‘Jerry is sure to be rude to Marjorie Grummidge.’
‘Jerry is the son of the house, and surely can be polite to his mother’s friends for once.’
‘Hum!’ said the Duke, who detested the Marchioness of Grummidge with a cordiality that was heartily reciprocated.
‘Jerry has got Mrs Drummond-Taber on his other side, and she’s very beautiful and charming.’
‘She’s an awful wet blanket.’
‘He can talk for both of them. And I’ve given Belinda Croppingford to Peter. She’s lively enough.’
‘He hates women with green fingernails,’ objected the Duke. The Earl of Croppingford’s second marriage had disconcerted his friends and relatives. But he was the Duchess’s cousin on the mother’s side and, true to her standards, she made the best of him.
‘She’s the best-looking woman in London. Peter used to appreciate good looks.’
It crossed the Duke’s mind that there was a conspiracy to make Peter feel what he had missed. But he only said mildly, ‘Was it really necessary to invite Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke? She made herself a bit conspicuous about Peter two seasons ago.’
‘Not at all,’ said the Duchess sharply, adding rather inconsistently, ‘That was a long time ago. I must say I think it’s a pity he couldn’t have had the sense to marry her, if he had to marry somebody. It would have been much more suitable. But to say she made herself conspicuous is absurd. Besides, she’s Lady Stoate’s niece, and lives with her; we can’t ask Lady Stoate without her. And we had to have Lady Stoate, to bring this man Chapparelle.’
‘I don’t see why we want Chapparelle, if it comes to that. He’s a painter or something, isn’t he? What’s he doing in a family party?’
‘I really cannot understand you,’ said the Duchess. ‘First you complain that we have nobody to keep Harriet in countenance with books and art and that sort of thing, and then you object to Gaston Chapparelle. I don’t care for that type of person myself, as you know; but he’s painting everybody just now, and they say his work’s going to be valuable.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said the Duke. Clearly, the Duchess had set her mind on securing the right artist for a few additions to the family portrait-gallery. There was St George, of course, and next season, he supposed, his daughter Winifred. The Duchess had no taste, but an excellent business head. Buy early, was her motto, before the price ran up; and one could expect a proper discount for dinner and patronage.
‘He will take in Mrs Drummond-Taber,’ pursued the Duchess. ‘If he says anything peculiar, she won’t mind; no doubt Henry, being a publisher, has accustomed her to these odd, Bohemian people. And Belinda Croppingford will rather like it. He’ll have a good-looking woman on each side of him and Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke opposite. I can’t see what you’re making all the fuss about.’
The Duke saw plainly that his wife had already ‘placed’ a couple of portraits as a step towards pinning the painter down to her service. He resigned himself, as he usually did. And Lord St George, who – when he really put his mind to it – could wheedle his mother into almost anything, found himself unexpectedly in no position to argue. On the very morning of the dinner-party a piece of information reached his father’s ears which led to a row so long, loud and infuriated as to be memorable, even in the Wimsey annals.
‘How I’m to look your uncle in the face I don’t know,’ said the Duke, breathing stormily. ‘Every ha’penny will be paid back and docked off your allowance. And if I ever hear of anything of this sort again . . .’
So that when the young man voiced his reluctance to partner Lady Grummidge at table, the Duke, slamming over to his wife’s side with the noisy suddenness of a boom in a squall, thundered, ‘You will do as you are told!’ and settled the matter.
‘I hope,’ murmured the Duchess, ‘Peter is not going to be late. It would be just like him.’
Actually, she knew it would not be at all like him; he was punctual both by inclination and courtesy. But it would be like him to arrive last and so time his entrance for the most theatrically effective moment; and the other guests had played into his hands by putting in an exceptionally prompt appearance, as though unanimously resolved to miss nothing of whatever social sensation was likely to present itself. The Wimseys had returned from Paris only the previous afternoon; nobody had yet seen them; the scandal of the trial had whetted curiosity. They had also whipped up the sales of the bride’s novels, so that the notorious name of Harriet Vane on vivid green and orange jackets assaulted the eyes of her relations-in-law from every bookstall and bookseller’s window. The Hon. Henry Drummond-Taber, who, though an earl’s son and socially unimpeachable, had become a partner in the publishing firm of Bonne and Newte, appeared to consider this circumstance a matter for congratulation. The Duchess, suddenly sensing a commercial preoccupation behind his agreeable chatter, wondered whether she had not made a mistake in inviting him to Carlton House Terrace. Patronising fashionable foreign artists was one thing; helping to sell detective stories was another.
