by Mary Wesley
“You manage well enough when you are on your own.” She reached up to tie the bow.
“Was it kind?” Their faces were close; she could see the white stubble on his cheeks and smell the soap from his bath. “There are several more days before her term starts,” he said.
“Dearest, it is politic. There.” She had tied the bow. “She has been here long enough. When the chance of a lift with Miss Green came up, it seemed a God-sent opportunity.”
“Personally, I would leave the Almighty out of it.” Angus sat on the edge of his wife’s bed. Although he too slept in the bed, he thought of it as his wife’s; his own single bed was in his dressing-room, seldom used. “I do not think God had a finger in this pie,” he said. He watched Milly, still in her slip, brush her hair. There were white hairs a-plenty, but since she was fair they did not show in artificial light; his formerly brown hair was white, his moustache brindled. He watched her reflection. “Well?”
Milly stood to put on her shoes; she felt more confident in high heels. “I told you, darling, the men are looking at her. It wouldn’t do if Cosmo—I saw her this evening with Nigel on the terrace. He caught hold of her hand. It probably meant nothing, but—” Angus watched his wife move to a cupboard and take out a dress. She had thickened, but her figure was still excellent, he thought, and hoped as he often did that she would not go in for this banting which was so popular. As she put the dress over her head her voice was muffled. “Remember how worried we were about Mabs and Felix?”
“Nothing came of it.”
“Thank God it didn’t.”
“Not so sure about it now; his father was a great friend. I can’t stand Nigel’s father; the fellow’s a Liberal.”
“But Jef wasn’t his father.” Milly’s head appeared through the neck of the dress. She shrugged it down. “Do me up, darling. Rosa admitted it.”
Angus left the bed to hook his wife’s dress. “Wish someone would invent something easier than these fiddly things. Stand still. Rosa, you should remember, is an inveterate joker. She was pulling your leg. You should not have asked her whether Jef was the father, it was begging for trouble.”
“But I did and she said he wasn’t!”
“And it’s drifted across Europe. One wonders how—” Angus hooked hook to eye.
“Not spread by me,” said Milly (too quickly?).
“Probably Rosa herself and Felix, too, I shouldn’t be surprised. Bloody things, these fasteners, stand still.”
“You are tickling my back.”
“I’ve never told you, since you are sensitive about faux pas, but Felix is the spit of Rosa’s brothers. Perhaps I should have. There is both fair and dark on her side, quite pronounced.”
“You mean?”
“Same nose, too. He has his uncle’s nose.”
“Then I have made a fool of myself?”
“Yes, darling. There, all done.” Angus put his hands on Milly’s shoulders and kissed the back of her neck. “And while we are about it, I’d better tell you another rumour. It is said that he likes boys.”
“How appalling.” Milly looked horrified.
“I have a hunch that there isn’t a word of truth in that either, but it’s a wonderful out if you don’t want to get tied. Rosa wants him to marry; he enjoys being a bachelor. What better alibi could he have?” Angus grinned. “Fellow has his mother’s humour.”
“Extremely dangerous.” Milly put on her rings, reached for her pearls. “And stupid.”
“Which brings us back to the Trevelyan girl.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Milly ran a comb through her hair, smoothed her eyebrows.
“Yes, it does. Parents should stand back and not manipulate.”
“Are you suggesting I interfere?”
“Yes, I am. We all do. I don’t wish to labour the point but it would have done no harm to let the girl stay another few days. She has never been anywhere, stuck in a school by her parents all the year round. She is so ignorant of life, she might be a visitor from Mars. What possible harm could she—”
“Oh, Angus, shut up. It’s done now. I’m sorry. Let’s drop the subject. I have written a friendly letter to her mother that should help. Shall we go down and have a drink before dinner?”
“Very well, Millicent.”
