Daughters-in-Law Read online

  Also by Joanna Trollope

  The Other Family

  Friday Nights

  Second Honeymoon

  Brother and Sister

  Girl from the South

  Next of Kin

  Marrying the Mistress

  Other People’s Children

  The Best of Friends

  A Spanish Lover

  The Choir

  The Rector’s Wife

  The Men and the Girls

  A Passionate Man

  A Village Affair

  Touchstone

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Joanna Trollope

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Touchstone trade paperback edition April 2011

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4516-1838-9

  ISBN 978-1-4516-1840-2 (ebook)

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Paul and Jonathan, with my love

  CHAPTER ONE

  From the front pew, Anthony had an uninterrupted view of the back of the girl who was about to become his third daughter-in-law. The church had a wide aisle, and a broad carpeted space below the shallow chancel steps, where the four little bridesmaids had plopped themselves down, in the pink silk nests of their skirts, during the address, so that there was a clear line of sight between Anthony and the bridal pair.

  The bride, tightly swathed in ivory satin, seemed to Anthony to have the seductively imprisoned air of a landlocked mermaid. Her dress fitted closely—very closely—from below her shoulders to her knees and then fanned out into soft folds, and a fluid little train, which spilled carelessly down the chancel steps behind her. Anthony’s gaze traveled slowly from the crown of her pale cropped head, veiled in gauze and scattered with flowers, down to her invisible feet, and then back up again to rest on the unquestionably satisfactory curves of her waist and hips. She has, Anthony thought, a gorgeous figure, even if it is improper for her almost father-in-law to think such a thing. Gorgeous.

  He swallowed, and transferred his gaze sternly to his son. Luke, exuding that raw and possessive male pride that gives wedding days such an edge, was half turned towards his bride. There had been a touching moment five minutes before, when Charlotte’s widowed mother had reached up to fold her daughter’s veil back from her face and the two had regarded each other for several seconds with an intensity of understanding that excluded everyone else around them. Anthony had glanced down at Rachel beside him and wondered, as he often had in the decades they had been together, whether her composure hid some instinctive yearning she would never give voice to, and how her primitive and unavoidable reaction to yielding a third son to another woman would manifest itself in the coming months and years, escaping like puffs of hot steam through cracks in the earth’s crust.

  “Okay?” he said softly.

  Rachel took no notice. He couldn’t even tell if she was actually looking at Charlotte, or whether it was Luke she was concentrating on, admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the clearness of his skin and asking herself, at some deep level, if Charlotte really, really knew what an extravagantly fortunate girl she was. Instead of a conventional hat, Rachel had pinned a small explosion of green feathers to her hair, very much on one side, and the trembling of the feathers, like dragonflies on wires, seemed to Anthony the only indication that Rachel’s inner self was not as unruffled as her outer one. Well, he thought, unable to gain her complicity, if she is absorbed in Luke, I will return to contemplating Charlotte’s bottom. I won’t be alone. Every man in the church who can see it will be doing the same. It is sheer prissiness to pretend otherwise.

  The priest, a jovial man wearing a stole patterned with aggressive modern embroidery, was delivering a little homily based on a line from Robert Browning that was printed inside the service sheet.

  Grow old along with me,

  The best is yet to be.

  This poem, he was saying, was not actually about marriage. It was about the reward experience can be for the loss of youth. It was a tribute to a Sephardic Jewish scholar of the twelfth century, but all the same it was relevant, it celebrated joy, it commanded us to call the glory from the gray, it urged trust in God. The priest spread his wide, white-sleeved arms and beamed upon Charlotte and Luke and Charlotte’s mother in her lace dress and coat, and all the congregation. Anthony removed his gaze from what was about to belong to his youngest son and looked up at the roof. It had been heavily restored, the beams varnished, the ceiling plaster between them brilliantly whitened. Anthony sighed. How lovely it would have been if Luke could have been married, as his elder brother Ralph had been, in the church at home, and not in this cozily domesticated bit of Buckinghamshire with no marshes, no wading birds or reed beds or vast, cloud-piled skies. How lovely it would be if they were all in Suffolk, now.

  The church at home would, of course, have been perfect. Anthony had no orthodox faith, but he liked the look and feel of churches, the dignities and absurdities of ritual, the shy belonging of English Anglican congregations. He had known his own village church all his life; it was as old as the rabbi in Browning’s poem, even if no longer quite in its original form, and it was wide and light and welcoming, with clear-glass windows and a marvelous small modern bronze sculpture of Noah releasing the dove, to commemorate the first performance there of Benjamin Britten’s church opera, Noye’s Fludde. That had been in 1958, when Anthony was eleven. He had heard all the church operas there, in the far-off days before the Suffolk coast had become a place of musical pilgrimage, sitting through them dressed in his school gray-flannel shorts and a tie, as a mark of respect to the music and to the composer. It was where he had first heard “Curlew River,” which remained his favorite, long before he had dared to put drawing at the heart of his life, long before birds became a passion. It was the building where he had first become aware of the profound importance of creativity, and thus it was natural that he should want his sons to go through the great rites of life’s passage there too. Wasn’t it?

