Magic Flutes

  ‘For God’s sake, Tessa, let me help. It would cost me nothing to reimburse you.’

  ‘No.’ The word was bleak, unadorned and final. ‘I have to do it myself, Guy. It’s not just the mess at the theatre – it’s the aunts too. I found out that they’ve been practically starving themselves so as not to spend the money I left in trust for them. Somehow, I have to find a way out.’

  She shivered a little in her cotton blouse and Guy picked up the shawl she had left on the bench and managed to wrap it round her without once letting his fingers come into contact with her shoulders, an achievement which gave him a certain satisfaction. She thanked him. Then, forcing her voice to be casual, she asked, ‘When is the wedding?’

  ‘On the fourteenth of November.’

  ‘Oh, so soon?’ She was staring down at the leaf which was still cupped in her hand. ‘I haven’t forgotten about the Lily,’ she went on. ‘I’ll see that she gets it. I promised.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you should. Nerine has enough jewels to sink a battleship.’

  ‘No . . . the Lily’s not like that. It’s special. I never cared for jewels but the Lily’s different. It’s so old, you see, so incredibly old. I can’t explain, but when you look at it you know . . . what went into its making.’

  She was like a lily herself, he thought: the pale head, the slender neck, the incorrigible elegance transcending whatever clothes she wore.

  ‘Is your foster-mother already at Pfaffenstein? Martha Hodge?’

  ‘Yes.’ Guy smiled. ‘She’s having a great time making friends in the village. Rudi eats out of her hand and grandmother Keller is teaching her some weird way of knitting socks.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad! I’m so glad!’ The elfin face was suddenly alight. ‘And Nerine, of course, will have—’

  Nerine doesn’t go into the village,’ he said tonelessly. ‘She’s afraid of catching an infection.’

  ‘An infection?’ Tessa’s hand had sprung to her throat. ‘Is their illness? Not typhus?’

  No, no, nothing like that. A few cases of measles, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Nerine is to be pitied, Tessa,’ he went on quietly.

  Nerine! But she has everything!’

  He shook his head. ‘She’s in love with her own beauty and with every hour that passes it fades a little. I’ve seen her, sometimes, looking in the mirror with panic in her eyes.’

  ‘“It is a fearful thing to love what time can touch”,’ quoted Tessa. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but they were right. I would have done better,’ Guy went on bitterly, ‘to have spent three days getting to know Nerine rather than buying her a castle. I was in love with the past, with my own splendid fidelity. But she is not to blame. She is what she always was: a lovely, wilful child. It is I who made her into something else. And because of this,’ he said wearily, ‘I cannot now reject her.’

  Tessa bowed her head. While she believed Guy to be infatuated, she could hope that he might wake. But he had already woken and still meant to keep his word, and so all hope was gone.

  As they stood there, close but never touching, the red squirrel came cautiously down the tree, made as if to scamper away again, then calmed by their stillness, jumped down and settled on the grass, holding a beechnut between his paws.

  ‘What was that word you taught me at Pfaffenstein?’ said Guy, his voice very low. ‘For a wild strawberry place? Smultronställe, was that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She did not ask why he enquired, for she saw in his face what he was saying. That this place, now, had become a smultronställe. That any place where they were together would be such a place, be it a railway station, a rainy street . . . ‘Here is my space’, Anthony had said to his Egyptian queen, meaning what Guy meant now.

  ‘Guy, when I came into the picture gallery at Pfaffenstein, when the aunts were telling you about the Lily . . . Nerine asked you then when you were born and you wouldn’t say. You said you didn’t know. But it was . . . Was it in June? Before the twenty-first? Are you a Gemini?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sighed, like a child reprieved from punishment. ‘I knew,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe in astrology, of course. It has to be nonsense. But all the same, I knew.’

  They had been together longer than they realized. It was dusk now and a very young moon had climbed between the trees, cradling the evening star.

  ‘I must go – the aunts will be worried. Guy, I don’t know if we will meet again, but—’ Her voice broke and she tried again. ‘Sometimes, when you’re alone and you look up at—’ Once more, she had to stop. Then she managed, ‘If I cannot be anything else . . . could I be your Star Sister? Could I at least be that?’

