8

I SHALL HAVE to do the evening at Scoatney bit by bit, for I know I shall be interrupted – I shall want to be, really, because life is too exciting to sit still for long. On top of the Cottons appearing to like us, we have actually come by twenty pounds, the Vicar having bought the rug that looks like a collie dog. Tomorrow we are going shopping in King’s Crypt. I am to have a summer dress. Oh, it is wonderful to wake up in the morning with things to look forward to!

Now about Scoatney. All week we were getting ready for the party. Topaz bought yards and yards of pink muslin for Rose’s frock and made it most beautifully. (At one time, before she was an artists’ model, Topaz worked at a great dress-maker’s, but she will never tell us about it – or about any of her pasts, which always surprises me because she is so frank about many things.)

Rose had a real crinoline to wear under the dress; only a small one but it made all the difference. We borrowed it from Mr Stebbins’s grandmother, who is ninety-two. When the dress was finished, he brought her over to see Rose in it and she told us she had worn the crinoline at her wedding in Godsend Church, when she was sixteen. I thought of Waller’s ‘Go, lovely Rose’ –

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

– though I refrained from mentioning it; the poor old lady was crying enough without that. But she said she had enjoyed the outing.

It was fun while we were all sewing the frills for the dress; I kept pretending we were in a Victorian novel. Rose was fairly willing to play, but she always shut up if I brought the Cottons into the game. And we had no nice friendly candlelight conversations about them. She wasn’t cross or sulky, she just seemed preoccupied – given to lying in bed not even reading, with a faint smirk on her face. Now I come to think of it, I was just as secretive about myself and Stephen, it would have embarrassed me dreadfully to tell her about my feelings; but then I have always been more secretive than she usually is. And I know that she thinks of him as – well, as a boy of a different class from ours. (Do I think it, too? If so, I am ashamed of such snobbishness.) I am thankful to be able to record that I have been brisk – though perhaps it would be truer to say that I haven’t been unbrisk; except for that second last night when I took his hand— But that is part of the evening at Scoatney Hall.

It was thrilling when we started to get dressed. There was still some daylight left, but we drew the curtains and brought up the lamp and lit candles, because I once read that women of fashion dress for candlelight by candlelight. Our frocks were laid out on the four-poster, mine had been washed and Topaz had cut the neck down a bit. Miss Blossom was ecstatic about Rose’s – she said: ‘My word, that’ll fetch the gentlemen. And I never knew you had such white shoulders – fancy God giving you that hair but no freckles!’ Rose laughed, but she was cross because she couldn’t see herself full length; our long looking-glass got sold. I held our small one so that she could look at herself in sections, but it was tantalizing for her.

‘There’s the glass over the drawing-room fireplace,’ I said. ‘Perhaps if you stood on the piano—’ She went down to try.

Father came from the bathroom and went through to his bedroom. The next second I heard him shout:

‘Good God, what have you done to yourself?’

He sounded so horrified that I thought Topaz had had some accident. I dashed into Buffer State but stopped myself outside their bedroom door; I could see her from there. She was wearing a black evening dress that she never has liked herself in, a very conventional dress. Her hair was done up in a bun and she had makeup on – not much, just a little rouge and lipstick. The result was astounding. She looked quite ordinary – just vaguely pretty but not worth a second glance.

Neither of them saw me. I heard her say:

‘Oh, Mortmain, this is Rose’s night. I want all the attention to be focused on her—’

I tiptoed back to the bedroom. I was bewildered at such unselfishness, particularly as she had spent hours mending her best evening dress. I knew what she meant, of course – at her most striking she can make Rose’s beauty look like mere prettiness. Suddenly I remembered that first night the Cottons came here, how she tried to efface herself. Oh, noble Topaz!

I heard Father shout:

‘To hell with that. God knows I’ve very little left to be proud of. At least let me be proud of my wife.’

There was a throaty gasp from Topaz: ‘Oh, my darling!’ – and then I hastily went downstairs and kept Rose talking in the drawing-room. I felt this was something we oughtn’t to be in on. And I felt embarrassed – I always do when I really think of Father and Topaz being married.

When they came down Topaz was as white as usual and her silvery hair, which was at its very cleanest, was hanging down her back. She had her best dress on which is Grecian in shape, like a clinging grey cloud, with a great grey scarf which she had draped round her head and shoulders. She looked most beautiful – and just how I imagine the Angel of Death.

The Cottons’ car came, with a uniformed chauffeur, and out we sailed. I was harrowed at leaving Stephen and Thomas behind, but Topaz had arranged they should have a supper with consoling sausages.

