‘I suppose so. I wish they’d hurry up. So what about the ball – have you heard anything? You really ought to have gone, Fanny.’
‘I couldn’t have. The Warden of Wadham and Norma went – not together, I don’t mean, but they are the only people I’ve seen so far. It seems to have been very splendid, Cedric changed his dress five times, he started with tights made of rose petals and a pink wig and ended as Doris Keane in Romance and a black wig, he had real diamonds on his mask. Your mother was a Venetian youth to show off her new legs, and they stood in a gondola giving away wonderful prizes to everybody – Norma got a silver snuff-box – and it went on till seven. Oh, how badly people do describe balls.’
‘Never mind, there’ll be the Tatler.’
‘Yes, they said it was flash flash all night. Cedric is sure to have the photographs to show us.’
Presently Boy strolled up and said,
‘Well, Fanny, what d’you hear of the ball?’
‘Oh, we’ve just had the ball,’ said Polly, ‘can’t begin all over again. What about your work?’
‘I could bring it out here if you like.’
‘You know I don’t count your silly old embroidery as work.’
Boy’s face took on a hurt expression and he went away.
‘Polly, you are awful,’ I said.
‘Yes, but it’s for his own good. He pretends he can’t concentrate until after the baby now, so he wanders about getting on everybody’s nerves when he ought to be getting on with Paddington. He must hurry, you know, if the book is to be out for Christmas, he’s still got Souppes to do. Have you ever met Geoffrey Paddington, Fanny?’
‘Well, I have,’ I said, ‘because Uncle Matthew once produced him for a house party at Alconleigh. Old.’
‘Not the least bit old,’ said Polly, ‘and simply heavenly. You’ve no idea how nice he is. He came first to see Boy about the book and now he comes quite often, to chat. Terribly kind of him, don’t you think? Mamma is his chief hate so I never saw him before I married – I remember she was always trying to get him over to Hampton and he would never come. Perhaps he’ll be here one day when you are, I’d love you to meet him.’
I did meet him after that, several times, finding his shabby little Morris Cowley outside Silkin when I arrived. He was a poor man, since his ancestor, the great duke, left much glory but little cash, and his father, the old gentleman in spats, had lavished most of what there was on La Païva and ladies of the kind. I thought him friendly and very dull, and could see that he was falling in love with Polly.
‘Don’t you think he’s terribly nice?’ said Polly, ‘and so kind of him to come when I look like this!’
‘Your face is the same,’ I said.
‘I really quite long for him to see me looking ordinary – if I ever do. I’m losing hope in this baby being born at all.’
It was born, though, that very evening, took one look, according to the Radletts, at its father, and quickly died again.
Polly was rather ill and the Sister would not allow any visitors for about ten days after the baby was born, but as soon as she did I went over. I saw Boy for a moment in the hall, he looked even more gloomy than usual. Poor Boy, I thought, left with a wife who now so clearly disliked him and not even a baby to make up for it.
Polly lay in a bower of blossom, and the Sister was very much in evidence. There should have been a purple-faced wailing monster in a Moses basket to complete the picture and I felt its absence as though it were that of a person well known to me.
‘Oh, poor –’ I began. But Polly had inherited a great deal of her mother’s talent for excluding what was disagreeable, and I saw at once that any show of sympathy would be out of place and annoy her, so instead I exclaimed, Radlett-fashion, over two camellia trees in full bloom which stood one each side of her bed.
‘Geof. Paddington sent them,’ she said. ‘Do admit that he’s a perfect love, Fanny. You know, Sister was with his sister when she had her babies.’
But then whom had Sister not been with? She and Boy must have had some lovely chats, I thought, the first night or two when Polly was feverish and they had sat up together in his dressing-room. She kept on coming into the room while I was there, bringing a tray, taking away an empty jug, bringing some more flowers, any excuse to break in on our talk and deposit some nice little dollop of gossip. She had seen my condition at a glance, she had also realized that I was too small a fish for her net, but she was affability itself and said that she hoped I would come over every day now and sit with Lady Polly.
