by Eva Ibbotson
‘I won’t forget,’ promised Tom, looking tenderly down at the little marigold head.
‘What an interesting girl she sounds,’ said Minna. ‘Is she really Russian?’
‘So I understand.’
‘What a hard time they must have had, all those poor people. I was wondering whether I might ask Mary if she’d let me borrow her for the ball. I’m going to ask some of the Ballets Russes people down; leaven up the County a bit. A Russian maid would be invaluable. Remind me to mention it.’
‘All right, Mother. Oh, by the way, are you and Father going in the Rolls tonight?’
‘I imagine so. Why?’
‘I thought I’d take the Crossley over to the Rabinovitchs and ask them if they’d let me pick up Susie.’
Tom spoke as naturally as if his courtship of Susie Rabinovitch had not set the whole neighbourhood by the ears. When Tom had first clearly shown his interest in the plump and outwardly unprepossessing daughter of a Polish Jew, Tom’s father had not been pleased. Lord Byrne personally liked Leo and Hannah Rabinovitch, who, having amassed a fortune in the rag trade, had settled in a large and mottled mansion called The Towers a couple of miles from Heslop. All the same, it had been with some force that Lord Byrne had pointed out the presence in the neighbourhood of the Honourable Clarissa Dalrymple, of Felicity Shircross-Harbottle and a score of other girls left bereft by the loss of so many of their future husbands in the war. Tom, with his nice smile, had acknowledged their worth and continued to court Susie.
Gradually the Byrnes, led by Ollie, who thought The Towers, with its gilt bathrooms, thick, plush carpets and lamps shaped like swans, to be the most beautiful home she had ever seen, came to see Tom’s point of view. Exactly what it was about Susie was hard to say, but not to like her was impossible. It was therefore with slight chagrin and considerable amusement that the Byrnes watched the dismay that Tom’s courtship had evoked in Mr and Mrs Rabinovitch. Confronted with the despairing remnants of Jewish orthodoxy, the Byrnes could only smile and wait. Tom was twenty-five, Heslop was entailed and even if it hadn’t been, Lord Byrne would not have dreamt of dispossessing a son whom he loved deeply and who was eminently suited to succeed. For the rest, time would tell.
This philosophical attitude was not one that came naturally to Hannah Rabinovitch, dressing for the engagement party in her bedroom at The Towers, which she had furnished, in all innocence, like a luxurious brothel of the Belle Époque. The thought that Tom Byrne, as Rupert’s best man, would be very much in evidence that night brought a frown to the kind, middle-aged face which she was methodically rubbing with cold cream.
How had it happened? Why did good-looking Tom Byrne, the heir after all not only to a viscountancy but to a considerable fortune from his delightful American stepmother, have to fall in love with Susie? And, as if to find some clue to the secret, Mrs Rabinovitch pulled her wrapper closer and went into her daughter’s room.
Susie’s maid was busily laying out the red lace dress, the kid shoes and embroidered shawl that Susie was to wear that evening. Susie herself, quite oblivious of these preparations, was curled up in an armchair reading The Brothers Karamazov. As she looked at her only daughter, Hannah shook her head and sighed.
For Susie was plain. Not perhaps ugly, though she had been spared neither the big nose nor the frizzy hair which so often characterized her race, but undoubtedly plain. Plain and plump and bookish to a degree that surely should have put off an attractive young aristocrat who had practically been born on a horse. What right had Tom Byrne to discern, within a month of their meeting, that Susie had a heart of gold, a sterling sense of humour and the kind of creative common sense that can smooth out personal crises in a moment? So Susie was the light of their life, the joy of their declining years – but what business was that of Tom Byrne’s? Why hadn’t he and his family cut them dead when they moved into the district? A Jewish rag trade merchant like her Leo? Not only a Jew, but a Polish Jew, who, everyone knew, was the lowest of the low?
How nervous she had been when Leo decided they should move into the country from Golders Green. She’d been prepared for years of ostracism and suspicion, not to mention the twenty-mile drive to the synagogue, for Leo’s mother had been alive then and she was very strict. But first the Village Institute had started pestering her for recipes for kugelhupf and gefillte fish and then the County had come. Of course, Lady Byrne was American and one had to expect a certain amount of liberalism from someone educated in New York, a city in which anti-Semitism would leave one somewhat isolated. But the Countess of Westerholme had called too, and soon the Rabinovitchs had found themselves accepted as part of the Mersham scene.
