To Journey Together (15 page)

"Very obliging of her, I'm sure." Lady Connelton rubbed the bridge of her nose with a reflective forefinger. "But it's more or less correct. In the ordinary way, he is too much run after, you know. I daresay he found you different and therefore intriguing. You see"—she laughed—"we are back at the same word."

Elinor smiled and shook her head.

"I still can't feel the word applies," she said.

"Well, we won't press the point," Lady Connelton conceded. "I don't want to make you self-conscious. But don't under-estimate yourself, dear child. One can take that sort of thing a little too far. We both like your modesty and your quiet manners, but there is no need to let that self-advertising young woman who has just arrived push you aside."

Elinor did not really see how she was to prevent this if Rosemary were minded so to do. But she was infinitely pleased to learn that Sir Daniel, as well as Lady Connelton, approved of her so pleasantly.

Laden with purchases which Lady Connelton, who had an almost childlike gusto over these matters, could not bear to have sent, they returned to the hotel for a late lunch. And hardly had they detailed their adventures to Sir Daniel and Kenneth when the von Eibergs arrived.

Familiar faces are always welcome in a foreign country, so that they were welcomed, even by Kenneth, more or less as old friends, and, over cups of delicious Viennese coffee, future plans were discussed.

"No one goes in for masked balls any longer, I suppose," said Sir Daniel, shaking his head with enjoyable regret over the vanished joys which the present-day youth could not hope to sample. "Dear me, how romantic and exciting they were! Great fancy-dress balls at the various Embassies—and, of course, the Opera Ball. Nothing like that now."

"Don't be tiresome, dear," his wife adjured him cheerfully. "There is probably some present-day equivalent." And she looked hopefully at the von Eibergs, as though expecting them to confound her pessimistic husband.

"I'm afraid there is nothing quite so grand and elegant nowadays as the sort of thing Sir Daniel has in mind," Rudi told Lady Connelton with a smile. "But I was going to suggest that, if you feel in a dressing-up mood "

"I?" exclaimed Lady Connelton. "Not at all, dear boy! My days of being a Columbine or a gipsy girl are definitely over. I was thinking more of Elinor. Or Ken, of course," she added, thoughtfully regarding her nephew, as though assessing his age in terms of fancy-dress balls.

"Ilsa and I thought we might make up a party and go to Wimberger one evening," Rudi explained. "It's not elegant, in the sense Sir Daniel means. But it's gay and it's fun—and it's very Viennese. Would you like to come?" and he turned to Elinor, with a smile which said that her consent was the essential part of the arrangement.

"I should love it!" Elinor's eyes shone. And then, as though aware suddenly of a silence beside her, she turned to Kenneth and said, "You will come too, won't you?"

This time the effect of heavy silence came from Rudi's direction. So Elinor added quickly, "With

Rosemary perhaps," and hoped that she had redressed the balance satisfactorily.

"That would make six, with Ilsa and her partner," Rudi said, beginning to plan in real earnest.

"It sounds an attractive idea," Kenneth said. "Though I'm not sure," he added with a dry little smile, "that I don't feel rather like my aunt—that my days for this sort of thing are over."

"Don't be absurd ! You are just as young as the rest of us," exclaimed Elinor. And then was so surprised to find herself uttering anything so personal that she blushed scarlet.

"It's a question of temperament, rather than years," Ilsa put in lightly. "I don't think Kenneth need start calling his age in question. Provided he won't be all British and self-conscious about dressing up, he will enjoy a masquerade as well as any of us."

"Is this a challenge?" enquired Kenneth, meeting her glance.

"Or a suggestion," Ilsa retorted with a shrug.

"Challenge and suggestion both accepted," Kenneth answered with unexpected promptness. "And now I suppose we all start racking our brains about costumes. What—or whom—are we all impersonating?"

