problem whether Mrs. Langtry acts better or worse than she used to. Such a discussion is both tedious and unnecessary. Mrs. Langtry never did act and she does not act now.
Review of
Kate put down the newspaper and turned her face up to the late morning sun, feeling a twinge of sympathy for Lillie. Her most recent play, The Degenerates, which had opened at the beginning of the month, had not been received kindly by the drama critics, who thought it was ugly, immoral, and, yes, degenerate. But judging from the news that had traveled from London, Kate reflected that Lillie-now the wife of Hugo de Bathe-probably did not care about the critics. Her new husband had left for the Continent immediately after the wedding and had been seen there in the affectionate company of a young blond French actress. But the play had been sold out every night and was showing a weekly profit of something like twelve hundred pounds.
“Hello, my love,” Charles said, coming onto the terrace to join her. “Anything of interest in the
“Only more criticism of the second Dreyfus court-martial,” Kate replied, knowing that Charles would not be very curious about Lillie’s reviews. “The French seem to be taking it coolly enough, but there is world-wide unhappiness with the second guilty verdict. It is said that President Loubet will likely pardon him next week and set him free.”
Charles sat down, his face grave. After a long moment, he spoke. “The pardon doesn’t erase the unjust conviction. Captain Dreyfus should never have been tried, let alone convicted-and convicted twice! The French Army was only trying to cover up its own misdeeds.”
“Of course,” Kate said with asperity, “the British never do anything like that. They just let the guilty leave the country and start a new life somewhere else.”
Charles regarded her with a thoughtful look. “I received a post from Owen North a few minutes ago,” he said. “He has heard from sources in Argentina that Henry Radwick is dead.”
Kate stared at him, dumbfounded. “Dead! How? How did he die?”
“He was shot in some sort of tavern brawl,” Charles replied evenly, “in the village where he had gone to live. The report North received apparently wasn’t very specific as to details. It seems that the men who shot him-there were two or three of them-got away.” There was a thin smile on his lips. “It’s not clear whether there actually was a brawl or whether the whole thing was staged. However it happened, there seems to have been some sort of justice at work, carving out a punishment that could not be imposed within the system of our law. I thought you ought to know about it.”
Kate sat back, pondering what Charles had told her. “Did you know?” she asked at last. “Did you know Radwick would be… executed?”
“I thought he might be,” Charles replied. “The evidence we gathered-the ballistics, the fingerprints, the eyewitness testimony-was strong enough for any jury of reasonable men to have convicted him.” He touched her arm. “Even the Prince, who certainly wished to sweep the whole matter under the rug, had to acknowledge the validity of the accusation and the strength of the evidence. I felt it likely that H.R.H. would arrange for the cause of justice to be served, somehow or another. And if there had been enough evidence against Lillie Langtry-evidence of her complicity in her husband’s death, for instance-I believe he would have imposed some sort of sentence upon her, as well.”
“Perhaps he has,” Kate said quietly. “He has given her a husband, to replace Mr. Langtry. He has made her… respectable.”
“Respectable,” Charles repeated wryly. A smile lit his eyes. “Yes, indeed. Well, I rather think that she and Hugo deserve one another.” He stretched out his legs. “Speaking of the newly married, did I understand correctly that Bradford and Edith are coming for dinner tonight?”
Kate nodded. “I’m looking forward to seeing both of them. Edith will no doubt have word from Mr. Rhodes, and his version of the latest news from the Transvaal.” She frowned, thinking of the report from South Africa that filled the front page of the
“I think certain British interests believe that war would serve their purposes,” Charles said dryly. “But they may well underestimate their enemy. The Boers are well-trained. If there’s war, they’ll be well- armed by their supporters in Germany. And they are fighting on their own territory, for their homes and for their way of life. Defeating them won’t be as easy as Whitehall thinks.” He looked grave. “I hope the conflict is resolved before Patrick is of an age to serve.”
“Oh, but surely it could never drag on that long,” Kate exclaimed. “I don’t want to think about his going to war.”
At that moment, Patrick, on Gladiator, trotted past the terrace. His red hair glinted in the sunlight and Kate saw that he was wearing his new silks-white with red and blue stripes. He threw them a happy wave. “I have to rub him down before I come to lunch,” he called. “Don’t wait for me.”
“Of course we’ll wait,” Kate called back. “Take as long as you like.” To Charles, she said, with an almost inexpressible feeling of quiet joy, “I’m so glad you bought the horse for him, Charles. And I’m so very happy that he’s here.”
“After he dared to disappoint Pinkie and Lord Hunt by riding Gladiator to win that ten-furlong handicap at Newmarket, it was clear that the boy had no future at the Grange House Stables,” Charles said. “But George Lambton is delighted to take him on as an apprentice next year, and to have Gladiator in training as well.”
“I do wish we could come to some conclusion about school though,” Kate replied. “Patrick needs an education if he is to be happy in the world.”
“Well, no decision need be made just yet. In another week or two, I’ll suggest that Paddy start doing maths and science with me and reading and writing with you, and we shall see how he gets along.”
With a sigh of pleasure, Kate reached for Charles’s hand. “I’m in no hurry to send him off anywhere. I’m content just to have him here with us, for now.” She looked off into the distance, thinking how much her life had changed in the last few years. She was married to the man she loved, they had a child to love and care for together, and she had good work to do, work she loved as much as she loved Charles and Patrick. For a moment, she thought of Lillie Langtry, whose daughter had rejected her and who had married a man for his title. But it was not a thought on which she wanted to linger. Nor did she have to, since she had promised the Prince that Beryl would not write a story called “Death at Newmarket ” and had informed the editor of
Kate put aside the newspaper stood up. “I’ll be in the garden,” she said. “You can call me there when you and Patrick are ready for lunch.”
AUTHORS’ NOTES
To give an accurate description of what has never occurred is not merely the proper occupation of the historian, but the inalienable privilege of the man of arts.
Oscar Wilde
Bill Albert writes:
Racing is the oldest national sport in England, and the late Victorian and Edwardian periods were brilliant chapters in its history. Led by the Prince of Wales, himself one of the most respected racehorse
