Rutherford Park (37 page)

To her amazement, it was a record of all the family portraits that had been taken since William and Octavia had been married. All these same images—larger ones—were framed and kept on the piano and on the occasional tables throughout the house, but she had not realized that William kept his own copies here. On the very first page was Rutherford itself, looking rather more prim and manicured than she could ever recall. On the second page was their wedding portrait, taken in 1893. She put her finger to the page. That dress had been stifling: so much lace, so much satin. And here, on the next page, were some little cartes de visite: photographs of William that had been made when a photographic visiting card was all the rage. He must, she thought, have been too embarrassed to use them; she had never seen them before. On the succeeding pages was the record of their married life together, among the photographic portraits, Harry as a small boy with his arms around the neck of his pony, and a formal pose of Octavia herself with all three children. The date was 1909—Harry was trying very hard to look grown-up by the side of Louisa, who was suppressing a naughty smile; Charlotte was wide-eyed and serious. And then here, on one of the last pages, was Louisa again, in the garden, surrounded by roses.

She turned back the pages to the beginning. And then she noticed the small envelope tucked behind one of the prints. She took it out; it was a flimsy, opaque piece of folded tissue paper. She opened it carefully and revealed a pressed flower and a scrap of lace. She stared at them in astonishment for some seconds; the flower had once been a lily of the valley, and even from the scrap of lace one could tell that it was finest Brussels. It had a familiar pattern of entwined vine leaves. Slowly, Octavia looked back again at their wedding photograph. In the image, she sat below William and his
hand was on her shoulder. She carried a small bouquet of lilies of the valley, and around them both swirled the train of antique Brussels lace decorated in a pattern of vines.

Octavia took a deep, shuddering breath. She never knew that he had kept them. She never knew in all these years that the day had really mattered to him at all. He had never spoken of it, never reminded her of it, even as an affectionate aside. She thought that the marriage had been something merely contractual to him: the settlement of his financial future, the choosing of an eligible, malleable bride. But she had been wrong. At some point William had taken a flower from the bouquet, and pressed it, and kept it to cherish. He had wrapped it in tissue paper and preserved it, as one would preserve a precious memory.

And it was here, all here, she realized. Here within the pages of the green leather book. All that she and William had achieved, and all that they had created.

And all that they were about to lose.

With her hand still on Louisa’s image, she put her head on the desk and wept.

* * *

I
t was almost eleven o’clock by the time William and Harry managed to make their way to the Gare de l’Est. There were no cabs to be had, no omnibuses; someone along the way had told them that even the bicycles in the Peugeot showroom in the Avenue de la Grande Armée had been requisitioned, all three hundred of them. On street corners they heard other rumors: that forty thousand Americans were stranded in Europe that week, and the same number of British, that the ports were scenes of mayhem, and that already overloaded ferries were being overrun by hysterical crowds. “Running like rats,” they had heard one drunken man say. “You
have a
permis de séjour
?” he had asked threateningly, eyeing William’s figure and clothes—his unmistakable aristocratic bearing—from head to toe. “You live here? Here in Paris, eh?” They had moved on quickly. “You’re a spy, maybe!” they had heard the man call.

“Don’t answer,” William had murmured to Harry. “Don’t look back.”

They arrived at the Gare de L’Est at eleven. The place was seething with people, men and their families crowding into the station under the wrought-iron balustrades and vast semicircular window of the entrance lobby. A large Avis sign within the station concourse announced the closure of the French-German border. Here and there children were caught up in the throng, stamped on, pushed, herded towards the platforms, where, no sooner had they arrived, than they were forcibly separated from their fathers. Flowers were pressed into hands, arms thrown around shoulders, babies held up to be kissed. Here and there elderly parents looked on. Women turned away, some weeping, some gazing disoriented into the middle distance.

“Which company is this?” William asked, catching hold of a porter. “Which regiment?” He held up the paper that Helene had given him, and the man scrutinized it.

“M’sieur, they have left long ago,” he said, throwing up his hands as if to show William’s hopeless ignorance.

