A clatter outside drew their attention to the doorway. A figure in green was just disappearing around the corner of the house. “Who the devil was that, I wonder?” said Dagenham.
“Maybe one of Morris’s farm lads cleaning up,” suggested the Major, who was fairly sure it had been Alice Pierce, minus the loud poncho. He had to control a chuckle at the thought that Alice’s louder than usual getup had been a deliberate distraction and that underneath it she had worn drab green clothes suitable for slinking about like a commando in a foreign jungle.
“Damn hard trying to keep this huge model to ourselves.” Dagenham picked up the cover from the floor. “Ferguson doesn’t want to reveal anything before we have to.” The Major helped him and was grateful to watch the ruined village being swallowed in the tide of gray fabric.
“Is there really no other way?” asked the Major. Dagenham sighed.
“Maybe if Gertrude weren’t so stubbornly plain, we might have tempted our American friend to the more old-fashioned solution.”
“You mean marriage?” asked the Major.
“Her mother was such a great beauty, you know,” he said. “But she’s happiest in the stables shoveling manure. In my day that would have sufficed, but these days, men expect their wives to be as dazzling as their mistresses.”
“That’s shocking,” said the Major. “How on earth will they tell them apart?”
“My point exactly,” said Dagenham, missing the Major’s hint of irony. “Shall we march on over to the house and see if Ferguson has nailed down any offers of financing?”
“They’re probably securing houses for themselves,” said the Major as they left. He felt gloomy at the prospect.
“Oh, good God, no banker is going to be approved to live here,” said Dagenham. “Though I’m afraid we will have to swallow Ferguson.” He laughed and put an arm around the Major’s shoulder. “If you support me in this, Major, I’ll make sure Ferguson doesn’t end up in the house behind yours!”
As they crossed the courtyard toward the house, Roger came out looking for Dagenham. The bankers were apparently impatient to talk to him. After shaking hands, Dagenham hurried in and the Major was left alone with his son.
“This project is going to make my career, Dad,” said Roger. He clutched a navy blue cardboard folder emblazoned with a Dagenham crest and the words “Edgecombe St. Mary, England’s Enclave.”
“Ferguson’s being so attentive to me, my boss is going to have to put me in charge of our team on this.”
“This project is going to destroy your home,” said the Major.
“Oh, come on, we’ll be able to sell Rose Lodge for a fortune once it’s built,” said Roger. “Think of all that money.”
“There is nothing more corrosive to character than money,” said the Major, incensed. “And remember, Ferguson is only being nice because he wants to buy my guns.”
“That’s quite true,” said Roger. From the frown over his eyebrows, he seemed to be thinking hard. “Look, he mentioned inviting us both to Scotland in January to shoot pheasant. You must absolutely promise me not to sell your guns to him before then.”
“I thought you were anxious to sell,” said the Major.
“Oh, I am,” said Roger, already turning on his heel to go. “But as soon as you sell them, Ferguson will drop us like a hot potato. We must hold him off as long as we can.”
“And what about Marjorie and Jemima?” asked the Major as his son trotted away from him toward the house.
“If necessary, we’ll file a complaint in probate court just to hold things up,” called Roger, waving a hand. “After all, Father, everyone knows Uncle Bertie’s gun was supposed to be yours.” With this extraordinary remark, Roger disappeared and the Major, feeling quite dizzy with surprise, thought it best to collect his guns and retreat to home.
Chapter 16
He had planned to bring Mrs. Ali a dozen long-stemmed roses, swathed in tissue and a satin bow and carried casually in the crook of his arm. But now that he was to pick her up with Grace, at Grace’s cottage, the roses seemed inappropriate. He settled for bringing each of them a single rose of an apricot color on a long spidery brown stem.