But acceptance was one thing – to come courting one’s daughter was another.
In a way, of course, it was her own fault, Hannah could see that. She shouldn’t have made such a pet of Ollie. It had been her own idea to employ the Honourable Olive as their Shabbat Goy and the sight of the little girl arriving each Friday evening on her tricycle with the single, built-up pedal, her face beaming with pride as she lit their candles, had given their festival new meaning. Each time she came, Leo had given her a single pearl to string on a necklace which, as everyone agreed, would make her the most beautiful girl in the world long before she came of age.
But really it was ridiculous to blame herself. How could one do anything except love that most gallant of human beings? Except that in Ollie’s wake, bringing her down when the weather was bad, had come Tom Byrne, on leave from the Guards . . .
‘Oi,’ thought Hannah Rabinovitch, ‘Oi, oi . . . An uncircumcized viscount, what sort of a grandson is that?’ Sighing, she went to wake the paunchy, velvet-eyed leprechaun that was her husband Leo.
Hannah had been seventeen when her father came to her in the Polish village of her childhood and told her that she was to be a bride. She had only seen Leo once before they stood together under the huppah and exchanged their rings. Since then, it was only Hannah’s constant battles with the germs which assailed him, the irregular food that was served him and the accidents which threatened him, that prevented a jealous God from destroying the happiness he had caused her by giving her in marriage to such a man.
Anna was enjoying the party very much. She had been on her feet since six that morning but now, dressed most becomingly in the black alpaca dress and snowy muslin that was her evening uniform, she surged among the guests, attracting more attention than she realized by her palpable longing to give, bestow and share the earl’s best sherry.
How beautiful the house looked! How nice the guests were! Mr Morland the vicar, with his wise, scholarly face; Mrs Rabinovitch, who had taken her aside to beg her help in keeping a second glass of wine from the Vale of Tears that was her husband’s stomach, Tom Byrne, who had slipped a note into her pocket and thanked her for her kindness to Ollie . . . How happy everyone looked, how pleased they were at the earl’s good fortune!
And how magnificent was Muriel Hardwicke, Anna’s own handiwork, standing and holding court in the centre of the room.
Anna herself, sensitized by her upbringing, would not have chosen, for a simple supper party in a country house, an orange dress both embroidered with crystal beading and lined with bands of monkey fur; nor would she have found it necessary to have added diamond-studded vulture quills to the bandeau which supported her hair. But she had faithfully carried out Muriel’s orders and the result was dazzling. The earl himself seemed unable to take his eyes from her.
This was true. Fetching Muriel downstairs, Rupert had indeed been dazzled. He had seldom seen Muriel out of uniform – to him she had been a calming presence dressed in white, ready with a merciful injection when the pain grew too great. Now it occurred to him how little he really knew of his bride’s thoughts and hopes and fears.
Anna surged towards them, illumined and slender, like a votive bronze from the more ecstatic sort of tomb, and proferred her tray, which Muriel waved away. What a strange girl she was, thought Rupert, following her with hi
s eyes. He had not spoken to her since the evening beside the lake, but her spoor was everywhere: in Uncle Sebastien frowning at the piano over a Stravinsky score, in James caught rescuing a trapped Peacock butterfly from the study window and producing an embarrassed and somewhat garbled version of Tolstoy’s theory of Reverence for Life; in his mother’s new hairstyle based – and becomingly – on that of Diaghliev’s beloved Karsavina.
‘Is that the Russian girl?’ Minna asked the dowager.
‘Yes, that’s Anna. She’s a dear girl and such a hard worker.’
Lady Westerholme was looking delightful in a dress of dove grey chiffon which Mrs Bunford, the village dressmaker, had finished just two hours before. The dowager always had her clothes made by Mrs Bunford, not because that excellent lady was a good dressmaker – she had, in fact, a most unfortunate way with the set of a sleeve – but because Mrs Bunford was the sole support of an invalid husband and a delicate son. Fortunately, the dowager’s fine bones and wide-set grey eyes enabled her to get away with anything and no one who patronized Mrs Bunford expected to be able to lift their arms above their head.