It was a huge, wonderful car. We none of us talked very much in it – personally, I was too conscious of the chauffeur; he was so rigid and correct and had such outstanding ears. I just sat back watching the darkening fields drift past, feeling rather frail and luxurious. And I thought about us all and wondered how the others were feeling. Father looked very handsome in his evening clothes and he was kind and smiling but I could see he was nervous; at least, I thought I could, but then it struck me how little I know of him, or of Topaz or Rose or anyone in the world, really, except myself. I used to flatter myself that I could get flashes of what people were thinking but if I did, it was only of quick, surface thoughts. All these years and I don’t know what has stopped Father working! And I don’t really know what Rose feels about the Cottons. As for Topaz – but I never did get any flashes of knowing her. Of course I have always realized that she is kind, but I should never have thought her capable of making that noble sacrifice for Rose. And just as I was feeling ashamed of ever having thought her bogus, she said in a voice like plum-cake:

‘Look, Mortmain, look! Oh, don’t you long to be an old, old man in a lamp-lit inn?’

‘Yes, particularly one with rheumatism,’ said Father. ‘My dear, you’re an ass.’

We called for the Vicar, which made it rather a squash, what with Rose’s crinoline … He is the nicest man – about fifty, plump, with curly golden hair; rather like an elderly baby – and most unholy. Father once said to him: ‘God knows how you came to be a clergyman.’ And the Vicar said: ‘Well, it’s His business to know.’

After he’d had a look at us he said: ‘Mortmain, your women are spectacular.’

‘I’m not,’ I said.

‘Ah, but you’re the insidious type – Jane Eyre with a touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl. I like your string of coral.’

Then he got us all talking and even made the chauffeur laugh – the odd thing is that he makes people laugh without saying anything very funny. I suppose it is because he is such a comfortable sort of man.

It was dark when we got to Scoatney Hall and all the windows were lit up. There is a right-of-way through the park and I had often cycled there on my way home from school, so I knew what the outside of the house was like – it is sixteenth-century except for the seventeenth-century pavilion in the water-garden; but I was longing to see inside. We went up shallow steps that had been worn into a deep curve, and the front door was opened before we had time to ring the bell. I had never met a butler before and he made me feel self-conscious, but the Vicar knew him and said something normal to him.

We left our wraps in the hall – Topaz had lent us things to save us the shame of wearing our winter coats. There was a wonderful atmosphere of gentle age, a smell of flowers and beeswax, sweet yet faintly sour and musty; a smell that makes you feel very tender towards the past.

We went into quite a little drawing-room, where the Cottons were standing by the fireplace with two other people. Mrs Cotton was talking up to the moment we were announced; then she turned to us and was absolutely silent for a second – I think she was astonished at how Rose and Topaz looked. I noticed Simon looking at Rose. Then we were all shaking hands and being introduced to the others.

They were a Mr and Mrs Fox-Cotton – English relations of the Cottons; rather distant ones, I think. As soon as I heard the husband called ‘Aubrey’ I remembered that he is an architect – I read something about his work in a magazine once. He is middle-aged, with a greyish face and thin, no-coloured hair. There is something very elegant about him and he has a beautiful speaking voice, though it is a bit affected. I was next to him while we were drinking our cocktails (my first – and it tasted horrid) so I asked him about the architecture of the house. He launched forth at once.

‘What makes it so perfect,’ he said, ‘is that it’s a miniature great house. It has everything – great hall, long gallery, central courtyard – but it’s on so small a scale that it’s manageable, even in these days. I’ve hankered for it for years. How I wish I could persuade Simon to let me have it on a long lease.’

He said it as much for Simon to hear as for me. Simon laughed and said: ‘Not on your life.’

Then Mr Fox-Cotton said:

‘Do tell me – the exquisite lady in grey – surely she’s the Topaz of Macmorris’s picture in the Tate Gallery?’ And after we had talked about Topaz for a minute or two, he drifted over to her. I had time to notice that Simon was admiring Rose’s dress and that she was telling him about the crinoline – which seemed to fascinate him, he said he must go and see old Mrs Stebbins; then the Vicar joined me and obligingly finished my cocktail for me. Soon after that we went in to dinner.

The table was a pool of candlelight – so bright that the rest of the room seemed almost black, with the faces of the family portraits floating in the darkness.

Mrs Cotton had Father on her right and the Vicar on her left. Topaz was on Simon’s right, Mrs Fox-Cotton on his left. Rose was between the Vicar and Mr Fox-Cotton – I wished she could have been next to Simon, but I suppose married women have to be given precedence. I have an idea that Neil just may have asked for me to be next to him, because he told me I would be, as we went in. It made me feel very warm towards him.

It was a wonderful dinner with real champagne (lovely, rather like very good ginger ale without the ginger). But I wish I could have had that food when I wasn’t at a party, because you can’t notice food fully when you are being polite. And I was a little bit nervous – the knives and forks were so complicated. I never expected to feel ignorant about such things – we always had several courses for dinner at Aunt Millicent’s – but I couldn’t even recognize all the dishes. And it was no use trying to copy Neil because his table manners were quite strange to me. I fear he must have seen me staring at him once because he said: ‘Mother thinks I ought to eat in the English way – she and Simon have gotten into it – but I’m darned if I will.’

I asked him to explain the difference. It appears that in America it is polite to cut up each mouthful, lay down the knife on your plate, change your fork from the left to the right hand, load it, eat the fork-full, change the fork back to your left hand, and pick up the knife again – and you must take only one kind of food on the fork at a time; never a nice comfortable wodge of meat and vegetables together.

