One of Dick Lambert’s sayings was that to love before marriage was to squander an inheritance before getting it; and Clinton himself was not bad at justifications when he applied his mind. Love might be a reasonable basis for an affair, but a lifetime needed more rational criteria. How often do people fall in love disastrously with partners almost the opposite of what they would have chosen, if logic rather than random attraction had been the means of selection? And in any case, wasn’t love usually more to do with pride and sensual possessiveness than with gentler emotions? Far better trust money than love; money tended to last better. Although Clinton could laugh about the subject when talking to Dick, it did not alter his instinctive feelings.

  In his last days before leaving for England, Clinton pinned his hopes on persuading his brother to help him. The chances seemed remote, but Clinton was not entirely without hope. He believed he had a carrot which an avaricious man would find hard to resist. In the meantime, when his thoughts returned to Sophie, he tried to allay his misgivings by reminding himself that the motives for a deed usually changed before it had been performed. One way or other, the next few weeks would determine his future.

  2

  ‘To be illegitimate is a misfortune. To be illegitimate and the elder son of a dead peer is something worse, because nobody’s going to have to be a genius to work out why you’re plain Mr Danvers and not my Lord Ardmore like your father before you.’

  This much at least Esmond Danvers would sometimes volunteer to friends about his origins. Occasionally he might also remark, in the same ruefully ironic tone, that he was only born out of wedlock because his mother’s divorce proceedings went on longer than expected and delayed her remarriage to his father by a small matter of two months. Anybody hearing him, who also happened to know that his younger brother, now serving in the cavalry, had inherited the Ardmore title and everything else in the family worth inheriting, would inevitably have been impressed by the apparent lack of resentment in his voice. But that was only to be expected in a man, whose two decades in the city might have served as a useful text for a sermon on self-help.

  From solicitor’s articled clerk, Esmond had progressed in five years to a partnership in a practice dealing mainly in company law. An invitation to join the board of a small private bank had followed; and because a number of the largest borrowers were bill brokers, he had learned a lot about the discount market. Attracted by the large sums to be made discounting bills of exchange in a rapidly expanding market, he had ventured everything on winning a substantial slice of this lucrative field. Nine years later, at forty, he had found himself sole proprietor of one of the three most successful discount houses in the city.

  Among men of business, who measured strength of character by a man’s capacity for hard work, Esmond’s ruthless exclusion of most human pleasures in pursuit of his financial aims had made him seem a man of iron. And though some were perfectly aware that the men who strove hardest to seem invulnerable were often those with the worst weaknesses to hide, very few of Esmond’s associates would have thought this in any way applicable to him. Esmond himself knew very well that boyhood rejection by his father had played an important part in his early determination to prove himself; but this, he considered, had long since ceased to have any relevance; especially after his father’s death, a decade ago.

  Every now and then he wondered whether something obscurer than the logic he believed he lived by, had been responsible for his avoidance of close relationships until his fortieth year—until his success and wealth had become incontestable. Had he really denied himself so much for so long, just because it had been logical to establish an unassailable position in the city before allowing competition from other distracting influences? Perhaps—and this thought had crossed his mind once or twice, only to be swiftly dismissed—perhaps he had needed to succeed before he could believe himself worth loving; had needed to feel invincible before he could once more risk dependence and possible rebuff. Far better to claim love as the just reward of success rather than sue for it humbly from a position of weakness. He wasted little time on such thoughts, preferring facts to theories; and the facts of his own life seemed straightforward: at forty, he had swept every obstacle aside and made a fortune; the time had come to fall in love, marry and have children. Time had inevitably become more important than it had been. When Esmond finally made up his mind that he had found the perfect woman, he very soon convinced himself that ultimate failure with her would destroy him. Success had become more than a habit to him.

