by Tessa Arlen
“My life, as they say, flashed before me. And as my body reached a tipping point,” he seesawed his outstretched arms to encourage them to join in the joke against him, “I felt this reassuring grip on my shoulder. A powerful heave and I was righted in an instant and dragged to safety by my vigilant, coolheaded, and remarkable wife. And as of course you know, Mrs. Churchill is in favor of the franchise for women.” He smiled down the table at his wife, who had been listening attentively. How many times has she heard this story? Clementine wondered in sympathy, as Mr. Churchill’s anecdote was greeted by huge laughter, and a little smatter of applause from the sycophants in the group. She glanced across at her husband, whose face was set as he stared down at his plate.
“What happened to your assassin?” Sir Vivian, who knew what it was like to be pursued by angry women, asked to further laughter.
“She was arrested for assault with malice and sent to Holloway Prison, where I believe she set fire to her cell!” Winston sat back in his chair. His eyes glistened as he took generous sips from his glass. “Quite batty of course, these women, and as they age they get battier and take bigger risks, and not just with my life,” he has become the politician again, thought Clementine, “but with the lives of all of us. It’s an unnatural lust for power in womankind, and a power that … will … not … be given.” She noticed that he had a way of intoning his words almost through clenched teeth as he spaced out each one and then grouped the last two together in a rhythmic and emphatic pattern, and if she listened carefully she could still detect his tendency to lisp. She sat back in her chair, fascinated. He wasn’t exactly likable, she thought, but he was impressive. He had effortlessly dominated a gathering of at least eighteen people throughout dinner with deft and wicked wit. He had certainly gained her preoccupied attention.
A footman pulled back Hermione Kingsley’s chair so she might stand up from the table.
“Dear Winston.” Their elderly hostess smiled at the incorrigible charmer seated at the end of her dining-room table. “We will leave you all to enjoy your port and cigars.”
Clementine regarded the upright old lady with affection. Hermione had all the fearsome traits of her mother’s generation. Her angular frame looked incongruous and gaunt in a gown of pink satin and deep lace ruffles, and her iron-gray hair was swept up in the pouf that had been fashionable at the end of the last century. Hermione waved an imperious hand, telling, not inviting, the women to join her.
Chapter Three
There are those among us who enjoy that brief interlude after dinner when we women leave the men to their port and cigars and disappear to powder our noses and relax among friends to indulge in topics exclusive to feminine interest. And that all depends on who those women are, thought Clementine, as they left the dining room in chattering groups and crossed the spacious inner hall to the wide marble staircase that climbed to the second floor. She caught the tail end of Lady Cunard’s laying down the law to Hermione and Lady Wentworth about the merits of employing Rosa Lewis, London’s most celebrated chef and owner of the Cavendish Hotel, to organize one’s dinner party, instead of employing a full-time French chef and butler, and felt this part of the evening might wear a little.
But, to her delight, on arriving in the salon, Clementine found herself immediately engaged by the more amiable of her husband’s dinner companions. Lady Ryderwood’s dark eyes lit up as Clementine approached her and she deftly steered her off so that they might talk alone.
When Clementine had first met Veda Ryderwood she had been instantly drawn to her, finding her to be a woman comfortably at ease with herself no matter what the occasion. She had a low, unhurried and musical quality to her voice, a quick, bright mind and a well-developed sense of humor.
“Tell me, Lady Montfort, do your really enjoy opera? I find so many of my new friends say they do and then discover that it is actually the Royal Opera House they enjoy.” There was not a shred of criticism in Lady Ryderwood’s tone, just baffled amusement and an invitation to laugh at the philistine attitudes of the day toward important things like serious music.
“I’m afraid it is a bit of both for me. But I definitely have my favorites: I prefer Puccini to Verdi and Mozart to Wagner. But I have to admit I love the dazzle of lavish sets and lush costumes. I must be a bit of a philistine.” Clementine often found that her attention wandered between arias.
“Oh no, not at all, I think opera is about the combination of superb music and spectacle. Will you be in London for Tetrazzini and Caruso’s performance in Butterfly?” And Lady Ryderwood sought her opinion on the season’s offerings and listened attentively to Clementine’s choices. In exchange she had some amusing observations of some of the more notable Italian opera singers who had become popular in London.
