Wicked Pleasures (42 page)

‘In January.’

‘Well then, it would have been ordered in the year before, now let’s see, there was one in August, and one in September, and then another in November.
Yes, there must have been some publicity. They were always so very kind to me, the papers. Now then, my dear, which of these was for your mother? I don’t see her name.’

‘No,’ said Charlotte, and her voice sounded bleak and flat, ‘no, neither do I. You didn’t sell the robes through any shops, did you? So it wouldn’t be shown in your book?’

‘Not if the label was hand-worked. Which yours is. Well now, maybe someone ordered it for her. As a gift. Have a look at the names.’ She looked at Charlotte, her fiercely bright green eyes sharply interested. ‘You didn’t say it was so important to you, that I should remember your mother.’

‘Oh,’ said Charlotte quickly, ‘I just thought it would be nice if you had. As she’s died. It’s lovely to find unexpected contacts, that’s all. And now I’m intrigued. If she didn’t order it who did?’

In the end, she wrote down the names of all three people who had ordered christening robes: a Mrs Harley Robertson, with an address in the Boltons, a Lord Uxbridge from Leicestershire and an S. M. Joseph, who had an address in the Whitechapel Road.

‘Some old Jewish rag trade rip-off merchant that one, I expect,’ said Max, as they looked at them over dinner in the Hillskellyn Farmhouse that night, where they had returned like homing pigeons. ‘Probably copied hundreds of the things and sold them off his stall. Not even worth bothering about, I wouldn’t think.’

Charlotte wrote to all three, saying (at Max’s suggestion) that she was writing a book on royal dressmakers, and would they be kind enough to get in touch with her. Mrs Harley Robertson phoned immediately, offering to show Charlotte the robe, made for her son; Lord Uxbridge wrote and said his wife had ordered theirs, but had passed away, though Charlotte was welcome to come and look at it if she liked.

‘So it was neither of them,’ said Charlotte sadly.

And from Mr S. M. Joseph there was no word.

‘Old bugger’s probably snuffed it,’ said Max, ‘or retired to the Bahamas.’

Just as she had given up hope, she got a phone call. She had come home for the weekend, and was working in the library; a lady for her, Harold Tallow said, on the telephone, a foreign lady. He couldn’t quite catch the name. Charlotte picked up the phone.

‘Hallo?’

‘Lady Charlotte Welles?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lady Charlotte, good morning. I work for the Whitechapel Hospice.’

‘Yes?’ said Charlotte warily.

‘You sent us a letter.’

‘I did? I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

‘It was addressed to a Mr Joseph. But we don’t have any Mr Joseph here. No Mr anything.’ The voice sounded amused.

‘Oh,’ said Charlotte. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘We are all nuns, Lady Charlotte. Our order sends us here to work together. From convents everywhere.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Charlotte again.

‘I think perhaps the person you wanted was Sister Mary Joseph. She lived and worked here for nearly fifteen years.’

Charlotte’s heart thumped painfully: slowly at first, then with gathering speed.

‘Sister Mary Joseph. Yes. Yes maybe. How stupid of me.’

‘Not at all.’ The voice was warmly amused. ‘How could you have known?’

‘Well,’ said Charlotte, rather helplessly. ‘But – er, do you know where she is now?’

‘I do. I hope I do. She went back to her convent in Ireland.’

‘In Ireland!’ Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, trying to unscramble all these messages, to make sense of a nun ordering a christening robe for her mother, a nun in Ireland, no, not Ireland, not at the time. A nun working at a hospice. What could that possibly have to do with her? And her mother’s lover?

‘Yes. But she wasn’t very well. That is why she was sent home. The last time I heard from her, the news wasn’t good. We have all been praying for her.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Anyway, would you like to write to her?’

‘Oh, yes please, Mrs – er Miss – er –’

‘Sister. Sister Mary Julia.’

‘Oh, how stupid of me. I’m so sorry. Sister. Yes, I would like to write to her.’

‘Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?’

‘Yes. Yes I do.’

‘Very well then. The Convent of our Lady of Sorrows, Ballydegogue, Near Bantry, West Cork. Do send her our love if you see her, and I hope you find her well.’

‘S. M. Joseph wasn’t a rip-off rag trade merchant,’ said Charlotte to Max triumphantly when he arrived home two weeks later for half term, ‘she was a nun, a lovely lovely Irish nun, and she’s written me the most wonderful letter. She remembers Mummy and she says she would like to meet me. Isn’t that lovely? I’m going at the weekend, do you want to come with me?’