Milly looked at her husband with annoyance; he never called her Millicent unless he was angry. She looked round her familiar room, the bedroom of their marriage. Mabs had been born here, Cosmo too. It was redolent with cherished intimacy. The door of the dressing-room was open; Angus’ discarded day clothes lay scattered about, among them socks she had knitted him, as she had countless others of the same pattern all the years of their marriage: wool socks with cable stitch. She had been knitting a similar pair when she sat chatting with Rosa in Dinard. Rosa had said something which shocked her—she forgot the words, remembered the shock. She closed the dressing-room door. The servants would come up and tidy. Angus was waiting. She would put Miss Green on his right at dinner, dear jolly Joyce on his left; this time tomorrow the source of Angus’ annoyance would have left.
THIRTY
FELICITY GREEN DID NOT take long changing for dinner; she washed her face and armpits, put on clean knickers and slip, and shrugged into a rust-coloured dress. The colour did not enhance her complexion, but what the hell, she thought, brushing her bobbed hair, I’ll never improve on God’s off day. She glared at her froglike face in the glass, meeting black intelligent eyes. She applied lipstick, patted on powder, bared her teeth in a snarl to make sure no red had strayed, transferred flapjack, comb and handkerchief to an evening bag and set off. She was anxious to get to the drawing-room before the rest of the house party and have a look round on her own. She was planning a novel; it had struck her on her previous visit that the Coppermalt drawing-room was worth scrutiny. The room was empty except for Nigel, standing irresolute by the drinks tray. He said: “Hello.” He had not yet changed for dinner.
“We met the other day.” Felicity held out her hand.
“So we did.” Nigel stared, trying to remember.
“League of Nations,” Felicity prompted.
“Right.” Nigel pumped her hand up and down. “Right. Try him on that German chap again. Want a drink?” He released her hand.
“I’ll help myself.” Felicity poured herself a small tot of whisky. “Somebody’s been at the decanter.”
“I have,” said Nigel, nodding. “Poor old decanter.”
Felicity said: “Um,” and watched him rock on his heels. It was not for her to interfere. “Suppose you went and changed for dinner?” she said, interfering.
Nigel said “What?”, affronted and loud.
Gage the butler came in. He walked softly to the fireplace, swept ash, plumped a cushion on a sofa, came to inspect the drinks tray and pursed his lips. “Tsk, tsk. Dinner in a quarter of an hour, sir.” He picked up the whisky decanter and Nigel’s glass and left.
Nigel followed the butler.
Felicity explored the room. Admirable flower arrangements, Vogue, Tatler, Blackwoods Magazine, Royal Geographical and The Field ranged on a sofa table. Potpourri in bowls. The view from the French windows pastoral: lawn sloping to a haha, fields dipping to the river, various trees strategically planted, a cedar on the lawn to the right of the house and, further away, beech, oak and lime.
The butler returned with the replenished decanter, glanced round, went to close the French windows and left.
Felicity re-opened the French windows. There remained a sniff of Nigel. What I need, she thought, are photographs on the piano—dogs, debutantes, royalty, or a peer in coronation robes. She was unrewarded, except for a few badly focused snapshots under a paperweight: Mabs aged about twelve with a dog; Cosmo in baggy shorts, a tooth missing, both knees bandaged, with another dog; several snaps of yet more dogs. She opened a sofa table drawer. There they were: the silver frames, Edwardian ladies, hair heaped high, bulging busts over minimal waists. Angus and Milly’s pre-war wedding, Mabs in debutan
te feathers and train looking sulky, Angus in staff officer’s uniform with rows of medals. And, at the back of the drawer, a person she recognised as minor royalty. But no peers. Felicity shut the drawer and crossed to examine the contents of a glass-fronted bookcase.
“Pretty dull,” said Cosmo, who had come in unobserved. “My family aren’t great readers. Are you looking for something?”
Felicity said, “Yes, country house atmosphere. I am plotting a novel.”
Cosmo said, “Nothing much happens here.”
“No?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. No rows, no scandals—”
“Your father?”
“Retired generals are expected to be peppery.”
Somewhere in the house a girl shouted, “Cosmo, where are you?”
Cosmo said, “Excuse me,” and left. Felicity moved to a writing table. Someone had recently used fresh blotting paper. Above the table was a Regency mirror; she held the blotter to it. “Expect me sooner or later.” “I shall be coming your way.”
“One of the messages is in Russian,” said Hubert, as he came in. “I’m not really sure what it says. Can Flora be trusted? There are others in German, French, Italian and so on.”
