Dark Angel (17 page)

The moment of drama is past, and from then onward the luncheon passes very pleasantly. Gwen employs a good cook, and the meal—by Edwardian standards—is light, in view of the feasting to come at the comet party that evening. On Gwen’s left, Eddie Shawcross is being most charming to an elderly deaf neighbor, last spinster member of a once-prominent Wiltshire family. He is discussing the work of George Bernard Shaw. (Eddie never lowers his metropolitan standards, even in the country.) The neighbor has never heard of Shaw, that much is obvious, but no matter—Eddie is being witty. On Gwen’s right, George Heyward-West, a dignified little man who has always seemed quite unaffected by the past scandals concerning his wife and the King, is explaining the intricacies of the stock market to Denton’s sister, the famously beautiful Maud, a spectacular girl, who married so high that Eddie claims she gives him vertigo. Maud (now, Gwen notes with satisfaction, becoming a little
too
plump) hitched her star to that of an Italian princeling. The Italian princeling is never much in evidence, and is not present now; Maud claims he is in Monte Carlo, gambling.

Maud has, in fact, considerable knowledge of the stock market herself, but she is woman enough not to betray this to George Heyward-West, who is patiently explaining the difference between bonds and equities. Money, as a subject of conversation over luncheon, is not strictly speaking
de rigueur,
but both are clearly enjoying themselves, so Gwen does not intervene.

Instead, pleasurably, she allows herself to dream. The room is warm, the wine has made Gwen feel gently soporific, and all her guests seem animated—she may indulge herself a little.

Fourteen at table now, all her sons present except Steenie, who is upstairs in the nursery wing with, thank goodness, Constance Albatross, firm instructions to Nanny that both children should remain there all afternoon. (Steenie is delicate and needs to rest; Constance will have to put up with the confinement. One of the things Gwen most dislikes about Constance is the way she is always creeping about, as if she were spying on her father, from whom, once found, she refuses to be parted. Like a limpet, that child.)

Fourteen at luncheon, forty at dinner. Gwen is pleased by her dinner menu: mock turtle soup, oyster patties, and—always a triumph this—a ragout of lobster. Then the plainer fare, which will ensure Denton’s good temper: roast goslings, roast saddle of mutton, a boiled capon. Guinea fowl—did she remember to ask for guinea fowl, which Eddie so likes? Yes, she did. And then the puddings, of course, which always look so pretty: little champagne jellies in crystal glasses, and maids-of-honor, cabinet puddings, and the tiny lemon water-ices served in baskets of mint leaves—Steenie loves those, and she must remember to have some sent up for him in the nursery. Finally, the dessert. Gwen, who has a sweet tooth, loves this part of a meal, when the cloth is drawn and her table sparkles with silver dishes: tidbits and sweetmeats, purple Carlsbad plums sticky with sugar, tiny pyramids of preserved cherries and frosted grapes, filberts, figs from the hothouses, pale glasses of ice-cold Sauternes—oh, it will be glorious.

They will eat inside; then she and her guests will assemble outside, on the terrace, and the comet will pass across the sky in a blaze of glory.

Gwen will don her furs at this point. Denton has not yet seen the new sealskin with the ermine collar, nor the bill for it (when he does, it will not please him, for Denton is tightfisted). However, by the time Gwen puts it on, she will be safe. Denton will be far too drunk to notice.

Then they will return to the house. A little music perhaps: Jane Conyngham, a gifted pianist, has promised to play for them; Gwen herself may sing one or two of the sentimental ballads she loves. And after that, no haste, let it all remain very easy, very degage (as Eddie would say), people may follow their own inclinations.

Denton will disappear, that is a certainty. He will go off with his cronies, smoke his cigars, and down plenty of port (despite the gout) and then he will heave himself up to bed, late, late—it does not matter how late; Gwen will not have to listen to his snoring. Yes, Denton will disappear drunk, as he always does; the snooping Constance will be safely asleep; her guests will divert one another, and then—at last—Gwen and Eddie will be free to be alone. Somewhere.

Gwen is in a reverie, but as her thoughts crystallize and focus on that sweet moment which still lies ahead, she is seized with an acute impatience. She wants Eddie; she needs Eddie; the desire for him is so intense that she feels hot, breathless, as if she might faint.

