Pearls

by Celia Brayfield

He pushed her back on the scented grass. ‘I’ll give you something?’

  ‘A ring?’

  ‘More important. Can’t you guess? I’ll show you. Shut your eyes.’

  The sun shone red through her closed eyelids. She heard him moving rapidly nearby, then there was something hot and smooth touching her lips.

  ‘Have some to try now,’ he suggested, devilment in his voice. She snapped her eyes open. He had pulled off all his clothes and was holding the neat, narrow head of his erect penis to her mouth.

  ‘Trust you!’ Cathy hit him as hard as she could and jumped to her feet. ‘Trust you to think of some schoolboy gag to spoil everything.’

  He capered around her chanting, like a Cockney barrow boy: ‘Try before you buy! Nice’n’ripe’n’juicy! Fresh pricks – they’re luvverly! Get your fresh prick’ere!’

  The dog, alarmed, scrambled up and bolted straight behind his feet, and the naked Charlie tripped and fell into the wall of harsh bracken with a yell.

  Cathy was laughing as she pulled him upright when a group of beaters appeared at a crossroads in the covert and stood stock still with embarrassment. Charlie addressed them with exuberance.

  ‘Don’t think the worst of this lovely girl, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce her to you. You should be the first to know. My wife-to-be, the pure, the delightful Miss Catherine Bourton!’ To Cathy’s amazement the men who were wearing caps tugged at the peaks and the group made a general bow in her direction. ‘Soon, of course, to be the new Countess of Laxford!’

  The months that followed sped past like the landscape outside an express train. A marriage between two great families like the Coseleys and the Bourtons is generally a matter for lengthy and detailed negotiation on a scale which would not be inadequate for the United Nations General Assembly. Mr Napier, the most junior of the solicitors at Pasterns who dealt with the Bourton trust, spent several afternoons with the Coseley lawyers finding the most advantageous way to join the two of them in law.

  ‘Why is it so difficult? I thought I had no worldly goods to endow anyone with,’ Cathy asked.

  ‘It’s largely a notional issue, of course. The Coseleys are after some fancy footwork to help them, though it would involve the technical bankruptcy of your father’s estate, which I assumed you wouldn’t want. But there may be other ways we can accommodate them.’

  Cathy felt at times as if she were being made to do a quickstep in a social minefield. The next delicate matter to be resolved was that there was simply no money available for the wedding and reception from the traditional source of matrimonial finance, the bride’s father.

  ‘Why be such a perfectionist, darling?’ reasoned Davina, who had lived a life of triumphant extravagance. ‘You don’t need a ghastly gaggle of children following you up the aisle. Two bridesmaids will be quite enough. And you can economize on the flowers and …’

  ‘I don’t feel I want to make compromises about my wedding.’ Cathy eyed the budget with anxiety. ‘My wedding day is something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.’

  ‘But it is only one day, darling, and I’m sure you’ll be far too busy to remember anything about it. All I can remember about my wedding was the awful smell of the flowers – hyacinths, I think they were. Too sick-making. I nearly fainted.’

  Now that the season was over, Cathy, Caroline and Monty were still living with their grandmother at Trevor Square. But while Caroline and Monty were reluctantly dragging themselves through the last weeks of secretarial college, Cathy had been sent to a cooking school in Chelsea to learn the art of finding her way to a man’s heart through his stomach.

  ‘It’s quite obvious Didi thinks her job’s finished now that I’m engaged,’ she confided to Monty when they met for a lunchtime cappuccino in a coffee bar. ‘Do you know, they even tried to make me get married in the chapel at Bourton? You couldn’t get more than fifty people in there if you herded them in at gunpoint.’ Monty sprinkled brown sugar over the foam in her cup, then started skimming it off with her spoon.

  ‘How can you stand it, Cathy? They’re treating you like a prize heifer. I bet the Coseley mob will be the same, once you’ve given them their heir. Off to the abattoir with the useless carcass once the bull-calf is weaned.’

  ‘Monty! Don’t say such awful things. I know you don’t mean them.’

  ‘You know I mean every word, that’s the trouble.’

