Wicked Pleasures (44 page)

‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘Shit shit shit.’ It was no good; a letter wasn’t going to work. A phone call was easier.

She picked up the phone, dialled the number; she already knew it by heart. ‘May I speak to Mr St Mullin, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’ The voice was bored, distant.

‘My name is Welles. Lady Charlotte Welles. Er – Virginia Caterham’s daughter.’

‘One moment please.’

There was a long silence; now what, wondered Charlotte, now what was she to say – ‘Oh hallo, I wondered if we could meet, and talk about my mother … Oh, hallo, my name may not mean anything but … Good morning, Mr St Mullin, a voice from your past.’ Now what was it she had thought, worked out, oh yes – ‘Mr St Mullin, I wonder if you remember meeting my mother, many years ago.’

She licked her dry lips, took a deep breath as she heard clicking, meaning she was being put through. This was it. Mustn’t flunk it now. A voice spoke: a deep, very beautiful voice, more resonant, more mannered than that of his brother.

‘Charlotte? Virginia’s daughter? How wonderful. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you and her down the years. Would you like to meet and have lunch? I’d love to have a look at you.’

‘Oh yes please,’ she said, ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

Virginia, 1960–1

‘Oh yes please,’ she said, ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

It had been worth enduring what had so far been a terrible evening, to hear Virginia Caterham say that.

Charles had not wanted to go to the cocktail party. He was studying terribly hard, he was tired, he was going away for the weekend, and the last thing on earth he had in mind for himself was standing and shouting for upwards of two hours with a glass of warm gin and tonic in his hand.

But the cocktail party was being given by his pupil master, who had expressed a very strong hope that he would be there, and he could see he had absolutely no option.

And so at half past five he changed into a clean, slightly less shabby shirt in the cloakroom of Lionel Craig’s chambers, reknotted his tie (and then wished he had not done so, as it fell into a just different position and looked even more creased and worn out than it had before), rubbed his shoes one at a time on the back of his trouser legs, brushed his rather unruly dark hair (wondering how he was going to find the requisite three shillings to get it cut as Lionel Craig had rather strongly hinted it should be) and walked down Chancery Lane and into the Strand to wait rather hopelessly for a number eleven bus. Lionel Craig had departed half an hour earlier in his Rolls; it had naturally not entered his head to offer his impoverished young pupil a lift.

The traffic was appalling; it was almost a quarter to seven before the bus lumbered into Sloane Square. Charles leapt off it and ran frantically up Sloane Street, tore up the steps of the mansion block and pressed Lionel Craig’s bell. A maid in a black dress let him in, with the observation that the party was nearly over and, smoothing his windblown hair, gulping his breath into some semblance of normality, he walked casually into the drawing room. Barbara Craig was standing by the door; she was a large, imposing woman with a shelf of a bosom (encased that evening in red lace), impeccably pleated iron-grey waves, and a sternly pleasant face.

‘Ah, Mr St Mullin,’ she said. ‘What a pity you’re so late, all the canapés have gone.’ She rather liked Charles, he was so handsome with his wild dark hair and dark blue eyes, and she felt sorry for him because he was so patently poor and so thin.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Craig,’ he said, ‘no buses.’ He was still slightly out of breath.

‘I know how bad they are,’ she said sympathetically, patting his hand, ‘my daily is very often late. Now then let’s get you a drink. Jarvis, bring the tray over here please, now what would you like, all the usual, and there’s some Bucks Fizz, that’s lovely, I always think, and of course it makes the champagne go so much further.’

Charles took this to be a sign that she would like him to have the Bucks Fizz, and took a glass; it was gloriously welcome. ‘Now then, come along and I’ll introduce you to some nice people …’

Charles moved stealthily away after sixty seconds or so and made for the table in the corner where a few of the less popular canapés still remained. He was just downing a third mini ham sandwich and wondering if he could consume the entire bowl of stuffed olives without being observed when a slightly amused voice behind him said, ‘You seem to be starving. Don’t they have lunch where you come from?’

