‘Oh my God! You little bitch! Oh my God!’
Jennifer, her face and carefully styled hair covered in the sticky liquid, fled the room as they all stared open-mouthed at first Jessamine, and then her father.
‘How dare you! How dare you! Go to your room! And don’t come down again, not ever, do you hear? I don’t want to see you again.’ As he looked round the table and realised that the rest of the assembled company were quite obviously struggling not to dissolve into hysterical laughter, he added, ‘Any of you. I don’t want to see any of you again. You can all get the hell out of here. And that includes you, Douro. All of you. Go!’
One by one they all put down their heavy linen napkins and trooped out of the dining room, leaving only Jamie who sat on by himself staring down the table to the place where his wife-to-be, only minutes before, had been presiding so happily. He would not stand another moment of such behaviour. Jennifer was the love of his life, and the only way to get the message through to them all was to rid Knighton Hall of the lot of them, even Douro, even his old friend and estate manager must go. He had lost his touch, Jamie was sure of it.
Upstairs, back once more in their suites of rooms, all of which had a strangely desolate air, as if they had already packed up and left, the girls sat about their beds knowing that they had nothing to do now but climb into them. No one moved, only stared round at each other, all of them feeling and looking over-dressed for that time of day, but for once unable to think of what to say to each other, wondering all the time what was going to happen next, while at the same time knowing that whatever it was, it was definitely not going to be good.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Jessamine …’ Cyrene said at last.
‘No, I shouldn’t,’ Jessamine agreed, but then, looking across at Alexandra, she smiled suddenly and gloriously. ‘But, you must admit, it was really fantastic, wasn’t it? I mean, Languorous-Anagram’s face! It was funny, wasn’t it?’
There was a small silence as the three of them remembered the look of total shock on Jennifer’s face, and then they all burst out laughing. They laughed until their sides ached from laughter, they laughed because it had been such a splendid moment, and finally they laughed because their hearts were breaking. It was the end, and they knew it. The old regime, the remains of the first family were about to be split up for ever, making way for what in time would become the more important second family. They had all had it long, long ago, and really Jessamine’s brave gesture of defiance had only precipitated the inevitable.
Two days later Tasha announced that they would all be leaving the Hall as soon as possible. She spoke in a low, flat, expressionless voice, as if she had been through an emotional mangle so many times that even she could recognise that she was quite flattened, dried out, ready only to be shelved. In other words she was now without hope, and seemed to know it.
‘We must all go rather quicker than we had thought.’ She turned to her eldest daughter. ‘Jessamine’s silly behaviour at dinner the other day has rather speeded things up, I’m afraid. Not that it matters particularly, for really, what does it matter? We would all have been booted out some time soon anyway. It’s poor old Douro I feel sorry for, he’s been at Knighton ever since he was quite a young man. Started on the estate, working for Jamie’s father, and now Jamie. But there you are, these things happen. Nothing is for ever, particularly since the war and the wretched government bringing in all those death duties and taxes, as if the country has not endured enough. I will be in London, at the flat, until I can find something else, but there are only three bedrooms, so no room for Alexandra or the poor dogs, I’m afraid.’
She turned sadly to Alexandra who nodded sympathetically. She would not have expected to go with Tasha to London.
‘It-it’s all rer-right, Aunt Tasha, I’ve fer-found a job anyway.’
They all three stared at her as if she had suddenly announced that she was becoming a nun. No one in their family, three sets of eyes seemed to be saying, had ever had a job before: she was quite obviously the first.
‘You already have … you already have a – job?’ asked Tasha, uncertainly.
