Rutherford Park (30 page)

William had allowed an hour to pass before he got out of his bed, opened his own door, and went across the corridor to his wife’s room. The lights were out, but he could see her in the four-poster. As he got to the bed he could hear that she was breathing deeply, seemingly asleep. He had put out his hand and stroked her arm; she had woken immediately, and whispered, “My God. It’s you.”

“Of course,” he’d said, somewhat piqued. He had started to turn back the bedcover.

To his surprise, however, she had gripped his wrist. “I’m not prepared,” she had told him. “That is…I am not well.”

He had stopped his clumsy attempt to kiss her, understanding her meaning rather late. “I see,” he had answered. She was so very close, and he could feel her warmth. It had been months, but he would not force her; that would be beneath them both. He had stepped back. There was a little chair next to the bed, and he had pulled it towards himself and sat down. Octavia had wriggled more upright in bed and gathered the sheets to her as if for protection. He fought down this rebuff and his solitariness; he knew that he was being selfish, but he would have liked very much just to lie next
to her and hold her in his arms—yet the message that came from her was that this was the last thing she wanted. He was caught between need and the old, old precept, learned so long ago, that he must keep his dignity, that he must not beg or fawn. That he must respect her, treat her with rigid courtesy. Still, his body ached.

From his pocket, he took the gift that he had hastily bought in London. He had put it on the cover between them. “This is for you,” he said.

She made no move towards it. He tried to see her expression in the dim room, but could not make it out. He picked up the box again and opened it. “Would you wear it?” he asked. “As a token of forgiveness?”

She had paused for some time, but had not touched the necklace and pendant that had cost him fifteen hundred pounds. “Sapphires,” she had murmured finally.

“They suit you, darling.”

She had nodded. “Thank you.”

“Will you wear it?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she had told him. “Perhaps then.”

He had paused. He had been turning the issue of her proposed visit to Blessington over in his head all day. It seemed churlish to refuse her; it might, after all, bring her out of herself more and make her more cheerfully disposed towards him. And what harm could it do? The mill manager would no doubt, on William’s discreet instruction, make it quite clear to Octavia that there were all kinds of reasons why new housing was inappropriate. In fact, he might go over there himself before their joint visit and draw up some kind of map to show that the land she had suggested using was waterlogged, or too stony, or some such thing. Or say that building there would only make things worse farther down the hill, or perhaps
interfere with the proper running of the mill’s own water supply. There were a dozen reasons that might be conjectured to throw in her path, and she was woefully inexperienced. Gould would soon be gone, and that would be her only ally removed, if ally he was. William was confident that it would all be a flash in the pan; he thought that perhaps she had thought it up only to annoy him. And he had been pleased when he had come up with the answer. He would placate her with a little independence over money.

“I’ve been considering your idea at Blessington,” he had said then. “I shall instruct the bank for an account. I shall arrange for money to be paid into it.”

But Octavia didn’t gush out her thanks, as he might have expected. Instead, her hands relaxed on the gathered sheets for a passing second. And then, “I am glad, William, not to argue about it,” she said. “You’re most kind.”

He looked out now at the lovely prospect from the castle, down to the bridge, past the little town, out to the fields and hills. He had made the account arrangements today as promised, but he didn’t particularly care for being called kind. Kindliness was a quality for grandmothers or maiden aunts. He wanted to be loved, as he expected a wife to love him. But there was something different in Octavia; that soft sense of fragility had gone, and he realized now with some depression that he had always liked that in her. Thinking about it objectively, he supposed that was rather feeble of him, wanting a merely docile wife. A woman had to have some character, of course. But he had never valued her character as much as her obedience, the submissiveness that she afforded him because she saw no other choice. He felt himself to be in the process of losing something, but could not fathom exactly what it was.

