by Amy Myers
Felicia sat close to Aunt Tilly. If Caroline were nowhere to be found then Aunt Tilly was her natural choice, for there was little chance that Tilly would leave her on her own, exposed. She felt her feelings must be written all over her face. If he came over to her, she felt she might faint from sheer pleasure. Someone was coming, but it wasn’t him. It was the schoolmaster Philip Ryde, for whom she worked two afternoons a week teaching religious instruction. He would ask Aunt Tilly for her permission to request Felicia to dance. She looked in alarm at her aunt, who ignored her plea, or did not see it for what it was. So Mr Ryde asked her to dance, although she knew perfectly well he’d rather be dancing with Caroline. She smiled, rose, and gracefully stepped on to the floor, realising with gratitude that it was a military two-step and she would not need to talk to him for very long.
‘You look very charming tonight, Miss Lilley.’
She instantly froze inside. She liked Philip Ryde, but she wished he wouldn’t say things like that. It meant nothing, for everyone knew he adored her sister, so she never knew what to reply. She whispered the only thing she could think of.
‘Thank you.’ Then she was seized and clutched, pushed and pulled, as they marched up and down. Oh, that it were quickly over. Oh, that she were like Phoebe sitting out. Lucky, lucky Phoebe …
Phoebe sat scuffing the toe of her satin shoe crossly, in the happy knowledge that Mother could not see what she was doing under the pink satin dress. In fact, Mother was getting up to dance. A tango! That would set Ashden twittering for weeks. The doctor and the Rector’s wife doing the tango. Phoebe didn’t care as Felicia did about sitting on her own. To her, the women and girls looked like the chattering parrots in London Zoo, and the men like the penguins. Perhaps finishing school was going to be a mistake if it was merely lots and lots of dances, as Felicia had warned her. She had insisted on going there to escape from Ashden, but she could see it was going to be just as boring as home. Or, she amended, as boring as it had been till she started to tease Christopher. That at least was fun, especially when he went red and awkward. In some annoyance she saw Dr Cussed, as Father called him, though his name was Cuss, coming towards her. Martin Cuss. The vet was smug, opinionated and talked about animals all the time. Very well, if there was no getting out of it … Phoebe smiled welcomingly. ‘I’d love to dance.’ She jumped up eagerly, gazing innocently into his eyes. ‘I remember exactly what you were telling me last time about that dear little litter of newly born pigs, and I wondered afterwards how little pigs get started in their mummy’s tummy?’ Phoebe thought of no one save herself, not even Isabel, whose evening it was …
What was wrong with her, Isabel wondered crossly. It was her evening, and she should sparkle like the champagne her father-in-law-to-be was so lavishly splashing around in the supper room. Instead she felt like a glass of champagne that had been left out overnight. It couldn’t be anything to do with the way she looked. The blue charmeuse gown she had chosen, and Robert’s mother had forced Jay’s into making within the week, suited her delightfully, and she knew she was looking her best. It occurred to her that the reason might be that no one was asking her to dance. Of course. No one would until she had danced with Robert, and he seemed more interested in chatting to his friends. She decided to assert herself, left Edith almost in mid-flow on the subject of the redecoration of their rooms to be (a subject on which Isabel had a few as yet unvoiced thoughts), and appeared at Robert’s side.
‘Darling, I’m longing to dance with you.’
Robert jumped guiltily. He did not greatly enjoy dancing, though he was good at it, but he did enjoy pleasing Isabel and was suddenly conscious of his shortcomings when he saw her dear little pleading face. Fine husband he’d make.
‘Happy now, little bird?’ He expertly guided her into the waltz.
‘Very,’ Isabel sighed. Everyone was smiling at them, making way for them, sharing in their happiness.
‘You’ll be even happier when we get married, you’ll see.’
‘I want so much to be alone with you.’ First step. ‘We can go to Paris, can’t we?’
The answer was yes, of course; she had never doubted that it would be. She glanced over Robert’s shoulder and found herself under the scrutiny of the most impudent pair of eyes she’d ever seen. What’s more they were familiar eyes, weren’t they? Wasn’t it the Swinford-Browne’s hop-garden manager, Mr Eliot? She quickly looked the other way. After all, she was engaged to the heir to the whole estate, and he had no business to be looking at her like that.
