Summer Moonshine (12 page)

'It is a matter of complete indifference to me—'

'Now you're being pompous again. Correct this tendency. It is your only fault.'

'Do you mind not talking to me like a governess?'

'I'm sorry.'

'Not at all. I just mentioned it. Good-bye.'

'Are you going?'

'Yes.'

'It's an odd thing; whenever we have one of these little get-togethers of ours, you always leave abruptly.'

'Not so very odd.'

'You're really deserting me, Ginger?'

'I am. And don't call me Ginger.'

'Ah, well,' said Joe, 'all that's beautiful drifts away like the waters. Still, I have my art!'

He turned again to Cato. The moustache was coming out well – a fine, flowing affair with pointed ends, not one of those little smudges. Cato now looked like a Mississippi gambler, and Jane was not proof against the spectacle. Her dignity, always easily undermined, suddenly collapsed. She uttered a little squeal of laughter.

'You are an idiot!'

'That's more the tone.'

'It's no good being furious with you.'

'I wouldn't try. How does that strike you?'

'A little more body to the left side,' said Jane, surveying Cato critically.

'Like that?'

'That's better. Oughtn't he to have whiskers too?'

'Whiskers most certainly. What a flair you have in these matters. I will attend to it immediately.'

'It's nice,' said Jane meditatively, 'to think what hell father's going to give you for this. He'll tear you into little pieces.'

'On the contrary, I anticipate that Buck will be tickled to death. He is a man of taste, and must appreciate the improvement.'

'Buck?'

'He asked me to call him that. "Buck to you, my dear Joe," he said. We are like ham and eggs. One of those instant friendships. In the circumstances, of course, very fortunate.'

'Why?'

'Because—Oh, just fortunate. And now,' said Joe, 'bring your pencil and let us see what we can do with a few more of these gargoyles. No,' he went on, as the booming of a gong sounded from the house, 'I fear we shall have to wait till after lunch. Meet me here at two-thirty.'

'I shall do nothing of the kind.'

'At two-thirty on the dot.'

'At two-thirty on the dot I shall be playing croquet with Mr Waugh-Bonner.'

'Who is he?'

'One of the inmates.'

'Do you get landed much with these inmates?'

'A good deal. Buck dodges them shamefully.'

'Then we will make it three-thirty on the tick.'

'No, we won't. At three-thirty I shall be dressing before starting out to pay social calls on the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood.'

'Doesn't Lady Abbott attend to that sort of thing?'

'No, she doesn't. She just ignores the whole unpleasant matter.'

Joe regarded her sympathetically.

'It is becoming increasingly clear to me,' he said, 'that you are the Patsy in this joint. All the dirty work appears to be left to you. Never mind. It will be very different when you have a home of your own. With an indulgent husband, alert to gratify your every wish and take every burden off your shoulders, things will improve amazingly. You have a very bright future before you, Jane.'

They walked together to the house, Joe full of animation, Jane a little pensive. She was remembering the impression which she had formed of this young man at the luncheon table. He had struck her then as one of those who got what they wanted, and she was aware of a certain uneasiness.

She did not know it, but she was feeling very much as Mr Chinnery felt when pursued by Mr Bulpitt.

T
HE
information, received by her secretary and through the medium of Miss Prudence Whittaker relayed to Sir Buckstone Abbott, that the Princess Dwornitzchek, her mission in America concluded, would be arriving in England almost immediately, proved strictly in accordance with the facts. Her boat docked at Southampton on the morning following Joe Vanringham's descent upon Walsingford Hall, and on the evening of the day after that she celebrated her return by entertaining to dinner at her house in Berkeley Square a Colonel and Mrs Waddesley, whose acquaintance she had made on shipboard, and Adrian Peake.

The feelings of Adrian Peake when, reaching his flat after leaving the Goose and Gander, he had found on the table the wireless message from his patroness commanding his presence at the meal, had been mixed. There had been surprise, because he had not expected her back for at least another fortnight; relief, because he had not missed the invitation owing to being absent without leave; and a certain apprehension. As he stood now, fingering his white tie and watching her bidding farewell to his fellow-guests, it was this apprehension that predominated. A close observer would have detected in his demeanour anxiety
and nervousness. Adrian Peake, he would have said, was not at his ease, and he would have been right.

As far as physical well-being was concerned, Adrian was, of course, in the pink. After prolonged abstinence he had at last renewed his acquaintance with the output of one of the best chefs in Mayfair, and, under the influence of caviar, clear soup, salmon, roast duck and a superb soufflé, had blossomed like a rose in summer sunshine. It was spiritually that he was below par. He was in the grip of that shrinking feeling which came upon him in the anteroom of his dentist. He was about to have his first tête-à-tête with this formidable woman since he had seen her off on the boat to New York nearly a month ago, and he was acutely alive to the fact that he would be called upon to render a strict account of his actions during her absence. And what was agitating him was the fear lest some unguarded word, slipping from a tongue lubricated by unaccustomed Bollinger, might inform her that among those actions had been the plighting of his troth to Jane Abbott.