‘But that takes so long,’ I said.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Neil. ‘Anyway, it looks terrible to me the way you all hang on to your knives.’

The idea of anything English people do looking terrible quite annoyed me, but I held my peace.

‘Tell you another thing that’s wrong over here,’ Neil went on, waving his fork slightly. ‘Look at the way everything’s being handed to your stepmother first. Back home it’d be handed to Mother.’

‘Don’t you care to be polite to the guest?’ I said. Dear me, what a superior little horror I must have sounded.

‘But it is polite – it’s a lot more considerate, anyway. Because the hostess can always show you what to do with the food – if you turn out soup on your plate or take a whole one of anything – don’t you see what I mean?’

I saw very clearly and I did think it a wonderfully good idea.

‘Well, perhaps I could even get used to changing my fork from hand to hand,’ I said, and had a go at it. I found it very difficult.

The Vicar was watching us across the table.

‘When this house was built, people used daggers and their fingers,’ he said. ‘And it’ll probably last until the days when men dine off capsules.’

‘Fancy asking friends to come over for capsules,’ I said.

‘Oh, the capsules will be taken in private,’ said Father. ‘By that time, eating will have become unmentionable. Pictures of food will be considered rare and curious, and only collected by rude old gentlemen.’

Mrs Fox-Cotton spoke to Neil then and he turned to talk to her; so I got a chance to look round the table. Both Father and the Vicar were listening to Mrs Cotton; Aubrey Fox-Cotton was monopolizing Topaz. For the moment, no one was talking to either Rose or Simon. I saw him look at her. She gave him a glance through her eyelashes and though I know what Topaz means about it being old-fashioned, it was certainly a most fetching glance – perhaps Rose has got into better practice now. Anyway, I could see that Simon wasn’t being put off by it this time. He raised his glass and looked at her across it almost as if he were drinking a toast to her. His eyes looked rather handsome above the glass and I suddenly had a hope that she could really fall in love with him, in spite of the beard. But heavens, I couldn’t!

She smiled – the faintest flicker of a smile – and then turned and spoke to the Vicar. I thought to myself: ‘She’s learning’ – because it would have been very obvious if she had looked at Simon any longer.

I had a queer sort of feeling, watching them all and listening; perhaps it was due to what Father had been saying a few minutes before. It suddenly seemed astonishing that people should meet especially to eat together – because food goes into the mouth and talk comes out. And if you watch people eating and talking – really watch them – it is a very peculiar sight: hands so busy, forks going up and down, swallowings, words coming out between mouthfuls, jaws working like mad. The more you look at a dinner party, the odder it seems – all the candlelit faces, hands with dishes coming over shoulders, the owners of the hands moving round quietly, taking no part in the laughter and conversation. I pulled my mind off the table and stared into the dimness beyond, and then I gradually saw the servants as real people, watching us, whispering instructions to each other, exchanging glances. I noticed a girl from Godsend village and gave her a tiny wink – and wished I hadn’t, because she let out a little snort of laughter and then looked in terror at the butler. The next minute my left ear heard something which made my blood run cold (an expression I have always looked down on, but I really did get a cold shiver between my shoulders): Mrs Cotton was asking Father how long it was since he had published anything.

‘A good twelve years,’ he said in the blank voice which our family accepts as the close of a conversation. It had no such effect on Mrs Cotton.

‘You’ve thought it best to lie fallow,’ she said. ‘How few writers have the wisdom to do that.’ Her tone was most understanding, almost reverent. Then she added briskly: ‘But it’s been long enough, don’t you think?’

I saw Father’s hand grip the table. For an awful second I thought he was going to push his chair back and walk out – as he so often does at home if any of us annoy him. But he just said, very quietly: ‘I’ve given up writing, Mrs Cotton. And now let’s talk of something interesting.’

‘But this is interesting,’ she said. I sneaked a look at her. She was very upright, all deep blue velvet and pearls – I don’t think I ever saw a woman look so noticeably clean. ‘And I warn you I’m quite unsnubbable, Mr Mortmain. When a writer so potentially great as you keeps silent so long, it’s somebody’s duty to find out the reason. Automatically, one’s first guess is drink, but that’s obviously not your trouble. There must be some psychological—’

Just then Neil spoke to me.

‘Quiet, a minute,’ I whispered, but I missed the rest of Mrs Cotton’s speech. Father said:

‘Good God, you can’t say things like that to me at your own dinner table.’

‘Oh, I always employ shock tactics with men of genius,’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘And one has to employ them in public or the men of genius bolt.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of bolting, in public or out,’ said Father – but I could tell he wasn’t going to; there was an easy, amused tone in his voice that I hadn’t heard for years. He went on banteringly, ‘Tell me, are you unique or has the American club woman become more menacing since my day?’ It seemed to me a terribly rude thing to say, even in fun, but Mrs Cotton didn’t appear to mind in the least. She just said smilingly, ‘I don’t happen to be what you mean by a club woman. And anyway, I think we must cure you of this habit of generalizing about America on the strength of two short lecture tours.’ Serve Father right – he has always talked as if he had brought America home in his trouser pocket. Naturally I wanted to go on listening, but I saw Mrs Cotton notice me; so I turned quickly to Neil.

