Half Moon Street Read online

  The Marchands greeted Caroline with great pleasure. They were charming, supremely civilized people who would never wittingly have made any guest less than welcome, but it was impossible not to see the genuineness of their feelings.

  “How very nice to see you,” Mrs. Marchand said, coming forward from where she had been standing near a small table of flowers in the withdrawing room. The evening was not cold, but there was a fire burning in the grate and the room was warm with the glow of flames reflected on the copper fender and scuttle and the brass-and-copper fire tongs. The heavy curtains were old rose and the furniture massive and obviously comfortable. Embroidered cushions and samplers and an open book of cards and scraps gave it a look of having long been the heart of a family home, albeit a very orthodox one.

  “I’m so glad you were prepared to come even without Joshua,” Mr. Marchand added from in front of the largest armchair, where he had obviously risen to his feet. He was smiling broadly. He was a shy man, and this was an unusually outspoken remark for him.

  Caroline felt enfolded by familiarity and its comfort. It was people like these she had known and understood all her life. There was no need to make any pretense with them, any effort to keep up with bright conversation or forward-thinking opinions.

  “I really am very happy to come,” she answered, quite honestly. “It is so relaxing to be able to converse without wondering when the theatre bell will go or who else one really ought to speak to.”

  “Isn’t it!” Mrs. Marchand agreed quickly. “I love the theatre, and concerts and soirees and so on, but there is nothing like the quiet company of friends. Do come and sit for a little while and tell us how you are.”

  Caroline did as she was bidden, and they spoke for a little while of fashion, gossip, mutual acquaintances and other agreeable and unimportant things.

  A little before dinner was served the door opened and a youth of about sixteen came in. He was already tall and lean, as if outgrowing his strength. He had his mother’s wide blue eyes and dark hair. His skin was still soft; it would be some time before he needed to shave. He was composed, but his slightly awkward silence, the uncertainty what to do with his hands, betrayed his shyness. That much at least was sharply reminiscent of his father, and Caroline could so easily imagine Ralph Marchand at the same age.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Fielding,” he replied when they were introduced. She wanted to engage him in conversation so he would not have to search for something to say to her. What manner of subject would interest a boy of his age? She must not seem condescending or intrusive, or make him feel as if he was being examined.

  He looked at her steadily because he had been taught it was rude not to meet people’s eyes when you spoke to them, but she could see he was highly uncomfortable doing so, only waiting for the moment he could disengage himself.

  She smiled. Complete candor was the only thing that came to her mind.

  “I am very pleased you joined us, Lewis, but at a loss to know what to say to you. I’m sure you are not the least interested in the latest births, deaths and marriages in society, or the fashions either. I do not know sufficient of politics to discuss them with anyone except in the most superficial manner. I am afraid I have become rather singular in my interests lately, and that may make me very tedious.”

  He drew in his breath to make the denial courtesy called for, and she cut him off. “Please don’t feel the need to be polite. Instead, tell me what you would most like to speak of, were you to initiate the conversation and not I.”

  “Oh!” He looked startled and a little flattered. A warm color flushed up his cheeks, but he did not seek to move away.

  “Papa tells me Mr. Fielding is an actor. Is that really so?”

  “Are you still being courteous?” she said, teasing him very gently. “You really would wish to speak of the one thing I am obsessed with myself ? Or are you trying to make me feel at ease, just as I am with you? If so, you are remarkably sophisticated for one so early in his career. You will be an enormous success in society. Ladies will love you.”

  He blushed scarlet. He opened his mouth to say something and quite obviously could think of nothing adequate. His eyes were shining, and it was a moment before she realized he was making an intense effort to look only at her face, not even for an instant to allow his gaze to slide as far as her neck or shoulder, let alone the smooth skin above her bosom.

  Mr. Marchand cleared his throat as if about to speak, then said nothing.

  Mrs. Marchand blinked.

