Clara laid out her clothes on the peppermint bedspread, wondering if there was anything suitable for the heat of Egypt. Yes, it was February, so still late winter, described by Cook’s Traveller’s Handbook for Egypt and the Sudan (which Daphne had given her) as ‘a delightful time to travel’ but she could still expect temperatures in the low eighties at the height of the day. That was considerably hotter than an English winter! She wondered how she could make do with the few items of clothing she had packed – all suitable for cooler climes. Her knee-high boots would be useful in the desert, she thought, but her thick, wool jackets, trousers and skirts would have her sweltering. She wondered if the tea dress she wore last night for dinner might also be too warm. Cook’s helpfully suggested that she should also consider packing field or opera glasses, a pocket filter and leather drinking-cup, smoked spectacles to protect her eyes from the sun, a pith helmet or wide-brimmed hat and a parasol – she rolled her eyes. As if I own any of those! She did need clothes, though, and she really didn’t have time to go shopping. She might have to try to squeeze something in before meeting Bella off the noon train tomorrow. They were going to travel straight from King’s Cross to Victoria Station, and then onto Southampton.
As she was pondering whether she could make it to Oxford Street before going to King’s Cross – and whether Selfridges would even have summer frocks in stock – she noticed that there was a book on her vanity table. She picked it up and was surprised to see the bright yellow dustcover declared Etiquette in Everyday Life: a Complete Guide to Correct Conduct for All Occasions. There was a card marking a page. She recognised one of her mother’s gilt-edged and gold-embossed calling cards. On the back, in her mother’s sharp hand, was the note: Dearest Clara, a gift. I hope you find time to read it before our next social occasion. Mother. PS I have noted several passages you might find helpful.
Clara paged through the book and saw that her mother had made pencil marks beside certain paragraphs. The first was in the chapter ‘Manners in the Home and at the Table’. ‘The man or woman who desires to behave well when out must do so at home also. There cannot be two sets of rules for conduct at home and abroad … there should be no omissions to mar the general tenor of good and correct behaviour.’ And then further down the page: ‘ARRIVAL – if a guest, always arrive in good time; to do otherwise is a discourtesy to your host, an annoyance and discomfort to the other guests, and an insult to the dinner.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ said Clara out loud. ‘I wasn’t late for dinner! It was Antony!’ But she knew that her brother would not have received the same ‘gift’. She slammed the book down on the table and returned to her packing. As she did, there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she snapped, grumpily.
‘It’s Tony. You decent?’
Clara’s heart sank. He was the last person she wanted to see. There was another knock.
‘Oh, come on, old thing, I want to apologise.’
Clara sighed and opened the door. Her brother, dressed in a tuxedo, seemingly on the way out somewhere dandy, leaned against the frame. ‘Thought I’d just drop by on the way to Zoots. You wouldn’t want to come, would you?’
Clara snorted. ‘To a jazz club? With you? Are you serious?’
Antony laughed. ‘Of course I’m not serious. You’d cramp my style, sis. But can I come in?’ He didn’t wait for her to say yes or no, and stepped into the room.
She folded her arms and tapped her foot. ‘What do you want, Antony?’
‘Tony, all my friends call me Tony.’
‘I’m not your friend.’
Antony raised a mocking brow. ‘Well, that just hurts.’
‘And trying to do me out of my inheritance doesn’t?’
He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, all right, put your sword away. I’m unarmed.’
Her arms remained folded.
He sighed. ‘All right, if I have to say it, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the scene I made last night, I’m sorry I arrived late – I’ve already had an earful from Mother about that – and I’m sorry I ambushed you with our old friend Danskin.’
Clara pursed her lips, then said: ‘And are you sorry for the inheritance thing? And maligning Uncle Bob’s memory by suggesting he was out of his mind?’
Antony shook his head. ‘You’re not going to let it go, are you, sis?’ He took out a silver cigarette case and offered her one.
