Cardington Crescent Read online

  Breakfast was grim. Eustace, as always, had thrown all the dining room windows open. He was a great believer in “muscular Christianity” and all the aggressive good health that went with it. He ate pigeons in jelly with ostentatious relish, and piles of hot buttered toast and marmalade, and barricaded himself behind the Times, ironed and given him by the footman, which he did not offer to share with anyone. Not, of course, that any man offered his newspaper to women, but Eustace also ignored William, George, and Jack Radley.

  Vespasia, to Eustace’s eternal disapproval, had her own newspaper.

  “There has been a murder in Bloomsbury,” she observed over the raspberries.

  “What has that to do with us?” Eustace did not look up; the remark was intended as a criticism. Women should not have newspapers, let alone discuss them at breakfast.

  “About as much as anything else that is in here,” Vespasia replied. “It is to do with people, and tragedy.”

  “Nonsense!” old Mrs. March snapped. “Probably some person of the criminal classes who thoroughly deserved it. Eustace, would you be good enough to pass me the Court Circular? I wish to know what is happening that is of some importance.” She shot a look of distaste at Vespasia. “I trust no one has forgotten we have a luncheon party at the Withingtons’, and that we are playing croquet at Lady Lucy Armstrong’s in the afternoon?” she went on, glancing at Sybilla with a frown and a faint curl of her lip. “Lady Lucy will be full of the Eton and Harrow cricket match, of course, and we shall be obliged to listen to her boasting endlessly about her sons. And we shall have nothing to say at all.”

  Sybilla colored, a stiff, painful red. Her eyes were bright. She stared straight back at her grandmother-in-law with an expression which might have been any of a dozen things.

  “We shall have to see whether it is a boy or a girl before we consider a school,” she said very clearly.

  William stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth, incredulous. George drew in his breath in a little hiss of surprise. Eustace lowered his paper for the first time since he had sat down, and stared at her with amazement, then slow dawning jubilation.

  “Sybilla! My dear girl! Do you mean that you are ... er ... ?”

  “Yes!” she said boldly. “I would not have told you so soon, but I am tired of Grandmother-in-law making such remarks.”

  “You cannot blame me!” Mrs. March defended herself sharply. “You’ve been twelve years about it. It is not surprising I despaired of the March name continuing. Heaven knows, poor William has had his patience strained to breaking point waiting for you to give him an heir.”

  William’s head came round to glare at his grandmother, his cheeks burning, his eyes hot blue.

  “That is absolutely none of your affair!” he said abruptly. “And I find your remarks inexpressibly vulgar.” He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked from the room.

  “Well, well.” Eustace folded his newspaper and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Congratulations, my dear.”

  “Better late than never,” Mrs. March conceded. “Although I doubt you will have many more, now.”

  Sybilla still looked flushed, and now thoroughly uncomfortable. For the only time since her arrival, Emily felt sorry for her.

  But the emotion was short-lived. The next few days passed in the customary fashion of Society during the Season. In the mornings they rode in the park, at which Emily had taught herself to be both graceful and skilled. But she had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others.

  William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire.

  When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.

  Luncheon was usually at about two o’clock, often at someone else’s house in a small party. In the afternoon they attended concerts or drove to Richmond or Hurlingham, or else made the necessary, more formal calls upon those ladies they knew only slightly, perching awkwardly around withdrawing rooms, backs stiff, and making idiotic chatter about people, gowns, and the weather. The men excused themselves from this last activity and retired to one or another of their clubs.

  At four there was afternoon tea, sometimes at home, sometimes out at a garden party. Once there was a game of croquet, at which George partnered Sybilla and lost hopelessly amid peals of laughter and a sense of delight that infinitely outweighed Emily’s, who won. The taste of victory was ashes in her mouth. Not even Eustace, who partnered her, seemed to notice her. All eyes were on Sybilla, dressed in cherry pink, her cheeks flushed, her eyes radiant, and laughing so easily at her own ineptitude everyone wished to laugh with her.

  Again Emily drove home in bitter silence before going leaden-footed up the stairs to change for dinner and the theater.

  By Sunday she could bear it no longer. They had all been to church in the morning; Eustace insisted upon it. He was the patriarch of a godly family, and must be seen to be so. Dutifully, because they were guests in his house, they went—even Jack Radley, to whom it was far from a natural inclination. He would much rather have spent his summer Sundays in a good gallop in the park, with the sun sparkling through the trees and wind in his face, scattering birds, dogs, and onlookers alike—as indeed so would George, normally. But today George seemed positively happy to sit on the hard pew next to Emily, his eyes always wandering to Sybilla.

  Luncheon was spent discussing the sermon, which had been earnest and tedious, dissecting it for “deeper meaning.” By the time they came to the fruit Eustace had pronounced that its real subject was the virtue of fortitude, and of bearing all affliction with a stiff upper lip. Only William was either sufficiently interested or sufficiently angry to bother to contradict him and assert that, on the contrary, it was about compassion.

  “Nonsense!” Eustace said briskly. “You were always too soft, William. Always for taking the easy way out! Too many sisters, that’s your trouble. Should have been a girl yourself. Courage!” He banged the table with his fist. “That’s what it takes to be a man—and a Christian.”

