The New Countess Page 3

  ‘It may have surprised others,’ said Rosebery. ‘It didn’t surprise me. Blood will out.’

  ‘I certainly like to think I am very much my father’s son,’ said Bertie, ‘though the Good Prince was never one for the nags. But he was almost daily in pursuit of game. I too look forward to the closing in of the summer days and a gleam of a winter sun on a raised gun barrel. Nothing like the whir of startled wings to stir the spirits.’

  The King could become quite poetic when it came to killing birds. Isobel could not help but remember something her friend the Countess d’Asti had once said. ‘When an English gentleman grows too old for sex, his romantic impulses find their outlet in the mud and cold of the shooting party.’ These days the remark came to her mind more and more often. She tried not to think of His Majesty in mid-congress with Alice Keppel. It was hard not to: he was so old and fat, Alice so elegant. The embarrassment about mistresses was that one always imagined them at it: when it came to wives the imagination veered discreetly away. Love-making within marriage was confined to the procreation of children, or was meant to be.

  The King turned to Robert, and to Isobel’s alarm asked him if the shooting at Dilberne looked promising for the Autumn. She assumed Robert would make some prudent excuse, but he was rash enough to say the shooting would be marvellous: he anticipated a really good season. The weather had been mild through the Spring and the pheasant chicks were plentiful. One of the gamekeepers had reported thirty eggs in one nest now they’d started clipping wings. The keepers were forsaking their old traditional ways and taking a scientific approach to breeding, and it was, Robert assured him, really paying off. Only the grey partridge had had a bad year, he told the King: too many predators around in the early Spring when the chicks were small: the sparrowhawks had been a particular bugbear.

  ‘Then I’d like to visit you in mid-December,’ the King said, ‘the weekend after the big birthday shoot at Sandringham.’ Greville took out his notebook; Ponsonby searched for his. The King turned to Isobel. ‘Would we be welcome, Lady Dilberne?’

  ‘But of course,’ said Isobel, faintly, ‘we will be honoured.’

  ‘Not too big a party,’ said the King. ‘Just de Grey and possibly the Oliff-Coopers, Leicester perhaps – a really fine shot but I usually end up with a better bag – and a few other friends. How does the idea suit you, Alice? Bring George with you if necessary.’

  Alice murmured that she too looked forward to it. Isobel did not. George? – thought Isobel. ‘George’ could only be George Keppel, Alice’s husband. It was a nightmare. Less than six months to make Dilberne Court fit for a king. And worse, fit to survive the eagle eye of the King’s mistress. The place had been left to itself for years. Lighting and plumbing were antiquated and primitive; the domestic staff were mostly untrained in London ways, and accustomed to taking advantage. She could just about cope with the annual day-long meet of the hunt at Dilberne, but the prospect of a royal shooting weekend, probably dragging on for a week, was worrying.

  The more she thought about it the more terrifying it became. The London house was more modern, and set up for entertaining, but Dilberne Court like so many ancient houses was a warren of back staircases and rooms that led one out of the other without corridors, so offering no proper privacy. It needed an imaginative architect to bring it up to rationality – unnecessary staircases could be turned into water closets: some rooms split into two, others turned into one. A lot of people these days were heating their nurseries, though Nanny of course objected: ‘Fumes and vapours bring the agues, not God’s good fresh air.’ Attics and basements were prone to damp. The old yellowed bed linen needed throwing out and replacing: the camphorwood and cedar chests which had done so well for blankets needed to be replaced with proper storage cupboards. The place was oppressive. Family portraits looked down upon the present and disapproved. But once you began to rectify that sort of thing there was no end to it: one needed help.

  Alice Keppel would despise them and carry tales of rural dereliction back to her friends. The kitchens needed to be equipped with gas stoves to make them fit for proper entertaining. The kitchens were one thing, but what about the staff? The Nevilles, butler and housekeeper, were getting old, were sometimes the worse for drink: it was high time they were put out to grass. Nanny Margaret too; she was over-indulgent with the children, employed too many laxatives and was sometimes forgetful, though at least she stood out against Minnie’s rather extreme ideas on nutrition. Minnie was sweet with the little ones but had no idea of discipline. Cook was an excellent country cook, but the King had foreign tastes; a French chef would have to be brought in and where could one find such a one at short notice? Even ten guests meant finding rooms for at least thirty staff – the royal couple were famous for having turned up once with a retinue of sixty – though that was mostly Alexandra and her jewels – the King travelled comparatively lightly. Even so, existing staff would have to move up and share beds, which always made them sulky and resentful just when they should not be.

