Highland Fling

by Nancy Mitford

  ‘And the vices. I think it’s a horrid game.’

  Albert told her of the conversation that had just taken place in the dining-room and asked what her feelings were on the subject.

  ‘Oh! the same as yours! All young people must surely agree about that except, I suppose, young soldiers, but I don’t count them anyway.’

  Jane had once been in love for a short time with an officer in the Guards and had looked upon the army with a jaundiced eye ever since. (She had treated him abominably.)

  ‘Mr Buggins agrees with us, too. Of course, he had to qualify his approval with the general listening like that, but I could see exactly what he really meant. I think him so charming; at first he seemed a little tiresome with all his culture and folklore and good taste, but now I’m becoming very fond of him. He told us a lot about himself after dinner, but never mentioned anything about his wife. I wonder when all that happened?’

  ‘Poor man! He looks dreadfully sad, I always think. He’s the only nice one among the grown-ups here, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, indeed he is. I don’t know what would have happened this evening if he hadn’t been there. I should probably have insulted General Murgatroyd even more than I did, and then have been obliged to leave the house, the very last thing I wish to do at the moment.’

  Jane suddenly began to feel embarrassed. It had come upon her lately with the certainty born of experience that Albert was falling in love with her, and now she began to think from the absent-minded way in which he spoke and his general manner that he was about to make some sort of declaration. This was the very last thing Jane wanted to happen.

  She had been considering the situation and had decided that although she liked Albert more than anybody she had ever met, and although she would probably marry him in the end, she was not at present in love with him. On the other hand she did not at all want to lose him entirely, which might happen if he proposed and was refused. She was anxious for things to go on as they were at present. So she kept up a sort of barrage of rather foolish, nervous chatter.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Albert interrupting her in the middle of a sentence, and standing still, ‘that I’m in love with you, Jane?’

  Her heart sank.

  ‘Are you, Albert?’ she said faintly, wondering what the next move would be.

  There was a silence. Albert, taking her hand, kissed her fingers one by one.

  ‘Well?’

  Jane said nothing. He took her in his arms and began kissing her face.

  ‘Do you love me, darling?’

  Jane felt frightened suddenly of committing herself to anything and said in an unnatural way:

  ‘Albert, I don’t know – I’m not sure.’

  He let go of her at once, saying rather coldly: ‘No, I see. Well, if you change your mind you’d better tell me, will you? Let’s go on walking, it’s such a lovely night.’

  She thought this would be almost too embarrassing, but soon felt curiously at her ease, as though nothing had happened at all. They were in a wood of little fir trees which reminded her of a German fairy story she had been fond of as a child. She told it to Albert as they walked along. Presently they came out of the wood on to the open moor. The moon, which was enormous, shone in a perfectly empty sky; the moor looked like the sea. There was a very complete silence.

  As they stood there for a moment before turning back, Jane suddenly realized with a wave of feeling how much she loved Albert. She passionately hoped now that he would take her in his arms and kiss her, but he did not do so and a strange feeling of shyness prevented her from making an opening for him.

  After standing there for some time in silence they returned to the castle, talking quite naturally about everyday things. They found that all the others had gone to bed, and crept up the back stairs in complete darkness, saying good night affectionately when they reached their bedrooms.

  Jane lay awake for hours that night, tingling all over with excitement and trying to concentrate on the foregoing events with some degree of calmness.

  ‘He never said anything about marriage,’ she thought. ‘Probably he has no intention of marrying me: artists seldom want the extra responsibility of a wife. And then he probably has very modern ideas on the subject. No, he evidently means it to be just an affaire. Anyhow, tomorrow I shall tell him that I love him. Then, if he wants me to be his mistress, we can run away to Paris together when we leave here, but not before. I can’t have Sally involved.’

  Jane was delighted with this idea. Marriage had always seemed to her rather a dull and pompous business, but to run away to Paris as the mistress of a handsome young artist would be the height of romance, and would properly scandalize her parents and relations. (Jane’s one mission in life seemed to be to alienate her family, of whom she was, if she had only realized it, extremely fond, and nobody would have been more upset or annoyed than she herself if she had succeeded.)