She said, graciously smiling, ‘Of course, Harriet won’t really need to do any writing now that she is married. And her time will be very much occupied.’
Mr Drummond-Taber sighed. ‘Our women authors ought to sign a penalty contract debarring them from matrimony,’ he said, with feeling. ‘Still, we mustn’t be pessimistic.’
In the meantime the dowager Lady Stoate, who looked like a faded photograph of Queen Victoria, and was one of the most inquisitive and irrepressible old women in London, had flung Gaston Chapparelle into the unwelcoming arms of Lady Grummidge, and was bombarding her host with every kind of unnecessary question about ‘the murder’. The Duke, stolidly disclaiming all inner knowledge, uneasily watched his son, who, neglectful of his duty to the distinguished and elderly, had attached himself to Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke. By the look on his face, he was being both malicious and indiscreet. Lord Grummidge and Lord Croppingford had got together to talk about drainage on rural estates.
Lady Grummidge, disentangling herself from Gaston Chapparelle, and casting a vicious glance at Lady Croppingford’s viridian green frock, addressed herself in ringing tones to the Duchess: ‘I am afraid, Helen dear, I am not very gaily attired for this festive occasion; but really, with this distressing news from Sandringham, gaiety seems scarcely appropriate.’
The footman at this moment announced, ‘Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey,’ and so launched the pair, like consort ships, on the interminable voyage up the long drawing-room, under a crossfire of scrutiny from the harbour by the fireplace.
Gaston Chapparelle, whose business it was to read the mind in the face, and was, moreover, well primed by the gossip of Lady Stoate, took one glance and said to himself: ‘Oh, oh! It’s defiance, I see. Amazing! Madame la duchesse wrongfooted at a stroke. Exquisite dress in perfect taste; three incomparable rubies. What can one say? Is she pretty? Not at all; but, cristi! What a figure! And strong character. She’ll acquit herself well, that one. But the clue to the enigma is the husband. Il est formidable, mon dieu, the little white sparrowhawk . . .’
And as the greetings went round he added inwardly, ‘This is going to be vastly amusing.’
The Duke approached the new Lady Peter Wimsey with some apprehension. He had met her before, of course, during the period of the engagement, but there had always been somebody – his wife, Peter, the Dowager Duchess of Denver – to bear the brunt of the conversation. Now, for the next five minutes or so anyway, he would have to do what he could with her, unassisted. He was exceedingly conscious that Oxford-trained female novelists were not in his line of country. He opened tentatively: ‘Well, how have you been getting on?’
‘Very well, thank you. We had a lovely time in Paris. And the house is simply perfect. Oh, and now I’ve seen your tapestries in place, I must thank you all over again. They’re absolutely right, and so beautiful.’
‘Glad you like them,’ said the Duke. He could not in the least remember what the tapestries were like, though he dim
ly remembered that his energetic mother had pitched upon them as a suitable and valuable wedding present with interesting family associations. There was something he felt he ought to say, though he did not quite know how to approach it.
‘Afraid you had a stiffish sort of time over that murder and so on. Sorry about that.’
‘Well, it was rather an unfortunate thing to happen. But it couldn’t be helped. One must just try and forget about the bad bits.’
‘That’s right,’ said the Duke. He glanced uneasily at the assembled company, and added impulsively, ‘They’ll keep on asking questions. Bunch of tabbies. Pay no attention.’ His sister-in-law smiled gratefully at him. In a low voice he asked, ‘How’s Peter taking it?’
‘He was badly worried, but I think he’s got over it now.’
‘Good. Looking after you properly?’
‘Splendidly.’
Something reassuring in the tone of that. The Duke examined his sister-in-law with more attention. It dawned upon him that, brains or no brains, the general shape or appearance of what sat beside him did not differ markedly from those of other women. He said earnestly, ‘I’m glad of that. Very glad.’