‘Yes.’ Alexandra tried not to sound proud, but knew she would fail. ‘Yer-yer-yes, I ler-looked in the Der-Daily Telegraph, and I rer-rang up the number, and I have fer-found a job in Sussex, working for a very ner-nice old lady. She wants somebody—’ Alexandra stopped, knowing that she could not say ‘to live in and clean for her’ because to do so would be to risk shocking Tasha. ‘She wer-wants somebody to help her arrange fer-flowers, and check in her guests. She runs a private her-hotel, I ther-think, something like ther-that,’ she added, quickly inventing something that she thought would not sound too servile. ‘Remember when I went to London? We-well, that’s when I got the job.’
‘A private hotel? Is that quite nice, Alexandra?’
Tasha looked alarmed.
‘Oh, very ner-nice. Her ner-name is Mrs Smithers, and she used to have horses, until her husband der-died.’
This information seemed to soothe Tasha’s evident fears for Alexandra, particularly the mention of horses, and the fact that the lady in question had a nice English name like ‘Smithers’.
‘Well, that is good, Alexandra. Well done. I only hope that when we get to London, when we leave, that Jessamine and Cyrene will be as quick off the mark as you have been. Imagine – we all thought you’d gone to London to enjoy yourself. What a good girl you are.’
Alexandra smiled. She wanted desperately to hug Tasha for saying such a kind thing, but she did not because she knew that Tasha would not like it. It would not be the kind of thing that she understood. Instead Alexandra turned away from the sight of Tasha’s cashmere twin set with its missing button, from her hair that she no longer went to London during the week to have styled, her fingernails that were no longer manicured at one of the top salons, but were now plain and unvarnished and cut short like those of a child.
‘Now, I think we should all go and cheer Douro up, don’t you?’ Tasha suggested, sighing. ‘Poor fellow’s leaving later today. I think we should take him a bottle of champers and make sure that he has a jolly good send-off, don’t you?’
Having raided the wine cellar, they all trooped dutifully off to Douro’s house where the removal men had already packed up his possessions of years, where his guns stood ready to go, where his dog, perhaps for the first time in years, was wearing not just a collar, but a lead too.
‘I say, jolly good of you, really very good of you.’
Douro’s smile was such that if he had not been smiling with such determination, his face might have broken in pieces.
‘We’ve robbed the cellars for you, Douro!’
Tasha seemed to have got back some of her old zest, because she bounded determinedly up the steps to meet him in the hall. The girls followed her, all three of them clutching a bottle of champagne in each hand.
‘Not only are we going to drink all this champagne, but, Douro, we have brought you some of the old man’s best claret, best port, best vintages. He’ll be furious when he finds out at the weekend, but by that time, we will all be gone, so what can he do about it?’
Douro started violently as he saw two of the men from the estate pushing wheelbarrows of wine.
‘Oh, no, Tasha, no!’ He looked from her to the wheel-barrows and back again. ‘No, no, you mustn’t bang them about, you’ll ruin them!’
Tasha stared at Douro and then gave a sudden shout of despairing laughter, her once pretty face distorted with bitterness.
‘Who cares? For God’s sake, Douro, who cares whether or not we ruin the wine? We’re all ruined anyway!’
Before she left for her first job, Alexandra had one more duty to perform which she did with the same assiduous care that she had demonstrated before leaving Kay’s cottage for Knighton Hall. She helped Jessamine and Cyrene smuggle their dogs away from the Hall.
‘Mummy says we must take them to the vet tomorrow and have them put down, because it’s ki
nder than giving them to someone who wouldn’t treat them well or who would pass them on to someone who would be cruel to them, perhaps starve them and beat them.’
Alexandra looked down at the two brown and white spaniels.
‘Wer-wer-well I asked Mrs Smithers and she says it is fer-fine for me to bring them, because they’ll be in the ber-basement with mer-me. I will look after them for you, and when you’re ber-both able to have them, I will ger-give them back to you.’
‘Yes, but you mustn’t tell Mummy, she wouldn’t understand.’
‘Wer-wer-what do you mean?’
‘She honestly has a real thing about lending horses or dogs. Better to have them put down, always, always, always, she always says that. She has made the appointment with the vet, Douro says.’
