Past Imperfect

SIXTEEN

I rang Damian when I got back from Waverly and told him everything I’d learned. And I voiced a thought I hated to find in my brain. ‘This is a silly question, but you’re sure it’s not Serena?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Because I know now there’s so much more to your story than I’d seen.’

‘I’m glad, but no, it’s not. I wish it were in a way, but it can’t be.’ I could hear that he really was pleased to hear that I’d come some way towards understanding what that year had been for him. ‘I last slept with Serena in the autumn of 1968. She married in the spring of 1969 and there was no baby in between. I only saw her one more time after her dance, and that was for the evening in Portugal when she wasn’t staying in the villa and she had her dreary husband, silly parents, horrible in-laws and a baby girl in tow. Besides, even if I’d muddled all the dates it would have to be that child, Mary, who I hear is still the spitting image of her ghastly daddy Andrew.’ All of which was true. The missing mother was not Serena Belton.

‘Then it’s Candida. It must be.’

‘Did you talk to her about me?’

‘A bit. She mentioned that you’d gone out together, but it was quite early on in the Season.’

‘Yes. But we never fell out. We were always friends and we picked up again when it was finished, just once or twice, for old times’ sake. I know you weren’t all that keen on Candida, but I liked her.’

I was very interested by this. With all these women he seemed to have been so much more aware of them, so much more clear-sighted as to their true natures, than I had been. ‘She did imply there was a little hanky-panky when the year was over. Is that when the baby might have begun?’

‘No, it wasn’t then. That was finished a long time before the holiday.’ There was a short silence at the other end of the line. ‘She came to me, after that dinner, when everyone was asleep. I woke in the night and she was with me, naked in my bed, and we made love. Then, when I woke up in the morning she was gone.’

‘Did you see her the next day, before you took off?’

‘Nobody had surfaced when I went. I just called a taxi and disappeared. But she left a note in my room, for me to find, so we parted on good terms.’

‘Did you meet up afterwards? In London?’

‘I never saw any of them again. Including you.’

‘No.’ I too had gone to the airport at dawn, but somehow we managed to avoid each other. On my part consciously. And no, like all of us I had not seen Damian from that day until my summons.

He interrupted my thoughts. ‘That is, I did see Joanna. Just once, but we know it wasn’t her.’

‘And Terry.’

He was puzzled for a second, and then he nodded and smiled. ‘You’re right. I’d remembered it as being before we left. But you’re right. It was when we got back. Poor old Terry.’

‘What did the note say? From Candida?’

‘“I still love you” and she signed it with that funny scrawl of hers. I was very touched. I don’t think I have ever been unhappier than I was that night.’

‘Which goes for everyone who was there.’

‘I used to pray that I would never be so unhappy again. Since I have minutes left, I can presumably be confident of achieving that at least.’ He chuckled softly at the hideous memory. At least, I say he chuckled, but the sound was more like the rattling of old and disused pipes in a condemned building. ‘I lay on my bed, listening to you talking outside and everyone leaving, and I wished I were dead. For a while I thought they were going to send for the police.’

‘That lot? No chance. They do not care to make column inches. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.’ We were nearly at our destination. There seemed to be nothing left to do but tie up the loose ends. ‘Shall I go and tell her about her son’s good fortune?’

‘Why not? Then come down here. I want to hear what she says.’

Candida was quite content to get my call this time and equally content to let me invade her for a cup of coffee that very morning. She lived in the same old Fulham-type house that so many of her tribe have come to occupy since I was young. Harry had obviously made a decent living and she had fixed the place up very attractively. She greeted me with her usual, if to me newfound, calm, good manners, and took me into a pretty, chintzy drawing room, carrying a tray of coffee things. On the table behind a sofa was a large, framed photograph of, I assume, the late Harry Stanforth. He had a bluff, chunky, smiling face, rather an ordinary one really, but that is the great and timeless miracle of love. I saluted him silently, as Candida poured cups for the pair of us. Then she looked at me. ‘Well?’ she said.

I explained about Damian’s search and my part in it. ‘I didn’t want to do it but even I could see he didn’t really have a viable alternative.’

She sipped her coffee. ‘I knew it was something. Though I’m not sure I guessed it was that. So, how do I come into it?’ Then she just sat, patiently waiting for me to continue. I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t making the connection.

‘We think it’s you. We think Archie is Damian’s son.’

