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By Root 1117 0

was waiting, his back to me and his foot tapping impatiently. I hurried towards him, knowing he must be the one obliged to take me into dinner. When he heard my footsteps he turned and I regret to say I stopped and gawped at him like a five-year-old at a fairground. He was beautiful. The dandyism that was an offence to the eye in Mr Brighton had reached a higher level entirely in him. He wore a claret-coloured cut-away coat and black velvet trousers with broad claret stripes down the outside legs. The silver brocade of his waistcoat was almost hidden by enough gold chains to fill a pirate’s chest, and the fingers of his white kid gloves sparkled with gold rings. Black ringlets cascaded almost to his collar, his face was as pale as paper, his lips full and as well shaped as a woman’s. His dark eyes managed to look at the same time both profoundly bored and very much alive. He stood poised and conscious of his effect on others, like an actor.

‘Miss Lock? I understand I am to have the privilege of taking you into dinner.’

His voice was languid, with a tinge of annoyance. I thought of my guest list. He certainly was not a cathedral canon.

‘Mr Disraeli?’ I said.

He was justifiably annoyed at my lateness. I was prepared for that. What took me by surprise was the look in his eyes when he straightened up from the most perfunctory of bows. There was approval there, the kind a man bestows on a pretty woman. I thought there must be somebody walking behind me until I realised that he was seeing the dark-haired beauty who’d looked back at me from Celia’s mirror. It was a strange feeling, as if that made both of us into actors who could stroll across the stage, arm in arm, knowing our lines and our business. I put my gloved hand on the arm he offered me, very lightly so as not to spoil the nap of his coat, and we walked quickly into the dining room.

We’d only just reached our seats at the far end of the table when the bishop was on his feet saying grace. I’ve sat through sermons shorter than that grace, but at least it gave me a chance to look around, as far as I could with head bowed. The white-clothed table seemed to extend far into the distance. Footmen in black-and-gold jackets with powdered wigs stood along the walls. Silver candelabra blazed all down the middle of the table, although the light of a July evening was still coming in through the windows. Posies of gardenias and tuberoses alternated with the candles, giving off a scent so sweet that it was almost oppressive.

‘… and guide us, oh Lord, in all our endeavours small and great …’

The air quivered from the candle flames so that the group at the top of the table were little more than a blur, though I could make out Celia’s apricot dress. Kilkeel must be up there somewhere, but if I couldn’t see him, he probably couldn’t see me. Trying to keep the seating plan in mind, I managed to put names to some of the faces around the middle of the table. There were ladies whose political salons were so famous I’d read about them in the more frivolous newspapers, gentlemen whose speeches in the Lords and Commons were respectfully noted by The Times.

‘… keeping our minds humbly obedient to Thy will, Who hath cast down the proud and exalted the meek …’

The cathedral canon on my left was echoing every word sotto voce. On my right. Mr Disraeli was doing exactly what I was doing, looking round. I sensed an increasing tension in him, at odds with his languid dandy air.

‘… humble gratitude for Thy bountiful gifts. Amen.’

The footmen pushed forward chairs for the ladies to sit down, mine included. A line of waiters appeared from the kitchens carrying great silver tureens. A buzz of talk started.

‘Have you any notion why we are all here?’ said Mr Disraeli.

I stared. I’d expected small talk and had prepared myself to make polite dinner-party conversation when my mind and body ached to be elsewhere. Caught off balance by his directness, I was tempted for a moment to be honest with him. I had the strangest feeling of fellowship, as if he and I were both floating free in the world, like