A Hopeless Romantic (51 page)

A little farther down, the vast staircase curved gently and revealed the full mass of guests. There he was. In the corner of the room by the fireplace, talking quietly to someone, smiling and looking amused, as Cecilia Thorson, decked out in what looked like a peach chiffon tutu, complete with matching bag and shoes and—good God, thought Laura, is that a silk
parasol
?—stood attentively by his side. Laura looked at him, then at the view around her, the old sensation of her last night in Norfolk assailing her again. She thought of what Charles had been saying in the car that afternoon about Nick. All of this was his. This vast, airy hall, its great tapestry hanging along the north wall, the rest of the room lit with paintings and armor hanging on the walls. Out across the floodlit, smooth terrace, all the way to the folly at the top of the distant hill, and far beyond that. And these people in this room—most of them owed their living to him. To that one man.

As if she had called his name, Nick turned abruptly and looked up as she came down the stairs. He looked at her briefly, as if to say, “Are you okay?” and when Laura nodded, he raised his glass, still unsmiling, gave her one more look, a strange cold look, then turned away. Laura stood still, not knowing how to move. She could see Charles waiting by the stairs for her, so she made her way down, slowly, as he pushed through the crowd to greet her. He ran up the last few steps.

“Laura,” said Charles. He kissed her hand. “My dear girl. You look sensational.”

“Pff,” said Laura articulately.

“Oh,” said Charles. He came up so he was level with her, and they were both standing on the same step. “One more thing, Laura. I thought you’d want to know. I nearly forgot. There
is
someone else here you know.” He assumed an innocent expression. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Me? Who?” said Laura suspiciously, her eyes scanning the crowd.

“Your aunt. Annabel, is it?”

“What?” said Laura blankly.

“Annabel Sanderson. She’s your aunt, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Laura slowly. “Of course. Oh, God.”

Lady Rose’s cronies. Charles had said they were coming. Aunt Annabel was one of them, she knew it. They were on some committee together; she’d said so in the summer. Several times. Mary had known as much this evening, Laura knew it, but she hadn’t wanted to say anything. Oh, dear, oh, dear. This evening was presumably the zenith of Annabel’s social-climbing aspirations—being invited to a private dinner and dance at Chartley Hall. With the Marquis of Ranelagh—and her own niece, who Annabel was convinced was his One True Love….

Laura looked wildly around her. Aunt Annabel was in the crowd somewhere. She was there. It made complete sense—but why, Laura thought, clenching her fists and casting a baleful look heavenward. Why, Lord?

Charles adjusted his tie. “Anyway…”

“Good God.” Laura realized she had to say something. “She’s a—” She was about to say “dreadful social climber,” in unconscious echo of her grandmother. She smiled to herself. “Hell. She’s quite something. Have you met her?”

“Oh, yes,” said Charles politely. “She’s charming. Very pleased you’re here. Look—she’s waving at you.” He pointed into the crowd.

Laura didn’t look. “She knows I’m here?” she said in some alarm.

“I was introduced to her, and she saw me adding your name on the seating plan for the dinner. She was—very excited.” Charles coughed. “As well she might be. I told her you were my date for the evening, by the way. Just so she knows.”

“Thank you,” said Laura. She knew what he was getting at.

“Anyway. Come and say hello.”

He took her by the hand and led her through the heaving crowd to the center of the room; and there, a determined expression on her face, was Aunt Annabel, wearing what Laura immediately categorized as Posh Lady’s Formal Attire # 1—a black velvet cocktail dress, with a jaunty red silk bolero jacket. There was a lot of corseting going on; Laura could tell from the rather stiff way the usually rather stout Aunt Annabel was standing.

Lady Rose was a little way away, immaculately attired in a beautifully tailored raw silk suit, talking expressively to Lady Lavinia, who was decked out in a kind of long, flowing tepee of a dress. Next to her stood a nervous-looking youth. Sean, Laura remembered with clarity. Sean from the village. Laura was surprised to feel a strange stab of familial relief to see her aunt, waiting for her alone in a strange sea of faces, someone wholly familiar.

“Hello, Aunt Annabel,” she said, putting her hand on her aunt’s starchy silk arm. The whole situation was suddenly too much for her; Laura felt as if she were in a scene from one of her old romance novels, and was overcome with the urge to snort most unedifyingly with laughter. She wished she had a fan she could hide behind and say, “La! Sir, you are too kind!”