“To where?” William insisted, running alongside him for a few paces. “Do you know where?”

The man grimaced, rolling his eyes. “To war!” he shouted above the voices of the crowd. “To war!”

William dropped back. He and Harry stood while the tide of humanity flowed around them. In a few minutes, the train whistle sounded and a hundred doors slammed; the wail of distress mounted as the carriages began to move. The train gathered speed, and the faces of the men looking out the windows rapidly disappeared.
When at last the train was gone, an awful silence descended on the platform. No one moved for some time, and then began shuffling back the way that they had come, back under the huge railway clock, back out past the railings and into the drizzling rain that had begun to fall.

“Perhaps she’s here,” Harry suggested. “Perhaps she stayed here after he left.”

They walked the length of the station, looking in every kiosk, on every bench, and in every café. But there was no Louisa.

“It’s hopeless,” William said. “She might be anywhere at all.”

They stood at the front of the station, gazing out at the 10th arrondissement and down the street towards the Jardin Villemin. “This has always been the station for war,” William murmured. “In the 1870s they built a hospital over there for injured troops. That was the last Prussian war. It seems we go in circles; we tread the same steps. We make the same mistakes.”

They walked out aimlessly towards the gardens. The rain gradually seeped through their overcoats. It was hard to believe that only a few days ago they had been in England; William could not help thinking of his walk by Richmond Castle. He had not known about Louisa then. He had not known about Octavia and Gould. As they went through the old military gates of the gardens, his steps began to slow, until he finally stopped dead, staring at the ground. “I have failed my family,” he said.

Harry looked at him, astounded. “No, sir,” he replied. “That is not true.”

William looked up at him bemusedly. “It
is
true,” he said quietly. “I have not paid attention. I did not pay attention to your wishes. I did not pay attention to my wife. There you have it. Whatever is happening, I am the architect of it. I have constructed it. I have let you down.”

“It’s the reverse, if anything,” Harry told him. “If you want to censure anybody, you might as well censure me.”

William waved his hand dismissively. “You’ve only wanted to break from tradition. Every young man thinks the same. You are no different.”

“I am different,” Harry answered. “I broke my word to you.”

“Broke your word? When?”

“At Christmas,” Harry said. His face was pale. He stumbled over his words. “You asked me a question. You asked me for the truth, and I lied to you.”

“What question?” William asked. “What lie?”

Harry was trying to hold himself straight, to keep command of himself, but the effort of it made him shake. “I gave you my word that I didn’t know the girl who died,” he stammered at last. “The maid who was taken from the river. Emily.” His voice broke; he bit his lip, took a breath. “But I did know her. It was my fault. I abandoned her. The child was mine.”

Father and son stood face-to-face for a while, each trying to see the truth, the reaction, in the other’s face. And then, despite his efforts, Harry began to cry. William made no move towards him.

“The fellows at Oxford…” Harry began in utter misery. “They said…” He stopped. “But it wasn’t their concern. I ought not to have listened to them. I cut her off. I told her that she was a wonderful girl, and then I wished her well, or some such brutal thing, and I left her. That night, at Christmas. The same night that she walked to the river. She never told me about the child, but then, I never gave her a chance.” He looked away from his father, too ashamed to meet William’s gaze. “And I made a nice bloody show of the whole thing by lying to you and Mother. And I went down to London and drank it away.” He paused, shaking his head. “But it doesn’t go away. I might as well have murdered her. That’s what
a fine son you have. I try to tell myself that it didn’t happen. I forget about it sometimes for days at a time. But it did happen. And the reason it happened was me. My own selfish bloody callousness.” He managed, finally, to look back at William. “And that is the person you have for your son, sir. And I’m very sorry for it.”

Harry began to walk on, shoulders hunched. After a few seconds watching him, William started out after him. All around them, the soft greens of the gardens stretched away; William had a surreal sense that the world, so close to crumbling, and in such throes of despair all around them, actually meant nothing at all. All that mattered was his son. “Harry!” he called. “Harry!”

Harry’s steps faltered; he looked briefly over his shoulder. William caught up with him. “You mean to say that you’ve carried this secret all this time?” he asked. “Alone?”

