A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs. Victoria Clayton
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Malakoff.’
‘I had to hunt through my old books to find the recipe. Madam says it’s too fattening but Miss Isobel begged her. All them layers of butter and cream and sugar … whip … whip … whip … my poor arm … excuse me, dear.’ She took a swig from the dark brown bottle that stood on the warming plate of the Aga. ‘It’s my stomach as does play up so.’
Mrs Capstick’s stomach was like Nelson’s eye patch, a popular fiction. Everyone knew she had been addicted for years to Collis Browne’s Mixture. Her lids drooped.
‘It was so kind of you to make it for me.’
‘Bless you, my love, I enjoyed doing it. You can have too much fruit salad … not like the old days when you children was little … plenty of good food … the sort Mr Preston likes … steak and kidney pudding and steamed treacle sponge. Now it’s all consommé and grilled … chops …’
Her eyes closed. I would have tiptoed away but it was impossible in my condition. I clomped back to the drawing room. There was no sign of Isobel. I took up my former position on the stool by the fire and spent twenty minutes watching my goose pimples subside while pretending to listen with interest as Evelyn and the two older women discussed the inconveniences of living in large old houses, as though they might for a single moment contemplate living in anything else.
‘Hello, Marigold.’ Rafe and the other men had come into the drawing room. I was gratified to see that he made a beeline for me. ‘What’s it like to be back in the fold?’
He gave me his teasing smile again, which was magnetic enough to bring back a few goose pimples. I wondered which fold he meant – the inner circle blessed by Evelyn’s approval or Northumberland generally? Or perhaps the bosom of my own family?
Before I could answer, Kingsley had wandered over. ‘Hello, young lady. You look chilly. Rafe, put another log on the fire. We can’t have Miss … er … Miss … feeling cold.’
‘This is Marigold, Father. You remember. Dr Savage’s daughter.’
‘Savage.’ Kingsley looked puzzled. Then his face brightened. ‘Ah yes. Consulted him last week about my … my … that thing that begins with a P. Daughter. Yes, now I remember. Sweet little thing. Went off to be a singer. How are you, my dear?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir.’
‘Good, good. Delighted to see you.’ He patted me quite hard on the head and wandered away again.
‘Move up.’ Rafe sat down beside me. ‘You see how it is with my father. But he seems reasonably happy. Do you think anyone will notice if I take my shoes off and thaw out my feet? You won’t mind, will you? Socks clean on this evening.’
‘Of course I don’t mind.’
He unlaced one speckless patent leather shoe and held his foot, clad in a black silk sock, before the blaze. The foot was large, as befitted a tall man, with straight toes. He had straight, strong fingers, too, with square, well-kept nails and no doubt a straight mind, open and honourable. It might have been all the wine I had drunk but the idea of a man who was chock-full of moral fibre and who would always get you out of a hole was fast growing on me. He was neither exotic nor a dancer, but he had a polished assurance that was headily romantic. The moment I thought this I told myself not to be a fool.
‘Ah, Rafe. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’ Sir Ibbertson had come up behind us. He inserted his bulk between us and the fire. Rafe was obliged to stand up. He kicked his shoe under the stool.
‘You’ve been in Northern Ireland, your mother tells me. What’s the answer in the case of these wretched IRA hunger-strikers? The lowest form of emotional blackmail, not to put too fine a point on it!’
Rafe smiled politely. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, sir. It would be more than my life is worth to talk politics in Evelyn’s drawing room. It’s one of her cardinal rules.’
‘What?’ Sir Ibbertson looked round and saw that his hostess was busy handing the chocolates to the archdeacon. ‘Oh, never mind that. She can’t hear us. What’s the government thinking of, letting these men make martyrs of themselves, that’s what I want to know?’
Rafe stopped smiling. ‘I suppose they don’t have any choice in the matter.’
‘Nonsense. They could get them into hospital and force-feed them.’
‘I believe there’s a law against that. Anyway, it really isn’t something I’m qualified to give an opinion about.’
‘But you spent time there. You know how those bog-trotters think.’
‘The British army are the last people the Irish are going to confide in. It’s a very difficult situation with a long, complicated history. Best left to politicians.’ He turned to me. ‘Can I get you some more coffee?’
The amateur historian seemed to be prompted by an imp of Satan. ‘If we all took that attitude, we’d end up illiterate zanies. I consider it the duty of educated men to inform themselves on the subjects of the day and to have an opinion. What about our soldiers who’ve been blown up – murdered – in Northern Ireland?’
I heard a faint rattling. Rafe’s hand – the one that held the coffee cup – was trembling. He put up the other hand to still it. ‘Unless you’ve lived there for several years – I don’t mean as a soldier but among the people – your opinion isn’t worth having.’
All this time I had been trying to think of a way to stop Sir Ibbertson from goading Rafe. Now, seeing that Rafe’s face was ashen and his eyes were glistening, I said, ‘We took La Sylphide to Dublin once. Such a lovely city … all those beautiful eighteenth-century houses … I wish you’d tell me more about Hadrian’s Wall.’
Sir Ibbertson, red in the face now and more like a boiled prawn than ever, ignored me and addressed Rafe in an offended tone. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t agree with you—’
‘Fine!’ Rafe almost shouted, and I saw that Evelyn’s guests were looking in our direction.
At that moment Isobel rushed between us and put her arm through Rafe’s. ‘Silence, please!’ she called. ‘I have an important announcement to make.’ She laughed, rather uneasily I thought. ‘You’re all extraordinarily privileged to be the first to know. Mummy, Daddy, Everyone! … I’m engaged to be married.’
‘That was a dreadful evening.’
Rafe drove slowly, carefully, using the gears to brake on the steep bits. I sneaked a glance at his profile and saw he was smiling. From the back seat came excited barks. Rafe’s dog, Buster, having been shut up in the boot room all evening was thrilled to be allowed to accompany us on our midnight journey.
‘Not for me. I enjoyed seeing you all again. And the food was lovely. Except I feel so guilty that you’ve had to turn out so late and in this awful weather.’
Snow was blowing into the windscreen, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
‘Shut up, Buster! I told you. It’s a pleasure. I like driving. I like driving with you.’
‘Thank you.’ I held my breath as we came to the hairpin bend but Rafe took us safely round it. ‘I can’t think why Dimpsie hasn’t answered the telephone,’ I said for the thousandth time.
At a quarter to twelve, when Spendlove was staggering into the hall under a weight of coats and the other guests were delivering polite speeches of appreciation and gratitude, I had refused all offers of lifts, explaining that my mother was waiting up with the express intention of acting as chauffeur. I had dialled our number several times and let it ring what seemed like ages. Evelyn and Kingsley went to bed, leaving Isobel, Rafe and me in the drawing room. There was plenty to talk about and the time went swiftly enough