Circles of Time (31 page)

The child's incredible energy made her smile. To see him was to see William at the same age—and to see him reminded her so much of her adored brother Willie. She could only remember Willie when he had been much older than Colin, but the same energy applied. He had always been doing something—hitting a ball, rolling an iron hoop furiously down Prairie Avenue, climbing a tree. She had envied his boy's freedom and had always wondered why her brother Paul had never joined him but had preferred to sit in his rooms reading books.

Now Paul was a tycoon—a multimillionaire—and poor Willie was decades dead and buried in a pauper's grave. Would things have turned out differently for him, she wondered, if Papa had made even the slightest effort to understand him? If he hadn't demanded that both of his sons follow the same path into the business? Breweries and real estate had bored Willie to tears. He had wanted to study art, to paint or sculpt, to create things with his hands and discover new forms of expression. Papa had never understood him—not one bit. Such a terrible choice poor Willie had to make—go into the office with Paul or get out of the house.

She could remember as if it were yesterday the morning he had left—walking jauntily down the path, a suitcase in his hand, his straw boater tilted to one side of his head. Walking toward the streetcar. Whistling. Not knowing then that Papa would disown him. Not knowing then that the bright red streetcar which would take him to the train—which would take him to the boat—which would take him to Paris, France—would carry him to failure, despair, and death.

A chill went up her spine, and when Colin came running up to her along the terrace she clasped him to her, hugging him so hard that he winced.

“Lord,” Charles said, slumping into a chair across the table from his mother, “that boy could wear out a machine.”

“Yes, bless him.”

“We walked for miles. Some very interesting people have taken over Burgate House.”

“Archie sold the place?”

“Leased. One quid a year. A philanthropic gesture. It's to be a school.”

“What sort of school?”

He shrugged. “I don't know exactly. An experimental school of some sort. Sounds quite interesting.”

Colin, curled in Hanna's lap, looked up at her. “What's school, Gran'mama?”

“School's where you'll be in a few years.” She touched his nose. “A school for little monkeys.”

“I could do something like that,” Charles said softly. “Teach. Poetry … or history.”

“I'm sure you could do better than that, dear,” Hanna said in an offhand manner. “Your father was talking about you to Lord Buxton yesterday. There might just be something in the Foreign Office.”

Charles looked down at his hands, folded tightly in his lap. “Foreign Office? I don't know … I don't really know about that.”

“You'd be splendid there.”

“I think—I could only do—what I might love to do.”

Colin reached up and touched Hanna's nose. “I love Gran'mama.”

“And Grandmama loves you, Colin,” she said.

“An' I love Uncle Charles—an' Mary—an' …”

“And Mama,” Hanna said, pinching him on the cheek. “And Mr. Rothwell …”

“An' Scoot …”

“Yes, dear, all the dogs—and the horses …”

“An' Jamie, Gran'mama. I love Jamie best.”

S
HE TOOK A
bath before dinner, lying for a long time in the warm water, her thoughts drifting as idly as the soap bubbles on the placid surface of the tub. The affair was over now and there was no point in even trying to examine it in any detail, nor in trying to explain it to herself. It was past, but no matter how hard she tried to keep her mind on other things, on meaningless things, she kept seeing his room—the yellow painted bureau, the wallpaper with its muted pattern of buttercups and daisies intertwined, the flecks of sunlight on the ceiling. She touched her body under the water and felt his touch. Remembered it—as she had remembered Robbie's.

“Oh, God,” she murmured. “What a mess.”

She was in her dressing room when her maid tapped lightly on the door and then stepped inside. “Your mother's in the sitting room, your ladyship.”

“Oh? Tell her to come in here, Fran.”

“Very well, m'lady.”

She was straightening the seams in her silk hose when Hanna entered the room and closed the door behind her.

“I can't seem to get this pair to fit properly.” She glanced at her mother and smiled. “Sit down, Mama. Would you care for a glass of sherry?”

“No, thank you,” Hanna said, standing stiffly with her back to the door. “I only dropped in to ask you a question. May I do so?”

“Of course.”

“May I ask why Colin would
love
a person named Jamie?”

Alexandra closed her eyes for a second and thought—well, someone was bound to find out about it sooner or later.

“He told you that?”

“Yes,” Hanna said icily. “To Charles and me. I couldn't recall a
Jamie
, and then Charles mentioned Ross. When has Colin been in contact with Ross?”

“He took us both to the airfield at Blackworth's—to see the planes.”

“And that's all?”

“No, Mama. Not quite.”

“Meaning?”

“We've gone on picnics—little trips.”

Hanna placed a hand to her throat and stared long and hard at her daughter.

“I haven't spent my life in a convent, Alex. Have you seen Ross when Colin was not with you?” She could see the answer in Alexandra's eyes. “Have you been having—intimate relations with this man?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Hanna leaned back against the door as though barring it from entry.

“Good Father in heaven, how could you!”

“How could I? Because I found him attractive. Because I like him very much. He's a good man. A very sweet, dear person. A decent, warm human being.”

“Decent!” The word was like a cry.

“Yes, Mama, decent. He didn't ply me with drink and seduce me. I seduced
him
if you want to know the whole truth.”

“Are you so starved for sex that you have to—
rut about
with a—a
chauffeur!
If you needed it so badly, why didn't you give yourself to Noel? I'm sure he wouldn't have refused you a little premarital copulation!”

“Please don't be bitter, Mama.” She sat down wearily on the edge of her dressing-table bench. “I don't really expect you to understand how desperately I've missed Robin—how lonely I've been. Jamie, somehow … Oh, I can't explain.... They're not at all alike—and yet—being with him, I feel the same sense of—
comfort.
”

Hanna toyed with her pearls, looping the long triple strands around and around her fingers. “It must stop,” she whispered. “It must stop at once.”

