The First of July(44)

He had raged. For three nights he had drunk until he felt sick. He felt like a fool, utterly betrayed by his father and his lover. He wanted to cry to relieve the massive tightness that knotted his muscles. It was obscene: she was young; his father was in his late forties. She must have seen an opportunity for protection and wealth, and for that she’d sing to the old man and let him paw her. Well, that was only what she deserved. That was the tradeoff. He could have given her money himself. But not a title, of course: what an extraordinary elevation for a young foreign widow and struggling actress. He wrote accusing letters to his father, revealing everything, and burned them all.

And so it had gone on in misery, in jealousy, and finally in coldness. He eventually wrote to his father, wishing him well, without warmth, and regretting that he could not come to the wedding as he been an offered a position in America. His father had written back, anxiously, saying he realized it was difficult for Harry with his understandable loyalty to his dead mother, and the speed with which they had made their decision, but he was not a young man and he hoped Harry still wished them happiness. Harry had not replied and had left for New York ten days later, by which time his father and Isabelle were man and wife. Not long afterward, his father wrote to say Isabelle was pregnant; but only a little later a further letter followed, announcing the arrival of his brother. “Far too early, far too small,” but, his father reported, “a game little chap who struggled through after worrying us all for a few weeks.” He was, his father said, the very image of Harry as a baby.

Harry counted the weeks. He knew to the night when he had last possessed Isabelle in the hours before they left for Abbotsgate, and he knew of propriety preserved by claiming a miraculously short pregnancy yet a viable child. What a fool his father had been. What a fool Isabelle had made of them both.

Now, yet again a widow, she stood beside Harry in the cemetery and wept.

“What will become of me?” she said. He knew in that instant that she had indeed loved his father, or come to love him, but he chose the easier answer.

“You and Teddy must go on as you are.”

“You mustn’t leave us,” she said. “I mean, yes, your life is in America. But this time you must come back often. Please, Harry. If anything should happen to me, Teddy would be quite alone. I beg you, if you want no relationship with me, please start one with Teddy.”

He felt ashamed, not wanting to deal with this now. She added, smiling now, but still with wet cheeks, “He already hero-worships you from the tales your father told of you. A naughtier, braver, more mischievous son never lived, the way your father told it.”

“Teddy seems a very nice chap.” He cursed himself for his clumsiness.

“We were lucky,” she said, and happiness returned briefly to her face. “He’s a jolly, uncomplicated boy, full of curiosity, friends with everybody. He wants to be a gamekeeper when he grows up, or be very rich and breed horses.”

“I will do my very best by you and Teddy,” he said. “My very, very best. With this war—it may not be easy here.”

“This hateful war,” she said, and he could still, just, hear her French accent. “But America will not involve itself; you can come to us on American ships and be safe; and besides, a war, however bad, does not last long, whereas Teddy will live for many years, I hope. Write. Tell us of New York. Bears. If you see bears, I think Teddy would be very happy.”

“Perhaps you would both come and visit us?”

She nodded.

“Not many bears in Central Park, but I could arrange a camping expedition into the mountains,” he said, finding that the idea of showing Teddy the hugeness of the American wilderness was suddenly exciting. “Sleep under the stars by some great rapids. See bison, bears, yes, rattlesnakes—”

Now she was at least trying to laugh, but she paused. “Does Marina know that we were once, that we … ?” She was unembarrassed and looked at him steadily, although it had never been mentioned between them since the last, vile letter he’d written to her.

He shook his head. “Better not,” he said, hoping his reaction wasn’t just pragmatic. “Too late now. Too complicated.”

And probably fatal for his marriage, he thought. He looked up. The long day was turning into a fine, soft evening.





War





Owing to the summary rejection by the German Government of the request made by his Majesty’s Government for assurances that the neutrality of Belgium would be respected, His Majesty’s Ambassador in Berlin has received his passport and his Majesty’s Government has declared to the German Government that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from 11 P.M.