Busman’s Honeymoon (2 page)

  The Denver family were all there; the Dowager is a darling, like a small eighteenth-century
marquise,
but the Duchess looked a tartar, very cross, and as stiff as a poker. It was great fun seeing her try to patronise the Warden—needless to say, she got no change out of
her!
However, the Warden had her turn to be disconcerted in the vestry. She was advancing upon the bridegroom with outstretched hand and a speech of congratulation, when he firmly took and kissed her, and
what
the speech was to have been we shall now never know! He then proceeded to kiss us all round (brave man!) and Miss Lydgate was so overcome by her feelings that she returned the salute good and hearty. After that, the best man—(the good-looking Saint-George boy)—started in, so there was quite an orgy of embraces, and we had to put Miss de Vine’s hair up again. The bridegroom gave each bridesmaid a lovely crystal decanter and set of cut glasses (for sherry-parties, bless his frivolous heart!) and the Warden got a cheque for £250 for the Latymer Scholarship, which I call handsome.

  However, in my excitement I am forgetting all about the bride. I had never imagined that Harriet Vane could look so impressive. I’m always apt to think of her, still, as a gawky and dishevelled First-Year, all bones, with a discontented expression. Yesterday she looked like a Renaissance portrait stepped out of its frame. I put it down first of all to the effect of gold lamé, but, on consideration, I think it was probably due to ‘
lerve’
. There was something rather splendid about the way those two claimed one another, as though nothing and nobody else mattered or even existed; he was the only bridegroom I have ever seen who looked as though he knew exactly what he was doing and meant to do it.

  On the way up to Town—oh! by the way. Lord Peter put his foot
resolutely
down on Mendelssohn and
Lohengrin,
and we were played out with Bach—the Duke was mercifully taken away from his cross Duchess and handed over to me to entertain. He is handsome and stupid in a county-family kind of way, and looks rather like Henry VIII, de-bloated and de-bearded and brought up to date. He asked me, a little anxiously, whether I thought ‘the girl’ was really keen on his brother, and when I said I was sure of it, confided to me that he had never been able to make Peter out, and had never expected him to settle down, and hoped it would turn out all right, what? Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, I think he has a lurking suspicion that Brother Peter may have that little extra something he hasn’t got himself, and that it might even be a good thing to have, if one didn’t have to consider the County.

  The reception at the Dowager’s was great fun—and for once, at a wedding, one got enough to eat!—and drink! The people who came off badly were the unhappy reporters, who by this time had got wind of something, and turned up in battalions. They were firmly collared at the doors by two gigantic footmen, and penned up in a room, with the promise that ‘his lordship would see them in a few moments’.

  Eventually ‘his lordship’ did go to them—not Lord Peter, but Lord Wellwater, the F.O. man, who delivered to them at great length a highly important statement about Abyssinia, to which they didn’t dare not listen. By the time he had finished, our lord and lady had sneaked out of the back door, and all that was left them was a roomful of wedding-presents and the remains of the cake. However, the Dowager saw them and was quite nice to them, so they tooled off, fairly happy, but without any photographs or any information about the honeymoon. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe anybody, except the Dowager, knows where the bride and bridegroom really have gone to.

  Well—that was that; and I do hope they’ll be most frightfully happy. Miss de Vine thinks there is too much intelligence on both sides—but I tell her not to be such a confirmed pessimist. I know heaps of couples who are both as stupid as owls and not happy at all—so it doesn’t really follow, one way or the other, does it?

  Yours ever,

  LETITIA MARTIN

  
20 May.—
Peter rang up this morning, terribly excited, poor darling, to say that he and Harriet were really and truly engaged, and that the ridiculous Foreign Office had ordered him straight off to Rome again after breakfast—so like them—you’d think they did it on purpose. What with exasperation and happiness, he sounded perfectly distracted. Desperately anxious I should get hold of H. and make her understand she was welcome—poor child, it is hard for her, left here to face us all, when she can scarcely feel sure of herself or anything yet. Have written to her at Oxford, telling her as well as I could how very, very glad I was she was making Peter so happy, and asking when she would be in Town, so that I could go and see her. Dear Peter! Hope and pray she really loves him in the way he needs; shall know in a minute when I see her.