‘Yes, thank you, I think that would be jolly nice,’ said Max.

Charlotte was too excited to notice that he was looking rather pale.

Charlotte, 1983

Charlotte sat looking at Alexander, her eyes wide with horror.

‘Oh, Daddy, why? What’s he done? Oh God, I’m so sorry. So very sorry. He didn’t say a word just now.’

‘Oh, he got caught handing out marijuana. To just about the entire school. And then some boy who’s obviously got it in for him went to Dr Anderson and told him he’d been running his casino again. So that was that. Expelled. On the spot. I had to go straight in to Anderson when I got there. Max was in his study, with his bags packed. There was nothing I could do. Or wanted to, indeed. Expelled from Eton, Charlotte. My son. I don’t think I can stand it. I don’t think I can stand any of it.’

He looked up at her, and there were tears in his blue eyes; his face was suddenly very drawn and grey. ‘I miss her,’ he said, ‘I miss her so much, you know. Still.’

‘Oh Daddy,’ said Charlotte, her own eyes filling with hot, stinging tears, ‘Daddy, I know. I’m so sorry. About her. About Max. Everything.’ She put her arms round his shoulders.

‘I was so proud of him,’ said Alexander, wiping his eyes, reaching out for the glass of whisky that was on his desk. ‘So proud. My son and heir. A chip off the old block.’ He laughed suddenly, a harsh, ugly laugh. ‘Some old block. Stupid bloody idiot. Oh, Charlotte darling, I’m sorry. I’ve no business to be burdening you with all my grief and guilt. And disappointment.’

‘Don’t be silly, Daddy. I love it that you talk to me. It’s the only way I feel I can help.’

‘Sweetheart, you do far more than talk to me. Just your being here is a tremendous comfort. You remind me so much of your mother. I have to tell you, and I know I shouldn’t, I dread your departure to New York. Absolutely dread it.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, you’re going to be around for the next few weeks, aren’t you? Because I’m going to need you badly.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Charlotte, mentally abandoning, with enormous regret, her trip to Cork to visit Sister Mary Joseph. ‘Oh yes, Daddy, of course I am.’

‘It’s no use scolding me,’ said Max. ‘I wasn’t being stupid. I got caught on purpose. Because I wanted to.’

‘But Max, why?’ said Charlotte, anger mingling with fear at the change in him. ‘For God’s sake why?’

‘Oh, why do you think?’ he said, and his expression was oddly angry and withdrawn. ‘Because I don’t know who I am any more, that’s why. Because we have a mother who was a whore. Because the person I grew up hero-worshipping is a weak fool.’

‘Max,’ said Charlotte, ‘that’s not true. Daddy is nothing of the sort. Of course you’re upset, but – well, you can’t blame Daddy.’

‘Well I do,’ said Max, ‘in a way. If he’d been a bit less bloody weak with our mother, none of us would be in this fucking situation.’ He grinned at her suddenly. ‘Fucking being the relevant word. Anyway I can’t bring myself to have anything to do with him. At the moment. Maybe I’ll get over it in time.’

‘Well,’ said Charlotte briskly, ‘in that case, perhaps you should think about giving up all your rights to the title and the house and everything.’

‘Oh no,’ said Max, looking at her rather oddly, ‘I’m certainly not going to do that. As far as everyone out there is concerned, I’m the next Earl of Caterham. There’s a lot coming my way. I have no intention of giving any of it up. That’s about the only thing I feel sure about at the moment.’

‘Oh Max, I’m so sorry,’ said Charlotte, putting her hand on his arm. Max shook it off.

‘Charlotte, I don’t think you are. You broke the news that my father was some person totally unknown to me as if you were telling me that it was going to rain. I don’t understand why you had to do it, Charlotte, honestly I don’t. I was perfectly happy before. Now I feel – I feel – oh fuck it, what’s the point of having this conversation? The harm’s been done. I’m going out.’

Charlotte and Alexander were just finishing a kitchen supper that evening when Max came in, slamming the door, and went over to the fridge.

‘Why isn’t there any beer?’

‘There isn’t any beer because you’ve drunk it all,’ said Alexander coldly. ‘Well, Tallow should get some more in.’

‘Tallow is not in this house to run around after you, Max. He buys a fixed amount of alcohol every month, perfectly adequate for our needs. If you want any more, you can buy it with your allowance.’

‘Well,’ said Max, ‘it’s a good thing our mother isn’t around any more, isn’t it? She’d have had to be spending the entire Praeger fortune on extra alcohol.’

