Tetbury Park was a handsome house situated in what was arguably the most picturesque district in Gloucestershire, if not all England, however even here the rude intrusion of the twentieth century could be felt, as from the dining room windows on a winter’s day such as this, the glaring red walls of a new housing estate could be seen down the drive, just beyond the creamy stone gate lodge.  Philip Rous-Poole consoled himself with the thought that time would soften the harsh outlines of these ‘Tudorbethan’ horrors and he was thinking of ways to compel their owners— mostly stockbrokers and dentists and chaps who worked for the BBC and who hadn’t been to a proper school and who said ‘righteo’ and had a ‘spot’ of whisky and drove sports cars— to plant ivy.  Their wives were little better and talked about their servants and their children’s schools and wore fur coats and painted their fingernails.  They gave Connie a hard time because she was an American and knew even less about country life than they did and took a malicious delight in explaining what stiles and the Mothers’ Union were and the difference between Goodwood and Glyndebourne.  It was also apparent that, unlike Susan, little George, while of an amiable temperament, was a dolt and still sucked his thumb and thus compared unfavourably with their own brilliant offspring.

No, it was a mistake in selling that land at the end of the drive, he thought as he stared through the mullioned fenestration at the intruders.  Better had he sold the rough country on the other side of the small estate which, while useless for agricultural production, still had the best shooting in the district and Philip was proud of this and strove hard to deny the newcomers’ admission to the Tetbury Hunt.

Constance swept in.  “Philip, I have just had to suffer being insulted in front of that gold-plated bitch Mrs Ledbetter.”

“What happened my love?” he said turning from the window and resuming polishing his 12-bore.

“Don’t you ‘my love’ me!  Why haven’t you paid Seamer?  He stopped me when I was talking to Mrs Ledbetter.  By the way, do you know they are going to Kitzbühel for the winter sports?  And the swine presented me with the bill right’n front of her.  I can’t believe how much liquor we get through and you know I never touch the stuff.”

“I’ll see Harris tomorrow; maybe he can find the money.  It won’t hurt Seamer to wait a bit longer; we are his best customer.”

“I’m sure we are.  Any more like us and he’ll have to file.”

“You can go ski-ing if you like Connie.  I don’t like abroad.  Why not go with your mother—she might even pay?”

“Fat chance!  She’s down on her uppers now that she is practically supporting Toby.”

It was true, Mildred Polk-Stewart, formerly of Denver Colorado, had taken up with a man, one Captain Toby Heath.  Exactly what Heath’s military history was, was never quite clear.  He was a large chap with a fair moustache and possessed an abundance of thick, wavy hair for someone of about fifty and he was, therefore, somewhat younger than Mrs Polk-Stewart.  He had a tendency to wear hound’s-tooth checks even in town and sported enamel cuff links in the form of tiny motorcars that somehow related to his profession, which was vaguely connected with a showroom in Knightsbridge, but he was more often to be seen at racecourses and in clubs such as Stephen’s Savile.  If there was ever, or even still, a Mrs Heath it was unknown, but what was more certain was that Heath was always short of money and was forever borrowing from his friends and acquaintances— or complete strangers for that matter— and his absence from one club or other was usually in connection with an unpaid account.

Where Mildred had met him was also rather vague and, although Heath kept a room at a seedy hotel in Bayswater, he was more often to be seen in Mrs Polk-Stewart’s sitting room in Belgravia where he occupied that well-known position that hovered somewhere between lover and companion, bounder and cad.

The occurrence of Toby had caused a considerable depletion in the nest egg that Martin’s Uncle Alfred had left Mrs Polk-Stewart and the usefulness of Constance’s mother in these times of fiduciary stricture, especially in certain parts of Gloucestershire, was thus somewhat circumscribed.

“You know, Philip, it is completely unfair that we have to live like this, when your cousin Martin has it easy.”

“Well he was left more money than me and death duties were so much less then.  When my father died, half the estate had to be sold.  He has that Sachs to advise him too.”

“Susan wants to go to that school in Cornwall where those rich Jews are sending their girls.  How are we going to afford it or will we have to send her to the village school in Tetbury?”

“Now my love, it won’t come to that.  I can still raise money on this place.”

“No you can’t; it’s already mortgaged and we’d be better off selling up and moving to London.”

“Connie, you can’t be serious!  I hate London.  I can’t shoot in Hyde Park and I’d die in a flat.”

“Don’t die, Philip, we can’t afford the death duties.”

Philip attempted to take her hand, but she pulled away and left the room.  Philip put down his gun and went over to the decanter.  It was empty and so he rang the bell. 

***** 

Toby Heath mounted the steps of the Savile Club from Brook Street and was helped out of his overcoat.  He made for the elegant bifurcated staircase that rose to the dining room where he hoped to meet Hicks-Atkinson who had mentioned that he was probably going to sell his Rolls Royce before moving to Australia and Toby wanted to buttonhole him at luncheon and advance a proposition.  He was thinking of this when he spotted the club’s manager coming down the flight of stairs on the right.  The man spotted Toby at the same instant and went to say something— no doubt about a long overdue club account— when Toby gave an offhand wave of his arm and practically ran up the left-hand flight where the fellow did not dare, or more likely, could not be bothered to, follow.

Hicks-Atkinson was not in the room, but Toby spotted Stephen lunching by himself, with the Spectator propped up before him.

“Hello, Knight-Poole, mind if I join you?’  He did not wait for an answer and sat down and signalled to the steward who hurried over.  “I’ll have the curry and a bottle of claret.  What say you, Knight-Poole?”

“I’m drinking beer, but claret if you like.”  The waiter hesitated and looked at Stephen.  “Mr Heath is my guest today, Ormond, put it on my account,” and then to Toby, “I suppose I owe you for that tip you gave me.”

“Did you back it? 

“Yes, it ran second, but that was hardly your fault; you weren’t riding her.”