  Guy dug his nails into his palms. Everything in him rose in protest at the fey, romantic conceit. He did not want her in the heavens, linked to him by some celestial whimsy, but here and now in the flesh and after the death of the flesh, her hand in his as they rose from graves like these when the last trump sounded.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed to say. ‘You can be my Star Sister. You can at least be that.’

  He felt something on his wrist – a breath more than a touch – and looking down saw that she was laying the beech leaf, like a most precious gift, into his hands.

  Then she walked lightly away, pulling her shawl closer, and vanished like Giselle into the mist between the tombstones.

  ‘Did you find her, sir?’ asked David when Guy, with absolutely no recollection of the journey, reached Sachers.

  ‘Yes. But she won’t let me help her. God knows what will become of her. Unless—’ But the word ‘unless’ was more than he could bear. He turned away, then swung round once more to look intently into David’s eyes. ‘I never thought of that,’ he said slowly. ‘Would you have . . . David?’

  David flushed. But when he answered it was without prevarication, his head held high.

  ‘No, sir. I wouldn’t even have asked her. She never had eyes for anyone but you.’

  18

  Guy arrived at Pfaffenstein the following evening and setting aside the servants’ efforts to announce him, found Nerine and her relatives at dinner in the Spanish dining-room.

  Though a small party, they were dining in style. Light from two rows of candlesticks glowed on the walls of Morocco leather, the Goya portraits. An enormous silver epergne of writhing horsemen, which it took two footmen to lift, adorned the centre of the elaborately set table.

  ‘Guy, dear! We weren’t expecting you!’ Nerine was in white, diamond combs in her hair, one curl dancing on her throat in the way that had always enchanted him.

  ‘Let me introduce my family. This –’ Nerine’s voice took on an awed tone – ‘is my Aunt Dorothy. Mother you know, of course, but this is my Uncle Victor, my Uncle Edgar, my Cousin Clarence . . .’

  The men half-rose, the women inclined their heads. Guy bowed punctiliously and shook hands.

  His future in-laws at meat were an awesome sight and a disquieting one, for here and there on the dull and staring faces he could make out a curve of the lips, a line of the eyebrows which proclaimed unmistakably their kinship to Nerine. In sudden need of solace, he looked round and said, ‘Where’s Martha?’

  Silence. Nerine’s eyes slid away from his and she began to fiddle with her napkin ring.

  ‘Is she ill?’ Guy’s voice had sharpened. ‘Has something happened? Has there been an accident?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. Guy, you must be starving.’ She motioned to a footman. ‘Hans, another set of covers, please.’

  The digression was unsuccessful. ‘I asked you a question, Nerine. Be so kind as to answer it. Where is Martha?’

  It was Aunt Dorothy, throwing a glance of reproach at her dithering niece, who now replied.

  ‘Mrs Hodge is dining elsewhere. It was felt that she would prefer it.’

  ‘Where?’

  The question was put quietly. Guy had not moved and his hand did not even tighten on the chair-back where it lay. Yet bot
h footmen drew back, seeking the shelter of the sideboard, and Uncle Victor looked over his shoulder at the door.

  ‘In the place to which her station in society naturally calls her,’ said Aunt Dorothy. ‘And where she herself is most at home.’

  ‘And where is that?’ Guy’s voice was still gentle, reasonable, quiet.

  ‘In the kitchen, Guy.’ Nerine was holding his eyes, appealing to him. ‘She has made such friends with the servants and – Guy! Guy! What are you doing? Don’t, don’t—’

  Moving softly and seemingly quite relaxed, Guy had bent over and gripped the handles of the great silver epergne with its rearing horsemen. Then he slowly and steadily lifted it up and held it – to the incredulous gasps of the footmen – for a long moment above his head, before hurling it with demonic force against the window.

  ‘I thought you would prefer me not to hit you,’ he said pleasantly to Nerine.

  And without a backwards glance at the screaming women and the shattered glass, he left the room.

  A few minutes later he entered the castle kitchens.

