Chapter 6
After showing Clementine her room, Elizabeth made her way down the corridor to her own bedroom to gather herself.
Seeing Edwin’s painting always unsettled her.
As if Jasper’s untoward appearance hadn’t rattled her enough.
She wasn’t sure how she was managing to remain serene when all she wanted to do was scream.
At the injustice of it all, and her own weakness, and the mess that was her life.
She sank onto the stool in front of her dressing table and stared at the photograph of Edwin she kept by the mirror.
She looked at it every time she sat there; a portrait taken on his eighteenth birthday.
She tried never to think about how old he would be now, or to picture what he might look like.
It was hard enough to remember every single thing about him, his every feature, his laugh, his voice, his smell, even.
Every time she conjured him up, the pain ripped through her anew.
She felt it in her heart, in her belly where she’d carried him, in every vein as the blood pumped the agony around her body. Would it ever bloody stop?
With a slightly shaking hand, she retouched her lipstick and dabbed some rouge on her cheeks, then tipped some perfume onto her wrists and rubbed them together.
Thank God Jasper had respected her wishes and made himself scarce.
He had known that was the gentlemanly thing to do, but she couldn’t always guarantee his chivalry.
His frustration with the situation sometimes made him behave badly, although he was always sorry afterwards.
‘I sometimes think I’ll go mad with it,’ he said.
It was madness, how it had all begun.
When they left school, Jasper and Edwin had racketed about London, meeting the great and the good, dancing with ravishing girls and breaking their hearts, the pair of them, endlessly photographed in Tatler and Harper’s Bazaar and the gossip columns.
Jasper was extremely eligible, having come into a substantial amount of money left to him by his mother, and Edwin was making a name for himself.
Edwin had brought plenty of girls home to Foxwood, all perfectly charming, and all enchanted by the house, of course.
Elizabeth could see the hunger in their eyes, saw each of them imagining herself in Elizabeth’s place one day.
She could see them planning the wedding, the subsequent christenings, the parties, the croquet matches.
And, of course, there was the Snow Ball, where legions of them jostled for prime position and Edwin danced with all of them, seemingly oblivious to their charms. Until Meg, of course.
Poor darling Meg, his fiancée, who hadn’t been able to come to Edwin’s memorial because of the war.
No one had expected her to come all the way from America.
It had been overwhelming, the memorial, brimming with memories and meaning, and by the end of it she wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse, although the vicar (it had been dear old Reverend Cartwright then, not the ghastly Reverend Elphick) had told her it would help her heal, that it would give her a certain peace of mind.
It was Jasper, on leave from fighting in Egypt, who had stepped in, without hesitation, when Michael had broken down the night before and declared he couldn’t go through with the eulogy.
He had walked up to the lectern, squaring his shoulders for the biggest challenge of his life so far – and he’d had a few of those in combat.
She had seen his hand shaking on the notes, hastily written with her help, but he’d done a wonderful job, making them all laugh with his memories of Edwin’s antics, his voice only breaking towards the end when he urged them to take a moment to remember the man he called ‘the brightest flame on the London art scene, an artist who never painted the same thing twice, who brought his eye for beauty and detail to every single painting’.
It was then Elizabeth saw a gravitas in Jasper that made him go up in her estimation.
She didn’t admit to herself that Michael had gone down.
Jasper had telephoned, a year or so after the war ended, having been demobbed, to see how she was and to invite her for lunch.
‘I’ve found something I think you should have,’ he told her.
She took the train up to London from Breverton, the first time she’d been since Edwin died, for she had no heart for shopping or meeting friends even though the war was over.
Jasper was lean and tanned from his time in the desert.
He had taken her to a funny little Italian in Soho, plied her with pale gold Soave that made her relax after just half a glass and talked to her, properly talked to her, about how she felt and what she was going to do with her life.
For the first time in a long time she felt like a person in her own right.
She and Michael hadn’t yet found a way to be with each other.
He was closed up, frozen, would never talk about Edwin although she longed to.
‘I have no idea how to live,’ she told Jasper. ‘Nothing seems to have any point. There’s the garden, I suppose …’
She shrugged and took another sip of her wine.
‘Edwin would want you to be sad, because he was a vain bugger,’ he said. ‘But not for ever. What can we find for you to do, I wonder?’
He looked at her and her cheeks went warm and her head swam. It must be the wine, she thought, so she put her glass down. And he suggested coffee at his flat, so he could show her what he had found.
‘It was in a pile of paintings Edwin had been working on,’ Jasper explained once they were back in his living room. ‘He left them here and it’s taken me this long to find the courage to look at them. Most of them are of no consequence but this one …’
He held it up.
She gasped at the sight of it. It was a portrait of her, full length, sitting in her favourite chair in a black silk moiré evening dress, holding up a coupe of champagne.
When – how? – had he painted it? He must have painted it from memory for she had never posed for him.
He had captured every single feature with startling clarity, the curve of her lips, the light in her eye, each lash, each strand of hair.
There was no clue as to the occasion. It could have been one of many parties they’d had at the house.
Overwhelmed, she put her face in her hands, and began to sob.
Alarmed, Jasper came over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry. It was supposed to be a comfort. How careless. Forgive me.’
‘It is a comfort. It’s wonderful,’ she managed between sobs. ‘But oh …’ She couldn’t articulate the pain. Instead, she leaned in to Jasper, falling against his chest, then felt his arms go around her as he pulled her tight.