‘All right now,’ I said.

‘What was it?’ he asked. ‘Did you think you’d broken a tooth?’

I laughed and told him what I had been listening to.

‘You just wait,’ he said. ‘She’ll have him turning out masterpieces eight hours a day – unless, of course, he goes for her with a cake-knife.’

I stared at him in amazement. He went on: ‘Oh, she had our attorney send us all the details of the case. Made me laugh a lot. But I guess she was a bit disappointed that it wasn’t a real attempt at murder.’

‘Can you understand how a ridiculous thing like that could put him off his work?’ I asked.

‘Why, I don’t even understand your father’s work when he was on it,’ said Neil. ‘I’m just not literary.’

After that, we talked of other things – I felt it would be polite to ask questions about America. He told me about his father’s ranch in California, where he had lived until he joined Mrs Cotton and Simon. (It is strange to realize how little he has had to do with them.) I said it seemed very sad that the father had died before he could inherit Scoatney Hall.

‘He wouldn’t have lived in it, anyway,’ said Neil. ‘He’d never have settled down anywhere but in America – any more than I shall.’

I almost began to say, ‘But your brother’s going to live here, isn’t he?’ but I stopped myself. Neil had sounded so cross that I felt it might be a sore subject. I asked him if he liked Rose’s dress – mostly to change the conversation.

He said: ‘Not very much, if you want the honest truth – it’s too fussy for me. But she looks very pretty in it. Knows it, too, doesn’t she?’

There was a twinkle in his eye which took off the rudeness. And I must admit that Rose was knowing it all over the place.

The most wonderful frozen pudding came round then and while Neil helped himself, I let my left ear listen to Father and Mrs Cotton again. They seemed to be getting on splendidly, though it did sound a bit like a shouting match. I saw Topaz look across anxiously, then look relieved: Father was chuckling.

‘Oh, talk to the Vicar – give me a rest,’ he said.

‘But I shall return to the attack,’ said Mrs Cotton. Her eyes were sparkling and she looked about twice as healthy as anyone normally does.

‘Well, how are you enjoying your first grown-up dinner party?’ Father asked me – it was the first word he had spoken to me throughout the meal but I could hardly blame him for that. He was rather flushed and somehow larger than usual – there was a touch of the magnificence I still remember about him from pre-cake-knife days. He had a slight return of it when he married Topaz, but it didn’t last. The awful thought came to me that he might be going to fall in love with Mrs Cotton. She was talking to him again within a couple of minutes. Soon after that the females left the table.

As we went upstairs, Topaz slipped her arm through mine.

‘Could you hear?’ she whispered. ‘Is he really enjoying himself? Or was he just putting it on?’

I told her I thought it was genuine.

‘It’s wonderful to see him like that’ – but her voice sounded wistful. It is one of her theories that a woman must never be jealous, never try to hold a man against his will; but I could tell that she hadn’t enjoyed seeing someone else bring Father to life.

Mrs Cotton’s bedroom was lovely – there were lots of flowers, and new books lying around and a chaise-longue piled with fascinating little cushions; and a wood fire – it must be heaven to have a fire in one’s bedroom. The bathroom was unbelievable – the walls were looking-glass! And there was a glass table with at least half-a-dozen bottles of scent and toilet water on it. (Americans say ‘perfume’ instead of ‘scent’ – much more correct, really; I don’t know why ‘perfume’ should be considered affected in England.)

‘Simon says this bathroom’s an outrage on the house,’ said Mrs Cotton, ‘but I’ve no use for antiquity in bathrooms.’

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ I said to Rose.

‘Glorious,’ she said, in an almost tragic voice. I could see she was liking it so much that it really hurt her.

When we had tidied up we went to the Long Gallery – it stretches the full length of the house and as it is narrow it seems even longer than it is. It has three fireplaces and there were fires in all of them, but it wasn’t at all too hot. Rose and I strolled along looking at the pictures and statues and interesting things in glass cases, while Mrs Cotton talked to Topaz. Mrs Fox-Cotton had disappeared after dinner; I suppose she went off to her own bedroom.

We got to the fireplace at the far end of the gallery and stood looking back at the others; we could hear their voices but not a word of what they were saying, so we felt it was safe to talk.

‘What sort of a time did you have at dinner?’ I asked.

She said it had been boring – she didn’t like Mr Fox-Cotton and, anyway, he had only been interested in Topaz: ‘So I concentrated on the wonderful food. What did you and Neil talk about?’

‘Amongst other things, he said you looked very pretty,’ I told her.

‘What else?’

‘About America, mostly.’ I remembered as much as I could for her, particularly about the ranch in California; I had liked the sound of it.

‘What, cows and things?’ she said, disgustedly. ‘Is he going back there?’