‘Ollie can’t stop talking about her,’ said Minna, watching Anna approach Uncle Sebastien and receive a fatherly and affectionate smile from him. The earl’s uncle, cleaned up by Sid and poured into his evening clothes, was on his best behaviour. Not only was he to give away the bride at the wedding ceremony, but tonight it was he who was to propose the health of the happy couple and only the briefest lunge at Pearl’s entrancing bottom as he passed her in the corridor had marred his conduct during the whole evening.
‘I was wondering,’ Minna continued, ‘do you think I might borrow her for the ball? I’ve got some Russians coming and it would be such a help.’
‘But of course, my dear. Borrow anyone you like.’
‘You’re an angel, Mary. And now you really must introduce me to that gorgeous girl!’
‘This is Lady Byrne, Muriel, our dearest friend.’ Minna smiled warmly at Rupert’s lovely bride. ‘I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made Ollie by letting her be your bridesmaid. It’s her first time and she’s over the moon.’
‘I’m so glad she’s pleased,’ said Muriel graciously. ‘I look forward very much to meeting her. Rupert seems so very fond of her.’
‘I’ll bring her over as soon as I possibly can,’ promised Minna. ‘I suppose you’ll have to be thinking about the fittings soon with the wedding only five weeks away?’
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve made an appointment with Fortman and Bittlestone next week. The dresses should be ready to try on by then.’
‘You’re not getting them made locally, then?’ asked Minna, repressing a pang for Mrs Bunford, who had been glimpsed in her front parlour night after night, pouring over copies of Bride magazine.
‘Definitely not,’ said Muriel, casting a glance at the dowager’s chiffon. Nothing, Minna noted, escaped those peacock-blue eyes. ‘I never see why a country wedding should be shoddy, do you?’
‘No . . . no, of course not.’ She changed the subject. ‘Rupert will have told you about the ball I am giving at Heslop for you. I’m asking people for the twenty-fifth so as to give you a couple of days’ rest before the wedding. It’s rather short notice, but almost everyone seems to have accepted. Fortunately, the victory celebrations will be over by then.’
Muriel seemed to be hesitating. Then, ‘I was wondering, is the ball to be in fancy dress?’ she asked.
‘I hadn’t thought of it as such,’ said Minna. ‘You know what it’s like getting men to dress up. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, it just happens that I have a particularly beautiful costume – a perfect replica of the one the Pompadour wore to the Silver Ball at Versailles. I had it made for a charity gala which was cancelled. So, naturally, if there was a chance to wear it I would be very pleased.’
Minna’s heart sank. The thought of getting her dear old Harry to dress up as a pirate or a cavalier was too painful to contemplate. To get Lord Byrne into his tails was bad enough, and Tom wasn’t much better. And most of the invitations had been issued: she’d have to make innumerable telephone calls. Then she looked at the lovely creature who was going to save Mersham and make Rupert happy and said, ‘Well, I don’t see why not. I’m sure people will collaborate if they know it’s your wish. You can’t imagine how much goodwill you’ve collected in the neighbourhood.’
‘Thank you.’ Having gained her point, Muriel was ready to turn her attention to something that had been puzzling her and, as Tom Byrne came to join his stepmother and be introduced to Muriel, she said: ‘Tell me, those people over there, by the window – who are they?’
Minna’s face creased into a smile. ‘Oh, those are the Rabinovitches. Have you not met them yet? They’re great friends of the Westerholmes and of ours. When old Mrs Rabinovitch was alive they used to employ Ollie as their Shabbat Goy.’
‘So they are Jewish. I thought they must be.’
‘Oh, yes, very much so and proud of it. Leo came from Poland quite penniless and made a fortune in the rag trade. He’s got some marvellous stories, you must get him to tell you.’
Rupert had crossed the room to talk to the vicar and so it was in a confidential tone that Muriel said, ‘And they are really intimate friends? They visit here quite frequently?’
‘Is there any reason why they shouldn’t?’ broke in Tom Byrne.
Minna looked anxiously at her stepson. On all other matters Tom was easy-going and courteous, but on this particular subject . . .
