This Was Tomorrow (7 page)

Virginia, racking her brains, had drawn up a family tree on a large piece of paper, which Mab kept pinned to the wall in the schoolroom like a map, and which she soon knew by heart. A favourite game was to put her finger on a name and ask for its personal history, every detail of which was absorbed into her retentive memory. Jeff’s mother Phoebe, who had grown up in Williamsburg, was especially good at this, better than Virginia, who had not been back to America since her marriage. Bracken too was always good for a new yam when he could be cornered, especially about the war in Cuba, at which he had personally assisted. Mab’s piano lessons now included songs from the musical comedies Fitz Sprague had written, and she treasured gramophone records from the later shows in which Stephen and Sylvia had appeared. The prospect of their actually coming to London, these fabulous American cousins who sang and danced on the stage to music their own father had written, filled her with an almost holy delight of anticipation, and she was prepared to worship them both with no reservations even for Sylvia, who was by her pictures even prettier than Evadne and who might, Mab knew, be the one Jeff would fall in love with.

Jeff had promised that he would have Sylvia bring with her from the Williamsburg house his own notebooks full of family history, which Mab was to have for herself as he now doubted very much that the next few years would leave him much leisure or freedom of mind to reconstruct the past. What no one realized was that it was less Mab’s one-quarter American heritage than her secret, unchildlike preoccupation with Jeff himself that made the American background such an obsession with her. Unlike herself, Jeff had been born in Virginia, of Virginian parents. That made him all American, undiluted, and his roots were there, presumably he would return there to
live in his house if he ever settled down to marry and have children. An absorbing, hidden idea was forming in Mab’s mind. She dreamed of it over her lesson books by day, and stayed awake at night to dwell on it in the private dark. During lunch at Stewart’s in Regent Street on the day they went to the 1066 matinée, she determined to ask Jeff about it and take the consequences, whatever they were.

“Jeff, do you think—I mean, only if you want to, of course, but
do
you think if
you
asked them they might let me go to Williamsburg some time—just for a visit—to see your house and—and the restored buildings too, of course—and Jamestown where the picnics were, and Yorktown where the surrender was, and—do you think I might? Or would it cost an awful lot? Mummy says everything is twice as expensive as it used to be, and we must begin to economize somewhere. I’ve got one pound nine and threepence in my bank to put towards my boat fare.”

Jeff swallowed and thought fast. Her astonishing plunges from almost adult intelligence to the innocent ignorance of childhood, like offering her little fortune to help pay for a ticket to America, often caught him by surprise.

“Well, it’s not an impossible idea, I should think,” he said cautiously, between fear of letting the family in for an awkward veto and his own natural disinclination to let Mab down. “I could take it up with them, if you like. Of course it would have to be some time when Dinah was going there herself, unless your mother felt she could get away to make the trip—”

“Or I thought—even if I had to take Miss Sim—if it wasn’t convenient for Mummy, I mean, because she
hates
to be away from Father—surely it could come under the head of education? And of course I’d much rather it was when
you
were going to be there too—”

‘Yes, well, we could think about it, couldn’t we. Ways and means, you know. Things work out sometimes,” he said with what he felt was unpardonable vagueness, but Mab gazed at him across the fillet of sole with uncomplicated love and confidence.

“Oh, Jeff, it’s so wonderful to talk to you—you never say Perhaps-when-you’re-older, or Don’t-be-silly, or Whatever-gave-you-that-idea. You always make everything seem so—
reasonable,
a person isn’t afraid to let you know what one
is thinking.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s so damn’ unreasonable for you to want to see Williamsburg,” he said consideringly. “Maybe we could cook up something with Sylvia while she’s here.”

“Oh, if only she likes me!” Mab sighed.

“She better,” said Jeff. “Eat your fish, we don’t want to miss anything, do we?”

“Does Sylvia—that is, have you ever mentioned me to her?” she asked with sudden shyness, for if he had, what had he said?

“Lots of times, I should think.”

“You
have?
” Joy and consternation mingled. “What did you say?”

