Daphne (8 page)

When the third course appeared after another hour, it was all too evident which dishes had been already prepared by the cook and which had been prepared by the fair Miss Daphne. The larded guinea fowl was slightly cold but quite delicious, as was the currant and raspberry pie which followed. But the omelette soufflé crouched at the bottom of the dish in a sullen mass and the macaroni was watery and half-cooked.

Daphne appeared, flushed with success, and got a warm round of applause.

The vicar, exalted by the admiring gleam he caught in Mr Garfield’s eye, and being more tipsy than he had been since the last hunt, decided to honour the company with a song.

Raising his glass, he began in a rousing baritone:

Daphne, who had sat down beside Mr Garfield, half rose, red with embarrassment, already lifting a hand to try to silence her father. But Mr Garfield gently covered her hand with his own, and with an amused smile indicated the rest of the company who were already raising their glasses and roaring out the chorus:

It was then the turn of Lady Brothers who sang a mournful ballad in a tipsy voice:

Lady Brothers subsided before a storm of
enthusiastic
applause and once more the wine bottles were circulated.

Colonel Cartwright promptly launched into a hunting song, much to the vicar’s delight:

Daphne gently pulled her hand away from under Mr Garfield’s. It was making her feel hot and very odd.

‘Is everyone drunk?’ whispered Daphne to Mr Garfield.

‘I do not know. I only know I am drunk by your beauty,’ he said.

‘I am disappointed in you, sir,’ said Daphne now torn between attraction for him and the old longing to push him away. ‘I thought you would have found something original to say.’

‘I make the effort from time to time when I think it will be appreciated. But why make the effort for you, Miss Daphne? By your taste,’ he said, pointing with his quizzing glass to where Mr Archer sat gloomily looking at his knee, ‘I would imagine you thrill to the sweet sound of the platitude, the cliché and the well-worn compliment.’

‘You are rude.’

‘Shh! Lady Godolphin is about to sing.’

Flushed in the face, swaying slightly and clutching a long pink chiffon scarf in her hands, Lady Godolphin was making weird sounds in her throat. Bellsire grumbled a warning under the table.

Lady Godolphin’s noises grew stranger and her face grew redder and finally she opened her mouth and roared out a ballad at such volume it must have been heard all over the West End.

This was hailed with wild and noisy applause. But when Lord Brothers burst out with the opening lines of:

Mr Garfield arose and said he was establishing a new fashion by retiring
with
the ladies. He held out his arm to Daphne and led her from the room.

Rather subdued and beginning to feel the terrible effects of all they had drunk, not to mention Daphne’s cooking, the guests trailed after them, each one beginning to say they had to go home.

Mr Garfield smiled down at Daphne. ‘There is to be a Grand Review of Volunteers in Hyde Park tomorrow, Miss Daphne. May I ask your father if I may escort you?’

Daphne opened her mouth to refuse, but he
suddenly smiled down into her eyes. Her knees trembled and she whispered very shyly, ‘Yes.’

She turned away from him in confusion and caught a glimpse of her reflection in a long mirror. Her breasts stood out sharply against the thin muslin of her gown. She crossed her arms over her bosom and shivered slightly. What on earth had possessed her to wear such a shocking gown?

Mr Garfield was talking to her father who looked delighted. Mrs Armitage was looking pleased as well. Daphne felt a stab of irritation. Why should her mother – who had done absolutely nothing towards the upbringing of her daughters – suddenly interest herself in one of them for the first time? And why does it have to be me? thought Daphne crossly.

She was actually ashamed of her mother, a fact she would not even admit to herself. Mrs Armitage had never been told it is quite unsuitable for a short, plump woman to droop. She assumed all the languid die-away airs of a tall goddess.

Mr Garfield walked towards the door, Bellsire and Thunderer close at his heels. He looked down at them ruefully and then dug his hand in his pocket and slipped some coins into the butler’s hand. Daphne could not see how much it was but Mice’s face lit up like a sunrise and he actually bent and patted Bellsire on the head.

Mr Archer drew Daphne aside. ‘Will you do me the honour of coming with me to Hyde Park tomorrow?’ he asked, looking at his reflection in the glass over Daphne’s shoulders.

‘I cannot,’ said Daphne impatiently. ‘I
tried
to tell you. Papa wants me to marry Mr Garfield. Mr Garfield asked me to accompany him and I fear I accepted.’

Now for the first time that evening had she Mr Archer’s full attention. ‘But you must refuse,’ he said simply.

‘I
cannot
. I feel obliged to him for rescuing the dogs.’

