March, 1936
Meredith brought the coffee tray himself, and Harriet poured from the elegant white and gold pot into three demitasse cups, inquired about cream and sugar, and handed out the coffee to her guests.
Miss Hope Fanshaw was holding up well, she thought. It must be intimidating to be faced with a Dowager Duchess. She could no longer remember how she had felt when she was introduced to the Dowager, but no doubt she had been fortified against it by her acquaintance with the Dowager's son. Miss Fanshaw had not the benefit of that experience. Indeed, as the fiancée of the Dowager's son's personal manservant, she was most definitely at a disadvantage, socially speaking.
The Dowager Duchess herself also appeared somewhat nervous, Harriet thought. Probably because she was here in something of a professional capacity, which must be a novel experience. Harriet remembered her earlier certainty that her mother-in-law would enjoy enormously the experience of creating an entire home, and she had been right. The two of them had walked through the property again just yesterday afternoon, and her mother-in-law had explained about the exact shades of pink and dark green she intended to use, and what the effects of the light would be, and the furniture...
But here they were together now, and whether they were client and interior decorator or professional woman and member of the topmost echelon of society, it was as yet hard to tell.
Harriet did her best to help them along with some anodyne questions, and conversation gradually became more fluent.
"Have you seen the new Simpson's of Piccadilly, Miss Fanshaw?" the Dowager Duchess asked, with that bird-like tilt of the head that suggested to Harriet there was some method behind this particular question. "What do you think of it?"
"Well," said Miss Fanshaw, cautiously, "I know it's to open next month. It's a menswear—the largest menswear store in the city, I believe. I don't know that I'll ever have cause to set foot inside the place. Will Mervyn buy his trousers there? One of many things I have yet to discover."
"I am certain Peter will not be purchasing his trousers there," Harriet said. She did not, in fact, know quite where Peter's clothes came from, but she was fairly certain there was exclusive tailoring involved.
"And I have no need to purchase menswear of any kind. I doubt either Peter or Gerald would expect me to buy their trousers!" said the Dowager, smiling.
"But what do you think of the style of the building?"
"Oh, I see," said Miss Fanshaw, and considered. "I know that one must allow modern ideas to have their place, but when the buildings on either side are so elegant and classic in style, setting between them something that looks like a cake with entirely too many layers is at best somewhat jarring."
"I know what you mean," Harriet said. "All those glass stripes across the building, where one expects things vertical. But if you do ever have cause to set foot inside, you will find the interior rather splendid, there's a marble staircase spiralling up which is quite majestic. Peter knows the architect, Mr Emberton, and we were invited to an early tour."
"What do you think, uh, your Grace?"
"I like it," the Dowager said, somewhat to Harriet's surprise. "It is quite different, of course, but it has its own elegance. Once the fuss has died down and people have accustomed themselves, I think we will find it is much admired. As you say, Miss Fanshaw, one must allow modern ideas to have their place. And we cannot keep London as an onion, starting with the Tower and building each outward layer successively more modern than the last. Sometimes the old has to give way."
"So long as the proportions are correct," Miss Fanshaw said, thoughtfully. "And I suppose, the level of taste."
"Yes," the Dowager agreed. "The new store is bold but not brash, I think—there is a statement being made, but not one that pushes everything else aside or expresses contempt for what is in the vicinity."
"I shall look at it with fresh eyes," Miss Fanshaw said.
"Perhaps you should photograph it," suggested Harriet.
"Hmm. Perhaps. Though buildings are a bit of a departure for me! As you know, I take portraits. But yes, looking through the lens could suggest a new perspective."
"I do think it is so important to understand, to be sympathetic to the old, but not to sacrifice the modern," said the Duchess. "Your dark room, for example!"
Miss Fanshaw smiled. "The poor architect, asked to transform a stable into a home, and all the future inhabitants could tell him was that they must have a dark room! But it really is essential to both of us."
"It is his job to deal with such things. And I am very happy with the progress that has been made," the Dowager continued. "I think we can be confident that when you return from your honeymoon, you will find everything ready and to your satisfaction."
"I am looking forward to it," Miss Fanshaw admitted. "I have never really been in the way of living in beautiful surroundings. Not that I expect the mews to be like this," she gestured at the stately proportions and tall, elegant windows, "but it will be so delightful to live in a home that is not decorated in that depressing brown colour one always seems to find in rented properties. I like cheerful colours around me. Yellow, I think. Sunshine, and lemons, and forsythia. Mervyn can bring me daffodils in the spring. Yellow is such a happy colour."
Harriet, with her mother-in-law's plans for pink so fresh in her mind, managed to keep her features under control. The Dowager Duchess was also careful not to show any sign of dismay at this dismantling of her colour scheme, and instead coaxed out her client's opinions on wallpapers and paints, on the desirability of rugs and the merits of different curtain fabrics.
"I am so grateful not to be the one required to do all this," Miss Fanshaw said at last. "Never having had occasion to decorate before, excepting a few personal things here and there, I would have no idea where to start."
"I am delighted to have the opportunity! And please, if anything occurs to you that you would find essential in your home, I hope you will let me know.
" The two women smiled at one another, and Harriet, struck by a sudden thought, beamed at them both.
