Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [63]
Dinner was announced and they went to the table in exact order of precedence, the Princess of Wales on Lord Taunton’s arm, followed by Elsa and Cahoon. She saw the flash of discontent in his eyes. He would like to have been in Taunton’s place, but he had no title, no status except that of money, and all the money in the world counted for nothing here.
Next came Hamilton and Liliane, Simnel as elder brother, with Olga, then Julius with Minnie, and lastly the Prince of Wales with Lady Parr.
The first course of julienne soup was served, or alternatively fillet of turbot and Dutch sauce, or red mullet. Elsa ate very sparingly. She knew there would be entrées of meat or fowl, then a third course of heavier meat, possibly including game, maybe venison at this time of year. Then there would be a fourth course, probably some kind of pastry dish—fruit pies, tarts, custards—and lastly a dessert of grapes or other fresh fruit, and after the meal, cheese.
It would drag on for hours before the ladies would withdraw and the gentlemen pass the port and cigars. The gentlemen would talk of Africa and the railway; the ladies, if they spoke at all, would simply gossip.
If the gentlemen rejoined them, Lady Parr would flirt with Cahoon, and the Prince. Minnie would flirt with Simnel, and with the Prince, of course. Liliane would be clumsy; Olga would grow more and more wretched. Elsa would try to think of something to say, and end up being boring, and utterly predictable, as Minnie had said so damningly of Julius.
And yet one of them had murdered the woman in the cupboard.
The footman poured white wine for her.
Was it possible that whoever it was, his wife really had no idea? How could you live with a man, take his name, lie in his bed, and know so little of him? Nothing that really mattered, such as what he believed, what frightened him or what he longed for. But then no one else knew what she really cared about either, only the trivial things she said.
She must be careful not to drink the wine and eat too little. She would become tipsy. There was nothing uglier than a drunken woman: loud, indiscreet, desperately embarrassing.
Did one refuse to know what one’s husband was really like because it would be unbearable? One lived on dreams. Of what? Not wealth, certainly not fame or extraordinary beauty. Not power. What power did a woman have except to influence others because of her example? Dreams of being loved, by someone you could both love and trust in return. Someone you admired, who could make you laugh, make you feel as if the world were better, brighter, and wiser because you were in it. Someone you liked?
Lord Taunton was speaking to her. She replied politely, meaninglessly. The fish was served, and curried lobster or fricandeau brought in, and of course more wine.
If you could not have love, then perhaps the other great need was to do something of value. Many people looking at this glittering table with its burden of food, its women dressed in silks and jewels, its beauty, comfort, and wealth would envy everyone here. The men Elsa could understand—they were all excited, faces eager, planning and dreaming of a railway that would stretch the length of a continent, seven thousand miles of it. It would change the Empire, and the world. Probably in centuries to come it would be regarded as one of the wonders of human achievement.
But what did she do? She had no children. She had married too late for that. She wanted for nothing material. She was fed, clothed, and housed. She had health and the respect of others, because she was Cahoon’s wife. She had contributed nothing whatever.
She stared around the table and considered if there was anyone here whose life she really affected. Was anyone wiser, braver, or kinder because of her? She did not need to ask the question; the answer was already there. It would