  
21 May.—
Was reading
The Stars Look Down
(Mem. very depressing, and not what I expected from the title—think I must have had a Christmas carol in mind, but remember now it has something to do with the Holy Sepulchre—must ask Peter and make sure) after tea, when Emily announced ‘Miss Vane’. Was so surprised and delighted, I jumped up quite forgetting poor Ahasuerus, who was asleep on my knee, and was dreadfully affronted. I said, ‘My dear, how sweet of you to come’—she looked so different I shouldn’t have known her—but of course it was 5½ years ago, and nobody can look her best in the dock at that dreary Old Bailey. She walked straight up to me, rather as if she was facing a firing squad, and said abruptly, in that queer deep voice of hers, ‘Your letter was so kind—I didn’t quite know how to answer it, so I thought I’d better come. Do you honestly not mind too much about Peter and me? Because I love him quite dreadfully, and there’s just nothing to be done about it.’ So I said, ‘Oh, do please go on loving him, because he wants it so much, and he really is the dearest of all my children, only it doesn’t do for parents to say so—but
now
I
can
say it to
you,
and I’m so glad about it.’ So I kissed her, and Ahasuerus was so furious that he ran
all
his claws
hard
into her legs and I apologised and smacked him and we sat down on the sofa, and she said, ‘Do you know, I’ve been saying to myself all the way up from Oxford, “If only I can face her and it really is all right, I shall have somebody I can talk to about Peter”. That’s the one thing that kept me from turning back halfway.’ Poor child, that really was all she wanted she was quite in a daze, because apparently it all happened quite late on Sunday evening, and they sat up half the night, kissing one another madly in a punt, poor things, and then he had to go, making no arrangements for anything, and if it hadn’t been for his signet-ring that he put on her hand all in a hurry at the last moment it might have been all a dream. And after holding out against him all these years, she’d given way all of a piece, like falling down a well, and didn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Said she couldn’t remember ever having been absolutely and shatteringly happy since she was a small child, and it made her feel quite hollow inside. On inquiry, I found she must be
literally
hollow inside, because as far as I could make out she hadn’t eaten or slept to speak of since Sunday. Sent Emily for sherry and biscuits, and made her—H., I mean—stay to dinner. Talked Peter till I could almost
hear
him saying, ‘Mother dear, you are having an orgy’ (or is it orgie?) ... H. caught sight of that David Bellezzi photograph of Peter which he dislikes so much, and I asked what she thought of it. She said, ‘Well, it’s a nice English gentleman, but it isn’t either the lunatic, the lover or the poet, is it?’ Agree with her. (Can’t think why I keep the thing about, except to please David.) Brought out family album.
Thankful
to say she didn’t go all broody and possessive over Peter kicking baby legs on a rug—can’t stand maternal young women, though P. really a very comic infant with his hair in a tuft, but he controls it very well now, so why rake up the past? She instantly seized on the ones Peter calls ‘Little Mischief and ‘The Lost Chord’ and said, ‘Somebody who understood him took those—was it Bunter?’—which looked like second sight. Then she confessed she felt horribly guilty about Bunter and hoped his feelings weren’t going to be hurt, because if he gave notice it would break Peter’s heart. Told her quite frankly it would depend entirely on her, and I felt sure Bunter would never go unless he was pushed out. H. said, ‘But you don’t think I’d do that. That’s just it. I don’t want Peter to lose
anything.
’ She looked quite distressed, and we both wept a little, till it suddenly struck us as funny that we should both be crying over Bunter, who would have been shocked out of his wits if he’d known it. So we cheered up and I gave her the photographs and asked what plans they had, if they had got so far. She said P. didn’t know when he’d be back, but she thought she’d better finish her present book quickly, so as to be ready when the time came and have enough money for clothes. Asked if I could tell her the right tailor—shows sense, and would pay for really
inspired
dressing, but must be careful what I advise, as find I have
no
idea what people make by writing books. Ignorant and stupid of me—so important not to hurt her pride.... Altogether most reassuring evening. Telephoned long enthusiastic wire to Peter before bed. Hope Rome is not too stuffy and hot, as heat does not suit him.

