Mad About the Boy? (3 page)

‘Not now, Jack. The poor girl's waiting.'

Haldean turned to where Squeak Robiceux was standing. She looked lovely, if uncharacteristically nervous. Her fair hair was dressed with a pink ribbon embroidered with pearls that perfectly set off the pearls of her necklace and the pink and cream of her ballgown. She saw his glance and smiled, a quick, rather tentative smile. Haldean's conscience bit him. Poor old Squeak must have spent ages getting ready and it wasn't too much for the girl to expect someone to dance with her. He liked the Robiceux twins. They were old friends of Isabelle's and she'd often told him how the virtually indistinguishable twins had enlivened the dull life of school. And now Squeak was on her own; it must be rotten for her, especially as she'd been so looking forward to the ball.

‘Of course I'll dance with Squeak,' he said. ‘It's a pleasure.'

‘Good-oh.' Isabelle turned as a man hovered respectfully beside her. ‘The next dance, Ronnie? That's spoken for, I'm afraid.' She flashed out a melting, if artificial, smile. ‘You can have the fourth one from now if you like.'

Ronnie Hawthorne coloured with pleasure. ‘I say, that's awfully good of you.'

‘Not at all.' She looked round to find Haldean still there and switched off the smile. ‘Please, Jack. You promised.'

Haldean duly danced.

It was a good three-quarters of an hour afterwards, during which he had Waltzed, Shimmied, Glided, Jog-Trotted and Missouri Walked, that Lady Rivers approached.

‘Jack, there's a peculiar-looking man at the door,' she said, drawing him away. ‘He's asking for your Uncle Alfred and I can't find him anywhere. I can't ask Philip to help. He's far too busy and the servants have all got their hands full. Will you take care of this man until we find Alfred? I can't have him wandering all over the house and he didn't seem to understand anything I said to him. He's certainly not English. Goodness knows where Alfred came across him, but he's definitely odd. I left him in the hall.'

‘I'll see to him, Aunt Alice. Don't worry.'

Haldean lit a cigarette and walked out of the brilliant, noisy ballroom into the empty, shadowy house, hearing the music fade behind him. His weak leg, a souvenir of the war, throbbed warningly and it was a relief to stop dancing for a while. He could feel quite grateful to Alfred Charnock's visitor, no matter how odd. Almost by definition, any visitor for Isabelle's Uncle Alfred could be described as odd. Alfred Charnock was Aunt Alice's stepbrother, and, although well over forty, stalked through life like a lean panther with a dark, moody charm which he used to wind otherwise sensible women round his finger. Not only that, it was Charnock who had introduced Lord Lyvenden to Uncle Phil and that was probably his worst offence to date. He had been living at Hesperus for months now, having come to grief, so he said, in the City. And whatever scheme Charnock had been involved in, it was bound to be dodgy, Haldean thought uncharitably. There was a mysterious blank about what he'd done in the war, too. Isabelle had a typically romantic reason for his silence.
Russia! And they're still after him!

But there might, thought Haldean, pausing at the pillared doorway to the now deserted hall and summing up Charnock's visitor, be some truth in the Russian story after all. For the man slumped on the settle was certainly a Slav. He had high cheekbones and hair so fair it was nearly white, and he wore knee-length boots and a short leather jacket which were obviously foreign. His age might have been anything from twenty-five to well over thirty. Haldean coughed and the man turned a pair of hard, pale blue eyes to his.

‘Al-fred Char-nock?' The man picked over the syllables of the name carefully. ‘You are Al-fred Char-nock, yes?'

Before Haldean could answer, Charnock himself came down the stairs into the hall. He stopped short, then crossed to the settle, snapping out a sentence in a language Haldean didn't understand. Although the meaning was obscure, the emotion was transparent. Charnock was furious. The Slav looked sullenly at the floor, spat, and gestured towards Haldean in the shadow of the doorway.

Charnock whirled, forcing a smile. ‘Jack! Been here long?'

Haldean shook his head. ‘I've just arrived. Aunt Alice asked me to take care of your visitor until you could be found.'

Charnock cocked his head and rapped out another sentence to the man, receiving a grunted reply. Then he relaxed. ‘Thanks, Jack. Good of you to bother. I'm going to have to go out for a while.' He indicated the Slav. ‘This is an old friend of mine. I came across him in the war. He's a bit up against it. I'll have to go and see if I can get him a bed for the night. I won't inflict him on Alice. She's got enough to do and I don't want to trouble her. Can you ask Egerton to leave the side door unbolted? I may be some time.' Charnock rapidly escorted the man out of the front door, leaving Haldean to close it after him.