Various ingenious, preposterous and enjoyable suggestions were made, and then Sir Daniel said, "There are six of you, you say. Why don't you go as the complete cast of Cosi fan Tutte?"

Both the von Eibergs cried out with delight, for as part-Viennese, they naturally knew their Mozart well.

"It's a wonderful idea!" Ilsa exclaimed. "Lovely eighteenth-century costumes for us all. Kenneth can be Alfonso, the cynical philosopher, who doesn't believe in anyone

"Thank you."

"No, he can't!" exclaimed Elinor indignantly. "That's not fair. He isn't a bit like that."

Everyone laughed over this, so that Elinor blushed again. But, under cover of more chatter,

Kenneth whispered to her, with not unkindly amusement, "It's only make-believe, remember."

"Elinor must be Fiordiligi, of course," Ilsa went on. "All good principles and fidelity."

"She sounds very dull," Elinor said, still a little sore about the insult to Kenneth.

"Oh, she's a darling!" Ilsa insisted. And she and her brother began to sing snatches of the opera across the table to each other, until they remembered that they had not "cast" the other parts.

"I shall be Fiordiligi's pair, of course," Rudi stated firmly. "I always forget which of the men it is, because everything is such a muddle by the time they have changed their identities. But I am whichever Fiordiligi gets in the end " and he smiled at Elinor. "You can be Dorabella," he added to his sister. "Fickle, charming creature—that's you exactly."

Ilsa accepted this without objection, and merely said, "That leaves Despina for your friend, Kenneth. What was her name?"

"Rosemary. Rosemary Copeland."

"Perfect!" Rudi laughed immoderately. "Has Rosemary turned up again? The girl who pushed us into the ditch, Ilsa. She will do wonderfully as Despina. She will be charming in a cap and apron as the maid who makes mischief."

"I didn't know you knew her so well." Kenneth looked at Rudi without favour.

"We met only once," Rudi admitted. "Twice, if you count the time when she knocked me down with her car. But such an introduction rather cuts through the social niceties, you know. Who will you include for your partner, Ilsa?" he asked, turning to his sister.

"Anton Mardenburg. I thought first of Ferdinand, but he hasn't the right legs for knee breeches and silk hose. As it is, I expect the men will have to hire costumes. Despina's won't be difficult. And as for Elinor and me—I imagine we can find something among Leni's costumes."

Everyone looked respectfully interested at this, and Sir Daniel said, "I hear that your stepmother is the famous Leni Mardenburg."

"Yes. Anton is a great-nephew of hers."

"I saw her several times on the stage. A wonderful artist," Sir Daniel stated sincerely.

"Thank you." Ilsa smiled at him. "I'll tell her what you said. She still loves to hear about the people who admired her. She is very old now, you know, though she doesn't like one to think so, and it isn't often that she sees anyone. But perhaps, if she has a good day while you are still here, you and Lady Connelton might like to come and see her."

Both the Conneltons received this suggestion warmly. And Lady Connelton said, "Well—so everything is more or less settled now about the fancy-dress ball?"

"Except that we haven't made sure yet that there is one, have we?" Kenneth said. "I take it this place von Eiberg speaks of doesn't have them nightly?"

"Oh, no. But I found out about that before we started the idea," Rudi explained. "There is a Carnival Dance—it's not as grand as a ball, Lady Connelton—next Tuesday."

"And this is Friday. Not too much time to prepare," Lady Connelton observed.

"It's enough," Ilsa declared easily. "But if you will spare Elinor, Lady Connelton, this afternoon, I think it might be a good idea if she came back with us now, and she and I will look through my stepmother's costumes."

Lady Connelton readily gave permission, the party broke up, and Elinor—full of a sense of delighted anticipation—accompanied the von Eibergs back to their stepmother's home.

That it was her home and not essentially theirs was obvious from their conversation, and Elinor felt more than ever curious about the legendary figure of whom Ilsa had spoken.