Jeff had a sudden illumination that it wouldn’t do to repeat to Mab that jest about their falling in love. He didn’t stop to work it out, he just knew it was better not to, she was such a strange mixture of child and something more, something to which he had never given a name but which made her companionship precious to him and tricked him into talking to her as though she were not handicapped by lack of years and experience.

“I think she must have gathered by now that you’re my favourite cousin over here,” he said.

“
Am
I, Jeff? More favourite than Evadne?”

“
Evadne
?
”
He registered horror. “Excuse me for quoting, but Whatever-gave-you-that-idea?”

Mab giggled.

“She’s a lot prettier than me,” she suggested.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” said Jeff grimly. “Give yourself a little more time, why don’t you?”

“Jeff, how do you think I’ll look when I’m Evadne’s age?”

He contemplated her gravely while the waitress changed the plates.

“God knows what the styles will be by then,” he said. “But you’ll always have those beautiful greenish eyes, and very few people can match that, and you’ve got small bones, which is another great advantage. You’ll be all right, my girl, just you wait.”

“Some people do improve a great deal, don’t they, with age?”

“Yes, take your grandmother, for instance. Virginia is just as fascinating now as she was the first time I ever saw her, when she was a young widow, right after the war. I say young, she must have been well into her thirties then. I’ve never understood, between you and me, why she never got married again. But there’s a legend that our Great-grandmother Tibby was proposed to, and refused him, at the age of sixty, and Virginia’s still got a few years to go on that. And she’ll be fascinating when she’s ninety, if she lives that long, just as Tibby was supposed to be. And then there was—” But before he could embark on the legend of Aunt Sally, who had three husbands, all of them wealthy and all of them dead before she was forty, and who went right on inspiring male devotion when to the family’s certain knowledge she just
had
to be seventy, Jeff was struck by an idea like a thunderbolt, and he laid down his knife and fork and leaned back, staring across the table at Mab’s intent face. “By gum!” he said inelegantly. “Now I know what it is!”

“What? What’s the matter, Jeff?”

“Your eyes,” he said. “That portrait over the mantelpiece at home.
You
’
ve
got
Great-grandmother
Tibby’s
eyes!”

“Oh,
Jeff!
”

“Wait till Sylvia comes, she’ll see it too, I know she will! I knew there was something about you, and that’s what it is!”

“Jeff,
shall
I see the portrait myself some time? Please?”

“Yes. That settles it. You’ll see the portrait. Maybe not this year, maybe not next year—but we’ll think of something. We must get you to Williamsburg for sure.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” she sighed. “I’ve just got a
feeling
that I’ll go.”

“Wait till Sylvia comes. She’ll see to it.”

And after that the matinée was almost an anti-climax.

Johnny Malone, who had been Bracken’s Berlin correspondent in 1914 and was now head of his European Bureau and had married his Cousin Camilla from Richmond, was not amused when they told him of Evadne’s project to change Nazi Germany, and Camilla was frankly horrified. The Cause was not unknown in Berlin, they said, and some Nazis even professed its beliefs, though Johnny doubted if their zeal for restitution and fellowship extended to non-Aryans. The idea itself was worthy enough, he conceded, and certainly the world stood in need of some kind of spiritual rearmament to go with the air-power race which had now begun, but this slightly goofy brand of sweetness and light could only make matters worse, he said, in that it encouraged the fatal German tendency to believe that the English were mad anyway and would never fight another war if they could talk their way through it.

Johnny and Bracken were discussing half incredulously the Anglo-German Naval Agreement which Ribbentrop had come to London to negotiate with the MacDonald Government. Bracken said England never
would
,
and Johnny offered rather grimly to bet him. And then one morning at breakfast in Curzon Street, when everyone was pottering peacefully through their letters, Camilla suddenly made an odd little sound over one of hers and said, “Johnny, it’s Victor! He’s
here!
What do we do?”

“What does he want?” asked Johnny, going to the point.

“He wants to call—or whatever. He wants to be recognized. He wants to get his foot in the door, in other words.”

“Not
my
door!” said Virginia promptly.

“Ribbentrop,” said Johnny thoughtfully.

“Yes, of course. He’s come with the German Naval delegation. He always trails Ribbentrop, for some reason.”

