The Brading Collection (4 page)

They went down to dinner in a party, and sat at a table in the window. It was the best table, and it had the best view. You could see out over the lawn to the gap in the trees which framed a breadth of hyacinth sea, and you could look all down the long room and watch everyone who came and went, or sat talking at the other tables. Nobody was in evening dress, just light summer things.

Theodosia Dale came in and joined them. She had taken off the black felt hat, but was still wearing the iron-grey tweeds which matched her hair. Nobody could say it was becoming, but somehow it was so much part of her that it was difficult to imagine her in anything else. That she had once danced in this room in a frock of rose-coloured tulle was one of those incredible things that the mind rejects, but it was in the memory of a good many of the people present that they had expected her to be the mistress of Warne House and Lewis Brading’s wife. He had given a ball for her here, and had had a famous ruby set for her engagement ring. It was all a very long time ago.

She came up the room, giving a nod here and there, slid into a chair, waved away the soup and, scanning the menu, said she didn’t care what she had as long as it was something cold.

“Lobster mayonnaise,” said Myra to the waiter. “Yes, everyone—except Miss Constantine. I can’t think where she gets her weak stomach from. Thank God, I’ve always enjoyed my food. Didn’t get enough of it when I was a kid. There’s nothing like not enough crusts to go round in a cellar to give you a relish for lobster.”

Lady Minstrell said, “Mama, darling!” and Lewis Brading came into the room and walked to a small table against the wall. Myra waved. He looked over at them, bowed formally, and sat down.

Theodosia Dale had taken no notice at all. She was disentangling her lobster from its shell. If he had come up to the table, she would have said, “Hullo, Lewis!” and gone on with what she was doing. When you live in a village, you have to get over feeling awkward about meeting someone whom you once thought you were going to marry.

Stacy didn’t know whether she had been recognized or not. He was cool and bored, but then he always was cool and bored except when he was talking about the Collection. He looked as he had probably looked for the last twenty-five years or so, thin, upright, and rather distinguished. There wasn’t any likeness to Charles, but there was something that made Stacy deny it every time she looked at him. All the Forrests were dark like that, and his mother had been a Forrest. But the Forrest charm had certainly passed him by. He looked as if he had swallowed a cold poker, and pokers do not charm. His glance had passed over her as if she were not there. Well, what did she expect—that he would rush up to her and say, “Why, Stacy—how marvellous!”? She couldn’t help a quick unwilling laugh.

Myra Constantine looked up from the salad which she had deluged with mayonnaise and gave her deep throaty chuckle.

“Makes you laugh, don’t he? Think of the women all over the world that’d give their eyes to have the diamonds and things he’s got locked up next door—and he can’t wear one of ’em!”

“Mama darling!” said Lady Minstrell.

Hester Constantine only spoke twice. She ate in a picking sort of way. She left a good deal on her plate, and once she asked for salt, and once for vinegar.

Theodosia Dale talked a great deal. She had a complete catalogue of births, engagements, marriages, and deaths, with such additional items as who wasn’t getting on with whom, why, what they had said and done, and what their friends thought about it.

Right in the middle a party of four came in by the door in the left-hand wall and made for the empty table on their right. There were two women and two men. One of the women and one of the men were strangers to Stacy. She saw red hair, a black dress, a string of pearls—broad shoulders, an expanse of ruddy sunburn, bright blue eyes, and a good-natured air. And then Lilias Grey, with her flaxen hair piled high, her fragile, delicate look, and behind her the tall dark ugliness of Charles. Lilias was in white. She was much better looking than she had been three years ago—better made up, better dressed, better groomed. Nobody would have guessed that she was three years older than Charles. Her whiteness, her fairness, and the scarlet thread of her lips were a swimming blur on the air in front of Stacy’s eyes. When it cleared she saw Charles. He looked just the same. It was unbearable that he should look just the same.

He said, “Hullo, Lewis!” as he passed the table where Lewis Bra ding sat alone. And then Myra Constantine was waving, and he came right on into the window.