“That’s a remarkably generous way of looking at it,” said Toby.  “Make that the Chateau Cheval Blanc ‘29, Ormond, although it was a dark horse, wasn’t it, Knight-Poole?”

“Very dark, Toby.”

They chatted about sports and general matters and then Toby said, “I say, Stephen, you couldn’t help me out of a spot could you?”  Stephen said nothing and so he continued: “It’s Mrs Polk-Stewart’s birthday today and I wanted to give her something nice and I had my eye on a pretty little thing in Bond Street—it would cheer her up— poor woman all alone in the world on her birthday— and I’ve dashed left it too late to go to my bank.”

“It’s only a quarter to three, Toby.”

“Yes, but I’m with Coutts and I’d have to get to the Strand.”

“Don’t they have a branch in Park Lane?  I’ll drive you if you like,” added Stephen, enjoying his discomfort.

“It’s at the wrong end.  It would be much simpler if you could just lend me a fiver until Tuesday.  It would make Mrs Polk-Stewart very happy— the old girl.”

“I’m sure it would,” said Stephen reaching for his wallet.  “By the way, that cheque you gave me last week wasn’t dated.”

“Wasn’t it?  How careless of me.  Bring it on Tuesday and I’ll do it.”

“I won’t be in London on Tuesday, Toby.  Let’s just call it a gift— a birthday gift for Mrs Polk-Stewart.  Remember me to her—and Toby, don’t ask me again.”

Heath made a face and a noise to indicate that nothing could be further from his mind and then said, looking at the photographs in Stephen’s wallet.  “I say, what pretty children.”

Stephen softened and removed the photographs and put them on the table.  “That is my godson, Will…”

“Lord Branksome’s boy?”  Stephen nodded.

“And that is little Charlotte, the daughter of my friend Mrs Komorowski.”

‘She’s the German doctor friend of the Princess, isn’t she?”  Stephen nodded.  “Well they are both very fine children.  How old now?”  Stephen told him.  “Very handsome indeed.  A strong family resemblance,” ventured Toby in an arch tone.  Stephen said nothing and slid the snapshots back into his wallet and returned it to his inside pocket.

Toby Heath folded the five pound note in four and placed it in his own wallet and took out a gold cigarette case and offered it to Stephen who declined and tapped a Turkish cigarette on the case as he murmured, “Beautiful children,” once more before lighting it.  “Shall we have another bottle with our coffee?” 

***** 

It was not long after the New Year’s hunt when the bleak chill of January began to seep into everybody’s bones and spirits flagged under the leaden skies of England, that thoughts turned to sunnier climes.  Erna and Mata announced that they would like a short holiday in Jersey to see their picturesque house on St Aubin Bay once again.  They had been prompted in this desire by the luncheon, hosted by Stephen that the celebrated writer, Elinor Glyn, had attended.  Mrs Glyn was now quite elderly, but still a formidable woman whose red hair did not belie her character and she was as protective of her own ‘brand’ as was her sister, Lady Duff Gordon, who had been the famous dressmaker ‘Mme Lucile’ and who, although frail, also came to the luncheon. 

The authoress of Three Weeks— once thought to be such a scandalous book— talked first about the modern novel and then about the young women of today—both of these in sharp terms— and she explained that her famous discovery of ‘it’ had been crudely misunderstood as being mere sex appeal when she thought that the word ‘charisma’ was a better description.

 “Men can have ‘it’ too,” she explained, “and in women it has nothing to do with the great quantity of young creatures seen about in society nowadays, smoking ‘gaspers’ and slouching in drawing rooms and cocktail bars as listless as painted corpses.  Neither men nor women can look up to that sort.”  No one knew quite what to say to all this, but it was hardly new and there was enough truth in the assertions for it to be taken seriously.  Beverley Nichols was busy taking mental notes, which would no doubt appear in his column on ‘the modern girl’ alongside a review of Miss Glyn’s Did She?, which was so awful that only Stephen as the good host and Nichols, the dedicated columnist, could stomach to the last page.

Glyn continued through dessert: “I think Mr Knight-Poole has ‘it”, don’t you Lucy?”  Her sister agreed. “And I think Signor Mussolini has it and Sir Oswald Mosley and Clark Gable and Garbo of course but not Mr Baldwin.”

“And certainly not Mrs Baldwin,” contributed ‘Mme Lucile’, thinking of Mrs Baldwin’s dreadful hats.

“And why can’t the young ones sit up straight like Dr Obermann here?”  There was no answer to this.  “Or have the taste of Her Serene Highness who knows the value of good tailoring?”  The table turned to Mata who was wearing a blue woollen suit with black cornely work on the jacket and who did indeed look elegant, “and when I think of the scruffy dresses of today!  Loose threads dangling everywhere because they were bought off the rack in Oxford Street…”  She went on for some minutes until her sister took over and recounted, for what must have been for the thousandth time, what she wore on that fateful night in lifeboat one nearly 23 years before.

The conversation then turned to their childhood in Jersey and their glowing descriptions piqued Mata and Erna’s desire to return there as soon as possible.

It was thus decided that Stephen and Martin would escort the girls and the babies, along with Gertrude and Nurse as far as Jersey and then continue on to Antibes for a week or ten days.  “Don’t let them grow up too much,” said Martin, who didn’t know how he would cope without seeing Charlotte and Will who were now doing such fascinating things as sucking on their gums and their pink toes and blurting in delight as they teethed.

Antibes was cold at night and they were glad of the iron stove in which they burnt fragrant vine prunings, but the skies were blue and the heavy rains of December had passed.  Three days later The Plunger and Teddy arrived and Martin was happy.

“Plunger, I’d like to commission a portrait of Mata— perhaps to hang in the hall at Branksome House— somewhere near the one of my mother, do you know it?”

“Certainly, it’s full of swish, but it is very fine.  Giovanni Boldini, I think.”  Martin nodded.  “Well there’s Augustus John, but he’s a bit passé.  There’s young Graeme Sutherland — very modern but it wouldn’t sit well with your mother.”