  Caroline was aware of an oppressive silence. The sudden crackling of the fire was almost explosive.

  “Yes, he is an actor,” she said more abruptly than she intended. “Do you like the theatre? I expect you are studying plays in your schoolwork?”

  “Oh yes,” he agreed. “But mostly Shakespeare, I’m afraid. Nothing very modern. That is all very . . . well, some of it is outrageous. Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that Mr. Fielding . . .”

  “Of course you didn’t,” she agreed quickly. “I expect Shakespeare was considered outrageous in his time, at least by some.”

  “Do you think so?” He looked hopeful. “It all seems so . . . historical! Sort of . . . safe . . . the histories happened . . . and we know they did.”

  She laughed. “I expect even Mr. Ibsen will be a classic one day, and perfectly ‘safe’ as well.” She knew that was what Joshua would have said. “And we don’t know what really happened in the histories, only what Shakespeare told us for the sake of his drama.”

  He was surprised. “Do you think it wasn’t true?” It was obviously a new thought to him. “I suppose it doesn’t have to be, does it? Maybe there was no one to stop libel and blasphemy then.” He was frowning. “Only it wasn’t, of course . . . I mean, not Shakespeare. Maybe all the things that were have been stopped . . . either by some censorship, or because we learned they were untrue, so we didn’t watch them anymore.”

  “I should think it is more likely we became so used to them, we now believe they are the truth,” she replied, and then instantly wondered if perhaps she was speaking too freely. He was only a child, after all. “You may well be right,” she amended. “In the long run we are fairly competent judges of what is good.” She hoped Joshua would forgive her for such arrant nonsense. “What are you studying?”

  “Julius Caesar,” he said instantly.

  “Marvelous!” she responded. “My favorite . . . except that all the characters that matter are men.”

  He looked surprised.

  “How about Hamlet? You would appreciate that, and perhaps understand him.” She was certain he would be familiar with the great scenes, if not with all of it. “And one must surely feel a terrible pity for Ophelia?”

  He was startled, then embarrassed, and there was a fleeting moment when she thought she saw revulsion in his eyes, then it was gone again. “Oh . . . yes.” But he looked away, the blood pink in his cheeks. “Of course.” He struggled for something else to say, away from a subject that apparently disturbed him.

  Ralph Marchand moved very slightly.

  Caroline sensed she was treading on ground full of unknown fears and assumptions, far too dangerous to continue when she knew him so little.

  “Perhaps in the future,” she said lightly. She turned to Mrs. Marchand. “I hear there is a new political satire. I am not sure whether I wish to see it or not. Sometimes they are so obvious there is no point, and other times they are so abstruse I have no idea what the point is.”

  The tension dissipated. They talked for a few minutes longer on harmless subjects. Lewis, having paid his respects to the visitor, excused himself, leaving the adults to go in to dinner.

  It was a very traditional meal, unsurprising but excellently cooked. It took Caroline into the safety of the past, when so much had been familiar with all the reassurance of the knowledge that she understood it, that she knew the questions and the answers and was certain of her own place. Now there were countless situations where she ha
d to think harder, weigh her responses. She seemed to spend half her time struggling to say something appropriate, trying to keep her balance between being true to her beliefs and yet not sounding insensitive, old-fashioned and exhibiting precisely that bigotry her new friends despised. Although it was Joshua who really mattered. How much did she disappoint him? He was too innately kind to look for fault or to express criticism where it could do no good. The very knowledge of that brought a sudden closing of her throat, and she rushed into speech to drive it away.

  Mrs. Marchand was talking about censorship. Behind her, her husband’s face was dark, his body tense as he listened.

  “. . . and we have to protect the innocent from the darkness of mind which can so easily injure them permanently,” she was saying.

  “Darkness of mind?” Caroline had not heard the beginning and did not know to what she referred.

