The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [271]
On the day of the Firing, Prosper Cain had ordered a luncheon in the Mermaid Inn. He had invited the Fludds, and his own family. He had gone as far as discouraging Julian from bringing Gerald, who was still hovering around the camp and going for long walks along the coastline. Julian had assumed that his father was worrying about Florence. The luncheon took place in the parlour, with sunlight pouring in through the leaded lights of the Tudor windows, and shining on the white damask cloth and heavy silver. There were little nosegays of white and red rosebuds round the table. Seraphita and Pomona clattered up the narrow cobbled street in a pony-trap, dressed in embroidered party-dresses.
A place had been set for Benedict Fludd. Prosper was at the head, between Imogen and Seraphita. Julian was between Seraphita and Pomona, who was next to Geraint and Florence. The empty seat separated Imogen and Florence.
They ate whitebait and broiled lobster, samphire and Vichy carrots, followed by a Queen of Puddings in a porcelain dish. They chatted about the camp, and everyone praised Geraint for his organisational powers, his coup with the army tents, his imaginative ordering of events. Julian said it was always oddly disturbing to find one was living inside works of art, rather than observing them in museums. Seraphita made one of her rare contributions to say dreamily that life would be better if it were all artful. Florence observed that the word “artful” had a curious double entendre. Seraphita cast her look down at her plate, and speared a decorative shrimp, with some difficulty.
When they had eaten, Prosper ordered champagne to be brought. Everyone was given a glass. Prosper rose to his feet.
“At the end of the successful cooperation that made such a success of this camp—the meeting of art, craft, art teaching, practice and criticism—I should like to drink to Geraint Fludd, who had such good ideas, and put them into effect.” They drank. Prosper did not sit down, though Geraint was stirring to reply.
“I am sorry my old friend Benedict Fludd is absent. I should nevertheless like you to drink to the happiness of Imogen, who has done me the honour of agreeing to become my wife. I have already asked her father for her hand and I believe we have his approval.”
This announcement caused consternation. The first person to drink was Imogen herself, perhaps to fortify herself. She was white. Seraphita took a large mouthful, and could be heard to be murmuring either “My dear” or “Oh dear…”
Julian raised his glass and said “Of course we all wish you well. Long life and happiness!” he said awkwardly, and then flushed darkly. Imogen nodded at him, looking overwhelmed. Florence stood up.
“As it happens, we have not had time to ask my father, but I also should like to tell you all that I am engaged to be married. I have agreed to marry Geraint. I am telling you myself because I asked him to say nothing. But now, you all need to know, I think. The relationships of the people round this table have suddenly become very confused.”
She gave a sharp little laugh. She went on, staring darkly at her father across the silver and white.
“So Imogen is to become at once my sister and my mother. It is like a Greek myth. Or those things in the Prayer Book you aren’t supposed to do.”
Pomona put down her champagne glass, and broke it. Her fingers were bleeding—not very much, but blood was on the white damask. A waiter came with a silver brush and miniature dustpan and moved round her, clearing the splinters. Geraint