Mr Holt was the next arrival. He came in a very evil mood, having had to travel by the branch line to Rushwater and be driven up in the Ford. The calculated effect of his arrival was entirely spoilt by finding a large room full of people talking at the tops of their voices, through which even Gudgeon’s clarion tones could not penetrate. He stood swelling with rage for a few moments, alone and neglected, till Mary caught sight of him.
‘How do you do, Mr Holt?’ she said. ‘I am Mary Preston. I was here the last time you came.’
‘Doubtless, doubtless,’ said Mr Holt, offering her a flabby hand. ‘I fear I am almost an intruder here among so many.’
‘Of course not,’ said Mary. ‘Lady Emily isn’t receiving guests herself, because she is rather tired with the heat. You will find her on her long chair by the window. Come and have some tea.’
She piloted Mr Holt to the tea-table and did her best to placate him by describing Miss Stevenson, whose importance at Broadcasting House she greatly exaggerated, and her anxiety to meet him. Her wiles were successful, and in a short time Mr Holt became his own simple, selfish self again.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I must not further delay in presenting my respects to my hostess. Will you conduct me thither, Miss Preston? Ah, there she is, in her chair. Dear Lady Emily, how grateful I am to you for bidding me to your delightful house once more. And on such an occasion as our young friend Martin’s birthday, too. But before you take me to your garden, of which I unfortunately saw so little last time I was here, may I lay a humble petition at your feet? I am again going on to my dear friend Lady Norton, but I fear she cannot have me till the day after tomorrow. May I therefore trespass upon your kindness for two nights instead of the one for which you so kindly asked me? I should also beg your chauffeur of his kindness to convey me thither.’
Lady Emily, who had closed her eyes during the latter part of this speech, now made a delicious despairing grimace at Mary.
‘Of course you must stay, Mr Holt,’ she said. ‘As for Weston driving you, I’m sure he will if he is free, but I’ll have to ask my husband. Come and tell me all about Lady Capes. I haven’t heard from her since you were last here. Or you want to see the garden, don’t you? Dodo, darling,’ she called to Lady Dorothy Bingham, ‘I know you hate cricket. Will you take Mr Holt round the garden? He is a tremendous authority.’
‘Of course,’ said Lady Dorothy in a deep voice. ‘I need some exercise after motoring all the way,’ and seizing on Mr Holt she carried him away. As she knew a great deal about gardening, had an excellent opinion of her own genius, and was a powerful walker, Mr Holt derived but little pleasure from the expedition. The pleasant saunter with an admiring hostess which he had promised himself was changed to a brisk walk with a woman who contradicted and bullied him and, except for being a duke’s daughter, was in every way abhorrent to him. His evil mood, which Mary’s flattery had dispelled, came upon him again in full force, nor was it softened by being put in what he considered an inferior bedroom and having to wait for his bath while David soaked interminably.
So it was with no particular pleasure that he found himself placed at dinner between Lady Dorothy whom he feared and Mary whom he considered beneath his notice. David was on Mary’s other side, and never had he been more charming and amusing.
‘You look quite divine in that frock,’ he said to her after the fish, ‘not so lovely as Agnes, but quite divine.’
Agnes was indeed radiant in loveliness. Her white neck and arms, her exquisite complexion, her dark hair and eyes, were like something out of a Victorian novel. Her white lace dress, her diamond necklace and earrings, all helped to make a vision of dazzling beauty.
‘You will give me a lot of dances, won’t you?’ David continued. ‘I want to have a good lump of them, about halfway down your programme. Where is your bag? Do you really like it?’
Mary showed him the bag he had given her, lying on her lap.
‘I got one like it for Joan,’ said David. ‘It is a jolly thing, isn’t it?’
