Bows and Arrows
CORA STAYED IN HER ROOM FOR THREE DAYS. ON THE fourth the doctor said she was well enough to get up. The Duke hadn’t been to see her since that first day, and she had been forced to listen to her mother’s interminable accounts of his attentiveness as a host. But he had not been attentive to her. For an instant, Cora wondered if the Duke might actually prefer her mother’s company, but this thought was dispelled when she looked at herself in the cheval glass. She was wearing her prettiest evening gown, pale green silk with silver embroidery on the bodice. She had made Bertha lace her even more tightly than usual, so that her waist appeared to vanish beneath the confection of lace and silk above. The diamond drops in her ears sparkled against the warm brown of her hair. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to give her face some colour. The Duke, of course, had not seen her looking like this, at her best. It was possible that he had not quite taken in the extent to which she, Cora Cash, was as beautiful as she was rich.
‘What do you think, Bertha? Do I look well enough to go downstairs?’
Bertha did not even look up from the petticoat she was folding. ‘I think you know the answer to that question already, Miss Cora, judging by the way you’ve been gazing at yourself in that mirror.’
‘Yes, but sometimes I look at myself and all I see is the bump in my nose and the mole on my neck. I admit that tonight I can see other things as well but if I can see things so differently, then maybe other people do too.’
‘I think the other people will think you look just fine, Miss Cora. No one is going to be looking at your bump.’ Bertha straightened the folds of the petticoat with a snap.
‘So you can see it? The bump? You know, if it wasn’t there, I would have a perfect classical profile. I wish I could just shave it off. Mother has a friend who had paraffin wax injected into the bridge of her nose to make it perfectly straight. Perhaps I should do that. It’s awful to think that I could be really beautiful if it weren’t for that one little thing.’
‘Don’t forget the mole on your neck, Miss Cora, and that scar on your knee you got falling off your bicycle.’
‘Oh, but no one can see the scar on my knee!’
Bertha was now threading a satin ribbon through the eyelet edging of a cambric chemise. She looked up at Cora for a moment with a gaze so steady that Cora was forced to laugh, even if it was a little uncertainly. They both knew how she had come by that scar. Teddy Van Der Leyden had been teaching her to ride a bicycle. He had been running along beside her, steadying the saddle, and then he had let go. She hadn’t noticed at first and had sailed along freely, but then she had looked around, expecting to find him. Realising that she was cycling unaided, she had promptly fallen off, skinning her knee. She had cried then, more from the humiliation than the pain. Teddy had laughed at her tears, which had made them come even faster. Finally he had taken pity on her and had whispered into her ear, ‘Get back on the bike now, Cora. You can do it. Don’t you want to be free?’ And he had given her his handkerchief to bind up her knee and had helped her up as, still trembling, she got back on her machine and slowly wobbled off. She had been scared at first but then suddenly it all came together and she pedalled faster, feeling the breeze lifting her hair and drying her tears. Teddy had been right, she did feel free. When she rode out she had to be accompanied by a groom but there were no rules about bicycles – now she could simply pedal away. She realised that Teddy had seen and understood this and she had liked the feeling of being noticed.
Cora shivered impatiently. ‘I know you think I am being ridiculous but it would be awful to think I was beautiful if I really wasn’t. I would be no better than those dreadful English girls who think they are so fetching when really they look like simpering carthorses with their flaring nostrils and their bulging eyes.’
‘And they ain’t as rich as you neither, Miss Cora,’ Bertha said.
‘Then why hasn’t the Duke been to see me for three whole days? He must know that I have been bored to tears up here. Even Mother has hardly been to see me. Out of sight, out of mind.’
‘I’m thinking that the Madam seems a lot like her old self since we’ve been here. She ain’t bored to tears. She was wearing that diamond necklace with the sapphire drops the master gave her. I ain’t seen her wearing that since—’
Cora held up her hand. She hated to have that night mentioned. Especially now. That evening in Newport had started so well, she and Teddy had come so close to an understanding – and then it had all changed from hope to disaster in a second. Even now when Bertha accidentally singed her fringe with the curling tongs, she would feel bile rising up into her throat as she remembered the terrible stench of her mother’s burning hair. If it hadn’t been for Teddy, she thought, her mother could have died.
