Consider the Lily (26 page)

Oh, well, Flora tested her gracious smile in the mirror, and then her gently amused one which she found useful when listening to monologues from crashing bores. It needed only one man to acquire the taste.

At the Beauchamps’ dinner party Flora was a model debutante. Helped by sips of wine, she chatted, oh, how she chatted. Matty sat opposite her in a sequined dress and talked to her neighbour, a banker, eating very little. Rakish-looking in his white tie, Kit sat further down the table between two astonishingly beautiful women, every so often looking across and sending her a private signal which made her feel better. Matty pushed pieces of
noisettes d’agneau
under her fork and wondered if she was really feeling as odd as she thought she was.

‘Are you up to this?’ Kit whispered as he draped a velvet cloak around her shoulders when they left.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Not too tired?’ He seemed genuinely concerned.

Matty wrapped the velvet around her shoulders and touched him on the arm. ‘I’m fine.’

At Londonderry House, the party filed past recumbent stone nymphs and trod up the staircase. Diamonds were in evidence everywhere. They shafted arrows of white to blue light into gilded mirrors and glittered from the tiaras of gimlet-eyed dowagers. Lady Londonderry’s diamonds were famous. No matter that the Countess of Airlie’s offered a direct challenge, or that huge stones blazed from Lady Spencer’s parure, the Londonderry tiara with its matching earrings and outsize diamond brooch riveted her guests as their hostess greeted them.

‘Can I have first dance?’ Kit asked Flora as they waited outside, and Flora’s heart began its now familiar see-saw of dread and excitement.

On Kit’s other arm, Matty swallowed, then pressed her arm against her breast, which was very sore. Perhaps this time, she thought, not daring to go further than that.

The ballroom was already full and Kit handed Matty through the press towards the chairs grouped around tables at the end of the room. The noise was ferocious, so much so that the band was having trouble making itself heard. It did not matter: Lady Londonderry’s balls were famous as much for themselves as for their mixture of the great and the good – and the not-so-good.

Matty saw Daisy first. She faltered and recovered herself. Misled by the initial seconds when the encounter felt perfectly normal, Kit remained calm. That was before an unseen hand took a knife and peeled away his outer layer of skin. For a second, his fingers dug into his wife’s arm and then, with a muttered apology, he released her.

‘Hallo, Daisy,’ he said.

‘Marcus.’ Matty did not look at Daisy.

‘Hallo, Marcus.’ Flora held out a hand.

‘Wow,’ said Marcus and carried it to his lips. ‘Superb.’

Only Kit noticed that Daisy’s uncharacteristically red-tipped fingers were shaking.

‘Hallo, Kit,’ Daisy said, and did not smile.

Daisy’s eyes, which Kit remembered as so clear, seemed less readable but she had grown in beauty – or her beauty had taken on another dimension. Experience, or was it suffering? he wondered with a flash of guilt, had tightened the skin over her cheekbones, painted violet under her eyes and added depth to the wide mouth. She was wearing a strappy ballgown of pleated white silk, a spray of egret feathers tilted over one temple and bracelets on her upper arms. She had the ‘look’ all right, thought Flora staring at her.

Daisy’s fringe and scarlet fingernails were new to Kit, and those details threw him for they did not correspond to the image he had carried around. Good manners came to his rescue. ‘Why don’t you join us at our table for a couple of minutes?’ he said.

Marcus had shaved off his moustache and was the better for it. He flashed his sister a glance. ‘That’s good of you, old chap,’ he replied, carefully.

Hours later, but really only five minutes, Kit leant over and removed the dance card from Daisy’s fingers. ‘Mine,’ he said.

‘You should be dancing with your party,’ Daisy reminded him.

‘I’m changing the rules.’

She looked up from her champagne. ‘Your wife?’

Matty was being dutifully twirled around the floor by Andy Beauchamp and Nick Reed-Porter had claimed Flora. ‘She will understand,’ said Kit.

‘Of course Matty will understand,’ said Daisy, ‘but she might not like it.’

She allowed Kit to lead her onto the floor. With a sigh of relief, Kit slid his hand around Daisy’s back, searching for the point where her hip swelled and for the bump near her spine which he remembered so well. Daisy’s hair drifted across his cheek, and she settled into his arms as if she had never been away.

‘How are you?’ he asked, because he had to start somewhere.

‘Darling Kit,’ she said. ‘How do I look? Old? Ill? Miserable?’ She caught her lip at the last.

