Author: Anya Seton
Category: Literature
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Celia started to sit down when she saw Richard’s slight inquiring frown, and realized that the seat on his left was vacant.
“Oh, dear—” she said to George Simpson. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize Mrs. Simpson wasn’t here. Is she still sick?”
George’s mouth twitched uncomfortably. “Edna was better this morning,” he said. “She told me she’d be down to lunch.”
Celia turned to the hovering Dodge. “Will you inquire after Mrs. Simpson?”
Dodge said, “Certainly, my lady,” while managing to convey distaste for his errand.
Celia was amused. She had months ago sensed the ratings given their guests in the servants’ quarters, and knew that the Simpsons had not passed muster, though they seemed inoffensive enough.
Edna Simpson had taken to her bed immediately upon arrival last night, pleading a sick headache. Celia’s sole impression had been of a stout, big-jawed woman with gold-rimmed spectacles and kinky sheep hair.
They all sat down at the glass table, and Celia waited politely for Dodge’s report before lifting her spoon to the chilled consommé.
There was a pause until Dodge reopened the door from the main house. Edna Simpson “made an entrance.” There was no other phrase for it. With slow and measured steps she preceded the butler, bowed towards Richard and Myra, then more casually towards Celia’s end of the table.
“Pardon me, I’m sure I had no notion of the taime.”
The men rose and Richard murmured inquiries about Edna’s health while he held her chair.
“Quaite, quaite recovered, thank you, Sir Richard. This luvely country air after smoggy Loondon.”
Heavens! Celia thought. Where does she come from? She did not recognize, as the English could, the North Country accent, curbed by a genteel effort to disguise it, but she flushed with entirely unnecessary embarrassment for Edna, who had dressed herself as she thought fitting to the occasion.
Edna wore a blue toque on her frizzled hair. Her blue lace gown stopped just below balloon-shaped knees. She wore dangling pearl earrings and a pearl choker. The entire outfit had cost George a pretty penny at Harrods, and Edna felt nothing but disdain for the others, lounging around half-naked in swim suits, beach robes and sandals. Drinking, too. The table was studded with glasses. This laxness was precisely what she had expected from the Americanized aristocracy. Her icy blue eyes peered quickly through the gold-rimmed spectacles. That black man, practically a nigger, seated next to her. Well! The Americans, naturally, wouldn’t have wits enough to realize how sensitive Englishwomen would feel about that. She stared at the Americans; at Sue Blake who should have been in the schoolroom instead of making eyes at that young dress designer. She stared at Lily Taylor, a woman of her own age, but bleached, painted and half-naked like the rest of them. All tarted up, thought Edna angrily. What an example to her daughter. She did not, however, look at Celia, or pause to examine the dislike she had felt for young Lady Marsdon upon first meeting her the night before. Edna did not permit herself sudden emotions, she had not noticed that the sick headache had come on when she met Celia and Sir Richard. Edna had a tonic for any discomforts which might plague her. It was contained in a plain quart bottle labeled “Bell’s Anodyne Tincture.” That this green fluid smelling of peppermint consisted of thirty percent alcohol was known only to her chemist, and would have horrified Edna who had joined the Temperance League at fourteen. The “tincture” had done its usual soothing work last night, and a few swigs had proved restorative this morning.
Edna daintily finished her consommé, put down her spoon and addressed Myra. “Such a luvely day, is it not, your grace—” She checked herself and quickly substituted, “Duchess.”
In anticipation of this visit, she had bought a book of etiquette and studied it with care. It seemed rude to address a duchess so baldly, but the book had been explicit on the point: “your grace” from inferiors, “Duchess” from equals.
Myra favored Edna Simpson with a leisurely stare, her full crimson lips quirked. “Perfect weather,” she agreed. “Mrs. Simpson, would you come from the North Country, by any chance?”
Edna turned a mottled red. “I did happen to be born in Yorkshire,” she said quickly. “My father was the—the rector of a small village on the moors, such a pretty little spot.”
George unfortunately heard and exclaimed, “But, Edna—you never told me that . . . and I always thought your father was . . .” He wheezed and faded off to silence under the glare his wife gave him.
This by-play and its reasons were obvious. Richard hastened to relieve a guest’s discomfiture, even so ludicrous a guest as Edna. “The Duchess is from the North herself,” he explained kindly. “You people all seem to recognize each other in some magical way.”
Myra laughed. “Aye,” she said, “I’m from Coomberland.”
Edna’s ear was not subtle enough to hear the parody of her own speech, and she relaxed as she said brightly, “Indeed? A charming county—all those pretty lakes.”
Myra inclined her gleaming auburn head, and turned again to Richard. The Simpson female was not worth baiting, whereas Richard was a fascinating challenge.
The salmon mousse with cucumbers was delicious, yet Celia could not eat. Besides the recurrent thickness in her throat, her heart was giving those erratic thumps. Must run up to London soon, she thought, see that specialist. She looked down the table to Richard and found that he was watching her. The dark brooding look which she could not interpret. Had it always been there, from the beginning?