She remembered how when the bandages were removed, Mrs Cash had asked for a mirror. Cora had brought her the tortoiseshell-backed hand mirror that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Her hand had trembled as she handed it over, she didn’t want to see her mother’s reaction to her ravaged face, but Mrs Cash had not flinched when she saw what the flames had done. Mrs Cash had looked at this unfamiliar countenance with the same glacial indifference as she might regard one of her husband’s operatic ‘enthusiasms’. Apart from the careful dressing of tulle and net she employed to disguise the livid side of her face, Mrs Cash made no concessions to her misfortune and such was the control she had over herself and others that when strangers met Mrs Cash, it was her eyes that held them, not the mystery behind the veil. Later they might wonder and make discreet inquiries, to which they received whispered replies: ‘Some kind of accident at her daughter’s coming-out ball, her head a ball of flame, Cash’s comet, the New York wags are calling it. Teddy Van Der Leyden is the only reason she wasn’t fried to a crisp.’ A sad story but no one who had encountered the adamantine surface of Mrs Cash’s composure would have had the temerity to feel for her anything resembling pity.
Her mother had never mentioned the scene she had witnessed on the terrace before her dress had caught fire, and Cora saw no reason to bring it up. It was possible that the shock of the conflagration had affected Mrs Cash’s recall of the minutes preceding the accident, possible but not likely; Cora suspected that her mother remembered every detail but had chosen to put her memories aside as long as it suited her to do so. It was wrong that Teddy’s part in saving her life had also been put to one side, but Cora could only feel relief that her mother had decided not to blame her. It was hard enough to face the possibility that it had been her fault. She could not help feeling that her kissing Teddy had been the spark that had started her mother’s blaze.
The dinner gong sounded and Cora allowed herself one more glance in the mirror. Perhaps the bump wasn’t so very prominent on her left side if she pulled the curls of her fringe down a little. Was the green silk really appropriate, or was it just a little too frivolous? Perhaps she should change into something more interesting. Something that suggested that she could be fascinating as well as decorative. The blue velvet with the square neckline that Teddy had once said made her look like a Renaissance duchess, Isabella Gonzaga. But did she want to look like a duchess?
The blue or the green? The Old World or the New? Cora didn’t know. A week ago she could have made the decision without a qualm but now…She turned to Bertha in appeal, but the maid was standing by the door.
‘All right, I’m coming. Don’t look so cross, I’m the one who is going to be late, not you.’
‘And when do you think I get my dinner, Miss Cora? You may not have worked up an appetite lying in that bed, but I’m famished. The sooner you’re downstairs sparkling at the Duke, the sooner I can eat.’
Cora suspected that English servants would not talk to their mistresses so frankly; indeed, Mrs Cash would have been horrified if she had heard the exchange, but that was precisely why Cora put up with her maid’s tartness.
As she walked down the wide steps, the train of green silk and lace carefully looped over her left hand, she found the house both grander and more intimate than she had imagined. She passed any number of ducal portraits on the stairs but she stopped when she saw an arrangement of small detailed oils of grey lurcherlike dogs, clearly beloved pets. Beneath each canvas was the name, date and motto of the animal. ‘Campion’ in the lower left-hand corner had died only three months previously. She wondered if the animal described as ‘semper fidelis’ had belonged to the Duke. She hoped her mother had not seen them; Cora could imagine only too well how much she would enjoy the notion of dynastic pets.
At the end of the staircase lay two double-height intricately carved oak doors flanked by a pair of perfectly matched footmen who flung them open as Cora approached. As an American heiress, Cora had grown up under high ceilings but even so she could not help but be impressed by the scale of the vaulted gallery, running the whole length of the south front. Cora could see the Duke and other guests standing by the carved chimney piece in the middle of the room at least forty feet away. The Duke was in the middle of a story when Cora walked into the room and as all the listeners were straining to catch every word that he delivered in his low voice, no one looked round. Cora paused. Normally she would feel no qualms about joining a group in a strange house. Normally she would stride into the throng, her hand outstretched, her bright American charm at full tilt. But something about the way the Duke commanded the attention of his half-dozen listeners, including Cora’s mother, made her hesitate. Cora could not hear what he was saying but she could tell that this was not just polite attention on the part of the listeners, the Duke held his little audience in thrall. A moment later, he reached a hiatus in his story, looked up and caught sight of Cora. He raised an eyebrow, and then resumed his tale. She saw him lift his arm and swing it down suddenly, and she heard the word ‘chukka’ – he was talking about polo apparently. But why was he ignoring her?
