A Season of Secrets (30 page)

‘And they think an Austrian corporal can bring that about?’

‘Apparently so.’

They giggled at the silliness of it and then fell silent, enjoying the blissful heat of the sun on their backs and the soothing sound of the slow-moving river.

After a little while Rozalind said, ‘And what about Violet? Is she still in disgrace?’ Her hair fell dramatically forward at cheekbone level on either side of her face, accentuating
a fringe that came down to her eyebrows.

Wishing that her own hair could be worn in such a straight and sleek fashionable style, Thea said with amusement in her voice, ‘She is, where Zephiniah is concerned. It was Zephiniah,
after all, who selected the finishing school. Papa was shell-shocked – and most likely still is. An illicit romance between a pupil and a boy of about the same age from nearby Le Rosey would,
after all, be understandable – or at least understandable where Violet is concerned. And as nearly all Le Rosey boys are the sons or grandsons of crowned heads, even Zephiniah would have
forgiven Violet, in the hope of a happy outcome. But an illicit romance with the father of a fellow pupil? And a fellow pupil who is also the head girl?’

They looked at each other and burst into helpless laughter.

When she was able to speak again, Thea said, ‘Violet did it on purpose of course, in order that Papa would be asked to remove her. It was her way of showing Zephiniah – whom she
refers to as the “wicked witch” – that she was never going to get the better of her.’

Rozalind rose to her feet and walked the few steps to the edge of the river-bank. There was no sign of the voles, which wasn’t a surprise to her, after all the talking and laughing they
had been doing.

Laughing no longer, she stared down into clear grey-green water. ‘It’s a shame there couldn’t have been such a good outcome where Carrie was concerned,’ she said
sombrely. ‘She wrote me about the uproar when Zephiniah discovered she was the granddaughter of your father’s old nanny, and of how outraged Zephiniah was that Carrie was treated at
Gorton as if she were family.’

Thea’s hands tightened around her knees. ‘That was when, with the exception of Papa, we all stopped feeling guilty about not liking Zephiniah. When she said that in future Carrie
would not be welcome at Gorton, there were the most blistering rows. Though he tried hard to hide it, Papa was just as appalled as we were.’

‘Then why didn’t he overrule her?’ Rozalind turned to face her. ‘That was the part of things I didn’t understand. And though Carrie never said so in her letter, I
know that was the part of it that hurt her the most.’

Thea rose to her feet as if all her limbs ached. ‘Zephiniah conveniently announced she was
enceinte
. She wasn’t, but Papa didn’t know that and he wasn’t going to
take the risk of her having a miscarriage. He met Carrie in Richmond, and Carrie said he explained to her how impossible it was for Zephiniah to cross class barriers, and that he owed it to
Zephiniah to respect her wishes. He told her he hoped the situation would soon change, and that nothing would ever diminish the affection he held her in.’

Rozalind said nothing, because there was nothing she could say. They both felt Gilbert should have behaved differently, and because they both thought the world of him, neither of them wanted to
put their disappointment in him into words. She walked towards Thea, slipping her arm through hers. ‘Let’s get back to the house. The voles aren’t coming out to play, and
we’re just depressing ourselves talking about the wicked witch. I suppose all that really matters is that your father is happy with her.’

Thea made a moue of doubt. ‘He gives the impression he is, but between you and me, I think he’s beginning to find it a bit of a struggle.’

As they began walking through buttercup-deep grass towards the bridge, Rozalind was very aware that although they had chatted about lots of things, they hadn’t chatted about what was going
on in their personal lives. Thea had made one brief mention of Hal, as she had of Max, and then their names hadn’t been mentioned again – and Kyle’s name had only been mentioned
in passing.

Tentatively Rozalind asked, ‘How are things between you and Kyle? I know he’s pretty keen, because he’s told me so. Are the two of you on, or off?’

‘Oh God, Roz! I don’t know!’ Thea ran a hand distractedly through her hair. ‘I like him an awful lot. He’s a million miles more intelligent than most of the men I
meet. He’s attractive, fun, and it’s nice having someone genuinely in love with me.’

‘But?’

Beneath a V-necked, low-waisted silk dress the colour of burnt umber, Thea lifted slim shoulders and then dropped them eloquently. ‘But he isn’t Hal.’

‘You can’t go carrying a torch for Hal forever.’