"I was just thinking," she said, "of what Helen would do if she were to walk in at this moment. Helen is my sister-in-law, the Duchess of Denver."
Miss Fanshaw was no fool and plainly grasped the enormity of her presence in the handsome drawing room of the house in Audley Square. Happily, she was not, despite her engagement to Bunter, inclined to be either deferential or self-effacing, and she smiled back at Harriet.
"Fortunately, they are both at Denver for the present," the Dowager said. "I believe there was some kind of crisis among the tenants, and Helen thought it best to remain there to support Gerald. I dare say she means to bully the wives into doing as they are told. Naturally she will be in Town soon for Winifred's Season, but I think you can count yourself safe for another week."
"I don't expect to be in your drawing room very often, Lady Peter," Miss Fanshaw said. "Properly speaking, I should be at work during the day. Indeed, I really should go back to my studio now."
Suitable thanks were exchanged, hands shaken, and Bunter's fiancée took her departure without fuss. Harriet was happy to have facilitated this meeting, and pleased also to find that she liked her visitor just as much as she had at their first encounter. There seemed every prospect of the two of them becoming good friends.
"Thank you, Harriet, for facilitating that meeting. I do believe I have a far better sense now of what that nice young woman wants from her home than I could possibly have learned from letters. Though I must mourn the loss of my beautiful pink colour scheme. Pink and yellow will not do, not at all. Mr and Mrs Bunter shall have their home filled with sunshine, and I shall feel free to include modern aspects in the home provided they are sympathetic to the age and respectability of the mews. Which I should have done in any case, but I can do it with a clear conscience. Perhaps it is easier to appreciate the modern when one has been accustomed to taking the long view. I mean, as a custodian of a place like Denver, one learns to see change as necessary, doesn't one, unless one is like Gerald and Helen and lacks the imagination."
"Surely there are some innovations which merely seem incongruous?"
"Yes, indeed, but when one takes the long view, they become eccentricities, or part of the character of the place, or even foresightedness on the part of whichever Duke decided to introduce them. Now what did that remind me of? Ah, yes, incongruity—do you know, I saw Franklin marching along Piccadilly this morning, not that I have the slightest objection to her going about Town since it would be absurd to expect her to be ready to dress me when I am perfectly well suited for the day, but from the expression on her face I truly thought for a moment that she must be going to meet a lover. Anticipation and glee. But that cannot possibly be the case, can it? Or am I being closed-minded? After all, if Bunter can decide out of the blue to get married at his advanced age, why shouldn't Franklin have a lover?"
Harriet, trying to imagine her mother-in-law's austere and impeccable dresser in such a situation, could only lift up her hands and shake her head.
"I suppose I ought to know," said the Dowager Duchess, with a sigh. "Except that it is really none of my business. Of course, if I had a lover it would certainly be Franklin's business and she would know all about it, but there would be no reason on earth why she should tell me about it if she had her own. It just seems so unlikely. And unsatisfying, if he lives in Town, since I spend so much of my time elsewhere. Never mind, my dear, no need for us to talk about Franklin's love life, I'm sure it is of very little interest to either of us. Are you meeting Mary and the children today?"
"Yes, in the park," Harriet said, somewhat relieved at the abrupt change of subject. "Do you care to join us?"
"I suppose I should. Is it Hyde Park today? I can very easily walk along to Swan and Edgar afterwards, or use my shopping as an excuse if I need to escape. Yellow, not pink."
So the two of them crossed Park Lane and into Hyde Park, where they found Mary with her two children and their nursemaid. Charles Peter—who had progressed from being Small Peter, and as a big boy of five demanded the dignity of both his names—explained to Harriet and his grandmother that he had wanted to sail his speedboat across the Serpentine, but Mummy had said it might run out of power in the middle and be lost to them forever, so he had left it at home instead. He had brought a ball, which he and the nursemaid tossed to one another, and little Polly toddled about and chased it down if one of them dropped it.
Harriet sat on a bench with Mary and her mother-in-law. "They have so much energy," she commented.
"Oh, dear, yes. Afternoon playtime in the park is essential to wear them out, and today Polly went down for her sleep without a moment's trouble, otherwise we should have been late."
"I'm surprised you didn't leave the children here with their nursemaid and come to Peter's h— Peter and Harriet's house," remarked the Dowager Duchess.
"I thought you might like to see your grandchildren," Mary said, amiably. "And we don't need them running riot in Harriet's drawing room. Not that they would have done that, I'm sure Mrs Trapp would have taken them into the kitchen straight away. But she would have sat them down and given them treats, which is not part of their routine at all."
"Is the routine very strict?" Harriet asked.
"It's as exact as it can be, given the daily variations in how much sleep the children get, and the weather, and, well, all kinds of things. Children like routine. It gives them security. And it gives me the opportunity to be elsewhere if I wish, and the children don't mind a bit because they know we shall meet at tea time."
"You spend quite a lot of your time with them," the Dowager observed. Harriet did not think there was disapproval in her tone, though there was a hint of surprise.
"Of course!" Mary said. "They are fascinating little beings. They always know a little more than you think they know. And they have such an interesting way of looking at the world. Just the other day, I was telling Charles Peter about one of the farmers in Duke's Denver, and that he would be taking his cows to market, and Charles Peter thought about it and very seriously told me, But Mummy, cows don't have any money."
