Locked for a moment in his gaze, Mabel felt the years slip away, and she saw the man she’d fallen in love with twenty-five years ago. Then she blinked, straightened herself and said, “I must get on, but please don’t forget about Dosia . . . Please make sure you’re at the station on time to meet her.”
Mrs. Jessop and Nancy were having their midmornings at the kitchen table when Daisy walked in, in search of a cup of tea. Stephen had gone to the station to collect his auntie Nellie, Mrs. Jessop said. “Nellie’ll be exhausted by the time she gets here. Will have been up since the crack of dawn. She doesn’t like to be late,” Mrs. Jessop added.
“Unlike some of us,” said Daisy. “I overslept.”
“Well, there’s nothing like a good long lie-in to perk you up,” Mrs. Jessop said, smiling at Daisy as she placed the kettle back on top of the range. “London takes it all out of a person.”
Daisy sat down at the table.
“I hear congratulations are in order, miss. My Stephen tells me you’re engaged,” said Mrs. Jessop.
“No, I’m not, actually,” said Daisy.
“Oh, he got that wrong, then . . . Just like a man,” Mrs. Jessop said. “You do wonder what goes on in their heads sometimes, don’t you? Different species, I suppose, and will ever be thus,” she went on. “Yes, it is what it is and will never change—no matter what they say about equality . . . I imagine you hear a lot about all that up there?”
“Sorry?”
“Equality? What the feminists call the cause? Though it seems to be dying out now, doesn’t it?”
“Oh yes,” said Daisy absently, “yes, we’re all for that.”
“All for that?
“The cause . . . equality.”
“Really? You surprise me, miss. I didn’t have you down as one of them.”
“I’m not one of anything much, really, but I think it’s important for women to have a voice, for all women to have a voice and the chance to vote on things. It’s a basic human right, after all . . . and only fair.”
“Well, I’ve never voted in my life and I’m not sure I want to start on any of that now. What about you, Nancy?”
“I quite like Mr. Baldwin,” Nancy said dreamily.
The kettle began to whistle. Mrs. Jessop filled the teapot with hot water, then went into the scullery and took the jug of milk from the refrigerator. “Yes, he’s a very nice-looking man,” she said, returning to the kitchen
“Who’s that, Mrs. Jessop?” Daisy asked.
“Mr. Baldwin,” Mrs. Jessop replied, moving over to the table, clutching the large tin teapot. “Yes, a nice-looking man and with such kindly eyes and a nice smile. But I don’t much care for that other one, that Scotch man. Do you, Nancy? Mr. Lang the butcher says he’s a communist and we don’t want them in. He should go back up there if he wants to be one of that lot,” she said, sitting down.
How she’d missed this, Daisy thought, the kitchen banter and Mrs. Jessop’s unique view of the world, where politics, humanity and the future of civilization boiled down to a nice smile and nothing changing. Seasons would turn, years would pass and all Mrs. Jessop wished for was for things to remain as they were, or had been. Change, Daisy thought, not listening but watching Mrs. Jessop and nodding, would pass her by, and perhaps Nancy, too. Nancy, who had been one of those women left short of a husband. One of those women who had had to accept that there weren’t enough men to go round. Starved of opportunity, starved of a future, taking nourishment from another family, hers.
“Is it funny being up in London?” Mrs. Jessop asked, wrinkling her nose, folding her arms and leaning them on the table.
“It’s different from here; that’s for sure . . . I like it, for the moment, but I’m not sure it’s where I want to spend my life.”
“Ah, a country girl at heart, eh? So am I . . . and so is Nancy, aren’t you, Nancy?”
“I like the coast,” said Nancy, her kind face devoid of any expectation.
“I’d love to see Brighton,” said Mrs. Jessop. “If I could go anywhere in the world, it’d be Brighton.”
“Anywhere in the world?” Daisy repeated. “But what about . . . Paris, Rome, Venice . . . Africa or even New Zealand?”