  As she lay watching the flickering firelight she suddenly had a mental vision of Albert’s good-looking face as it had appeared when he said, ‘Do you love me, darling?’

  ‘Yes! yes! yes! Albert, sweetest, I do! And I’ll tell you so tomorrow.’

  And Jane fell rapturously asleep.

  She was awakened at a very early hour by the sound of furious voices in the hall. She knew that this indicated the departure of the shooters (or guns) for another happy day on the moors.

  ‘But why “guns”,’ she thought sleepily. ‘After all, one doesn’t speak of people as “paint brushes” or “pens.” And why does it always make them cross when they are supposed to enjoy it so enormously? Of course, they simply loathe it really, poor things, and no wonder.’

  General Murgatroyd and Lady Prague came out of the front door and stood just underneath Jane’s open window talking angrily.

  ‘Young puppy, I call him! Should like to give him a good thrashing. I couldn’t speak, I was so angry, and Buggins more or less stood up for him, too. But I shall certainly write to Craig and tell him the sort of thing that’s happening here.’

  ‘Yes, I should. I think of writing to Madge myself about the goings-on. All in and out of each other’s bedrooms and the gramophone playing till two and three in the morning. Then, another thing is, the servants won’t stand it much longer, you know – champagne for breakfast, and so on! Mind you, the Monteaths aren’t so bad. It’s those other two. But that young man, my dear, he’s dreadful.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. What d’you think he said to Brenda yesterday – didn’t you hear? He said: “What a drenching colour your dress is!” Poor Brenda said afterwards: “Well, I’ve heard of drenching a cow!” ’

  ‘Yes, she told me. Well, I daresay we shall be able to laugh at all this when it’s over, but I hardly find it amusing at the present moment, personally.’

  ‘Oh, it’s too shocking! It’s the downfall of England, mind you.… Mons! will you come here.’

  At this moment the others came out, and climbing into the bus they all roared away up the drive. Jane lay in bed shaking with laughter, but she felt rather sorry for Sally and Walter. ‘Still,’ she thought, ‘it can’t be helped. We’ve done nothing wrong that I know of.’

  She began slowly to dress, manicured her nails, took particular pains with her face and hair, and at about eleven she strolled downstairs. She looked into the billiard-room, half hoping that Albert would be there, but it was empty. Coming back into the hall she saw Sally sitting on the bottom step of the staircase.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I’m feeling so awful!’

  Jane dashed forward, put her arm round Sally’s waist and half carried her to a sofa, where she went off into a dead faint. Jane, thoroughly alarmed, called out loudly for Walter, who ran downstairs in his dressing-gown.

  ‘Oh, God!’ he said on seeing Sally. ‘What! She’s not …?’

  ‘She’s only fainted. Pull yourself together, Walter, and fetch some brandy or something. Look, though! she’s coming round now.’

  Sally opened her eyes and smiled at Wa
lter, who was rubbing her hands in a distracted sort of way. Presently she sat up and drank some brandy, which Albert, appearing from nowhere, produced in a tumbler. Walter finished what she didn’t want.

  ‘Goodness, darling, what a turn you gave me! But what on earth’s the matter with you? You were as right as rain a minute ago. D’you feel better now?’

  ‘Yes, quite better, thank you. I’ll just stay here for a bit, I think.… Walter.…’

  ‘Yes, my angel.’

  ‘Promise not to be cross.’

  ‘Yes. What?’

  ‘No, but promise really and truly.’

  ‘Of course I promise, funny; but what is it?’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid this means I’m in the family way. You’re not cross? You see, I’ve been suspecting it for some time now and hoped for the best, you know; but this is rather conclusive, isn’t it. Are you terribly shocked, my sweet?’