For a moment she said nothing but just looked puzzled. Then she gave a little snort of laughter. ‘How? I’m not an elephant.’ It was my turn to look puzzled. ‘I last slept with Damian almost two years before Archie was born.’

‘But, when we talked, you implied that you had a fling with him after the end of your affair.’

‘And so I did. In the summer of 1969. I felt rather sorry for him, the way things had finished with Serena, and when she sent out the invitations to her marriage I looked him up to see how he was coping. We met a few times after that. But then I lost touch with him. That’s why I used you to get him to Portugal a year later. I wasn’t completely sure he’d want to hear from me again, although I don’t now think I need have worried.’

‘But you slept with him on that night.’

‘What night?’

‘When Damian went mad and covered us all with fish stew. Surely you remember?’

‘Are you nuts? Of course I remember. Who could forget? But I didn’t sleep with him.’

‘He woke up in the middle of the night and you were there next to him, in his bed.’

‘And this isn’t an extract from a novel bought under the counter?’

‘You left a note in his room saying you loved him.’

This did bring her up sharp, as she concentrated. She nodded briskly. ‘I did do that. I thought he must be feeling so ghastly after what he’d put us through and I scribbled a note saying… I forget now. “I forgive you,” or something like that-’

‘“I still love you”.’

‘Was it? Anyway, that sort of thing, and I pushed it under his door before I went to bed.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t sleep with him?’

I could see she was on the edge of becoming indignant. ‘Well, I know I’ve been a bit of a slapper in my time, but I think I’d have remembered if I’d gone to bed with Damian Baxter on that ghastly evening. I cannot believe I would have forgotten any detail about that particular night.’

‘No.’ I stared at my cup. Was I back at square one? It didn’t seem possible.

My words were still running round her brain. ‘He woke up and found a woman in his bed, making love to him?’ I nodded and she threw back her head, laughing. ‘Trust Damian. Just when life couldn’t get any lower, he finds himself in the middle of a scene from a James Bond film.’ Her mirth had subsided into chuckles.

‘But it wasn’t you.’

‘I can assure I would remember if I made a habit of that sort of thing.’

And then I knew.

Lady Belton was upstairs, apparently, but she would be delighted to see me if I wouldn’t mind waiting in the Morning Room since, rather illogically to my mind, this was apparently where her ladyship always had tea. I would be delighted.

The Morning Room was one of the prettier rooms at Waverly, cosy rather than grand, but with some of their best pictures and a really beautiful, ladies’ desk by John Linnell, which I would say was currently used by Serena, since it was covered in papers and letters and invitations waiting to be answered. The nice woman from the village who had let me in was settling the tea things as Serena arrived. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Burnish.’ She had already acquired that slightly heartless charm that is assumed by the well-bred to ensure good service, rather than because of any touching of their heart strings. In fact, I could see in her poise and her clothes and even in her smile, that Serena was well on the way to being what is still sometimes called a great lady. ‘How lovely to see you again so soon,’ she said and kissed me on both cheeks. The fact that the last time we’d met we had made love, and not just love but the most passionate love of my entire life, was somehow, in a way that I cannot exactly define, boxed up and removed to a safe distance by her manner and tone. She was warm and friendly, but I knew then it would never be repeated.

‘I can’t believe you don’t know why I’m here.’

She had poured herself some tea and now she sat, carefully smoothing the folds of her skirt as she did so. She took a sip, then looked at me and gave rather a shy smile. ‘I bet I do. Candida rang to tell me what you’d said.’ Unusually, she seemed rather embarrassed, an emotion I would not naturally attribute to her. ‘I don’t want you to think I always go around sliding into the beds of sleeping men.’

‘You told me yourself it was only with men who are in love with you.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you for remembering that.’

‘I remember everything,’ I said.

She started to talk again. It was obviously a relief finally to let it out. ‘I wasn’t sure at first, because I felt, if he were interested, he would have done something when I sent that idiotic letter. But he did nothing. Nothing at all and I know, because in those days, twenty years ago, I was still in touch with quite a few of the girls who might have written it. What’s changed?’

‘He’s dying.’

Which brought her down to earth. ‘Yes. Of course.’ She looked at the ceiling for a moment. ‘I want to explain. About that night in Estoril. I’ve felt guilty for so many years, particularly over you.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you were the one who got it in the neck. All you’d done was ask him to a few parties, and suddenly you were labelled a crawling, social-climbing toady and Christ knows what. It must have been awful.’

