Rutherford Park (31 page)

Octavia began to speak, then stopped herself. “He has more than you may imagine,” she said.

“I don’t see my responsibilities as slogging in a ground regiment, no matter how honorable.”

“It is preposterous, “William said. “These are fledgling machines.”

“I think you’ll find they are very sophisticated,” Gould ventured.

William looked at him with icy contempt. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” he said. “In fact, I don’t recall inviting you to stay here indefinitely, let alone take part in a private family discussion.”

Gould stared back; then he laid his napkin slowly on the table.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Octavia exclaimed to her husband. “John has kept me company. He has been the perfect guest.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” William told her. “But just at this moment it’s not convenient to have guests.”

“I don’t see why not,” Octavia objected.

“Because the girls are home tomorrow.” William couldn’t frame the explanation as to why he wanted his children and wife here, and no one else. But that was his conviction.

“The girls don’t occupy the guest rooms,” Octavia pointed out. She turned to Gould. “I’m very sorry, John. William doesn’t mean to be rude. You’re welcome to stay, of course.”

William was on his feet. “I shall decide who stays under my own roof,” he told her.

“Under
your
roof?” she echoed. “It’s the family’s roof. We all live under it.”

“It is my house and my decision,” he said.

Gould now got to his feet. “I’m sorry to have been the cause of any trouble,” he said. “I shall go, of course.”

“No,” Octavia said.

The single word fell like a stone. William saw Gould smile at her, and make a face close to sympathy; the other man raised one hand slightly, as if to say that now was neither the time nor the place. It was an intimate gesture, the kind passed between friends who understood each other. William felt his temper boil. In response, Octavia had raised her hand a little, and now Gould took it and raised it to his lips.

“You’ve been wonderful to me,” he said. “And I thank you very much.” He turned to William, after placing Octavia’s hand gently back on the table. “And you have been very kind to me also, Lord
Cavendish,” he said with frigid formality. “I’ve outstayed my welcome; that’s clear. I apologize for it.”

Harry had crossed his arms; he was looking at the three of them with amusement. “I say, Gould,” he murmured. “Want to come flying?”

“If you would try not to be a perfect idiot for two moments together,” William snapped.

Harry now shot to his feet. “An idiot?” he asked. “Why, thank you, Father.”

“Stop it,” Octavia pleaded. “This isn’t necessary. None of this is necessary. Harry, you don’t need to fight in a war. There won’t be a war. But…but, you know, you may fly. Of course you may. I’m sure your father really doesn’t mind your flying. You can even go to Wiltshire. That will be all right.”

Harry paused, looking at his feet, a small smile on his face as if he were considering the most polite way to reply to her. “Mother,” he said at last, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t need your permission. I shall do this with or without it.”

William fumed. “You might be civil, at least!”

“I’m being civil,” Harry pointed out with exaggerated calm. “I don’t believe I’ve raised my voice, Father. I’ve simply stated a fact.”

Octavia seemed to be on the verge of tears. She was not looking at William; her gaze switched between Gould and her son. “Perhaps Mr. Gould could go with you to Upavon,” she suggested at last. Her voice quavered. “To keep you company. To see how things are. As a favor to me. That is, to his father and me. Both of us.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid, for God’s sake,” Harry retorted. “This is too damned extraordinary for words. I’m nineteen years old, Mother.”

“I think I should know that,” Octavia replied.

William walked around the end of the table, towards Gould and his wife. “You want this man to accompany our son,” he said. His tone was dangerously low. “A stranger? To give me advice on my own son?”

Gould glanced at Harry. “Harry,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you let me talk to your father for a while.”

Harry threw his hands in the air. “Good bloody luck,” he exclaimed, and walked to the door. Harrison, the footman, sprang forward to open it, and Harry paused next to him before he turned on his heel to address them. “Do you know,” he suddenly said to his parents, “I’m pretty bloody fed up with people opening doors for me. For anything. Why should Harrison here open any door? Why should Gould open a door for me at Upavon? I’ll find my own way.” And he turned again and stuck out his hand towards Harrison; with almost comical hesitation that seemed to approach disdain, Harrison shook it. “That’s a fine fellow,” Harry said. “Don’t open a door again, though. Don’t come and lay out my clothes. I’m sure you have better things to do in life.” And he was gone.

The footmen, Harrison and Nash, looked at William. In the same instant, Bradfield’s footsteps could be heard in the great hall; he had gone to ensure that the drawing room was properly lit for when dinner had finished. They heard Harry almost collide with him, utter a curse, and then his footsteps on the stairs. Bradfield came into the room with an expression of inquiry on his face.

“Bradfield,” William said, “would you mind leaving us alone here. Nash and Harrison may go too.” The three servants stood undecided, confused, in the doorway for a moment; then Bradfield ushered them out. The doors closed with an echoing thud.

Octavia stood up. William looked from her to Gould and back again. “Is it necessary for me to ask what has been going on here while I’ve been away?” he asked.

There was an awful silence. John Gould opened his mouth to speak, but Octavia held up her hand to silence him. “I think you ought to know that, when the girls come, I’m going to take them abroad,” she said. “And Harry too, if he will come. There are aeroplanes for him to fly in other countries.”

William stared at her, aghast. He had been expecting all kinds of replies to his question, but this was not one of them. “Abroad?” he said. “You can’t go to Europe, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t intend to go to Europe,” she replied steadily. “I’m going to America.”

For a moment, William said nothing at all. His face betrayed utter astonishment; then it collapsed in a smile. He began to laugh. “America,” he repeated. “America?” He shook his head.

“It’s not a joke,” Octavia told him. “And it will take Harry out of harm’s way, at least.”

