The Shape of Sand (10 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: The Shape of Sand
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As soon as Hallam had hooked her into her skirt and the cool lavender-coloured muslin blouse, its pin-tucked bodice now invisibly mended with exquisite, tiny stitches, re-ironed and free from every crease, and she had picked up a matching silk parasol trimmed with black lace, Beatrice, still feeling magnanimous
at what she proposed, strolled out into the garden, outwardly purposeless, but intent on seeking out Miss Jessamy without delay.
She found her on the lawn in front of the house, giving Daisy, who had a sketchbook on her knee, advice as to how to proceed with a drawing of Marcus, who lounged on the grass a few feet away. They were all laughing when her shadow fell between them and the sun, causing them to look up. The laughter subsided when she said she had come to see Miss Jessamy about the guest rooms, and a rather horrid little silence ensued, but when she told them of her change of heart, Daisy threw down her sketchbook and jumped up to embrace her. Miss Jessamy went almost as red as that terrible hair. And Marcus just grinned, as if he had known all along that she would change her mind.
Beatrice was mortified, not having thought that her negative decision would have been received so critically by others as well as the young woman herself. Neither had she imagined such rapport would already have been established between Miss Jessamy and Daisy, not to mention Marcus. But at least it appeared that she had not entirely forgotten her role as companion to Daisy.
She left them sitting there, and with these thoughts occupying her mind strolled down towards the lake, and the summerhouse, where she was surprised by Iskander, sitting there as if he had been waiting for her.
“I hope you are being looked after properly, Valery. Is everything to your satisfaction?” she asked, endeavouring to play the polite hostess, while every nerve screamed danger.
“Not everything,” he said, with meaning. There followed a long silence.
“What is it you want of me?” she asked at last in a low voice.
“I simply want explanations, an answer and an apology.”
“For what?”
“Your conduct towards me in Luxor. I want an answer to the question – why? That is all I have come for, what I want to know. Why?”
“I simply don't understand.”
“Oh yes, Bayah-tree-chay, I think you understand very well.”
Beatrice's birthday morning, a week later, dawned bright and clear. Her breakfast had been cleared and she had risen and was sitting at her dressing table when Amory came into her room, clean-shaven and smelling of bay rum, with a smile on his face and in his hands a flat box bearing the name of the Bond Street jeweller he always patronised.
“A very happy birthday, my dear. I didn't come along earlier, not wishing to disturb you. You're going to have a very busy day today.”
“Oh, the children have already been to see me,” replied Beatrice, smiling and waving to the masses of tissue paper and ribbons still strewing the bed. “Lovely presents, so sweet of them.”
“Well, here's another that I hope you'll like.”
Resting on white velvet inside the box was a parure, comprising a matching bracelet, necklace, earrings and a crescent-shaped hair ornament that was almost, but not quite, a tiara. They were exquisitely fashioned, thickly studded with amandine garnets set in marcasite, not nearly so splendid as the sapphires he had given her on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, or the pearls when Marcus was born, but charming of him, she thought, as he said, oddly embarrassed, it seemed to her. “Mere trifles, of course, but I believe you've expressed a liking for garnets more than once.”
“I have – and these are quite delightful!” She had meant to wear the heirloom emeralds tonight, but she was careful not to give any indication of what she'd intended – and in any case, the garnets' setting was more modern, so much lighter than the heavy gold one of the emeralds. She hooked the earrings into her ears and, smiling, held out her wrist for him to fasten the bracelet around it. He pushed it gently up on to her rounded forearm and then walked behind her to slip the necklace around her neck and fasten the clasp at the back. She was
pleased with effect of the delicate cascade of gleaming stones against the creamy skin of her throat and as she felt his fingers warm on the nape of her neck, she twisted round in his arms and impulsively offered her lips to be kissed. “You are so good to me, Amory. I don't deserve it.”
“Nonsense! No one could have a better wife. A few bits of jewellery are no compensation for the support you give me. I consider myself a fortunate man, to have a wife so accomplished, as well as so good. And now I must leave you. Work awaits me, even today.”
“Of course.”
When he had gone, she sat on amidst the pretty, frivolous, untidy clutter of her bedroom, curiously deflated. The breeze fluttered the lace curtains between the heavy folds of the ivory silk drapes to either side. The peach-coloured plush upholstery, the Aubusson carpet, the gold-shaded lamps perfectly complemented the prettily papered walls. The cheval mirror reflected the silver and crystal on her dressing table and the glow of the garnets against her flesh.