Harry was booming across her at George Simpson about the iniquities of the Labour Government. She had no need to listen, and her mind slithered backwards to those shimmering wonderful days on the ship. “Love at first sight,” yes, it happened. That trite phrase, and yet what actually happened had been more like recognition.
A year ago last May on the Queen Mary. That’s when it started. Suddenly, violently. Yet the voyage had promised nothing different from dozens of other voyages.
All the years with her mother after her father died. Travel, travel. Together Celia and Lily had done most of Europe. They had done the Caribbean and Hawaii. Though there had also been a two-year interval in Paris at a school where Celia learned many things besides French.
From time to time there had, naturally, been tentative flirtations, and three lukewarm proposals. Some of these young men Celia could not even remember, though she had been flattered by their attentions, mildly amused by their kisses. Lily, though generally permissive and a good confidante, had always moved on before anything grew too serious, nor had Celia objected. By twenty-two Celia had decided that she was essentially frigid. Just not sexy.
She discussed this sad state with her girl friends, who were all either married or had lovers. They applied glib Freudian interpretations which Celia rather unhappily accepted. That she had a father complex; that she was ashamed of being a girl because it had disappointed her father; that there must be some forgotten childhood trauma.
She once discussed with Lily her inability to be kindled by men. Lily laughed. “Oh, child, don’t be silly. Just wait until the right man comes along. Besides,” Lily added, “according to your horoscope you’ll be married soon, when Venus moves into your Sun sign. Anyway, you Aquarians don’t fall easily in love, like Libras.”
Ten years ago Lily had commissioned Celia’s horoscope from a Persian astrologer, and several, though not all, predictions had come true. Perhaps this might.
So Celia, though popular and social enough, escaped into the world of books. She read incessantly, she scribbled poetry and tore up the results. Somewhere along the way she developed poise and a sense of irony.
Then, a year ago last May, Lily had decided to visit England again.
“Haven’t been there in years, and after all it was our ancestors’ homeland. We might uncover some relations. Your poor dear father, of course—well, there’re so many Taylors we could never trace his line, but my grandfather was a Peabody. Should be easier. Y
ou wouldn’t mind, would you, dear?”
Celia did not mind. She liked English history, and there was a strong pull towards England which she remembered, from a childhood visit when her father was alive, as full of bird-song, castles and magic.
They embarked on the Queen Mary—one of the ship’s last eastbound voyages. Lily, who always knew how to manage these things, sat as she had requested, at the Staff Captain’s table. Celia was allotted a nearby table for four. Two of these were a dull couple from London who had been to the States on business; the other was an Englishman called Richard Marsdon.
And it happened, just like that, Celia thought. The long, startled look they exchanged. The recognition, and bizarre overtones of dismay. We fell in love between the vichyssoise and the steak Diane. Though she was then barely conscious of Richard’s handsomeness, except that he was tall and dark, and must be over thirty. She saw only the intense hazel eyes under heavy black brows.
The first evening after dinner they stayed together, watching the horse races, listening to the orchestra, talking very little, until Richard made one personal remark.
“Your Christian name is Celia,” he said. “It’s a name which has always attracted me. Not sure why, since I’ve never known any. But I once bought a rather—well, I’m afraid, bawdy—recording of a sixteenth-century song about a Celia.”
She gave an excited happy laugh. “I’m so glad you like it, but I must confess I wasn’t christened Celia. My parents named me Henrietta, after a grandmother. I always loathed the name, and I guess it didn’t fit, because when I was fourteen our school put on As You Like It; I had Celia’s part and somehow the name stuck with me. I’ve used it ever since.”
“Strange,” he said slowly. “Many of life’s little quirks are strange.”
She had never thought much about her name change, it had seemed very natural, and her mother—at the time much interested in numerology—had enthusiastically accepted it, with quotations going back to Pythagoras which proved that the numbers in “Celia” accorded much better than “Henrietta” with her daughter’s birth date. This aspect seemed too silly for mention, and anyway, Richard had given her his warm quick smile, and said, “Would you like to dance, Celia?”
The rest of the voyage was a delicious haze during which she gradually learned a few facts about Richard’s life, in spite of his reticence.
Richard Marsdon had been born in a very old house in East Sussex, his family was poor, he had won a scholarship to Oxford’s Balliol College and graduated, “positively without any distinction, I assure you, and no particular aptitude for anything but reading; unless you count judo, which I learned as a hobby to avoid undue introspection.”
Puzzled, she asked why “undue introspection,” and he shrugged. “I’d a tendency to brood, which I later offset by travel—at least I hope I did.”
He had accepted the first job that offered, as secretary to a famous and lazy journalist, who made Richard do all his leg work in gathering material for the sprightly articles he tossed off regularly. Thus, in the past years Richard had covered not only various local events, but also a number in Australia, South America, and, just now, the States. He had planned to fly home as usual, but a telephone call in New York from George Simpson had told Richard of his father’s massive stroke and incapacity, “and I’m needed at Medfield, at last.”
She understood from the warmth of his tone when he mentioned his home that he loved the place, and also that he had felt exiled from it in some way which had to do with his father. Richard further explained that he was going to throw up his job once he’d reported to the journalist; and since his father’s condition had stabilized, he’d suddenly decided to return by sea instead of flying.
