The October Cabaret

by Nancy Buckingham

  I scrambled to my feet as elegantly as I could, and flicked my rumpled skirt. “I suppose the sale will be starting again soon?”

  ‘“Yes, in a few minutes. I was just going in when I spotted you. It looked as if you might have dropped off to sleep.”

  “I rather think I had. Thanks.”

  When Denzil and I entered together people glanced at him with respect, and me with curiosity. He pointed to two seats near the front, and I realised he intended me to sit with him.

  “That is, Tess, if you’ve no objection?”

  “I’d be delighted. I don’t imagine the bits and pieces I’m hoping to buy will be of any interest to you, so we won’t be competing. You might even give me a spot of advice.”

  “I’ll do my best. I admire your courage, coming here like a ewe lamb among the wolves.”

  I held up my catalogue. “Ben marked this for me, and noted down how high I should bid.”

  “Couldn’t he have stretched his gallantry a shade further and made time to come with you?”

  “He fully intended to,” I explained, “but he’s had to fly out to India in rather a hurry.”

  “Unlucky Ben. Still, his loss is my gain.” He smoothed a hand across the dark hair that was only lightly flecked with grey. An ageless man, I thought, who probably looked more distinguished and— yes, more attractive—with every passing year.

  The auctioneer came in briskly and mounted his rostrum. He bent to murmur something to his clerk, adjusted his spectacles, consulted some papers, glanced upward for heaven’s help and then beamed round at the assembled company.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a great deal to get through this afternoon, so let’s not waste any time.” With a rap of his gavel the sale recommenced.

  I bid successfully for the first item Ben had marked, a pretty Chinese snuff bottle in mottled amber, clinching it at several pounds below his limit, then bought a fourfold Indian screen. I just failed with the handmade masted ship, and bidding for various oriental weapons cantered away so briskly that I was left stranded. When lot 217 came up - a feathered chieftain’s headdress of a remote Brazilian tribe, which I particularly coveted, it looked so gorgeous - Denzil, to my surprise, started bidding against me. But then, after a murmured, “Keep right on going, less,” he bowed out with a gesture of sheer disgust. This so confused the competition that the Brazilian headdress was knocked down to me at less than three quarters of Ben’s top price.

  While a porter was bringing in a painted ikon for showing, I whispered, “You handed me that headdress on a plate.”

  He didn’t deny it. “Just a spot of gamesmanship. If you knew half the jiggery-pokery that goes on at these sales, you’d be scared off for life.”

  “Well, I’m learning fast. Thanks a lot.”

  He smiled teasingly. “You can easily reward me, you know.”

  “Oh?” I said warily.

  “My wife and I are giving a little party tomorrow evening, d’you see. Nothing special, just a few friends. Will you join us?”

  “But...”

  “Come on, you can’t be expected to sit at home and brood while Ben’s away. I’ll send my man Josef with a car, and deliver you home afterwards. How’s that?”

  “It’s very kind of you,” I said.

  “Shall we say eight-thirty? There’ll be a buffet supper, so no need to eat first.”

  We separated at the end of the sale to settle up and arrange transport for our purchases. As I emerged from the house, I saw Denzil just getting into a gorgeous silver-grey Rolls.

  “Can I give you a lift, Tess?” he called.

  Brighton must be out of his way, I figured, hastily visualising the map, I wasn’t too keen on getting deeper into Denzil Boyd-Ashby’s debt, so I told him I’d got something organised.

  “See you tomorrow, then,” he said, and I waited until his car had purred away before walking to the bus stop.

  * * * *

  I had a puzzling caller on Wednesday. Late in the morning towards lunchtime, when I was pricing up my sale purchases which had just been delivered, I noticed a man hovering outside the bow window. Realising that I’d spotted him, he pushed open the door.

  “I was interested in that little shepherdess,” he explained. “Volkstedt ware, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right.” I leaned across to pick up the porcelain figurine and showed him the crossed forks on its base. Then I realised that he was staring at me from behind his black-framed spectacles.

  “Er... don’t I know you?” he asked.