Why was Mr Swinford-Browne rising to his feet, Caroline wondered, since the official announcement of the engagement had been made at the beginning of the evening? She was out of spirits, as well as out of breath from almost continuous dancing, and did not wish to face the fact that she felt peeved at Reggie’s complete absorption in Miss Banning. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to come over to introduce her. Raspberry silk might not match bright yellow satin for fashion, but it did suit her and she had spent a lot of time on it; it would have been nice if he at least saw it. Then she thought how ridiculous she was being. Reggie wouldn’t notice if she was wearing strawberry silk or brown sacking. She concentrated fiercely as William, smug as a Toby Jug, began to speak:
‘… I’m a plain man,’ (so he was, she thought crossly), ‘so a few plain words are all I’m giving you before supper and the rest of the evening. I want you young folks to enjoy yourselves’ (young folks, it made them sound like pixies). ‘We old folks have had our waltzes, now you striplings can suit yourselves. Huggie Bears, Bunny Hops, Ragtime, whatever you like.’ He paused for applause and an enthusiastic amount was raised by his brave employees. Ashden, Caroline observed gleefully, was scandalised, its corporate identity shocked to the core at these imported dances which were passports to impropriety.
‘And there’s something else for you young folk. I’m giving Ashden a present to mark the occasion.’
Caroline waited with mingled curiosity and apprehension.
And then he told them –
‘Caroline!’ Reggie caught her white chiffon sleeve as she returned to the ballroom from supper.
A certain carelessness was the right note, she decided. ‘Oh, it’s you, Reggie.’
‘I want to introduce you to Penelope. Darling,’ he drew the maypole forward, ‘may I present Miss Caroline Lilley, an old friend of mine. Caroline, Miss Banning.’
Old friend sized up the new. Reggie would be bored in no time, Caroline decided promptly, then thought perhaps she wasn’t so sure. There was an amused intelligence in those blue eyes that hadn’t been present in her predecessors. Moreover, at close quarters she could see that this maypole had an enviously developed figure. Suddenly the raspberry silk dropped in her estimation.
‘You don’t look that old, Miss Lilley,’ Penelope observed, straight-faced, then grinning.
Caroline found herself smiling back. ‘Reggie is known for his charm. I’m delighted to meet you,’ she added truthfully. Much better than having Reggie drone on about a faceless love.
‘Yes, he –’
Reggie interrupted his beloved. ‘Darling, it’s the Huggie Bear,’ he cried joyfully. ‘Enjoy the dance, Caroline.’
He swept Penelope off, and Caroline was left bleakly wondering why she was not rejoicing in Reggie’s good fortune. The terrible Penelope seemed rather nice. With reluctance, she pinpointed the reason for her discontent. Reggie usually danced the Huggie Bear with her. They always had fun with their hugs and lumbering rocks to and fro, and they had developed a particularly fine joint growl. Now it appeared she was partnerless. She looked round, suddenly desiring a partner very much indeed.
Philip Ryde, having thankfully returned Felicia to Aunt Tilly for the third time, was rewarded for having done his duty as a pair of dancing brown eyes accosted his.
‘There you are, Philip. You’ve been avoiding me. Why haven’t I seen you earlier?’ This time Caroline forgot all about what her sisters might be doing. Even Phoebe.
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The Reverend Christopher Denis, having bravely abandoned the supper room where he was able to indulge in polite and noncommittal conversation with the older members of the parish, was suddenly appalled to find his right arm under siege from the cream-satin-gloved hand of the Rector’s daughter, the one he most feared …
‘Oh, Mr Denis,’ she declared sweetly. She smiled at his companions. ‘You don’t mind if I sweep him away, do you? I have a parish problem to discuss.’ Phoebe looked grave.
‘Later, perhaps.’ His voice was almost a squeak, as he realised he was being propelled towards the gardens.
‘Now. About Ruth Horner’s baby –’ Phoebe was adept at listening at doors.
