Take No Farewell - Retail (11 page)

‘Other than Mr Caswell’s family, just you and Major Turnbull, sir.’

My heart sank. The odious but perceptive Turnbull was somebody I had no wish to meet again.

‘Mrs Caswell is in the drawing-room at present, sir. I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you. Some tea, perhaps?’

‘Er … no thank you.’ Suddenly, my mind was alive with unfounded suspicions. Even the attentive Danby could seem guilty of sarcasm if his every word was analysed. ‘I think I’ll
go
up to my room first.’ I fanned myself with my hat. ‘Hot, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. Uncommonly.’

Consuela must have known I had arrived and must have thought it odd I did not immediately join her in the drawing-room, but she could hardly have guessed the reason. I needed time to gather my wits and prepare what I would say to her. I washed the grime of the journey from my face, unpacked and changed into blazer and flannels. In the mirror, as I struggled to arrange my cravat with suddenly disobedient fingers, I could see reflected a furtive cast to my features that I had never seen there before. Would Consuela see it as well? I could only pray she would not.

I left the orchard suite with a curious sense of remoteness, following my steps along the landing as if they were those of another man. To my left, internal windows gave me glimpses of the hall below, sunlight flooding across the polished wood and dragon-patterned rugs. Everything I had planned had come to pass in this house – solidity, comfort, novelty, the satisfying fall of golden light on well-pointed stonework – yet much more I had not planned meant I could take no pleasure from my success.

I descended the stairs – feeling the waxed smoothness of the banister rail beneath my palm, noting how my view of the hall expanded with each of the quarter-landings – then turned towards the drawing-room. The double doors were open. For coolness, I wondered, or for warning of approach?

She was sitting on a sofa near the windows that gave on to the ornamental garden. The windows were open, but no breath of air entered, only the low hum of a bee from a trailing loop of honeysuckle; only stillness and a dust-moted wedge of sunlight that seemed to stand like a barrier between us, blurring and confusing the image of her that reached me. Her dress was of cream and gold, elegant yet insubstantial. Her hair was drawn up and no string of pearls compromised
the
slender perfection of her neck, but the lozenge-shaped brooch was in its normal place; I saw it glint in the sun as she leaned forward and slipped the book she had been reading beneath a cushion.

‘Is all well, Geoffrey?’

‘Of course. What makes you ask?’

‘The way you stand there. So stern and silent.’

I hurried across the room and took her hand. Now would have been the moment. Now, before resolution could falter or delay compound the offence, I should have told her what I had decided. But her delicate fingers were trembling, her dark eyes were roving my face in search of reassurance. And she was so very, very beautiful. I sat down on the edge of the sofa and kissed her, knowing as I did so that once I had told her I would never again feel her full lips yielding against my own, never again enjoy all that was still mine for the asking.

‘
Querido Geoffrey
. This is the beginning of the end.’

‘What?’ I flushed, then saw in her open, trusting face that I had misunderstood.

‘We can escape now,’ she said with a smile. ‘There is nothing left to wait for.’

‘No. There isn’t.’

‘So, when shall we leave?’

‘As soon … Well …’

‘I have an idea how to manage it.’

‘You do?’

‘It must be when Victor is occupied, when he is unable to interfere, when he has no way of knowing where I am or what I am doing.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Next Tuesday there will be such an opportunity. Victor is—’ She broke off and drew away from me. ‘We will speak later.’ Then she nodded towards the door.

I had heard nothing, but, as I looked round, there was a laugh from the direction of the hall that sounded horribly familiar and, a second later, Victor entered alongside Major
Royston
Turnbull. The sight of them made me flinch: Victor in tweeds, his broad grin and bristling moustache composing a gash across his face; Turnbull in a loose-fitting linen suit, cigar distorting his mouth into a leer.

‘Staddon!’ Victor exclaimed. ‘You got here, then.’

I rose and shook his hand. ‘It was kind of you to invite me.’

‘Not at all, not at all.’

Turnbull inclined his head in greeting. ‘Pleasure to meet you again, Staddon.’

‘And you, Major.’