Harriet read the genuine anxiety in his face. ‘It’s going to be all right, Gerald. Really and truly.’
The Duke was surprised, and could think of nothing to say except: ‘That’s splendid.’ He felt that in some way a confidential relation had been set up between them. He lost his head and plunged recklessly: ‘I told ’em they’d better leave Peter alone. He’s old enough to know what he wants.’
Having thus delivered his family into the enemy’s hands, he became embarrassed, and fell silent.
‘Thank you. I’ll try to see he gets it.’
The announcement that dinner was served saved him from committing himself further, and threw him into the ready conversational clutch of Lady Grummidge.
It was ridiculous, thought the Duchess, lending half an ear to Grummidge on sanitation, to imagine that Peter did not like Lady Croppingford; he was provoking her to little spurts of laughter – quite an achievement, surely, at the soup stage of the proceedings. Lady Croppingford was, in fact, delivering a merciless assault on her neighbour’s sensibilities, and he was clowning his way through, exhibiting distress only by a fixed vacuity of countenance, and a tendency to drop all his ‘g’s. St George, with a mutinous expression, was listening to Lady Grummidge; she was probably rebuking him for having spent his vacation in Shropshire. On the other side of the table, Lord Croppingford and Lady Stoate, Henry Drummond-Taber and Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke were conversing smoothly in pairs. Only the beautiful Mrs Drummond-Taber sat silent and aloof; Gaston Chapparelle, having finished his soup with unnecessary haste, was not attempting to entertain her, but was gazing in an abstracted way at Harriet. A Frenchman should have better manners, even if he was an artist. To do Harriet justice, she was doing nothing to attract notice; she was talking quietly to her brother-in-law, and her oyster satin, though obviously expensive, was discreetly cut. Fortunately, Mrs Drummond-Taber did not seem to notice that she was being neglected. Somebody had once told her that she achieved an exquisite repose, and she was rather given to displaying this achievement.
Nevertheless, the Duchess felt it her duty to draw Miss Sylvester-Quicke into conversation with Lord Grummidge and remove Peter’s attention from Lady Croppingford, when, in a momentary lull, she heard Harriet say cheerfully to Drummond-Taber: ‘You’d better go on calling me Miss Vane; it’ll be far less confusing.’
It was Lady Grummidge’s face that informed Harriet of the shock she had (quite unthinkingly) administered to the company.
The Duke said with unwonted quickness, ‘I suppose that’s the usual thing, what? I never thought about it.’
‘Well,’ said the publisher, ‘some authors like it one way, and some the other. And they’re often very particular about it. It’s simpler for us, of course, to use the name that appears on the title page.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t do to change that,’ observed Lady Grummidge.
‘Oh, no,’ said Harriet, ‘readers would never remember.’
‘Are the husbands consulted beforehand?’ enquired Lady Grummidge.
‘I cannot,’ said Peter, ‘speak for husbands as a class. I was consulted and agreed with alacrity.’
‘With what?’ asked Lady Stoat.
‘Alacrity,’ said Peter. ‘It gives one the illusion that one has a mistress as well as a wife, which is obviously gratifying.’
The Duchess said coldly, ‘How absurd you are, Peter!’
‘Well,’ said Lady Grummidge, ‘we shall all look forward to the new book. Unless, of course, my dear, you find a husband and family a full-time job, as some of us do.’
‘Job?’ said the Duke, exploding, as he occasionally did, in a quite unexpected direction. ‘My dear Marjorie, what do you know about jobs? You should see some of my cottagers’ wives. Bring up six children with all the cooking and washing to do and a hard day’s work on the land as well. Pull down jolly good wages, too, some of them. Damned if I know how they manage it.’
The Duke had certainly succeeded in changing the subject of conversation, but having reproved Lady Grummidge with unusual emphasis, he hastened to make amends with a prolonged exchange of society gossip.
This left Harriet at the mercy of Lord Croppingford, and the Duke wondered how they were getting on. What in the world would Croppingford make of a woman who didn’t know one end of a horse from the other? He heard the loud, cheerful voice begin on the weather, and the hunting season, and was seized by an inexplicable impulse to dart to the rescue.