“Laura, well!” said Aunt Annabel, grasping her shoulders and looking at her appraisingly with a fond, almost girlish glint in her eyes. She kissed her. “What a lovely surprise to see you here. Charles was just explaining how kind it was of you to accompany him tonight.” There was a faint but audible tone of surprise in her voice; Laura knew it for what it was, a classic Aunt Annabel maneuver. Translation: “What’s going on? I thought you were with the marquis, dear? I hope I haven’t misrepresented the situation to all and sundry? Well. I say.”

“Well, dear, it’s lovely to see you,” Annabel went on. “We are
so lucky
, aren’t we?”

She gave the word “aren’t” about five syllables; Laura gave Charles a look, but he smiled back impassively.

“Lady
Rose
,” said Aunt Annabel, practically bowing her head at the name, “was
delighted
to hear you were coming tonight, Laura dear. I must take you over to say hello to her.”

“No,” said Laura, panic rising within her. “It’s really—it’s okay. I’ve met her.”

“Nonsense,” said Aunt Annabel. She waved over toward Lady Rose, who turned with a fixed smile on her face and saw Annabel and Laura together. Her smile grew cold; she touched her palm with the pads of her fingers in the most cursory wave, and turned back to her conversation.

“Oh,” said Annabel slowly. “She must be busy.” Laura almost felt sorry for her aunt, though not quite. Annabel smiled brightly at her. “Isn’t this lovely?”

It was strange, but Laura suddenly found herself thinking Annabel sounded almost like Laura’s own mother, who was constantly trying to smooth things over, make everything socially acceptable. Angela was often flustered, nervous about things. Laura had never seen her aunt behave the same way. It was funny how people were all the same in different contexts. Annabel looked brave, and shrugged her shoulders. Laura said, in an effort to be sociable, “So, Aunt Annabel—who else is here from your committee?”

“Oh,” said Aunt Annabel, looking around, “not that many people. She mentioned that we were all invited at the last committee meeting, a few weeks ago. We’re on the same pro-hunting lobby group, you know,” she said to Charles. “The Backboners, we’re called.”

“Ah,” said Charles. “Right.”

“You’re a total fraud! You don’t go hunting!” Laura wanted to yell at her. “The nearest you’ve ever got to tweed is the Austin Reed sample sale!” Instead, she nodded politely at her aunt, who said blithely, “Well, yes. But the invitation was all rather vague, Lady Rose is so busy. I had to really track her down, call her secretary a couple of times to be sure of the details. And most couldn’t make it. Such a shame. So wonderful, though. To be
here.
”

“Hm,” said Laura.

“Yes,” said Charles politely. “Well, wonderful that you could be with us, Mrs. Sanderson. Ah, here’s some more champagne. Would you like a new glass?”

“Thank you,” said Aunt Annabel, smiling at him with what Laura could only assume was an attempt at a coquettish flutter of the eyelashes, which she found most off-putting.

Charles handed Annabel another glass from the tray and, as the waiter had already vanished, put the old glass down on a sideboard.

“I do hope it’s all right to leave glasses on the side here!” said Aunt Annabel, regaining her composure. “Can you imagine the havoc a ring mark would cause! Wonderful. Oh, look. There’s the marquis.” She flicked a glance at Laura. Laura followed her stare across the room, and saw Nick watching them across the crowd. She stared back at him, not knowing what to say.

“Oh, Charles,” said Annabel, who had obviously performed a formal ceremony in her room of throwing caution to the winds and was now being as embarrassing as possible, “who’s that girl standing next to him?”

Laura watched as Lady Rose appeared beside Cecilia Thorson, took her elbow, and smiled charmingly at her. She said something to Cecilia, who laughed loudly. Nick said nothing. He carried on looking at Laura.

“That’s Cecilia Thorson,” said Charles. “Um. She’s a friend of Nick’s.”

“Right,” said Aunt Annabel. “Well.” She looked at Laura, obviously rather confused. Cecilia put her hand on Nick’s arm; Laura stared at them, and he stared back at her, his eyes eventually flicking to Annabel and Charles, too. Then he smiled across the room, just at her, and she didn’t know what to do.

Annabel saw this. She said nothing for a moment; then she looked at her niece. “So, Charles,” she persevered, “you know Laura, too, then?”

