The First of July(37)
The last time he had made this journey, he had been consumed by an urgent hunger for Isabelle and the terror of losing her. It had been only a fantasy of love, and lust that he had believed was love, all so bound up with betrayal that he now recalled it as tainted. Even the thought of her with tangled hair and abandoned limbs, or her sweetness, as it had seemed then, as she rested her cheek on his or stroked his hair, only made him angry with his youth and poor judgment.
They stayed at the Savoy, and there was relief in being free of the febrile atmosphere of Paris. He wondered: would the British honor their promise to France? At what cost to themselves? He found that he still liked to think of Britain as an honorable country.
Yet in the dining room the next morning, leaving Marina to breakfast in their room, he could tell immediately from how the staff held themselves, from the tension and movement of fellow guests, that something new had happened. The Germans had entered Belgium, and now the British government had issued an ultimatum.
He thought of Wilding. This time tomorrow, Britain would be at war, there was no doubt of it, and he would be at his father’s graveside in what was, now, his estate. The old order changeth, he thought. How dreadfully and appropriately inauspicious the timing was.
He and Marina went to Regent Street, to buy her a black dress, gloves, and hat. London was crowded, more so than he remembered. As Marina looked at black gloves, he tried to grasp the fact that this was for a funeral, his father’s funeral. That the handsome, charismatic man who, even unseen, had such a hold on his imagination was now gone forever. He would never be seen again; he was sealed in his coffin, he was history. He found his emotions changing swiftly from sadness to disbelief to humor. On the streets, with the shops draped in union Jacks and some of the women wearing red, blue, and white cockades on their hats, it felt more as if a vast summer fête was in progress.
From the moment they had woken up on the day of the funeral, he thought that he should simply take Marina’s hand in his and tell her everything. A greater catastrophe waited if he did not. Yet, hours later, they had passed through the town nearest to his estate and still he had said nothing. Instead he tried to reassure himself. Isabelle was now the dowager, but, as he had no intention of taking on the house and would return to New York as soon as was decent, much of his life could continue unchanged. Surely it could.
Finally, there was Abbotsgate, appearing far more quickly than it should have. The car was running up the drive, and there on the steps were Hopkins the butler and Mrs. Fawkes the housekeeper.
The hired chauffeur stepped out, opened the door, and, just as he had known he would, Hopkins stepped forward and said, “Sir Henry, Lady Sydenham. Welcome home, sir. We are all so sorry that it is in such very sad circumstances, sir.”
Just as he’d known she would, Marina shot him a look of bewilderment, shock, and deep hurt. For a second she stood stock-still, staring at him as if he were a complete and unwelcome stranger. Which, he supposed, he now was. As they moved side by side into the house, he touched her arm, but she made no response.
His stepmother was there in the cool of the Great Hall, and beside her Edward, smiling tentatively. Behind them was a portrait of his father in hunting pink.
“Isabelle,” Harry said, first shaking her hand and then kissing her awkwardly. In her black dress, her skin was almost colorless. Inevitably she looked much older than he remembered her, though still beautiful.
She attempted a smile as she stepped forward and then said “We’re so very glad you’re home.” Then, blinking, on the edge of tears, “I’m so terribly sorry. We had no warning—he had complained of indigestion but no more,” as if she had failed in a responsibility to look after his father.
Edward looked anxiously from her to Harry.
“This is Teddy,” she said, just as Harry said “This is my wife Marina.” It was as if both women, both once his, were strangers, not just to each other, but to him.
Marina and Isabelle shook hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Marina said, her accent so American and her smile so kind. She turned to Teddy. “My, aren’t you the image of your brother. I don’t have a brother myself, so I’m very glad indeed to find I have a brother-in-law.” Teddy shook her hand, apparently both curious and delighted. He looked lively despite his mother’s distress and the loss of his father.
They were shown to their room, large and overlooking the park, by a young maid. Marina had behaved perfectly: friendly, sympathetic, and dignified; but once the door shut, she turned away from him and moved to the window, not speaking.