‘Why not? You may be seen out and about with Barty whenever you’re in London, but you’d drop him in a flash if Max was single and crooked his little finger.’

‘That’s different.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Thea’s eyes flashed fire. ‘When you love someone –
really
love someone – you don’t just stop loving them because they no
longer love you. You keep on hoping that one day they’ll come to their senses and come back to you. Because, if you didn’t hope that, it would be so unbearable you would go
mad.’

Tears glittered on her eyelashes.

‘I love Hal so much, Roz, I simply can’t get my head around loving anyone else – not even when that someone else is as dishy as your stepbrother. What makes it worse is that I
know Hal wants me as much as I want him. He won’t acknowledge it, though. Where the class war is concerned, he sees loving me as being a sign of weakness and giving in to it would, in his
eyes, be a betrayal of all his left-wing principles.’

‘Do you think he’ll marry Carrie?’

‘I think he’ll think about it – and he may well one day even ask her. But can you see Carrie living in London? It’s impossible, isn’t it? And what is even more
impossible is the thought of Hal moving back to Outhwaite or Richmond.’

Twenty minutes later they stepped inside Gorton and Rozalind was immediately encircled by its mellow charm. It wasn’t quite the same charm as in the past, though. There
were flowers everywhere, as always, but the effect wasn’t the same as it had been when Blanche was alive. Then the flowers had nearly always been in gentle, subtle tones: milk-white roses
massed in Chinese porcelain bowls; pink clove-scented carnations, ruffled and fringed; lilac anemones with indigo hearts; fragrant, pale-lemon freesias. Now the colour of the flowers was strident.
Vivid reds, searing blues, blistering oranges, and whereas previously the flowers had always been arranged with great simplicity, now the arrangements were stiffly formal and over-poweringly
ornate. There were lots of other changes, too.

Blanche’s taste had been for cool, delicate colours. For as long as Rozalind could remember, the dining-room walls had been a translucent duck-egg blue and the walls in the main drawing
room a pale yellow, offset by touches of white. Though Gorton itself was a stately Georgian gem, the overall feel of its interior was that of informality. No one stepping inside it could ever have
been in any doubt that it was first and foremost a family home.

Because Zephiniah was absent and Thea, Olivia and Violet were all present, that sensation wasn’t completely lost, but it was certainly diminished. The drawing room was a sea of crimson and
gold. Sofas that were deep-cushioned and covered in chintz, so that it didn’t matter if a Fenton dog made itself comfy on them, had been replaced with brocaded, spindly-legged, French Empire
sofas and chairs. Everywhere the rich wooden panelling had been ornately gilded.

There had been a time at Gorton when, if she stood very still and closed her eyes, Rozalind had been able to evoke Blanche’s presence and hear, in memory, her low sweet voice. On this
visit, for the first time, she failed to tap into any such comforting experience. Blanche’s spirit was no longer in the home she had made so happy. Unintentionally or intentionally, Zephiniah
had banished her.

‘Miss Violet and Count and Countess von Starhemberg are taking tea on the lawn,’ a butler who was new to Rozalind said to them as they began making their way to the drawing room.

‘Thank you, Miller.’ Thea didn’t break stride. ‘We’re going to join them, so will you ask for a fresh pot of tea to be sent out?’

In the drawing room double French windows stood open, looking out over the vast lawn. In the centre of the lawn Violet, Olivia and Dieter were gathered around a low table spread with a
snowy-white tablecloth.

As they drew nearer, Rozalind was glad to see that afternoon tea at Gorton was reassuringly the same as it had always been. A magnificent silver teapot held centre-stage. On doily-decorated
plates were three different kinds of delicately cut sandwiches: egg and cress, ham and cucumber, smoked salmon and mayonnaise. On other plates were iced fancies, fresh scones and Yorkshire parkin.
There were four different kinds of cake and, as a final touch, a big bowl of strawberries and a jug of cream.

‘
Wilkommen!
’ Dieter called out cheerily to her as they approached and then, indicating the deckchair next to his own, ‘As they say in English: take a pew. You will not
be depriving Thea. She always prefers the grass to a chair.’

Violet and Olivia had also opted for grass, Violet sitting with her legs crossed as if she was eight, not eighteen, and Olivia lying on her back near Dieter’s deckchair, her head resting
comfortably on a small cushion.

‘I don’t know who is being mother,’ Roz said as she sank down next to Thea, ‘but don’t bother pouring tea. A fresh pot is on its way out.’

