by Carola Dunn
The two continued to talk as the soup was followed by Dover sole with lemon-butter. Marjorie, on Lord Stephen’s other side, attempted several times to interrupt the tête-à-tête. Rebuffed, she lapsed into sulky silence. Geoffrey, too, had relapsed into taciturnity, devoting his attention to his food.
It was worthy of devotion, and Daisy enjoyed every bite. Soon enough she’d be back in Chelsea subsisting largely on omelettes and bread and cheese.
As she ate, she answered the earl’s questions about what he politely termed her writing career. She told him of the bits and pieces published in gossip columns, the two short articles bought by The Queen, the daring proposal to Town and Country that led to her presence at Wentwater.
‘I find your ambition and your industry admirable, Miss Dalrymple,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘Too many young people in comfortable circumstances fritter away their time in the pursuit of pleasure.’ His gaze moved from Wilfred, chattering nonsense rather too loudly to a giggling Fenella, to Marjorie, who had by now set up an unconvincing flirtation with Phillip.
Daisy came to the conclusion that Lord Wentwater was not half so oblivious of what was going on around him as he chose to appear. His children’s behaviour disturbed him, but to Daisy the interesting question was what, if anything, did he mean to do about Annabel and Lord Stephen?
***
After lunch, Daisy spent the short remaining hours of daylight taking interior photographs, a slow business with long exposures. As the early winter dusk fell, she carried her equipment across the gallery above the Great Hall towards her bedroom. By that time, she’d have been jolly glad of Phillip’s help to lug it all about.
She heard footsteps below, and then James’s voice. ‘Looking for my stepmama?’ he asked, a definite sly malice in his tone.
Moving to the balustrade, Daisy glanced down.
Lord Stephen was regarding James with a saturnine air. ‘Lady Wentwater is not presiding over the tea table this afternoon.’
‘You might find her in the conservatory.’
‘Ah, yes, I expect it reminds her of Italy.’
‘You knew her in Italy, didn’t you?’ James’s eagerness was obvious. ‘Won’t you tell me what . . . ?’
‘That would hardly suit my purpose,’ Lord Stephen said dryly. He sauntered off.
His mouth tight with annoyance, James strode away in the opposite direction.
Daisy pondered the brief scene as she continued on her way. Their innocuous words had been freighted with meaning, unpleasant meaning. James must bitterly resent his beautiful stepmother to keep throwing Lord Stephen at her, regardless of his father’s feelings. Stephen Astwick was amused by James’s ploys, but quite content to take advantage of them. He had some end of his own in view, doubtless nefarious.
What had happened in Italy? Daisy regretted that she’d probably never find out.
Skipping afternoon tea downstairs, she settled in her room to transcribe her shorthand notes on the typewriter, before she forgot what they said. Mabel brought her a cup of tea, and Daisy asked the girl to draw her a bath in time for taking photos before dinner. Not that she was not perfectly capable of running her own bath, but it was pleasant to have a maid at her service, like the old days before her father’s death. Besides, Mabel would coordinate matters if Fenella also wanted a bath.
Fenella, she mused – what did Fenella think of her fiancé’s stepmother? One day shy little Fenella would be Lady Wentwater, having to cope with a dowager countess not much older than herself.
Turning back to her work, Daisy forced herself to concentrate. When she finished her notes, she wearily began to collect the picture-taking gear together again. She was certainly earning the imaginary Carswell’s fee.
Someone knocked on the door.
‘Hullo, old sport,’ Phillip called plaintively. ‘Have you shut yourself up in there for good?’
‘No, you’re just in time.’ She opened the door and loaded him with tripod and camera. ‘I want to set everything up in the hall in advance.’
Always obliging, he went down with her and, with the aid of a footman, moved a heavy oak refectory table aside to set up the tripod. Patiently he shifted it from place to place as she chose the best spot for it.
‘Those will have to go.’ She waved at the half-dozen solid, studded-leather seventeenth-century chairs grouped around the fire.
Phillip obliged.
Marjorie wandered into the hall, looking disconsolate. ‘Have you seen Lord Stephen?’ she asked.