Cora stood like a pistachio ice melting in her mint frills and Brussels lace. She had spent the last three days imagining the moment when she would reveal herself in her full splendour to the Duke. She was expecting that look in his eyes that she had seen so many times before in other people, the look that meant they were not seeing her but all that she represented, the marble palaces, the yachts, the gilded hummingbirds. She could not blame them for this, for she was all these things. Would she be Cora Cash if she wasn’t dressed by Worth, and surrounded by luxury? Of course she was as pretty and amusing as any of her contemporaries, but Cora knew that it was her money that produced that little pocket of hush which preceded her whenever she walked into a strange room. It was her money that triggered all those sideways covert glances, the conversations that faltered when she approached. No one was unaffected by the money – even Teddy who did not want it had let it push him away.
So she had come fully prepared for the brief moment of disappointment when she would see the Duke shaping himself around the bulk of her inheritance. She was almost looking forward to seeing him moulded by its weight. It had not occurred to her that he could be indifferent.
She could feel a cold rivulet of sweat running down the inside of her corset and the heat of a flush burning its way across her chest. Could she steal away back to her room? She did feel rather faint. But the Duke had seen her, he would know that she was retreating. Stiffly and without any of her usual jauntiness, Cora advanced into the room, her steps making the wide oak floorboards creak as if in pain. She forced herself to smile as if she had noticed nothing amiss.
And then she heard her name being announced by the butler.
‘Miss Cash, Your Grace.’
And all at once Maltravers broke off from his story and advanced towards her as if seeing her for the first time.
‘Miss Cash! How delightful to see that you have recovered so…fully.’ The Duke’s gaze took in the green silk, the Brussels lace, the artfully curled fringe, the perfectly matched string of pinky pearls, the faint flush beneath them. Had he really ignored her just now? thought Cora. Did she really have to be announced by a flunkey before he could acknowledge her in his own house? This was a degree of formality at which Cora, despite growing up in the codified atmosphere of New York and Newport, could only marvel.
She did her best to give Maltravers her most charming smile. She did not want him to see her confusion. Whether his hesitation was deliberate or not, she would not give him the satisfaction of watching her falter. He was being perfectly attentive now but she could see nothing, not a dent in his manner, that suggested he knew that she could buy him and everything he possessed and hardly notice it.
He was leading her into the circle around the fire, introducing her to the assembled company as the miraculously restored, the indomitable Miss Cash. His tone was light and if there was a touch of irony, it was lost on Mrs Cash, who accepted this praise of her daughter’s powers of endurance as a fitting tribute to her talents as a parent. Cora realised that Bertha had been correct in her assessment of her mother’s return to form. Mrs Cash was looking particularly regal in a gown of purple brocade with gold passementerie. A diamond and sapphire parure sparkled at her neck, her wrists, and her undamaged ear lobe. Cora did not need to look at the other women in the room to know that none of them could match her mother’s display. In this world of hidden meanings and unspoken rules, there was no mistaking Mrs Cash’s value. Her mother’s queenly mien was emphasised by the priest at her side, who listened to her every word with all the attentiveness of a cardinal.
Cora found herself talking to the Hon. Reggie Greatorex, the younger son of Lord Hallam, a young man in his late twenties who had been at Cambridge with the Duke.
‘Maltravers tells me you brought over your own horse from America and that it puts all our domestic animals to shame. It really is most unfair of you Americans, Miss Cash, to outclass us so effortlessly. You come over here so magnificently equipped that I fear we have nothing to offer you, except of course our undying devotion.’
Cora laughed, she had had years of practice at dealing with the Reggies of this world. Polished, blond and, she suspected, idle, Reggie probably knew more about the exact magnitude of her inheritance than she did.
‘Oh, come, come, Mr Greatorex, are you telling me that your family can’t trace their lineage all the way back to William the Conqueror? Something that you know full well we newly minted Americans can never match.’
Reggie replied in kind. ‘Oh, I would trade all the Ethelreds and Athelstans in the Greatorex lineage – Saxons being, you know, so much smarter than mere Normans – if I could belong to a nation of such magnificent creatures!’
‘Yes, but you look down on us all the same. I have read your Mr Wilde. What is it he says? American girls are as good at concealing their parents as English women are at concealing their past.’
Reggie threw up his hands in mock horror. ‘Not my Mr Wilde, I can assure you, my dear Miss Cash. Not only is he Irish, but he is an Oxford man. Moreover, he is quite wrong. Who would want to conceal your mother, for instance? She is quite magnificent. She would give any of our duchesses a run for their money.’
