The Snow Globe (32 page)

“He planted all of them himself,” Noonie had told Mabel. “And he went there every single evening to water them . . . Yes, he's spent quite a lot of time in that churchyard.”

Mabel closed the book. “Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for Theo's roses.”

“In love?” Stephen repeated, looking away and laughing.

“Yes, do you not have a sweetheart, someone special . . . perhaps here tonight?” Noonie persevered, still twinkling, excited.

Stephen glanced at Daisy, and she had to intervene, she thought. It was unfair of Noonie to put him on the spot like that. “Stephen brought Tabitha with him tonight,” she said to her grandmother.

“Oh, I see,” said Noonie, her smile falling away. “And where is she?”

“I've no idea,” said Stephen. “But perhaps I should go and find her,” he added, rising to his feet.

“You shouldn't be so forthright,” said Noonie as soon as Stephen had gone.

“Forthright?”

“Yes. Putting words into his mouth.
Names
,” Noonie added, shaking her head. “Silly girl,” she said, “silly, silly girl.”

When Stephen saw Ben Gifford and Tabitha, their arms draped around each other, staggering off down the driveway, he half thought of running after them, of taking Gifford by the collar and
dragging him back. What a total cad the man was, he thought, watching the two figures disappear into the darkness.

Finding Daisy crying outside the tent had made him feel wretched enough. And she could only have been crying about her engagement, about Gifford, he thought. But hopefully she
had
ended it, ended it properly and for good. And yet young women seemed to like a bit of drama, and engaged young women had a tendency to call things off and then call them back on. The idea of her being tempted to do this made him contemplate telling her just what sort of man Gifford was, and
where
he was, but he couldn't. How could he? He would rather take a bullet than cause Daisy any distress or pain.

The fireworks at one o'clock signaled an ending to some, the beginning of an ending to others, and simply a beginning to a few others still. As the orchestra played on, everyone poured out of the marquee to watch rockets explode and light up the sky over Eden Hall. Afterward, Howard and Mabel had one last dance together, waltzing to Schubert's “Serenade”; then they stood on the lawn for almost an hour saying good-byes and good nights as a procession of chauffeur-driven cars and taxis moved up and down the driveway, before finally retiring—and disappearing inside the house.

It was after three o'clock by the time the orchestra finished packing up and Valentine and Miles brought out the Victrola from the house and set it up inside the tent. People lingered on, sitting in silence at deserted tables, and a few continued to dance. Others
dawdled about the gardens or slumped in the rattan chairs along the terrace. And Daisy sat with Aurelia at the back of the marquee.

“Iris said they disappeared off together ages ago,” said Aurelia. “She saw them—and so did Val.”

“I couldn't care less.”

“So you did it—you ended it?”

“Sort of, but I'll do it properly first thing in the morning.”

“Mine doesn't exactly look heartbroken, does he?” said Aurelia, watching Val—still dancing with Iris at the other end of the tent.

“It's all a mockery,” said Daisy, leaning forward, resting her chin in her hands and wondering once more where Stephen was. There was no sign of him in the tent, and she hadn't seen him in a while, hours perhaps, though she couldn't be sure because time had slipped away quickly.

“Poor Stephen . . .”

“Why poor Stephen?” asked Aurelia.

“Because it's humiliating for him to bring someone as his guest and then have her . . . walk off with another man. He deserves so much better.”

“You really do love him, don't you?”

Daisy sat up and pretended to take a sip of her champagne—now flat. “Yes, but not like
that
 . . . not anymore.”

“Really? Look at me and say that again.”

Daisy turned to Aurelia:
“Not like that.”

“I'm afraid I'm not convinced . . . not at all convinced.”

“Not at all convinced about what?” asked Val, suddenly next to them.

“Nothing,” said Daisy.

“Aurelia, I thought we should have one more dance together . . . for old time's sake,” he said.

Daisy watched them walk off hand in hand. They
would
be friends, she thought; they had called off their life together amicably. It would be a very different scenario for her and Ben.

When Daisy stepped out from the marquee, night had fallen away and colors had begun to emerge. The doors to the house stood wide-open and a couple she did not recognize clung to each other, lost in a moment, swaying to an invisible silent orchestra. Ruby and Boy wandered about the lawn, looking for a pat, a kind word, sniffing at scattered glasses and plates. Then Boy barked at something—or someone—and ran off toward the Japanese garden. And Daisy, adrift and still wondering, followed the dog and found Stephen.