And what, thought Haldean, turning back to the ballroom, was all that about? Old friend be blowed. Old friends could be counted on to recognize one another and it was clear the Slav had not known Charnock. So who the devil was he? And why did Charnock want him out of the house so urgently? Giving Aunt Alice any trouble was something which had never bothered Charnock in the past. No. For some reason Charnock had been very anxious that Aunt Alice shouldn't see any more of the man than was necessary. Why?

In the ballroom, Arthur Stanton was leaning by the door. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Hesperus reminded him of home before it had all been broken up and sold. He had lived twenty miles up the coast and was touched to find his father's name still affectionately remembered. He took a great delight in the everyday conversations around him. No one had mentioned Flanders or the war or illness, just solid, ordinary things such as the weather and crops and dogs. He had a great yearning to be part of this world once more, with a house and some land and settled, reliable tasks in front of him and all . . .
all that
so firmly behind that he need never think of it again. Then Isabelle walked towards him and, as he saw her smile, contentment changed to delight.

She grinned at him conspiratorially. ‘Arthur, do you want to save a human life?'

Her smile was exhilarating. ‘That sounds rather a good idea. Whose?'

‘Mine.'

Stanton felt a glow of sheer pleasure. ‘I'll say. What do I have to do?'

She leaned forward. ‘Meet me by the stone seat at the end of the terrace with some cigarettes and a cocktail. Make sure mine's got plenty of gin in it. I'm going to die if I have to spend another minute in here.' She turned as a cry of ‘Isabelle! My dear!' sounded behind her. ‘Mrs Gavinthorpe!' she said with every appearance of sincerity. ‘How lovely to see you again!' She tipped him a wink as she swept away.

She'd chosen
him.
Not Jack or Tim or any of the other dozens of men in the ballroom or even Smith-Fennimore, with whom she'd danced far too often that evening, but
him
! He fetched the drinks, went out on to the terrace and took a deep breath as he saw her shadowy figure come towards him. The light and music of the ball spilling through the open french windows seemed distant and remote, as if they belonged to another world. A brilliant moon chequered the house and gardens in black and silver. A man laughed and the sound was far away.

‘Are those the cocktails?' asked Isabelle, unethereally enough. She took a substantial drink and sighed. ‘Thank God for gin.' She looked at his face and laughed. ‘Oh dear, I've shocked you.'

‘No, you haven't,' said Stanton, nettled. ‘I've seen you drink cocktails dozens of times.'

‘Ah yes, but that was in London and what goes on in London, so I've been told, won't do here. Have you got a cigarette? Thanks. I need it.'

‘Whatever have they been bothering you about?' asked Stanton. He sat beside her and lit her cigarette. ‘I'm sorry, they're only gaspers. Shall I get you something else?'

She shook her head and put her hand on his arm. ‘No, don't go. To be honest, I just wanted some time off. I've had to be so nice to so many people, it all got to be a bit of a strain. I've danced with at least three old relics of about ninety-six and been ever so polite, even though one smelt of snuff, one trod on my dress and the other told me about every ball he'd been to since the Crimea. At that point I saw you and thought of gin. I knew you'd be a sport. Goodness knows where Jack's got to and Tim's spent the evening either glued on to Bubble Robiceux or running errands for Lord Lyvenden.'

Stanton coughed. ‘What about Smith-Fennimore?' If there was an edge to his voice, she didn't notice it. Her hand seemed to burn through the cloth of his sleeve.

‘Malcolm? I like Malcolm, but . . .' She sipped her drink reflectively. ‘He's difficult to relax with. I could never imagine being out here with him and simply having a drink and a cigarette.' She looked at Stanton affectionately and squeezed his arm. ‘You're different. You're a very easy person to be with.'

There were so many mixed messages in this speech that Stanton baulked at working them out. He let the tangle of thought go and smoked in silence, feeling her warm presence beside him. He was afraid to break the spell and yet . . . An owl hooted in the distance and a rustle close by suggested it would not hunt in vain. Surely this was the moment? She'd said she felt happy with him.

Isabelle stood up and threw away the stub of her cigarette, watching it firefly into darkness. ‘I'd better be getting back, I suppose.'

