The Art of Love

One - Marriage is a painful business

London, Spring 1928

London truly was the city born from rain, Isobel thought when she looked out of the window and watched people shielding themselves with umbrellas against the heavy rain. Luckily, she was in the dry, sitting in the tea room of the Savoy - a treat offered by Lady Bagshaw who had invited her.

"What a ghastly day for a visit," Maud Bagshaw commented over the rim of the menu.

"It's England, what can we expect?" Isobel joked amused. "I'm glad I'm in here and not outside."

"True. So, how long will you stay?" Maud asked.

"Only till tomorrow."

"And your husband's at home?"

"Yes… He doesn't like coming up here," Isobel explained with a shrug of her shoulders. "I don't blame him. I'll run my errands and be gone as quickly as possible."

The waiter arrived and took the order for two afternoon teas.

"I don't want to appear nosy, but…," Maud's voice trailed off, but Isobel encouraged her with a smile to go on. "Violet's told me you've been married for not even three years. I wonder if you've found it difficult to… adjust?"

"Adjust?"

"After all these years of being on your own. I've been living on my own for a long time myself and I cannot imagine myself marrying again. All the compromises one has to make in a marriage. And in your case not to mention the title and the responsibility that comes with it."

Isobel smiled. "It's amazing but it was easier than I thought it would be… we're happy as we are. As for the title… Marrying him was worth the sacrifice."

Maud laughed. "I've never heard a woman referring to a title as a sacrifice. I have to remember telling Her Majesty about it."

Isobel raised her hands in defence. "Please, don't. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity," Maud admitted bluntly. "I know the family of Lord Merton's first wife. My husband and Ada Merton's brother served in the same regiment and from what I heard about her, she was a… difficult person. Hard to read and hard to sustain."

"She was," Isobel confirmed. "Dickie never talks about her and I don't pester him about her. Why bother with the past?"

"That's a wise motivation," Maud agreed. "But are you never curious? You're one of the most perceptive people I've ever come across, so I thought you…," her voice trailed off, when she didn't find the words to continue.

"Yes?"

Maud sighed, now obviously embarrassed. "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

"Just say what you want to say," Isobel suggested. "You're a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, so you must know how to work around delicate subjects."

"It's easier with a Queen than with a… friend or relative or whatever we are. You see, after Lady Merton's sudden demise, there was a lot of talk… gossip about her. I've wondered how you deal with it all."

Isobel didn't know what to say. Ada Merton was a subject she and Dickie sought not to talk about. She meant what she said about her life with Dickie. Their respective pasts didn't matter, because they were living in the present.

"What kind of gossip?" Isobel asked, knowing it was against her better judgement.

"Oh, you know… the usual… temper tantrums in front of the servants, not-so-secret-affairs and the fact that Lord Merton has given up his estate in favour of his oldest son opened the door for all sorts of speculation - especially when he recovered from his death-sentence."

Isobel swallowed. She hated to hear that Dickie had been exposed to any kind of gossip.

"Now I have embarrassed you," Maud concluded. "I'm sorry."

"No, you haven't," Isobel said quickly. "It's not that I didn't know they had… problems. I had just hoped it had been less… obvious to everyone else."

"I'm afraid in circles like ours things like these are never not obvious," Maud said. "Lord Merton's a peer after all."

"And I thought at our age we're not of interest to anyone," Isobel tried to joke.

"That's not quite how it works. You see, the reason I've brought this up is a conversation I had with Ada Merton's brother lately. I told him about my trip to Yorkshire last year and how we met. He's been abroad for the last couple of years and didn't know Lord Merton had remarried. He seemed a bit… unhappy about not knowing and told me about the letters Ada had written to him before she died. According to him she was desperate because she felt lonely and abandoned."

"How sad…" Against her wish Isobel found herself feeling sorry for Ada. She did her best to think of Larry who had been Ada's creature through and through. If his late mother had been anything like her son, there was no reason to feel anything but dislike for her.

"Perhaps we should change the subject," Maud suggested. "Forget everything I told you about Ada. How's Violet? Cora has written, saying she wasn't well."