  ‘No, naturally not, darling precious. But how careless of us. Never mind, I think it will be rather sweet, really – I mean, the baby will. But it’s too awful for you, though.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I’m rather pleased. You are divine not to be cross. It is an anxiety all the same, isn’t it, because how are we ever going to clothe the poor angel? I mean, babies’ clothes are always covered with lace, just like underclothes. They must be frightfully expensive. Oh, gosh!’

  ‘Well, my treasure, you’ll have to be like pregnant women in books and sit with a quiet smile on your face making little garments. It is a bit of a shock at first, isn’t it, the idea of your being a pregnant woman? But I suppose one will get used to it. Will it be a boy or a girl?’

  ‘Both, perhaps.’

  ‘Really, darling!’

  ‘I mean twins, you idiot! But if not it’ll be a girl, naturally: at least, I hope so.’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ said Albert. ‘I read somewhere that if you have been hoping for a girl and then it turns out to be a boy, it will have a nasty, perverted nature.’

  ‘How awful! And does the opposite hold good?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it does.’

  ‘Oh, poor sweet: we must be careful. We’d better say “he” and “her” alternately: you couldn’t call the angel “it,” could you? You know I feel quite friendly towards him already. I think she will be a great comfort to us, Walter.’

  ‘Yes, we were needing something to draw us together. Morris will be a bond between us.’

  ‘Oh, need it be Maurice? It’s not a name I have any feeling for.’

  ‘M-o-r-r-i-s.’ He spelt it out. ‘If we call him that, we might get one free for an advertisement. You never know your luck.’

  ‘Why not Bentley, then, or Rolls?’

  ‘No good. We couldn’t afford to keep it up if we had one. Suppose the angel’s a girl?’

  ‘Minerva, and pop it. Morris Monteath: Minerva Monteath. Not at all bad.’

  ‘Well, if we’re going to do that, we’d better call her lots of things and have them all free. Minerva, Sanitas, Electrolux, Chubb, Ritz (then we could live there) Monteath. And I could think of dozens more.’

  ‘Talking of living, where are we going to keep her: there’s precious little room in the flat for him.’

  ‘I can’t think. What an awful idea!’

  ‘I know,’ said Walter, ‘we can turn the cocktail chest into a cradle. My dear, what a good article for the Sunday papers:

  TURN YOUR COCKTAIL CHESTS INTO CRADLES!

  England Needs More Babies

  and

  Fewer Cocktails!

  PRACTICAL and PATRIOTIC.

  No, but seriously, where do people keep their babies: one never does see them about, somehow.’

  ‘I,’ said Albert, ‘am extremely shocked. I thought that when a woman discovered herself to be – well, “in an interesting condition,” as they say in the papers, that she beckoned her husband into the conjugal bedroom and whispered shyly into his ear: “Baby’s coming.” I didn’t know people went on like this, even in these days. I find it most painful and disillusioning, and shall leave you to what should, in my opinion, be your confidences. In other words, you are a pair of clowns, and I must go and work. It’s my great chance, as those Murgatroyds are out for the day and I shall have the billiard table to myself. I suppose I ought to congratulate you, Sally?’

  He kissed her and left the room.

  Jane had expected that he would ask her to go with him, but as he did not even look in her direction she forbore from suggesting it, and went for a dreary little walk alone till luncheon time.

  During the next three days Albert completely neglected Jane, who was thrown into a state almost of frenzy by his behaviour. Ever since their midnight walk she had been eagerly awaiting an opportunity to tell him that she had now changed her mind, or rather that she knew her mind and was very definitely in love with him; but the opportunity did not come and it was Albert himself who prevented it. He not only took no particular notice of her, but actually went out of his way to avoid her.

  Jane’s natural reaction to this treatment was to appear more than indifferent and cold towards him, whereas really she was in a perfect fever wondering what could so have altered his feelings. She began to think she must have dreamt the whole affair.

  On the third morning Albert announced that he was going to begin his portrait of Sally. Jane felt that this was almost more than she could stand. Ever since Sally’s announcement of her pregnancy, Albert had paid attention to no one else. He and Walter had sat with her for hours on end discussing what the baby would be like, whether it would grow up to be an artist or a writer: (‘In point of fact, of course,’ said Albert, ‘he will probably be a well-known cricket pro.’) how much Sally would suffer at the actual birth, and various other aspects of the situation; and Jane was beginning to feel if not exactly jealous, at any rate, very much left out in the cold.