William stopped laughing and gave a sigh of exasperation. “He wouldn’t want it,” he said. “You just heard him. Even if it were a thing to be countenanced, which it is not.”

“Then I’ll take the girls.”

“You’ll…” He stared at her in complete bewilderment. Then he pointed at Gould. “This is your doing,” he accused.

Gould returned his stare. “I don’t deny it.”

“You don’t deny it!” William shouted. He strode around Octavia, brushing away her hand, oblivious to her attempt to restrain him. “You damned dog.”

Gould had not flinched; he stood his ground. William, losing all control, suddenly lunged forward, catching John a blow to the face. The younger man made no effort to deflect him. There was a horrible moment while William tried to land several blows, some of which struck home, but most of which caught Gould on the shoulders or chest. It made William seem monstrously clownish.
He had never been aggressive, never a fighter. It showed now. His punches had no weight, no effect. Pity crossed Gould’s face, and, seeing it, William grabbed Gould by his jacket and pulled him close. For a second, the two men were face-to-face. Then William dropped his hands. He pushed Gould once in the chest, forcing him to take a step back, and then turned to Octavia. “This man?” he said. “
This
man?”

Octavia said nothing at all. She was trembling, but she looked him in the face unflinchingly.

William walked away; he looked out through the windows at the long green sweep of grass and the road of beech trees. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.” He turned back; Octavia and Gould were now standing side by side. He saw Gould’s hand drop from his wife’s waist, and her head incline slightly as if acknowledging the touch. “Do you mean to tell me…” he began. But he couldn’t go on.

Outside, somewhere past the garden, came the faint sound of a dog barking, and of voices. William put his hand on the sill of the open window, clutching it for support. Octavia watched him; then she walked over to him. “William,” she said quietly. “I’m very sorry.”

“Sorry!” he echoed. “You can’t do this.”

“I can leave whenever I want,” she corrected him. “I can go and live in Blessington until the details are arranged. I can supervise the beginning of the work there. When John decides, we will go to New York.”

“When…when John decides,” William repeated, as though trying to work a meaning out of it.

“He is going to build a house on Long Island,” she explained. “I’ll take the children there. I see what is in Harry’s mind; I see what he wants to do. But he can do that just as well in America. And Louisa may marry just as well…New York society…”

William was apparently listening. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“And of course,” she added, “I do see that Harry and Louisa both will be adults in three or four years. Their lives are their own. They may return. I would not stop them.” There was no response. “William,” Octavia prompted. “This war. If there is to be a war. I must take them away if that is really to happen. You must let me take them.” There was still no reply. “William,” she prompted. “William.”

A deep sigh came from him at last. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, and gazed at her. “It’s all very quick,” he murmured.

“It’s not quick at all,” she told him gently. “Not to me. I’ve wanted to love you, but you have never loved me, William. I realize that. But now I have a chance of it. Would you deny me what you won’t give me?”

He was looking at her intently, taking in every detail of her face. Very slowly, he began to smile; she took it as acceptance. But behind her, John Gould saw something different. He started forward. “Octavia,” he warned.

William suddenly gripped both her shoulders. “Leave whenever you want?” he said. “House on Long Island? What a nice little plan. How purposefully you’ve spent the summer.” Octavia tried to disengage his grip, but his hands slipped downwards and took her by the wrists. He bent both of them back until, gasping, protesting, she slipped to her knees. “You’ll leave me?” he said. “By God, you won’t leave this house! And as for the children…”

John Gould was quickly next to them; he put his own hands over William’s, trying to prize them away. William froze; his face was an inch from his rival’s. “If you don’t take your hands off my wife, I’ll kill you,” he muttered.

Gould stepped back.

William looked down at Octavia; then he let go of her. She
scrambled back against the skirting board under the window. William stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment; his mouth trembled; he clamped it shut and sidestepped them both and walked to the door. There he paused and looked back at the table—the vast table with its beautiful arrangements of summer flowers and its silver, the long white cloth where the soft evening light was reflected in the glasses. The table where he had sat alone for those long empty years until he married. The table where he had sat so many times since with Octavia. It was a lovely picture, but to him, with all its color and light, it seemed like a ruin.

He turned around. “You are wrong, quite wrong, to say that I’ve never loved you,” he said, his voice breaking despite himself. He opened the door to the shadows of the great hall. “And it’s not the only thing in which you’re mistaken, Octavia.” He looked away from her, unable to bear the sight of her on the floor, and Gould’s hands outstretched. “You can go wherever you wish,” he told her. “To…America…or wherever you wish.”

He glanced back at them both. “But you won’t take the children,” he said. “By God, you won’t. I shall make sure of that.”

T
he house was silent the next morning.

Breakfast had been laid as usual, but no one came down for it. After waiting for some time, Bradfield went back downstairs and knocked on Mrs. Jocelyn’s door.

“Come in,” she called.

He stood on the doorstep. “Have you seen her ladyship?”

“I have not,” she said. “She sent luncheon menus directly to Mrs. Carlisle. And dinner.”

“To Mrs. Carlisle?” he echoed, amazed. “But you see her each morning.”

“I’ve been asked not to attend.” Mrs. Jocelyn did not meet his eyes; she was sorting linens, counting them in the huge cupboards to one side of the door. On the table next to her lay the sheets and counterpanes for Louisa’s and Charlotte’s rooms.

Bradfield watched her a moment; then, glancing along the corridor, he stepped in and shut the door behind him. She looked up at him critically.

“Is it true?” he asked. “All this with the American?”

“I’m sure it’s not my business.”

“Why doesn’t she want to see you?”

The housekeeper laid her hands on the sheets and sighed. “Then it is,” she admitted. “There, and be satisfied.”