‘You did not even mention those wretched
animals
to me,’ said Mr Archer with rare asperity. ‘Had you done so, I would have done my utmost to find them for you.’

Daphne’s gaze, which up till then had been a trifle hard, softened as it rested on Mr Archer’s exquisite features. ‘I should have told you,’ she said. ‘Do not worry. I shall contrive to give this Mr Garfield such a disgust of me on the morrow that he will not want to see me again.’ She looked around quickly. Her father and mother were talking earnestly to Lady Godolphin. The other guests had left.

‘Do you really love me and want to marry me?’ whispered Daphne.

‘Very much,’ said Mr Archer, taking her hand in his and giving it a warm press.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ cried the vicar, blustering up. ‘Come along, Daphne. Goodbye Mr Archer. I have no doubt we shall
not
be seeing much of you in the future.’

Cyril Archer looked at the little vicar with hauteur. Daphne hurried to leave with her parents before her father could say any more.

Outside the house, Hanover Square felt soupy and suffocatingly hot.

‘We’ll soon be able to go home to the country,’ yawned the vicar sleepily when they were all settled in the carriage. ‘Thank goodness the harvest is in. I smell rain.’

‘How you can smell anything other than drains is a miracle,’ said Mrs Armitage. ‘I was proud of you tonight, Daphne. All my daughters married well. What a triumph.’

‘I am
not
going to marry Mr Garfield,’ said Daphne between clenched teeth.

But her parents had paid no attention to any of her remarks in the past and so they paid no attention now. Daphne had always been such a good, biddable sort of girl.

She would do what she was told.

FOUR

The next day dawned brassy and sultry. Daphne felt she would never feel fresh or clean again. Mrs Armitage had announced her intention of calling on Annabelle before Daphne left for the Review. The maid, Betty, was to accompany them.

Daphne felt depressed as Betty helped her into a sprigged muslin gown. The normally cheerful Betty was sour and sullen.

‘What is the matter, Betty?’ asked Daphne. ‘Have we done something to offend you? You should say so, you know, and not keep tugging my hair and wrenching at the tapes of my gown to show your disapproval.’

‘I have the headache and I don’t want for to go to Miss Annabelle’s, I mean Lady Brabington.’ And with that, Betty sat down, threw her apron over her head, and burst into tears.

‘Are you sure it is just the headache?’ asked Daphne anxiously.

‘Ye-es,’ sobbed the maid, crying harder than ever.

Daphne gently lowered the apron and dabbed at Betty’s streaming face with a handkerchief. ‘You did not marry your John,’ she said softly. ‘Is this what ails you?’

But Betty would only rock from side to side and cry harder.

‘Let me help you to your room,’ said Daphne, now really worried. Despite Betty’s protests, she
summoned
two of the housemaids. Still weeping, Betty was helped to her room and made to undress and go to bed. Tea was brought to her and Daphne sat beside the bed, holding Betty’s hand, occasionally smoothing the tumbled black curls from the maid’s hot brow, until worn out with crying, Betty fell asleep.

Mrs Armitage was fretting downstairs. Why had Daphne taken such an unconscionable time to get ready? Mr Garfield was to call for her at Annabelle’s. She, Mrs Armitage, had despatched a footman requesting him to do so.

In that way, they would have plenty of time for a comfortable cose with Annabelle.

Daphne wished all of a sudden that Deidre would return from Brighton. Deirdre was always bright and merry and so much in love with her handsome husband. And why hadn’t Annabelle gone to Brighton? It seemed silly to stay in London in all this suffocating heat when one did not have to.

Endless articles were written in the newspapers about the strangely hot summer. There had been just such a summer fifteen years before but everyone went on as if the end of the world was at hand.

When they arrived at Conduit Street it was to find the Marquess of Brabington’s travelling carriage drawn up outside the door and trunks being loaded onto the back.

‘Annabelle must be leaving for the country,’ exclaimed Mrs Armitage. ‘She has quite forgot to tell us.’

The Marquess of Brabington’s tall figure appeared on the steps. He swept off his hat as Daphne and Mrs Armitage descended from their carriage.

‘You will find my wife in the drawing room,’ he said. ‘I regret I cannot wait to speak to you. I am leaving for Brabington Court. The estates have been sadly neglected of late.’

‘Annabelle goes with you?’ asked Mrs Armitage, a trifle flustered by the stern look on the marquess’s face.

‘No, she is content to remain in town,’ he said coldly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me …’

He walked past them and climbed into the carriage.

