Lovers and Liars Trilogy (207 page)

Replacing the phone, Rowland realized that even he, with a journalist’s persistence, could not call every hotel with cabins in America; besides, there was an easier way. He dialled Emily’s number at once; as a result, here he was—jet-lagged, exhausted, afflicted with a sense of whirling futile momentum, going nowhere exceedingly fast.

‘I’m sorry to miss Colin,’ he said, interrupting Emily and unable to bear prevarication any longer. ‘I hear he’s staying out of state somewhere with Lindsay.’

‘Ah,’ said Emily, bending to fondle her pug. ‘Yes indeed.’

‘Have they been away long?’

‘Well, now, I’m not really sure. Colin’s being a little secretive…’

‘He wasn’t secretive when I telephoned before,’ Rowland said, hearing the bitterness in his own voice and realizing that he was losing his capacity to dissemble. Lindsay, he thought, would not judge his untruths to be cool or flagrant now. He turned to look at Emily. ‘I gather marriage is on the cards.’

‘He is very much in love,’ Emily replied, in a quiet, firm tone.

‘And are his feelings returned?’

‘That I cannot answer. Lindsay would not confide in me. Though I would say…’ She paused and turned her blue gaze steadily upon Rowland. ‘I would say they were admirably suited to one another, wouldn’t you?’

Rowland’s reaction confirmed everything Emily had suspected, and told her all she needed to know. She saw his handsome face darken and an arrogant expression mask his dismay. He gave her a cold, green-eyed glance, and took a swallow of bourbon.

‘I always find questions like that impossible to answer. They’re foolish. Only two people can judge—and that’s the two people concerned.’

‘Well, I think they’re made for each other,’ Emily said, a little sharply; then, seeing the unhappiness in his eyes, she modified her tone. ‘Consider,’ she went on, ‘they are both vulnerable; they are both innocents—and I do not mean that in a pejorative way. They both have an open, sunny, optimistic disposition, though Colin, of course, likes to dramatize his fears. They have a very similar sense of humour—which is very important indeed…’

She hesitated; Rowland, his face set, said nothing. Emily looked around her room, wondering whether to show him mercy or continue. She thought of her conversation here with Colin on the night she had first met Lindsay; love for her nephew, and protectiveness towards him, rose up in her heart. Continue, she decided, and began speaking again, ignoring the stony expression in Rowland’s eyes.

‘And then,’ she went on, ‘there are the long-term considerations. Lindsay is not in her first youth. She has one miserable marriage behind her. For twenty years, she has had to bring up a child alone. She has a resilience, and a determination I admire—and they would be of great benefit to Colin…’

‘They would be of benefit to anyone who married her.’

‘Indeed.’ Emily gave him a sharp glance. ‘But Colin has admirable qualities too, let us not forget that. With Colin, she could rely on unswerving loyalty and devotion…’

‘I’m sure she would repay that in kind.’

‘No doubt. My point is that with Colin she could be secure. He would be faithful, loving and considerate. He would make the very best of husbands…’ She paused, then added, in a delicate way, ‘Not all men are husband material, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I’d say appearances can be deceptive in that respect,’ Rowland answered, somewhat roughly.

Emily made no reply, but continued to look at him, her expression kindly but perplexed; she gave a sigh.

‘Well, well, I am very old now,’ she said, in a quiet way, ‘I look at these things differently from you, no doubt. I love Colin; his future happiness and well-being are very close to my heart.’ She paused. ‘I’m sure you will understand that, since you and Colin are such close friends, and have been for so many years.’

Rowland heard the undisguised note of warning in her voice; his eyes met hers.

‘I also wish Colin well,’ he began, in a stiff way. ‘I like Colin and I respect him. I hope you know that—’

‘Indeed I do. I also know what it is to experience a clash of loyalties. That is always painful, and especially so for an honourable man.’

Rowland coloured. ‘I don’t follow you,’ he said, looking away.

‘Oh, I think you do,’ Emily said. She paused, her gaze resting thoughtfully on his face; then she made one of those lightning shifts of attack that Rowland remembered of old.

‘You have thought of marrying, I imagine, Rowland?’

‘I have thought of it. Yes.’

‘And no doubt you would like children?’

