Circles of Time (32 page)

Later, Charles walked with Mastwick through the derelict rose garden at the back of the house.

“Greville. You'd be Lord Stanmore's son, then.”

“Yes.”

“Eldest?”

“Yes.”

“A viscount. And, if I'm not mistaken in my signals from you, a man looking for a position.”

Charles laughed. “How terribly perceptive you are! I have toyed with the idea—yes.”

“We don't pay very much. And the hours are long. Twenty-four in a day, I'm afraid. What could you teach our young charges?”

“Poetry. A love of language and imagery. History. I took a first in that at King's.”

“Splendid! That would help us enormously.” He stopped walking and turned to face Charles. “We could perhaps help you as well. I sense a most discontented man.”

Charles looked past him, at the stalky rosebushes and the house, most of its many windows still shuttered. A bird wheeled out of the apple trees and settled under the eaves.

“I married the girl who lived here,” he said quietly. “Lydia Foxe. It was a bad marriage from the start. I was—quite impotent. I don't know why. Fear, I expect. A dollop of ignorance to compound the matter. I was, I suppose, too finely tuned to ethereal romance to deal with the realities of sex. I'm sure we would have worked that out in time if it hadn't been for the war. That was another reality I had trouble dealing with.”

“Didn't we all,” Mastwick said softly.

“Had I been more emotional, capable of venting my feelings, I might have come out of it all right—if I'd been spared a bullet, of course. Other men would get drunk and blow off steam when the pressures became intolerable, or spend a night in a brothel. I kept everything inside and let it fester behind a shield of sangfroid. I broke, of course. Broke badly. I'm out of it now, but every day is a struggle.”

“I understand perfectly. The first thing you must realize, Greville, is that you're hardly unique. Not singled out. I spent three days in a shell hole with bits and pieces of men I had known well. I shall never forget those three days if I live forever, but the images no longer trouble me. There's too much in my life now for that melancholy scene to warp.”

“I find you very easy to talk to, Mastwick.”

“The children say the same. I think that's why they call me Father John. It helps greatly to talk. As fine a purge as castor oil!” He plucked a desiccated rose pod from a bush and crumpled it between his fingers. “As for your wanting to teach here—don't rush into a decision. There's all summer to think it over.”

Charles gazed back at the house. “I'm better off if I don't think too much. One has a tendency to brood.”

“Did you live in this house?”

“No. We lived in London. But I courted her here. In this very garden.”

“And where is she now?”

“Very much in tune with the age. Married to a Russian prince. A
genuine
Russian prince, I should add. From what I can gather reading
Tatler
, they divide their time between Paris and the upper reaches of paradise.”

“Does that make you bitter?”

“Oh, Lord, no. Me and Lydia—it seems like a thousand years ago. I did have a fear that if I walked into this house it would open old wounds, but that didn't happen. It's just an empty house. Walls … rooms … a sprinkling of dust.”

N
OEL HAD TAKEN
an early train from London, and then a taxi from Godalming station. He was having breakfast with Lord Stanmore when Charles got back to the house and strolled into the breakfast room.

“I say, how are you, Charles?” Noel asked, pausing in the act of slicing into a broiled kidney.

“Quite well, Noel. And yourself?”

“Topping, old fellow. Absolutely topping. I must say, you do
look
well. Quite exhilarated, in fact.”

“I just came back from a ride.” He crossed to the sideboard, ignored the silver warming dishes filled with a variety of foods, and poured out a cup of coffee. “I took Ginger for an outing.”

The earl raised an eyebrow. “Ginger? That must have surprised the old dear. One doesn't usually saddle a cob, Charlie.”

“I do, Father. I prefer to just—plod along.”

“Time to change that,” Noel said cheerily. “You'll soon be galloping with the rest of us.”

The earl lingered over his tea while Noel went up to his room to change into his riding habit. He puffed on a cigarette and watched Charles, who was staring thoughtfully into a cup of cold coffee.

“Woolgathering?”

Charles looked up with a smile. “In a way.”

“I had a talk with your mother last night. She told me about this—school? Is that correct?”

“Yes. At Burgate House.”

“She said you were toying with the idea of teaching there.”

“I might give it a try.”

The earl drew smoke into his mouth and blew it out again. He did not inhale.

“I can get you a position at the Foreign Office. Buxton's one of my oldest friends—we were at Winchester together. No trouble at all. Undersecretary of something or other. Would you like that?”

“In all honesty, no. I'm not prepared—as Noel would put it—to
gallop
quite yet.”

“Very well. I won't press you.” He crushed out his cigarette and stood up. “And I do mean that, Charlie. Find your own way—at your own pace.” He patted his son lightly on the shoulder as he walked from the table. “Ginger may be the slowest horse in the shire, but he gets where you want him to go.”

The more Charles thought about it, the more right it felt. It would bring him out into the world a bit more than he was at present, but among people who would understand any doubts or insecurities that he might have about himself. He felt comfortable with Mastwick and his wife—and the chap Wallis, and the two boys. They all had been hurt in one way or another and were now banded together. That one boy—seeking death in a bottle of ink. Unloading a lorry now. Functioning among people who had been able to grasp his despair. Yes, he thought firmly, it was the proper place for him.

Alexandra was not in her suite and he walked down the corridor to the nursery. She was having a cup of tea and talking to Mary while Colin ate his breakfast.

“May I intrude?”

“By all means,” Alexandra said. “Care for some tea?”

“Yes, I would—thanks. Good morning, Colin.”