Isobel was glad for the change of subject, even though Violet's decline wasn't a cheering topic to discuss. "Well, she's doing better than expected, but sooner or later we think it's best she moves into the Abbey."

"And she has agreed to do so?" Maud wondered.

"She isn't quite there yet," Isobel admitted with a ghost of a smile. "Right now it's best we take one step at a time."

"I will be strange when she's gone," Maud said pensively.

"I agree," Isobel answered, but in her mind she was home, back in Crawley House where Dickie was waiting for her to come home.

#######

Downton

"Larry! What a surprise." Every time Larry set foot into Crawley House it wasn't necessarily a pleasant surprise, but that his oldest son did so unannounced - and without his wife Amelia - was indeed an unknown occurrence. Dickie closed his pen and rose from his chair to welcome him.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you," Larry said as he sank onto the couch.

"I was just writing a letter. Nothing important. Do you want some tea?" Dickie asked and rang for the butler.

"Why not?" He looked around until his eyes came to rest on the closed door. "Where's Isobel?"

"She's not here. She left for London this morning. I expect her to be back tomorrow."

Larry acknowledged this with a crook of his eyebrow. "I see…"

"If this is turning into another rant about my wife, I'm not going to listen," Dickie warned him, but Larry raised his hand in defence. "I'm not here to argue about her, Father. I admit I'm glad she isn't here, but my visit has nothing to do with her."

The arrival of Collins, the butler, gave Dickie the chance to prepare for the upcoming conversation. Whatever it was, with Larry there was always trouble to expect. In the past Dickie had hoped a family of his own would soften up Larry and improve their relationship, but with Amelia Larry had hardly found someone who had it in her to soften him up - on the contrary.

"So, what is this all about?" Dickie asked. "And why isn't Amelia here?"

"Amelia is visiting her parents," Larry explained. "She's been away for the whole week…" His voice trailed off. Dickie sensed Larry wasn't finished and so he waited for him to continue.

"To be honest I'm not sure, she'll come home any time soon."

"And why is that?" Dickie couldn't hide his astonishment. It wasn't like Amelia to leave Cavenham - and Larry - alone for more than one night. Isobel used to joke about Amelia's obsession with the estate and wondered if she wanted to be buried within the walls after her death.

Larry didn't answer. Dickie noticed the unusual silence of his son with growing apprehension. Larry was many things, but never short of an answer. It was a trait inherited by his late mother - may she not rest in peace.

He cleared his throat, "Are you having problems?"

"Problems is a term that's an utter euphemism of our situation."

"What's the matter?"

"The matter…," Larry mused. "It's not one matter, it's a thousand matters. A jigsaw, if you want."

"And you think I can be of help?" Dickie wondered. His son had never before asked him for anything. Not for advice, not for help, not even for the time of day. Why was here?

"I'm not asking for your help," Larry clarified.

"And what are you asking for?" Dickie's patience was running out, which was rare and a feeling that had once solely been connected to Larry's mother, Ada. She was the only woman who had ever made his blood boil with anger.

Collins came in and served the tea. Once again Dickie had time to observe his son more closely. There was an almost harsh line around his mouth that had always been there and had deepened since he last saw him. Spots of his dark, thick hair were slowly fading into grey. Larry was worried and he was in a state where he couldn't deny it.

"Amelia's threatening me with divorce," Larry said, much to Dickie's dismay.

"Does she have reason to threaten you?"

"That's the question you have to ask her," Larry answered without facing his father. "The first time she mentioned it, I thought she was just being hysterical, but I have to acknowledge the fact that she might be serious. I don't have to tell you how unpleasant it would be for our family, if she went through with her mad idea."

"I still don't know what you want from me," Dickie said. "It's not my marriage that's at stake here. It's yours and it's your responsibility to make it work one way or the other." Dickie knew well enough that it took two people to lead a successful marriage or to turn it into an endless spiral of suffering. Larry's mother Ada and he had been terribly ill-suited and they had struggled with their miserable relationship through three decades. He knew how it felt to be sick and tired of the same fights and accusations over and over again. Could things have been better between Ada and him if he had tried? Truly tried? He didn't know and it was water under the bridge, yet sometimes he found himself wondering if he could have done better.