‘Do you ever see Jeremy Chaddesley Corbett at Oxford?’ she asked. ‘He is one of my favourite babies.’
Presently she came in empty-handed and rather pink, almost, if such a thing were possible with her, rattled, and announced that Lady Montdore was downstairs. I felt that, whereas she would have bundled any of us into our coffins with perfect calm, the advent of Lady Montdore had affected even her nerves of iron. Polly, too, was thrown off her balance for a moment and said faintly,
‘Oh! Is Mr – I mean my – I really mean, is Boy there?’
‘Yes, he’s with her now. He sent word to say will you see her – if you don’t want to, Lady Polly, I can say quite truthfully that you may not have another visitor today. You really ought not to, the first day, in any case.’
‘I’ll go,’ I said, getting up.
‘No, no, no, Fanny, you mustn’t, darling. I’m not sure I will see her but I couldn’t possibly be left alone with her, sit down again at once, please.’
There were voices in the garden outside.
‘Do go to the window,’ said Polly, ‘is it them?’
‘Yes, and Cedric is there too,’ I said, ‘and they’re all three walking round the garden together.’
‘No! But I must, I must see Cedric – Sister, do be a darling, go down and tell them to come up at once.’
‘Now, Lady Polly, no. And please don’t work yourself up, you must avoid any excitement. It’s absolutely out of the question for you to see a stranger today – close relations was what Dr Simpson said, and one at a time. I suppose your mother must be allowed up for a few minutes if you want her, but nobody else and certainly not a strange young man.’
‘I’d better see Mummy,’ Polly said to me, ‘or else this silly feud will go on for ever, besides, I really can’t wait to see her hair and her legs. Oh, dear, though, the one I long for is Cedric.’
‘She seems to be in a very friendly mood,’ I said, still looking at them out of the window, ‘laughing and chatting away. Very smart in navy blue with a sailor hat. Boy is being wonderful. I thought he might be knocked groggy by her appearance, but he’s pretending not to notice, he’s looking at Cedric all the time. They are getting on like mad.’
Most astute of him, I thought privately. If he hit it off with Cedric he would, very soon, be back in Lady Montdore’s good graces, and then perhaps there could be a little modification of Lord Montdore’s will.
‘I die for the sailor hat, come on, let’s get it over. All right then, Sister, ask her to come up – wait – give me a comb and a glass first, will you? Go on with the running commentary, Fanny.’
‘Well, Cedric and Boy are chatting away like mad, I think Boy is admiring Cedric’s suit, a sort of coarse blue tweed, very pretty, piped with scarlet. Lady Montdore is all smiles, having a good look round. You know the way she does.’
‘I can just see it,’ said Polly, combing her hair.
I did not quite like to say that Lady Montdore at this very moment was peering over the churchyard wall at her sister-in-law’s grave. Boy and Cedric had left her there and were wandering off together towards the wrought-iron gates which led to the kitchen garden, laughing, talking, and gesticulating.
‘Go on,’ said Polly, ‘keep it up, Fanny.’
‘There’s Sister, she is floating up to your mother, who is simply beaming – they both are – I never saw such s
miles, goodness, how Sister is enjoying it! Here they come. Your mother looks so happy, I feel quite sentimental, you can see how she must have been missing you, really, at the bottom of her heart, all this time.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Polly, but she looked rather pleased.
‘Darling, I do so feel I shall be in the way. Let me escape now through Boy’s dressing-room.’
‘Oh, on no account whatever, Fanny. Fanny, you’ll upset me if you do that – I absolutely insist on you staying here – I can’t face her alone, beams or no beams.’
Perhaps it had occurred to her, as it now did to me, that Lady Montdore’s beam would very likely fade at the sight of Polly in Lady Patricia’s room, unchanged in almost every respect, in the very bed where Lady Patricia had breathed her last, and that her repugnance for what Polly had done would be given a new reality. Even I had found it rather unattractive until I had got used to the idea. But over-sensibility had never been one of Lady Montdore’s failings, and besides, the great flame of happiness that Cedric had lit in her heart had long since burnt up all emotions which did not directly relate to him. He was the only person in the world now who had any substance for her.