Harriet laughed. "Excellent. Impeccable logic, just lacking in some of the essential facts."
"Exactly so. They really do learn something every day. It can be quite wearing, of course. Polly is still making a lot of physical discoveries and increasing her vocabulary, but in a year or so she will be at the Why? stage. It was exhausting to be asked Yes, but Why? every day, and to find that every explanation I offered—I do try to give the children, Charles Peter mostly, because he asks, but I do try to give a proper explanation if possible, only when he was three no explanation was ever enough. Rather than actually getting back to the point at which the universe was created I had to resort to Because It Is. And apparently that was a good enough answer." She shook her head ruefully. "All that careful phrasing to suit a three-year-old's mind, and Because It Is was the answer that worked. I suppose ultimately he just wanted my attention. Possibly because Polly was so small and took quite a bit of it."
"Perhaps Polly won't be asking those questions," Harriet said, "since she's had a big brother all her life."
"Perhaps not. I expect there will be something else, in that case."
"Did you find that with your children?" Harriet asked, turning directly to her mother-in-law. Harriet could call her Honoria in her head, but was not yet quite able to manage it out loud.
"Oh, I didn't spend nearly so much time with mine," the Dowager answered. "Nurse dealt with the awkward questions and the rumbustious behaviour and so forth. I used to read to Peter. Gerald didn't want to sit still for it, but Peter enjoyed it."
What about Mary? Harriet wanted to ask, but she caught Mary's eye, and didn't.
"To be fair," Mary said, "children can also be very dull companions. I mean, they are children. They don't have much knowledge or much conversation, really, and can be obsessed by the oddest of things. The two of them shared a beetle the other day, watched it for what felt like hours. And, you know, routine and doing the same things—I remember reading the same book to Charles Peter every night until I was ready to set fire to the wretched thing! I do feel for women who have not the means to pay someone to help with their children. I think I should go mad if their company were the only thing I had. And somehow even the most trivial of chores is elevated if one is paid to do it."
"That's true," Harriet said. "Cooking for oneself, and washing the dishes, and keeping floors swept, all perfectly necessary but when one does them for oneself they are the most tedious tasks. Being paid to do those things is surely better because they are dignified with the name of work."
"Still tedious, of course," Mary said, "but yes."
"Surely the women who work as nannies and nursery maids enjoy their work?" said the Dowager. "They enjoy it and become very fond of their charges."
"Certainly," Mary said. "And their charges generally become very fond of them in return."
The three women contemplated Charles Peter and Polly and their attendant, laughing as they played with the ball.
Harriet had done it. She had faced her fears, been into a prison again of her own volition, experienced the horrifying clutch of terror as the doors clanged closed behind her, and she had survived. And she had done what she knew to be right. She should be proud of herself. She was proud of herself. And yet—
The drawing room door opened, and Mary came in.
"Harriet, would you like to—whatever is the matter? Has something happened? Is Peter all right?"
Harriet raised bleak eyes to her sister-in-law's suddenly concerned face. "Peter is well, as far as I know. He's not here, I expect him back soon. It's not, there is nothing, I'm just," she draw a shaky breath, "being a little over-feminine today."
"I think there's more to it than that," Lady Mary said, shrewdly. "Let's sit down. Now then. Tell me what's wrong. Unless I'm being a frightful busybody and you prefer to tell me to go to the devil instead?"
Harriet managed something approximating a laugh. "No, no, I won't do that. It's... I've only just got back to the house. I went to—I went to see Laurence Harwell."
"That man who murdered his wife?"
"Peter will tell you he didn't strictly—but yes. Him."
"Why on earth?"
Harriet drew in a long breath to steady herself. "I wanted to do Rosamund justice. It's not that I cared for her, or even liked her, but she didn't deserve to die like that, and I didn't think anybody had told him."
Haltingly, she explained to Mary about the note from Rosamund inviting Harwell to join her, and how the misunderstanding that had led to her death had come about. And about meeting the sullen, baffled man in prison. "He was glad to know about it," she said. "He asked that it be brought out in court, so that people would know she had not been unfaithful at all. Which I suppose is..." she could not bring herself to say 'noble', because there was something she could not quite define that made her unhappy about the whole encounter. "He said, it was a terrible misunderstanding, it was neither her fault nor mine."
Mary made an indignant, explosive noise. "Not his fault, indeed! I should call a husband who sets his hands about his wife's throat very much at fault. As though he would have been perfectly entitled to throttle her if she had been seeing another man!"
"That's it. Oh! That is what I couldn't... thank you, Mary. I could not work out what left me so unsatisfied—I thought I had achieved what I wanted to achieve, by seeing him and delivering that note, and afterwards I felt so queasy."
"If the stupid man had had the common decency to ask for an explanation, he need not have lost her at all." Mary sounded more adamant than Harriet could have expected. "That kind of man never really does anything wrong, in his own eyes. Not, he acted in a fit of uncontrollable temper and killed the person he was supposed to love, but, he made a perfectly understandable mistake, poor chap. Bah!"
"You don't have any sympathy for him? The poor man did think his wife had betrayed him."
