Chương 13: Chapter XIII
It was past nine by the time Crawford threw his hat and coat upon the coat stand. His valet had left his correspondence by the door, and as he walked about the salon towards the library, Richard turned over the letters. One of them was from his eldest sister. Another from Vale. He hesitated for a moment, and, as he opened the others lethargically, held them aside between his fingers. Most contained the usual cards that solicited his presence at either lunch or dinner, invitations for charity events, gallery openings, and tickets for various concerts and the like. His aunt had sent him a notice talking of a noted man, part of the delegation from Senegal, who was staying in Paris for the week, and advised him to see the traveler himself as he had an extremely interesting character, and was likely to be entertaining. Rumour had it he was to be at the Brodeur's tomorrow...
He threw them atop the writing desk. Allie's and Vale's, he lay next to his reading chair.
Richard felt dirty. The delicate perfume of unknown flowers that was so unmistakably the odour of a cabaret, clung to his garments and hair, engulfing him in a shroud heavily redolent of frowned upon pastimes. Passing into the bathroom, he went to refresh himself, and as soon as he was dressed for the day, Richard sat down to a light breakfast. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with opportunity. A wagtail passed the window and its mantle reminded him of the Pipits he had often watched as a boy in the garden.
He had always been fond of their garden in East Anglia. Of the house as well. When Alexandra, Madeleine and Richard would come home on a rough evening after a stormy day, one could spot the estate from afar; a bleached protrusion against stormy, crude blue clouds that were almost violet, suggesting a sky dressed in water paint. Long hours spend in bright rooms while his sisters were being taught; he had been too young, but content to play on the carpet as they were being taught math and literature and etiquette. He would crawl under the chairs and table until Mr Corbyn would reprimand him and tell Richard to go play in the garden. Allie and Mady would get distracted as they watched him run amid the blue lobelia outside and the birds that passed the window, and at that moment in time he had never quite understood why his sisters would only come and play with him after their lessons. His mother and father, content, regarded them in the evenings from their usual spot on the parlour and discussed topics that Richard couldn't understand but always thought to sound very important.
The sound of his mother's dresses of muslin rustling along the double-doored corridors; her good night kisses; when she walked with them in the garden, and she would remove the withered blooms of the shrubs of lilac that grew along the paths, while his father would pretend not to wait on her; how either would run their hand through his hair to make it lay properly round Richard's head.
A current ran along the edges of their property and beyond the expanse of their garden there was a pond. Alongside had been the cottage of Mr Palmer, who had made a hobby of gardening, so that the banks of the pond were often aflower with blue irises. As the lands beyond were thickly wooded, the heavy shade of the trees gave the water a shade of dark green. His parents had bought the cottage after Mr Palmer's parting, and he and his siblings had made it theirs to play in.
His eye fell on his sister's note laying between the nymph and the burgundy. Two moments past. Richard's mind went blank. His smile fell. The letter was forgotten: the gilded telephone became a malicious threat. The instrument became a tool of ridicule; it was ridiculing him. Richard knew it for sure. He closed his eyes against the sudden wave of emotion. Nausea overcame him.
"More water?"
Richard had been silent, fisting the padding on the armrest of his chair with such cruel brutality that it had deformed. His other hand held the silver line that was his butter knife, cramped between his fingers.
"Would you like more water?"
"Well? What—?" Richard looked up in surprise at the valet hovering just behind his chair. The knife clattered onto the plate. For heaven's sake, he hadn't even heard the man come into the room! Did he walk about the place on tiptoe?
"Forgive me. I startled you—"
Richard shook his head. "No, no— it's not — I mean— I am not thirsty," he murmured.
"Anything else?"
"More water would be fine."
The man faltered and went to get Richard his water.
He should call his father. No matter what awaited him. Richard should call him. Get over with whatever reprimanding that was inevitably to occur.
He rose abruptly before he might change his mind. Dialling had him waver. Waiting on the operator had him fluster. At last, a well-known sound affirmed connection, and a gentleman's voice was heard on the other side. It was a sound that was pleasant enough, though it had an undertone of artificial decency that made one watchful of what one said.
