Julian Fellowes - Past Imperfect

‘But not now.’

He nodded, endorsing my comment. ‘Now, I see the ability simply to embrace life and live it as noble. Not always to drive yourself like an ox through a ploughed field, which is what I used to admire. I suppose, hundreds of years ago, it was the same when people entered convents and monasteries to give their lives to God. I feel these men and women, in just getting on with it, are also in their way giving their lives to God. Even though I don’t believe in him.’ He stopped to enjoy my amazement. ‘I bet you never thought I’d say that.’

I agreed without hesitation. ‘Or anything remotely like it.’ He laughed and I continued, ‘Presumably, this is all reflected in the benefiting Saint, young, innocent and surrounded with pastel-shaded flowers.’

‘No. That’s the other Saint Teresa. Our one is Teresa of Avila. She spent most of her life empathising with Christ’s suffering and having visions of everyone drenched in blood. Then she started a new order and was locked up by the Pope, but she fought like a tigress and won through in the end.’

‘You should have told me that straight away. I would have understood her appeal at once.’

This time he laughed out loud and we had to wait for his fit of coughing to subside. By then his mirth had been replaced by something gentler. ‘I want you to understand that I have changed. It’s important to me.’ He was watching my face all the time for the effect of his words, which was quite disconcerting. ‘At least, one says that. But one never knows if it is really change that one is experiencing, or simply qualities always present finally making their way to the surface. I do think I’m kinder than I was.’

‘That wouldn’t be difficult.’

‘And less angry.’ His words chimed with the dining room conversation in Yorkshire, and I must have somehow acknowledged this in my reception of his comments.

Which somehow he picked up. ‘What?’

‘Only that I ran into Serena Gresham, or Serena Belton as she is now, last weekend, and she said something similar. That you were very angry when she knew you, and that angry people tend either to explode or to achieve great things.’

‘Or both.’ We were interrupted by the arrival of a tray of tea, all laid out like a prop in a Hollywood film, with thin, cucumber sandwiches and a little silver dish of sliced lemon. But I could tell it was all for me. Damian was past eating or drinking anything for pleasure. When Bassett had gone he spoke again. ‘You have been combing through the attics. How is she?’

‘Pretty well. Andrew as awful as ever.’

‘Was he there?’ I nodded with a grimace, which Damian echoed. ‘I always used to wonder how he would keep up through a family dinner in that house. All of them sparking away like firecrackers and Andrew sitting there like a lump of mud.’

‘I think he keeps up by being unaware that he is not keeping up.’

‘And her ladyship?’

‘More or less unchanged. I’m sad to say jolly old Lord C. has been replaced by a carving, stolen from a tomb in the Capuchin Church in Vienna, but she’s much the same as she was.’ I told him about Lady Claremont’s joke at my expense. It was a risky admission, given what came after my love had been revealed all those years ago, but I was in too deep by now to be careful.

He smiled. ‘You should have married her.’

‘Don’t let’s go down that route.’ With all that had happened I was no longer surprised that my rage should be as near the surface as it was.

If I expected him to be chastened I was disappointed. ‘I just meant that I bet Lady Claremont would have been better off with you than Andrew.’ As usual, he made no reference to his own part in the whole business.

‘Or you. Or anyone.’

‘No. Not me,’ he said flatly.

I couldn’t break free of the subject quite yet. Once reopened, the wound felt as if it were freshly cut. ‘Why did she marry him? What was she? Nineteen? And she wasn’t even pregnant. The daughter came along ten months later and was the spitting image of Andrew, so there was nothing untoward. I just don’t get it.’

He nodded. ‘It was a different world then. We did things differently.’

‘How involved were you? With Serena?’ As I spoke, each word was like a lash, leaving a red stripe on my back.

He chuckled. ‘What a wonderfully quaint expression. You sound like Woman’s Hour thirty years ago. In what way “involved”?’

‘You know in what way.’

He was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. ‘I was mad about her.’

Had I known this or not? It was so hard to decide, after everything that had happened. To hear him say it was still a kind of shock. Rather like the death of a great friend after a long terminal illness. I drank deeper of the poison. ‘Who broke it off?’

I could see I was beginning to annoy him. Once again, we had used up our false friendliness and were getting back to our true feelings for one another. ‘I didn’t want to spend my life being patronised.’ I could see he was back there for a moment, in the place that I had never left. ‘I remember once,’ he said after a moment, ‘when I went to Gresham-’

‘You used to go to Gresham?’ I couldn’t believe it. Where was I all this time? Sleeping in a box in the cellar? Why had I known none of this?

‘You know I did. For the dance.’ He was right. I did know it. ‘She was giving me a lift. So I got myself to their flat. Where was it? Somewhere in Belgravia?’

‘Chester Square. And it was a house, not a flat.’

He looked at me, understanding fully the significance of my exact recollection of the detail. ‘Anyway, we’d loaded up the cases and then, as we set off, Serena said-’ he paused, with a deep sigh, back in that smart little red two-seater that I once knew so well. ‘She said, “Now this is going to have to be very carefully stage-managed” and she started to list what I was to do when I got there, how I was to behave, what I should and should not say to her mother when she greeted me, how I should manage her father’s questions, what I should mention to her brother and her sisters. On and on she went, and as I listened I thought this isn’t for me. I don’t want to go somewhere where I’m a liability, where things have to be monitored so my hosts don’t regret asking me, where I need to take a course before I can get out of the car, where I’m not a welcome member of the party.’ He stopped, out of breath, and waited until he had caught up with himself.

‘I can see that,’ I said. Which I could.

He looked at me as if he suspected me of triumphing in his confession. ‘I didn’t face it at the time but, if I’m honest, I think that was when I knew it wouldn’t work. Not in the long term.’

‘Did you say anything to her?’

The question made him slightly uncomfortable. ‘Not then.’ He had recovered. ‘Later.’

‘But it was the end from that moment?’ What did I want from him?

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. The point is I realised that if I ever did marry, I wanted it to be into a family that would hang bunting off the balconies, send up fireworks, take out ads in The Times, not roll their eyes in unforgiving silence at my unsuitability. You saw what that guy who married the youngest sister had to go through. He was an unperson by the time they’d finished with him.’

‘Did Suzanne’s family put out the flags?’ This sounds rather unkind and I suppose it was, but I was so filled with jealousy that I felt I could have killed him. I’d say he got off pretty lightly.

His smile became rather wry. ‘The trouble was you lot had spoiled me. I didn’t like you or your world, and I didn’t want what you had, but when I tried to go back to my old crowd I’d lost the taste for their tastes. I had become like mad old Lady Belton, too snobbish, too aware of unimportant differences and needing to be stage-managed, myself.’