by Ngaio Marsh
It was adorned with a large diamond star.
“Milly,” Pauline muttered.
“Do you see what I see?” Millamant replied with a faint hiss.
Miss Orrincourt moved to the fire and laid one arm along the mantelpiece. “I hope Noddy’s not going to be late,” she said. “I’m starving.” She looked critically at her crimson nails and touched the diamond star. “I’d like a drink,” she said.
Nobody made any response to this statement, though Paul uncomfortably cleared his throat. The tap of a stick sounded in the hall.
“Here is Papa,” said Pauline nervously, and they all moved slightly. Really, thought Troy, they might be waiting to dine with some minor royalty. There was precisely the same air of wary expectation.
Barker opened the door, and the original of all the photographs walked slowly into the room, followed by the white cat.
iii
The first thing to be said about Sir Henry Ancred was that he filled his rôle with almost embarrassing virtuosity. He was unbelievably handsome. His hair was silver, his eyes, under heavy brows, were fiercely blue. His nose was ducal in its prominence. Beneath it sprouted a fine snowy moustache, brushed up to lend accent to his actor’s mouth. His chin jutted out squarely and was adorned with an ambassadorial tuft. He looked as if he had been specially designed for exhibition. He wore a velvet dinner-jacket, an old-fashioned collar, a wide cravat and a monocle on a broad ribbon. You could hardly believe, Troy thought, that he was true. He came in slowly, using a black and silver stick, but not leaning on it overmuch. It was, Troy felt, more of an adjunct than an aid. He was exceeding tall and still upright.
“Mrs Alleyn, Papa,” said Pauline.
“Ah,” said Sir Henry.
Troy went to meet him. “Restraining myself,” as she afterwards told Alleyn, “from curtsying, but with difficulty.”
“So this is our distinguished painter?” said Sir Henry, taking her hand. “I am delighted.”
He kept her hand in his and looked down at her. Behind him, Troy saw in fancy a young Henry Ancred bending his gaze upon the women in his heyday and imagined how pleasurably they must have melted before it. “Delighted,” he repeated, and his voice underlined adroitly his pleasure not only in her arrival but in her looks. “Hold your horses, chaps,” thought Troy and removed her hand, “I hope you continue of that mind,” she said politely.
Sir Henry bowed. “I believe I shall,” he said. “I believe I shall.” She was to learn that he had a habit of repeating himself.
Paul had moved a chair forward. Sir Henry sat in it facing the fire, with the guest and family disposed in arcs on either side of him.
He crossed his knees and rested his left forearm along the arm of his chair, letting his beautifully kept hand dangle elegantly. It was a sort of Charles II pose, and, in lieu of the traditional spaniel, the white cat leapt gracefully on his lap, kneaded it briefly and reclined there.
“Ah, Carabbas!” said Sir Henry, and stroked it, looking graciously awhile upon his family and guest. “This is pleasant,” he said, including them in a beautiful gesture. For a moment his gaze rested on Miss Orrincourt’s bosom. “Charming,” he said. “A conversation piece. Ah! A glass of sherry.”
Paul and Fenella dispensed the sherry, which was extremely good. Rather elaborate conversation was made, Sir Henry conducting it with the air of giving an audition. “But I thought,” he said, “that Cedric was to join us. Didn’t you tell me, Millamant—”
“I’m so sorry he’s late, Papa,” said Millamant. “He had an important letter to write, I know. I think perhaps he didn’t hear the gong.”
“Indeed! Where have you put him?”
“In Garrick, Papa.”
“Then he certainly must have heard the gong.”
Barker came in and announced dinner.
“We shall not, I think, wait for Cedric,” Sir Henry continued. He removed the cat, Carabbas, from his knees and rose. His family rose with him. “Mrs. Alleyn, may I have the pleasure of taking you in?” he said.
“It’s a pity,” Troy thought as she took the arm he curved for her, “that there isn’t an orchestra.” And as if she had recaptured the lines from some drawing-room comedy of her childhood, she made processional conversation as they moved towards the door. Before they reached it, however, there was a sound of running footsteps in the hall. Cedric, flushed with exertion and wearing a white flower in his dinner-jacket, darted into the room.