‘In that case I had ber-better leave wer-with them now – ber-before she comes back, hadn’t I? Get an earlier ter-train to Deanford.’
They could all see the sense in this, but because the moment of parting was coming a day earlier than they had expected, Jessamine and Cyrene looked at each other, and then down at their beloved dogs.
‘I suppose you’d better. I’ll call a taxi, before Mummy comes back from seeing the lawyer. Oh, why she doesn’t fight for herself better—’
‘You know very well, Jess, it’s because she has no money. She has to do what Daddy says, or he told her he will go and live abroad in the Bahamas or somewhere, and she will not get any money out of him, ever. She keeps telling you that, so do shut up about it.’
‘I just don’t understand.’
‘Because you don’t want to, that’s why; you just don’t want to,’ her sister told her, turning away, shrugging her shoulders.
The sisters helped Alexandra fetch her suitcases from her room, and then they all stood about awkwardly in the deserted hall waiting for the taxi to arrive, none of them knowing quite what to say to each other.
‘Goodbye, Rupert, goodbye, Rodney.’
They handed the two spaniels into the taxi cab to sit either side of Alexandra.
‘Don’t forget that Rupert likes to have a Rich Tea biscuit every night—’
‘And Rodney likes the black ones from the Spillers’ bag—’
Alexandra looked back at her cousins standing forlornly in the drive as the taxi pulled away from Knighton Hall. In an effort to cheer them she held each of the dogs in turn up to the back window waving their paws up and down, but Jessamine and Cyrene had both turned back into the house, and she knew from the way they were hurrying up the steps to the front doors, not looking back, that they must both be crying.
Tom was turning over the earth in the Long Border when he heard a woman’s voice behind him. The owner of it seemed to be sighing as she spoke, as if despite the warmth of the day, the flowers, the blue sky, she was unhappy.
‘I do love delphiniums, there’s something about the blue of them that is like no other.’
Tom turned and found himself gazing into a pair of eyes staring up at him from under a straw hat. They were so beautiful that even the superb herbaceous border, currently at its summer best, seemed to pale beside their perfection. Their blue seemed to out-blue the very flowers their owner appeared to be admiring. But it was not just the beauty of the young woman that was making him a prisoner in the place where he was standing, it was the mirror she was holding up to him.
For the first time Tom was seeing himself reflected in a young woman’s eyes. There was nothing teasing or provocative in her gaze, as there had always been in Miss Jessamine’s eyes, nothing flirtatious, as there had been occasionally with village girls, or maids that worked in his mother’s kitchens; instead as he stared down at her, Tom saw himself as she was seeing him.
For the first time he found himself staring at a tall, muscular young man with a firm set to his mouth. Hours of working in the heat of the sun had tanned his skin to a rich brown, setting off his large grey eyes and emphasising the auburn streaks in his dark brown hair. For the first time too he understood with a sense of shock that someone was looking at him as if he were not just some gardening boy, but a beautiful young man. For some reason at that moment who he was in the pecking order of the estate did not seem to matter, and the realisation momentarily took the breath from his body, as if he had been punched.
‘Florazel? Florazel?’
It was a male voice calling, deep, resonant, insistent, but Tom stood on against his will, mesmerised, for the mirror had turned from his image to hers. He had never, ever seen such a beautiful woman, not even in pictures. It was not just the cold, clear blue of her eyes, which did not match but vied with the colour of the delphinium that she seemed to be sighing over, it was the delicate tones of her white skin, which he knew, should he have the nerve to lean forward and stroke, would have a slight, soft down on it, like the fruit in the Peach House. The nose was classically straight and set above lips that were beautifully shaped, the sides tilting upwards above a chin that was perfectly proportioned.
Of course he did not know, and perhaps would not even have been interested in the fact, that Lady Florazel was a famous beauty. He only knew that, in a matter of seconds, he had become impassioned by her aura, by the mirror she was holding up to him, by her intoxicating difference. He also knew exactly what was going to happen next, long before they started to kiss.
