space. Railway cuttings thick with wildflowers, hedgerowed meadows, soft hills, and distant woods, the tower of a Norman church rising above a frieze of elm—Surrey, the most English of England's counties sweeping past the windows of the train.

“Almost there,” Martin said. “It won't be long now.”

Hanna Rilke Greville, Countess of Stanmore, said nothing. She stared blindly through the window in a stupor of dread. Her gloved hands rested in her lap, fingers twisting a handkerchief of Belgian lace. She was still a beauty at sixty-one. Her golden hair had grayed and her once voluptuous figure had thickened, but, looking at her radiant skin and vivid blue eyes, it was not difficult to understand how this Chicago heiress had taken London society by storm at nineteen and captured Anthony Greville's heart. That heart may have stopped forever as far as she knew. The telephone call from Abingdon had been clear enough, but the words had thrown her into such a panic that they had become hopelessly jumbled in her mind—a sudden death … a collapse on a horse … pain … doctors. A litany of tragedies. She was grateful that Martin had called the Pryory and spoken to Charles, and that Martin sat beside her now, but his reassurances and comforts could not still her feeling of impending doom.

“Abingdon station next, Aunt Hanna.” He touched her restless hands. “You must stop tormenting yourself. I'm sure Anthony will be fine.”

“He could be dead.”

“No … no. Some sort of spell or seizure. He's at home, in his own bed, Charles said. If it had been anything terribly serious they would have taken him to the hospital in Guildford. Now, you know that.”

“There's death in that house,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hands. “Mr. Coatsworth died. A very old man.”

“Yes … dear Coatsworth … and now my Tony.” She raised her eyes to heaven and cried in anguish:
“Wo bist du, Gott?”

She spoke German only when under great stress, the comforting language of her childhood. She had been ten years old before her father had permitted English to be spoken in the house.

Martin answered her in German, holding her tightly. God, he said with quiet emphasis, is always with us. He never deserts anyone. He is with her and Anthony. He was with Mr. Coatsworth when he died … bringing the death that is no more than the natural end of life's phase. As Heine said in a poem … Men will arise and depart. Only one thing is immortal: The love that is in my heart. “Hold on to that love, Aunt Hanna,” he said in English. “It will sustain you.”

She began to cry softly, pressing the twisted handkerchief against her eyes. When the train pulled into Abingdon she had composed herself and stepped onto the platform dry-eyed and steeled for the worst.

Charles was there to meet them, looking gaunt and pale. She scanned his face, searching for signs.

“Is he … still alive?”

Charles embraced her. “Of course he is, Mother. A fortnight in bed and he'll be good as new.”

“What did the doctor say?” Martin asked.

“Angina pectoris.”

Hanna gasped. “His heart! I knew it!”

“It sounds worse than it is,” Charles assured her. “More frightening than fatal. He responded instantly to a nitroglycerin tablet. But he must stay in bed. You'll have to be very firm with him.”

“If I have to tie him down with ropes!”

A chauffeur took Martin's small pigskin valise, containing just a few items of clothing and shaving gear, and led the way to the venerable Rolls-Royce parked in front of the station.

Charles smiled wryly at his cousin. “It takes a crisis to get you down here for a few days. You will stay through Saturday, won't you?”

“If you want me to.”

“I'd appreciate it.” He lowered his voice. “Coatsworth's funeral. I welcome your moral support.”

The chauffeur held the car door open for them and a few moments later the gleaming Silver Ghost was pulling away, as smoothly as a bolt of silk swept along the road.

A village no more, Martin observed as they drove up the High Street. He had first seen Abingdon in the early spring of 1914, a day such as this with great fleecy clouds drifting over the hills and the soft smell of rain on the wind. A quiet place. A cobblestoned main street with one or two automobiles and dozens of horse-drawn carts and wagons. Sheep and cattle being driven in for market day to the pens where the railway station now stood. The nearest station in those days had been Godalming, twelve miles away. Suburbia now. F. W. Woolworth; a Marks & Spencer; an Odeon cinema palace with a garish marquee. And beyond the town, rows of neat little villas with rose bushes, laburnum, greenhouses, and birdbaths.

The houses ended at the edge of Leith Common with its rolling meadows and tangled undergrowth. There were still herds of deer in Leith Wood—King's deer protected by the Crown—and foxes that were hunted in the winter. The road skirted the common and Abingdon Pryory came into view, its myriad brick and stone chimneys seen above the beeches and evergreens that screened the house. The chauffeur slowed the car in front of ornamental iron gates as one of the groundkeepers swung them open. Beyond the gates, a mile-long gravel drive meandering to the house.