  The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. The afternoon was spent reading and writing letters.

  The evening was even worse. They sat around striving to make conversation suitable to the Sabbath, until Sybilla was invited to play the piano, which she did rather well and with obvious enjoyment. Everyone except Emily was drawn in, singing ballads, and occasionally, more serious solos. Sybilla had a very rich voice, a little husky with a slight catch in it.

  Upstairs at last, her throat sore with the effort of not crying, Emily dismissed her maid and began to undress herself. George came in and closed the door with an unnecessarily loud noise.

  “Couldn’t you have made more of an effort, Emily?” he said coldly. “Your sullenness was verging on bad manners.”

  It was too much. The injustice of it was intolerable.

  “Bad manners!” she gasped. “How dare you stand there and accuse me of bad manners! You have spent the entire fortnight seducing your host’s daughter-in-law in front of everyone, even the servants. And because I don’t care to join in with you, you accuse me of being ill-mannered!”

  The color flamed up in his face, but he stood perfectly still. “You are hysterical,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you would be better alone until you can collect yourself. I shall sleep in the dressing room; the bed is still made up. I can perfectly easily tell everyone you are not feeling well and I don’t wish to disturb you.” His nostrils flared very slightly and a flicker
of irritation crossed his face. “They won’t find that hard to believe. Good night.” And a moment later he was gone.

  Emily stood numbed by the monstrosity of it. It was so utterly unfair, it took several moments to assimilate it. Then she threw herself onto the bed, punched the pillow with all her strength, and burst into tears. She wept till her eyes were burning and her lungs ached, and still she felt no better—only too tired to hurt so fiercely anymore—until tomorrow.

  3

  EMILY WOKE VERY early in the morning, even before the housemaids were up, and reviewed the situation. Last night’s crisis had swept away the paralysis of indecision, the fending off of the knowledge which she knew must come with all its misery. She made a resolution. She would fight! Sybilla was not going to win simply because Emily had neither the wit nor the strength to give her a battle, however far it had gone. And she was obliged to admit, briefly and painfully, that it had probably gone all the way—witness George’s alacrity in provoking an excuse to sleep in the dressing room. Even so, Emily would use every skill she possessed to win him back. And she had a great deal of skill. After all, she had won him in the first place, against considerable odds.

  If she were to continue to appear as wretched as she felt, she would embarrass the rest of the household and lay herself open to a pity that would not comfortably be forgotten, even when the affair was over and she had won. Most important, it would not be in the least attractive to George; like most men he loved a gay and charming woman who had enough sense to keep her troubles to herself. An excess of emotion, especially in public, would make him acutely uncomfortable. Far from winning him away from Sybilla, it would drive him further into her arms.

  Therefore, Emily would act the role of her life. She would be so utterly charming and delightful George would find Sybilla a pale copy, a shadow, and Emily again the true substance.

  For three days she kept up her charade without noticeable failure. If she felt close to weeping again she was sure no one else saw it—except perhaps Great-aunt Vespasia, who saw everything. But she did not mind that. Behind the ineffable elegance and the radical humor, Aunt Vespasia was the one person who cared for her.

  However, it had proved so difficult at times she was all but overcome with the futility of it. She was bound to fail. She knew her voice sounded flat, her smile must be sickly. But since there was nothing else with any hope of success, after a moment’s solitude—perhaps merely in walking from one room to another—she had renewed her effort, trying with every strength she possessed to be amusing, considerate, and courteous. She even forced herself to be civil to old Mrs. March, although she could not resist exercising her wit on her in her absence, to the rather exuberant laughter of Jack Radley.

  By dinner on the third day it was becoming extremely difficult. They were all most formally dressed, Emily in pale green, Sybilla in indigo, sitting round the monstrous mahogany table in the dining room. Rust red velvet curtains, heavily swagged and draped, and too many pictures on the wall made Emily feel suffocated. It was almost unendurable to force the smile to her lips, to dredge up from a weary and fearful imagination some light and flippant remark. She pushed the food round her plate without eating and sipped more and more wine.

  She must not do anything as obvious as flirting with William; that would be seen as retaliation—even by George, uninterested as he was—and certainly by everyone else. Old Mrs. March’s needle eyes missed nothing. She had been a widow forty years, presiding over her domestic kingdom with a will of iron and an insatiable curiosity. Emily must be equally entertaining, equally delightful to everyone—including Sybilla—as befitted a woman of her position, even if it choked her. She was careful not to cap other people’s stories, and to laugh while meeting their eyes, so as to appear sincere.

  She searched for the appropriate compliment, just truthful enough to be believed, and listened with attention to Eustace’s interminably boring anecdotes about his athletic exploits when younger. He was a great and vociferous believer in “a healthy mind in a healthy body” and had no time for aesthetes. His disappointment was implicit in every phrase, and watching William’s tense face across the table, Emily found it increasingly hard to hold her peace and keep her expression composed in polite interest.

