Charlotte groaned dramatically. ‘I knew you weren’t paying attention. I want to discuss something of importance. Your costume for the fancy-dress ball is becoming a matter of great urgency.’
‘Oh, the ball,’ said Mercy.
‘There’s no need to say it in that bored way. It is for charity. The Ivywood Clinic is a very good cause, and it promises to be quite a social occasion, so kindly make your mind up what you intend to wear.’
‘How about a laundry-maid’s costume?’
‘Don’t be flippant. It is a matter which requires serious thought.’
‘Oh, I don’t know! You think of something for me!’
‘You sound as though you aren’t interested.’
Mercy nearly retorted that she was not. But at least the ball would fill in an evening. That was all she required of anything these days.
‘I know, I’ll go as a butterfly,’ she said. It seemed a particularly appropriate costume.
Charlotte, however, saw no underlying significance in her choice.
‘A splendid idea! We had better get you to Madame Cecile immediately. If she is to concoct a ravishing creation for you the least we can do is give her enough time to do the job properly.’
‘My dear, you look marvellous!’ said Charlotte approvingly, when she saw the completed result. ‘I meant to be impressive and magnificent as the Warrior Queen, now that I’m beside you I simply feel dowdy and insignificant.’
‘Never that!’ laughed Mercy. ‘I am sure the real Boadicea was never so imposing.’
‘Flattery is all very well, but it is you who turns the heads.’
It was true, no matter how Mercy tried to deny it. Beneath the lights of the ballroom she shimmered like an iridescent jewel. All eyes were upon her.
‘I suppose there’s no hope that you would let me sign my name against every dance, is there?’ asked Lord Alston, taking her dance programme from her.
‘And be accused by every female in the room of monopolizing you? No, thank you,’ smiled Mercy.
‘I suppose I’ll have to reach a diplomatic compromise.’ He scribbled his name beside three, then, as he handed back the card with its tiny tasselled pencil, he gave an elaborate bow, in keeping with his Elizabethan costume. The colourful doublet and breeches suited him, making him an unexpectedly dashing Sir Francis Drake.
‘And now, if you will permit me…’ Archie held out his hand for her dance programme. ‘There!’ he said, scribbling away. ‘I’m far more greedy than Alston, here, though I see he’s got in before me for the Lancers, the lucky devil!’
‘Rank, dear boy! That’s all it takes,’ said Lord Alston calmly, as the orchestra struck up the opening bars of the first waltz. ‘Now, this is my dance, I think, so would you do me the honour, Mercy, my dear?’ He held out his arm to her, and together they went on to the ballroom floor.
Theirs was a small party to start with, then gradually, as the evening continued, Lord Alston or Charlotte would invite some other friend or acquaintance to come and join their circle. The noise and the laughter coming from their corner of the room grew in direct proportion to the number of people who congregated there.
Mercy was in demand for every dance, until her feet ached and her head throbbed. She would gladly have sat out, if importunate hands had not drawn her back on to the floor again and again. As the tide of noise rose steadily it became increasingly difficult to hear what anyone said, and she found herself laughing at inaudible jokes simply because others were laughing too. There was something horribly empty about it all.
But one man stood apart from the hilarity. He was an acquaintance of Charlotte’s, and no doubt she had introduced him to the others but Mercy had not caught his name. Now he was standing next to her, very tall and upright, not taking part in any of the conversation. There was a slightly disdainful air about him, as if he found the proceedings far too frivolous, and was wishing himself elsewhere. She could sympathize with him. At that moment Archie leaned towards her, telling her something evidently meant to be funny, but which she could barely hear. At the end she dutifully laughed loudly, not having understood any of it. At the sound of her laughter the man looked in her direction, and she caught impatience and near contempt in his gaze.
