Past Imperfect (61 page)

Damian was only just alive, but when he saw me his lips began to move, so I knelt down and leaned over him, holding my ear as near to his mouth as I could. And I did hear him quite clearly. 'Please tell her I feel the same,' he said. Then it was over.

The test was positive, as he and I had known it would be, so there was no doubt that justice would be done when Damian's affairs were settled. Alastair gave me a copy of the will before we left and invited me to read it through, in case there were any immediate queries he could satisfy, but it was all pretty straightforward, if overwhelming in its sheer magnitude. As I knew, Damian had no surviving close relations and so there was never any chance of a challenge to his some would say eccentric dispositions, and the document was clear enough. I discovered I had been allotted the onerous task of executor. This had been made slightly more bearable in two ways, the first being that I was sole holder of the office, so every other manager, banker, committee member, financial advisor of Damian's vast empire had to defer to me. The second sweetener of the unwieldy pill was that Damian had left me a large amount of money 'in gratitude for his kind execution of a tedious task,' which I had not looked for, but for which I was, and am, extremely grateful. I have no hesitation in saying that the bequest altered my life enormously for the better.

He had also set aside what seemed to me a huge sum to be disposed of by me between, and I quote, 'the others on the list, as he shall see fit. He will understand this designation. I make no recommendations as to how this should be done, since he is the philanthropist, not I.' I was shamelessly partisan in the distribution, giving Dagmar the lion's share which, I am happy to relate, resulted in her leaving William almost at once. I could not forget that she alone had been treated kindly by Damian during his terrible tirade, and I decided this must mean that her happiness was in some way important to him. I gave a sizeable lump to Candida, which she was very grateful for, and another to Lucy, which Philip lost within three years on ill-judged business ventures. Terry, surprisingly perhaps, invested her share well and now enjoys the proceeds. I did not give money to Kieran, since he didn't need it, but I saw him as the legitimate heir to Joanna's goodwill, so I purchased the Turner seascape, which I had admired in the library on my first visit, out of the estate and gave it to him. He was pleased, I think. The only other bequest for which I was personally responsible, but which, as executor I was fully entitled to make, was a substantial sum to Peniston's sister, Mary. This was partly because I felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that she, in truth and unlike Peniston, had the blood of the Beltons running in her veins and partly to substantiate the anodyne notion, helped by the lesser legacies to the other women, that Damian had decided to split his money between those he had loved and their offspring. There was so much money that none of the above made more than the faintest dent in the whole, and the gifts helped the legend that Serena was happy, indeed eager, to foster and promote. Naturally, I needed the promise of silence from Candida and Terry, the only other two who knew, but Candida was Serena's cousin and was never a risk. I was more concerned at having been indiscreet with Terry and I did think of somehow tying the money to a gagging clause but there was a risk this could prove insulting and counter-productive so I decided to rely on what remained of her decency. Thus far, at least, I have not been disappointed.

The funeral was small and simple, and Damian's body was laid to rest in the graveyard, fittingly, of the Church of St Teresa of Avila, which had benefited so much from his benevolence during his lifetime. A few months after that, we had a grander and well-attended memorial at St George's, Hanover Square. The will was public knowledge by this time, and had provided a good deal of conversation in London drawing rooms and at London dinner tables, so there were many faces from the past among the crowded pews, I hope not entirely because the luncheon afterwards, for all the attendees, was to be held at Claridge's. Serena was very helpful with the arrangements and at her suggestion Peniston read a piece. It was that one about death being 'nothing at all,' which I always find rather irritating, but apparently it had been specified. He spoke about his mother's admiration and love for Damian, which I thought rather courageous and good, and I must admit I was also impressed that Andrew turned up and maintained throughout both service and reception a grave, pompous solemnity, which I assume was the nearest he could come to any manifestation of sorrow. Given the circumstances, even the little he was allowed to know, he could hardly be expected to feel much of the latter. Of course, the enormous inheritance had propelled his dynasty overnight to a place among the top twenty families in England, so it behoved him not to look ungrateful, but still, good manners may never be counted on under any circumstances and I was glad of them from him.