“A game?” (When caught in an anti-social act, be brazen.) “I am snooping,” she said.
It was Hubert who looked embarrassed. “Sort of, a bit silly, really. I am thinking of dropping it. I don’t do it often,” he excused himself.
From upstairs Joyce shouted, “Hubert, where are you? Buck up and bring it, if you’re going to.”
“Oh, sorry, I must go. Fetching them a bottle of this.” He held up a bottle of champagne. “Joyce’s idea; it’s for the girls. I must—”
“Rush,” suggested Felicity.
“Yes.” Hubert hurried away.
Felicity replaced the blotter and strolled out onto the terrace. From open windows there came the sound of girls’ voices. “You look wonderful, nobody will—ah, here’s Blanco. What an age. Come on, come on, open it.” The sound of a champagne cork. “Flora first, it’s Flora’s gala. Drink up. No, no, you like it really. Oh, Nigel, what a sponge you are, there’ll be none left for—No, no, Flora, you cannot wear those, it spoils the line, la ligne! The whole idea is to look slinky. Stand still a minute while I—that’s better. Oh, delicious.”
Felicity sniffed the jasmine, hoped the Trevelyan child would not chatter in the car; she would plot her chapter as she drove, spend the night in Lincoln perhaps, make London the next day. She could put the girl on a train from there if she was bored with her. Had Mrs. Leigh the faintest idea what an imposition it was? She would tell the General at dinner about the Germans’ plans for new roads; he was the sort of man who would approve, as he probably did of Mussolini’s trains. Had these anciens militaires the remotest notion of the danger of dictators? There must be no indigestible row this evening. This sleepy atmosphere was just what she needed.
“Oh good, you have given yourself a drink,” said Milly, coming through the drawing-room onto the terrace. “What a lovely evening. May I give you a refill? It was sherry, wasn’t it?”
“Whisky, actually. Neat.”
“Oh.”
“No thanks.”
“Oh? Well, I shall have a small sherry. I must admit to enjoying the end of the summer holiday. We are off to Perthshire in a few days to rally our strength for Mabs’ wedding. Such fun. I shall put you on Angus’ right, and he can have jolly Joyce on his other side.”
Milly was looking smug, Felicity observed. “I will steer clear of controversial topics,” she said.
“Oh, that. Wasn’t he absurd?”
Felicity positioned herself near the fireplace, from where she could watch Angus come in smiling jovially, then Cosmo with Hubert, followed by Nigel and Henry who stood near the drinks table but did not drink. Hubert came up to her and began explaining a complex relationship with an elderly relation which had to do with the writing on the blotter. There was a stinginess which had turned him into a gambler. “I bolster my allowance at Oxford with bridge and backgammon. I don’t somehow trust the horses or dogs, do you?”
“I thought all country people trusted horses and dogs.” Felicity was barely listening.
“Oh, we do,” said Hubert. “But not—” Damn the woman, plain as a currant bun, not even pretending to listen.
“Is it Henry who is engaged to Mabs, or Nigel?” Felicity was watching Nigel. “They are so alike.”
“Henry is engaged to Tashie, Nigel to Mabs. They look alike because they were at the same school, work in the same merchant bank and have the same tailor and the same political opinions.”
“But one is drunk, the other sober,” said Felicity.
“They can’t be. There was only one bottle of champagne between eight of us—”
“Whisky and champagne don’t mix.”
Hubert stared at Nigel. “Oh my,” he said. “Dear, dear.”
The butler opened the drawing-room door and announced dinner.
“What can the girls be up to?” said Milly.
Angus looked at his pocket watch. “Don’t they know what time we have dinner? When have we ever had it at any time other than half-past eight?” He closed the watch with a snap.
Cosmo muttered something in his mother’s ear.
“Apparently it’s Flora’s last night,” said Milly, looking around.
“As if you didn’t know,” grumped Angus.
Milly paid no attention. “The girls are dressing her up to look especially—er—they’ve been lending her their frocks.” She turned to Felicity. “She has nothing much of her own. I wondered, Miss Green—”
“Do call me Felicity,” said Felicity.