‘It wasn’t great.’

‘More to the point, it wasn’t true. Most of all what he said about your feelings for me. I know that. I knew it then.’ Serena gave me a slightly secret smile, the one open acknowledgement of what we had enjoyed together, and I was rather glad of it. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing. ‘How much have you heard about what went on at my ball?’

‘Most of it, I think. But only now.’

‘Damian told me he’d used me, he wasn’t in love with me, I was better off without him, all of it. And I just stood there because I couldn’t believe the words he was saying. The music was still playing and some girl was laughing in the anteroom just beyond the door, and I remember thinking how can you be laughing when I’m in here having my life shattered? I loved him with every fibre of my being, you see. I wanted to run away with him, to be with him, to love him to the end of my days and if it meant breaking with everyone I would have done it. But when he started to talk I just froze. I suppose I was in shock, as they say now, but I don’t think we had “shock” in those days. I think you were just supposed to go for a walk and get on with it. Anyway, he stopped and he waited for me to speak. And after a bit I looked at him and said, “Well, if you really think it’s for the best.” And when I was silent he nodded and he gave a funny little bow. I’ve thought of that so often. I can picture it now. A little bow, like a waiter or some assistant at the embassy who’s been sent to make sure you change trains properly, to escort you from the Gare du Nord to the Gare d’Austerlitz or something. Then he left. And I went out on to the terrace, and after a bit I came in again and danced with you.’

‘And I was so glad of it.’

But this time she wanted to tell me the whole story. ‘After that I didn’t really care what happened to me. I suppose I must have had a sort of nervous breakdown, but again, in those days people like us didn’t have nervous breakdowns. That was the sort of thing actresses did, and men who’d embezzled their customers’ money. I think people like us were just a bit under the weather, or getting out of the rat race or taking a break. Mummy and Daddy were pushing me and pushing me at Andrew, and he was keen.’ She stopped, catching my expression. ‘No, he was keen. I know you don’t like him, but he isn’t as bad as you think.’ I made a sort of accepting expression to cover myself. ‘And I didn’t know what else to do. We weren’t trained for anything, then.’

‘I know.’

‘It seemed a way out. I knew Damian didn’t want me, and since I thought of him morning, noon and night, I didn’t see what else to do. Anyway, the point is…’ She shrugged, helplessly. ‘That’s what happened. That is what happened to me.’ She stopped and sighed. Then, suddenly she shivered and, looking up, caught my eye. ‘Somebody walked over my grave.’ What a strange and haunting saying that is. We sat for a moment in silence until Serena said brightly, ‘Do you want some more tea?’

‘Please.’ I held out my cup.

There was more. ‘So I got married and I was pregnant fairly soon and you know, all of that stuff is quite exciting when it’s going on, and there’s lots to do and lots to buy and lots of people making a fuss of you, and I sort of forgot how unhappy I was for a while, and then, when Mary was born, Candida came to see me and we started to talk. And she said something like it wouldn’t have worked with Damian, not when my parents were so against him, or words to that effect, and I hadn’t known they were against him. I mean, I could guess they weren’t for him, I knew that from the dinner, but I didn’t think they’d had a chance to be against him in any thought-out way, because he’d confessed his base motives and dumped me before they’d got to know him. And then I heard what had gone on. Do you know about that?’ I nodded.

Serena was getting angrier. I could see it. Even though all her training was to keep such emotions under wraps, still she could not prevent a trace of her rage from seeping out. She put down her cup and stood, fiddling nervously with the ornaments and invitations that littered the mantelshelf. ‘The more I thought about it, the more furious I felt at what had been done to me. Because now I understood why I’d been bundled up with Andrew. And eventually I decided I had to see Damian again. I had to.’ She was almost panting. I would doubt she had gone over this ground in any detail for quite a time. ‘You know the next bit.’

‘I do.’

‘Of course, once my parents had pushed in, let alone my ma-in-law, I should have cancelled, but I was so desperate just to set eyes on him, just to touch his hand, just to smell him that I didn’t. In retrospect, I suppose they must have been afraid something of the sort was going on.’

‘It certainly sounds like it.’

