Palace Circle Part 8

"Their poor mothers," Gwen said time after time. "To lose not one boy but all their sons. What fort.i.tude they must need to bear such unimaginable loss."

In September it looked as if the Allies were finally winning, but just when her spirits were higher than they had been for four years, Delia learned that Beau had been killed.

The news poleaxed her. Beau had been part of her childhood; part of her youth. For weeks her thoughts were of Virginia and the carelessly happy days with her cousin.

"When the Atlantic is safe to travel again, the very first thing I'm goin' to do is visit my folks," she said to Ivor. "My parents aren't gettin' any younger and I want Petra and Davina to remember them."

The war ended in November. Throughout the country church bells rang and fireworks lit the night sky. Ivor had flags hung from every window of the Cadogan Square house. After going to the House of Commons to listen to Lloyd George read the armistice terms, he took Delia to Buckingham Palace where King George and Queen Mary stood on the balcony waving to the crowds.

Delia half expected life to return to prewar certainties. It didn't. Many of their friends who had mansions in London and stately homes in the country gave up their town houses. They still entertained, but house parties were confined to weekends.

In town, the young thronged nightclubs to listen to the new jazz. American music was played everywhere. It was a social scene Ivor disliked but Delia, whose growing friendship with the Prince of Wales had become close, often partied with him and nightclubbing was Prince Edward's favorite occupation.

"And Ivor can't very well forbid me from accepting such invitations," Delia said to Jerome in the spring of 1920 when they had escaped for an illicit picnic on the North Downs, "not when they come from the man who will be his king."

"Edward doesn't have the look of a king," Jerome said. He was lying on the gra.s.s propped on one elbow. "He looks like a fairy-tale prince-slender, blue-eyed, golden-haired-but he lacks gravitas and, in my book, gravitas is a necessary quality for a king."

Delia set down her gla.s.s of white wine, smoothed her fashionable mid-calf-length skirt over her knees and circled them with her arms. "Ivor thinks it a necessary quality too. He's hoping King George will live to be ninety."

"Which, considering how old his grandmother was when she died, he may well do." He put a chicken leg down on a serviette and lay flat, his hands beneath his head. "Did Ivor give you any idea how long he might be in Paris?"

"No. He said the peace conference was likely to go on for months. You're an MP-what's the inside gossip?"

"That it will go on for months." He shot her his wide, easy smile. "I don't think Lloyd George will want Ivor to stay in Paris, though. He needs your husband to focus on what is happening in the Middle East. If we grant Egypt independence- and we may have to-we still need to maintain control of the cotton trade, and of the ca.n.a.l. Without Suez, we lose our strategic link with India."

Delia's conversations with Ivor were nearly always about work-which meant they were nearly always about politics. She didn't want the same situation with Jerome. Egypt didn't interest her even a little bit, and she'd no intention of wasting one of their precious afternoons together talking about it.

She lay down beside him, her head next to his. "Let me tell you about Virginia," she said dreamily. "Let me tell you how utterly wonderful it was takin' Petra and Davina there. If only you had been with us as well everythin' would have been absolutely perfect."

He rolled over, pinning her beneath him, his eyes hot with desire. "One day," he said, lifting a stray tendril of fiery hair away from her face. "One day we'll go there together."

Her hands slid into the curly thickness of his hair. She didn't want to talk about one day, because she knew that one day was never going to come. Divorce was out of the question for Jerome because of Jack. "Maybe when he's older, Delia," he said. "But divorce while he's still at Eton would be disastrous for him." And recently Jerome had become an ambitious member of Parliament, making divorce unthinkable for a whole set of new reasons.

Delia no longer cared. Her marriage to Ivor was not one of unmitigated misery. She respected his intellect and his huge capacity for hard work. She enjoyed the prestige of being his wife. She valued the way he shared his political concerns with her and knew he held her in very deep affection. It made for a marriage far more compatible than the marriages of most of her friends.