  A year before, if told that he would fall in love with an actress, and worse still a widow with a young daughter, he would have thought the prediction laughably improbable. Indeed to start with he had tried to persuade himself that his liaison with Theresa Simmonds was just another of the clandestine affairs that had supplied his wants in the past; but when she had refused to let him set her up in a house, the intensity of his fears that she might be seeing other men had shattered any pretence of limited involvement. Without any claims on her and unable to see her except when she chose, he was wretched enough to consider proposing marriage, but his caution would not allow that until he knew more about her. Instead he had asked her to live with him in his own home. She had refused on the grounds that it would ruin his social existence and harm his business, but he sensed that the sacrifice he had been prepared to make had won him a new respect. In fact, mixed in with genuine nobility of motive, there had been an element of calculation on his side. Believing that his love was greater than hers, he had concluded that the surest way to cement their relationship was to make the comfortable life his money made possible indispensable to her. This could only happen if she lived with him. Certain that his true strength lay, not in passionate avowals but in maturer virtues—understanding, dependability and loyalty—Esmond made himself her rock to cling to. At times this role made him feel like an athlete in a straitjacket but calm persistence finally overcame her scruples about living with him.

  Two months after this first victory Esmond felt sure enough of himself to propose marriage. She had avoided a decision by promising an answer in three months time if his feelings were still the same. Knowing Theresa too well to suppose he could force her hand, Esmond had accepted this. Though disappointed, he knew that if he showed no signs of reproach but continued to behave with undemanding devotion, she would find it very hard to refuse him. By making him wait, she would realise that she had given him cause to hope.

  *

  On a warm August evening, with almost the whole three months still to run before he could expect her final answer, Esmond was less optimistic than usual. Theresa had been late back from the theatre, and this always made him uneasy. The fact that other men desired her, both deepened his pride in possession and disturbed him—just as he was disturbed and inflamed by her physical closeness to the leading man on stage. The differences between her stage self and her real self fascinated him. He loved the contrast between her feminine gentleness and the toughness it concealed. Because she had often lived from hand to mouth, and knew what it was like to plunge from luxury into want, she lived intensely for the moment—an irresistible trait to a man who for years had mortgaged the present to the future.

  When Theresa entered the room where he was sitting, Esmond wanted to ask what had delayed her, but as usual he suppressed the urge. Having frequently expressed his absolute trust in her, he did not intend to spoil this by seeming suspicious. In fact the pleasure of seeing her immediately banished the irritation he had felt while waiting. As she crossed the room, the lamplight kindled copper glints in her hair and lent her face a misty softness.

  ‘How was it?’ he murmured.

  She kicked off her shoes and sank down on a low sofa. ‘Another audience like that and I’ll run screaming through the auditorium.’

  The exaggerated pathos of her expression made him smile.

  ‘You musn’t let me miss that.’

  ‘You mean it might make you come near the place?’ She laughed in the low slightly husky tone he loved and then looked at him intently: ‘Why don’t you come any more? You know I like talking to you between the acts.’

  ‘I feel out of place backstage.’

  ‘You could sit in front and only come behind in the intervals.’

  She took the combs from her hair and let it fall loosely to her shoulders. Esmond turned away and glimpsed himself in the mirror above the console table near the door. A dignified rather solemn man with greying hair and impeccably tailored clothes stared back at him. In general Esmond did his best to avoid conversations about Theresa’s career. Before she accepted him, he thought it would be most unwise to admit that he would expect her to give up the stage after marriage. He met her green enquiring eyes for a moment; she was waiting for him to answer.

  ‘It’s not so much where I sit,’ he began slowly, ‘I suppose I don’t like to see you in that part.’ A discussion of the play and her performance seemed safer than a dissection of his attitudes to the theatre.

  ‘Peg isn’t virtuous enough?’ she asked with a faint hint of ridicule.

  ‘You’re not her, that’s all.’

  ‘I do try, you know.’

  ‘I meant it as a compliment. I didn’t mean that you don’t play the part well … it’s just that for me, knowing you …’ He broke off, seeing how unconvinced she looked. She motioned him to sit next to her. As Esmond obeyed he tried to divert his attention from the soft rise of her breasts under the lace chemisette in the yoke of her dress. Close to, she looked pale and rather tired. She might joke about the strains of her profession, but they were real enough. Saturated with tenderness, he longed to say aloud what he so often thought: why work and tire yourself when you can depend on me for everything? But that was what she refused to do; neither letting him buy her clothes nor any of her daughter’s necessities.