“Dearest Grandpapa,” he cried, waving his hands, “I creep, I grovel. So sorry, truly. Couldn’t be more contrite. Find me some sackcloth and ashes somebody, quickly.”
“Good evening, Cedric,” said Sir Henry icily. “You must make your apologies to Mrs. Alleyn, who will perhaps be very kind and forgive you.”
Troy smiled like a duchess at Cedric and inwardly grinned like a Cheshire cat at herself.
“Too heavenly of you,” said Cedric quickly. He slipped in behind them. The procession had splayed out a little on his entrance. He came face to face with Miss Orrincourt. Troy heard him give a curious, half-articulate exclamation. It sounded involuntary and unaffected. This was so unusual from Cedric that Troy turned to look at him. His small mouth was open. His pale eyes stared blankly at the diamond star on Miss Orrincourt’s bosom, and then turned incredulously from one member of his family to another.
“But”—he stammered—“but, I say — I say.”
“Cedric,” whispered his mother.
“Cedric,” said his grandfather imperatively.
But Cedric, still speaking in that strangely natural voice, pointed a white finger at the diamond star and said loudly: “But, my God, it’s Great-Great-Grandmama Ancred’s sunburst!”
“Nice, isn’t it?” said Miss Orrincourt equally loudly. “I’m ever so thrilled.”
“In these unhappy times, alas,” said Sir Henry blandly, arming Troy through the door, “one may not make those gestures with which one would wish to honour a distinguished visitor! ‘A poor small banquet,’ as old Capulet had it. Shall we go in?”
iv
The poor small banquet was, if nothing else, a tribute to the zeal of Sir Henry’s admirers in the Dominions and the United States of America. Troy had not seen its like for years. He himself, she noticed, ate a mess of something that had been put through a sieve. Conversation was general, innocuous, and sounded a little as if it had been carefully memorised beforehand. It was difficult not to look at Miss Orrincourt’s diamonds. They were a sort of visual faux pas which no amount of blameless small-talk could shout down. Troy observed that the Ancreds themselves constantly darted furtive glances at them. Sir Henry continued bland, urbane, and, to Troy, excessively gracious. She found his compliments, which were adroit, rather hard to counter. He spoke of her work and asked if she had done a self-portrait. “Only in my student days when I couldn’t afford a model,” said Troy. “But that’s very naughty of you,” he said. “It is now that you should give us the perfect painting of the perfect subject.”
“Crikey!” thought Troy.
They drank Rüdesheimer. When Barker hovered beside him, Sir Henry, announcing that it was a special occasion, said he would take half a glass. Millamant and Pauline looked anxiously at him.
“Papa, darling,” said Pauline. “Do you think—?” And Millamant murmured: “Yes, Papa. Do you think—?”
“Do I think what?” he replied, glaring at them.
“Wine,” they murmured disjointedly. “Dr. Withers… not really advisable… however.”
“Fill it up, Barker,” Sir Henry commanded loudly, “fill it up.” Troy heard Pauline and Millamant sigh windily.
Dinner proceeded with circumspection but uneasily. Paul and Fenella were silent. Cedric, on Troy’s right hand, conversed in feverish spasms with anybody who would listen to him. Sir Henry’s flow of compliments continued unabated through three courses, and to Troy’s dismay, Miss Orrincourt began to show signs of marked hostility. She was on Sir Henry’s left, with Paul on her other
side. She began an extremely grand conversation with Paul, and though he responded with every sign of discomfort she lowered her voice, cast significant glances at him, and laughed immoderately at his monosyllabic replies. Troy, who was beginning to find her host very heavy weather indeed, seized an opportunity to speak to Cedric.
“Noddy,” said Miss Orrincourt at once, “what are we going to do tomorrow?”
“Do?” he repeated, and after a moment’s hesitation became playful. “What does a little girl want to do?”
Miss Orrincourt stretched her arms above her head. “She wants things to happen!” she cried ecstatically. “Lovely things.”
“Well, if she’s very, very good perhaps we’ll let her have a tiny peep at a great big picture.”
Troy heard this with dismay.
“What else?” Miss Orricourt persisted babyishly but with an extremely unenthusiastic glance at Troy.
“We’ll see,” said Sir Henry uneasily.