The situation-that Sylvia was his long-term mistress and that Sylvia's husband was now her lover-was odd, but no stranger than many of the other entanglements at court and in their case the relationship was honest. Ivor not only knew about her relationship with Jerome but was deeply grateful, for it made his own affair with Sylvia far easier. The only person who disliked the arrangement was Sylvia. And Delia didn't give a rat's behind for Sylvia's feelings.

In 1921 she visited Virginia again and was there when her mother died unexpectedly from a heart attack. In 1922, taking Petra and Davina with her, she went on holiday with the Denbys to their villa at Rolle, on the sh.o.r.es of Lake Geneva. Jerome arranged to be in Switzerland at the same time, introducing Jack to the thrills of skiing and afterward spending a few leisurely days at Nyon, the neighboring village to Rolle.

Away from London society, Delia could relax and enjoy herself. Jack amiably coped with having eight-year-old Petra and seven-year-old Davina following him everywhere. Delia found the hours walking with Jerome along the flower-scented lake magical. Sometimes they wandered around the ruins of Nyon's Roman amphitheater. Sometimes they sailed. It was a blissful few days and when Jerome announced his intention of buying a villa at Nyon, Delia was ecstatic.

By the time 1923 dawned, Delia considered herself a very happy and fortunate woman. She had a husband whose company, on the social occasions when it was necessary for them to appear together, she found congenial. She had two healthy daughters. She had a lover who was also her best friend and who, amazingly considering his reputation, was faithful to her. She enjoyed a privileged position in the most elite echelons of society. A member of the Prince of Wales's set, she enjoyed an easygoing friendly relationship with David. He liked American women and was the complete opposite of his staid, stuffy, dutiful father.

Life was fun and Delia never expected it to change.

When it did, things changed with such suddenness she was left gasping.

She had just arrived back in Cadogan Square after visiting the National Gallery with Cynthia Asquith.

Ivor was in the main drawing room, his back to her as he poured himself an extraordinarily large whiskey.

Without turning to face her, he said abruptly, "I'm afraid I'm to go to Cairo as an adviser to King Fuad who, with British backing, has just become king. It isn't a case of being there a few months. It's a diplomatic posting that is likely to extend for several years. Because of its nature it's essential I have my family with me. We are to leave in a month's time."

"Leave? Leave England to go to Egypt?"

Delia stared at his back, unable to take in the enormity of what he was telling her.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Delia."

Still not facing her, he drained the whiskey gla.s.s.

She dragged a purple cloche from her recently bobbed hair and threw it onto the nearest chair.

"It's impossible," she said flatly. "Wild horses wouldn't drag me from England to live in Egypt. There's still a revolution going on, isn't there?" The band around her heart at the thought of being separated from Jerome eased as she prepared to play her trump card. "You couldn't go," she said in a voice of sweet reason, "because you wouldn't be able to survive living so far away from Sylvia."

He turned around and she felt the world tilt beneath her feet. His face was ashen. His eyes filled with unspeakable pain.

"Sylvia is in love with Theo, Girlington's elder son. Our affair is over, Delia. And I don't want to speak about it. I don't ever want to speak about it. As for the revolution, it ended when Egypt was granted partial independence. What the new king needs is for Britain to retain as much influence as possible-which is why I am being sent there."

"I won't go. You can't make me. Just because your life has been unexpectedly shattered-how long has her affair with the Earl of Grasmere been going on?-you can't expect me to disrupt mine."

"I'm sorry, Delia," he said for the second time. "But this isn't open to discussion. I leave for Egypt in a month's time. And you-and our children, unless you prefer to make other arrangements for them-are coming with me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to be alone."

As she made no effort to leave him, he strode unsteadily past her.

Seconds later she heard the front door close.

Still she didn't move.

Egypt.

How could she possibly continue seeing Jerome if she were in Egypt? What would happen to them?

The answer came as with the roar of waves crashing on a beach.