Cora looked at him, suddenly curious.
‘Do you think so? I’ve never met an English duchess. Are they very formidable?’
‘The old guard perhaps, but it is quite fashionable these days to be charming rather than regal. There are duchesses about who can be positively kittenish. Ivo’s mama, for instance, has quite the girlish laugh.’
Cora stopped short. ‘The Duke’s mother? Is she here?’ She wondered if she had made some terrible faux pas by not recognising her.
Reggie laughed at her confusion, ‘Don’t worry, if Duchess Fanny were present, you would know it. Although I’m surprised she isn’t here. Maybe she doesn’t know that Ivo has stumbled across an American heiress. You are an heiress, Miss Cash, aren’t you? I just assume that all Americans are rich these days, though I suppose that can’t be true. Judging by the jewels your mama is sporting, it must be in your case.’ He opened his blue eyes so wide to show how dazzled he was by the Cash fortune that Cora laughed.
‘But where is the Duchess? Doesn’t she live with her son?’
‘Oh no. Duchess Fanny married again as soon as she could after Wareham died. Not ready for the dower house.’ Reggie looked around to make sure the Duke was out of earshot and then said in a lower voice, ‘Ivo didn’t like it one bit but then he’s a moody cove, I don’t blame the Double Duchess for taking off.’
Cora looked at him curiously. ‘You are very indiscreet, Mr Greatorex.’ Her tone was light but she was testing him.
Reggie simply smiled. ‘Do you really think so? It must be you drawing all these secrets out of me. Normally I am the soul of discretion, but I feel the urge to confide in you.’
‘I am flattered. I wish I had something interesting to tell you in return.’
‘Well…’ He narrowed his eyes a little. ‘You could tell me how you got here. Ivo hasn’t had company at Lulworth since he got the title, and then this morning I got a telegram summoning me to a house party.’
‘That’s no secret. I was hunting with the Myddleton and I got lost.’ Cora was not about to tell her new friend about Mr Cannadine and his tattoos. ‘I was in a wood and something startled my horse, I must have hit my head on a branch. The Duke found me unconscious. When I woke up I was here in the house.’
‘A damsel in distress, eh. Well, lucky old Ivo.’
‘Oh, but surely I was the lucky one. If the Duke hadn’t found me, who knows what might have happened,’ Cora protested, but Reggie looked at her assessingly.
‘No, I still say he’s the lucky one,’ and then he smiled and Cora smiled back, showing her small white teeth. After the strange encounter with the Duke, it was reassuring to find herself in familiar territory. She was used to being admired by charming young men. Reggie clearly understood her value even if the Duke did not.
Mrs Cash could sense a flirtation at a hundred paces. She beckoned to her daughter with a hand glittering with sapphires.
‘Excuse me, Mr Greatorex, I am being summoned.’
‘You must go. I believe your mother is about to give me a look and I will certainly crumple.’
Cora moved over to the chimney piece supported by carved caryatids whose proportions echoed those of Mrs Cash.
‘Cora, I want you to meet Father Oliver. He is writing a history of the Maltravers family. Such a fascinating subject, so much tradition, so much self-sacrifice. I think it is just the sort of thing that you like.’ She raised her voice slightly so that the Duke, who was standing close by, could not fail to hear her. ‘My daughter is a great reader. She has had every kind of tutor and has outdistanced them all. You must ask the Duke to show you his library, Cora.’
This had the desired effect of making it impossible for the Duke not to be drawn into the conversation.
‘As to the library, I am afraid that Father Oliver is a guide far more suited to a lady of Miss Cash’s intellectual gifts than myself. My brother was the scholar in the family. He was fascinated by the vicissitudes of the Maltravers – it was Guy who asked Father Oliver here. Guy was very proud of our recusant status. He felt that the Maltravers family’s refusal to accept the tenor of the times and leave the Church of Rome was proof that we were somehow of a finer moral weave than others.’ He smiled wryly.
‘I think if Guy had not been the eldest son, he would have followed his true vocation and become a priest. When we were children we were always playing Crusades. He was the Knight Templar and I was always the Saracen. Guy would fire his infernal toy arrows at me through the arrow slits until I surrendered. I always did surrender, of course.’ The Duke halted. Cora was about to make some droll comment but realised with a sudden hot gust of embarrassment that Guy the older brother must be dead. She looked at the Duke, but he had recovered himself and addressed her with exaggerated gallantry.
