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Prologue
(This comes from the end of Honour’s Lesson)
With that she turned away, trembling, pullimg the sheets tight around her, her back to him. He watched as her tears slid hot onto her pillow. Ned stroked her back until, finally, he was sure she slept.
Then he rose and slowly went back downstairs.
He sat at his desk until dawn, the muffled sound of her weeping still in his ears. She could not be silenced, he knew; nor could she be made meek. She could not be made blindly obey, yet he could not explain any further. Would he be required to keep her buried on the estate? Thrash her until his displeasure made her tremble? He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. Not like that. That was not the life or marriage he wanted.
He closed his eyes as if in prayer. Perhaps he did pray.
She would not blindly obey him. He couldn’t expect that. However, she was smart, eager to please. She might be steered. Better a task set by him than mischief sought elsewhere.
Ned began to write.
oOo
He sat at his desk while sh slept. He could not silence her — Honour was not a woman who could be silenced, or remain chastened for long without planning rebellion. She was too beautiful not to be noticed, even had she been inclined to play the wallflower — and her debut season had already proved she was anything but.
But perhaps he could occupy her, channel her wit, make her mischief serve rather than endanger. He thought of the gathering that evening — the way her mimicry had held a circle of men, the way their laughter and eagerness to refill her glass had seemed innocent to her but perilous to him. She played at daring, not knowing the stakes.
He dipped his pen. If she must play games, then let him set the rules.Ned wrote at the top of a clean sheet: Exercise. She would to attend her next gathering with her eyes open, not for admiration but for information. She would listen, note, and report. His words constructed a leash, disguising it as a lark.
He wrote at top of the page:
**Exercise**
Read and study this scene as if you are there.
Your task (as set by your most exacting schoolmaster):
-
- Choose how you behave. What will you drink? Where will you stand or sit? How straight is your back?
- Decide whom you will talk to. Begin the conversation as you would in truth. You may be bold, you may be shy — but you must be convincing.
- Listen carefully. What do you overhear? What slips out when people think no one is listening?
- Write it down afterwards, neatly, as though it were lines or an essay. Distinguish what is certain from what you merely suppose.
- Conclude with your opinion: what deserves notice, and what may be safely ignored.
Marks will be given for observation, not embroidery.
Due: 13 November.
Late papers will be penalised — your schoolmaster is strict, and if delays persist, he may be compelled to commission a caning block suitable to the library’s décor.
The guests gather in Lady Fenton’s drawing-room, Belgravia. Fire glows, curtains drawn. The air is warm, not stifling. Champagne circulates; sherry and gin are offered without fuss.
Lord Fenton stands near the fireplace. Tall, heavy about the jowls, his suit well-cut but beginning to wear. His voice carries. He repeats, more than once, that his sister has “new ideas.” Each time he stresses the word doctor, as though it alone discredits.
Mrs. P. arrives late with her daughter. Her pale green dress is a little dated. After two glasses, she grows expansive. She waves her hand when she mentions her brother-in-law’s business. She insists it is trivial, then laughs too loudly. Listeners glance at one another.
At the card table sits a minor attaché from the embassy. Slim build, moustache carefully combed. He enjoys wagers. He speaks of Chamberlain’s return from Munich and offers odds on a repeat before Christmas. No one takes him up. His smile falters.
Two younger officers are present, uniforms worn off-duty. One is quiet, intent on Mrs. P.’s daughter. The other describes a week’s hunting in Scotland, eyes cast down to his boots. Both are quick to refill glasses when asked.
The older ladies—Lady Markham among them—sit apart, rings heavy, voices low. Their gaze returns to you often: your shoes, the hem of your gown, the way you hold your glass. They murmur when you laugh. One places her hand on another’s sleeve, drawing attention to you as if expecting a slip.
Music from the wireless hums beneath the talk. Conversation carries easily above it.
The room holds a guarded optimism, touched with unease. Christmas plans are spoken of, and shop prices. The word crisis surfaces once, and falls away unanswered.
Carriages arrive at even intervals outside. Motorcars idle briefly, then move on. The staff are attentive, appear to never overhear — though of course they are listening.
When she woke and read it in the morning, her eyes lit with delight. She thought it merely a flirtation, a secret game between them. He would never tell her otherwise, rather she would come to realize it on her own.
oOo
Report: 12 November 1938
To: D.
From: H.
Method:
Sat demurely, appeared subdued (though not excessively so). Accepted a single glass of champagne and nursed it. Laughed, but not too loudly.
Observations:
– Lord Fenton repeats that his sister has “gone Bolshevik” because she wishes to marry a doctor.
– Mrs. P., after two sherries, confided her brother-in-law had written to Germany for car parts during the Sudeten crisis. (She says they are cheaper there. I do not think she sees the implication.)
– A minor attaché with a very fine moustache offered fifty guineas that Chamberlain would return with “peace in our time” again before Christmas. No one accepted.
– The older ladies watched me as if certain I would spill champagne down my front. I refrained.
– The servants served champagne from a punch bowl, not bottles. It looked generous, but I suspect it was economy — a small corner cut.
Assessment:
Perhaps they were right to watch me; I nearly slipped once, and then remembered you at your desk, frowning. But see, Darlington — I can sit, smile, listen, and not bring the ceiling down. I have set it all down here, just as you asked.
Postscript:
It feels rather like a school exercise, but I like it. Your pencil has replaced your coldness, and I am glad of it. Forgive my mischief — and let me keep my new game. I find I am already eager for the next lesson.
Signed,
H.
Ned’s pencilled margin notes:
– Tone improved. Controlled without stiffness.
– Noted Mrs. P.’s German correspondence — small detail, but dangerous if repeated. Well caught.
– Attaché’s wager: remember, levity may mask intent. Always note specifics (sum, season).
– The servants’ punch bowl — good eye. Frugality speaks volumes in a house once lavish.
– Your restraint pleased me. See how little is lost when you are measured.
– Continue. Next time, attend more to who listens when others speak. A typewriter has. been moved to the library. Use it for future reports.
Private Journal
20 November 1938
(Not to be shown. Burn if ever found.)
I cannot remember when I last enjoyed myself so much. Not the party — though I confess I liked the dress, and the music, and the raised eyebrows when I did not tumble headlong into the punchbowl — but the after. To wake and see his hand in the margin, sharp as any schoolmaster’s, yet mine to keep, mine to read again and again.
It is as though I have been given new eyes. I look, I listen, I write, and then he writes too — not cold, not displeased, not turning from me, but answering. His pencil is exact, and still I find it a kindness. He thinks I may be good at this. He will not say it, but I see it between his corrections. And how I thrill to it — I make him write.
And when I stood before his desk, my paper laid on the blotter, he bent his head and marked it with his pencil while I waited, hardly daring to breathe. I felt again the old flutter of school, the nervous desire to please, the fear of not making the mark — and then the relief, the dizzy pleasure when the mark was made and it was not failure. He did not look at me, only at the page. Yet I felt seen, and more than seen.
How strange, that I should have lines once more, only these lines are the world itself. It feels like school, and yet not school, for he can make me feel a schoolgirl and his wife at the same time. I want only to please. I am giddy, foolish, happy. He is not frowning now. He is watching, and I am learning, and I cannot wait for him to set my next exercise. I shall be his most apt student!