Her eyes fall upon the grandfather clock in the hall and she turns and heads back down the stairs, blowing dust from its wooden case before opening the cabinet to wind it the way Lillian once showed her. She watches with a certain satisfaction as the pendulum begins to sway, a steady tick rising up out of the old clock like a resuscitated heart beating in a chest. One small thing corrected.
She doesn’t want to think yet of all the other wrongs she still needs to set right.
Chapter 3
Lillian sits at the dressing table in her bedroom, counting the chimes of the grandfather clock as they echo through the house. Half an hour before their guests will begin to arrive. A crystal tumbler of whisky and ice sits on the table in front of her, bleeding a white ring onto the polished wood. Lillian takes a sip and squints at her reflection in the mirror, studying for lines at the corners of her eyes, lifting her chin, tilting it first this way then that, smoothing her fingers gently across her throat. Mrs Charles Oberon, she says quietly. She barely recognises herself. Twenty-six years old and she feels ancient and exhausted. Tonight will require a little extra effort.
She brushes her fair hair and pins it up into a neat twist. The ice cubes clink and slide in the tumbler as she drinks. Outside, a blackbird perched on the wisteria beyond her open window lifts its voice in full-throated song, as if to accompany the instruments being tuned by the jazz band down on the terrace below. All around her, Cloudesley seems to hum with activity. There is the scrape of a ladder moving across the terrace as a man hangs the last of the Chinese lanterns. A bar cart rattles across flagstones, glassware and bottles clinking. She hears the muffled giggles of two maids passing her bedroom door, extra staff drafted in for the occasion. There has been no shortage of work in the run up to the evening. The chandeliers have been cleaned, flowers cut and arranged, the furniture dusted, rugs rolled back, cutlery polished and counted, the champagne chilled and the extravagant ice sculptures Charles has insisted upon delivered and set in pride of place in the dining room. Even the peacocks seem to understand the importance of the evening, patrolling the lawns like jewelled sentries. The house is all bustle and action; only she, it seems, is a fixed point, redundant amid the maelstrom.
Ignoring the shaking of her hand, she brushes blusher onto her cheeks and paints her lips scarlet before pursing them in the mirror. The colour helps to disguise her pallor. She lifts her glass once more and discovers it is empty.
Her dress is laid out on the bed, a long but simple halter-neck gown in jade green silk. She steps into it, the fabric moving like water around her legs. It’s only as she turns back to the mirror that she notices Charles standing silently at the door. ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘You startled me.’
He smiles at her reflection. ‘Can’t I watch my beautiful wife getting dressed?’
Lillian gives him a faint smile, holding the dress to her chest. He looks handsome in his black tuxedo, his thick russet-coloured hair slick with pomade, the sheen almost masking the distinct shock of white at his parting. ‘Glad to see you’re putting your best foot forward, dear. Well done.’ His eyes drop to the empty tumbler on the table in front of her. ‘Feeling better?’
She nods, fumbling with the fabric ties.
‘Allow me,’ he says, moving to tie the halter at the nape of her neck, his fingers fastening the line of covered buttons running down her spine before taking a step back to admire her. ‘Perfect . . .’ he says, ‘. . . almost.’
Charles pulls a black velvet box from his jacket and snaps it open to reveal an impressive pearl choker, four strands deep, fastened by a glittering diamond and emerald clasp. He holds it out to her. ‘Should do the job,’ he says, glancing at her throat.
The necklace is, of course, exactly what’s needed. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says.
She allows him to fasten the choker, the cold pearls pulling taut against the hollow of her neck, before his hands come to rest on her shoulders and his face leans in to hers – so close she can smell the lingering traces of Pears soap and sandalwood on his skin. She forces herself to meet his gaze in the mirror. ‘There,’ he says, ‘now you’re perfect.’
‘Thank you.’ Her heart beats like a drum in her chest, their eyes locked until Charles steps away, adjusting the cufflinks at his wrists. ‘It’s turning into a beautiful evening.’