Lucy was there, in a peculiar approximation of mourning dress, with a black, silk evening coat and a huge, plastic, purple flower pinned to its collar. Candida arrived with Dagmar, both of them looking elegant and genuinely upset, which warmed my heart, so far had I come in my estimation of the deceased. And even Kieran turned up, though it might have been to confirm that Damian really was dead. Terry did not make the journey from California. That would have been a lot to ask, but she sent a bunch of those fashionable and hideous flowers, beloved of urban florists, that look as if they feed on flies. One woman rather interested me. She was tall and large, but rather
chic
in her way, wearing a beautifully cut suit and one of the best diamond brooches I have ever seen. She looked at me and smiled and nodded, so clearly I knew her, and in case she came over to say hello I sought the assistance of Serena as to who she might be. Serena was rather surprised by the question. 'Surely you remember Georgina Waddilove,' she said.

'Fat Georgina?' I couldn't keep the astonishment out of my face. 'What happened?'

'You have been out of the great world.' She smiled. 'She married the Marquess of Coningsby.'

I had been out of the great world indeed. 'When?'

'About fifteen years ago. I can't believe you never heard, although they are in Ireland a lot of the time. It was her first and his second, but the miracle was that he only had girls before and Georgina whacked out two boys, the first when she was forty-three, and the second a year later. So she's the mother of the heir
and
the spare.'

'And is he nice?'

'Lovely. Exactly like John Thaw to look at and
so
grateful to Georgina for rescuing him. Number One took off with a friend of his, and he was very cast down when they met, but now he's as happy as a sandboy.'

Actually, this was a really joyful moment for me. I looked at the smiling and almost quite attractive Marchioness of Coningsby, and I knew that gloom is not universal, even in this misery-memoir age. For some people things do come right. 'How wonderful,' I said. 'I hope her mother was alive to attend the wedding.'

'She was. But if she hadn't been, I expect she'd have risen from the tomb to get there.' Serena laughed and so did I, before the other guests at the party claimed her.

So Damian's quest was done and I was not unhappy at the outcome, nor, in the end, about what I'd learned on my travels through my lost youth. I had thought that the secret love story of 1968, had been my own hidden and one-sided worship, which had ended in my exile, but I had discovered instead that Serena Gresham and my betrayer had been the lovers of choice for any true romantic. Even so, I cling to my belief that in rediscovering and recognising the workings of my own heart, and in having finally made love, albeit once, to the object of my passions, I had endorsed my life, in retrospect and for the future, to the end of my days. Whatever may yet come to me, something or nothing it remains to be seen, I have known what the poets write about and I am duly grateful.

I was standing in the hall of the hotel, with its wonderfully vivid, black-and-white marble floor, when Peniston Summersby touched me on the arm. Together we walked out on to the pavement, into the still bright, autumn day, as we discussed what had to be done next, since an estate like Damian's is bound to be a work in progress for many years, but then he hesitated and I knew he wanted to say something to show me that he was aware of his good fortune. 'It's a wonderful opportunity. I mean to try to be worthy of it,' he came up with at last.

'I'm sure you will be.'

'And I want to go on with the things that mattered to him. Then there's cancer research, of course, and. I thought we might look at setting up some new scholarships in his name.'

'To be honest, I don't think he'd really care much about perpetuating his name, but I agree with you. Let's do it.'

It was time to part, but I could see he hadn't quite finished. Poor fellow, he looked rather awkward, and in the last analysis there is something a bit odd about being left a kingdom worth more than the National Debt because some bloke was in love with your mother forty years ago, which is all he would ever hear about it. 'Mummy says he was a marvellous man. She wishes I'd known him.'

I considered this for a moment. 'I think he was a brave man,' which I truly do. 'He was unafraid of the rules that frighten people. He made up his own and one must always admire that. I suppose he was an original. It's something so many of us strive for and so few of us achieve.'

With that we shook hands and I walked away down Brook Street.