Eventually, the mighty butler spoke. ‘Seven-thirty in the kitchen would be best.’
‘You can rely on me, Mr Bicknell.’
‘I thought I could, Mr Wilberforce.’
Those gathered for dinner comprised the entire cast as before, with additions. Of the old-timers, Woody had the hawkish twinkle back in his eye and Amelia looked like the fourth seed at Wimbledon who’s just discovered the defending champion’s gone lame. ‘Perky’ would about cover it.
The Venables trio had arrived in the family hearse, while Dame Judith Puxley had once more been lured from the Reading Room at the British Museum, though on what pretext I found it hard to imagine – a village fete and an evening in the church hall hardly adding up to her idea of culture.
The additions were the vicar and his wife and a local worthy called Major Holloway, who had taken it on himself to organise the Saturday evening show. He was accompanied by an apple-cheeked female, presumably his wife.
Sir Henry Hackwood wore a green smoking jacket and an air of desperation. I’ve seen chaps with the same hunted look during the final hand of cards at two in the morning at the Drones; the three kings are securely in the hole, but they’re wondering how to keep the other players interested for a few more minutes.
The last in to the dining room was Georgiana, and her appearance brought me up short. I’d seen those lovely features in countless moods, the ‘let’s just share a few langoustines’ one, the unsuccessfully resisted waterworks, the wounded but forgiving, the quizzical ‘Do you think that’s what Pushkin really meant?’ and the smiling ‘I’m fine, but you have another glass’ variants.
This one, as I’ve said, was a new one on me. She looked like a messenger charged with calling on King Harold’s bedchamber to tell him that the Normans had splashed ashore in force near a spot called Hastings. Foreboding was writ big in those chocolate-coloured eyes.
Lady Hackwood and the girls, it seemed, had the afternoon fete pretty much under control with the help of the vicar’s wife, so Sir Henry took the opportunity to run through the evening programme with Major Holloway.
‘Our contribution is a scene from Shakespeare,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Very apt, I’m told. My niece Georgiana will be rehearsing the players in the morning.’
‘I remember mounting a performance of The Merchant of Venice in Bangalore,’ said Sidney Venables. ‘The local paper said my Shylock was the finest since Henry Irving at the Lyceum.’
‘Perhaps you can play the duke, then,’ said Sir Henry.
‘Or maybe you might find room for a crosstalk routine?’ said Venables.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs V. ‘Sidney was famous in Chanamasala for his crosstalk acts. He’d make up the jokes on the day so they were nice and topical. People did love them.’
‘I’d need a straight man or feed,’ said Venables.
‘It’s rather late notice,’ said Major Holloway.
‘I’m sure we can manage something,’ said Sir Henry. ‘What about the rest of the programme?’
‘We have the Melbury Glee Club,’ said Holloway. ‘They’ll be singing “’Twas a Shepherd and His Lass” and “The Ballad of Cranborne Chase”, accompanied by the vicar’s wife at the pianoforte. A schoolgirl from Kingston St Jude is doing a dramatic recitation and we’ve some conjuring tricks from my wife’s brother. Next we have a barbershop quartet from Puddletown, then there’ll be refreshments. After which the Melbury Tetchett string quartet – with my lady wife playing second fiddle – will give a short recital. Then there’ll be a tableau vivant from the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. And after that we come to the grand finale, which is your ensemble scene from Shakespeare.’
‘I thought young Venables was going to be reciting some of his verses,’ said Sir Henry.
‘I’m afraid I shan’t be able to do that,’ said Rupert Venables.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because I shan’t be here.’
‘“Shan’t be here”! But you’ve only just come back!’
‘I think in the circumstances it would ill become me to remain at the Hall, Sir Henry.’
‘Ill become you! What the devil are you talking about?’
The room was silent as it waited for young Venables to explain. ‘I regret to say that I am no longer engaged to be married to your niece, Sir Henry. I returned to Kingston St Giles to terminate the engagement in person.’
‘Oh, Roo!’ said Mrs Venables. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m telling you now, Ma,’ said Venables.