‘Miss Lilley!’ Shocked, he could only submit. There was no end to what this frightful child might do. Once outside, however, he felt free to speak his mind.
‘I explained, Miss Lilley, that in view of what occurred in the vestry last week, I felt I should not see you alone again, for your reputation’s sake.’ And mine, he was thinking desperately.
‘Didn’t you like kissing me?’
‘You’re very young, and I’m twenty-eight.’
‘I’m nearly seventeen. And,’ her voice trembled, ‘you do think I’m pretty, don’t you?’
She looked so woebegone, he foolishly laid a hand on her arm. It was meant to be a clerical hand of consolation, but was not taken as such.
He found himself imprisoned in her arms, and her lips pressed on to his. Try as he would, he could not but respond, and, as her arms slackened their grip, he felt no immediate urge to break away. Indeed, to the horror of the normally undisturbed core of restraint within him, he was aware of more than his lips responding.
Phoebe set him free. ‘That was nice,’ she observed innocently, and sauntered back into the ballroom well satisfied. Not that she knew exactly what was happening, but, whatever it was, it gave her a sense of power. Each night now she inspected her breasts, greeting them as two symbols of her entry ticket into the adult world. A world that must surely have more fun in it than merely teasing Christopher. She looked around for inspiration, and noticed Felicia was still talking to Aunt Tilly. She didn’t understand Felicia. She never had …
Daniel Hunney collapsed by his sister Eleanor. ‘I need protection,’ he told her ruefully. ‘Don’t desert me.’
‘Why not? I might want to dance?’ Eleanor replied, ‘and I’m certainly not going to dance with my own brother. Be grateful anyone wants to dance with you. You’re not precisely Ranjitsinhji.’ The trouble was that he was, she thought to herself. His dark hair and eyes and olive complexion would make him look, if not Indian, then almost Italian, had his square jaw, sturdy build and the bulldog determination in his expression not instantly corrected that impression. Daniel had always been too attractive for his own good. And too naturally charming. And he didn’t care a fig about any of the girls who sighed after him.
‘Surely you’d dance with me if it would save me from the clutches of Patricia Swinford-Browne?’ he asked in dire tones.
Eleanor laughed. ‘Poor Daniel. You’re quite capable of looking after yourself, and you know it, especially against a poor girl like Patricia. Don’t be unkind. It’s not her fault she’s unattractive.’
And as predatory as Jonah’s whale, he thought. Poor little girl indeed. If only Eleanor knew. Patricia could wreak her terrible will upon a Jem Mace himself. He’d met one or two just like Patricia at Oxford, but there they were so heavily guarded that there were few chances of granting their desires, though there was always a way if he really wished to find one. He didn’t very often. His view was that there was enough time for that later, but that now there was the whole world before him, and he was going to see it without the complications of a woman in the background. Never had there been a time of so much opportunity.
Hell and Tommy, Felicia was coming over. ‘She’s hardly danced at all,’ hissed Eleanor. ‘Daniel, do be nice to her at least.’
‘Nice?’ Felicia alarmed him more in a way than the Patricias of this world. She was coming ostensibly to talk to Eleanor, but he knew instinctively that he was the attraction. For all his natural charm, and to his own surprise, Daniel panicked.
‘Eleanor.’ Felicia’s smile was genuine, for she liked her very much. They all did. Although she was the youngest of the Hunneys, Eleanor was easily the most sensible and good-natured, and was frequently not only the arbiter between her two older brothers, but between the Lilley girls as well – not to mention George. Eleanor was about the only girl of whom he ever spoke with full approval. She far outstripped his four sisters.
‘I haven’t seen you for so long,’ Felicia said, apparently lightly. ‘Nor you, Daniel. Aren’t you dancing tonight?’
‘I’ve promised this one to Eleanor.’ Daniel smiled ruefully, sensing the hidden appeal. ‘Just my luck to be tied down to a mere sister. She’s quite ruthless.’
He deceived no one.
Robert was nonplussed. Staff and even managers of hop farms were servants and didn’t stroll up and casually ask for a tango with a gentleman’s fiancée. This fellow obviously did not know the rules, and Robert could hardly say no, especially as Isabel was looking at him expectantly. Taken aback, Robert nodded, and consoled himself that he didn’t like dancing much anyway, and Isabel deserved everything he could give her, even in trifles like this.