So the beam did not flicker, she positively radiated good humour as she kissed Polly first and then me. She looked round the room and said,
‘You’ve moved the dressing-table, it’s much better like that, more light. Lovely flowers, dear, these camellias – can I have one for Cedric’s button-hole? Oh, from Paddington, are they? Poor Geoffrey, I fear he’s a bit of a megalomaniac, I haven’t been over there once since he succeeded. His father now was very different, a charming man, great friend of ours, King Edward was very fond of him, too, and of course, Loelia Paddington was perfectly lovely – people used to stand on chairs, you know. So the poor little baby died, I expect it was just as well, children are such an awful expense, nowadays.’
Sister, who came back into the room just in time to hear this remark, put her hand to her heart and nearly fainted. That was going to be something to tell her next patients about; never, in all her sisterhood, can she have heard its like from a mother to an only daughter. But Polly, gazing open-mouthed at her mother, taking in every detail of the new appearance, was quite unmoved; it was too typical of Lady Montdore’s whole outlook on life for somebody who had been brought up by her to find it odd or upsetting. In any case, I doubt if she minded much about the baby herself; she seemed to me rather like a cow whose calf has been taken away from it at birth, unconscious of her loss.
‘What a pity you couldn’t have come to the ball, Fanny,’ Lady Montdore went on. ‘Just only for half an hour, to have a look. It was really beautiful. A lot of Cedric’s friends came from Paris for it, in most striking dresses, and I am bound to say, though I have never liked the French, they were very civil indeed and so appreciative of anything one did for them. They all said there hadn’t been such a party since the days of Robert de Montesquiou and I can believe it – it cost £4,000, you know, the water for the gondolas was so heavy, for one thing. Well, it shows these foreigners that England isn’t done for, yet, excellent propaganda. I wore all my diamonds and I have given Cedric a revolving diamond star (goes by clockwork) and he wore it on his shoulder – most effective, I must say. We thoroughly enjoyed every minute and I wish you could read the letters I’ve had about it, really touching, people have had so little pleasure the last year or two and it makes them all the more grateful, of course. Next time we come over I’ll bring the photographs, they give a wonderful idea of what it was like.’
‘What was your dress, Mummy?’
‘Longhi,’ said Lady Montdore, evasively. ‘Veronica Chaddesley Corbett was very good as a prostitute (they were called something different in those days) and Davey was there, Fanny, have you heard from him? He was the Black Death. Everybody made a real effort, you know – it’s a terrible pity you girls couldn’t have come.’
There was a pause. She looked round the room and said with a sigh,
‘Poor Patricia – well, never mind, that’s all over now. Boy was telling us about his book, such an excellent idea, Three Dukes, and Cedric is very much interested because young Souppes, the son of the Prince des Ressources, whom we used to see at Trouville, is a friend of his. Chèvres-Fontaine, which Cedric used to take every summer, belongs to his first cousin. Isn’t it a curious coincidence? So of course, Cedric can tell Boy a great many things he never knew about them all, and they think later on they might go to Paris together to do some research, in fact, we might all go, wouldn’t that be amusing?’
‘Not me,’ said Polly, ‘no more abroad for me, ever.’
At this point Boy came into the room and I discreetly left it, in spite of a furious look from the bed. I went into the garden to find Cedric. He was sitting on the churchyard wall, the pale sunshine on his golden hair, which I perceived to be tightly curled, an aftermath of the ball, no doubt, and plucking away with intense concentration at the petals of a daisy.
‘He loves me he loves me not he loves me he loves me not, don’t interrupt my angel, he loves me he loves me not, oh, heaven heaven heaven! He loves me! I may as well tell you, my darling, that the second big thing in my life has begun.’
A most sinister ray of light suddenly fell upon the future.
‘Oh, Cedric,’ I said. ‘Do be careful!’
