A Season of Secrets (29 page)

‘Someone should shoot that upstart ruffian Hitler,’ Viscount Hubholme was saying. ‘He may still be virtually unknown outside Bavaria, but mark my words, I’ve heard the
man address a public meeting and he’s Trouble with a capital T.’

‘He’s not so much trouble that he can’t be contained,’ Winston said phlegmatically ‘His party can only come to power if he gets enough votes – and the German
people aren’t going to vote for an Austrian you so well describe as being an upstart and a ruffian. He’s tried a putsch once, and it failed. A second attempt at an armed overthrow of
the rightful government will get him nowhere. From now on, if he’s ever going to come to power, he’s going to have to rely on votes, and outside Bavaria no votes will be
forthcoming.’

It occurred to Zephiniah that if she was ever going to be able to take part in the kind of conversations now taking place, she was going to have to become much more knowledgeable about the
current political situations in France, Italy and Germany.

As the present conversation was one she couldn’t yet take an intelligent part in, her thoughts slipped back to the ghastly hideousness of the summer of 1911.

When she had returned to England with her aunt, leaving behind her a baby girl who had been adopted by a childless Viennese couple, she had done so believing she would be able to pick up the
threads of her life as if they had never been broken.

Her mother had instantly put an end to that daydream. ‘You’re damaged goods,’ she had said harshly. ‘Don’t think that just because no one knows about the child, the
child’s father hasn’t boasted about how easy a conquest you were. Every deb’s delight of the Season will know by now, and there will be no marriage proposals coming your way. Not
one.’

To her incredulity, her mother had been proved right. No debutante of that year’s Season was more popular with the opposite sex, and no debutante was more obviously destined to remain very
firmly on the shelf.

Then she’d met Reggie. Reggie Pyke was the middle-aged youngest son of the Earl of Warham. The family was from the Scottish Borders and, when Zephiniah met him, Reggie, who had sailed
financially too close to the wind just once too often, was about to emigrate to Argentina, where he intended breeding polo ponies.

‘I intend mixing thoroughbreds with Criollas, the local horses,’ he’d said enthusiastically. ‘They have the best endurance of any horse breed in the world. I’m on
to a sure-fire winner. I can feel it in my blood and in my bones.’

When, within a week of knowing her, he’d asked her if she would marry him, Zephiniah hadn’t had to think about it. Just like Reggie, she needed a new start, in a new country. A month
later, as man and wife, they had sailed for Buenos Aires.

It hadn’t been a marriage made in heaven. He drank too much and soon, out of sheer boredom, she got in the habit of drinking too much too. He had affairs, and she had affairs. There had
never been any children and, although Reggie accused her of being the one who was at fault, she had known, because of the secret she had never shared with him, that the fault lay with him. Out of
the blue, aged fifty-eight, he had dropped dead of a heart attack while watching a tournament at the Campo Argentino de Polo de Palermo.

At thirty-two, and at the height of her beauty, she was a widow. She hadn’t been a merry widow, though, because the financial position Reggie had left her in was dire. What she had needed
was another husband – one with money, and fast.

Reggie’s brother, who had now inherited the title – and who, like herself, was widowed – had written and asked if she would consider bringing Reggie’s ashes home to
England so that they could be interred in the Warham family vault. Aware that agreeing to do so could well bring advantages in its wake, she had left for England carrying Reggie’s ashes in a
tasteful silver-plated urn.

Reggie’s brother had received the ashes with great courtesy and had shown more romantic interest in a male companion than he had in her. With hopes of becoming the next Countess of Warham
swiftly extinguished, Zephiniah had shaken the Scottish Borders dust from her feet and headed speedily for London, where she intended devoting the summer to serious husband-hunting.

At the first dinner party she had been invited to she had been introduced to Gilbert.

‘He’s
very
eligible, and I’ve seated you next to him,’ her hostess, a distant cousin, had whispered to her as they had made their way into the dining room.
‘He’s a government minister and a widower with three daughters, the eldest two well out of the school room. He’s owner of a divine country estate in Yorkshire, and his Mount
Street house has one of the prettiest ballrooms in London. Add to that whispers that he could well be the next Tory prime minister, and you can well understand why he is so in demand
socially.’

Even before he had seated himself next to her, Zephiniah had been determined to end his days of widowhood.

Doing so had been as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. That had been months ago now, and Zephiniah hadn’t looked back.

Mrs Baldwin interrupted her thoughts by rising to her feet and saying, ‘I think it’s time we left the gentlemen to their port, ladies.’

As Zephiniah, Clementine Churchill, Lady Dalwhinnie and the Dowager Duchess of Merion followed their hostess out of the dining room, Zephiniah gave a last interested glance in Max
Bradley’s direction.

He really was a most attractive man and possibly eight or nine years her senior, which meant he had to be at least twenty years older than Rozalind. Though he had said very little at the dining
table, he had effortlessly made his presence felt. There was an exciting toughness about him; an overt sexuality. She had no doubt at all that if Max had been in Gilbert’s shoes a few hours
earlier, he would have taken no notice when she said there was no time for lovemaking and her hair would now be disgracefully mussed. The thought sent a rush of heat through her body. She was
looking forward to Max Bradley and her stepniece marrying. He would be a very welcome addition at family events.

Unbeknown to her, the moment the dining-room door had closed behind her, Gilbert was discussing with Max exactly the kind of family events she had in mind.

‘You will be joining us at Gorton for Easter, won’t you?’ he was saying genially. ‘Rozalind arrives in London in a few days’ time and has written to say that you
will still be this side of the Atlantic and able to join us all.’