On the floor, Isabel was at last feeling the old excitement returning, even if it had taken this strange man to awaken it. He was an excellent dancer, but not at all in the same way as Robert. Robert steered, guided and performed neatly and correctly. This man seemed to think he was breaking, or rather coaxing, a thoroughbred horse by moulding himself to its form, and her form, she was suddenly aware, was rather too obvious in this narrow gown. It had looked so elegant on the Jay’s mannequin as Mrs Swinford-Browne called her, that she had suppressed her momentary doubt as to its suitability for the dance floor.
‘Your fiancé is a very fortunate man,’ he murmured in her ear at one particularly sharp twist of the head.
‘So am I. I mean, girl.’ It wasn’t like her to be flustered.
‘His father must be proud of his enterprising son.’ She looked at him suspiciously. Surely he could not really think Robert enterprising, yet he seemed perfectly serious. ‘And a good lover,’ he added.
Her eyes flew wide open. ‘What?’
‘I said an excellent brother,’ Frank Eliot repeated blandly. ‘I had the pleasure of a dance with Miss Patricia earlier.’
Isabel gulped. For a moment she’d thought he’d said something quite outrageous … Was Robert a good lover? His kisses … ‘He is very fond of her,’ she replied shortly, both anxious to get away from those disturbing eyes and aware that the hand in the small of her back was possessively firm.
Caroline glanced idly round as Philip went to fetch her a lemonade. All her sisters seemed happy enough, particularly Isabel who was throwing herself high-spiritedly into the most odd gyrations with Robert; even Felicia was jigging around. Philip was a dear, really, and she’d had a wonderful evening with him, she told herself. After all, she could always talk William’s ‘surprise’ over with Reggie next week. She saw Aunt Tilly’s eye on her, and went to join her. ‘Why don’t you dance, Aunt Tilly? I saw Dr Marden ask you.’
‘Do you know, Caroline, I think I will.’
To Caroline’s amazement, Tilly broke all the rules of Ashden by walking boldly up to ask William Swinford-Browne to dance.
‘A picture palace!’
Elizabeth shrieked with laughter on the way home, waking George up. He couldn’t see what was so funny about it. Old Swinford-Browne’s announcement had been the only high point of a mighty dull evening. A cinema in Ashden was heady stuff.
Even Father appeared to think it amusing. ‘Do you realise what he’s taking on, Elizabeth, if only the man had sense enough to realise it? He insists on putting it on the corner, this one –’ He pointed to the junction of Station Road and Bankside.
&
nbsp; ‘There are cottages here, so he can’t.’
‘If he buys them, he can, and they’re not part of the Ashden estate any more, so Sir John can’t stop him. You realise whose cottages they are?’
‘Of course. Mrs Leggatt in the old ale house and – oh, Laurence, Ebenezer Thorn next door.’
‘Yes. And Mrs Leggatt’s from a Mutter family. He’d never get them both to agree to sell in a million years. I’m afraid his cinema is dead before a brick is laid. I don’t think we need to worry about its moral effect on the young.’ The famous Mutter–Thorn feud had raged since the eighteenth century, its original cause, a smuggling dispute, long since forgotten. It had subsided into a dormant volcano, but it still bubbled beneath the surface and was liable to erupt at the slightest provocation.
George, fully awake again now, wondered what was so immoral about a cinema. It would put sleepy old Ashden on the map. All sorts of wizard things were happening in the world, and Ashden still lumbered on in its own plodding way. A cinema would open its eyes, teach it there was an outside world. On his visit to Porky’s folks’ home in Buckinghamshire they’d sneaked off to London and seen The Musketeers of Pig Alley. He couldn’t see Ashden taking to that; they wouldn’t know what a gangster was down here, but the adventures of Pimple, now. Why, even Father would laugh at that. Or Sixty Years a Queen. It was educational. Besides, if there was a cinema here, the chaps at Skinners might even visit, he thought wistfully, as in the starry night the pony trap drew into the Rectory driveway.