Paths of Glory

“Then I’ll send a car to pick you up from your hotel at eight. And, George, do call me Estelle.”

After breakfast had been cleared and nanny had taken the children off for their morning walk, Ruth went through to the drawing room. She sat down in her favorite chair by the window and opened George’s latest letter.

March 22nd, 1923

My dearest Ruth,

I’m sitting on a train traveling between Boston and New York. Some good news for a change. Harvard was everything I could have hoped for. Not only was the Taft Hall packed—hanging from the rafters is how Keedick described the audience—but the undergraduates and the dons couldn’t have made me feel more welcome.

I came away from the president’s reception in high spirits, despite not being allowed to drink more than an orange juice because of Prohibition. But when I woke this morning, reality set in once again. My tour has been cut short, and I’ll be returning to England far earlier than expected. It’s a pity I didn’t talk you into coming with me, since the whole trip has turned out to be less than a month. Mind you, our short holiday in Venice was unforgettable, despite not climbing St. Mark’s. This is to warn you that I’ll be back some time next week. I’ll cable you from the ship with details of when we dock at Southampton.

The second piece of good news is that I’m to be given one last chance to top up the Society’s funds in New York this evening.

The only good thing about the trip being cut short is that I’ll be able to see you and the children earlier than expected. But back to reality. The first thing I’ll have to do when I return is to start looking for a job.

See you soon, my darling,

Your loving husband,

George

Ruth smiled as she put the letter back in the envelope and placed it in the top drawer of her desk, along with all the letters George had written to her over the years. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Her train to London wasn’t due to leave Godalming for another hour, but Ruth felt she ought to set out for the station fairly soon, as this was an appointment for which she mustn’t be late.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

GEORGE KNOCKED ON the front door of a brownstone on West 64th Street a few minutes before nine o’clock. A butler dressed in a long black tailcoat and white tie answered the door.

“Good evening, sir. Mrs. Harrington is expecting you.”

George was shown into the drawing room, where he found Mrs. Harrington standing by the mantelpiece below a Bonnard oil of a nude woman stepping out of a bath. His hostess was wearing a bright red silk dress that didn’t quite cover her knees. There was no sign of an engagement or wedding ring, although she was wearing a necklace of diamonds with a matching bracelet.

“Thank you, Dawkins,” said Mrs. Harrington, “that will be all.” Before the butler had reached the door she added, “And I won’t be requiring you again this evening.”

“As you wish, madam,” said the butler, bowing before closing the door behind him. George could have sworn he heard a key turning in the lock.

“Do have a seat, George,” said Mrs. Harrington, gesturing him toward the sofa. “And let me fix you a drink. What would you like?”

“I suppose I’ll have to settle for orange juice,” said George.

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Harrington. She walked across to the other side of the room, touched a leather-bound volume of Hard Times and the bookcase immediately swiveled around to become a drinks cabinet. “Scotch and soda?” she suggested.

“Is there anything you don’t know about me?” asked George with a smile.

“One or two things,” said Mrs. Harrington as she took a seat next to him on the sofa, her dress rising several inches above the knee. “But given a little time, I should be able to remedy that.” George nervously touched his tie. “Now, do tell me, George, how my little donation might help your next expedition?”

“The truth is, Mrs. Harrington,” said George, taking a sip of his Scotch—it was even his favorite blend—“we need every penny we can lay our hands on. One of the things we learned from the last trip was that we just weren’t well enough prepared. It was the same problem Captain Scott faced on his journey to the South Pole, and it resulted in him losing his life along with the rest of his polar party. I’m not willing to take that risk with my men.”

“You’re so very serious, George,” said Mrs. Harrington, leaning over and patting him on the thigh.

“It’s a serious business, Mrs. Harrington.”

“Do call me Estelle,” she said, as she crossed her legs to reveal the top of her black stockings. “Do you think you’ll reach the top this time?”

“Possibly, but you always need a bit of luck,” said George, “not least with the weather. If you can get three, or perhaps even two, clear days in a row with no wind, you’re in with a chance. Just when I thought I had my chance, sadly a disaster befell me.”

“I do hope that if I get my chance,” said Mrs. Harrington, “a disaster won’t befall me.” Her hand was now resting on George’s thigh. George turned the color of Mrs. Harrington’s dress, and decided the time had come to look for an escape route. “There’s no reason to be nervous, George. This is one little adventure that no one need find out about, and it certainly doesn’t have to end in disaster.”

George was just about to get up and leave when she added, “And when you do stand on top of your mountain, George—and I’m sure you will—do spare a thought for me.”