‘Not for hours,’ Daisy said. ‘Would you mind standing over there by the fireplace for a minute while I set the focus?’
Marjorie drifted over and stood drooping, her scarlet mouth turned down. ‘I can’t find him anywhere. I suppose he’s chasing my dear stepmother as usual. I can’t imagine what he sees in her.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Phillip, surprised.
Marjorie threw him a glance full of scorn. ‘But he’s a sophisticated man of the world and she’s so frightfully old-fashioned. Do you know, Daisy, she doesn’t smoke, hardly drinks, and doesn’t even dance the tango, or fox-trot, or anything! Do you think he’s trying to make me jealous?’
Phillip snorted and Daisy said hurriedly, ‘If so, I shouldn’t let him see he’s succeeding, if I were you. Three inches to the left, please, Phil. That’s it, just right. Thanks, Marjorie.’
‘Sometimes I almost hate him,’ she moaned. ‘Maybe he’s in the library. I haven’t looked there yet.’
As she sped off towards the west wing, Phillip said, ‘Poor little beast, but I’d run for cover if she hunted me the way she does him. A fellow likes to make the pace.’
‘I hardly think he’s running for cover,’ Daisy contradicted, taking a last look through the viewfinder. ‘What do you think of him?’
‘Of Astwick? He’s a good egg, put me onto something very nice in the way of South American silver.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘What d’you mean, oh dear? Confound it, Daisy, you can’t pretend you know the first thing about the stock market.’
‘No.’ She was too fond of him not to warn him. ‘It’s just that Lady Josephine happened to mention that Sir Hugh doesn’t trust Lord Stephen.’
‘Oh, Menton! The old bird made his pile years ago. He can afford to be conservative, but believe me, one don’t rake in the shekels without taking risks,’ Phillip assured her, but she was glad to see he seemed a trifle uneasy despite his vehemence.
Daisy went upstairs to bathe and change for dinner. The bathroom was immense, at least compared to the cupboard that went by the name in the little house she shared with Lucy. It was dominated by a massive Victorian bathtub, from which rose fragrant steam. Raised several inches above the linoleum floor on feet clawed like the talons of a bird of prey, the bath had brass taps in the shape of eagles’ heads.
‘They’s all different, miss,’ said Mabel, giggling. ‘One bathroom has lions, one has dolphins, and there’s even one with dragons’ heads! I put in the verbena bath-salts, I hope that’s all right. The water’s that hard we have to use summat.’
‘I love verbena.’
‘Me too, miss. Here’s your towel, warming on the rail. Will you need help dressing, miss?’
‘No, thank you, but I may need help climbing out of the bath!’
‘There’s a little step stool, see. India-rubber feet it’s got, and rubber on top, so’s you won’t slip. I’ll put it right here by the bath mat. But just call out if you needs me, miss. I’ll be just through there in Miss Petrie’s room soon as I’ve hung up your frock.’ Indicating a door opposite the one to Daisy’s room, she departed.
Daisy checked the corridor door. It was locked, with a big, old-fashioned key left in the keyhole – probably it was used when there were more guests in the house and not enough bathrooms to go round. She slipped out of her flannel dressing-gown, dropped it on the cork-seated chair in the corner, and plunged into the luxuriously scented hot water.
Getting out w
as difficult less because of the depth of the bath than because she was enjoying it so much. The water cooled very slowly. At last, hearing Fenella’s voice next door, she dragged herself from the heavenly warmth, dried quickly, shivering, and returned to the bedroom. At her request, Mabel had laid out her old grey silk evening frock. She’d be handling magnesium powder this evening and didn’t want to risk stray sparks holing her best dress.
Wearing the grey silk depressed Daisy. Bought after Gervaise was killed in the trenches, it had seen service when her darling Michael’s ambulance drove over a land mine, and again when her father succumbed to the ’flu epidemic.
She caught sight of her gloomy expression in the mirror and pulled a face at herself. There was enough despondency at Wentwater Court without her adding to it. Her amber necklace, the colour of her hair, both brightened and smartened the dress. She powdered and lipsticked and went down to the hall.
