A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 3

  The door opened and Alexander turned as Pieter Heering entered accompanied by two men who he introduced as the general manager, Jeremy Sydling, and Philip Preston, the financial controller. The men shook hands and chatted about this and that, while Pieter consulted with his secretary, who had entered unobtrusively by a side door.

  “Now,” he said, a hand on Alexander’s arm, “I want to talk to this young man and in a while we’ll join you in the dining room for lunch. Shall we say,” he glanced at his watch, “in about half an hour?”

  The two men nodded, withdrew from the room, and Pieter indicated a chair in front of his desk. As Alexander sat down, he held out a silver cigarette case. Alexander shook his head. Pieter looked surprised.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I do, but I don’t want one now thank you, sir.”

  Pieter smiled, snapped the case shut and sat down behind his large imposing desk which faced the river. He joined his hands under his chin and regarded the handsome young man sitting in front of him.

  “So, Alexander.”

  “So!” Alexander placed his hands across his knees and smiled at a man he liked, but didn’t know very well. Like Prosper Martyn, Heering was childless, although he had been married for many years to a large, friendly Dutch lady called Beatrix, who preferred to live in Amsterdam and rarely accompanied her husband to London.

  Occasionally Pieter would come for dinner at the Martyn’s house in Montagu Square which, since Prosper’s death and until recently, had been shut up.

  “I hope one day you will sit at this desk in this chair, Alexander, as chairman of the company. Should you reach this position, you will be a man of great fortune and influence.” Alexander looked round while Pieter watched him closely. “Tell me, do you feel drawn to business, Alexander, or is there something else you would rather do? It is no use coming into this if it is not for you. I believe at different times both Sir Guy and then his son, Sir Carson Woodville, worked for this firm with unhappy results.”

  “I am not related to the Woodvilles,” Alexander replied smoothly. “In fact I am not related to anyone. I think that you know I was adopted in infancy, my parents unknown. I come to you, then, with a very clear slate, and I am most interested in all aspects of the business.”

  Pieter looked pleased. “You are very honest.”

  “You see there is nothing in the blood, as it were. I do not know who I am.”

  Pieter’s face puckered with sympathy but Alexander appeared unconcerned. “There is no need to feel concern on my behalf. I feel nothing but gratitude to my adoptive parents. I was never very close to my father, but my mother has given me all the love and affection a man could possibly want.”

  “She adores you,” Pieter agreed. “I am glad that you feel so relaxed about your origins. With reason. You have had a wonderful home, much better than the one you might otherwise have been brought up in, and you will lack for nothing as your mother’s heir. You are already, I understand, a very wealthy young man, yet anxious not to fritter your life away.”

  “I am interested in making a good career and doing something useful,” Alexander assured him. “I would like to start work as soon as I can. I’ve had a very good summer: I travelled abroad; I helped a young friend to learn to ride; and I spent a lot of time in the country.”

  “In your beautiful Dorset home?”

  “Exactly. The Woodvilles and their relations are my mother’s friends and my friends. I regard them as a kind of family. We are close. But I do not take after them.”

  Alexander stood up and walked again to the window. Then he turned to gaze steadily at the chairman. “What happened to Sir Guy and Sir Carson, whom, incidentally, I revere, has no bearing on what will happen to me. I am eager to learn the business from the humblest beginnings.”

  Alexander walked home in the late-afternoon sunshine reflecting on his meeting with the Chairman of the Board, a position he might conceivably occupy himself one day. Although at twenty-two it seemed a very long time away, perhaps another twenty years.

  He was not ambitious to be chairman but to fulfil himself, to justify himself, particularly to Lally, the woman who had adopted him and given him unstintingly of her love. Although he had had everything a boy, then an adolescent, then a young man, could have wished, he had not been spoilt. He had been brought up with kindness but a certain firmness. Lally never tired of telling him of her own humble origins, and thus reminding him of his. In other words they both had much to be grateful for.

