She gives a shrill high laugh, to show that this is a joke. Bernard Howard is the Duke of Norfolk. Larry is a little alarmed by the ‘ample fortune’ part, which seems not to be a joke. Geraldine tells him not to worry.
‘Mummy knows you’re only starting out. But she’s tremendously reassured to know it’s the family firm. Also I told her you have a best friend who’s a lord.’
‘Do you mean George?’ Larry is surprised to find George in the role of asset. ‘His grandfather sold patent medicine.’
‘A lord is a lord,’ says Geraldine placidly.
England has enjoyed a blazing summer, which extends into a warm dry autumn. The outlook is good for the wedding, now fixed for Saturday, October 25th.
‘After all, we don’t want to compete with the royal wedding, do we?’ says Barbara Blundell with her high laugh. Princess Elizabeth is to be married on November 20th. This turns out to be the reason why the Duke of Norfolk can’t come to Geraldine’s big day. ‘I am a little disappointed, but I suppose someone has to organise the wedding of our future queen.’
The honeymoon is to be in the Cornford house in Normandy, which has been fully refurbished after its wartime occupation. Louisa offers their house as a staging post for the Channel crossing.
‘They’re to stay the night of the wedding with the Edenfields at Edenfield Place,’ Barbara Blundell tells her friends. ‘Then they go on to the family estate of La Grande Heuze.’ She lingers on the words place, estate, grande, with a light but pointed emphasis.
Larry bears all this with a good spirit. He sees Geraldine now in her element, quietly countermanding her mother’s extravagances, making sure that the correct information passes down the chain of family, priests, guests and tradespeople who each have their part to play in the wedding. Her grasp of details astonishes him, as does her confidence in her own judgement in all matters of taste. She will wear her mother’s wedding dress, the seamstress will adjust it to fit her. Larry will wear morning dress. There will be four bridesmaids, of descending size, and two very small pageboys. She suggests that George would make a suitable best man, but here Larry holds out. He makes it clear that he wants Ed Avenell.
‘You’ve never met George,’ he says. ‘Ed is far more dashing.’
*
While Geraldine busies herself with plans for the wedding, Larry is given a crash course on the family company, Elders & Fyffes, in all its current aspects. The London headquarters has recently moved from the Aldwych to 15 Stratton Street in Piccadilly. The rooms are unfamiliar to Larry, but the faces are all the same. Everywhere he goes he meets a general smiling delight that he is to join the firm at last.
‘You know why they’re so happy?’ his father asks him. ‘It’s not because of your pretty face. It’s because they expect you to take over after me, and that means things will go on being run in the same way.’
‘So they shall,’ says Larry, ‘if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Subject, of course, to our ultimate masters in New Orleans.’
This means the mighty United Fruit Company.
‘I thought they pretty much left us alone to run the show,’ says Larry.
‘They do. That was the understanding, back in ’02, when the company nearly went under, and my father turned to them for help. Andrew Preston was running United then, and he was a man of his word. But Preston is long gone. There’s a fellow called Zemurray in charge now. Very different kettle of fish.’
‘Zemurray?’
‘I think he began as Zmurri. Russian, I believe.’
‘And you don’t trust him.’
‘I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. But so long as we make money for him, I think he’ll leave us alone.’
As part of his familiarisation process, Larry makes a tour of the main company facilities. He walks the quays of the purpose-built docks at Avonmouth, and at Liverpool. He inspects the purpose-built temperature-controlled railway wagons, and several of the huge depots where the fruit is kept in chilled storerooms until ready for delivery. He goes on board Zent III, the company’s most recently acquired vessel, originally built in Norway and operated by Harald Schuldt, a German importer, before being seized as a war prize. The Fyffes fleet numbers fourteen ships, down from the twenty-one before the war, but more than enough for the current depressed level of trade. He studies figures that show the problems the company faces, due to shortages in Jamaica and government restrictions.