Louisa must come home, he thought. That would make all the
difference. It would help them; it would tie them together again. He expected both Charlotte and Louisa tomorrow, traveling up by train; that had been his instruction by letter earlier in the week. It was wrong that they had all been parted for so long, even if both girls had seemed to prefer their friends and—in Charlotte’s case—their chums from school over their own family. Still, at least they had been protected from the iciness between himself and Octavia. Unconsciously, he now straightened his shoulders. The issue that had threatened to break Octavia and him apart must be put aside; it must be forgotten; it must be mended. He must make his peace somehow with Harry. The family must work as one; Rutherford had to present a united front—now, more than at any other moment in his lifetime, it was their duty to keep together.

Standing there at the great height above the river, he had a momentary sensation of falling, and he stepped back suddenly from the unguarded edge, until his back was against the mighty stone wall of the keep. For a second or two, he could not understand where this awful sensation had come from; he was not afraid of heights. And then he realized that it was something else he feared, something that had been at the back of his mind while he wrestled with the idea that a stranger’s hand might take everything he owned from him.

He had a memory of Octavia, entirely fresh, as if it had happened yesterday, turning to him as the old landau had come into Rutherford Park for the first time after they were married, all those years ago. She had looked at him with such pleasure and excitement. In the mornings of that first week she had always wanted to cling to him, trying to hold his hand even at breakfast or as they walked through the house. He had not seen that look for years; he thought she had lost it with her youth; he had never expected to see it again.

But he had seen it. He had seen it yesterday.

He had seen it as she gazed at John Gould.

* * *

O
ctavia was at that very moment sitting in her own bedroom, with Mrs. Jocelyn in attendance. It was an hour before dinner, a fact that the housekeeper had already seen fit to point out to her.

“I shan’t put you to any more trouble than is necessary,” Octavia had said, sitting facing her looking glass while Amelie dressed her hair. “I simply wanted to tell you that Louisa and Charlotte are arriving at lunchtime tomorrow.”

Mrs. Jocelyn stood with her hands crossed in front of her. “The rooms are ready, ma’am, as usual.”

Octavia inclined her head to one side so that she might catch Mrs. Jocelyn’s expression; the tone had been abrupt. “They are coming on the morning train, so Lord Cavendish tells me.”

“I’m sure his lordship knows best.”

At this, Octavia turned to face the older woman. “Mrs. Jocelyn, is something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“You seem preoccupied.” There was no reply; the housekeeper kept her gaze steadily on her mistress. “Is it one of the staff?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you well?”

“Certainly. And there is nothing amiss with the staff.”

Octavia paused. “We ought to discuss the summer fair tomorrow, I suppose,” she said. “I shall see March about the marquees, and Mrs. Carlisle—”

“With respect, ma’am,” Mrs. Jocelyn interrupted. “Mrs. Carlisle and I have always managed the food to your satisfaction. We have
not changed the menu for the children for some years. And his lordship speaks to Mr. March about the rest.”

It was said with absolute finality. At her back, Octavia heard Amelie give a sharp intake of breath. She could think of nothing to say. The housekeeper gave a short nod, turned on her heel, and went to the door. Here, she turned back again. “If you don’t mind, your ladyship,” she announced, “I should be obliged if you would not call me when dinner is being prepared.”

Octavia brushed away Amelie’s hand from her hair and turned around. “I shall call on you whenever I please, Mrs. Jocelyn.”

The other woman did not flinch. “Then I must speak to his lordship,” she said stonily. “I have my role and I know my duties.”

“No one is questioning your duties or your ability to perform them,” Octavia countered. “And his lordship won’t thank you for bringing domestic arrangements to his attention.” She began to frown. Under the housekeeper’s steady, obdurate gaze, she felt herself inexplicably blushing.

“There is a right and a wrong way to do things,” Mrs. Jocelyn told her. “I’m sure that I have never had cause for complaint, and I’m sure that I know right from wrong.”

“
Mon Dieu
,” Octavia heard Amelie whisper.

Octavia stood up. “I’m afraid I have quite lost your meaning, Mrs. Jocelyn,” she said. “You must explain it to me.”

She caught the housekeeper’s glance in Amelie’s direction. “Do you have something to say about Amelie?”

“Not Amelie,” Mrs. Jocelyn replied.

There was a frozen second of silence; Octavia walked a step, and then stopped. “If you have something more to add, I am interested to hear it,” she said.