Slightly annoyed, she could not help being intrigued. He seemed so out of place. He had an air about him of having far better things to do with his time, an attitude that was rare in the circles in which Mercy moved. She found her attention going back to him again and again. He was about as tall as Peter, but there all similarity ended, for his hair was dark, and his movements, when he did move, were precise and energetic, quite unlike Peter’s. Even his costume, of leather breeches and a short green jacket adorned with stag’s horn buttons, set him apart from anyone else by its authenticity. He wore it with ease, as though well accustomed to be dressed in such a way. In all the time he was under Mercy’s observation he hardly spoke to anyone, and she wondered if shyness might account for his off-hand manner. There was only one way to find out, so she decided to take the initiative. She leaned towards him.
‘Your costume seems very realistic, sir. You look ready to climb the Swiss Alps,’ she remarked.
At her words he executed a stiff bow in her direction. He inclined his head towards her. ‘Your pardon, there is such a din I did not hear what you said.’
Beginning to regret having made her overture Mercy repeated her words. Although this time he evidently understood them the disdainful expression remained on his face.
‘Then I regret I would be most inappropriately dressed, for my costume is German, and it is worn for hunting wild boar,’ he replied. His voice implied that it was something any fool should have known.
Mercy refused to be put down by him, even though she felt rather silly.
‘My apologies. I have just proved that I’ve visited neither Switzerland nor Germany. However, I congratulate you on your perseverance. To my ears your German accent is perfect.’
‘That is because I am German,’ he said, not bothering to conceal the contempt in his tone.
Mercy felt her face go scarlet with anger and humiliation. How dare he make her out to be such an idiot! She searched for some sharp retort. But he had turned away, and was now leaning against a pillar, staring into space.
A snatch of music warned everyone that the Lancers were about to commence, and Lord Alston came to claim Mercy.
‘Who is that man in the green jacket?’ she asked as they made up their sets.
Alston glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, the German? He’s Gunther von Herwath, one of Charlotte’s finds.’
‘She need not have bothered finding him. He’s very disagreeable!’
Alston chuckled. ‘You’ve crossed swords with him, have you? He can be a bit abrupt when he’s a mind.’
‘Abrupt? He was downright rude!’
‘Rude! Oh I say, that won’t do! I’ll go and have a stern word with the fellow!’
‘Please don’t bother.’ Mercy put out a restraining hand. ‘He’s not worth it, and if you go now you’ll only spoil the set. I wonder why he bothered to come to the ball, when he makes it abundantly clear he is hating every minute.’
‘I suppose he felt he had to. After all, the whole point of this evening is to raise funds for his clinic.’
‘His clinic?’
‘Yes, Ivywood. He runs it. He’s a doctor, and a darned good one, I believe. Oh, we’re starting! Off we go!’
The intricacies of the dance left no time for Mercy to dwell on the shortcomings of Gunther von Herwath. By the time the final set was done, and they returned breathless and exhausted to their seats, she noted that he had gone. Apart from that she did not spare him another thought.
It was gone midnight when Lord Alston’s car drove her up the drive of the Villa Dorata. They reached the front door just as Peter was getting out of the Daimler. He could not fail to recognize the Rolls, and his nod of acknowledgement in its direction was terse.
‘You’ve had an enjoyable time?’ he
asked, as he and Mercy walked up the steps together.
‘Tolerably so, thanks.’
‘It was a fancy-dress affair, I believe.’
‘Yes, it was. In aid of one of the TB clinics.’
‘How very worthy. I’m intrigued by the portion of costume I can see beneath your wrap. What did you go as?’
‘A butterfly.’
‘How charming.’
The conversation between them was very civilized, very polite – it could have been taking place between strangers.
Peter absently handed his hat and scarf to Rogers. Mercy did not know where he had been. She did not ask.
‘Is there anything you would like before you retire? Shall Rogers get you a drink, or something?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you. I’m very tired. I’ll go straight away up to bed.’
‘I think I’ll do the same.’
Shoulder to shoulder they climbed the stairs. At the top, as if by unspoken agreement, they stopped.
‘Good night to you, Mercy.’
‘Good night to you, Peter.’
They turned and walked in opposite directions. Only a few yards of floor, corridor and walls separated them. It might as well have been a continent.