  Pieter Heering was quite right. If he’d been abandoned as an infant his parents must have been poor, possibly destitute. His mother might have been a woman of the streets, perhaps plying her trade in the environs of nearby Hyde Park, knowing that only wealthy folk lived in the surrounding squares. The Martyns’ home might have been chosen at random as a place to dump him.

  It was an issue that from time to time absorbed him. Nevertheless, he enjoyed his leisurely walk along Fleet Street, through Trafalgar Square bustling with traffic and pedestrians making their way home, through St James’s, London’s smart clubland where, in due course, he would probably be a member of a number of distinguished gentlemen’s clubs, as Prosper Martyn had been. He walked along Piccadilly and through Shepherd’s Market where he noticed more acutely than usual the number of women strolling casually along the streets, loitering on the corners, or hanging out of windows ogling him. Maybe his mother had once been among them? He shuddered and hurried on through Mayfair, across Oxford Street and into leafy Montagu Square, which had been his home ever since he could remember.

  It was with a sense of relief that he put his key in the door and let himself in.

  “Is that you, darling?”

  “Mother!” he cried with genuine pleasure as Lally came along the hall to greet him, the enticing fragrance of her perfume enveloping him as he stooped to kiss her. “You look divine,” he breathed.

  And indeed she did. He thought of her as his mother and called her by that name. Sometimes he felt not only that he loved her, but that he was a little ‘in love’ with her, as though their relationship, although not in any way sordid or reprehensible, had another dimension that would have been called into question if they had been blood relations. They doted on each other, loved each other’s company, could while away many happy hours alone together, hated to be separated for too long, were almost like lovers in their joy when they saw each other again.

  Lally was a petite woman with a slim, beautiful figure, her cornflower-blue eyes still vivid and serene, her skin flawless. Her blonde hair was carefully tinted and worn as it had been since anyone could remember in a mass of tight little curls on the top of her head with dozens of tiny ringlets behind. It was almost impossible to think that this woman, who looked no more than forty or forty-five, had been born in 1860. But to Lally appearance had always been of utmost importance. She had lived for the admiration of men and now she lived for the love, the worship, of Alexander.

  “How was the day, darling?” she asked him in caressing tones. “How was Pieter?” She led him into the drawing room which gave onto the square. In the twilight the gas lamps were being lit, their soft glow casting shadows, the trees taking on mysterious shapes. It was a long gracious room with a high ceiling, but at present it was in a state of chaos. With the prospect of Alexander joining the business, Lally was in the process of refurbishing the house and was up to her elbows in samples, swatches of material and catalogues of all kinds, that, when not in use lay on the carpet, the sofas and the chairs. However, the untidiness was controlled and, as Alexander sank into one of the chairs covered with a white sheet, Lally solicitously poured him a drink and handed it to him.

  “I thought we’d have champagne,” she said fetching her own glass. “It’s such a lovely way to start the evening.”

  “It is,” Alexander agreed and, raising his glass, toasted her.

  “Tell me about Pieter.”

  “Well, it was pretty much what you expected. He wants me in th
e firm. I was given lunch with the board who were all very charming and,” he put his glass on the table beside him, “I can start when I like.”

  “That is wonderful, and one day you’ll be chairman?” Lally looked at him anxiously. “Pieter promised me that.”

  “Well, not immediately.” Alexander laughed. “Not for many years.”

  “It was Prosper’s wish, and Julius’s,” Lally said stubbornly.

  “I can’t understand what happened to all the Heerings and the Martyns.” Alexander scratched his head in bewilderment. “I mean Julius had brothers, so did Prosper. Why does it come down to me when I am not even a relation?”

  “But you are a relation ...”

  “By adoption, not by blood.”

  He had that familiar feeling of sadness, of alienation, almost of rejection, of a person who had no roots. Sometimes the sadness threatened to overwhelm him despite his acknowledgement of how fortunate he was.

