‘What a pretty bag,’ she hazarded.
‘I had it made to go with this dress,’ said Miss Stevenson. ‘Yours is pretty too. David gave me one like that, but it wasn’t in my style, so I gave it to my friend Lionel Harvest. He embroiders divinely and he is going to copy it.’
Mary hardly knew whether to be angry or jubilant. It was like that Miss Stevenson’s cheek to give away David’s bag to someone called Harvest. On the other hand, what a richly merited snub for David if only he knew. Mr Holt was found and the introduction effected.
Mr Holt, flattered at being approached by a representative of Broadcasting House, exerted himself to be pleasant. Miss Stevenson, who had just enough superficial knowledge of gardening to make a good show, made herself as agreeable as possible. Ursule giggled appreciatively.
Mr Holt suggested that they should all three go to the schoolroom where Lady Emily kept some of her valuable old gardening books, and there talk over the matter quietly. After the mortification of finding himself unnoticed in a large party, an attractive audience of two women was balm to his wounded spirit. Miss Stevenson was obviously clever, and the French girl was at least French.
‘And then,’ he added, ‘we can go into supper early, say about half-past eleven, and secure a table for ourselves before the crowd.’
The dance was now in full swing. Lady Emily, sitting on a sofa, watched the dancers and held a court. John made himself agreeable to any girls who looked deserted or shy, and occasionally came over to see his mother. When he went to claim Mary for their dance, he found her looking happy and excited.
‘I’m having a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘Everyone dances so well. Martin is very good. Pierre is a wonderful dancer, almost as good as you are. And after this I have five dances with David. John, I do like the Leslies.’
‘I think the Leslies like you.’
‘Do you really? Your father has been very kind to me. And Aunt Agnes looks so lovely, and Aunt Emily too.’
‘Now, stop chattering,’ said John, ‘and dance.’
They danced in silence and perfect accord. When the band finally stopped they went out on to the terrace. Moonlight lay on the world.
‘I wonder,’ said Mary presently, ‘what the summer-house looks like by moonlight.’
‘Would you like to go and see?’
‘Yes, do let’s. Oh, but there wouldn’t be time. I have the next dance with David and I mustn’t miss him.’
John took her back to the drawing-room and they waited by the window. The dance began, but no David came. Mary’s talk became nervous and disjoined, and her eyes wandered restlessly about the room. John, who was sorry for her, suggested dancing till David came, but Mary’s feet behaved foolishly and she was ashamed of herself. John, who was by now feeling annoyed with David, took Mary to the supper-room and asked her what she would like. She asked for champagne, and drank it quickly and angrily.
‘Shall we stay here for a bit?’ said John. ‘It is quiet and we can see David if he passes the door. I expect he has made a muddle of his programme, silly ass.’
‘But he wrote his name down himself,’ said Mary, showing John the programme.
‘Well, if he doesn’t turn up I shall cross his name right off your programme and put my own instead.’
‘Oh, not yet, not yet, please. Oh, there he is.’
John got up and went into the ballroom.
‘Look here, David,’ he said. ‘Mary has been waiting half this dance and all the last one for you. It isn’t good enough. Come along, and don’t try to cut any more dances. What were you doing?’
‘My dear chap,’ said David, taking John’s arm, ‘for the Lord’s sake don’t come the heavy brother over me. I got stuck with the twins somehow. I never know if it’s Hermione or Rose, and I didn’t notice which dance it was. I say, Mary, I am sorry and sorry and ten thousand times sorry. May I go down on my knees and ask forgiveness?’
He knelt down in supplication.
‘Get up, David, and don’t be an ass,’ said John unsympathetically. ‘Take Mary into the ballroom and don’t walk on her feet.’