“What about Glyn Philpot, Plunger.  Do you remember that night with Prince George?  Does he paint only boys?”

The Plunger certainly did. “Not exclusively, Poole.  He’s very fashionable at the moment and has a new technique.  I think he’d do very well.  Go and see him.”

Martin was pleased and tried to imagine what the portrait might look like, but it was too difficult so he tried instead to picture the expression on Mata’s face when he told her of his present.

The boys were at the big table eating croissants and drinking milky coffee when there was a knocking at the old door.  Martin had the most clothes on so he answered it and saw that it was Cloutilde, Mrs Chadwick’s maid.  At first he thought that there must be something wrong with their friend, but it quickly became clear that she was well but wanted the boys to call, which they did.

“Oh I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said when the four were in her drawing room.  She looked very upset.  “I don’t know if you have received any news from home, Lord Branksome, but I have been listening to the BBC’s Empire Service…”

“You have a short wave wireless, Mrs Chadwick?” asked Stephen.

“Well, yes, Mr Knight-Poole,” she said looking as if it were a guilty secret.  I have it in my…my other room…and of course it is a comfort being so far from home.  But I thought you would like to know that His Majesty is gravely ill— in fact he is not expected to live.  It is terrible, so sad and he is younger than me…”

This was indeed a great shock and the four boys were grim faced on the train home.  Martin thought of how all his adult life— which really began when he met Stephen—was bound up with good King George’s reign, and of the King during the War and of poor Aunt May…and he had to wipe away a tear.  They arrived in Dover on the morning of the 21^st of January, only to learn that the King had died the night before and all London was in shock.  Theatres and cinemas were closed and in the shop windows portraits of the King wreathed in black crepe had begun replace the usual displays.  The newspapers and the wireless carried the news and crowds had gathered at Buckingham Palace.

Mata and Erna had already returned to Croome and so the next day Martin and Stephen went down, determining to return to London for the funeral in a week’s time.  Like in the capital itself, the three villages on the estate were in mourning and there was to be a service at the church.  Talk in The Feathers drifted from recalling the past quarter of a century to wondering what the ‘new king’ would be like. 

“Young and wi’ a fresh mind,” said Bullock. 

“He baint t’patch on his father,” said Larchpole.

Mata spent two days writing a letter to Aunt May.  She began many times only to tear up the draft and start again.  Stephen and Martin offered help and at last it was composed with just the right balance of formality and personal sincerity for the occasion and so was dispatched to the post.  On the same day came a letter from Buckingham Palace.  Martin, Mata and Stephen had been invited (if that was the word) to Windsor for the service and there were three cards to admit them to St George’s Chapel in the Home Park and they were to reply to the Earl of Athlone- Aunt May’s brother and therefore Mata’s Uncle Alge, the Governor and Constable of Windsor Castle, although Mata could not remember him at all from her girlhood as he had always lived in England or South Africa. “That would be Aunt May’s doing,” she said looking at the cards. “It was so thoughtful of her under the circumstances.”

They returned to London and Martin and Stephen joined the queue for the lying-in- state at the Abbey and they talked quietly for the many hours they had to wait in the cold.  No one could fail to have been moved when it became known that on one night the King’s four sons slipped anonymously into the Abbey and replaced the soldiers who stood vigil around the coffin. 

Once again Branksome House proved to be a good grandstand for the funeral procession, but unlike a year ago, this time it was not a joyous occasion.  The service at Windsor was impressive and moving and the Queen was stoic while the King’s children, especially the new King, seemed to be consumed by their grief. 

***** 

It was some months later that Constance Rous-Poole went to Chancery Lane to consult a solicitor noted for his confidentiality.  They were seated comfortably in a room behind a door with thick, buttoned padding and where the smell of cigars and leather bindings added to the gravitas. “But Lady Rous-Poole,” said Tyson-Thomas after he had listened, “it is just not possible to de-legitimise the issue of a married couple after the birth of that issue.”

“But I know the husband is not the father of the child,” objected Constance as she put her lips to the glass of nut-brown sherry she had been given.

“How do you know?  What evidence do you have to bring into court?” replied Mr Tyson-Thomas severely, no doubt a tone he used in cross-examination.  “The legal term is ‘access’— did the husband have access at the time of conception, or was he in Timbuktu, for example?”

“He had access, but he wasn’t the father,” said Constance.  “The child doesn’t look like him and I’m sure he colluded with another man to father the child because he is a man who does not like women, Mr Tyson-Thomas.” The solicitor briefly turned his thoughts to his years at a well-known boys’ school and a lad in the lower fourth with a bottom like…

“Well under Roman law, the mother is assumed, in want of evidence to the contrary, to know who the father is and the Mansfield ruling is that the husband is assumed to be the father of children born in wedlock.  It was born in wedlock?”  Connie nodded.  “Perhaps there could be an action taken under the Criminal Law Amendment Act if the husband could be proved to have had sexual relations with another man.  Do you have any such evidence?  Letters?  Evidence from hotel staff?”

Constance had to admit she had none.

“Now, did you say there was a title involved?”

“Yes.  This fraudulent baby has usurped my own husband and son as heirs to the title.”

“And may I ask if there is money and property in the inheritance?”

“I don’t know,” she said, silently adding that she hoped there was.

“Lady Rous-Poole, I must tell you that it is extremely rare for a man to be stripped of his title, except in the most grievous of circumstances such as for treason.  Perhaps a criminal conviction might be grounds, but it would have to be initiated from the highest quarters and probably go before the House of Lords.”

“What do you mean by, ‘the highest quarters’, Mr Tyson-Thomas?”

“I mean the King himself, your ladyship, is the fount of all honours.  I must caution you as to the scandal that might result and if the action should fail it could harm your own standing in these highest circles— if you take my meaning—not to mention that any action would necessarily be drawn out and expensive, with little prospect of success, I have to tell you.”