  Lally came quietly over to him, the folds of her tea-gown making a slight swishing noise as she walked. She changed several times a day even when she was by herself. This afternoon she wore a dress, the hem about ten inches from the ground, made of a clinging voile with a pattern of large navy-blue flowers on a white background and a large blue bow at the scooped neckline. She always smelt delicious never varying her perfume, that of the subtle Arpège by Lanvin. Perching on the arm of Alexander’s chair she let her fingers run delicately up the back of his neck in a caress that was almost lover-like.

  Her love for Alexander was unsurprising. Apart from his sweet disposition and his place in her heart as her adopted son, in looks he was a lady killer: tall, athletic, yet languid when it suited him, with the air of an aesthete and the manners of a dandy. At Oxford he had cut a swathe among the ladies with his charm, his elegance, his undoubted beauty. He had thick straight black hair, high cheekbones and deeply recessed, dark, unfathomable eyes that seemed all-seeing and all-knowing.

  “What is it, darling? You’re broody, out of sorts. I don’t like my boy like this. Do you really want to work for Martyn-Heering? Is there something else you’d like to do? Would you like to farm, go into the army or simply be a man of leisure and travel round the world?” She sat up, an expression of sudden excitement on her face. “We could do that together, Alexander. Take a trip through Europe, the Middle East and Asia. Oh, I’d love that ...”

  “Mother, Mother.” Alexander chuckled, taking her hand. “Don’t get carried away. You know that I would despise myself if I did nothing. No, I do want to work and the sooner the better. I told Pieter Heering that but, at the same time, I would like to know who I am. Don’t you understand?” As he looked at her gravely she lowered her eyes.

  “I am so afraid, Alexander.”

  “But afraid of what?”

  “That if you knew the truth you might ...” she hesitated.

  “Might what?” He clasped her hand tightly, sensing something. Lally wrenched her hand away and walked rapidly across the room.

  “You know ... maybe not like me as much, love somebody else. I couldn’t bear that.”

  “That’s impossible.” Alexander rose and, crossing the room, put his arm around her tiny waist and nestled his cheek against hers. “Nothing that I could ever learn would interfere with my love for you, Mother.” He raised his head and looked at her closely. “Is it remotely possible that, even after all this time, I can find out how I came to be left here, find any clue as to who my parents were?”

  Lally shook her head, hands clenched in front of her, fighting desperately the feeling of panic that invaded her heart.

  Connie Woodville tossed the letter across the table to her companion at breakfast.

  “I have been invited to Eliza’s seventieth birthday. Shall I go?

  Paolo Colomb-Paravicini picked up the letter and quickly assimilated its contents. Then he handed it back to her and smiled.

  “It is entirely up to you, my love.”

  “I think not.”

  Connie rose and, going over to one of the long windows, gazed across the Venetian lagoon. Its shimmering water, on a fine September morning, was a wonderful sight with the gondolas gliding by and the little vaporetti skimming swiftly over the surface. For a while she remained there, arms folded, lost in thought.

  Paolo had arrived for breakfast after the boys had been taken to school by their nursemaid, Mafalda, who also took Netta, the youngest, along for company. They would stroll back, stopping to gossip with the many friends Mafalda would encounter on the way, dallying by one of the street markets that proliferated in the city, and possibly not come home before lunch.

  It was almost two years since Carson had brought his ex-mistress home without a word of explanation to his wife. For many weeks, she had endured a situation which she found intolerable as he seldom left Nelly’s side. It was true that the woman had been very sick. Perhaps she should have tried to be more sympathetic, but Carson had taken too much for granted and in the end Connie had had enough. He probably hadn’t even noticed she had left.

  But, there, waiting for her in Venice like a patient old dog, had been Paolo ready to comfort and commiserate despite the fact that years before she had thrown him over for Carson. Left him, as it were, on the heap. It was a wonder he had forgiven her.

