The Shape of Sand (7 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: The Shape of Sand
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For as he had become more knowledgeable about works of art, he had realised he was on the way to becoming happy, except for one thing.
He was made painfully aware each time he visited Charnley nowadays that he was the last of his line. He realised, perhaps too late, what he was missing when he saw them together, Amory and the incomparable Beatrice, who had given him a son and heir. Hitherto, despite everything, Myles had never found the absence of a wife any great disadvantage - thirty-odd years of army life and his own nature taught one ways of dealing with that sort of need. As for the lack of an heir – well, one must regard that as the luck of the draw, the way life had turned out for him. Of late, however, he had begun to feel differently. The idea of his line dying out, Stoke Wycombe going to some distant cousin, was insupportable. It was not yet too late, too impossible, surely? He was not yet fifty. He had a large fortune and a title to leave. He was healthy, and fit, and was not, he believed, repulsive to women. But he could not yet bring himself round to the idea.
Maybe this time, though … He would see what the weekend brought.
He patted bay rum into his skin until his face tingled with its aromatic oils and astringents and, picking up his silver hairbrushes, he contemplated what the next few days might mean. Iskander. Good God! He thought he had seen the last of that one in Luxor – he might have known that life is never so unpredictable a tiger as when you think you have it by the tail.
EXTRACT FROM HARRIET'S NOTEBOOK:
We were eleven for dinner tonight, including the family, which now automatically means Bertie as well, the besotted fiance, who spends more time at Charnley than he does at his mother's house at Falconforde. Not that I blame him for that: Lady Rossiter is a querulous widow and Henrietta and Lily, both older than Bertie – the Ugly Sisters as Daisy will insist on calling them – are a living warning to avoid the unmarried state at all costs.
To begin with, the evening seemed perfect. We were in the small dining room tonight, and the silver and the polished wood of the table gleamed in the warm, flickering candlelight, the glass sparkled, the napkins crackled with starch. The flowers were roses, two silver bowls of them, one at each end of the table, mixed pink and red, nestling in asparagus fern, with trails of smilax from one to the other, their rich scent wafting all around the room. As we began, I saw that we were having Mrs Heslop's famous consommé, so clear one might almost read a newspaper through it.
Mama was wearing Attar of Roses, which complemented rather than fought with the perfume of the table decorations, as mine did. The Floris Geranium that Kit had bought me last Christmas, saying enigmatically that its sharp edge had reminded him of me, had been a bad choice to wear, but unlike Mama, I had not known what the flowers were to be tonight. She looked beautiful as usual, serene in gold ribbed silk with champagne lace and her pearls. Vita wore her smart pale green
peau de soie
piped in black. It didn't matter what Daisy and I wore, no one was looking at us.
Daisy is old enough now to come down and join us for dinner, but we were still an unevenly matched eleven at table, though Mrs Betts, the housekeeper, had ordered the D-ends of the table to be set up, in order to form a rounded oval which made the seating informal and less awkward. Mama had placed herself between Kit and Uncle Myles who was even more than usually
quiet tonight. He is always rather grave and reserved, though we are all very fond of him – he never forgot birthdays when we were children and was always extremely generous in bringing back curios for us from his various postings overseas. Mr Iskander was placed next to Miss Jessamy, whom we are now instructed to call RJ, if you please! She has a certain charm, one must admit, despite looking most peculiar in a multicoloured robe of sorts and a scarf tied around her head like a turban, covering that truly awful haircut, indeed, but making her appear as though she'd stepped straight out of The Arabian Nights. She and Mr Iskander carried on an animated conversation about ancient Egypt for most of the meal, which quite dominated the table, despite Mama's efforts to disseminate it. Mr Iskander did attempt several times to ask her opinions – she had, after all, visited Egypt and seen those very things he was talking about – but she was not to be drawn, for some reason.
He sets himself out to please, Mr Iskander, perhaps not meaning to be ingratiating, though that is unfortunately how it appears. He has brought us all presents, very pretty trifles of jewellery made of semi-precious stones and twisted gold wire. Out of politeness, Daisy wore the turquoise beads he had given her, and I my carnelian ring, but Vita had declared she could not think of wearing carved amethyst ear-drops rather than the very modern pendant and earrings Bertie has bought her from Liberty's. They are lovely, silver and green enamel, each with a black pearl drop - and the only possible choice for her ensemble that evening, she insisted.
