Spare Brides (16 page)

Arnie Oaksley had been very interesting company last night. He’d talked about breeding Labradors, and had told her about a piano concert he’d been to recently; he’d been impressed by the pianist, a talented young woman named Myra Hess. Admittedly no one could have described him as especially jovial. Sadly, there was no hint of flirtation; their differing sexes (and certainly as to how that difference might be of interest to one another) were not acknowledged. He treated her as a neutered tomcat might treat a pampered pedigree kitten, with polite diffidence but no sense of playfulness – that was perhaps a little too much to hope for – but he had been sincere, thoughtful and sensible, qualities Beatrice could be wildly excited about. He did not wallow – the decent ones tried not to; in fact his lack of sight was not mentioned except as a backdrop to his few not especially funny jokes and one awkward incident.

‘Dominoes rather than cards for me tonight. I lost a fortune yesterday, just couldn’t read the blighters. With dominoes I can at least feel the bumps,’ he said with a forced laugh. Beatrice thought perhaps he’d used the same line before. She agreed quickly and, rather than becoming bored or embarrassed by the lengthy pauses in between each of his turns, she admired the way he painstakingly ran his fingers over the dominoes. He played well, snapping the bricks into order, making only one mistake, which was matching a seven against a five. Beatrice refrained from saying anything, something she regretted when the game could not be completed.

‘Have I made a mistake?’ he asked. ‘There ought to be another seven. Are you holding on to it?’

‘No.’

‘Then I must have laid something incorrectly.’ He started to efficiently finger the bricks that snaked in a line in front of him, keen to find the error. Beatrice was stunned. He must have put some effort into developing extra capacity to remember such things; she hadn’t thought he’d notice. The corner of his mouth twitched with exasperation and Beatrice felt increasingly flustered.

‘Gosh, yes, there.’ She took his hand and placed it on the offending domino. She was too anxious to fully appreciate the fact that she was touching him for the first time. ‘I’ve obviously drunk more than I should. I hadn’t realised you’d mislaid. Just didn’t see it,’ she gabbled. Then she clasped her mouth shut, mortified at the choice of her words.

‘Don’t.’ He did not specify whether he meant ‘Don’t say anything else, as it is embarrassing us both’ or ‘Don’t cheat for me in the first place.’ She didn’t get the sense that he meant ‘Don’t worry that you’ve just inadvertently referred to sight.’ His irritation sliced the air like a blade.

‘How can you know what’s been laid with such accuracy?’ she mumbled, trying to re-establish some of the evening’s atmosphere of pleasure.

‘I picture them in my head. Don’t underestimate me.’

So that was the ‘don’t’ he was referring to.

Very soon after that, he said he was going to bed. Beatrice was left to deal with the shame of patronising a man she was trying to flirt with.

She was determined that she would not make the same mistake today. This morning at breakfast, Sarah had advised her to treat him as she treated any other man she might be interested in, but that was more easily said than done; she had so little experience with men that she was, naturally, nervous and clumsy. She had hoped that his blindness might be an advantage to her, an unspeakable thought but the truth all the same. He might get to know her before he judged her. She reasoned that it was not possible that he’d care what she looked like and, besides, he might need her as much as – if not more than – she needed him. However, his blindness could not be an advantage to her if she handled him incorrectly; if she hurt or offended him.

‘A gang are out playing in the snow; are you interested?’ she asked him, when she eventually tracked him down in the second drawing room. He was sitting stone still on the sofa. Even though it was only morning, the room felt stuffy, fetid. It was Arnie’s isolated immobility that made him appear an invalid, rather than the black bandage he wore across his ravaged eye sockets. She wanted to see him run in the snow.

‘Snowballs aren’t my thing,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Ready, aim, fire.’ He made his fingers into a gun and waved his hand around madly. Bea couldn’t work out whether he was trying to be funny or whether he was vexed with her.

‘No, I can’t imagine they are, but I think the plan is to build a snowman.’

Arnie paused. She assumed he was pondering whether he could get involved in that activity; she’d already considered as much and decided he could. ‘How does it look out there?’ he asked.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she sighed. ‘Clean and peaceful. It’s laid rather well. It is inches deep.’