  Cathy was half-admiring, half-disapproving of her sister’s talent for outrage. ‘You’re not really going to move in with Simon, are you?’ she asked. ‘There’ll be hell to pay. Mummy will go mad.’

  ‘Well, he’s found the perfect apartment now, and it’ll be decorated the way he wants soon. But Mummy is the least of my worries. I’ve simply got to get the Pill somehow. There’s no way I can live with Simon and sleep with him every night and not go all the way.’

  ‘Well why don’t you get married?’

  Monty frowned. The truth was that she could not believe a man would ever want to marry her, because she was wicked and rebellious and not as pretty as Cathy. But she told Cathy what she told herself. ‘You don’t understand. I don’t believe in marriage. I want to live with a man because I love him and want to be with him, and I want him to live with me for the same reason, and that reason only, not a legal obligation. And I don’t want to end up bitter and frustrated like our mother, or an old harpy like Simon’s mother. Isn’t that enough reason?’

  ‘But it isn’t being married that makes them so awful …’ Cathy paused. She could think of no apparent reason why none of the married women they knew presented the picture of perfect contentment which she imagined a wife became for life on her wedding day. She changed the subject. ‘Do you know what I’m really going to hate about marrying Charlie? I’ll hate missing you, I know I will.’

  ‘But you won’t miss me – I’ll be around.’

  ‘I know, but it won’t be the same. You don’t like Charlie, do you?’

  ‘I don’t have to like him, you’re the one that’s marrying him. But I won’t stay away just because of Charlie. You’ll see, we’ll have lots of time to be together, probably more than now because you won’t be studying. And you’ll be able to tell me all about married life.’ Monty squeezed her sister’s narrow, long-fingered hand in sympathy, noticing that she had been biting her nails. This little lapse from perfection was touching.

  ‘Will you do something for me, Monty – a favour? A big favour?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t move in with Simon until after the wedding. Please, Monty. There’ll be such rows and it’s bad enough now, with everyone squabbling about the guest-list.’

  Monty agreed. ‘OK. For you. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, mind. Even Simon can’t move in yet. The flat’s going to be full of builders for a couple of months, anyway.’ In a matter-of-fact tone, Monty went on. ‘Have you done it with Charlie yet?’

  ‘Done what? Should you really eat all that sugar, if you’re supposed to be on a diet?’ Cathy was acting dumb out of hostility. Monty dunked another spoonful of demerara sugar in her cup.

  ‘I mean, big sister, are you still in a state of maiden grace?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Go on – tell. I bet you’re not. I bet you’ve let him have his evil way with you.’

  ‘I bet you’re not.’

  ‘Yes I am. I’d give anything not to be, though.’ Monty sighed.

  Merely thinking about making love launched a visible ripple of langour over her features. Cathy did not care for her sister’s capacity for sensuality, mainly because Charlie had called her frigid so many times that she was beginning to fear that she might be sexually inadequate in some way.

  ‘Well, why don’t you go on the Pill?’

  ‘You can’t buy it in Woolworth’s, you know. You have to get it from a doctor, and the doctor won’t give if to you if you aren’t married.’

  ‘There must be some doctors who won’t ask questions.’

  ‘But
where do I find one?’

  Cathy shrugged. ‘Isn’t there something else you can do not to get pregnant? French letters or something?’

  Monty gave a pout of distaste. ‘I want it to be beautiful, the first time Simon and I really make love. I want it to be a way of expressing everything we feel about each other; like a sacrament – the outward and physical sign. Sordid bits of rubber would spoil it.’

  ‘Still, at least you wouldn’t have to worry about getting pregnant.’

  ‘Oh yes we would. Simon says half the contraceptive factories have been infiltrated by Catholics who don’t approve of birth control so they deliberately put holes in them.’

  They were talking in quieter and quieter voices. The practical aspects of sexual intercourse were not a subject fit to be discussed in a public place by young women.

  ‘You don’t really believe that, Monty?’

  ‘No of course not – but what I hate are all those awful sniggering schoolboy jokes about French letters. They aren’t anything to do with how Simon and I feel about each other. Surely, you love Charlie, don’t you feel the same?’ Monty spoke as if she found it very difficult to believe that anyone could love Charlie Coseley. Her disapproval was so obvious that her sister was offended.