This morning at the Stone House, after the children had left them, Eddie took her hand and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. It closed on something soft; she drew out several lengths of black silk ribbon. She looked at these ribbons in silence, a familiar lassitude building in her body. She did not need to question him about these ribbons; already her mind raced ahead—to the King’s bedroom, perhaps, or to the clearing in the woods where she and Eddie sometimes met. The places danced in her mind; so did those ribbons, and the use Eddie might make of them.

Gwen looks at Shawcross now. He does not appear to be thinking of her as she is thinking of him. On the contrary, his manner is urbane, amused, detached. He is talking across the table to his friend Jarvis about some painter. Jarvis, as far as Gwen can understand it, is a middleman. He hopes Denton may commission some pictures from a painter of his acquaintance; the painter is good, Jarvis says, with the only subjects Denton considers fit ones for art—to wit, horses, dogs, stags, and foxes.

Now Eddie is discussing some art gallery of which Gwen has never heard. The black ribbons may be in his pocket even now as he speaks with such assurance, dark-gray eyes glinting, reddish beard shining with pomade, his small ladylike white hands gesturing, gesturing…. “My dear fellow,” he says, “please. I’m not interested in your daubers. Words. Sentences. The sting of the novelist’s perceptions—
that’s
the thing. All art aspires to the condition of literature—not music, and certainly not your humdrum painting and sculpture. Why, if I had my way, we should all live like monks: books aplenty, and
bare walls….
”

Shawcross, as he pronounces the words
bare walls,
casts an insolent glance at the walls of the Cavendish dining room. They are crammed with large Victorian oils: two stags
montant
; one hare being torn in two by greyhounds, and several murky sea battles purchased by Denton’s father.

Gwen, forgetting silk ribbons in an instant, snaps back to attention, ceases to be Eddie’s mistress and remembers she is hostess. Her eyes scan the guests anxiously. What has happened?
Something
has happened. Denton looks purple and thunderous once more. Acland is watching him, detached as always. Freddie is trying not to laugh, Boy is scarlet with embarrassment, Jane Conyngham is staring studiously at her plate, and Mrs. Heyward-West, the most equable of women, is frowning in annoyance.

Could it have been Eddie’s last remark? But no—whatever was said or done, it occurred earlier. Gwen, flustered, hesitates, and to her horror, her husband leans across the table—silver tinkles against glass—lifts again that waggling accusatory finger, and points it straight in the direction of a now-silent Shawcross.

“You, sir,” Denton roars. “Yes, you, sir. You would do well to mind your manners. You will remember, if you please, your position here. You will remember you are a guest in my house.
My
house, sir …” And—more horror; really, this time Denton has gone too far—Denton rises. No waiting for the ladies to withdraw, not the slightest pretense of civility; Denton rises, turns his back, and stumps out of the room. The door slams. Gwen is so vexed she feels she could weep, or faint. This behavior cannot be excused or passed off. Suddenly she sees the evening ahead of her, her beautiful party, quite ruined.

It is Acland who saves her. He looks along the table at the embarrassed faces; as Eddie Shawcross starts to apologize, Acland cuts him off with a contemptuous glance.

“Don’t worry, Shawcross. It was nothing you said. The loss of his pheasants always makes my father quite savage. I imagine he has gone to strangle some poachers. Probably with his bare hands. Mama?”

There is a nervous rustle of laughter. Acland turns to her, and Gwen seizes her opportunity. She rises; the other women rise. Gwen manages their exit with some dignity.

And later—half an hour later, when they are outside again on the terrace and the guests are making their various plans for the afternoon—Gwen feels consoled. The situation has been retrieved. Most of these people are family friends; they understand Denton’s moods and eccentricities. Indeed, now he has disappeared, the mood lightens; nervousness transmutes into gaiety.

“My dear, my brother Denton is a beast. I shall tell him so later,” Maud says kindly.

“Dear Gwen, you must not worry,” says the elderly, deaf Wiltshire neighbor as she takes up her crocheting. She herself spent sixty years deferring to a tyrannical father; now she pats Gwen’s. hand. “Men will have these little moods. We women become used to them….”

The Heyward-Wests decide to stroll down to the lake; Maud announces her intention of retiring to write letters to Monte Carlo; Boy agrees to play tennis with Jarvis, Acland, and Jane. Freddie drifts away; the other guests drift away. Soon, Gwen and Eddie Shawcross are alone on the terrace with the elderly neighbor, who nods off to sleep over her crocheting.