Myra’s voice could be heard all over the room.

“Now if this isn’t nice! But what are you doing here? Don’t they make you work in the army any more?”

He said, “We get a spot of leave sometimes when there isn’t a war on.” Then he looked past her and said in a pleasant, ordinary tone, “Hullo, Stacy!”

Just for a moment it was like being in a trap with the steel teeth cracking down. And then she was too angry to feel anything else, because Myra Constantine had set the trap, and she had walked into it, like the rabbit she had called herself this afternoon. Well, if they thought she was going to let them see she minded they could think again. She looked at Charles, and she said in quite a good kind of casual voice,

“Hullo, Charles, how are you?” and that was all.

He said, “Going strong,” and then he had turned away and was sitting down by Lilias Grey.

“Well, if that wasn’t a surprise!” said Myra Constantine. She looked across at Theodosia Dale. “Did you know he was here, Dossie?”

Miss Dale nodded briskly.

“Came two days ago. He’s on leave.”

Myra called across to the other table.

“Where are you staying, Charles?”

“Up at Saltings. I keep a flat there.”

Myra said, “Of course. Must have somewhere to put one’s things.” She came back to the conversational range of her own party. “They’ve made a very nice job of those Saltings flats—two rooms—three—four—and a kitchenette. You pay your money and you take your choice. Miss Grey’s got a three-roomer.” She raised her voice again. “What’s your flat, Charles—two rooms or three?”

The smile which made his ugliness more attractive than other men’s good looks jerked at Stacy’s heartstrings. It always had, and she supposed it always would. It had nothing to do with love, or respect, or even liking—just a physical reflex. Just Charles.

He called back,

“Two. But quite palatial. Kitchen and bath thrown in.”

Lady Minstrell said,

“Darling Mama!”

There was dancing later on in the room which used to be the library. The books were still there, big handsomely bound sets like Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and the Encyclopaedia Britannica, with the Victorian novelists in their serried rows—Scott, Trollope, Charles Reade, Dickens, Thackeray, and the rest. There was no dust on them—Warne House was much too well run for that—but it was probably close on fifty years since anyone had taken one of the volumes down to read.

Stacy, with every intention of slipping away upstairs, found herself supporting Myra Constantine on one side whilst Lady Minstrell held her up on the other. It was Hester Constantine who had managed to slip away. Myra weighed fifteen stone if she weighed an ounce. She was not exactly lame, but as she put it herself, a bit apt to go over at the knees. She had to be walked slowly up and down the terrace for a constitutional, after which she signified her intention of going in to watch the dancing.

On two sides of the room there were windows, set back among the shelves, deeply embayed and furnished with comfortable seats. They had hardly reached the particular bay selected by Mrs. Constantine, when she hailed a man who was coming towards them.

“Moberly—you’re the person I wanted to see! Where are you off to?”

He was a thin man who stooped a little, dark and rather hollow about the cheeks. The features were good, but the lines about the eyes and mouth were too deeply drawn for his age, which might have been thirty or thirty-five, or perhaps five years more. A man should not be so lined at forty. When he spoke there was something in his voice which suggested that he might have had to learn his pleasant way of speech.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Constantine?”

“I’m breaking Miss Mainwaring’s arm. You can come and let me down with a thud. Some day I’m going to break one of these settees. There—that’s better. Milly’s used to it, but Miss Mainwaring isn’t, and that’s a fact.”

Mr. Moberly performed his part with skill. It was, perhaps, not a first appearance. As he straightened up, Myra caught him by the sleeve.

“Are you dancing?”

“Forrest asked me to join his party, but there was something I had to finish for Mr. Brading, and I see they have a fourth.”

“Arrived at the last moment—friend of Charles’s, name of Constable. They had the table next to ours—that’s how I know. No need for you to huff—he wasn’t expected till tomorrow.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Constantine—”

She laughed good-humouredly.

“No need for that either. And if you want a partner, here’s Miss Mainwaring.”

Stacy said sweetly, “I’m afraid I’m not dancing.”