"The way you made it work?" Larry asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Did you think Tim and I didn't know how bad things had been between Mother and you?"

"Let's say I hoped we shielded the two of you from the worst."

"Well, your efforts weren't successful," Larry informed him curtly.

Dickie wasn't surprised, but it still pained him to realise that he had failed to protect his sons from the effects of his failed marriage. "For what it's worth, I am sorry for it."

"Don't bother."

"Larry, I…."

"Father, please, I don't wish to hear any of your excuses. All I want is to make sure, our family won't lose what's ours in case Amelia loses her common sense and files for a divorce."

"You mean, you fear losing the estate," Dickie concluded. If Larry was already considering his options, it could only mean things were much more advanced than he wanted to make his father believe. "In other words, Amelia has reason and proof you've been unfaithful to her - or worse."

"Reason perhaps, proof none whatsoever."

"Amelia's not the kind of woman who does anything out of a whim. If she plans to leave you, she'll make sure to get her fair share of everything."

Larry scoffed, "Fair share."

"Well, you wanted the house and you got it. See how to keep it."

Larry laughed, "Are you really going to tell me that it won't bother you, if I have to sell the estate or a big part of it to pay off Amelia? It's your home as much as it's mine."

"It's not my home anymore, Larry. I gave it to you, remember?"

"You gave it to me, when you thought you were dying and in return you and your wife received a very substantial financial compensation, not to mention the bigger part of the family jewels. You may not think of it, but I haven't forgotten that a middle-class nurse from Manchester was wearing my grandmother's tiara when she was sitting next to the King at Downton Abbey last year."

Dickie ignored Larry's insult to Isobel and asked, "And what's this supposed to mean? Do you expect us to live under a bridge?"

"All I'm saying is that Amelia won't stop at ruining me, if she doesn't get what she wants."

Suddenly Dickie felt exhausted. "Amelia's your problem, not mine and certainly not Isobel's. Whatever you did to her, you should probably try to patch things up with her. Maybe she'll forgive you."

"Was that the way you dealt with Mother?"

"What happened between your Mother and myself is none of your business."

"I beg to differ." Larry rose. "I should take my leave now." On his way to the door his eyes fell on the framed photograph of Dickie and Isobel, taken on their wedding day. The wedding had been a small affair without fuss. Larry and Amelia had been invited, but refused to attend and no one had missed them. It had been the happiest day of Dickie's life. "Are you happy now?" Larry asked, his eyes fixed on the picture.

"I am and for what it's worth, I wish the same for you."

"They say happiness is a state of mind," Larry mused. "I wish it were that easy. Good day, Father."

The door fell shut behind Larry and Dickie stayed back alone. He led the cup to his lips, but the tea was cold.

#######

Paris, Monparnasse

Paris was the city of love - at least that was what Igor Kuragin had been told many years ago when he had been first on his way to western europe. A lifetime had passed since then and Paris in 1928 was not the same as Paris in 1880. Just like in the rest of the world, the slowness of life was gone. Today everything went by faster. Food, cars, time. There was no time left to think, to love or to enjoy.

He sighed and turned the key in the lock. It was time to close up the antique shop for today. It had been a good day - moneywise. What awaited him was the far worse part of the day - going home to his wife, Irina.

In other words he had adjusted to a life without privilege and made the best of it. Many of his fellow companions who had ended up here after the revolution hadn't come to terms with the consequences of the fall of the Russian empire. He had lost count of the ones who had died from either hunger or desperation after their lives had been shredded into pieces. But he wasn't a quitter and he wouldn't do anyone the favour of giving up.

Equipped with quick wit and pragmatism Kuragin had fallen onto his feet after his arrival in Paris. He had met the former owner of the small shop, Monsieur Betrand, in the quarter that was by now a centre for painters and writers. Being an expert on art and literature he convinced the man to give him a job. Both had benefited from the arrangement and after Bertrand's death Kuragin had taken over the business. With the help of other Russians who had to sell their belongings to make a living, he had built up a respectable small well-being that was enough for Irina and him to live a good life.