There had never been a time when such an announcement would have gone well, but to make it now would be to precipitate a situation of such peculiar embarrassment that his eyes swivelled in their sockets as he thought of it.

For Tubby's statement, though it had seemed to Jane the mere aimless babble that might have been expected from such a source, had been scrupulously correct in every detail. On the eve of her departure for America, as the result of just such another dinner as he had enjoyed tonight, Adrian Peake had also plighted his troth to the Princess Dwornitzchek.

That this seemingly fragile young man, so obviously unfitted for living dangerously, should have been capable of the
hazardous feat of becoming engaged to two women simultaneously – and one of them a lady who even in repose resembled a leopardess – is not really so remarkable as it may appear at first sight. There is a simple explanation of his heroism.

Briefly, he had not, as has been said, expected Prospect No. 1 to return until a considerably later date, and by that time, he had hoped, he would have been able to establish himself solidly with Prospect No. 2. Once accepted as the official son-in-law-to-be of the wealthy Sir Buckstone Abbott, it would have been an easy task to have relieved himself, in a few regretful and apologetic words, of his obligations to the Princess Dwornitzchek. The telephone was invented for just such a purpose.

But now all this angry-father-with-horsewhip stuff had come up, and it was clear to him that those dreams he had had of a genial Sir Buckstone patting him on the shoulder and making large settlements must be written off as a total loss. His energies, he perceived, must now be devoted to consolidating the earlier deal. He was not devoid of sentiment and, given the choice, would much have preferred money with Jane attached to it to money that involved marriage with the Princess Dwornitzchek, but he was practical.

Tonight, before going to bed, it was his intention to write a well-expressed letter to Jane, pointing out the hopelessness of it all and suggesting that, in view of her father's attitude, it were best to end it all. This would clean up the situation satisfactorily, leaving no loose ends, and now the task before him was to be watchful and wary in his speech. Passing his tongue nervously over his lips, he prayed that that tongue would not betray him.

The door closed. The Princess came back to her seat. She was a large, sinuous woman, with a beautiful figure and a supple way of moving herself from spot to spot, and it was at moments like
this, when she did that quick pad-pad across a room and sank into a chair, that she reminded the spectator most forcibly of a leopardess in its cage. Adrian, watching her, found his uneasiness increasing. He removed his finger from his tie and passed it along the inside of his collar.

Thank God they've gone,' said the Princess. 'At last.'

This opportunity to postpone, if only for a while, the stocktaking from which he shrank was very welcome to Adrian. An expert in this woman's moods, he could see that the one prevailing at the moment was not amiable. Something, he perceived, had upset her. Her bright, rather prominent hazel eyes were glowing unpleasantly, her face was hard and her manner had now come to resemble that of a leopardess which has just been deprived of a T-bone steak. It seemed to him that a little light conversation on neutral subjects might ease matters.

'Who were they?'

'Some people I met on the boat. They took me to the theatre last night.'

'Oh, really? Which one?'

'The Apollo.'

'I forget what's on there.'

'A play called
The Angel in the House.'
'I've heard about that.'

'What have you heard?'

'Oh, just that it's a big success. They say it will run a year.'

'Do they? I think it very unlikely.'

'Isn't it good?'

'No.'

'It's by some new man, isn't it?'

'It was written,' said the Princess, grinding her cigarette into the ash-tray with a vicious jab, 'by my stepson Joseph.'

Adrian began to understand her emotion. He was aware of her views on her stepson Joseph, and he appreciated how galling it must be for a woman who for years has been looking on a young man as a prodigal to discover suddenly that the prodigal has made good. It was too late to withdraw his flattering prediction about the play, but he could at least show that his heart was in the right place by disparaging its author.

'I don't like that fellow,' he said.

The Princess looked up. While conceding that this was the right spirit, she was surprised. She had not supposed that he and the fellow were acquainted.

'Oh?'

'No,' said Adrian. 'I hope he bumped his head.'

'What?'

'On the door of my—'

He broke off, appalled, biting the tongue which had just been about to add the word 'houseboat' and thus precipitate the exposure of all his cherished secrets. Champagne and roast duck, working on a mind enfeebled by too-long deprivation of those delicacies, had nearly led him into a fatal indiscretion.

'Flat,' he said.

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'The door of my flat. I hoped he would bump his head on the door of my flat. Somebody brought him to a cocktail party at my flat, and the top of the door is rather low and he is rather tall, and I was hoping that he would have bumped his head. But,' concluded Adrian, as brightly as he could manage, 'he – er – didn't.'

He produced a handkerchief and passed it across his forehead.

'Cocktail party?' said the Princess Dwornitzchek.

It did not need the metallic note in her voice to tell Adrian Peake that in eluding one pitfall, he had tumbled into another. He remembered now, too late, that when seeing his betrothed off to America, he had assured her that it was his intention during her absence, to lead the life of a recluse – going nowhere, seeing nobody – in a word, pining in solitude until her return. He found it necessary to employ the handkerchief again.

