“Good Lord, no. Just don't put the scandals of the last century or so into print.” Lady Josephine went on to tell a scurrilous tale of her great-uncle's involvement with Lillie Langtry and Bertie, Prince of Wales. “Henry has rather reacted against that sort of thing,” she said.
“In some ways he's more Victorian than the Victorians. I do sometimes worry that he won't be happy with Annabel.”
“She seems quite a sedate sort of person,” Daisy said tactfully.
“But so much younger. If only my chump of a nephew had not invited Lord Stephen!”
Daisy made a token effort to avoid the confidences she was dying to hear. “I haven't been able to place Lord Stephen, though the name Astwick is familiar. Who exactly is he?”
“The younger brother of the Marquis of Brinbury. Always a bit of a black sheep, I'm afraid. In fact rumour has it his father disinherited him, but he made good in the City, though Hugh doesn't trust him an inch.”
“Sir Hugh jolly well ought to know.”
“Hugh is the knowingest man in the City,” agreed his proud wife. “He'd have put paid to Wilfred inviting Lord Stephen if he'd been consulted.”
“Wilfred invited him? How odd! I wouldn't think they'd have anything in common.”
“High living,” said Lady Josephine wisely, “but if you ask me, Marjorie put him up to it. She's potty about the fellow, got it into her silly head she's madly in love with him. Thank heaven he don't show a particle of interest in the girl. If only I could say the same of Annabel! But that's beside the point. Let's go up to Queen Elizabeth's chamber. It hasn't been changed since she spent her two nights at Wentwater.”
Her curiosity frustrated, Daisy concentrated on matters historical. The notebook filled with mysterious curlicues she hoped she'd be able to decipher later. As they moved up through the house, she learned about the shocking split in the family when an eldest son fought for Parliament against the Royalists; the daughters who had ended up as old maids because their father had spent their dowries on building the new wings; and the Regency bride who had eloped with a highwayman.
Lady Josephine frowned. “On second thoughts, perhaps you'd
better leave that one out, Daisy. It hits a bit close to home. Not that I mean to suggest there's the slightest chance of Annabel's succumbing,” she hastened to add. “But one can't deny that Stephen Astwick is a handsome man, with an insinuating sort of charmâand not a scruple in the world. His name is constantly in the scandal-sheets, linked with those of ladies who ought to know better.”
“Annabel eloping with Lord Stephen?” Daisy asked in astonishment, turning from the turret window where she had been watching a rider on a bay horse canter across the park.
“They were acquaintances some years ago, I gather, and now he is really pursuing her in the most determined and ungentlemanly way, quite blatant. I'm afraid poor Henry is at a loss what to do. He can't throw Brinbury's brother out of the house as if he were some plebeian bounder. They belong to the same clubs!”
“Gosh, what a ghastly mess.”
“Mind you, Henry is far too gallant to mistrust his wife. In fact, I'm not at all sure he's aware of what's going on under his nose. My brother has always been the impassive, Stoical sort, you know, impossible to guess what he's thinking. I feel I ought to open his eyes, but Hugh has absolutely forbidden it.”
Tears had sprung to the plump matron's eyes and her second chin quivered. Daisy patted her arm and said soothingly, if meaninglessly, “I'm sure Lord Wentwater has everything under control, Lady Josephine.”
“Oh, my dear, I should not burden you with our troubles, but it is such a relief to get it all off my chest and simply nothing shocks you modern young things. There, now let us forget all about it. Where were we? Oh yes, this is the very room where Charles II was caught
in flagrante
with the then Lady Wentwater's young cousin. He was not invited again.”
She prattled on. As Daisy took down her words, she resolved to keep a close eye on the inhabitants of Wentwater Court. To a would-be novelist, the intrigues of the past were not half so intriguing as those of the present.
Some time later, from yet another turret window, Daisy saw the skaters straggling up the hill towards the house. Lady Josephine glanced out and consulted her wristwatch. “Heavens, how time passes. We must go down if you'd like to see the ballroom before lunch.”
