by Clara Benson
‘I’m not surprised,’ muttered Freddy, as Gertie went out.
Chapter Two
The evening-party thrown for Miss Patricia Nugent by her mother, Lady Browncliffe, took place at the family’s London abode, Badenoch House, one of the grandest establishments in St. James’s Square. The house, as befitted the wealth of its owner, Lord Browncliffe (formerly Walter Nugent of the Nugent Corporation), was a tall, stately building in grey brick, with steps leading up to a magnificent double front door in gleaming black (presently flung wide open), which led through a vestibule into an entrance-hall with black and white floor tiles of polished marble so smooth that there was great danger of slipping on them if care was not taken. Inside, the first thing that met the eye was an enormous chandelier which hung from a ceiling that was at least forty feet from the ground, made up of hundreds if not thousands of pear-shaped drops of highly-polished crystal, which glittered and twinkled merrily, stirred by the movement of the many people milling about in the hall below, for there was very little breeze. All the public rooms of the house were bedecked from top to bottom with luscious blooms of pink roses and spiky white gladioli, which filled the stifling air with heavy perfume. The dancing was taking place in the ballroom to the left of the grand staircase, a sombre-looking room, all dark panelling and mauve wallpaper, which was doing its best to look cheerful with the addition of several dozen electric lamps and the presence of a lively jazz orchestra playing with determined energy at the far end. Two sets of French windows had been thrown open, alleviating the closeness of the air only slightly, but in spite of the heat a good number of revellers—mostly those who had consumed enough of the hostess’s cocktails to become impervious to temperature—were dancing in fine spirit, while many of those who could not or would not dance had spilled out into the garden in search of relief and refreshment, and were continuing the festivities there.
Among the earliest guests to arrive were Sir Stanley and Lady Westray, in company with Sir Stanley’s daughter from an earlier marriage, Alida, and their charge, Lady Gertrude McAloon, who was looking deceptively feminine and demure in pale pink chiffon. Sir Stanley, for whom any social occasion was a waste of time unless he could talk ‘shop’ with other men of his type, soon detached himself from the company and was absorbed easily into a group of similar-looking middle-aged and elderly gentlemen who had congregated at the side of the room. Meanwhile, Lady Westray, Alida and Gertie stood and surveyed the room, mentally cataloguing the guests into groups of Unknown, Slight Acquaintances, Allies, Deadly Enemies and Frightful Bores. In between times Gertie was darting the occasional fearful glance over her shoulder. Lady Westray noticed this.
‘I don’t think Doug’s here yet, darling,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to be nervous.’
‘I’m not nervous,’ lied Gertie.
‘I am glad you decided to end it before word got out,’ said Lady Westray. ‘You would never have suited.’
‘I know. It was rather silly of us. He’s not too upset, is he?’
‘He’s been a bit grumpy this week,’ began Alida, but her stepmother shot her a warning look.
‘He’s quite all right,’ she said firmly.
A waiter came and furnished them with drinks, and after a mouthful or two Gertie began to feel better. She shook herself. It was most unlike her to think too deeply about the feelings of others, and she had no idea why she was worried about Douglas Westray, who could not really have been in love with her given that Tatty had ended things with him only a few weeks ago. Freddy was right: he was much more likely to moon around Tatty than herself. Or perhaps he would not turn up at all. That would be the most sensible thing, from his point of view, and the most gentlemanly way of conducting himself. After all, this party was being attended by not one but two of his former fiancées, one of whom would be showing off the new intended for whom she had cast him aside, so where was the sense in his coming? There could not possibly be any fun in it for him.
Just as this thought passed through her head, Tatty Nugent herself made her entrance by the side of her mother, Lady Browncliffe. Entering the room two steps behind them was a tall, handsome young man whose usual wide smile and cheery demeanour had been replaced by an expression which could more accurately be described as agitated and anxious. This was Tom Chetwynd, who had stepped forward to take the place his best friend Douglas Westray had vacated with what some might have considered unseemly haste. Gertie’s expression softened for a moment until she saw the young man, after a moment’s thought, offer his arm to Miss Nugent, who accepted it with a gracious smile.