  And then the marquees – the midwinter days were short and valuable – daylight must not be wasted walking back to the house. Lunch must come to the guests, not they to the lunch. Pathways must be constructed so the ladies would not get their feet muddy as they joined the men, and field kitchens erected so that dishes could be served hot and claret warmed. At least the King’s champagne – he had to have champagne when shooting, though frugal enough with alcohol otherwise – would be cold enough. The Dilberne icehouse had collapsed years ago.

  Five months to prepare for one weekend – it was a monstrous task. And was she, Isobel, to see to the sleeping arrangements – was Alice Keppel meant to be nearer her husband or the King? Isobel found her heart beating hard and her breath coming short. She was dizzy. She swayed and would have fallen but the Inspector was at her elbow steadying her.

  ‘Breathe slowly and deeply, your Ladyship,’ he said quietly. She did, and stood straight and firm again. No one else had noticed. Robert was in the meanwhile bowing and scraping before the King, boasting of a bag of three thousand pheasants or more last December, which whetted the royal appetite for yet more slaughter.

  Alice Keppel alone seemed to understand, ‘Oh my poor dear,’ she said. ‘So much bother. Shall I try to put Bertie off?’

  But Isobel felt haughty and said, ‘Of course not, Mrs Keppel. I shall be more than delighted to entertain both you and the King.’

  And God did not strike her with lightning as she almost expected, so great was the lie.

  Waiting for Rosina

  26th June 1905, Tilbury

  Minnie was accustomed to the splendid granite docks of Liverpool, where the big transatlantic liners arrived and there was organized and spacious stabling for both horses and automobiles; well-serviced, comfortable waiting rooms with refreshments; and frequent announcements about anticipated docking times. But at Tilbury, a shambles of docks where grain ships were unloaded and emigrants came and went, things were an altogether different matter, and quite startling to anyone accustomed to comfort and convenience. Here a cold east wind drove over a marshy estuary landscape to stir up choppy water where river and tides met and clashed: it was a busy working world of shabby warehouses, rusty cranes and inadequately clad workmen swearing, heaving crates and pulling ropes. No one seemed to know anything or care less. Only by constant enquiry and the exchange of the odd coin could Reginald even find out where the Ortona would dock.

  Reginald was driving the prototype Jehu III Thunderer, one of Arthur’s latest and most progressive designs: chain drive, air cooled, two cylinders and four passenger seats, the chauffeur sitting outside as in a motor bus; a little draughty for the passengers but a well-sprung and comfortable enough vehicle of which Minnie’s husband was very proud. He had planned to put the Thunderer into production early in the New Year – batches of ten at a time – but was now considering the merits of a design review: water cooling was more reliable than air, especially in Summer, but any extra weight mean
t wider tyres and a stronger chassis – all putting up costs. Every solution meant another problem. Comfort had to be balanced against running costs; the price of petrol and oil was rising. It was already a significant part of the cost of running a car, at three farthings per mile.

  More, the pharmacist at Dilberne village, who currently obliged Arthur by providing him with the paraffin and oil, and latterly petrol, he had made do with so far, was beginning to complain about fire hazard. Arthur now looked forward to a world in which there would be safe stabling and fuel supplies for cars on every highway in the land, provided by the Jehu Automobile Company. There was so very much on Arthur’s mind, Minnie once lamented in a letter to her mother, that so long as she and the children were safe and well, and she was in the double-poster bed when he got back from the workshops, there was little room left in his mind for his wife.

  ‘Then don’t be in his bed from time to time, girl,’ her mother had written back. ‘That should soon bring him to his senses.’