Mrs. Jocelyn opened the door. “I have always discussed my concerns quite freely with his lordship when necessary,” she said.

“You mean that you used to before I came here.”

The older woman nodded. “That is precisely what I mean,” she said. “I shall always have concern for his best interests.”

“His lordship’s interests are not your concern,” Octavia said. “They are mine. Your concern is this household. That is your business, and nothing else.”

Mrs. Jocelyn said nothing.

“Is that perfectly clear?” Octavia asked. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the other woman replied finally. “Yes, indeed. I understand you.”

* * *

I
t was late when William returned; he arrived just in time for dinner. It irked him to see Gould already at the table looking so much at his ease, and he deliberately let the conversation fall flat, sulking, making little contribution. At one point, he caught a complicit look pass between the man and Octavia, one of puzzlement at his own silence. Harry was eating, head down, disinterested. William took a mouthful of wine, and then slowly put down his glass.

“I’ve been speaking to Kent about getting you a commission, Harry,” he said.

His son’s head whipped up; he stared at his father, astonished. “A commission? In what?”

“The Princess of Wales’s Own. The Green Howards.”

Octavia’s knife and fork clattered on her plate. “You’ve done what?”

“It’s a fine regiment.”

“Have you discussed it with Harry?” Octavia asked.

“He has not,” Harry said. He pushed back his chair. “It’s all very well, Father,” he began. “But I don’t want to be a foot soldier.”

“There’s no need to be in the army at all, is there?” Octavia
objected. “You were never an officer yourself, William. There’s no precedent. Your father abhorred the military.”

“My father wanted me in Parliament,” William pointed out. “And I have discharged that duty, and I discharge it to my country in other ways still.”

“Harry has no duty to be in any regiment at all.”

“You are wrong, dear,” William answered. “We must be prepared. The country is going to war.”

“No,” Octavia said, her voice quavering. “But that is nonsense, surely.”

Harry threw his napkin onto the table. “May I be included in this conversation?” he asked. “May I have an opinion on my future?”

“You don’t have to do anything at all,” Octavia told him. “You can stay here.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” Harry said. “I’m going to Upavon to get my pilot’s license.”

Both parents now stared at him; Gould too. Though the American was the only one who was smiling. In fact, he gave Harry a small thumbs-up gesture. “Well done, Harry,” he murmured.

William glared at Gould in fury; then, “Where the devil is Upavon?” he demanded.

“Wiltshire,” Harry said. “Harold Blackburn is going there. He’s going for his Cert B from the Central Flying School. His Royal Aero Club license won’t cut the mustard, he says. Not for the Flying Corps.”

“And who is Harold Blackburn?” William was in a rage.

“He’s the maker of a new kind of aeroplane. He has a works setup at Filey, on the beach. He’s a flier, a mechanic, an engineer. And he’s a jolly good sort.”

“You seem to know a damned lot about it.”

“I’ve flown with him,” Harry said. “I went to Bradford and I
went up in his Type One and it was the most thrilling thing in the world. It’s what I shall do.”

William looked accusingly at Octavia, but she appeared to be as horrified as he, and had put her hand to her mouth. “It’s not going to be such a jolly jape when war breaks out,” he said to Harry quietly. “You will be a sitting duck. You realize that, I suppose, boy? In reach of the artillery.”

“No, sir,” Harry replied. “I shall not be a sitting duck, and I shall fight any war you care to mention.”

“Harry,” Octavia murmured. “It’s not a game.”

Harry slammed a fist on the table. “You see, this is the entire problem,” he said. He turned to William. “You call me a boy, sir, but it seems to have escaped your notice that I am not a boy. I may not, of course, be quite as old as the other son of yours, but I am certainly able to know my own mind.” He then looked at Octavia. “And Mother, you must realize that I can’t hole up here like a rat. I must do my part.”

“I don’t think you are a child at all,” Octavia said. “You are a man, Harry, with responsibilities.”

William let out an exasperated sigh. “What responsibilities? He has done nothing but spend money like water for the last eight months! He doesn’t understand the word!”