‘We believe the answer may be to go back to the Canaries,’ says William Cornford, ‘which is of course where the company started.’
‘The cargo side seems to be very modest,’ says Larry.
‘More trouble than it’s worth,’ says his father. ‘Our ships are built as specialised bulk carriers.’
‘Even so,’ says Larry, ‘we should take a look at it.’
The talk of tonnages and leaf-spot disease is familiar to Larry from his father’s mealtime conversation. He finds that he slips into the company surprisingly easily, soon comfortable in the Stratton Street offices. He begins to understand how the company has become his father’s family.
His father, noting this with some complacency, says to him, ‘You see it now? You were born for this.’
*
The sun shines on the day of the wedding. George shows up in a grand old Rolls-Royce, accompanied by Ed and Kitty and Pamela.
‘Where on earth did you get that?’ exclaims Larry.
‘It was my father’s,’ says George. ‘I only get it out on special occasions. It uses far too much petrol.’
Barbara Blundell is thrilled.
‘I do like the aristocracy to put on a show,’ she says.
Louisa has stayed at home, feeling unwell. Kitty whispers the details to Larry.
‘It’s very early days, but she thinks she may actually be pregnant!’
Kitty herself is very pregnant.
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘If it’s true, it’s a miracle,’ says Kitty. Then taking his arm for support, she walks away to a spot where they can speak in private. ‘I’m just so happy for you, darling. You deserve a family of your own. Is Geraldine as wonderful as I want her to be?’
‘If I tell you she’s the opposite of Nell in every way,’ says Larry, ‘that should give you some idea.’
‘But I did like Nell’s honesty. She had a way of saying just what she thought.’
‘Oh, Geraldine’s honest. But she’s also moral, which Nell never was. You’ll see when you meet her. She has high standards.’
‘And she makes you happy?’
‘I adore her,’ says Larry. ‘The more I know her, the more perfect she turns out to be.’
‘She couldn’t be too perfect for you,’ says Kitty. ‘You deserve the best.’
Ed in tailcoat and grey waistcoat and white tie looks as handsome as Larry has promised. Geraldine’s father, older, shorter and plumper, looks almost decrepit by his side. ‘Stand up straight, Hartley,’ his wife says. ‘You’re not to sag.’
‘Another one on the way, then,’ Larry says to Ed.
‘Mid-December, they tell me,’ says Ed. ‘An early Christmas present.’ He looks round all the bustle of last-minute arrangements. ‘Doing it in style, I see.’
‘That’s Geraldine,’ says Larry. ‘Or perhaps I should say her mother.’
Rupert Blundell wanders about looking uncomfortable in a morning suit, smiling but not fraternising.
‘You look bewildered, Rupert. Is it really that bad?’
‘Do I? I don’t mean to. A great occasion.’ His eyes are on Ed. ‘That’s Ed Avenell, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course. Come and say hello.’
Larry takes Rupert over to Ed and they shake hands and say yes, they remember each other, but it’s clear Ed has no idea who Rupert is.
‘Rupert was with Mountbatten,’ Larry says.
‘Good work on the VC,’ says Rupert.
Rupert’s father joins them, seeking the quiet haven of masculin
e company.
‘What a lot of fuss,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Makes me wish I was a Quaker.’
‘Look at you three!’ Larry exclaims. ‘Anyone would think you were all waiting to see the dentist.’
‘Sorry,’ says Hartley Blundell, straightening his posture. ‘Attention! Ready for the salute!’
Ed smiles at that. Courage under fire.
‘I really appreciate this,’ Larry murmurs to Ed when he gets the chance. ‘It’s your idea of a nightmare, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not all that fond of people in crowds,’ says Ed. ‘But I’m rather fond of you.’
They move on in due course to the church in a convoy of cars. Larry’s father travels with the bride’s mother, and so gets the benefit of her close knowledge of the Duke of Norfolk.