‘Smug cat!’ muttered Gertie to herself.
‘Straighten your face, you look like you’re thinking of murder,’ said a voice next to her. It was Freddy, who had just arrived.
‘Wherever have you been?’ said Gertie. ‘I was expecting you half an hour ago. I am thinking of murder, of course.’
‘Well, you needn’t make it quite so bristlingly obvious. If they’re found dead at the bottom of a cliff tomorrow everybody will know exactly where to look.’
‘People like that never die conveniently. They’ll get married and have beautiful children and be stinkingly happy, drat them! Fetch me another drink, won’t you?’
‘But you haven’t finished that one yet.’
‘Oh, yes I have,’ she said, and drained the glass in one gulp. ‘And you’d better get a move on if you want to catch me up.’
‘My dear girl, you don’t suppose I ever arrive at a party stone-cold sober, do you? I started a good two hours ago.’ He helped her to another cocktail and took one for himself. ‘You ought to be careful—you know you can’t hold your drink.’
‘I can hold it just as well as you can. Who was it who got stuck up a lamp-post dressed as Tarzan of the Apes after the last Chelsea Arts Ball and had to be rescued by the police?’
‘I was perfectly lucid,’ said Freddy with dignity. ‘It was an unexpected attack of vertigo, that’s all.’
‘A likely tale. Anyway, I’m just fortifying myself before I go and congratulate Tatty. I shall smile and simper and gush, and jolly well make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.’
She took another large swallow of her drink and departed purposefully towards the happy couple.
‘Hallo, Freddy,’ said Lady Westray, who was standing close by. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Freddy. ‘If it isn’t Lois Sherbourne. Why, I haven’t seen you since—when was it?’
‘It must be four years at least, I think. Cap Ferrat, do you remember? And it’s Lois Westray now. I married Sir Stanley Westray two years ago.’
She indicated across the room to where Sir Stanley Westray, portly and balding, was standing in conversation with a group of elderly men. Freddy took in the scene with an expert glance, then turned back to Lady Westray. As Lois Sherbourne, wife of the famous actor and theatrical impresario David Sherbourne, she had once been known for her wildly successful parties, at which scandalous doings had frequently been rumoured. She was in her late thirties, still very pretty, with chestnut hair that showed not even a strand of grey, and hazel eyes that held a good deal of humour.
‘Good Lord!’ he said again.
She smiled mischievously at his evident surprise.
‘Yes indeed, I’m tremendously respectable now. One can’t go on being an enfant terrible forever. Sooner or later the years start to tell on one, and instead of looking terribly daring and fashionable, one merely begins to look pathetic.’
‘You could never look pathetic,’ said Freddy gallantly.
‘Thank you, darling.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The truth of the matter is, after David died it turned out there wasn’t any money, and I didn’t much like the idea of living my old age in poverty. Then Stanley came along and rescued me. Call me a beastly gold-digger if you will, but I do like him, really I do. He’s rather a darling in a pompous, serious sort of way. He needed a woman to look after him after his wife died, and I decided as soon
as I met him that I should be that woman.’
‘Didn’t his children mind?’
‘He didn’t ask them, as far as I know—but in any case, I threw all my efforts into charming them into submission, and it’s all gone rather well. I like them both very much, and I hope they like me. As a matter of fact, Alida and I get along splendidly.’
‘And Douglas?’
‘He’s a fine boy. Things have been a little difficult lately, but I’m sure everything will turn out all right in the end.’
There was a touch of reserve in her manner as she said it.
‘Cut up rough, eh?’ said Freddy sympathetically.
‘Oh! No, nothing like that. He and I rub along very well. But you know how it is—the old stag and the young stag clashing their antlers together. I don’t think it’s anything too serious.’