'So you have been giving cocktail parties while I was away?'

'Only that one.'

'Lots of pretty girls, I suppose.'

'No, no. Just a few men.'

The sharp, discordant sound which proceeded from his companion's lips was technically a laugh, but it did not suggest merriment.

'Men! I suppose what has really been happening, if I only knew, is that, the moment my back was turned, you started making love to every woman in sight.'

'Heloise!'

'Not that it's the least use asking you, of course. You're such a liar.'

Adrian rose. For some time he had been experiencing a strong urge to be elsewhere, and these words seemed to offer a welcome cue for a dignified departure. His hostess's resemblance to a leopardess was now so vivid that the room seemed to have bars and an odd smell. Only the presence of a man in a peaked cap and a few bones lying about the floor were needed to complete the Regent's Park atmosphere.

'I think I had better go,' he said in a quiet, pained voice.

'Sit down.'

'I am not prepared to remain and—'

'Sit down.'

'You have hurt me, Heloise. We meet again for the first time all these weeks, and you—'

'Sit down!'

He sat down.

'You're simply wasting your time,' said the Princess Dwornitzchek, 'pretending to be wounded and injured. Do you think I don't know what you're like? I don't trust you an inch.'

'Well, really!'

'Not an inch. There's nothing that would please you more than to make a fool of me.'

'I can only say that you seem to be in a very strange—'

'Well, you won't get much chance after we're married, because we are going to live in the country.'

'In the country!'

'I shall be able to keep an eye on you there.'

This seemed to Adrian, though one could scarcely have described him as sensitive, not a very nice spirit in which to begin a romantic life partnership, and he said so.

'My motto,' explained the Princess, 'is "safety first", and I am certainly not going to have you running around loose in London. Yes, I thought it might be rather a shock. Have some whisky.'

The advice struck Adrian as good. He crossed the room and became busy with the decanter. He helped himself liberally and drained half the glass at a draught.

Her words had been a death blow to all his dreams and aspirations. He loathed the country. Only in the gay whirl of big cities could he fulfil and express himself. Over the glass, the remainder of whose contents he was now absorbing, he stared at her blankly. His thoughts were sombre thoughts and bitter. He had known that a man who marries an imperious and autocratic
woman from sound commercial motives must be prepared to take the rough with the smooth, but he had never anticipated that the former would be quite so rough as this.

'So you had better be getting measured for your little pair of leggings,' said the Princess with a facetiousness which he found jarring and in dubious taste.

'But, Heloise, have you thought this all out?'

Again his hostess laughed that sharp, discordant, disagreeable laugh.

'You bet I've thought it out.'

'I mean, have you considered what it will involve?'

'What will it involve?'

'Stagnation. The giving up of everything you enjoy. A brilliant woman like you, accustomed to being the centre of a circle of attractive, intelligent people in Mayfair, you would hate it. You would be miserable. You couldn't stand it. How can you possibly contemplate burying yourself in the country, hundreds of miles from London?'

'We shall not be hundreds of miles from London. The house I am going to buy is in Berkshire.'

'Berkshire?'

'A place called Walsingford Hall.'

It was fortunate for the well-being of the Princess Dwornitzchek's drawing-room carpet that Adrian's glass had for some moments been empty, for at these words it leaped from his grasp like a live thing.

'Walsingford Hall!'

'You appear to know it.'

'I – I've heard of it.'

'From whom?'

'I – er – met its daughter. . . . I met Miss Abbott.'

'Where?'

'At a house down in Sussex.'

'Oh? So you went to stay at country houses as well as giving cocktail parties every night? Your life since I left England seems to have been one long round of gaiety.'

Something of the emotions of a bull in the arena had begun to come to Adrian Peake. He found himself wondering whether any amount of money could make this sort of thing worth while. But the recollection of the roast duck – and, above all, of that superb soufflé – stiffened his resolution.

'I didn't give cocktail parties every night,' he cried desperately. And I had to go to these people. I couldn't get out of it. It was a long-standing engagement. One has one's social obligations.'

'Oh, certainly. And Imogen Abbott was there?'

'Was that my fault?'

'I'm not blaming you. What did she tell you about Walsingford Hall?'

'She said it was revoltingly hideous.'

'It is not at all hideous. I like it. And I intend to buy it. I am going down there the day after tomorrow to stay for a few days and settle things. Tomorrow I shall be busy with lawyers and people. I suppose you saw quite a lot of Miss Abbott after that house party?'

'I never set eyes on her.'

'You didn't miss much. A colourless girl.'

'Very.'

'Though some people think her pretty, I believe.'

'In a way, perhaps.'

'Well, I'm not worrying about her. Pretty or not pretty, she has one defect which would repel you. She is as poor as a church mouse.'

'What?'

'Didn't you know? I should have thought that was the first thing you would have found out. The Abbotts haven't had a penny since some ancestors of theirs spent all the family money rebuilding the Hall in the reign of Queen Victoria. Sir Buckstone has to take in paying guests to make both ends meet. My buying the house will be a godsend to the man.'