‘No. None of those things.’

‘How is it going? Shoring up the estate, I mean.’

‘How is Tim Coats? Did you get engaged? I never heard.’

She nodded in the direction of a noisy group under a gilt mirror. ‘He’s there. Watching. Yes, we are engaged.’

‘Why haven’t you married him?’

‘Answer my question first. How is the estate?’

She watched a variety of expressions chase across Kit’s face, and longed to take his head between her hands and kiss him.

‘Don’t let’s talk about it.’

Daisy laughed. ‘But that’s why we’ve risked social ruin to dance. Why you and I sacrificed each other. For Hinton Dysart. We should talk about the house. After all, you do care about it. Greatly.’

‘Daisy.’ The old questions resurrected. ‘I believed you when you said you had someone else. That’s why I said yes to Matty. That, and a hangover.’

‘Well, at least that’s honest.’ She sighed. ‘I can understand a hangover. Otherwise, I’m tempted to think badly of myself and of you when I consider how I had been passed over for a house.’

‘Shut up, darling Daisy. Please shut up.’

‘No, darling Kit. I won’t.’

Kit bent his head and lightly brushed her cheek with his lips. The music blared. He held her against him and foxtrotted her this way and that. Daisy’s breath quickened.

‘Hallo,’ said someone, Kit did not register whom.

‘Hallo.’

‘Hallo. Isn’t this fun?’

‘Darling, what a whiter-than-white nice dress.’

The touch of Kit’s lips made Daisy’s skin prickle. The fingers of their outstretched hands meshed.

‘Wait,’ she said at last, ‘I can’t bear these beastly gloves any longer.’ She struggled to remove them and Kit helped her. Daisy glanced up at the area set aside for dowagers. ‘I might lose my reputation, of course.’

Kit laughed, and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘Who cares? I want to feel your hands in mine.’

Daisy caught her breath. ‘Will it always be like this, Kit?’ she asked. ‘Doesn’t it ever stop?’

‘You are my Lily of Laguna, my Lily and my Rose,’ said the music.

‘Dance with me again,’ said Kit as the music changed its beat.

‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘Yes.’

At the Dysart table, Matty sat with her back to the dance floor and made wooden conversation to Nick Reed-Porter. A vase of freesias had been placed in the centre of the tablecloth and absent-mindedly Matty touched the petals with her fingertip.

‘You will be going to the Chelsea Flower Show, of course.’ Stolid, good-hearted Nick ploughed on with the uphill work.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Matty, feeling sick and shaky.

And Flora, waltzing with Marcus Chudleigh, forgot about Kit and Daisy. Marcus was strong and knew what he was doing. Light from the crystal chandeliers spilt into yellows, oranges and pale blues, while diamonds threw back white fire and the dancers circled. Tangled in the magic, Marcus’s strength, her own female-ness, Flora was aware that, after all, life held possibilities.

Marcus kissed her hand and Flora, intoxicated by the way his white tie sat under his jaw, by his sandy lashes and the faint odour of cigar, felt a stirring of sexual desire.

‘Oh, Marcus,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this lovely?’

Flora’s mood shattered when he handed her back to the table. One glance at Matty’s face was enough to bring her to earth. Another look clarified the situation on the dance floor where Kit and Daisy were dancing... well, as if no one else was there.

‘Ye gods,’ she said under her breath and everything was spoilt. She leaned forward and whispered in Matty’s ear, ‘Do you want me to do anything?’

Matty shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Kit should know better,’ Flora hissed.

Matty’s bird fingers dug into her arm. ‘Don’t say anything,’ she said. ‘Then I can bear it.’

Nick Reed-Porter seized his chance. ‘Excuse me, but I’m booked for this dance with Venetia Taylor.’ He scraped back the chair and waved at a blonde girl in blue taffeta.

Then Matty leant back in her chair. Her complexion was greenish-white. ‘Can you get me out of here, do you think?’ she begged Flora. ‘I need a minute or two.’

‘Of course.’ Flora’s eye fell on the freesias and with a flick of her finger she knocked over the vase. Water dripped onto Matty’s dress.

‘Excuse me,’ said Flora, and marshalled Matty through the guests. ‘We need a mop-up operation.’

In the ladies’ powder room, Matty sank down among the linen towels and clothes brushes, and dropped her head into her hands. Flora knelt down beside her and put her arms around the shaking figure.

‘Don’t, Matty,’ she said, deeply distressed. ‘Don’t.’

