Page 10 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

CHAPTER THREE

The Nevinsons’ flat was large, dark, filled with old, well-polished furniture and the faint smell of soup.

Samuel Nevinson opened the door to them himself.

They had a servant, Leah – a cook-general Richard supposed you would call her – but in the way of Jewish people she was more like a member of the family.

She and Mrs Nevinson – Hannah – shared the work without much distinction between them, and chatted and complained and sometimes quarrelled mildly, like two sisters.

They conspired to protect the man of the house from even the slightest disappointment, and to burnish up the daughter for her hoped-for fine marriage.

Samuel opened his arms as if he meant to embrace them both and said, ‘Now tell me, what did you think? Did you like it?’

‘I love it, Papa,’ Cynthia cried. ‘It’s perfect. Can we really have it?’

He fondly kissed her brow. ‘Of course you can, chick. Richard? What’s your opinion? Good enough for Mr and Mrs Howard to start off their lives together?’

‘It seems excellently suited in every way,’ Richard heard himself say. And now he was embraced, and he felt in the older man’s arms a tremor of relief.

Samuel bore Richard off to the fireside while Cynthia went to the kitchen for house and wedding talk with her mother and Leah. Richard heard their light, musical voices rising and falling in the background, like the sound of birds out in the garden.

Samuel made him sit down, served him sherry, then took the chair opposite, and pursued his own thoughts for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Have you heard of the Nuremberg Laws?’

‘No,’ said Richard. ‘Nuremberg? That’s in Germany, isn’t it?’

Samuel sat forward. ‘Listen, and I will tell you. They were passed last September, for the protection of German Blood.’

‘What on earth is German Blood?’

‘There’s a belief over there that the different races of human beings on earth can be ranked in worthiness. The Aryan race is the finest, the top of the tree. The Jews are right down at the bottom, inferior to everyone else. Guess which race the Germans belong to?’

‘I’d have thought they were mixed, like every other nation,’ Richard said.

Samuel almost smiled. ‘They have a way to get round that. They say that only pure Aryans are really Germans. Only they have true German blood running in their veins. And to stop any more diluting of their wonderful, perfect blood, the first Nuremberg law forbids them to marry or have intercourse with Jews. Oh, and a Jewish household may not employ an Aryan female under forty-five – because you know what ravening beasts men are when it comes to servant girls. And how servant girls have no morals.’

‘The first law?’ Richard asked, without at all wanting to know.

‘The second law says that only pure Aryan Germans are Reich citizens. The rest are state subjects without any rights. And the Jews, along with Blacks and Gypsies, are classed as enemies of the state, so you can imagine how they will be treated.’ Richard could think of nothing to say.

‘It’s true, what I’m telling you,’ Samuel concluded.

‘It could never happen here,’ Richard said at last.

‘I hope not,’ Samuel said. ‘But people anywhere can be worked up to hatred by certain words, or a certain combination of events. I hear a lot of people now who are afraid of the Soviets, who say that we should be friends with the Germans, because they are decent, hard-working, peace-loving people just like the English. But they don’t know what is going on over there.

We have relatives there, and in Poland, who write to us.

It’s bad now, but it’s going to get worse.

As individuals, people are nice and kind, but mobs are cruel and bloody.

They do things and think things that not one of them would do on his own.

So I want you to be really sure what you are marrying into. ’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Richard said stiffly.

‘I think you do.’

‘But you’re not really—’

‘We’re not observant, but we’re Jewish all the same.

Have you thought about that? People hate us.

They shun us, and they’ll shun you too, if you marry one of us.

Have you thought how you’ll feel when people turn down your invitations, or don’t invite you, or don’t want to sit next to you?

When Cynthia is excluded from the circle of your friends’ wives. ’

‘My circle aren’t like that.’

‘They won’t throw stones or break your windows. It’ll be more subtle, but it’ll hurt just as much.’

Richard felt his face burn. In the normal course of events, if he had got engaged to a girl from his own set, his parents would have invited hers to dinner or a weekend stay.

There had been no invitation yet for the Nevinsons from his mother – not from any dislike, but a nervousness about whether they would require different foods or special arrangements.

She only wanted to get it right, but he knew how it must look.

Samuel looked as though he had read everything that had just passed through Richard’s mind.

‘You see, we’re thought of as different ,’ he said sadly.