‘Still falling?’

‘On and off, but no, not this exact moment.’ He looked hungry for more, and she feared her answers were lacking. They didn’t convey the splendid surprise that snow always was. She tried harder. ‘I always think snow is rather bold and yet egalitarian.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, it transforms everything into one. Stone, brick, path, grass, field, roof all become one thing: whiteness. It unapologetically transforms everything that’s ordinary and known into something delicious and pure. It’s a child’s world when it looks this way. Almost comic. Roofs and treetops become marshmallow mounds, everything serious is temporarily obliterated by soft, fluffy pillows; the churches and school halls, the gutters and banks – they all disappear briefly. I always think of snow as impish and implausible.’

‘What does it look like right now?’

‘For the first time today there’s a hint of blue sky, and it’s enough to allow a bright streak of winter sunshine to slither down from the heavens.’

‘Will it melt?’

‘Not yet, but there are scattered diamonds all over the fields; glinting and winking magically, mischievously.’ She turned to him and shot out an honest thought. ‘You must miss it.’

‘Yes, I do.’

Beatrice rushed to the window and opened it, allowing a cold but appealing blast of fresh air to ambush the over-hot drawing room. The laughter and squeals of the other young guests, playing at a distance, seized the room. He raised his head a fraction, like an animal sniffing the air. Bravely Beatrice advanced towards him and tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Come on, everyone is having so much fun.’

The building of the snowman was a success. Beatrice did wish she had a pretty sealskin cloche hat, just like Ava, but she didn’t care quite as much as she might have done before. Nor did she panic when the snow began to fall in damp eddies and flurries, causing her hair to frizz tightly around her head. For once it didn’t matter how she looked. Arnie called to her two or three times, as he and the other chaps gamely rolled the huge ball that was to make the snowman’s body. Everyone was tottering and groping their way through the snow; Arnie didn’t stand out. Bea helped the women roll the head and sought out the branches for its arms with a cheerful girl named Lucy, and whilst she had no idea where either Sarah or Lydia was – her usual social props – she felt very much a part of everything.

Afterwards, when the air started to turn chilly and stark, everyone dashed to the dining room, where they were served soup and venison pie. It was a casual lunch, but there was still a seating plan. Lady Pondson-Callow had decided the youngsters were bubbling to the point where they might just erupt, something her daughter was waiting for but she dreaded, and so she dispersed the younger guests across the tables, mixing their playful ways with more staid manners. Bea was disappointed to find herself sitting on a table with the Duchess of Feversham, the very woman who the night before she’d been so thrilled to talk about and could not have imagined talking to. Now, she just wanted to stay close by Arnie’s side. She endured the endless rise and plunge of soup spoons, the clink of silver on china, the discreet slurps and the polite enquiries after her health, but all the time she wondered who was he talking to and whether they’d help him find the salt on the lavishly decorated, rather too crowded, table.

Lady Pondson-Callow’s plan worked. After lunch the atmosphere altered considerably as the youngsters – having endured Edwardian manners and conversations, which always induced resentment and boredom – felt swiftly deflated and suddenly cross with the snow; it had been a jolly diversion this morning, but now the cold, soggy afternoon was swiftly losing its light and it simply seemed inconvenient. People wanted to go home and get on with their own business, but if they had to stay then they expected diversion. No one could ride or hunt or walk; it was agreed that summer was more fun. The more slothful retired to bed, vowing only to rise for dinner and music. Lady Pondson-Callow had insisted that the gramophone must not be brought into action nor the rugs rolled up until at least tea time; she was determined that standards were to be maintained, even in inclement weather. The more serious-minded settled into the afternoon with books borrowed from Ava’s father’s impressive library, and many of the men took themselves off into the billiards room, where they planned to drink and smoke the afternoon away.

Beatrice was pleased that Arnie didn’t take that option but instead chose to sit with the remaining women and one or two of the older men and listen to those who were able to play the piano. Bea was one of the first to be persuaded. She knew she was a good musician – she practised diligently and had a good ear – but she was also polite enough to realise that after three songs she should give up her chair and allow others to showcase their skills. She sat down next to Arnie without considering that she ought to appear less keen.

