Matthew said, ‘Um.’ Above them a sash window slammed shut. He said, ‘Ah!’
Henry, approaching across the lawn, waved an arm. He jumped up the steps onto the terrace as Barbara and Antonia came out through the french windows. Antonia wore a bemused expression; Barbara looked slightly stunned. When they saw Henry the girls’ expressions changed to cautious doubt. Antonia slid her arm through Matthew’s; Barbara barely resisted taking hold of James’s hand.
Henry said, ‘Well now, who is for a drink before supper? I bet you girls could do with a resuscitating swig.’ He looked at them quizzically. ‘What do you two virgins think of my wife’s brothel decor?’ he asked.
‘A drink would be splendid,’ said Matthew.
‘Excellent idea,’ said James.
Barbara looked down her nose, displeased at being called a virgin.
As they moved into the house Antonia said in Matthew’s ear, ‘It is like a brothel. I’ve never been in one, but it’s exactly what I would imagine a brothel to be.’
James, accepting Barbara’s hand sliding into his as they followed the others into the house, said, ‘Tell me what happened; I can’t wait to hear.’
Barbara said, ‘Not now. Later, when we’re alone.’
FIVE
MATTHEW HAD ALLOCATED THE weekend at Cotteshaw as propitious for his proposal. Antonia was the kind of girl he had always intended marrying. Pretty without being too pretty, able to make a joke as well as see one, intelligent but not brainy, she could hold her own in conversation and was a good listener. Among the girls of his acquaintance he had marked her out as the most likely to suit when he realized that her father, John Lowther, was the John Lowther of Lowthers Steel. John Lowther had sent his sons to Eton and Antonia to a good but unflashy school. The Lowther ménage was exemplary; there was no observable hint of discord or divorce, no suggestion of financial scandal. The Lowthers, having noticed a loosening of morals during and since the war among their contemporaries, wished time for their daughter so that she could avoid making mistakes. They had insisted, as had the parents of Antonia’s friend Barbara O’Malley, that Antonia, now grown-up, should earn her living at a worthwhile job before binding herself into marriage and motherhood. There was plenty of time, they thought, no need to rush; she was very young and certainly virgin.
Allowing himself to fall in love with Antonia, Matthew was not as sanguine as her parents that Antonia would observe the status quo. Thinking things over while on his business trip to Dusseldorf, he had decided that her youth was no barrier and that he would charge himself with her virginity before it slipped to someone else. Watching Antonia at supper on their first evening at Cotteshaw, he decided not to risk delay. Whatever her parents might think, Antonia—in his opinion—was not in need of time.
They had eaten supper in the kitchen sitting at the kitchen table, Pilar at its head with a space between herself and Ebro, Matthew and James opposite their girls. Henry, taking his place next to Pilar, glanced at the empty space and asked, ‘Is Trask not coming?’
Ebro said, ‘He took the supper tray up, but he wanted to go owling. I will fetch it presently.’
Henry said, ‘All the more for us, then. That soup smells good, Pilar. My wife’—he let his eyes rest on the girls—‘has her meals in bed.’
Matthew observed Antonia cast a quick glance at Barbara before looking down, her cheeks flushing.
Henry went on, ‘I must thank you two for making my wife laugh. We heard your laughter from the terrace. I supposed,’ he said, his eyes travelling from Barbara to Antonia, ‘that since you laughed, my wife laughed with you?’ His remark took the form of a question.
Antonia ate a spoonful of soup and remained mute. Barbara, barely audible, muttered, ‘She hasn’t much to laugh about.’
Henry smiled, watching the girls. Pilar, holding up a ladle, suggested, ‘More soup?’
Henry said, ‘Yes, please,’ and passed his plate. Matthew and Ebro had second helpings too. Henry was heard to murmur, ‘Forget my wife,’ between mouthfuls of soup.
James, who had finished his soup and regretted not accepting a second helping, asked, ‘What is this about owls?’
‘Barn owls,’ said Henry. ‘Trask is mad about birds. He is watching a pair who are nesting in one of my barns. He is also rather keen,’ Henry began to laugh, ‘on my investing in more cockatoos; he says our one and only is solitary and bored. In the wild they live in flocks. You met him, I think?’ he addressed the girls.