  His name clicked into my mind. “You’re Mr. Fielder, of Wyland and Partners.”

  “Of course, I remember now. I saw you with Ben the other night at our offices.” His look was embarrassed. “I didn’t realise you worked here.”

  “Actually, it’s my shop. I’m Tess Pennicott. Maynard Pennicott was my uncle.”

  “Oh yes, I heard something about you taking over.” He smiled awkwardly. “I’m sorry about the other night, Miss Pennicott.”

  I made a neutral sound in my throat that might equally have conveyed that I forgave him, or that I didn’t.

  Again the awkward smile. Then he turned back to the figurine, tilting it to the light to see it better.

  “It’s not quite what I thought, I’m afraid. The glaze is badly cracked, and there’s a chip or two.”

  “That’s why it’s so reasonably priced.”

  “Yes ...” He shook his head, and handed it back to me. “No, I wouldn’t be interested. But if you have anything better... ?”

  “What sort of thing, Mr. Fielder?”

  He reflected, tugging at his beard. “Oh, I’d consider any article of really fine porcelain. You haven’t anything at the moment? Never mind, remember me if something good comes your way. You can always contact me at Wyland’s. I could give you a really good price for the right piece, you know.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Replacing the shepherdess as he left the shop, I paused to watch his progress along Meeting House Lane. Should I have asked him straight out exactly what would be the right piece of porcelain? A small item of Sèvres ware? A certain sugar box? I chucked the thought out through the window. Hadn’t Ben told me that Ralph Fielder was a decent sort of chap, for all of being a bit of an old woman? And hadn’t Ben told me emphatically to take no action while he was away?

  * * * *

  I was bathed and dressed and looking forward to my evening out when Sir Denzil’s car arrived for me. Or rather, the chauffeur turned up on the doorstep. He was a shortish, thickset man in a blue serge suit. His sallow complexion and high cheekbones suggested some sort of East European origin, and this was confirmed by the slight accent.

  “Miss Pennicott? You will come with me, please. The car is not far off, I parked as close as I could get.”

  It had been left by Friends Meeting House, but it was not the Rolls. Stupidly, I couldn’t help feeling let down to see nothing more ostentatious than a Volvo awaiting me.

  Once clear of Brighton’s built-up area, the drive through Sussex byways to Kelmscott Manor took little more than ten minutes. For the last half mile the lane was bordered by a high stone wall mellow with lichen. Then the car turned in between ornate wrought-iron gates. A long driveway wound through graciously timbered parkland, with fine clumps of beeches and here and there a Cedar of Lebanon spreading its branches in a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The house itself, sixteenth century at a guess, stood proud and stately on a slight knoll, its pale-cream stonework stained by the dying sun to a copper red. The Volvo pulled up before a flight of balustraded steps that mounted to the imposing entrance.

  There was a buzz of conversation coming through the open front doors. As I stepped inside someone took my lacy shawl, and a salver of drinks was held out to me. From where I stood in the great hall, I glimpsed other grand apartments through open double doors. I glanced around me, fascinated and madly envious. Surely those two giant Venetian scenes on the far wall wer
e Canalettos—or school of Canaletto at the very least? And that family portrait of a lady in a blue gown and large hat looked to me suspiciously like a Gainsborough.

  I wandered through into what I later found was called the Red Saloon. The ceiling here was a vast fresco of cherubs and angels, the walls hung with silk flock, the windows draped in folds of crimson damask garnished with gold rope and tassels. Priceless cabinets and console tables supported equally priceless objets d’art, all strewn about with a casualness that denied any attempt at security. No hard-up stately home this, charging admission to rubbernecking trippers.

  A dazzlingly handsome male with bedward eyes drifted my way.

  “Our host is indecently well-heeled, don’t you think? There’s no justice in this world. Who’re you, darling?”

  “Tess Pennicott.”

  “On your own? How lucky, for both of us. Actually, a romantic encounter was in my stars for tonight. I’m a Libran. What are you?”

  “Leo. And my horoscope was to beware of tall, dark strangers.”