Constance Rous-Poole left Mr Tyson-Thomas’s rooms unimpressed with the man’s failure to see the justice of her case, based solely as it was on his thirty years of experience at the bar and mere legal precedent, and not on her wounded feelings as a women which cried out for vengeance.

It was to another women that Constance now turned—her mother—who turned to a third, Emerald Cunard.  It was to Lady Cunard’s grand house at Number 4 Grosvenor Square that Mildred Polk-Stewart made sure she was invited a month later.  The other guests, Somerset Maugham and Lady Diana Cooper among them, had departed but Mildred lingered hoping to have a private word.  Emerald could have easily swatted Mildred, who had no fortune nor any great social circle of her own, but certain ties of blood— she was from the west herself— and perhaps because Mildred could be amusing at the luncheon table and always relied on to tell how she shot her first husband and got away with it— caused Emerald to regard her as an asset.

“How is your young man, Toby, my dear, still passing bad cheques?”

Mildred had not thought that this story would have reached Grosvenor Square quite so soon, but she had been wrong.  “Quite well, darling Emerald, he keeps me young.”

“Well he certainly must work at it, dear.”

“And Sir Thomas?  No sour notes?”

“No dearest Mildred, always the right key.’

“I heard he has it and the door is always unbolted.”

“And dear Lady Rous-Poole is still thriving in the country?  Gloucestershire, isn’t it?  I couldn’t bear it myself.

“And your Nancy is still with that nig…”

“Shall we have some more coffee, Millie?” said Emerald quickly interrupting, realising that she wasn’t going to win this set of verbal tennis. 

The unpleasantries out of the way, they got down to ‘brass tacks’ as they said back home.

“So you suspect Lord Branksome’s son is not his?”  Mildred said that this was so.  “And that he sleeps with other men, are you sure?”  Mildred was sure.  “Not that lovely Mr Knight-Poole?  Isn’t he a cousin or something?” 

Mildred reflected on this.  Yes, Stephen was a third cousin, and if the truth be known from the family history that she had done with Lord Alfred, should probably be the heir himself, she reflected, and she would have to be careful not to disqualify one only to raise up another. “Not him, I’m sure, Emerald and he is a very distant cousin at best.  But it should be my son-in-law Philip and his son who should be next in line.”

“Well, what can I do about it?”

“Plen’y,” said Mildred, lapsing back into her native accent and settling more comfortably into her chair.  Lady Maud (Emerald) Cunard made it no secret that, due to her friendship with His Majesty and His Majesty’s mistress, Mrs Ernest Simpson, that she hoped for higher office herself in the new reign, perhaps Mistress of the Robes, if Wallis should became Queen.

“But how could she become Queen?” they had asked at her table, “She already has a husband, even two, and she isn’t even royal, and worse, not even English.”

Emerald had ignored this slur on her native land.  “This is a modern age and the King is a modern monarch.  There could be a divorce,” she whispered.  Most of the table scoffed at the idea, but not everybody, and those brought up in America knew there was more than one way to remove an inconvenient spouse.

“You could ask Mrs Simpson,” said Mildred Polk-Stewart as she lifted her tiny glass cup, “and she might suggest to the King that he send his proctors to investigate the baby and maybe then find cause to strip Lord Branksome of his title.  He’s the king, after all, and he can do anything.”

Emerald Cunard had lived in England long enough to know that this belief in absolute monarchy was a misconception widespread among her countrymen, no doubt stemming from the troubled birth of her native land upon which she was only too glad to turn her back when she came across the ocean in 1894 intending to marry a Polish prince but, due to certain difficulties, settling instead for Sir Bach Cunard, now, alas, gone to his reward.  “I could, dear but I won’t.  His Majesty has enough troubles without listening to me, although he is a dear boy of course, but he wouldn’t take kindly to the idea I’m quite sure.”

“Are you so sure of that point, Emerald dear?  Mrs Simpson and Princess Stephanie were pretty cut when Branksome’s so-called wife snubbed them.  That Princess Mata has baldly refused their invitations and there were no invitations to Croome for weekends either.”

“Well, she is a proper Princess and Stephanie’s only claim is to have married one at some distant time and you seem to have had no hesitation in accepting their hospitality and didn’t you use to be quite close to the old uncle?”

“That was quite different,” she said huffily.  “I’m family and I was fond of Alfred and he proposed of course, but it is the injustice to Philip and Constance and little Georgie that riles me.”

“But you beg off when you’re invited to Tetbury, I hear.”

“Who told you that?  It is true I am not fond of the country and shooting upsets me— I am practically a vegetarian,” she lied (conveniently forgetting about the demise of her husband) and Lady Cunard detected this when she recalled the dispatch with which the Alouettes sans Têtes à la Brumaire had been consumed at luncheon.  “And surely unnatural relations are a threat to family values and the institution of the Church.”

“Such a threat!” trilled Lady Cunard in delight, “and you think Mrs Simpson should tell her lover the King that?  Is it any worse than you and Toby Heath?”

Mrs Polk-Stewart was stung.  “And how is George Moore?”

“He is merely an admirer.”

“Yes, he tells but does not kiss.  Poor you.  Now will you speak to Mrs Simpson or not?”

“I will have to wait until the right moment, dear, and they are going on a Mediterranean Cruise with the Coopers, so I won’t have an opportunity until they return.” 

***** 

The spring saw the completion of The Plunger’s renovations at Broughton Lodge and they indeed fulfilled the promise of their earlier visits.  The Plunger and Teddy had a small weekend party to celebrate and naturally Stephen and Martin were invited and were the only ones to stay over, the others driving the fifty miles back to London.