He had dashed for his car in order to avoid being seen by Alice Pierce, whose protest at the shoot had been followed by a door-to-door petition drive against St. James Homes, and rallies of protest at every public appearance by either Lord Dagenham or Ferguson. The effort was not going well. The Vicar, who had been seen suddenly consulting an architect on the long overdue restoration of the steeple, had declined to speak from the pulpit, citing the church’s need to provide love and spiritual comfort to all sides in the dispute. Many people, including the Major, had been glad to accept posters that urged “Save Our Village,” but only about half thought it polite to display them. The Major put his in the side window, where it screamed its message at the garage and not at the street. Alice continued to rush about the village with her band of followers, mostly strangers who seemed to favor hand-crocheted coats. She seemed unaware that even where she was supported locally, she was also studiously avoided by anyone who was planning on attending the Golf Club dance.
Straightening his bow tie and giving a final tug to his dinner jacket, the Major knocked on the insubstantial plywood of Grace’s mock Georgian front door. It was Mrs. Ali who opened it, the light spilling out onto the step around her and her face in partial shadow. She smiled and he thought he detected the shine of lipstick.
“Major, won’t you come in,” she said and turned away in a breathless, hurried manner. Her back, receding toward the front room, was partly revealed against the deep swoop of an evening dress. Under a loosely tied chiffon wrap, her shoulder blades were sharply delineated and her bronze skin glowed between the dark stuff of the dress and the low bun at the nape of her neck. In the front room, she half pirouetted on the hearth rug and the folds of the dress billowed around her ankles and came to rest on the tips of her shoes. It was a dark blue dress of silk velvet. The deeply cut décolletage was partially hidden by the sweep of the chiffon wrap, but Mrs. Ali’s collarbones were exquisitely visible several inches above the neckline. The material fell over a swell of bosom to a loosely gathered midriff where an antique diamond brooch sparkled.
“Is Grace still getting ready, then?” he asked, unable to trust himself to comment on her dress and yet unwilling to look away.
“No, Grace had to go early and help with the setup. Mrs. Green picked her up a short while ago. I’m afraid it’s just me.” Mrs. Ali almost stammered and a blush crept into her cheekbones. The Major thought she looked like a young girl. He wished he were still a boy, with a boy’s impetuous nature. A boy could be forgiven a clumsy attempt to launch a kiss but not, he feared, a man of thinning hair and faded vigor.
“I could not be happier,” said the Major. Being also stuck on the problem of how to handle the two drooping roses in his hand, he held them out.
“Is one of those for Grace? I could put it in a vase for her.” He opened his mouth to say that she looked extremely beautiful and deserved armfuls of roses, but the words were lost in committee somewhere, shuffled aside by the parts of his head that worked full-time on avoiding ridicule.
“Wilted a bit, I’m afraid,” he said. “Color’s all wrong for the dress anyway.”
“Do you like it?” she said, turning her eyes down to the fabric. “I lent Grace an outfit and she insisted that I borrow something of hers in fair trade.”
“Very beautiful,” he said.
“It belonged to Grace’s great-aunt, who was considered quite fast and who lived alone in Baden Baden, she says, with two blind terriers and a succession of lovers.” She looked up again, her eyes anxious. “I hope the shawl is enough.”
“You look perfect.”
“I feel quite naked. But Grace told me you always wear a dinner jacket, so I just wanted to wear something to—to go with what you’re wearing.” She smiled, and the Major felt more years melt away from him. The boy’s desire to k
iss her welled up again. “Besides,” she added, “A shalwar kameez isn’t exactly a costume for me.”
The Major reached a spontaneous compromise with himself and reached for her hand. He raised it to his lips and closed his eyes while kissing her knuckles. She smelled of rose water and some spicy clean scent that might, he thought, be lime blossom. When he opened his eyes, her head was turned away, but she did not try to pull her hand from his grasp.
“I hope I have not offended you,” he said. “Man is rash in the face of beauty.”
“I am not offended,” she said. “But perhaps we had better go to the dance?”
“If we must,” said the Major, giving a stubborn push past the fear of ridicule. “Though anyone would be just as content to sit and gaze at you across this empty room all evening.”
“If you insist on paying me such lavish compliments, Major,” said Mrs. Ali, blushing again, “my conscience will force me to change into a large black jumper and perhaps a wool hat.”