“—Felicity,” Milly raised her voice, “whether, as you pass through London, you would stop a moment at our little dressmaker in Beauchamp Place? It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes and wouldn’t be out of your way. Angus and I want to give her a party dress of her own—”
“Do we?” said Angus. “First I’ve—”
“Yes,” said Milly, “we do.”
“Hum,” said Angus. “Blood money.”
She’s got a nerve, thought Felicity. She began counting the threads of various emotions at large in the room. The butler in the doorway, a prey to suppressed irritation; Milly, now a little fearful, obstinate, placatory; Angus suspicious; Nigel straining to appear sober; Cosmo and Hubert expectant. Expectant of what? (Cancel the peaceful country house.)
Milly, speaking in the room where talk had dwindled, said: “Ah, I think I hear them at last. We’ll go in, Gage,” she said to the butler, “as soon as they’ve made their ‘entrance.’ The girls have done all they can to give Flora a good time,” she said to Felicity. “She’s such a child.”
“If that’s a child,” said Nigel thickly, as the girls came into the room, “you could fool me.”
It was the cut of the dress which caused the effect. Long enough to cover her feet, demurely high at the neck, it had sleeves which reached the elbow. The heavy black silk clung to Flora’s body faithfully, outlining curve of breasts and buttocks, hinting at the dimple of navel and V-shaped mound above long thighs; a simple dress, its matt sheen complemented Flora’s pale skin. She wore no makeup or jewelry. It was, too, obvious that she wore nothing else. Felicity Green whispered, “La ligne,” sighing with pleasure as she looked around.
Nigel staring, Henry with mouth open as though about to shout; Angus pursing his lips in a silent whistle, Cosmo’s eyes shining, Hubert gulping with sudden emotion, Milly flushing an unkind red.
Mabs, Tashie and Joyce bustled in behind Flora, fluting through lipsticked lips:
“So sorry to be late, Mother.”
“Do forgive us, Mrs. Leigh.”
“We are terribly sorry, Milly, dear Milly,” in what sounded like a rehearsed chorus. They closed protectively round Flora in their red, green and blue dresses. Flora did not speak.
The “entrance” lasted a few seconds, searing itself like
a car crash on Milly’s memory. “Shall we go in?” she said. “You know what cook is like when she’s made a soufflé.”
Angus offered Felicity his arm and led the way into the dining-room, seating her on his right while Joyce took the chair on his left. Nigel and Henry, Felicity observed, sequestered places on either side of Flora. Hubert and Cosmo sat opposite with Mabs and Tashie, leaving Milly slightly apart, looking forlorn.
“Shall I tell you about the master plan for roads in Germany?” Felicity helped herself to soufflé.
I wish I was as young as that lot, thought Angus; one wouldn’t have hesitated. “I thought you spoke with a stammer. Forgive me for drawing attention to it.” What the hell is Mabs up to? It never bodes good when she looks like that; she’s using the girl as a stalking horse. Somebody’s in for a tumble. Angus glanced along the table at his wife sitting with eyes downcast. Flora’s eyes were downcast too; they usually were. “Your stammer,” he said, “is rather fetching. Did you say roads?”
“My stammer is a social convenience,” said Felicity. “It gives me time to answer a question with an appropriate quip. It is not often uncontrollable.” She swallowed a feathery mouthful of soufflé.
Angus said, “Aha, I see,” helping himself to soufflé. “Hurry up with the wine,” he murmured to the butler.
He does not know how much has already flowed, surmised Felicity. “Delicious soufflé,” she said. “Your cook is a paragon.”
“A little vino loosens the conversation, does it not?” Angus beamed at Felicity.
“So long as it does not loosen too much.” No, he has no idea. Joyce, hitherto silent, snorted. “Do you want to hear about the roads or not?” Felicity asked.
“Ah yes, the German roads. Do you imagine that child is wearing knickers?” Angus lowered his voice.
“Imaginary ones, I’d say.”
“Has she the remotest idea of the electrifying shock she has dealt our male senses? She might to all intents and purposes be naked.”
“She would look less indecent,” murmured Joyce, overhearing.
“I am sure no idea—or perhaps half,” said Felicity.
