The Forget-Me-Not Sonata(36)

Louis repressed a groan and coughed into his hand. ‘You’ve thought of everything,’ he said grimly.

‘I hope so.’

‘But you don’t even like ballet.’

‘It doesn’t matter. She does. It will give me pleasure to see her enjoying it.’

‘Don’t push her,’ Louis added, unable to stop himself.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s very young. If you jump in there too fast you’ll scare her away. Take your time.’

But Cecil was so certain of himself that he simply smiled knowingly and replied, ‘This isn’t a game, Louis. She may be young but she’s got the mind of a much older woman. My plans for Audrey are long term and I believe she knows it.’

Louis shuddered. His brother was unwavering in his belief that Audrey reciprocated his feelings. He was suddenly debilitated by conflicting emotions. On one hand he felt guilty – Cecil’s heart was being deliberately set up to be broken as if he were taking part in a monstrous pantomime. He thought of Shakespeare’s poor Malvolio and regretted their wicked game. But on the other hand his guilt was tempered by his jealousy that, in a perverse way, enjoyed the certain knowledge that his brother would be crushed when Audrey finally revealed the truth. He willed himself to be patient. Time would untangle this knot.

When they arrived at Hurlingham station Louis surreptitiously retrieved the small scroll that Audrey had slipped in between the bricks and regained his good humour. Audrey loved him and no amount of courting and wooing would inspire her to change her mind and love Cecil. As they strode back up the bleak winter streets to the Club, Louis’ fingers played with Audrey’s note. It gave him a warm sense of reassurance. But their secret was beginning to grate on his conscience and his pride. He longed to tell everyone that she was his. He was impatient to show her off. He didn’t know how much longer he could dance in the shadows.

Rose was so excited about her elder daughter’s flowering romance that she made the grave error of mentioning their forthcoming evening out to Diana Lewis in the bakery. Diana wasted no time in telephoning Charlo Osborne who passed it on to Colonel Blythe over tea at the Club. The Colonel twisted the ends of his white moustache and huffed thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know a finer fellow than Cecil Forrester,’ he said, puffing on his Turkish cigarette. ‘And young Audrey is a treasure, always has been.’

‘Beautiful girl. Beautiful,’ Charlo stated. There was little she admired more in a woman than beauty and nothing she regretted more than the relinquishing of it. ‘A girl has to use her looks while she’s young because they don’t last. Look at me. I was quite lovely as a young woman. Lovely. But now . . .’ She sighed, knowing her comments would ignite the right reaction in the old Colonel. He patted her hand with his rough, calloused fingers and blinked at her with undisguised devotion through the thick glass of his monocle. Charlo was aware that since the summer the old Colonel had changed. She didn’t know why but it was as if his internal baton had snapped, leaving him infinitely more human and, dare she hope, romantic.

‘You mature well, like a good claret, old girl,’ he said and his dry lips extended into a mischievous grin. ‘Beauty is commonplace, my dear, there’s far too much beauty around and not enough spice. You’ve got enough spice to put the entire Indian subcontinent out of business.’ Charlo giggled and shrugged off the lascivious glint that was now magnified through his monocle. Was it possible that love had tamed the old warhorse?

‘Really, Colonel, you’re too generous,’ she protested, smoothing her hand over her thick, silver hair and fixing him with cunning blue eyes that were still hypnotic in spite of the reptilian quality of the eyelids.

‘Come, come, old girl, you know how much I admire you,’ he continued, puffing on his cigarette with more urgency.

‘I don’t deserve your admiration, Colonel.’

‘You deserve it, but you won’t take it,’ he bellowed in exasperation, banging his fist on the table, sending the china jumping into the air as if the Club had just been shaken by an earthquake.

‘Well . . .’

‘You may have buried three husbands already but by God I survived the Great War. Going into battle with you would be the greatest battle of all and the most challenging. Surely you won’t deny an old man one final skirmish?’

‘I’m like a black widow,’ she warned.

‘It’ll take more than an insect bite to send me to the grave. I’m as tough as a rhinoceros,’ he exclaimed in amusement. ‘You don’t scare me, Charlo, you enthral me.’