Lady Grummidge said reprovingly, ‘Gerald, you’re not attending . . .’
‘Never ridden in your life?’ said Croppingford, shocked, but trying not to show it.
‘Only on a donkey at Margate, when I was six. But I’ve always madly wanted to try.’
‘Well, well,’ said Croppingford. ‘We must get you out.’
‘Yes – but tell me, is thirty-three too old to learn to ride without looking silly and making a nuisance of oneself? Honestly? I don’t want to behave like the comic female in Punch, always getting in the way and being shouted at.’
‘I’m sure you’re not that sort,’ said Lord Croppingford, warming to his subject. ‘Now, look here, if I were in your place, this is what I’d do . . .’
‘Are you hoping,’ enquired Miss Sylvester-Quicke, ‘to include the next Harriet Vane in your autumn list?’
‘We all hope,’ said Drummond-Taber. ‘But to take active steps in the matter would be, as the Americans put it, unethical.’ One had to watch one’s step, he reflected, with this girl; she was suspected of supplying gossip paragraphs to the Sunday papers.
‘Can she really write? I suppose she can. Those foreheady people do as a rule. Peter’s looking washed-out, don’t you think? A honeymoon and a murder both at once seem to have been too much for him.’
Henry Drummond-Taber said carefully that murders in real life must have their trying side.
‘It doesn’t seem to have affected her much. But, of course, she’s used to it. I mean, I suppose she looks on it all as good copy. Anyway, it’s refreshing to see a bride and bridegroom so healthily detached. None of that their-eyes-sought-one-another-across-the-table touch which is so embarrassing. The Harwells do it still – quite indecent, after two years. They’re coming back to town next week, aren’t they? Is it true that Chapparelle is going to paint her?’
The publisher admitted that he had heard as much.
‘I think he’s a most alarming man. Did you see those terribly revealing portraits he did of Lady Camshaft and Mrs Hartley-Skeffington? Of course they can’t see what everybody else sees. It’s too comic. But it’s the done thing to be turned inside out by Chapparelle. I suppose it’s a kind of vicarious exhibitionism.’
‘Is it?’
‘You’re looking rather shocked. Don’t say he’s promised to paint your wife, or anything! But I’m sure her psyc
he is robust enough to stand exposure. I don’t believe she could possibly have an inhibition or a repression or anything with that face; like the Venus of Milo, isn’t she?’
‘She is, rather,’ agreed Drummond-Taber, who admired his wife’s looks very much.
‘I think she’s quite the most beautiful person I know. She could let any painter do his most Freudian. But I should be terrified.’
Mr Drummond-Taber deduced, quite correctly, that Miss Sylvester-Quicke would give both her ears to be painted by Gaston Chapparelle.
With the arrival on the table of dessert Peter turned to his wife. ‘Have you anything to say to me, upon the present occasion, Harriet?’ he said in a low voice.
‘Nothing, my lord,’ said Harriet, aware that all eyes were upon them, and pauses were occurring in the flow of talk.
‘Well, conversation can perhaps be overvalued,’ said Peter. ‘Suppose a wife to be of a studious or argumentative turn, it would be very troublesome, for instance, if a woman should continually dwell upon the subject of the Arian heresy.’
‘I think I can undertake not to do that. But as to studious conversation . . .’
‘Later, Josephine?’
‘Later she planted a rose garden,’ said Harriet.
‘So she did,’ said Peter. ‘And so, should you wish to, Harriet, you shall.’
The Duke circulated the port. He would permit no interference with this ancient ritual. Men might drink less than their fathers, but they must drink after the same prescribed fashion. Lord Grummidge put forward a few words on politics. Lord Croppingford returned to the subject of sport. Drummond-Taber, who disliked port, but remembered that Peter had a palate for it, put a tactful question about vintage years. Lord St George sat in uneasy silence, wondering whether he would be able to get a word in with his uncle before his father got hold of him. Gaston Chapparelle sat listening, his full lips amused in the shadow of his beard. Suddenly Lord Croppingford addressed him, with a bland and wholly unconscious insolence, as though he were ordering a mutton chop.
Thrones, Dominations Page 3