“They are all as sweet-natured and humble as they can be, slumming it at the opera house in Milan, sharing rooms and dressers, makeup and costumes, everything. Then they spend a season in New York, and return to Europe to scowl, tantrum, and cry, ‘What’s this? I always have a daybed in my dressing room in America! No, my dresser and wardrobe must be in a separate room, I simply have to be alone to prepare!’” Lady Ryderwood nodded her head and laughed. “One season at the Metropolitan Opera and they are transformed into divas, it’s quite astonishing!”
Coffee was served and brandy was offered as they chattered on. Mrs. Churchill and Jennifer Wells-Thornton gathered around Marigold Meriwether, offering congratulations on her engagement to Captain Vetiver and to admire her elegant white moiré silk dress. This was the one she had worn to be presented at Court, she proudly informed, and one that obviously came from a top Paris fashion house. Lady Wentworth sat in quiet conversation with Hermione. Adelaide Gaskell, Hermione’s companion and general factotum for the Chimney Sweep Boys, searched through a stack of music as she was to play the piano accompaniment for Lady Ryderwood’s singing when the men came up from the dining room. Only Lady Cunard remained separate from the group; she roamed the salon sipping brandy as she waited for the men to join them. Never one for female company, Clementine remembered, as she noticed the restless figure pacing the room; she had always found Maud Cunard to be competitive with her own sex.
Clementine’s attention was momentarily diverted from her conversation with Lady Ryderwood by the arrival of Sir Henry Wentworth and her husband, closely followed by Captain Wildman-Lushington; they were all talking about hunting. As the salon began to fill with male voices and laughter, Clementine became aware of a fluster and a good deal of agitation on the other side of the room. Hermione Kingsley’s voice was raised in irritation and Marigold Meriwether’s in surprise and anger. The footman had clumsily spilled coffee on Marigold’s splendid dress and instantly Hermione was in charge.
“Down to the kitchen and bring up a glass of diluted white vinegar and a towel,” she instructed the hapless servant. They all watched the dark stain spread upward from the hem of Marigold’s gown, and the footman sped off on his errand, almost colliding with Captain Vetiver, who was standing by the open door.
“Oh dear, he’ll take too long and it’s moiré; perhaps vinegar will ruin it.” Hermione cast about for a better alternative. “Adelaide, Adelaide, where are you? There you are. Run to the drawing room and bring up a little pure spirit … and a towel … don’t forget the towel!” Adelaide Gaskell left her sheet music and scuttled out of the door, leaving the rest of the women to surge around Marigold. Handkerchiefs were produced and little blots and dabs made on the dark stain. Marigold Meriwether, a statuesque blonde with large, pale blue eyes, stared stonily ahead, her face set, ignoring the activity at her feet.
“Baking soda, a thick solution in a little water,” Lady Wentworth advised.
Hermione went to the door, calling back over her shoulder as she went, “Baking soda, that’ll do the trick. I’ll get it myself. And if it doesn’t, Marigold, it’s only one panel…” And off she went intent on her errand.
Marigold turned to Mrs. Churchill, her eyebrows raised in anguish
as she cried out, “Oh, oh, oh. It’s quite ruined.”
“Nonsense, Marigold, not ruined at all. That panel can be easily replaced. There is no need to fuss.” Mrs. Churchill turned to Lady Wentworth. “Nothing will get that stain out, it’s coffee. What a pity.” Then back to Marigold: “My dear Marigold, you must try not to be so…”
Maud Cunard, never one for gathering around women, especially those younger than herself, said to Clementine, “It astonishes me how hard it is to find decent servants in London these days. Most of them lack any useful skills. You take them on and lavish hours in instruction, and then off they go to someone else.” Clementine was not particularly surprised that Lady Cunard couldn’t hang on to good servants, as her weekly entertainment schedule alone would be grueling for any household.
“Hermione has kept every one of her servants for decades, Lady Cunard. Her butler, Jenkins, has been with her since she was a young woman.”