‘So, Miss Cash, you must let Father Oliver show you the library, but I will show you the best places to play Crusaders!’
‘Do you still have the bow and arrows?’ Cora responded in the same tone.
‘Of course, you never know when you might have to repel marauders.’ The Duke smiled at Cora when he said this but she heard the warning there. She felt his words like a slap. She was there by pure accident, after all; how could he imply that he was under siege? She wondered if she could persuade her mother to leave in the morning.
The butler appeared to announce that dinner was served and Reggie, smiling and uncomplicated, took her into dinner.
Cora found herself seated between Reggie and Father Oliver. The Duke had her mother on one side and Lady Briscoe, a stout lady with an ear trumpet who was evidently a neighbour, on the other. Reggie flirted with Cora over the fish; Father Oliver told her about the Reformation over the entrée. The food was neither plentiful nor particularly appetising. As one of the footmen bent over her to serve her, a large white globule fell from his powdered hair on to her plate. She looked at it astonished. The footman gasped in horror and snatched the plate away. Reggie, who had seen the whole thing, winked at her.
‘That’s the problem of staying in a house without a mistress. The servants can get awfully slack. Things were a good deal sprucer when Duchess Fanny was here.’
‘I can’t say I envy the future Duchess if her duties consist of making sure the footmen powder their hair properly. I think it is a ridiculous habit anyway. Why make the servants adopt a fashion that their masters gave up a century ago at least. I think there is something of the tumbrils about it.’ Cora’s tone was rather strident. She had conveniently forgotten that her mother’s own footmen had equally antediluvian hairstyles.
‘Oh, Miss Cash, what a modern girl you are. But I think you underestimate how much we English enjoy our traditions. I’m sure that the footman takes great pride in his snowy white hair and knee breeches. The whole point of being a footman is to look magnificently ancien régime. They have enormous cachet in the servants’ hall and get paid according to their height. Do you really want to bring these glorious creatures down to earth by forcing them to go unpowdered in drab broadcloth?’
‘I just think they might prefer it.’
The footman in question was handing Cora some gravy. She turned to him and said, ‘What is your name?’
The footman blushed and said, ‘Thomas, miss.’
‘Can I ask you a question, Thomas?’
‘Certainly, miss,’ he said with obvious reluctance.
‘Do you enjoy powdering your hair every day? How would you like it if you could wear your hair naturally?’
The footman looked at the floor and muttered, ‘Very much, miss.’ Cora looked at Reggie triumphantly, but then the servant continued, ‘It would mean I had been made up to butler. Now if you’ll excuse me, miss, I need to finish serving.’
Cora nodded, feeling not a little foolish. But Reggie was too tactful to press home his advantage and changed the subject deftly.
As the meal drew to a close, the Duke looked at Mrs Cash and said, ‘In the absence of a hostess, Mrs Cash, I wonder if you would be so kind as to lead the ladies to the drawing room. I apologise for the imposition but it will only be for one more day. My mother will be arriving the day after tomorrow with my stepsister Sybil.’
‘Oh, how delightful, Duke, I would so much like to meet them, but I fear that Cora and I cannot impose upon your hospitality any longer. As you can see, she is quite recovered and we really should return to Sutton Veney.’ Mrs Cash’s words were more emphatic than her tone.
The Duke took up the challenge.
‘But my dear Mrs Cash, my mother is hoping so much to meet you and your daughter. She will be quite disappointed not to find you here after she has made the journey from Conyers. And to be honest, Mrs Cash, my mother’s disappointment is not an easy thing to endure. Unless you have some very pressing engagement, perhaps I can prevail on you to stay for another week or so. I would so much like to show Miss Cash more of Lulworth than the wood where she met her accident.’
Although there had been no doubt in Mrs Cash’s mind about her intention to stay, the Duke’s last remark was reassuring. She took it as a declaration of interest and looked over at Cora to see whether she had registered this too. But Cora was talking to the young man on her left, altogether too animatedly in Mrs Cash’s view, and had not heard. Mrs Cash cleared her throat and rose to her feet.
‘In that case, Duke, you leave me no choice but to accept your very kind invitation; I would hate to be the cause of a duchess’s disappointment. I shall write to Lord Bridport tonight. Ladies, shall we?’
The Duke rose to his feet to open the door. As Cora passed him, he looked at her and smiled, this time without reservation.
‘You must allow me to show you over Lulworth, when you feel well enough, Miss Cash.’