"If you say that your stepmother doesn't often

see people now, will she mind my coming?" Elinor enquired a little timidly.

"Oh, you won't see Leni," Ilsa assured her. "She keeps to her own room most of the time. We'll just go and look through the theatrical trunks that are stored in the attics, and if we find what we want, I'll ask her permission to borrow the things at a propitious moment."

"Is she so difficult, then?"

"Difficult—no. But, like all retired stage favourites, she throws a temperament from time to time. It's just a question of knowing when to speak and when to keep silent."

Thus reassured, Elinor was conducted through the gateway she had seen the previous evening, and across the courtyard to another, smaller entry.

This admitted them to a stone passage and wide stone staircase, with doors on either side which were obviously the front doors to separate apartments. Each of them had a glazed hole through which one could observe whoever was outside before admitting them.

"No lifts in these old places, of course," Ilsa explained, as they mounted to the second floor, where Rudi took out a key and opened one of the big oak doors.

He stood aside for Elinor to enter, and, as she afterwards wrote to the family, she stepped back fifty or sixty years.

You can't imagine the crowded magnificence and elegance of the place [she wrote]. I have never before seen such furniture and pictures and china and knick-knacks. She must have collected things all her life, and kept them because she liked them or felt some sentimental attachment for them. Some of the things are exquisite, and some are just trash, but they are all crowded together, as though in some overstocked museum where no one has ever had time to arrange things properly.

By the time she wrote describing all this Elinor

had sorted out her impressions a little, but the first impact was almost a physical shock. The other two were obviously so long used to it that they hardly even noticed its effect on her.

A silent, elderly maid appeared from somewhere. But, after a few words with Ilsa, she disappeared into the shadows again.

"You'd better come to my room," Ilsa said. "If we're going to try on things, we shall need mirrors. And, as a matter of fact, darling," she added, turning to her brother, "though I hate to tell you so, we shall not need you."

Grumbling a little, Rudi accepted the practical good sense of that. And presently, at Ilsa's suggestion that he should "look up Anton and let him know what we've arranged for him," he took himself off again out of the apartment, leaving the two girls to do their exploring on their own.

They left their hats and coats in Ilsa's room—which was slightly less oppressive, but almost as crowded as all the other rooms—and Ilsa led the way up an inner staircase to a couple of huge, dusty rooms with skylights in their sloping ceilings. Here, piled on top of each other, were trunks and boxes of every size and shape.

Ilsa seemed at home here, however, and selected one or two of the trunks unerringly. Into these she dived with such assurance that Elinor had the uncomfortable impression she must have rather often gone through her stepmother's things—though with or without the old lady's permission, it was impossible to say.

After ten minutes or so of examining and rejecting, she drew out a panniered dress of blue taffeta, elaborately looped with rosebuds over a white, stiffened petticoat.

"Here is the thing for you, dear! Fiordigli should wear blue. I'm not quite sure why—but she nearly always does." And she draped it authoritatively over Elinor's arm. "Take it down and try it on. If it fits and will do, I needn't look further for you. If not,

we shall have to find something we can alter more easily."

wait for you, shall I?" Elinor suggested rather anxiously.

But Ilsa dismissed that idea.

"No, you may as well start the trying on. You know the way down, don't you?"

Elinor said reluctantly that she did.

"Well, then, you don't need to wait for me. Come back if this won't do, and I'll try again. But meanwhile I'll look for something for myself."

Thus adjured, Elinor went out of the attic and carefully down the winding stairs, taking great pains not to brush the beautiful blue dress against anything as she passed. It was quite the loveliest thing she had ever seen, she thought! If it really did fit her, she would look—well, really, she could not imagine how unusual and enchanting she, or any other girl, would look in it.

She reached the rather gloomy magnificence of the hall and hesitated for a moment, trying to remember which of the several doors led to Ilsa's room. As she did so, a peremptory, but indescribably full and sweet voice called out something she did not understand from a nearby room.