‘Shhhh,’ he said. ‘Shush. It’s all right.’
He stroked her hair and rocked her until she stopped.
And then she looked up at him, and it seemed the right thing to do, to kiss him, because she wanted to feel anything other than cold, hard, numbing grief, so she slid her hands into his hair, pulled his face towards hers and kissed him, properly kissed him, tasting Soave and cigarettes and bitter black coffee and him.
‘I didn’t mean for this to happen,’ he told her as they drew breath. ‘This wasn’t my intention.’
He looked genuinely remorseful.
‘Of course not,’ she said, and kissed him again. A sweet energy was pumping through her that made her feel almost reborn. It was sharp, urgent, compelling. ‘Take me to bed.’
‘Really?’ His dark eyes were troubled. ‘I don’t want us to do something we’ll regret. Something reckless.’
‘That’s exactly what I want,’ she replied. ‘I want to be totally, utterly and completely reckless. Now.’
She followed him into the bedroom with no thought for the consequences.
What surprised her was not how good in bed he was – she had taken that for granted – but how tender and kind he was, more thoughtful than passionate, taking it so slowly and gently she fell into a place of unadulterated (though that was hardly the right word – this was definitely adultery) bliss followed by the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that her body and mind had craved for months.
All these years on, how on earth was she supposed to stop the affair with Jasper?
Elizabeth thought. She and Michael had reached a kind of impasse, circling around each other politely, all passion spent.
They loved each other, but grief had eaten away any ardour.
Their marriage felt like duty. They still shared a bed, but every time they reached for each other, it was silent, and felt automatic, like something they had to go through because it was expected, with no hint of the heat there had once been between them.
And she had never had any idea what he was thinking, whether he was longing for her touch, or dreading it.
Whether he truly loved or simply tolerated her.
His declaration to Alexandra earlier, that he wouldn’t jeopardise their marriage for the world, was probably true enough, for there was too much at stake.
Foxwood, the factory, the family. But otherwise, they had reached stalemate.
They could stumble along like this until the end of time, she supposed, but it felt wrong. And sad. She knew it was up to her to change things. Men were far too accepting of the status quo in a marriage. It was always the women who took charge.
She tensed as she heard a light tap on her door. Tippity-tip. Was it Clementine? Had she overlooked some essential? Elizabeth was proud of her reputation as the perfect hostess.
‘Come in!’
It was Alfie. Dear, darling Alfie, with a rather sheepish smile on his face.
‘I just wondered,’ he said, ambling in with his hands in his pockets, ‘what you think of Clementine?’
‘I think she’s a delight. From what I’ve seen so far. Charming, and confident, but not full of herself.’
Elizabeth felt a rush of fondness for her youngest son.
It must have been hard for Alfie, being first in Edwin’s shadow, then in the shadow of his death, but he’d handled both with his characteristic grace.
She was so very proud of him, and it was a joy to see his eyes shine when he spoke about Clementine.
Elizabeth’s assessment of the girl was genuine, and she chided herself for not being more focussed on her. Bloody Jasper, stealing her attention.
‘I feel as if I’ve known her all my life,’ Alfie was saying. ‘Not just five minutes. Is that usual?’
‘I think it’s a very good sign. When everything’s right, it’s sort of a comforting feeling, more than anything.’ That had been true with Michael. She felt the needling flash of guilt again.
‘That’s exactly it! I can imagine everything with her. It’s extraordinary.’
‘It’s what you deserve, darling.’
‘I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t completely delusional.’
Elizabeth knew it was important for people, especially your children, to make up their own mind about things.
She had never been interfering, either as a wife or a mother.
You gave them your opinion and your advice, then let things run their course, and made sure you were there to support whatever decision was made.
But she had liked Clementine from the moment she’d walked out onto the terrace.
She was perfect for her boy. Pretty but not too pretty, clever but not too clever, kind, thoughtful (she had helped Daisy with the clearing away, and that showed she didn’t think too much of herself) and charming.
Charm was very important in life. It got you through most things.
‘You have my seal of approval. And, I think, Alexandra’s, which is even more of an achievement.’
Alfie laughed. ‘Almost an impossibility.’
Elizabeth turned back to her dressing table.
To the left was an ivory jewellery box inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
She lifted the lid and rummaged until she found a small satin pouch.
She held it out to Alfie. ‘This was my mother’s.
It was her engagement ring. You might like to keep it for the right moment. When it comes.’
Alfie opened the pouch. Inside was a square-cut sapphire ring. He held it up to the light, admiring the brilliance of the cluster of diamonds surrounding the large blue stone. The very colour of Clementine’s eyes.
‘Thank you. This means the world.’
‘It would have meant the world to Granny, for you to have it,’ she told him.
Alfie slipped the ring back into its pouch.
He gave her a look of such gratitude and appreciation, it made her feel uncomfortable.
Would he be so appreciative if he knew the truth?
Her betrayal of his father? Michael, after all, had done absolutely nothing to deserve it, not really.
Far from it. He was kind and loyal and protective and generous.
Elizabeth watched Alfie put the pouch in his trouser pocket.
All she wanted for Alfie was a happy, uncomplicated marriage that wouldn’t lead either him or Clementine to make the same mistake she had.
And if they did get married, it would herald a new phase in their lives.
All the more reason for her to leave the old phase in hers behind.
There were more important things on the horizon.