“It's over now. We ended it this afternoon.”

“Is that the truth?”

“I've never lied to you, Mama, and never would.”

“No. You've never lied to me. Very well. We shall say no more about it. What's done is done. You're a grown woman. I have no right to tell you what you should or should not do with your own body. But an affair like
this.
If your father were aware of it, I think it would kill him. I mean to say,
Ross
, of all people!”

“He's more honest and loving than Noel could ever be,” Alexandra said, a hard edge of anger in her tone. “Have you ever, even once, seen Noel show any real affection for my son? And why do you say Ross
of all people?
He's not quite the same person you remember, Mama. If, in fact, you ever knew the man—he was just someone in a uniform opening the car door. He was more than that then and he is, I assure you, a great deal more than that now!”

Hanna took a deep breath to compose herself. “There's no point in our screaming at one another like two fishwives at Billingsgate. I apologize if I've slandered the man. But surely you know what I mean. It's a question of
class.
”

Alexandra's smile was wan. “I never thought of that word once in the past few weeks. The only word that crossed my mind was—‘happiness.'”

Hanna walked slowly across the room and placed an arm gently around her daughter's shoulders. “You'll find happiness with Noel. You'll see.”

“I wonder.”

“You will, dear. After you're married and settled in your own house. Perhaps it would be better if you saw Noel more often. Not just on the weekends. You could go back to London with him on Sunday and stay there until the wedding. Then your lovely honeymoon in Italy …”

Alexandra rested her head against her mother. “Oh, Mama, how simple you make it sound to be happy.”

C
HARLES WOKE EARLY
on Saturday morning, dressed hurriedly, and walked down to the stables where he asked one of the grooms to saddle a nine-year-old cob named Ginger. He then rode the placid animal into the vale and across the meadows to Burgate House. A thin plume of smoke rose from one of the dozens of chimneys and a large, battered van was parked in the drive near the Mastwicks' black Austin. The sound of the horse's hooves on the gravel caused two boys to pop their heads out from the rear of the van. Charles judged them to be thirteen or fourteen—strong, cheery-looking fellows.

“Hello,” one of them called out. “Mind if we have a ride on old Dobbin?”

“What?” Charles said with a smile as he dismounted. “Both of you? I don't think Ginger would like that.”

“Oh, no, sir,” the other boy said. “Take turns.” He jumped down from the lowered tailgate and walked up to the horse to pat its muzzle. “You're a nice old fellow, aren't you? Got very kind eyes, doesn't he?”

“He's a kind horse,” Charles said. “You can take him for a ride if you'd like.”

The boy glanced toward the house. “Can't just yet, but thanks all the same, sir. Danny and I have to unload the van for Father John first.”

“Father John? Do you mean Mr. Mastwick?”

“That's right, sir—Mr. Mastwick—though we all call him Father John. I mean, he isn't a priest or anything like that. It's just what we call him.”

“You're with the school, I take it.”

“That's right. First contingent, so to speak. Drove down with old Hillary and Mr. Wallis, sir.”

John Mastwick stepped out of the house carrying a mug of tea. He was wearing a heavy wool sweater that made him look even burlier.

“Good morning, Greville. Glad you came by. Tea's hot and Virginia's made some scones.”

“Shall I tie up your horse, sir?” the boy asked.

“Oh, no. He won't wander away.”

It was an odd feeling to go into the house again after so many years. Odder yet to realize that the only woman he had ever loved was no longer in any of the rooms. He had once felt that if he ever did walk into the house he would sense her presence like a palpable force, would hear her laughter drifting to him from the upper landing, through the great stone corridors. But there was nothing now—only silence, only empty rooms and slants of sunlight falling on dust.

“As you can see, Greville, we have our work cut out for us. But the kitchen is cozy enough—and wonderfully functional. By the end of summer we'll have a proper sort of place here.”

“I'm sure you will. If there's any way I can be of help …”

“Very decent of you, very decent indeed. But half our children elected to spend their holidays here. All strong lads and lassies.”

“The two out front seemed decent sorts.”

“Yes. Danny and Gerald. Good lads. Danny's a bit shy around strangers—you notice he didn't get out of the lorry. He came to us from Harrow last year. His father was killed at Jutland. His mother stuck him away in a boarding school for which he was not fitted, and then into Harrow, for which experience he was fitted even less. He had a nervous breakdown there and tried to kill himself, poor boy, by drinking
ink.
Thought it must be deadly because, as he told me, death is black.”

“Do many of your students come from the public schools?”

“Oh, yes. The majority, I would say. But we take any child we feel would benefit by being with us. Our fees vary according to the ability of each family to pay. We have five boys and two girls who pay nothing.”

“And teachers?”

Mastwick paused by the kitchen door. “Well, that's still a bit of a problem. My wife and I, of course … Wallis … Sinclair … they came to us from Balliol. We had a Miss Johnson who taught Latin and Greek—and botany. But she couldn't cope with our system and had to leave us for a more conventional position at Roedean. Pity. She was highly accomplished on the flageolet and we shall miss her music.”

He had tea and scones and met Wallis, a man of his own age who had been slightly gassed at Festubert while serving with the Royal Engineers. He, and his friend Sinclair, had found the stultifying pedagoguery of Oxford impossible to deal with and had, short of giving up teaching altogether, fled to Mastwick and his radical approach to learning. He looked, lounging in a chair in wilted corduroys and tattered sweater, like a happy man.