‘They do,’ said Charles, turning round slightly shamefaced, trying to swallow the six olives he had already put in his mouth, ‘but that was six hours ago and –’and promptly choked. Before he did so, before he found himself gasping and fighting for breath, spluttering into his handkerchief, desperate not to spray the room with what was left of the mouthful of olive and ham, he took in the fact that the owner of the voice was tall and beautiful with creamy skin, a cloud of dark hair just touched with auburn and extraordinary eyes, golden in colour and flecked with brown. And she was wearing a plain white dress which set off her beauty to perfection, and a very fine pearl and diamond choker. After that he lost the capacity to absorb anything; he was dimly aware for the next thirty seconds that someone was thumping his back, and presumed it was the owner of the voice; as his breath came back, his lungs refilled and the world returned to normal, she swam into focus again, half concerned, half amused, holding out a glass of water.

‘Here, try this. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine. How kind of you.’

‘Not really. I think it was my fault.’

‘Not at all. Serves me right for pigging out.’

‘Well you do look half starved.’

‘Oh I’m not really,’ said Charles. ‘It’s just a device to win sympathy for myself at cocktail parties.’ He held out his hand.
‘Charles St Mullin.’

She took it. ‘Virginia Caterham.’ She was American; the accent was quite gentle, but distinct.

‘You’re not from these parts then?’

‘No, I’m from New York.’

‘And your husband also?’

‘No, he’s very English, very much from these parts. Name of Alexander Caterham.’

‘Not the Earl of Caterham? Owner of Hartest House?’

‘The very one. You’re extremely well informed.’

‘Well, you see, I am employed, if that it could be termed, by our host. Your husband once retained him.’

‘He did? How exciting!’

‘Not really, I’m afraid. It was to do with some land law and a rapacious neighbour. Rapacious in the land law sense, that is to say.’

‘Oh yes, I remember Alexander telling me. We had a neighbour who objected to our hunting across his land. Apparently. It was before my term as
chatelaine at Hartest. He – and Lionel – won, of course. The poor man moved away.’ She sounded amused; Charles smiled at her.

‘Of course. Do you enjoy being chatelaine of Hartest?’

‘Oh yes, naturally I do.’ She spoke quickly, smiled brilliantly. ‘It’s a beautiful house. And estate. A wonderful place to live.’

‘Did you know it before your marriage?’

‘No, I was raised in New York, as they say. Never even been to England.’

‘It must have been something of a culture shock.’

‘Well it was, but I am something of a survivor. I have learnt to speak English. If you know what I mean.’

‘Of course I do,’ said Charles.

‘And what about you, Mr St Mullin?’

‘Please call me Charles. Oh, I’m Irish. A broth of a boy. We too have a rather nice house. Not as fine as Hartest, but extremely pretty. In West Cork.’

‘I’ve never been to Ireland,’ she said, ‘I understand it’s very beautiful. What does “we” mean? Are you married?’

‘Oh my goodness no,’ said Charles. ‘Can’t afford such luxuries.’

‘Really? I thought barristers were very rich people. Lionel seems to be.’

‘Barristers are. I am a pupil barrister. An apprentice. Last year I earned twenty pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence.’

‘Well, I can see not many wives could be kept on that. So who is this “we” you speak of ?’

‘My family. My father. He is a gentleman farmer, and runs the house and the estate. Rather like your husband, I imagine. And occasionally he throws a few shillings at me, and says, “Here, cur, take this for yourself,” and I eat for a few weeks longer.’

‘What a sad story. And will you inherit this house, this beautiful house, in the fullness of time?’

‘Sadly not. I have an elder brother. But actually, much as I love Ireland, I prefer London. I plan to settle here. At the moment of course I am forced to live on a bench on the Embankment. But in time I may graduate to something a little better.’

‘I hope so.’ She smiled at him, and there was an odd quality to that smile, it was warm and amused and very friendly, but there was a sadness behind it that Charles found intriguing.

‘You must come and meet my husband. He’s over there, rather unusually being the centre of attention. He’s actually rather shy. He’d like you.’ She took him by the hand, a warm, surprisingly firm grasp, and led him across the room; a tall, outstandingly good-looking man with blond hair and blue eyes stood telling what was obviously a very funny story to a circle of people all laughing extremely loudly.

The joke finished, Virginia smiled indulgently at her husband and ushered Charles forwards.