‘Oh, it was sold when the father died. But he did say he’d like to have a ranch himself if ever he could afford it.’

‘But aren’t they very rich?’

‘Oh, shut up,’ I whispered, and took a quick look at Mrs Cotton; but we were really quite safe. ‘I don’t suppose Neil’s rich and it probably takes all Simon’s money to keep this place up. Come on, we’d better go back.’

As we reached the fireplace in the middle of the gallery, Mrs Fox-Cotton came in. It was the first time I’d had a really good look at her. She is small, not much bigger than I am, with straight black hair done in an enormous knob low on her neck, and a very dark skin. Both skin and hair look greasy to me. Topaz says the modelling of the face is beautiful and I do see that, but I don’t think the modelling would be damaged by a really good wash. She was wearing a clinging dark green dress, so shiny that it looked almost slimy – it made me think of seaweed. Her Christian name, believe it or not, is Leda.

Rose and I walked to meet her but she sat down on a sofa, put her feet up and opened an old calf-bound book she had brought in with her. ‘Do you mind?’ she said. ‘I want to finish this before we go back to London tomorrow.’

‘What is it?’ I asked, out of politeness.

‘Oh, it’s no book for little girls,’ she said. She has the silliest voice, a little tinny bleat; she barely bothers to open her mouth – the words just slide through her teeth. In view of what happened later, I put it on record that it was then I first decided that I didn’t like her.

The men came in then – I noticed she was quick enough to stop reading for them. Father and Simon seemed to be finishing a literary argument; I hoped they’d had a really good discussion downstairs. It was interesting to notice where the men went: Father and the Vicar talked to Mrs Cotton, Aubrey Fox-Cotton made a dive for Topaz, Simon and Neil came towards Rose and me – but Mrs Fox-Cotton got off her sofa and intercepted Simon.

‘Did you know there’s a picture here with a look of you?’ she told him, and put her arm through his and marched him along the gallery.

‘Oh, I noticed that,’ I said. Rose and Neil and I walked after them, which I bet didn’t please Mrs F-C at all.

It was one of the earliest pictures – Elizabethan, I think; there was a small white ruff at the top of the man’s high collar. It was just a head and shoulders against a dark background.

‘It’s probably only the beard that’s like,’ said Simon.

‘No, the eyes,’ said Mrs Fox-Cotton.

‘The eyebrows mostly,’ I said, ‘the little twist at the corners. And the hair – the way it grows on the forehead, in a peak.’

Rose was staring hard at the picture. Simon asked her what she thought. She turned and looked at him intently; she seemed to be taking in his features one by one. Yet when she finally answered she only said: ‘Oh, a little like, perhaps,’ rather vaguely. I had a feeling that she had been thinking about something quite different from the picture, something to do with Simon himself; and had come back from a very long way, to find us all waiting for her answer.

We strolled back to the others. Topaz and Aubrey Fox-Cotton were looking at pictures too; they were with the eighteenth-century Cottons. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said suddenly to Topaz, ‘you’re really a Blake. Isn’t she, Leda?’

Mrs F-C seemed to take a mild interest in this. She gave Topaz a long, appraising stare and said: ‘Yes, if she had more flesh on her bones.’

‘Rose is a Romney,’ said Simon. ‘She’s quite a bit like Lady Hamilton.’ It was the first time I had heard him use her Christian name. ‘And Cassandra’s a Reynolds, of course – the little girl with the mousetrap.’

‘I’m not!’ I said indignantly. ‘I hate that picture. The mouse is terrified, the cat’s hungry and the girl’s a cruel little beast. I refuse to be her.’

‘Ah, but you’d let the mouse out of the trap and find a nice dead sardine for the cat,’ said Simon. I began to like him a little better.

The others were busy thinking of a painter for Mrs Fox-Cotton. They finally decided on a Surrealist named Dali. ‘With snakes coming out of her ears,’ said Mr Fox-Cotton. I haven’t the faintest idea what Surrealism is, but I can easily imagine snakes in Mrs F-C’s ears – and I certainly shouldn’t blame them for coming out.

After that, it was decided that we should dance. ‘In the hall,’ said Neil, ‘because the Victrola’s down there.’ Mrs Cotton and Father and the Vicar stayed behind talking.

‘We shall be one man short,’ complained Mrs Fox-Cotton as we went downstairs.

I said I would watch as I don’t know modern dances. (Neither does Rose, really, but she did try them once or twice at Aunt Millicent’s parties.)

‘What kind do you know?’ asked Simon, teasingly. ‘Sarabandes, courantes and pavanes?’

I told him just waltzes and polkas. Mother showed us those when we were little.

‘I’ll teach you,’ said Neil. He put a record on the gramophone – I had expected a Victrola to be something much more exciting – and then came back to me, but I said I’d rather watch for the first few dances.

‘Oh, come on, Cassandra,’ he said, but Mrs Fox-Cotton butted in. ‘Let the child watch if she wants to. Dance this with me.’ I settled it by running up the stairs.