Teddy had hung some of the very modern paintings from his collection in the sunny living-hall and in the cosy drawing room with its twin Regency fireplaces.  Martin was surprised at how well these avant-garde works harmonised with the late eighteenth century furniture that Teddy and the Plunger had chosen together, especially when they were hung against plain walls.  “I like these two portraits, Ted.” said Martin indicating two colourful canvases in unadorned white frames that hung above an Irish satinwood commode and a scroll-ended day bed of restrained design from the Directoire period.  The flat-looking woman, who seemed no more than just another element in a room full of violently patterned wallpaper and fabrics, was by a Frenchman called Henri Matisse and the mournful woman with big eyes and a huge hat was by a Dutchman called van Dongen, he was told.  Martin didn’t warm to an egg-shaped head with tiny black eyes by someone called Modigliani.  “I know this one,” he said of a canvas hung in the drawing room with its delicately stone-coloured panelling and pale blue and green trim.  “It’s a Picasso.”

“That’s right, Martin, an early one.” 

The dining room was, as promised, hung with yellow watered silk and contained the Biedermeier pieces and the painting from 1840 that Martin and Stephen had given them.  “This is a beautiful room,” said Martin sincerely.

The focus of the party, however, was the rotunda that had become the domed studio with it’s pink-and-blue Chinese paper and its roof painted with a cloudy sky from which winked stars and a crescent moon executed in silver and gold leaf.  The Plunger had plenty of his own canvases stacked and leaning against the walls and a large plain table and simple chairs and ottomans formed the chief decorations.  Gertie was circulating with drinks and was dressed as a milkmaid from Jane Austen’s day.

“I’ve never seen a dairy maid with so much slap on her face or is she meant to be Queen Caroline of Brunswick?” laughed The Plunger who was in a good mood.  Gertie heard this and deftly swivelled so that the glasses were plucked from the tray by other hands but his thirsty master would be made to wait. 

Custard was over at the gramophone— it was quite new and reposed in a veneered cabinet shaped like a chest.  It was electric and combined the functions of both a wireless and a gramophone.  “It’s called a ‘radiogram’, Poole” and I must get one,” said Custard as he twiddled the knobs causing Carroll Gibbon’s orchestra to play These Foolish Things. 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3FC04DBF5C6B8EE5

Martin was fascinated too and resolved to purchase one for himself— arguing that they needed a more reliable wireless in any case.

“How’s things, Custard?” he asked, knowing that Custard’s grandfather and Martin’s godfather, Lord Delvees, had died, and with that his title and the estate in Devon passing down to Custard.

“A bit bloody, Poole.  I am going to have to sell Clyst St Barton and buy something smaller for grandmamma and me— something like this,” he said looking around, “would do very nicely.  The death duties were nearly £100,000 and the place had a mortgage— not a big one— but still it must be paid off.  Trouble is I can’t find a buyer yet.  Thought the government might be interested for an asylum or something.”  He looked at Martin to see if he knew he was joking, then added, “I may take up my seat in the Lords, Poole.”

“Really?  You’d leave the Harmsworth Press?”

“Lord, I’d love to, but I’d better hang on for a bit.  You know, wouldn’t it be good if you and me and The Plunger could sit together— we could form our own party!”

“No, Custard,” said Martin laughing. “School was one thing, but I’m not interested in politics with a lot of old men.  Besides, Lord Craigth is still alive.”

“He’s not well, Poole.  I thought you knew.  Cancer.”

Martin was shocked— quite numb— but then he thought it was typical of his friend not to tell and to keep personal things safe where he couldn’t be hurt.

Martin resolved not to say anything, nor to even tell Stephen until he had to.  The Plunger gave no indication of it as he made the party swing, not even when Teddy suggested that they might all go over to America because he wanted to see his parents and sister in New Jersey.  Stephen thought this was a marvellous idea and, under the influence of The Plunger’s champagne and the music, excitedly outlined his favourite diversions in New York and related some of their adventures.

The party was a success without being the riot that it might have been in Chelsea.  There were some of The Plunger’s arty crowd in tweed sports jackets and ties for clubs that Martin had never heard of, or in frocks of batik and hand blocked linen of the artists’ own making, with plenty of scarves and bracelets.  And then there were fellows from the club or from school, one or two like himself and Custard, overdressed in dinner jackets.  There was dancing— some of the boys dancing together— and then a group gathered around the unusual rectangular walnut piano in the drawing room and someone played I’m in the Mood for Love and then Animal Crackers in my Soup, for which everyone joined in the childish words, the like of which was an indignity that the old instrument should never have had to suffer.

Stephen was already awake and sitting up in the fantastic bed when Gertie arrived with the tea.  He was dressed more soberly than he had been the previous evening and except for the kohl around his eyes, could almost have passed for an ordinary servant.

“Good morning, Gertie,” said the bare-chested Stephen cheerfully.

“Here’s your tea, dear,” he said pouring out just one cup and adding the milk before handing it to him.  “Will you look at them,” he said indicating the three snoring figures wrapped in each other’s arms beside Stephen. “Titania, Lysander and Oberon.”

“Let them sleep.  I didn’t know you were legitimate, Gertie.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, dear.  I had three seasons as principal dresser at the Lyceum in 1909.  Of course I was only a slip of a thing then.

He walked around the room picking up discarded clothes and deftly folding them and then turned to Stephen who was still drinking.  “Come down to Gertie’s room, dear.” He cast a withering glance at the slumbering trio. “It won’t take three of me to satisfy you, dear,” he said, “you know Gertie still has a few tricks up her skirt.”

Stephen spluttered with a mouthful of hot tea while trying to be quiet.  “All right, Gertie, I’m as randy as a bull this morning.”  He made to grab his dressing gown from the back of a chair.  “Don’t worry about that, pet, you have everything you need.”  He gave Stephen’s bottom a smack and they both turned to see if it had awoken the others.  It hadn’t registered and so they proceeded downstairs, Gertie following so that he might watch the flexing of Stephen’s naked buttocks.