“They both speak good English. It’s natural for them to work together. Virginia,” said Johnny, and “
No!
” said Virginia. “Not here!”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Bracken, and there was a gleam in his eye.

“I know!” said Virginia. “You want to cultivate him, and see what you can pick up. He has the same idea about you. It all has a very familiar sound. More than twenty years ago his father came to England and we invited him to Farthingale, remember?”

“Not Farthingale, for Victor,” said Bracken peaceably. “Just luncheon here, that’s a good girl.”

“No,” said Virginia. “He might get at Rosalind and upset her.”

“How can he? Rosalind is in the country. She needn’t even know he’s here.”

“Unless he chooses.”

“Why should he? His father is dead. Rosalind is no good to Victor now.”

“She’s his mother, and she got away. They don’t like people to get away.”

“But what conceivable object could Victor have for bothering Rosalind now?” said Bracken, and noticed that Johnny was silent, and waited, watching him. “Well?” he asked finally, and Johnny turned slowly to meet his eyes.

“That’s what I was wondering about,” he said.

“Well, he’s not going to get near Rosalind, if I can help it!” said Virginia.

“You can’t,” Johnny pointed out. “He’ll get to her if he wants to. He knows where she is—or can find out. It’s simple enough to locate the wife of the Marquis of Cleeve.”

“That’s what it is, I think,” said Camilla. “He expects to find his mother queening it in London society, and he wants to cash in on her social prestige and mix with London society himself.
Or they’ve put him up to it, perhaps. Victor has ‘connections’ here. They always like to make use of connections.”

“Well, then, if it’s as simple at that, once he learns that Rosalind and Charles have no London house and see almost nobody down there in the country and can do nothing for him, he’ll lose interest in them,” said Bracken.

“If it’s as simple as that,” said Johnny with reservations.

“But, darling—” Even Camilla regarded him with some surprise. “What else could he possibly want with Rosalind now?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Johnny.

“Well, then. This is England, after all.”

“Yes,” said Johnny.

“I suppose I’ll have to take some notice of this letter,” Camilla said, fingering it doubtfully.

“Yes,” said Johnny. “Virginia—”

“Oh, all right, luncheon here on Thursday,” sighed Virginia. “But that is absolutely
all.”

“Thank you,” said Johnny with a sweet smile.

No one but Virginia had noticed that Evadne had said nothing, looking from one to the other with bright, attentive eyes while the discussion went on. Half of her reluctance to entertain Victor was because of Evadne’s proposed crusade to Germany, which acquaintance with a Nazi here in London might foster.

“What sort of person is he?” she asked, trying to sound casual now that she was in for it, and she saw Camilla’s eyes go to Johnny’s in a long look so full of understanding and affection that it set her wondering.

“He’s presentable,” said Johnny, and Camilla laughed outright with real joy.

“The
mot
juste!
” she said, and her eyes lingered in his.

“The fact is,” said Johnny to the rest of them, “I had a very narrow escape from Victor.” He wagged his head knowingly and sighed as though over unspeakable things. “It aged me,” he said. “You must have noticed how I’m old before my time. That was Victor.”

“No such thing,” said Camilla. “It never occurred to you to want to marry me till we got back to Salzburg after the Purge.”

“That’s what you think,” said Johnny.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Virginia. “Camilla, were you and Victor ever—”

“Not really,” said Camilla. “I had some idea of saving him from himself, I think. Very young of me. I made him an offer,” she told them, her chin up, her eyes very bright, for it was a thing she would remember with very mixed feelings always. “I offered to help him escape to London with his soul while he could, and he said, ‘My soul? There’s no such thing,’ he said. ‘I saw them die at Lichtenfeld.’ And he said, ‘Are you suggeshting—’ (He was a little drunk at the time, because of Lichtenfeld.) ‘—are you suggeshting that I should desert the Leader for you—a
woman?
’
And then he said he never wanted to see me again.” Her eyes fell to the letter in her hand. “Apparently something has changed his mind about that. But how did he know we were here just now?” she mused.

“It’s their business to know things like that,” Johnny reminded her.