The sun was about to rise—and Stephen wanted to see it, he said, wanted to watch it from there. He did not look at Daisy as he spoke, but she watched him stroke Boy's head, stoop and rub his nose against the dog's nose.

“Well, Aurelia has done the deed,” she said.

“What deed's that?”

“Called off her engagement.”

“Ah, there's a fashion for it, then.”

“Did you find Tabitha?” she asked, shivering, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders.

“Was I meant to be looking for her?”

“Someone said she fell over . . .”

“That sounds about right.”

“Don't you care?” she asked, sitting down next to him on the bench.

“I think Tabitha's more than capable of looking after herself.”

Daisy didn't want to tell him, didn't want to repeat what Aurelia had told her: that Tabitha and Ben had not only disappeared from the marquee
together
, but had been seen canoodling by the shrubbery, where a large red taffeta flower was later found. She couldn't give a hoot about Ben, who had—as she'd told Aurelia—proved himself an utter cad and a bounder in the space of twenty-four hours, but she was furious with Tabitha.

“Shall we dance?” Stephen asked.

Daisy laughed. “What—here . . . now?”

“Why not?”

And so they did.

He held her in his arms as they slowly circled the pond, again and again, round and round, moving their feet carefully over the flagstones—without any music, without any words, until the first birds began to sing and the pale morning light hung over them.

“Stephen,” she said sleepily, her cheek pressed against the white cotton of his shirt, “let's never lose touch with each other again. Let's never lose our friendship.” She lifted her head to look up at him. “You see, you're like a brother to me . . . more than a brother.”

He said nothing, and she rested her head back against his chest as they rocked back and forth, back and forth, without lifting their feet, lost in a lullaby motion.

“Let's spend some time together tomorrow . . . later today. We could try to find my globe . . . take a picnic down to the stream like we used to,” she said, her eyes closed.

And as he tightened his grip around her, she knew that this moment was all she'd ever remember of this night.

She obviously had no idea, and Stephen was pleased. He certainly wasn't going to mention what he had seen, or what Val had later confirmed when he'd told Stephen that he'd seen Gifford with Tabitha in the bushes. She deserved so much better, even from an
ex
-fiancé.

He held her in his arms as they slowly circled the pond, again and again, round and round, moving their feet carefully over the flagstones, until the first birds began to sing and the sky lightened.

When she told him he was like a brother, it stung. Weak with longing, he closed his eyes, lowered his face to her hair, breathed her in. Daisy. Her head resting on his chest, her words—misguided, innocent and weary—were all he'd remember of this night: all he'd ever wish to remember of this night.

The sky was like a washed-out sheet, bleached of color, with a pale yellow sun behind it. Men in aprons and flat caps marched back and forth across the lawn carrying rolls of carpet and furniture to a wagon parked up on the driveway. The rattan tables and chairs on the terrace beneath her window had already gone.

When Daisy saw him—crossing over the grass, head down and moving fast—she was reminded of the previous evening, his absence. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, she was there, waiting. “I suggest you pack your bag and leave as soon as possible.”

“Daisy . . .”

She backed away. He reeked of alcohol and stale sweat, and she felt nothing for him, other than contempt.

“You can walk to the station or catch a bus. There's a bus stop at the crossroads. If you're not out of this house in”—she glanced at her wrist—“ten minutes, I'll find my father and tell him where
you've been, and what you did—that you came to my room . . . and that you hit me.”

“Look here,” Ben began, “I'm not sure what you think, but you have it all wrong . . . all wrong.”

“No. I have it all
right
. I have nothing else to say to you, Benedict Gifford. You're not worth my words—or a single minute more of my time.”

She turned toward her room. “Nine minutes left,” she called back to him.

He was punctual, at least, she thought, as she watched him walk down the driveway with his bag—almost exactly nine minutes later. Now she needed to find her father, to tell him that there was no engagement and that she hoped never to see Benedict Gifford again. She would not tell him anything more than that, though she imagined he'd hear soon enough about the events of the previous evening.

The door to her father's room was ajar, his bed made . . . but with his evening suit laid out on it—in a heap. Strange, she thought, that Hilda had already been up there, making beds, and stranger still that the maid had then left her father's clothes like that.

The house was silent as Daisy descended the stairs and headed for Howard's study. He wasn't there. She walked back down the passageway and glanced into the drawing room: no one. She crossed back over the hallway and went into the dining room. The table was set for breakfast, but so far undisturbed.