He would be unfaithful. How could he be anything else? By his own admission he wasn't faithful by nature. Once they were separated by Europe and the Mediterranean his old habits would rea.s.sert themselves and there would be nothing, absolutely nothing, she would be able to do about it.

She never drank whiskey, had never drunk it in her life.

She crossed to the drinks cabinet.

Egypt. There would be no more Shibden Hall. There would be no more gay nights with the Prince of Wales and his friends. There would be no more country-house weekends. And above all, there would be no more Jerome.

She poured herself a whiskey as generous as the one Ivor had just drunk.

The villa Jerome had bought in Nyon would remain, by her at least, unvisited.

She drank the whiskey in three shudder-making gulps.

The way of life that meant so much to her was over-and a dreadful premonition told her she would never be so happy again.

SEVEN.

Six weeks later she was standing by the rail of a P&O liner as the ship eased its way along the Egyptian coastline toward Alexandria. Ivor was in their stateroom, dictating letters to Mr. Willoughby. The new nanny she had hired shortly before sailing was a few feet away with Petra and Davina.

"When will we see the pyramids, Nanny Gunn?" Petra asked impatiently as they stared at a strangely flat countryside.

"And when will we see camels?" Davina asked, clinging to Nanny Gunn's hand.

"I'm not sure when we will see the pyramids, Petra." Miss Gunn, who came from Inverness, had a delightfully soft Scottish lilt to her voice. "And there will be camels in Alexandria, Davina."

Listening to her, Delia was sure that Kate Gunn was going to be a great success. Unlike the children's previous nanny she was young and pretty and more than capable of coping with the children.

Petra and Davina continued to chatter and as Kate Gunn answered their questions with gentle imperturbability, Delia continued to look toward land, her thoughts full of Jerome.

Was he already missing her as fiercely as she was missing him? Her kid-gloved hands gripped the rail. He had promised that he would visit Cairo often-but how long would it be before his first visit? And until he did, would he remain faithful? At the thought that he might not she felt a knife twist in her heart. It was a situation she would have to understand. How could she not, under the circ.u.mstances? The pain of it, though, would be more than she could bear.

As tears stung Delia's eyes, Davina shouted, "I can see a camel, Mama! I can see a camel!"

Blinking, Delia pretended to share her daughter's excitement, reflecting that she had unsuspected talents as an actress.

Even though they had two private carriages, the train from Alexandria to Cairo was unlike any she had ever traveled on. In the rear carriages people were packed in like sardines, even clinging outside on the roof. The heat was stifling; the smell overpowering.

"Why are all the men dressed in dirty nightshirts, Mama?" asked Petra. "Now we're in Egypt, Papa won't have to wear a nightshirt, will he?"

"No, of course not." Delia felt too out of sorts to explain further.

"And what about shoes?" Davina asked, noticing that the people she could see from the window didn't have anything on their feet. "Will Papa still wear shoes?"

Ivor chose this moment to rejoin them.

"Of course I will still wear shoes!" he snapped. "Miss Gunn, will you kindly keep my daughters occupied and see to it that they refrain from making such unsuitable remarks?"

"Yes, my lord," Kate Gunn said, unruffled. She withdrew two drawing books and a pack of crayons from the carpetbag she always carried. "Would you like to draw a scene?" she said to the girls. "When they are finished we'll send them to your aunt Gwen. I don't suppose she has ever seen a camel."

At Cairo a large reception committee greeted them. In heat that seemed to come out of the ground in waves they drove from the station: Delia, Ivor, and an Egyptian dignitary in the lead car; Kate Gunn, Petra, and Davina in the car following; Mr. Willoughby and Myers, Ivor's valet, in a third car; and the reception committee bringing up the rear.

"Your villa is in Garden City, Lord Conisborough," the Egyptian said in excellent English as their car turned onto a road in which trams, cars, horse-drawn gharries, overloaded mules, and stray sheep fought chaotically for s.p.a.ce.