‘You’re up earlier and earlier, young man.’ Mrs Posnet turned at the kitchen range, her hand as always ready to reach for the old-fashioned kettle. ‘I don’t know why you bother to go to bed if you’re going to get up this early of a morning,’ she added, smiling.
‘Don’t worry about breakfast for me, Mrs P.’
Tom turned at the door trying to look and sound innocent.
‘Not skipping breakfast yet again?’
‘I’ll get something on the way, and it means I can get on quicker. In this hot weather if I don’t get there and open the vents there’ll be a disaster.’
Mrs Posnet stared at the back door, which had now closed quietly behind Tom.
‘He’s a good lad,’ she told the kitchen. ‘Too handsome for his own good, but a good lad.’
Meanwhile, Tom, once more the proud owner of a second-hand bicycle, flung his leg over the saddle and pedalled hard. It was true that he wanted to open the vents of the greenhouses and make sure of all the temperatures. It was also true that over the last fortnight he had taken to eating breakfast at the estate, and that it was indeed much quicker. As he cycled along he was satisfied that he had not told Mrs Posnet anything except the truth.
The sun was up and, as it always seemed to do, warmth appeared to produce a pleasant muffled sound, so that not even his footsteps sounded so harsh against the path that led to the Orchid House. The largest and most elaborate of all the Duke’s glasshouses, it was already filling up with rarities of which His Grace was most proud. Orchids were once more in fashion, being pinned to the lapels of tight-waisted jackets, carried in clear plastic boxes to the theatre as gifts by rich men for the women they were escorting, or worn with evening dresses. Tom knew that the Duke himself, although unmarried, delighted to give them to his lady visitors to wear on their evening dresses.
‘Already here? And I was so hoping to surprise you for once!’
Lady Florazel came into the Orchid House carrying a gingham-covered basket and a rug. She gave a little sigh as she closed the door behind her, after which she smiled up at Tom. As always there was a trace of becoming sadness in her eyes, while as always Tom found himself wordless at just the sight of her beauty, which seemed all the more pure and English compared to the Chinese charms of the exotic flowers ranged behind her on the wooden staging.
‘Lady Florazel—’ he began, determined to put an end to their meetings at last.
But before he could say any more she had put her arms up to him and kissed him long and sensually, and Tom, realising with reluctance that whatever she was or was not doing she was certainly making a man of him, found himself responding with all the eagerness of a lover
who has not been kissed for fully twenty-four hours.
‘Now what was it you wanted to say, dear, dear Tom?’
Tom caught her to him, longing to taste the sweetness of her mouth. He had no idea what he had been going to say. It must have been something, but as always since they had met, words seemed such a waste of time, only love mattered, until they both heard the sound of heavy gardening boots on the path outside.
Delicately Florazel withdrew from his love-making and, swiftly doing up the pearl buttons on the front of her chiffon dress, she turned calmly to one of the orchids. As the door opened, she pointed to it, laughing gaily.
‘It is that one that I want to take with me on my picnic breakfast, Mr O’Brien,’ she stated. ‘I insist that I take that one.’
‘I will ask Mr Blakemore for you, Lady Florazel, meanwhile might I suggest that perhaps you take this one for your corsage this evening?’
Tom indicated one of the finer hybrids recently arrived on the estate.
Lady Florazel laughed up at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, the blue of them quite as startling as the white of the orchid which Tom was now indicating.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your ladyship, but there is an urgent message for young Tom O’Brien here, from Mrs Posnet. She sent her neighbour’s child up to find him.’
‘Ah well, I must be on my way.’
She passed them both, moving with delicate grace, her picnic basket still packed, her hair only slightly less arranged than it had been when she first entered the glasshouse.
Mr Blakemore stared after her, but once he had closed the door behind her he turned on Tom.
The Magic Hour Page 15
