Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (16 page)

‘I’ve never read
Lorna Doone
.’ I was relieved that he was smiling as though recalling a most diverting incident. ‘In fact I’ve hardly read any novels. But I’ve just started
Ulysses
by James Joyce. It’s on my list of improving books. So far I’m completely befogged but I’m hoping light will dawn.’

Rafe laughed. ‘You continue to surprise me, Marigold.’

I was gratified by what had to be a compliment. After all, no one wants to be
un
surprising.

But Isobel said, ‘Don’t be patronizing, darling. Marigold’s zeal for self-improvement is sweet and absolutely typical.’

I had the feeling, but perhaps I was imagining it, that I had been subtly put in my place.

‘Where’s the nabob?’ asked Rafe. ‘Everyone’s longing to see the poor man. The archdeacon’s eaten all the cheese straws and my stomach’s grumbling like thunder.’

‘Poor?’ repeated Isobel, frowning.

‘Meeting a whole room of people and not being able to shake hands with them? Awkward to say the least.’ Rafe gave his sister a searching look which she fielded with a charming smile. ‘Besides, I’m sorry for any man whose value lies in his chequebook.’

‘That’s not true. He’s exceptionally interesting and nice.’ Before he could reply she laid her hand gently on her brother’s arm and her habitual expression of defiance softened. ‘Please, darling, don’t make up your mind to dislike him. You know how I feel. What we agreed.’

Rafe put his hand on hers. ‘The truth is, I’m envious, of course. Goldmines seem to be the least of what you girls expect.’

I was disconcerted by the enquiring look he gave me.

‘Oh, Marigold isn’t acquisitive in the least,’ Isobel laughed. ‘Unless she’s changed a great deal in the last five or six years.’

They exchanged glances that to me were unfathomable. Could it be that Rafe’s interest in me was more than fraternal? He was friendly and attentive but nothing more. Perhaps the casual promiscuity of the ballet company had impaired my ability to decode messages from other men.

Evelyn came up to us, allowing her smile to slip for a moment. ‘Isobel, where is this
wretch
ed man of yours? I’ve already had Capstick reheat the soup twice.’

‘
I
don’t know. Perhaps the plane was late. Perhaps he’s changed his mind and isn’t coming …’ The agitation in Isobel’s voice made me wonder if she was as sure about Conrad as she claimed to be. ‘We could tell everyone the flight was cancelled.
Or he’s got the date wrong and is coming next week … Marigold,’ Isobel grabbed my arm, ‘come and give me a hand with my zip. I can feel it inching its way down. In a minute all will be revealed.’

Obediently I followed her through the crowd into the hall, accidentally stabbing quite a few shins and feet with my crutches. ‘What’s the matter with it?’

‘What’s the matter with what?’ Isobel shook her head impatiently.

‘Your zip.’

‘Nothing. I just had to get away from Mummy’s endless questioning. She’s gone on and on today about Conrad until my head’s throbbing. If she was in uniform she’d be arrested for contravening the Geneva Convention. I had to get away from all those ghouls staring at me, speculating about whether I’ve been jilted or invented the whole thing. Probably Conrad’s got more sense than to—There’s the bell! It must be him! It
must
be!’

She held my arm tightly, digging in her fingernails until I murmured in protest, while Spendlove went to open the door. A shower of snow blew in, followed by two figures wrapped in overcoats, bringing with them a gust of cold air that made me shiver.

‘Conrad!’ Isobel rushed at one of the men and threw her arms round his neck. ‘You’re a
darling
to come! Thank you!
Thank
you!’

He kissed her cheek. ‘It was not so very much after all. Merely a dash over narrow, twisting, vertical tracks made for mountain goats through snow so thickly falling that we might have been travelling through walls of ice. But it was a matter of course that we should risk our necks for the pleasure of seeing you, my dear Isobel.’

I had already guessed that some, if not all, of Isobel’s descriptions of her lover were invented to tease, but now I actually had Conrad Lerner before my eyes it would be no exaggeration to
say that I was thunderstruck. That I recognized him at once was no great feat of memory, since only a week before we had spent an hour together as fellow passengers in the same railway carriage. It was the man with the astrakhan collar.