‘Already monopolizing the ravishing Consuela’s company, I see.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Pay Royston no heed,’ said Victor. ‘His style of humour’s not to everyone’s taste.’ He laughed, but nobody joined in. Victor seemed in an unusually good mood; perhaps the prospect of a party was bringing out the best in him, though I could not help doubting it. ‘You must take a look at the ornamental garden, Staddon. It’s a picture, isn’t it, Royston?’

‘Indeed. One might say that the external charms of Clouds Frome are almost the equal of those within it.’ Turnbull’s eyes met mine with a mirthless sparkle.

‘I didn’t think it could look so good in its first year,’ said Victor, ‘but Banyard’s excelled himself. Come and admire his handiwork, Staddon.’

‘Er … I’d be delighted to.’

‘Consuela will excuse us. Won’t you, my dear?’

‘Yes,’ came her voice, seemingly from a distance far beyond the bounds of the room. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m very pleased with the house, Staddon, really I am. It has everything you promised. Character. Elegance. Comfort. And something else. Panache, you might say. Yes, that’s it. If a house can have panache, then Clouds Frome has it in abundance. My neighbours admire it. My friends covet it. You’ve done a fine job, a damned fine job.’

We were walking the length of the pergola, glancing back at the ornamental garden and the house as we went. Victor was in a declamatory frame of mind, waving his boater at arm’s length as he spoke, smiling and patting my shoulder at intervals. On my other side walked Turnbull, thumbs wedged in waistcoat pockets, head back and breathing deeply, as if sampling what little fresh air could penetrate the haze of smoke from his cigar.

‘And my wife likes it. That’s probably your most remarkable achievement, Staddon. Consuela can be pretty damned cool about a lot of things, I don’t mind admitting. Found Hereford stuffy and boring after Rio, I dare say. But where Clouds Frome is concerned, it’s a different matter. Becomes quite, well, quite animated. Isn’t that right, Royston?’

‘Indeed it is.’

Was it the house that had stirred Consuela – or its architect? Was Victor paying me a compliment – or giving notice that he had my measure? I did not know and all I could do, as we strolled on, each affecting amiability, was nod dumbly and grin appreciatively.

‘I shall be happy here, Staddon, not a doubt of it.
We
shall be happy, if it comes to it – Consuela and I. Being mistress of Clouds Frome will bring her out of herself. You just see if it doesn’t. And don’t think you won’t have the chance to, because I hope you’ll always feel able to call and see us. As Clouds Frome’s creator, you’ll be assured of a permanent welcome.’

We reached the end of the pergola and slowly circled the statue of a wood-nymph set up on the flagstoned platform above the orchard. Still nothing could stem the flow of Victor’s words, or rid me of the conviction that Turnbull’s eyes, shaded by the brim of his panama, were trained upon me.

‘It should be a splendid evening. Should be damned splendid, considering what it’s cost me.’ He laughed. ‘But what does money matter at a time like this, eh? A beautiful wife and a beautiful house. I’ll see them both in all their glory tonight.’

Dusk was beginning to settle upon Clouds Frome when I saw from the window of my room the first guests’ motorcars moving up the drive. The evening was destined to be magnificent, to judge by the pink hue already tinging the sky. Down in the ornamental garden, a swarm of gnats hovered over the surface of the lily pond and water pattered soothingly round the stone cherubim of the fountain. The air was sweet and sultry, afloat with the mingled scent of a dozen flowers and shrubs. It should have been – for some perhaps it was – an hour snatched from paradise. It should have been unblemished, the rose for once without a thorn. Instead, my soul rebelled at what it sensed. This was wrong, this was false in every way. Amidst all the finery, all the gaiety, all the perfection of what would follow, I would carry my own midwinter secret.

I crossed to the mirror and checked the straightness of my tie, then lifted the carnation from its bowl of water and secured it in my button-hole. It was time to answer the call of the music I could hear from the hall, time to plaster a smile to my face and join the grinning throng.

The hall was bedecked with flowers; red and white roses, chrysanthemums, dahlias, lilies and magnolias, all crystal-vased and swathed in fern. The French windows stood open to the aromas of the terrace and, in the corner of the room, a string quartet had embarked on a tuneful programme. About half the expected fifty guests had arrived and were separating into eagerly conversant knots by windows and side-tables. I noticed Gleasure among those circulating with tray-loads of champagne and canapés; most of the other waiters I took to be hired specially for the occasion. Danby stood by the door, announcing new arrivals, whilst Victor was holding court by the fireplace, with Consuela at his elbow.