‘When he plays in the town cricket team, his butler is the umpire, and when he’s bowled out, which he always is in no time at all, the butler raises his hand and announces, “His Grace is not in.”’
William Cornford smiles polite appreciation.
‘Class distinction means nothing to me,’ Barbara Blundell confides. ‘I take as I find. But I do love the quirky traditions you get in the great houses. They add colour to life.’
The church of St Philip, like Westminster Cathedral, like the Sacred Heart in New Delhi, is a new building conceived in an old style; in this instance French Gothic. As Larry stands at the altar rail waiting for the bride to arrive he finds himself thinking about English Catholics and their churches, and how odd it is that a faith that defines itself as rooted in tradition should have to function in new buildings. Of course in France, in Italy, all this is different. There the evocations of the saints ring out in pillared aisles once walked by the saints themselves. He thinks of his father’s love of the great French cathedrals. Then, for no reason, he thinks how odd it is to be getting married.
Why am I doing this?
He asks the question not because he has any doubts, but because he’s suddenly aware he doesn’t know the answer. From the moment he took Geraldine in his arms, and stained her white dress with blood, he has known that this is what must happen. It has never presented itself to him as a decision. From the start it has been for him a solution to his puzzles about the future: puzzles of love, and sex, and status, and identity, and no doubt many more, all resolved by this one act. He is becoming a husband. He is forming a clearer picture of that misty realm that reaches before him, his grown-up life.
The organ booms out the wedding march. Geraldine enters the church in her mother’s dress, on her father’s arm. She looks fragile, and grave, and beautiful. The nuptial Mass begins.
*
The newly married couple pass that night at Edenfield Place. Louisa appears only briefly, white-faced, to apologise for her absence, and then retreats to her room. George, now proud, now fearful at her condition, makes an abstracted host. Bride and groom retire early to the principal guest bedroom.
Both are exhausted. The bed that awaits them has ornate barley-sugar posts holding a high carved wooden canopy, and curtains in a pink and blue floral fabric. The immense wardrobe has a mirrored central panel in which they see themselves reflected, smiling, uncertain.
‘I’ll go and use the bathroom first, shall I?’ says Larry. ‘I’ll get into my pyjamas there.’
He understands that Geraldine is shy of undressing in front of him. He takes his time in the bathroom. When he returns, he finds Geraldine standing where he left her, but now in a white silk nightdress. The silk clings to the curves of her body.
‘You look ravishing,’ he says.
She smiles, and goes on tiptoe to the bathroom. He turns out the bedroom centre light, leaving on a bedside lamp. He gets into bed. The linen sheets are chilly.
Geraldine returns, and stands, hesitating, in the middle of the room.
‘Would you rather have the light out?’ says Larry.
‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Let’s try.’
He turns out the bedside lamp. The room is plunged into total darkness. He hears her approach the bed, and pat her way up it to the head. She creeps under the bedclothes, barely disturbing them, and lies beside him without touching him. He hears her breathing.
‘Tired?’ he says.
‘A little,’ she says.
He reaches out his right hand towards her, and encounters her silk-clad hip. She gives a start.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Hello.’
‘Cold?’
‘A little,’ she says.
‘Why don’t I warm you?’
He shuffles alongside her and with some awkwardness takes her in his arms. She curls her body so that she’s lying on her side, her head in the crook of his shoulder, her knees against his thighs. He strokes her back softly, to soothe the tension of her muscles.
‘All a bit new, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she whispers.
He kisses her, and she responds at once, in the manner of one who is determined to show willing. His caressing hands reach down her silk-clad back to the curve of her bottom. She moves a little, to release one hand, and finds his shoulder, and the back of his neck. In silence, in darkness, they touch each other lightly in safe places.
Then his left hand comes up her back to her neck and cheek, and down over her throat, over the lace ties of her nightdress, to her breast. He draws his fingers very lightly over her breast, feeling the nub of the nipple beneath the silk. While he does this she stops her own caresses entirely.