The Beddowe brothers were already there, all in black-and-white evening togs, yet quite distinct from each other. James, heir to the earldom, though impeccably turned out, appeared very much the stalwart country gentleman in comparison with the elegantly languid Wilfred. Geoffrey, taller and broader than his brothers, seemed constrained by his clothes, as if he’d be more comfortable in safari kit, striding about some outpost of Empire. He asked Daisy about her equipment, and she was explaining the magnesium flashlight when Marjorie joined them.
Marjorie’s décolleté dress, violently patterned in black and white, could have been designed – and had certainly been chosen – to stand out in a group photograph. Daisy sighed. She had hoped to portray the dignity of the Beddowe family in their ancestral hall, but the eye of any reader of Town and Country would be instantly drawn to that jazzy dress.
It was too late to ask her to change. The grandfather clock by the stairs struck the half hour and the earl arrived.
He looked around, his gaze pausing on his daughter’s frock, then moving on. ‘Annabel’s not here yet?’ he said. ‘Nor my sister? We’ll wait a minute or two if you don’t mind, Miss Dalrymple.’
Daisy agreed, surprised. She thought he had deliberately excluded Annabel, and she was sure Annabel had the same impression. But perhaps he merely meant that his wife had come down before him and he had expected her to be present. At any rate, when Lady Josephine arrived with Sir Hugh, he called to his sister to join the group by the fireplace without further mention of Annabel.
Arranging her subjects, whose height bore no relation to their importance, was no easy matter, but Daisy had worked it out beforehand and soon had them posed. She opened the shutter and detonated the percussive cap in the trough of flashlight powder.
A blinding glare lit the hall to the rafters.
‘My hat!’ exclaimed Wilfred.
‘Drat!’ Blinking against an after image of six startled white faces, Daisy hastily closed the shutter. Clouds of magnesium smoke drifted through the hall. ‘I’m rather afraid that was too much light. The film will be frightfully overexposed.’
‘The professional touch.’ Phillip, grinning, strolled in with Fenella. ‘Try again, old thing, but mind you don’t blow up the house.’
Daisy gave him a cross glance and set up for a second shot. This time the magnesium powder fizzled damply. Where was Carswell when she needed him?
Her third effort was perfect. ‘But I’d like to take a couple more, to make sure,’ she said hastily as everyone began to move.
They settled back into their places. Marjorie looked furious, Lady Josephine distressed, Wilfred nervous, and James smug. Such a range of emotions could hardly be explained by a request to stand still, Daisy thought. She turned her head and saw that Annabel had entered the room, with Lord Stephen.
When she turned back, her subjects’ faces had smoothed into the vacuous expressions worn by the vast majority of people having their portraits taken. She shot another picture, wound on the film, and prepared the flash for the final exposure.
Lord Stephen’s insinuating voice came from behind her. ‘You’re shivering, Annabel. You are cold.’
‘No, I’m quite all right.’
‘Nonsense! There’s a beastly gale of a draught in here. Come into the drawing-room.’
A pause, then Annabel said in a colourless tone, ‘Yes, Stephen.’
Daisy heard their departing footsteps as she pressed the button.
‘Better take one more,’ James suggested. ‘My eyebrow twitched just as the flash went off.’
‘It might be a good idea, if no one objects,’ said Daisy, though she knew he was just trying to make mischief, to leave Annabel and Lord Stephen alone together for a few more minutes. She was a bit anxious about her photos, and not at all sure the extra money was worth the trouble.
Dinner was as delicious and as uncomfortable a meal as lunch had been. After coffee, Sir Hugh repaired to the smoking-room for a cigar, and Lord Wentwater to his study to write letters.
In the drawing-room, Wilfred said to Phillip, ‘What do you say to shoving the balls about a bit, Petrie? But you play a dashed sight better than I do. You’ll have to give me a hundred.’
‘All right, old chap,’ said Phillip with his usual good nature. ‘Though billiards ain’t exactly my game, you know. I rather prefer more active sports.’
‘Wilfred would look less wishy-washy,’ said his aunt, dispassionately censorious, ‘if he took up an outdoor pursuit other than attending the races.’
‘Oh, I say, Aunt Jo!’