* * *
Charlotte arrived the next morning, looking incredibly energetic for someone who had not got to bed until the early hours.
‘The ball last night was an unqualified success!’ she announced heartily.
‘Do you mean socially or financially?’ asked Mercy, feeling she had not weathered the lack of sleep as well as her friend.
‘Both, I hope, though I was speaking financially. The Ivywood Clinic’s funds now show a marked improvement.’
‘Let’s hope the temper and manners of its director follow suit.’
‘You mean Doctor von Herwath? Isn’t he absolutely charming?’ She caught Mercy’s eye. ‘Well, perhaps not all of the time. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly…’
‘As he demonstrated very clearly last night.’
‘I’ll admit he can be impatient; but such an interesting person. These men with a mission so often are. I must confess I’m rather taken with him, and I am determined to help him in every way I can.’
Mercy regarded her curiously.
‘Doctor von Herwath doesn’t sound like the usual candidate for your aid,’ she said.
Charlotte came as close as she was able to looking coy. ‘You’ve got to admit he is exceedingly attractive.’
‘No, I’ve not got to admit any such thing. You be as smitten as you like, I shall go on thinking he is most unpleasant.’
‘Oh really! I despair of you!’ Charlotte returned to her normal brisk self. ‘Even if you don’t agree with me about the man you have got to admit that his clinic is an extremely worthy cause. Ivywood is run by a charitable trust, you know. The patients don’t pay a penny piece. No one is ever turned away because they are too poor to pay for treatment.’
‘Charlotte, I know you of old. You are leading up to something.’
‘Not for myself. For those poor suffering souls—’
‘Charlotte!’
‘Very well! I have decided to have a charity tea at my house in aid of Ivywood. It will be in two weeks’ time, and I am relying upon you to help me.’
‘You want me to carry the trays of tea?’
‘Don’t be silly, dear. I have plenty of staff who can cope with that. No, I intend to have a few tastefully laid out stalls and that sort of thing. I thought you could be a gypsy fortune teller.’
Mercy burst out laughing. ‘I know nothing about fortune telling, and I doubt if I could learn in two weeks. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll give your charity tea, worthy though it is, a miss.’
‘You’re letting your dislike of Doctor von Herwath put you off. He’s a first-rate doctor. And he works at the clinic for a pittance, even though he could command top fees if he chose to set up in private practice. He has helped so many people.’
‘Don’t tell me this miracle-worker has discovered a cure for TB!’ exclaimed Mercy. Then she regretted her facetious outburst. ‘Of course, he can’t have done!’ she said quietly. ‘I’m ashamed I said that. TB is not a subject for sarcasm. I’m sorry, I’ll do what I can to help. But no fortune telling!’
‘Then how about selling lucky white heather – in gypsy costume, of course?’ asked Charlotte, brightening visibly.
‘All right, I’ll be a gypsy hawker, since you’re so set on it,’ laughed Mercy. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to boil the water for the tea in a black pot over a fire of sticks in the middle of your lawn?’
* * *
Charlotte’s elegant house in the Warberries was filled with the hum of voices and the clatter of teacups. Mercy circulated among the visitors, very conscious of her vivid red and yellow gypsy skirt, and of the heavy rings of gold in her ears.
‘Would you care to buy a bunch of white heather?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Only threepence a bunch.’
It was remarkable how many people did not hear her, or ignored her if they did.
‘You have to be more forceful, my dear,’ said Lord Alston, putting a sprig of heather in his buttonhole and dropping a sovereign into her purse. ‘Use all your gypsy wiles. Oh, and put the price up. This lot can afford a shilling for a good cause!’
He was right, of course. She set out to be more persuasive. Her new tactics proved to be most successful, so that twice she had to replenish her basket. She was beginning to enjoy playing her role. Eventually she was left with only one last bunch of heather. Although the afternoon was drawing to a close, she noted the arrival of a latecomer.
Determined to sell the last of her wares, she hurried over.
‘Buy some white heather, sir,’ she pleaded. ‘Only a shilling to you, sir.’