Again Mary nearly burst with rage and mortification. The bag which was her special present from David turned out to be only the duplicate of Miss Stevenson’s. Probably David had bought six, had bought a hundred, had given them to every girl he had ever met. Miss Stevenson had been perfectly right in calling him fiend angelical. Before she could think of anything really cutting to say, David had begun to talk to his cousin, Hermione Bingham, on his other side. Mary turned to Mr Holt, but he was firmly engaged by Lady Dorothy, so there was nothing for it but to eat her dinner and try to look happy. There was evidently little chance of talking to Mr Holt, which, much as she disliked him, would be better than being odd man out. Mr Leslie, on Lady Dorothy’s other side, was indulging in a heavy flirtation with Rose Bingham, whose impertinent vivacity had great charm for elderly gentlemen. Beyond Rose, John was talking to Agnes.
‘Don’t you think Mary looks lovely in the frock I chose for her?’ said Agnes, whose methods were simple and direct.
‘Yes, delightful.’
‘I want you to be very nice to her tonight,’ his sister continued. ‘I want her to have a very happy evening.’
‘There will be lots of younger men,’ said John, half-seriously.
‘But not so nice as you, John dear. It was at a ball that I got engaged to Robert. He took me into supper and a waiter spilled some coffee all down his shirt-front and I said, “Oh, Colonel Graham, that coffee will stain your shirt.” So he asked if he could have the next dance but two, and he went straight back to his rooms and put on a clean shirt and came back and proposed to me.’
‘Darling Agnes, that is very helpful. And what did Robert say exactly when he proposed? That might help me too.’
Agnes looked gratified.
‘I don’t exactly remember,’ she said, ‘but it was something about Mother, and I said that sounded very nice, so we got engaged.’
Not really very helpful, after all, thought John. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure if he had the courage to think of getting engaged, even if Mary would look at him. In the summer-house, in the still morning heat, Gay, that gentle ghost, had slipped from his grasp, leaving him alone and free. His thoughts which had lingered for so many years among the shadows of love had now all winged their way back to his heart, free for fresh adventure. He had known, ever since he heard Mary sing in the candlelit drawing-room, that she might give a haven to these thoughts, but some feeling of loyalty to Gay, some fear of using Mary’s compassion, had held him back. Gay had withdrawn herself now, content to be forgotten. Could Mary care for him except through pity? Kind she had called him, but gratitude for kindness can be very far from love. Shaken and bewildered he could only let the evening bring forth its own fruits. If they were bitter, he could taste them without shrinking. He looked across the table at Mary, still deserted by both her neighbours, and was deeply disturbed by the smile she sent him. Such open and confident affection as he read in her look made him half-afraid to trouble her serenity.
Before he could reply to Agnes, Mr Macpherson had claimed her to take part in a discussion with Lady Emily and Martin. Lady Emily had told Gudgeon that the servants must come in and drink Martin’s health after dinner, and Martin, who till now had borne up under his birthday honours, felt that this was too much.
‘Oh, I say, Gran,’ he remonstrated, ‘if I saw Gudgeon and Conk drinking my health, I’d feel an awful fool.’
‘But they will be so disappointed, Martin,’ said his grandmother. ‘Conque told me today how much they were all looking forward to it. When Papa and Mamma had their golden wedding, Papa had all the servants in and everybody cried.’
‘Oh, I say, Gran, we don’t want Conk crying,’ said Martin.
‘It is so sad that Nannie and Ivy can’t both be here,’ said Agnes, ‘but someone must stay with the children. Ivy went to the concert, so Nannie is coming in this evening. She will be able to tell the children about it at their breakfast tomorrow.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll hav
e to, Martin,’ said Mr Macpherson. ‘It’s expected, and there’s no more to be said.’
Martin became as nearly sulky as anyone is on his seventeenth birthday. But besides a general wish to please his grandmother, another thought struck him.
‘All right, Gran,’ he said, not ungraciously. ‘Let them all come. And I’ll give them a health to drink.’
Lady Emily was delighted and laid her hand approvingly on Martin’s arm. Gudgeon, who had been filling a number of glasses with such port as he considered suitable for the staff, then ushered in the housekeeper’s room and the servants’ hall in a body. Mr Macpherson made a short speech of congratulation and Martin’s health was drunk by everyone.