‘People are watching us,’ Daisy murmured into Kit’s ear.

‘Let them.’

‘What about Matty?’

Kit missed his step. ‘You’re right,’ he said, and led Daisy back to her table.

She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Kit, so nice to see you again.’

Somewhere under the new beauty, the red lips, nail varnish and sophisticated fringe, was the memory of a different Daisy who had climbed rock paths and danced in French
boîtes.
‘Goodbye,’ said Kit.

She understood what he was thinking and said abruptly, ‘Let’s not do this again.’

‘No.’ Kit braced himself. ‘When are you getting married? Just so I know.’

‘Do you mind about that?’ she asked.

It was a relief to feel angry, and Kit flushed. ‘Do you think I’m going to run up flags because the woman I love is marrying someone else?’

‘Well,’ Daisy replied, ‘you’re speaking to someone who understands perfectly.’

‘
Touché
.’ Kit gave his uneven smile, and Daisy thought her heart would break in two. ‘Daisy, if I were to say I’m sorry would it make any difference?’

‘No,’ she said, and it was her turn to be angry. ‘That’s far too simple.’

‘Darling Daisy. Darling, darling Daisy.’

‘Shush. We have to say goodbye
now.’

*

At two o’clock in the morning, the Dysart party agreed it was time to leave.

‘Please, Kit,’ Flora was still angry with her brother for his treatment of Matty, but she wanted to go on with Marcus to a nightclub, ‘Robbie isn’t here and this is the only time I will have a chance to be
really
wicked. Otherwise, there would be such a fuss.’

Kit looked at Marcus. They made a silent bargain: Kit would leave Daisy alone, and Marcus was on his honour not to get up to mischief with Flora. ‘Where are you planning to go?’ he asked.

‘I thought we’d look in at the Embassy and then on to the 400.’

‘Such fun,’ said Flora, eyes gleaming. ‘Think of all that gloom and vice.’

‘Let her go, Kit,’ said Matty, holding a fold of her still damp dress in one hand. ‘She won’t come to any harm. Nick Reed-Porter and Venetia Taylor are going with them.’

‘Yes, of course you can go,’ said Kit, feeling at least seventy instead of twenty-seven.

‘Thank you, darling brother,’ said Flora and kissed him. Kit looked over her shoulder and watched Tim Coats put his arm around Daisy and say something into her ear.

The drive back to Bryanston Court was silent. Matty huddled in a corner as far away from Kit as possible.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Kit.

‘Yes.’

Kit felt for his cigarettes, discovered Daisy’s gloves and pushed them back into his pocket.

Matty wound down the window with a thump, caught a corner of her velvet cloak on the handle and ripped a piece at the hem. With a sob she jerked it back so savagely that the material ruffled up like a curtain. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that Kit was dumbfounded.

Despite himself, Kit’s mouth twitched because it was funny – the farce that accompanies the drama of painful encounters. ‘Did that make you feel better?’ he asked, feeling that he liked her the more for it.

She bit her lip and contemplated her cloak. ‘Much better, thank you.’

‘Matty, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t mind, really.’

Bryanston Court was warm and welcoming. The lights were on in the drawing room and Ivy had left out sandwiches, a Thermos of soup and the drinks tray. Surprisingly, Kit was ravenous.

‘My favourite soup,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Matty.’

Matty held her cup of soup between her fingers to warm them. ‘Good,’ she said and took a sip.

‘You have a talent for organization.’

She smiled. ‘Flora said that.’

‘She’s right. Have a sandwich.’

She shook her head. ‘I think I’ll go to bed, if you don’t mind.’

Kit swallowed a mouthful of soup, got to his feet and escorted his wife down the passage to her bedroom. At the door he stopped. ‘Goodnight,’ he said.

For a second time that evening, she touched his arm. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’

She kept him waiting just a fraction longer than necessary and unbuttoned her gloves. ‘There’s a chance,’ she said, and stopped, frightened that if she said it the chance would disappear.

‘Of what, Matty?’

Matty finished in a rush. ‘There’s a chance that I might be pregnant.’

May is a deceptive month and gardeners should treat it with respect. A cunning month, it endeavours, with longer evenings, stronger sun and newborn foliage, to persuade you it is summer. Sometimes this is true, sometimes not. If it is not the gardener, having given in to euphoria and rushed out geraniums, fuchsias, felicias and salvias, watches helplessly as a frost descends, sword whirling, to slaughter his darlings.