Iskander was not the only one who seemed intrigued by Miss Jessamy. Papa on her other side, the last person one would have imagined would care for her type, seemed to be finding her amusing, albeit in a despite-himself sort of way. Even Bertie's glances strayed occasionally from Vita towards her – and as for Marcus, sitting across the table – well, if I were Mama, I would keep an eye on this Miss RJ, that's all I can say.
Only Kit, seated on Mama's left, looking devilishly handsome as usual, with his black hair and thick-lashed blue eyes and sulky mouth – more good-looking than any man has a right to be, despite his nose – seemed immune to her charms. Or perhaps it was Mr Iskander he did not like. Tonight he was Kit at his worst, impossible as only he can be, obviously in one of his reckless moods, and kept throwing sardonic glances at the pair of them
across the table, but was so uncharacteristically silent that at one point Mama asked him if he were not quite well. “Quite well, thank you,” he replied, piling another helping of golden fish soufflé on to his plate. “Perhaps there is a little too much hot air in here tonight.”
Mama, the perfect hostess, inclined her head, pretending not to understand, and signalled to Albrighton who murmured to the footman to open the french windows. She is so
controlled.
Papa, however, who allows Kit a good deal of rope but will tolerate neither boorishness nor innuendo from anyone, stayed with a morsel of soufflé momentarily poised on his fork. Since no one else appeared to have noticed anything, however, he resumed eating, and so did Kit. Oh dear, I do wish he were not so – volatile! The trouble is, he does not know what he really wants. Papa is of the opinion that a commission in the Guards would have been the making of him, but Kit had recoiled in horror at the very suggestion. He toyed for a while with the idea of the Foreign Office but then rejected it as being too stuffy, and immediately afterwards, with typical perversity, chose a career expressly the opposite of one suited to his nature. But it scarcely matters if he does not succeed in what he has chosen to do; one day he will be rich – riches, the curse of those without inner motivation – so he does not need to consider practicalities. There is so much to Kit that he will not admit, his character is composed of extremes, veering from downright misbehaviour to incredible sweetness. Wise old Nanny Byfield is surely right when she says he could become a saint or a sinner.
Yes. Kit has always been difficult, but at the moment he is altogether dissatisfied with himself – and that is a very dangerous thing to be, with his temperament. There have been times lately when I have been very afraid for him, of something in him that could turn to self-destruction – or to destruction of others, and that includes myself. I do my best to fight it, but I have a desperate presentiment that one day Kit may break my heart – or I his.
Presently, after Mr Iskander had finished trying to explain inscriptions, temple paintings and hieroglyphs to Daisy – always so eager to know, my little sister, so thirsty for knowledge, and how well I understand that! – he began a further discussion with Miss Jessamy, still on the same subject of ancient Egyptian art. Whether anyone else felt the same impatience as Mama evidently did about this, I couldn't judge, but Miss Jessamy at least found
the subject all-absorbing. I listened impatiently as he went on to expound a religious belief which seems to me so incomprehensible, based as it was on the worship of jackal- and crocodile-headed gods and god-kings and who knows what else. I was hoping someone might put in a question of more absorbing interest about the mathematical principles which must have governed the building of those amazing pyramids, but the conversation had turned upon the Pharaohs, whose custom it was, according to Miss Jessamy, to marry their sisters. A shocked, uncomfortable silence followed this announcement. How very bold and brassy of her to say such a thing, especially in such mixed company! Then everyone started talking at once. Marcus flushed to the roots of his hair and looked as though he did not know whether to admire her outspokenness or be ashamed for her, but Miss RJ went on eating her duck with green peas and new potatoes as if she was conscious of saying nothing outrageous or offensive. Yet I had a feeling it had been done purposely to scandalise, to shake us out of what she would no doubt regard as our complacency.
Women like her call themselves free spirits, which seems to me to mean they have no codes of ethics or moral conduct, they require only freedom to do as they please without thought for anyone else. It's very odd how often they are admired for it. Whereas women who demand real freedom as a right for everyone, and are prepared to suffer for their beliefs, are still treated as inferior beings: Frances, for instance, whose scholarly and intellectual mind soars above that of most men, is derisively called a ‘blue', and unfeminine, or thought radical and dangerous because she is constantly striving for the principle of recognition at all our universities, not only for the right of women to attend lectures, but also to take a degree on equal terms with men. And only think of Athene Tempest and her suffragettes, who are enduring scorn and indignities beyond belief, and suffer such terrible punishments because they are prepared to stand by their demands for the extension of the franchise to women!