Muriel, however, realized she had gone too far. ‘No, of course not. I just thought they might be embarrassed over dietary problems and so on.’ She laughed charmingly. ‘I wouldn’t like to make a mistake and offer them pork!’
‘They’re not strictly orthodox any more,’ said Minna, ‘though they kept the festivals for Leo’s mother while she lived. In any case,’ she went on, striving for lightness, ‘Proom knows everyone’s foibles. It isn’t Mersham they’ll envy you for after your marriage, Muriel – it isn’t even Rupert – it’s Proom!’
And as though on cue, Proom himself appeared in the double doorway and announced that supper was served.
The guests had eaten, the covers had been removed and now, in the majesty of polished satinwood and gleaming silver, the Westerholmes and their chosen friends awaited the climax of the evening, Mrs Park’s chef- d’oeuvre, the dessert she had created in homage to Muriel Hardwicke.
Below stairs the atmosphere was tense, fraught with the anxieties that attend the launching of a great ship. But the swan, on its gigantic platter, held steady as James lifted it, his scrupulously tended biceps never more worthily employed. Win, her mouth agape, ran to open the door; Louise bundled Mrs Park into a clean apron, ready for the expected summons . . .
‘The Mersham Swan, my lady,’ announced Proom – and as James marched forward to set the bird down before Miss Hardwicke, the guests rose to their feet and clapped.
‘My dear, what a triumph!’ said Minna Byrne. ‘Really, there is no one in the world like your Mrs Park!’
‘Oi, but that is genius!’ cried Hannah Rabinovitch, while Miss Tate and Miss Mortimer, the pixillated spinsters, hopped like little birds.
Proom, like a great conductor, waited in silence for silence. Then he took up the knife and, with a flourish which nevertheless contained no hint of ostentation, pierced the noble creature’s heart. Exactly as Mrs Park had foreseen, the filling, softly tinged with the pink of an alpine sunset, oozed mouthwateringly on to the plate. Deftly, Proom scooped out a piece of meringue breast, a section of almond-studded wing and with a small bow handed the plate to Muriel Hardwicke.
Everyone smiled and waited and Anna, standing in the doorway with her tray, gave the exact sigh she had given when, at the age of six, she saw the blue and silver curtains part for the first time at the Maryinsky.
Muriel picked up her spoon in her soft, plump hand. She raised it to her mouth. Then she made a little moue and put it down again.
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br /> ‘You must forgive me if I leave this,’ she said, turning to the dowager.
The stunned silence which followed the remark was total.
‘You see,’ Muriel explained with a charming smile, ‘it has alcohol in it.’
Muriel was correct. There was alcohol in it. The Imperial Tokay Aszu 1904 which Proom, yielding to Mrs Park’s palpable need, had after all allowed her to have.
The dowager, after an agonized glance at her butler, seemed to be in a state of shock. By the doorway, Anna and Peggy made identical gestures, their hands across their mouths. Proom’s face was as sphinx-like as ever, but a small muscle twitched in his cheek.
Something about the atmosphere now made itself felt, even by Muriel. She turned to her fiancé.
‘You don’t mind, I’m sure?’
Rupert tried to pull himself together. ‘No . . . no, of course not. I knew you didn’t drink wine or spirits but not that even in food . . .’ He broke off as the full implications of Muriel’s embargo sank sickeningly into his brain.
‘Dr Lightbody showed me a piece of cirrhosed liver once. I have never forgotten it,’ said Muriel simply.
But now the shock which had held the guests silent began to wear off. Each and every person present had a memory of some good deed done by Mersham’s gentle, well-loved cook and, led by Minna Byrne, with her fine social sense, they threw themselves on to the dessert, begging and imploring Proom for helpings of the bird. The vicar, Mr Morland, remembering the feather-light delicacies the cook had sent down during his wife’s last illness, disposed of the swan’s neck and beak in an instant and asked for more. Tom Byrne, whose childhood visits to Mersham had always taken in a session of ‘helping’ in the kitchens, however busy Jean Park might be, consumed virtually an entire wing in fair imitation of Billy Bunter. Hannah Rabinovitch, though it cost her dear, abandoned her guard on the tenuous, pitted organ which served her husband for a stomach and allowed him to consume lethal doses of crème Chantilly . . .
