As she entered the dimly lit hall, Fina glanced up at the walls of the corridor. Not surprisingly, they were lined with imposing portraits of what she assumed were the ancestors of the Sykes-Duckworths. Not a happy looking clan on the whole, she thought. Fortunately, their dour countenances couldn’t dampen the festive atmosphere of the gathering.
Guests trickled into the dining room, including the almost-on-time arrival of Gayatri and Ruby – formal entries were apparently eschewed at Pauncefort Hall. There were, however, place cards in gold lettering. Two seats remained conspicuously unfilled, and Fina could see storm clouds gathering on the Earl’s brow as he contemplated them.
“Curse it, where are those two young—” The clatter of feet cut him off, and in came the pair of miscreants, somewhat out of breath.
Fina held her breath as she recognized the pale face and tightly trimmed moustache of Leslie-dashed-Dashwood. Thankfully, he was seated down the other end of the long table, and did not give her so much as a glance. The other young man must be Granville, favoured eldest son and heir. He certainly was handsome, thought Fina. His neatly groomed blond hair, fingernails and spotless shoes confirmed what she had seen of his personality in his bedroom. A ruthless jaw to match a ruthless personality.
Trying not to look as though she had been scrutinizing the guests, Fina eased into her chair between Cyril and Julia. Ruby, Edgar and Ian sat across from them.
Ian broke the silence – a silence that had been only punctuated by the slurping of soup. “Professor Lighton, what is your subject at Oxford? I went to the University of Havana, but I’ve always wanted to see Oxford.”
“Politics. I am a senior lecturer in politics,” replied Cyril curtly. “That usually shuts down any conversation.”
Rising to the challenge, Julia said, “Ah, but to the contrary, dear Professor. I believe you may find some of us, despite appearances, are deeply interested in the political world. What is your view of the colonial occupation of Egypt?”
Cyril, his mouth full of bread roll, was able only to raise his finger in answer. Seizing his chance, Edgar glanced up from whatever had fascinated him in his lap and stammered, “What’s your interest in Egypt, Miss Aston?”
“I was born in Egypt to a British father and an Egyptian mother. It was quite a scandal at the time,” she said, airily waving her soup spoon. “My mother died when I was quite young. My father and I moved to England. I was shunted off to many years of boarding school. I do plan to return to Egypt at some point, but the situation there—”
At last, Cyril found himself free to break in. “That’s just it. As you say, Miss Aston, it’s a deplorable situation, a colonial occupation. The Egyptians must govern themselves. I am of the opinion that if the British do not leave, there will continue to be overt and covert violence against the Egyptian people. And that is intolerable. This Blueshirt and Greenshirt business only proves my point.”
Crash. Plates rattled on the ivory tablecloth as Granville’s hand, clutching a napkin, came down hard. “I see we have some Bolshies!” cut in Granville with a snort. “What is the rot I hear at that end of the table?” He clearly had no intention of hearing anything, thought Fina.
Edgar muttered under his breath, “Better than the r-r-rot at that end of the table…”
Fina clutched at her stomach as Edgar went back to peeling his cuticles.
“What’s that, dearest Eddie? I cannot hear you! Or are you too weak to respond, as usual?” Granville taunted.
At this point, the rest of the family sallied forth in defence of Edgar: “Now dear, I don’t think it is fair to treat your brother that way…” said the Countess, halting abruptly, followed by “Granville, you’re squiffy,” said plainly by his sister, then followed finally by the Earl “Now it doesn’t do to talk politics over dinner, you two. It’s Christmastime after all.”
Silence.
Leslie, with surprising sensitivity, thought Fina, intervened to divert Granville’s attention. “I say, Granny, what did you think of that scrum we had last week? Did you see how Gableton-Fitts caught one in the back? Rough one, that, though the referee’s call was utter tosh.”
Tension now broken, a collective inaudible sigh permeated the room. By mutual, unspoken consent, the guests kept the conversation safely on local matters, expressing a surprising level of interest in the nearby Holy Well, which Florence Nightingale and Charles Darwin had reportedly visited in order to take the waters.
Fighting the urge to lick the bowl of her sherry trifle, Fina distracted herself by observing – one of her favourite habits in life. Most of the guests had paired off into cosy conversations. Ian and Ruby chattered about various relatives and shared acquaintances across the Caribbean; it seemed that Ian had some connections in the Bahamas. Edgar and Cyril, meanwhile, continued to debate the continued existence of the British Empire.
“Yes, I see your point, Professor, but you must agree with Nye Bevan’s argument about poverty. Surely that applies in the colonies as well.”
Sniffing impatiently, like a lord who has heard the hundredth excuse from a peasant that day for the lack of grain production, Cyril said, “Bevan’s time is up. His pronouncements are all very good for England, but I hardly believe they extend to the colonies. Bakunin says…”
Pompous as shop cats, thought Fina. She was tired of the Oxford habit of one-upmanship of name dropping.
Turning to Julia, she asked what she hoped would not be a rude question about her clothing. “Miss Aston, I’m so looking forward to delving into your wardrobe tomorrow. I find your use of clothes that are traditionally more, er, masculine in style intriguing. Is it your signature?”
Brushing some invisible lint off her lapel, Julia gently chided, not unkindly, “What makes you decide to wear dresses at all, darling?”
“Oh – I didn’t mean…” stammered Fina.
“Forgive me – I couldn’t help myself,” said Julia, as she looked into her empty dish – as if it contained answers to the mysteries of the universe. “You see, I am asked that question so very often. I have a rather pat response.”
“I’m sorry to join that chorus,” said Fina, wrinkling her nose. “I suppose it is my interest in clothing design that drives my question rather than any judgment. I’m sorry if it’s an unfair question.”
“Oh, hell,” said Julia, throwing down her napkin. “What’s the point of clothes if you can’t have a little fun with them?” Searching her jacket pockets, she said, “Ian, do you have a ciggy? I’m fresh out.”
Without taking his eyes off Ruby, Ian pulled out a box of cigarettes and slid them across the table.
“Thanks, sweetie,” said Julia, winking at Ian as he gave her an almost imperceptible glance. After igniting her ‘ciggy’ with a mother-of-pearl lighter, she turned toward her partner on the right, Lady Charlotte.
Having clearly failed at dinner conversation, Fina settled back into her chair, ruminating about the exact nature of the relationship between Ian and Julia. She wondered if Julia were jealous. Julia had a studied insouciance about her, but she was an actress after all. Ian and Ruby were getting on like a house on fire. Ruby’s hands waved as Ian leaned toward her, a sure sign of her excitement as she rarely used hand gestures to make a point.
Slap. It must be a family pastime to use napkin slapping to make a point, thought Fina. This time, it was the Countess doing the slapping. She began to move her bulk, gently side to side to gain enough momentum to vacate the chair.
“Grimston, please remove the trifle. Please tell the cook I prefer her older recipe – it was too sweet,” declared the Countess.
“But, I, I was hoping for a bit more of that delicious trifle. I thought it quite tasty,” protested the Earl, looking around the table for supporters.
Now standing with her fingers splayed on the tablecloth, the Countess looked ready to plan out her next military campaign.
Hmm. More to this batty Lady Snittlegarth than meets the eye, thought Fina.
“Nonsense. It will do you good to cut back on sweets, Roger,” said the Countess with the tone of finality. The other women at the table popped up from their chairs, at attention. “Ladies, please follow me to the library for coffee.”