“But Noddy—”
“Mrs. Alleyn,” said Millamant from the foot of the table, “shall we—?”
And she marshalled her ladies out of the dining-room.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Sir Henry led Troy through the pages of three albums of theatrical photographs. This she rather enjoyed. It was strange, she thought, to see how the fashion in Elizabethan garments changed in the world of theatre. Here was a young Victorian Henry Ancred very much be-pointed, be-ruffed, encased and furbished, in a perfect welter of velvet, ribbon and leather; here a modern elderly Henry Ancred in a stylised and simplified costume that had apparently been made of painted scenic canvas. Yet both were the Duke of Buckingham.
Miss Orrincourt joined a little fretfully in this pastime. Perched on the arm of Sir Henry’s chair and disseminating an aura of black market scent, she giggled tactlessly over the earlier photographs and yawned over the later ones. “My dear,” she ejaculated, “look at you! You’ve got everything on but the kitchen sink!” This was in reference to a picture of Sir Henry as Richard II. Cedric tittered and immediately looked frightened. Pauline said: “I must say, Papa, I don’t think anyone else has ever approached your flair for exactly the right costume.”
“My dear,” her father rejoined, “it’s the way you wear ’em.” He patted Miss Orrincourt’s hand. “You do very well, my child.” he said, “in your easy modern dresses. How would you manage if, like Ellen Terry, you had two feet of heavy velvet in front of you on the stage and were asked to move like a queen down a flight of stairs? You’d fall on your nice little nose.”
He was obviously a vain man. It was extraordinary, Troy thought, that he remained unmoved by Miss Orrincourt’s lack of reverence, and remembering Thomas’s remark about David and Abishag the Shunammite, Troy was forced to the disagreeable conclusion that Sir Henry was in his dotage about Miss Orrincourt.
At ten o’clock a grog-tray was brought in. Sir Henry drank barley water, suffered the women of his family to kiss him goodnight, nodded to Paul and Cedric, and, to her intense embarrassment, kissed Troy’s hand. “A demain” he said in his deepest voice. “We meet at eleven. I am fortunate.”
He made a magnificent exit, and ten minutes later, Miss Orrincourt, yawning extensively, also retired.
Her disappearance was the signal for an outbreak among the Ancreds.
“Honestly, Milly! Honestly, Aunt Pauline. Can we believe our eyes!” cried Cedric. “The Sunburst! I mean actually!”
“Well, Millamant,” said Pauline, “I now see for myself how things stand at Ancreton.”
“You wouldn’t believe me when I told you, Pauline,” Millamant rejoined. “You’ve been here a month, but you wouldn’t—”
“Has he given it to her, will somebody tell me?” Cedric demanded.
“He can’t,” said Pauline. “He can’t. And what’s more, I don’t believe he would. Unless—” She stopped short and turned to Paul. “If he’s given it to her,” she said, “he’s going to marry her. That’s all.”
Poor Troy, who had been making completely ineffectual efforts to go, seized upon the silence that followed Pauline’s announcement to murmur: “If I may, I think I shall—”
“Dear Mrs. Alleyn,” said Cedric, “I implore you not to be tactful. Do stay and listen.”
“I don’t see,” Paul began, “why poor Mrs. Alleyn should be inflicted—”
“She knows,” said Fenella. “I’m afraid I’ve already told her, Paul.”
Pauline suddenly made a gracious dive at Troy. “Isn’t it disturbing?” she said with an air of drawing Troy into her confidence. “You see how things are? Really, it’s too naughty of Papa. We’re all so dreadfully worried. It’s not what’s happening so much as what might happen that terrifies one. And now the Sunburst. A little too much. In its way it’s a historic jewel.”
“It was a little cadeau d’estime from the Regent to Great-Great-Grandmama Honoria Ancred,” Cedric cut in. “Not only historical, but history repeating itself. And may I point out, Aunt Pauline, that I personally am rocked to the foundations. I’ve always understood that the Sunburst was to come to me.”
“To your daughter,” said Paul. “The point is academic.”
“I’m sure I don’t know why you think so,” said Cedric, bridling. “Anything might happen.”
Paul raised his eyebrows.
“Really, Pauline,” said Millamant. “Really, Paul!”