Mrs. Jessop’s eyes widened; she sat back in her chair. “Don’t mention New Zealand to me. That’s where my Stephen thought he was headed a while back.”
“Last Christmas,” said Nancy.
“Last Christmas,” echoed Mrs. Jessop, arms refolded and tucking in her chin.
“But he didn’t go . . . and he isn’t going, is he?” said Daisy.
“No!” the two yelled out in unison, and then looked at each other and laughed.
“I say, what are we like?” said Mrs. Jessop, gasping and turning to Nancy, and they both continued to laugh, their hysteria building and building until it seemed as though they could barely breathe, and they rocked and tears rolled down their cheeks. Daisy wasn’t sure what was so funny about Stephen and New Zealand, but she smiled, tried to laugh too, and pretended that she understood the joke. It would be the precursor to the day, she thought.
“You have,” Reg said again, twirling the end of his mustache in a way that had come to irritate her. “You’ve changed, Mabel.”
Mabel shook her head, pretending.
They were standing together in the middle of the marquee, which, Mabel had to admit, really did look splendid. The gilt balloon-back chairs, the tables shrouded in starched white linen, the tall candelabras, table arrangements and hanging baskets—overflowing with purple lobelia and pink geraniums, the magnificent chandelier and polished wood dance floor: It was everything she could have imagined and hoped for.
She said, “You’ve been such an enormous help, Reg. I don’t know how we’d have done it all without you.”
“Think nothing of it. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”
As they turned and walked out of the marquee, she felt his hand on the small of her back and moved away from him.
“Well, all our prayers have been answered, Reg. There’s not a cloud in the sky and the weather forecast in the newspapers this morning is good; more fine weather promised and, more importantly, no rain.” They stopped on the terrace where the French doors to her boudoir stood open. “I don’t think there’s anything else to do,” she said, “other than for us all to be here and ready for a party at seven thirty . . .”
He was twirling his mustache again, one hand in his pocket. He said, “Are you sure? I can stay, you know.”
“No, really. You’ve done more than enough, Reg. Too much!” She laughed and immediately realized that it sounded as forced as it felt.
“You do seem a little . . . well, tense, if you don’t mind me saying.”
She did. But she smiled. “I plan to put my feet up for a short while—until Dosia and the others arrive—and then later, I shall take a long bath, get myself ready and look forward to seeing you here.”
“Well, if you’re absolutely certain, Mabel . . . if there’s nothing at all I can do for you . . .”
“Quite certain, Reg, thank you.”
It was quite ridiculous how hard it had become to get rid of the man. He had the sensitivity of an ox.
“Of course, you can always telephone me if you think of something. I’m only minutes away and entirely at your disposal.”
Minutes later, standing behind the curtains, inside the French doors, Mabel watched Reg’s car amble down the driveway, then immediately returned to the marquee with her seating plan and name cards. She certainly did not need or want his interference in this particular task. He’d insist that he should sit next to her, and Howard would be livid. And as for that comment about her being “tense,” had it never struck him that it might be him, his presence—fussing on and around her, about the seating arrangements, timings, the number of waiters—that made her so
?
It had been in Monte Carlo, she thought, that she’d got Reg’s measure and had her fill of him. After so many months of it just being she and Dosia—their relaxed days spent wandering aimlessly through shaded streets, venturing into a church or museum or gallery, or sitting under a café parasol with their books as the world passed by—not only had Reg proved that three really was a crowd; he had proved himself an almighty bore. Obsessed with itineraries and schedules, unable to relax for a single moment, he had asked each morning at breakfast what was to “happen” that day, when all she and Dosia wanted—what they had become accustomed to doing—was to take the day as it came, without too much forethought or planning; idling, Dosia called it.
But there was no idling about Reg. The army had knocked that out of him, if he’d ever had it. Instead, there was a nervous energy, which made him fret and fidget and shuffle, and constantly drum his fingers or tap his feet through what he called idle time: that time Mabel and Dosia liked best of all. This, Mabel could have tolerated, perhaps, but what she couldn’t tolerate, she had discovered, was his knowledge: a knowledge of everything, which had almost rendered her and Dosia’s views and wishes redundant, had Dosia not stood up to him.