Of her beauty nobody present could have been unaware. Her gown was of shot-silk blue, minimally decorated with
lace
and tulle. She wore a circlet of pearls in her hair and a diamond necklace about her throat. Her foreign blood seemed exaggerated, her exoticism accentuated, by her costume and its setting. And she was nervous. I could see the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, the writhings of her gloved fingers round the stem of her fan, the dartings of her dark eyes about the room. When her gaze met mine, there was the faintest of smiles, the briefest of yearning looks, then she turned back dutifully to her husband’s friends.

The Caswell family had turned out in strength. Old Mrs Caswell was installed on a curved sofa in the bay window, beaming contentedly around the room. Mortimer was beside her, sour-faced and evidently out of sympathy with this and every other form of merry-making. Hermione, meanwhile, was laughing uproariously at the centre of a particularly noisy group near the dining-room doors. Marjorie was with the Petos, smiling and bobbing diplomatically; so far as I could judge, Grenville Peto’s grudge against Victor had evaporated with the champagne bubbles. Of Major Turnbull there was no sign and, strangely, I found this more disturbing than the sight of him at centre stage.

It was whilst I was looking around for Turnbull that a portly little man with a bald head, wire-framed spectacles and a puffy look of perpetual affability tapped me on the elbow. ‘You must be young Mr Staddon,’ he said, grinning broadly.

‘Why, yes. I don’t believe—’

‘Quarton. Arthur Quarton. Mr Caswell’s solicitor.’

‘Of course.’ We had corresponded several times regarding Clouds Frome and had spoken at least once by telephone. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Quarton.’ We shook hands.

‘A splendid occasion, don’t you think?’

‘Er … yes. Yes, indeed.’

‘So good at last to see Victor come into his own, so to speak.’

‘I’m not sure I …’

‘Excuse me. What I mean is that, as the late Mr George
Caswell’s
adviser, I know how pleased he would have been to see his son installed here with the fruits of his success.’

‘I suppose he would, Mr Quarton. But wasn’t it he who sent Victor to South America in the first place?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was that exactly?’

The smile did not leave Quarton’s face, but a cautious frown arrived to crumple it still further. ‘Boys will be boys,’ he said. ‘The important thing is to reflect how well it’s turned out. This house, for instance. You must be proud of what you’ve achieved here.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘And Mrs Caswell, of course. Victor’s finest acquisition on his travels.’ My spirit rebelled at his description. He might have been speaking of the centre-piece of an ethnographic collection. Perhaps, for that matter, he was. ‘A bewitching creature, don’t you think?’

Quarton nodded towards Consuela and I felt myself turn to follow his gaze. There she still stood by her husband’s side, eyes lowered, the rays of the setting sun glinting on her necklace and shimmering about the folds of her dress. Bewitching? Yes. Truly she was, too bewitching altogether, for her own good and for mine.

The hall filled, with Major Turnbull among the latecomers. The champagne flowed. The gaiety proceeded. Faces grew red and voices hoarse. The candles were lit. Victor made a brief speech. Mr Tuder Hereford of Sufton, his most distinguished neighbour, replied on behalf of the guests. Supper was served: pigeon pie, ox tongues, poached salmon and lobster. Happy to find myself at a table where I knew nobody, I could only marvel at my fellow-guests’ appetites – for gossip as well as food. There was a bleak undercurrent of envy which I could have foreseen but which surprised me nonetheless. What right, some tones of voice and gists of remark implied, had the black sheep of the Caswell family
to
return so wealthy from his exile, so sure of himself, so accommodating – and so well married?

It was from one such outspoken source that I learned of a forthcoming event in Hereford: the visit of the German Automobile Club, their party led by Prince Henry of Prussia, brother of the Kaiser. They were to lunch at the Mitre Hotel and among those joining them would be Victor. The date of their visit: Tuesday 18 July. This was surely the opportunity for escape to which Consuela had referred, though what she had in mind I could not guess.

Nor did I seem likely to find out that evening. Try as I might, it had proved impossible to exchange more with her than the odd highly public word. In the end, I slipped away and went out on to the terrace to smoke a cigarette in the hope that it would calm my nerves.