The Shape of Sand

by Marjorie Eccles

  It was not in the best frame of mind that Beatrice left her, more than slightly put out from this somewhat disturbing first meeting.

  Well, well. What was done was done. She would have further conversation with Miss Jessamy tomorrow and if necessary, would see her suitably recompensed and dispense with her services. At this particular moment, a more pressing need was to remove the pins from her hair and allow it fall loose, ring for Hallam to undo her laces, and rest in the cool darkness of her room with eau-de-cologne pads on her eyes before changing for dinner … indeed, a necessity if she was to prevent one of the severe headaches to which she was a martyr, and which was hovering just behind her eyes. She would give orders not to be disturbed. Her room over the library was virtually soundproof, and she would scarcely even be aware of Amory moving about in his own room next door.

  “Has Lord Wycombe arrived yet?” she asked Albrighton, encountering him in the hall.

  “Not yet, madam.”

  “Perhaps we could delay dinner for half an hour, then. He is motoring down, and one can never be certain …”

  “Quite so, I will inform Mrs Heslop.”

  “Thank you, Mr Albrighton. Oh, and do you think you could remind Mr Marcus, with my compliments, that not everyone shares his passion for that music he’s playing so loudly?” If music it could be called. After hearing this particular piece of ragtime for perhaps the fiftieth time, any willingness Beatrice might have had to regard this sound from across the Atlantic as such was definitely waning. “I know you’ll do it tactfully.”

  Albrighton was quite up to this. “Certainly. I will see to it.”

  They exchanged an understanding smile and Beatrice went on her way, hoping that at least she had gained herself a little more time for rest.

  It was, alas, not to be. Deciding she must slip in to the conservatory on her way upstairs to check on the table decorations for that evening, which were always placed there before being taken into the dining room at the last minute, by an unfortunate chance she met the new arrival, Iskander, though perhaps chance was not precisely the right word. He had obviously been on the lookout for her, since his arms were full of parcels which he proceeded to hand over.

  “I have brought presents for you, Bayah-tree-chay. And for your beautiful daughters.”

  “How kind! But it isn’t my birthday until next week, you know.”

  “Ah, but I have others for then.”

  She stopped herself from too obviously checking the time once more, suppressed a sigh and accepted the gifts graciously, with a smile of real pleasure for the vase of bluish-green glass, ancient and cloudy, a lesser one for the alabaster jar surmounted by the head of Anubis, the Egyptian jackal god who guided the dead to judgment, though it, too, was beautiful, perhaps a copy, which she sincerely hoped it was. A canopic jar, or urn, she knew it was one of a set of four designed for the purpose of holding the entrails of a mummy, intended to be placed in its tomb, on the sarcophagus. The thought was certainly horrid, to touch the object repelled her; she hoped it had not been intentional. Valery Iskander’s sense of humour was unpredictable, but she didn’t think he would have chosen to perpetrate a joke in bad taste as a guest in her house – especially in the delicate circumstances under which he was staying. She had not asked him here. He had written and more or less invited himself.

  “You have not changed, Bayah-tree-chay.” His tone was ironic. She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to take that as a compliment, and took refuge in chiding him once more for the affected way he chose to address her.

  “Beatrice,” she corrected firmly.

  “Very well, if the other displeases you so much – though you did not object to it, once.”

  “Things change,” she answered, as remotely as she felt she could. Carefully, she placed the fragile glass vase – so many memories it brought back, most of which she would rather not recall – on a wrought iron table, and walked over to the window, her heels clicking against the metal grating in the floor, and stood with her back to him. “Why did you come here?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I was in London, and I thought it would amuse you for us to meet again.”

  “Amuse!”

  What did he want? With hindsight it was possible to see that there had always been something premeditated about his actions. She had persuaded herself that to ignore his angling for an invitation would have been to court disaster, that, after all this time, no harm could arise from his visit, but having seen him, she could not now rid herself of her original fear that he could be here only with some sinister intent.