“On such apparently chance decisions one’s future seems to hang,” he said looking at her somberly. This was actually the only acknowledgment he made of the attraction between them until the last night out.
They had climbed to the boat deck after dinner and sat down on a locker beneath one of the lifeboats.
The tiny stars pricked through the grayish northern sky.
“Land,” said Richard quietly, “I can smell it. We’ll be nearing the Scilly Isles, and then England.”
She shivered, but not from the damp wind. Richard put his arm around her. She relaxed against him, wanting nothing more, held fast in a timeless moment.
The great ship plowed steadily through the Atlantic, rolling softly in the ocean swells.
With faint astonishment she felt Richard begin to tremble, or was it only the far—below vibration . . . she did not question, nor did she move as he drew away. But he spoke suddenly in a harsh voice.
“I want you, Celia. You know I want you. As you want me. But I’m afraid. At least, there’s a barrier.”
She stiffened, the moment shattered. She tried to speak lightly. “A barrier? What barrier? I know you’ve no wife. Have you a mistress then? Or a mother you adore?”
His long flexible hand clenched on his knee then fell open. “Nothing like that. I can’t explain the trouble, except it goes deep—and far into the past, something I read partly. No, that’s foolish, but when I saw you, I . . .” He stopped.
Behind them streamed the Queen Mary’s foaming, glittering wake. There was faint music from the Veranda Grill, creakings from the ship, laughing voices in the distance.
“I want you,” Richard repeated very low, “yet I want to be alone. Let alone . . . to serve God.”
Celia drew back, incredulous. “Serve God . . .” she repeated. “I didn’t think—at least, I don’t understand . . .”
Richard shook himself, and turned to her. “Of course you don’t. I don’t myself.”
She had no time to puzzle over this thing which seemed jerked out of him against his will. Was he drunk, or had she heard wrong? For he grabbed her against him in a kind of frenzy. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, her neck, and then with violence her mouth, which opened to his in total response.
She yielded as he pushed her backwards against the rail, feeling no hurt from the iron bar across her shoulders, feeling nothing but a savage joy in the closeness of their bodies.
“Naow, naow—ye two!” said a stolid voice from the deck beside them. “No ’anky panky. Captain ’e don’t like fun and games up ’ere!”
Celia and Richard separated slowly. She was confused, but Richard instantly recovered. He got up and gave the night watchman a slight nod.
“Quite right, officer,” he said in his calm, well-modulated voice. “Though this lady is my fiancée, and we were not exactly indulging in fun and games.”
The watchman was taken aback. He had supposed that these were the usual kids who often sneaked up from tourist class. “Well, naow, sir,” he said apologetically, “I’m only doing me duty.”
“Of course,” said Richard, “we should all do our duty. The trick is to find out where it’s really due.”
The watchman’s jaw dropped. “N’doubt, sir,” he said hastily and clomped off.
Richard and Celia walked silently through the nearest door, and he rang for the elevator. They descended silently to the main deck, where Richard had a single cabin and she shared a suite with her mother.
At her cabin door she pushed back her curly salt-damp hair, her bruised mouth trembled as she looked at him. “Did you really mean that I was your fiancée? What about the—barrier?”
Beneath the straight brows his eyes flickered, then steadied. He took her hand and kissed the palm. “Our marriage is predestined, I think,” he said. “On the outcome we must take our chances.” He bowed and vanished along the dim, vibrating passageway.
It was only later, as she lay sleepless that she realized there had been no actual mention of love. Nor did that seem important. It’s more than “love,” she thought, that tarnished, insipid little word so readily voiced by any amorous couple. More and deeper than that kind of love. What then?
Outside the sheltered cabin the great ship must have run into fog. Celia heard the long
moaning blasts from the horn. That means danger, she thought. She considered this awhile, then no longer heard the blasts as she finally fell asleep and dreamed of Richard.
They landed next day at Southampton in the sunlight, and after that life bustled on like a speeded-up film.
Richard seemed possessed by feverish hurry, and he was ably assisted by the excited Lily.
Celia and her mother stayed a week at Claridge’s, rushing through financial arrangements, buying a small trousseau, attending congratulatory parties given by Amos B. Taylor’s erstwhile business acquaintances.
Celia saw Richard only once when he came up from Sussex to give her a beautiful but odd engagement ring. It was made of heavy gold—two hands clasping an amethyst heart. “And all the Marsdon wives have worn it, back to, oh, Tudor times, at least—I believe it was once a wedding ring.”
She forgot her first dismay, for she had been expecting a conventional American diamond solitaire, and said sincerely, “I’m very proud, Richard, proud to wear the badge of a Marsdon wife.”
He smiled and said, “Thing’s too big for you. I’ll take it to the jewelers. Yes, that’s our betrothal ring, and our family motto is ‘Beware,’ by the way—but then, being papists we usually had to, except in Bloody Mary’s reign.”
“A bit sinister,” she said, wishing that he would sit down and hold her close, that he did not show such haste and urgency. “I’m somewhat daunted at the prospect of running Medfield Place, as my predecessors did. Do you think I can?”