Gwen raises her parasol and feels her fears and embarrassment fade. She looks out across the gardens, feels the soft breeze against her skin. It is three o’clock. (We must remember the time; it is important.) Eddie rests his hand on her arm, removes it, and allows the back of his fingers to brush against her breast.

Gwen looks up at him. The silence is now loud. Their eyes meet, and Gwen sees in Eddie’s face a fixity that can mean only one thing.

“What time do your other houseguests arrive?” he asks.

“Not before five …”

“And tea?”

“At four-thirty. For those who want it. But I must be there.” Gwen’s voice is faint. Eddie consults his pocket watch with a maddening slowness. He puts his hand into his pocket (the pocket) and removes it again.

“What a temper your husband has,” he remarks levelly, and Gwen understands at once: The husband’s rudeness adds piquancy to the lover’s plans.

“You must tell me more about Denton’s rages,” Eddie says, and rises and offers his hostess his arm. They turn back to the house at a leisured pace. By the French windows they pause.

“My room, I think,” Eddie says, his eyes scanning the garden.

“Now? Eddie …” Gwen hesitates, furls her parasol, steps into the shadows of the house.

“My dear Gwen”—Eddie turns away—“do you intend to waste one and a half hours?”

“Galoshes!”

Boy stops in his tracks, just outside the house, and looks down at Jane’s feet with a mournful expression.

“I really think … the grass is so damp, and if we are to go down through the garden … yes, galoshes would be the thing.”

“I don’t need galoshes, Boy,” Jane replies with some asperity, for Boy’s irrepressible gallantry irritates her.

Beside them, Acland surveys them lazily, his face expressionless. He swings his tennis racquet, looks up at the sky, looks away.

“It rained last night. The grass still hasn’t dried out. You could take a chill. It’s a long way to the court. Really—galoshes! I insist on it!”

Boy’s voice has taken on that stubborn note it always does when his protectiveness is challenged. Jane can hear that faint hesitation before certain consonants, a residue of the bad stammer Boy had as a child. It returns whenever he is nervous—in conversation with his father, for instance, or on those occasions (frequent) when Acland teases him. It returns when he is with Jane because he is ill at ease with her. There is that general understanding, thick in the air as a conspiracy, that sooner or later Boy will propose; it is what his father wishes. Jane knows this, and also knows that Boy does not wish to propose, for he does not love her. For that reason Boy is solicitous to a fault. Poor Boy: he does not find it easy to be a hypocrite. Jane, pitying yet still irritated, gives a sigh.

“I didn’t
bring
my galoshes, Boy. Please, don’t fuss.”

She stops, aware that Acland, turning back, is inspecting her. His gaze travels from head to foot: the crisp tennis blouse with its sailor collar; the wide black belt with its silver clasp; the long, pleated white skirt, which reaches to her ankles; the trim shoes, which the maid Jenna has whitened and powdered.

This outfit is new; Jane ordered it, with a light heart, for this visit, just as she ordered the green silk dress she will wear this evening. Hours looking at pattern books, hours posing in front of a mirror while her aunt’s dressmaker knelt, pins in mouth, and tucked and adjusted.

Of the green dress Jane is still a little uncertain: not the color she would have chosen. But her aunt, who brought her up and whom she dearly loves, had bought the material, bringing it back in triumph from an expedition to London. So proud, so pleased, so anxious, that Jane had not had the heart to demur.

“Bourne and Hollingsworth,” her aunt said fondly, stroking the silk. “A most obliging girl there, and she assured me it was the latest thing. A very special dress for a very special evening.”

A little pause then; a meaningful glance exchanged with the elderly dressmaker, and there the word lay among the three of them, unspoken but understood: a proposal. At last.

“My agate necklace, dearest Jane,” her aunt had said, bringing forth a polished leather box just as Jane was leaving. “My agate necklace—an engagement present from William when I was eighteen. Dearest Jane, it will look lovely with your dress.”

Her aunt had been widowed fifteen years; her uncle was, for Jane, no more than a whiskery memory, but Jane was touched. She kissed her aunt; she will wear the necklace, as promised, this evening. Not for Boy, as her aunt expects, but for the benefit of someone else, someone who is looking at her and at her crisp new tennis clothes, and smiling.