“In that case, let us leave immediately so we can put that horrible option out of reach,” he said.
Sandy was waiting for them under the tiny porch by the front door of the Augerspier cottage. As they pulled up, she came down the path, a large wool coat hugged tightly around her. Her face, in the dim light of the car as she slid into the back, seemed more ivory than usual and her blood-red lipstick was stark. Her shiny hair was pulled into a series of lacquered ripples and finished with a narrow ribbon under one ear. A frill of silver chiffon peeked from the turned-up collar of her thick coat. She looked, thought the Major, like a porcelain doll.
“I’m so sorry you had to come out of your way,” she said. “I told Roger I’d take a cab.”
“Not at all,” said the Major, who had been extremely put out by Roger’s request. “It is inconceivable that you should have to arrive unescorted.” His son had pleaded a need to arrive early for a dress rehearsal. He insisted that Gertrude felt his assistance was crucial in directing the troupe of male friends of the staff who had agreed to appear in the performance in exchange for a free supper of sandwiches and beer.
“I’m doing this for you, Dad,” he had pleaded. “And Gertrude needs me if we’re to make anything at all of the production.”
“I’d be happier if the ‘thing’ were cancelled,” the Major had replied. “I still can’t believe you agreed to participate.”
“Look, if it’s a problem, Sandy’ll just have to take a taxi,” said Roger. The Major was appalled that his son would allow his fiancée to be transported to the dance in one of the local taxis with their tobacco-stained, torn interiors and their rough drivers, who could not be relied upon to be more sober than the passengers. He had agreed to pick her up.
“Sorry Roger dumped me on you,” she said now. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the seat. “I thought about staying home, but that would be too easy.” The acid in her voice painted a broad stroke of awkwardness between them.
“I hope you and your fiancé are happy with the cottage?” asked Mrs. Ali. The Major, who had successfully tamped down any anxiety about the evening, was suddenly worried about Roger and his capacity for thinly disguised rudeness.
“It turned out beautifully,” said Sandy. “Of course, it’s just a rental—we’re not planning on getting too attached.” The Major saw her, in the mirror, settling further into the folds of her coat. She looked intently at the window, where only the darkness pressed in on the glass. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
The golf club had abandoned its usual discreet demeanor and now, like a blowsy dowager on a cheap holiday in Tenerife, it blazed and sparkled on its small hill. Lights filled every door and window; floodlights bathed the plain stucco façade and strings of fairy lights danced in trees and bushes.
“Looks like a cruise ship,” said Sandy. “I warned them to go easy on the floods.”
“I hope the fuse box holds,” said the Major as they walked up the gravel driveway, which was outlined in flaming torches. Rounding a corner, they were startled by a half-naked man in an eye mask wearing a large python around his neck. A second man capered at the edge of the drive, blowing enthusiastically into a wooden flute. Tucked between two fifty-year-old rhododendron bushes, a third man swallowed small sticks of fire with all the concern of a taxi driver eating chips.
“Good God, it’s a circus,” said the Major as they approached the fountain, which was lit with orange floodlights and filled with violently colored water lilies.
“I believe Mr. Rasool loaned the lilies,” said Mrs. Ali. She choked back a giggle.
“I think I went to a wedding in New Jersey that looked just like this,” said Sandy. “I did warn Roger about the line between opulence and bad taste.”
“That was your mistake,” said the Major. “They are the same thing, my dear.”
“Touché,” said Sandy. “Look, I’m going to run ahead and find Roger. You two should make your fabulous entrance together.”
“No really,” began the Major, but Sandy was already hurrying up the steps and into the blazing interior.
“She seems like a nice young lady,” said Mrs. Ali in a small voice. “Is she always so pale?”
“I don’t know her well enough to say,” said the Major, a little embarrassed that his son had kept him at arm’s length from both of them. “Shall we throw ourselves into the festivities?”