Antonia looked up from her plate. ‘Yes, he made us jump.’ She stared at Henry.
‘Made us both jump,’ said Barbara, staring too. ‘Then it slid down the banisters.’
‘He is amused when he does that,’ said Henry. ‘Frightening you must have been a bonus.’ He looked from Barbara to Antonia, sizing them up. ‘He is not liked by my wife,’ he said. ‘It is difficult, when choosing presents for her, to know what, other than bed, she does like.’ James, who had been looking vaguely uncomfortable, gave a barking laugh. Henry ignored James. ‘And she can only occupy one bed at a time, so she is bored and solitary. But it was good,’ he said, resting his eyes on Antonia, ‘that you made her laugh.’
‘We laughed. She didn’t,’ said Barbara.
Everyone sat in silence for some moments.
It had not been a happy meal, Matthew thought, as he managed to separate Antonia from the others and walk her out into the garden. Pilar had kept up some sort of chat as they ate roast duck, green peas and new potatoes and the girls, remembering their manners, had discussed the cinema with Ebro while they ate raspberries and cream. Once off, Ebro showed himself to be a considerable chatterer. Henry, having made everyone uncomfortable by his snide references to his wife, had sat watchful and silent. James, one of those rare people born with an upturned, perpetually smiling mouth, had chipped into the cinema talk with obvious half-heartednesss and I, thought Matthew, taking Antonia’s arm, found myself feeling bloody angry for some unknown reason.
‘You seem,’ he said to Antonia, ‘you and Barbara, to have developed an instant rapport with our host.’
‘Rapport?’ said Antonia. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Matthew, ‘that you kept staring at him and if you caught his eye, you certainly, I can’t speak for Barbara, blushed.’
‘It was the wine,’ said Antonia. ‘I really shouldn’t drink; some wines make me go red and I did not stare. I cannot, of course, speak for Barbara.’
Matthew said, ‘Don’t be like that.’
Antonia said, ‘Like what?’
Matthew said, ‘You did stare, I was watching you.’
Antonia said, ‘Feel my cheeks.’
They were now well away from the house. Matthew took Antonia’s face between his hands. ‘Oh, Antonia.’ He was moved; her skin had the texture of fresh mushrooms. He said, ‘I apologize.’
‘So I didn’t stare?’
‘You didn’t stare.’ He held her face lightly. ‘Are you still affected by the wine?’
‘Don’t think so. Why?’
‘Will you marry me? Now don’t answer if you are at all squiffy.’
‘I am not. Yes, I will.’ Antonia put her arms round Matthew’s neck. ‘Gladly,’ she said.
In the tree above them the cockatoo raised its crest and shrieked, shifting its weight from one foot to the other.
Matthew said, ‘Christ! And Henry talks of buying more of them.’
‘I think Henry must be mad.’ Antonia doubled up laughing.
‘What makes you think that?’ Matthew did not want to discuss Henry. Henry had no place in this proposal of marriage. He kissed Antonia’s open mouth, slid his fingers over her ears to feel the texture of her hair. ‘Let’s go and sit on that seat over there,’ he said, ‘and talk about us.’ He led Antonia across the grass and sat her on a garden seat. ‘I have never asked anyone else to marry me,’ he said.
‘I should hope not. I am unique,’ said Antonia.
‘Henry may be a bit eccentric,’ sa
id Matthew, circling his arm round Antonia until his hand covered a breast, ‘but he’s got his head screwed on. Why d’you suggest he’s mad?’ He tried to decide whether Antonia’s nipple had hardened.
Antonia covered his hand with her own, cupping her breast more conclusively in his grasp. ‘Put the other one in your other hand,’ she said.
Matthew complied. Antonia’s breasts were just the right size, he thought. He said, ‘Darling, I am so happy.’
Antonia said, ‘Me too,’ turning her face sideways to kiss his neck. ‘You smell nice,’ she said.
Across the lawn the cockatoo screeched again.
‘It sounds as though it’s screaming “cuckoo, cuckoo”,’ said Matthew.
‘You have a vivid imagination,’ said Antonia. ‘It screeches, that’s all.’ She leaned back against Matthew. ‘Look,’ she said. The cockatoo was scrambling slowly down the trunk of the tree; six feet from the ground it let itself drop. They watched it waddle and hop towards the house. ‘What a creepy present to give his wife,’ said Antonia. ‘It sort of glows in the dark.’
