dinner with his mother. And then such was Mrs Morell’s grace, wit and beauty that no dinner table could be other than adorned by her, no young people could consider her an assault on their fun.
It became a game in the early days, before the Morells were properly well known in London, for a hostess to tell her guests that she had invited a charming, single man to dinner, but that she had been obliged to ask his mother as well, as she was all alone in London; and then to watch the faces of her guests – particularly the men – braced with bright smiles, soften into pleasure, admiration and undisguised relief as Letitia came into the room. Another version of the same game, and one Letitia and Julian tacitly joined in, was for them to be introduced as Letitia and Julian Morell and to leave the rest of the gathering to try to fathom quite what their relationship was. Sometimes when the stakes were high, and there was a particularly pretty girl or attractive man at the table (for Letitia was enjoying her new social success quite as much as Julian), they would draw the thing out until well into the second or third course, waiting for precisely the right moment to drop the words ‘my mother’ or ‘my son’ into the conversation, and then savouring the various degrees of amusement, pleasure and irritation that followed. It was hard to say which of them was enjoying themselves more.
Letitia, looking back at the long, lonely years at Maltings, the stiff country dinner parties, the boring conversations about cattle and yield, land and horses, stock prices and servants, the red-faced men, stuffy when sober, lecherous when drunk, and their loyal, large braying wives, wondered how she had borne it. Suddenly the world was full of charming, amusing people and gossip; she would sit at supper, quite unable to swallow sometimes for pleasure and excitement and fear of missing a gem, or better still the opportunity to pass one on. She had a genius for gossip herself, she filed things away neatly in her head, cross-referenced under people and places, a treasure trove of meetings, conversations, glances, jokes, and she would produce a piece of it at exactly the right moment, knowing precisely how to silence a table with a wicked announcement, or how to intrigue a group with a perfectly innocent observation.She did it not only cleverly, but with great charm; she flattered those whose reputation she was shredding, bestowing virtues and beauty upon people who possessed neither and giving her conversations a deceptively benign air.
‘That little Serena Motcombe,’ she would say, ‘such a lovely girl, you know she paints quite beautifully, I saw her at lunch last week with Toby Ferranti, he was looking quite marvellous and did you know that Lady Brigstocke is learning to ride, she looks wonderful, I saw her in the Park on Tuesday with David Berner, I believe he’s trying to get back into polo, and of course William Brigstocke is the most marvellous player . . .’ and so it went on and on, a glittering wicked chronicle. But it was not malicious; Letitia had a shrewd eye and a tender heart and where she saw true love, real pain, she was friend, confidante, ally and counsel; she would provide alibis, divert suspicion, and even provide venues for meetings that could take place absolutely nowhere else.
She was having a glorious time.
So was Julian. He was now twenty-seven, with that ability to disturb that truly sexually accomplished men possess; another dimension beyond good looks, attractiveness or even ordinary sexuality. His entry to a room caused women to fall suddenly into confusion, to lose the place in their conversation, to glance at their reflections, to smooth their hair; and men to feel threatened and aggressive, to look sharply at their wives, to form a closer group, while greeting him at the same time most warmly, shaking his hand and inquiring after his health and his business.
With good reason; Julian was a most adroit
It became a game in the early days, before the Morells were properly well known in London, for a hostess to tell her guests that she had invited a charming, single man to dinner, but that she had been obliged to ask his mother as well, as she was all alone in London; and then to watch the faces of her guests – particularly the men – braced with bright smiles, soften into pleasure, admiration and undisguised relief as Letitia came into the room. Another version of the same game, and one Letitia and Julian tacitly joined in, was for them to be introduced as Letitia and Julian Morell and to leave the rest of the gathering to try to fathom quite what their relationship was. Sometimes when the stakes were high, and there was a particularly pretty girl or attractive man at the table (for Letitia was enjoying her new social success quite as much as Julian), they would draw the thing out until well into the second or third course, waiting for precisely the right moment to drop the words ‘my mother’ or ‘my son’ into the conversation, and then savouring the various degrees of amusement, pleasure and irritation that followed. It was hard to say which of them was enjoying themselves more.
Letitia, looking back at the long, lonely years at Maltings, the stiff country dinner parties, the boring conversations about cattle and yield, land and horses, stock prices and servants, the red-faced men, stuffy when sober, lecherous when drunk, and their loyal, large braying wives, wondered how she had borne it. Suddenly the world was full of charming, amusing people and gossip; she would sit at supper, quite unable to swallow sometimes for pleasure and excitement and fear of missing a gem, or better still the opportunity to pass one on. She had a genius for gossip herself, she filed things away neatly in her head, cross-referenced under people and places, a treasure trove of meetings, conversations, glances, jokes, and she would produce a piece of it at exactly the right moment, knowing precisely how to silence a table with a wicked announcement, or how to intrigue a group with a perfectly innocent observation.She did it not only cleverly, but with great charm; she flattered those whose reputation she was shredding, bestowing virtues and beauty upon people who possessed neither and giving her conversations a deceptively benign air.
‘That little Serena Motcombe,’ she would say, ‘such a lovely girl, you know she paints quite beautifully, I saw her at lunch last week with Toby Ferranti, he was looking quite marvellous and did you know that Lady Brigstocke is learning to ride, she looks wonderful, I saw her in the Park on Tuesday with David Berner, I believe he’s trying to get back into polo, and of course William Brigstocke is the most marvellous player . . .’ and so it went on and on, a glittering wicked chronicle. But it was not malicious; Letitia had a shrewd eye and a tender heart and where she saw true love, real pain, she was friend, confidante, ally and counsel; she would provide alibis, divert suspicion, and even provide venues for meetings that could take place absolutely nowhere else.
She was having a glorious time.
So was Julian. He was now twenty-seven, with that ability to disturb that truly sexually accomplished men possess; another dimension beyond good looks, attractiveness or even ordinary sexuality. His entry to a room caused women to fall suddenly into confusion, to lose the place in their conversation, to glance at their reflections, to smooth their hair; and men to feel threatened and aggressive, to look sharply at their wives, to form a closer group, while greeting him at the same time most warmly, shaking his hand and inquiring after his health and his business.
With good reason; Julian was a most adroit
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