  ‘Why not be honest?’ she said coaxingly. ‘It’s nothing to do with the play. You don’t like the theatre or the people.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. I’m an intruder there. Anyway that’s how I feel; and when I’m on edge, I can’t help giving a false impression. I know they think I’m superior … even contemptuous.’ He paused, aware of the close scrutiny of her long-lashed eyes, and wishing that she was not so skilled at hiding her thoughts. ‘Too rich and too fastidious. In their position I’d probably feel the same.’

  She smiled sweetly and seriously.

  ‘Actors only envy more successful actors. Other kinds of success don’t count.’

  ‘I didn’t mean they envied me.’

  She was sitting with her knees drawn up and her hands clasped round them, rocking very slowly back and forth. She said gently:

  ‘You can’t help not liking them; I don’t myself, half the time.’

  She released her knees and sat up straight. ‘You are funny, Esmond. I know you think most of them are vain and rather vulgar. You’re a dear to blame yourself in case you hurt my feelings, but I’m not fooled.’

  He forced a laugh.

  ‘So I am superior and fastidious.’

  ‘Of course not.’ She leaned forward so close that he could not resist kissing her satiny cheek and then her finely curved lips.

  ‘What am I?’ he whispered.

  She tilted her head and studied him.

  ‘Reserved. More discriminating than some. I like that.’ She smiled. ‘After all it’s why you like me. You’re not conceited like most self-made men.’ She flicked a strand of hair from her forehead and frowned. ‘You’re far too good at avoiding subjects you don’t like. Quite devious, although you seem to be so straightforward.’

  ‘When have I been devious?’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ she laughed. ‘You sound virtuous; it’s that seriousness of yours. I’m so glad you’re not brash and debonair.’

  ‘When?’ he insisted with firm good-humour.

  ‘Sunday,’ she replied after a silence which he had interpreted as an admission of defeat. Now he wished that he had not pressed the point. On Sunday evening when he had been dining with Theresa, Clinton had called without any warning. Esmond had sent down a footman to say that he was not at home; he had explained this unbrotherly act to Theresa by saying that Clinton only ever came to talk about money and could never be bothered to say when he was coming. Esmond had also told her that he felt under no obligation to hear about his brother’s financial difficulties on the one evening of the week that he was able to spend with her. But really, as it now seemed that she had guessed, Esmond had had other reasons for not wanting to see Clinton when she was in the house.

  ‘You mean when I wouldn’t see Clinton?’ he said ingenuously. ‘I sent him a note. He’s going to come back on Friday evening.’

  ‘When I’ll be at the theatre.’

  ‘Yes.’ Esmond’s surprise was masterly. ‘You can’t want to sit listening to him moaning on about his debts?’

  ‘If I had an only brother, wouldn’t you be rather surprised if I tried to stop you meeting him?’ As so often when she asked her most loaded questions, Theresa’s tone was soft and caressing.

  ‘I’d be delighted for you to meet Clinton.’

  ‘So you’ll ask him to come earlier on Friday?’

  ‘Dearest, you know I can’t leave Lombard Street till six.’

  ‘Then change the day.’

  ‘He leaves for the country on Saturday.’

  ‘And after that he goes back to Ireland? How difficult it all is for you. I think we’d better forget about it, don’t you?’ Her serious face and meekly apologetic manner were too much for Esmond.

  ‘Dear God, I’m the devious one,’ he laughed. ‘All right, I didn’t want you to meet him just yet. Not till he’s made a few decisions.’

  This time Theresa laughed.

  ‘Might I have influenced him in the wrong way?’

  ‘Of course not,’ sighed Esmond, knowing that he was now going to have to tell her at least part of the truth. Not wanting to meet her smiling eyes, he gazed past her at the veneered surfaces of the bureau by the window. ‘He’s going to ask me for a loan. Nothing new in that; but this time, if I don’t oblige him, he’s going to claim I’m forcing him into a mercenary marriage. In fact he’s brought it on himself by refusing to consider getting out of one of the most expensive regiments in the army.’

