'Yes, isn't it lovely? My husband gave it to me tonight,' she replied, with a somewhat forced smile, recalling the bitter mockery of his parting shot.
Admittedly Ash had paid her a graceful compliment when she came downstairs, but she still felt the wound of his scathing words in their bedroom.
They dined in the Chinese Parlour where, earlier, Emily had shown her the pipe enabling the beer once made on the Peacocks estate to be drawn in the dining-room. The room took its name from the wallpaper with its duck egg blue background and bright birds and insects flying about in a tracery of white foliage. An early English Axminster carpet, with a ground of the same soft blue, reflected the design of the ceiling.
Christie was surprised to find that she had been placed on Hugo's right. Seeing that Ash was on Emily's right at the other end of the long polished table, she supposed this to be in honour of their recent marriage.
On her right was a retired Brigadier, now a dedicated gardener, and on Hugo's left was a woman potter with, beside her, the theatrical designer. Celia Dane was near the centre of the table, on the same side as Ash, and thus unable to see or to be seen by him.
A deliberate strategy by Emily, Christie guessed. She had not failed to notice that Celia had monopolised Ash throughout the pre-dinner period. It might have been difficult for him to get away from her, but not impossible for a man of his aplomb.
Remembering Emily's remark about her reserve, Christie made a great effort to be more vivacious during dinner, and was rewarded by twice making her companions laugh at episodes during her teaching career.
She had expected the food to be even more delicious than at lunch, and it was.
'I think I should tell you that my beautiful, clever wife cooked everything we are eating tonight,' said Hugo, when they had begun the meal with French rarebit, the cheese flavoured with wine and garlic, with Cognac as well as Worcester sauce in it.
'I don't know how she does it. I can cope with six or eight, but twenty people would be beyond me,' said the potter, whose name was Angela.
Emily had confided to Christie that her culinary achievements were dependent on a French food processor, and a deep freezer which allowed her to stagger-the cooking for a special occasion.
'She's a disciple of some Frenchwoman who ran a cookery school in Paris about thirty years ago,' said Hugo.
'I wonder who that was?' Angela remarked, looking surprised.
Christie said, 'I think it must have been Simone Beck. As far as I know she is still alive. The school was called L'Ecole des Trois Gourmandes and one of her partners in the enterprise was an American, Julia Child, who is famous now as a television cookery demonstrator.'
Her guess was confirmed when the main course was served by Johnson and a team of women from the nearby village who were also the daily cleaners. It was turkey breasts baked with potatoes and cream, which Christie knew to be a Simone Beck adaptation of a classic presentation of veal.
Several times during dinner she noticed Hugo and his wife exchanging glances. Once he raised his glass of white wine in a wordless toast to the excellence of the meal they were enjoying.
The gesture made Christie remember Ash's remark in the car before their arrival:
They have achieved what I hope you and I will, some
day.
She would have liked to believe that he had meant the warmth of their love for each other. But a more realistic interpretation was that what he admired was the skilful way they had enhanced this beautiful old family house, and the gracious life style they enjoyed here.
Although Heron's Sound had fallen into a disrepair much more serious than the lack of any innovations imposed by Hugo's grandmother and father, it was not impossible to visualise Ash's Great House recovering its original splendours.
The turkey was followed by a caramelised apple tart accompanied by a custard cream delicately flavoured with almonds. No cheese was served. Emily had told Christie that, at an informal meal, she would serve cheese in place of a pudding. But in an era when most people disliked over-eating, she thought it unfair to tempt them to indulgences which they would regret the next day.
Nor, out of consideration for her helpers, did she let her guests linger at the table as was usually the case when they ate upstairs in the family room. Tonight coffee and liqueurs were served by Johnson in the drawing-room, in order that the table could be cleared and the very valuable Georgian silver returned to the strong-room for the night.
While people were forming new conversational groups, Christie was approached by a woman who said, 'I'm Beatrix Browning, Mrs Lambard. I'm intrigued by your skirt. I feel it must be Mexican.'
'It is,' Christie agreed, with a smile.