Evelyn came into the hall. After everything Isobel had said about her future husband, Evelyn must have been surprised to find herself looking up into Conrad’s face instead of down on to his shining pate. Not only was he of a respectable height, with a full head of ink-black hair, but his nose, long and curving downwards slightly at the tip, had an aristocratic refinement that few Englishmen could boast. When Spendlove had helped Conrad out of his coat, it could be seen that his figure was slender and his feet in perfect proportion.

‘How do you do? I am Isobel’s mother.’ Evelyn held out her hand, remembered the skin disease and withdrew it just as Conrad put out his. A dash of pink appeared on her white cheek. ‘This appalling weather … such an awful journey from Newcastle … I hear they are thinking of closing the airport …’ She drew breath and a steelier look came into her eye. ‘Isobel has told us something about you but – naturally we were surprised to learn that our daughter had engaged herself to a virtual stranger without consulting the wishes of her family.’

Conrad looked at Isobel. It was, I thought, a questioning look.

‘Perhaps,’ Evelyn continued, still with that small patch of pink on her cheekbone, ‘these things are managed differently in
Germany … I’m assured by my children that I’m hopelessly out of date … Apparently it is now common practice to marry someone one barely knows, without considering the feelings of anyone else.’

Conrad had turned his attention from Isobel to look gravely at her mother as she disburdened herself of this little speech, which I suspected she had rehearsed, hoping to pierce the
amour-
propre
of the hated interloper. Faced with those black, unwavering eyes, she had been unable to deliver it as smoothly as she had intended.

‘Isobel tells me you are an industrialist –
un homme d’affaires
–
molto occupato
… I suppose we must be grateful you have interrupted your busy schedule to come and see us. Oh dear!’ Evelyn put her hands together and said almost pleadingly, ‘Can you understand a word I’m saying?’

Conrad closed his eyes slowly and opened them again as though clearing his brain. ‘I comprehend you perfectly, Mrs Preston. Forgive me, I am bewildered—’

‘Of course you are,’ Isobel interrupted. ‘I expect you’ve got jet lag. Anyway, Mummy, he’s here
now
– that’s what matters. Hello, Fritz.’ Isobel shook the hand of the man who stood beside Conrad. He had pale golden hair that hung in curls round his pink and white face. He smiled shyly and two dimples appeared in his fat cheeks. He looked like one of those painted cherubs that flutter about the vaulted ceilings in Italian churches – only with clothes on, of course. ‘I hope you like being in the wild wastes of Northumberland. No, of course you don’t. No one could. But it’s good for you to take your nose out of a book. Mummy, this is Fritz Wolter. He’s a scholar and terribly serious and Conrad never goes anywhere without him. Fritz, this is my mother.’

‘How do you do?’ Fritz bent over her hand, kissing the air a centimetre above it.

Isobel seized Conrad’s arm. ‘Come and meet Marigold. My very best friend from years and years ago. She’s a brilliant dancer
only she’s broken her foot so for the moment she’s only hopping along – very gracefully.’ Isobel made a face at me that Conrad could not see. ‘And she’s a tremendous bluestocking.’

‘We’ve already met,’ I said.

‘I think not,’ said Conrad, ‘I should have remembered it.’

I understood why Evelyn’s usual
sang froid
had deserted her. It was not easy to maintain one’s composure beneath the stare of sharp, treacle-black eyes like reflecting glass, revealing nothing of the thoughts of their owner. I felt confused and foolish. Had I dreamed it? Or were there two men of distinctive appearance and identical coats at large in Northumberland? ‘But the train—’

‘It is encouraging to meet with so youthful a
savante
.’ A slight pressure from his hand before he released mine told me I had not been mistaken. I understood that I was to say nothing more about our meeting. But why had he been travelling on a train in England when Isobel believed him to be in Germany?

‘Oh, Marigold’s
years
older than she looks,’ said Isobel. ‘She has to be like a strand of gossamer so that she can be twirled about above people’s heads.’

Conrad’s face remained impassive. ‘An exacting stipulation.’ Though his accent was noticeably foreign, his command of the English language was better than that of many of its native speakers.

‘Come along,’ Evelyn sounded rattled. ‘Everyone’s starving. We’ll get the introductions over with as fast as we can.’

If Conrad was unnerved to find himself the object of frankly curious stares, he hid it well. At least half the guests instinctively offered their hands only to snatch them back when they remembered the skin contagion. I watched this little pantomime with amusement. After two or three such incidents, Conrad kept his hands clasped behind his back and responded to introductions by drawing himself up and bowing from the neck, which looked dignified and rather glamorous.