‘I would like that very much, but I insist on having the bows and arrows.’ Cora picked up her train and followed her mother up the stairs.
As the footmen cleared the rest of the dishes from the table and brought in the port, Father Oliver stood up and bowed to the other two men.
‘If Your Grace will excuse me, I would like to get back to the Fourth Duke. Such a devout man, quite an inspiration. Goodnight, gentlemen.’
The Duke rolled his eyes as the well-fed figure of the priest left the room. ‘He has the zeal of the convert. Takes it all very seriously. Guy and he were very thick.’ He paused and Reggie moved up to sit next to him. Silently, the Duke passed him the decanter. The room was empty now apart from the two men. The only noises were the crackle of the fire in the stone fireplace and the tapping of the Duke’s fingers as he inflicted an invisible rhythm on the polished surface of the table. Finally he spoke.
‘Thank you for coming down at such short notice. I promise the sport will be tolerable, if nothing else.’
‘It’s been too long, Ivo. I haven’t seen you since…’ Reggie stopped. The last time he had been at Lulworth was for Guy’s funeral.
Ivo looked at him, reading his thoughts. ‘It was a year ago this week. Feels longer.’
‘Is that why the Duchess is coming?’
‘She would like me to think so, but she only sent the telegram yesterday.’ The Duke did an imitation of his mother’s breathy tones. ‘I felt such an urge to be with you.’
Reggie nodded towards the door. ‘The Americans?’
‘Of course.’
‘But how did she know?’
‘At first I suspected Father Oliver of writing to her, but actually it was Charlotte. She was at Sutton Veney when the accident happened and felt that Mother ought to know.’
‘And how is Charlotte? I have hardly seen her since she married Beauchamp. Never cared for him much at school. Used to keep a diary full of his ghastly “observations”. Still can’t understand why Charlotte accepted him.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘But Beauchamp, of all people. I mean, he collects china.’
‘He loves beautiful things and Charlotte has always liked to be admired.’
‘But we all admired her, Ivo.’
‘But none of us had the means to display her properly.’ The Duke’s fingers, which had not stopped moving to their invisible rhythm, suddenly hit a fortissimo chord and the glasses rattled.
There was another silence. Both men drained and refilled their glasses.
‘Quite a thing, finding Miss Cash like that,’ Reggie said, looking at his friend speculatively. ‘Something of a windfall, you might say.’
Another rattle from the glasses. Finally Ivo said, ‘Well, I couldn’t very well leave her there. I had no idea that she came with all this…this stuff.’ Ivo picked up a silver coaster and sent it flying down the table. Both men watched it as it circled and slowly grew still.
‘Do you think she knew who the wood belonged to?’
‘I did wonder, especially after I met the mother, but I don’t think the daughter is a schemer. No, I think Miss Cash’s arrival at Lulworth was entirely accidental.’
‘And?’ Reggie let the monosyllable hang between them.
‘Oh, don’t be absurd. You’re as bad as my mother. Miss Cash is American…’ Ivo’s voice trailed away in disdain.
‘And spectacularly rich.’
‘As Mrs Cash never stops reminding me.’ Ivo filled his glass again and turned on his friend. ‘Have you taken a fancy to Miss Cash then, Reggie? I saw you whispering to her at dinner. Poor Sybil will be heartbroken.’
Reggie laughed. ‘I’m afraid that Miss Cash has no interest in me. But I like her, Ivo. As windfalls go, you could do a lot worse.’
But Ivo was looking up at the portrait of his mother that had been painted at the time of her first marriage. Blonde and creamy, she gazed serenely down at her son. He raised his glass to the portrait and said with sardonic clarity, ‘To the Double Duchess.’
Reggie realised that his friend was drunk. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear Ivo talk about the Duchess. Ivo had always been his mother’s favourite and their relationship had been relaxed and mutually admiring. Mother and son were never more aware of their own beauty and charm than when in each other’s company. But that was before his mother’s remarriage. She had been barely out of mourning when the marriage took place. There were those who would have enjoyed a spell of disapproval, but that would have been a luxury when the Duchess was so charming, so hospitable and so close to Marlborough House. But if society was prepared to overlook the Duchess’s haste, her son, it seemed, was not.
Reggie repeated his friend’s toast but without the ironical inflection.
Ivo caught the reproof and got to his feet. ‘Time to join the ladies, I think, before Mrs Cash starts rehanging the pictures.’
