Читать книгу Glittering Images - Susan Howatch - Страница 29

I was early. I found no one in the dining-room, but the morning papers were laid out on a side-table and I began to browse among the cricket reports in the Daily Telegraph. I was still digesting the unfortunate news that Oxford had defeated Cambridge by seven wickets when Jardine walked in.

‘I was glad to see you at the service,’ he said after we had exchanged greetings. ‘I was glad to be there myself. Sometimes one so strongly needs to wipe the slate clean in order to come fresh to a new day.’

There was a pause while we both thought of the dinner party, its unhappy memory now purged from our consciences, and before either of us could speak again the Starmouths entered the room. They were followed by Miss Christie, immaculate in a navy-blue skirt and white blouse, and at once I noticed the discreet, perfectly proportioned curves of her figure above the waist; I even found myself toying with the erotic image of a pair of empty champagne glasses.

‘Good morning, Dr Ashworth,’ she said formally, while I was grappling with these most unclerical thoughts, but the next moment she was turning to Jardine. ‘Carrie’s decided to stay in bed for a while, Bishop, and she’s asked me to have breakfast with her.’

The Bishop showed no surprise but Lady Starmouth inquired in alarm if Mrs Jardine were unwell. Miss Christie, however, had already retreated to the hall and it was left to Jardine to answer idly as he turned a page of The Times, ‘It’s merely the aftermath of insomnia. At two o’clock this morning, acting out of a strong sense of self-preservation, I was obliged to retire to my dressing-room in order to resume the bliss of unconsciousness. The chief disadvantage of Carrie’s insomnia is that she’s always overcome with the urge to share it with me.’

My immediate reaction was to reflect that Jack had been right in assuming that the Jardines still shared a bedroom. My second reaction was to accuse myself of becoming more prurient than any reporter from The News of the World, and in an effort to beat back all thoughts which were unbecoming to a clergyman I began to consider how I should spend my morning. I would have to go to the library; it would look too odd if I postponed my encounter with the St Anselm manuscript, but I thought I could use the fine weather as an excuse not to linger indoors. During breakfast the Earl announced his intention of fishing in the river at the bottom of the garden while the Countess confessed an urge to paint a watercolour of the long herbaceous border, and I thought both of them might be in the mood for a little casual conversation about our host.

‘Do you have any special plans for this morning, Mrs Cobden-Smith?’ I asked as I finished my eggs and bacon.

‘Oh, I shall write some letters, go to the shops, “fill the unforgiving minute”, as Kipling would say …’ Mrs Cobden-Smith spoke with such energy that I immediately felt exhausted. ‘Willy will take George for a walk –’ The St Bernard looked hopeful as his name was mentioned ‘– and then … What are you going to do after that, Willy?’

‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Colonel Cobden-Smith.

‘Good man!’ said Lord Starmouth.

‘Well, at least the clergy are preparing for a morning of unremitting toil,’ said Lady Starmouth, and gave me yet another of her radiant sophisticated smiles.