She removed the jewels, struggling a little with the clasp of the necklace. Leaving them in a little, shining heap on the dressing table for Hallam to put back in the box, she reached for her silver hand mirror and stared critically at her reflection, allowing the light to fall mercilessly on it. Birthdays were a time for assessment, especially after forty. But, thank God, she could see few lines on the smooth skin of her face. If there were grey hairs, the pale gold prevented them from being obvious yet. Even her neck showed no signs of ageing. Doubtless she was an asset to Amory, in all the ways he had suggested. They entertained lavishly, both here and at the London house in Mount Street, and she had gained something of a reputation as an accomplished hostess. They went out a great deal into society, and she had long been accustomed to the adulation she received as a notable beauty Yet she would have exchanged all - or nearly all – the compliments in the world simply …
You must not expect too much of him, she chided herself. God knows, Amory was not an easy man to know, but the one thing she had learned about him was that he was the sort who, once he said he loved you (which he had done when he asked
her to be his wife) did not see the necessity for ever saying it again.
Picking up her hairbrush, she caught the scent of the two long-stemmed white lilies which Kit had sent to her, now on her dressing table in a tall Lalique vase of amber glass. Their perfume was almost dizzying. The tiny shadow which had threatened to darken the day melted away. ‘Beatrice, I could think of nothing more perfect for you,' said the accompanying note, which he had signed, ‘Your Dante'.
Silly! she told herself, smiling. He should have grown out of all that by now. At his age it was rather dangerous to flirt so outrageously with one who was virtually his aunt, indeed had been all but mother to him. She really should discourage him, but she knew no way other than being unkind – and besides, the delicacy of the compliment could not fail to flatter her. The quick warm colour once more flew to her cheeks as she recollected the note. She had been given lovely birthday gifts – exquisite lace handkerchiefs, a gold card-case, scent, a silver bookmarker – all expensive trifles of one sort or another. Iskander had sent along a truly beautiful heavy gold clip, set with lapis-lazuli, as deep and brilliant a blue as her eyes. But of all the gifts – perhaps even including the garnets – the simplicity of the lilies, and the message, pleased her the most.
Thoughtfully, she drew the brush several times through her hair, then left it and pulled a chair up to a small French writing table standing near the window, to write a note of thanks (for he had sent the lilies via Hallam, and not brought them himself). It cost her a great deal of thought before she finally began: ‘My dearest boy …' She hesitated about how she should sign it and finally wrote, simply, ‘Yours with the greatest love and affection, B,' and enclosed it in an envelope.
Presently, she rang for Hallam to run her bath and help her dress. She gave her the envelope. Her mood had swung again and she was feeling suddenly suffused with happiness for all the world. “Oh, clear up all this mess, will you, while I have my bath – and don't forget to keep those lilies topped up with water. See what the master has given me! I shall wear them tonight with my new gown. They might have been bought with it in mind. Though of course the emeralds would have
looked absolutely wonderful,” she added as an afterthought. “Clever of him, though, especially since he hasn't seen the dress yet. Are you sure you haven't shown it to him? No, of course you haven't, Clara!” She laughed.
“Indeed not,” said Hallam stiffly, outraged that the master's gift was being treated with such scant regard … Mr Jardine, so kind and considerate as he always was. She, for one, would never hear a word said against him. Nor would she ever forget how he'd agreed to take on Fred as his chauffeur and give him another chance after that spot of bother he'd been in: Fred, that bad, handsome lad who was her youngest step-brother, her favourite because he'd always stuck up for her against her bullying stepfather.
With infinite care she replaced the garnets in their appointed places in the velvet-lined box.
 
Immediately following Beatrice's agreement that the guest wing should, after all, be decorated in the Egyptian manner, scenes of great activity had ensued, with Rose Jessamy, in smock and breeches like a boy, taking charge and ordering everyone about. The rooms were cleared and stripped, ready for action. Only the bare minimum of furniture for comfort would be retained when they were finished. Beds would have new bed-heads and feet, rather like the profile of a Nile boat. Fireplaces were to be torn out and if necessary replaced with new. Servants were allocated to help her, with Fred Copley, chauffeur/handyman, sent to assist, and proving himself particularly useful – when he wasn't covertly ogling RJ. While Wycombe, with increasing gravity, went around inspecting and assessing the pictures in the rest of the house, the work here had already begun and swift progress made, despite the number of people, Amory included, who constantly appeared and got in the way, widening their eyes at the apparent mess which preceded the actual painting.
“Are you sure that young woman knows what she's doing?” Amory had demanded of Beatrice in some trepidation, after he had looked in to see how the work was progressing the first day, taken one horrified glance and withdrawn hastily. “She's got the plaster off the walls and I don't know
what!”