In the servants’ hall, Bertha accepted a glass of madeira from Mrs Softley the housekeeper. She was grateful for the warm length of it spreading through her chest. Lulworth was a good deal colder than Sutton Veney. There she had had the occasional sight of Jim to keep her warm. Here there was nothing to heat the chilly corridors.
The green baize door swung open with a clatter as the footmen came in carrying trays loaded with plates and cutlery.
As soon he got through the door, Thomas the footman burst out, ‘Did you hear what the American girl said to me when I was serving her? Said did I like having my hair powdered, like I was some kind of performing monkey. It’s not correct.’
Thomas’s handsome face was red with emotion. The other footman laughed.
‘You should be careful what you say, Thomas, she might be your new Duchess. His Grace is taking her round the house tomorrow. Do you think he’s going to show her the holes in the roof?’
The housekeeper frowned and got to her feet. ‘Thomas, Walter, that’s quite enough from you. Are the ladies still in the drawing room?’
‘Finishing up, Mrs Softley’.
She turned to Bertha. ‘In that case, Miss Cash, you will be wanting to go upstairs to your mistress.’ She paused and gave the keys on her belt a little shake. ‘Thomas and Walter are foolish boys. They mean no disrespect.’
Bertha thanked the housekeeper and began the long climb to Cora’s room. The stone flags were cold and unforgiving under her feet.
She wondered what kind of mood Cora would be in. She wouldn’t tell her what the footmen had said. Miss Cora would be quite put out to think that in the servants’ hall her destiny had already been decided. She liked to make up her own mind. But as Bertha climbed the carpetless back staircase, feeling the chill draughts from the uncurtained windows, she wondered if this was to be her new home.
The next morning a thick sea fog drifted in over Lulworth, muffling its towers and crenellations and concealing the shining view that gave even the dingiest rooms a splendid point. Cora felt the damp chill as she opened her window. She had hoped to take Lincoln out, to ride away some of the uncertainties that hung around her like cobwebs. But this was not weather to be riding in unknown country. She told Bertha to put away her habit and put on a morning dress of dove-grey wool with black frogging. It was as modest an outfit as she possessed. She remembered Reggie’s eyes flicking over her mother’s jewelled magnificence the night before.
There was no one about apart from the odd housemaid. At Sutton Veney the ladies of the house had gone to the morning room after breakfast to write letters and gossip but in this house there were no ladies to join. Cora knew she should look for her mother but she did not feel ready for the conversation that she guessed would follow.
Retracing her steps from the night before, she found herself again in the long gallery where the Duke had seen her and not seen her the night before. The stone walls reflected the light from the sea, bathing the room in a pearly haze. There was no fire lit and Cora could smell the chalky sweat of the limestone. She sat down in one of the mullioned embrasures and looked out at the grey sky. The fog had suppressed everything, even the sound of the sea was muffled.
Cora was looking up at the carved vault of the arch, trying to make out the carved motif at the apex, when she heard music. Someone was playing the piano. She walked to the end of the gallery in the direction of the sound. Cora stood for a moment and listened. It was dark choppy music, full of false starts and minor chords, lacy pianissimo passages and startling crescendos. Cora could play the piano well enough, she had the young lady’s repertory of Strauss waltzes and Chopin nocturnes, but she knew that whoever was playing was in a different class. It was not just the technical difficulty of the piece, she had the feeling that the player was completely submerged in the music.
A set of chords faded away into silence. Cora pushed open the door a fraction. The room was another stone chamber – like the gallery it seemed older and more austere than the rest of the house. In the centre of the room under a narrow arched window was a grand piano and at the keyboard sat the Duke. He was frowning down at the keyboard as if he was trying to remember something. Then he started to play. Cora recognised the piece, it was a Beethoven sonata – but she had never heard it played like this. The opening was allegro con brio, but in the Duke’s hands it was not just fast, it was dangerous. The Duke had taken off his jacket and had rolled up his shirtsleeves. From where she was standing, Cora could see his bare forearms, the tendons stretching and tensing as he reached up and down the keyboard. She stood motionless, not sure whether she wanted him to look up and discover her. Was she listening or intruding? This was private music and yet she could not bear to look away. She was fascinated by the way he swayed towards the keyboard as if he was embracing the instrument, and his complete absorption. He was, she felt sure, in another place entirely. The long glissando passage at the end of the first movement finished and he looked up for a moment. At first he looked straight through her and then she saw him register her presence with a wary smile.
She said nothing, she did not know whether she should apologise or praise his playing.