  I was saved a fencing bout by the appearance of Denzil. He bore down on me with a welcoming smile.

  “Tess, my dear. I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you arrived. Come and meet people. My wife...”

  Lady Boyd-Ashby was overpowered by him, and had been, I decided when I said hallo, all their married life. She had a faded look -undeniably of aristocratic stock, but without the aristocratic presence to carry off her billowing sequinned gown in a heavenly shade of peacock blue,

  “So you are the young woman who has taken over that little antique shop in Meeting House Lane. My husband has told me about you, my dear.”

  “I feel flattered, Lady Boyd-Ashby.”

  She smiled vaguely, introducing me to her immediate companions. I stayed and made polite conversation for a while, then tactfully cut loose and drifted off to join a younger group. I’d come hungry and I made frequent forays to the gorgeous buffet in the conservatory. My glass was topped up whenever the level dropped a bit, and faces grew more familiar and friendly.

  Someone put on a record. Smooth, sentimental Burt Bacharach. A few couples started dancing, and bedward-eyes drifted my way again.

  “Darling ... Tess, isn’t it? Let’s ...”

  No, let’s not, I thought. Hastily improvising an old chum way across the room, I made off uttering little chirrups of delight. The nucleus of the group I’d latched onto was a slender blond girl with the sort of flawless tanned skin that made you want to give up sunbathing for good. She wore a stunning silk kaftan in swirling reds and golds, and her wrists were laden with oriental bangles. It was clear that she’d had rather more too-much-to-drink than the rest of us.

  “I challenge any woman to murder a dress the way Cynthia does,” she was saying bitchily, in a sort of rough-edged uppercrust voice that I couldn’t quite pin down. “I scout the haute couture houses to find something to give her a lift, then see it turned into a bloody sack before my very eyes. It makes one want to throw up.”

  There was a ripple of laughter, plus a tangible current of unease.

  “All the same,” another girl suggested with a nervous giggle, “you must do very well out of her, Carol.”

  “Oh God, what’s money, darling?”

  “It always amazes me,” said one of the men, “that a man like Denzil should have such a colourless lump for a wife.”

  “But she suits him ideally, don’t you see? Cynthia’s good on the domestic and family side, and she asks no questions about anything else. She turns a completely blind eye to his bed-hopping.”

  “Watch it,” someone warned. “He’s coming over.”

  Denzil joined us and there were a few minutes of amusing chatter before the group dissolved. I found myself standing alone beside a chap wearing gold-rimmed glasses and an earnest expression.

  “It doesn’t seem quite the thing,” he murmured, “to bite the hand that feeds you. Carol Wyland will go too far one of these days.”

  The name grabbed me by the ears. “Who is she, then?”

  “She owns a boutique in Brighton ... East Street, I believe. She dresses Cynthia Boyd-Ashby.”

  “So I gathered. But the name... I wonder, is she connected in any way with Wyland’s, the art auctioneers?”

  “That’s right... she’s Ben Wyland’s wife.”

  The freeze only just beginning, I said, “No, you can’t mean Ben Wyland.”

  “Yes, I do. Ben ... the son. Why not?”

  I shook my head limply.

  “They’re separated at the moment,” he went on, “but I imagine that it won’t last long. They’ve parted and got together again a couple of times before.”

  An act of divine repentance saved me from utter, shaming humiliation. My companion was summoned vigorously from across the room and left me with a mumbled apology.

  The next few minutes are a total blank in my mind. I discovered myself in the darkening gardens, the cool of the evening air a balm to my burning skin. A crescent moon showed silver through a black latticework of cedar branches, and from the house drifted sounds of laughter and talk and music.

  Denzil found me at the foot of the terrace steps, shivering and wretched. He tossed his cigar away and came to hold me by the shoulders.

  “Tess, my dear girl, what is it? Josef said that he’d seen you come out here on your own, and I thought something must be wrong.”

  My voice weak with tears, I muttered, “I’m sorry, but I think I’d better leave now, Denzil. I... I’m not feeling very well.”