“Such a mistake to keep an elderly butler; his hands were quite unsteady at dinner. I thought I would be deluged with peas, and he offered me the fish twice.” Not waiting for Clementine’s response, Maud Cunard was off to cut Sir Vivian away from any possible conversation with frivolous and pretty little girls like Marigold Meriwether and Jennifer Wells-Thornton, which left Clementine free to join Sir Henry and her husband’s conversation on the merits of a cold compress to prevent lameness after a rigorous day of hunting.
So involved was their discussion that she was only briefly aware that poor Adelaide was back in the room, waving a little glass of clear spirit and timidly approaching a silent Marigold, who was still failing to be a good sport about the coffee stain.
Poor thing, Clementine thought, now she has to try to deal single-handedly with that very put-out young woman; I wonder if I should go over and help her? She turned to Lady Ryderwood, whose eyebrows were raised in amusement at the display of temperament from the pretty Marigold. Adelaide was holding out her little offering to a frozen-faced young woman who had all but crossed her arms under her bosom and was refusing to look at her.
They were saved from the unpleasant business of trying to make things right by the arrival of Mr. Greenberg and the return of Hermione, who, having lost interest in saving the dress, announced it was time for them to enjoy some music.
“Lady Ryderwood has agreed to sing for us.” Hermione extended her hand to welcome Lady Ryderwood to come forward. “Some lovely songs by Puccini.”
There were exclamations of delight, and all the guests moved to the far end of the salon and took their seats. Veda Ryderwood gave Clementine’s arm a nervy little pat with such a chilly hand that she shivered, and Lady Ryderwood laughed in apology: “So sorry to startle you, Lady Montfort, performance nerves. Che gelida manina. I should be singing La Bohème and not Butterfly.” She floated gracefully to the piano to help a harassed Adelaide find the music for her accompaniment and, when that was accomplished, to stand quietly in front of the piano, smiling to her audience.
“I hope you all enjoy Puccini as much as I do.” She nodded to Adelaide and said simply, “Un bel dì vedremo.” And a murmur of appreciation welcomed the opening chords of the famous aria “One Fine Day” from Madama Butterfly.
Hermione beckoned Clementine over by patting a chair next to her at the back of the room by the door.
Is it possible, thought Clementine as she sat down next to her mother’s oldest friend, that someone as tiny and fragile as Lady Ryderwood might open her mouth and effortlessly pour forth such exquisite and yet powerful sound? She listened spellbound to the perfect control of Veda Ryderwood’s pure soprano in her enchanting rendition of Butterfly’s heartbreaking song of faith and hope.
But unfortunately, as Lady Ryderwood reached theb penultimate stanza of her aria and everyone leaned forward in anticipation of the song’s devastating finale, the door opened behind Hermione and Clementine and Winston Churchill tiptoed conspicuously into the room. He had patently been enjoying a cigar downstairs, as a dense cloud of smoke accompanied him.
Churchill’s arrival was made with unerring timing, almost, it would seem, as if to purposefully upstage Veda Ryderwood’s performance. And, Clementine thought crossly, as she turned her head to see his caricature of apology—a stubby forefinger lifted to his lips as he stood among them—he is interrupting my favorite part of the song. Butterfly, abandoned by her American husband and almost destitute with only her loyal maid and her little son for solace, cries out:
Tutto questo avverrà, te lo prometto.
Tienti la tua paura, io con sicura
fede l’aspetto.
I promise you this
Hold back your fears—
I with secure faith wait for him.
As Lady Ryderwood sang the last words, Clementine saw her cast such a look of anguish toward Churchill that Clementine wondered if he would be easily forgiven for his bungled entrance.
As polite applause and little cries of delight died down, with Lady Wentworth and Mrs. Churchill lifting handkerchiefs to the corners of their eyes, Mr. Churchill, with one hand over his brow in a gesture of calamity, somehow found the courage to face Lady Ryderwood. He was embarrassed, or at least making a good show of embarrassment. And Lady Ryderwood forgave him. With a slight shrug of her shoulders and a little laugh, she shook her head. “No, dear Mr. Churchill, it’s all right, I was nearly finished, really.”
