Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [97]
I looked at the women especially, wondering if any of them could possibly have arrived curled up in the well of a travelling coach. Surely not the tall copper-haired woman in green, talking with great animation to a knight of the garter? Nor the plump one in purple and pink stripes whose high giggle soared like a hot-air balloon above the rest of the chatter. Nor the buttercup-haired beauty of thirty or so whose white breasts were pushed up so high that it was a wonder she could breathe. Then I saw Kilkeel. My knees went weak and I had to hold on to the curving marble balustrade. He was dressed more plainly than the rest, almost shabbily, and had got his pulpy body reptile-like into a corner, so that he could peer out without being noticed. He was looking straight at Mr Brighton. My nerve almost failed me and I thought I couldn’t go down after all.
The scene below me began to change. The noise faded to a quiet buzz. Sir Herbert held out his arm to the woman in purple-and-pink stripes, who gave another of her high giggles and took it. One of the garter knights offered his arm to Lady Mandeville, who stayed exactly where she was, still smiling her fixed smile, until a word and a frown from her husband made her flinch and seize her guest’s arm like a wrecked mariner grasping a log. This left Mr Brighton by the fireplace, hands under his coat-tails, a vacant grin on his face. Sir Herbert went up to him and said something. Mr Brighton nodded and moved towards Celia without enthusiasm. She kept her back turned.
‘Celia.’
Sir Herbert’s sharp command was loud enough to be heard at the top of the staircase. Celia turned reluctantly, but would not take the smallest step towards Mr Brighton. He had to come across the room to her; her father’s brows were a black bar. When, finally, she let her white-gloved fingers rest very lightly on his arm, the whole room seemed to relax in a sigh of relief and Sir Herbert and the striped woman led the way into the dining room. Lady Mandeville followed with her partner, like a woman in a sad dream, with her daughter and Mr Brighton behind them and the other guests pairing-up to follow. Celia’s eyes were everywhere but on her partner, looking desperately all round the room. I realised with guilt that she was looking for me and must have willed her to look up, because just before they went through the door to the dining room, she did and caught my eye. She smiled, a great beam of relief that I hardly deserved, then mouthed ‘Hurry,’ and motioned me, with a flick of a fingertip, to come down.
I came as quickly as I could, still unused to the sway of rich fabric and stiff petticoats round my ankles, and tripped on the bottom stair. A hand came on my arm to steady me, a strong and sharp-fingered little hand in a black lace glove. I looked up and there was Mrs Beedle, in black silk as usual. Her only concession to the occasion had been to replace her customary widow’s cap with a black velvet turban trimmed with white lace and jet beads. She was frowning. I assumed she was angry with me for being so nearly late and began apologising, but she took no notice and kept her grip on my arm, guiding me to the side of an orange tree in a pot at the bottom of the staircase.
‘Miss Lock, something has occurred.’ She said it in a low voice, her face close to mine. ‘You had better go into dinner as arranged, but as soon as the first couple of courses are over, please make an excuse and meet me in the schoolroom. You must say you’re indisposed, or anything you like.’
‘But what …?’
She shook her head, forbidding questions, and started to move away.
‘I hope you won’t let me down.’
Then she disappeared through a door behind the orange tree that I hadn’t even noticed before.
By now almost everybody had gone through to the dining room. Just one man