  ‘When Charlie and I go to bed, I’ll be offering myself to my husband on our wedding night,’ Cathy snapped. ‘It’s not the same thing at all.’

  Monty snatched up the gauntlet. ‘No it isn’t, is it? You’re just trading sex for his name, his title and his money, and he’s just out to fuck everything that moves and the only reason he’s marrying you is that it’s the only way he’ll get into your knickers. That’s not my idea of love.’

  ‘It’s none of your damn business, Monty.’ Cathy coldly paid for their coffees and stood up, tucking a threepenny piece under her saucer for the waitress. ‘You’re just jealous because I’m getting married and you’re not.’

  They walked along the crowded King’s Road to Sloane Square, both aflame with hostility.

  ‘You’re the one that ought to be jealous! You must be the only bird in London who doesn’t know what Charlie’s up to,’ Monty snarled. ‘Try going round to April Henessy’s house, and see whose E-Type is parked outside!’

  As they reached the square, Cathy dealt her sister a ringing slap in the face, then without a word turned and vanished through Peter Jones, the store where the furnishings for her future home were to be made. She was violently angry because Monty had voiced a doubt which had been nagging at her for weeks. Once he had put the massive, sapphire engagement ring on her finger, Charlie’s playful resignation had switched to a mood of angry impatience.

  ‘What the hell are you keeping it for now?’ he had yelled at her with fury when she again refused him. ‘You’ve got the ring on your finger, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? What do you think you’ve got between your legs, anyway – the Crown Jewels?’ Once more he had left her on a note of savage petulance, but this time the telephone had not rung again the next day, or even the next week. She saw a picture in the Daily Express of Charlie with his polo team in Paris, and told herself this was the explanation.

  He had reappeared after a fortnight in a much more pleasant mood, but there had been none of the irresistible apologies to which she had become accustomed, just an offhand resumption of the outward show of their relationship, with dates in London and weekends at one or other of the Coseley houses. He no longer pressured her for sex, or tried to cut her out of the herd of their friends to be alone with her at every opportunity. In fact, he treated her as if she were barely present in his life. Maybe Monty was right, maybe there was another woman.

  With sudden weariness she made her way to the soft furnishings department and tried not to think of Charlie at all as she ordered curtains for the impressive house he had bought in Royal Avenue. Worst of all, Monty was the only person in whom Cathy dared to confide, and Monty, although she had tried to hide it until now, hated Cathy’s husband-to-be with a contemptuous passion. The warm, unquestioning love of her sister seemed to be threatened by the commitment she wanted to make to her future husband. She was dismayed; life without Monty being always there for confidences and support suddenly looked bleak.

  Cathy sighed as she signed the order form, no longer excited by the twenty-five-foot sweep of turquoise silk she had decided upon for the drawing room curtains, or the question of when and how they should be lined, interlined, weighted, headed, hung and allowed to drop before they were hemmed.

  One winter weekend, Lord Shrewton led her into the library for a private talk.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard from our people yet, but they seem to have reached an agreement on the marriage settlement, and I wanted to have a word with you about it. I don’t suppose,’ he gave her his wintery twinkle of a grin, ‘my son has mentioned any of the details, if he even understands them. Briefly, I would have liked to be able to frame the arrangements more precisely so that you would be taken care of if – in the unhappy event of – should it happen that …’

  ‘If we ever got divorced, you mean?’ Cathy broke in to help him.

  ‘Precisely. It seems a little cold-blooded to talk about divorce before the wedding and of course we sincerely hope the arrangements are never put to the test. But I wanted to explain to you that the whole thrust of the trust deeds with which Charlie’s money is tied up is towards the long-term interest of the family, rather than individuals. I gather the lawyers have decided to continue in the same vein, and detail a separate provision for your heir, assuming you have one.’

  Cathy grasped his concern immediately. ‘I think it was just the same for me in my family. All the money was really ours, not our father’s.’