  “I do not recall,” he said softly, his teeth very white against his dusky skin, “that you were so particular when we were in Egypt.”

  Her stomach plunged. He had not forgotten, then. She had never expected that he would, any more than she herself could - but his uncanny way of knowing what she was thinking unnerved her. She lifted her chin. “I never think about Egypt.”

  He smiled.

  It was true, however … in part. Certainly, since the arrival of his letter she had indeed thought of little else, but up until then she had never consciously permitted herself to recall that time. Only in her uncontrolled dreams did it come back to torment her. She refused to meet his sceptical gaze, and to conceal her emotion busied herself with tweaking off the stem of a fern, which was in no need of tweaking, willing herself not to remember what was past and done with. It was no use, this time her mind would not obey her. His very presence prevented that.

  The conservatory floor was damp from the gardeners’ recent plant-watering, it smelled heavy, earthy and humid, yet her skin prickled as if with the dry heat of the desert, she felt she was breathing in metallic, dusty air at the end of a long hot day. She stroked the feathery fern while under her fingers she felt the dry brittleness of a palm leaf. Outside, a flight of home-going starlings transposed themselves into a cloud of white egrets, settling like blossoms among the rushes of the Nile.

  A pair of geese flew low across the lake in the gold of the dying afternoon, and all she saw were the wheeling, scavenging kites above the streets in Cairo. Marcus had not yet closed his window, or turned off his gramophone, but at least he had exchanged the raucous ragtime for something more acceptable from Merrie England. A haunting little tune floated down through the skylight, into the conservatory, and ended on a dying fall … ‘Oh, she’s a witch, throw her a bone! Nobody’s wife … Jill, all alone.’

  The tall shadows of the sequoias fell across the smooth green lawn, as dark and menacing as the silent, terrifying shadows of the Luxor Temple. The memory of what had happened there, what had gone before and especially what had followed, beat between her temples. Another time. Upper Egypt, ten, almost eleven, years ago, the garden of the Luxor Hotel, with the road running alongside, and beyond it the wide, majestic flow of the mighty Nile, its dark waters broad and powerful, the lateen-rigged dahabeah they had hired to sail upriver moored further along.

  She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug painfully into her palm, bringing her back to an awareness of the present. It was, after all, her own fault that Iskander with his reminders of the past was here. She ought to have made some excuse when he had written to announce his presence in London and his wish to renew their acquaintance, for she had immediately sensed danger. Was she exaggerating its importance? Yes, she had to believe she was. There had been friendship between them, once, though she had forfeited that. Accepting this, she was able to regain mastery of herself, and to speak calmly once more.

  “Thank you so much for the presents, Valery, I will see the girls get theirs. Ah, there goes the dressing bell. I’m afraid we must go and change now.” She hesitated. “I should perhaps tell you we expect another guest tonight, one you have met before – Myles Randolph – Lord Wycombe – will be with us for dinner.”

  “Major Randolph?” His light blue eyes, so startling in his brown complexion, flew open wide in astonishment – then were instantly veiled.

  “The sam
e – though he became Colonel before he resigned his commission five years ago to live on his estate at Stoke Wycombe.”

  “I shall look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

  Their eyes met. She doubted very much whether the pleasure would be mutual.

  Myles Randolph, Lord Wycombe, retired Colonel of the—th Royal Dragoons, was the last house guest to arrive at Charnley that weekend. He came in his new motorcar, which he was driving himself, with his manservant sitting in the back, and drew up with a flourish on the gravel beside the front door. Emerging from the red leather interior, he divested himself of his motoring goggles and his long dust coat with some relief, though the journey from Stoke Wycombe, his own estate some forty miles away, had been accomplished in less than two hours through the miracle of the modern combustion engine.