Well, Martin thought, some things did not change: the Pryory in all its stunning magnificence, its limestone façade mellow in the afternoon sun. An oasis of richness and stability in a world reeling into chaos. Only serenity here among formal gardens and clipped lawns, broad stone terraces and gently swaying trees.

Hanna and Charles went upstairs to see Anthony and talk to the doctor. Martin trailed the butler into the library where a drink was offered and not refused.

He slumped into a leather chair, sipped a gin and bitters, and stared morosely at the dusk-tinged windows. He associated the room with Anthony Greville. The silver riding trophies … the decanters of whisky and gin … the myriad leather-bound books, few of which his uncle had ever read …
“No time for it, dear lad … no ruddy time for it.”
A strong, vital, sporting man. Impossible to think of him struck low.

“Martin Rilke, is it?”

A slender, gray-haired man entered the room carrying a medical bag which he set on a table by the door.

“Yes,” Martin said, half rising from his chair.

“Don't get up,” the man said, advancing across the room. “Is that pink gin you're drinking?”

“It is.”

“Any more about?”

Martin gestured toward a sideboard. “Any number of bottles over there.”

“Of course there are. I was a fool to ask. Gin's the perfect sundown drink, wouldn't you say? Sharpens the appetite for dinner.” He crossed to the sideboard, poured gin into a glass, and added a few drops of Angostura. He then leaned back against the heavy oak table and smiled at Martin. “You wouldn't remember me, of course. Lord no, but I remember you. Nineteen fourteen … a few months before the war. A supper party to welcome you to England.”

“I remember,” Martin said.

“Perhaps, but not
me
. Most unlikely. One face in the crowd. The name's Morton … David Morton, physician and surgeon.
Sir
David, blowin' me own horn. County coroner and former M.P. for Crawley. Best slow bowler Surrey ever fielded in ‘eighty-eight. Captain of the eleven when his nibs and I were at school.”

“You've known Anthony that long?”

“Lord, yes. Same age to the month. ‘Course I look older. Only natural. Led a harder life.” He swirled the gin and bitters in his glass. “I'm a bloody good doctor in spite of playing cricket and going off to Parliament. Might have snagged a peerage if I hadn't opposed the war so vocally. But did me duty, though, to put it mildly; cut, sew, and amputate for four bloody years as chief of surgery at Number Seven General Boulogne. Bellowed me rage every second of the time.” He fixed his hard, pale eyes on Martin's face. “Still bellowing, if it comes to that. Past president of No More War International, Surrey and Sussex chapter, and represented
all
England at the Brussels conference two years ago. Your books are bibles to me.” He raised his glass. “So this is to you, for your arguments for sanity, past and future, and to your new book.”

“How did you know there's a new book?”

The doctor swallowed his drink and set the glass on the table.

“I'm on Calthorpe and Crofts mailing list.
An End to Castles
, is that right? Due out in June. Half a crown. Sent my order in right away for a dozen copies, though I dare say I'll be purchasing more than that. Pass ‘em out like ruddy pills.” He drew a silver watch from his waistcoat and scowled at it. “Must be off. Anthony and his angina have played havoc with my rounds.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Lord, yes. Tough as brass, that man. Went into a temporary emotional turmoil and his coronary arteries sent him a message to get his feet back on the ground. Always keep a level head, young man, and you'll keep a steady heart.” He started for the door as Martin stood up. “Charles told the gaffer you were here. He'd like to see you. Slipped him a stiff sedative so he might not be too coherent. Gave her ladyship one as well and packed her off to bed.” He gripped Martin's hand and shook it vigorously. “Damn glad to meet you again, Rilke. As we say in the movement—peace on earth!”

Charles was on the upper landing of the south wing, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the portrait of an ancestor on the wall.

“Which Greville is that?” Martin asked as he came up to him.

“The third earl—also a Charles. Chancellor of the exchequer in William and Mary's time. Made a fortune out of the job, or so legend has it. I was trying to find a resemblance.”

“Same nose.”

“Weak chin—mean little eyes.”

“Well, all the good Chicago and Milwaukee blood changed that. Nothing like being half American to strengthen the face.”

“I daresay.” He took an awkward puff on the cigarette, not inhaling, and flicked ash on the carpet. “I had a few terrible moments today, Martin. Thought I might become the tenth earl.”

“Not much chance of that, if Dr. Morton is any judge.”

“I hope to God he's right. He's a first-rate man, but on the old-fashioned side. I'd like to get Father up to London … to Guy's Hospital where they have a bit more in the way of equipment than a stethoscope and a pocket watch.”

“I'm sure you can arrange it without much trouble.”

Charles scowled and puffed furiously. “I thought you knew his nibs better than that. He's lying in the bed he was born in and it would take death itself to get him out of it.”

“Perhaps I could put in a word on behalf of modern medical science.”