“Oh, I shouldn't worry about it.” Beatrice had now decided to be Miss Jessamy's greatest advocate, having been vouchsafed these glimpses of what the finished rooms might look like. One couldn't help but admire her artistry, the sureness of her sweeping brushstrokes, and the speed and concentration with which she worked, ripping off the old plaster and replacing it with new – for each day's work on the frescoes she was painting round the walls, she explained, must be done directly on to fresh, wet plaster. What pleased Beatrice most was her discovery that the trompe l'oeil marble columns and pediments were going to render the spacious rooms even more spacious, with false perspectives that lent distance and enchantment, that the whole thing would be, in fact, far from the unrestrained riot of exuberant images she had feared, but dignified and elegant, exactly like some of the illustrations in the books from the library which had stood on the shelves, unopened, for decades, and which Rose had found and shown her to demonstrate how it would look. And how much kudos all this was going to bring Beatrice amongst her friends!
 
The birthday celebrations took the form of an evening reception, and the guests were around seventy in number. A thoroughly egalitarian affair it was to be, embracing neighbours as well as close friends, in line with Amory's liberal principles, even to the inclusion of the rector and his wife, though that was perfectly acceptable, for the lady was the daughter of a general. A cabinet minister graced the occasion, and two of Amory's colleagues came with their wives – and in one case a daughter, a lively and charming girl called Coralie, of whom Beatrice had great hopes for Marcus.
Marcus had done the right thing and given Beatrice the names of several of his friends who could be invited to become acquainted with his sisters, and the young folk crowded together and laughed and flirted and some of the young men drank enough to make them noisy, but not overly so. Their elders strolled about the lawns with ladies on their arms, also flirting, though more discreetly, and admiring the roses (though no one saw a
Rosa Perfecta
)
.
The champagne flowed
and was excellent – Amory could never be faulted in that direction. And of course the food was plentiful: on the supper-room table the salmon's cucumber scales gleamed under aspic, the beef was red and juicy as the gentlemen preferred it; the bowls of peaches, grapes, nectarines and figs had been brought to a high point of perfection through Hopper's solicitous tending; there were patties and pies, pastries, cakes and jellies, and three splendid ice puddings if you didn't care for strawberries.
Bertie had brought his family – his mother and the two Ugly Sisters, who sat together without moving, looking down their noses at all this extravagance and doing their best to put a damper on the occasion – but no one took any notice of them, except Marcus, who had excellent manners and brought them strawberries and cream, and the champagne to toast Beatrice, which they mostly left untasted.
“Oh, Jerusalem, what frights they are! Glowering away in corners, making one feel one must apologise for them all the time!” Vita hissed to Harriet. “If I'd known what they were like, I might have had second thoughts about Bertie. Imagine, if one has a daughter like Etta!”
“You know you would have done no such thing,” replied Harriet, watching Vita smiling ravishingly at her beloved across the room, for a moment envious of her, being so openly and unashamedly in love – even though it was with Bertie.
“Perhaps you're right. Do look at Millie! Did ever you see such feathers and tulle? But at least that headdress is better than the hat she wore for Cousin Kitty's wedding! I'm sure that was a whole duck, not just its wings, sitting on it, and perhaps its nest, too! Maybe it weighed her down permanently, and that's why she's still looking so miserable!”
Millie was indeed looking less vivacious than formerly, under her astonishing headdress, as she talked to Iskander, whom she had of course met before. Beatrice had been in two minds as to whether to invite her, but in the end had decided it would be wiser to do so than not. “She won't come, but she'll be pleased to have been invited,” she'd asserted confidently. Having her own particular reasons for not antagonising Millie, Beatrice still received her, unlike many other hostesses, for
Millie had very recently been involved in an open scandal, so notorious it had caused even the compliant Glendinning, accustomed to turning a blind eye, to take the ultimate step and sue for divorce. She was still technically Lady Glendinning, not yet plain Mrs Kaplan, if ever she would be – but, poor Millie, if only she had been discreet for a little longer! If only she could have known that not a month after the decree nisi, Glendinning would die of an apoplexy, leaving his vast fortune to a distant cousin! By doing exactly what she wanted all her life, Millie had succeeded in losing what she most desired. Moreover, Mr Kaplan, who was a banker, was said to be rich, but not so rich as Glendinning, though in truth he was almost as boring.
Millie, however, had accepted Beatrice's invitation. It was a mistake on various levels. For one thing, she was being cut by most of the people there, though a few were coldly acknowledging her in deference to their hostess. For another, Millie could not now stand comparison with Beatrice. People who knew them both knew that they were the same age, but unlike Beatrice, who ripened ever more lusciously as she grew older (though her critics said there was a danger that she might at any time become a little overblown, like a rose which has been open too long), Millie was shrivelling. She looked slightly desiccated, and her once-discreet make up had become heavy-handed and careless. Perhaps, too, she had grown shortsighted - one cheek was very much rosier than the other, like an apple that had caught the sun only on one side. Her patchouli perfume could be discerned yards away. Her attempts at youthfulness made her look clownish, and rather sad.

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