I sat on the top step looking down on them. Rose danced with Simon, Topaz with Mr Fox-Cotton. I must say Mrs Fox-Cotton danced beautifully, though she seemed almost to be lying on Neil’s chest. Rose’s dress looked lovely but she kept on missing steps. Topaz was holding herself stiff as a poker – she thinks modern dancing is vulgar – but Mr Fox-Cotton danced so well that she gradually relaxed. It was fascinating watching them all from up there. The hall was very dimly lit, the oak floor looked dark as water by night. I noticed the mysterious old-house smell again but mixed with Mrs Fox-Cotton’s scent – a rich, mysterious scent, not a bit like flowers. I leaned against the carved banisters and listened to the music and felt quite different from any way I have ever felt before – softer, very beautiful and as if a great many men were in love with me and I might very easily be in love with them. I had the most curious feeling in my solar plexus – a vulnerable feeling is the nearest I can get to it; I was investigating it in a pleasant, hazy sort of way, staring down at a big bowl of white tulips against the uncurtained great window, when all of a sudden I went quite cold with shock.

There were two faces floating in the black glass of the window.

The next instant they were gone. I strained my eyes to see them again. The dancers kept passing the window, hiding it from me. Suddenly the faces were back, but grown fainter. They grew clear again – and just then the record finished. The dancers stopped, the faces vanished.

Aubrey Fox-Cotton shouted: ‘Did you see that, Simon? Two of the villagers staring in again.’

‘That’s the worst of a right-of-way so close to the house,’ Simon explained to Rose.

‘Oh, hell, what does it matter?’ said Neil. ‘Let them watch if they want to.’

‘But it startled Mother badly the other night. I think I’ll just ask them not to, if I can catch them.’

Simon went to the door and opened it. I ran full tilt down the stairs, and across to him. There was a light above the door which made everything seem pitch black beyond.

‘Don’t catch them,’ I whispered.

He smiled down at me in astonishment. ‘Good heavens, I’m not going to hurt them.’ He went down the steps and shouted: ‘Anyone there?’

There was a stifled laugh quite close.

‘They’re behind the cedar,’ said Simon and started to walk towards it. I was praying they would bolt but no sound of it came. I grabbed Simon’s arm and whispered: ‘Please come back – please say you couldn’t find them. It’s Thomas and Stephen.’

Simon let out a snort of laughter.

‘They must have cycled over,’ I said. ‘Please don’t be annoyed. It’s just that they hankered to see the fun.’

He called out: ‘Thomas, Stephen – where are you? Come in and talk to us.’

They didn’t answer. We walked towards the cedar. Suddenly they made a dash for it – and Thomas promptly tripped over something and fell full length. I called: ‘Come on, both of you – it’s perfectly all right.’

Simon went to help Thomas up – I knew he wasn’t hurt because he was laughing so much. My eyes were used to the darkness by then and I could see Stephen some yards away; he had stopped but he wasn’t coming towards us. I went over and took him by the hand.

‘I’m so dreadfully sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I know it was a terrible thing to do.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘Nobody minds a bit.’ His hand was quite damp. I was sure he was feeling awful.

The others had heard the shouts and come to the door. Neil came running out to us with a torch.

‘What, my old friend Stephen?’ he cried. ‘Are there any bears abroad tonight?’

‘I don’t want to come in – please!’ Stephen whispered to me. But Neil and I took an arm each and made him.

Thomas wasn’t minding at all – he kept choking with laughter. ‘We had a squint at you at dinner,’ he said, ‘and then you all disappeared. We were just about to go home in despair when you came downstairs.’

Once I saw Stephen clearly, in the hall, I was sorry I had made him come in – he was scarlet to his forehead and too shy to speak a word. And Rose made things worse by saying affectedly (I think it was due to embarrassment): ‘I do apologize for them. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.’

‘Don’t mind your Great-aunt Rose, boys,’ said Neil, with a grin. ‘Come on, we’ll go and raid the ice-box.’

I once saw them do that on the pictures and it looked marvellous. I thought I would go along, too, but Mrs Fox-Cotton called me back.

‘Who’s that boy, the tall fair one?’ she demanded.

I told her about Stephen.

She said, ‘I must photograph him.’

‘What, at this time of night?’

She gave a whinnying little laugh. ‘Of course not, you silly child. He must come up to London – I’m a professional photographer. Look here, ask him— No, don’t bother.’ She ran upstairs.

Neil and the boys had disappeared by then. I was sorry, because I was quite a bit hungry, in spite of the enormous dinner; I suppose my stomach had got into practice. I feared that if I hung about, Simon might feel he ought to dance with me – he was dancing with Rose again and I wanted him to go on. So I went upstairs.

It was pleasant being by myself in the house – one gets the feel of a house much better alone. I went very slowly, looking at the old prints on the walls of the passages. Everywhere at Scoatney one feels so conscious of the past; it is like a presence, a caress in the air. I don’t often get that feeling at the castle; perhaps it has been altered too much, and the oldest parts seem so utterly remote. Probably the beautiful, undisturbed furniture helps at Scoatney.