‘And how much would it be to anyone else?’ the man asked. His accent was clipped and uncomfortably familiar.
She looked up and saw his eyes were very clear and hazel, and they held recognition and slight scorn.
‘A shilling,’ she replied frankly, in her normal voice.
‘I thought so. Well, I suppose I must buy it, though I do not usually encourage such superstitious nonsense.’
He paid for his heather then walked away. Mercy watched as he crumpled the sprig in his hand and then threw it contemptuously into the fire. He proceeded to stand with his back to the fireplace, his hands behind him, looking exceedingly bored. Then he stalked out.
‘Isn’t it marvellous that Doctor von Herwath could come?’ enthused Charlotte, when they met later in the garden room.
‘I wonder that he bothered. He made it all too obvious that he was utterly bored.’
‘I expect he is tired, caring for those patients every day.’
‘Charlotte, it’s not like you to make excuses for someone. Nevertheless, in spite of what you say I think he is a most disagreeable man, and please don’t involve me in anything connected with Ivywood ever again!’
The last place Mercy expected to encounter Doctor von Herwath was at the skating rink. She had some qualms about going roller skating in the first place. For all it was the latest craze, it did not seem to be a proper sort of activity for a mature married woman. Her acceptance of Charlotte’s invitation had something to do with the knowledge that Peter would not have approved.
The rink was on the pier, a flat expanse that doubled as a venue for roller skating in winter and as the foundation of a tented concert hall during the summer. Mercy was not the only married woman in the party, Lilian Manning was there, and Zena Pritchard, neither of them accompanied by husbands. Instead, Charles Wentworth lent his languid presence to the group, and proved to be an unexpectedly able skater.
Upon greater acquaintance Lilian could be an amiable companion, she was so cheerful and good-natured. The same could not be said of Zena, although she treated Mercy with more civility than she had done at their first encounter at Upper Lee. Mercy had declined Charles’s offers of assistance. She preferred to make
her own way round the rink slowly and steadily, keeping a wary eye on her fellow skaters. It was as well she did, for Lilian dashed about the place in a madcap fashion, not caring if she fell over or cannoned into someone. Zena proceeded more carefully. Mercy suspected that her caution was more to give her an excuse to hold on to Charles than lack of ability. As for Charlotte, she skated as she did everything else, competently and efficiently.
There was no denying that their group dominated the rink. At times Mercy felt embarrassed at the lack of consideration her companions showed towards the other skaters, charging about as if they were the only people there. And they were far and away the noisiest. She felt sorry for the other citizens of Torquay who had paid their few pence to enjoy the speed and challenge of being on roller skates only to find themselves gradually ousted from the rink. Most gave up and went home; a few bystanders lingered at the edge to watch. Unfortunately one of these onlookers proved to be Gunther von Herwath.
Mercy was concentrating on her skating when the accident occurred. It was Lilian’s scream which caught her attention. Lilian had been screaming all afternoon, but this was different. This time there was pain and terror in her voice. Mercy turned to see her crumpled on the ground, a white-faced Charles Wentworth trying to support her. Even at a distance Mercy could see the red blood beginning to stain Lilian’s skirt, as well as the ground, at an alarming rate.
‘Do something, Charlotte,’ Charles was pleading. ‘For heaven’s sake do something!’
Charlotte remained immobile, her face ashen. As for Zena, she was clutching at the surrounding fence, in a half faint.
Hampered a little by her unaccustomed skates, Mercy sped over as fast as she was able.
‘Oh help her, someone! She’s bleeding to death!’ In his panic Charles was giving Lilian ineffectual pats on the arm.
‘No, she is not bleeding to death!’ Mercy said emphatically, dropping to her knees beside the whimpering Lilian. She hoped she was right. The gash on Lilian’s hand was deep, right down to the bone, and the wound was bleeding in great spurts. ‘Have you got a large handkerchief, Charles? Here, hold her hand up, while I try to stop the bleeding… Charlotte, your scarf, if you please… and fetch Doctor von Herwath, he’s just gone along the pier.’
To Dream Again Page 25