Daphne remembered the days shortly after
Annabelle’s
wedding when the Marquess of Brabington had seemed the happiest man in London. She and Mrs Armitage watched in silence as the marquess’s carriage drove off and then they entered the tall dark house.

They could hear the lusty wailing of the baby coming from the drawing room.

Annabelle looked quite unlike her usual beautiful and frivolous self. Her blonde hair was lank and her face had grown thin. She was walking up and down, rocking the screaming child, while the nanny, Mrs Arbuckle, made ineffectual efforts to remove the baby from her.

Daphne thought uncomfortably that baby Charles was the sort of child only a mother could love. When his face was not red with crying, it was dark with rage. She could never remember having seen a small baby with such a low brow. He had a thatch of thick wiry black hair and large chubby fists with which he was engaged at that moment in punching his mother’s face.

‘Oh, there you are,’ sighed Annabelle, admitting defeat and passing the boy to Mrs Arbuckle who carried him swiftly from the room.

Perhaps it was because the baby had seemed to arrive with so little warning and because one had had so little time to get used to the idea of Annabelle being a mother that had made little Charles seem such a ferocious cuckoo in the Brabington nest.

Annabelle had retired to the country for six months before the arrival of the baby, which certainly all went to show she was determined to bring a healthy child into the world, for nothing else could have persuaded Annabelle to be away from fashionable London for so long. She had led a very quiet life, refusing even to see Minerva. She had
written regularly to all her sisters, only announcing two months before the birth that the baby was expected.

Daphne chided herself for having such nasty thoughts about this newest nephew and smiled at her sister.

‘Is not this weather frightful? I am like a wet rag,’ said Annabelle, plumping herself down inelegantly in a chair. ‘Do sit down Mother. Daphne, ring for the tea tray.’

Daphne tugged at the bellrope and Annabelle studied her sister’s beautiful face, modish gown, and artistically arranged hair.

‘’Faith,’ sighed Annabelle, ‘to think I was once the beauty of the family. You were always well enough, Daphne, but no one could have guessed you would blossom into a diamond of the first water.’

‘Mr Simon Garfield is to call here to take her to the Review in Hyde Park,’ said Mrs Armitage proudly.

Annabelle’s blue eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Mr Garfield. The
very
rich Corinthian Mr Garfield! Papa will be in alt. Except I have heard that Mr Garfield excels at all sports
except
fox-hunting.’

‘Annabelle,’ said Daphne anxiously. ‘Brabington was just leaving when we arrived. He is gone to the country.’

‘I know
that
, you silly goose.’

‘But … but I find it strange that you are not going with him.’

Annabelle gave a shrill laugh. ‘I was like you once,
Daphne, all wrapped around with the gold tissue of love’s young dream. Mr Garfield must have captured your heart.’

‘No, Annabelle. I am almost affianced to Mr Archer.’

‘Cyril Archer? Oh, Daphne, how boring! Now Mr Garfield looks a very exciting sort of man.’

‘I don’t
want
to be excited,’ said Daphne crossly.

‘Ah, we’ll see,’ grinned Annabelle, and then her grin faded to be replaced by a look of pain. ‘Make the very best of it,’ she shrugged. ‘Nothing lasts.’

Daphne looked at Mrs Armitage for help. Surely that lady could see Annabelle and her husband must have had the most terrible kind of row. But Mrs Armitage began to talk dreamily about Mr Garfield’s perfections until even Annabelle became irritated and asked her mother tartly whether she did not wish to marry Mr Garfield herself.

The arrival of the tea tray saved Mrs Armitage from replying.

Searching in her mind for a safe topic of
conversation
Daphne told Annabelle about Betty’s distress. ‘I am sure it is not the headache, you know,’ Daphne finished earnestly.

‘I am sure there is some trouble between Betty and John Summer. They were to be married but nothing came of it. Papa must be paying John a fair wage because his livery is very fine but …’

‘This heat,’ interrupted Annabelle acidly, ‘is quite bad enough without having to listen to gossip about servants.’

Daphne’s beautiful mouth folded into a stern line. ‘What has come over you, Bella?’ she said severely. ‘When did we refer to Betty and John Summer as
servants
in that tone of voice? Only mushrooms and counter-jumpers talk of their servants so.’

‘Oh, Miss Hoity-Toity with your newfound
London
airs,’ sneered Annabelle.

‘Girls! Girls!’ cried Mrs Armitage feebly. ‘You will bring on one of my Spasms. And Daphne, I have observed since last night that your face has started to
move
a great deal. You will bring on premature wrinkles.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Annabelle maliciously, ‘what has happened to our dim little sphinx-like Daphne? You are become positively human and your nose is quite shiny. Has Mr Garfield kissed the sleeping princess to life?’