She shook her head in return. ‘No,’ she said, to both the cigarette and the previous question, ‘I’m not going to let it go. So, if you have nothing else to say, you should probably leave.’ She pointed to the door.
Antony lowered his eyes. ‘Well, actually, I do have something else to say. You see, I really am sorry, Clara. I’m dreadfully sorry about the Bob thing. But you need to understand that I was desperate … I – I – still am. And so is Father.’
‘Father?’ asked Clara, sharply. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look, can I sit down?’ he asked.
She nodded, indicating her dressing table stool. He sat and lit his cigarette. She perched on the edge of the bed waiting for him to speak. Eventually he did. ‘All right, I’ll be straight with you. Last year I got into some trouble. Financial trouble. So I took out a loan to cover it. Father acted as my surety. I was all set to pay it back when the blasted business on Wall Street hit us. As you may have heard, it hit Father too. I won’t go into too much of the sordid detail, but now I’m unable to pay back that loan and Father will have to do it for me. But I don’t want to ask him to do so. Not with everything else going on. They’ve had to sell off some of Running Brook and rent out the Cornwall cottage. And that’s just the tip of it. If things get any worse, they’ll have to sell this place. And the last thing I want is for our parents to be out on the street.’
Clara rolled her eyes. ‘I very much doubt they’ll be out on the street.’
Antony flashed an angry look. ‘Oh, do you, now? And what do you know, Miss Clara? You have paid absolutely no attention to our parents for years. You do not know – or care – about their struggles. Or mine. Or Laura’s. All you care about is getting away. Well, we can’t all get away. Some of us need to stay and look after the family. And as the eldest son, that falls on me. It all falls on me. You have no idea the pressure I’ve been under, Clara, not in the least!’
Clara was astounded by his tone. That was rich coming from him! She was just about to tell him so, when she noticed the hand holding his cigarette was shaking. And his eyes, that were usually so mocking, were filled with something she’d never seen before in her brother: despair. She had read in the papers recently about some stockbrokers and investors apparently taking their own lives after getting into trouble with investments. The crash on Wall Street had hit some of them very hard. Could Antony really be one of them? Was this more than just his usual profligate behaviour?
She softened her voice. ‘How much do you need, Antony? To pay off that loan.’
He snapped his head towards her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Well, depending on how much it is, yes, I am. I’ve been thinking. This inheritance from Bob has stirred up some bad blood. And while I consider it his right to give it to whomever he wants – and it is my right to take it – I would be open to giving you, shall we say, two thousand pounds? Would that cover it?’
‘Well, not all of it …’
‘It’s what I’m offering. Will you accept?’
He looked her straight in the eye and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘If that’s the sum of it?’
‘It is.’
‘Then I accept.’
‘Good,’ said Clara. ‘I shall instruct my accountant to transfer it to you as soon as possible. But Antony …’
‘Yes?’
‘That’s really all I can give you.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, I doubt that. But thank you anyway. On behalf of your family.’ He got up to leave, and as he did, there was another knock on the door.
‘You’re popular this evening,’ he said.
Clara, curious as to who it was, opened the door to find her sister and niece. Laura, dressed for dinner in yet another Parisienne haute couture creation, was holding Rosalind’s hand. The little girl was in her nightdress, dressing gown and slippers, with her hair tied in ringlet rags. She was holding the little teddy bear she got from Father Christmas when she last visited Clara.
‘Evening, squirt!’ said Antony, with his usual zest.
‘Uncle Tony!’
‘Are you going out?’ asked Laura.
‘I am indeed. Well, ladies,’ said Antony, giving an overt bow, ‘I’ll bid you good evening.’
‘What did he want?’ asked Laura, as their brother sauntered away.
‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,’ said Clara, shaking her head and wondering if she’d done the right thing. But she didn’t want to get into it with her sister. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘Rosalind wants to say good night,’ said Laura. ‘She hasn’t seen you all day.’ There was a slight note of reproval in her sister’s voice, but Clara felt she deserved it. She knew the little girl adored her and was desperate to spend time with her.