Gertie had a neat bedroom contrived by knocking through the old larder and boot room and a section of the kitchen corridor.  Adjacent was a modern bathroom.  “This is nice Gertie.  Not many servants have a set-up like this.”  The room still smelled of fresh paint and it was clear that Gertie had not had time to put his personal things around.  “Yes, she’s a good sort,” conceded Gertie, clearly referring to The Plunger.  He smacked Stephen again and tittered and had him bend over the bed.

“Oh that’s it Gertie!” cried Stephen in ecstasy, “your tongue is so long you must have been a frog in a past life.”

“That’s what Sir Henry Irving used to say.”

Even while in the throes, Stephen wondered how much of what Gertie said was true; Irving had been dead a long time.

“Someone’s been a naughty girl, Miss Teddy’s been visiting hasn’t she?”

“Yes,” admitted Stephen in a strangled huff.

“She’s got a beautiful cock and a girl lives in hope, but she would take a dim view I suppose.”

“He…doesn’t…know…what he’s missing.  Oh-right-there-Gertie!”

A short time later Stephen was in Gertie’s bath into which soothing and chypre-scented salts had been added.  Gertie was kneeling at the side and soaping Stephen’s chest with one hand, occasionally delivering a lick to his nipples, while the other hand was free to explore.  Stephen had one leg thrown over the side and now Gertie seemed to have half his bony hand inside him.

“You like it up there, lovey, don’t you?  As big as you are, old Gertie knows what a man likes.”

“Oh yes, keep doing that until the water runs cold.”

Gertie’s thoughts drifted as he worked.  “You know, sir, that She hasn’t found staff for this place yet.  There’s only me and the gardener.”  His mind was working and he stopped pleasuring Stephen.  “We have two girls from the village in to clean and there’s a woman who comes at eleven and cooks, but she doesn’t want to live-in.”  Stephen’s erection was now urgent and so Gertie took it absently in his hand as he continued.  “Your Carlo said that that pretty footman— the big lad…”

“Lance.”

“Is that her name?  Well, she wants to leave because she is going to marry.”

“Yes, Jean the infant teacher at the school has at last said yes to the poor fellow, but she must resign from the school if she marries and they have nothing.”

“Is she a bitch?”

“No, Gertie, very nice actually and a quiet thing.”

“A bitch then; I was sure of it, but she may do.  Could they come here as a married couple?  She could be housekeeper and he could be butler— but he wouldn’t boss me, dear—although it might be quite nice if he did make demands,” he added as an afterthought, “and they could live above the garage.  I need someone strong about the place to lift things; I’m not as young as I used to be and I can’t ask Mr Loew with his leg and she wouldn’t know how to lift her petticoat.”

“I don’t know, Gertie.  Lance is a good footman— or became one in the end— and Carlo is certainly fond of him.”

“Yes, I know all about that!”

“But would a teacher want to be a housekeeper?  You’ll have to get Mr Craigth to put it to them.”

“Yes,” said Gertie slowly as he put the pieces together in his mind, then, “O dearie, you are a randy boy,” he said looking down.  “It’s a wonder his ladyship doesn’t look like the wreck of the Hesperus,” at which he lowered his lips to that which was raised to meet them.  

***** 

Over the spring, the two babies continued to thrive and the usual milestones were marked by their fond fathers and mothers as if no other infant in the entire history of the world had ever cut a tooth, crawled like a crab or said something that could possibly be construed as ‘mama’ or ‘dada’— depending on one’s prejudices.  Both babies were given many hours in the fresh air, a point upon which Erna and Nurse agreed.  Martin would often pluck one or the other of them from their cot and walk around his sunk garden with the baby on his hip, giving directions to the gardener or, if he were absent, trying to bend and pull a weed himself.  Often Nurse would descend upon him like a fury and, not mindful of their differing social stations, rebuke Martin for interfering with the baby’s strict routine.

Stephen was not above taking both Charlotte and Will in the large perambulator down to The Feathers for a pint (for himself) and giving a boy sixpence if he would mind the vehicle and its passengers for fifteen minutes or so.  On one occasion he was returning to the house, reading a newspaper, when the invigilating boy came huffing after him to remind him that he had left the perambulator and its valuable cargo back at the pub.  Stephen saw no reason why Martin or anyone else should be bothered by this fact and purchased the boy’s silence with a shilling.

Erna spent a good deal of time at the infant welfare centre and was proud that, in their individual categories, no other children— not even the young Louch boy— weighed as much or measured so extensively or expansively as the two from Croome.  To Erna’s delight she was asked to write a paper on cognitive development and nutrition to be delivered at a college in London and this involved her spending many fulfilling hours in various libraries in the capital.

Mata took her lady-of-the manor duties seriously and went about the estate with Erna or Martin, chairing committees, visiting the sick and organising jumble sales.  “We were a family without a kingdom and now I have my own,” she joked to Martin and Martin was pleased to see her so happy.

While Stephen had no engineering work at present, he decided to visit as many of his men in the Sans Culottes as possible and caught up with the Spinners and their little daughter, now at school, and with the Swanes in South London.  Most were happy families but, as Tolstoy observed, those that were troubled were so uniquely and Stephen did what he could for them.  When he journeyed north he took Carlo with him, so as not to sleep alone of course, but also because he always felt he could talk easily about the War and his old comrades with his batman— perhaps even more so than with Martin himself.

Martin had his own duties, now shared with Mata, and there was his garden and his stamp collection— issues depicting the new king were distressingly plain but he already had the ones from Great Britain and was now seeking some ‘over-printed’ for use in British Post Offices in Morocco and he had ordered ones yet to be issued from the dominions and colonies. However Martin was most pleased that the new reign had seen, thanks to the persistent efforts of Daniel Sachs MP, the library begun where the old pound once stood.  It encapsulated most of Martin’s ideas and the design was pulled together by an architect from London who made the building long and low on its site and set it back from the road behind lawn and trees— birch trees being chosen by the architect.