‘You are sadly gone off in looks, Bella,’ said Daphne coldly, ‘which is no doubt why you are become such a jealous
cat
.’

‘Do not let us quarrel,’ sighed Annabelle, going suddenly limp. She pushed a fretful hand at the heavy mass of her hair. ‘I do not know what I am about these days. I say such terrible things to Peter, but I can’t help it. He cannot even bear to look at his own son! It … it’s
unnatural
.’

There was an awkward silence, and then
Annabelle
shrugged and started to gossip about clothes and notables. Daphne could not help glancing every now and then towards the clock. The air in the dark drawing room was oppressive.

Why had Annabelle not tried to redecorate? There must be thunder about. Daphne glanced again at the clock. She felt a suffocating feeling of anticipation in her bosom. If only Mr Garfield would arrive so that she might get it over with and return to the calm tenor of her ways. She did not want to see Mr Garfield although he had been most kind about the dogs. He was too upsetting. The hands of the clock which had seemed to crawl around the face suddenly leapt forward and the clock struck four.

As the last chime died away, there came a rap at the street door. Mrs Armitage leapt to the looking glass with quite amazing alacrity and began to arrange her straw hat at a more becoming angle. Daphne nervously straightened her gown, and
Annabelle
watched them both with wide, cynical eyes.

‘Mr Garfield.’

Annabelle’s hand flew to her hair. Daphne blushed and Mrs Armitage simpered.

‘Welcome, Mr Garfield,’ said Annabelle. ‘So you are come to take my little sister out. Do have a care. These country misses have not yet acquired our town bronze and become alarmed in crowds.’

‘I have never seen Miss Daphne other than very poised and very beautiful,’ said Mr Garfield.

‘You must see my darling son,’ cried Annabelle, jumping to her feet. As she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass over the fireplace a look of dismay crossed her features, and she hurriedly whipped herself out of the room.

‘I am sure the Review will be a splendid sight,’ sighed Mrs Armitage. ‘I had so hoped to see it but Mr Armitage
did
insist on going to his club and there is no gentleman to escort me.’

She cast a roguish look out of her faded eyes at Mr Garfield but Mr Garfield seemed vastly interested in the polished toes of his boots.

‘How go Bellsire and Thunderer?’ asked Daphne desperately.

She felt she had wandered into a strange dream where she sat in a darkened room talking to a man with yellow eyes while her normally beautiful sister behaved like a shrew and her normally indifferent mother began to show alarming symptoms of
rivalling
Lady Godolphin in the arts of middle-aged flirtation.

‘They consented to let me go,’ he smiled. ‘They really are hunting dogs, you know, Miss Daphne, and quite unsuitable for a gentleman’s residence. I am persuaded your father would be delighted to have them back again.’

‘Oh, I am sure he would,’ said Daphne eagerly. Then she strove to put her usual calm mask on but somehow she could not achieve it. Every part of her felt alive and tingling.

The door opened and a refurbished and beautiful Annabelle appeared wearing a saucy pink silk gown with many ribbons.

‘Alas!’ she cried. ‘Little Charles is sleeping like an angel and I dare not wake him.’

‘I shall no doubt have the pleasure of seeing your
son another time, Lady Brabington,’ said Mr
Garfield
. ‘And now if you are ready, Miss Daphne …?’

‘You are leaving so soon?’ said Annabelle, waving a pretty fan and flirting with her large blue eyes over the top of it. ‘It is so hot here, I
pine
for fresh air. I am sure the air of Hyde Park would be very beneficial.’

‘On the contrary, I fear it is about to rain,’ smiled Mr Garfield. ‘But Miss Daphne is still countrified enough to stand the rigours of inclement weather, so, in that, I am fortunate. Your husband will no doubt return soon …’

‘Lud! Brabington’s gone this day to the country.’

‘Then you should follow him,’ said Mr Garfield, picking up Daphne’s parasol and stole. ‘The air would do you and your child the world of good.’

He swept Daphne rather hurriedly from the room.

‘I have decided it would be best to walk,’ said Mr Garfield when they had left the house.

Daphne took his offered arm. She wondered whether to apologize for her mother and her sister’s odd behaviour. They had practically thrown
themselves
at Mr Garfield’s head!

The air was very still and humid beneath a sky which seemed to be darkening by the minute.

Mr Garfield’s broad shoulders pushed through the crowd and secured them a place at the front.