In the end he spoke first. ‘Do you know the piece?’
‘It’s Beethoven, isn’t it? My music master used to play it for me, but never like that.’ Cora was being quite truthful. She was amazed that the same piece of music could sound so different.
‘The “Waldstein”. Beethoven was in love with Countess Waldstein, but there was no question of her marrying a musician. He wrote this for her but dedicated it publicly to her brother. He was almost completely deaf when he composed it.’ He looked down at the keyboard and played a passage where the music seemed to grope for a resolution. ‘Can you hear how he seems to be looking for something? Some satisfaction?’
Cora was about to say how sad it was that Beethoven never heard his own piece but in the end stayed silent. She realised that this was the obvious thing to say and she did not want to appear obvious. She knew that she was here on sufferance. What she had taken at first for the music room was clearly the Duke’s personal sanctum. There were piles of books on the window ledges and a desk at the far end covered with papers. There were no chairs or sofas apart from an uncomfortable-looking metal campaign bed.
‘You play very well,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘You’re too kind. I play adequately, that’s all. But I play very well for a man, certainly.’
Cora smiled. He was right, she had been surprised at the Duke’s playing at all. In her experience, the drawing-room piano as opposed to the concert hall instrument was an exclusively female instrument.
‘My mother taught me to play when I was very young. She had no daughter and she needed someone to play duets with. She would summon me after dinner and we would perform for her guests. The house was always full then, I got a lot of practice.’ He started playing a Brahms lullaby with exaggerated sweetness. ‘This was my finale. I played my own lullaby and then I was despatched upstairs to bed.’
‘Do you still play duets?’
‘No. As I grew up, we could never keep the same time. My mother always wants everything to be charming. She is all about effect, while I simply like to play.’ He pulled his finger down the keyboard in a soft glissando. He looked up at her. ‘And you, Miss Cash, do you like to play?’ The question ended in a minor arpeggio.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly, ‘I do.’ If there was challenge in his question, Cora would meet it.
‘Well then, what about a little Schubert?’ He stood up and rummaged among the piles of music on the floor until he found the piece he was looking for. He set it up on the piano and gestured to her to sit beside him on the stool. She walked towards him slowly, conscious that she had not played properly since leaving Newport, hoping that the piece he had chosen would not be too difficult.
The Duke gestured towards the music and said, ‘Which part would you like?’
Cora looked at the music, and felt her heart pounding in panic. The semiquavers exploded across the page. He certainly hadn’t chosen something easy. The lower part looked marginally calmer so she pointed towards it.
As he sat down next to her on the seat, she felt herself tense. But he was careful not to touch her. He spread his fingers out across the keys and she did the same.
‘When you’re ready, Miss Cash.’
Cora nodded and began. The piece started cantabile sostenuto in her part for a few bars and then the treble part came in with the melody. She played softly at first, hoping to muffle her mistakes, but as she grew more confident, her side of the piece met the melody in the upper register and suddenly they were playing together – their hands weaving round each other in the elaborate dance of the music. At one point the Duke’s left hand passed over her right and she felt the heat from his palm cross hers like a flame. But she could not afford to be distracted; to play the piece ‘adequately’ needed all Cora’s reserves of concentration and skill. The Schubert was just outside her level of competence but her desire not to fail meant that she was playing as well as she had ever done in her life. As the music reached the finale, there was a sequence of chords that were played in unison and to her surprise they played them in perfect synchronicity. Without thinking, she reached for the sostenuto pedal to hold down the final chord, only to find the Duke’s foot already there. She pulled her foot away but he had felt the pressure and as they finished, he turned to her with a smile.
‘I’m sorry I forgot to negotiate the pedals with you. It’s been a long time since I played a duet.’
‘And me. I’ve never played with anyone as good as you before.’
‘Duets are not about individual skill but about the relationship between the two players. The whole must be more than the sum of the individual parts.’
‘And were we?’ Cora could not stop herself asking.
‘It’s perhaps too early to say entirely, but on the whole I think we will do very well. Shall we have a go at the second movement?’
But Cora knew she must retreat now. She did not want to play again and be found wanting.
‘I think I have been lucky so far. I would like to practise before we play again.’
The Duke smiled. ‘As you wish, Miss Cash. But as I say, I think we will do very well.’
As Cora left the room, she heard him start the ‘Waldstein’ sonata again. It was clearly a favourite piece. As she listened to him play, she remembered his remark about Beethoven looking for satisfaction.