The child only scowled at him and then glowered at his porridge.

It was a spacious nursery—a playroom filled with assorted toys, and two bedrooms, one for Colin and the other for his nanny. Tall windows filled the room with light.

“It's a lovely room,” he said. “Much nicer than your old playroom, Alex, which had rather depressing yellow walls, as I remember.”

“Jaundice yellow,” Alexandra said. She poured a cup of tea, added some milk, and handed it to her brother. “Don't mind Colin,” she whispered. “He's in a terrible sulk this morning. I'm not sure over what.”

“Aren't you? He gets sulky every weekend.” He walked to a far corner of the room and sat in a window seat. “Bring your tea and join me, Alex.”

She sat stiffly beside him. “You're a perceptive man, Charles.”

“To be candid about it, Noel affects me in a similar way. I don't sulk exactly, but neither do I cheer.”

“Any specific reason for not liking him?”

“I didn't say I didn't like the man. I simply find him—shallow.”

“He loves me,” she said without emotion.

“I daresay he does. Yet I sense other factors besides your obvious charms. Son-in-law to a peer—
Greville
hyphenated to his name—Abingdon Pryory. Reminds me somewhat of Lydia. All of Archie's wealth never disguising the fact that it came from hundreds of tea shops and millions of tuppenny buns. She aspired to greater things than mere money. The prospect of becoming the future Countess of Stanmore.”

“That's not entirely fair, Charles. She loved you. I know she did.”

“She loved me in her fashion. And she was faithful—in her fashion. I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because I don't mean to be. Our marriage was wrong from the start. Fortunately for both of us, it was short-lived. I hope she's happy now. I know I am—in
my
fashion. It's your happiness I worry about. Or, rather, lack of it. Do you love Noel Edward Allenby Rothwell—
Esquire?
”

She took a sip of her tea and watched Colin struggling with his breakfast, fretting and whiny.

“No.”

“Then for God's sake—”

“It doesn't matter, Charles. It really doesn't. I've been in love. I don't ever expect to be in love again.”

“How dashed clever of you, Alex. But may I ask why your hands are trembling? You can barely hold on to the cup and saucer.” He took them from her and placed them on the wide sill behind them. “Now look here. Something's wrong. I know it is. I felt it yesterday when little Colin blurted out that he loved Jamie—
best of all.
‘Who's
Jamie?
' Mother asked, looking slightly nonplussed. Only Jamie I could think of was Ross. Father had told me he was in Abingdon, an engineer, back from America and highly successful. Father sounded pleased as punch about it.”

She gazed steadily at him. When she spoke, her voice was low and intense. “Would he be pleased as punch if he knew that I'd been going to bed with Jamie almost every afternoon for the past two weeks?”

Charles looked away from her, finished his tea, and then placed his cup on the windowsill. “I think that would depend greatly on why you've been going to bed with him. Frankly, Alex, the reason escapes me. I would imagine it's no more than the
prurigo copulandi
, simple venery in the classic manner. It seems to be the only explanation—the confession coming as it does from a woman who claims she could
never
fall in love again.”

I
T SEEMED INCREDIBLE
to Ross that he had accumulated so much in such a short time. The parlor room, which he had used as a study, overflowed with mechanical drawings, technical papers, and journals of all kinds. Each scrap of paper seemed of vital importance in some way, but to take them all back with him would have filled trunks. He had only one, and it was jammed with his clothing. His leather suitcase was already filled to the bursting point with the blueprints and test data on the new engine. He recalled seeing a small luggage shop on High Street with two cheap but sturdy metal trunks in the window. Getting into his car, he drove into the village to buy them.

She was parked in front of the house when he returned. He turned into the gravel drive and was so shaken by the sight of her that he almost forgot to step on the brake and came within inches of demolishing part of the house.

He waited by the car as she walked up the drive to him.

“Hello, Jamie.”

She wore a silk dress of the palest shade of lavender and a small cloche that framed her face. She looked so exquisite and so desirable that he had to turn away and fumble with the trunks in the back of the car.

“I thought we—had agreed …” he mumbled.

“I had to talk to you.”

He extricated one of the trunks and set it on its end. “What is there to talk about, Alex?”

She gave him an imploring look. “Can't we go inside?”

“Why … yes, of course.”

He led the way, leaving the trunk in the driveway. She took notice of his packed steamer trunk and suitcase in the narrow hall.

“You're already packed?”

“Yes—except for half a ton of books and papers. I have a man with a lorry coming by this afternoon. I—decided to move into a hotel in Southampton until Wednesday.”

She stood close to him and touched his face. “Why, Jamie?”

“You know why,” he whispered. His throat felt tight and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. The closeness of her. The warm wash of her perfume in the narrow hall.

“Why?” she persisted.

He turned away from her again, almost in anger this time. “Because, blast it to hell, I'm in love with you!”

She trailed slowly after him into the parlor. He was scowling at the chaos on the floor.

“That's a bit of a laugh, isn't it?” he said bitterly. “Bit of a screaming farce!”

“Is that what you think it is?”

He stared at her in anguish. “No. Not really. It's more like having a knife jammed into my heart—and twisted. Screaming, yes, but not funny.”

She walked over to the sofa and sat on the edge of it. “Yesterday—in bed—I asked a question. I wanted to know what we were. Two people in a sexual frenzy? What exactly? You didn't know—or, rather, pretended not to know. I was pretending, too. I knew in my heart what we were. What we are.”

“And that is?”