‘Have a slice of
Schokoladenkuchen
,’ Dieter said. ‘It isn’t, of course, as wonderful as German chocolate cake, but it is still very good.’

‘You really can’t continue with this ridiculous notion that everything German is superior to its opposite number in England.’ Thea helped herself to a slice of cake.
‘It’s just too pathetically tedious, Dieter.’

There was amused affection in her voice and Dieter took not the slightest offence. ‘It may be tedious, sister-in-law
Liebe
, but where chocolate cake is concerned, it is, alas,
true.’

He was wearing white flannel trousers and an open-necked white shirt and his blond hair fell attractively forward across his eyes. Though Nordic-looking men held no special appeal for Rozalind,
she could well understand why Olivia had fallen for him so hard, and so fast.

He said now, as a parlourmaid in a black dress and lacy apron and cap delivered a fresh pot of tea, ‘Germany is where everything is happening, Thea. How can I help that?’

‘You can help by not being deliberately provocative, darling.’ Olivia dispensed with her cushion and sat up, resting her back against his long legs.

He stroked her hair lovingly. ‘But I like being provocative,
meine Liebe.
It’s fun.’

He dropped his hand to her shoulder and Olivia covered his hand with hers.

Rozalind felt her heart tighten. They were so obviously in love, and love for them was so uncomplicated. There had been a time when she had thought it would be like that for her and Max. Now,
however, she knew differently. She wondered when she would have the nerve to tell Thea of the decision she had made. It would have to be before they returned to London, and it would have to be
before someone else told her first.

‘I’ll be mother.’ Thea poured a cup of tea and, knowing how Rozalind liked hers, dropped a slice of lemon into it. ‘Anyone else?’ she asked as she handed the cup
and saucer to Roz.

‘Me, please.’ Dieter stopped stroking Olivia’s hair and picked up the cup and saucer by the side of his deckchair. Passing it across to Thea, he said, ‘I wasn’t
making a joke when I said that Germany is where everything is happening. It’s true. Hitler may not be a name well known in England yet, but in Germany he is filling people with
hope.’

‘Not here he isn’t,’ Thea retorted tartly, adding milk to his tea. ‘Here he’s seen as a ruffian and a troublemaker.’

Unperturbed, Dieter smiled across at her. ‘That is because you have not yet met him. To be able to judge his formidable magnetism – all of which is dedicated to the nation’s
welfare – you have to meet him.’

‘And I have yet to meet the Prince of Wales,’ Rozalind said, deciding it was high time the subject was changed to something less controversial. ‘What chance do I have on this
visit, Thea?’

Thea handed Dieter his cup of tea. ‘Plenty, if you’ll settle for being introduced to him in a nightclub setting, the Embassy Club or Quaglino’s. After that – if
you’re still hankering to photograph him – you’re on your own. It will depend on what impression you make on him.’

‘Rozalind is dark-haired, and the Prince likes dark-haired young women, does he not?’ Dieter always enjoyed talking about British royalty. They were, as he never ceased telling his
wife and sisters-in-law, all as German as he was.

‘She’s too tall.’ Violet tilted her head back and dropped a small strawberry into her mouth. There was a beaded headband around her hair, which, unbobbed and unshingled,
tumbled waist-length down her back. ‘I’ve been telling her that for years now, but being an American she never gives up hope.’

‘And you,’ Dieter said teasingly. ‘Do you never give up hope also, Violet?’

With her face still raised to the sun Violet closed her eyes. ‘I don’t have hopes,’ she said in her husky, languid voice. ‘I have certainties.’

Thea rolled her eyes. Olivia laughed. Rozalind wished she had her Leica with her. A photograph of Violet, languorously dropping strawberries into her mouth, her hectic red hair rippling and
shimmering, would have been pure Pre-Raphaelite.

The parlourmaid who had brought out the fresh pot of tea crossed the lawn to them again.

‘There’s a telephone call for Miss Duveen,’ she said to Thea.

Thea looked enquiringly towards Rozalind.

‘Who from?’ Roz asked.

‘Lord Luddesdon, Miss Duveen.’

Rozalind gave a heavy sigh. ‘Barty,’ she said wearily. ‘Do me a favour, Thea. Tell Barty I’m in Richmond, or the Hebrides, or anywhere. I just don’t want to have to
bother with him right now.’