She might just as well have held her tongue. Myra said,

“Of course you are! You don’t want to sit and talk to a fat old woman all the evening. Milly and me’ll do fine as a pair of wall-flowers.”

“Mama darling—”

Myra went on without taking any notice.

“You shan’t say you’ve not been properly introduced. This is Mr. James Moberly who is Lewis Brading’s secretary. He knows all about diamonds, and emeralds, and rubies, and sapphires, and pearls. Makes your mouth water, don’t it? There—go along and dance!”

“If I may have the pleasure—” said James Moberly.

He could hardly have done less, and short of making a scene Stacy had very little choice. She was divided between sheer rage and a desire to laugh as they took the floor. In the hope of finding that her sentiments were reciprocated she looked up and met a polite and anxious eye.

“You are staying with Mrs. Constantine, Miss Mainwaring?”

“I’ve come down to paint her. I do miniatures.”

“That must be very interesting.”

Mr. Moberly was a fair dancer, you couldn’t put it higher than that. Effortless floating on air would not be achieved in his company. Charles and Lilias, who were dancing together, were definitely floating. “And I dance better than Lilias—a whole lot better,” said Stacy to Stacy in a horrid cattish way. Aloud she enquired after the Collection, and learned that some interesting items had been added to it.

They passed Charles and Lilias for the second time. They were laughing at something Charles had just said. They floated away together, warm and gay.

Stacy felt frozen with boredom. What did she care whether Lewis Brading had discovered the missing links which had been wrenched from the Albany necklace when it was stolen in ’68? James Moberly told her all about it in an earnest voice, and when he was being earnest his dancing wasn’t even fair.

“There they were amongst the odds and ends in a country jeweller’s shop, with a label, ‘Everything on this tray one and six.’ There was just a small bow and a couple of links. The necklace, you know, has a pattern of true lover’s knots. It was the shape of the bow that caught my attention. I went in and asked if I could have a look at the tray. There was an elderly woman behind the counter, and of course I saw at once that she didn’t know anything at all. The shop was her father’s, and he had just died. The stuff in the tray was rubbish he had picked up at the last sale he went to—just a lot of junk thrown in with a clock he wanted. She said there was always a good sale for clocks. Well, of course I bought the bow, and when I got back and showed it to Mr. Brading, I don’t know when I’ve seen him so excited. ‘The Albany necklace!’ he said at once. And when I got it out, there it was—the missing bit without a shadow of doubt.” He lost step, trod upon Stacy’s foot, and said, “I’m sure I beg your pardon!” After which he went on talking about the Collection.

The longest dance comes to an end. Unfortunately, the ice now being broken, Mr. Moberly had no wish to part with his audience. It was just as Stacy was beginning to feel that she could bear no more that Charles Forrest came over to them.

“Hullo, Moberly!” he said. “So you’ve got here. I see Stacy’s been taking pity on you. Now we can shuffle round a bit. You go and take Lilias for the next dance. Jack Constable seems to have got off with Maida.” He turned to Stacy. “That’s the red-headed girl. Name of Maida Robinson. She’s a newcomer up at Saltings. She’s got the flat next to Lilias. Some sort of a widow, but whether grass or real, I haven’t gathered. You’d better have a shot at cutting Jack Constable out, James.”

James Moberly crossed the floor in a patient manner. Charles looked after him for a moment, murmured, ‘ “On with the dance, let joy be unconfined,’ ” and then turned back.

“Going to dance with me, Stacy?”

That the party had been shuffled to this end was obvious. She felt an agreeable glow as she said,

“I don’t think so.”

His eyebrows went up.

“Too lame? I saw him hack you. Come along! Think how amusing it will be for everyone! Spread a little happiness as you go by! I don’t suppose our steps go any worse together than they always did.”

As the record started, his hand was at her waist. They slid into the rhythm. Now it was she and Charles who were floating together as they used to do. She heard him take a long, soft breath.

“Two minds with but a single thought. You’ve still got all the others beat.”

She looked up gravely.