And Churchill, always ready to stage-manage a good moment, and clapping his hands to show both his appreciation and his apology, slowly approached Lady Ryderwood to take her hand and bend over it, an unctuous impresario feting his leading lady.
Mr. Churchill’s interruption and subsequent enthusiasm for Lady Ryderwood’s performance had everyone on their feet and walking toward the singer standing by the piano.
Clementine was turning to smile her appreciation to Hermione when she noticed the footman, who had been in attendance by the door, start in surprise, lean his head toward the paneling of the door, and then swiftly turn and open it. From downstairs there came up to them a cry of such magnitude that Clementine was afterward surprised that no one else had heard it. But Hermione’s guests were clustered, unheeding to the harsh sound of a voice far less musical than that of Lady Ryderwood, around the diminutive soprano standing at the far end of the room. Miss Kingsley, however, leaped to her feet with surprising agility for a woman of her years and pushed the footman away from the door.
“Is that Jenkins?” Hermione cried as she took Clementine by the arm. “What on earth…?” she exclaimed as she pulled her through the open door.
As they started down the stairs to the inner hall, Clementine was immediately aware that Hermione’s elderly butler was leaning against the wall outside the dining room, palms braced to stop himself from falling.
“What is it, Jenkins?” cried his mistress, halfway down the stairs. “Jenkins, what has happened, are you all right?”
But all the poor man could do was wave to the dining room and gasp the words, “The cloth … all over … the bloody … cloth.”
Chapter Four
Clementine, faster on her feet than was her friend, was several strides ahead of Hermione and reached the dining-room door first. Leaving her hostess to administer to the elderly butler, she pushed open the right-hand panel of the double doors and entered the dining room.
The long table clothed in heavy white damask stood out in the dark of the room, its candelabra burning a bright path down the center. Cigar and cigarette smoke still lay in a heavy pall over the mingled scents of jasmine, roses, and rich food. Clementine paused at the top of the table and spoke to the figure seated at the far end of it.
“Sir Reginald?” She peered down the length of the table. “Don’t you want to come upstairs to join us for—?” She stopped, deeply embarrassed. It was clear that the gentleman was quite drunk. Clementine’s lips formed a moue of disgust. The man was tedious sober; heaven forbid that he was now incapable. Sir Reginald’s heavy shoulders were slumped forward, presenting a b
alding crown since he was facedown among the walnut shells littering the cloth. Annoyed with herself for barging into a potentially embarrassing situation, Clementine half turned in exasperation. She wished she had left it to Hermione to come into the room first; Sir Reginald was her oldest and closest friend after all. She decided it prudent to retreat, took a step back, and noticed that Sir Reginald in falling forward had knocked over two glasses of half-finished port; a dark stain crisscrossed the cloth in front of him.
But something wasn’t right here. Her mind was trying to escape from what her eyes were observing. It was trying to wriggle away from the truth, which was slowly assembling itself as a bewildering fact before her. A wave of alarm raised the hairs on her arms. A primitive call to race for safety surged through her, a powerful summons to run for home. The practical voice of instinct commanded, Get out, now, and she was conscious of a surge of adrenaline that pricked behind her knees and made her legs ache. But another voice, far cooler in tone and less urgent, suggested she move forward and investigate; there was no danger here. Intellect won out over ragged breath and bounding pulse, and she started to walk toward the slumped figure.
“Oh dear God…” Clementine half turned to the door as Hermione Kingsley came into the room. Hermione took in the situation at a glance and lifted a hand to the light switch on the wall. The seated figure at the table jumped fully into focus in the harsh electric light just as Clementine’s mind made the connection, causing her to step backward in shock and fear bumping up against Hermione, who was moving forward. The two women collided, stepped apart, and walked rapidly down the dining room on either side of the table.
Sir Reginald did not move. He did not look up at them with eyes glassy from too much port wine to apologize with slurred words. He remained humbly head-down among the debris on the cloth, the bright light glinting on a few strands of hair plastered carefully across the gleaming surface of his balding pate.