Ill-matched by moonlight?

“You know of course that they have separate bedrooms, don’t you?” Rose Mountjoy suddenly announced yesterday; adding, that she referred of course to David Porteous and Frances, just as if she thought I mightn't have guessed. She was sitting on one of Grandmother Fanshawe’s Edwardian garden chairs beneath the roses in Mr Porteous's arbour; drinking the cup of coffee I had just made her, and giving the impression, as she always does, that she meant to stay for hours.

I call it Mr Porteous’s rose arbour because that seems to be its indelible character and its name. It is not in fact the one which was originally intended, and which caused Bill so much sharp annoyance the other day. That earlier trellis one has gone; was dismantled at Mr Porteous’s own instruction (he having come here in all state to inspect it); and another, altogether more ‘period-sensitive’, has been erected in its place.

The new one is very beautiful; even Bill has had to concede that. It came here ready-constructed yesterday, a poetic-looking rustic belvedere, cast in wrought iron. It’s an altogether more elegant structure than the trellis one was; and has been supplied with a fully developed white rose to clamber up its sides, and make a fragrant mantle for its roof. Inside, are a table and chairs sufficient for four persons, a pair of ornamental urns from which a riot of white and blue campanula tumbles; and a solar-powered lantern suspended from its dome.

Rose thinks it rather impressive too. Though she does just wonder to which particular period it ought to be thought sensitive - whether the one in which the gatehouse and the garden were themselves created, or some other got up to Mr Porteous’s own specifications? “He’s quite the impresario though, isn’t he?” she observed. “And can never have had quite such a pocketful of cash from which to draw, for realising his aesthetic intentions.”

After which, just as if this hadn’t been indiscreet, and spiteful enough on its own, she went on to make her rather startling announcement about the bedroom arrangements at the manor house. She gave me no pause for response, but went on at once to explain precisely how it was that Frances and Mr Porteous were conducting their rather irregular pre-conjugal relations.

"Oh no," she said; "Nothing so vulgar as a shared bedroom for them!Frances has her suite and he has his. Adjoining of course – or they will be, when Mr Porteous’s team of builders have arrived to carry out the necessary alterations. At present they are separated by a solid wall, and the apartment which Mr Porteous calls his dressing room - which is to become just that, and his private bathroom to boot, when the alterations are complete. He has suffered grievously in the interim, from encounters with the half-tipsy Mrs Meade in passages late at night - though all that has ended now of course, with the poor old thing having been summarily pensioned off."

"Frances thinks it all intensely romantic in the old-fashioned way, at any rate." Rose next informed me. "It’s just the sort of arrangement Mr and Mrs Churchill had, she tells me.... She read about the Churchill domestic arrangements in some biography or other – she gets all her romantic notions from books, as you know… Clementine Churchill too, it appears, had to wait for the tap upon the door to tell her when a bedtime assignation impended - and Frances doesn’t see how any situation could easily be less predictable, or more thrilling, than that!”

I have never been absolutely sure about Rose’s sources, when it comes to information of this sort. It’s hard to believe that anyone, even she, could be so cynical as to have invented it on the spot. Yet equally, it’s hard to credit that Frances would have confided in her to quite such an extent. It’s Bill’s theory that Rose doesn’t so much invent, as muscle her way into people's houses, then nose around, drawing her own conclusions as she goes. And I think he’s probably right; he usually is. But whatever the facts of the matter, Rose hadn’t finished with them yet; and went on to let me know just what she thought it was that Frances ‘saw’ in Mr Porteous.