‘But after I heard you were bringing him it was more than I could do to back out. I knew I should but I couldn’t make myself. So that evening we arrived at your villa and we set off for the walk down the beach. And I asked him about what he’d said and he admitted it had all been a lie. None of it was true. He was in love with me, he said. He would always love me. And I told him that if he’d only told me the truth and not lied at the dance, I would have come away with him that night. I would have packed and left and married him the minute I was twenty-one, and we would have been together for the rest of our lives. He said that he thought he’d done the right thing, the honourable thing.’

‘He had.’

She turned on me, her eyes flashing with fury. ‘Had he? Then fuck your honour! Fuck his stupid honour! I don’t care what his motives were. He lied to me and he ruined our lives!’

‘That was the “deceit” you mentioned in the letter, I thought it was something else.’

She frowned for a moment, trying to make sense of this. ‘Oh, you mean promising love to get me into bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he was the opposite. He feigned indifference. That was the lie.’

‘Why didn’t you leave Andrew? When you knew?’

Serena’s anger appeared to be settling. ‘That was my weakness,’ she said sadly. ‘That was the weakness I wrote about.’ She returned to her chair and sat again. ‘Damian asked me that. He said if I felt as I did it was the only thing we could do. He begged me to. But it was a different time. You know what they say: The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. I had a baby. I had family coming out of my ears. The scandal would have been huge, even in 1970, and while my parents were responsible in a way-’

‘In a way?’

She nodded. ‘All right. They were responsible, but they thought they were acting in my best interests.’ She caught my expression. ‘Well, they thought their best interests were my best interests.’ She paused. ‘And I was tired of being pushed and pulled, this way and that, but…’ She almost groaned and I could feel her breath as it left her body. ‘Of course, if it happened today I would have gone with him. I should have gone. I should have done it, but my nerve failed me when it came to it. Damian was half the reason for the waste of our lives. But I was the other half.’

‘And later that night?’

Now she almost smiled at the memory. ‘We were back at the house we’d rented, which wasn’t very far, and of course everyone was absolutely reeling. They helped themselves to huge drinks, even Lady B., and staggered into the many bathrooms to de-fish themselves, and so did I. And after that we all collapsed. But when Andrew went off to bed I said I wasn’t tired. I wanted to stay up. I waited until I knew he’d be asleep, then I walked back.’

‘You walked?’

‘I know. One wouldn’t do it now, would one? Or perhaps you would, if you were young and in love and desperate. Perhaps some things never change. I knew which Damian’s room was, lord knows, as we’d all seen him flounce into it. I’m not sure exactly what I’d have done if the door had been locked. These days it would be locked, wouldn’t it?’

‘You’d have woken him up.’

‘Yes. I suppose so. But it wasn’t, so I slid in, climbed into bed and made love to him in the pitch dark for what I knew would be the last time. He was sort of awake after a bit, but not very, even then. I didn’t mind. I was saying goodbye to the life I should have had. It was a private moment, really.’

‘But why was it the last time? Even if you weren’t prepared to divorce, you could have gone on with the affair.’

She shook her head. ‘No. I couldn’t have been his mistress, making up lunch dates with girlfriends and pretending to miss the train. That wasn’t for us. That wasn’t who we were. We should have formed a union that bestrode the world and frightened anyone who stood in our way. We weren’t a backstreets number, with telephones being put down when the hubby answers. Absolutely not. Once I’d decided not to leave Andrew, from that second it was over.’

‘I hope Andrew has some inkling of what he owes you.’

‘No, but if he did it would wreck everything for him, so it would be rather self-defeating. Anyway, that night I got up and dressed and left, and I never saw Damian again. Finis.’

‘How did you know that Peniston was his? Presumably Andrew put in an appearance occasionally.’

‘Rather an unfortunate turn of phrase.’ Then she smiled, tenderly this time, as she thought of her son, the lovechild. ‘I knew because when he was born he was so like Damian. It was mainly gone before he was two. Isn’t there some theory that newborn babies resemble their fathers, so they’ll be looked after and provided for? His nose, his eyes… I used to thank God that no one noticed, although I did see my mother giving him an odd look right at the beginning. But I always knew.’

‘Why did you write the letter? Why didn’t you just go and see him?’

‘I don’t know. I was feeling sorry for myself. Andrew was being more tiresome than usual, so I’d come up to London to finish off the Christmas shopping on my own and I was drunk. I don’t why I wrote it at all. I wouldn’t have posted it if I’d waited until the next day, but someone picked the letters off the hall table before I got up and that was it.’