'I thought so; only the Mexicans seem to be able to combine all those vivid colours without any garish- ness. Are you by any chance a fellow needlepointer, to use your American term for what we call canvas work?'
'I'm afraid not. Nor am I American.'
'You're not? Oh, I'm sorry. I suppose I formed that impression because the Caribbean is a mainly American playground now, I believe, and also because you have the famous American bandbox look.'
'Do I?' said Christie, startled. 'Tell me about your needlework, Mrs Browning. I've been admiring the beautiful antique needlework in this house, and I know Lady Ffarington and Emily both do it.'
'All
the most civilised women do it,' answered Mrs Browning, with a laugh. 'You should try it. I'm sure you'd enjoy it. My daughter-in-law, who has to travel a great deal, says flying about the world would be unbearable were it not for her needlepoint. She always has a piece with her in case the plane is delayed, or she can't get to sleep on night flights.'
'Where could I buy the materials to try my hand at it?'
'In London, either at the Royal School of Needlework in Princes Gate, or there's an excellent shop in the Pimlico Road. Start with something small like a case for your sunglasses, or a coin purse.
Canvas work is extremely hard-wearing. I'm still using a spectacle case which I made over twenty years ago.'
'Did you recognise my skirt as Mexican because you've visited Mexico?' Christie asked her.
'No, I only wish I had. That's a treat which my husband and I are reserving for when he retires. At present we don't really have the time to go farther afield than Europe. Every five years we go back to Paris, which is where we spent our honeymoon. It was there, last spring, celebrating our thirtieth anniversary, that I came under the influence of Manuel Canovas, the French interior designer.'
'Manuel Canovas sounds a Spanish name.'
'It is. His father was Spanish, but his mother was a Frenchwoman and Manuel was born in France. If you're ever in Paris, you must go to his showroom. It's in the Rue de l'Abbaye, opposite the palace of Cardinal de Furstenberg. He designs the most enchanting fabrics and wallpapers and carpets; and now his wife, Sophie, who designs bed-linen and accessories, has opened a boutique in the Place Furstenberg. If I could refurnish my house, regardless of expense, I should use nothing but their designs. As a young man he spent two years in Rome and two in Mexico, and he was one of the first designers to bring Mexican colours to Europe. Before that nobody had thought of using vibrant combinations like pink, orange and red together.'
'My husband and I are just about to do up a house. Not regardless of expense,' Christie added, 'but perhaps we could splurge in the drawing-room. Is there anywhere in England where one can see Monsieur Canovas' designs, or are they only obtainable in Paris?'
'I feel sure they are available here, although I can't tell you where. But a firm I can recommend for beautiful fabrics in the English taste is Colefax and Fowler in Brook Street. All their chintzes are based on old designs. But of course, being English, you'll know them.'
'I've heard of them,' Christie agreed. 'But I imagine they're rather expensive. I've always subscribed to the maxim that it's better to have curtains made from yards of cheap fabric than to skimp on expensive fabric.'
'Oh, absolutely,' the other woman agreed. 'Did you know that one pair of silk curtains with a swagged pelmet can cost three thousand pounds? Or that mohair velvet is now eighty pounds a metre? But even very expensive material looks nothing if it's not properly lined and interlined.'
'I agree about the lining. I don't think interlining would be necessary where we live,' said Christie.
'Perhaps not in the bedrooms, but I should have it in your drawing-room curtains,' advised Mrs Browning. 'Interlining isn't only for warmth, you know. It absorbs noise, and protects the curtain from dust blown in when the windows are open. I'm rather an expert on the subject because we spent Christmas with some people whose daughter has made a profession of curtain-making in London. She does those elaborate festoon curtains which look so delightful in old houses, and Roman blinds, and swags and tails. She was telling me the ideal lining for bedroom curtains is something called Black Italian, and there's a finer than usual interlining called Domette., According to her, good curtains are such an investment that in about fifteen years' time one should be able to sell them for twice as much as they cost despite their being used in the meantime.'