Daisy lifted a silver lid on the salamander, helped herself to a sliver of bacon. Then the baize door swung open and Hilda appeared.

“Morning, miss. Tea . . . toast?”

“You're a busy bee this morning . . . making beds
and
serving breakfast.”

Hilda laughed. “The beds will have to wait, I reckon. It'll be afternoon by the time I get any of those done.”

“But you've already done my father's room.”

Hilda shook her head. “No, miss . . . we're all a bit under the cosh this morn, what with the men turning up early and all the guests to look after.”

“Yes . . . of course,” said Daisy. “Have you seen my father?”

“I don't think he's been down yet, miss. Can I get you some tea?” Hilda asked again.

“No, thank you.”

Daisy returned to the hallway, climbed the stairs and then stood on the landing, pondering. She didn't wish to disturb her mother, but she needed to tell one of her parents about Ben: that she had called off her engagement and asked him to leave, that he had gone. She moved along the landing toward her parents' suite of rooms, past her father's open bedroom door, toward her mother's closed bedroom door, and then she stopped. Beyond Mabel's door she could hear a male voice . . . then murmuring; then giggling . . . then complete silence. Mabel had a man in her room . . . Reg? Daisy's heart pounded. The door opened.

“Hello, Dodo,” said Howard. “Did you sleep well, my darling?”

Daisy felt her face flush. She said, “I need to speak to my mother,” and walked past him into the room, where Mabel sat up in bed, holding a cup and saucer. “Hello, darling . . . Wasn't it a wonderful night?”

Howard closed the door; Daisy sat down on the stool by the dressing table. She stared at the bed—the scattered pillows, the sheets. Her parents had slept together. Mabel had taken him back. She said, “Just so you know, I've called off my engagement.”

Mabel frowned. “Sad, but very wise, I think.”

“Don't pretend you're in the least bit sad, because I know that you're not . . . and neither am I. Anyway, he's gone . . . Ben. I asked him to go when he returned here earlier this morning.”

Mabel stared down at her cup and shook her head.

“He proved himself to be just like certain
other
men,” said Daisy.

Mabel said nothing. She pursed her lips and glanced about the room.

“Oh, Mummy . . .”

“There'll be another,” said Mabel, quickly. “You're still so young . . . there'll be another.”

Daisy shook her head. “No, I'm thinking of you. I don't want you to . . . to get hurt.”

“Hurt? Who's going to hurt me?”

“The man you married.”

“Daisy . . .”

“You don't know. You don't know,” said Daisy, turning away, wringing her hands.

“What don't I know?”

Daisy rose to her feet. “You don't know about Stephen,” she replied, louder than she'd intended.

“About Stephen,” repeated Mabel. “What don't I know about him?”

“Have you never wondered how he came to be here?”

Mabel smiled. “I know exactly how he came to be here,” she said calmly, and then took a sip of her tea. “Your father brought him here . . . well, not exactly, but he arranged everything.”

So she knew some of it, Daisy thought, and then said it out loud. “Yes, that's some of it . . . but there's more,” she said, sitting down again. “You see . . . you see—”

“Are you in love with him?” Mabel asked before Daisy could say any more.

Daisy gasped. “In love with
Stephen
? This isn't about me and Stephen, or about Ben, or Tabitha . . .”

“Tabitha? And who is Tabitha?”

“The one with Ben . . . last night.”

“Ah, the one with the red flowery thing?” Mabel asked, making a flower on her head with her hand.

“The same,” said Daisy, feeling exasperated; they were going off track.

“Is that why you're angry—because she left with Ben? Or are you angry because she came with Stephen?”

“No! I've told you, this isn't about any of them . . . Well, it's about Stephen, I suppose, but it's mainly about my father—your husband.”

“I see,” said Mabel, taking another sip of tea.

“But I should've told him, Stephen I mean, about Tabitha,” said Daisy, rising to her feet again. “But how could I?” she added, looking back at Mabel as she paced the floor. “I couldn't, could I?”

Mabel shook her head.

“So I didn't. But I should've done—shouldn't I?”

Mabel wasn't sure, was about to say “perhaps,” but then Daisy went on.

“It was disloyal of me . . . but I didn't want to humiliate him further, and now he'll hear from someone else.” She turned to Mabel. “Is it better to be loyal and honest, to tell the truth—even though you know you might cause that person pain?” she asked, her hands now on her head as she paced in circles at the foot of Mabel's bed.