"And he was wrong. Harriet, can you imagine any circumstance in which Peter would appoint himself judge, jury and executioner over you without even granting you a few minutes in which to explain yourself?"
"Well. No. But Peter—"
"Peter is a fundamentally decent human being. So is Charles. Laurence Harwell is not. He is entirely to blame for what happened, and he will go to the hangman believing himself perfectly justified and merely the victim of a misunderstanding. There's no arguing with a person like that." Mary looked closely at Harriet. "You look a little better."
"I am, I think. Mary, thank you. I think I was falling into the trap of agreeing with Laurence Harwell. You are absolutely right, of course you are."
"And it will be infuriating to note how many people tacitly agree with the wretched man, when the newspapers write up the trial. Just as though a man is supposed to have the power of life and death over a woman who happens to be married to him."
"I expect it will," Harriet acknowledged. She had failed to notice the flaw in Harwell's attitude herself. She must have accepted, on some level, that he was entitled... and that was wrong. She shuddered, and felt better. "I don't need to think about him any more. At least, I will tell Peter, when he returns home." And he will understand that I visited Laurence Harwell as much for my own sake as for his, she thought. That I needed to be able to go into that prison. And I did.
"When will he be back?"
"Peter? Oh. I don't quite know. Tomorrow, I hope. He has been rather in demand of late. He calls himself an errand boy, and the errands do not generally come with a timetable."
"Well, then. Come to dinner tonight, with Charles and me. That's why I came round, to ask if you might like some company."
"Yes! Yes, I should like that," Harriet decided.
"Then I will see you later. No, I won't stay for anything now. I've left the children in the park with Audrey, but they need to get home in plenty of time for their tea and the night-time routine, or there'll be tears at bedtime."
And she was gone, leaving Harriet feeling oddly cleansed.
"Harriet, I am so sorry. I have to go."
"Oh, Charles, what a shame," said Mary. "The Stepney business?"
"Yes." Charles Parker kissed his wife's cheek. "It looks as though things are coming to a head rather earlier than expected. I need to be there."
"Of course you must go, Charles. Please don't worry about it," Harriet said.
Moments later, he was gone. "Oh well," said Mary. "I expect you are accustomed to this kind of thing from Peter. One of the trials of being a detective's wife."
"What is the business that's taking him away? Or ought I not to ask? Don't tell me if I should not have asked!"
"I don't know enough to tell you anything," Mary said, smiling. "In general, I don't ask Charles about his work. So much of it is sordid and brutal, and he needs a respite when he comes home, a pleasant place where he doesn't have to think about the nastier side of humanity. Once he's put on his mufti and slippers he can play with the children and let all that wash away. He only discusses his work with me when he really needs to get it out. And Peter's cases, of course. When Peter is involved with a case I do want to know what's going on, and Charles agrees with me there. And," she grinned, mischievously, "sometimes he wants to complain about Peter's autocratic ways and how much easier it is for a Lord to walk into a room and be fawned over and told everything than for a common policeman."
"I don't think Charles is a common policeman."
"No, not at all!" said Mary, pinkening with pleasure. "Will you have some pudding? It's a little unseasonable, but we have a marmalade roly poly, so very comforting on a cold night. Or we could just settle for cheese and fruit."
"I wanted to thank you for your insight this morning, Mary," Harriet said, after the first few delicious mouthfuls of the marmalade suet pudding. "I think Peter will be back tomorrow, but I'm not certain that he would have noticed what it was that felt so wrong. It would get tangled up with his ideas of honour, I think."
"I expect you would have worked it out for yourself," Mary said. "I must say I am glad that case is over, apart from the trial, of course, but I believe there can be no doubt how that will go. So particularly dreadful when it's somebody one knows."
"Yes. I would not have been inclined to keep up the acquaintance with the Harwells," Harriet said. "He was just the kind of man I don't care for, always inclined to believe that women must be treated like children, bless their empty little heads, and she was exactly the sort of woman to agree with him, which made me so cross. She even thought it was an indignity for me to work, and for Peter to support me in it."
"Never mind the Harwells," said Mary. "Do tell me how my mother is getting on with the mews flat!"
So Harriet began to explain about the Dowager Duchess's plans and revisions, about her knack of apparently flitting about at random which had already begun to bear fruit in colour schemes and the purchase of furniture and an architect who had been brought to treat her with considerable respect.
Mary considered. "I didn't let my mother have any say in how I arranged things here," she said at last. "I wanted it to be my own doing."
"And it works very nicely," said Harriet. "Your Wimsey pieces sit very well with the modern things. I think you must have inherited your mother's eye."
"Interesting. I don't think I inherited anything else from her," Mary said. "I'm no beauty—I don't mean I am unsightly to look upon or anything like that, I do very well, but mama was something else, in her youth. But I don't think I've ever understood her. I suppose it's because I'm not clever, not like she is, or Peter, or you. I just...."
"I'm not sure—" Harriet wanted to say more, but Mary kept going.
"I never understood why my mother—I mean, with my children, I can appreciate them as individuals, do you see? They come with character built in, you know, you think you're going to be able to mould them into exactly what you think they should be, but you can't, because you have to work with what's there. I think the main job of a parent is to teach our children our values. And table manners. If we can do that, they'll be mostly set, I think. But I hope that Polly will grow up to be a woman who thinks, you know, someone who doesn't do things just because the world says those are the things to do, and I try to show her that she can do things just as well as her brother, except that of course she is only two and he is five and it isn't true, just at present, but do you see what I mean? And I wonder why my mother—why she never tried to raise me to be the sort of person she would have liked to have as a friend."