"Richard."
"Good morning, father."
A grumble resounded. A chair squeaked. "Good morning, boy."
"How's mother?"
"She is well. She is well. As well I think her to be."
"Apologies for this morning. I must've missed your call."
"Mm—" The sharp thud of his father's paper being dropped on a table could be heard on the other side. "What did you think of last weeks' developments?"
In spite of the fact that science, art, and politics held a special interest to him, Mr William Crawford firmly held the views on all these subjects which were held by the majority of good society, and the man only changed his opinions when the majority changed theirs. Just as he wore what society deemed fashion and watched what society deemed fashionable. Not that he would confess to this. Mr William Crawford loved the everchanging opinions of the majority the way he loved his paper and afternoon cigar: unquestionably and ardently.
Richard, having as such no idea whether mentioned 'developments' were good or bad or even work related but being eager to appear informed, said: "Nothing we've not seen before."
"Nothing indeed! I told Edwards to keep his head but that man's always quick to lose his wits about him."
"You were always one to remain composed."
A grumble. "What have you been up to?"
"Nothing worth mentioning."
"Not what I've heard; you've been busy. Why on earth you thought Bouquet, Garcin & Schivre had a future is beyond me, boy. I taught you otherwise," a deep murmur resounded through the receiver, "swayed by such bilkers. Electric cars, my arse."
Richard clutched the telephone somewhat tighter than would be advisable. He'd been a fool. Richard's hands were shaking and the room was shrinking. His heart was beating out an excruciating rhythm. He exalted a breath, put on a ready smile and hoped it was recognisable through his voice. Which one of the old man's sycophants had found it necessary to inform him of Richard's ventures was unknown to him, but he held it above his father to ask it of those lickspittles.
"You must be misinformed, father," Richard said. "I let it pass."
"Then where did the money go?"
"Living expenses. Paris isn't cheap."
"Then what 'have' you been doing these past two weeks? Surely none of that Guillory boy again?"
"Pardon?"
"Heard you're still fraternising with the son of Jean-Louis Guillory — get out Edwards, can't you see I'm on the phone, you namby — Did you know he was the previous ambassador to London?"
"Yes," Richard's stomach lurched. He sucked in a deep breath and snapped, "what's wrong?" Richard's nails were roughening the edge of the table. "While I have yet to meet him, he must be delightful if his son is anything to go by."
"I've heard some things about him, my boy. You ought to be wary of being seen fraternising with the son of such people."
Another wave of irritation heated in his chest, and, composing himself in a moment, Richard said gaily:
"You told me so. And while I don't know what you've heard this time, father, I'm quite convinced it came from Mrs Blythe and Mrs Scarbourgh; or at least people whose lives are long past, and now entertain themselves by telling stories of others because they have long passed an age where one would believe them were they to make up stories about themselves."
His father's voice fell: "His son might be a confirmed bachelor."
"If you were here, you'd know that wasn't true," Richard said. "And if it's worth anything, society here doesn't seem to be aware or care of the rumours you're hearing back home."
"You ought to stay away from him, Richard."
"How do you know what he's like when you've never met him? Surely, you're not a man to be influenced by other people, are you, father?"
"Don't talk to me like that, Richard. I will hear from you in two. Don't get caught up with Vale."
"Vale—?" Richard regarded the letter. Realisation hit him heavy in the chest. "I see. Give my regards to mama. Goodbye father."
"Goodbye, boy."
Richard returned the receiver with considerably less force than he had meant on account of his dual feelings. His eye fell on Vale's telegram, and reasoned he was to inquire after him soon.
Richard Crawford would later, while looking back on that day, mark it as the moment he had started working in a way he had not during the previous months. Richard was vaguely aware that he sought it himself, that it was one of the means to shut out his feelings towards his father and his opinions of Richard, which became more terrible the longer he reminisced upon it. Richard did not allow himself to think of his father but all the same admitted to himself that he was not as capable as he liked to think himself to be, and continued to be miserable about it. And from then on out, there would come a look of scorn and severity onto Richard's face whenever anyone inquired after it.
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