Martin, flushed and stammering and looking more attractive than ever, got up to speak.
‘Thanks most awfully, everyone,’ he said. ‘Grandfather and Gran have been jolly good to me and so have Uncle John and Aunt Agnes and David. And I wish it was my father making this speech, but as it isn’t, it can’t be helped. It’s most awfully decent of you all, it’s awfully decent of you, Gudgeon, and Siddy and Conk and everybody, and I’m most awfully grateful. And now I want you all to drink another health. Gudgeon, give them all some more of the fruity port. I’m going to ask you all to drink to our king and all the royal family.’
Everyone stood up. Martin, looking straight at Mary, emptied his glass and threw it on the floor defiantly. Mary understood. Others might be drinking to King George, to whom Martin wished every possible good, but only Mary knew that as he drank, not the bearded face of the King of England was in his mind’s eye, but the slightly vulpine features of the present duc de Guise.
‘Quite the right thing to do,’ said Mr Leslie to Lady Dorothy. ‘Quite right to drink the king’s health. I thought the boy was going to propose Emily and myself, and I didn’t know how I’d get through if he did. He’s a good lad. Heart in the right place. None of this bolshevism.’
‘I always cry when the king’s health is drunk,’ said Lady Emily. ‘Martin, you were splendid. It was just the right thing to do. I remember your father—What is it, Gudgeon?’
‘Beg pardon, my lady, but as Mr Martin’s glass is one of the special ones, I thought you might be relieved to know that it is not broke. It merely rolled under the table.’
‘Thank you, Gudgeon.’
If it were possible to turn pale when one had drunk far more champagne and port than one is used to, Martin would have done so. Were the omens against the house of Bourbon? He had succeeded in drinking their health and making all the guests and servants drink it. He had flung the glass from him that no less worthy toast might profane it. And now the glass had been picked up by Gudgeon, would be washed by Walter, and put away for future use. For the first time that day he felt depressed. But realising that he would disappoint his grandparents if he didn’t play up, he made a manful effort to be himself, and was rewarded by feeling much happier.
13
The Fall of the Lilies
Half an hour later Lady Emily, magnificent in blue velvet, sapphires and lace, was receiving her guests in the drawing-room, and the morning-room had been opened and the band was put on a platform at one end. So hot and windless was the night that the French windows on to the terrace were all open.
The vicarage party were among the early arrivals. Madame Boulle was astounding in dark red lace, Ursule looked far more prepossessing in virginal pale blue and was clinging as usual to Miss Stevenson, who carried off a rather daring affair in black satin with considerable success.
Madame Boulle was loud in her appreciation of the room, the lights, the toilettes, the guests. She said it reminded her of the balls which her grandmother the countess used to give, balls which were frequented by the highest members of the nobility. The French, she added, were famous through the whole world for the gaiety and entraînement of their balls, but there was, nevertheless, in an English ball, a certain solid comfort which was not always found in France.
‘Mais, écoute ce que je te dis, Martine,’ she continued, ‘there is one thing that is extremely English, namely your habit of celebrating the day of birth rather than the day of your saint. In France, Martine, your feast day would be the eleventh of November, the day of St Martin.’
But before she could expatiate fully on this subject, she was swept onwards by the rest of her family, Jean-Claude, who came last, saying in an audible aside to Martin:
‘We shall all be here till la Saint-Martin if maman goes on talking.’
His mother, overhearing, turned a baleful eye on him.
‘Have I to reproach you in public for insolence to your mother, Jean-Claude?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘And it seems to me that you have not yet wished many happy returns of the day to your comrade Martine. You are wanting in heart, Jean-Claude. Congratulate Martine at once.’
‘Many happy returns of The Day,’ said Jean-Claude, looking at Martin significantly. ‘Do you notice anything about me?’
‘You do look a bit blown out,’ said Martin. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘No, it is The Flag which is wound about me, under my waistcoat,’ said Jean-Claude.
‘Why didn’t you leave it in the cloakroom?’
‘The flag-bearer lives and dies with the flag,’ said Jean-Claude, simply and nobly.