‘Alexander, darling. This is Charles St Mullin. He works for Lionel. I thought you should meet him. He remembers the case, over the right of way, you remember, and the hunting.’

‘Oh yes of course.’ Alexander Caterham took Charles’s hand, shook it hard. ‘How do you do. How clever of you to remember it.’

‘Well, I’m interested in land law,’ said Charles. ‘It fascinates me. My father has land in Ireland, and we have had a couple of disputes with our neighbours. Particularly intriguing as the neighbour is the Mother Church.’

‘Indeed? What a very formidable adversary she must be.’

‘She is. But we won,’ said Charles with a modest pride.

‘Then you must have very fine lawyers. Are you really interested in land law?’

‘Yes I am. In fact I’m working on a thesis on the subject, eighteenth-century land law.’

‘The land laws for Hartest are classically complex. If it would amuse you, I could let you loose in the library there for a while. You could come down one Saturday.’

Charles said it would amuse him very much and that he would be delighted to accept. As he caught Virginia Caterham’s golden eyes, her warm, oddly sad smile, he thought that it would be amusing to spend a day in her house as well.

‘I’ll phone you then, shall I?’ he said, and ‘Oh yes, please do,’ she said, ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

‘So, Charles. Has the morning been useful?’ Alexander gestured to a place at the table; they were eating in the small dining room at the front of the house. Charles looked out of the window; the stretch of parkland, studded with sheep and deer, unrolled gently away from the house; the winding languor of the River Hart shone in the mist-strewn autumn sunshine.

‘Useful and very pleasant. What a beautiful place this is. How fortunate you are, Lord Caterham.’

‘I know it. Very fortunate. I count this as the greatest possible blessing, to live here. To own Hartest. To have it to pass on to my children. It is part of my very self. If that does not sound too pompous.’

‘Alexander, yes it does,’ said Virginia, ‘do stop. You really are a bore about Hartest at times. Not everyone can quite see its immense charm, you know. Sometimes I get quite jealous,’ she said to Charles. ‘He loves this house far more than he loves me. It is his mistress. He is always leaving me for it.’

‘Oh nonsense, Virginia,’ said Alexander lightly; but Charles heard a more serious note in his voice. ‘There is no comparison between how I feel for you and how I feel for Hartest. I much prefer Hartest.’

He smiled at her, brilliantly; but she did not smile back. Her eyes were hard and dark, and the fingers she was holding round her glass were tightly clenched.

‘I know it,’ she said, ‘I just said that. Perhaps you could stop talking this nonsense, Alexander, and give me some more wine. My glass is empty, as you might have noticed, had you not had your mind so very firmly on your house. And so is Charles’s.’

‘I’m sorry. How stupid of me.’ He got up and refilled their glasses; Charles noticed that Virginia’s emptied very fast, three more times. She had recovered
herself and was laughing again by the end of the first course; but Alexander was awkward suddenly too, just slightly ill at ease, they both talked too much and too intently. All was clearly not quite well in the Garden of Eden.

After lunch Virginia said she was going to walk her dog.

‘If you’ve had enough of land law for a while, come with me.’

They walked down to the lake; there was a path round it, carved out of the long reeds; she walked ahead, and the dog, not the classic labrador he had expected, but an exquisitely elegant afghan hound with long, silken beige hair, loped beside her. She was wearing a trenchcoat and wellington boots over her slacks; she looked very English, very at home in the country and the mud.

‘What an enchanted life you lead,’ said Charles carefully, curious for some clue as to her unhappiness.

‘Indeed,’ she said, her slightly throaty voice calm and almost complacent. ‘Enchanted.’

‘Do you miss the States?’

‘A lot. Sometimes. Not so much the States, but my family. My brother most of all.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Works in a bank.’

‘Ah. And your father?’

‘Owns the bank.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’m quite a family person,’ she said suddenly. ‘I like to have my own people around me. Alexander doesn’t have any family. Only a mother who refuses to meet me.’

‘Oh dear. Why?’

‘Because I’m an American. Sullying the family name, I think. I have tried very hard, written to her several times, even sent her flowers when she gave me the Caterham tiara to wear on my wedding day, but all to no avail.’

‘Silly old lady. Well, never mind, no doubt soon you will have your own dynasty, and then you can make the rules. And you won’t be lonely.’