I laughed. ‘Exactly what Damian thought had happened.’

Now she was serious. ‘So what’s next?’

‘I tell Damian. He changes his will. Your son is very, very rich. The House of Belton rises in splendour.’

‘Eventually.’

‘I can assure you Peniston won’t have long to wait.’ I remembered one detail, which I supposed we should observe. ‘We’ll probably have to run some sort of DNA test. Would you mind?’

Without a word she went to her desk, opened a drawer and took out an envelope which she handed to me. On the outside of it was written: ‘Peniston’s hair. Aged three.’ ‘Will this do?’ she asked. ‘Or do you need a newer piece?’

‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

‘Don’t use it all.’ But I could see something else was on her mind. ‘Does Peniston have to know? Is that one of the conditions?’

‘Don’t you want him to know?’

She looked around the room. Over the chimneypiece was a portrait of a Victorian, female forebear of Andrew’s, ‘The Third Countess of Belton’ by Franz Xavier Winterhalter, painted with chestnut ringlets and a good deal of bosom. Serena sighed. ‘If he knows, he has to choose between living a lie or spoiling his father’s life by cutting himself off from the Beltons’ history and feeling a fool in front of everyone he’s grown up with.’

‘A rich fool.’

‘A rich fool. But a fool.’ She took a breath. ‘No. I don’t want him to know. I would like him to know that Damian was a wonderful man, I will happily say that we were in love. I want to. But I think that’s enough.’

‘I’ll tell Damian.’

Serena had one more request. ‘I’d like to tell him myself. Can I? Would he allow that?’

I looked at this woman, still healthy, still lovely, still in the middle of life, and I thought of that scarcely breathing corpse. ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘You could always write him a letter. You’ve done it before.’ We both smiled at this, but I could see that her eyes were starting to fill with tears. ‘I’m not sure he’s up to seeing anyone. Particularly anyone who hasn’t seen him since he was…’ I tailed off. I couldn’t quite find the right word.

‘Beautiful,’ she said, as the first droplet began its journey down her cheek.

I nodded. ‘That’s it. Since he was beautiful.’

I spoke to Bassett as I left, giving him the facts of the case and, on his advice, I drove straight from Dorset to Surrey. By the time I got there, two and a half hours later, there was already a lawyer in attendance who told me that a new will favouring the Viscount Summersby had been drawn up and signed. I was glad, even if it felt peculiar for a moment to take such pleasure in a name that I had hated for so long. Damian had asked for me to be shown up as soon as I arrived, and when I entered his bedroom I realised that we were racing against the clock. Damian lay in his bed, with a fearsome array of tubes and bottles, and leaking things on stands, all of which seemed to be connected to some portion of his emaciated, shrivelled carcase. Two nurses hovered around him, but at the sight of me he waved them away and they left us alone.

‘It’s done. I’ve signed it,’ said Damian.

‘The lawyer told me. You didn’t want to wait for the results of the test?’

I pulled out the lock of hair, taking it from its envelope and handing it to him. But he shook his head. ‘No time. And it’ll be positive.’ I could see the hair itself was much more important to him. He pulled two or three strands from the twisted gold wire holding it together and gestured for me to take them.

‘Give them to Bassett. Now. That’s all they need.’ I rang and the butler came and collected the precious filaments. When I turned back towards the bed I could see Damian holding the rest of the child’s curl as, very slowly, he brought it to his lips. ‘So we made it,’ he said.

‘We made it.’

‘Not a moment too soon.’ His thin lips drew back in a kind of laugh, but it was painful to witness. ‘Tell me the story.’

And I did. He made no comment except when it came to the account of his interview with Serena at the ball. I told him I thought his behaviour had been honourable, but he shook his head. ‘You are supposed to think it was honourable,’ he said. ‘But it was proud. I wanted them to want me. And when I drove down there with her I thought I could make them want me. But they didn’t, and I wasn’t prepared to be the family’s mèsalliance. That was just pride. I spoiled our lives through pride.’

‘She thinks she spoiled your lives through fear on the beach at Estoril.’

For some reason this almost cheered him. ‘She’s wrong. But I’m glad, even now, to think she feels it as I do. That’s selfish, of course. If I loved her less selfishly I would want her to forget me, but I can’t.’