The moonlight caught the nape of her neck, the skin of her shoulders and the delicate angle of her jaw. Stanton scrambled to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Please don't go.' As she turned to face him, her hand lightly holding his, his stomach turned to water.

‘Arthur?' For once she looked absolutely serious and it made him, if possible, love her even more. ‘Arthur, please don't.'

‘I've got to,' he insisted. ‘I love you.' He'd said it. He'd tried to say it for months. ‘I love you. There's never been anyone like you, Isabelle. I'm asking you to marry me. You must know I love you.' He reached out and touched her face with the palm of his hand. She said nothing, but looked at him with such compassion that he knew what her answer was. He strapped down the numbing feeling of desperation and stroked her cheek gently, pleading with his eyes. Slowly she shook her head and Stanton felt his world start to splinter round him.

‘I'm sorry,' she said quietly. ‘We're friends, Arthur. I don't want to hurt you. I never did want to hurt you.'

He dropped his hand and drew a deep breath. ‘No. It's no, isn't it?'

She moved impulsively then was still once more. ‘I'm sorry.'

He met her eyes squarely. ‘Sorry? You've got nothing to be sorry for.' Again she moved towards him but this time he drew back. Then, on an impulse, he took her hand, raised it to his lips and gently kissed her fingertips. ‘You'd better go.'

There was a quick look of concern in her eyes. ‘You will be all right, won't you?'

He straightened up, put his shoulders back, and made himself smile. ‘Of course. I'll sit in the garden and eat worms. Off you go, before they send search parties for you.'

She gave a smile of relief. ‘I'm so glad we can still be friends.' She walked away, glanced round once, hesitated, and went into the house.

He watched after her, smiling faintly, but as soon as she had gone he collapsed on the stone seat and lowered his head into his hands. For minutes he sat there unmoving, then rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes. With clumsy, shaking fingers he pulled out his cigarette case and tried to open it. The cigarettes spilled out on to the stone flags. He watched them dully before slamming the case shut with unnecessary violence and thrusting it back in his pocket. ‘Damn!' he said faintly, then, louder, ‘Damn!' He got up and strode back to the house.

The noise of the ball assaulted his ears. He couldn't face it. Not yet. He walked along the terrace, into the deserted dining room and so into the hall.

Tim Preston was on the stairs. ‘Arthur! Would you believe it? Lyvenden's done it
again
! He's forgotten his cigarette case this time and sent me to fetch it. What d'you say to that?'

Stanton, unable to trust his voice, couldn't say anything and nodded a reply. He drifted back to the ballroom and leant against the oak panelling, his eyes automatically searching for Isabelle. He couldn't see her. What did it matter, anyway?

‘I was wondering where you'd got to, Arthur.' It was Haldean. ‘We've just got time to get a drink and wedge ourselves in somewhere to see these blessed fireworks.'

He took in Stanton's strained face. He couldn't ask
Are you all right?
Stanton obviously wasn't, but he wouldn't be any happier for having it pointed out. ‘I gather the correct attitude is to stand around in slack-jawed wonder making ‘Ooh' noises at appropriate intervals.' He knew he was talking to fill up the gaps, but Stanton seemed relieved by the fact that he hadn't, apparently, noticed anything. He steered his friend across the room and out on to the terrace. ‘That's better. We'll get a decent view from here. Hello, here's the Master of Ceremonies, old Lyvenden himself.' More gap-filling. ‘He looks even redder than usual. Must be rotten, being fat in a crush like this.' He was bordering on inanity, but he guessed it was helping. ‘Oh, God have mercy, he's going to make a speech. We might have known he couldn't resist the opportunity.'

The entire party followed Lord Lyvenden and Lady Harriet outside on to the lawn. Haldean wedged himself beside the french windows and gave himself up to the dubious pleasure of listening to Lyvenden's raptures on This Happy Occasion of his hosts' Argent Anniversary.

Haldean grinned in involuntary appreciation and settled back to enjoy the speech. The florid always made him smile and Lord Lyvenden had struck a rich vein. Lord Lyvenden, it appeared, was happy (
great and unalloyed gratification
) to be here. Lord Lyvenden hoped that everyone else was equally happy
(share my jubilation)
and offered his congratulations
(heartfelt felicities)
to Sir Philip and Lady Rivers. He humbly offered, as a small token of his regard, a display of fireworks, or, as he preferred to phrase it,
These Polychromatic Pyrotechnics,
a phrase that reduced Haldean to discreet hiccups of laughter.