I expected to hear voices to guide me back to the gallery but everything was quiet. At last I came to a window open on to the courtyard and leaned out and got my bearings – I could see the gallery windows. I could see the kitchen windows, too, and Neil and Thomas and Stephen eating at the table. It did look fun.

When I went into the gallery, Father and Mrs Cotton were at the far end and the Vicar was lying on the sofa by the middle fireplace reading Mrs Fox-Cotton’s book. I told him about Thomas and Stephen.

‘Let’s go and talk to them,’ he said, ‘unless you want me to dance with you. I dance like an india-rubber ball.’

I said I should like to see the kitchens. He got up, closing the book.

‘Mrs Fox-Cotton said that was no book for little girls,’ I told him.

‘It’s no book for little vicars,’ he said, chuckling.

He took me down by the back stairs – he knows the house well, as he was very friendly with old Mr Cotton. It was interesting to notice the difference once we got into the servants’ quarters; the carpets were thin and worn, the lighting was harsh, it felt much colder. The smell was different, too – just as old but with no mellowness in it; a stale, damp dispiriting smell.

But the kitchens were beautiful when we got to them – all painted white, with a white enamelled stove and the hugest refrigerator. (Aunt Millicent only had an old one which dribbled.) Neil and the boys were still eating. And sitting on the table, talking hard to Stephen, was Mrs Fox-Cotton.

As I came in, she was handing him a card. I heard her say:

‘All you have to do is to give that address to the taxi-driver. I’ll pay your fare when you get there – or perhaps I’d better give you some money now.’ She opened her evening bag.

‘Are you really going to be photographed?’ I asked him. He shook his head and showed me the card. It had LEDA, ARTIST PHOTOGRAPHER on it, under a beautifully drawn little swan, and an address in St John’s Wood.

‘Be a nice child and help me to persuade him,’ she said. ‘He can come on a Sunday. I’ll pay his fare and give him two guineas. He’s exactly what I’ve been looking for for months.’

‘No, thank you, ma’am,’ said Stephen, very politely. ‘I’d be embarrassed.’

‘Heavens, what’s there to be embarrassed about? I only want to photograph your head. Would you do it for three guineas?’

‘What, for just one day?’

She gave him a shrewd little look; then said quickly:

‘Five guineas if you come next Sunday.’

‘Don’t do it if you don’t want to, Stephen,’ I said.

He swallowed and thought. At last he said: ‘I’ll have to think it over, ma’am. Would it be five guineas if I came a little later?’

‘Any Sunday you like – I can always use you. Only write in advance to make sure I shall be free. You write for him,’ she added, to me.

‘He’ll write himself if he wants to,’ I said coldly – she sounded as if she thought he was illiterate.

‘Well, don’t you go putting him off. Five guineas, Stephen. And I probably won’t need you for more than two or three hours.’

She grabbed a wing of chicken and sat there gnawing it. Neil offered me some, but my appetite had gone off.

Stephen said it was time he and Thomas rode home. Neil asked them to stay on and dance, but didn’t press it when he saw Stephen didn’t want to. We all went to see them off – the bicycles were somewhere at the back of the house. On the way, we passed through a store-room where enormous hams were hanging.

‘Old Mr Cotton sent us one of those every Christmas,’ said Thomas. ‘Only he was dead last Christmas.’

Neil reached up and took the largest ham off its hook.

‘There you are, Tommy,’ he said.

‘Oh, Thomas, you can’t!’ I began – but I didn’t want Neil to call me Great-aunt Cassandra so I finished up: ‘Well, I suppose you have.’ And I certainly would have fainted with despair if Thomas had refused the ham. In the end, I undertook to bring it home because he couldn’t manage it on his bicycle.

‘But swear you won’t go all ladylike and leave it behind,’ he whispered. I swore.

After the boys had gone we went back to the hall and found the others still dancing.

‘Come on, Cassandra,’ said Neil, and whirled me off.

Dear me, dancing is peculiar when you really think about it. If a man held your hand and put his arm round your waist without its being dancing, it would be most important; in dancing, you don’t even notice it – well, only a little bit. I managed to follow the steps better than I expected, but not easily enough to enjoy myself; I was quite glad when the record ended.

Neil asked Rose to dance then, and I had a glorious waltz with the Vicar; we got so dizzy that we had to flop on a sofa. I don’t fancy Rose followed Neil as well as I had done, because as they passed I heard him say: ‘Don’t keep on putting in little fancy steps on your own.’ I guessed that would annoy her and it did; when the music stopped and he asked her to come out into the garden for some air, she said, ‘No, thanks,’ almost rudely.

After that, we all went back to the Long Gallery, where Father and Mrs Cotton were talking as hard as ever. Mrs Cotton broke off politely as we went in and the conversation was general for a while; but Mrs Fox-Cotton kept yawning and patting her mouth and saying, ‘Excuse me’ – which only drew more attention to it – and soon Topaz said we ought to be going. Mrs Cotton protested courteously, then rang for the car. There was a late feeling about the evening – just as there used to be at children’s parties (the few I ever went to) after the first nurse arrived to take a child home.