  They had all been christened there, Edward and Ralph and Luke. A
nthony might have preferred some simple humanist naming ceremony, but Rachel had wanted them christened in the church, baptized from the ancient and charming font, and she had wanted it quite forcefully.

  “They don’t have to stay Christian,” she’d said to Anthony over her shoulder, as always occupied with something, “but at least they have the option. It’s what you had, after all. Why shouldn’t they have what you had?”

  The christenings had been lovely, of course, and moving, and Anthony’s sense of profound association with the church building had grown deeper with each one. In fact, so intense was his assumption that that was where the boys would marry—when, if, they married—that he was startled when his eldest, Edward, appeared with an elegant and determined young Swede, and announced that they were to be married, and, naturally, from her home, not his.

  His fiancée, a laboratory researcher into the analysis of materials for museums and galleries, had been well briefed. She drew Anthony aside and fixed her astonishing light-blue gaze on him.

  “You needn’t worry,” Sigrid said in her perfect English, “it will be a humanist ceremony. You will feel quite at home.”

  The wedding of Edward and Sigrid had taken place at her parents’ summer house, on some little low, anonymous island in the archipelago outside Stockholm, and they had eaten crayfish afterwards, wearing huge paper bibs, mountains and mountains of crayfish, and aquavit had flowed like a fatal river, and it never got dark. Anthony remembered stumbling about along the pebbly shore in the strange, glimmering nighttime light, looking for Rachel, and being pursued by a rapacious platinum blonde in rimless spectacles and deck shoes.

  The morning after the wedding Sigrid had appeared, packet-fresh in white and gray, with her smooth hair in a ponytail, and taken Ed away in a boat, not to return. Anthony and Rachel were left marooned among Sigrid’s family and friends under a cloudless sky and entirely surrounded by water. They’d held hands, Anthony recalled, on the flight home, and Rachel had said, looking away from him out of the airplane window, “Some situations are just too foreign to react to, aren’t they?”

  And a bit later when Anthony said, “Do you think they are actually married?” she’d stared right at him and said, “I have no idea.”

  Well, that was over eleven years ago now, almost twelve. And there, on the carpet below the chancel steps, sat Mariella, Edward and Sigrid’s eight-year-old daughter. She was sitting very still, and upright, her ballet-slippered feet tucked under her pink skirts, her hair held off her face by an Alice band of rosebuds. Anthony tried to catch her eye. His only granddaughter. His grave, self-possessed granddaughter. Who spoke English and Swedish and played the cello. By the merest movement of her head, Mariella indicated that she was aware of him, but she wouldn’t look his way. Her job that day, her mother had said, was to set a good example to the other little bridesmaids, all Charlotte’s nieces, and Mariella’s life was largely dedicated to securing her mother’s good opinion. She knew she had her grandfather’s, whatever she did, as a matter of course.

  “Concentrate,” Rachel, beside him, hissed suddenly.

  He snapped to attention.

  “Sorry—”

  “I’m delighted to announce,” the priest said, removing his stole that he’d wrapped around Luke and Charlotte’s linked, newly ringed hands, “that Luke and Charlotte are now husband and wife!”

  Luke leaned to kiss his wife on the cheek, and she put her arms around his neck, and then he flung his own arms around her and kissed her with fervor, and the church erupted into applause. Mariella got to her feet and shook out her skirts, glancing at her mother for the next cue.

  “In pairs,” Anthony saw Sigrid mouth to the little girls. “Two by two.”

  Charlotte was laughing. Luke was laughing. Some of Luke’s friends, farther down the church, were whooping.

  Anthony took Rachel’s hand.

  “Another daughter-in-law—”

  “I know.”

  “Who we don’t really know—”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well,” Anthony said, “if she’s only half as good as Petra—”

  Rachel took her hand away.

  “If.”

  The reception was held in a marquee in the garden of Charlotte’s childhood home. It was a dry day, but overcast, and the marquee was filled with a queer greenish light that made everyone look ill. The lawn on which it was erected sloped slightly, so that standing up, complicated by doing it on rucked coconut matting, was almost impossible, especially for Charlotte’s friends who were, without exception, shod in statement shoes with towering heels. Through an opening at the lower end of the marquee, the immediate bridal party could be seen picturesquely on the edge of a large pond, being ordered about by a photographer.