‘Yes, I would hope—’ He stopped, suddenly seeing the unerring accuracy of her aim. He turned back to look at her. ‘I would like to have a family, children—yes. I have no family of my own. So I had hoped to have children one day.’

Emily gave a small inclination of her head. Rowland saw pity come into her eyes.

‘Colin also wants this,’ she said quietly. ‘In many ways, and despite the life he’s led, Colin is and always has been, a very domestic man. He loves his home and is never happier than when he
is
at home. With the right wife, and God willing, with children, there is no doubt in my mind that he would be completely fulfilled. Of course, in Colin’s case, there are additional reasons—I suppose one would have to call them dynastic reasons—why he should want children. He may deny it, but I know how deeply it matters to him, and to his father, that he should be able to pass Shute on to his son and heir.’

‘I know that. I know exactly how much that matters to him.’ Hope had come into Rowland’s eyes. ‘So I would have thought that—’

‘So would I.’ Emily cut him off with a small lift of her hand. Seeing her expression change, Rowland felt a second’s foreboding; he could see that she was perhaps tiring, but she clearly intended to say something more, and knew it would be unwelcome. She looked at him with gravity and compassion, then sighed.

‘You are an intelligent man, Rowland. No, sit down; there’s something I want to tell you before you go. This question of children, of heirs. You should know—I discussed that very issue with Colin, here in this room, on the night he introduced me to Lindsay. I reminded him of Shute and the length of time his family has lived there. I reminded him of the entail…’ She paused. ‘I didn’t use the word sacrifice to him then, but I will use it to you now.’ She paused.

‘To contemplate marriage to a woman who might, unhappily, be unable to bear a child, is perhaps the greatest sacrifice Colin could make. Yet he intends to marry her, and he made the decision without the smallest hesitation—I think you should know that, Rowland. Other men, in similar situations, might have acted differently…’ She allowed her gaze to rest quietly on Rowland’s face. ‘I would not blame them for that. But I will say that, in these circumstances, Colin’s love for Lindsay should not be underestimated. He showed courage—and I have never admired him more than I did then.’

The statement was gently made, but it cut Rowland. He rose and turned away. ‘I’ve never doubted Colin’s moral courage,’ he said.

‘But you do doubt him in other ways? You think he is unsteady, perhaps? Impetuous? No doubt you would feel concern on Lindsay’s behalf, if that was your view…’

‘I do feel concern,’ Rowland began, turning. ‘I feel—’

‘My dear, I can see exactly what you feel. I am not blind and I am not deaf.’ Emily gave a deep sigh. ‘Rowland, what you feel is obvious in your speech, in your expressions, in every gesture you make. You have my sympathy, but I would counsel you to think very carefully and very honestly before you take any action you might subsequently regret. Colin looks upon you as a brother. I would not want you to delude yourself that he is not in earnest here, however tempting that might be. He is
utterly
in earnest. And if I may give my opinion, I think that from Lindsay’s point of view and his own, he has made a hard, but a very wise choice.’

‘I love her,’ Rowland said, in a low voice. ‘Emily, for God’s sake—’ He turned away, and Emily, who had never seen his composure even threatened, in all the years she had known him, watched it break.

Saying nothing, she waited for him to regain his control. She leaned back against the cushions, feeling suddenly that all her energy was gone. The strength of Rowland’s reaction disturbed her; now her eighty-five-year-old mind felt fearful, and every one of her eighty-five-year-old bones seemed to ache.

She had suspected this conversation might be necessary as soon as Rowland telephoned and announced his arrival in New York; she had known, beyond doubt, that it was necessary when he entered, and she saw the expression on his face. She had begun this conversation feeling very sure of her ground, but now an old woman’s incertitude gripped her. Confronted by the evidence of pain—and a man’s pain, which she found harder to witness than a woman’s—her mind felt flurried, muddled, and flooded with doubts.

‘Rowland,’ she began. ‘Rowland, I’m so very sorry. Listen to me—’

‘No,
I’m
sorry.’ Rowland, his back to her, fought to steady his voice. ‘You were right earlier. I’m desperately tired. I should take myself off…’

‘I wish you wouldn’t. At least stay and finish your drink.’ She gave him an anxious look, then, as he slowly turned, held out her hand to him. ‘If you go now, I’ll feel I’ve offended you.’