‘Bravo, you play well.’ His words sat on her shoulders like a rich theatre cape; luxuriant and transforming.

At four o’clock the snow started to fall again. It came down determined and dense, settling silently layer upon layer, crushing any hopes that the guests might be able to depart early the following morning.

‘I don’t think anyone is going anywhere for at least another twenty-four hours,’ commented Harry Fine.

‘You are all most welcome,’ stated Sir Peter, and the speed with which he was filling up sherry and port glasses underlined his sincerity. His wife looked more concerned; she wanted to question both the judgement and the propriety of pouring drinks all afternoon. But in the end, all she did was ring for tea.

‘I can’t think why anyone would want to leave,’ commented Arnie as he bit into a generously buttered crumpet. The tea and the implied compliment warmed Beatrice in her gut. A smudge of butter glistened on his moustache. She had an urge to dab it away with her napkin. With her lips. She was having the most romantic weekend of her life.

L
YDIA KNEW SHE
was behaving shockingly, with no discretion or consideration, but she was helpless. He was superb. It was frighteningly uncertain, yet unequivocally clear. They stayed out all morning and did not return to the house even for lunch. Lady Pondson-Callow’s carefully calligraphed name plates advertised their absence. They were both missed and instantly linked. Eyebrows shot up to hairlines, communicating everything.

The Duchess of Feversham, a notorious scandalmonger, always desperate to divert the spotlight from her own misdemeanours, was unable to resist drawing attention to Lydia’s non-appearance. ‘Won’t she be very hungry?’ she asked mischievously.

Mr Lytton sniggered. ‘Perhaps she’s getting her fill elsewhere.’ None of it was new; the crude guffaws and spiteful insinuations were commonplace. People had long since become bored of Lydia’s goodness; it reflected badly on them. The hint of a flirtation was naturally going to be greeted with extreme joy.

Lydia knew there would be talk, but she didn’t care. Let them talk.

They walked for miles. Through the forest of gnarled trees, colourless and spiky. Lydia’s fur coat became heavy with the weight of melted snowflakes. In the distant fields the animals searched for warmth; the sheep in one field huddled together, the horses in the other hugged the wall. First and most ferociously Lydia’s nose began to sting with the shock of the extreme cold, then her ears and lips stung too. Her feet became numb in the thick white carpet, but she didn’t care. She didn’t complain. She was afraid that if she hinted at any discomfort, she’d not only sound spoilt but he might insist they returned to the house, out of consideration. She couldn’t go back there. Outside, alone amongst the silent flurries, they existed. They were something. She believed they understood one another and were connected; although nothing overt had been said, she felt it. He
must
have thought of her over the last nine days. It was impossible to imagine that something as momentous could flow just one way. It would be as wild as suggesting a river could be turned around, dragged from the sea, pushed back through plains and forests, up mountainsides. It was unnatural. She couldn’t believe that of the world.

Yet she also felt that somehow they would not be able to hold on to their precious connection under other people’s gazes and comments. Whatever this was, it was too new, too rare to be exposed. It would be threatened. Perhaps ruined. They needed to be alone to solidify. They were so different from one another. He was slippery, a practised womaniser; a war hero to boot. She was no more reliable. Married and terrified.

‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked. His voice cut through the clear, cold day. They’d walked in silence for about a mile.

‘Us.’ She cursed herself for her indiscretion. It was a ridiculous, ill-considered answer. It showed her hand.

‘There’s an “us”, is there?’ He seemed amused. She didn’t nod but glanced at him and he held her gaze. ‘Are there children, Lid?’

This was more than a polite, conventional enquiry. He wanted to know where she stood, what he was dealing with. He was assessing the complications and the potential disruption and distractions; she understood as much. She shook her head and looked away. ‘No, no children. We’ve tried. We want them. I can’t have any.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, it’s sad.’

He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. Her skin blistered under his touch. The gesture was tender and yet rallying at the same time. She wondered how many soldiers he’d comforted with the same action.