"I—goodness," said Harriet, taken aback.
"My mother is a great reader. And she and Peter interact to a great extent on an intellectual level. Not entirely, of course, because she has seen him at his most vulnerable, after the War, which is a mostly unspoken thing, but what I mean is, they can talk to one another and really say things, things that matter. And they can talk about books and understand one another. It's a particular way of thinking, if you see what I mean?"
"Yes," Harriet said. "At least, Peter and I often communicate in quotations, and we have a common vocabulary of books, and I think your mother understands that way of thinking, of talking. But surely, you could read those same books?"
"I never really learned to appreciate fiction. I like to read things that are facts. I like history and biography and books about how things work. I don't really see the point of stories. I know people will say there are truths in fiction that are more profound than truths in fact, but I never learned to see stories that way. I'm sorry! That sounds very bad, since I'm talking to a writer of fiction!"
"I suppose an appreciation for fiction is something that one learns," Harriet said. "I don't remember learning it. It seems to have always been a part of me, but I must have learned it. Was it from literature classes at school? Or the way my parents encouraged me to read? I don't recall."
"For me, that didn't happen. I enjoy reading and learning, but my education did not really include an appreciation of literature. I don't understand why my mother chose to send me to a school where academic achievement simply was not valued, where we were educated just enough so that we would not embarrass our husbands at dinner parties. She was always such a staunch supporter of Peter's education, and of course father didn't understand it at all, but he had Gerald to be exactly the kind of son he wanted. I don't understand why my mother would not want her own daughter to have, to be... more. I suppose she just recognised that I don't have that kind of mind, and it wasn't worth the bother, but I look at my little ones and I see so much potential, and I don't think my mother ever saw that in me."
Again Harriet found herself struggling for something to say. "I suppose she had, uh, Duchess duties?"
"Yes. And I suppose for her, there was never any question but that she would produce children. Part of the job. I am so glad not to have had that kind of expectation in my life. I had my children because I—we—wanted them. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rant about mama this way! Please take no notice, it really is not important, and I am perfectly happy as I am. And I'm not going to be an intrusive sister-in-law and ask if you are going to have children, only, if you do, make sure you get to know them. You will be able to avoid the more repellant parts of the business, and much of the dullness, just as I have been able to do!"
Harriet laughed. "You are quite my favourite sister-in-law, Mary!"
Mary made a face. "Since I am perfectly well acquainted with Helen, I can't say that lands as a very great compliment! I suppose she has been poking her nose into your private business. Don't let her!"
"Fear not. I am quite capable of dealing with Helen. My real difficulty is managing not to be cruel, because I can fight so much more ruthlessly than she can, and she doesn't know it."
"There are definite compensations in being Unspeakable," Mary said, cheerfully. "I find life without Helen to be entirely bearable."
"That, I envy you."
They finished their pudding and coffee in amicable talk of trivialities, and it was not until Harriet was putting on her hat that Mary said, "Oh, but speaking of mama, do tell her that I am almost certain I saw Franklin in the park this afternoon, when I went back to the children. My only doubt was because she was wearing a coral-coloured coat and I have never seen Franklin in such a thing before."
"Meeting her illicit lover, do you think?"
Harriet and Mary exchanged a look that perfectly communicated their mutual scepticism.
In the taxi back to Audley Square, Harriet found herself pondering Mary's comments. She herself got on so well with the Dowager, and it was, she could see, at least in part because they had something similar in their way of thinking. Mary was much more straightforward. Harriet had felt herself to be superior to Mary because Mary was a happy housewife, and Harriet could think of nothing more tedious. Yet Mary had such clear insight into what Charles needed, and what her children needed, and had spotted at once the problem with Laurence Harwell which Harriet herself had been unable to work out.
I have underestimated Mary, she thought. And then, perhaps everybody has underestimated Mary.
She was delighted, when reaching home, with the telephoned message that Peter anticipated being back in Audley Square on the following morning. She would tell him about her prison visit. He would understand.
April 1936
"Harriet," Mary said, quietly, "look over towards the Memorial. Am I right in thinking that is my mother's dresser?"
Harriet peeked cautiously in the direction indicated. That certainly looked like Franklin, though she was not dressed in her customary black, and the cheerful orange-pink of her coat was confusing. She was not accompanied by a gentleman. There was a young woman, perhaps Harriet's own age, and two little girls. Bigger than Charles Peter, both of them.
"I do believe you are right."
"You must tell my mother. I dare say she will be disappointed that Franklin does not have an illicit lover, but really, I think a kind of grandmotherly joy is rather more plausible, don't you?
"I... suppose so," said Harriet, who had not given Franklin a moment's thought since her brief conversation with the Dowager. "It does raise rather more questions, don't you think?"
"I dare say it does," said Mary. "I may be able to find out something about the family, if I should happen to see them in the park without Franklin."