‘So I want to say to you, my dear boy, that you should think very carefully and clearly about it, and if you decide you don’t want to go ahead with the marriage—’

‘Sir!’

Samuel raised a hand. ‘I’m not impugning your honour, I’m saying that if you decide it’s wiser to pull out, there will be no hard feelings, not on my part, not on Cynthia’s. She’ll release you. We’ll say she’s changed her mind. No shame will stick to you.’

Richard felt slightly sick. ‘Doesn’t she want to marry me?’

Samuel didn’t answer at once, looking at him steadily. Then he said, ‘She doesn’t want a reluctant husband. Or one who’s taken by surprise when things go bad.’

’They won’t go bad,’ Richard said stubbornly.

Underneath, his thoughts were seething. A reluctant husband?

No, he wasn’t that – not exactly. But he was not in love with her.

Had Samuel guessed that? Oh, God, did she guess it?

He knew how much she loved him; yet she would release him without reproach?

No shame would stick to him? Perhaps not in public, but in his head, in his heart …

He could never forgive himself if he hurt her, or them, so much.

He felt the velvet jaws of the trap close on him. But he must not remain silent, or Samuel would believe the worst. ‘Of course I don’t want to be released from the engagement. I want to marry Cynthia, and I say that with my whole heart.’

Samuel grunted, as if different words entirely had been spoken. But all he said was, ‘You had better tell her that, then, when you see her next. She can’t help wondering, poor child.’

‘She shouldn’t. What have I ever done to make her doubt me?’

‘She hasn’t seen much of you in the past few weeks.’

‘I’ve been very busy,’ Richard said, burning again, though outwardly composed. ‘But perhaps I have neglected her. I’ll put that right.’

Cynthia appeared at the door just then. ‘Papa, Richard, dinner’s ready.’ She looked quizzically at them. ‘You look so serious. Did something happen?’

Richard knew then that Samuel hadn’t told his daughter he was going to have this conversation.

‘I was telling Richard how your mother wants me to retire once you’re safely off my hands,’ Samuel said.

‘But, Papa, you can’t retire! Whatever would you do with yourself all day?’ Cynthia responded.

‘That’s just what I said,’ Samuel said, and laughed.

Richard chuckled too, to keep up the benign pretence.

Samuel put his arm round Cynthia’s shoulders and walked out towards the dining-room.

Richard followed their entwined figures down the dark passage towards the smell of soup, now joined by that of fried fish and something richly beefy, and felt so unreal he almost had to look down to see if his feet were still there, and still working.

Basil Compton emerged, blinking, from the Underground at Green Park station and felt the sun warm on his face, unseasonably for March.

Across the road, the eponymous park beckoned: its towering plane trees were just coming into leaf; the grass was edged with a cheery paint-spatter of daffodils.

Flat-dwellers were walking grateful dogs, nursemaids were pushing perambulators, children were slipping restraining hands and running wildly about after pigeons.

The weather had tempted him from his desk at the Bugle .

He ought to have been working, but a sunny day in March, he reasoned, must be celebrated lest the Weather Gods be offended and inflict cataracts and hurricanoes instead.

He darted across Piccadilly, dodging between taxi-cabs and delivery vans.

He’d hardly gained the opposite pavement when he was hailed by someone coming out from Queen’s Walk.

It was a woman in a loden-green two-piece.

Skirts were calf-length this year and slightly flared at the hem, jackets were fitted, with built-up shoulders (he knew this from perusing all sections of his own newspaper most days instead of working) and the two-piece was bang up to the mark.

The lady had completed it with a saucy Robin Hood hat decorated with an upright diamond turkey-quill and rather exciting high-heeled ankle boots, and was wearing a black fox fur round her shoulders, proving she was wealthy as well as fashionable.

‘It is Mr Compton, isn’t it?’ she said, extending a leather-gloved hand. ‘Gloria Rampling’s Mr Compton?’

He remembered her now. ‘Mrs Glenforth-Williams,’ he said, raising his hat and shaking her hand in the same movement.

‘You remember my name,’ she said, with a dazzling smile. ‘I couldn’t be more flattered.’

‘I am hardly likely to forget you , of all people,’ he said, returning the smile.

‘And what are you doing here, Mr Compton? Are you meeting Gloria?’

‘Sadly, no. She’s out of Town at the moment.’

‘Paris?’

‘Yorkshire.’

‘Oh, the poor darling. How too sick-making!’