  ‘Precisely. Rather than make a separate provision for you as Charlie’s wife, the lawyers have agreed that everything will go to your heirs. But one assumes the children will stay with the mother so it will come to the same thing if – er – well –’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Excellent. You’re very quick on the uptake. Maybe you’d like to come and work for me in the bank one day. Some of our chaps seem to have difficulty getting the gist of a bus ticket.’ He poked the fire briskly and rubbed his hands. ‘All the preparations going well? Worse than starting a war, planning a wedding, so they tell me.’

  The more Cathy saw of her future father-in-law, the easier she felt with his practical style. She didn’t find him frightening any more; in fact, it amused her to see him snap comments and bark orders, now that she understood he deliberately used his intimidating persona to get what he wanted with the minimum fuss. Cathy felt brave enough to confide at least one of her worries to him.

  ‘Do you think we ought to have the wedding at Bourton? All my family are absolutely set on it, but I know Charlie wants a big London wedding. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s your wedding and you should have whatever you want. And I suppose you want what Charlie wants, am I right?’ She nodded eagerly.

  ‘Well, I don’t see why the Bourton family should foot the bill for my son’s extravagant tastes. I don’t suppose Hugo Bourton does either, if I know your uncle. We’ll see what we can do.’ She darted forward and gave his smooth, dry cheek a quick kiss of gratitude, causing the astute Marquess to blush.

  The next week Cathy got a letter from Mr Napier at Pasterns enclosing a bundle of legal papers which she dutifully attempted to read, and with a final paragraph informing her that ten thousand pounds was being transferred to her bank account as a personal gift from the Marquess of Shrewton. He also offered an apartment in one of the estate’s London terraces in Belgravia to Bettina.

  That evening there was also a strangled telephone call from Charlie’s mother, suggesting that the wedding reception be held at the Coseleys’London home. ‘After all,’ she explained, ‘it is one of the few ballrooms in London still in private hands, and it seems such a shame that we hardly ever use it.’

  In the dreary winter, Cathy learned how to
make waterlilies out of tomatoes and baskets out of lemons in the cookery school, and spent hours with Lord Shrewton’s secretary checking the list of wedding guests. She addressed five hundred and twenty-three engraved invitations with her own aching hand, went to Garrard’s with Lady Davina to choose a tiara that would sit attractively under her veil, without making her feel as if her head were being sliced open like a breakfast egg.

  From Jean Muir, she ordered a high-waisted wedding dress of heavy white silk which made her appear slimmer and more graceful than ever, and six small lace-bordered gowns in forget-me-not blue for the bridesmaids. She talked bouquets, posies, buttonholes and table centres with the florists, suprémes de volaille with the Coseleys’ cook, and crowd-control with their butler.

  All this Cathy did quite alone. She apologized to Monty and the sisters fell into each other’s arms with tears in their eyes, promising never to fight again, but Cathy did not dare test her sister’s goodwill by asking for her help with the wedding. Bettina abruptly refused the offer of a London apartment, preferring to remain with her bridge club circle. Caroline was grimly jealous, Lady Davina absorbed with her next charity ball, the Marchioness, passive and hostile.

  Monty kept her word and told Simon that she would not move in with him until after the wedding, but there remained a definite estrangement between the sisters which wounded Cathy more than she would admit. She had decided to have six little bridesmaids and two pages, chosen from the plentiful supply of infants in distant branches of their families, but wished now that she had made Monty her bridesmaid as well, to keep her close through the ordeal. Charlie became more and more detached, and arrived an hour late for their interview with the vicar of the Holy Trinity, Brompton.

  Cathy awoke on the morning of her wedding day with a bleak sense of abandonment which she promptly crushed.

  ‘This is the happiest day of my life,’ she willed herself to believe, and fixed a serene smile under her veil as she took Uncle Hugo’s arm and set off between the endless corridor of men in morning suits and women in petal hats. A twinge of panic made her heart jump when she saw no one at the end of the aisle, but then Charlie, looking more handsome than ever, moved into her field of vision, and turned to smile at her. ‘That’s bad luck, he shouldn’t do that!’ she thought, half expecting the quiet phalanxes of guests to collapse in disarray at this impudent breach of convention; but, glancing from the corners of her eyes through the mist of her veil, she read only bland approval around her.