The falling-out, a rather unseemly squabble between him and Dosia on the steps of the Hôtel de Paris early one evening, had begun as a mild dispute about some restaurant or other but had resulted in Dosia calling him “a controlling bully.” Reg had called her “a loony feminist with no grasp on reality.” Dosia then told him that she would rather be a loony feminist with no grasp on reality than a stifling bore. The sting, Mabel thought, had been when Dosia added, “You really don’t have a clue about women, do you, Major?” Reg, unusually red faced, had swiftly turned and gone back inside the hotel, and Mabel and Dosia had dined à deux.
After that, they had seen very little of Reg. He returned home days later, leaving the women to enjoy their last two weeks major free.
Thank God for Dosia, Mabel thought now, placing the card “Major Reginald Ellison” next to “Mrs. Margot Vincent.”
Daisy was avoiding Ben. She had seen him earlier from her bedroom window, stalking about the grounds, presumably looking for her. Sitting at the top of the stairs in a warm shaft of sunlight, she wondered how she could manage an entire day with him in her midst, and how she would cope with the party that evening. When she heard the door from the outer lobby to the hallway swing open, she jolted and sat forward. Then she heard Dosia’s voice: “Hell-oh-oh!” followed quickly by her father: “Aha, you’re early!”
Daisy sat back, peering through the banister spindles, watching and listening, and loving.
“You weren’t supposed to be arriving for another half hour.”
“No, Howard, I was always arriving on the 12:26. I telegrammed Mabel to tell her so.”
Howard banged at his head with the palm of his hand. “Damn and blast it, and you know—she told me,” he said, opening his arms wide and then kissing his sister on both cheeks.
“Don’t worry; I shan’t split on you, not unless you become very irksome or upset me. We shall pretend you were there to meet me and that I didn’t have to pay for a taxi driven by an incoherent lunatic with a death wish.”
“Oh, darling, I am sorry. Here, let me take your bag. I’m afraid I’ve no idea where anyone is . . . story of my life.”
“I must say, Howard, you’re looking rather streamlined . . . and your wife, I know, is looking quite delicious after our sojourn on the continent.”
Howard placed the bag at the foot of the stairs, pressed his finger to the bell on the wall. “Yes, quite delicious,” he said.
“Did she tell you about the American oil tycoon in Paris who wanted to marry her? Or about Giancarlo—her young count in Rome? He sent twelve dozen red roses to the hotel! Twelve dozen, Howard. I counted them myself—oh, my word, what a wonderfully unexpected pun.” She laughed. “Count, counted?”
Howard smiled and nodded.
“They didn’t have enough vases . . . I had to cut them down and put them in teacups and glasses about her room. It was like a florist’s shop, but oh, it smelled heavenly. We really did have the most marvelous time, you know. I’ve brought all of my photographs . . .” She began rummaging in her large ancient leather handbag. Mabel might have changed but Aunt Dosia certainly hadn’t, Daisy thought. “Oh,” Dosia said, glancing up at her brother, “they must be in my other bag. Shall I get them out now?”
“Let’s leave them for later, shall we? You look rather hot, dear, and I’m sure you’re ready for some refreshment,” he said. “I think Nancy’s put out some lemonade under the parasol on the terrace.”
“Sounds divine! Let me just find my sunglasses,” said Dosia, rummaging again. “I got them in Rome . . . Just wait till you see them . . . I’ve never had a pair before, you know . . .”
Today, like any other day—no matter the country, no matter the season—Dosia wore her usual uniform of tweed skirt, fine woolen sweater, string of pearls, and laced leather brogues. But when she finally produced the sunglasses and put them on for her brother to see, Daisy had to put her hand over her mouth.
“What do you think?”
“You look the double of Mary Pickford,” he said, deadly serious.