  
24 May.—
Harriet to tea. Helen came in—very rude and tiresome when I introduced Harriet, Said, ‘Oh, really!’ and ‘Where
is
Peter? Run off abroad again? How absurd and unaccountable he is!’ Went on to talk Town and County solidly, saying every so often, ‘Do you know the So-and-so’s, Miss Vane? No? They’re
very
old friends of Peter’s.’ ‘Do you hunt, Miss Vane? No? What a pity! I do hope Peter doesn’t mean to give it up. It does him good to get out.’ Harriet very sensibly said ‘No’ and ‘Certainly’ to everything, without any explanations or apologies, which are always so dangerous (dear Disraeli!). I asked Harriet how the book was getting on and if Peter’s suggestions had helped. Helen said, ‘Oh, yes, you write, don’t you?’ as if she’d never heard of her, and asked what the title was, so that she could get it from the library. Harriet said, quite gravely, ‘That is very kind of you, but do let me send you one—I am allowed six free copies, you know.’ First sign of temper, but I don’t blame her. Apologised for Helen after she’d gone, and said I was glad my
second
son was marrying for love. Fear my vocabulary remains hopelessly old-fashioned in spite of carefully chosen reading. (Must remember to ask Franklin what I have done with
The Stars Look Down.
)

  
1 June.—
Letter from Peter, about taking the Belchesters’ house in Audley Square from Michaelmas and furnishing it. H., thank Heaven, ready to prefer eighteenth-century elegance to chromium tubes. H. alarmed by size of house, but relieved she is not called upon to ‘make a home’ for Peter. I explained it was his business to make the home and take his bride to it—privilege now apparently confined to aristocracy and clergymen, who can’t choose their vicarages, poor dears, usually much too big for them. H. pointed out that Royal brides always seemed to be expected to run about choosing cretonnes, but I said this was duty they owed to penny papers which like domestic women—Peter’s wife fortunately without duties. Must see about housekeeper for them someone capable—Peter insistent wife’s work must not be interrupted by uproars in servants’ hall.

  
5 June.—
Sudden outburst of family feeling in most tiresome form. Gerald first—worried of course by Helen—to ask if girl is presentable and has she got modern ideas, meaning children of course, that is to say not wanting children. Told Gerald to mind his own business, which is Saint-George. Next Mary, to say Small Peter sickening for chicken-pox and will this girl really look after Peter? Told her, Peter perfectly capable of looking after himself, and probably not wanting wife with head stuffed with chickenpox and best way to boil fish. Found beautiful Chippendale mirror and set tapestry chairs at Harrison’s.

  
25 June.—
Love’s dream troubled by solemn interview with Murbles about Settlements—appalling long document provided for every conceivable and inconceivable situation and opening up ramifications into everybody’s death and remarriage, ‘covered’, as Murbles observes, ‘by THE WILL’ (in capitals). Had not realised Peter was doing so well out of the London property. H. more and more uncomfortable at every clause. Rescued her in depressed state and took her to tea at Rumpelmayer’s. She finally told me, ‘Ever since I left College, I’ve never spent a penny I hadn’t earned.’ Said to her, ‘Well, my dear, tell Peter what you feel, but do remember he’s just as vain and foolish as most men and not a chameleon to smell any sweeter for being trodden on.’ On consideration, think I meant ‘camomile’ (Shakespeare? Must ask Peter.) Considered writing to P. about this, but better not—young people must fight their own battles.

  
10 August.—
Returned from country yesterday to find question of Settlements settled. H. showed me three pages of intelligent sympathy from P., beginning, ‘Of course I had foreseen the difficulty,’ and ending, ‘Either your pride or mine will have to be sacrificed—I can only appeal to your generosity to let it be yours.’ H. said, ‘Peter can always see the difficulty—that’s what’s so disarming.’ Agree heartily can’t stand people who ‘can’t see what the fuss is about’. H. now meekly prepared to accept suitable income, but has solaced pride by ordering two dozen silk shirts in Burlington Arcade, and paying cash for them. Evinces dogged determination to do thing property while she is about it—has grasped that if Helen can pick holes, Peter will suffer for it—and resolutely applies intelligence to task. Something apparently to be said for education—teaches grasp of facts. Grappling with fact of P.’s position—interesting to watch. Long letter from Peter, very dubious about League of Nations, and sending detailed instructions about library shelving and a William-and-Mary bedstead, also irritable about being left in Rome ‘like a plumber, to stop diplomatic leaks’. English very unpopular in Italy, but P. had soothing discussion with the Pope about a historical manuscript—must have made a pleasant change for both of them.