‘Well?’ said Rafe in my ear. ‘Not quite what we were led to expect. Isobel is a minx. No sign of a squint as far as I can see. And I’d hardly call those jug-handle ears.’

‘Is that what she told you? No, I’d say he was remarkably handsome.’

‘He seems to have the usual complement of features. What’s remarkable about him?’

‘Those eyes, most of all. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. But you can be sure he is.’

‘Is what?’

‘Thinking something.’

‘So I should hope, unless the man’s a moron.’

‘Whatever he is, it’s a relief to know that if Isobel does marry him she won’t be condemned to go to bed with a tiny Mr Punch whose feet rip holes in the sheets whenever he turns over.’

Rafe laughed and tugged at a strand of my hair in a brotherly way. ‘He’s a gentleman anyway, which is more than I’d hoped for.’

I looked again at Conrad, who was listening to Lady Pruefroy, a big woman in brown velvet with a bossy manner who tapped his chest with her finger as she talked, like a woodpecker hammering at the bark of a tree. ‘How can you tell?’

‘I don’t know. Something about his manner, his self-confidence perhaps … It’s impossible to describe but it’s unmistakable.’

‘Not to me. Would you say all the men in this room are gentlemen?’

Rafe’s eyes wandered round the room, examining the little groups of conversing guests.

‘Yes,’ said Rafe. ‘Not Spendlove, of course.’

‘Is the archdeacon a gentleman? He’s awfully greedy. I’ve just seen him eat the last two vol-au-vents.’

‘Nonetheless, he is a gentleman.’

‘His eyes are cold and mean. And he was catty about Isobel.’

‘Gentlemen are sometimes greedy and catty. It’s more a question of style than of virtue.’

‘Actually I like Spendlove better than anyone. Except you. And Kingsley, of course.’

‘That’s because you’re a wild young bohemian, Lorna Doone.’ Rafe stared at me in a way that was not quite brotherly. ‘And very fetching, too.’

I suspected, but could not be absolutely certain, that he was flirting with me. Before I could think of a suitably wild reply, dinner was announced.

The moment we sat down a maid came in with a jug of water. Isobel, who was sitting next to the archdeacon, played her part very prettily, tapping his arm to draw his attention to the fact that his glass had been filled with the baleful substance. His face became consternated, he sprang up and whispered something in the girl’s ear. She looked surprised but left the room, taking the water jug with her. Isobel pointed to the archdeacon’s glass. Manfully he picked it up and drank off the whole tumbler without pause, only panting a little when he put it down.

I turned to Ronald on my right. ‘I feel sorry for the soldiers in the Falklands.’ I had read a long and rather boring newspaper article about the Falklands War over lunch, with the selfless intention of entertaining my neighbours at dinner. ‘Apparently the weather’s awful. Mr Galtieri shouldn’t have put up his flag in South Georgia, but I don’t think we should have colonized the islands in the first place.’

‘Eh?’ Ronald wrinkled his nose. ‘Good thing, the war. Teach those dagos what to expect when they trespass on British territory.’

‘But whose land was it before we claimed it in 1833?’

Ronald looked at me with something like distaste. ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’

‘Apparently a lot of the Argentinian bombs are no good and don’t go off, which is lucky for us.’ Ronald was noisily sucking up soup and didn’t seem to have heard. ‘I can hardly believe,’ I went on, ‘that the whole thing started because of a whale
slaughterhouse that employed Argentinians instead of English people. It seems too silly for words.’

Ronald gobbled down a piece of Melba toast.

‘Actually,’ I was provoked by Ronald’s lacklustre response, ‘I think all war is stupid and wicked whichever side you’re on.’

He paused mid-suck to look at me in a startled way. ‘Steady on. This is damned good soup. What is it?’

I picked up one of the menus written in Evelyn’s elegant hand. ‘
Potage de Crevettes
. That’s shrimps, isn’t it?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Ronald buttered another piece of toast.

The Falklands had proved a damp squid – or was it squib? – conversationally. ‘Do you know what inspissated means?’

‘Eh?’ He blinked his sandy lashes and stuck out the end of his tongue. ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ There was a pause. ‘Nasty blizzard,’ he announced when he’d got down his toast.