  ‘It can’t be easy to give up a career,’ she suggested with a personal emphasis that made Esmond even sorrier that Clinton had ever called on him.

  ‘He doesn’t have to give it up,’ he replied with asperity. ‘He could exchange into a less exclusive regiment, or sell his estate.’ He did his best to master the rising bitterness in his voice. ‘When the rest of us are in debt, we have to cut our costs or face the consequences. But nobody’s going to get Clinton to recognise anything so tiresomely obvious. Life owes him what he wants.’ He paused awkwardly, noticing that she looked puzzled. He still had not explained why he had wanted to delay a meeting with Clinton. Damn the man, he thought; damn him. ‘Too hot in here,’ he said, getting up and drawing back the heavy swagged curtains. A light breeze made the candles on the mantelpiece flicker, casting moving shadows on the silk hung walls. Esmond stared out at the lighted windows on the far side of the square. ‘You see,’ he announced, turning, ‘if he meets you now, he’ll do his level best to get you to persuade me to help him. He can be very plausible … oh yes, and charming. And of course he’d misrepresent everything and make me out the worst miser in the world. I don’t mean you’d believe him, but there’d still be plenty of scope for unpleasantness.’

  Theresa sat smoothing the folds in her dress, her face betraying no hint of what she was thinking. She asked without apparent interest:

  ‘Could you help him if you wanted to?’

  Esmond grimaced and thrust his hands into the pockets of his frockcoat.

  ‘He’d want at least ten thousand. Not the sort of sum anyone lends at the drop of a hat on indifferent security. Frankly there’s no reason why I should try to raise it.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she began diffidently, ‘if you were fond of him, and trusted him to repay you …’ She raised her hands. ‘I’m being very stupid. He got everything that should have been yours.’.

  ‘That wasn’t his fault.’ He managed to smile. ‘I don’t hate him if that’s what you’re driving at. I’m not sure how I feel. He was only seven when I left home … in some ways we’re more like acquaintances than brothers.’

  ‘And that’s all you’ll tell me?’ she asked coming up and laying her head against his shoulder. She saw his frown. ‘Not about him, Esmond. About you. and what mattered to you.’

  He looked down at her upturned face and smiled, the whole of his personality conveyed by the self-deprecating sadness of his hooded eyes and the folds of irony at their corners.

  ‘You really want me to bare my wounds?’ He kissed her forehead gently. ‘Ah, you want to share the pain. It’s all gone, you know. Only a reminiscent twinge every now and then.’ He moved away, shaking the bunch of seals on his watchchain. ‘The odd thing is … how on earth such little scratches troubled me for as long as they did.’ He sat down on the sofa which Theresa had just left. ‘Your husband died, leaving you with a daughter of three and no means of support. Nothing I’ve ever known has made me suffer like that. My parents were unhappy … like thousands of others. They eloped; father was cut off by his family; he was robbed by money lenders. A bad start for a marriage; but nothing exceptional. Granted, I made it somewhat worse by arriving before the wedding day. A little bastard isn’t the best addition to a bride’s trousseau. But I won’t flatter myself—the recriminations and quarrels would have come along nicely without me. Anyway I was about four when my father started to stay away. As children often tend to, I blamed myself … if I’d done this or that better, shown a greater liking for horses, he would never have left me. It sounds pathetic, but that sort of guilt can be quite a comfort; it’s much better to feel one’s had some kind of say in events, even if a disastrous one. Also I worshipped the man and didn’t want to blame him. I was a fool of course, but not without a few excuses, I like to think. He was as tall as a mountain with a voice like God’s; a hero in the Opium War, famous sportsman, excellent raconteur—though his mistresses would be better judges of that. Come to think of it, he was just about everything I was never going to be. Clinton’s a lot more like him.’ He looked at Theresa. ‘How am I doing?’