“Really?”
“Absolutely . . . a million dollars.” He said this in an attempt at an American accent.
Dosia giggled. “Oh, Howard . . . I’m quite sure I don’t really look like her.”
“And I’m telling you, you do,” he said, continuing with his American persona and a quick shuffle, which, Daisy presumed, was his interpretation of some sort of modern jazz dance.
Dosia giggled again. And looking down, watching the two of them, Daisy was struck by her father’s tenderness and that sense of fun she’d so missed. There was something sweet and simple and bound up in love, she thought, in Howard still playing elder brother to his middle-aged younger sister and trying to make her laugh. And for a moment she saw them as children: Dosia, a little girl in her mother’s oversize clothes and those ridiculous sunglasses, and Howard, no more than a boy, swiveling about in his stockinged feet and doing silly voices.
“Dosey!” cried Mabel, emerging into the hallway. She kissed Dosia and then turned to Howard: “I’ve just seen one of the station taxis on the driveway, but I can’t think who it can be . . .”
“No one, it was a mistake. Wrong house.”
“Yes, wrong house,” echoed Dosia, removing her sunglasses and blinking.
“Oh well, at least you’re safely here, my dear,” Mabel said. “Your brother’s been rather dazed and distracted of late, and to be honest I was rather worried he’d forget to collect you.”
Howard and Dosia both laughed.
“Reg, of course, did offer . . . but I know how you feel about him,” Mabel added.
“Lord, I’d forgotten about the major. Is the wretched man here?” asked Dosia.
“No, not at the moment,” said Mabel. Then, with a heavy sigh, she added, “But he’ll be here tonight.”
“Well, please make sure that I’m sitting nowhere near him,” said Dosia. She turned to Howard: “I simply can’t stand the man. I’m sure Mabel told you about our dreadful fallout in Monte Carlo.”
Howard, already smiling, raised his eyebrows. “No, she did not. But let’s have a glass of lemonade in the garden and you can tell me all about it.”
And as Howard and Dosia walked off arm in arm down the passageway, Mabel glanced up at Daisy. “What on earth are you doing sitting there?” she asked.
“Just taking it all in. Home . . .”
Mabel smiled, blew a kiss up to her; then she, too, disappeared down the passageway toward the door onto the terrace.
Daisy sat for a while longer, listening to the sound of her parents’ and aunt’s voices and laughter. When she saw Ben’s polished black shoes on the carpet next
to her, she immediately stood up.
“Please, don’t rush off,” he said, taking hold of her arm. “I want to apologize to you . . . about last night. I’m sorry. I’m afraid it was the wine, and the port . . . That’s no excuse, of course, none whatsoever, and I can promise you it’ll never happen again. Never.”
Daisy said nothing. She didn’t want him there, didn’t want to look at him.
“Please speak to me,” he said.
“It’s over, Ben. Let’s just try to get through tonight. And who knows? Maybe one day we can be friends again.”
It was the most she could offer him.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Mabel smiled and then looked away when Howard appeared in the drawing room—for once after her and still fiddling with his cuffs. The sight of him was still new to her, and this night, the surprise of him, quickened her heart.
Tall, lean, with silvering hair and dark eyes, he remained a handsome man, and in his white tie and tails, as dashing as she had ever known him. But there was something else, something altered about him. Or was it her? she wondered; her perception of him? Had it changed—or had they both changed? One thing was certain, Mabel thought: Absence had made the heart grow fonder.
She had loved him, hated him and experienced every shade of each emotion in between: from adoration to disgust, acute frustration to mild appreciation, but never indifference, she thought, never that. And yet, a new understanding of them both and their marriage, a process begun overseas, had released Mabel from something that at first seemed to have no name. A feeling she had carried with her for so many years, one she had swallowed, stifled, held within her breast and then finally exhaled into the soft Italian air. And it was only after acknowledging it, letting go of it, that she realized it had a name, anger: a long-denied and festering anger that had turned to a putrid resentment.
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