She was gazing around the room as she spoke, and seemed inclined to change the subject. She caught sight of something and grimaced.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
Freddy turned and saw Sir Stanley talking to another man, who was much taller than he, with a fine head of grey, curly hair and a loud, jovial air about him. As they watched, he burst out laughing, and the sound drifted across the room towards them. This was Lord Browncliffe, Tatty Nugent’s father.
‘Of course, you know that Walter and Stanley are deadly rivals,’ said Lois. ‘When Doug and Tatty were engaged they had to reach a sort of truce, but now that’s all off they can be as frosty to one another as they like.’
‘Lord Browncliffe doesn’t look very frosty,’ observed Freddy.
‘No, and it drives Stanley wild! Walter’s one of those terribly loud, hearty people who can’t take a hint. Stanley would love to be dignified and distant, but Walter simply won’t let him. He likes nothing better than to goad Stanley into a pompous, dignified rage so he can stand and laugh at him. Poor Stanley doesn’t have a sense of humour, and falls for it every time. It’s awfully naughty of Walter. I suppose I’d better go and intervene, before Stanley gets worked up into a fit of apoplexy.’
She glided off, and Freddy helped himself to another drink from a passing tray.
‘Thanks,’ said Gertie, coming up just then and taking it neatly from his hand. ‘I need another one after that.’
‘Bad, eh? Yes, thanks, I will have another. I must say, they don’t scrimp on the drinks here. How was Tatty? Did she accept your congratulations graciously?’
‘Oh, naturally. One couldn’t expect anything less of her.’ She downed the drink. ‘At any rate, I’ve done my duty, and it doesn’t look as though Doug is going to turn up, so now I can have some fun. Come and dance.’
They danced. The orchestra was very good, the surroundings were attractive, the drinks were strong and plentiful, and Freddy settled in to enjoy himself after a hard day at work. They stopped for another cocktail, then danced again.
‘This is rather dull. I think we ought to liven things up a bit,’ announced Gertie, as they stumbled a little unsteadily around the floor.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, now that Doug isn’t on the scene any more, I’m temporarily unencumbered,’ said Gertie. ‘As are you, I believe. I propose a contest to see who can collect the most scalps this evening. Hearts may be broken, but never our own. And no great aunts—kisses on the cheek don’t count. The loser to pay the winner fifty pounds.’
‘I don’t have fifty pounds.’
‘Nor do I, for that matter. All right then, you shall shout me dinner, just for the look of the thing.’
‘Full of yourself, aren’t you?’ said Freddy. ‘That’s assuming you win.’
‘Of course I’m going to win.’
Freddy cast an assessing glance around the room at likely possibilities. There were plenty of pretty girls of his acquaintance within easy approaching distance, several of whom he knew could generally be relied upon not to snub him. He thought he stood a fair chance.
‘We haven’t done this in a while,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think we’re getting a little old for it?’
‘You might be,’ said Gertie with dignity. ‘I shall be young forever. I expect I’ll still be doing this when I’m fifty.’
‘I expect you will, and God help us all.’
‘Go on, it’ll be fun. But we’ll have to handicap it. You’d better give me a two-point head start.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Why, it’s easier for you, as long as you don’t mind a slap in the face, because you can just swoop in. I have to be more subtle about it, and wait to be swooped in on.’
‘I never swoop in without permission, and I most certainly do mind a slap in the face. In fact, I think you ought to give me the head start, because nobody’s going to wallop you, are they?’
Gertie waved a hand expressively, and the handicap was eventually conceded to her advantage.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘As for scoring, we’ll say one point for a single person, two for married, and an outright win for whoever gets either Tom or Tatty.’
‘I’m not kissing Tom.’
‘Silly, I’d be awfully jealous if you did.’
‘Why, darling, I didn’t know you cared so very much about me.’
‘I don’t care about you at all, ass—oh, bother!’
She turned away suddenly from the door as she spoke.
‘What is it?’
‘Douglas,’ she muttered.