‘I agree it makes getting about difficult, but it’s so beautiful. This morning there was an icicle a foot long hanging from the eaves above my bedroom window. It’s supposed to be the perfect murder weapon. But not terribly convenient. What are the chances of the murderer, the victim and the icicle all being in the same place at once?’

Ronald looked at me as though he doubted my sanity. ‘M’father’s in a bate on account of the weather.’

‘Is he?’ I leaned forward so I could see Lord Dunderave, who was sitting on Evelyn’s right. He was slumped sideways with one arm on the table, his hand curled round a whisky glass. His lower lip was thrust out and his forehead was crumpled over his eyes. He looked about as furious as anyone could look without actually shouting and banging their fists. ‘Why?’

‘’Cause he can’t hunt, of course,’ explained Ronald. ‘That’s all m’father likes doing. Last season he killed twenty-four foxes and two horses. Bung me another bit of toast, would you?’

I removed the silver bread basket from beneath the archdeacon’s outstretched fingers.

‘You mean he
shot
the horses?’ I knew little of country
pursuits, but I had an idea that horse shooting was not
comme
il faut
, as Evelyn would say. However Lord Dunderave looked so horrible I was prepared to believe anything of him.

‘Oh no. Rode one into a ditch and the brute broke its neck. And the other into a plough some fool had left the other side of a hedge. I’m not that keen on hunting myself.’

I felt thoroughly disgusted. ‘I should think not!’

‘It’s expensive. M’father’s tight with my allowance. If I got married he’d have to stump up.’ Ronald looked across the table at Isobel, who was sitting between Conrad and the archdeacon. ‘I like shooting better than hunting. Does Isobel go out with the guns, d’you know?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘A girl can be useful. Picking up, holding the cartridges, that sort of thing. These days some of ’em actually shoot but I don’t like to see that. A girl ought to stay behind the line. I read in s’morning’s paper some of ’em even want to be vicars. Perish the thought! Vicars in knickers, the headline was,’ Ronald snorted with amusement. ‘Damn good, eh? Vicars in – ha-ha – knickers.’

Ronald lifted his upper lip and whickered like a horse. Evelyn sent me an approving glance. The soup was taken away and replaced by slices of very rare beef with braised celery and roast potatoes. I glanced timidly at my right-hand neighbour, Conrad’s man of business. I remembered that his name was Fritz. He was staring at the silver candlestick in front of him, his pink and white forehead wrinkled in thought.

‘Is this your first visit to Northumberland?’ I began.

‘No.’ He turned his eyes slowly to meet mine. They were large with curly eyelashes. He made a noise like
tsk
and looked quite alarmed. ‘That is, I desire to say – yes. Forgif me. My English is not good.’

‘It has an interesting history. For a long time it was a battleground between England and Scotland and they fought each other and stole each other’s cattle and Hadrian built a wall.’

‘Ah yes, I haf much about it read. Zo I do not English vell speak I can it read.’

I decided to give up the intellectual pose. ‘In that case you know much more about it than I do. We hardly did any history at school, only the Tudors and Stuarts about four hundred times. I’m a complete ignoramus really.’

‘Vat? You haf the English history of sixteen and seventeen centuries studied
four
hundred times? You must be most wise. And what is ignoramus? This word I do not know.’

‘Oh, it just means someone who doesn’t know anything. I expect it’s slang.’

‘Ah,
das ist sehr gut
.’ He brought out from his trousers pocket a notepad and a pencil. ‘Please, gracious miss, to spell it for me. I am most interesting in ze dialects of Englant.’

I spelt it for him and he solemnly wrote it down. ‘And it mean
s Unwissende
?
I am sure zat zis is not true of you.’ His mouth curled into a smile, dimpling his plump cheeks attractively. ‘May I ask it zat you me tell of ze English kings zat you haf so much studied? I like wery much King Charles II. A most witty and laughable man. I haf read soon ago about the Treaty of Breda vich as you vill know ended ze Second Dutch War. Vat zink you of zis policy?’

I laughed. ‘Honestly, Fritz, I can’t tell you anything. I’m a dancer. Ballet. That’s all I know about.’

‘Ho!
Das Ballett
?
I love ze ballet. And you it dance?
Wunderbar!
Please, tell me about you.’