She releases the breath she has been holding and reaches for an earring, raising it to her lobe before discarding it. ‘Yes. Clever you for picking tonight.’
Charles rubs his hands together briskly. ‘Well, on with the show.’ He is almost at the door when he turns back to her, narrowing his eyes a little. ‘Just do your best, my dear. It’s not too much to ask, is it?’
As soon as he’s gone, she lifts a hand to the pearls around her throat. They press cold and tight against her skin but there is no question of her not wearing them. She pushes her shoulders back, lifts her chin and regards herself for a long moment in the mirror. Before she even knows what she is doing, she reaches for the empty glass tumbler on her dressing table and sends it sailing across the room. It shatters against the wall, splintering into a hundred deadly shards, the small act of destruction releasing a little of the pent-up emotion caught in her throat. On with the show, she thinks, adjusting the necklace one final time before leaving the room.
She is on her third glass of champagne when she finds herself cornered in the dining room by a man talking too loudly at her, his wife standing silently at his side. Lillian can’t take her eyes off the canapé crumbs jostling in the bristles of his moustache.
‘I’ve been coming to Charles’s May Day Ball for as long as I can remember,’ he announces with distinct pride, ‘but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cloudesley look quite as lovely as it does tonight. Wouldn’t you agree, Barbara?’ He nudges the dark-haired woman beside him and she murmurs her assent.
Lillian knows he is someone important; one of Charles’s business associates, though his name escapes her. Hugh Somebody-or-other. Charles’s friends all look the same to her – a parade of stout, greying men – even more so tonight in their uniform black tie. ‘Thank you,’ she says, knowing it is her role to take the credit, though she has had little to do with the evening’s preparations, other than instructing the staff and ensuring Charles’s requests were followed to the letter.
‘Of course, you Oberons know how to throw a party,’ he continues. ‘Do you recall the year Charles brought out that contortionist? My word! The poses she got into up on the bar made the mind boggle.’ He nudges Lillian. ‘Do you remember, my dear?’
She doesn’t know the particular party the man is referring to – presumably it took place before her time, when the first Mrs Oberon helped to arrange Charles’s soirées – but she smiles politely.
‘I’ve always loved coming here,’ the man continues. ‘Everywhere you look there’s something wonderful to admire. That husband of yours does have extraordinary taste.’
‘Yes,’ murmurs Lillian, glancing around at the huge pedestal arrangements of roses and peonies, the flickering silver candelabra and the peacock ice sculptures now melting slowly in the unusually warm May air. ‘He does.’
‘We heard you hadn’t been well. Are you feeling better, dear?’ It’s the wife, peering beady-eyed at her over a champagne glass.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘There has been a nasty influenza going around. You can’t be too careful. I’m sure Charles is very . . . cautious . . . after poor Evelyn. He must want to keep you wrapped up in cotton wool.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Lillian with a small laugh, ‘he is very careful.’ She can’t help her quick glance at the portrait of the late Mrs Oberon, hanging over the fireplace, her narrow shoulders swathed in pink satin, her pale, round face and hazel eyes gazing out over the proceedings with a look of serene acceptance.
Feeling a tug at her dress, Lillian looks down and sees Albie standing at her side. ‘Hello.’ The boy’s face is white with tiredness, his amber eyes wide like saucers.
‘I’m bored,’ he whispers.
She bends down and puts her mouth to his ear. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. Me too.’
‘Will you play with me?’
She smiles at him. ‘I wish I could. Tell you what . . . go and find me something beautiful . . . a feather . . . a flower.’
He smiles and nods in understanding. It is their little game, a treasure hunt, where the only rule is that whatever he finds must be from the natural world. Nothing artificial or man-made. He darts through the open doors onto the terrace and is gone.
‘Such a shame,’ says Barbara in an affected tone. ‘He must miss his mother terribly.’