  After the sweet, with nothing left on the table but vanilla ice, raspberry water and a little fruit, Tassie said something about a soirée she had been to, and how bored she had been, which earned her a look of disgust from her grandmother. It struck a sudden chord of memory in Emily. She looked across at Jack Radley with a tiny smile.

  “They can be fearful,” she agreed. “On the other hand, they can also be superb.”

  Tassie, who was on the same side of the table and could not see Emily’s face, was unaware of her mood. “This was a large soprano singing rather badly,” she explained. “And so terribly serious.”

  “So was the best one I’ve ever been to.” Emily felt the memory sharper in her mind as the scene came back to her. “Charlotte and I once took Mama. It was marvelous ...”

  “Indeed?” Mrs. March said coldly. “I had no idea you were musical.”

  Emily continued to keep a sweet expression, ignoring the implication, and stared straight at Jack Radley. With a stinging pleasure she knew that she had his attention as deeply as she would like to have had George’s, and with precisely the same nature of excitement.

  “Go on!” he urged. “Whatever can be marvelous about an overweight soprano singing earnestly and badly?”

  William shivered. Like Tassie, he was thin and sensitive, with vividly red hair, although his was darker and his features sharper, etched with an inner pain that had not yet touched her.

  Emily recounted it exactly as it had been. “She was a large lady, very ardent, with a pink face. Her gown was beaded and fringed practically everywhere, so that it shivered when she moved. Miss Arbuthnot was playing the pianoforte for her. She was very thin, and wearing black. They huddled together for several minutes over the music, and then the soprano came forward and announced that she would sing ‘Home Sweet Home,’ which as you know is heavy and extremely sentimental. Afterwards, to cheer us up, she would give us Yum-Yum’s delightful, lighthearted song from The Mikado, ‘Three Little Maids.’ “

  “Much better,” Tassie agreed. “That goes along at a lovely pace. Although she hardly sounds like my idea of Yum-Yum.” And she hummed a bar or two cheerfully.

  “‘Marvelous’ is overstating it rather a lot,” Eustace said critically. “Good song ruined.”

  Emily ignored him. “She faced us all,” she continued, “composed her features into lines of deep emotion, and began slowly and very solemnly with a blast of sentiment—only the piano bounded away with the trills and twitters of a rollicking rhythm!”

  Only Jack Radley’s face registered understanding.

  “‘Be it ever so hu-u-mble,’” Emily mimicked sonorously, at once savage and doleful.

  “Da-di-di-dum-dum, da da dee-ee,” Jack sang with delight.

  “Oh no!” Tassie’s eyes lit with joy, and she started to giggle. Sybilla joined in, and even Eustace smiled in spite of himself.

  “They trailed off, scarlet-faced,” Emily said enthusiastically. “The soprano stammered her apologies, wheeled round, and charged to the piano, where Miss Arbuthnot was fumbling wildly through sheets of music, scattering them to the floor. They gathered them all up, muttering fiercely together and wagging their fingers at each other, while we all sat and tried to pretend we had not really noticed. Nobody said anything, and Charlotte and I dared not look at each other in case we lost control. Finally they came to some agreement, new music was set up on the piano, and the soprano advanced purposefully to the front of the floor again and faced us. She took an enormous breath, her beads jangled at her throat and all but broke, and with tremendous aplomb she began a spirited rendition: ‘Three Little Maids from school are we, filled to the brim with girlish glee’ ...” She hesitated a moment, staring straight into Jack Radley’s dark blue
eyes. “Unfortunately Miss Arbuthnot was crashing out the ponderous chords of ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ with a look of intense longing on her face.”

  This time even the old lady’s mouth twitched. Tassie was helpless with giggles, and everyone else chortled with pleasure.

  “They struggled on for a full three minutes,” Emily said finally, “getting louder and louder, trying to outdo each other, till the chandeliers rattled. Charlotte and I couldn’t bear it any longer. We stood up at precisely the same moment and fled through the chairs, falling over people’s feet, till we collided in the doorway and almost fell outside, clasping each other. We gave way and laughed till we cried. Even Mama, when she caught up with us, didn’t have the heart to be angry.”

  “Oh, how that takes me back!” Vespasia said with a broad smile, dabbing at the tears on her cheeks. “I’ve been to so many ghastly soirees. Now I shall never be able to listen to an earnest soprano again without thinking of this! There are so many fearful singers I should like such a thing to happen to—it would be such a mercy for the rest of us.”

  “So should I,” Tassie agreed. “Starting with Mr. Beamish and his songs of pure womanhood. I suppose with a little foresight it could be arranged?” she added hopefully.

  “Anastasia!” Mrs. March said, with ice in her voice. “You will do nothing of the sort. It would be quite irresponsible, and in the worst possible taste. I forbid you even to entertain the idea.”

  But Tassie’s smile remained radiant, her eyes faraway and shining.

  “Who is Mr. Beamish?” Jack Radley asked curiously.

  “The vicar,” Eustace said frostily. “You heard his sermon on Sunday.”

  Great-aunt Vespasia smothered a deep gurgle in her throat and began to take the stones out of her grapes assiduously with a silver knife and fork, placing them with elegant fingers on the side of her plate.