‘Henry tries his best,’ said Matthew.
‘Ho,’ said Antonia.
‘What d’you mean, ho?’
‘You should have heard what she told us about him.’
Matthew said, ‘And what was that?’
‘The story of their marriage and courtship.’
‘I am courting you.’ Matthew was sick of Henry, sick of Henry’s wife. He kissed the back of Antonia’s neck, nuzzling under her hair.
‘Have you ever been to a brothel?’ Antonia asked.
Matthew stiffened. ‘Certainly not. Why d’you ask?’
‘Have you seen Henry’s wife’s room? I think your friend Henry is a Bluebeard who keeps Margaret shut in there for his personal use, his—er—pleasure, when he feels like it.’
Matthew, feeling that Henry would be with them until Antonia got him off her mind, said, ‘You’d better tell me what she told you. I’ve only met her once. She was pretty offensive.’
‘She seems to have plenty to be offensive about.’ Antonia snuggled against Matthew. ‘I am so glad I am marrying you,’ she said.
‘Oh, darling, darling, I am more than happy, I am—well, everything that’s wonderful.’
‘More than can be said for that poor woman up there in her private brothel—’
‘Oh, God,’ said Matthew, sitting up straight. ‘This is a unique occasion between you and me. Do we have to include the Tillotsons?’ His mind went back to Antonia’s covert glances at supper, swift looks at Henry under her lashes between spoonfuls of soup. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you had better tell me about Margaret; your visit to her seems to be preying on your mind. Get it off your chest.’
‘You seem to like my chest.’
‘Get cracking.’
Antonia giggled. ‘Very well, I will. She was very rude at first. We nearly walked out. Then she told us how she has her room redecorated; she gets a firm down from London. It’s really weird. From that she started in on marriage, hers. Apparently she was married to some fiend who beat her, before she met Henry. She managed to divorce him and then, coming across Henry, she befriended him.’ In the dusk Matthew raised his eyebrows. ‘And Henry fell arse over tip in love with her—’
‘Where did you hear that expression?’ asked Matthew, displeased.
‘One of my brothers.’
‘Well, don’t use it. Go on.’
‘Ho,’ said Antonia.
‘Go on.’
‘All right. Well, Henry pestered her and pestered her to marry him and she finally gave in. He brought her here and expected her to like horses and so on. He never lets her buy clothes, only nightdresses. She exists by ordering things by mail. The room is full of catalogues. Her only amusement is having her room redecorated; she’s got pretty awful taste, poor thing. She even paints her nails gold; the whole room is gold. She asked me to paint her nails. I jibbed at that. She never sees anybody apart from the daily lady and Pilar and Ebro and Trask.’
‘Does she read?’
‘I didn’t see any books. She has a radio. Honestly, Matthew, it’s the cruellest set-up I’ve ever heard of.’
‘She has bed and board,’ said Matthew, ‘and a husband.’
‘A husband who presumably comes in when he feels like it and, and, you know.’
‘I don’t think there is any question of that,’ said Matthew.
‘Gosh.’
‘Yes—well.’
‘And she hadn’t heard a whisper about the dinner party in the garden and if she had she still would have nothing to wear.’
‘What a gullible little darling you are.’ Matthew hugged her.
‘I am not.’
‘If you believe all that, you’ll believe anything.’
‘Barbara did.’
‘That makes two.’
‘Brute, I shall give you back your ring.’
‘I haven’t given you one yet.’
‘Are you suggesting I—’
‘I don’t know, darling. I don’t know Henry all that well. I’ve stayed a couple of weekends; I’ve met his wife once. I don’t believe she is ill. The only thing I happen to know is that Ebro does all the redecorating; he is training to be an interior decorator.’
‘In London?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So that wasn’t a lie.’
‘Half.’
‘Oh.’ Antonia was thoughtful.
‘I suggest,’ said Matthew, ‘that if you girls are all that interested, you ask Henry for the truth of it.’
‘Maybe I will,’ said Antonia.