  While his baggage was unstrapped, and his man went away with instructions to summon Amory’s driver to see to the garaging of the motorcar, Wycombe stayed beside his pride and joy, gazing out over the gardens and the long view towards the church, with a familiar feeling of coming home. He had first come to Charnley with Amory in the school vacations, and for so many reasons, it was always such a pleasure to be back.

  “‘Cor! Why, it’s a motor and a half sir, this!” declared Copley, whistling with appreciation when he appeared and saw the Daimler Silent-Knight standing on the gravel in gleaming splendour. Its proud owner beamed, and for a while they discussed the superiorities of sleeve-valve engines and cylinders, petrol consumption and horse power. Copley laid his dark gipsy paw softly on the gleaming coachwork. “Beats the owd ‘osses into a cocked hat, don’t she, Colonel?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” returned Wycombe, feeling bound to spring to the defence of his old love as well as his new. “This lovely lady needs a great deal more attention than a mere nosebag of hay and a brisk rub down! On the other hand she can go at twenty miles an hour! Both have their uses, both their disadvantages.”

  “I haven’t got nothing against ‘osses, as fur as they go – but speed, that’s the coming thing, that’s what it’s all about, ain’t it, my lord? Must give you a thrill, sir.” He looked longingly at the steering wheel.

  Wycombe didn’t disappoint him. “Well, well, see she’s properly housed, will you? You know how to handle her?”

  Copley’s face lit up. “That I do!” he declared, grasping the starting handle. “You leave her to me, sir! I’ll drive her round the back and see to it she comes to no harm.”

  “Thank you, Copley. Do that, if you would.”

  Inside the house, Amory had just emerged from his study where he had been ensconced since his arrival from the station, and was hurrying towards the stairs, pocketing his watch. He spun round when his friend was shown in.

  “Myles! How very good to see you!”

  The two men greeted each other with great cordiality, like the brothers they’d always regarded themselves. They had been the closest of friends since their schooldays at Harrow, and had continued so, despite long enforced separations due to Wycombe’s army postings. He was honorary uncle to the children, and Marcus’s godfather. They exchanged news until, after a few minutes, Amory said, “Well, we must hurry up and change. I’ll see you down here for a drink before dinner, and we’ll chat later about what you propose to do. We shall be quiet this evening, just the family – and Kit, of course – you, and one other house guest, whom I think you may remember.” He had entirely forgotten Miss Jessamy.

  Wycombe raised his eyebrows.

  “Does the name Valery Iskander ring any bells?”

  Iskander, by God! thought Wycombe with dismay, as he was tying his bow tie, achieving perfect symmetry the first time, as he invariably did. Neat in all his movements, he was the epitome of the professional soldier, tall and well set up in a military way, athletic and vigorous, keen eyed and with a now inbuilt tan to his skin from serving in foreign lands with his regiment for most of his life. He had been forced to acknowledge that he had made a mistake when, five years ago, he had sent in his papers, meaning to live the life of a landed gentleman from then on. The intention did not coincide well with the reality, which turned out to be something for which he had not bargained, though he knew he ought to have expected it.

  His estates had always been admirably managed while he had been a serving officer, and he had failed to consider the fact that his decision to take overall control on his return might be resented by the efficient land agent who had done the job during his absence. However, he managed to avoid confrontation, having very soon come to the admission that estate management was not something to be picked up in a few weeks, or even months. Neither did its slow pace appeal to him. His had been an active and often dangerous life, he was constitutionally unable to be idle and he was restless with the quiet existence he was forced to follow. He had been a leader of men, enjoying the discipline and framework of army life and the variety it offered. He had served in five different parts of the Empire, fought in three wars and distinguished himself in all of them. After that, managing an estate seemed tame. He had decided, without much conscience-searching, that there was no reason why the status quo should be disturbed.