I need not have felt any alarm, however, Cedric managed the whole thing quite beautifully. As soon as Polly had completely recovered her health and looks, he put Lady Montdore and Boy into the big Daimler and rolled away with them to France. The field was thus left to a Morris Cowley which, sure enough, could be seen day after day in the drive at Silkin. Before very long, Polly got into it and was taken to Paddington Park, where she remained.
Then the Daimler rolled back to Hampton.
‘So here we all are, my darling, having our lovely cake and eating it too, One’s great aim in life.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said, ‘the Boreleys think it’s simply terrible.’
THE BLESSING
TO EVELYN WAUGH
PART ONE
1
‘The foreign gentleman seems to be in a terrible hurry, dear.’
And indeed the house, though quite large, what used to be called a family house, in Queen Anne’s Gate, was filled with sounds of impatience. Somebody was stamping about, moving furniture, throwing windows up and down, and clearing his throat exaggeratedly.
‘Ahem! Ahem!’
‘How long has he been here, Nanny?’
‘Nearly an hour I should think. He played the piano, very fast and loud, for a while, which seemed to keep him quiet. He’s only started this shindy since John went and told him you were in and would be down presently.’
‘You go, darling, and tell him he must wait while I change out of these trousers,’ said Grace, who was vigorously cleaning her neck with cotton wool. ‘Oh, the dirt. What I need is a bath.’
The drawing-room door was now flung open.
‘Do I see you or not?’ The voice was certainly foreign.
‘All right – very well. I’ll come down now, this minute.’
She looked at Nanny, laughing, and said, ‘He might go through the floor, like Rumpelstiltskin.’
But Nanny said, ‘Put on a dress dear, you can’t go down like that.’
‘Shall I come upstairs?’ said the voice.
‘No, don’t, here I am,’ and Grace ran down, still in her A.R.P. trousers.
The Frenchman, tall, dark and elegant, in French Air Force uniform, was on the drawing-room landing, both hands on the banister rail. He seemed about to uproot the delicate woodwork. When he saw Grace he said ‘Ah!’ as though her appearance caused him gratified surprise, then, ‘Is this a uniform? It’s not bad. Did you receive my note?’
‘Only now,’ said Grace. ‘I’ve been at the A.R.P. all day.’
They went into the drawing-room. ‘Your writing is very difficult.
I was still puzzling over it when I heard all that noise – it was like the French Revolution. You must be a very impatient man.’
‘No. But I don’t like to be kept waiting, though this room has more compensations than most, I confess.’
‘I wouldn’t have kept you waiting if I’d known a little sooner – why didn’t you …’
He was no longer listening, he had turned to the pictures on the walls.
‘I do love this Olivier,’ he said. ‘You must give it to me.’
‘Except that it belongs to Papa.’
‘Ah yes, I suppose it does. Sir Conrad. He is very well known in the Middle East – I needn’t tell you, however. The Allingham Commission, ah! cunning Sir Conrad. He owes something to my country, after that.’ He turned from the picture to Grace looking at her rather as if she were a picture, and said, ‘Natoire, or Rosalba. You could be by either. Well, we shall see, and time will show.’
‘Papa loves France.’
‘I’m sure he does. The Englishmen who love France are always the worst.’
‘The worst?’
‘Each man kills the thing he loves, you know. Never mind.’
‘You’ve come from Cairo?’ she said. ‘I thought I read Cairo in your letter and something about Hughie? You saw him?’
‘The fiancé I saw.’
‘And you’ve come to give me news of him?’
‘Good news – that is to say no news. Why is this picture labelled Drouais?’
‘I suppose it is by Drouais,’ said Grace with perfect indifference. Brought up among beautiful things, she took but small account of them.
‘Indeed? What makes you think so?’
‘Are you an art dealer?’
‘An art deal-ee.’
‘But you said you had news. Naturally I supposed it was the reason for your visit, to tell this news.’
‘Have you any milk chocolate?’
‘No, I’m sure we haven’t.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Would you like a cocktail – or a glass of sherry?’
The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford Page 115