“I suppose that is what comes next,” she said. She did not move, however, but hung back just on the edge of where the lights pooled on the gravel. The Major, feeling her slight pressure on his arm, paused too. Her body telegraphed inertia, feet planted at rest on the driveway.
“I suppose one can make the case that this is the most wonderful part of any party,” he said. “The moment just before one is swallowed up?” He heard a waltz strike up in the Grill and was relieved that there was to be real music.
“I didn’t know I would be so anxious,” she said.
“My dear lady, what is there to fear?” he said. “Except putting the other ladies quite in the shade.” A murmur like the sea swelled from the open doors of the club, where a hundred men were no doubt already jostling for champagne at the long bar, a hundred women discussing costumes and kissing cheeks. “It does sound like it’s a bit of a crush in there,” he added. “I’m a little frightened myself.”
“You’re making fun of me,” said Mrs. Ali. “But you must know that it will not be the same as sharing books or walking by the sea.”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.” The Major took her by the hand and pulled her to one side, nodding at a couple who passed them. The couple gave them an odd stare and then bobbed their heads in reply as they went up the steps. The Major was quite sure that this was exactly what she had meant.
“I don’t even dance,” she said. “Not in public.” She was trembling, he noticed. She was like a bird under a cat’s paw, completely still but singing in every sinew with the need to escape. He dared not let go of her hand.
“Look, it’s slightly gaudy and horribly crowded, but there’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said. “Personally I’d be happy to skip it, but Grace will be looking for you and I’ve promised to be there to accept the silly award thing as part of the entertainment.” He stopped, feeling that these were stupid ways to encourage her. “I don’t want to burden you,” she said.
“Then don’t make me go in there alone, like a spare part,” he said. “When they hand me my silver plate, I want to walk back and sit with the most elegant woman in the room.” She gave him a small smile and straightened her back.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m being such a fool.” He tucked his arm under her elbow and she allowed him to lead her up the steps, moving fast enough that she would not have time to change her mind.
The doors to the Grill had been pinned back by two large brass planters containing palm trees. Scarlet fabric looped from the door surround, caught up in swags by gold braid, fat tassels, and strings of bamboo b
eads. In an alcove, a large, fully decorated Christmas tree, complete with fairy on the top, attempted to disguise its incongruity with lots of tiny Indian slipper ornaments and presents wrapped in Taj Mahal wrapping paper.
In the center of the vestibule, Grace was handing out dinner cards and programs. She was dressed in a long embroidered coat and pajama pants in a deep lilac hue, and her feet were tucked into jeweled sandals. Her hair seemed softer around her jaw than usual, and for once she seemed to have left off the creased caking of face powder.
“Grace, you really look enchanting this evening,” said the Major and he felt the joy of being able to offer a compliment he actually meant.
“Daisy tried to ruin it with a garland of paper flowers.” Grace appeared to be speaking more to Mrs. Ali than him. “I had to dump them in a flower pot.”
“Good move,” said Mrs. Ali. “You look perfect.”
“So do you,” said Grace. “I wasn’t sure about adding a shawl, but you’ve made the dress even more seductive, my dear. You look like a queen.”
“Are you coming in with us?” asked the Major, looking at the heaving Technicolor mass that was the crowd in the Grill.
“Daisy has me on duty here another half hour,” said Grace. “Do go in and let our Grand Vizier announce you.”
Mrs. Ali gripped his arm as if she were afraid of tripping and gave him a smile that was more determination than happiness. As they crossed the Rubicon of the short crimson entrance carpet he whispered, “Grand Vizier—good God, what have they done?”
At the end of the carpet Alec Shaw stood waiting for them, frowning in a large yellow turban. An embroidered silk dressing gown and curly slippers, from which his heels hung out the back, were complemented by a long braided beard. He looked unhappy.
“Don’t even speak,” he said, raising an arm. “You’re the last bloody people I’m doing. Daisy can get some other idiot to stand around looking ridiculous.”
“I think you’re rather convincing,” said the Major. “You’re sort of Fu Manchu on an exotic holiday.”
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