“Yes, please. Oh, that's odd. Surely Lord Stephen isn't going off somewhere just before lunch?” A grey Lanchester on its way down the drive had stopped. As Daisy watched, Astwick crossed to it and spoke to the driver.
“I expect he's sending his manservant off on some errand again,” said Lady Josephine, irritated. “My maid tells me the fellow is gone more than he's here. I only wish he'd take his master with him!”
Dismissing the unpleasant subject, she took Daisy down to the ballroom, chattering about the splendid formal dances of her youth. The vast ballroom was shrouded in dust covers. Daisy decided not to request that it be exhumed for her to photograph. There was enough of interest in the older part of the house.
Lady Josephine sighed. “Of course, you young things prefer nightclubs these days. Well, my dear, I've shown you the best. Do feel free to wander about by yourself, and I'll try to answer any questions you may have.”
“You've been perfectly sweet, Lady Josephine.” She riffled through her notebook as they started down the stairs. “I've got loads of material here to start with, and some topping ideas for photographs. I'd like to try a shot of the family in front of the fireplace in the Great Hall, if you think Lord Wentwater will agree.”
“I'll speak to him,” her ladyship promised.
In the drawing-room, a long, beautifully proportioned room furnished in Regency style, they found several members of the household already gathered. James, with Fenella at his side, was dispensing drinks. He mixed a gin-and-It for his aunt, and Daisy requested a small medium-dry sherry.
“I can't drink a cocktail before lunch or I might as well chuck in the
towel as far as getting any work done this afternoon is concerned,” she said.
“There's no focussing a camera when you can't focus your eyes,” James agreed with a grin.
“And it's difficult enough to read my shorthand at the best of times. Thank you.” Taking the glass, she looked around the room.
Nearby Wilfred, his voice a fashionable drawl, was recounting to his stepmother the plot, such as it was, of Al Jolson's musical comedy,
Bombo.
As Daisy watched, he wet his whistle with a gulp from his nearly full cocktail glass. She doubted it was his first. Annabel's sherry glass was also nearly full. She seemed to have forgotten it, standing with bowed head, either listening to Wilfred with more interest than his tale warranted or lost in her own thoughts.
By the fireplace, Sir Hugh and Phillip chatted togetherâpolitics, Daisy guessed, hearing mention of Bonar Law and Lloyd George. Marjorie stood by looking bored. She was smoking a cigarette in a long tortoise-shell holder and her cocktail glass held the remains of a pink gin. Daisy guessed that Phillip's glass contained dry sherry. She knew he preferred sweet, but he considered it unmasculine and always asked for dry in company. His nose wrinkled just a trifle as he sipped, confirming her guess.
Lady Josephine went to join her husband, and after a moment Marjorie drifted away from that group. Coming over to the drinks cabinet, she handed her brother her glass.
“Fill it up, Jimmy, old bean.”
“It had better be a small one,” James warned. “Father will be here any minute.”
“Don't be such a wet blanket.” She drew ostentatiously on her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke over her shoulder.
Daisy hastily retreated from the prospect of a family squabble. She went over to Annabel and Wilfred. Annabel looked up and smiled absently.
“Have you seen the new show at the Apollo, Miss Dalrymple?” Wilfred asked.
“Daisy, please. No, not yet. Is it good?”
“Oh, pretty tolerable, don't you know. The finale was rather a”âhis voice died away as Lord Stephen entered the drawing roomâ“rather a nifty do,” he finished with an effort, a gaze burning with resentment fixed on the older man.
Making some casual response to Wilfred's words, Daisy watched Lord Stephen. He went up to the drinks table, where Marjorie greeted him with a languishing look.
“Lord Stephen always has a dry martini,” she instructed her brother.
“Make it a gin-and-twist, if you don't mind, old chap,” Lord Stephen promptly requested.
“Right-oh.” James gave his pouting sister a malicious glance and handed over the drink. He sounded malicious, too, as he continued, “I say, Astwick, would you mind asking my stepmama if she'd like a refill?”
“My pleasure.” The bland tone was belied by the predatory curl of his thin lips, the gleam in his hard eyes.
