Читать книгу Glittering Images - Susan Howatch - Страница 39

There was a pause. I glanced back at Miss Christie but she had already reached the practical decision that it was now less awkward to accept the invitation than to refuse it. She said politely: ‘Thank you. A drive would be very pleasant,’ and then she escaped past the Bishop into the drawing-room where the butler had just deposited a large jug of lemonade.

‘It’s abominably hot, isn’t it?’ said Jardine as I watched both the butler and Miss Christie disappear into the hall. ‘Carrie, you look on the verge of sunstroke. Come in at once.’

‘I feel so odd, Alex –’

‘I propose we launch an immediate assault on the iced lemonade.’

The shade of the drawing-room came as an exquisite relief, but as Mrs Jardine sat down on the edge of the sofa I noticed the nervous movements of her hands and sensed her tension more strongly than ever.

‘Well, Dr Ashworth!’ said Jardine, passing a glass of lemonade to his wife and holding out a second glass to me. ‘Do I assume that the glories of the Cathedral library left you cold? As far as I can gather you’ve spent the morning talking to one attractive woman and you now propose to spend the afternoon talking to another.’

I said with a smile, ‘Having spent well over an hour admiring the glories of the Cathedral library, I felt entitled to spend far less than an hour –’

‘– admiring the glories of Lady Starmouth. Quite.’ The Bishop was taking care to sound amused but I sensed his amusement was wafer-thin and I began to feel uneasy.

‘But I thought you were talking to Amy, not Lady Starmouth!’ said Mrs Jardine to me. She sounded abnormally confused.

‘Oh, Dr Ashworth’s been talking to just about everyone!’ said the Bishop, and I could now clearly hear the acid note in his voice. ‘He seems to be suffering from an ungovernable urge to display the gregarious side of his nature!’

‘He hasn’t been talking to me,’ said Colonel Cobden-Smith entering the room as I began to wonder if Lady Starmouth had lodged a complaint about my interrogation.

‘That’s because you’ve been exercising that unfortunate hound in this appalling heat and offering yourself as a candidate for a heart attack – and now I suppose you’ll say you want a pink gin!’

‘The heat’s so bad for everyone,’ said Mrs Jardine in an agony of anxiety before the Colonel could reply. ‘I’m sure there’s going to be a storm, but according to the weather forecast –’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Carrie!’ exclaimed the Bishop in a paroxysm of irritability. ‘Stop talking about the weather!’

Mrs Jardine began to cry.

‘Ye gods and little fishes,’ muttered Jardine as the Colonel and I stood transfixed, and yelled at the top of his voice: ‘Lyle!’

In walked Miss Christie. It was almost as if she had been waiting in the wings for her cue.

‘Lyle, Carrie can’t take this heat. Do something, would you?’ said the Bishop, and stooping awkwardly over his wife he kissed her before murmuring, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Darling,’ said Miss Christie to Mrs Jardine, ‘you must drink all your lemonade at once and then you’ll feel better. It’s very important to take lots of liquid in hot weather.’

Jardine remarked: ‘Maybe I should take lemonade regularly to prevent irascibility after an arid morning in my study. I’ve just been reading the latest crop of letters on the Marriage Bill from people who think I was the clergyman in charge of Edward VIII’s wedding, and I’m now wishing more fervently than ever that my deplorable namesake had been called by any name other than Jardine.’

This was a skilful attempt to manipulate the conversation back within the bounds of normality, but before a more relaxed atmosphere could be established Mrs Cobden-Smith swept in. ‘Willy, George won’t eat that horsemeat. Do you suppose – oh my goodness, what’s going on? Carrie dear, you simply must make more effort! I know the heat’s trying, but –’

‘Amy,’ said the Bishop, ‘would you kindly stop addressing my wife as if she were an Indian peasant ripe for civilization by the British Raj?’

‘Well, really, Alex!’

‘Mrs Cobden-Smith,’ said Miss Christie with unprecedented charm, ‘I wonder if you’d be terribly kind and help me take Carrie upstairs to lie down? You must have had such a broad experience of heatstroke in India and I’d so value your advice – should we call the doctor?’

‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, greatly mollified, ‘but perhaps she does need to lie down. Come along, Carrie.’

The chaplain then chose an unfortunate moment to rush into the room with bad news. ‘Bishop, the Archdeacon’s on the phone again and he’s in a frightful panic!’

‘Oh, hang the Archdeacon!’ exploded the Bishop. ‘And hang that abominable instrument the telephone!’ But he seized the chance to make a swift exit from the chaos caused by his irritability.