Charles Harding had invited us all to his house in Gloucestershire for Sunday lunch. We would come bearing gifts. Or more precisely the gift of Elizabeth. He should beware.
Dominick and I drove in silence. Earlier, we had had another conversation about our marriage. He had lain beside me, physically satisfied, or finished—whichever—some lonely sensuality draining from his face. His blond hair fell limply across his forehead. His eyes, without his glasses, seemed somehow out of focus as he stroked my hair and whispered, “Ruth … you’re breaking my heart.”
I sighed.
“You’ve got what you wanted. Me.”
We should not try to take what we know is not ours. Even if by some miracle it becomes available to us.
“Do you know what a catastrophe is, Ruth?”
“I think so.”
“No. In mathematics. Do you know what the word catastrophe means … in mathematics?”
“No.”
“It means ‘a system that disturbs another.’ You have disturbed me. You’ve invaded me.”
“Indeed. Well, there are other invasions.”
I rose to shower. After the invasion. Modern woman, modern moves. So hygienic.
“We have too many of these conversations.” My morning memory faded. We were now in the car.
“Maybe. You did pursue me, Dominick. And I’m not breaking any promises. Look. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s enjoy it. It will be interesting to see Sir Charles on home ground.”
I was anxious not to have an obvious tension between Dominick and me. So unattractive, so demeaning. In front of Charles. So I placated him.
A woman adored—and of course I was—can do anything. Particularly when she makes so few mistakes. We were balanced. His love. My coldness. I wondered if Dominick understood how much he needed the agony. Probably not.
Charles Harding’s house, Frimton Manor Farm, disconcerted me. Just outside a Cotswold village, it was a low-built, stone, seventeenth-century mansion. In place of the grandeur and opulence I had expected, the house exuded a mellowness and peace. It nestled behind a row of chestnut trees, which marked a sort of terrace at the end of a short poplar drive.
He stood in the stone porch to greet us. Then, he led us into a low-ceilinged drawing room in which a roaring fire, deep armchairs and an old carpet on the dark wooden floor all painted an image of the slow seduction of other times, and did so authentically. The house was not a lie. It was itself—in structure, decoration and odour. And if ghosts haunted it, I wondered if it was because they were at ease there. And perhaps found heaven a little bright.
The polite cliches began.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Since I was a boy.”
“How lovely.” Oh, God.
“When did your family acquire it?”
“My father bought it, when he married.”
A pause.
He was polite but bored. I didn’t blame him.
Another car arrived, and in a minute Elizabeth stood in the porch. I watched his face tense. He was no longer bored. I wished I didn’t know these things. Elizabeth, in black again, shook hands briefly, then kissed me. Oh, those false sisterly kisses. False sister.
Within fifteen minutes or so, my parents had arrived. We ate a simple lunch, served by a couple who seemed as much part of the house as the old silver and plain white linen napkins. Afterwards, we sat in a small sitting room for coffee. A portrait of a dark woman in a blue velvet dress gazed down at us. Surprisingly, it was Elizabeth who commented on its beauty.
“It’s a portrait of my wife,” he said.
A little silence.
“It’s four years … now … since she died.”
Murmurs of sympathy. Polite. Of no greater intensity or sincerity than an apology for disturbing someone who had been sleeping. “So sorry. Did I disturb you?” Nothing could disturb the subject of the portrait anymore. I wondered, had Felicity ever disturbed Sir Charles? Other than in death.
“Felicity loved this house. She loved country life. Rarely came to London.”
“And you?”
“In those days I liked applause. When I was younger, London seemed a better place to find it than here.”
“Well you have been much applauded.” My father spoke.
“A little. In my own world.”
“And internationally. Your work for …” Father mentioned an international charity for refugees.
More desultory talk of success, and its necessary companion—adherence to a good cause. Slowly, Sir Charles allowed a portrait—a most attractive portrait—to be painted of himself. For Elizabeth. Surrounded by her family.
And as he stalked her, I stalked him. I was not certain, watching him, which of us had more practice.
Did Elizabeth remind him of Felicity? There was no physical resemblance. Felicity’s portrait was that of a petite, dark-haired woman in a blue dress. But other qualities perhaps? Spiritual qualities? Who can tell?
Memories—the living with them, and the killing of them—blur so much of daily life. We pick today’s bouquet of feelings, sounds and smells, for tomorrow’s contemplation. Tomorrow, Charles Harding would add today’s miscellany to his gathered images of the past. And, perhaps, they would include me.