I picked up the ham as we went through the hall and tactfully kept it under the wrap Topaz had lent me – it was a most peculiar sort of burnous thing but it came in very useful. Simon and Neil went out to the car with us and said they would come over and see us when they got back from London – they were driving up the next day to stay for a fortnight.

And so the party was over.

‘Great Heavens, Cassandra, how did you get that?’ said Father when he saw me nursing the ham.

I told him, and explained that I had been hiding it in case he made me refuse it.

‘Refuse it? You must be insane, my child.’ He took it from me to guess how much it weighed. We all guessed – which was a sheer waste of time as we haven’t any scales.

‘You’re nursing it as if it were your first-born child,’ said Father when it was returned to me eventually.

I said I doubted if anyone’s first-born child was ever more welcome. After that we all fell silent – we had suddenly remembered the chauffeur.

Even when we got home we didn’t all rush to compare notes. I got the feeling that we all wanted to do a little private thinking. I certainly did.

I began as soon as Rose and I had blown our bedroom candles out. I wasn’t a bit sleepy. I went through the whole evening – it was almost nicer than when it was actually happening until I got to the bit in the kitchen, with Mrs Fox-Cotton asking Stephen to sit for her; I found I was furious about that. I asked myself why – why shouldn’t he make five guineas for a few hours’ work? Five guineas is a tremendous amount of money. And surely a photographer has every right to engage models? I decided I was being most unreasonable – but I went on feeling furious.

While I was still arguing with myself, Rose got out of the four-poster and opened the window wider; then sat on the window-seat.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ I asked.

She said she hadn’t even been trying and I guessed she had been going over the evening just as I had; I wished I could change minds with her for a while and re-live her evening.

I got up and joined her on the window-seat. It was such a dark night that I could only see the shape of her. Suddenly she said:

‘I wish I knew more about men.’

‘Why specially?’ I asked, in a quietly encouraging voice. She was silent so long that I thought she wasn’t going to answer; then the words came rushing out:

‘He’s attracted – I know he is! But he’s probably been attracted to lots of girls: it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to propose. If only I knew the clever way to behave!’

I said: ‘Oh, Rose, have you thought what marriage really means?’

‘Yes, I thought tonight – when I looked at him to see if he was like that old painting. I suddenly imagined being in bed with him.’

‘What a moment to choose for it! I saw you were pretty preoccupied. Well, how did it feel?’

‘Most peculiar. But I could face it.’

‘Is it just the money, Rose?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said, ‘honestly, I’m not – I don’t understand myself. It’s terribly exciting feeling men are attracted to you. It’s – but you couldn’t understand.’

‘I think perhaps I could.’ For a second I thought of telling her about Stephen, but before I could start she went on:

‘I like him – really I do. He’s so courteous – he’s the first person who ever made me feel I matter. And he’s handsome – in a way, don’t you think? His eyes are, anyway. If I could just get used to the beard—’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have Neil? He’s so very kind and he’s got such a nice clean face.’

‘Oh, Neil—!’ Her tone was so scornful that I realized he must have annoyed her even more than I had suspected. ‘No, you can have Neil.’

Honestly, that was the first time the idea had ever occurred to me. Of course I didn’t take it seriously – but I felt it deserved a little quiet thinking about.

‘If only I could get Simon to shave,’ Rose went on. Then her voice went hard. ‘Anyway, what does it matter? I’d marry him even if I hated him. Cassandra, did you ever see anything as beautiful as Mrs Cotton’s bathroom?’

‘Yes, lots of things,’ I said firmly. ‘And no bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate.’

‘But I don’t hate him – I tell you I like him. I almost—’ She broke off and went back to bed.

‘Perhaps you won’t be sure of your feelings until you’ve let him kiss you,’ I suggested.

‘But I can’t do that before he proposes – or he mightn’t propose,’ she said decidedly. ‘That’s one thing I do know.’

I had a strong suspicion she was being a mite old-fashioned, but I kept my views to myself. ‘Well, I shall pray you really fall in love with him – and he with you, of course. And I’ll do out-of-bed prayers.’

‘So will I,’ she said, hopping out again.

We both prayed hard, Rose much the longest – she was still on her knees when I had settled down ready to sleep.

‘That’ll do, Rose,’ I told her at last. ‘It’s enough just to mention things, you know. Long prayers are like nagging.’

We were restless for ages. I tried to invent something soothing for Miss Blossom to say but I wasn’t in the mood. After a while I heard an owl hooting and calmed myself by thinking of it flying over the dark fields – and then I remembered it would be pouncing on mice. I love owls, but I wish God had made them vegetarian. Rose kept flinging herself over in bed.

‘Oh, do stop walloping about,’ I said. ‘You’ll break what few springs the four-poster has left.’

But again and again as I was dropping off she did a wallop. Godsend church clock struck two before I heard her breathing quietly. Then I got to sleep at last.