Matthew wished he had not made this suggestion. ‘Can we get back to you and me?’ he asked. ‘When shall we marry? Where shall we spend our honeymoon? Where shall we live? How many children shall we have—?’
‘Steady on,’ said Antonia. ‘Let’s start with the engagement ring. I like rubies.’
‘And you are virtuous,’ Matthew ventured.
‘Of course I am.’ Antonia hugged him. ‘Darling, darling Matthew.’ There’s a trousseau to choose, she thought. A house to find. What fun! I can stop going to my office and all that rush in the mornings and the horrible journey home on the tube. ‘I shall try and make you happy,’ she said.
‘That will be no problem,’ said Matthew. ‘I am happy now. It will only get more so.’
SIX
JAMES MARTINEAU HAD ENJOYED his supper. Pilar was a good cook. Eating the roast duck, he compared the meal with previous meals at Cotteshaw, each in its way excellent. As he ate the duck and watched Barbara, he remembered the weekend a year ago when he had brought Valerie with him. There had still been some small possibility that she would stop messing about and make up her mind.
Valerie had stopped messing about and she had made up her mind. Putting paid to any residue of hope he might have had, she had married a man richer, more intelligent and better-looking than himself. Savouring the peas, James remembered Valerie: he had been so very much in love!
During that weekend Valerie had chatted and joked, made herself interesting, drawn Henry out. Yet Valerie had not been invited upstairs to meet Margaret. Remembering Valerie, and the awful pain of disappointment, James determined, as he ate his pudding, never again to allow himself to be so vulnerable. Spooning fruit into his mouth, he watched Henry watching the girls and the girls’ responsive glances, and Matthew watching Antonia. Helping himself to more cream, James tried to remember what exactly he had said to Barbara when they stopped on their way to Cotteshaw. Had he or had he not committed himself? Certainly Barbara had said neither yes nor no. The episode had been on a jokey plane. Remembering this, James thought that he need not necessarily follow it up, and that anyway Barbara was, and would always be, second best.
When supper was over Matthew and Antonia had strolled out into the garden, while Barbara helped Pilar clear the table. Ebro went to fetch Margaret’s tray. Henry suggested, ‘Like a walk? Come on, Barbara—and James.’
&n
bsp; Pilar said, ‘You go, Barbara, it’s a lovely night, I finish this easy.’
Barbara said, ‘Right then, thank you,’ and put down the glass cloth and the plate she had been drying. ‘Come on, James.’
Henry led them across the lawn through a gate to a path which ran across a hayfield. His dogs padded ahead, snuffling the night smells. Halfway across the field, Henry said, ‘I must see to something in the wood. I’ll catch you up,’ and disappeared with his dogs into the half-dark. James and Barbara followed the footpath; haycocks, ghostly in the moonlight, stretched in geometric rows to the hedges.
‘James?’ Barbara slid her hand into his.
‘Yes?’ He held her hand, thrusting his thumb against her palm, as he used to do with Valerie. Barbara had a narrower hand than Valerie.
‘Did you mean what you said this afternoon?’ Barbara flinched closer to James as a hunting bat whispered and dived after moths.
‘When I suggested that we get married?’ James did not look at her. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘If you still mean it, I’d like to.’
‘Of course I mean it,’ James answered violently. Why did she say ‘like to’, not ‘love to’?
They stopped walking and stood facing each other. James took Barbara’s other hand and held both against his chest. ‘Sealed with a kiss?’ he suggested, and bent to kiss her.
Returning the kiss, Barbara was surprised by an incomprehensible sense of loss and disillusion which she quickly dismissed. ‘It’s such a wonderful night,’ she said, kissing him again. ‘A full midsummer moon.’
‘Full moon tomorrow,’ James corrected her, ‘for the dinner party.’
She said, ‘Ah yes, the dinner party.’
Presently they sat leaning against a haycock and listened to the night sounds. A tawny owl in the wood, a fieldmouse rustling in the hay, the loud cack-cack of a disturbed pheasant, sheep munching in the next field. James thought, I’ve done it now, let myself in for it. Then he thought, She will never be able to hurt me as Valerie did, I shall be far more comfortable with Barbara. Smiling to himself, he murmured, ‘The doctrine of second best.’
Barbara, with her head on his shoulder, said, ‘What?’