Martin was looking at the glass bricks being laid when Stephen came up to him.  “It’s going well. Mala.  How long?”

“By the end of the year I hope.  I was thinking that I would read to the children myself and, oh, do you know those doors which open automatically when you break a beam of light?”  Stephen did.  “Well, I was wondering if we could afford one for the library— they are great fun.”  Stephen privately feared that they were very expensive and prone to fail and that children of all ages and ranks would indeed find automatic doors to be great fun, but said: “Why not ask the architect, Mala?  If it would make you happy, why not?”

“What have you been doing?”

“Oh I had tea with Miss Tadrew and then I went out to see the extension to Sutton’s factory.”

“There’s a lot of building on the estate after so many quiet years.”

“Yes,” said Stephen.  “Mala, I was thinking, I’d really like to go to Salisbury to see Clarence Lovell.”

“Oh Derby, do you think you should?  I mean you were so very upset the last time and he is quite mad, isn’t he?  Has he been causing Sutton trouble?”

“No, Sutton says he hasn’t heard from him in months and was wondering if he was alright or even if he had gone away.”

“Derbs, I know you felt something for him.  You’re not going to Salisbury just to sleep with him?”

“That’s the trouble, Mala, I don’t know.  Do you care if I do?”

“Yes I care, of course, but I don’t mind, if you think you must.  It is a strange relationship, Derbs, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I suppose it is and you must be the most understanding boyfriend in all of Dorset.”

“It’s better to be understanding than naïve I suppose,” said Martin with a shrug.  “Just remember who loves you best and be back by Friday— we’ve got Philip and Constance and The Plunger and Teddy and Dongo and I think the Chetwolds coming for a picnic and a shoot.”

Stephen drove up to Salisbury, which was less than thirty miles away.  He idled his time away in the town before driving out to Victoria Road at 6:00 when he thought Clarence Lovell was likely to be back from the pub or from whatever business engagements he had, real or in his imagination.  He felt a distinct nervousness in his stomach as he drew nearer and replayed the scenes of their previous encounter through his mind.  He did not bother to hide his Packard roadster as he was determined to tell Clarence who he really was; it was the lies he had told, he decided, that were making him feel sick.  He was not used to betraying others.

The house was there as before and a light showed behind the curtains in the sitting room.  Stephen sat for a few minutes wishing that he smoked.  Then in a single movement of arms and legs, he got out of the car and walked up to the door.  He rang and, after what seemed an age but was really less than a minute, the door was opened by Clarence.  “Stephen!” he said in surprise.

Stephen realised that he hadn’t prepared a speech or worked out what to say.  “I wanted to see you, Clarence and I drove here.  How are you?”

“I’m fine, Stephen— we’re all fine,” he said in humorous reference to the voices he heard.

“Good, I’m glad you are,” said Stephen nervously, “I was worried you see and…”

“We can’t stand here on the step, come in lad.”

They passed into the living room, which Stephen immediately noticed was tidier than before, then suddenly he became aware of another person in the room— a young man sitting with a familial ease in the club chair adjacent to the wireless.

“Stephen, this is Bobby.  Bobby lives here now and we are in business together.”

Stephen didn’t have to be told the first part and he was suddenly terribly confused and wasn’t sure that he didn’t want to cry.  “How d’you do.” he managed to say and Bobby half rose and shook his hand.  “I met Stephen last year,” continued Clarence.  “We have mutual friends and Stephen was good enough to cheer me up when I was feeling down.”

“He’s a very handsome fellow,” said Bobby eyeing him hungrily and Stephen was unnerved and thought the fellow’s tone was insolent.

“Stephen lives at Branksome-le-Bourne and is a friend of my brother-in-law.  He is such a kind fellow and always promised to drop in to see how I’m getting on.  And now he has.”

Stephen mustered some organization and said, “I was passing on my way back home and I remembered that John asked me to look in and it is certainly marvellous to see you looking so well Clarence.”

“Yes, a little mad, but quite well, aren’t I Bob?”

“Yes,” said Bobby absently and then mumbled something about his cooking.

“Well,” said Stephen, ”I must be going and I won’t keep you…” and he made a move to the door.

“Wait, I’ll show you out.  Listen to the weather report for me Bobby,” said Clarence and Stephen heard the wireless being switched on.

In the hall, Stephen felt the tears come.  “I wanted to see you Clarence, after what happened last time and I felt terribly bad about lying to you.  How did you know…?”

“I didn’t at first, but I put two and two together and made some enquiries.  You’re Lord Branksome’s boyfriend aren’t you.”

Stephen nodded miserably.  “Sutton was worried about you,” said Stephen trying to salvage what wasn’t quite a lie, “and I said I’d come and speak to you and then I saw you going to the cottage and…what happened wasn’t false, Clarence, and I came here tonight to try to make it right.”

“That’s alright.  We were good together and I’ve never been fucked like that before.” There was a pause and the wireless could be plainly heard.  “I’ve been lucky Stephen.  I’ve met Bobby and we get along together all right.  Actually he’s pretty hopeless and he needs me more than the other way around.  We’ve started this business, see, selling door seals and stair rods and things like that door-to-door, only we don’t do the selling, we get others to do that and we just given them the district and send the goods to them.  They have to pay us a little bit and we do most of it on the telephone.  Clever eh?”  Stephen nodded, eyes downcast.

“I suppose I can be a bit erratic and I suppose John Sutton was scared, but I meant no harm and, as you said, he’s good to me.  Tell him that.  I say, your Lord is a lucky fellow.”  Stephen managed a faint smile at his tone.  “Does he service you well?”

“Oh yes, Clarence and I love him.  He’s very good looking you know.”

“Better looking than old Clarence?”  Stephen said nothing and Clarence laughed softly.  “Last year was good, Stephen, but, well, it was last year.  Let’s not spoil anything, eh?”

“Yes, you’re right of course.  It’s just a shock I suppose.”