“You say that to everyone you dance with, don’t you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He said,

“With variations. Only in your case it happens to be true.”

“That being one of the variations, I suppose.”

He shook his head.

“Oh, no, darling—that’s the original air. All the rest are just me making myself agreeable. One’s first social duty. I’m considered to do it quite well.”

She said, “Oh, yes,” still with that grave look.

They floated the length of the room before he said,

“What are you doing here?”

Her colour rose. Infuriating, because there was nothing in the world to make it rise. She explained in a voice which she hoped was merely bored,

“I’m doing a miniature of Mrs. Constantine. And of course I thought she was at Burdon. I was actually getting out of the train at Ledlington, when Lady Minstrell got in and said her mother had suddenly taken the idea of coming down to Warne.”

Charles nodded.

“She comes here a good deal. Actually, I believe, she holds most of the shares in the club. It’s quite a good show—much better than Burdon, which can’t be run on a present-day staff. You’re well out of it.”

“I wouldn’t have come if I’d known, and I didn’t mean to stay, but I couldn’t explain in the train because there were other people there. And then when I saw Mrs. Constantine I felt I’d give practically anything to paint her.”

“She being a first-class advertisement—or am I being earthy?”

She couldn’t help an answering glint of laughter. It didn’t get beyond her eyes, but of course he knew it would be there. She said in a reproving tone,

“You are rather. It’s a bit of incredible luck getting a subject like that.” Then, after the least possible pause, “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“You can look upon me as a bonus. Fortunate, aren’t you? Well, now that you are here, and I am here, I think we’d better have a business talk.”

“We haven’t any business to talk about.”

“You mayn’t have any, but I have. Let us make an assignation. What about tea in Ledlington tomorrow? There’s a café there where the sixteenth-century interior is plunged in almost total gloom and the buns are still quite good. If you take the bus from here at a quarter past two and get off at the next halt beyond Ledstow station, I will pick you up—unless, which of course would be much simpler but not so much like an assignation, you just let me call for you here in a perfectly ordinary way.”

She was startled into another change of colour.

“No—I won’t do that.”

His odd crooked eyebrow went up.

“Not a breath of scandal? All right, darling—your lightest wish and all the rest of it. The first halt beyond Ledstow.”

Stacy’s colour ebbed.

“I don’t think so. We have nothing to say to each other.”

“My sweet, we haven’t drawn breath. Personally I could go on without repeating myself for a month of Sundays. There will be no need for you to compete. Didn’t Solomon say that a silent woman was like an apple of gold in a frame of silver?”

“No, he didn’t!” said Stacy indignantly. “You made that one up!”

“Perhaps. But how profoundly true. And so beautifully easy. I will discourse, and you shall sit and eat buns.”

“No!”

“Well, I think you’d better. I really have got something to say. I’ll be at the first halt.”

The music stopped. Stacy felt robbed. They ought to have danced, not talked. There was no divorce between their steps. The smooth, gliding rhythm could have carried them away for those few minutes at least. But she wouldn’t dance with him again. She said abruptly,

“I’m going up now. I don’t want to dance any more.”

Charles kept his hand on her arm.

“Oh, but you must give Jack Constable a turn. He can’t just monopolize Maida. I want to have a look in myself. I always fall for red-heads, especially the green-eyed kind. Attractive, isn’t she? What I can’t make out is the immediate status of Robinson—whether disembodied, looming, or relegated to being a mere provider of alimony. Take Jack off her hands and give me a chance to find out. By the way, what are you calling yourself? Did I hear Myra say ‘Miss Mainwaring’?”

“I expect so.”

Charles said, “Damn silly!” He looked down at her left hand and found it bare. “So you’ve taken off your ring?”

“Three years ago.”

He had his hand on her arm, steering her across the emptying floor. As she said, “Three years ago,” they fetched up beside the red-headed Maida and Jack Constable. Still holding Stacy, Charles took him also by the arm.

“Here, Jack, I want you to meet Stacy Mainwaring. She dances like a dream. Have this one with me, Maida?”