The Art of Love. Elizabeth Edmondson
The thought popped into her head unbidden, and so startled her that she dropped her hairbrush. How absurd, Walter could be overbearing, he was certainly a commanding man who expected to have his own way, but he was courteous and had never come near to threatening her — why should he?
So why had that unpleasant little idea popped into her mind? She shrugged and resumed brushing her hair with steady even strokes, a hundred a night, as her nanny had taught her.
The stewardess had unpacked for her, and had propped the one photograph in a leather frame that she had with her on the dressing table. Harriet’s eyes looked out at her. She had her father’s eyes. Then the words of the Gardner girl came back to her. It was hard on Harriet, having to leave her school.
‘I do understand, Mummy, but it’s a bit thick. I mean, you went there, you’d think they’d care about that kind of thing, instead of booting me out as though I’d been caught smoking in the lavs.’
‘Darling, I do hope you don’t…’
‘Just a figure of speech,’ said Harriet quickly. Then, seeing the look of distress on Cynthia’s face, she had said. ‘Actually, I don’t mind so much, it isn’t a very good school. It might have been once. It probably was when you were there, but it’s all manners and flowers and things which are rather boring. The modern woman has more to her life than arranging flowers and knowing how to address a duchess or a bishop. I’d like to go to a school where you can learn something, properly. Languages, for example, the French teacher is hopeless, and Frau Passauer, who teaches German can’t keep order, she gets dreadfully ragged, so we end up not learning to speak a word of German.’
‘Why do they employ her if she’s so hopeless?’
‘I’ll tell you why, it’s because she’s the impoverished cousin of some Princess whatsit und thingie, you know. That’s why half the teachers are there, because they’re fearfully well-bred or well-connected. Only most of them can’t teach for toffee.’
‘I had no idea. When I was there, the teachers were dull but competent.’
She had looked forward to the day when she would present Harriet at court, during her first season. Now she wouldn’t ever travel up the Mall with her, dressed in a white dress with feathers, sitting for hours to reach the palace and then, finally, to make her curtsy to the King and Queen.
Divorced women weren’t permitted to present anyone at court. Fuddy duddy, old-fashioned, but it was an absolute rule.
Her sister Helen would have to do it. It had been one of the facts Helen had thrown at her when she was trying to persuade Cynthia not to get a divorce. ‘It may not be the happiest marriage on earth, but there’s more to marriage than happiness.’
‘Like what?’
‘Duty and responsibility and shared interests. You have a daughter, you seem not to care about the effect all this will have on her. Divorce is a social stigma in our world, Cynthia. Humphrey’s not at all happy about it.’
Humphrey, Helen’s husband, was a distinguished lawyer.
‘It affects us all.’
‘Oh, come on, Helen, you aren’t trying to say that Humphrey won’t make the bench because I’m divorced? Good gracious, he was born to be a judge, I dare say he wore a little wig and a robe when he was in his cradle.’
‘People like us…’
‘Oh, bother people like us.’ And then, ‘I am sorry for Harriet, but she understands.’
‘How can she understand? A girl of sixteen, I hope she doesn’t understand. I suppose it’s all about sex, and it would be shocking if a girl of that age knew anything at all about sex. I certainly didn’t.’
No, thought Cynthia, and I bet your wedding night was a horrid shock, imagine knowing nothing about sex and having a naked Humphrey advancing on you.
She finished her strokes, and laid down the brush as the stewardess came back, to gather up her clothes. She smoothed down the wrinkleless sheet, and said that she hoped Cynthia would sleep well. ‘You do look tired, madam,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to bring you a tisane? A warm drink can help you get a proper restful night’s sleep.’
Cynthia accepted the tisane. She lay back on the pillows, sipping the hot drink, a book open on her knees, face down, unread. Harriet would be all right, she told herself. She was a sensible girl, resilient. Thank goodness the child had no idea. She moved restlessly, rustling the sheets. Should she tell Harriet the truth? No, she’d kept that secret all these years, and it would remain a secret.
Was Walter the best stepfather for a sixteen-year-old girl? Would he lay down the law, which would inevitably lead to dreadful rows, Harriet being a young lady with decided opinions of her own?
He had said Harriet should call him Uncle Walter, but she told Cynthia that it was silly. ‘He’s not an uncle. If you marry him, I suppose I’ll have to call him Father or something. Why can’t I just call him Walter?’
‘He thinks that’s too informal, with your being only sixteen.’
Cynthia noticed that Harriet got round the problem by not addressing Walter at all, by any name.
Cynthia couldn’t talk about Walter with Harriet, for the simple reason that Harriet refused to discuss the subject. ‘You’ve got to do what you want. It’s not as though I’m a child, I’m nearly grown up. Whether or not I like Walter isn’t the point, really.’
Harriet had, on the surface at least, taken the divorce calmly. She didn’t resent Walter for breaking up a happy marriage, that was one good thing. Her clear way of looking at life meant that she accepted that her parents had drifted irrevocably apart.
Although her honesty about her father startled Cynthia, when Harriet, watching her doing her face before going out for the evening, said, ‘It’s not as though I got on well with Daddy.’
‘Harriet! How can you say such a thing? You know he loves you.’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean we like each other, does it? Love’s obligatory, but liking’s different. When I was little, I used to pretend I was a changeling. As one does, when one’s reading nothing but fairy stories. I’d imagine that I wasn’t Harriet Harkness at all, but an orphan baby left in a basket on the doorstep.’ She grinned at her mother. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Mummy, children all tell themselves stories, I bet you did, too.’ She wound an arm round her mother’s neck, in a rare gesture of affection, and looked at their twin reflections in the mirror. ‘Only it’s not likely, given that I look so much like you, is it?’
Cynthia woke in the early hours, to find the bedside light still on, and her book on the floor. She lay in a strangely peaceful state of neither being awake nor asleep. The man going up the gangway had brought back such a flood of memories, and now another memory came vividly into her mind.
Another dock, another ship, but this one wasn’t an ocean liner sailing serenely across peaceful seas in comfort and ease. Ronnie’s ship had been battle grey, battered-looking after three years of war, a troop-carrier, taking another batch of fresh-faced young men across to the killing grounds of France, to the misery of trenches and mud and barbed wire, to horrors unimaginable to the wives and girlfriends and sisters and mothers left behind.
Cynthia had driven Ronnie down, strictly against orders. He should have been on the train, but his mate had said he’d fix it with the sarge, pretend Ronnie was in the lavatory, stomach problems. Cynthia had borrowed her brother’s car; he had taught her to drive when she was thirteen, on the quiet roads around Winsley, the house in the country where they had all grown up.
The sergeant, usually eagle-eyed, must have had other things on his mind, because the ruse worked, and by the time he was growing suspicious, there was Ronnie, mingling with the others in his platoon. ‘Just a case of something I ate last night, Sarge, I’ll be right as rain in a day or two.’
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