"A little minor sleuthing for you!" Harriet said, entertained. "I wish you luck. But, Mary, I have something to tell you, and I suppose to ask you for advice. I spoke to, uh, to your mother but your information is necessarily more up to date. I'm, I'm expecting."
"Oh, Harriet, how marvellous! Congratulations. At least, I suppose you are happy about it? When is the baby due?"
They talked of pregnancy, and childbirth, and motherhood, while Mary and Charles' children played on the grass and pointed out squirrels. Eventually the Parkers and their nursemaid had to return home, so after waving them off at the bus stop Harriet set off to cross Park Lane. She felt oddly reassured. Her doctor had been entirely sanguine, but Peter's worries could not help but show despite his best efforts, poor love. Mary's sturdy advice had been to continue behaving like a rational human being and not to believe herself an invalid, which, aligning as it did with Harriet's own instincts and preferences, was most comforting. Although she hoped that conversations with Mary over the next few months would not be exclusively about motherhood. Mary had plenty of other things to say.
She spoke to her mother-in-law—Honoria, as she was now insisting Harriet address her, though it was still oddly difficult—and conveyed the sighting of Franklin with the young family.
"Grandmotherly, you say? My goodness. I wonder if that can possibly be... I don't think.... I must refer to my diaries, when I return to the Dower House. I cannot remember Franklin taking any extended leave except for the deaths of her parents, but I suppose that could... hmm. Well. An intriguing little mystery. And I know it is really none of my business but it cannot do any harm to look into the matter, now, can it? I shall visit Somerset House, I think."
Three days later, Harriet remembered to ask whether Somerset House had yielded any useful information. She did not suppose there was much to be found, but the Dowager had been deeply curious, and her quest seemed harmless enough.
"Oh, my dear. There is so much information, and so difficult to find out what one wants to know. I should have to start with the information I am seeking in order to be able to find it. So very frustrating."
"Have you thought of engaging some help? Miss Climpson's agency is, I think, exactly the resource you need. I'm sure we have a card somewhere—let me find you their address and telephone number."
July 1936
As her pregnancy progressed, Harriet began to feel very well indeed. No more nausea, just a feeling of strength and well-being. She had fallen into the habit of meeting Mary and the children in whichever park they were frequenting, except when they went to Regent's Park which was a little more awkward to reach, from Audley Square. Fresh air, a break from work, and an opportunity to chat with her sister in law—unless it was raining.
"I remember that feeling," Mary said. "I felt profoundly female. It is, after all, the most powerful thing that we women do, bringing new life into the world, and although looked at one way, it's just an animal function, looked at another way it is something no man can ever manage. You do have that glow about you. I'm afraid it won't last right through to October, though, things will get more uncomfortable as you get bigger. So enjoy it while you can!"
Harriet smiled. "Peter gets very poetic about the whole business," she said.
"Of course he does!"
"Did Charles?"
"Poetic? No! Not at all. He was mostly inarticulate, but he was so, mm, so awed by my belly, and feeling the baby move. And I had to keep reminding him I was not made of porcelain. It was easier for him when I was carrying Polly, as by then he understood that I'm not readily breakable."
"I ordered my dress for Bunter's wedding today. Dark red, and nicely draped, to cover whatever is there by the beginning of August."
"I hear it's going to be a very splendid affair. Helen told me!" Mary said, in a triumphant tone.
"No! I thought she didn't speak to you these days!"
"We happened to come face to face at the theatre. She couldn't very well ignore me, and Gerald invited me into their box during the interval. I think she was desperate to complain, because she told me how infuriating and ridiculous it was that you and Peter had been married quietly in Oxford and now here was Peter's manservant with the most grandiose plans. St James', Piccadilly—very nice. I should say Peter's pet soprano needs somewhere with a good acoustic, shouldn't you?" she said, slyly.
"I am looking forward to hearing her sing," Harriet said. If she had been wearing spectacles, she would have looked reprovingly over the top of them, but Mary just giggled.
"So am I! Yes, we have received an invitation, no doubt due to Charles' frequent collaborations with Peter and his faithful assistant. I shall buy myself a handsome new hat for the occasion. In fact, if you would care to help me choose..? Where do you get your hats? Oh, and I have some news for—for mama, really. I have been able to speak to Franklin's young woman, we got into conversation a few days ago. She is a Mrs Benson, and the children are hers, her husband is a bus conductor or a driver or something of the kind, so they can be conveyed all over Town but she likes to bring the little ones to Hyde Park twice a week. I didn't dare ask about Franklin, because imagine the awkwardness if Mrs Benson decided to introduce us in the future!"
"Your mother is coming to Audley Square for supper this evening. I will pass on your information. And I'd love to help you choose a hat."
There was a constant buzz of activity at the back of the house, where the alterations and improvements were continuing at a great pace. The Dowager Duchess—and Peter, and Harriet—wanted to be certain that the newly wedded Bunter and his bride would have a home to live in once they were married. The Dowager, of course, was inspecting things in more of a professional light, and Peter had enough experience of houses and building work to cast a critical eye over the proceedings. Harriet mostly stayed out of the way.
She was, however, amused to be told by her excited mother-in-law that Mrs Benson's address had been discovered, by the simple expedient of having one of Miss Climpson's women follow her home from the park. Thus armed, and unable to fill the entirety of her days with planning and decorating, the Dowager had decided to take up the investigation for herself, and was spending quite a bit of time at Somerset House.