  The thought of them closeted together all day – Albert occupied with gazing at Sally’s lovely face – was almost too much to bear. The fact that the Monteaths were completely wrapped up in each other was no consolation: it was more Albert’s neglect of herself than his interest in Sally that was overwhelming her. She thought that she had never been so unhappy.

  All day she avoided the billiard-room where Albert was painting. She tried to read, and write letters, but was too miserable to concentrate on anything. At luncheon Albert sat next to Sally and appeared unable to take his eyes from her face. Immediately the meal was over he carried her off to resume the sitting. Jane, too restless to remain indoors, wandered out towards the kitchen garden, where she came upon Lady Prague, with a large basket, cutting lavender. Any company seemed in her state of mind better than none and she offered to help. Lady Prague, giving her a pair of scissors, told her to cut the stalks long, and for some time they snipped away in silence. Presently Lady Prague said:

  ‘If I were Walter Monteath I should be very much worried.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jane, absent-mindedly.

  ‘Well, it’s rather obvious, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t want to make mischief, but one can’t help seeing that Mr Gates is violently in love with Sally, can one? And, if you ask me, I should say that she was more interested in him than she ought to be.’

  Jane’s heart stood still: she thought she was going to faint. All the suspicions which she had entertained, almost without knowing it, for the last two days turned in that black moment to certainties. Others beside herself had noticed: others more qualified to judge than she was were sure of it – therefore it was true!

  She muttered some excuse to Lady Prague and ran back to the house, never pausing until she had reached her own room. She lay on the bed and sobbed her heart out. This seemed to do her a great deal of good; and when she had stopped crying, and had made herself look presentable again, she felt so calm and aloof that she decided to go into the billiard-room. She told herself that she would only make things worse by sulking and that the best thing would be to behave to Albert exactly as if none of this had happene
d.

  There was an atmosphere of concentration in the billiard-room. Albert had dragged down from some attic a curious, stiff little Victorian sofa with curly legs, upholstered in wool and bead embroidery, and had posed Sally on this in front of the window with her feet up and her head turned towards the light. He was painting with great speed and enthusiasm. Walter was writing at a table near by. Neither looked round when Jane came in. Sally, however, was delighted to see her.

  ‘Jane, darling, where have you been all this time? We were beginning to think you must be getting off with the admiral. I hope, I’m sure, that his intentions are honourable, but don’t marry him, darling. I feel he takes his eye out at night and floats it in Milton, which must look simply horrid. Anyway, I’m terribly glad you’ve come at last: these creatures have been just too boring and haven’t thrown me a word all day. I’ve done nothing but contemplate that bust of the Prince Consort, and I’m terrified my poor angel will come out exactly like him – whiskers and all; because it’s a well-known fact that pregnant women can influence their children’s features by looking at something for too long. An aunt of mine could see from her bed a reproduction of the Mona Lisa and my wretched cousin is exactly like it – just that idiotic smile and muddy complexion – most depressing for her, poor thing.’

  Jane laughed; but the joke about the admiral seemed unnecessary, she thought, and rather unkind considering the circumstances, forgetting that Sally was not aware of them. She wandered over to where Albert was painting and glanced at the canvas, not intending to make any comment. When she saw it, however, she was startled out of all her sulkiness into crying:

  ‘But, surely, this isn’t your style?’

  ‘Not my usual style, no,’ said Albert complacently, ‘but one which, to my mind, expresses very well the personality of Sally. Do you agree?’

  ‘Oh, Albert, it’s too lovely! I can’t tell you how much I admire it.’ Her voice shook a little. (‘Albert, Albert, darling, I do love you so much!’)

  The picture, which was small and square, was painted with a curious precision of detail which gave it rather a Victorian aspect, but in spite of this the general design could have been achieved at no time but the present.