A Gathering Storm(53)

Angie’s mother still looked beautiful, but faded – more unhappy, thought Beatrice, who was sitting on a bedroom chair behind, sipping a tiny glass of sherry and darting little glances about. Interestingly, although the Wincantons were living all together, there was no sign of any of Michael Wincanton’s possessions in the bedroom.

Oenone’s languid eyes – so like Angelina’s – met hers in the mirror.

‘That’s a very pretty dress, Bea, did I say?’ She tapped the long ash from her cigarette and took a lengthy drag of it. The smoke coiled out from between her dazzling red lips as though she were a dragonness. ‘You’re becoming a very graceful young woman.’

Beatrice felt the blood flow to her face. ‘Thank you,’ she stammered.

‘I thought you might talk some sense into her – you know. You’re a calming influence. She listens to you.’

‘I don’t think she does, Mrs Wincanton.’

Oenone turned round on the stool to face her. ‘Still, I’d like you to try,’ she said simply, and there was no mistaking the order. Then, ‘Shall we go down?’

So that was why she’d been invited, Beatrice thought bitterly, as she followed Oenone down to the drawing room. Not for herself, but because she was good for Angie. Perhaps that wasn’t fair on Mrs Wincanton; it was just that she was so hurt by Angie’s coldness.

At least she might hear from Rafe. And at the thought of him a great longing swept over her. And now they were entering the drawing room and here was lovely Angie, glowing like a goddess in amber velvet, coming to coo over Beatrice’s new dress in such a friendly way that Beatrice instantly forgave her earlier rudeness. Then a thin dark figure emerged from the shadows by the book-lined walls. Peter.

‘Hello, Beatrice,’ he said, putting out his hand. He was taller than she remembered, though he’d never be tall, but his gaze as ever met hers then skittered away. The old nervous habit.

‘How are you, Peter?’ she asked, responding with the usual feelings of pity and wariness.

‘Not so bad,’ he replied. ‘I say, I wasn’t expecting to see you. Quite a surprise.’

She couldn’t tell whether he thought it was a nice one or not but decided to be optimistic.

‘Your mother was kind enough to invite me,’ she explained. ‘It’s my first proper visit to London, you know.’

‘Is it, by Jove,’ he said, perking up. ‘Well, perhaps I can take you about a bit tomorrow. A lot of the museums have opened again – you might have heard. Though some of the best pictures have been sent away.’

‘Thank you,’ she said politely, unsure whether to accept or not. There would still be the second full day free if the opportunity arose to see Rafe. If he was in Town, which she rather supposed he couldn’t be. She glanced at Angie and her mother. ‘Did you have particular plans for me, or should I go with Peter?’

Angie shrugged. ‘Doesn’t worry me if you do. I’ve a dress fitting in the morning and Mummy, I’ve simply got to meet Felicity Wheeler for lunch or she’ll blank me. I’ve put her off three times already.’

‘Well, if Beatrice doesn’t mind,’ Oenone said, a little doubtful. ‘I’m afraid Peter’s a bit of a bore when it comes to pictures and things, Beatrice.’

‘All those Italian Old Masters he likes,’ Angie said. ‘Either pious rolling eyes or scenes of torture.’

‘They’re not all like that,’ Peter said. ‘There are some more modern pieces. Will it bore you?’ he asked Beatrice, with heavy irony.

‘I’m sure it won’t,’ she replied hastily, ‘though Aunt Julia said I should be certain to see Madame Tussaud’s.’

‘Oh lordy, really? Well, if you must. In the afternoon perhaps, when you’re fed up with high art.’

‘The Chamber of Horrors. More scenes of torture,’ Angie groaned.

‘Just because you only like pictures of pretty landscapes and animals.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ This bickering continued until the maid came in to announce dinner.

The atmosphere at dinner was as fragile as the crystal glasses. The Wincantons, it seemed, lived more formally in London than in Cornwall, though the food wasn’t up to much. A clear soup like fatty water was followed by overdone beef – Mrs Wincanton complained at the salty gravy – and whoever made the apple pie had a heavy hand with pastry. The beloved Mrs Pargeter, Beatrice learned, was left behind in Cornwall and the Wincantons were between cooks in London, the old one having, in a fit of patriotism, gone off to make aeroplanes. Ed was flying them in Sussex. It was the one moment of the meal when they were all united in warmth, talking about Ed, his fearlessness, his recent promotion, and how they worried about his safety.