At the far end of the table the prime minister, Winston, Lord Dalwhinnie and Viscount Hubholme were occupied in lighting up Romeo y Julieta cigars. As they began puffing on them and discussing
the difficulty the government was having with disaffected miners, Max said, ‘I appreciate the invitation, Gilbert. However, it’s one I’m unable to accept.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Gilbert was sincerely regretful. ‘I hadn’t realized you were heading back to Washington immediately.’

‘I’m not. It’s simply that my friendship with Rozalind is at an end – or will be very shortly.’

Gilbert stared at him, bewildered. ‘I’m sorry, old chap. I don’t quite follow . . .’

Max chewed the corner of his lip. He’d known this hellish conversation with Gilbert Fenton was going to have to take place sometime before Rozalind’s arrival, but he hadn’t
envisaged it taking place this evening, at Number 10.

‘I’ve delayed getting married for long enough,’ he said, wishing he had a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him instead of a bottle of port. ‘And in Washington there are
limits to how high a man can rise politically without a suitable wife at his side.’

‘I understand that.’ Gilbert was more bewildered than ever. ‘But surely that means you and Rozalind should be announcing your forthcoming marriage – or is it that
you’ve asked her to marry you and she’s turned you down? Is she finding the age difference too great? Is that the problem? Is—’

Max lifted a hand, forestalling him. ‘You don’t realize it, but you’re making this even more difficult for me. What you have to understand – and what I have to make
stone-cold clear – is that I’ve never led Rozalind to believe I was one day going to marry her. She’s known from the outset that there’s been someone waiting for me. Someone
I’ve known since childhood. Someone with whom I’ve long had an understanding and, most importantly of all, someone who is far more suitable to be the wife of a politician than a
dangerously headstrong girl who has only just celebrated her twentieth birthday.’

Aware now where the conversation was heading, Gilbert was no longer bewildered. He was appalled.

Under cover of loud laughter from the far end of the table, he said in a low, urgent voice, ‘Now look here, Max, let me put you straight before you say anything further. You’ve been
Rozalind’s escort for nearly a year. Her father’s understanding – and mine – was that your intentions were honourable. If we’d thought otherwise we wouldn’t have
been so tolerant. If, unknown to us, Rozalind has condoned your continuing friendship with an old flame, then I can only imagine she has done so out of youthful innocence as to the true nature of
that friendship. Your action now, as an honourable man, is to end your former liaison once and for all – and, on your return to New York, to ask my brother-in-law for my niece’s hand in
marriage.’

A pulse throbbed at the corner of Max’s jawline. ‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course it’s damned well possible!’

Winston and Viscount Hubholme, finally realizing that a heated exchange of words was taking place, shot them swift, curious glances. The prime minister and Lord Dalwhinnie, chuckling over a
risqué joke, were oblivious to it.

Max, wishing himself a million miles away, drew in a deep, steadying breath. ‘The reason it isn’t possible is a watertight one. My second cousin, Myrtle Benson-Davidson, is ideal in
every respect as the wife of a man as politically ambitious as I am. She is mature, sophisticated – and as ambitious for me as I am myself. There are times in life when rational decisions
have to be taken.’ He paused, unable to bring himself to continue.

‘And?’ Gilbert prompted, taut with tension.

‘And I took one.’ Looking like a man who already knew of the mistake he had made, Max said, ‘Three days before I sailed, I married Myrtle.’

JUNE 1928

‘So much has changed over the last couple of years,’ Thea said to Roz as they sprawled amidst deep grass at the vole place, ‘and yet where my love life and
your love life are concerned, nothing has changed at all, has it? You are still unhappily in love with Max, and I’m still unhappily in love with Hal.’

Roz rolled over onto her back and shielded her eyes from the hot sun. Where Max was concerned, there was a lot she wanted to share with Thea, but not knowing what her reaction was going to be
when she did so, she put the moment off, saying instead, ‘When we were all last at Gorton at this time of the year, it was Zephiniah’s first visit. Where is she this year? Vichy
again?’

Thea pushed herself up one elbow. ‘No. This time she’s taking the waters at Aix-les-Bains. Papa misses her, but no one else does.’

‘Not even Olivia?’

Thea shook her head. ‘Not even Olivia. They were in cahoots over Olivia’s wedding arrangements, because both of them wanted the same thing: to have the
Tatler
trumpet it as
the wedding of the year—’

‘Which it did.’

‘But once the wedding was over, their initial enthusiasm for each other cooled.’

‘D’you think that none of you much liking Zephiniah is the reason she isn’t here? In London, not spending time in each other’s company is easy, isn’t it? At Gorton
it’s pretty impossible to avoid one another.’

‘I rather think Zephiniah is indifferent as to whether we like her or not.’ Thea pushed herself up into a sitting position and hugged her knees. ‘She’d hoped to be
pregnant by now. If she had been, I think she would be trying to focus all Papa’s attention on the newborn – especially if it was a boy – and trying to distance him from us. She
doesn’t like the fact that he always has so much time for us, even when he doesn’t always approve of the causes we have taken up or the things we do.’

‘Those causes being your socialism, and Olivia following Dieter like a sheep in believing that the way ahead in Germany is Hitler’s National Socialist German Workers’
Party?’

Thea gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Right. And let me tell you that the word “socialist” in the National Socialist German Workers’ Party has nothing to do with real socialism.
Hitler has simply redefined the word by putting “national” in front of it, in order to appeal to the greatest number of people.’

Tired of squinting against the sun in order to look at Thea, Rozalind too sat up, planting her hands flat on the grass behind her to give herself some support. ‘I don’t understand
what attraction there is for Dieter in such a tinhorn political party. I thought its appeal was to the uneducated – and then only in Bavaria.’

Thea ran a hand through short, turbulently curly hair. ‘Not according to Kyle. He says lots of educated Germans want to see their country as a force in the world again and not, as it is, a
country humiliated by the terms of the Versailles Peace Treaty.’