‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Beatrice said. ‘My mother made it. The rows we had over the fittings! I was so cross and fidgety, having to stand still with pins sticking in me, that she lost her temper one day and threw it into the dustbin. That shocked me. I had to creep out and rescue it and apologize.’
‘Was it made for a special occasion?’
‘The Wincantons threw a party at Carlyon Manor two days before Christmas 1938. It was, I’m sure, Oenone Wincanton’s idea. She felt, no doubt, that her chicks were starting to fly the nest, and wanted to mark the fact. I think she also felt sorry for me. My life had come to a temporary halt, you see. I was still weak and thin, and I had a slight limp from my illness. And I was going away to school, not somewhere marvellous abroad or having a season. The party was like a consolation prize, my only chance at coming out. Rafe was invited and a whole host of young people from local families. Even Michael Wincanton graced us with his presence. After all, there were appearances to keep up, no matter how stormy their marriage was in private.’
As an honorary member of the family and because Angelina begged her to help her dress, Beatrice arrived at Carlyon early, driven by her father in his borrowed car, her dress wrapped in tissue in a box on her lap, her mother’s only good jewellery tucked safely in a vanity case on the back seat.
Brown, who admitted her, said, ‘Thank God you’re here, miss. Maybe you’ll put some sense into that young lady. I don’t know what they’ve been teaching her in France, but it certainly ain’t good manners. Find your own way up, miss, would you, or Cook’ll have me guts for gaiters.’ And she fled through the green baize door.
Beatrice stood in the hall for a moment, listening to the tension that crackled through the house. From the dining room Mrs Wincanton could be heard giving orders. Bless the butler nodded a greeting as he passed through with a callow youth in train, each of them bearing a tray of champagne flutes. From the floor above emanated a girlish shriek of temper followed by a throaty laugh. Angie and Peter. Picking up her luggage with a sigh, Beatrice went upstairs.
She reached Angie’s room in time to see Peter sauntering out of it, hands in trouser pockets and with a sneery smile pasted on his face. When he noticed Beatrice, his expression went blank in that strange shy way he had. Muttering, ‘Hello,’ he dodged past her.
‘Hello, Peter.’ He’d grown appreciably since she last saw him at the beginning of the summer. Sixteen he was now – taller, the coarser, adult features beginning to form. Where Ed was assuming the best side of each of his parents, his mother’s temperate blonde beauty and his father’s handsome physique, the leaner Celtic looks of some more remote ancestor were blooming darkly in Peter. His cleverness, though, and the moody air were all his own. Beatrice felt awkward with him and pitied him in equal measure. She had gathered from comments Ed let drop that, though no longer bullied, Peter lacked friends at school and that his shyness and surliness drew unfair comparisons with his elder brother. Ed clearly felt sorry for him and had done his best to protect him. Now Ed had gone up to university Peter was alone and no one was certain how he fared.
‘Go away!’ Angie cried, when Beatrice knocked on the half-open door.
‘It’s me,’ Beatrice said, going in.
‘Thank heavens you’ve come. No one here has time to help me with my dress.’ She was standing at the basin in petticoat and stockings. On the bed lay the most beguiling confection of pale green satin and froths of white lace.
‘Oh, Angie,’ Beatrice cried, fingering the silky fabric. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She helped Angie pull it over her head, aware of the girl’s warm back under her fingers as she fastened the column of tiny buttons. The cut of the gown flattered Angie’s curves perfectly, and against the green her skin glowed luminous, without a flaw. The fashionably natural waves of her honey-coloured hair needed merely the flick of a brush. Soon pearls gleamed at her ears and throat.
Beatrice stood back to see the effect. Manners or no, Angie had certainly acquired a kind of allure abroad, a sophistication. She looked perfect.
‘How am I?’ Angie asked, twisting and turning to see her reflection in the big cheval mirror.
‘Wonderful,’ said Beatrice. ‘The dress is lovely with your hair.’
‘Now it’s your turn,’ Angie said happily, and Beatrice opened her box and took out her precious dress.
Moments later, Beatrice took her turn by the mirror, a curious expression on her face.
‘Oh,’ Angie said, staring at her. ‘I think I’m going to cry.’