Of course, Irina wasn't satisfied - she was never satisfied with anything - but she didn't have to go to bed hungry and she didn't have to dress in rags or depend on alms or charity. Kuragin found it was more than she deserved and told her so on a regular basis. She usually replied she would rather be dead than live like this much longer, but she wasn't dead yet and she didn't leave him either. So much for her wish to be rid of him.

He turned off the lights when he heard a frantic knock at the front door. He narrowed his eyes - he really should get some glasses - and went to the door and pointed at the plate in the window that said 'fermé'. The young man outside shook his head and pointed at the scroll in his left hand. Igor eyed him with suspicion. It was already after seven o'clock and the sun was setting. Why couldn't this wait until tomorrow?

"You won't regret it." The man yelled in the worst French Kuragin had ever heard. With a sigh he unlocked the door and opened it ajar.

"How can I help?" he asked in English.

The young mans' eyes widened in surprise. "How do you know I'm English?"

"It was a wild guess," Kuragin answered, trying to keep his sarcasm in check. Now that he had the chance to watch him more closely Igor saw that his guest was even younger than he had expected him to be. He wasn't a grown up man, merely a boy of sixteen. "What's this all about?"

"I have something for you," the man repeated. "I found them in a studio nearby. The artist gave it to me before he died."

Kuragin crooked his eyebrow. He had the rare gift of smelling a lie from a mile away and this boy was lying like the devil. "He gave them to you?"

The boy blushed and cleared his throat. "They're mine, all right? So, are you interested or not?"

He didn't know why, but he gave in and pushed the door open. "Come in."

Igor led the boy to the counter and switched on the lights again. Eagerly the young man opened the scroll and pulled out a canvas.

"The guy came from England - the north I think. He made a good living for himself with his paintings in the last couple of years, but these must be older. Perhaps from the eighties. No idea why he never sold it!"

Igor checked the old canvas and smirked. As far as he was concerned it wasn't a masterpiece, but the solid work of a young artist with a great future. It was a delicate painting of a slender, blond woman who had turned her back to the watcher. She was sitting on the edge of a bed and a loose sheet wrapped around her hips. Though there was nothing to be seen but some naked skin there was no doubt about the sensual nature of the relationship between the painter and his model.

"I can tell you why he never sold it," Kuragin said. "He loved her and didn't want anyone else to see it and," he pointed to the right corner at the bottom next to the painter's signature. "It was painted in the nineties."

"Oh." Once again the boy blushed. "So, do you want to buy it?"

Kuragin sighed. He wasn't sure whether it was the right thing to do. He was a businessman and not a moralizer, but he had his qualms selling something so intimate.

"You know, there's more… I found some drawings as well." The boy reached inside his jacket and pulled out another bundle of sheets and gave them to Kuragin. The Russian scanned them quickly and swallowed when he found himself recognizing the features of the woman on the sketches. Could it be true? He was too intrigued to resist.

"She's beautiful, don't you think?" the boy asked.

"What do you know about beauty?" Kuragin asked him bluntly. "You couldn't tell a lady from a whore if she jumped right at you."

"Well…" The boy's face had now reached the colour of an overripe tomato.

Kuragin took the sketches and the canvas and reached out to open the drawer where he kept his cash - mostly dollars and British pounds. With the French Francs going down the drain it was best to make business only in stable currencies. "I'll give you ten pounds."

"Fifteen," the boy shot back.

Kuragin raised his eyebrow. "Twelve," he answered.

"Thirteen. I haven't eaten in two days."

"Thirteen… all right." Kuragin gave him the money and shook the boy's hand. "If I were you I would stop stealing and look for an honest occupation."

"Says the one who has lived his life taking from others? I know who you are." The cheeky response didn't make him as cross as it would have many years ago.

"Once you've walked in my shoes I'll allow you to judge," Kuragin answered and shooed him to the door.

When the boy was gone and the door was carefully locked once more, Kuragin took another look at the drawings. If he wasn't wrong, and he rarely was wrong these days, this was his return ticket to England. His ticket back into Violet Crawley's turf.

tbc