‘Cuthbear wants to say good night too!’ trilled Rosalind, holding up the teddy bear for her aunt to see.
‘Then you must all come in!’ said Clara, forcing jollity into her voice.
Laura, Rosalind and the bear all entered. ‘Are you going home already?’ asked Rosalind, her voice catching with disappointment. She pointed to the suitcase laid out on the bed.
‘Not home,’ said Clara, clearing some space for her family members to sit down. ‘But I am leaving tomorrow. I’m going somewhere quite exciting.’
‘Where? Where?’ asked Rosalind, bouncing on the bed.
‘To a place called Egypt. Have you heard of it?’
Rosalind’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s where they’ve got the mummies and the pyramids! My governess told me all about it!’
‘That’s right,’ said Clara, smiling at her niece.
But her sister wasn’t smiling. She looked stunned. ‘Have you told Mother and Father?’
Clara shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’ve only just found out myself. I will tell them at dinner.’
Laura let out a long exhalation of air. ‘Well, good luck with that.’
Clara pursed her lips. ‘Why should I need luck, Laura? I’m not asking their permission. I am a thirty-year-old woman of independent means.’
‘And don’t we all know it,’ muttered Laura, rolling her eyes.
Rosalind looked anxiously from her mother to her aunt. Clara noticed, and bit back her retort.
‘Look, Laura,’ she said, trying to keep her tone conciliatory, ‘I own my own business. My business is taking me to Egypt. It will be a business trip. That is all. But it has come up quite quickly, and as you can see, I’m not exactly packed for warmer weather. Do you have anything I could borrow?’
Laura’s eyes met Clara’s over her daughter’s head. She nodded and relaxed. ‘Actually, I do. I’ve been packing up lately in anticipation of our move—’
‘Where’re we moving to, Mummy?’
‘I’m not sure yet, darling, Daddy will tell us when it’s all decided. Let me finish talking to Aunt Clara, please.’
Rosalind sighed and started playing with her teddy, getting it to jump in and out of Clara’s suitcase.
‘So, I’ve been storing some things here. Mother and Father have plenty of room! I have a trunk of summer things in the box room on the fourth floor. You’re welcome to come have a look …’
Clara’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t mind? Oh, that will be marvellous! Thank you, Laura. I simply won’t have time before I have to head off to Southampton tomorrow.’
Her sister wafted away the thanks with her hand. ‘Not at all. It’s the least I could do after you took us all in at Christmas. Come, let’s see what we can find.’
Half an hour later, Clara was walking down the stairs with Laura’s maid behind her, carrying a pile of clothes. Clara had wanted to carry them herself, but her sister refused to hear it. ‘This is the sort of thing that frustrates Mother, Clara. Can you not, just for once, act like a lady of your class?’
Clara would have snapped back but she didn’t want to make a scene in front of Rosalind. She also realised that she was now the object of her sister’s charity, so she ought not to appear ungrateful. She sighed, inwardly, reminding herself that she would only have to put up with it all for one more night.
And now she had a suitcase full of summer clothes. She had three linen blouses, three light jersey skirts, two cotton frocks, a straw sun hat, a cardigan for cooler evenings, and two smart gowns: a cocktail dress and a dinner dress. Clara did not think these necessary, but Laura insisted.
‘I’ve heard they have the most fabulous social scene in Cairo. What if you’re invited? You can’t go looking like you’ve spent the day on the back of a camel!’
So Clara folded the gorgeous gowns and placed them on top of her suitcase. The dinner dress was a Charles Worth in emerald-green crȇpe Georgette, with a low scooped back and a train. The cocktail dress was a Jean Patou in navy blue jersey silk, sleeveless, with a hip sash that cascaded down the front and back. She had also borrowed a pair of cream-coloured brocade evening shoes that would go with either outfit.
Clara had just one more thing to pack. She waited for her sister and niece to leave (kissing the little girl and promising she’d bring her back a present from Egypt) then took her revolver from her satchel and slipped it in between her underwear. She had a feeling she might be needing it.