“It was hardly something to speak of.”

“But, Harry…” William faltered. “Did you never think of confiding in me?”

“In you?” Harry echoed. And the meaning of it was clear: Harry had never thought that he could confide in his own father. He had expected punishment, rebuke, loathing. Nothing else.

William’s heart gave a few staggering beats. He put his hand to his chest, and then held out his arms and wrapped Harry in his embrace. “I am sorry,” he said in a whisper. “I am sorry for your loneliness. I am sorry for the poor girl. But more than those things, I am sorry that you could not come to me.”

* * *

T
he rain fell heavier as they made their way an hour later to the embassy, anxious to obtain the permits that would allow them greater freedom of travel. William was still carrying the passports and his letter of introduction from the Prime Minister that
was always with him, so it was with horror that they saw the vast queue stretching all the way down the street. “This will take all day,” Harry said.

“I don’t think so,” William told him. They walked onwards, past the lines of people, some obscured by umbrellas. In places the line was three or four deep, groups who knew one another. They heard the same conversations over and over again as they walked; sterling was not acceptable; no foreign currency was acceptable. Without money, tickets could not be bought or accommodation paid for. There was an atmosphere of barely concealed panic; homelessness, rootlessness and loss of identity showed in the faces that were turned towards them.

At the door of the embassy, William gave his name. They waited while an official disappeared into the depths of the building. “Who are you?” the first man in the queue asked William. He was ruddy faced, bowler hatted, and sweating inside his suit. “We’ve been here since eight o’clock, old man.” He stepped forward, as if he were ready to push Harry out of his way.

“Hold on,” Harry warned. “My father’s known to the ambassador.”

“I don’t care if he’s known to the King himself,” the man retorted. “We all want to go home. It doesn’t make you better than the rest of us.”

The door miraculously opened just as the curious crowd surged forward behind their interrogator. William and Harry were admitted into the gilded gloom of the hall. The same official who had let them in paused. “Lord Cavendish?” he said. “Of Rutherford Park?”

“Yes.”

“Of Rutherford in Yorkshire. I’m not mistaken, sir?”

“You are correct.”

The man nodded, smiling. “The ambassador sends his greetings; he asks to be excused at the moment.”

“I understand.”

“Rather busy, you know.” He gestured back towards the entrance, as if the declaration of war in the last few days had been a minor disturbance to the eternal implacability of diplomatic life. “But we’ve been expecting you, naturally. I must say, your response has been remarkably rapid, sir. You were here in Paris already, I assume? And now you’re seeking onward travel, of course.”

“Not yet. I need a permit. We intend to stay in the city, at least for the time being.” William stopped, suddenly realizing what had been said. “Expecting us?” he echoed. “Response? I don’t understand you. I am here to find my daughter. My son and I have come to look for her. It may take some time. We are trying to find her address in Paris.”

“But…” The man stopped. “There is some confusion,” he said. “Your name, of course, at the door. I thought that you had answered our message.”

“What message?” asked Harry.

“Our telephone message to the embassy in London this morning.”

They stared at him; he smiled in return. “But I see that is not so. Please follow me.”

They walked behind him, glancing in puzzlement at each other. Halfway along the first corridor, the man opened a small door. “It is the most private room we could find,” he said. “We thought it more appropriate, in the circumstances.”

William and Harry stepped inside. The sitting room was sumptuously furnished; heavy drapes shielded it from the street. By the window on a low couch, with an untouched tray of coffee before them, sat two women; one, in a spotless grey dress of unmistakable Parisian lines, was holding the younger woman’s hand alongside her.

This woman, young as she was, looked as if the weight of the
world had fallen on her. Her hair was pulled back from her face severely; she wore a crumpled coat over a traveling dress, beneath which her once-pretty pale shoes were stained with dirt and dust. Louisa had been crying, perhaps for days, and she looked lost, like a bereaved child, stunned with shock. At their entrance, she gasped and gripped the other woman’s hand tighter, then got hesitantly to her feet.