Читать книгу The Brading Collection - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

Table of Contents

They went down to dinner in a party, and sat at a table in the window. It was the best table, and it had the best view. You could see out over the lawn to the gap in the trees which framed a breadth of hyacinth sea, and you could look all down the long room and watch everyone who came and went, or sat talking at the other tables. Nobody was in evening dress, just light summer things.

Theodosia Dale came in and joined them. She had taken off the black felt hat, but was still wearing the iron-grey tweeds which matched her hair. Nobody could say it was becoming, but somehow it was so much part of her that it was difficult to imagine her in anything else. That she had once danced in this room in a frock of rose-coloured tulle was one of those incredible things that the mind rejects, but it was in the memory of a good many of the people present that they had expected her to be the mistress of Warne House and Lewis Brading’s wife. He had given a ball for her here, and had had a famous ruby set for her engagement ring. It was all a very long time ago.

She came up the room, giving a nod here and there, slid into a chair, waved away the soup and, scanning the menu, said she didn’t care what she had as long as it was something cold.

“Lobster mayonnaise,” said Myra to the waiter. “Yes, everyone—except Miss Constantine. I can’t think where she gets her weak stomach from. Thank God, I’ve always enjoyed my food. Didn’t get enough of it when I was a kid. There’s nothing like not enough crusts to go round in a cellar to give you a relish for lobster.”

Lady Minstrell said, “Mama, darling!” and Lewis Brading came into the room and walked to a small table against the wall. Myra waved. He looked over at them, bowed formally, and sat down.

Theodosia Dale had taken no notice at all. She was disentangling her lobster from its shell. If he had come up to the table, she would have said, “Hullo, Lewis!” and gone on with what she was doing. When you live in a village, you have to get over feeling awkward about meeting someone whom you once thought you were going to marry.

Stacy didn’t know whether she had been recognised or not. He was cool and bored, but then he always was cool and bored except when he was talking about the Collection. He looked as he had probably looked for the last twenty-five years or so, thin, upright, and rather distinguished. There wasn’t any likeness to Charles, but there was something that made Stacy deny it every time she looked at him. All the Forrests were dark like that, and his mother had been a Forrest. But the Forrest charm had certainly passed him by. He looked as if he had swallowed a cold poker, and pokers do not charm. His glance had passed over her as if she were not there. Well, what did she expect—that he would rush up to her and say, “Why, Stacy—how marvellous!”? She couldn’t help a quick unwilling laugh.

Myra Constantine looked up from the salad which she had deluged with mayonnaise and gave her deep throaty chuckle.

“Makes you laugh, don’t he? Think of the women all over the world that’d give their eyes to have the diamonds and things he’s got locked up next door—and he can’t wear one of ’em!”

“Mama, darling!” said Lady Minstrell.

Hester Constantine only spoke twice. She ate in a picking sort of way. She left a good deal on her plate, and once she asked for salt, and once for vinegar.

Theodosia Dale talked a great deal. She had a complete catalogue of births, engagements, marriages, and deaths, with such additional items as who wasn’t getting on with whom, why, what they had said and done, and what their friends thought about it.

Right in the middle a party of four came in by the door in the left-hand wall and made for the empty table on their right. There were two women and two men. One of the women and one of the men were strangers to Stacy. She saw red hair, a black dress, a string of pearls—broad shoulders, an expanse of ruddy sunburn, bright blue eyes, and a good-natured air. And then Lilias Grey, with her flaxen hair piled high, her fragile, delicate look, and behind her the tall dark ugliness of Charles. Lilias was in white. She was much better looking than she had been three years ago—better made up, better dressed, better groomed. Nobody would have guessed that she was three years older than Charles. Her whiteness, her fairness, and the scarlet thread of her lips were a swimming blur on the air in front of Stacy’s eyes. When it cleared she saw Charles. He looked just the same. It was unbearable that he should look just the same.

He said, “Hullo, Lewis!” as he passed the table where Lewis Brading sat alone. And then Myra Constantine was waving, and he came right on into the window.

Myra’s voice could be heard all over the room.

“Now if this isn’t nice! But what are you doing here? Don’t they make you work in the Army any more?”

He said, “We get a spot of leave sometimes when there isn’t a war on.” Then he looked past her and said in a pleasant ordinary tone, “Hullo, Stacy!”

Just for a moment it was like being in a trap with the steel teeth cracking down. And then she was too angry to feel anything else, because Myra Constantine had set the trap, and she had walked into it like the rabbit she had called herself this afternoon. Well, if they thought she was going to let them see she minded they could think again. She looked at Charles, and she said in quite a good kind of casual voice, “Hullo, Charles, how are you?” and that was all.

He said, “Going strong,” and then he had turned away and was sitting down by Lilias Grey.

“Well, if that wasn’t a surprise!” said Myra Constantine. She looked across at Theodosia Dale. “Did you know he was here, Dossie?”

Miss Dale nodded briskly.

“Came two days ago. He’s on leave.”

Myra called across to the other table,

“Where are you staying, Charles?”

“Up at Saltings. I keep a flat there.”

Myra said, “Of course. Must have somewhere to put one’s things.” She came back to the conversational range of her own party. “They’ve made a very nice job of those Saltings flats—two rooms—three—four—and a kitchenette. You pay your money and you take your choice. Miss Grey’s got a three-roomer.” She raised her voice again. “What’s your flat, Charles—two rooms or three?”

The smile which made his ugliness more attractive than other men’s good looks jerked at Stacy’s heartstrings. It always had, and she supposed it always would. It had nothing to do with love, or respect, or even liking—just a physical reflex. Just Charles.

He called back,

“Two. But quite palatial. Kitchen and bath thrown in.”

Lady Minstrell said,

“Darling Mama!”