Page 57 of The Gathering Storm

And now, finally, because he understood the hatefulness of the prejudice that followed the likes of the Nevinsons around, the shadow-presence always in the corner of the room that you tried never to look at, that you hoped never to provoke into showing its face.

In the end, all he could say was ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I don’t,’ Robert agreed robustly. ‘Now, I know it’s not the done thing, but isn’t there still time to get out of it? If the old fellow turned sticky – well, Avis would probably stand the nonsense. He can afford it, and he’d do anything to please Mama.’

Richard couldn’t help smiling at this second-hand largesse. Jilt Cynthia, and if Samuel brings an action for breach of promise, have his stepfather cough up to pay him off. And Robert believed he was occupying the high ground!

‘It’s no good,’ Richard said, quite gently, because he found he rather pitied his brother – there seemed to be a whole dimension missing from him. ‘You can’t change my mind. I want to marry Cynthia, I like her father and mother, and I shall enjoy expanding the business.’

‘Expand into what? Hiring out even more cars? Even more guided holidays?’ Robert invested it with scorn.

‘Oh, there are big things afoot. I shouldn’t be surprised if I ended up a millionaire,’ Richard said cheerfully.

Caxton Hall was a handsome, ornate French Renaissance-style building in deep red brick and pink sandstone, dating from the 1880s. It contained two large public halls, used for meetings and musical events, and it also served as the register office for Central London, conducting weddings for those wanting only a civil ceremony.

Despite the modesty of the proceedings, Samuel had not skimped on the arrangements, and one of the finest of his motor-cars arrived at Richard’s lodgings to take him and Basil to Caxton Street.

‘Nervous?’ Basil asked, as they glided through the sunny London streets.

‘Not at all,’ Richard said. All he felt was a strange, unearthly detachment, as though he was dreaming this whole thing. ‘Do you have the ring?’

Basil tapped his breast pocket. ‘Safe in here.’ He was about to add, ‘Queer business, this – a wedding that’s not in a church,’ but thought better of it.

There was no altar to stand at, and no aisle for the bride to walk down to indrawn breaths of wonder from the congregation. There was almost no congregation. They all assembled in an anteroom, which Basil thought should have been called an anticlimax-room. Violet looked ravishing in a dusky-pink outfit, with pearls, but was clearly nervous and ill-at-ease, though it was only from fear of doing or saying the wrong thing and hurting someone’s feelings. Avis was his usual urbane self; Henry stared around in open curiosity and asked his stepfather questions about building techniques that he couldn’t answer; Charlotte, looking pretty in pale lavender, seemed to have nothing to say for herself.

The Nevinsons all arrived at once. The bride was in a cream-coloured silk crêpe dress, close-fitting, with a ruched bodice, calf-length and slightly flared at the hem, with a matching coatee, and a small hat with a half-veil. She carried a bouquet of very pale pink roses. Basil thought she looked pale, and wondered if she was having second thoughts. He felt like telling her that Richard was a thoroughly good egg.

Richard noticed her extreme nervousness. Her eyes flew at once to him, as though pleading for help. Don’t leave me! Hold me up! After that, he couldn’t notice anyone else. To the company it looked as though he had eyes for no-one but her, which touched Charlotte and soothed Violet’s nerves considerably. In fact, it was a kind of terror that he might let her down, mixed with furious determination that he should not.

The ceremony didn’t take long. Basil produced the ring at the right moment, and when Richard tried to put it on to Cynthia’s finger, her hand shook so much he had to hold it still with his other one. But it was done, they were lawfully man and wife, and he felt relief at having crossed the Rubicon, as though some horrible madness might have sent him running away to the sound of shattering hearts. It was done, he couldn’t run now, and he was glad.

She met his eyes, and he had an awkward feeling that she knew all he had been thinking, had always known it. She smiled – a hesitant smile, and her eyelashes were wet. He took both her hands and smiled down at her reassuringly. Then he bent to kiss her cheek. It was not part of the ceremony, but he felt the moment required it.

The wedding breakfast at the Savoy was lavish, and conversation flowed comfortably. Samuel was a good host, Basil, Charlotte and Henry kept things going, Avis drew out the bridesmaid, who was shy, and Hannah talked to Violet about the hope of grandchildren. Eating brought a little colour to Cynthia’s cheeks – Richard suspected she hadn’t been able to eat any breakfast – and Basil even made her laugh once or twice. Then it was time to go up and change.

The bride came down in a dark blue silk suit, a sable piece, which was one of her father’s presents to her, and diamond ear clips, which were Richard’s. (He’d had to borrow the money from Avis, but had been determined to do the thing properly.) Goodbyes went on for a long time. Violet kissed Cynthia and said, ‘You must come to dinner as soon as you’re back.’ Charlotte kissed Richard and said, ‘We’re only just down the road in Acton. I shall come and see you often.’ Henry shook his hand and said, ‘You’re a lucky dog. I don’t suppose I shall ever be able to afford to get married.’

They all trooped outside, and Basil, laughing, threw a handful of rice, which he had concealed in his pocket, as they crossed the pavement to the car.

And so they were on their way. They were silent for a while, and then Cynthia sighed.

‘Tired?’ he asked kindly.

‘A little,’ she said. A pause. ‘It wasn’t the sort of wedding your mother expected, was it?’

‘She’s still got Robert’s show next week.’ That wasn’t tactful. He asked diffidently, ‘Are you disappointed? Not to have … ?’

‘A church wedding? I couldn’t very well, could I? It would always have been a civil wedding for me.’ She looked at him. ‘Are you disappointed?’

‘Me? Lord, no. I don’t think men mind about that sort of thing.’ Even as he said it, he thought Robert did mind, very much. ‘I just want you to be happy,’ he concluded.

‘I am,’ she said, and slipped her hand into his. ‘I will try to make you a very good wife.’

Guilt, shame, remorse, pity – a host of emotions like thin needles pierced his heart. He squeezed the hand she had bestowed so trustingly on him. She was ready to give everything, and asked nothing in return. ‘You couldn’t possibly make anything but a very good wife,’ he said.

She smiled. It was, he thought, not a bridal, but a motherly smile. Just at that moment, she looked like Hannah.

James wandered, walking until he was footsore and weary. But though he would tumble into sleep as down a well, it never lasted long, and he would wake after a couple of hours to tortured thoughts. Staring at the ceiling, he would go over and over their time in Russia, trying to remember every sidelong look, every cryptic remark, every word that had been said on either side. Had he let something slip? Had her name ever crossed his lips? Had he mentioned to Charlie something that Charlie could inadvertently have passed on? He was certain he had never repeated to anyone what she had told him about her life in Russia or her escape from it. And yet, in the stark evil spotlight of her death, how could he be?