A waiter materialises with a tray of devils-on-horseback and the couple fall upon them with gusto. Lillian watches the shiny, pink meat disappearing into the man’s gaping mouth. She has no appetite and only half-listens as the conversation moves on around her, her eyes drifting back to the portrait of Evelyn Oberon. Was this how it was for her, she wonders? Did she relish these evenings of Charles’s? Was she the life and soul of the party, or did she bear them, like her, with stoic resolve?
Ignoring the bluster of the man still ranting at her side, her ears attune to the rising babble coming from the terrace. She hears the jazz music, the popping of champagne corks, the exclamations of old friends greeting each other and exchanging news and jokes and innuendo. Judging by the crescendo, they are reaching that point in the evening when inhibitions fade with the setting sun. A laughing woman clutching a bottle of champagne balances precariously on the edge of the oriental fountain, the train of her evening dress trailing through the water as her companions encourage her on her perilous circle around the wall. Couples dance beneath the Chinese lanterns like moths drawn to the light. All is movement and dizzying colour.
Beads of sweat prickle on her back. She puts a hand to her temple and feels her pulse beating beneath her fingers. ‘Will you excuse me?’ she says to no one in particular. ‘I think I need a little air.’
She leaves through the open French doors and makes for a spot at the far end of the terrace, where the balustrade is cast almost in darkness. It is a relief to escape to the shadows and lean against the cool stone, gazing out into the torch-lit gardens. The black silhouette of a peacock flutters up into a tree, retreating to its nest for the night. High above her head the stars seem to fizz and dance in the sky. She attempts to run a finger beneath the pearl choker round her neck and wishes she could take the damn thing off.
‘Are you feeling all right, Madam?’
She turns to find Bentham standing behind her, hands clasped at his back, his solemn, unblinking gaze fixed, as usual, just a fraction from her face; looking but not looking. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Mr Oberon thought you might need—’
‘I’m fine,’ she says again, more firmly, and the butler gives a stiff nod.
‘Of course.’
Lillian softens slightly. ‘Aren’t you ever off duty, Bentham? You should relax a little.’ She waves her glass at him.
Bentham shakes his head, his eyes still not quite meeting hers. ‘It’s an important night for Mister Oberon. All hands to the pump.’
‘Yes, quite. Silly me.’ She turns and looks out over the gardens. ‘We must all do our duty,’ she adds with a sigh.
He nods and Lillian listens to him walk away, that distinct, stiff-legged gait as he moves across the terrace. Grateful to be alone again, she turns and leans over the balustrade, gazing out across the lawn to where a group of guests cavort in the shadows, the men’s white dress shirts and their drunken whoops giving them away in the darkness. They’re either playing croquet or chasing the last of the peacocks up into the trees. Perhaps both.
Lillian presses her hips against the cool stone and closes her eyes. Is any of this real, she wonders? Could she open her eyes and find herself back in Lucinda’s draughty house, rearranging the books in her library? Or sitting with her sister, Helena, on the stone bench overlooking her steep, winding garden? Or waking as a child in her bed in their old family home in Pimlico, to the sound of her parents moving in the house below? Could all of this be some surreal dream? She feels so lightly tethered to the world.
‘It’s a little early to be falling asleep,’ says a voice, soft and low, at her side.
Startled, she spins to face the man who seems to have materialised from nowhere.
‘By all accounts,’ he adds, ‘there are still hours of this to get through.’
She doesn’t recognise him. In the near-darkness his face is smooth like sculpted marble and his eyes shine almost black; his expression is hard to read – playful, perhaps – but it’s his choice of words that intrigues her most. ‘You’re not enjoying yourself?’ she asks.
The man shrugs and pulls a cigarette case from his tuxedo pocket. She accepts with a small nod of thanks and leans in to the flame he offers from his silver lighter. ‘I’m not much of a one for parties,’ he says simply and without apology. ‘All the small talk, the social grandstanding. I’m not very good at it.’
‘Then if you don’t mind me asking, why are you here?’