As he approached, Wilfred blenched. “Must have a word with Aunt Jo,” he muttered, and sheered off. Why on earth had he invited the man if he detested him? Daisy wondered.
“Miss Dalrymple.” Lord Stephen nodded to her but his attention was already on the countess. “Annabel, my dear, Beddowe sent me to find out if your drink needs refreshing, but I see his solicitude was in vain.” He ran his fingertips across the back of her hand, holding the still-full glass.
The amber liquid shimmered as her hand trembled. “Yes, thank you. I have all I want.”
“All? Few can claim to be so lucky as to possess
all
that they desire,” he said with a meaningful smile. “I know I do not.”
“But I do, Lord Stephen.” She flashed him a glance under her long
lashes. Daisy couldn't tell whether she was just flirting, trying to rebuff him, or deliberately leading him on by playing hard to get.
“Come, now, didn't you promise to call me Stephen? Miss Dalrymple will think you don't count me your friend. I assure you, Miss Dalrymple, Annabel and I are very good friends from long ago, aren't we, my dear?” He laid his hand on her arm.
“Yes, Stephen.” Her voice quivered with suppressed emotion. She neither shook off his hand nor moved away.
T
o Daisy's relief, Geoffrey came up and broke the charged tension between Annabel and Lord Stephen. His large, solid, unambiguous presence made Lord Stephen's elegant figure appear slight and rather effete. He brought with him a wholesome breath of fresh air.
“Have you been riding?” Daisy asked. “I thought I saw you from one of the turret windows.”
“Yes, I had a first-rate gallop,” he said with enthusiasm, his face brightening.
“Isn't it dangerous to gallop when the snow lies so deep?” asked Annabel. Lord Stephen's hand slipped from her arm as she turned towards her youngest stepson.
Geoffrey blushed. “Not when you know the country.” His tongue once loosened, he continued, “If you know where the hidden obstacles are, ditches and such, it's absolutely topping. The air's so clear you can see for miles. No mud to make for heavy going, and you don't have to worry about crushing crops. Of course, it's not every horse can cope with snow, but my Galahad's a splendid beast.”
Half-listening to a recital of Galahad's finer points, Daisy saw Lord Wentwater come in. At once Marjorie furtively put down her drink and stubbed out her cigarette. Wilfred also disposed hurriedly of his glass. Their father didn't appear to notice.
Good manners demanded that Daisy report to him on her tour of the house. She slipped away and crossed to his side. Head bent, he listened with civil interest, then gave his permission to use the stories Lady Josephine had told her.
“No doubt every family has skeletons in its cupboards,” he said with a wry smile.
The butler came in just then to announce that luncheon was served. Lord Wentwater escorted Daisy into the dining-room and seated her beside him. Since he was so cordial and approachable, she decided not to wait for Lady Josephine to mention her request to him.
“Would you mind if I took a photograph of you and your family in the Great Hall?” she asked as the soup was ladled out. “I think my readers would like to see who lives in the house now, don't you?”
“Probably,” he said dryly and paused for a considering moment. Daisy held her breath, afraid he judged her request mere pandering to vulgar curiosity. “I don't see why not. We'll confine it to those of us who are descended from my disreputable ancestors, thus avoiding the thorny question of whether Miss Petrie ought to appear.”
And excluding his wife, Daisy noted. Did he fear that by the time the article was printed, Annabel might have run off with Lord Stephen? If so, he gave no sign of it, asking with unaltered calm, “Will it suit you to take your photograph shortly before dinner? I'll ask everyone to come down early.”
“That will be perfect,” she said gratefully.
A hush had fallen over the table in tribute to a superb cream of leek soup. Lord Wentwater announced that he expected his children, and invited his sister, to be present in the Great Hall at half-past seven that evening to have their photographs taken. Amid the nods and murmurs, Daisy thought she saw a hurt expression pass across Annabel's face, at the far end of the table. She couldn't be sure, for Lord Stephen said something to the countess and she turned her head to respond.
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?
Â
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 musedâwhat 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 foxtrot, 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 bath 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 bath-tub, 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 keyholeâprobably 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 was 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 landmine, 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 designedâand had certainly been chosenâto 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.