“Paul, darling,” said Pauline offensively, “don’t tease poor Cedric.”
“Anyway,” said Fenella, “I think Aunt Pauline’s right. I think he means to marry, and if he does, I’m never coming to Ancreton again. Never!”
“What shall you call her, Aunt Pauline?” Cedric asked impertinently. “Mummy, or a pet name?”
“There’s only one thing to be done,” said Pauline. “We must tackle him. I’ve told Jenetta and I’ve told Dessy. They’re both coming. Thomas will have to come too. In Claude’s absence he should take the lead. It’s his duty.”
“Do you mean, dearest Aunt Pauline, that we are to lie in ambush for the Old Person and make an altogether-boys bounce at him?”
“I propose, Cedric, that we ask him to meet us all and that we simply — we simply—”
“And a fat lot of good, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Pauline, that is likely to do,” said Millamant, with a chuckle.
“Not being an Ancred, Millamant, you can’t be expected to feel this terrible thing as painfully as we do. How Papa, with his deep sense of pride in an old name — we go back to the Conquest, Mrs. Alleyn — how Papa can have allowed himself to be entangled! It’s too humiliating.”
“No being an Ancred, as you point out, Pauline, I realise Papa, as well as being blue-blooded, is extremely hot-blooded. Moreover, he’s as obstinate and vain as a peacock. He likes the idea of himself with a dashing young wife.”
“Comparatively young,” said Cedric.
Pauline clasped her hands, and turning from one member of her family to another, said, “I’ve thought of something! Now listen all of you. I’m going to be perfectly frank and impersonal about this. I know I’m the child’s mother, but that needn’t prevent me. Panty!”
“What about Panty, Mother?” asked Paul nervously.
“Your grandfather adores the child. Now, suppose Panty were just to drop a childish hint.”
“If you suggest,” said Cedric, “that Panty should wind her little arms round his neck and whisper: ‘Grandpapa, when will the howwid lady wun away?’ I can only say I don’t think she’d get into the skin of the part.”
“He adores her,” Pauline repeated angrily. “He’s like a great big boy with her. It brings the tears into my eyes to see them together. You can’t deny it, Millamant.”
“I dare say it does, Pauline.”
“Well, but Mother, Panty plays up to Grandpapa,” said Paul bluntly.
“And in any case,” Cedric pointed out, “isn’t Panty as thick as thieves with Sonia?”
“I happen to know,” sai
d Millamant, “that Miss Orrincourt encouraged Panty to play a very silly trick on me last Sunday.”
“What did she do?” asked Cedric.
Fenella giggled.
“She pinned a very silly notice on the back of my coat when I was going to church,” said Millamant stuffily.
“What did it say, Milly, darling?” Cedric asked greedily.
“Roll out the Barrel,” said Fenella.
“This is getting us nowhere,” said Millamant.
“And now,” said Troy hurriedly, “I really think if you’ll excuse me—”
This time she was able to get away. The Ancreds distractedly bade her good night. She refused an escort to her room, and left them barely waiting, she felt, for her to shut the door before they fell to again.
Only a solitary lamp burned in the hall, which was completely silent, and since the fire had died out, very cold. While Troy climbed the stairs she felt as she had not felt before in this enormous house, that it had its own individuality. It stretched out on all sides of her, an undiscovered territory. It housed, as well as the eccentricities of the Ancreds, their deeper thoughts and the thoughts of their predecessors. When she reached the gallery, which was also dim, she felt that the drawing-room was now profoundly distant, a subterranean island. The rows of mediocre portraits and murky landscapes that she now passed had a life of their own in this half-light and seemed to be indifferently aware of her progress. Here, at last, was her own passage with the tower steps at the end. She halted for a moment before climbing them. Was it imagination, or had the door, out of sight on the half-landing above her, been softly closed? “Perhaps,” she thought, “somebody lives in the room below me,” and for some reason the notion affected her unpleasantly. “Ridiculous!” thought Troy, and turned on a switch at the foot of the stairs. A lamp, out of sight beyond the first spiral, brought the curved wall rather stealthily to life.
Troy mounted briskly, hoping there would still be a fire in her white room. As she turned the spiral, she gathered up her long dress with her right hand and with her left reached out for the narrow rail.