“Yes it was a shock for me, last year I mean.  Thank you for that, Stephen.”  He reached up and kissed Stephen on his parted lips and Stephen did not seem to react.  “Well yes,” said Clarence a little flustered himself and then he grinned as he ran a cheeky hand down Stephen’s trousers to where Stephen’s organ sagged in disappointment.  He gave it a tweak in fond remembrance and Stephen managed a weak smile.  “The Creole woman says thank you for coming, Stephen.”

“Does she?”

“Actually, no.  I haven’t heard her or the man lately.  And you really couldn’t hear them?”

“No,”

“Well, thank you for coming, Stephen and I had better get back to Bobby.  He likes to listen-in to In Town Tonight. 

***** 

The shooting weekend was upon them.  Stephen told Martin something of what had happened in Salisbury.  Martin tried not to feel glad that the affair had been still-born, but he could not help himself, for he did want Stephen to love him exclusively and there was no use pretending otherwise.  However for Stephen’s sake he commiserated and tried to understand the strangeness of it all and he hoped that Stephen would get over it.

It being October there were a great many game birds on the estate and ptarmigan and pheasants were particularly plentiful this year.  Philip Rous-Poole greatly enjoyed himself and couldn’t help but think what he might do should the estate ever come to him.  Constance did not go out in the morning but did condescend to visit the nursery with the ladies where they saw the evidence that Will and Charlotte were now toddling and were rapidly developing little personalities of their own.  Constance was reproved for not bringing her own children and she smiled and apologised, all the while thinking that the weekend was already awful enough and, after the picnic luncheon, spent a considerable amount of time prowling through the rooms taking inventory, as it were, and casting jealous looks at Mata’s clothes.

“There’s no doubt in this wide world,” she said to her husband in the bed they were compelled to share, “that baby Will is the son of Knight-Poole and do you know what, I think the little girl is his too.”

“So Stephen sleeps with the two women?”

“He must do, Philip.”

“Both of them?  By Jove he’s a fellow, Connie!” he said in admiration.  “I don’t know if I could come at the German one, but that Princess Mata is a bit of alright.”  Chilvers down the passage heard the slap quite clearly.

“How’s your mother getting on, Connie?” ventured Philip changing the subject and holding his cheek.

“She saw Emerald Cunard yesterday and she has put the situation to Wallis and she has promised to raise it with His Majesty next week.  I think that is progress, don’t you?”

“Yes, as long as Queen Mary doesn’t interfere; she’s very fond of them.”

“Oh I am too, it’s just the injustice of it all and so I must crush other feelings.  You may kiss me then go to sleep.  You know she has a sitting for a portrait tomorrow and I believe she will be in her Coronation robes.  I hope that she is not counting her chickens, Philip.” 

***** 

In late November Mildred Polk-Stewart, at the urging of her daughter and son-in-law, had herself invited to Lady Cunard’s once again.  It was an important political lunch and she found herself sitting next to the chatty Mr Channon, a fellow American but now a thoroughly British Member of Parliament, but further up the table on either side of her, Emerald had placed Mrs Simpson and the German ambassador, Herr von Ribbentrop, whom Mildred thought boorish rather than charming.  The conversation was glittering, but Mildred could remember little of it, so consumed was her mind with other matters.  Mrs Simpson left early because she had to see the King at Fort Belvedere, she said, but did say to her that she had spoken to His Majesty and thus Mrs Polk-Stewart left Number 4 Grosvenor Square slightly strengthened in her view that the present Marquess of Branksome may indeed be on borrowed time. 

That night, from the roof of her block of flats, she and Toby Heath, like many other Londoners, watched the immense glow in the sky to the southeast as the Crystal Palace burned and wondered what it all signified.

Two days later as she went to telephone Lady Cunard and glanced out of the window she found that London, in fact all England, had gone mad. “What is going on Toby?” she asked as she saw the newsvendors in the Brompton Road.  Teddy borrowed a shilling and went out and came back with the morning papers.  The story of the King and Mrs Simpson, who was now divorced from Mr Simpson, was all over them and for the next few days the whole of society, from her maid (whom she told to shut up) to Maude Vane-Gillingham, found itself compelled to take issue and speculate about what had happened and what would happen.

“This is 1936,” Constance said. “Isn’t it better that they marry and keep it all above board?” and “He’s the King of England, can’t he just make it the law?”  Mrs Polk-Stewart’s opinions carried less weight than those at Croome where Stephen and Martin had good reason for holding Mrs Simpson in the gravest suspicion and together believed that if the King didn’t give her up, he should go.”

“Derby, I think he’s a bad lot,” concluded Martin at one point. “I hate to say it, but, there, I have.”

Mildred telephoned Emerald only to be told tersely that Mrs Simpson had crossed the channel— alone.  Many believed that this was the end of the matter, but it wasn’t and the pot continued to boil until it boiled-over.  The crisis was reached: The King made his broadcast, which was solemnly listened to on the snappy green Bakelite wireless in Mata and Erna’s room and on the expensive radiograms at Broughton Lodge and now in Custard’s flat in Half Moon Street and the Red Drawing Room at Croome where Stephen and Martin sat grimly with Harry Myles; it came through the ether into the sitting room at Victoria Road where Bobby twiddled the knob and into M. Lefaux’s kitchen, where Lily Beck was in tears as she tried to explain it to the Frenchman.  By shortwave it reached into Mrs Chadwick’s house in far off Antibes where the elderly lady, like millions of others, wept at the tragedy of it all.

When Toby Heath came back to the Brompton Road he found Mildred in a panic.  She swept past him in the hall and put on her hat and coat, was rude to her maid again and took a taxi to Grosvenor Square.  There she found Lady Cunard in tears too— tears of rage.  “How could he do this to me!” she cried in anguish through clenched teeth, clutching her handkerchief in her fist. 

Mildred Polk-Stewart felt she couldn’t have expressed it better herself.

To be continued…