Their conversation lasted for some time, and would have absorbed all Christie's attention had she not been conscious that Celia was again beside Ash. A wife who knew herself to be loved would not mind how many attractive women cast seductive glances at her husband, she thought, half listening to Mrs Browning. And a wife who did have some qualms, and more savoir-faire than she possessed, would probably wander over and nip the attempted flirtation in the bud.
Having always despised jealousy, Christie was unwilling to admit to the nature of her feelings when she saw Celia rest her hand on Ash's forearm.
Jealousy springs from possessiveness, and you and I would not
possess each other. Ours would be a marriage of companionship and
shared endeavours.
Since Ash had said that to her, the terms of their marriage had undergone a drastic change, and now he did possess her—entirely. It was too much to expect that she should remain indifferent when another woman threw out lures to him. Surely everyone must think it was very strange for a bridegroom to spend so much time with a woman with whom he was known to have had an affair?
To her relief, the next time she allowed her glance to stray in that direction, it was Hugo to whom Celia was talking in her affectedly emphatic style. Ash was now in another part of the room with two other men.
But Christie had a dispiriting feeling that he had not cut short the tête-à-tête with Celia. More than likely Emily or Lady Ffarington had discreetly suggested to Hugo that he should break it up.
About midnight, after several of the older guests had taken their leave, Lady Ffarington retired to bed. Late nights taxed her limited strength. But the younger Ffaringtons' contemporaries showed no inclination to break up a party which might, Christie gathered, continue well into the small hours, with more toffee or drinks being offered to the late- stayers.
At one o'clock she murmured to Emily, 'Would you think it rude if I went to bed? I believe I'm still suffering from jet-lag'—although this was merely an excuse. The flight east had not been as disruptive to her sleep pattern as the flight to Antigua before Christmas.
'Of course I don't mind,' said Emily, 'you should have gone earlier, Christie. Perhaps Ash is tired, too, although he does seem to be one of those people with almost inexhaustible energy. I think you'll find him in the library with Nicholas. They were going to refer to the encyclopaedia to settle an argument they were having.'
Without saying goodnight to anyone else, Christie slipped away. In the deserted hall, she paused, debating whether to seek out her husband. If she did, would he take it to mean that she wanted him to come with her for other purposes than sleep?
But if she did not, he would think it cowardice on her part; a deliberate avoidance of the act to which, as he well knew, she had ambivalent feelings of desire and dread.
Eventually, knowing that tired as she was it would be impossible to sleep until he came up, she made her way to the library. She wouldn't mention going to bed. She would merely sit in on their conversation, and leave the initiative to Ash.
Looking round the library earlier, she had breathed in the ineffable odour of hundreds of old leather bindings and thousands, perhaps even millions, of leaves of the handmade paper of earlier centuries.
She smelt it again as she quietly opened the heavy door. The library was almost in darkness. Only at the far end of the room was one reading lamp casting a pool of light on a table piled with old volumes.
Behind the table was the man who had been introduced to her as Nicholas Fitz-Something. On the nearer side, seated face to face in a pair of high-backed leather chairs, were her husband and Celia Dane.
The shaded glow from the lamp flattered Celia's broad-cheeked Slavic facial structure, and the hair which, dyed though it might be, was a very subtle silver-gilt blonde, in excellent condition. The slit in her dress had ridden up, revealing shapely legs which were crossed and slanted to one side to display them to their greatest advantage.
'. . . couldn't
bear
to be tied down. I'm for living life
free',
untrammelled by husbands and children, and the thousand and one
dreary
chores which the female flesh
still
seems to be heir to,' she was saying, as Christie paused on the threshold.
'Speaking of chores, I've promised to spend tomorrow chopping a tree down for my mother. I'd better be off,' said Nicholas. 'Goodnight, Lambard. Goodnight, Celia.'
Christie waited for Ash to stand up and say that he, too, had been thinking it was time to turn in. But he said only, 'Goodnight. I hope we'll meet again next time I'm over here.'
And the younger man walked towards the door, the other two stayed where they were, causing Christie swiftly to withdraw before Nicholas spotted her.