‘She doesn’t want the boy to know. That is, she wants to tell him about you, but not that you’re his father.’ He nodded, but without complaint. I could see he was prepared to abide by this. ‘She asked to come and see you, to explain.’ This produced something like alarm in the rheumy eyes on the pillow, but I shook my head at once to comfort him. ‘I told her no, but she sent you a note.’ I sat on a chair placed for visitors near the head of the bed and took the thick, cream envelope from my inside pocket. He nodded for me to open it. Beneath the embossed address in deep blue, Waverly Park, she had written in that thick, italic writing that I remembered well, ‘I have loved you since I last saw you. I will love you to the end of my life.’ It was signed with one word only: ‘Serena.’ I held it for him and he read it, again and again, his eyes flicking back and forth across the paper.

‘You must tell her you were in time for me to see it and that I feel the same,’ he muttered. ‘Just the same.’ And then, ‘Will you stay? They can sort out what you need.’ I can hardly believe that I hesitated, my head full of those ridiculous, irrelevant things that fall off the shelves into the centre of your brain at the most unsuitable moments, a dinner party I’d said I’d go to, lunch the next day with some friends over from Munich. What gets into one at these times? Before I could answer he reached for my hand, which was resting on the surface of the counterpane, ‘Please. I promise I shan’t detain you any more than this one time.’

I nodded at once, ashamed it had taken me so long to speak. ‘Of course I’ll stay,’ I said.

And I did stay. I was given dinner, together with the lawyer, a Mr Slade, who invited me to call him Alastair, and we made stiff conversation about global warming in the fourteenth century and the Curious Case of Gordon Brown, as we sat playing with our food in the splendour of the lifeless dining room below, until I was shown back into the bedroom I had occupied on that first visit, in what seemed like another era and was in fact only a couple of months before, where Bassett had found me things to shave with, and brush my teeth with, and wear in bed. ‘I’ll collect your shirt and the rest of your laundry and have them back with you for the morning, Sir,’ he said. In truth, Damian had spent his last years in Fairyland, but a lonely Fairyland. That I did know.

It was Bassett who shook me awake in the early hours of the morning. ‘Can you come, Sir? He’s on his way.’ I looked into his face and I saw that his eyes were full of tears, and it struck me that when a man is dying, if his butler cries then some at least of his life must have been well done. I snatched up the brand-new dressing gown provided, and hurried along through the passages to the chamber of death. It seemed quite full when I got there, with both nurses and a doctor and Alastair Slade on hand, who had clearly been ordered to attend in case of any last-minute alterations, but he was not needed. The atmosphere was stuffy and anxious, and I thought of Louis XVI plunging his fist through a pane of glass to give his wife some air at her accouchement. They all turned to look when I appeared, then fell back so automatically, clearing the way to the bed, that I assumed this had been yet another preordained plan in this most ordered of departures.

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.

Julian Fellowes

Julian Fellowes, actor, writer, producer, was educated at Ampleforth, Magdalene College, Cambridge and the Webber Douglas Academy of Dramatic Art. He trained in repertory theatre at Northampton and Harrogate before making his West End début in ‘A Touch of Spring’ by Sam Taylor. He is probably best known for his portrayal of the incorrigible Lord Kilwillie in the BBC’s series, ‘Monarch of the Glen’. In the cinema, he was seen in ‘Shadowlands’ with Anthony Hopkins, ‘Damage’ with Jeremy Irons and ‘Tomorrow Never Dies’ with Pierce Brosnan. As a TV writer his scripts include ‘Little Sir Nicholas,’ ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’ (winner of an International Emmy, 1995) and ‘The Prince and the Pauper’ (nominated for a Bafta, 1997) which he also produced. His screenplay début for the big screen was ‘Gosford Park’ directed by Robert Altman, which won a plethora of prizes, not least the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. He has also worked on a new version of ‘Vanity Fair’ with Reese Witherspoon. He is now writing the book for a new stage musical of ‘Mary Poppins’ for Cameron Mackintosh/ Disney (autumn 2004). His adaptation of Nigel Balchin’s ‘A Way Through the Wood’, which he also directs, is due for release in 2004, starring Emily Watson, Tom Wilkinson and Rupert Everett. He and his wife Emma have a son, Peregrine and a dachsund, Fudge.

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Damian