  “And no wonder. It’s so damnably hot and noisy in there.”

  “No, really, it wasn’t the party... I was enjoying myself. I’m just a bit tired, I suppose.”

  “It’s that wretched shop, isn’t it, worrying you silly? You can say it’s no concern of mine, but I regard you as a friend, d’you see, and friends should speak their minds. Women’s Lib is all the rage these days, but I’ve never believed that a woman—especially a sensitive, woman like you—is tough enough to run a business like that shop.”

  “But it’s not the shop.”

  “What else, then? Tell me, Tess, whatever it is. I’d like to help.”

  I wished I could confide in him, treat him as a father figure and pour out my heart, but I had to hold this pain within. How could Denzil be expected to understand the brutal disillusion I was feeling, the sense of being cheated beyond bearing? He must have been fully aware that Ben was married, and would have taken it for granted that I knew too.

  “No, there’s nothing. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “Then I’ll drive you home myself, right away.”

  “But I can’t expect you to, Denzil. Your other guests.”

  “They’ll scarcely notice that I’m gone.”

  He walked me up the terrace steps and across to an open french window. Snapping his fingers at a manservant, he told him to fetch my shawl.

  So it came about that I did ride in Denzil’s sleek grey Rolls. We slid silently through the quiet lanes, and ghostly shapes of trees and hedges appeared and vanished in an endless stream.

  Denzil tried again to get me to confide in him.

  “Tess, you would tell me, wouldn’t you, if you were bothered about something? I happen to have—let’s be frank about it—a certain influence in this neck of the woods.”

  “I told you, Denzil, there’s nothing.”

  “But if there were something, just remember that I’m around. Pick up the phone, anytime, and there I’ll be.”

  “It’s kind of you,” I murmured.

  He dropped one hand from the wheel and reached for mine. I felt the warm pressure of his fingers, and allowed the contact to bring me a tiny glow of comfort. Okay, he had a reputation with women, and I knew what they’d all be thinking, back there at the house, when it was realised that he’d left the party to drive me home. But I didn’t care a damn. Through my misery, through my anger and bitterness, I was beginning to feel defiant against Ben. What did it matter?


  Denzil left the Rolls in Brighton Place and we plunged into the labyrinth of the Lanes. There were a few late strollers, wandering aimlessly and pausing now and then to look at some of the still-lit shop windows. As we turned a corner I saw a familiar portly figure just emerging through an archway. There was no chance of avoiding a face-to-face encounter, and Gervaise stared at us with frowning disapproval. I wished him further, only wanting to get home as quickly as possible and be alone. But I had to make introductions.

  “This is Gervaise Duvillard, Denzil, who owns L’Oiseau Bistro. Sir Denzil Boyd-Ashby. I’ve been to a party at his house, Gervaise, and he’s kindly brought me home.”

  “I see.”

  Clearly what Gervaise saw was that Denzil was an elegant man whom many women would find irresistibly attractive, and had drawn the obvious conclusion. But the mood I was in, what the hell?

  We exchanged polite platitudes, then Denzil took my elbow to move on. With a belated feeling of shame, I said, “It’s only a few steps from here, Denzil. There’s no need for you to come any further.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. I shall certainly see you all the way home.” His grip tightened possessively, and he told Gervaise a firm goodnight.

  As we walked on, Denzil seemed amused. “Your friend resented you being with me.”

  “I guess Gervaise feels a bit in loco parentis. He’s a very old friend of my uncle’s, you see. They’d known each other for years and years.”

  We turned into Meeting House Lane. “And he owns a bistro, you say? Close by?”

  “It’s just round the corner. He’ll have been setting out on his constitutional. He takes one each afternoon and evening as soon as he closes.”

  “Just as well. One dreads to imagine the balloon he’d be otherwise.” It was said with the smugness of a man who took a justifiable pride in his own lean shape.

  We arrived at my door.

  “Well, thanks so much for everything, Denzil.” I thrust my key into the lock. “It was a super party, and I’m terribly sorry I had to drag you away from it like this.”