  Mrs. Marchand leaned forward a little across the table, the pearl embroidery on her gown catching the light. “My dear, take that play we saw the other evening, just for one example. It is amazing what can become acceptable if one sees it often enough, and in public. There are ideas which you and I would find appalling and which undermine all the values we most cherish, and if we were among our trusted friends we would all feel free to express our outrage when they are mocked or violated.” Her face was creased with earnestness. “And yet when it is done with wit and we are made to laugh, it feels different. No one wishes to seem without humor, to be pompous or out-of-date. We all laugh. No one looks at anyone else. No one knows who is really embarrassed or offended. And sooner or later we become used to whatever it is, and it no longer offends us. It becomes more and more difficult to say anything. We feel isolated, as if the whole tide of what everyone thinks has moved on and left us behind, alone.”

  Caroline knew precisely what she meant. She was correct. One grows less sensitive to vulgarity, to coarseness of thought or perception, even to witness of other people’s pain. The initial shock wears off. Anger finally dies.

  And yet she heard herself saying what she knew Joshua would have were he there.

  “Of course it does. That is why we must constantly explore the boundaries and find new ways to say things, precisely so people will not become used to them and no longer care.”

  Mr. Marchand frowned. “I am not sure that I follow you. What new things must we say?”

  Her husband set down his wineglass, his expression tightly controlled, his eyes very steady. “I admit to being old-fashioned. I believe the ideals of my father and grandfather were high, and I have no desire to see them questioned, let alone flouted,” he replied. “They believed a man was bound by his honor, and his word, once given, was unbreakable.” His voice warmed. “They held duty sacred, thought of others before self, service the highest calling. They treated all women with gentleness, and those of their family they were not only bound to protect from all violence, coarseness of thought or word, or vulgarity, but it was their pleasure as well. Surely that is what love is, the desire above all things, no matter at what cost to oneself, to protect and make life joyous and rich and safe for them?” He looked at her earnestly, his blue eyes unclouded.

  Caroline thought of Edward, and of Samuel Ellison, and heard Joshua’s voice in her ears. Oddly enough, she also heard Pitt.

  “It is a kind of love,” she answered gently. “Is it what you would wish for yourself ?”

  A shadow crossed his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Is it the kind of love you would wish extended towards yourself ?”

  “My dear, our circumstances are entirely different,” he said patiently. “It is my place to protect, not to be protected. Women are uniquely vulnerable. If they become coarsened by what is violent and destructive in life, what devalues innocence, reverence for the beautiful and precious, for intimacy and the finer emotions, they pass it on to our children, and then what is there left for anyone? There must be some hallowed place where there is no mockery of the sacred, no belittling of tenderness, no willingness to injure or take advantage, where the spiritual always outweighs the carnal.”

  Caroline felt a strange, painful mixture of shame and frustration, and at the same time, of comfort.

  “Of course there must,” she agreed wholeheartedly. “I wish I knew how to keep it without at the same time closing my eyes to everything that is uncomfortable or questioning. How can I keep innocence and yet also grow up rather than remain a child? How can I fight for what is good if I have no idea what is evil?”

  “You should not have to fight, my dear,” he said with intense feeling, leaning toward her, his face very earnest. “You should be protected from such things! That is society’s duty, and if those whose charge and whose privilege it is were honoring their callings, then the question would never arise. As it is, the Lord Chamberlain is gravely remiss, and there is all manner of dangerous—deeply dangerous—material around.” He stared at Caroline, faint spots of color in his cheeks.

  “You can have no concept of how terrible some of it is. I pray God you never do!” His face tightened. “The damage is irreparable.”

  “He certainly does not do enough.” Mrs. Marchand agreed, turning to him with a pucker between her brows. “I think you should write to him, my dear, say that many of us are deeply concerned about the openness of very private emotions expressed on the stage, which may suggest to susceptible minds that women in general may be possessed of the kind of . . . of appetites indicated by Miss Antrim’s character—”

  “I already have, my dear,” he interrupted.