“She believes he is a great man” is Rose's interpretation. “Or she believes at least that he is in process of becoming one, by creating a great book. It's to shake the earth with its wisdom you know - and probably deliver lasting peace to troubled nations, all at one fell swoop. Frances grew up as the amanuensis of that other great man, her father, you see – it was the only kind of occupation she was ever allowed to enjoy. And now she believes she is performing the same sacred duty for Mr Porteous - she hardly sees how there could be any higher, or more rewarding function for a woman than that.“

Rose is of the opinion that it’s as well Frances is satisfied to be Mr Porteous’s amanuensis however ("Or call it his adoring and entirely subservient hand-maiden!”). Since she doesn’t suppose for a moment that the taps on the bedroom door come more often than once a fortnight at most. “Oh, he’s doing the best he can in difficult circumstances” she observed. “But he’s a man with a considerable appetite in that respect it seems to me (I don't believe a word of all those stories about the years of priestly abstinence!). And I think it likely he's finding Frances rather uphill work.”

This seemed crude to me, even by Rose's standards. But it did ring discomfitingly true for all that; and I have to admit to having entertained similar suspicions myself. I found Rose’s words repeating themselves in my head to jarring effect later that evening though, when the dozen or so guests began arriving for my little impromptu party. It had changed to become an evening event, I forgot to mention that. Mr Porteous, standing in the garden to consider the proportions of the completed arbour - and somehow envisaging it with candles lit and starry skies above - had decided that an evening party would be altogether more fitting to the occasion. And a little flurry of apologetic phone calls on Frances’s part had alerted everyone to the altered time.

It turned out to have been the right decision. The party went beautifully – and I have to say that nobody, in the event, could have conducted himself more perfectly throughout the whole affair than Mr Porteous did. The man has style, as well as presence, I have to hand him that. He was courtly charm itself; as with a tremulously smiling Frances attached to his arm, he made his carefully considered progress round the garden, bestowing his smiles, and a short conversation, upon each small group in turn.

And Bill – did Bill too succumb to the Porteous effect? Well no, he did not. But then neither did he offend too blatantly by protest or omission. I was rather proud of him in fact; I thought he stood his own ground to rather impressive effect. He seemed to be amusing people too; his own great laugh boomed out often - which added a note of light-heartedness that might otherwise have been missing. I daresay I have a sister's prejudice in his favour - but it does seem to me that even in the perfectly-judged, quiet-eyed presence of Mr Porteous, Bill has his own way of creating little flutters in female bosoms. Pamela in particular seemed quite overcome by the emotion of it all, at one point.

The big surprise of the evening came at midnight. A clock in Bill’s side of the gatehouse had just finished striking the hour when Mr Porteous, having somehow managed to clear the arbour of all others, took Frances with him to a position of prominence beneath the lighted lantern, and announced, with all the splendid resonance of one accustomed to projecting his voice from pulpits, that they had been going to wait a while, Frances and he; but that after all this seemed to be the perfect hour ... in which to let all their good friends know that the sweet and gentle lady at his side had just done him the inexpressible honour of consenting to become his wife.

So there it was. The deed was accomplished; and I wish I could say that it was received with instant, unanimous joy. It was received with every attempt at the appearance of just that of course. People tried hard indeed to simulate it, they really did. There was a moment though, just one, when awkward silence broke out; and everyone seemed holding their breaths to know quite which way they ought to be trying to respond. Bill it was, I’m proud to say, who saved the situation: enveloping a trembling Frances in one of his great bear-hugs, and professing his loud, unqualified delight.

It broke the silence and dispelled the appearance of doubt. There were congratulations all round after that; and the evening ended, just as had been intended, on a note of something almost like high jubilation. Only Pamela stood back from it all a little stiffly - with Roland doing his best to mirror her misgivings from behind.

And Rose? Well, Rose couldn’t help herself of course; but must take me aside at the first opportunity, to observe that there'd be a tap on Frances's bedroom door that night, for certain!”



Footnote: This instalment marks the end of Part One. Beatrice and Bill are now going to be away for a few days; having been invited to visit the Macauleys at their place in Suffolk. They are to travel there in company with Mrs Mountjoy, which won’t make for the most comfortable of journeys. But all being well, they should have returned to begin Part Two, by the end of the week