Jeeves and the Wedding Bells(50)
She was wearing a green number with a floral pattern. She smiled as she sat back in the velvet Knole sofa with a bit of careless limb-crossing. I proffered a snootful, which she accepted with a friendly chink against my own glass as I perched on a chair by the fireplace.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘To tell the truth, I was looking at your dress.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just that you don’t wear the same dresses as most girls.’
The fashion was for a sort of loose sack with no waist, whereas hers looked more like something a flamenco dancer might have worn. I couldn’t think of a polite way of putting this. Likewise the hair. Amelia, like most girls of her age, had it cut as though the hairdresser had upended a coal scuttle on the bonce and trimmed round it. Georgiana’s was longer and wavier.
‘The dropped waist just wouldn’t suit me,’ she said with a sigh.
‘And the haircut they all have?’
‘It’s called a bob, Bertie. It’s fashionable. Ubiquitous, you might say.’
‘Might I?’
‘Of course you might. I didn’t know you were interested in clothes.’
‘Oh yes, rather. I once wrote an article for my Aunt Dahlia’s magazine, Milady’s Boudoir, on “What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing”.’
‘And are you going to do the same for the well-dressed woman?’
‘I’d need to do a bit more research.’
‘Don’t start with me, then, start with Ambo. She’s much more the thing.’
‘Right ho,’ I said, feeling I’d pretty much shot my bolt on ladies’ fashions. ‘How’s the editing going?’
‘Not bad, thanks. I’ll probably finish this manuscript tomorrow. If not, I can do the last bit on the train back to London. We’re moving into our new offices on Tuesday.’
I could sense that this conversation might follow the pattern of the one in the sunken garden, with the rat-a-tat-tat alternating with sticky periods. I was about as wrong as you can be, though, because Georgiana came straight to the point.
‘Bertie, I wanted to talk to you about your plan for setting up this tableau for Amelia to witness. Woody rejecting the wanton cousin and all that.’
‘Yes. Are you on for it?’
‘No, I think it’s an absurd idea. Amelia just needs time. She loves Woody, there’s no doubt about that. She wants to marry him.’
‘But surely a dramatic demonstration of Woody being Sir Galahad and turning away from—’
‘I’d get the giggles. And Woody just wouldn’t fall for it. He’d smell a rat.’
‘Well, perhaps you could talk to Amelia instead. Try and explain that just because her fiancé smiled at a couple of local wenches doesn’t mean he can’t be trusted.’
Georgiana sighed. ‘It’s complicated, Bertie. If I don’t marry Rupert, then Uncle Henry isn’t going to allow Amelia to marry Woody anyway.’
‘What do you mean, “if” you don’t marry Rupert? You’re engaged. I saw it in The Times.’
‘Yes, I know. But his attitude seems rather odd at the moment. I’m not sure if he’s still keen.’
‘I noticed. All the south of France stuff.’
‘Exactly. I don’t know what he’s driving at.’
‘Look at it from his point of view,’ I said. ‘He’s a splendid chap, no doubt, but he’s not … Well, he’s a bit older than you, isn’t he? He’s no sporting hero like Woody. And he’s hardly a Greek god like Esmond, either. I imagine he can’t quite believe his luck, to have landed such a … such a …’
‘Don’t be a flatterer, Bertie. Sonya Rostova with no money is not much of a catch … Oops. Sorry to use that word again. I promise you, it honestly—’
I silenced her with a pitying look.
‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘I don’t blame the fellow for acting like an angler who’s just netted a five-foot pike. He’s giving you a test. To make assurance doubly sure, as Jeeves puts it.’
‘I can’t quite believe that, Bertie. Though thanks for the giant pike. I’m not sure Rupert really—’
‘Have you any idea of the effect you have on people, Georgie? The waiters on the Côte d’Azur … The poor man on the desk at the hotel … He didn’t know where to look when you—’
‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’
‘And on top of that you’re so dashed brainy with all your literary stuff and—’
‘Rupert’s the successful writer. Publishers are just the middlemen.’