“Yes,” Charles said, intervening gracefully. “She knows us both. Very lucky we are.” He patted his stomach. “Ah, here’s a tray of delicious canapés. Mrs. Sanderson, may I tempt you?”

“Yes, please,” said Annabel, plucking a tiny vegetable roll off a tray. “So, can you tell me
what
that idiotic young man is doing with her, then, when he should be over here with my niece?”

“Oh, God,” said Laura, trying to hide behind her champagne glass.

“No, I can’t tell you that,” said Charles, trying not to smile. “Can’t tell you that at all.”

“Harrumph,” said Annabel almost grumpily, and Laura stole at glance at her aunt, trying not to want to…like her.

chapter forty-seven

A
part from the twin social demons of Annabel and Lady Rose Balmore, and apart from the constant jabbing pain in the side she got every time she saw Nick with Cecilia Thorson, Laura had to admit the Harvest Festival looked like a good party, if only she’d been able to throw herself into it. By eight o’clock the great hall was crammed with people, all sorts of people, mostly from the village and the estate; there were children running around, hiding under tables, playing catch in the entrance hall. Charles pointed out to Laura the London housing committee who were so impressed with Nick’s innovative scheme, four or five of them all huddled together in black, looking worried, nervous, and highly out of place. They clearly felt out of their depth. Laura wished they wouldn’t; even she could see, after a couple of glasses of champagne, that it just wasn’t that kind of party. It wasn’t, funnily enough, an Annabel/Rose party, rather stiff and formal and posh. It was nice. Relaxed. When someone stood on the table, a short, fat man with a florid face, and shouted that everyone should go through, she found herself smiling and laughing with people, total strangers, as she filed into the ballroom, where two hundred people were sitting down to dinner.

The atmosphere couldn’t have been more different from her last dinner at Chartley; even the ballroom looked different. Suspended high above them, two huge chandeliers sparkled gently, giving out a soft light. The crystals reflected the light from the hundreds of candles on the tables, in sconces on the walls. The huge polished wooden floor gleamed warmly; at one end of the vast room, a great fire leaped in the hearth. There were four long tables, each banked high with sparkling crystal glassware, some of which also caught the light and twinkled. The scent of lilies and roses filled the room; flowers were everywhere, on the table, on the windowsills. Laura stood in the doorway and looked up and down the room, giving a small gasp as she took it all in. It was beautiful.

To her pleasure, she was next to Charles on one side. He was opposite Lady Lavinia and Sean—and this seemed to flummox him somewhat. Especially since Sean seemed to be suffering from some kind of physical complaint throughout dinner; he kept jerking unexpectedly, and Lavinia would look up and around her demurely. Laura watched her. She didn’t know if Nick’s sister was really manipulative or just in a world of her own. On Laura’s other side was a nice man from the village, Freddie, who owned the butcher’s and had just started using only locally sourced and produced meat. He had supplied the sausages that evening. They were having bangers and mash, piles and piles of it.

The food was delicious; Laura realized she was absolutely starving. The sausages were incredible, properly meaty, seasoned, tasting of real, good things. The potatoes came from the estate, earthy, velvety, creamy. The tables were groaning with food; the waiters never stopped going round with wine. The noise in the ballroom grew and grew with the sound of people chatting, drinking, laughing—having a good time. Laura couldn’t see where Nick was, and after looking for a few minutes, she gave up. She turned to Freddie.

“Who drew the short straws and had to work tonight?” Laura said, indicating one of the waiters as he passed. “Bit unfair that they’re on and they have to wait on their colleagues.”

“No,” said Freddie, putting a huge dollop of mustard on his plate. “Waiters are all hired for the evening. No one at Chartley works the night of the Harvest Festival.”

“Really?” said Laura. “Blimey.”

“Oh, yes,” said Freddie. “His lordship’s most particular about it, you know. Won’t hear of it. He says, if you’re having a party for the estate, it’s a party for everyone. So everyone comes. But you know, that’s the marquis for you. He really is—”

Laura couldn’t really bear another long exposition from yet another person about why Nick was just the greatest person in the world ever, since landlords, lords, and even land were invented. So she said, because she was genuinely interested, apart from anything else, “Can you tell me something then? What’s the difference between a proper sausage and—you know, a horrible one, that looks like whipped pink cream?”