David seized Mary and whirled her away. John watched them as they danced, Mary’s face upturned to David’s, oblivious of everything but the moment. There were no deserted girls standing about, so he slipped out on to the terrace and walked down to the bottom of the garden, where he sat on the brick wall, watching the moonlight on the stream, hearing the noises of restless birds and little animals, trying to choke down his anger against David, an anger which he was forced to recognise miserably as jealousy. To be jealous of one’s own younger brother was something at which one’s pride revolted, something which one must conquer at any cost. It was unreasonable to expect that Mary should think of him if David was about. Mary had enjoyed her one dance with him, he knew that without being told. But as soon as she thought of David her feather-light feet had dragged, her face had changed to uncertain expectancy, her talk had been abrupt, she had hardly heard or seen him. Well, good luck to David and good luck with all one’s heart – only he wasn’t quite good enough for Mary. He would always be the same charming, perfectly unreliable creature, delightfully selfish, quite heartless, if to have a heart meant pain for himself. Mary must surely see what he was like. Again and again he had let her down. The lunch, the strawberries, the dances tonight, all such little things, all to be such big things after a year of marriage.
He thought of Mary as she had been that morning in the summer-house when no thought of David’s presence was near them. How nearly he had told her that he loved her. Well, thank heaven, he hadn’t. If David meant the world to her, so it must be. But I must speak to her at once, he said to himself; she can only say no. So he sat on in the moonlight, seeing no way to his own happiness, afraid for Mary’s happiness, and in the distance the lights shone and the music sounded.
People were beginning to settle seriously to the business of supper when Mr Holt and his companions came into the dining-room. Mr Holt, an old campaigner, marked down the most secluded and comfortable table, made straight for it, pushed aside Lady Dorothy Bingham, who was moving in the same direction, apologised to her with fulsome courtesy while keeping himself well between her and the table, and finally established himself with Miss Stevenson and Ursule.
‘Now,’ said Mr Holt, picking up a menu, ‘what shall we have? Soup? Lobster salad? Chicken?’
‘Just a little lobster salad for me,’ said Miss Stevenson abstractedly.
‘Everything, please,’ said Ursule. ‘It is a very good supper and we should enjoy it.’
‘I applaud your decision, Miss Ursule,’ said Mr Holt. ‘I also shall begin with soup and proceed with the other courses.’
‘Well, so will I,’ said Miss Stevenson. ‘It is probably mere exhibitionism when I refuse food. One must check that in oneself. And what is more, we’ll have champagne.’
Ursule giggled. ‘I shall eat everything,’ she announced, ‘but I shall not drink champagne. Maman would be furious.’
‘Alas, champagne is forbidden to me,’ said Mr Holt. ‘A small whisky and soda is all I dare to take.’
‘Well, frankly, champagne doesn’t do me much good either,’ said Miss Stevenson. ‘Lemonade, please.’
Supper was a great success. Mr Holt, still delighted with his audience, was able to tell many of his anecdotes of the nobility and gentry which had once been so fresh. Ursule liked hearing all these noble names, and was thoroughly enjoying her large supper. Miss Stevenson observed Mr Holt seriously and intently. She had decided that he would be just the person to broadcast for her, and had obtained his not reluctant promise to come and see her at her office.
Suddenly Lady Dorothy Bingham was seen sweeping down upon them. Mr Holt looked anxious, fearing that she might bear malice for his capture of her table, but such was not the case.
‘I’m coming to sit with you people,’ she said in her hunting voice. ‘I want to talk to Mr Holt.’
‘How delightful,’ fluted Mr Holt. ‘
And pray, Lady Dorothy, allow me to introduce Miss Stevenson and Miss Boulle.’
‘I think Lionel Harvest is a nephew of yours,’ said Miss Stevenson. ‘He is under me at Broadcasting House.’
‘Is he? Queer boy, Lionel. I’d let my girls go out with him, but I don’t know that I’d let my boys.’ Here Lady Dorothy laughed the laugh before which every fox in her division of the county quailed. ‘He’ll come into four thousand a year though when old General Harvest dies.’
Miss Stevenson registered this statement with her well-trained brain.
‘Now, Mr Holt,’ continued Lady Dorothy, ‘I want you to come and see my garden. Emily doesn’t want you. She as good as told me so. You come with me and the girls tomorrow and we’ll have an afternoon with my rock-garden, and then I’ll send you on wherever you want to go. Here, Gudgeon, tell somebody to bring me some chicken and champagne.’