‘Maximilian, please take that back,’ said Alexander. His face was white, his mouth pulled down painfully at the corners. ‘I will not have your mother spoken of in that way.’

Charlotte held her breath, fearing Max would refuse; but he didn’t. He looked as if he was going to cry. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. There was a long silence.

‘Anyway, Max, I have phoned the comprehensive in Marlborough and they are prepared to take you immediately after half term,’ said Alexander finally. He looked at Max almost disdainfully. ‘You’ve got your O levels to do, and you can’t afford to miss any time. I don’t imagine your performance will be over-impressive, in any case.’

‘I’m not going to a comprehensive. If you want me to pass my exams, you’ll have to get me a tutor.’

‘I can assure you there is no possible chance of your having a tutor. I have thrown enough money after you. You’re going to the comprehensive and you’re going to work very hard there.’

‘No,’ said Max, ‘no I’m not.’

‘Max, you are.’

‘If you try and make me go there,’ said Max, ‘I shall tell everybody that I’m not your son. That my mother was some kind of a whore, and that you appear to be some kind of a pervert, condoning her behaviour. All right?’

‘Dear God,’ said Alexander. He brushed his hand across his eyes. ‘Well, it is true, you are not my son. Not my blood son. I have no idea whose son you are. I have loved you and brought you up and been proud of you, but you are not my son. I wish you were. And I hope you can come to terms with it in time. But I will not have you talking about your mother. I will not. Do you understand?’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Max, ‘I don’t understand you at all. And I don’t want to talk about it any more. To anybody. But I am not going to the comprehensive.’

‘Very well,’ said Alexander, ‘I’ll get you a tutor. But only for two terms. After that you’re on your own.’

‘I feel on my own anyway,’ said Max.

It was Nanny who put things near to right. She found Max sitting moodily in the kitchen one day, eating his way through the biscuit tin, and said, ‘Making your teeth rot won’t help.’

‘Nothing’ll help me, Nanny,’ said Max. ‘I’m utterly miserable.’

‘That’s just silly,’ said Nanny, ‘you’ve brought it on yourself. Getting expelled from school like that. Don’t you go telling me you’re miserable now. It’s your father who ought to be miserable.’

‘You know about it all, don’t you, Nanny?’ said Max suddenly. ‘About my mother and everything.’

‘No,’ said Nanny briefly.

‘Charlotte told me you did.’

‘Charlotte always did talk too much,’ said Nanny.

‘I hate it all,’ said Max sulkily, ‘I wish –’

‘If wishes were horses,’ said Nanny, ‘beggars might ride.’ She brought this out as if it was some very important and original thought of her own.

‘I never understood that,’ said Max. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It means you can’t have everything you want, and quite right too,’ said Nanny firmly.

‘Oh.’

‘Your mother didn’t have everything she wanted,’ said Nanny suddenly, ‘and I don’t want you thinking she did. And you’ve had a great deal that you want. So you can stop feeling so sorry for yourself. It’ll make you peevish. I can’t stand peevishness.’

‘Is that all you’re going to say?’

‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘There’s nothing else I can say. Except that you’re behaving very badly. He loved her,’ she added, as an afterthought. ‘Very much.’

‘I can’t think why. It’s sick, if you ask me.’

‘No one’s asking you, Maximilian. No one’s asking you anything. You don’t know enough to be asked. What you need is some fresh air,’ she added. ‘You’re beginning to look pasty. You’ll get spots next.’

Charlotte, who had been standing quietly in the doorway for much of this conversation, holding her breath, laughed aloud as Max pushed back his chair and almost ran over to the utility room and the dusty old mirror it contained.

‘You’ve obviously managed to put things in proportion for him, Nanny,’ she said.

‘Charlotte, there’s a letter for you. From Ireland.’

‘Oh God.’ Charlotte took the envelope from Georgina and made a face. ‘I do hope Sister Mary Joseph isn’t going to put me off. I daren’t go any later, my finals are only weeks away. Let me – oh God. Oh Georgie, I can’t bear it.’

‘What? Charlotte, surely you can take a few days off. Surely.’

‘No. No I can’t. But that’s not it. Georgie, she’s died. Sister Mary Joseph has died. This is from the Reverend Mother at the convent. I didn’t realize she was so ill. Both her letters were so brave, so hopeful. Now it’s too late. My last link with Mummy, and she’s gone. Oh Georgie, it’s so sad.’

Charlotte put her head in her arms on the breakfast table and burst into tears. It was so unlike her that Georgina was alarmed. Charlotte was so indefatigable, so brave; she never gave in, never cried. She put her arms round her.