‘Turn down an invitation from Charles Oberon? I didn’t know such a thing was possible.’ The man smiles, his teeth glinting white in the shadows. ‘Besides, it arrived with the most intriguing note.’ He clamps his own cigarette between his lips as he reaches into his jacket pocket again and pulls out a stiff cream card, offering it to Lillian. In the dim light of the lanterns swaying overhead she reads the words scrawled in a corner of the invitation in her husband’s looping handwriting.
Do hope you’ll come. Bring a chum, if you like.
I have a proposition for you. We’ll discuss.
C. O.
It is so like Charles, she thinks. The assertive ‘we’ll discuss’, as though the matter of the man’s attendance had already been settled. ‘Did you?’ she asks, handing the invitation back.
‘Did I what?’
‘Bring a chum?’
‘No.’
Lillian studies the man, thinking she has the measure of him. With looks like that he’s bound to be a playboy. A ladies’ man. She exhales smoke out over the lawns, watching it fade into the darkness.
‘I heard there will be fireworks later. I thought I’d slope away after.’
‘Oh yes, the fireworks. Of course.’ She sighs. ‘Chinese lanterns, champagne fountains, peacocks, ice sculptures . . .’
‘. . . And a perfect full moon,’ he finishes for her.
Lillian glances up at the night sky.
‘Do you think he ordered it specially?’ he asks.
‘I have no doubt,’ she says drily, tapping ash from her cigarette onto the terrace floor. ‘So what do you think this “proposition” could be?’ she asks.
‘No idea. I’m still waiting for a moment with our gracious host.’ Something in his wry smile offsets the intensity in his eyes. Really, he is very handsome. ‘And in the meantime,’ he adds, with a sideways glance, ‘I have you.’
He is flirting with her; very gently, but definitely flirting and it’s at that moment that Lillian realises he must have no more idea of her identity than she has of his.
A loud cheer erupts out on the lawn. The man beside her turns his back on the antics in the gardens and gazes up at the house instead, the lights blazing from the windows illuminating the side of his face.
‘So, you’re telling me you know nobody here?’ she asks.
‘Not a soul.’
‘Perhaps I can help put that to rights.’ She spins back to face the terrace. ‘Let’s see . . . The lady there – the one performing the energetic can-can across the dance floor – is Mabel Grey, the West End actress. Have you heard of her?’
The man at her side shakes his head again.
‘Her friend, the blonde in the pink silk, is a celebrated fashion model – just back after a rather scandalous divorce from her American banker husband. She came out of it rather well, they say, which should please her new toy-boy lover. Over there
, monopolising the cocktail shaker is Charles, of course, with his entourage. Men in high places,’ she says, exhaling a long stream of cigarette smoke. ‘Police. Politicians. Lawyers. High Court judges. Apparently, Anthony Eden himself might make an appearance later.’
‘Goodness! The Oberons are connected. Hardly a night for bad behaviour then,’ says the man at her side.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ she says, glancing at him sideways before looking away, exhaling another stream of smoke out into the garden.
She really doesn’t know what has come over her. She’s had too much to drink. Or perhaps it’s the fact that he has no idea who she is that she finds appealing. Whatever the reason, she tells herself a little light flirtation with a handsome stranger is hardly the worst thing in the world. Charles is busy with his friends and, having looked about the terrace, she can see far worse behaviour taking place. Far worse.
‘He seems to have the right idea,’ says the man, nodding to where a young boy in a dark suit lingers near a forgotten tray of desserts, reaching out to remove the plump raspberries from the top of each small glass of lemon posset, cramming the berries into his mouth before skulking away into the garden.
‘Oh dear,’ she sighs.
‘Charles Oberon’s son?’
‘Yes. That’s Albie.’
‘He looks like a little scamp. And where is Mrs Oberon? I haven’t met her yet either.’
Lillian hesitates. Her silly subterfuge has gone on long enough.
‘By all accounts,’ the man continues, lowering his voice, ‘she’s a timid thing. Rather sickly . . . forever taking to her bed. They say Charles Oberon was still grieving the death of his first wife when he married her.’
The Peacock Summer Page 3