notion, helped by the lesser legacies to the other women, that Damian had decided to split his money between those he had loved and their offspring. There was so much money that none of the above made more than the faintest dent in the whole, and the gifts helped the legend that Serena was happy, indeed eager, to foster and promote. Naturally, I needed the promise of silence from Candida and Terry, the only other two who knew, but Candida was Serena’s cousin and was never a risk. I was more concerned at having been indiscreet with Terry and I did think of somehow tying the money to a gagging clause but there was a risk this could prove insulting and counter-productive so I decided to rely on what remained of her decency. Thus far, at least, I have not been disappointed.
The funeral was small and simple, and Damian’s body was laid to rest in the graveyard, fittingly, of the Church of St Teresa of Avila, which had benefited so much from his benevolence during his lifetime. A few months after that, we had a grander and well-attended memorial at St George’s, Hanover Square. The will was public knowledge by this time, and had provided a good deal of conversation in London drawing rooms and at London dinner tables, so there were many faces from the past among the crowded pews, I hope not entirely because the luncheon afterwards, for all the attendees, was to be held at Claridge’s. Serena was very helpful with the arrangements and at her suggestion Peniston read a piece. It was that one about death being ‘nothing at all,’ which I always find rather irritating, but apparently it had been specified. He spoke about his mother’s admiration and love for Damian, which I thought rather courageous and good, and I must admit I was also impressed that Andrew turned up and maintained throughout both service and reception a grave, pompous solemnity, which I assume was the nearest he could come to any manifestation of sorrow. Given the circumstances, even the little he was allowed to know, he could hardly be expected to feel much of the latter. Of course, the enormous inheritance had propelled his dynasty overnight to a place among the top twenty families in England, so it behoved him not to look ungrateful, but still, good manners may never be counted on under any circumstances and I was glad of them from him.
Lucy was there, in a peculiar approximation of mourning dress, with a black, silk evening coat and a huge, plastic, purple flower pinned to its collar. Candida arrived with Dagmar, both of them looking elegant and genuinely upset, which warmed my heart, so far had I come in my estimation of the deceased. And even Kieran turned up, though it might have been to confirm that Damian really was dead. Terry did not make the journey from California. That would have been a lot to ask, but she sent a bunch of those fashionable and hideous flowers, beloved of urban florists, that look as if they feed on flies. One woman rather interested me. She was tall and large, but rather chic in her way, wearing a beautifully cut suit and one of the best diamond brooches I have ever seen. She looked at me and smiled and nodded, so clearly I knew her, and in case she came over to say hello I sought the assistance of Serena as to who she might be. Serena was rather surprised by the question. ‘Surely you remember Georgina Waddilove,’ she said.
‘Fat Georgina?’ I couldn’t keep the astonishment out of my face. ‘What happened?’
‘You have been out of the great world.’ She smiled. ‘She married the Marquess of Coningsby.’
I had been out of the great world indeed. ‘When?’
‘About fifteen years ago. I can’t believe you never heard, although they are in Ireland a lot of the time. It was her first and his second, but the miracle was that he only had girls before and Georgina whacked out two boys, the first when she was forty-three, and the second a year later. So she’s the mother of the heir and the spare.’
‘And is he nice?’
‘Lovely. Exactly like John Thaw to look at and so grateful to Georgina for rescuing him. Number One took off with a friend of his, and he was very cast down when they met, but now he’s as happy as a sandboy.’
Actually, this was a really joyful moment for me. I looked at the smiling and almost quite attractive Marchioness of Coningsby, and I knew that gloom is not universal, even in this misery-memoir age. For some people things do come right. ‘How wonderful,’ I said. ‘I hope her mother was alive to attend the wedding.’
‘She was. But if she hadn’t been, I expect she’d have risen from the tomb to get there.’ Serena laughed and so did I, before the other guests at the party claimed her.
So Damian’s quest was done and I was not unhappy at the outcome, nor, in the end, about what I’d learned on my travels through my lost youth. I had thought that the secret love story of 1968, had been my own hidden and one-sided worship, which had ended in my exile, but I had discovered instead that Serena Gresham and my betrayer had been the lovers of choice for any true romantic. Even so, I cling to my belief that in rediscovering and recognising the workings of my own heart, and in having finally made love, albeit once, to the object of my passions, I had endorsed my life, in retrospect and for the future, to the end of my days. Whatever may yet come to me, something or nothing it remains to be seen, I have known what the poets write about and I am duly grateful.
I was standing in the hall of the hotel, with its wonderfully vivid, black-and-white marble floor, when Peniston Summersby touched me on the arm. Together we walked out on to the pavement, into the still bright, autumn day, as we discussed what had to be done next, since an estate like Damian’s is bound to be a work in progress for many years, but then he hesitated and I knew he wanted to say something to show me that he was aware of his good fortune. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity. I mean to try to be worthy of it,’ he came up with at last.
‘I’m sure you will be.’
‘And I want to go on with the things that mattered to him. Then there’s cancer research, of course, and. I thought we might look at setting up some new scholarships in his name.’
‘To be honest, I don’t think he’d really care much about perpetuating his name, but I agree with you. Let’s do it.’
It was time to part, but I could see he hadn’t quite finished. Poor fellow, he looked rather awkward, and in the last analysis there is something a bit odd about being left a kingdom worth more than the National Debt because some bloke was in love with your mother forty years ago, which is all he would ever hear about it. ‘Mummy says he was a marvellous man. She wishes I’d known him.’
I considered this for a moment. ‘I think he was a brave man,’ which I truly do. ‘He was unafraid of the rules that frighten people. He made up his own and one must always admire that. I suppose he was an original. It’s something so many of us strive for and so few of us achieve.’
With that we shook hands and I walked away down Brook Street.
Julian Fellowes
Julian Fellowes, actor, writer, producer, was educated at Ampleforth, Magdalene College, Cambridge and the Webber Douglas Academy of Dramatic Art. He trained in repertory theatre at Northampton and Harrogate before making his West End debut in ‘A Touch of Spring’ by Sam Taylor. He is probably best known for his portrayal of the incorrigible Lord Kilwillie in the BBC’s series, ‘Monarch of the Glen’. In the cinema, he was seen in ‘Shadowlands’ with Anthony Hopkins, ‘Damage’ with Jeremy Irons and ‘Tomorrow Never Dies’ with Pierce Brosnan. As a TV writer his scripts include ‘Little Sir Nicholas,’ ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’ (winner of an International Emmy, 1995) and ‘The