  Oh God, water, Petra thought. Barney, who was still not walking, was safely strapped into his pushchair with the distraction of a miniature box of raisins, but Kit, at three, was mobile and had been irresistibly drawn to water all his life. Neither child, in the unfamiliarity of a hotel room the previous night, had slept more than fitfully, so neither Petra nor Ralph had slept either, and Ralph had finally got up at five in the morning and gone for such a long walk—well over two hours—that Petra had begun to suspect he had gone forever. And now, uncharacteristically, he had joined a roaring group of Luke’s friends, and he was drinking champagne, and smoking, despite the fact that he had given up cigarettes when Petra was pregnant with Kit and, as far as she knew, hadn’t smoked since then.

  Kit was whining. He was exhausted and hungry and intractable. Keeping up a low uneven grizzle, he wound himself round and round in Petra’s skirt, shoving against her thighs, disheveled and beyond being reasoned with. He had started the day in the white linen shirt and dark-blue trousers that Charlotte had requested, even though she considered him too young to be a page, but both had become so filthy and crumpled in church that he was back in the Spider-Man T-shirt he insisted on wearing whenever it wasn’t actually in the washing machine. Petra herself, in the clothes that had looked to her both original and becoming hanging on the front of her wardrobe in their small bedroom at home, felt as out of sorts and out of place as Kit plainly did. Charlotte’s friends, mostly in their twenties, were dressed for the mythical world of cocktails. She looked down at Kit. Intensely aggravating though he was being, he was to be pitied. He was her sweet, sensitive, imaginative little boy, and he had been plucked out of the familiarity that he relied upon, on an entirely and exclusively adult whim, and dumped down in an artificial and alien environment where the bed was not his own and the sausages were seasoned fiercely with pepper. She put a hand on his head. He felt hot and damp and unhappy.

  “Petra,” Anthony said.

  Petra turned with relief.

  “Oh, Ant—”

  Anthony gave her shoulder a brief pat and then squatted down beside Kit.

  “Poor old boy.”

  Kit adored his grandfather, but he couldn’t give up his misery all of a sudden. He thrust his lower lip out.

  Anthony said, “Might you manage a strawberry?”

  Kit shook his head and plunged his face between Petra’s legs.

  “Or a meringue?”

  Kit went still. Then he took his face out of Petra’s skirt. He looked at Anthony.

  “D’you know what they are?”

  “No,” Kit said.

  “Crunchy things made of sugar. Delicious. Really, really, really bad for your teeth.”

  Kit pushed his face out of sight again. Anthony stood up.

  “Shall I take him away and force-feed him something?”

  Petra looked at her father-in-law, comfortably in his own father’s morning suit, shabbily splendid.

  “You’re too clean.”

  “I don’t mind a bit of sticky. Have you got a drink?”

  “No. And I’m worried about the water.”

  “What water?”

  Petra indicated with the hand that wasn’t trying to restrain Kit.

  “Down th
ere. He hasn’t noticed it yet, thank goodness.”

  “Where’s Ralph?”

  “Somewhere,” Petra said.

  Anthony regarded her.

  “It’s not much fun for you, all this. It is—”

  “Well,” Petra said, “weddings aren’t meant for people of three, or for people with people of three to look after.”

  “Yours was.”

  She glanced down at Kit. He was still now, breathing hotly into her skin through the fabric of her skirt.

  “Ours was lovely.”

  “It was.”

  “Perfect day, walking back from the church to your garden, all the roses out, everybody’s dogs and children—”

  Anthony smiled at her. Then he said casually to Kit, “Crisps?”

  Kit stopped breathing.

  “Maybe,” Anthony said, “even Coca-Cola?”

  Kit said something muffled.

  “What?”

  “With a straw!” Kit shouted into Petra’s skirt.

  “If you like.”

  “Thank you,” Petra said. “Really, thank you.”

  “I am sitting next to Charlotte’s mother at whatever meal this is. She’s a noted plantswoman and amateur botanical artist, so we are put together at all occasions. I shall fortify myself by feeding Kit the wrong things first. Better eat the wrong things than nothing. If you don’t come with me, Kit, I shall choose your straw color for you and I might choose yellow.”

  “No!” Kit shouted.

  He flung himself, scarlet and tousled, away from his mother.

  “Sam, Sam,” Anthony said to him in a mock Yorkshire accent, “pick up tha’ musket.”

  Kit grinned.

  “You’re a lifeline,” Petra said.

  Anthony winked at her.

  “You know what you are.”

  She watched them walk away together, unsteadily over the coconut matting, hand in hand, Anthony gesturing about something, Kit as scruffy as a bundle of dirty washing in that sleek company. She looked down at the pushchair. Barney had finished the raisins and torn the box open so that he could lick traces of residual sweetness from the inside. He had faint brown smudges across his fat cheeks and on the end of his nose.