Underneath the activity at the rear of the house, and the completion of Harriet's proofs, and even the increasingly grim political atmosphere, was the constant awareness of an impending appointment. Laurence Harwell was due to be hanged on the fourteenth of July.
Harriet had secretly been hoping that Peter might be sent on one of his 'errands' at the perfect moment, but it had not happened, so Peter had gone to pay his customary visit to the man whom he had helped to bring to trial, to ask Harwell's forgiveness before tomorrow's hanging. She understood why her husband did this, she even thought it right, but it last time it had taken such a toll on him. She dreaded his return, but steeled herself to be calm, kind and understanding.
His face, when he walked in, was so bleak. Harriet enfolded her husband in her arms and they stood in silence for several minutes.
"You were right, Harriet," Peter said. "He does not see—he does not understand that he was wrong. He still maintains that it was a terrible misunderstanding, neither his fault nor hers."
"Did he—did he forgive you?"
"Yes. He did. He actually seemed pleased to be called to account for killing his wife. Said they would be together again soon. Though he still dismisses Phoebe Sugden as being of no importance whatsoever. A human life, but she didn't matter to him and therefore he thinks she did not matter at all."
"Some people can never see beyond their own self-importance. Peter, I'm sorry." Inwardly, she rejoiced: he had not fled, he had not spent half the night driving mindlessly away, he had come back to her, he was here in her arms and ready to be comforted. "Do you think you could manage something to eat? Some soup?" Should she suggest he dismiss Bunter for the night?
"I think... I could manage some soup. And some cognac, perhaps. And Bunter has done his duty, for today."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I have you. You are my sanctuary, Harriet. If you can bear to stay awake with me."
"Of course I can, Peter. Of course."
As they sat quietly together, Harriet thought about her conversations with Mary. About how unerringly Mary had seen the flaw in Laurence Harwell's logic. And about how Mary provided her husband with a refuge from the sordid brutality of his working hours. I can do that for Peter, she thought. And I can talk to Mary as well as to Honoria, and they will both understand in their different ways.
How fortunate I am, she thought, to have the company of women.
August 1936
Bunter's wedding to Miss Hope Fanshaw went splendidly. Harriet had to hold Peter's hand during the vows, and to dab at her eyes as the happy couple were pronounced man and wife, but the most astonishing thing was 'Peter's pet soprano', as Mary had put it. What a glorious sound! And what a wonderfully, absurdly varied collection of guests, from the servants in her own household to the Dowager Duchess of Denver. Hope's parents and family, of course, and some friends from the photographic society. All human life is here, Harriet thought. Except the criminal fraternity, of course. She did not think Bunter had invited anyone from the wrong side of the law.
A few days afterwards she was invited by her mother-in-law to inspect the Bunters' new home, which with the delivery of the marital bed was at last complete.
"Honoria, this is perfect." Harriet looked around at the bright, cheerful room and wondered by what alchemy her mother-in-law had contrived to make the space seem so generous and so welcoming. Was it the colours? She had liked the palette the Dowager had shown her, with its soft blues and subtle sage green alongside the yellow, and she could see it here in the walls, the floors, the furnishings, but there was something more that she could not for the life of her define.
"It does work." Honoria surveyed her work and gave a pleased nod. "And that is everything done, just in time." For this week, Peter was enduring the painstaking ministrations of Francis, senior footman, in his manservant's absence, for the newlyweds were in Scotland on their honeymoon, apparently planning to take many photographs. It seemed a very sensible programme. Harriet remembered a conversation with... who had it been who said that a honeymoon without a purpose had been oddly flat? Her own honeymoon had been anything but, with the extraordinary complication of a corpse in the cellar and his murderer to catch. A challenging start to married life, but it had very effectively settled her and Peter into the new way of things.
She trusted Bunter and Hope would not have to deal with a murder, and would return home with an array of magnificent landscapes.
"There are no pictures," she noted, suddenly recognising their absence.
"Oh, no," said her mother-in-law. "I find it doesn't do to choose art for someone else. There is one picture, upstairs, which Miss Fanshaw—Mrs Bunter—gave me, a Monet print, a favourite of hers which she wanted for the main bedroom, I toned down the yellow in that room to provide a better setting for it, but otherwise I expect them to supply their own. I have left them some notes about where to obtain suitable frames. Beyond that, my work here is done and it is none of my business what they choose to do with the place once they move in."
"You have done a wonderful job. If you had been born into my generation you might have been a renowned interior decorator, sought after by all the best hostesses in Town."
"Most of whom have no idea how to put a room together," Honoria agreed. "Well, I never had to earn my own living. In my day it was the last thing anybody expected of me, so of course I never thought of it. And really, I did my duty and more, nobody expected me to marry a Duke. It was generally agreed in my family that I might hope for a Viscount at best, but then. Love can take us in strange directions."
"Indeed it can," Harriet agreed. She had never imagined she would find herself married to a duke's son, and mistress of such an establishment as the main house here. It was almost fairytale, except for the reassuringly commonplace details of her everyday life with Peter. "I don't know that I expected to marry anybody, but I suppose I might have expected it to be a don, perhaps, or someone in a position like my own. Sometimes I feel quite dizzy remembering where I started and where I am now. I am very grateful, truly grateful, the right kind of grateful, that you have always been so welcoming towards me."