  The spectacle which greeted him was not a particularly pitiful one. A long, scrubbed table ran the length of the room. Hams and salamis hung from the rafters; bright copper pans gleamed in the light of the roaring fire; the smell of onions, fresh bread and schweinebraten floated deliciously in the air. Rows of cheerful-looking men in white caps and apple-cheeked girls in snowy aprons were busy eating and cracking jokes. And in what was clearly the place of honour between the chef, Rudi, and old Otto who kept the wine cellar, sat Martha Hodge.

  ‘Aufstehen!’

  Guy’s barked order was superfluous. One glimpse of the Englishman as he stood in the doorway, and every person present had risen to their feet.

  ‘Not you, Martha,’ said Guy softly. ‘It is not necessary for you to rise.’

  But she was already standing and as she faced him he saw, unmistakably, the hurt and distress clouding her gentle eyes.

  ‘Fetch the head steward.’

  ‘Jawohl, gnädiger Herr!’ Rudi almost ran out through the vaulted doors and reappeared seconds later with the castle’s most senior domestic servant.

  ‘I am at your disposal, Herr Farne,’ said the old man, bowing his head.

  ‘Who gave the order that Frau Hodge was to eat with the servants?’ And as the man hesitated, ‘I asked you a simple question. Answer it!’

  ‘The order was given by Frau Hurlingham, gnädiger Herr. She came with the other lady, the one who is her aunt, but the order came from her.’

  ‘Thank you. You may go.’

  In goggle-eyed silence, the servants waited for further explosions. But Guy now smiled charmingly and addressing the chef said, ‘You will have to move over, Rudi, and lay another place. I shall be dining here today.’ He wandered over, lifted the lid of the soup tureen and sniffed. ‘Erbsen suppe!’ he said appreciatively – and settling himself comfortably beside Martha, took the bowl and spoon proffered by an awed kitchen-maid, ladled out an enormous helping and began to eat.

  That night, Guy slept little. It had become necessary to take certain decisions. Hitherto, his chivalry had been directed towards Nerine, whom it was necessary to protect from the consequences of his own disillusionment. Now it turned to the protection of Martha Hodge.

  That Martha’s own humility was such as to make it impossible for Nerine to wound her, that she regarded her banishment to the kitchens as not of the slightest consequence was something Guy was temperamentally incapable of perceiving. He had seen her hurt. Unaware that her pain was entirely for him and his unhappiness, he decided to act.

  But how? Outside an owl hooted, a clock struck two, and still he sat sprawled in a carved chair, frowning in thought. Every so often, he irritably flicked away, like the ash from his cigar, an image which nevertheless continued to recur: that of Witzler’s little brat emerging from under his father’s desk to lift a tear-stained face to Guy.

  ‘What the devil?’ thought Guy, who less than most men concerned himself with the tantrums of young children.

  Then suddenly he sat up. Of course! He reached for a notebook and pencil, jotted down a few instructions and, ten minutes later, was asleep.

  At six-thirty he woke David.

  ‘Go to Vienna,’ he ordered. ‘Contact Witzler. Tell him I want to see him at the Klostern Theatre tomorrow at three o’clock, with all the stage-hands and technical staff. Not the singers. Say nothing to anyone. And wait for me there.’

  Nerine had dreaded meeting Guy at breakfast, but he was friendly and courteous and made no reference to the events of the previous night. Curiously, his loss of temper had made her more determined than ever to go on with the marriage, for the caveman streak he had shown was not entirely displeasing. It had always struck her as odd that men, having admired her beauty, then wished to destroy it by ‘The Act’ which alas inevitably followed marriage and which left her, however calmly she tried to take it, dishevelled and not at her best. But if the thing had to happen – and she had lived long enough to have no doubt of this – then better by far that it should be with someone like Guy, with his saturnine looks and power, than poor Frith whose freckled knees and sandy, thinning hair, made the thought of ‘All That’ particularly uninviting.

  So she apologized and promised to reinstate Martha in the dining-room, an action made easier by the fact that Guy’s foster-mother had made clear her determination to return to Newcastle as soon as the wedding was over and to stay there.