  Count Colomb-Paravicini had one of the oldest names in the Venetian aristocracy. His forebears had been statesmen, soldiers, princes of the church. He was gentle, scholarly, tender and warm. She knew instinctively that he would never have brought an ex-mistress to his home, however sick, and expect her to be treated like royalty.

  Paolo, trying to divine her thoughts, watched her with love in his eyes. He had lost her once and he didn’t want to lose her again. But he had to be patient and wise and, above all, not too possessive. She was seventeen years his junior and, though not a girl, one had to respect her desire for space. Although she had been disappointed in her marriage, perhaps she was still in love with her husband, and could not be hurried.

  Connie turned and strolled slowly back to the table, sat down opposite Paolo and stared at him.

  “I have asked Carson for a divorce. I can hardly go back to Pelham’s Oak for a party.”

  Despite the joyful leap of his heart, Paolo’s well-bred features remained remarkably composed, scarcely a muscle in his face flickered.

  “When did you decide that?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “And what does he say?”

  “No.” Connie smiled briefly. “But I think it is only a bargaining point to get the children.

  “But you wouldn’t let him have the children?”

  “Of course not. I mean he can see them, as he does now.”

  “And he wants to have them living with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meanwhile he won’t give you a divorce and you’ve got the children. It seems like stalemate.”

  Connie shifted restlessly in her chair and poured herself another cup of coffee.

  “I thought I might agree that the boys should be educated in England. I mean Toby is his heir. Through his own fault, Carson didn’t have much of an education but he wants his sons to have a good one, and I agree. I’m going to suggest that that happens, in exchange for a divorce.”

  “And then will you marry me?”

  Paolo looked hopefully at her. Connie gave him a brief, tantalising smile.

  “Perhaps. If you’re good.”

  “I’ll be very good,” he said and, leaning across the table, took her hand and kissed it.

  ***

  Deborah Sadler threw the letter on her husband’s desk her cheeks scarlet with excitement.

  “We are invited to a party!” she cried with an emphasis on the pronoun. “What do you think of that? To Pelham’s Oak for Aunt Eliza’s seventieth birthday.”

  “My, my.” Bart Sadler took up the letter and read it. “Signed by Dora,” he said looking up. “Do you think this means peace has broken out at last?”

  Debora
h stared at her husband with an air of exasperation.

  “Don’t you want to go?” she demanded.

  “What do you want?” He leaned across the desk towards her and she thought yet again what an unreasonable man he was. He only thought of himself, never considering her wishes or those of others. Once, when she had been lonely and depressed he had seemed very attractive: a strong, forceful man much older than her, of experience and wealth, who had swept her off her feet, turning Cinderella into a princess. Alas, that seemed rather a long time ago.

  “I know you don’t like Aunt Eliza,” she said petulantly.

  “No,” he corrected her gently, “she doesn’t like me.”

  “My mother won’t go if we go,” Deborah said.

  “That’s your mama’s loss.”

  Deborah sighed and turned away from Bart who got on with the accounts that he was working on, as if she didn’t exist. She stood for a while, arms akimbo, gazing broodingly out of the window. Of course he didn’t understand. Ever since their marriage Bart and Deborah had been ostracised by those people in Wenham and beyond who were connected to the Woodville family either by blood or friendship. Bart, a man of fifty-two at the time, had eloped with the daughter of a woman who had once been his mistress, Sophie Turner, now the wife of the much respected rector of Wenham. This was, understandably, a matter of considerable regret, mortification and shame to Sophie and she eschewed all contact with her daughter, her son-in-law, or her grandchild, their infant daughter Helen.

  Bart really didn’t care, but Deborah longed for reconciliation and friendship. She missed her mother and her stepfather, her younger half-brother, Timothy-James, but not the elder one, Sam. She saw her younger sister, Ruth, and her Uncle Carson, but Bart had offended Aunt Eliza by tricking her, with his customary ruthlessness, into selling him her house.

  It was thus rather a lonely world that Deborah inhabited. She had too much time to herself in which to brood and think how much better off she might have been married to a man more her own age.