I had better not continue. I am in danger of becoming sour – or worse, a prig – as Mama often warns me I shall, and I face a trying week ahead. Needlework is something I have never quite seen the point of, but when I approached Clara Hallam, Mama's maid, for a little assistance with the ‘Three Graces' costumes, she puckered her mouth like a Dorothy bag and said she'd see what she could do, but of course Madam would have first call on her for
her own preparations, which means we shall see nothing of her unless we
beg!
How Mama tolerates her, I cannot imagine, but at least she can't pinch our arms or tweak our hair now, as she used to do when we were children. We must enlist the help of old Nanny, who will be infinitely more cooperative and has always had a nimble needle and a good imagination, and is certainly more fun than vinegar-faced Hallam – though who is not? The costumes should not be too difficult to assemble, but even so, since Nanny is finding it increasingly hard to see nowadays, it seems a great deal to ask of her.
 
After her maid had helped her to undress and brushed her hair, Beatrice dismissed her for the night. “Thank you, Hallam, you can leave my hair as it is.”
“Not even a loose plait, ma'am?”
“I'll do it myself, later, if I decide on it.”
“Very well.” Expressionless, gaunt as a crow in her severe black satin blouse and grey serge skirt, Hallam put away her mistress's evening clothes and hung over her arm the afternoon's cream shantung, which had a grass stain on the hem to be dealt with; while Beatrice, impatient to be alone, wrapped around herself her favourite black Jap-silk kimono, embroidered with chrysanthemums and almond blossom, and tied the sash.
“I shan't be needing anything else tonight, thank you.”
“Don't forget to drink your tisane before it goes cold. Goodnight, Mrs Jardine.”
“Goodnight, Hallam. Oh, draw the curtains back before you go, if you will. Otherwise, it might become too stuffy.”
“It is very warm. Likely we're due for a stormy spell. I hope we get it over with before next weekend.”
“Oh, don't even suggest such a thing! I never knew such a Job's comforter!”
Hallam smiled thinly, drew back the curtains and left silently.
Beatrice poured from the silver teapot a cup of the camomile infusion – with perhaps something else in it – that would help her to sleep. She knew it would be made exactly how she liked it. That sort of thing was one of the reasons she kept Hallam on. Such a stiff, unresponsive creature, so
determinedly frumpy and virginal — though with that unfortunate figure, tall, angular and raw-boned, how could she be anything else? She was skilful in her duties, however, and prepared to sit up until all hours to attend to her mistress; she did not chatter or gossip below stairs, and she wielded a needle as delicately as a surgeon used a scalpel: a veritable paragon. Her bony fingers, moreover, were surprisingly effective when massaging Beatrice's scalp. One might not like her, but one really couldn't ask for much more.
 
The discussions about Egypt at dinner, which Iskander had deliberately kept going, had upset her, and when the door had closed behind Hallam, Beatrice walked across to the open window and stepped out on to the balcony, where she liked to take a breath of air before bed each night. She placed her cup and saucer on the little wrought iron table there, but did not sit on the chair beside it. Instead, she stood with her hands on the balcony rail, listening to the tinkle of the fountain somewhere below, staring out into the warm, delicious evening, full of the scents of summer, which decidedly did not have the feeling of an approaching storm to her. It still held the heat of the day, but it was not at all sultry. The trees sighed gently, the sky was black and clear, with a crescent moon and a following star. A night for lovers. She could not bear that thought, it twisted inside her breast like a knife. For a second, pierced with the inevitability of what she was now sure must come, she could not bear her life, and in one wild and very nearly irresistible moment, heard the impetuous creature within her whispering how easy it would be to plunge deep down into the soft, enveloping darkness, into … nothingness.
The impulse was over in a flash, and she drew back sharply, sinking on to the edge of the iron chair, shaken to her core. Her lips trembled against the fluted rim of the delicate china cup as she sipped the tisane, fought for equilibrium and gazed at those stars.
 
One scarcely noticed the stars in Cairo. The sunsets, which were spectacular, yes, one could hardly fail to be bowled over by them. But when the swift darkness fell, there was too much happening below to bother about the heavens, at least in that
first month's frantic whirl of social activity and gaiety, when Beatrice herself had been full of that new-found energy and sense of well-being that comes with recovery after being ill. Exotic, overcrowded Cairo – dust, heat, colour, noise. She had loved it all.

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