  ‘That’s all right, Nerine.’ Guy, though obviously ready to forgive, looked absent-minded, even anxious. ‘Look, my dear, I’ve had some bad news this morning. It seems as though there are problems with some of my investments.’

  Nerine paled. ‘Guy! Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘No, no. Absolutely nothing to worry about. Only I’m afraid I have to be away for a few days to see to things. You just go on preparing for the wedding. And don’t listen to rumours – have faith, won’t you?’

  With these disquieting words, he left her. What he told Martha before he left, Nerine did not discover. It was certainly not to have faith, for that Martha would have faith in him was something Guy had known since he was six years old.

  By lunch-time he had left, with Morgan, leaving Thisbe in charge – and no word came for several days.

  ‘What,’ said Tante Tilda faintly, ‘is that?’

  Tessa looked hurt. ‘It’s my wedding dress,’ she said.

  The aunts exchanged glances of anguish.

  ‘Theresa, you are getting married, not buried,’ said Tante Augustine, standing with her back to the streaming window of Spittau’s state bedroom with its view of the vast and heaving lake. ‘Where did you get such a dress?’

  ‘From wardrobe.’ Tessa’s small head, with its wisp of veiling, emerged from the folds of the gargantuan and slightly dusty garment like a snowdrop surmounting an igloo. ‘Herr Witzler said I could take anything I liked. It’s from Lucia di Lammermoor, but it’s not bloodstained. It’s the nightdress that’s bloodstained. She goes off after the wedding feast, you see, and it is then that she murders Arturo.’

  Though presumably grateful for the information, the faces of the aunts continued to reflect complete despair, and another drop of water seeped through the leak in the ceiling and plopped into the Meissen soup tureen beneath. Maxi’s compensation had been agreed but not yet paid, and though Spittau would soon be warm and dry, the autumn rains were making things a little trying.

  ‘It’s not the bloodstains I was worrying about,’ said Tante Augustine, returning to the attack. ‘It’s the size.’

  ‘I’m going to take it up,’ said Tessa soothingly.

  ‘And in. Like, perhaps, three metres,’ said Tante Tilda, unaccustomedly caustic.

  ‘Yes.’ Tessa was gazing at her reflection in the mildewed mirror with every appearance of satisfaction.

  ‘Tessa, please let us buy you a proper dress. There is still time.’

  But the economy game played
by the aunts was being turned against them with a vengeance.

  ‘No. It’s bad enough coming to Maxi without a dowry but I don’t want to waste any more money. You’ll see, it will look very nice. She picked up a flounce of the massive garment and as she did so the Spittau ruby, plucked from the crown of Horsa the Red in 1343, rolled from her engagement finger on to the floor.

  Without stooping, Tante Augustine fielded it with the tip of her cane. It was an accomplishment which she had perfected having had, in the eight days of Tessa’s engagement, a great deal of practice.

  ‘And anyway, Heidi will look lovely – her mother’s made her the prettiest bridesmaid’s dress ever! She’s coming in a minute to pin me; I’ll get her to show it to you.’

  The information that Maxi was to become the happiest of men had reached him by letter, during the last week of October. Tessa’s instructions had been clear and businesslike. If he still wished it, she was ready to be married. She would like the wedding to be quick – if possible before the middle of November – and quiet, with as few relatives as possible. If he had meant what he said about asking Father Rinaldo to officiate she would be very grateful, he was so understanding and unfussy. And she was bringing Heidi Schlumberger along to be bridesmaid.

  ‘A common dancing girl as bridesmaid!’ shrieked the Swan Princess when the contents of the letter had been read aloud to her.

  ‘Yes, I must say it’s a bit much,’ said Maxi, for once in agreement with his mother.

  But Tessa, when he telephoned her, was unrelenting. If he and his mother were too snobbish to welcome Heidi, the marriage was off.

  The dismay of Maxi and his mother was nothing to that of Heidi herself when she heard of the honour that was to befall her.

  ‘No, please, Tessa – please not me! I don’t know how to behave with all those grand people. There must be someone of your own kind to ask.’