‘You certainly haven’t done that.’

He hesitated, then, with a gentleness that surprised her, took her hand, with its bent and misshapen fingers, and held it in his own. Emily saw that he could still scarcely speak for emotion; she drew him down beside her, and looking at his drawn face, felt another flurry of remorse and doubts. Those who could not see beyond Rowland’s appearance, she thought, were very foolish. Rowland McGuire was a considerable man, to whom Colin, and Colin’s family, owed a debt. Who was she to judge whether he was, in her own glib phrase, husband material?

Marriage was a serious subject; love was a serious subject; the bearing of children was a more serious subject still: these issues determined the course of entire lives—what right did she have to meddle here? She was partisan, and had in any case been too long retired from the fray; she had forgotten the agonies of love, and had no doubt underestimated them, for she was preoccupied too often now with the more pressing concern of mortality and imminent death.

‘Ah, Rowland, Rowland,’ she said, laying her hand on his arm. ‘I never married. I never had children. I’m old. I hadn’t understood how strongly you felt. I shouldn’t have spoken as I did.’

‘No. I’m glad that you did.’ He looked across the room. ‘I can see now—I suppose I always could—Colin can offer her so much. Not just material things; I don’t only mean that. Colin is generous at heart. And you’re right, they are alike, in many respects. When they first met, I could see then…It’s just that—well, I had thought—I had sensed—’

He broke off, and Emily, pitying him again, and knowing his pride, turned her gaze away from his. With skill and with tact, she diverted the conversation away from this subject to more neutral ones. Rowland, as anxious as she was to regain neutral ground before he left, followed this lead. Prompted by Emily, he began to talk of other things; Emily half listened to him, and half listened to something else.

At first, she was aware only of some shift and disturbance in the room—having lived so long in the Conrad, this was something to which she had long been accustomed. Attuned to the spirits of the building, both malign and benevolent, she could always sense when they became restless and stirred.

This they did, these days, more and more often. Emily attributed their more frequent activation to her own age, to the proximity of her own death, and to the fact that she no longer dismissed them as the products of her own fancy or superstition, as she had done in her youth.

The spirits here were always encouraged, she believed, by perturbation in human beings. Perhaps Rowland had unwittingly summoned them up tonight; perhaps she herself had. She glanced at his now guarded, tense face, then looked down at the rug beneath her feet. It was an Aubusson, still beautiful, and patterned with faded roses; the dusky pink of these flowers, in this subdued light, darkened to the colour of blood. Tonight, these flowers, like the shadows in the room, teemed with abundant life. Emily’s little dog could also sense this; she felt him stir beside her, and his hackles rise up. She concentrated on the other conversation she could now hear, which she realized had been continuing for some while, beyond and above the sound of Rowland’s quiet voice. She tried to hear what was being said, in that other anterior exchange—and something was being said; she could half hear it, emanating from this carpet’s warp and weft.

She began to distinguish first a man’s, then a woman’s voice; their words were muffled, but the reproach and pain in their voices were not. Gradually, as she listened, stroking her little dog and wondering if this message might be indirectly meant for herself, she heard that the woman’s voice had come to dominate; Emily listened as an aria of accusation mounted, then faltered. There was a silence, then a long cry of uncertain gender, a cry which might have signified desolation, or delight, or distress.

‘What was that?’ Rowland said sharply.

Looking up, Emily realized how deeply she had been abstracted. Rowland had brought their conversation to a close without her being aware of it; he had risen, and must have been moving towards the door, when he spoke. She looked at him uncertainly, confused and surprised that he should have heard this sound, one with which she had become familiar, and which she believed to be the cry of a woman long dead. It would scarcely do to inform Rowland, a rational man, that the voice was Anne Conrad’s. He would assume that age had finally taken its toll on Emily, that she was losing her wits.

She gave herself a little shake and opted for the pragmatic answer, realizing as she did so that it could well be correct. After all, according to Frobisher, who had it from the porter, Giancarlo, Tomas Court was at present in the building; he was in the apartment below this one, visiting his former wife.

‘Oh, just a marital argument,’ she said in a dry way, recovering herself and holding out her hand to him.