Martin could have wished that Jean-Claude looked less peculiar, his grey satin waistcoat, obvious relic of Professor Boulle’s young days, distended by the lilies of France, but it was too late to make any comment.
Programmes were now rapidly being filled up. David brought Mary a programme in which his own name was written across numbers eight to twelve. The rest of her evening was quickly divided among Martin, Pierre, and various neighbours. John, coming a little late, found her almost booked up and was forced to be content with number seven and a possible extra at the end.
Pierre Boulle, faultlessly elegant, with a white carnation in his buttonhole, approached Agnes with a beating heart and asked for a dance.
‘But you must have more than one,’ said Agnes, pulling on her long white gloves. ‘Are you quite all right after getting so wet when you saved Emmy? You know it is astonishing that she didn’t catch cold, but ever since she had her tonsils out she has hardly caught cold at all. Before that she used to have terrible colds every winter. I can give you ten and eleven and twelve. It is so much nicer to go on dancing with one person, because if you dance with people for long you seem to get more used to them. And I must introduce you to my cousins, Hermione and Rose Bingham. You were kind enough to give them some tea, I think, so you know each other. That is all right.’
She laid her gloved hand on Pierre’s arm and led him to the Binghams. Pierre went through the form of asking the twins to dance, but his whole being was in turmoil at Agnes’s touch. Somehow he must live till the tenth dance. It would be difficult to live through such an eternity, but it should be done. Goddess of moonlight, of pearl, of snow, white Madonna, tour d’ivoire, said Pierre to himself.
‘I say, Mary,’ said Jean-Claude, catching at Mary as she went past.
‘What?’
‘Remember that at twelve o’clock precisely you ask the band to stop. And then we shall all play our parts. No harm can come to you,’ he added fiercely. ‘It will not be the first time Pierre and I have had an affair with the flics.’
‘With who?’
‘The police.’
‘But there aren’t any police here, Jean-Claude. Don’t worry about that. Aren’t you dancing?’
‘I do not dance,’ said Jean-Claude, who had forsworn that exercise for much the same reasons as Miss Stevenson. But here he spoke too soon, for Lady Dorothy Bingham, merciless to what she called ‘ballroom skulkers’, saw him standing about, ordered John to introduce him to her, and became his patroness. Not till he had miserably danced twice with her and once with each of the twins did he have the brilliant idea of introducing her to his mother. The master minds met, and recognised each other, and for the greater part of the evening they discus
sed the care and subjugation of a family. Lady Dorothy, who had three sons in the army, was for a time ahead, but Madame Boulle had a living husband, visible witness to her power, and scored heavily on this, as Mr Bingham had died meekly and miserably many years earlier.
‘What are you doing, Professor, eh?’ said Mr Leslie to Professor Boulle. ‘Not a dancing man?’
‘No, I only look on.’
‘Play bridge?’
The professor’s face lighted up. Bridge was his secret passion, discouraged by his wife, who, because she did not play, considered it a waste of time.
‘Contract?’ inquired Mr Leslie suspiciously, feeling that foreigners would probably not have got beyond beggar-myneighbour, or some peculiar game of their own which would end with knives and pistols.
‘But naturally. What else could one play?’
Mr Leslie hurried away, collected Mr Macpherson and a fourth man, and took them off to the library.
‘Quite safe here,’ he said. ‘Have some supper brought in here, if you like. Let the young people amuse themselves. What do you play, Professor? Half a crown a hundred? By the way, I suppose you play cards in English?’
‘Oh, yes. I have played a good deal with English friends.’
‘That’s all right. I mean, you have some queer names on the Continent. What’s No Trumps in French, Professor?’
‘Sans atouts.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Leslie reflectively. ‘Doesn’t sound natural, you know, though.’
*
Mary soon found Miss Stevenson with Ursule, and asked her to come and meet Mr Holt. As they went across the drawing-room she looked furtively at Miss Stevenson’s bag. It was of black satin with an initial on it in brilliants.
Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 19