  Such scheming was not in Minnie’s nature. She felt bad for writing of these matters in the first place. Arthur was eager enough to be with her, she knew, just so tired when he got into the bed he fell asleep when his head touched the pillow. And then he’d wake early and have to be up and out, for there was so much to be attended to. Well, better this than being married to some man who had too little to do but hunt and fish and shoot, or own racehorses, as had happened to so many of her friends who had married Englishmen, and had nothing to do but change their clothes all day or, like Isobel, keep herself so busy entertaining she scarcely had time to read a book. And better than living with a man like Stanton Turlock, an artist so charismatically insane he tried to murder you. But she would not let her mind wander off in that direction. The past was the past.

  It transpired that the Ortona was docked off shore waiting for the tide, and Minnie settled down in the back of the Jehu to wait. Rosina would come, as she had gone, in her own good time. She felt a sudden desire for proper tea, of the kind her mother would make her – ‘Nothing like a nice cup of tay, my darling girl, black and strong’ – and none being available, accepted a drop of brandy from Reginald’s flask, and half of a rather crude ham sandwich he offered her, the ham hacked, no doubt illegitimately, from one of Cook’s best joints when Cook wasn’t looking.

  She was disturbed by a tap on the window. A girl’s face smiled in at her. Minnie wiped her mouth hurriedly of crumbs and tried to remember who it was. The face was familiar but who, where? Of course. Diana Robin, the bright, cheerful, energetic girl who had been to Oxford and would often sometimes accompany Rosina and herself to what Rosina’s mother referred to as ‘bluestocking lectures’. But then Rosina had run off with the Australian Frank Overshaw, and that was the end of that. Minnie should feel really glad to see Diana but she was not. Why? Of course. Diana was Anthony Robin’s sister. And Anthony Robin was the schoolmate Arthur had had dealings with over the matter of the flat Anthony maintained in Shepherds Bush for a kept woman. Flora. Arthur had been tempted and had fallen, briefly, into that temptation, after the manner of many a young man before marriage. It had been troubling at the time but Minnie had forgiven him. She had been in love. Was in love, still, surely. Why the ‘had been’ in her head?

  ‘It’s me, Diana, remember! It is you, Minnie, isn’t it?’

  Minnie, well trained by Isobel in the arts of prudent social discourse, took time to wind down the window further to cover any trace of discomposure – it juddered and squeaked a little – Arthur would have to attend to it: forget water cooling, these details made a great difference in a competitive market and men were slow to spot them. She must mention it when she saw him. She arranged her mouth into an agreeable if slightly cool smile and said that she was indeed Minnie. Of course, she remembered: Diana had been the one who brought news of Arthur’s misbehaviour back to his family. But that had been some years back: a significant episode in her own life, small in everyone else’s, no doubt, and quickly forgotten.

  Minnie had no doubt now of Arthur’s fidelity and uxorious attention, if only – the thought drifted through her mind – because he was so dedicated to the engineering of automobiles he had no time to stray in thought, word or deed. And here was clever, friendly Diana and Diana was smiling, young and cheerful, and all that was long ago and past, thank Heaven, and there was no need for embarrassment. Diana’s face was altogether welcome and reassuring in this desolate place. She felt herself relaxing, and her smile broadened and became genuine.

  ‘Oh Minnie, how thrilling to see you!’ said Diana. Her voice was husky and soft. ‘And that you’ve come to meet Rosina too! Brother Redbreast and I came by train; doesn’t road just take for ever? He’s at the newsagent, spending money. They’ve built such a splendid new station here. Please let me jump in, Minnie, there’s such a horrid cold wind! The Ortona’s just out in the estuary somewhere, they say, waiting for tides or tugs or something.’

  Reginald had leapt down from his seat and was already opening the door for Diana. She was looking most presentable in a lingerie dress of a white cotton with black puffed lower sleeves, a black bib, a white starched collar and a green and mauve tie, rather mannish, and very much à la mode. Arthur would have died if she, Minnie, had worn such a thing – the female aping the male in the form of collar and tie! But it looked splendid on Diana, who was very much the new woman, moving with the kind of freedom of limb and confidence which Minnie recollected herself enjoying when a girl. Not now; she was a Viscount’s wife and had adapted herself to her position in the world, moving slowly, with dignity and precision. Collar and tie! Diana would have joined the W.S.P.U., Minnie supposed: the Women’s Social and Political Union, she was just the kind. She collapsed on the seat opposite Minnie and was gazing at her, admiringly.