Her mother-in-law sighed. "I welcomed Helen into the family, too, you know. Gerald married exactly as he was expected to marry. Helen is a precisely proper Duchess, always knowing exactly what is the correct thing for her to do—"
Except in her dealings with me, Harriet thought, but did not say.
"—and I suppose making one's husband happy is not, strictly speaking, part of the bargain, which is just as well because I cannot see that being married to Helen makes Gerald happy."
"She does make a very capable Duchess."
"Except that there is no feeling in it. She does what her position requires, but she doesn't care, and, oh, I suppose it is not my business. I relinquished the role, she has taken it on, and I have no say in how she carries it out. But Harriet, if it should come to you, don't be like Helen. Don't try to be like Helen. Be yourself, and bring your brain and your feelings to the job."
"I suppose I should be myself by default. I mean, whom else could I be?"
"That is true, my dear. You know, when Peter first met you, I talked to my dear friend Violet about you. Trying to work things out, you know. I miss her still. She died several years ago, but she was a person who told the truth, always, and she had such a way of putting it that one couldn't help but believe it. I told her how Peter had fallen in love with you. She disapproved, naturally, but in the end she said, "Well, Honoria, the girl may be a peculiar match for a Wimsey, but at least she isn't an American." Which was very ungracious, really, because poor Cora's grand American fortune kept that family going, and really, I felt quite sorry for her at the time, because the Grantham men have always been terrible fools with money, and this Earl has no more sense than his father did. Although the next one will have a better start in life because the eldest girl has a great deal of hardheadedness about her and she'll see to it that the finances are properly handled. But what I meant to say was that Peter did not need to marry for money or status or any of the things one so often sees, and I'm glad of it. He was free to marry because he wanted you more than any other woman in the world, and that is how it should be. And what you bring to him is worth far more than equality of fortune. As I am quite sure you know. So keep true to yourself, whatever happens."
"I do trust that whatever happens will not include his becoming the Duke of Denver," Harriet said. "After all, Jerry is in perfectly good health.
"Jerry is reckless." To Harriet's surprise, Honoria took her hand and said, earnestly, "It may yet come to you, Harriet. There are such dark clouds about the world, with that horrid little man in Germany and all those goose-stepping troops, such a ridiculous gait and I always used to think they looked very foolish, only now one sees them on the newsreels and they are increasingly sinister instead. Harriet, if there is a war, Jerry will be there in the thick of it, he will revel in it, whether on land or on the sea." Or, Harriet thought, in the air, remembering that Piper Cub. "That's if he doesn't break his neck driving too fast. And Jerry is all that stands between Peter and the dukedom, once Gerald is gone. It could so very easily come to you."
Harriet could not think of anything to say. She liked Jerry, he was a pest and an irresponsible one, but he had charm and the capacity, she believed, to grow into something better. The idea that he might be killed in the war that seemed to hover over their future made it all seem too dreadfully real. She had said to Peter, Do we do right to bring a child into this world? How terrible it would be to have a child and see that child dead before their time.
"If it does come to you, be true to yourself," the Dowager was saying, still in that unexpectedly earnest tone. "Keep your books, make sure you prioritise the life of the mind, not doing what the County expects of you."
"I very much hope it will never come to that," she reiterated, soberly, "but I can promise you that I won't give much thought to what the County might expect of me."
"Good girl. Now, there was something else I had to tell you—oh, yes! I solved the mystery!"
"Oh—Franklin?"
"Yes! I looked into Mrs Benson, and I discovered who her parents were, and it turns out, Franklin had a sister. She married and had a daughter about two or three years after Franklin came to me, but the sister died not six months after the baby was born. They lost touch with Franklin, because men are so dreadful at maintaining these relationships, you know, when there is not a woman around to do the work of it, but Mrs Benson is her niece, Franklin's niece, and I suppose she is the nearest thing the little girls have to a grandmother. Which she delights in. Yes, my dear, I did eventually speak to Franklin about it, which of course I ought to have done a long time ago, but I had never thought about whether she might have family connections, I knew her parents were dead and I didn't know of anybody else, and I suppose she didn't know either, since she had lost track of them until Mrs Benson's father died and that was apparently when she discovered that she had an aunt, from clearing out some old letters of her mother's. And she wrote to Franklin at Duke's Denver, and that was how they discovered one another."
"And you are satisfied that the connection is real? Nobody is trying to—to do anything underhand?"
"Quite satisfied. I feel a great deal less guilty about my investigations at Somerset House, because I can trace the family perfectly clearly, and Mrs Benson is exactly who she claims to be. So Franklin has an extra spring in her step, and I am happy to see it. Well." She looked about the bright sitting room with a nod of satisfaction. "I hope the Bunters will be pleased, when they return from Scotland."
"Certainly they will."
"And I must relinquish my hold on this place," said Honoria, with reluctance. "It has been such fun. Thank you, Harriet, for thinking of me. It has been a very agreeable change, to do a job of work like this. The life of a Dowager is almost entirely frivolous, you see."
"Let's go back to the house and have some tea," said Harriet.