‘In my view, keeping fit is of the utmost importance,’ Lord Stephen put in, running a preening hand over his black hair. ‘Besides a regular regimen of Swedish gymnastics, I rise every day at dawn, take a cold bath followed by outdoor exercise – skating at present – and then a hot bath before breakfast.’
‘Dawn’s not that early at this time of year,’ Wilfred muttered in Daisy’s ear.
Marjorie gazed up at Lord Stephen with fluttering eyelashes. ‘You must be frightfully strong,’ she breathed.
‘A cold bath and skating at dawn, eh?’ Phillip visibly suppressed a shudder. ‘Sounds like one’s jolly old schooldays and I must say one felt pretty good then, up to anything. I’ll give it a try.’
Daisy considered it highly unlikely he’d do anything so uncomfortable. He and Wilfred went off to the billiard-room.
Fenella was at the piano, James turning the pages for her. ‘Why don’t you play some dance music?’ Marjorie suggested brightly. ‘Do you know that new fox-trot, “Count the Days,” Fenella? Or we could see what’s on the wireless, or put a record on the gramophone. We can roll back the carpet. Wouldn’t you like to dance, Lord Stephen?’
‘Certainly, if Annabel will grant me a waltz.’
‘Oh, no, Stephen, I . . . I must not neglect my other guests. I have scarcely had a chance to talk to Daisy all day.’
She shot a glance of desperate appeal at Daisy, who promptly moved to a love seat and patted the place beside her. ‘Do come and sit here, Annabel. I want to ask you about . . . about the gardens,’ she improvised. She was beginning to believe Annabel accepted Lord Stephen’s attentions because she was afraid of him.
Marjorie managed to corner Lord Stephen. ‘The waltz is frightfully old-fashioned,’ she said, and prattled on about the latest dances from America, the camel-walk, the toboggan, the Chicago. Geoffrey was talking to Lady Josephine. Daisy overheard snippets of both conversations as she chatted with Annabel. It turned out she had picked a good subject, for Annabel had missed English flowers while in Italy and took a great interest in Wentwater’s gardens. Gradually she relaxed and even grew enthusiastic.
The quiet background of piano music changed as Fenella and James sang a sentimental song together, a tentative soprano and a robust baritone.
‘Charming,’ Lady Josephine applauded.
‘It’s called “Lovely Lucerne,” Aunt Jo, a new hit that’s not from America for a change.’
‘Do give us another song,’ she requested.
James set a sheet of music on
the stand and they launched into ‘The Raggle-Taggle Gypsies.’ Paling, Annabel lost the thread of what she was saying. Lord Stephen stared at her, his gaze at once avid and cold. With a smirk, James began the second verse:
It was late last night when my lord came home
Enquiring for his lady-o.
The servants said on every hand,
She’s gone –
‘Enough!’ commanded Lady Josephine.
The innocent Fenella stopped with her mouth open, bewildered.
Annabel jumped up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said in a stifled voice. ‘I . . . It’s been a tiring day. I’m going up now.’ She fled.
‘James, I wish to play bridge,’ Lady Josephine declared. ‘You may partner me. Has Drew set out the cards?’
‘Yes, Aunt Jo, as always.’
Fenella and Geoffrey did not play. Marjorie was roped in, but Lord Stephen begged off. Daisy was afraid she’d be asked to take a hand, but Sir Hugh came in just in time to save her.
As the foursome moved to the card table, Lord Stephen said, ‘I believe I’ll be off to bed, too. Dawn rising, don’t you know.’ He sauntered out, unhurried yet purposeful.
Dismayed, Daisy felt she ought to do something but couldn’t think what. Then Fenella turned to her with a plaintive, ‘I don’t understand, Daisy. Why . . . ?’
‘I suppose Lady Josephine doesn’t like that song,’ Daisy said quickly, and asked for news of her family at home in Worcestershire.
Phillip and Wilfred returned from the billiard-room shortly thereafter, Phillip having won even with the agreed handicap. He proposed a game of rummy. Geoffrey had disappeared, but the four of them played until it was time for the late weather forecast on the wireless. The bridge game broke up at the same time and they all listened to a promise of another day of freezing temperatures before retiring for the night.