‘Do you mind?’ he says.
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘You must do whatever you want.’
He runs his hand down her body to her curled-up knees, and softly presses them, making her straighten out her legs. She offers no resistance, but he feels her nervousness. For a little while longer he does no more than stroke her, from her cheek, down over her breast, to her hip. As he does so, discovering by touch alone the lines of her slender body, he becomes aroused.
Now he lets his caressing hand roam lower down her leg. His fingers tug at the fabric of her nightdress, drawing it up, until he can touch the bare skin of her thigh beneath.
‘There,’ he says. ‘That’s the real you.’
She lies still, trembling a little. He eases her nightdress up higher.
‘Why don’t you take it off?’ he whispers.
Obediently she sits up and draws her nightdress over her head. As soon as it’s off she wriggles back down under the bedclothes He takes her in his arms again, kisses her. Each stage is an experiment for him, its outcome unknown. Excited, he now realises she will indeed cooperate with his wishes.
But he understands he must proceed slowly.
‘Shall I take mine off too?’
‘If you want,’ she says, her voice muffled beneath the sheet.
He sits up in his turn, and pulls off his pyjama top. Then he unties the cord of his pyjama trousers and pushes them down his body, kicking them off at the bottom of the bed. Now as naked as she is he draws her back into his arms, and feels her skin against his skin. He shifts the position of his hips so that his erection lies touching her body.
She stiffens with shock. For the first time he wonders how much she knows, and what she’s expecting.
‘It’s all right,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s all right.’
Slowly her body softens against him. He strokes her with long slow passes, all down her body, and timidly, she begins to caress him too.
He takes her hand and places it on his erection, wanting her to know that part of him and not be frightened. He moves her hand up and down, and she allows herself to excite him in this simple way. But when he takes his hand away, her hand stops moving.
He strokes her thighs, and runs his hand over the furry mound where her thighs meet.
‘Do you know what it is we do?’ he whispers.
‘A little,’ she says.
From the way she says it he realises that she doesn’t know. He goes on stroking her, thinking now how brave she is to submit
to this unknown ordeal. He kisses her.
‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘You must do what you want.’
So this is her sacrifice, in her love for him. But once the unknown becomes known it will cease to be a sacrifice. It will become their shared delight.
Her naked body against his is having its natural effect. He wants very much to be closer still. But he wants her to know what’s going to happen. So he runs his hand between her thighs and, easing them a little apart, he feels for the place where he will enter her.
As soon as his fingers began to probe, she stiffens once more. He withdraws his hand, and taking her hand again, causes it to move up and down his erection.
‘When we make love,’ he says, ‘this has a special way of being close to you.’ He takes her hand and places it between her thighs. ‘In here. Inside you.’
She says nothing for a moment. Then, very low, she says, ‘How?’
‘It just does. It goes in.’
‘Is that what you want?’
‘It’s just how it works,’ he says.
‘It’s how love works.’
‘Is that what love is?’ she says.
‘Oh, my darling. Your mother told you nothing?’
‘She told me I must do whatever you asked of me. She said my wedding present to you was the gift of my body.’
‘It is. It is. And mine to you.’
‘Then you must do it, my love,’ she whispers. ‘You have only to tell me what it is you want of me. I belong to you now.’
Her submission touches him deeply. It also excites him. The idea that he can command her to pleasure him as he wills excites him.
He moves his body so that he’s lying over her, and easing himself into position, begins to press to enter her. She opens her legs, now understanding his intent, but at the same time she holds her breath. He nuzzles against her, meaning to make no harsh move, aware that to start with she could feel some pain. But he makes no progress at all.
He pushes a little harder. From his lovemaking with Nell, he’s familiar with the sensation of yielding and opening up, but this time there’s no giving way. Her body is soft and exciting, almost too exciting, but offers him no right of entrance.