Mr Holt struggled between pride and mortification. It was appalling to be told before his audience that his hostess didn’t want him. On the other hand, Lady Dorothy’s robust flattery, her ardent desire to carry him off, a prize from under Lady Emily’s nose, was like a breath of old days. True, she had bullied him cruelly that afternoon, and for that matter was bullying him now, but it was sweet to be wanted once more, to feel that one’s advice was sought. Besides, Lady Dorothy’s father was a duke, and Lady Emily’s merely an earl.
‘My dear lady,’ he said, ‘nothing would give me greater pleasure than to obey your behest, to see your garden, to give any poor advice that it is in my power to give, but must first be assured that in going with you I should be guilty of no sort of discourtesy towards my present hostess.’
‘Well, you won’t,’ said Lady Dorothy, to whom, as a matter of fact, her cousin had said, ‘Oh, Dodo, that Mr Holt has invited himself for two nights and Henry will be furious.’ To this she had replied, ‘Don’t worry, Emily, I’ll take him off your hands.’
‘Nine-thirty sharp tomorrow morning we leave. Good champagne Henry has.’
‘The whole supper is excellent,’ said Ursule.
‘Can you tell me the time, Mr Holt?’ said Miss Stevenson.
‘Oh, dear, oh, dear, it is almost half-past twelve. I should have been in bed an hour ere now,’ said Mr Holt anxiously.
‘Well, you can’t get up and go to bed and leave me here alone,’ said Lady Dorothy, ‘for I don’t count these girls. Where are all the men? I don’t see Rose and Hermione having supper with a man old enough to be their grandfather.’
Miss Stevenson was only restrained from being rude to Lady Dorothy by remembering that she was Lionel Harvest’s aunt.
‘I am going back to the vicarage now,’ she said. ‘I don’t dance, and I have had a most interesting talk with Mr Holt. I shall write to you, Mr Holt, as soon as I get to town. Come along, Ursule, you’re not dancing, and the walk will do you good after all that supper.’
‘I suppose one may take the sweets that are on the table?’ said Ursule doubtfully.
‘Of course, child,’ said Lady Dorothy. ‘Put them all in your bag.’
Ursule did as she was told, and she and Miss Stevenson went away.
Pierre had passed a delirious half-hour dancing with the lovely Mrs Graham, who moved as exquisitely as she spoke. Agnes much enjoyed dancing with so accomplished a cavalier as that nice Monsieur Boulle who had so kindly rescued Emmy. After the second dance she said she would like to go on the terrace.
‘But first will you get me my shawl?’ she said. ‘It is a white silk embroidered shawl on Mamma’s sofa.’
Pierre fetched it. They stepped out on to the terrace where, with infinite tenderness, he put the shawl upon her lovely shoulders.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Agnes. ‘One always feels warmer with a shawl on. Let us go and sit on the grass. I do hope Gudgeon has remembered to have the chairs dusted. Nothing is more annoying than to get one’s frock dirty on a garden chair.’
Pierre thought of taking off his coat for her to sit on, but not only do shirt sleeves with a white waistcoat look far from romantic, but he felt his coat was an unworthy, and possibly uncomfortable, seat for her.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘I will get some cushions.’
In an instant he ran up the terrace steps, entered the ballroom, seized some cushions, and was back with Agnes.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, gracefully sinking into the chair. ‘That is so nice. I love dancing, but if one dances too much, one gets tired.’
‘It is my fault,’ cried Pierre, self-reproachfully. ‘I made you dance too long. Why did you not stop me?’
‘No, it was very nice. I enjoyed it. But do sit down. Isn’t there a chair here?’
‘May I sit at your feet?’ said Pierre in a low, husky voice. ‘My heart is already there.’
‘How nice of you. My husband had a Spanish friend who used to say such charming things. I have quite forgotten his name.’
Pierre was seized by violent jealousy of all Spaniards.
‘Ah, do not think of your Spanish friend: think of me for a little, Mrs Graham.’
‘Is it damp on the grass then?’ asked Agnes. ‘It can’t be very damp, for it hasn’t rained for a week, but Brown may have been using the sprinkler. If it is damp, do get a cushion.’
‘No, it isn’t damp. But you are so cold.’
‘No, really I’m not. I am deliciously warm now you have got my shawl. But I dare say you are cold. You know, I am afraid you got cold when you saved Emmy from the pond. You were quite wet. Do get a cushion, Monsieur Boulle.’