Freddy looked up and saw a young man pushing towards them through the crowd of dancers. He was darkly handsome and slightly dishevelled, with hair that was a little too long. He stopped next to them, forcing them to stop dancing and shuffle to the side of the floor.
‘Hallo, Gertie,’ he said. His mouth turned down at the corners, as did his eyes, which gave him something of the look of a tragic basset hound.
‘Doug!’ exclaimed Gertie brightly. ‘I didn’t know you were coming. Have you met Freddy?’
The two young men shook hands. As far as Freddy could judge, Douglas Westray must have spent the earlier part of the evening absorbing alcohol into his system with great dedication. He was swaying on his feet a little, and he had evidently decided to save valuable seconds when speaking by eliminating the gaps between his words.
‘Listen, Gertie,’ he said. ‘I’ve something to say to you. No, really, it’s important. You needn’t worry, I’m not angry or anything like that—in fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that this is all for the best, but I can’t say what I have to say with this fellow breathing down our necks. Sorry, old chap,’ he said to Freddy. ‘Now, do come and talk. I’m having the devil of an evening what with one thing and another, but I won’t chew your ear off, I promise. I’d just like to have a sensible conversation for once.’
‘Oh, very well, then,’ said Gertie resignedly. She glanced at Freddy and gave the merest shrug of her shoulders, then allowed herself to be led out of the ballroom. Freddy was left at a loose end, but not for long. A delicate-looking girl nearby gestured to a waiter who was passing with a tray of drinks, but he did not see her. Freddy stopped the waiter and obliged her.
‘You’re Gertie’s friend Freddy, I think,’ she said, after she had thanked him. ‘I’m Alida. Alida Westray.’
‘Ah, of course,’ said Freddy. ‘Splendid do, what?’
Alida Westray agreed that it was indeed a splendid do, and from there it was most natural for Freddy to ask her to dance. Any hopes he might have had of stealing a march on Gertie were dashed quickly, however, by her manner, which was friendly but distant. He soon discovered why, when Alida smiled at someone over his shoulder and blushed slightly. Freddy turned round and saw a young man standing alone at the side of the ballroom and looking a little awkward.
‘Why, if it isn’t old Penbrigg!’ he said. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Leslie? He works for Father. Do you know him?’
‘I should say so. He was in the year below me at school, and quite the mechanic. He was always tinkering with things, and building machine
s that fell apart or exploded unexpectedly. One soon learned never to lend him a watch, as he’d take the thing apart to examine the workings, and when one got it back the minute hand would run backwards and the hour hand would jump forward two hours at a time. So he works for Westray, does he?’
‘Yes. He’s a terribly clever inventor. I know he’s only young, but he’s already come up with lots of tremendously useful ideas. He designed a new type of aeroplane wing that very nearly won the Woodville Prize last year.’
‘Nearly?’
Her face clouded.
‘Well, it ought to have won. But there was a little trouble over the patent. My brother forgot to register it, you see, and then it turned out that Nugent Corporation had been developing the same idea, and they registered their own patent before Westray did and won the competition.’
‘I say, bad luck!’
‘It was very unfortunate. Leslie took it very well, but I know it must have been galling for him to see the prize go to Nugent Corporation when he’d spent so much time on the idea himself.’
‘Rather a coincidence that Nugent just happened to have been developing the same idea at the same time, what?’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ she said dryly.
Freddy scented a story, but she did not seem inclined to say anything further on the matter at present, so he filed the information away for a future time.
The song had now come to an end, and Freddy led Alida from the floor, where she was immediately claimed by a friend and carried off. Freddy went across to speak to Leslie Penbrigg.
‘Hallo, old bean!’ he said. ‘Where have you been hiding the last few years?’
If any man could have been said to look like an inventor, Leslie Penbrigg was that man. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles that were a little bent at one side, while his hair was untidy and his shirt cuffs peeped out from the sleeves of his dinner-jacket. He had a pleasant face and the air of one whose mind is often elsewhere.
‘Freddy!’ he said. ‘I thought it was you dancing with Alida.’