  ‘Oh, such centuries since I’ve seen you, Minnie. You’re looking so English and ladylike I might hardly have recognized you.’

  Minnie decided to take that as a compliment. They talked about Rosina, and Diana confessed to knowing little more than Minnie about Rosina’s circumstances other than having received a letter of condolence from her when Lord Ashenwold had died, so at least she’d known Rosina was alive and kicking – and then suddenly the telegram saying she was on the Ortona.

  Minnie looked for a ring on Diana’s finger and was surprised to see none. Diana must be well into her thirties. Even Rosina, so independent of mind, had succumbed and married rather than live out her life as a spinster. A girl so good-looking and of such a good family as Diana’s could hardly have been short of suitors. So why? It was a mystery. Minnie vaguely remembered Robert and Isobel going to Lord Ashenwold’s funeral – hadn’t there been some talk of the brother, Anthony – a broken engagement – something? She could not remember. Having small children seemed to wipe one’s memory clean: Isobel kept saying she was too much in their company, and that she should leave it to the nursemaids.

  Would the Robins want a lift back to London? If Rosina turned up with too many trunks there wouldn’t be room for extra passengers – the trouble with cars was that if they carried people they couldn’t carry much else.

  ‘Redbreast!’ Diana had her head out of the window and was practically yelling, so much so that people turned their heads and stared. Diana, Minnie decided, was very much the new woman. ‘Oh Tony! Oh Redbreast! Come out of the wind.’

  Anthony came.

  ‘It’s little Minnie O’Brien from Chicago,’ she was saying. ‘Now Lady Melinda Hedleigh, lucky thing!’

  Little Minnie? Was that how she struck people? She was at least as tall as Diana. So why this diminutive? But now Anthony Robin was inside the Thunderer and had plumped himself down not opposite her, next to his sister, as would have seemed better mannered, but next to Minnie herself, and so firmly and decidedly that he was quite squashed up against her side and she could feel the warmth of his leg against hers. There was such a lot of him; he was taller and bigger than Arthur.

  ‘This one of young Arthur’s h
orseless carriages?’ enquired Anthony Robin. ‘Tell him he really mustn’t design cars for midgets. The future is to the large and well fed.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Minnie. She did not like the way this man spoke of Arthur in so belittling a way. He was a mere younger son, a scion of the Robin family, only recently ennobled at that. Arthur was heir to an ancient earldom and father of her son the future Earl. Anthony was a mere flâneur in Fleet Street, editing some ineffectual literary magazine of which her father-in-law spoke dismissively; Arthur was a manufacturer and a landowner. Miraculously, her brain seemed to be working again, and time had returned to its proper speed.

  ‘On the contrary, many scientists say we are evolving into rather little creatures with very big heads, the better to make room for our brains.’

  ‘Oh, quite contrary, little Minnie,’ he said, and oddly, she didn’t mind being ‘little Minnie’ to him at all. ‘Arthur told me you weren’t so meek and mild as you looked.’

  ‘Oh Anthony! My brother’s in a grumpy mood, Minnie,’ said Diana. ‘Take no notice. I had to drag him along to this godforsaken spot and he’s cold and hungry and doesn’t want to be here at all. Rosina’s my friend, not his, or he would be behaving so differently. Men are always happy to volunteer, I find, but really hate being asked to oblige.’

  ‘Don’t speak on my behalf, Diana,’ said Anthony. ‘I am more than happy to be here with the Viscountess; just truly sorry she is married to another.’ His thigh was still warm against Minnie’s; she shifted herself in the seat so as to lessen the contact, but he simply collapsed more into the seat so she gave up. When it came to it the warmth was welcome. What he had said was of course outrageous: he was assuming an intimacy and friendship which did not exist, but she found she rather wished it did. She felt quite light-headed, young and irresponsible again: as if anything could happen and just had.