Pierre sat in unhappy silence.
‘I am very unhappy,’ said Agnes plaintively.
A thousand swords sprang from their scabbards in Pierre’s heart.
‘If I can be of any help, command me,’ he said.
‘I am afraid Robert will be quite annoyed when he hears,’ continued the lovely complainer.
‘I have the greatest respect for Colonel Graham, both as your husband and as a soldier,’ said Pierre, ‘but if by word or deed—’
‘You see, I told him I didn’t want Peter in the house, but he would encourage him, and now I don’t know what to do. If he came in I simply couldn’t resist him.’
Ha! So the fool of a soldier husband had encouraged the visits of this Peter, probably a handsome, rich young guardsman, so different from a poor young professor, and Mrs Graham had yielded. She said she could not resist. Ah, how could she, poor angel, all gentleness, all affection? If he could kill Peter, or kill Colonel Graham, he would gladly suffer the extreme penalty of the law for her sake.
‘And so of course he got overfed in the house, and now my head housemaid writes to say he is dead. Robert will be quite annoyed. And the children will be quite unhappy too. Don’t you think we ought to go in now? I believe it is going to rain.’
Indeed, clouds were massing up over the garden and the moonlight only shone fitfully.
‘Stay a little longer,’ pleaded Pierre. ‘This moment alone with you is so precious. I only ask to kiss your gloved hand, to be near you in silence for an instant. I may never be with you again, and never again shall I see a woman so beautiful as you are.’
As Agnes appeared to be thinking about something else, Pierre, with deep reverence, took her gloved hand, laid it palm uppermost on his own, and dropped the lightest kiss into the little hole where it buttoned up.
‘How charming of you,’ said Agnes. ‘Robert had an Austrian friend who used to kiss one’s hand so charmingly whenever he came to call.’
Pierre was instantly consumed with burning hatred of all Austrians.
‘And now we really must go in,’ said Agnes. ‘Do give me your arm, Monsieur Boulle. I am quite buried in this chair.’
Pierre sprang to his feet and offered his arm. As Agnes rose, her hair brushed his face.
‘Oh, the perfume of your hair,’ murmured the unhappy young man.
A deep bell sounded through the night as they ascended the terrace.
‘The stable clock,�
�� said Agnes. ‘What time was it? Half-past eleven?’
‘No,’ said Pierre, looking at his watch. ‘Half-past twelve.’
‘I had no idea it was so late. Darling Clarissa is fast asleep, and so are Emmy and James. I do so hope, Monsieur Boulle, that you didn’t catch cold when you so kindly saved Emmy. Wet trousers must be so very uncomfortable. Martin, are you ready for our dance? That is delicious. I feel quite rested now, Monsieur Boulle.’
Pierre who, in the hope that Agnes would dance again with him, had not booked any more dances, was preparing to go when he remembered his manners and his hostess. He went up to Lady Emily’s sofa, and bending over her hand bade her goodnight and thanked her for inviting him.
‘I think your mother and your brother have gone home,’ said Lady Emily, ‘and Miss Stevenson and Ursule went too. I think your father is playing bridge with my husband. Don’t you want to stay for him?’
Pierre made his excuses and left. He would willingly have walked for miles on the hills to commune with his soul and with nature, but dancing-shoes are hard on the feet, so he crept into the vicarage and under cover of his mother’s voice, which was roundly scolding someone in the drawing-room, got safely to his room. Here he intended to keep vigil all night. But habit asserting itself, he undressed without noticing what he was doing, and then thought he might as well go to bed.
It was no good being angry with David. Mary, stung by his neglect, had meant to be cold, capricious, treat his heart as a football, pay him out in his own coin, but it couldn’t be done. David only had to look at one, to speak to one, and one was again his eager trembling slave. They finished that dance and the next.
‘Come in the garden a bit now,’ said David. ‘Or shall we have supper? We have two more dances together. Or, I’ll tell you what. I’ll collect some food and we’ll have a picnic in the garden.’
He went into the dining-room, collected a trayful of food and a bottle of champagne.
‘Here, Mary, you take the bottle and two glasses and I’ll take the vittles. We can get out this way without going through the ballroom.’
Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 20