  She relaxed a little, her shoulders easing, a slight smile returning to her lips. “I’m so glad. Think of the kind of effect, the fearful notions, that could place in the minds of young men . . . like . . . like Lewis! How could he, or they, grow up with the tenderness and respect towards their wives and daughters, not to say mothers, that one would desire?”

  Caroline understood only too easily what she meant. It was not herself she thought of, but her own daughters. She remembered with grief, even now, so many years afterwards, how Sarah had suffered, before her death, the fear and the disillusion in her husband because of his behavior. Any censorship at all was better than the misery they had endured then.

  “Of course,” she concurred, but there was a small voice nagging at the back of her mind, one that condemned cowardice and told her she was sacrificing honesty for comfort. She quelled it and continued with her dinner, although she was aware that Mrs. Marchand had been far more easily reassured than her husband. He had been gentle with her, wanting to give her a comfort he himself could not share.

  When she arrived home, Joshua was in the withdrawing room, sitting in the large chair he liked best, a book open in his lap and the gaslight turned high so he could read. It caught the few strands of silver in his brown hair and the shadows of weariness around his eyes. He closed the book and smiled at her, rising to his feet slowly.

  “Nice evening with the Marchands?” He came towards her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She felt the warmth of him and the very slight smell of stage makeup, and that indefinable odor of the theatre: sweat, excitement, fabric, paint. Ten years ago it would have been as alien to her as a foreign land. Now it had familiarity, a host of memories of laughter and passion. She realized with a rush of confusion how much she was still as sharply in love with Joshua as if she were a girl and this were her first real romance. It was absurd, ludicrous in a woman of her age. It made her unbearably vulnerable.

  “Yes, very pleasant,” she answered, forcing herself to smile brightly, as if it were all quite casual. “I met their son for the first time. A very shy boy.” She walked on past him towards the fire. It was not really cold outside, but she was shivering a little. And she was unprepared for the intimacy of retiring to bed. Her mind was still busy with conflicting thoughts, Edward and the past, Samuel Ellison’s smile, his stories, Hope Marchand’s fear of the depiction of new ideas, the passion to protect the young from the intrusion of violence
and degradation of things they needed to believe in as pure, and Ralph Marchand’s longer sight and far deeper fear of things to come. He was right in believing that when you lost the ability to feel reverence, you lost almost everything.

  She thought of her own daughters when they had been young. Joshua would not understand that; he had no children. The need to protect was so deep it was far more elemental than thought or reason, it was at the core of life. And it was so much more than merely physical . . . it was a need to nurture all that was of beauty in the heart, that gave happiness. Who wanted her child alive but incapable of faith in the essential value of love, honor or joy?

  “Caroline?” There was an edge of anxiety in Joshua’s voice. He had sensed the distance she had placed between them.

  She swung around to face him, and emotion overtook her. She saw confusion in him also, and tiredness after the mental and physical effort of a performance, and yet his concern was for her. She felt utterly selfish. What did the issues of censorship, or what the Marchands thought about it, matter tonight?

  “Silly dinner conversation.” She dismissed it with a smile, stepping forward into his arms. It was still easier to hold him than to meet his eyes. She felt his slightness and his strength. He was very gentle. It was far too late to wonder about whether she had made the right decision in marrying him, whether she was absurd or not. She could either go with her heart or deny it. Nothing would change the commitment inside her.

  But in the morning censorship mattered very much. She saw it in Joshua’s face even before her eye caught it in the newspapers.

  “What is it?” she asked, a lurch of alarm inside her. “What has happened?”

  He held up the paper. “They’ve taken off Cecily’s play! Banned it!” He sounded stunned, defeated. There were pink spots of color in his cheeks.

  She did not understand. “How can they? The Lord Chamberlain gave it a license . . .” She stopped. She did not understand the details of the process, but the principle was clear. Something in his face held her. “What?”