Mabel was about to say that it depended on the circumstances but didn't have time because Daisy continued: “And it could all have been avoided. If I'd asked Ben to leave yesterday, after he . . . when I knew, when I'd decided. If I'd done that, none of this would have happened, and Stephen would never have had to endure this humiliation. And yet . . . and yet,” she said, her eyes narrowing, a new idea dawning, “he didn't seem to be too upset at the lily pond.”

“The lily pond?”

“Yes, when we were dancing . . .”

“You were dancing by the lily pond—and when was this?”

“Sunrise,” she said, one side of her mouth curving upward and staring past Mabel at a patch of wall. “Sunrise,” she said again, lowering her hands.

Suddenly she seemed calmer, Mabel thought. She had lost her daughter to a sunrise, to a slow dance with Stephen Jessop. But a picture was emerging, pieces slowly falling into place. Daisy had never been good at jigsaw puzzles, and now, once again, she was forcing pieces that didn't fit in order to make her picture, Mabel thought. She had all the parts; she simply didn't know—couldn't see—how to match them up, where to place them.

And she had every right to be angry: angry with her father and angry with Ben Gifford. Like Howard, Mabel thought, watching their daughter as she stared into nowhere, she had the heart of a lion, but she had inherited from Mabel her highly reactive nature, which threw everything into disarray and confusion. It was—had always been, might always be—her Achilles' heel.

“It sounds heavenly,” said Mabel.

“Yes . . . yes, it was.”

“Your father also wanted to dance with you. He looked for you . . . had a particular piece of music in mind.”

The dream snapped. Daisy stared back at her mother. “I wouldn't have danced with
him
.”

“You must learn to forgive, Daisy . . . to forgive and forget, and move on.”

“Forget? Like he's forgotten his
sons
? . . . And not just Theo.”

Mabel put down her cup and saucer. “You're right. It did seem as though your father had forgotten Theo for a while,” she said. “And perhaps he forgot me, also . . . because I had pushed him away, because I was angry. But there's so much of him you don't know, don't understand.”

“And you do?”

Mabel nodded. “Yes, I do . . . There are things that are not my place to tell you. But you should perhaps speak to Mrs. Jessop about Stephen and about your father.”

“Right. I will,” said Daisy. “I will.” And then she left the room.

Mabel sat back against her pillows and closed her eyes. Daisy was determined, and it wasn't for her to explain. Her loyalty to Stephen was such . . . Mabel opened her eyes.

Daisy's loyalty to Stephen Jessop placed him at the forefront of Daisy's mind in almost every situation. His well-being and happiness had always been of paramount concern to her, and though Mabel had known this, and had watched them together for years, she had only recently begun to acknowledge the extent and true nature of Daisy's love. And because he needed to know and understand, too, she had told Howard only hours earlier.

“Are you sure?” he'd asked.

“Quite certain.”

“And what about him?”

“Oh, I'm even more certain of that.”

Mabel smiled at her gown—draped over an armchair by her dressing table, where Howard had carefully placed it the night before. She smiled at the memory of that night. She had known by their last dance that they would spend all of that night together; that there could be no good night and turning in to separate rooms. And the wonderful thing about it was, there had been no question, no awkwardness, no doubt at all. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world for them to retire together, to walk hand in hand into that house, their home, and then climb the stairs and go to that room, together. To talk as they undressed, to laugh and giggle at the things they had seen; for Howard to unzip and help her out of her gown; for her to regale him with snippets of various conversations she had had as she sat at her dressing table brushing her hair, creaming her face, and then climbed into bed next to him; and for him to take her in his arms. And like arriving back at that place called home after a very long journey, there had been a new and exquisite luxury in the sense of its normality.

They had lain in each other's arms for an hour, at least, listening to the sounds and voices outside: the raucous laughter and music from the gramophone drifting over from inside the tent; the queer conversations and debates going on beneath their window. They heard Iris calling out for “more champagne,” and Noonie—still going strong—talking about someone called Samuel. At one point, Howard had risen, crossed the room to pull back the curtains and open the window a little more so they could better hear Reg tell Margot how magnificent her figure was, and how young she looked to him. They had placed their hands over each other's mouths to stifle the sound of their laughter.

“I love you, Mabel Forbes,” he'd said.