"Not Cairo?"

Delia was aware of Ivor's shoulders stiffening.

"Garden City is part of Cairo, Lord Conisborough," the dignitary said rea.s.suringly. "The British residency and most of the ministries are situated there. It is a very elite part of the city. The grounds of your villa run down to the Nile."

Ivor's shoulders relaxed.

"We are now in Ibrahim Pasha Street," the man continued. "On your right is Shepheard's Hotel-very famous, very elegant. At the far end of the street is Abdin Palace, where tomorrow your lordship will have an audience with King Fuad. Now, however, we turn right. The building on the left is the Opera House-and very shortly we will be crossing Soliman Pasha Street, Cairo's Oxford Street."

Soliman Pasha Street, with its tiny shops and its goods all spilling out into the street, didn't look at all like Oxford Street, but Delia kept her thoughts to herself and, despite her heartache, began to look around with interest.

In front of them a camel, ridden by a small boy, was swaying with stately dignity down the center of the dusty, acacia-lined road. By the edge of the street a man with a monkey was amusing a pa.s.sing group of women carrying gaily colored bundles on their heads. An overcrowded tram went past with people balancing precariously on its running board.

And then the crowds thinned until they were driving along a s.p.a.cious avenue lined with sycamore trees. They turned and came to a halt in front of high wrought-iron gates. Seconds later two young boys in spotlessly white shirts opened them for the cars.

The house was long, low, and palatial and she gave a sigh of relief. Shaded verandas and balconies that reminded her a little of Sans Souci looked out over immaculately kept lawns and beyond the house was the magical sweep of the river. She could see a steamboat and dozens of smaller boats plying back and forth, each with a distinctive triangular white sail.

"Welcome to Nile House, Lord Conisborough, Lady Conisborough." An imposingly tall, very dark-skinned man wearing a royal-blue garment edged with gold braid stepped toward them and bowed deferentially. "I am Adjo. I have the honor of being Nile House's cahir."

"Cahir is a head housekeeper," the Egyptian who had accompanied them said helpfully in a low voice to Delia.

As Adjo bowed once again Delia flashed him a brilliant smile, saying, with the same easy familiarity she had always treated Bellingham and Parkinson, "Could we please have afternoon tea, Adjo? And could someone show Miss Gunn the children's rooms?"

"I want a room facing the river, Mama," Petra said urgently. "And it's so hot I want a cool white nightshirt to wear and-"

"And why were those little boys begging?" Davina interrupted.

Wishing heartily that her children understood there were occasions when they should be seen and not heard, Delia drew in a deep breath, about to silence them. She wasn't quite quick enough.

Ivor, who had transferred his attention from Adjo to the dignitary, now whipped round, his eyes glacial. "Miss Gunn, take the children to their rooms at once!"

Kate Gunn's response was unflurried. "Yes, my lord," she said serenely. "Come along, Petra. Davina ..."

Adjo clapped his hands and a young man slid quietly into the room and led Kate Gunn and Davina and Petra upstairs.

At another clap from Adjo two young men rolled in a white-naperied tea trolley. In a little dish there were slices of lemon and when Delia lifted the lid of the pot she saw that the tea was Earl Grey.

"Thank you, Adjo," she said gratefully, aware the kettle must have been boiling even before their car had turned in at the gates. "You're a treasure."

He bowed his head and she thought she saw a gleam of amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes.

Only after she had been in Cairo for several months did she discover that Adjo, in Egyptian, meant "treasure."

The next morning Delia asked him the correct name for the garment he, and so many other Egyptians, wore.

"The word for such traditional clothing is a gal.a.b.i.a, my lady," he said gravely. "And it is worn by all Egyptians, not just the fellahin."

"The fellahin?"

"The poor, my lady."

"And the name for the close-fitting red hats with a ta.s.sel that I saw when we drove through the city?"