  It did not, however, resolve the dilemma of how to occupy himself in his newly acquired freedom. He rode a great deal, and spent time in Town, where all the usual occupations available to an eligible man without ties offered themselves, until he discovered with dismay that he was not cut out for this life, either, which now seemed aimless and vapid. He stayed at his club, and tried to renew old acquaintances, only to find that most of them had settled down to raise a family or else were ‘killing time till time killed them’, spending their life in the pointless way he had come to despise. He was beginning to worry about what he should do with the rest of his life, for he had no intentions of growing into a crusty, frustrated old man, when he came with surprise upon the thing which was destined to give him the keenest pleasure he had yet experienced.

  Wandering around his echoing, empty house, seeing it with different eyes after his long absences, he had discovered that some of the pictures which had surrounded him since birth, and which familiarity had prevented him from ever examining with a critical eye, were in fact of some interest. There was, for example, a Caravaggio in the private chapel; a couple of Poussins hung in the drawing room, and several Reynolds portraits of his mother’s ancestors graced the hall. He knew little about art, but the quality of these paintings was at once very apparent to him, and stimulated him to find out more. With his usual energy and decisiveness, he immediately set about a process of self-instruction which included reading as much as he could, visiting museums and art galleries, talking to – and learning from – those who did know about such things. Occasionally, he travelled abroad, to Italy and Greece, in search of works of art and antiquities. He had gradually become something of an expert himself. Indeed, the reason for being here at Charnley for the week before the birthday was to catalogue and assess the value of Amory’s pictures. This was causing him no little disquiet. If the purpose was to provide Amory with cash, as seemed probable – and extremely disturbing - Wycombe didn’t think he was likely to obtain it from the sale of anything he had ever seen hanging on the walls at Charnley. Mediocre family portraits, dull landscapes … his friend was almost certainly doomed to disappointment. However, he would have to see what the next week brought. Meanwhile, he did not intend to restrict his time here to the valuation of pictures.

  For as he had become more knowledgeable about works of art, he had realised he was on the way to becoming happy, except for one thing.

  He was made painfully aware each time he visited Charnley nowadays that he was the last of his line. He realised, perhaps too late, what he was missing when he saw them together, Amory and the incomparable Beatrice, who had given him a son and heir. Hitherto, despite everything, Myles had never found the absence of a wife any great disadvantage - thirty-odd years of army life and his own nature taught one ways of dealing wit
h that sort of need. As for the lack of an heir – well, one must regard that as the luck of the draw, the way life had turned out for him. Of late, however, he had begun to feel differently. The idea of his line dying out, Stoke Wycombe going to some distant cousin, was insupportable. It was not yet too late, too impossible, surely? He was not yet fifty. He had a large fortune and a title to leave. He was healthy, and fit, and was not, he believed, repulsive to women. But he could not yet bring himself round to the idea.

  Maybe this time, though … He would see what the weekend brought.

  He patted bay rum into his skin until his face tingled with its aromatic oils and astringents and, picking up his silver hairbrushes, he contemplated what the next few days might mean. Iskander. Good God! He thought he had seen the last of that one in Luxor – he might have known that life is never so unpredictable a tiger as when you think you have it by the tail.

  3

  EXTRACT FROM HARRIET’S NOTEBOOK:

  We were eleven for dinner tonight, including the family, which now automatically means Bertie as well, the besotted fiance, who spends more time at Charnley than he does at his mother’s house at Falconforde. Not that I blame him for that: Lady Rossiter is a querulous widow and Henrietta and Lily, both older than Bertie – the Ugly Sisters as Daisy will insist on calling them – are a living warning to avoid the unmarried state at all costs.

  To begin with, the evening seemed perfect. We were in the small dining room tonight, and the silver and the polished wood of the table gleamed in the warm, flickering candlelight, the glass sparkled, the napkins crackled with starch. The flowers were roses, two silver bowls of them, one at each end of the table, mixed pink and red, nestling in asparagus fern, with trails of smilax from one to the other, their rich scent wafting all around the room. As we began, I saw that we were having Mrs Heslop’s famous consommé, so clear one might almost read a newspaper through it.